‘Righto,’ she said. ‘Are you going down to the servants’ hall for dinner?’
‘I feel as though I ought, but I’m really not certain I can face it this evening. I’m absolutely done.’
She sighed with relief. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it,’ she said. ‘How would it suit you if I were to pay a visit to Mrs Ruddle and see if I can get a little supper to bring up? We can dine up here again away from all the hubbub.’
‘That, Betty Buffrey, old chum, would suit me very well indeed.’
‘I’ll be back in two shakes,’ she said, and scurried off.
By the time she returned with a modest cold collation on a tray, I had cleared a space on the rug and poured two glasses of water.
‘Here we are,’ she said as she put the tray down. ‘Not quite up to the standards of the party night, but there are a couple of slices of pie and some nice ham. I managed to track down some chutney, too.’
She had indeed managed all those things. She had found some bread, a lump of cheese, and a few tomatoes as well. We tucked in with gusto – I, for one, hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast.
‘I heard you were working with the locals,’ she said between mouthfuls of pie.
‘I cannot tell a lie,’ I said. ‘I am indeed pitching in.’
‘Oh, do say it’s hugger-mugger. You’re spying on them, aren’t you?’
I laughed. ‘You’re a sharp one, missy,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m using it as an opportunity to keep an eye on things. It gets me into meals upstairs, too.’
‘Lawks, how exciting. Who are you spying on? I bet it’s that Kovacs bloke. He’s one of them Austro-Hungarian spies, isn’t he? He’s over here up to no good. You’re still working for the King, aren’t you?’
I regarded her quizzically for a moment. ‘Do you really not know?’ I said at length.
‘Know what?’
‘About the car crash.’
‘Yes? We talked about it the other day. You said as how you’d seen the body.’
‘And you know that it was sabotage?’
She turned sharply towards me, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘That’s precisely what we’re trying to find out.’
‘Does Mrs Beddows know?’
‘That it was sabotage?’ I said. ‘I thought everyone knew by now.’
‘Not me. And Mrs Beddows never said a word.’
‘Does she tell you much?’
‘To be truthful, no, she doesn’t. Nothing important, anyway. I get to know about the Earl of Thingummy tupping Lady Whatnot, and how the Marchioness of Heaven-knows-where has tricked Sir No-one-you’ve-heard-of out of his fortune, but nothing I care about.’
I brought her up to date with the story so far. She sat goggle-eyed, with a slice of tomato wobbling on the fork that had stopped halfway to her mouth.
‘That Mrs Beddows,’ she said when I had finished my tale. ‘She told me none of that.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it’s the sort of thing she’s especially interested in. Did she not mention the crash at all?’
‘Not really. She was a bit off when she came back to her room that afternoon. When I asked her what was wrong, she just said, “Oh, that oaf Dawkins went and crashed his motor car, so we all had to come back inside.” I didn’t even find out the poor man had died until I heard someone talking about it in the servants’ hall.’
‘Did she not get on with Dawkins?’ I asked.
‘She was mad with him when I went to see to her on the morning after the party. “That upstart, flippin’ gutter-blood driver,” she said. Only she was a sight more ripe with her language. “He only went and made advances to me. To me, Buffrey!” she said. “Of all the . . .” And then she ranted on for a bit. Words I can’t bring myself to say, most of ’em.’
‘I had no idea she felt so strongly about it,’ I said. ‘I’d heard he’d tried it on with her, but she must get that all the time, a beautiful woman like that. Married or otherwise.’
‘Oh, she does. And she loves it. But she makes a great show of not getting along with anyone. It’s her special affectation. No one can get close to the fearsome Rosamund Beddows. She stands alone, and all shall tremble in her presence.’
‘I say, Betty. That’s not like you.’
She seemed to have surprised even herself. ‘I don’t suppose it is,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes, though . . . sometimes.’ She paused again. ‘You don’t think it was her, do you?’
‘Sabotaged the motor car? Anything’s possible.’
‘Was it difficult to do?’ she asked.
‘Not especially,’ I said. ‘Anyone who has ever ridden a bicycle could figure out how the brakes work.’
‘She’s definitely ridden a bicycle. Would it involve getting dirty?’
‘Almost certainly. The saboteur would have to lie on their belly to reach under the motor car.’
‘She’d never do that, then,’ said Betty flatly. ‘She has a phobia of being dirty. She bathes twice a day as it is. I can’t imagine her lying on a coach house floor.’
‘Even so,’ I said. ‘Would you be a dear and pay special attention to her clothes? She might have overcome her fear of dirt for the sake of teaching Dawkins a lesson. Even if she brushed the worst of it off, anything she was wearing would still show signs.’
Betty’s half-smile was difficult to read. Was it anxious or gleeful? Was she horrified or delighted by the idea that her mistress might be a murderer?
Chapter Ten
‘What ho, Florence,’ said Lady Hardcastle sleepily the next morning.
‘“Florence”, my lady?’ I said as I set down the breakfast tray. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘What? Oh, no. Did your mother do that, too? I was always “Emily Charlotte” if I’d been misbehaving. If I’d been especially beastly, she would add the “Ariadne”, but she usually considered it too much effort. No, we were discussing names last evening at dinner, and it struck me what a wonderfully evocative name you have. Tuscany in the summertime, museums, the Ponte Vecchio. I vowed to use it more.’
‘As you wish, my lady. Although I should point out that I was named after the Lady with the Lump.’
‘I’m reasonably certain it was a “lamp”.’
‘That would be much more reassuring to wounded soldiers in the middle of the night, yes. Did my name come up in the conversation, or was this a private thought?’
‘Your name comes up frequently,’ she said. ‘You always make an impression.’
‘I hope that’s a good thing.’
‘Always, dear. But in truth, you remained in the conversational shadows. The boys became fixated on “The Fair Rosamund”, who was, so she claims, named after that very lady.’
‘Mistress of King Henry II?’ I said.
‘I say, well done, you. Fishy had to send one of the footmen to the library to fetch a volume of the encyclopaedia to settle that one. I guessed Henry I. Harry was absolutely insistent that it was Richard III—’
‘The King with the Lump.’
‘Quite so. He’s a cabbage head.’
‘Richard III?’
‘No, silly, my brother. Anyway, you and your knowledge would have won me a fiver. There was a wager.’
‘A fiver? I wish I’d been serving now – fools and their money are soon parted.’