“That’s a pity. I always thought the pair of you were eminently suitable. Still, that’s an end to her detecting. She won’t be getting into any more trouble now.”
In the following weeks Rose began to relax and feel she had made a wise decision. Peter was always in attendance and was a free and easy companion. But there was still some black little piece of sorrow inside her. She told herself it was because she missed the excitement of being with Harry and Becket and solving cases.
One morning, she remembered guiltily that it had been some days since she had last visited Miss Friendly. She went up to the attic. She stopped outside the door. Miss Friendly was singing in a high reedy voice:
Rose pushed open the door and went in. “I heard you singing. I assume that means you are still happy with us, Miss Friendly?”
“So very happy, Lady Rose. Funnily enough, I was just remembering when Roger, the blacksmith’s son, used to sing that song. It was originally a Longfellow poem. He had such a lovely voice.”
“I wish I knew where this Roger is now,” said Rose. “What are you working at?”
Miss Friendly flushed slightly. “I regret to say that I am working for myself just now. I have put on weight and I am letting out a gown.”
Rose laughed. “You needed to put on weight.” Then she said, “Did you ever do any charity work?”
“When Papa was alive I used to call on the unfortunate of the village. There were so many. I would give them what food we could spare.”
“Miss Levine has suggested that I might do some work in the soup kitchens of the East End. Perhaps you might care to accompany me?”
“Gladly. Charity work is very rewarding.”
“Then I shall let you know when we are setting out.”
Rose went back down the stairs and told Daisy they would be taking Miss Friendly with them when they set out on charity work. To Daisy, a trip to the East End of London was a journey back into her past that she was reluctant to make.
She asked, “Did Miss Friendly remember anything more about Dolly that might be important?”
“No, she was just saying, however, that this Roger Dallow had an excellent singing voice.”
Daisy’s green eyes gleamed. “If I were a blacksmith’s lad and had a good voice and had endured enough hard labour to last me a lifetime, I’d try to get a job in the music hall.”
“I never thought of that. But there are so many theatres in London.”
“I could go out and buy a copy of
“And you think he might be in there?”
“Perhaps.”
“Good. Let us go now. I do not have an engagement until this evening.”
They took one of the earl’s carriages to Covent Garden. Rose waited until Daisy went in and bought a copy of the paper. She emerged pleased with herself. “It only costs a penny now.”
“Let’s go to Swan and Edgar for tea. We can look at it there and quiz the ladies’ hats.”
The department store of Swan and Edgar at Piccadilly Circus was famous for its teas. They also had an orchestra to entertain the customers.
“Now,” said Daisy, “let’s see if he’s in here.”
Rose leaned back in her chair and listened to the sugary strains of the orchestra playing “Poor Wandering One” from
“There’s something here,” said Daisy. “It doesn’t say Roger Dallow, but it says there’s someone called Sam Duval and he’s billed at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as The Singing Blacksmith.”
“I wish we could go this evening but we are invited to the Pocingtons for dinner.”
“You could have a headache.”
Rose smiled. “So I could. My parents are so pleased with my engagement that they will not mind me having one night off. The minute they leave, we can take a hansom to Fulham Palace.”
Daisy was excited. If they found out anything, surely Rose would want to tell Harry and Kerridge.
When they climbed into the hansom that evening, Daisy twisted around and peered out of the back window.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rose.
“Funny,” said Daisy, turning back. “I thought I saw two men standing under the trees opposite the house.”
“That is odd. Some time ago I looked down into the square and saw Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow standing there.”
“I wish you were still engaged to the captain,” fretted Daisy. “He would have come round and lain in wait for them and demanded to know what they were doing.”
“I’m sure Sir Peter will do the same thing should I ask him.”
“He’s not frightening enough,” said Daisy. “The captain is.”
“Oh, do stop talking about Captain Cathcart. That part of my life is finished.”
“So you say,” muttered Daisy sulkily.
¦
They had to pay for a box at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as all the seats had already been booked.
There was to be a guest appearance of George Chevalier, famous for his song “My Old Dutch.”
Rose fidgeted restlessly while Daisy heaved a sentimental sigh as Chevalier sang:
Then came the comedians, the jugglers, and a conjurer, all followed by a massive corseted lady who sang, “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” The first half was over.
Rose saw various members of the audience staring up at the box and lowered her veil. But to Daisy, who had been on the halls herself, it was all fascinating.
The second half opened with a man with his performing dogs. Rose stifled a yawn. And then Sam Duval came on. He was an exceptionally good-looking man with dark curly hair and a strong figure. He was dressed in a blacksmith’s costume and standing by a “forge” and looking at an empty birdcage on a table in front of the footlights. He sang in a clear tenor voice:
There was a throb in his voice while he sang. There was a brief silence when he finished and then there was a roar of applause. Daisy clapped until her hands were sore. Then she nudged Rose. “Come on. I’m sure that’s him.
