Free Sick of Shadows by M. C. Beaton Page A

Lady Rose,” said Harry sternly, “and all because some madman thinks she may have some knowledge of the murderer, which, believe me, she most certainly has not.”
    “You must respect our grief,” said Dr. Tremaine. “You must go away before my wife sees you. She is still gravely upset and her nerves are delicate.”
    At that moment, Mrs. Tremaine lumbered out of the house. With a cap on her mousy hair and her round figure, she looked rather like the late Queen. “Why, Lady Rose!” she exclaimed. “How kind of you to call.”
    “They’re just leaving,” snarled her husband.
    “Oh, you cannot go without taking some refreshment. Don’t be such a bear, dear. Do come in, Lady Rose.”
    Under the rector’s glaring eyes, Rose entered the house. Daisy and Becket would have followed, but Mrs. Tremaine looked at them in horror. “Your servants may remain in the car.”
    She led the way to a drawing-room. It had noble proportions which were lost in over-furnishing. The light was dim because of three sets of curtains on the long windows—net, linen and then brocade.
    Mrs. Tremaine pulled the bell-rope and when the maid answered the summons asked for tea to be brought in. “My poor Dolly was so honoured by your friendship, Lady Rose,” she said. “She was meant for great things and struck down in her prime.”
    “Have you any idea who might have murdered her?” asked Harry.
    “I have already answered that,” said Dr. Tremaine.
    “There was one person,” said Mrs. Tremaine, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, although Rose noticed her eyes were quite dry.
    “Who?” asked Rose eagerly.
    “The Honourable Cyril Banks, that’s who. He asked Mr. Tremaine for permission to pay his addresses and was told the answer was firmly no. ‘You’ll regret this,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll ruin that girl of yours. I’ll get even with you.’ Ah, here is tea.”
    Ludicrously, Mrs. Tremaine began to brag about the great people she had met in London, and about what a duchess had said to her and what a countess had confided in her, and Rose could practically hear all these dropped names pattering like rain among the china cups.
    She played her part, flattering Mrs. Tremaine and listening intently to her. Then, as they rose to take their leave, Rose said, “May I perhaps see my old friend’s bedchamber? An odd request, but it would help me to say goodbye.”
    The rector muttered, “Pah!” But Mrs. Tremaine could not refuse a title anything. “Follow me, my lady.”
    Upstairs, Rose stood on the threshold of what had been Dolly’s bedchamber and looked in. It was a bleak room furnished with a narrow bed, a desk, a hard chair and a wardrobe. Above the fireplace was a badly executed oil painting of a blond and blue-eyed Jesus suffering a group of remarkably British-looking children to come unto Him. The only other piece of furniture was a bedside table with a large Bible placed on top of it.
    “Miss Tremaine did not have a diary or anything like that?” she asked.
    “No, nothing like that.”
    “Thank you,” said Rose.
    “May I visit you when I am in London?” asked Mrs. Tremaine eagerly.
    “By all means,” said Rose, confident that the rector would make sure his wife would not.

    Rose and Harry told Daisy and Becket the little they had learned. “Perhaps when everyone returns to London, I might encourage the attentions of Cyril and see what I can find out,” suggested Rose.
    “You are engaged to me,” snapped Harry. “It would be regarded as most unseemly behaviour.”
    “Pooh,” said Rose. Daisy and Becket exchanged looks. Their hopes of Rose and Harry’s marrying seemed farther away than ever.

    Harry received a message from Kerridge the following morning, bringing him up to date on the latest development.
    He rushed round to Scotland Yard.
    “Who is he?” he demanded, after entering Kerridge’s office. All the way to Scotland Yard he had been praying that it would turn out to be someone Dolly had