Death at Daisy's Folly
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
HISTORICAL NOTE
REFERENCES
More praise for ROBIN PAIGE’S Victorian Mysteries
“I read it with enjoyment ... I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”
—Anne Perry
“I couldn’t put it down.”
—Murder & Mayhem
“An intriguing mystery ... Skillfully unraveled.”
—Jean Hager, author of Blooming Murder
“Absolutely riveting ... An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“An absolutely charming book ... An adventure well worth your time ... You’re sure to enjoy it.”
—Romantic Times
The Victorian Mysteries by Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PLACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
Non-fiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE"
WORK OF HER OWN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with
the authors
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime edition / February 1997
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Susan Wittig Albert and William J. Albert.
eISBN : 978-1-4406-7292-7
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published
by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
design are trademarks
belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our thanks once again to Ruby Hild of the village of Dedham, in Essex, whose generous loan of bed, board, and library card makes our research trips infinitely more comfortable and productive. Thanks also to Prime Crime editor Natalee Rosenstein, for believing in us, and to our agent Deborah Schneider, for her support and encouragement.
Susan and Bill Albert
AKA Robin Paige
CAST OF CHARACTERS
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Albert Edward (Bertie), Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII)
Lady Frances (Daisy) Brooke, Countess of Warwick
Lord Francis Greville Brooke, Earl of Warwick
Sir Charles Sheridan
Miss Kathryn Ardleigh, aka Beryl Bardwell
GUESTS AT EASTON LODGE
Lord Bradford Marsden
Lady Verena Rochdale
Lord Malcolm Rochdale
Lady Celia Rochdale
Lord Reginald Wallace
Lady Felicia Metcalf
Lady Lillian Forsythe
Sir Friedrich Temple
Sir Thomas Cobb
Mrs. Milford Knightly
Mr. Milford Knightly
Mr. Samuel Isaacson
Mrs. Eleanor (Ellie) Marsden Farley
Lieutenant Andrew Kirk-Smythe
SERVANTS
Harry Gordon, groom to the Prince of Wales
Lawrence Quibbley, valet and mechanic to Lord Bradford Marsden
Amelia, lady’s maid to Miss Kathryn Ardleigh
Richards, valet to Lord Reginald Wallace
Winnie Wospottle, chief laundress
Wickett, Easton Lodge coachman
Marsh, Easton Lodge footman
Meg, Easton Lodge laundry maid
1
Death surprises us in the midst of our hopes. THOMAS FULLER
—THOMAS FULLER Gnomologia, 1732
A cock was crowing in the coop at the foot of the dark orchard when Harry Gordon, groom to His Highness the Prince of Wales, entered the stable. Inside, the air was warm after the early morning chill, scented with the earthy fragrance of horse and hay, and in the gloom Harry could hear the delicate music of pigeons cooing and the gentle whuffle of a horse. In all of his fifteen years, Harry had found no better place on a frosty morning than the inside of a grand stable.
The stables here at Easton Lodge were not as large or as modern as those at Sandringham, where His Highness’s three great sires stood to stud, servicing something like a hundred mares a year in addition to the Prince’s own brood stock. But the Easton Lodge stables were not inconsiderable. The Countess of Warwick, whose family home this was, kept her own horses here, together with the tall chestnut hunter left by the Prince for his frequent visits. This morning, the stable was full of horses brought in for any of the weekend guests who might choose to ride.
Harry walked down the aisle between the shoulder-high wooden stalls, admiring the handsome horses and still marveling at the amazing fortune that had brought him here, so far from home. Until a month ago, he had been one of the dozen or so Sandringham stableboys, assigned to curry and feed His Royal Highness’s horses and muck out the stalls. He had never been farther from the estate than the village school two miles away, and that for only the few obligatory years required to spell his tedious way through the Royal Reader. Having emerged from his education nearly unlettered, he had gone to service in the Sandringham stables, and had yet to earn sufficient holiday to ma
ke the half-day walk to the nearby market town.
But all that was changed, and now the whole world lay at Harry’s feet. A few weeks ago, he had saved the Princess of Wales from a nasty fall by grasping at the reins of her rearing horse, frightened by a stable cat. The Prince and Princess, known for their loyalty toward those who served them well, had thanked Harry graciously. The next day, Princess Alexandra had sent his mother, an undercook in the Sandringham kitchens, a basket of jellies and sweets, with a handwritten note of praise for her son’s courage. The day after that, the chief steward of the stables had summoned the fifteen-year-old boy, bestowed on him a smart new livery, and instructed him to make himself ready to join the Royal entourage. Harry was to travel with the Prince and attend His Highness’s horses, wherever they might be stabled.
