M. C. Beaton - Hasty Death

M.C. Beaton worked as a Fleet Street journalist. She is the author of the Agatha Raisin novels, the Hamish Macbeth series and the Edwardian Murder Mystery series all published by Constable & Robinson. She divides her time between Paris and the Cotswolds.

Praise for M.C. Beatons Edwardian Murder Mystery series:

If you missed the first novel in the series, get it right away. Snobbery with Violence introduced the Edwardian heroine Lady Rose Summer. Her second appearance [Hasty Death] is, if anything, even wittier and more amusing than the debut.

The Globe & Mail

Fans of the authors Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series should welcome this tale of aristocrats, house parties, servants, and murder.

Publishers Weekly

A light-hearted romantic romp through Edwardian snobbery, with hints of the cataclysmic changes in store for high society.

Kirkus Review

An amusing brew of mystery and romance that will keep fans turning the pages.

Publishers Weekly

Fans of the authors Hamish Macbeth and Agatha Raisin mysteries... will welcome this new series of historical whodunits.

Booklist

Combines history, romance and intrigue, resulting in a delightful romantic mystery.

Midwest Book Review

Also by M.C. Beaton

Edwardian Murder Mystery series

Snobbery with Violence

Hasty Death

Sick of Shadows

Our Lady of Pain

Hamish MacBeth series

Death of a Valentine

Death of a Witch

Death of a Gentle Lady

Death of a Maid

Death of a Dreamer

Death of a Bore

Death of a Poison Pen

Death of a Village

Death of a Celebrity

Death of a Dustman

Death of an Addict

Death of a Scriptwriter

Death of a Dentist

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

Published in the US by St Martins Press, 2004

This paperback edition published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2010

Copyright Marion Chesney, 2004, 2010

The right of Marion Chesney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-184901-290-4

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

To George and Isabel Agrest of Paris,

with affection

Shorthand he wrote, his flower in prime did fade,

And hasty death shorthand of him hath made.

E PITAPH OF W ILLIAM L AURENCE ,

DIED 1661, W ESTMINSTER A BBEY

Dont, when offered a dish at a friends table, look at it critically, turn it about with the spoon and fork, and then refuse it.

Etiquette for Women,
by one of the aristocracy

W inter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper and the housekeeper blamed the first footman, and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.

Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some business womens hostel in Bloomsbury with her maid, Daisy.

The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.

Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense. For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.

I dont think I want to get married, said Rose.

Then you should have told us that last year, before we wasted a fortune on your season, roared the earl.

Rose had the grace to blush.

Lady Polly tried a softer approach. We are going to Nice. Youll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.

I want to work.

Its the fault of that ex-chorus-girl maid of yours, raged the earl.

Daisy Levine, Roses maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit. Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a ladys maid.

It is my idea, Pa, said Rose. Weve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.

She walked from the room and closed the double doors behind her very quietly much more effective than if she had slammed them.

What are we to do? mourned the earl, huddling farther into his bearskin coat, looking like a small, round wounded animal.

They sat in gloomy silence. The doors to the drawing-room opened and two footmen entered, one carrying coal and kindling and the other a basket of logs.

At last, said the earl. What took you so long?

There was such a shortage of fuel in the city, my lord, said the first footman, that we sent two fourgons out to the country to Stacey Court. Stacey Court was the earls country home.

Well, get the fire started, grumbled the earl.

As the resultant blaze began to thaw the room, the earl felt that even his brain was beginning to thaw out. I know, he said. Well ask that Cathcart fellow. Whats he doing now?

Lady Glensheil tells me he has opened a detective agency. Very American. Like Pinkertons.

Ill try anything, said the earl. We could have left for Nice a week ago if it hadnt been for Rose. He rang the bell and told the butler, Brum, to find the direction of Captain Harry Cathcarts detective agency and ask him to call.

Harry Cathcart brightened when a footman brought him the earls request. It was not that time had been lying heavily on his hands. On the contrary, his days were taken up, just as before, with hushing up societys scandals and finding lost dogs. But he had hoped for more dramatic assignments, and somehow, working in the past for the earl had certainly led to murder and mayhem.

He picked up his hat and coat and went through to the outer office where his sheep-faced secretary, Miss Jubbles, was labouring over accounts.

Im going out for a bit, Miss Jubbles, he said. Anything I can get you?

Oh, no, Captain. Miss Jubbles gazed adoringly at the handsome captain with his thick dark hair, rangy figure and black eyes. Harry shrugged himself into his fur-lined coat and crammed a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Out in Buckingham Palace Road, where he had his office, the cold was intense. In a neighbouring building the pipes had burst, and icicles glittered against the sooty brick. Other buildings had lagged the outside pipes with old sheets and he felt he was walking past ghostly sentinels with their whitish arms stretched up to the frost-covered roofs. He walked carefully because the street-sweepers had been unable to clear the pavements of the frozen-hard mud and it was slippery underfoot.