“She grinned like an urchin and said, ‘Very well, I will meet you here in an hour.’
“We had a happy time. Madame de Peurey got her claws into her and the next thing I knew, I had to go to a lawyer’s office and sign papers, promising all sorts of things – jewels, a carriage, a better apartment. But a year later, she left me for another wealthy manufacturer, and so it went on. I think Baron Chevenix was the last.”
“When you met her in Saint Malo, what name did she give you?”
“Dolores Duval, of course.”
“At the farm where she worked, she was known as Betty.”
“They have terribly strong accents in Brittany, not to mention their own patois. But once when we were talking of London, she seemed to know it very well. I asked if she was English and she looked alarmed and said she was French.”
“Did she have any particular friends?”
“Apart from the terrible Madame de Peurey, no, not while she was with me.”
Harry asked him to telephone the Crillon if he could think of anything else.
¦
When he arrived back and went to Rose’s room it was to find that her fever had broken and she was asleep. He drew Daisy out of the room and told her about the chaperone.
“I am going to see Lemonier,” he said. “I feel the answer to Dolores’s murder lies in England.”
? Our Lady of Pain ?
Seven
– Francis Thompson
Daisy began to feel better as the days passed and Rose regained her strength. Madame Bailloux turned out not to be the formidable dragon that Daisy had feared, but light-hearted and amusing. She set to teaching Daisy to speak French. She told Rose that the very thing to complete her recovery would be a gown made by the famous French couturier Paul Poiret. Paul Poiret, she said, despised the fashion for light colours. He damned them as “nuances of nymphs’ thighs, lilacs, swooning mauves, tender blue hortensias, niles, maizes, straws: all that was soft, washed-out and insipid.”
Daisy’s romance with Becket had come to an abrupt halt. Harry was out frequently with Becket, travelling to and from police headquarters, hoping all the while that Rose’s attacker had been found.
In the evening, Harry and Becket walked up and down outside the front of the hotel, watching the passers-by, looking all the while for anyone sinister. One evening a young man in a tweed jacket, knickerbockers and goggles cycled slowly past, staring at the hotel. Harry and Becket gave chase, halting the cyclist and demanding to know who he was.
He told them rudely to mind their own business. He was English. Harry summoned a policeman and the unfortunate young man was dragged off for interrogation. He turned out to be an Oxford student, with impeccable credentials, on a cycling holiday.
Lemonier suggested curtly to Harry that he should leave investigating to the French police in future.
As soon as Rose was fully recovered, Harry said they must leave for London. He turned down Madame Bailloux’s suggestion that they should wait a further few days until Rose had ordered a Paris gown. The bags, trunks, and hatboxes were all packed. The French lady’s maid who had been hired by the duchess had disappeared as soon as the duchess had left.
They took the train to Calais and then embarked on the steamer. Daisy was relieved that the Channel was calm. Then at Dover, another train and carriages to the Earl of Hadshire’s town house.
Fortunately, Matthew Jarvis was in residence, along with the housekeeper and staff; Brum, the butler, had gone abroad with the earl and countess. A guest room was prepared for Madame Bailloux.
The first thing Daisy did as soon as she was settled was to go upstairs to Miss Friendly’s workroom. It was empty of work basket and material. Only the sewing machine remained.
She rushed to Miss Friendly’s bedroom to find it bare, with the bed stripped. Alarmed, Daisy sought out Matthew and demanded to know what had happened to Miss Friendly.
“Miss Friendly resigned while you were away,” said Matthew. “She came into an inheritance and has left to set up a dress salon with Mr Marshall, who worked for the captain.”
Daisy felt her dreams collapse. What on earth were she and Becket to do now? But there was worse to come.
¦
“I feel we should call a doctor for Miss Levine,” said Rose to Madame Bailloux. “She was very sick this morning.”
Madame Bailloux was crocheting a collar, the crochet hook flashing in and out as she worked steadily.
“That will be because of her pregnancy,” she said.
“Nonsense! She can’t be pregnant.”
“Miss Levine is showing all the signs. Young ladies when they lose their virginity have a certain air about them. The expression in the eyes is never the same.”
At that moment, Daisy walked in. She looked white-faced and tired.
“Do sit down, Daisy,” said Rose. “I have something of great importance to ask you.”
Daisy sank wearily into a chair. “Go on.”
“Are you pregnant?”
Daisy’s slightly protuberant green eyes opened to their widest in shock. “Of course not.”
“You are being sick in the mornings, are you not?” asked Madame Bailloux. “I noticed you have a certain tendre for Becket.”
“I can’t be!” wailed Daisy.
“Did you go to bed with him?” asked Madame Bailloux.
Daisy hung her head.
“Why?” asked Rose.
“Oh, why not,” said Daisy defiantly. “We were all ready to set up in business with Miss Friendly. We were to be married. Now we can’t. Servants don’t marry.” Then the burst of defiance left her and she burst into tears.
“Oh, don’t cry,” said Rose. “We’ll think of something.”
“I’ll have to go to one of those homes for fallen women,” sobbed Daisy.
“Nonsense,” said Rose. “Out of the question. You will have the baby here.”
“And what will my lord and lady say to that when they return?” asked Daisy.
Rose bit her lip.
“If I may make a suggestion,” said Madame Bailloux. “Captain Cathcart is not what I would call conventional. I think we must summon him here. It is no use crying again, Miss Levine. Your future must be resolved.” She rang the bell and when a footman answered its summons, told him to ask Mr Jarvis to telephone Captain Cathcart and tell him to come immediately.
While they waited, Rose tried to banish visions of Daisy and Becket from her brain. It was almost impossible for a young Edwardian lady like Rose to envisage such a coupling. Edwardian fashions were a sort of rococo art, shunning the simplicity of nature. Anything approaching nudity was regarded as indelicate. Edwardian decolletage in evening dress was far less daring than in Victorian times, the bosom being veiled with lace or chiffon.
She let out a little sigh of relief when she heard the downstairs door opening and then Harry’s tread on the stairs as he mounted them to the drawing room.
“Has anything happened?” he asked anxiously as he walked into the room.
“It has,” said Rose, “but nothing to do with the murders. Daisy is pregnant.”
“Ah.” He studied Daisy, who sat with her head bent for a long moment. “Becket?”
Daisy gulped and nodded.
