Sick of Shadows Part 12

"I will see Lady Rose tomorrow," said Harry.

"We are leaving early for Oxford, sir," Becket reminded him.

"I shall call on her when we return."

Rose was prepared for bed by her maid. She picked up a book to read before going to sleep and then crossed to the window, parted the curtains and looked down into the square.

Two men were standing over by the gardens, black silhouettes in the night. Something made her let the curtain fall and turn off the gaslight. She returned to the window and parted the curtains an inch and looked down again. The two men had moved into a pool of lamplight. Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow. As she watched, they both looked up at the house.

She dropped the curtain quickly and stood there, her heart beating hard, suddenly frightened. Where was Harry?

The next morning, Harry parked his motor car at Paddington Station and he and Becket took the train to Oxford. They sat in the dining-car and ordered breakfast as the train gave a great hiss and moved out of the station into a black and rainy morning.

When the train stopped at Slough, Harry suddenly said, "I really do not know what to do about this engagement of mine."

"To Lady Rose?"

"Who else? Perhaps, if I had not gone along with her plan, she might have enjoyed India and met some handsome officer."

"I think Lady Rose would be made unhappy by a conventional husband," said Becket. "If I may make so bold, sir, I think you and my lady are ideally suited."

"Nonsense. We would fight the whole time."

Harry stared gloomily out onto the platform. Opposite was a tin advertis.e.m.e.nt: "They come as a boon and a blessing to men, the Pickwick, the Owl, and the Waverley pen."

"I wonder who thinks up these advertis.e.m.e.nts," said Harry. "Some failed poet?" And Becket knew the subject was closed.

But at a telephone-box at Oxford Station, Harry telephoned Matthew and asked which social engagement Rose had for that evening.

"A fancy dress party at the Sowerbys," said Matthew.

"Tell Lady Rose I shall be there to escort her." Harry rang off. "I shall be going to a fancy dress party tonight, Becket. Do I have fancy dress?"

"No, but perhaps we could improvise."

They walked down from the station and climbed into a hansom carriage. "Is Phil doing well?" asked Harry.

"Yes, he is very diligent. The house has never been so clean."

"How does he pa.s.s his leisure time?"

"He reads. He enjoys books."

"I am thinking of starting a charity to help the poor of the East End. Perhaps we will get Phil involved. Instead of lords and ladies playing the part of bountiful benefactors, perhaps someone like Phil would be good at finding out the truly deserving. We have more than enough money now. Do I pay you enough, Becket?"

"At the moment, yes."

"What does that mean?"

"Would it be possible to continue to work for you were I married?"

"You, Becket?"

"You must have noticed my fondness for Miss Levine."

"We will see. Lady Rose without Daisy would be completely unprotected."

"Perhaps the ideal solution would be for you to marry Lady Rose and protect her yourself," said Becket boldly.

"That's enough, Becket. I will consider your problem, but for the moment I wish to hear no more about it."

St. Edwin's was one of the lesser Oxford colleges, having been built on Gothic lines in the last century. They asked for Mr. Jeremy Tremaine at the porter's lodge and were escorted across to a stair off the main quadrangle.

"First-floor landing, sirs," said the porter and left them.

They mounted the shallow stone stairs and knocked at the door on the first landing.

Harry had somehow hoped that the Tremaine family, driven by thwarted ambition, had murdered their own daughter. He had decided against the rector and his wife, however, which left the son.

But the man who answered the door to them looked as if he could not hurt a fly. All the looks had gone to Dolly. Despite his youth, Jeremy was tall, thin and slightly stooped. He had a yellowish skin, like tallow, and wore spectacles on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a severe black suit and a white s.h.i.+rt with a high starched collar. His dusty fair hair was already thinning. Over his suit, he was huddled into a dog-hair rug.

Harry introduced himself. "Come in," said Jeremy. "Excuse my dress, but the lazy scout has only just made up the fire. May I offer you something? Sherry?"

They both refused. Becket took a chair by the door and Harry sat down in an armchair facing the one into which Jeremy had just lowered his long thin form.

"Is it about my sister's murder?" asked Jeremy.

"Yes, we still have no new clues. Have you any idea who could have done this?"

"I have thought and thought."

"It must have been someone she knew," said Harry. "She must have put on that fancy dress to show someone."

"Perhaps she wanted to show it to Lady Rose and was attacked by some madman in the park."

"An intellectual madman," said Harry dryly, "to take the trouble to arrange her like the Lady of Shalott."

"I've thought about that," said Jeremy eagerly. "What if the whole effect was an accident? What if the murderer, horrified at what he had done, simply, well, laid her out, as it were?"

