Death Devil's Bridge (30 page)

“You must examine it, I fear,” Kate said. “There is a certain young gentleman in the drawing room, who wishes to speak to me on a matter of the heart. At least, that's what I presume his errand to be, since he asked to see me privately.”

Charles raised both eyebrows. “Indeed? And who is the young gentleman?”

“Mr. Rolls,” Kate said, and saying nothing else, turned and left the room.

Laken looked very cross. “I told that boy to stay at the inn.”

“I imagine he came to see to the repairs on the balloon,” Charles said. His magnifying lens in hand, he bent over the photographs and began scrutinizing the fingerprints on their glossy surfaces. For a moment he said nothing more. Then, as he shifted to an examination of one of the goblets, he added, “He is not the sort of young man to take orders, even from a constable.”

Laken spoke cautiously. “Did you tell Kate anything about—”

“Rolls's malfeasance? No. I took it to be rumor. In any event, it is none of my business. Marsden must look after his sister, and would not take kindly to another man's interference.”

And with that, Charles handed his friend a magnifying lens and pointed with his pencil at something.

“Take a close look at this fingerprint, Ned, and then at the one in this photographic enlargement, which I took from a photo of the fender of Marsden's Daimler.” He pointed to the enlargement on the table. “Tell me what you see.”

There was silence for the next few moments, as Laken bent over first one fingerprint, and then the other.

“By Jove,” he said at last, and a grin broke across his boyish face. “I believe we have found a match!”

In a nutshell, you have the whole matter.

—WILLIAM M. THACKERAY
The Second Funeral of Napoleon

 

 

“
Y
ou wanted to speak to me, Mr. Rolls?” Kate asked, sitting on the sofa in the drawing room.

The Honorable Charles Rolls—his trousers and boots muddied, his collar loose, his hair damp and hastily combed—looked very young, Kate thought. And very vulnerable. She smiled at him. “Please, take a chair. Or come and sit beside me.”

“ 'Pon my word, I—I'm not fit to make a call,” he muttered uncomfortably. “I hope you will forgive me.” His jaw and cheeks were suffused with a red blush. “I have been repairing the balloon this afternoon. I should have gone back to the Marlborough to change, but that would have taken more time. And I would certainly not have presumed, except—”

“Except that you have something of importance to say to me,” Kate said. “Please, Mr. Rolls, sit down and say it, without delay. You will make my neck very tired if you force me to keep looking up at you.”

Reluctantly, Rolls sat down on the sofa beside her, being careful not to touch her skirt. “I ... I feel I might talk to you, if you don't mind my saying so. You are Patsy's friend. And you're an American, after all, and in my experience—not that I am all that experienced, of course, or have known that many women intimately, so to speak.” He coughed. “But I have observed ... I mean to say that I—I have remarked on several occasions that American women seem to understand certain matters better than English women. Matters of the—of the, well, tenderer sort.” He cleared his throat again and added, with a heartfelt desperation that Kate found quite touching, “May I come straight to the point, Lady Kathryn?”

“If you donv't,” Kate said, “I shall never forgive you. Have you come to speak about Miss Marsden?”

The young man's dark eyes opened wide. “Why, yes,” he said. “However did you know?”

Kate chuckled. “I did not notice that you made any secret of your attentions to the young lady. You seemed to speak to her a great deal more freely than you are now speaking to me.”

“Come to that, I don't suppose I did make any secret of it,” Rolls said, rather abashedly. “But the thing is... that is, you see—” He shook his head. “The devil take it, I hardly know what to say. The plain truth is, Lady Kathryn, I have been something of a cad. And as a result, Patsy has gotten into serious difficulties with Lady Henrietta and Lord Christopher, and I can't for the life of me think of how to get her out without—” He stopped, and the red rose from his cheeks to his forehead.

“Without offering for her hand, I suppose you mean. And you do not wish to offer for her hand.”

