working as a porter in Covent Garden.
The driver of the hansom told him that he wasn’t going to allow Phil in his cab until Harry promised to pay extra.
“What is your name?” asked Harry.
“Phil Marshall.”
“Well, Phil, first of all we need to get you cleaned up and get you some decent clothes.”
“What can he do?” asked Becket.
“That cleaning woman is finishing work for us at the end of the week. Do you think you are fit enough to do some cleaning, Phil?”
“Reckon I could, guv. I feel a bit weak, mind.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Maybe Tuesday.”
“Dear me, and this is Friday. Becket, summon the doctor when we arrive. He’ll need to treat those scabs.”
Phil began to feel as if he had died and gone to heaven. A warm bath was run for him and Becket laid out clean underwear and a suit for him.
After that, he was checked by the doctor, who said the scabs were caused by untreated bedbug bites and malnutrition and suggested a gentle diet of soup and light meals to begin with.
Phil was given a small room in the basement and told to rest as much as possible.
He lay on the bed after Becket had gone, tears of gratitude pouring down his cheeks. He swore that from that day on, he would die for the captain if necessary.
Harry called on Rose later that day. She listened in alarm as he described the body fished out of the Thames and how they feared that Reg had been a hired assassin.
“But I think you will be safe now,” he assured her. “A story has gone into all the newspapers that you held nothing back from the police.”
“So I suppose you will feel free to go back to ignoring me.”
“On the contrary,” said Harry. “I have been remiss and I do apologize. But you cannot have any social engagements in August. Everyone is away.”
Rose bit her lip and then said in a small voice. “I’m bored.”
“Then next week, I will take you for a drive if the weather is fine.”
“I wish I were a man,” raged Rose later to Daisy. “He can call at Scotland Yard any time he likes and be part of the investigation, but all I can do is sit here and rot and get letters from that dreary Mrs. Tremaine, oiling all over me in print. I am not interested in the fact that she and her dear husband have gone to Cromer on holiday.”
Daisy brightened. “I am.”
“Why, pray?”
“It would be interesting to go down to that village while the Tremaines have gone and ask around about them and about Dolly. See what we could find out.”
“That is a splendid idea. I must find out how to get there.”
“We could take one of the carriages.”
“They’ve all got Pa’s coat of arms on the panels. That would occasion comment. Better to travel by rail to the nearest town and take a carriage from there. We need not trouble to tell Aunt Phyllis where we are going. She is only concerned with ordering the servants around and eating vast quantities of food.”
They took the train to Oxford and changed onto a local line and took another train to Moreton-in-Marsh, where they hired a waiting carriage to take them to Apton Magna.
“It is pleasant to be back in the country again,” sighed Rose. “When all this is over, I shall go back north to see Bert and Sally.”
“And how will you do that?” asked Daisy. “If your parents are at home, they are certainly not going to let you go all that way to see a mere village policeman.”
“Perhaps the captain can arrange something,” said Rose. “Oh, do look at that sweet cottage.”
“All I see is the pump at the front for the water and no doubt the you-know-what will be out in the back garden. I can smell the cesspool from here.”
“You have no romance in your soul,” admonished Rose.
“I have memories of poverty in me soul,” said Daisy.
“Don’t say ‘me.’ ”
They told the cabbie to wait for them at the entrance to the village. They had both decided to wear their plainest clothes.
A woman was sitting outside a cottage, holding a baby on her lap. “Excuse me,” said Rose, “we were wondering if you could give us some information about the Tremaines.”
The woman got to her feet and, disappearing inside the cottage, slammed the door behind her.
They met with the same lack of success at other cottages.
“Perhaps one of the more well-to-do residents would be more forthcoming,” suggested Rose.
“There don’t seen to be any,” replied Daisy. “We’ve forgotten our village ways. We’re too direct. We need someone friendly. Ask them something like where we can get a cup of tea, enter into conversation about the weather and so on, and then slide in some remark about the murder.”
“That sounds a very good idea,” said Rose. “That is, if we can find anyone amiable.”
“I remember there was a cottage up by the rector’s place. It looked in better shape than the others,” said Daisy. “Why is the rector called ‘doctor’?”
“Because he’s a doctor of divinity. Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan opera? ‘A doctor of divinity/Who resides in this vicinity.’ ”
The cottage they approached was small and thatched and made of Cotswold stone, unlike the red brick cottages of the other villagers.
It had a front garden crowded with flowers. They opened the gate and walked up the path. Rose knocked on the door.
A woman answered it. She looked washed-out and faded, as if some grim laundress had boiled her, mangled her and hung her out in strong sunlight to dry without ironing her first. Her simple muslin gown was creased, and the dry flaky skin of her long face, lined with wrinkles. Her eyes were of such a pale grey that they looked almost white and she wore her sparse grey hair under a crumpled linen cap.
“We are visiting the countryside and wondered whether there was anywhere in Apton Magna where we could get some refreshment,” said Rose.
“Oh, there’s nothing nearer than Moreton-in-Marsh. They do ever such a nice tea at the White Hart Royal. I remember being taken there by a gentleman friend when I was just a girl.”
“Perhaps you would like to join us?” suggested Rose. “We have a carriage waiting at the end of the village. I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Miss Daisy Levine.”
“That’s is so kind of you. May I present myself? I am Miss Friendly.” She plucked nervously at her gown. “I am not perhaps quite properly dressed.”
“Nonsense,” said Rose bracingly. “You will do very well.”
“I don’t know. Dear me. Afternoon tea! Such a luxury.” She looked at them wistfully out of her pale eyes.
“I’ll go and bring the carriage,” said Daisy quickly, and ran off.
“Please step inside,” said Miss Friendly. “The sun is very strong.”
Rose followed her into a front parlour. There was very little furniture. There were light squares on the dingy wallpaper showing where pictures had once hung. Fallen on hard times, thought Rose, with a feeling of compassion.
“Do you live here alone, Miss Friendly?”
“Yes. Papa died ten years ago. He was rector of Saint Paul’s before Dr. Tremaine. The church kindly allowed me to have this cottage.”
Rose heard a rumble of carriage wheels outside.
“Ah, there is our carriage and Miss Levine. If you are ready, Miss Friendly?”
Seated in the pleasant gloom of the White Hart Royal over an enormous afternoon tea, Rose again felt a
