Part 9 (1/2)
Rose bit her lip and then said in a small voice. ”I'm bored.”
”Then next week, I will take you for a drive if the weather is fine.”
”I wish I were a man,” raged Rose later to Daisy. ”He can call at Scotland Yard any time he likes and be part of the investigation, but all I can do is sit here and rot and get letters from that dreary Mrs. Tremaine, oiling all over me in print. I am not interested in the fact that she and her dear husband have gone to Cromer on holiday.”
Daisy brightened. ”I am.”
”Why, pray?”
”It would be interesting to go down to that village while the Tremaines have gone and ask around about them and about Dolly. See what we could find out.”
”That is a splendid idea. I must find out how to get there.”
”We could take one of the carriages.”
”They've all got Pa's coat of arms on the panels. That would occasion comment. Better to travel by rail to the nearest town and take a carriage from there. We need not trouble to tell Aunt Phyllis where we are going. She is only concerned with ordering the servants around and eating vast quant.i.ties of food.”
They took the train to Oxford and changed onto a local line and took another train to Moreton-in-Marsh, where they hired a waiting carriage to take them to Apton Magna.
”It is pleasant to be back in the country again,” sighed Rose. ”When all this is over, I shall go back north to see Bert and Sally.”
”And how will you do that?” asked Daisy. ”If your parents are at home, they are certainly not going to let you go all that way to see a mere village policeman.”
”Perhaps the captain can arrange something,” said Rose. ”Oh, do look at that sweet cottage.”
”All I see is the pump at the front for the water and no doubt the you-know-what will be out in the back garden. I can smell the cesspool from here.”
”You have no romance in your soul,” admonished Rose.
”I have memories of poverty in me soul,” said Daisy.
”Don't say 'me.' ”
They told the cabbie to wait for them at the entrance to the village. They had both decided to wear their plainest clothes.
A woman was sitting outside a cottage, holding a baby on her lap. ”Excuse me,” said Rose, ”we were wondering if you could give us some information about the Tremaines.”
The woman got to her feet and, disappearing inside the cottage, slammed the door behind her.
They met with the same lack of success at other cottages.
”Perhaps one of the more well-to-do residents would be more forthcoming,” suggested Rose.
”There don't seen to be any,” replied Daisy. ”We've forgotten our village ways. We're too direct. We need someone friendly. Ask them something like where we can get a cup of tea, enter into conversation about the weather and so on, and then slide in some remark about the murder.”
”That sounds a very good idea,” said Rose. ”That is, if we can find anyone amiable.”
”I remember there was a cottage up by the rector's place. It looked in better shape than the others,” said Daisy. ”Why is the rector called 'doctor'?”
”Because he's a doctor of divinity. Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan opera? 'A doctor of divinity/Who resides in this vicinity.' ”
The cottage they approached was small and thatched and made of Cotswold stone, unlike the red brick cottages of the other villagers.
It had a front garden crowded with flowers. They opened the gate and walked up the path. Rose knocked on the door.
A woman answered it. She looked washed-out and faded, as if some grim laundress had boiled her, mangled her and hung her out in strong sunlight to dry without ironing her first. Her simple muslin gown was creased, and the dry flaky skin of her long face, lined with wrinkles. Her eyes were of such a pale grey that they looked almost white and she wore her spa.r.s.e grey hair under a crumpled linen cap.
”We are visiting the countryside and wondered whether there was anywhere in Apton Magna where we could get some refreshment,” said Rose.
”Oh, there's nothing nearer than Moreton-in-Marsh. They do ever such a nice tea at the White Hart Royal. I remember being taken there by a gentleman friend when I was just a girl.”
”Perhaps you would like to join us?” suggested Rose. ”We have a carriage waiting at the end of the village. I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Miss Daisy Levine.”
”That's is so kind of you. May I present myself? I am Miss Friendly.” She plucked nervously at her gown. ”I am not perhaps quite properly dressed.”
”Nonsense,” said Rose bracingly. ”You will do very well.”
”I don't know. Dear me. Afternoon tea! Such a luxury.” She looked at them wistfully out of her pale eyes.
”I'll go and bring the carriage,” said Daisy quickly, and ran off.
”Please step inside,” said Miss Friendly. ”The sun is very strong.”
Rose followed her into a front parlour. There was very little furniture. There were light squares on the dingy wallpaper showing where pictures had once hung. Fallen on hard times, thought Rose, with a feeling of compa.s.sion.
”Do you live here alone, Miss Friendly?”
”Yes. Papa died ten years ago. He was rector of Saint Paul's before Dr. Tremaine. The church kindly allowed me to have this cottage.”
Rose heard a rumble of carriage wheels outside.
”Ah, there is our carriage and Miss Levine. If you are ready, Miss Friendly?”
Seated in the pleasant gloom of the White Hart Royal over an enormous afternoon tea, Rose again felt a sharp pang of compa.s.sion as she watched Miss Friendly try not to gobble the food. The woman was obviously starving. Rose talked about the weather and about the beauties of the countryside until she saw that Miss Friendly's appet.i.te was at last beginning to be satisfied.
”You must have been very upset over the news of Miss Tremaine's murder,” she said.
”Oh, shocking. Very shocking. Poor Dolly. She often came to my little cottage. Such a beautiful girl. But very much a country girl. I always thought she would have been happy marrying a farmer, or someone like that, but her parents had such ambitions for her.”
”I knew her in London,” said Rose. ”She was very unhappy.”