Death at Wentwater Court Read online

  Daisy finished the roll of film. The other rolls were in her Gladstone bag, so she packed up, detaching the camera from the tripod and carefully closing its accordion nose. As soon as she stopped concentrating on her work, she became aware of the biting chill nibbling at her toes and cheeks.

  The folded tripod tucked awkwardly under one arm, the camera case slung by its strap over her shoulder, she trudged on around the lake. A path of sanded, well-trodden snow led up from the bench towards the house. Before she reached it, Phillip skated over to her.

  ‘Finished? I’ll give you a hand up to the house if you’ll hold on half a tick while I take off my skates.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be a help.’

  He skated along to the bench to change his footwear. As she strolled to join him, Daisy wondered if he was about to take up his inconstant pursuit of her. Ever since she had emerged from her bottle green school uniform like a butterfly from its chrysalis, the Honourable Phillip Petrie, third son of Baron Petrie, had intermittently courted her. More for Gervaise’s sake than her own, she sometimes thought.

  She smiled at him as he relieved her of her burdens. Though she steadfastly refused his periodic proposals, she was fond of her childhood friend and erstwhile pigtail-puller.

  ‘Did you bring skates?’ he asked, shortening his long strides to match hers up the hill, slippery despite the sand.

  ‘No, I didn’t think to.’

  ‘I expect you can borrow some. We could come straight down again. It’s a pity to waste such a topping day.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not here as a guest, or at least, not for pleasure. I’m going to be busy.’

  He looked startled. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I have a commission to write about Wentwater Court for Town and Country,’ she told him with pride.

  ‘You and your bally writing,’ he groaned. ‘Dash it, Daisy, it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to put together a bit of tomfoolery for the gossip column. You can scribble it off later.’

  ‘Not a paragraph or two, a long article. With photos. This is serious, Phillip. They are paying me pots of money to write a monthly series about some of the more interesting of the lesser known country seats.’

  ‘Money!’ He frowned. ‘Hang it all, my dear old girl, you surely don’t need to earn your own living. Gervaise would be fearfully pipped.’

  ‘Gervaise never tried to tell me what to do,’ she said with considerable asperity, ‘and he’d have understood that I simply can’t live with Mother, let alone with Cousin Edgar. He couldn’t stand Edgar and Geraldine any more than I can.’

  ‘Maybe, but all the same he must be turning in his grave. His sister working for her living!’

  ‘At least writing is a whole lot better than that ghastly secretarial work I was doing. I did enjoy helping Lucy in her studio, but she doesn’t really have enough work to justify paying me.’

  ‘It was Lucy Fotheringay put you up to this independence tommyrot in the first place. Are you still sharing that Bayswater flat with her?’

  ‘Not the flat.’ Daisy seized the opportunity to avoid the subject of her employment, though she knew she’d not escape his ragging forever. ‘We have a perfectly sweet little house in Chelsea, quite near the river.’

  She went on to describe it in excruciating detail, which Phillip was too well brought up to interrupt. Before her narrative reached the attics, they reached the front door. Phillip being laden with skates, tripod, and camera, Daisy rang the bell.

  A footman in plum-coloured livery opened one half of the massive, iron-bound, oak double doors. Stepping in, Daisy handed him her card and glanced around.

  ‘Oh, I can’t wait to photograph it!’ The early Tudor Great Hall was everything she had heard. Linenfold wainscoting rose to a carved frieze of Tudor roses, bulrushes, and stylized rippling water. Above, the walls were whitewashed and hung with tapestries of hunting and jousting scenes, alternating with crossed pikes, halberds, and banners. The vaulted hammerbeam ceiling was high overhead.

  Daisy despaired of ever doing the vast room justice with her camera.

  She shivered. A blazing fire in the huge fireplace opposite her did little to disperse the winter chill rising from the flagged floor. A cold draught blew from the arched stone staircase at one end of the hall. The footman hurriedly closed the front door behind Phillip.

  ‘You’ll be the writing lady, miss?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She had ordered new cards with her profession proudly emblazoned beneath her name, but she hadn’t yet received them.

