Free Death Sits Down to Dinner by Tessa Arlen Page A

from the bottom of the suitcase, a Christmas present from Lady Montfort last year, and hung it from the hook on the back of the nursery door.
    As she was arranging her hairbrush and toilet articles next to the washstand she caught sight of herself in the looking glass and noticed that her expression was rather severe.
    Now, Edith, she told herself, you had better lose that look before you go over to Miss Kingsley’s house tomorrow. Lord knows what you will find there.
    After considerable thought on the matter, she decided against acting on Lady Montfort’s suggestion that she discover as much as she could about what was going on in Miss Kingsley’s house—in other words, snoop. She would do nothing of the sort. She would be pleased to organize the charity evening, and do all she could to make it a success, of course she would, and she would enjoy it, too. And when she wasn’t doing that, she would pop over to Selfridges in Oxford Street. Do a bit of shopping, and perhaps talk Miss Pettigrew into accompanying her to the Victoria and Albert Museum, or the National Portrait Gallery. Other than that, she had no intention whatsoever of getting herself involved in another one of her ladyship’s inquiries. Their combined investigation into the murder of Mr. Teddy Mallory last year has been for a very good reason indeed. Lady Montfort’s son, Lord Haversham, had been in danger of being arrested for murder. So it had been right and proper for her to help her mistress in any way she could. But the murder of Sir Reginald was not their business, and if Miss Kingsley was not discussing the sordid death of her friend, then Mrs. Jackson certainly did not believe it was her place to bring it up. As soon as her ladyship had recovered from the shock of finding a dead man at the dining table, she would be quite happy to leave things to the police. With this in mind, she left Nanny’s room and walked across the night nursery to the day nursery and the bathroom next to the nurserymaid’s old room.
    She would take a nice long bath and then pop into bed with her hot water bottle, her cup of cocoa, and a good book. She was halfway through Middlemarch and everything she had read so far confirmed her opinion that marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. As she leaned comfortably back among her pillows and flipped the book open to her marker, she idly wondered if Ernest Stafford ever had time to come up to London.

 
    Chapter Seven
    Clementine left early the next morning to take Mrs. Jackson over to Miss Kingsley’s house. It was a perfect late-autumn day with clear blue skies and the sort of snap in the air that encourages bracing walks along the embankment, but a wind coming down from the north told a different tale for the afternoon. They made the drive in silence, which did not bode well for Mrs. Jackson’s compliance as an amateur detective’s trusted assistant, thought Clementine, as she settled her gloved hands into her muff and gazed out of the window with a placid expression on her face. Mrs. Jackson had hardly rallied around the flag yesterday evening when Lady Montfort had briefed her on Sir Reginald’s murder. Her manner had been quite correct, but a shade too detached and distant, and her responses had been negligible to say the least. Clementine fully comprehended how deeply conventional her housekeeper was, and though most loyal in her duty to the Talbot family, she probably did not consider the murder at Miss Kingsley’s house to be something she must involve herself in—on anyone’s behalf. She glanced across at her housekeeper’s face. Mrs. Jackson appeared to be quite composed and relaxed, but Clementine suspected that she was probably fuming. Her enthusiastic suggestions to do a little careful investigation of their own at Chester Square had been received with respectful but chilly silence.
    If she had offended her housekeeper’s sense of dignity Clementine was truly sorry. But at the same time she was quite