by Amy Myers
Thankfully Tobias stepped in once more. ‘Mary Ann Darling was a dearly loved friend who left us at all too early an age.’
Mr Trotter was not to be deterred. ‘I think I remember that name now. Wasn’t there a girl of that name who disappeared?’ Not discouraged by the lack of response, he added, ‘In the nineties, I was addicted at age ten to Sherlock Holmes and avidly followed the doings of Scotland Yard in the search for her. I even became a bit of a sleuth myself, convinced that she had been murdered and I alone could solve the case.’ He gave a nervous laugh, then quickly stopped, as no one followed suit.
‘Murdered, Mr Trotter?’ Gertrude repeated in horror, as she registered not only that Peters but Nell was quickly moving among them offering more coffee. Never had she been more thankful to see them. Peters had an uncanny knack of judging correctly when to intervene. Even so, nothing was going to rescue this evening from disaster.
Perhaps she was wrong for Tobias broke the silence, replying, ‘Good gracious, Mr Trotter. Such melodrama. I do believe that Mary Ann was in fear of someone and that therefore murder might have been mooted as a possibility but it went no further?’ He glanced round the table but still no one spoke.
At last Charles Kencroft commented, ‘Suicide was also talked of at the time but that hardly seemed likely unless it followed a lover’s quarrel. Her private life was not known to us but there were no indications that she was engaged to be married.’
‘I read in the newspapers that a body was found in the river a year or two later and identified,’ Tobias said. ‘The cause of death was unknown and in any case by that time public interest had died down. The last I saw of poor Mary Ann was as she left the theatre for Romano’s. Such fun she must have had there and so sad what followed.’
Gertrude felt the situation slipping away from her once more as silence fell, and she had to discipline herself to fight back tears again. Alice was looking bleak, Constance upset, Katie bewildered, and even Lynette was silenced. Charles Kencroft too remained quiet. Gertrude barely knew him anyway. Never a thespian himself, he had, like Gerald, been one of the stage-door ‘johnnies’ at the Gaiety before she had joined the cast of The Flower Shop Girl and later he had married Katie.
Tobias smoothly picked up the conversation again. ‘Should we not discuss Saturday’s performance of follies present? Talk of distressing follies past can be postponed, especially as not everyone present here tonight recalls Mary Ann. Memories of so long ago can be unreliable, and why should we raise such matters now? Sleeping dogs, my dear friends, sleeping dogs.’
The conversation swiftly moved to a different topic after that, and Gertrude could see her guests were relaxing. She still trembled, though – chiefly because Gerald had remained silent. And he must have met Mary Ann.
Nell usually enjoyed these precious moments in the Cooking Pot, her nickname for the small chef’s room where she studied the recipes and menus and prepared her working schedules. Here it was that her dreams to create her own cuisine spurred her through the routine paperwork. They were more than just dreams. She was going to make them come true. In her cuisine, all five senses would play their roles and thanks to Wychbourne she could immerse herself in their glories whenever she liked. Sight, for instance: she had only to stroll through Mr Fairweather’s gardens to see fruit and vegetables in abundance. Smell: was there anything to compare with the smells arising from a well-run kitchen? Sound: the bees humming on the flowers or the clattering of pots that signalled a dish in the making. Touch: the soft down of the first peach of the season. And taste: the epitome of them all.
Usually the Cooking Pot provided ample scope for her to take her plans onward. Not this Friday morning, however, with the events of last night still racing through her mind. The guests had at first seemed a fascinating group of actors and actresses. Alice Maxwell’s tall, stately figure was familiar to Nell from her stage appearances, as were the pompous Hubert Jarrett and of course Neville Heydock. She’d even seen Tobias St John Rocke once, a short plump man with eyes that darted everywhere. The lively Lynette Reynolds was new to her and was someone to be wary of, Nell thought, in contrast to the calm Constance Jarrett. Then the pleasant evening had deteriorated into something quite different. It had meant little to Nell, but its effect on Lady Ansley had been obvious.
A knock at the door interrupted her, just as she’d picked up Mrs Leyel’s inspiring The Gentle Art of Cookery to check a recipe. Rose water? Did she have any? Nell made a quick mental note to have a word with Mr Fairweather when summer came.
‘My dear Nell, pray forgive my intrusion at such a busy time.’ Arthur Fontenoy swept off his hat as he appeared in the doorway.
‘Always a pleasure, Arthur.’ Nell meant it and hastened to move her pile of recipe notebooks from the only other chair.
Now in his seventies, the dapper Mr Fontenoy, or Arthur as he had insisted on her calling him, had been the loving friend of Lord Ansley’s late father, Hugo, the seventh marquess, and Arthur now lived in Wychbourne Court Cottage on the estate. Unfortunately, this was close to the Dower House where Lord Ansley’s mother still reigned supreme. It was unlikely in Nell’s view that the dowager and Arthur would have been chums, even without the exacerbation of Gerald’s father’s will, which bequeathed a handsome legacy to whichever of them survived the other. Whereas Arthur was remarkably good-natured about Lady Enid, as the dowager wished to be addressed, she did not extend this courtesy to him.