  Obviously unsure what to do with her, the footman turned with relief to the stately, black-clad butler who now appeared through a green baize door at the back of the hall. ‘It’s Miss Dalrymple, Mr. Drew.’ He handed over the card.

  ‘If you’ll please to come this way, miss, his lordship will receive you in his study.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She put out her hand as Phillip made to go with her. The last thing she needed was his censorious presence hovering at her elbow when she discussed her work with Lord Wentwater. ‘Don’t wait about, Phil. Go back to your skating in case there’s a thaw tonight. I’ll see you later.’

  Quickly powdering her red nose as she followed the butler, she realized that her nerves had vanished. She had never found it difficult to charm elderly gentlemen, and she had no reason to suppose that the earl would be an exception. Half the battle was already won, since he had given her permission to write the article and invited her to Wentwater. Having seen the magnificent Great Hall, she had no doubt that she’d find plenty to write about.

  The butler led the way from the Tudor part of the house into the east wing. Here he tapped on a door, opened it, and announced her. As Daisy entered with a friendly smile, Lord Wentwater rose and came round his leather-topped desk to meet her.

  A tall, lean gentleman of some fifty years, he did not return her smile but shook the hand she offered, greeting her with a grave courtesy. He had James’s straight, narrow, aristocratic nose, and the greying hair and moustache gave him an air of distinction. Daisy thought him most attractive despite his age and the rather Victorian formality of his manners.

  The Victorian impression was heightened by the heavy mahogany furniture in the study and the dark red Turkey carpet. A Landseer painting of two black retrievers, one with a dead mallard in its mouth, hung above a superb Adam fireplace.

  Still chilled, Daisy gravitated automatically towards the fireplace, pulling off her gloves and holding out her hands to the flames.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss Dalrymple?’ The earl indicated a maroon-leather wing chair by the fire. Taking the similar chair opposite her, he said, ‘I knew your father, of course. A sad loss to the House of Lords. That wretched influenza decimated our ranks, and so soon after the War slaughtered the next generation. Your brother, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, Gervaise died in Flanders.’

  ‘Allow me to offer my condolences, somewhat belated, I fear.’ To her relief, he dropped the unhappy subject and went on in a dry, slightly interrogative tone. ‘I am flattered that you have chosen my home to write about.’

  ‘I’d heard how splendid the interior is, Lord Wentwater, and for my January article I couldn’t count on being able to photograph outdoors.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your editor’s letter mentioned that you would be bringing a photographer with you.’

  Daisy willed herself not to blush. ‘Unfortunately, Mr. Carswell has come down with ’flu, so I’ll be taking my own pictures.’ She hurried on before he could express his sympathy for the nonexistent Carswell. ‘It would be most frightfully helpful if you have a small windowless space I could use as a darkroom. A boxroom, or storeroom, or scullery, perhaps? As I’m no expert, I’d like to be able to see how well my photos have come out before I leave, in case I need to take more.’

  That brought a faint smile to his lips. ‘We can do better than that. My brother Sydney – he’s in the Colonial Service – was a bit of a photography enthusia
st in his youth, and had a darkroom set up.’

  ‘Oh, topping!’

  ‘The equipment has never been cleared out, though you may find it rather old-fashioned. Is there anything else I can do to facilitate your work?’

  ‘I’ve read a bit about the history of the house, but if there are any interesting anecdotes not generally known . . . ?’

  ‘My sister’s the one you need to talk to. She knows all there is to be known about Wentwater and the Beddowes.’

  ‘Lady Josephine is here? Spiffing!’

  Again the fugitive smile crossed the earl’s face. Lady Josephine Menton was as loquacious as she was sociable, a noted hostess and a noted gossip. No one could have better suited Daisy’s purpose.

  ‘I’m sure I can trust your discretion, and your editor’s,’ said Lord Wentworth, standing up. ‘Come, I’ll take you to her and introduce you to my wife. They are usually to be found in the morning-room at this hour.’

  They crossed the passage and he ushered her into a sunny sitting-room furnished, with an eye to comfort rather than style, in sage green, cream, and peach. As they entered, a grey-muzzled black spaniel on the hearthrug raised his head in brief curiosity, twitched his stumpy tail, then went back to sleep. One of the two women sitting by the fire looked up, startled, a hint of alarm in her expression.

