Epilogue
The ma?tre d’h?tel at Maxim’s was said never to forget a patron. He greeted Daisy: “Mrs. Fletcher, enchanté de vous revoir, madame. Lady Gerald Bincombe is not yet arrived but she has reserved a table on the balcony. You wish to ascend?”
Daisy ascended the elegant staircase. A menial showed her to a table overlooking the ground floor, and whisked away her tweed coat.
She took her list from her bag and read through it.
The editor of the book on follies had asked Daisy and Lucy to do another on inns with odd names.
Daisy had consulted Alec and Tom Tring, who travelled all over the country, and they had come up with some beauties: The Magnet and Dewdrop, for instance; the Tippling Philosopher; Rent Day; the Cat and Mutton; and the World Turned Upside Down; and just across the river, in Southwark, the Boot and Flogger.
Lucy didn’t keep her waiting long. The ma?tre d’h?tel himself escorted her ladyship upstairs and caught her fur coat when she let it slip from her shoulders, folding it carefully over his arm.
“May I recommend the faisan aux champignons, milady, madame,” he suggested. “This is the first that has hanged long enough—to perfection!—because the season of the pheasant, it has begun only since ten days.”
“And I shall be sick of it long before the season’s over. I’ll have a prawn salad, thank you.”
Daisy decided on the pheasant, a rare treat for her.
“Have you found some good inn names?” she asked Lucy.
“A few. But who cares, darling. That can wait. This morning’s post brought an invitation to Sybil Sutherby’s wedding. I’m sure there must be some connection with the murder you got involved in when you went to stay with her. Tell all.”
“I’ve already told you most of it. And the papers reported the arrest of Walter Ilkton.”
“Of course. The younger sons of peers don’t often get arrested for murdering popular authors.”
“We—at the farm—weren’t aware that he was Lord Harrington’s son. You know I don’t keep up with that sort of thing. Not that it would have made any difference to Alec’s arresting him.”
“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it might have. You didn’t tell me about the doctor waiting in the wings to come to Sybil’s rescue.”
“I’m pretty sure she’d have married him anyway.
‘Eli Hawke’s’ death just precipitated matters.
Keep this under your hat—which is absolutely stunning, by the way—” Daisy paused to study the creation, a sort of shako with a ribbon round the non-existent brim, tied in a small bow in front, and a small plume of feathers drooping gracefully on one side at the top.
Stunning was the word. If she turned up in something like it, her friends would faint, but if it caught on, every shop-girl would be wearing cheap versions in a month or two. “Paris?”
“Naturally. The latest. What is it you want me to keep under it?”
“Dr. Knox, Sybil’s fiancé, was actually suspected of the murder for practically the same reason Ilkton committed it. By the way, did you manage to find out exactly what Myra Olney’s up to, living it up with the nobs?”
“It wasn’t difficult. So far, she’s running with a perfectly respectable crowd, mostly the families of her school friends, as you said.
But of course that leads to invitations from friends of friends, and some of them are somewhat less respectable, though she hasn’t reached the level of the raffish set yet. ”
“‘Yet’?”
“Yet,” Lucy said firmly. “She has no family capable of protecting her, nor even aware of the sort of people she’s meeting. She’s far too young and unsophisticated to cope for herself. And no, I am not going to take her under my wing.”
Daisy sighed. “I’m going to have to introduce her to Melanie—my friend Mrs. Germond, the banker’s wife. I don’t think you’ve met her. She’s been very good with the girls from the Tower—you remember that business.”
“How could I forget, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes? I’m glad you didn’t get me mixed up in that one.”
“I never get you mixed up in any of them on purpose, darling. In fact, I don’t get mixed up myself on purpose. Mel was very good about weaning Fay and Brenda from their addiction to uniforms and the unsuitable officers wearing them.”
“Preferable to Irish adventurers! What happened to Carey?”
“He dropped Myra at her lodgings and faded away. I haven’t heard anything of him since.”
“Not surprising, as Myra has no money.”
“No, but nor did I.”
“A middle-class policeman,” Lucy grumbled.
“Don’t talk rubbish, darling. You’re long reconciled to my marrying Alec.
At least Myra has looks. With any luck Melanie will manage to persuade her to be satisfied with middle-class jollifications, tennis club parties and genteel, chaperoned flirtations, till she finds herself a husband.
It’s far more her level of sophistication. ”
“Not to mention her family background,” Lucy said dryly.
“Yes, but she really is a thoroughly nice girl, however scatty, or I shouldn’t bother. She already came to call, in Hampstead, and she’s dotty about the twins.”
“Ah, the passport to a mother’s heart.”
“You wait! Speaking of family, I had a letter from Ruby Birtwhistle. The author’s widow,” Daisy explained as Lucy looked blank. “Myra’s aunt by marriage. Or cousin or something. She’s taken a house in Matlock Bank and she says Myra will always have a home there if she wants it. So that’s a relief.”
“Isn’t there a son?”
“Simon. Apparently, he’s decided to take articles with the family solicitor. A bit of a change from wanting to be an avant-garde writer! He was impressed by his wicked aunt’s trial, it seems.”
“Sybil’s not going to give up her writing career, is she?” asked Lucy, suddenly militantly feminist. “Just because she’s getting married?”
“No. Calm down. She’s not sure what she’s going to write, though. She doesn’t want to try to continue the Westerns without Humphrey.”
“I don’t blame her. Good for her. Perhaps I’ll go to the wedding after all.”
“Lucy, you must! It will be a very small do. She has no family at all except her little girl. Ruby and Simon and Myra will be there, but she needs our support.”
“All right, all right. We Old Scholars must stick together, and I’ll haul Gerald along. As long as you promise there won’t be another murder.”
“Darling,” said Daisy, “you know very well, that’s a promise I can’t possibly make!”