Harry’s remarkable elevation in rank had been the proudest moment of his young life, and that of his mother, as well. Her son’s unexpected distinction gave her something to boast of over tea in the servants’ hall.
“So ‘andsome in ’is livery, my ‘Arry is,” she was heard to tell her gossips in the kitchen, “that ’e’s bound to catch th’ eye o’ th’ Queen when th’ Prince goes next t’ Balmoral. Then ‘e’ll be raised to ’is proper station as a Royal footman, ‘e will, and ’e’ll powder ‘is ’air an’ wear pink poplin knee breeches an’ shiny silver ’paulettes th’ size o’ pot lids.”
With or without epaulettes, Harry was proud to be numbered among the Prince’s traveling household. At Sandringham, the stableboys were at the bottom of the servants’ hierarchy, “grubbin’ i’ the muck an’ mire,” as his mother said, far below the elevation of the senior staff—the Upper Ten, or the Uppers, as they were called. Life on the lowest rung of this social ladder often entailed cold food, scanty victuals, and meager holidays. But on tour with the Prince, Harry had discovered to his delight, his life was quite different. Here at Easton, for instance, where distinctions of rank were observed belowstairs as carefully as they were above, Harry, a mere groom, outranked not only the Countess’s stableboys and grooms, but her ladyship’s chief groom as well—or so it seemed to Harry. At meals and between, he was awarded all the honors befitting his status, such as slices of grouse and pheasant left from the table abovestairs, and magnificent sweets, and even a glass of the estate’s best home-brewed beer, served by a solicitous kitchen maid with a seductive smile. For Harry, life had suddenly become very sweet.
The Royal stall which housed Paradox, the Prince’s hunter, was marked with the Prince’s insignia. Harry stopped before it, set down the wooden bucket filled with oats, and cocked his head, frowning slightly. In the dimness, Paradox was moving about, stamping a nervous forefoot, flicking an anxious tail. Something had disturbed him. It was none of the Easton grooms or stableboys, Harry knew. They were a lazy lot and had arrived at the servants’ breakfast late, accepting their reprimand with sleepy-eyed equanimity. It was none of the gentlemen, either, for although one or another might rise for a dawn canter across the Essex hills, last night’s entertainment—parlor games, Harry had understood from the footmen’s sly comments at breakfast—had been late and boisterous. Breakfast was already laid upstairs for the earliest risers, but Harry would have wagered a tanner that none were yet out and about.
He’d have lost his money. While the young groom was still pondering the horse’s nervousness, a nearby door opened with a creak. A man—a gentleman wearing Norfolk tweeds and a shooting cap, a stick under his arm—was briefly silhouetted against the light, then slipped inside and closed the door. He moved furtively, and Harry’s frown became a knowing grin. Surreptitious assignations were commonplace at country house parties, according to the footmen who had reported on last night’s frolic. While Harry personally felt that such a rendezvous was more appropriate to a lady’s chamber, behind a discreetly closed door and between scented sheets, he could also imagine that a more daring lady, or one whose husband had a jealous turn, might prefer to carry on her amorous intrigues somewhere else—in the straw, even. Harry grew warm, recalling the brazen allure of the kitchen maid who had placed her hand on his—
But now was not the moment for such thoughts, pleasant as they were. Silently, he raised the wooden bar and slipped into the Royal stall, ducking under Paradox’s warm belly. If a lady were expected, she would no doubt soon appear, and it would not be prudent of Harry to make his presence known. Best wait in the stall until the business were over. But Harry had as much curiosity as the next man, and he wanted to see which of the ladies had consented to a tryst in the stable. Was it the red-haired one he’d glimpsed sweeping across the croquet lawn yesterday afternoon, her hair like flaming embers? He had heard that red-haired women were looser in their morals than other women, and she was said to be an American. Perhaps—
The door creaked again, and Harry stood up to peer over the side of the stall. He saw a cloaked woman enter, close the door, and stand still for a moment, as if getting her bearings.
“Over here,” came the husky voice of the waiting man, and the cloaked woman turned swiftly. The light was poor, but Harry did not think it was the red-haired lady. It might even have been a slender man. Unfortunately, the answering voice offered no clue. It was low and husky and had a certain sweetness, but it could have been that of either a woman or a man.
“Where is your colleague?” the cloaked figure asked. “I assumed that he would be here as well.”