“It isn't so much that I don't wish ... I mean, Patsy is a perfectly lovely girl, but... To be beastly honest, I am just not cut out for—And I don't suppose her mother and father would—” He took out a white handkerchief, mopped his face, and gave up the effort to explain. “In a nutshell, yes, Lady Kathryn. To be perfectly honest, that's it, in a nutshell. I do not wish to offer for her hand. I suppose,” he added in a self-accusatory tone, “I must look a perfect fool, and worse. I'm a lot too cheeky and rash. Imprudent, too.”

Unhelpfully, Kate said nothing.

“Well, I shouldn't blame you for believing that of me,” he said after a moment, with a look of abject misery, half of which Kate thought was feigned—but only half. “I suppose you know that I've been chucked out of the house over there. Her mother told me, in so many words, to pack my cases and leave and never again darken their doorway.”

“Miss Marsden has told me as much,” Kate acknowledged.

“I say!” He ducked his head. “I don't suppose I have to assure you that I—that we, I should say, Patsy and I—We have done nothing wrong. Not a thing in the world, by George, beyond an innocent kiss or two in the rose garden.” And he struck his fist on the knee of his muddied trousers. “That girl is every inch a lady, no matter how she tosses her head and flirts.” His color became brighter. “That is, I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Rolls,” Kate said gravely, “and you do not have to assure me of Miss Marsden's virtuous character. I know that nothing more than a bit of mild flirtation has taken place.” He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Hear me out, won't you? At the risk of preaching a sermon, I must add that sometimes even a small flirtation can create a very
large
expectation.”

He chewed on his lip. “I don't believe ... You can't mean ...” He raised his eyes, and they were full of consternation. “But I thought she was
safe!
Like me, I mean. Just out for a bit of fun and all that. You don't think I've hurt her, do you? I say, I wouldn‘t—Oh, not for the
world!
Patsy's a reg'lar
peach
of a girl!”

Kate began to take pity on this very young man. “In this case, Mr. Rolls, I think you are right. Miss Marsden is quite ‘safe,' as you put it. You may have played with her heart, but I don't believe you injured it. In another instance, however, with a less confident and assured young lady, such an amusement might have a very different result.”

He started to speak, but she laid her hand on his, silencing him. “I don't presume to tell you how to behave, Mr. Rolls. But a girl may be out in Society, and have gone to dozens of balls and entertained a half-dozen offers for her hand, and still not be ‘safe,' as you mean the word.” She paused, and added, with a smile, “I hope you will consider what I say. I am not speaking of morality, at least not as the word is commonly used. I am speaking of hearts.”

“Oh, I shall consider it,” he said earnestly. “I am considering it at this very moment. Then she is all right? But Bradford has told me that she plans to leave! I can't really believe it, but...” He stopped and shook his head. “There was a filthy family row, you know, over the motorcars and the balloon and me and ... They were
all
in on it, and Bradford has already cut and run for London. I would have gone with him, if I hadn't had to deal with the balloon, which must be repaired before the owner sees it again.”

“Yes,” Kate said, “I believe she does mean to leave.”

“But ... where will she go? How will she live?” He swallowed, and the apprehension came back into his voice. “You are sure that she does not expect me to—”

“She does not expect anything of you, Mr. Rolls. Please do not flatter yourself that her leaving Marsden Manor has the slightest thing to do with you, except insofar—and this is my own interpretation—that she admires your freedom and wishes to have some of it for herself.” She smiled. “I also think, Mr. Rolls, that you need have no special concern for her welfare. Miss Marsden is perfectly competent to choose her own direction and purpose. She has a spirit that is every bit as lively and adventurous as your own, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know. I do indeed.” A reminiscent smile flickered across his face. “It was her spirit that attracted me to her in the first place.”

“Well, then. Perhaps you will not be surprised when you hear, some day, that Miss Marsden has photographed the Alps from a balloon, or motored across Russia with her camera, alone.”

“Motored across—” His eyes were like saucers. “You're joking, Lady Kathryn! That kind of adventure would be far too dangerous for a woman!”