  ‘Annabel, my dear, here is Miss Dalrymple. I know you will see that she is comfortable.’

  ‘Of course, Henry.’ Lady Wentwater’s musical voice was quiet, almost subdued. She rose gracefully and came towards them. ‘How do you do, Miss Dalrymple.’

  Daisy was stunned. She had read in the Post that the earl had recently remarried, but she’d had no idea his second wife was so young. Annabel, Countess of Wentwater, was no more than a year or two older than James, her eldest stepson. And she was beautiful.

  A warm, heather-mixture tweed skirt and bulky thigh-length cardigan did nothing to disguise a tall, slender figure, somewhat more rounded than was strictly fashionable. Her pale face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and delicate features, her coiled hair dark and lustrous. Dark, wide-set eyes smiled tentatively at Daisy.

  ‘I leave you in good hands, Miss Dalrymple,’ said the earl, and turned to depart.

  His wife’s gaze followed him. In it, Daisy read desperate unhappiness.

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘So, Daisy, you have taken up a career?’ The stout, good-natured Lady Josephine sounded more interested than disapproving. ‘I’m sure your mother must be having forty fits.’

  ‘Mother’s not frightfully keen,’ Daisy admitted. ‘She’d much rather I went to live with her at the Dower House.’

  ‘A stifling life for a young girl. She should thank her lucky stars you are writing for a respectable magazine, not one of the scandalous Sunday rags. Why, I myself have a subscription to Town and Country. I look forward to reading your articles, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Josephine.’ She turned to the countess. ‘It’s jolly decent of you and Lord Wentwater to let me come. I felt a bit cheeky even suggesting it.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Dalrymple.’ Lady Wentwater’s response was calm and gracious. Her eyes were shadowed now by long, thick lashes, and Daisy wondered if she had imagined the wretchedness. ‘Henry is proud of Wentwater,’ she went on. ‘He’s glad of the opportunity to boast of it vicariously.’

  ‘True,’ observed her sister-in-law, ‘but I’m the one who knows the place inside out. I’ll show you around later if you like, Daisy. I expect you’d like to go to your room for a wash and brush-up now. One always feels shockingly grimy after a train journey, doesn’t one?’

  Lady Wentwater, slightly flustered at this gentle reminder of her duty, rang the bell.

  The housekeeper led Daisy back to the Great Hall, up the stone stairs, along a gallery, and into the east wing. As they went, Daisy enquired about the darkroom Lord Wentwater had mentioned.

  ‘Yes, miss, all Mr. Sydney’s machines and such are still there,’ the woman assured her, ‘and kept dusted, you may be sure. Down in the sculleries it is. The kitchens are a regular rabbit warren. Just ask anyone the way.’

  ‘Is there electric light?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss, his lordship had the electric light put in throughout, being safer than gas, though I will say the generator has its ups and downs. If there’s aught else you need in the photography line, just ask me or Drew. Here we are, now. That there’s the lavatory, miss, and here’s your room.’

  The square, high-ceilinged bedroom was light and airy, with flowered wallpaper and matching bedspread and curtains. The furnishings were old-fashioned but comfortable, and a cheery fire burned in the grate. A small writing desk stood by the window, which faced south, towards the lake. Daisy was relieved to see her camera and tripod on the chest-of-drawers.

  An apple-cheeked young maid, in a grey woollen frock and white cap and apron, was unpacking her suitcase. She turned to bob a curtsy. Daisy smiled at her.

  ‘Mabel will take care of you, miss,’ said the housekeeper with a swift glance around the room to make sure all was in order. ‘Anything she can’t manage, send her for Barstow, her ladyship’s maid. Our girls go off duty at eight, except for one who brings round the hot-water bottles and is on call until midnight. The bathroom’s through that door there. You’ll be sharing with Miss Petrie – her room’s on the other side. Coffee will be served in the morning-room at eleven, and luncheon’s at one. Will that be all, miss?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Beginning to thaw at last, Daisy took off her hat and coat. She changed boots for shoes, smoothed her pale blue jersey jumper suit, tidied her hair, and powdered her nose.

