Hasty Death

M.C. Beaton
worked as a Fleet Street journalist. She is the author of the Agatha Raisin novels, the Hamish Macbeth series and the Edwardian Murder
Mystery series – all published by Constable & Robinson. She divides her time between Paris and the Cotswolds.

Praise for M.C. Beaton’s Edwardian Murder Mystery series:

‘If you missed the first novel in the series, get it right away.
Snobbery with Violence
introduced the Edwardian heroine Lady Rose Summer.
Her second appearance [
Hasty Death
] is, if anything, even wittier and more amusing than the debut.’

The Globe & Mail

‘Fans of the author’s Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series should welcome this tale of aristocrats, house parties, servants, and
murder.’

Publishers Weekly

‘A light-hearted romantic romp through Edwardian snobbery, with hints of the cataclysmic changes in store for high society.’

Kirkus Review

‘An amusing brew of mystery and romance that will keep fans turning the pages.’

Publishers Weekly

‘Fans of the author’s Hamish Macbeth and Agatha Raisin mysteries . . . will welcome this new series of historical whodunits.’

Booklist

‘Combines history, romance and intrigue, resulting in a delightful romantic mystery.’

Midwest Book Review

Also by M.C. Beaton

Edwardian Murder Mystery series

Snobbery with Violence

Hasty Death

Sick of Shadows

Our Lady of Pain

Hamish MacBeth series

Death of a Valentine

Death of a Witch

Death of a Gentle Lady

Death of a Maid

Death of a Dreamer

Death of a Bore

Death of a Poison Pen

Death of a Village

Death of a Celebrity

Death of a Dustman

Death of an Addict

Death of a Scriptwriter

Death of a Dentist

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

Published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 2004

This paperback edition published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2010

Copyright © Marion Chesney, 2004, 2010

The right of Marion Chesney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-184901-290-4

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

To George and Isabel Agrest of Paris,

with affection

Shorthand he wrote, his flower in prime did fade,

And hasty death shorthand of him hath made.

– E
PITAPH OF
W
ILLIAM
L
AURENCE
,

DIED
1661, W
ESTMINSTER
A
BBEY

W
inter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as
brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper
and the housekeeper blamed the first footman, and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.

Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some business women’s hostel in Bloomsbury
with her maid, Daisy.

The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the
Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.

Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense.
‘For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.’

‘I don’t think I want to get married,’ said Rose.

‘Then you should have told us that last year, before we wasted a fortune on your season,’ roared the earl.

Rose had the grace to blush.

Lady Polly tried a softer approach. ‘We are going to Nice. You’ll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.’

‘I want to work.’

‘It’s the fault of that ex-chorus-girl maid of yours,’ raged the earl.

Daisy Levine, Rose’s maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit.
Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a lady’s maid.

‘It is my idea, Pa,’ said Rose. ‘We’ve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.’

She walked from the room and closed the double doors behind her very quietly – much more effective than if she had slammed them.

‘What are we to do?’ mourned the earl, huddling farther into his bearskin coat, looking like a small, round wounded animal.

They sat in gloomy silence. The doors to the drawing-room opened and two footmen entered, one carrying coal and kindling and the other a basket of logs.

‘At last,’ said the earl. ‘What took you so long?’

‘There was such a shortage of fuel in the city, my lord,’ said the first footman, ‘that we sent two fourgons out to the country to Stacey Court.’ Stacey Court was the
earl’s country home.

‘Well, get the fire started,’ grumbled the earl.

As the resultant blaze began to thaw the room, the earl felt that even his brain was beginning to thaw out. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ll ask that Cathcart fellow.
What’s he doing now?’

‘Lady Glensheil tells me he has opened a detective agency. Very American. Like Pinkertons.’

‘I’ll try anything,’ said the earl. ‘We could have left for Nice a week ago if it hadn’t been for Rose.’ He rang the bell and told the butler, Brum, to find
the direction of Captain Harry Cathcart’s detective agency and ask him to call.

