Our Lady of Pain by Marion Chesney Page B

tea was served, Rose asked Harry if he had found out who had murdered Dolores Duval.
    “Every inquiry came to a dead end,” said Harry. “I am going to Paris. There is only one other lead. A French lawyer volunteered the information to the police that Miss Duval had left everything to a Madame de Peurey.”
    “And who is Madame de Peurey?”
    “I can tell you that,” said the duchess. “Famous grande coquette at one time. Men falling over her. Must be about sixty now.”
    “She must need the money badly,” said Daisy. “I mean, we went once to a home for fallen women run by the convent. Those poor girls!”
    “It’s not the same for a grande coquette,” said the duchess. “She was top of the tree in her profession. Before starting any liaison, her lawyers would meet with the prospective lover’s lawyers and a deal would be hammered out. It usually involved a house, servants, carriages and jewels. A clever woman could end up rich.”
    “At least they can’t have children to worry about like those poor fallen women,” said Daisy, eyeing the cake stand and wondering if it would be considered greedy if she had yet another.
    “But they do. They form a sort of demi-monde dynasty and their children marry the wealthy children of other courtesans.”
    “I don’t know what she can tell us, but Miss Duval must have been fond of her and she may be able to tell us more about everyone Miss Duval knew,” said Harry.
    “Do take us with you,” said Rose. “I’ve never been to Paris.”
    “Out of the question. We are not even engaged any more. It would create a scandal.”
    “Not if I were to take them,” said the duchess. “I haven’t been in Paris in years. It would amuse me. We shall all go.” She rang the bell.
    When the butler entered, the duchess said, “Kemp, take a telegram.”
    The butler went to a writing desk and sat down, pulling a sheet of paper in front of him.
    “Let me see; where is Lady Polly?”
    “The Palace Hotel in Monte Carlo,” said Rose.
    “Very good. The telegram is to go to the Countess of Hadshire. Begin. ‘Dear Polly, I am taking your daughter, Rose, on an extended vacation as the effects of the convent’s discipline have left her with nasty red hands and a spotty face and I do not think you would like to see her looks ruined or her spirits broken besides which she has been consorting with unsuitable company like Fallen Women but do not thank me as it is a pleasure, Yours ever, Effie.’ ”
    The butler scribbled away busily and then said, “If I may be so bold, Your Grace.”
    “Bold away.”
    “There is no need to send a long telegram. Telegrams should be brief.”
    “Indeed. What would you suggest?”
    “I am taking your daughter, Rose, on extended vacation. Stop. Convent life ruining looks. Stop. Yours, Effie.”
    “Nonsense. Too curt. Send mine.”
    “Very good, Your Grace.”
    “Am I spotty?” asked Rose.
    “No, my dear. But your hands are red. Quite disgraceful. The captain here has been telling me the whole story of the murder of that tart. Fascinating. Quite like a Sherlock Holmes story. It will do me good to be active again. Warnford is driving me mad with his improvements. I have been covered in plaster dust and awakened at dawn by builders erecting scaffolding. Now, do have some more tea. Captain, your man may take tea in the housekeeper’s room.” Becket rose silently and left. Daisy miserably watched him go. He had not looked at her once.
    Holding a thin, fragile china cup and surveying the company with amused eyes, the duchess said, “We shall leave in two days’ time. It would be best if we travel to Claridge’s and then go on from there.” Claridge’s Hotel in London was called the home of the motorocracy, the travelling aristocrats, and also used by society ladies who were tired of the strain of catering for a household of guests and preferred to let the famous hotel cater for them.
    “Once we get to Paris,” said the duchess, raising her