The Blood Upon the Rose by Tim Vicary Page A

these things kindly. ‘Father, you are . . . antediluvian! You realize you cannot force me to marry anyone?’
    ‘No. Perhaps I put it badly. Of course you can have a say in the choice.’
    ‘A say in the …’
    ‘But I must give my permission. If you marry without it, you will be disinherited.’
    ‘What about Mother's estates?’
    ‘She died insane. Therefore they are all mine.’
    ‘And if I do not marry, and have no children?’
    ‘That would be a pity. Catherine, you are nineteen now. You cannot marry without my permission until you are twenty-one. I think it is reasonable to say that you must be married by then.’
    ‘Reasonable!’
    ‘It is a natural thing; it will happen anyway. As for children, that is in the hands of God.’
    ‘Oh yes? It may have to be, with the husband you choose!’
    ‘That is hardly a ladylike response, Catherine.’ He paused. ‘Do I take it you refuse my conditions, then?’
    There had been a long silence. She had considered him, a grey-haired, slightly stooped figure in his khaki uniform. A pillar of an establishment that was completely out of touch. He was standing in the centre of the room, almost exactly where he had called her out to dance with him, all those years ago. She had worshipped him then. It was hard to make the connection.
    She had a choice. To defy him, cut off all connections with her childhood, go out into the world to make her way on her own merit. Part of her believed that was the right thing to do. She believed she would do it, when she was older. As a girl she had dreamed of selling her share of the estate, to build a hospital and work in it as a doctor. But to struggle to qualify as a doctor without money - that was a cold, lonely decision, forced on her like this. For all her idealism she knew little of the world. Only that without wealth, she would have the power to change nothing.
    Difficult though her father was, he was her only family now, as she was his. His was an awkwardness she understood, and believed she could work with. The conditions were really a bluff to hide the weakness of his own position. In a few months Sarah Maidment would be dead, and the connection he had with her sons would begin to wither. Besides, whatever he said, he could not force her to marry anyone.
    And she did want, very much, to restore this house to something of its former position. To reclaim it, in memory of the mother who had danced here, so long ago.
    So she had agreed.
     
     
    And now, ten months later, the dining room was again furnished with a long shining table and carpets. They had taken down the old wallpaper, with its war poems and graffiti, and replaced it with something less grand but serviceable. Several pictures had been brought down out of the loft and re-hung. There was a dresser, a silver service, and a black-leaded fireplace. They employed a butler, a cook, three maids, and a manservant.
    It was very empty and quiet in the house. The three maids, the butler and the manservant had a room each on the fourth floor, and the cook slept in a room beside the kitchen. The hall, the grand dining room, and a drawing room took up the rest of the ground floor; on the second floor there was a library, a large sitting room, her father's office, dressing room, bedroom and bathroom; and on the floor above, two spare bedrooms and a suite of rooms for Catherine.
    To Detective Inspector Kee, as he arrived on the morning of 20 th December, it seemed extravagant.
    The butler showed him into the dining room, where Catherine was finishing a solitary breakfast. Her father had already left for the Castle.
    Catherine rose to welcome him. She was wearing a bright-blue woollen dress with a white lace collar, a few inches below the knee, as the fashion was now. If he had met her in the street he would not have thought her unusual, but her self-assurance in this large room, and her clear resemblance to the woman in the twelve-foot-high oil painting on the wall, slightly unnerved