Robin Paige: Death at Bishops Keep

"Murder, eh?" Bradford folded the newspaper and tossed it aside. "If that's what it is, no doubt the papers will trumpet it. They're awash in blood. That extraordinary murder discovered in Great Marylebone Street, for instance-the woman who carried off the body of a murdered man in a trunk. One read of nothing else for weeks. I say, Sheridan," he added casually. "I've been meaning to ask your advice about an investment."

Charles glanced at him. "I'm hardly up on commerce. Too busy with other matters, I'm afraid."

"But inventions are rather in your line," Bradford replied as the carriage passed a green park where white-aproned nannies pushed black wickerwork perambulators in the afternoon. He took a cigarette out of a monogrammed gold case. "What do you think about these new motorcars?"

Charles raised his eyebrows. ' 'Motorcars? The mechanical problems are really quite intriguing-particularly those having to do with power transmission and steering. For instance, the rims of the inside and outside wheels do not travel the same distance in a turn. The outside actually travels farther than the inside-"

"What I mean to say," Bradford interrupted, "is what do you think about motorcars as an investment?" He lighted his cigarette.

Charles was thoughtful. "The mechanical problems are not insurmountable. In my view, the primary impediments are social and economic. For example, when cars can travel faster than twelve miles an hour-"

"They can now," Bradford said crossly, "but the law won't allow it."

"The laws will be changed to meet the times," Charles replied, settling into his explanation. "But faster speeds require superior roads, which will mean an increase in taxes. Building an adequate fuel-distribution system will take time, and eventually there will have to be an entirely new maintenance industry. All this could require twenty or thirty years. If the investors are looking for a quick return on their money, they will be disappointed."

Bradford sighed heavily and consulted an engraved gold

pocket watch. "We are just in time to meet Eleanor and Aunt Penelope at the railway station. I hope you don't object."

Charles pulled his hat brim down farther. "Object? Why should I object? Your sister is a delightful young woman."

' 'If constant chatter about weddings does not grate on your ears," Bradford replied, pocketing his watch. He was a handsome man with a certain negligent rakishness. But there were lines of worry about his eyes and he wore an uncharacteristically serious look. Charles wondered if perhaps he had lost more at the Steeplechase than he had admitted to doing. Or whether his worry was connected with motorcars. But Charles would no more inquire about his friend's investments than ask after his mistresses.

"Chatter about weddings annoys you, does it?" Charles replied in a tone of friendly banter. "Just wait, Marsden. When your mother has finished arranging your sister's wedding, she will turn her attention to yours. It must be high time to assure the continuation of the Marsden baronetcy."

Bradford Marsden shuddered and closed his eyes briefly. Then, recollecting himself, he turned to Charles. "You needn't be so smug, my dear chap. It has not escaped my attention that my mother would like to make a certain arrangement where you are concerned." The corners of his mouth quirked as he glanced at Charles's dusty hat. "Despite that ridiculous hat of yours."

Charles sobered. He had accepted Bradford Marsden's invitation to spend a month at Marsden Manor for the purpose of documenting the Colchester dig, as well as pursuing various interests, among them a few rare local flora and some fascinating Cenozoic coelenterates. He had no intention of being ambushed by a maternal attempt at matrimonial arranging.

"I presume," Charles said somberly, "that you are referring to Patsy."

If Charles was rarely frustrated in his determined search for knowledge, he was frequently frustrated when it came to the fairer sex. This had certainly been the case since his arrival the previous week at Marsden Manor. He had sensed from the outset that Lady Henrietta Marsden had her own

aims for his visit, and that those aims involved her younger daughter. To make things worse, the daughter's intentions in the matter were clearly those of the mother. The two were in cahoots.

Bradford raised his eyebrows. "Would that be such a disaster, old man?"

Charles's response was carefully diplomatic. "Your sister is liberally endowed with Marsden beauty and grace, as well as Marsden wit. But she is, after all, barely eighteen and not yet out. I am deeply honored and complimented by Lady Henrietta's consideration, but I think she would do well to look to someone nearer Patsy's age. I am too old for her."

He did not add, although he might have, that Patsy Marsden was a flibbertigibbet whose conversation flitted like a butterfly between balls and bonnets. She was the last woman in the world that he would have considered.

"Damn it all, man," Marsden grumbled, "don't talk as if you were poised on the verge of the grave. You're only thirty-three, even if you are a musty old scientist. And you come from excellent family. The Marsdens would be honored-/ would be honored-to entrust Patsy's future to you."

Charles smiled. "You forget," he said, happily falling back upon his strongest argument, "that I am a younger son."

Younger sons, as Bradford Marsden very well knew, were generally left without inheritance, while the family jewels, the family estate, and the family title, if there was one, were bestowed in their entirety upon the eldest son. In Charles's situation, the fact that his brother Robert had inherited the bulk of their father's money was fortuitously offset by a sizable legacy from his maternal grandmother-in other words, he was possessed of a substantial fortune. But Charles had several times successfully deployed his status as younger son as a shield against the menace of matrimony. He expected it to work in this instance as well.

But Bradford only laughed. "Come now, Sheridan, you can't hide behind that ruse with me. We've been friends too long. I know, as does Mother, that you've enough to support Patsy quite comfortably." Bradford did not add that the Mars-dens (whose fortunes had slipped into a lengthy decline precipitated by Grandfather Marsden's regrettable losses at the gaming table and exacerbated by Bradford's father's equally regrettable love of expensive but ill-fated horseflesh) would be greatly relieved if their younger daughter were to marry into Charles Sheridan's respectable family and quite ample fortune. His pale blue eyes twinkled. "And who knows? Perhaps a few months spent traipsing in out-of-the-way corners of the world, carrying those cameras of yours, might sober her sufficiently to allow her to think beyond the next new gown and slippers." In the distance, the train whistle could be heard, and the chugging of the engine, and Bradford leaned forward to tap the coachman's shoulder. "The whip, Foster."

"Patsy is quite delicious just as she is," Charles lied, as the carriage moved forward smartly. "I would not change her for the world. No, Marsden, you and your mother will have to indulge me. Patsy will make some fortunate man a loving, if not dutiful, wife, but I have not yet found the right woman. Perhaps-"

He paused. On the graveled footpath beside the street, two rosy-cheeked young women with elaborately piled hair and ruffled silk parasols smiled flirtatiously at the occupants of the carriage. For Bradford's benefit, he spoke heavily, a man weighted by disappointed hopes.

"— Perhaps I never shall."

"Nonsense." Marsden said, tipping his bowler at the two young women. "And don't be so quick to reject Patsy. She's young yet. With a husband's firm hand guiding her development, she could become a charming wife."