“Momentarily,” the other replied. His voice was eager. “Then you have decided to join us?”
“Quite the contrary. I wish no part of this sordid business, and I’ve come to tell you so. I am a loyal subject of the Crown. Some of the things you have proposed would be deeply embarrassing, and might even tend toward treason.”
Treason! Harry thought, all idea of a tryst flying out of his head. A plot against the Prince! What were they scheming? An accident to the Royal person? A plan to blow up the Royal train? He had better listen closely, so that he could report the conversation to the proper authorities—to the Prince himself! His reward would certainly be that pair of silver epaulettes his mother was so anxious for him to win.
“Oh, but I say!” the first man protested. “You have it wrong. All we mean to do is—”
Beside Harry, Paradox moved restlessly, pawing the straw with a shod hoof. Harry tensed, catching out of the corner of his eye a fleeting movement in the shadows behind him. He turned and saw a pale face looming over the side of the stall, a hand upraised, wielding a heavy object, about to strike.
It was the last thing Harry saw.
2
At the end of November [1895] the Glasgow magistrates had refused the permission sought by a local umbrella manufacturer to run a [petrol-powered] delivery van in the streets. This anonymous tradesman reacted with gusto: “Those in authority in our city,” he declared, “might as well try to beat back the waves of the sea with a broom as try to stem the tide of horseless carriages that are looming in the distance.”
—T. R. NiCHOLSON The Birth of the British Motor Car
I have a poser for you, old man,” said the Honorable Bradford Marsden, clutching the steering tiller in both hands.
Sir Charles Sheridan smiled at his friend, who was maneuvering his Daimler along the narrow road, trailing clouds of suffocating dust. Having suffered a mechanical breakdown beside the road the previous afternoon (to the manifest amusement of two laborers clearing a drain), Charles and Bradford had rolled up their sleeves and effected temporary repairs, then dispatched Lawrence, Marsden’s man, to London for the proper part. They had slept the night at the Cock and Thorn in Braintree, breakfasted, then togged themselves in goggles, motoring caps, and poplin dusters, and resumed their journey to Easton Lodge, which lay on the further side of Great Dunmow, only a few miles away.
“Your question would not concern His Highness’s support for the Locomotives on Highways Bill, would it?” Charles asked lightly.
Bradford grunted. “Dash it all, man. Am I that obvious?”
; “Only to someone who knows your passions,” Charles replied. “Since you’ve come back from that automobile exhibit at Tunbridge Wells, you’ve spoken of nothing else but promoting the motorcar.” While he and Bradford pursued quite different interests and did not see one another as often as they once had, they had been at Eton together and still remained close friends.
“Passion be damned,” Bradford growled. “This is bloody serious.” The Daimler had overtaken a cyclist, a village parson garbed in collar and long wool coat, who, gesticulating wildly, pedaled his safety bicycle off the road and upended it in the hawthorn hedgerow. Bradford hardly noticed, he was concentrating so intently on the steering. “You know as well as I do that if this country doesn’t get off its arse and regain its prestige in industry, we’re finished. Germany will see to that. The Kaiser is not above causing us mischief wherever he can—even if he is the Queen’s grand-son. The Prince is crucial in this matter. He must be brought to understand that the motorcar represents the Future of England.” He coughed. “Let’s make a stop, old man. This confounded dust is choking me. I need a drink of water.”
The Future of England struggled noisily to the top of the rise, hiccuped, and lurched to a halt. As Bradford pulled a jug of water from beneath the seat and swigged at it, Charles raised his goggles and looked out across the gentle slopes of west Essex. The fields were painted in pleasing harvest hues of browns and grays and golds, brightened by swathes of early morning sunlight. A group of village women, hempen sacks over their shoulders, were gleaning among the yellow stubble, while a placid herd of stocky Ayrshires and black-and-white Freesians grazed on the other side of the hedgerow, watched over by a herdsboy and his collie dog. Beyond lay the market town of Great Dunmow, its citizens going about their daily business in the narrow streets overhung with buildings built in the century of Henry VIII and Elizabeth. No alarms—other than a noisy flight of rooks rising from a nearby tree—stirred the pastoral peace of this rustic scene; no motorcars—other than the one in which he sat—broke the resonant silence. Since the advent of the railway in the earlier part of the century, heavier traffic had gone by train, leaving the roads to bicycles, horses, and foot travelers. Not even the whuffle and clank of an ox team intruded upon the quiet. The prosperous heart of England seemed to beat in these idyllic hills, just as it had for centuries past.