"Perhaps," said Harry. "There was talk that Miss Tremaine was fond of a local blacksmith's son, Roger Dallow."

Jeremy gave a scornful laugh. "Village gossip. I know where that came from. That old maid, Miss Friendly, always mooning about the place and dreaming of romance. Every boy and man for miles around was fascinated by Dolly, but she did not encourage any of them."

"Have you any idea what became of Roger?"

"He ran away. I know that. His father is a brutal man, so n.o.body was surprised."

"And he never wrote to your sister or tried to communicate with her in any way? Becket, pray come nearer the fire. You must be frozen over there."

Jeremy gave a sour laugh. "As far as I know, Dallow was illiterate. He was keen to attend school, I'll say that for him, but his father kept him working at the smithy."

Harry repressed a sigh. This whole journey had turned out to be a waste of time. He had learned that Jeremy had spent the summer in Greece and had waited eagerly for the Michaelmas term at Oxford to begin in the autumn. He could think of nothing more to ask him and he and Becket took their leave.

As the train approached London, he looked down at the little houses with their neat suburban gardens and said to Becket, "I wonder what it would be like to live in one of those little houses, free from the pressures of society."

Becket followed his gaze and repressed a smile. "Those are the homes of the lower middle cla.s.ses, sir. You would find sn.o.bbery and social rules are as rigid as they are in high society. Some people even imagine escaping to a cottage in the country. The vicar and his wife would call and so pigeonhole them into the correct social stratum. The news of the incomers would go round the village and they would only receive calls from people on their own social level and be subjected to all the petty tyrannies of sn.o.bbery. But cheer up, sir. The aristocratic male does have freedom. If he does not conform to the rules of society, he is regarded as eccentric. If he is very rich and marriageable, then he is regarded as Byronic."

"I did not know you were such a cynic, Becket."

"Merely an observer of the world."

There was a sudden huge bang and the carriage in which they were sitting tumbled over on one side.

The shattered gas lamps plunged the carriage into darkness, but there was still the ominous hiss of gas.

"Climb on my back, Becket, and open the door up there," shouted Harry. "One spark and this place will be in flames. Where are you, man?"

"Here, sir."

"Right! Up on my back, fast!"

Becket struggled until he got a firm hold on Harry's coat and hauled himself up.

He struggled and managed to jerk the window down by its leather strap, and leaned out.

"Out you go!" shouted Harry.

"But, sir. How will you get out?"

"Get on with it, man."

Becket crawled down the side of the train. The air was full of wails, shrieks and cries.

Harry gave a great leap and grasped hold of the edge of the window. With a superhuman effort he pulled himself out and slithered down to join Becket just as a great fireball exploded near the engine. Flames began to engulf the train.

"To the end of the train," panted Harry. "We may be able to pull some people out."

They ran down the train away from the fire. They struggled up to doors and got them open, dragging men, women and children out, shouting to them to run clear of the train.

At last, the wooden carriages, combined with gaslight, went up one after the other in explosions of flame.

Harry and Becket struggled clear and watched in horror as the flaming train lying on its side began to slide down the embankment. With a great cras.h.i.+ng roar, it tumbled down onto the houses beneath.

Harry sat down and buried his face in his hands. His leg, injured in the Boer War, was throbbing but he hardly felt the pain.

And then the rain began to pour down, streaking their sooty faces with white lines, running down like tears.

Still they sat there, master and servant, numb with shock.

At last Harry struggled to his feet and helped Becket up. The air was full of the sound of the bells of fire engines. And then there was silence.

They walked to where the head of the train had been. It had collided full on with the up train, and despite the rain, the up train was burning from end to end.

Rose, dressed as Columbine, descended the stairs. "How pretty you look!" exclaimed Lady Polly.

"Thank you. Where is Captain Cathcart?"

"Nowhere, as usual," snapped her mother. "We will need to go without him."

The earl and countess were attired in eighteenth-century dress.

Rose's heart sank. She knew she looked well in her costume and had been looking forward to seeing Harry admire it.

She felt a ball of hurt somewhere in her stomach. He did not care for her, not even a little bit. He had snubbed her again. How the debutantes would t.i.tter and gossip behind their fans when she arrived alone.

As they were about to leave, Peter called. "I wanted to show you my costume," he said, swinging a black coat from his shoulders. Despite her hurt, Rose began to laugh. He was dressed as harlequin.

"As my fiance has not put in an appearance and we match, I would be honoured if you would escort me."

"Delighted and honoured," said Peter.

The earl and countess exchanged little smiles. Peter was eligible and very suitable. The captain was not. Surely Rose would break the engagement now.

SIX.

For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

-LORD BYRON