footmen carried up the trunks and maids unpacked the clothes.
She had suggested to her mother that such great divisions between rich and poor were worrying, but Lady Polly had merely pointed out that God put one in one’s appointed station. If Rose wanted to continue with good works at Stacey Court, said the countess, then there were plenty of people in the village who would be glad of her services.
The next day she confided to Matthew Jarvis that sometimes she envied her parents’ indifference to the poor. “Your father is not as indifferent as he seems. None of his tenants are allowed to starve or fall sick without treatment,” said Matthew. “I have instructions to tell the factor not to collect any rent from the poorest.”
Rose wrapped up her Christmas presents and put them on a table under the tree. The servants’ hall had their own tree and presents would be given from the earl and countess at the servants’ dance, traditionally held in the afternoon of Christmas day.
Harry arrived, polite, attentive and as closed as a shut door. Christmas came and went. Harry gave her a splendid diamond-and-sapphire necklace and she blushed when she handed him that book.
And then, after Boxing Day, one of the maids fell ill with typhoid and part of the drive fell into the cesspool below.
A doctor was summoned to treat the maid. A nurse was hired for her. The factor was instructed to deal with the cesspool and the earl thought it safer to remove everyone back to London.
As they arrived at the town house, it began to snow, small swirling flakes that seemed to rise upwards in the lamplight.
Fires were hurriedly lit. The house was freezing. Rose went to bed that night with two stone hot-water bottles in her bed, or “pigs,” as they were called.
She was just drifting off to sleep, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace through half-closed lids, when suddenly she was wide awake.
At last she knew what it was that had been nagging at the back of her brain. She must tell Harry.
She was sure she now knew who had murdered Dolly.
In Yorkshire, Berrow and Cyril were feeling more like their horrible selves. They had shot every animal and bird on the estate that they could, had gone wenching in the brothels of York, and were beginning to regret having been so scared of Harry Cathcart.
It was only when the gamekeeper caught a poacher and dragged the man in to see Lord Berrow at gunpoint that Berrow began to have the germ of an idea. “I’ll take him to the police,” said the gamekeeper.
Berrow eyed the poacher thoughtfully. Most poachers were people who risked prison in order to feed their families during the hard winter, but this one was an unsavoury character with one wall eye, a long nose, and thin greasy hair. He dismissed the gamekeeper.
“Name,” barked Berrow.
“John Finch, melord.”
“Prison for you, me lad. What do you think of that?”
“Been there. Leastways get fed.”
“What were you in prison for?”
“Beating the wife.”
“Nonsense, man. Most men beat their wives, as is their right.”
“Was living ower near place called Drifton. My Ruby cheeked me, so I took a plank to her. Local copper comes rushing in. Charges me with assault and battery. Thought they’d throw it out o’ court but damned if they did. When I got out, Ruby was gone.”
“You’ll get life this time. Second offence.”
Finch looked frightened but tried to cover it up with a pathetic attempt to swagger. “Well, go on. Get it over with.”
Berrow studied him for a long moment.
“There could be another way.”
Rose fretted. Harry had gone out of town on a case. London was buried under great drifts and there were reports that the Thames had frozen.
All she could do was wait impatiently for his return.
Ailsa Bridge lifted her skirt and extracted the flat flask she kept secured by her garter. She took a hearty swig and then began to type again. Harry had assured her that Berrow and Banks were in Yorkshire and that she would be safe from any other attempts.
Her life with her missionary parents in Burma had been full of danger and she had taken many great risks to supply the War Office in London with intelligence. She did not feel as confident as Harry and did not want to worry him. She had bought an old breastplate in an antique shop and was wearing it under her gown. She also had primed Harry’s pistol and put it in her own desk.
She heard a step on the stair and stiffened. There was something furtive about that step. The nobility who usually frequented the office would come crashing in, full of bluster, demanding that some scandal or other be hushed up or some missing dog found.
Ailsa slid open the drawer and took out the pistol, laid it on top of the desk and covered it with her scarf.
The door opened and a man in a tweed coat, knickerbockers and a flat cap came in.
“Where’s the captain?” he demanded.
“Out of town. Please leave.”
He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. “Go in there.” He jerked his head at the inner office. “Open the safe.”
Ailsa’s hand crept towards the gun.
Finch saw the movement and shot her full in the chest. Ailsa crashed backwards in her chair and fell to the floor and lay still.
He searched in her desk until he found the keys. He went into the inner office and opened the safe. He was just reaching into it when a shot caught him on the shoulder. He grabbed his wounded shoulder and turned round. White-faced but stern, Ailsa was holding a pistol on him. He looked wildly for the gun, which he had put on Harry’s desk, but keeping him covered, Ailsa picked it up and threw it onto the floor.
As he groaned and clutched his shoulder, she picked up the receiver and said in a crisp voice, “Police.”
After she had made a statement to the police and they had left with Finch, Ailsa telephoned Harry. He listened in horror and said, “But you said he shot you!”
“I was wearing a breastplate,” said Ailsa.
“You are sharper than I am. I’ll come straight back. Meanwhile, you will find a negative and a photograph in the safe.
They are in an envelope. Do not look at them. I do not want the police to see them. Please call Phil Marshall and tell him to come and pick them up. The police did not find them, did they?”
“No, I told them he had no time to take anything.”
“Go home, Miss Bridge. I shall go directly to Scotland Yard.”
Harry was ushered in to see Kerridge. “This is a bad business,” he said. “The chap who tried to kill your secretary is an unsavoury character called John Finch. He says he was hired by Lord Berrow, furnished with a gun, told to kill you if necessary and to get a negative out of your safe. We sent a man back and he retrieved the negative. It was nothing but a negative and photograph of a saucy lady in the altogether. Miss Bridge said a client of yours had paid you to get the negative and photo back. She said Berrow knew of the photograph and might use it to ruin her reputation.”
Oh, excellent Miss Bridge, thought Harry.
“That is true. I never thought Berrow would go to such extremes. Furthermore I cannot, of course, give you the name of the lady. She has done nothing criminal. What are you doing about Berrow?”
“The police commissioner in York is going out to his estate to arrest him personally.”
Oh, the magic of a title. If Lord Berrow had been Mr. Bloggs of nowhere, the police would have pounced without warning. But the police commissioner made the mistake of phoning Berrow first and saying he was coming to see him on a grave matter and bringing the chief constable with him.
Berrow rushed to find Cyril, who was potting balls in the billiard-room. Cyril had highly approved of the plot to
