“Many of whom were not at the dance,” de Daun laughed.
“It’s years ago,” Lady Rotherfield said, as an excuse for general vagueness.
“Well, what of it? What has come to light?” the Baron demanded. “Get on, my dear fellow, if you have anything to tell us.”
Greetland, master of the situation, was content to wait till the chatter stopped. “The facts were these. Reggie Martindale, the handsomest man in town, was found dead at the Lancashires’ dance. You are quite right, dear lady, it was at first supposed and given out that it was heart disease. Then, almost by accident, and after the certificate had been given, a tiny wound, scarcely bigger than a pin-prick, was found in his left side near the heart. That was hushed up; luckily the Lancashires’ medico, who found it out, happened to be Martindale’s as well, and so had the matter in his own hands; and naturally the Duchess did not want a scandal. It was said that Dr. Blaydon handed the Duke three-eights of an inch of broken steel which he had found imbedded in poor Beauty’s heart, and received in return a cheque which established a record price for the metal. But old Blaydon knew himself to be a dying man at the time; an exposé could hardly hurt him, and he had a large family to provide for. As a matter of fact he died a few months afterwards, to the dear Duchess’s great content. It’s extraordinary how fussy some good people can be over the idea of a scandal.”
“You see,” observed Mrs. Hargrave, “the Duchess does not require advertisement for herself or her dances.”
“If it had been that terrible Oglander woman, now, she would have paid the doctor to call in the Coroner, and sent out invitations for the inquest, with reserved seats and champagne for the Press.” Lady Rotherfield never missed an opportunity, even when she was in a hurry, of girding at her especial abomination among the many parvenues who beset her path.
“Well? well?” Baron de Daun’s sharp voice split the air like the crack of a whip. “And now, after all, the affair has come out, eh?”
“Something more than that,” Greetland returned, with all the superiority of the man who knows. “A good many people knew that much already. You see, after Blaydon’s death, when she felt they were safe, the dear Duchess allowed herself to be a little indiscreet, of course only in her own set.” His tone included himself by implication in the select band who shared the ducal secret. De Daun saw it was no use trying to hurry him, and worked off his impatience by pulling viciously at his moustache.
“What I am going to tell you,” Greetland proceeded, “happened only a day or two ago. They were doing something to the little room where Beauty was found dead, just off the ball-room, putting up new cornices or something—not before they were wanted, they say the curtains at Vaux House were hung in Queen Anne’s time; probably the poles date from the Conquest—well, in pulling the old window trappings about, the men found a long jewelled hair-pin, a tiny sword, the hilt set in diamonds and with the point broken off.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Sir Perrott.