There was a very awkward silence, not helped by the arrival of Major Jameson, vivid in his mess dress.
Matthew filled it. ‘I think you should ask her, not me.’
I curtsied. I could think of a hundred things I would like to say, but none I could immediately articulate. Perhaps they would interpret my flush of annoyance as genteel modesty.
It seemed they did.
The braying voices rose again. Clearly Major Jameson was making a very vehement point, jabbing first one man then another in the chest. Matthew gripped my arm painfully hard. Then Lady Pidgeon joined us, taking my free hand.
‘If I told them how kind you and your good and beautiful husband were to me they would raise the rafters all over again. I fancy you would not enjoy it, my dears. But it shall be made known. Discreetly.’ She gave a firm nod. ‘You are a strong woman, my dear, whatever the Major might say and do. And you are a good man, Mr Rowsley. Remember that.’
Her attention was claimed by her scowling husband before either of us could ask her what she might mean. I looked round for my patron of the previous evening, but there was no sign of her yet. But with Lady Hortensia’s comments about bad form still in my memory, I did not feel able to ask where she might be.
Probably no guest but me could even have imagined the efforts it took the downstairs staff to present us with our dinner – let alone to make us presentable enough to sit down to eat it. The table had been contracted, of course, which, since it was probably laid before lunch, was no mean task. The seating must have been re-allocated, but now it seemed that one of the remaining house guests was not going to appear – Gräfin Weiser. In an undervoice Lady Hortensia was having a frantic conversation with her grim butler.
Tonight I was spared poor deaf Mr Digby, who should clearly have been squiring Gräfin Weiser. Since his partner was in animated conversation with the gentleman the other side, he was left in solitary silence. Perhaps he preferred it. On either side of me were amiable young cricketing men, Mr Forsyth, his lanky frame topped with an open face and a mop of dark curls, and Lord Webbe, slightly shorter, with blond hair carefully smoothed down. Neither had troubled the scorer. After gently quelling their enthusiasm for my catch, and regretting it had helped cause the match to be abandoned, etiquette dictated I must talk with either one or the other. But they happily threw etiquette to the four winds.
‘Did you ever see anything like it, ma’am?’ asked Mr Forsyth.
Lord Webbe couldn’t wait for my answer. ‘Did you ever see such strange captaincy? The Major simply assumed he was in charge. Yes, it was he who was the real captain, believe me.’
‘I fear you’re right,’ I said. ‘What did the other players say?’
‘A lot of words we wouldn’t wish you to hear, ma’am,’ Mr Forsyth said. ‘The village team were making comments about closed carriages and the lunatic asylum.’
‘Some of them,’ Lord Webbe said. ‘Some were just cockahoop. But they were angry about Harrison being recruited and then not given a chance to shine. Until he and Mr Rowsley got together, that is. Dreadful way to treat a chappie. Bet he wasn’t even given a choice about playing for the house team.’
‘I doubt if he was,’ I agreed sadly.
‘And the house umpire, Lord Pidgeon – ma’am, I do believe he was—’
I put my finger to my lips. ‘Even if he can’t hear you others might.’
‘Lord, yes. Thank you, ma’am.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘He looks so fit and strong, but doesn’t seem all there … which is why I thought …’ He stopped, with what can only be described as a meaningful shrug.
Should I have tried to stem their champagne-fuelled indiscretions? Perhaps. But I was simply enjoying their high spirits and lack of self-importance, and always made a habit of retaining facts even if I had no obvious need for them – at home my watchword, which still caused amusement amongst the staff, was Just in case. And it seemed that the young gentlemen were as intrigued as Matthew and I were by Major Jameson’s apparent wish to lose the game. Perhaps someone could ask him. Since he was seated at the far end of the table between two non-cricketing ladies with very penetrating and decidedly adoring laughs, it seemed unlikely.
As we were served with soup, Lord Webbe and Mr Forsyth – Roddy, apparently, to his close friends, which suddenly seemed to include me – continued to talk, ignoring their other partners and chattering guilelessly to me.
‘The chaps at Oxford say that the Major’s wealthy though no one knows quite how he made his fortune.’
‘But no one seems to mind,’ Roddy continued for him. ‘He mixes with all the top people, of course, but my Pa, who got on well with most people, never liked him.’
‘Never trusted him, more like,’ Webbe corrected him. ‘And really, ma’am, he can be the most dreadful cad. Can’t he?’ He turned innocent eyes not to Roddy but to me. ‘I’m so sorry that you should have to hear those hurtful words, ma’am. Not the sort of thing a gentleman should ever say of a lady. Such a bang-on catch, too!’
Perhaps it was time to turn the conversation. ‘When I was young, it was considered quite acceptable for women and ladies to play. My dear mama-in-law was a noted player.’
He wasn’t interested in the past. ‘But that was top-notch. And people are saying that you taught your husband how to bowl: I wish you could teach me the knack he has, ma’am.’
‘Ask him yourself,’ I laughed. I could not stop myself asking, ‘Have you gentlemen ever played with – no, I beg your pardons. He would be nearer your parents’ age than yours—’
‘Please, ma’am!’ They had such delightful smiles, like children wanting to hear the end of a fairy story.
‘Once upon a time,’ I began accordingly, ‘at a country house not unlike this, when I was a housemaid I met a very young man who wanted to practise his batting. I was much his age, and was happy to bowl for as many hours as he needed. We’ve lost touch now, as one does, but I know he won his Blue at Oxford. He played for Worcestershire before following the career his parents had chosen for him. He’s now a judge.’