Harry Cathcart brightened when a footman brought him the earl’s request. It was not that time had been lying heavily on his hands. On the contrary, his days were taken
up, just as before, with hushing up society’s scandals and finding lost dogs. But he had hoped for more dramatic assignments, and somehow, working in the past for the earl had certainly led
to murder and mayhem.

He picked up his hat and coat and went through to the outer office where his sheep-faced secretary, Miss Jubbles, was labouring over accounts.

‘I’m going out for a bit, Miss Jubbles,’ he said. ‘Anything I can get you?’

‘Oh, no, Captain.’ Miss Jubbles gazed adoringly at the handsome captain with his thick dark hair, rangy figure and black eyes. Harry shrugged himself into his fur-lined coat and
crammed a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Out in Buckingham Palace Road, where he had his office, the cold was intense. In a neighbouring building the pipes had burst, and icicles glittered against
the sooty brick. Other buildings had lagged the outside pipes with old sheets and he felt he was walking past ghostly sentinels with their whitish arms stretched up to the frost-covered roofs. He
walked carefully because the street-sweepers had been unable to clear the pavements of the frozen-hard mud and it was slippery underfoot.

As he made his way to Eaton Square, he felt a frisson of excitement. He would see the infuriating Lady Rose again. He remembered her as he had last seen her with her intense blue eyes and thick
brown hair, her figure unfashionably slim in this new Edwardian era, where men liked their women plump.

At the earl’s house, the butler took his hat, coat and stick and informed him that Lord and Lady Hadshire would see him in the drawing-room. Harry mounted the stairs behind the butler
thinking the earl must really have some major problem or he would have received him in his study.

‘Come in, come in,’ cried the earl. ‘Sit by the fire. Sherry? Yes? Fetch the decanter, Brum. You been shooting, Cathcart?’ He surveyed Harry’s tweed coat,
knickerbockers, thick socks and brogues.

‘No, I do realize I am unfashionably dressed but my attire is suitable for the cold and I gather you want to see me on business.’

‘Yes, wait until we get the sherry and I get rid of the servants.’

‘Where is Lady Rose?’

‘In her room,’ said the earl gloomily, ‘and let’s hope she stays there.’

Daisy turned away from the window as Rose entered her private sitting-room. ‘I just saw Captain Cathcart a few minutes ago coming into the house.’

‘What on earth is he doing here? Oh, no! Pa’s probably asking his help. But what can Cathcart do?’

‘Get a tame doctor to say you’re mad,’ said Daisy. ‘Then you’ll be put in a lunatic asylum and I’ll be sacked.’

‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said Rose with a nervous laugh.

‘It would solve their problem. If you then said anything about that plot to stop the king visiting, no one would pay you any attention.’

‘If they do that, I will run away.’

‘We could do that anyway, my lady.’

‘No, they would put advertisements in all the newspapers and I would be hunted down. Oh, what on earth are they talking about?’

‘It’s all very simple,’ said Harry when the earl had finished.

‘How?’ The earl goggled. ‘I’m not having her put in an insane asylum. I know that’s the thing, but she’d never get married and I want grandchildren. A boy.
Who’s going to inherit, hey?’

‘I am sure Lady Rose would be competent to run your estates.’

‘A woman? Never!’

‘Very well. What I suggest is this. I have a friend, Mr Peter Drevey, a merchant banker. I can persuade him to employ both Lady Rose and Daisy as typists. You will have to pay him a fee to
cover wages for both, and for his discretion.’

‘If the fellow’s a gentleman, he won’t want to be paid.’

‘If he is paid, then I can get him to sign a confidentiality document. I am sorry, my lord, but I have outstanding accounts because I was naïve enough to take the word of a few
gentlemen. Then both ladies may move to a business women’s hostel. I suggest you do not pay Lady Rose an allowance and her clothes must be limited to those of a woman in her adopted station.
By the time you return from Nice – two months, you said – you will find her more than eager to come home. I will keep a discreet eye on both of them for you. You will forgive me for
asking for my usual fee in advance, I am sure.’

‘A thousand pounds? Oh, very well. But I want you to put the matter to Rose yourself. I’ve had enough of her tantrums.’