still bright spring-green. She heard a step behind her and swung round nervously.
Tristram Baker-Willis came up to her. ‘Jolly day, what. Care for a walk?’
‘Why not?’ said Rose.
They walked round to the back of the house, where formal gardens ran down to an ornamental lake.
‘Oh, look, swans,’ said Tristram.
Two swans were standing on the grass beside the lake. ‘How ugly they look out of the water,’ said Rose.
‘I say, I never noticed that before. You’re a jolly observant girl.’
What is he after? wondered Rose.
‘Sad business about Freddy,’ said Tristram, snapping off the head of a rose. He looked at it in amazement, as if wondering how it had got on his hand, and then shrugged and tossed it to the ground.
‘Yes, very sad,’ agreed Rose.
‘What’s Cathcart doing here? He still poking his nose into business that should be dealt with by Scotland Yard?’
‘I do not know. I think he is simply here as a guest. Lady Glensheil is very fond of him.’
‘Something deuced creepy about a fellow sinking to such a trade. I’m surprised that Lady Glensheil should encourage him. All of society should shun him.’
Where is Harry? fretted Rose.
Then she suddenly stopped short. Today was the day when Kerridge would be at The Feathers. Harry had probably gone to see him alone.
‘Must go,’ said Rose, and picking up her skirts, she ran back towards the house.
Daisy was not in the breakfast room. Rose ran up the stairs and found Daisy in their private sitting-room, looking out of the window.
‘We’d better change and get those bicycles,’ panted Rose. ‘I had forgotten. Kerridge is at that inn called The Feathers today. Ah, Turner, there you are. We are going cycling. We will need our divided skirts, blouses and hats.’
Soon they were speeding down the drive after a wobbly start. ‘Where is The Feathers?’ shouted Daisy.
‘I saw it when we came through that little village. It’s only about a mile from the gates.’
When they reached the inn, the landlord informed them that Mr Kerridge was in the pub garden at the back.
And there they found Kerridge eating a large breakfast, with Harry and Becket beside him.
‘You might have told me you were going to meet Mr Kerridge,’ accused Rose.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ said Harry wearily. He had not been to sleep, having driven all night to get rid of the body and the car and then having come straight to the inn.
‘So is there any news?’ demanded Rose.
‘Sir Andrew Fairchild, the king’s equerry, volunteered the information that Mr Pomfret had approached him with a view to buying a title.’
‘And what did Sir Andrew say to that?’ asked Rose.
‘Of course he pretended to be shocked and said titles were never bought, which was silly of him, as everyone knows they are these days. So that confirms Mr Pomfret’s father’s story that Pomfret was desperate for a title. We studied the bank accounts further. He did not have much money, or rather, he did not keep much money. Very extravagant spender.’
Harry put his hand over his mouth to hide a cavernous yawn.
‘Didn’t you get any sleep?’ asked Kerridge.
‘Not much. Went for a drive.’
‘Near a river?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Your car has mud on the sides and yet the weather is still fine and dry.’
‘Oh, we came through a water splash. Where was it, Becket?’
‘I cannot recall, sir. One village at night is very like another village. Have you learned anything, Lady Rose?’
‘Not really. On the face of it, it is an exceptionally boring house party. Everyone just glooms around. Lady Glensheil has obviously considered that having supplied a theatre for your suspects, she does not need to do anything more about it. Oh, Mr Baker-Willis invited me for a walk this morning. He was anxious to find out why Captain Cathcart was included in the guest list. I said it was because you were a friend of Lady Glensheil. He seemed highly nervous and ill at ease.’
Kerridge looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping something more dramatic would have happened by now.’ Rose and Harry exchanged glances.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Kerridge. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Harry quickly.
‘There’s no sign of McWhirter,’ said Kerridge, fixing Rose with a hard stare.
Rose felt herself beginning to blush.
‘You haven’t seen him?’
‘If we had seen him, we would of course have contacted the nearest police station,’ said Harry smoothly.
Kerridge leaned back in his chair. He wagged a finger at Harry. ‘You’ve been up to something. You haven’t shaved. You’ve got bags under your eyes. And you’ve got mud on your car.’
Harry thought quickly. ‘I went for a drive all night because I could not sleep. I was in the Boer War, you know. It’s the reports in the papers of Kitchener’s concentration camps in South Africa packed with starving women and children. For us British to behave like that is sickening. It is tantamount to treason to criticize our glorious victory, but I would see those donkeys of leaders, Buller, Kitchener and Lord Roberts, in the dock for having caused so much death and misery. Thanks to the new photograph reporting showing pictures of the misery of the Boer women and children, we are the shame of the world.’
There was a long silence. A wasp settled on the remains of Kerridge’s breakfast. At last, the superintendent said gruffly, ‘I’ll still be here tomorrow in case you can find out more. If one of them took whatever evidence of their misdeeds when they shot Mr Pomfret, they might have that evidence with them.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Harry.
Outside the inn, before she mounted her bicycle, Rose said, ‘We could search their rooms. There is a game of croquet scheduled for this afternoon. Everyone usually plays. I could get into Mrs Jerry’s and Mrs Stockton’s rooms and you could try Lord Alfred.’
‘Leave it,’ said Harry curtly. ‘You’ve already been in too much danger.’
But Rose was determined. Despite Daisy’s pleas to be careful, Rose waited until everyone was assembled on the lawn for the game of croquet and then excused herself, saying the sun had given her a headache.
She went straight to Mrs Jerry’s rooms. They were easy to find because, in the usual way, cards were on each door with the names of the occupants. It was an apartment like the one she shared with Daisy: two bedrooms off a sitting-room.
There was a desk by the window in the sitting-room. She went to it and began to search through the small amount of papers. They were mostly unpaid bills and letters.
And then she heard someone in the corridor outside. She hid behind a curtain and waited, her heart beating hard. The door opened and she heard Mrs Jerry’s voice, obviously speaking to her husband.
‘It’s a stupid game, the sun’s hot and I’m tired.’
‘Then go and lie down’ came her husband’s voice.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you care?’
‘Don’t be so grumpy, popsy-wopsy. Come here.’
Perspiration began to form on Rose’s brow.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Mr Jerry. ‘It’s too buggering hot.’
‘Language!’
‘Coming from someone who swears like a fishwife, that’s rich!’
