Rosemary Stevens by Murder in the Pleasure Gardens

she said in measured tones.
    She would be the type to know exactly who I was and what my position in Society was. It was her business to know members of Society and of the merchant class. One look into her cold brown eyes, and that one sentence spoken, told me I was dealing with an efficient woman whose entire life revolved around this household.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Hargrove” I returned. “Is Mrs. Jacombe receiving?”
    “I am afraid not. She is resting in preparation for tomorrow’s funeral and cannot be disturbed.” This was said in a calm tone, but one that clearly indicated that contesting her words would be futile.
    “I understand. Please be so good as to let her know that I called.” I handed her my card and then made as if to leave the room.
    “Would you like me to inform her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York, that you are here?”
    Freddie? Here at the Jacombes’? I looked again at Mrs. Hargrove and marveled at the extent of her knowledge of the people in Society. “Yes, please do. I did not know she was visiting.”
    “The Royal Duchess is an acquaintance of Mrs. Jacombe’s. I shall just be a minute. Would you care for a glass of wine while you wait?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    Mrs. Hargrove served me a full glass of excellent burgundy before leaving the room without a sound. Some ten minutes passed—more than enough time for me to finish the wine—then Freddie appeared in the doorway, dressed in a somber, dove-coloured gown.
    “George! I did not realise you knew Lady Venetia.”
    I bowed low. “Freddie, what are you doing here, and who is Lady Venetia?”
    She sat down on the green sofa and indicated a place next to her. Nothing could have kept me from it. I gazed into her china-blue eyes, hoping to see a return of the warmth I could once detect there. Alas, while her expression was cordial, that invisible wall still remained.
     “Lady Venetia is Mrs. Jacombe. She comes from Weybridge originally, and I knew her father a little. I call on her most times when I come to London.”
    Weybridge is the county where Freddie lives.
    “She is a titled lady, then?”
    “Yes, the daughter of an earl, long deceased. I should not call her Lady Venetia, as she chose to be known instead as simply Mrs. Jacombe out of respect for her husband when they married.”
    “A touch unusual,” I mused. So Jacombe had married into the peerage. That could only have served to add to his consequence during his climb up the governmental ladder.
    “It was a love match. They have been married for eighteen years. Lady Venetia is in quite a state since her husband’s murder. I came directly to her as soon as the Duke told me Mr. Jacombe had been killed over by the Cascade, and I have stayed here ever since.”
    “That is good of you, Freddie. I take it Mrs. Jacombe is completely overset by her husband’s death.”
    “Indeed, George. She has always been of a delicate constitution. This has her all to pieces. Her physician, Doctor Trusdale, is attending her.”
    “That bad, is it?”
    “Dreadful, really. I have not seen Lady Venetia ever so distressed, as I expect is normal given the circumstances. We only just got her to take some broth this morning, George.”
    At that moment, a greyhound pranced into the room.
    “Oh, dear,” Freddie exclaimed. “I do not know what Gabriel can be doing downstairs. Come on,” she called to the dog.
    The greyhound looked at her worshipfully, as all dogs are prone to do.
    Some humans as well. Ahem.
    “Will you be at the Perrys’ house this evening, Freddie? A dinner party would not be inappropriate.”
    About to exit the room with the dog, Freddie glanced at me over her shoulder. “I do not think so. Lady Venetia needs me.”
    I reluctantly took my leave, mulling over the fact that Mr. Jacombe had married above his station in life. If it had been a love match, had the love on Mr. Jacombe’s part been of Lady Venetia’s rank?
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    Not until the following day at