Robin Paige - Death in Hyde Park

“I suppose,” Lord Sheridan said, pursing his lips in a judicious manner, “that this is not quite the sort of case that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually take. It is not the sort of thing that Delderfield handles, either.” He chuckled dryly. “Getting rather old, I should say.”

“It is not our usual case,” Morley replied, attempting to suggest by his tone just how far beneath the firm’s usual notice this case lay. “My partners and I should not have accepted it at all if Amalgamated had not insisted quite so… strenuously.” In fact, Masters and Dunderston had preferred to reject Amalgamated’s request. It had only been his insistence that carried the day, and now he was faced with the unpleasant task of telling them that Delderfield would be entering a guilty plea.

“I say, old chap,” his lordship said, interrupting Morley’s thoughts. “It seems to me that you’re in a bit of a bind here. It’s not the sort of case you normally undertake, and not the sort of case you’d like to see associated with the firm’s name, either-especially since you anticipate a conviction. And Delderfield isn’t your man, either, from what I know of him. P’rhaps I might suggest another barrister with a bit more experience along… shall we say, criminal lines. A bit more drive, too. He would not be so quick to plead Gould guilty.”

Morley eyed him speculatively, wondering if his lordship’s suggestion might help him avoid what promised to be an uncomfortable situation with Amalgamated. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked finally.

“Chap named Edward Savidge. Good man, quite competent in his line. I thought perhaps…” His lordship let the pause lengthen.

“I suppose we might be able to work something out,” Morley said, affecting reluctance. “But Amalgamated should have to agree.”

“I will undertake to obtain their consent,” his lordship said. He picked up his hat and stood. “We are agreed, then, that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston will request the services of Edward Savidge for Mr. Gould’s defense?”

“With pleasure, sir,” Morley replied with great alacrity, and took his lordship’s hand. “With pleasure.”

Kate always found it easiest and most pleasant to do her writing in the morning, beside the window in the library of Bishop’s Keep. It was her favorite room, the paneled walls lined with old leather-bound books, generations of her Ardleigh ancestors looking down from the wall, and Charles’s leather chair placed near the fireplace, her own upholstered one opposite. But perhaps it was Charles’s lingering presence in the room that made these surroundings so pleasant, and the recollection of their enjoyable teatime and evening conversations here. For Kate had discovered, much to her delight, that marriage to Charles Sheridan included a great many hours in lively conversation.

But the library was also a private retreat, for it contained Kate’s oak writing desk, placed in the small, green-curtained alcove in front of the casement window. This forenoon, Kate was seated there at her Royal typewriter, typing the final page of Beryl Bardwell’s latest fictional effort, a ghost story set at Glamis Castle, in Scotland. Several of Sir Walter Scott’s novels were stacked at her elbow for inspiration, and she had, for reference, a number of photographs that she had taken when she and Charles visited the castle the year before.

Usually, Kate had no trouble keeping her attention focused on Beryl’s current fiction, especially when it was as gripping as this ghost story. But she was distracted this morning by a group of students who were being instructed, just outside her window, in the fine art of pruning rose bushes. She was watching them and thinking with satisfaction that they were an attentive and diligent group, when she was interrupted by a knock at the library door.

“Come in,” she called, and Mrs. Bryan entered. She was dressed in her matron’s uniform of neat gray dress and white smock, and her brown hair was twisted up at the back of her head. She carried a sheaf of papers, the report that she made each Monday morning on the activities of the school. But she was not smiling.

“Good morning, your ladyship,” she said gloomily.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate returned. She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look entirely happy. Is something wrong?”

“The calf’s dead,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “The veterinary came again early this morning, but couldn’t do anything for him.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate said. The matron always took such things to heart, as if the death of an animal were her own fault, or the fault of a malevolent Providence set on thwarting her best efforts to save it. “But I’m sure you did everything you could to save the poor creature. These things will happen.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Bryan acknowledged. “But it was a blow.” She put her papers on the desk. “Egg production’s up, though, I’m glad t’ say. And the apple harvest is done, all but the late trees. Murchison’s taken it off to the fruit buyer and expects a good price.” She was still not smiling, although the successful completion of the fruit harvest was always a happy event.

“I see,” Kate said. “It sounds as if things are going well.” She picked up the papers and thumbed through them, waiting to hear what else Mrs. Bryan had on her mind.

The matron folded her arms. “Mary Murchison’s gone down with the measles. I sent her home yesterday morning, but some others may get it too, them as missed it when they were young. Better now than later, though.”

Kate felt a stab of pain. Several years earlier, in the first few months of pregnancy, she had contracted the measles. She had lost the baby-a loss she still mourned-and the doctors had told her that there would be no others. Of course, there was Patrick, the boy, now nearly sixteen, whom she and Charles had taken as their own. She loved Patrick very much, but he could not quite fill the void.

“You’re right, of course,” she said. “Better measles now than later. But do send a basket of fruit and cheese to Mary and her family, please, and some extra eggs.”

“Yes, mum.” Mrs. Bryan stood stolidly, obviously not finished with her report.

“And what else?” Kate asked.

Mrs. Bryan gave her a dark look. “Conway’s gone.”

“Conway’s… gone?” Kate asked blankly.

“The new girl. The one who came from London on Saturday.”

“Yes, I know. Charlotte Conway.” Kate frowned. “But I don’t understand. How can she be… gone?”

“By shank’s mares, I s’pose,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “She must’ve left after prayers last night-after I told her that I was puttin’ her to the pigs today.” She tossed her head. “Anyways, she didn’t appear at breakfast. I sent Portia to fetch her, and she come back with the news that Conway had made up her bed with a roll of blankets, so it seemed she was in it-but she wasn’t. She’s gone.”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said softly. “I expect she’s gone back to London.”

“Well, if you ask me, that one wasn’t cut out to be a farmer,” Mrs. Bryan said tartly. “Too independent. And too clever by half, but not clever enough to learn. Thought it was beneath her. Didn’t fancy workin’ with the pigs, I s’pose. Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon.”

“You don’t need to beg my pardon,” Kate said in a mild tone. “It wasn’t my idea to bring her here, and it might not have been her idea to come. I don’t suppose we should be surprised that she’s gone.” She paused, thinking that it might be a good idea to telegraph Nellie that her friend had decamped, and to send a telegram to Sibley House as well. Charles had had quite an interest in the young woman and in her Anarchist associations; he would not be pleased to learn that she was on the loose in London, where she was sure to be picked up by the police.