Death at Daisy's Folly (4 page)

“Good,” Daisy said. “Perhaps when you have read it, Ellie, you may have an idea as to the identity of the writer. And you, too, Kate.” She clapped her pretty hands. “We shall make it a project, shall we? We shall discover the authoress in our midst and unmask her!”

Kate desperately hoped Ellie would not read the story, because it was based on an incident that had happened some months before at the home of Ellie's parents. She would be sure to recognize the setting and characters. Now, when it was far too late to do anything about it, Kate began to wish that she had not drawn her characters quite so true to life, nor portrayed actual events quite so faithfully. She should have realized how dangerous it was to blend fiction and reality.

Before Kate could gather her wits to make an answer, she heard a loud sputtering and metallic clanking outside the window of the breakfast room. Startled by the sound and realizing its meaning, she rose from her chair to go to the window.

Lady Verena waved her hand carelessly. “Oh, don't be alarmed, Miss Ardleigh. It is only one of those wretchedly noisy motors that the men are so keen on these days. I daresay Lord Marsden has arrived.”

And with him, Kate thought, filled with confusion, was Sir Charles Sheridan.

Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires but according to our powers.

—HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL
Journal,
1856

 

 

“
W
ell, here we are,” Bradford said to Charles. He guided the Daimler off the main park lane and onto the graveled drive that circled Easton Lodge.

Charles took his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it. “The men have no doubt already gone out,” he said, “but we are in time to join the ladies at breakfast.”

Bradford was gratified by their early arrival. They had made the ten-mile run from Braintree to the Lodge in one hour and fifteen minutes, at almost twice the legal maximum speed of four miles an hour and sans the obligatory man with a red flag that—ridiculously—was still supposed to precede them by twenty yards. He had expected to be stopped by a constable and would have welcomed the chance to make a court case of it. But no constable had appeared. The Daimler had ruled the road.

Charles grunted as he looked at the ivy-clad, gray stone building that loomed ahead of them. “Damned impressive place,” he said. “But I for one wouldn't want the burden of responsibility for it. Can you imagine what it costs to maintain an estate like this?”

“Too much,” Bradford said. “These huge estates are a curse on the heads of those who inherit them.”

The Lodge was approached by a two-mile-long drive through twelve hundred acres of park scattered with giant oaks and grazed by deer—three times the size of Marsden Park, which Bradford stood to inherit upon his father's death. The three-story, multi-winged mock-Tudor house had hundreds of rooms and must cost a king's ransom to staff and maintain—a white elephant, in this modern day and age, when the cost of fuel was rising and the new death duties bid fair to impoverish the great estates. In fact, Bradford had heard that falling revenues had forced the Warwicks to close off the main wing of the Easton Lodge—the Countess's family home—except for weekend house parties, and were preparing to sell off sections of the park. But her financial woes didn't seem to affect her lavish spending, or her husband's, either. Bradford had also heard that the Countess had recently constructed a private railway to the Lodge so that the Prince, a frequent guest and her acknowledged lover, could come and go without depending on rail schedules, and that the Earl of Warwick had just lost a substantial sum of money in an ill-fated Mexican mining venture.

Bradford steered the automobile around the looping drive. He and Charles were a day late, to be sure, but Bradford was relieved that they had actually arrived. He was a devout believer in the future of the motorcar, but its present was often trying. It was ten to one against getting anywhere without some accident, such as losing the main drive belt, which mischance had happened late yesterday afternoon. It had been a bit of bad luck, too, for he had not thought to carry a replacement. Exhaustive inquiries in the nearest village had revealed that there was no harness maker who might mend or replace the leather belt, and it wasn't until Charles suggested that they try the cobbler that they began to make progress. By the time the cobbler was located and put to work, however, the sun was setting. After several hours of lantern-lit effort, the man had effected a serviceable repair. But lighting his work had nearly exhausted their supply of the calcium carbide that powered the Daimler's acetylene headlamps, so Bradford had been forced to agree to staying the night in Braintree. Before they left that morning, he had dispatched his man Lawrence to London by train to acquire another replacement belt, a spare tire, an extra cask of petrol, and a canister of calcium carbide. He did not intend to be caught short again.

