‘Not a trace,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘We’ve searched the house from top to bottom. Spinney has done the same in the servants’ rooms. She’s not in the house.’
‘She’s not in the coach house or any of the sheds or outbuildings, either,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘We must have missed her,’ said Mr Waterford. ‘She can’t simply have vanished.’
‘Was the Rolls still in the yard?’ asked Harry.
‘It was,’ I said.
‘Then she’s still on the estate somewhere. There’s no other transport.’
‘Is there anywhere we haven’t looked, Fishy?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Any other outbuildings?’
‘Or barns?’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Didn’t you used to have hay barns out on the other side of the estate?’
‘We did,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, ‘but we had them torn down when we sold the last of the horses. No need to store food for the beasts any longer, so we got rid of them.’
‘Then she’s somewhere else on the estate,’ said Lady Lavinia. ‘Acres and acres of parkland with your blessed racing track running through the middle of it. We’ll never find her.’
The middle of it, I thought. There’s something in the middle of it. ‘The rotunda,’ I said suddenly. ‘On that first day, my lord, when you were showing Lady Hardcastle the racing track. We had lunch by the lake. In the rotunda.’
‘By George, you’re right,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Fishy?’
‘It’s the only place we haven’t looked,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘The Rolls would be the quickest way to get us all there.’
Leaving a bewildered Mr Spinney, a frustrated Harry, and an anxious Lady Lavinia to hold the fort, the rest of us raced back towards the stable yard and the waiting Rolls-Royce. There was a bowl of fruit on the sideboard beside the door, and I paused to grab the small fruit knife that sat beside it. You never know when such a thing might come in handy if things cut up rough.
Mr Waterford all but barged Lord Riddlethorpe out of the way so that he could drive.
‘She’s my . . . She’s . . . I . . . I’ll drive,’ he said as he jumped into the driving seat.
Lord Riddlethorpe cranked the engine, while Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus clambered into the back.
With the engine now purring smoothly, Lord Riddlethorpe jumped in beside Mr Waterford.
Betty came haring into the yard.
‘Don’t leave me behind,’ she panted. ‘She might be a hateful old harpy, but if I can help stop her from being a dead old harpy, I will.’
The Silver Ghost comfortably seated four. There were now six of us. Somehow, we managed to squeeze Betty into the back seat between Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus.
I wasn’t going to be left behind for want of somewhere to sit, so I jumped on the running board on the left-hand side and clung on for dear life.
Mr Waterford was an experienced racing driver, but the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost was not built for speed. Nevertheless, he managed an impressive pace as he shot out of the stable yard and turned on to the road that ran towards his racing track.
As we neared the circuit, I imagined he would head out across the parkland towards the lake. Instead, he turned sharply to the right and on to the racing track itself.
‘We need to get to the middle, Monty!’ yelled Lady Hardcastle from the back of the motor car.
Lord Riddlethorpe turned in his seat. ‘No, he’s right,’ he called. ‘This is quicker. Rotunda’s on the other side of the lake. Quicker on the track than on the grass.’
We sped on.
On the racing track he had helped to design, Mr Waterford showed great confidence. He knew every twist and turn, every bump, every rise, every dip, and although the Rolls-Royce was nothing like the sleek racing cars he usually coaxed around the circuit, he knew exactly how to get the greatest possible speed from it.
I was beginning to wish he didn’t.
The first turn wasn’t too bad – it was to the left and threw me into the motor car. The turn that followed was to the right, though, and pushed me outwards. It was only Lady Hardcastle’s quick thinking and strong grip that prevented me from flying off into the grass beside the track. She held on to me from then onwards.
Abruptly, Mr Waterford turned left, off the track and on to the grass. I’d thought that speeding along the track was hairy, but this new, rough, uneven route across the park was an altogether new form of horrible. The Silver Ghost’s suspension was designed for comfort, to smooth out the imperfections of the road. But out here on the undulating grassland, it seemed to amplify the bumps and, once again, it was only Lady Hardcastle’s strength and our combined determination that kept me from ending up lying in a bruised and undignified heap while they sped off without me.
At last, the rotunda came into view. Mr Waterford’s own desperation seemed to communicate itself to the Rolls-Royce, which managed to find an extra burst of speed to serve its anguished driver.
The brakes squealed. The wheels locked. The motor car slid to a stop beside the rotunda, and we all piled out.
There was a ragtag shambles of uncoordinated scrambling to get to the entrance to the rotunda. The wide, double doors were thrown open, as they had been on that first day, but the sight that met us was very different.
Where we had first seen a table set for a magnificent lunch, there was now a tall, wooden stool.
Standing on the stool, a rope around her neck, her hands tied behind her back, was Mrs Beddows.
Beside her, a shotgun in her hands, stood Mrs McLelland. She raised the gun to her hip and pointed it towards the doors.
‘That’ll do,’ she said. ‘You can see perfectly well from there.’
‘Rebecca,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You don’t need to do this. Let her down.’
‘Rebecca?’ said Mr Waterford. ‘Who’s Rebecca? I thought Mrs McLelland was called Muriel. She’s Muriel, Fishy, isn’t she? You hired the blessed woman.’
‘It is Rebecca, though, isn’t it?’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle. ‘Rebecca Burkinshaw.’
‘The amazing Lady Hardcastle and her famous detective skills. Brava. Took you long enough to work it out, though, didn’t it, Emily.’ She stressed Lady Hardcastle’s Christian name, pouring on as much discourtesy and disdain as she could muster.
‘What’s she talking about?’ said Mr Waterford angrily. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘Poor Monty. Poor, confused, stupid Monty. Is your popsy in peril? Tell him, Helen. Or are you still too timid to stand up for yourself?’
Mr Waterford turned to Miss Titmus.
‘What on earth is going on?’ he said.
‘I think Emily’s right,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I think this is Rebecca Burkinshaw.’
‘So everyone keeps saying,’ said Mr Waterford. ‘But who—?’
‘Her big sister Katy was at school with us,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t a happy girl.’
‘She was a perfectly happy, wonderful girl until you evil shrews made her life a misery,’ said Mrs McLelland.
Miss Titmus pressed on. ‘She took her own life one evening at school,’ she said.
‘At sunset,’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘Not long to wait now.’ She gestured with the shotgun.
We all turned to see that the sun had almost reached the horizon.