“And why should men enjoy all the danger, and monopolize every adventure?” Kate inquired sweetly. “No, I think you must not be surprised when you open a magazine or a book and encounter Miss Marsden's photographs of the African crocodiles, or the Bengalese tigers. Or, for that matter, the naked cannibals of New Guinea, about to roast their dinner. And that is it, Mr. Rolls, in a nutshell.”

And she rose and swept out of the room, leaving the Honorable Charles Rolls with his mouth hanging open.

Behold, I shew you a mystery.

—I CORINTHIANS 15:51

 

 

 

 

L
ight refreshments,
Lady Kathryn had ordered, and Sarah Pratt had been hard at it all afternoon with only a few moments out for tea and a biscuit with Bess, who seemed to have forgotten her animosity, although she had made a remark about tongues that ran on a bit too long.

In truth, Sarah was glad that her friend had been exonerated of all—well,
nearly
all—misdeeds. It had been wrong of Bess to conceal the jar of ointment in the gondola, and very wrong to lay a curse upon the motorcar, although of course there could be nothing at all to the curse, so perhaps that did not even count. But whatever Bess's faults, she seemed to have redeemed herself by revealing the secrets of her ointment (although why Lady Kathryn and Sir Charles should take an interest in such a foolish business, Sarah did not for the life of her understand). And having told Lady Kathryn about the squire's removal of the grapnel, she certainly felt easier in her spirit. Whipple could not be blamed for what he had not done, and perhaps Sir Charles could make the squire own up to it.

In the event, Sarah was happily at work, sailing back and forth from the stolid, predictable iron range to the skittish gas cooker, snapping orders to the kitchen maids and feeling that she was once again mistress of all she surveyed. Lady Sheridan's light refreshments were to include a sliced cold joint; a cold turbot, placed white side up and garnished with caviar and green mayonnaise; an ornamental salmagundi salad that showed off its colorful layers in a straight-sided crystal bowl; small sandwiches, cut into shapes and prettily decorated; a molded strawberry jelly; several hot and cold savories; and fruit. It was the first meal in weeks that Sarah felt confident of producing without mishap—and all because her iron range had been restored to her, and peace and harmony to the kitchen.

 

Entertainment,
Sir Charles had announced for the evening, and put Lawrence in charge of the preparations. Lawrence had spent most of the afternoon in the darkroom, preparing lantern slides from various negatives, some of which had been taken by Miss Marsden, others by Sir Charles. The preparation of the slides was made much simpler by the enlarging camera that Sir Charles had recently purchased.

Lawrence enjoyed his darkroom work, especially now that he was relieved of the guilty burden that had so oppressed him this morning. Knowing that the Daimler had not crashed because he had siphoned out most of the petrol but because someone else had smeared grease on the brake, he could turn his mind to other matters, to the present work, although he had become so adept at it that it hardly required any special attention. And to the future—his and Amelia's future—for which he must now construct some plan.

With the Daimler wrecked and Lord Bradford gone off to London, it did not seem so likely that Lawrence would be summoned thence. But that was not the end of it. His greatest hope had been the prospect of being employed by Sir Charles at Bishop's Keep. But if that could not be, he would have to find work elsewhere. How far would he have to go? What would he have to do? If he had to travel as far as Colchester—fifteen miles away—to find employment, it would mean a choice between Amelia's going along and giving up her situation and the cottage, or his living for the week in Colchester and seeing her only on Sundays and holidays.

But Lawrence did not have to puzzle over these problems for too many hours. He finished mounting the slides and took them out for Sir Charles to inspect. Constable Laken had gone, and they were alone.

“Thank you, Lawrence,” Sir Charles said. “I have taken several more photographs—here are the dark slides for you to develop and make into lantern slides. When you are finished, we can turn our attention to preparations for the evening.”

“Ah, Sir Charles,” Lawrence said hesitantly, “if ye ‘ave a moment, I 'ave summat to ask ye, sir.”

Sir Charles looked up from the lantern slides he was examining. “What is it?”