“I think the next step is surely to send you to India. That is the procedure for young ladies who have failed at their season.”
“I AM NOT GOING TO INDIA!” shouted Rose.
The nannies on either side leaned forward.
“Wheesht!” admonished Miss Tremp. “Ladies do not raise their voices.”
“You are suddenly a wealth of information about what ladies do and don’t do.”
“You would be best, my lady, to do what your parents tell you to do. Please lower your veil. I have my position to consider.”
“Do you mean you consider me a disgrace?”
“Unlike you, my lady, I have to earn my living. I was always of the opinion that you were a bit spoilt.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“It was not my place to do so.”
“It was not your place to fill my head with ideas of female independence which you should surely have known I could never be allowed to follow.”
“The day will come, my lady, when you will be grateful to me for a sound education to furnish your mind.”
Rose stood up. She opened her mouth to deal out some final recrimination, but her shoulders sagged. She nodded her head, turned on her heel, and walked away.
She had hoped for reassurance from Miss Tremp, for comfort, for a shared outrage at the iniquities of society.
Miss Tremp watched the slim figure of Rose walking away and sniffed. That was the English for you. No backbone.
♦
Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was enjoying a pint of beer before going home to his wife, Mabel, and their two children, Albert and Daisy. He had risen steadily up the ranks by dint of diligent plodding laced with amazing flights of imagination.
He was a grey man – grey hair, grey eyes, heavy grey moustache. He felt a tug at his elbow and looked up into the unlovely features of one of his informants, Posh Cyril.
Posh Cyril was second footman in the Blessington-Bruces’ household. He had a criminal record for burglary of which his employers were blissfully unaware. Although he had given up a life of crime, he had become an informant. He had been very useful in finding the identity of thieves for Kerridge, for he could recognize his own kind among the servants of various aristocratic households.
“Got something for you,” he whispered.
Kerridge nodded and bought him a pint and then led the way to a corner table. They sat down. “What have you got?” asked Kerridge.
“Did you read about that scandal involving Lady Rose, daughter of the Earl of Hadshire?”
“My wife insisted on reading it out to me. Hardly a criminal matter.”
“Ah, but Sir Geoffrey Blandon is being forced to leave the country.”
“Shouldn’t think he’d have to do that. Thought ruining some lass’s reputation was fair game with that lot.” Kerridge detested the upper classes with every fibre of his hard-working lower middle-class soul. He was sure one day the revolution would come. One of his rosy fantasies was a world where all the roles were reversed and the aristocrats’ money would be taken from them and spread among the poor.
“It’s like this.” Posh Cyril leaned forward. “It was my night off and I was playing cards in the kitchen at Blandon’s. The bell for the front door goes. The footman went to answer it. Then we hear shouting and swearing. I nipped up the stairs and opened the baize door a crack. There’s this tall, black-haired fellow and he’s smacking into Blandon with his fists. He brings him down and then he leans over him and says, ‘Leave the country by tomorrow or, by God, next time I’ll kill you’.”
“No charges have been laid.”
“But Blandon thinks the earl hired someone to beat Blandon up. That’s criminal,” said Posh Cyril.
“Was the assailant some hired thug?”
“No, he spoke like a gent. Got gent’s clothes on, too.”
“That lot are a law unto themselves,” said Kerridge. “Nothing there for me.”
“The newspapers might pay for this.”
Kerridge sighed. He knew if the newspapers got hold of it, he would have to investigate for the sake of formality. Then someone would have a word with someone else in high places and he would be ordered to drop it.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he ordered, “or I’ll make sure your employers know all about your record. Here’s half a crown. Now take yourself off.”
“What is it, Brum?” asked the earl the next afternoon. “Is everything ready for our departure tomorrow?”
“Yes, my lord. A person has called to see you.”
“I don’t see persons.”
“This person is a police officer.” Brum held out a small silver tray with a card on it.
♦
The earl took it. “Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge. Dear me. I’d better see him. Where is he?”
“In the ante-room.”
“Send him up.”
Now what? wondered the earl. Have we engaged some criminal by mistake? There’s that new hall boy, whatsisname.
The doors opened and Kerridge was ushered in, holding his bowler and gloves in one hand.
“Sit down,” ordered the earl.
The stocky detective sat down gingerly on a delicate-looking chair which creaked alarmingly under his bulk.
“I do not want to distress you, my lord, by referring to the matter of your daughter’s confrontation with a certain Sir Geoffrey Blandon –”
“Then don’t.”
“It has however come to my attention,” pursued Kerridge, “that Sir Geoffrey was beaten up by an assailant and ordered to leave the country.”
A slow smile lit up the earl’s face. “By Jove! Really?”
“Yes, really. My lord, you did not by any chance hire such an assailant? My report says he spoke like a gentleman. He is tall and has black hair.”
Cathcart, thought the earl, with a sudden rush of gratitude. “No,” he said coldly. “I am not in the habit of hiring thugs. I should warn you.”
Here it comes, thought Kerridge.
“…that the Prime Minister is known to me.”
“How did Lady Rose get that sheet from the betting book of a gentleman’s club?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps Lady Rose could tell me?”
The earl rang the bell. “You have overstepped the mark. We have nothing to do with the assault on Blandon, and if you insist on pursuing this, I shall have a word with your superiors, not to mention…”
“The Prime Minister,” said Kerridge.
The butler appeared. “Show Mr. Kerridge out,” ordered the earl.
It was just as he expected, thought Kerridge, but perhaps his visit might persuade the earl that he was not above the law. Then he realized dismally that the earl had just persuaded him that he was.
The earl had never regarded himself a gossip and despised those whom he considered indiscreet. But when he arrived at his club an hour later and saw Brigadier Bill Handy sitting by the fire, the temptation was too much.
“Well, well,” said the brigadier. “I hear you’re leaving town. Bad business. Cathcart do his job?”
The earl sat down and leaned forward. “He did more than his job. Worth every penny of that thousand pounds he charged. He thrashed that bounder, Blandon, and told him to leave the country. But don’t tell anyone. Most grateful to you.”
“What about your daughter? There was no reason for such a scene. How could she behave so disgracefully?”
“To tell the truth,” said the earl miserably, “I don’t know my own daughter. She had what seemed an excellent governess. Rose wanted a good education. I should have known how dangerous that is. Men hate a woman with a brain. Not me, but then, I’m highly intelligent and sensitive.”
“Quite,” said the brigadier, looking with amusement at the earl’s guileless face.
“When Rose took off for that demonstration, we thought she had gone off to visit the vicar. Fact was, she took a train to London. Couldn’t blame the governess. She’d already left.”