‘I wonder,’ Webbe began, his young voice ringing out across a sudden silence, ‘if that might be—’
But who we might never know. The very way the butler approached Cousin Barrington suggested that something was wrong. The way Cousin Barrington paled and, after the briefest word with his wife, left the room confirmed that something was very wrong. All the confident tinkle of silver on china stuttered to a subdued clatter as eating ceased. It was replaced by a murmur – was it irritation or concern I heard in the voices, or a mixture of both? At the foot of the table Lady Hortensia sat dumb-struck; perhaps she knew as little as the rest of us. But it was her job to lead: it was what she had been trained to do since childhood.
Matthew caught my eye. Heavens, he wanted me to speak to her! I shook my head minutely: let him, as her husband’s cousin, offer support. But then, despite myself, I found myself working out what I might say, and then getting to my feet. Stooping, I asked softly, ‘Cousin Hortensia, is something amiss? Is one of your guests unwell?’
‘Unwell?’ she repeated, loudly enough to turn a head or two. ‘One of them unwell? Don’t you understand, Mrs Faulkner, one of them is dead!’
If only her words could have been an exit line. Instead, she burst into noisy tears. I could easily have done the same. Who had gone to the trouble of discovering my maiden name, my working name as housekeeper before my marriage to Matthew? And why had she chosen to reveal it now, to a room full of guests? Hurt and furious in almost equal measure, I must keep my dignity. I must stop my eyes welling with tears. And somehow I must help this woman, our poor distressed hostess. My eyes sought Lady Pidgeon’s: would she take care of her? It seemed she could or would not. Matthew had to take something like charge, requesting the gentlemen to escort the ladies to the drawing room and stay with them there until he had spoken to his cousin and established the facts. Any movement was very slow.
The butler hovered.
‘Mr Biddlestone,’ I said, ‘some brandy for her ladyship. And please summon her maid to assist her.’
‘Indeed, Mrs Faulkner,’ he said loudly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I dared not say more lest I lose my temper. Disciplining him was not my role. ‘Do as you are told.’
Ignoring my cold fury, he looked me up and down with the pace of a glacier. ‘I assume you refer to her ladyship’s dresser?’
‘I said now, Biddlestone,’ I rapped out. I forced myself to open my reticule, to reach for my vinaigrette. At last – my whole body insisted on shaking – I managed to waft it under her ladyship’s nose till her eyes ran.
At last the brandy appeared. I took it and, kneeling, held it to Lady Hortensia’s lips. I was aware that Matthew had moved closer.
‘It is curious, Biddlestone,’ he said in a voice intended to carry, ‘that my wife can recall your name perfectly well but that you are unable to remember hers. I know of many establishments where such a failing would result in dismissal. I am sure that you do too. You may go.’ He helped me to my feet. Without waiting till the room was empty, he said, still very clearly, ‘My dear wife, I am sorry I have exposed you to this petty insolence. I expected better. We would leave now, but I fear the house is enisled.’
At last able to leave Lady Hortensia with her maid – her dresser – we left the room together. He tightened his grip on my hand as if to quell the trembling. ‘Shall we go straight to our bed chamber?’
I shook my head. ‘We join the other guests and learn the news.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am your wife, Matthew, and that if nothing else should see me treated with respect. And remember, the more you run from bullies, the more they run after you.’ I managed a smile, wavering, perhaps, but a smile. But suddenly I recalled the empty place at the table. ‘Dear God, you cannot suppose it is the Gräfin? She was not in her place, was she? Oh, Matthew, in her way she was so kind to me.’
He kissed me. ‘Are still sure you want to do this?’
‘I have to learn one way or the other, do I not?’
The word rang out: ‘Murdered.’
Amid the screams and swoons, I could still only repeat in horror, ‘The Gräfin? Surely not!’
‘Murdered in her bed chamber,’ Cousin Barrington confirmed with solemn gusto.
I joined in the horrified chorus – disbelief, anger, and a desire to do something, anything, to bring her killer to justice. Yes, we wanted action – some of the men seemed to want to charge off and do – what? Instead they had to apply fans and smelling salts to their wives.
But Cousin Barrington was speaking again. ‘Don’t worry, ladies. You’re all perfectly safe now. We’ve locked her killer in the cellar. She can’t escape.’
‘She?’ I heard myself ask.
‘Her maid.’
‘Her maid?’ Matthew echoed, disbelief dripping from his voice. ‘Not Clara?’
‘Yes, they caught her literally red-handed.’
Much as I wanted to mourn the dead, there was still a living child to think of. Though others might have preferred me to be silent, I asked quietly, ‘Is your cellar prone to flooding?’
‘It would serve her right if it was,’ someone said.
‘And full of rats,’ added another.
‘Actually, Colonel, old boy,’ Lord Webbe chipped in, ‘I don’t think that’s quite cricket, you know. No police, you know. No trial. No verdict.’
Roddy Forsyth added his voice. ‘Quite right. Detain her by all means, but in a decent place. Dry and rodent-free and all that.’
Mr Turton nodded vigorously. I longed to support him, but my courage failed in the face of the ladies’ vehement opposition to even temporary clemency. ‘She could kill us in our beds!’ was the common theme.
Matthew caught my eye, and declared, ‘Clara would find it hard to kill even a fly. And Mr Forsyth has not suggested letting her roam free. If only we could send for your local Justice of the Peace.’
Cousin Barrington bridled. ‘I am the Justice of the Peace! And it was I who authorized her incarceration.’
Webbe persisted. ‘I believe it is wrong. Don’t you, Mrs Rowsley?’
For once I was silenced. Utterly. So I nodded solemnly.
‘Of course she would support a fellow-servant,’ a female voice declared.
‘A servant?’ Webbe squeaked. ‘Mrs Rowsley is a close friend of Lord Halesowen, the High Court judge! One of his most trusted advisers when they were young.’