Death at Rottingdean Read Online Free Page A

began in October and lasted through March, with the theater, the opera, and the hunt providing abundant entertainment. The pleasure city might not be the brilliant social center it had been when the monarchy came regularly to town, but it still had plenty of life—and far too much traffic.
    â€œBe careful, Kate!” Charles cried, as a horse-drawn brewer’s wagon pulled out directly in front of them. Momentarily distracted from her driving, Kate had turned her head to stare at a bizarre cluster of buildings on the right, with a gaudy Oriental facade, Moorish trellises, fantastic onion-shaped domes, and dozens of minarets. Now, she braked hard, and Charles pitched forward.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?” But she was beginning to giggle. “Is that the Royal Pavilion? It looks like something out of The Arabian Nights.”
    â€œThat’s it,” Charles said, resettling his goggles. “Quite something, isn’t it?”
    â€œWords can’t begin to describe it,” Kate said wonderingly. “Whoever built it must have been crazy—and very rich.”
    â€œYes to both. I’ve always thought of the damn thing as a monument to royal excess. Now, the place belongs to the town of Brighton. It’s the first stop for day-trippers just off the train.” He pointed to a heedless and noisy crowd crossing the cobbled street in front of them and pausing to stare at the motorcar. “Watch out for that lot.”
    Kate frowned through the heavy veil that swathed her face. “Would you care to take the wheel, my lord?”
    Charles smiled and shook his head. To tell the truth, he was quite proud of the fact that she was a better driver than he was—and certainly a fearless one, with a calm, even temperament that enabled her to meet every vehicular crisis with aplomb. He would change the tires, add petrol when necessary, and lend a shoulder when they found themselves stuck in the mud, but he was content to let her drive when they went somewhere together.
    â€œThank you, no, my dear,” he said mildly. “You are managing very well. Forgive me if I seemed critical. The Old Ship is only a little farther.”
    They arrived without further incident at the hotel, one of the oldest in the city, and were shown to a table in the elegantly appointed dining room. After they ordered, Charles excused himself and went in search of his manservant, Lawrence, whom he found sitting over a steak-and-kidney pie in the taproom with his wife, Amelia, Kate’s personal maid. The two servants had come down on the train with the boxes and cases, and Lawrence had hired a gig for the three-mile drive east along the coast to Rottingdean, to the house they had taken for the month.
    Charles arranged with Lawrence and Amelia to leave for Rottingdean after lunch, and returned to Kate, taking a moment to stand in the dining room doorway and admire her. She was gazing out the window beside the table, her chin propped on her hand, her shining russet hair gathered into a loosely coiled mass beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Her face, which was too firm-featured to be thought beautiful, was quiet and reflective, and Charles was glad to see that the color in her cheeks was brighter than it had been in some time. The bodice of her dark blue motoring dress fit neatly, showing firm, rounded breasts, and her waist was slim enough, in spite of her refusal to submit to what she called the “torture of the corset.” In fact, his wife held rather firm opinions about rational dress and delighted in scandalizing people with her split cycling skirts and the knee-length costume in which she played at tennis.
    Charles pulled out his chair and sat down. “You’re pensive,” he said, and took her gloved hand in his.
    She turned to him with a bright smile. “I was just thinking how wonderful it will be to have you all to myself, my dear, after the turmoil of the