Free Mistletoe and Murder by Carola Dunn Page A

when I come back she were in a state.”
    â€œI’m sure it must have been the letter. Thank you, Jenny, you can go now. I’ll ring if you’re needed.”
    Hurrying up the stairs, Daisy wondered whom the letter was from and what on earth it said that was so upsetting it required her immediate presence. Surely not Violet! If anything had happened to her or the baby, she or Johnnie would have written to Daisy first and let her break it to their mother.
    â€œMother, what … ?”
    â€œDaisy, how could you be so remiss, so utterly lacking in duty to your only parent, as to leave me to learn the truth from a stranger?”
    â€œMother, I’ve already explained that Westmoor didn’t tell me he wasn’t going to be here for Christmas, though I gather he’s spent Christmas at Tavy Bridge for years. And I didn’t know Mrs. Norville was Indian, either.”
    â€œIndian!” Lady Dalrymple snorted and waved the offending letter. Sitting up in bed in a powder blue quilted satin bed-jacket, she was a study in outrage. “That is the least of it!”
    â€œWhom is it from?”
    â€œEva Devenish. An utterly reliable source.”
    â€œBlast!” Daisy muttered. Lady Eva never invented gossip;
she didn’t need to. She had at her fingertips every scrap of scandal which had shaken the aristocracy in the past five or six decades. No use Daisy trying to cast doubt on whatever she had raked up this time. “Lady Eva’s not exactly a stranger, Mother, even if she isn’t family. But how did she know you were here?”
    â€œI happened to run into her at Claridge’s, where I spent Saturday night, since your husband’s house is not suitable for inviting your mother to stay when she is in town. We spoke briefly, as she was rushing off somewhere—and how she manages it at her age I cannot imagine. There’s really something quite indecent about it—but I mentioned that I was to be Westmoor’s guest at Brockdene. If only she had had the common courtesy to enlighten me there and then!”
    â€œEnlighten you about what, Mother?”
    â€œI suppose you believe the Indian person is the widow of the sixth earl’s youngest son.”
    â€œHonestly, I never thought twice about whose widow she is.”
    â€œShe’s not.”
    â€œIf you want me to understand, you’ll have to be less oracular,” Daisy said, patience wearing thin.
    Momentarily, the dowager looked flummoxed, as if she wondered what “oracular” meant. She knew when Daisy was being unfilial, though. “I’m afraid being married to a policeman has not improved your manners, Daisy. Eva says it was all well known at the time. I was much too young to hear about it, of course.”
    â€œOf course, Mother,” said Daisy, less to redeem herself than in the hope of speeding the awaited revelation.
    â€œIt was in the ’70s. Albert Norville was a subaltern in India. His commanding officer wrote to Westmoor, the
sixth earl, that Albert was involved with a native woman and had even had a child by her. Naturally Westmoor summoned Albert home.” Lady Dalrymple scanned the letter to refresh her memory of the misdeeds of the unfortunate Albert. “His ship arrived in Plymouth some months later.”
    â€œHe came?”
    â€œNaturally. In those days one did not lightly disobey one’s parents. According to Westmoor’s man of business in Plymouth, Albert called on him and learnt that his parents were in London, but his eldest brother, Lord Norville, was here at Brockdene. He announced his intention of sailing up the Tamar to win Norville’s support before he faced Westmoor.”
    â€œHow on earth did all this become known?” Daisy demanded.
    â€œAccording to Eva, the sixth countess was a thoroughly indiscreet woman, even a trifle underbred. Of course, the shock must excuse a certain lack of self-control,” Lady