  ‘Please, miss, I can’t open your bag.’

  ‘No, it’s locked, Mabel. There’s nothing in it you need deal with, only photographic equipment.’

  ‘You’re the writing lady, aren’t you, miss?’ the maid asked, wide-eyed. ‘I think that’s wizard, reely I do. You must be ever so clever.’

  Amused, but nonetheless flattered, Daisy admitted to herself that Phillip’s disapproval had piqued her, so that even the chambermaid’s admiration, added to Lady Josephine’s acceptance, bucked her up no end. In a cheerful frame of mind, she went back down to the morning-room.

  As she entered, the butler was depositing a tray with a Georgian silver coffee set on a table beside Lady Wentwater.

  ‘Has a flask been taken down to the skaters, Drew?’ she asked in her soft voice.

  Daisy missed his answer as Lady Josephine greeted her.

  ‘Just in time for coffee, Daisy. You know Hugh, of course.’

  Sir Hugh Menton, a gentleman of unimpressive stature eclipsed by his wife’s bulk, had risen as Daisy came in. ‘How do you do, Miss Dalrymple,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I understand you are now an author.’

  She shook his hand. ‘Not quite, Sir Hugh, merely a novice journalist, though I have high hopes.’

  ‘Ah, Josephine likes to anticipate the splendid accomplishments of her friends,’ he said fondly, with an indulgent smile at his wife.

  ‘Better than anticipating failure!’ she said tartly.

  ‘Much better,’ Daisy agreed. ‘I remember last time I saw you in London, Lady Josephine, Sir Hugh was in Brazil and we decided his very presence ensured excellent harvests of both coffee and rubber. I hope your trip was successful, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you, though I can’t claim all the credit for the harvests. I put good men in charge of my plantations and leave them to get on with it, with occasional visits to keep them up to the mark. There’s a fine line between interference and inattention.’

  That Sir Hugh knew how to tread that fine line Daisy did not doubt for a moment. Besides his extensive rubber and coffee plantations in Brazil, he was reputed to have made a vast fortune in the City. Yet despite his shrewd decisiveness in business matters, he was as courteous and gentlemanly as Lord Wentwater, though in a more modern, worldly, and approachable way. Daisy liked him.

 
He asked how she preferred her coffee and went to fetch it for her and his wife.

  ‘Will you have some cake, Miss Dalrymple?’ Lady Wentwater enquired. She had provided a large slice of Dundee cake for Lady Josephine without asking, Daisy noted with amusement.

  Breakfast seemed an age ago. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

  At that moment two young men came in. Lady Josephine took charge of the introductions. ‘My nephews, Wilfred and Geoffrey, Daisy. Miss Dalrymple is to write about Wentwater Court for Town and Country magazine.’

  ‘Jolly good show.’ Wilfred, a year or so older than his sister Marjorie, was as much a typical young man-about-town as she was a flapper. From sleek, brilliantined hair, faintly redolent of Parma violets, to patent leather shoes, he was impeccably turned out. Daisy could imagine him languidly knocking a croquet ball through a hoop, but skating was too energetic a pastime for him. A hint of puffiness about his eyes suggested that he probably saved his energy for living it up in nightclubs. His mouth had a sulky twist.

  His younger brother, a large, muscular youth, muttered, ‘How do you do,’ and stood there looking vaguely uneasy, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He headed for the coffee table as soon as Wilfred began to speak again.

  ‘I bet you wish you’d gone to write about Flatford’s place, Miss Dalrymple,’ Wilfred drawled. ‘What a scoop that would have been! You’ve heard about the robbery?’

  ‘Just that it happened. Something about a house-party and a ball?’

  ‘That’s right. It seems to have been one of a series of burglaries, but of course it’s the more interesting for being close to home. In fact, some of us went to the ball on New Year’s Eve, you know, but the pater insisted on us leaving early so we missed all the excitement.’

  ‘You were lucky to go at all,’ Lady Josephine told him. ‘Only a rackety set like Lord Flatford’s would hold a ball on a Sunday, New Year or no New Year. I was surprised Henry let you attend. In any case, leaving at midnight made no difference. The robbery wasn’t discovered until the morning.’