They turned the corner behind the Lodge, and Bradford braced himself for the excited crowd that always welcomed the arrival of a motorcar. In a moment, servants and stableboys would be swarming around the vehicle, touching its tires, marveling at the gleaming brass fittings, rubbing the mud off the headlamps with their sleeves. Bradford had owned the car for three months, but the moment of arrival was one he still savored. It came as something of a surprise, then, that when he piloted the automobile onto the gravel apron at the rear of the house, everyone seemed to be running
away
from them, in the direction of the stables.

“Something seems amiss,” Charles said.

Bradford sounded his electric bell, ostensibly installed to warn pedestrians and horses but really designed to attract attention. But the electric jangle had no effect on the scurrying and shouting. He brought the Daimler to a stop, stepped out of the vehicle, and raised his goggles.

“I say,” he called to one of several servants hurrying toward the stable. “What's happened?”

“ ‘Is Highness's groom 'as bin kicked in th' 'ead,” the young man replied.

At that moment, two men emerged from the stable door, a limp form sagging between them like sacked meal.

“Hold on, there!” Charles cried, jumping down from the automobile and running toward the stable, Bradford at his heels. “He shouldn't be handled that way, with a head injury. On the ground with him, now!”

The two men, startled, deposited their liveried burden on the ground with a thump. The boy, for that's what he was, lay unmoving. Charles knelt down beside the inert form.

“I'll go for a doctor,” Bradford said, pulling his goggles back on and turning toward the motorcar.

“Beggin' Yer Lordship's pardon,” one of the men said gruffly, “but th' doctor's needed in a
‘urry.
Th' boys is saddlin' Fiver now, an' Tom'll ride over t' Little Easton by way o' th' woods. 'E'll be there an' back wi' th' doctor afore you can git that contraption turned around an' 'eaded th' right way.”

The double stable doors opened and a black, high-stepping hunter was led out of the gloom. Seeing the unfamiliar automobile, the horse reared and whinnied shrilly. Tom, a lanky young man, hoisted himself into the saddle and was off in a headlong dash down the drive, flying hoofs sending a spray of loose gravel clanging against the Daimler's metal fender.

Charles stood. “Somebody ride after Tom and fetch him back,” he said soberly. “It's of no use bringing the doctor. The lad's dead.”

“Too bad,” Bradford said, looking down at the pale young face. The boy looked scarcely fifteen. “How did it happen?”

“Kicked i' th' ‘ead, like,” the gruff man said. “Found 'im i' th' stall wi' Paradox, th' Prince's ‘unter.” He shook his shaggy head somberly. “ 'E's a mean ‘un, that 'orse. ‘Ad trouble wi' 'im meself a time er twa.”

“What's all this?” The question was asked in a deep, guttural voice with a German accent. “Trouble with Paradox?”

Bradford turned. The portly, bearded man in a Norfolk suit and polished boots was His Royal Highness Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, playboy heir to the throne of his seventy-six-year-old mother, Queen Victoria. He was accompanied by a dark, handsomely mustached man and trailed by a group of seven or eight men.

The gruff man whipped his cap off his shaggy head. “Sad to say, sir,” he said respectfully, “but th' lad was kicked. 'E was found i' th' Royal stall.”

His Highness bent over the still form. “Has someone gone for the doctor?”

Charles spoke. “A doctor would be of no use, Your Highness. The boy's dead.”

“Ah, Charles.” The Prince straightened and exhaled windily. “Good to see you, good to see you. Of course, you are acquainted with Lord Warwick.” He indicated the erect, mustached man standing at his elbow.

“Good morning, Brooke,” Charles said. He motioned at Bradford. “And you know Bradford Marsden, I'm sure.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the Prince, nodding. “Good you could come, Marsden.” He turned to look at the automobile behind them. “And that is your newly imported Daimler, is it? I trust your delay was not caused by a serious mechanical mischance.”

“No, sir,” Bradford said, wishing there had been no delay. He particularly wanted to impress HRH with the reliability of his machine. “Just a slight problem, easily repaired,” he added offhandedly. “I am looking forward to having you as a passenger tomorrow.”

“Oh?” asked one of the men standing behind the Prince. “Where are you going, sir?”

“All in good time,” the Prince said jovially. “All in good time.” He looked down at the body at his feet. “A sad business, this. The boy was one Princess Alexandra singled out for reward, and she will be sorry to learn that he has died. But it was not Paradox that killed him,” he added with a stem emphasis, “and I don't want it bruited about that it was.”

“Oh, but it was, Yer ‘Ighness, sir!” the gruff man protested. “Th' boy was in th' stall, y'see, an'—”

“Alfred,” Lord Warwick cautioned, “remember to whom you are speaking.”

Alfred licked his lips nervously, twisted his cap in his hands, and amended his tone. “Beg pardon, Yer Royal ‘Ighness, sir. But it
'ad
t've bin th' ‘orse wot kicked 'im. We found th' lad shut i' th' stall, wi' a spilled bucket o' oats—wot was left, anyway, th' ‘orse 'avin' cleaned up most.”

The Prince gestured with a gloved hand. “I understand what you're saying,” he said impatiently. “But I've hunted with Paradox for going on seven years, and a gentler horse never lived. He wouldn't bring a man down, nor would he put a hoof on him when he was down.”

“Then what?” asked a tall man with sandy hair, beard, and a gold pince-nez. Bradford recognized him as Sir Friedrich Temple, a well-known Conservative and nephew of the Archbishop of Canterbury, by the same name. “Accident, d'you suppose? Maybe the lad fell out of the loft.”

“Or fell into an argument with one of his fellows,” another man said, tapping the polished toe of his boot with an ebony stick. “My stableboys are always rowing. Anyway, what does it matter? The lad is dead.” Bradford turned, recognizing the speaker, a burly and heavyset graybeard with steely eyes under thick black eyebrows that jutted out like horns, giving him a look of wily rakishness. Sir Thomas Cobb, retired, of the Royal Grenadiers.

“That's all well and good, Thomas,” the Prince said. “But unfortunately, however the fellow died, Alix will feel it her duty to tell his family the truth of the matter. So, unless I am willing to give up a fortnight's peace to Alix's poking at me for details, the truth must be dug out, and shortly.” He glanced at Charles. “That's up your line, isn't it, Charles? Don't I seem to recall your mucking about in a recent crime or two?”

“I've had one or two minor successes in forensic investigation,” Charles admitted, somewhat reluctantly, Bradford thought.

“That's a fine chap,” the Prince said, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “Be so good as to look into this matter, then. You will give me your report this evening after dinner, and I will pass it along to Alix when I write in the morning.”

Charles agreed readily enough, but Bradford saw him wince. He knew that his friend had planned to pursue other game this weekend—the fair Kate Ardleigh, no doubt, whom Bradford himself would not have hesitated to woo if his mother hadn't raised a row about it. Poor Charles. In addition to Daisy Warwick's request that he spend tomorrow photographing the mysterious expedition, the Prince had commanded him to spend the afternoon investigating an accident. What rotten luck. But Charles was a man of duty, Bradford reflected. He would resign himself to doing what he must.

Bradford didn't guess the half of it.

No one who stayed at Easton ever forgot their hostess, and most of the men fell hopelessly in love with her. In my long life, spent in so many different countries, and during which I have seen most of the beautiful and famous women of the world, from film-stars to Queens, I have never seen one who was so completely fascinating as Daisy Warwick.

—ELINOR GLYN (The “It” Girl)
Romantic Adventure,
1936

 

 

I
t was a warm, bright afternoon, and luncheon was to be served on the terrace behind Stone Hall, Lady Warwick's Elizabethan folly. The two-story cottage—called Daisy's Folly by everyone who visited there—was a pleasant stroll from the Lodge, in a shady corner of the Park. It was an old stone-fronted house with a slate roof that the Countess had rebuilt as a two-story Tudor cottage and furnished with valuable antique chairs and tables, tapestried beds, and quaint books. Behind the Folly was a landscaped terrace and a coppice of young trees, each one planted by her special friends—the Prince's beech trees foremost among them. There, too, was Daisy's Garden of Friendship, planted with flowers given to her by acquaintances, each identified by the name of the donor.