‘I heard from Clarice of Peters’ appearance last evening at such a convenient moment and it did not surprise me, Nell,’ Arthur began. ‘Nor your own presence there and later in the drawing room. You have a remarkable talent for sensing such times. However, Clarice also tells me that dear Gertrude is still most upset.’
Nell’s heart sank. That was why she hadn’t yet had Lady Ansley’s usual summons to discuss the menu. ‘Is it the Coach and Horses problem or this possibly murdered lady?’
‘Chiefly the latter, I suspect. I gather that Gertrude did not know Mary Ann, but most of the guests appear to have done so. There are frequent tales of people who have disappeared into thin air or mysteriously self-combust and usually there is some simple explanation. Sometimes one fails to emerge, though, as in the case of Mary Ann. Even though a body was identified later the story of her disappearance still has the power to fascinate. The word “murder”, which entered the conversation last evening despite Mr Rocke’s vain attempt to quash such a notion, was distressing. It is certainly why Gertrude is distressed.’
‘Even though she did not know this Mary Ann Darling? Did you know her, Arthur?’
‘I met her and remember seeing her on stage in the early nineties. She was delightful – not that my private preference lies in the direction of young ladies or indeed any ladies. She was nevertheless quite beautiful and carried charm and modesty with it. She had an innocence – or so it appeared to the audience – that was refreshing after the growing trend for knowingness in music hall artistes and burlesque.’
‘I wasn’t born until 1896, but I expect I saw old postcard portraits of her, like those displayed in the Great Hall,’ Nell said, scouring her memory. ‘What do you think happened to her? Was she murdered? From what I heard last night, there seemed some doubt.’
‘On that I am, as Shakespeare expressed it, a blank. I know the story only as far as Mary Ann’s disappearance. However, I do know that Miss Darling had a great many suitors and at least one far less welcome admirer threatening her in letters, following her around and pestering her at the stage door. And one night after a performance of The Flower Shop Girl she vanished.’
‘You’ll have to be more exact than that, Arthur. In a puff of smoke?’
‘After the performance, if I recall correctly. She dined at the famous Romano’s restaurant with someone whose identity was never made clear, and then took a cab rather than her escort’s carriage to her home. When the cabbie pulled up, his cab was empty.’
‘Didn’t he hear anything?’ This sounded loopy. How
could he not?
‘As far as I recall, no. No body was found until much later, and it’s hard to see what could have happened to result in that empty cab – one did not leap down from moving horse-driven cabs in full evening dress. Mary Ann, however, had been in fear of someone, so I was told, and the gossip was that she had either been abducted or killed.’
‘Murder is a possibility then.’ Nell shuddered. ‘You said she had received threats, and the River Thames is close to the Gaiety Theatre and Romano’s. A lot of women have been found drowned there.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Was the cab one of the old growlers?’
‘That I cannot confirm. I see your point, however. It was unlikely to be a hansom because even though it would have been dark, it would be difficult to descend without the driver noticing, especially as the cab would have been moving slowly. However, as far as the general public were concerned, she had just disappeared. Details of that cab journey were not disclosed at the time. I only knew the information I have given you because – I confess in strictest confidence – Lord Ansley’s father, my beloved Hugo, who died shortly before Gerald met Gertrude, had been aware of his son’s attachment to the Gaiety for some time before Gerald met Gertrude there. Hugo was eager to know the reason for Gerald’s fascination with the Gaiety and as I was for obvious reasons unknown to Gerald at that time, I was able to visit the theatre frequently. Being deemed a safe escort for young ladies, I frequently dined at Romano’s, and indeed I became acquainted with Mr Edwardes himself.’
‘Do you think that anyone at the theatre would have known about Mary Ann’s visit to Romano’s that night and about the cab?’
‘Undoubtedly. From Mr George Edwardes himself down to the stage hands. In addition, Romano’s would have been full of dining Gaiety Girls who could have seen her depart and with whom; the doorkeeper too would have known. Word spreads quickly in theatreland.’ He paused. ‘Which follows that Wychbourne’s present guests would probably have known. Even though I wasn’t at the Gaiety the evening Mary Ann vanished, it did occur to me that their reactions in the days after her disappearance were just a little underplayed for such a prominent member of the cast.’
‘Perhaps just an awkwardness that will have blown over now,’ Nell said hopefully.
‘I trust so. We shall discover in due course, as rehearsals for the Follies revue are taking place in the Wychbourne ballroom this afternoon and the performance itself at the Coach and Horses on Saturday – snow permitting, of course.’
Nell had only made one dash outside this morning as far as the kitchen yard and seen a thick blanket of snow, with more drifting softly and inexorably down.
And that, she thought, might lead to trouble. Wychbourne was a large house but if the house party was snowbound, relationships might be strained. Unlike Christmas puddings, stirring up old mysteries might not make for a smooth mixture.
‘And, Nell, I should mention that there are further delights planned for this evening.’
‘I have a feeling I’m not going to like this,’ she said with foreboding, as Arthur was looking mischievous.
‘Oh, come now, who could resist? Our Mr Trotter, for our entertainment, has offered his professional services – with Lady Clarice’s enthusiastic approval – of a session after dinner tonight to photograph the guests and to capture on the plates any spirits who might be honouring them with their presence. I gather he is well known for such portraits. He will develop them tomorrow in his hastily established darkroom here, and if the ghosts have no objection will print them with his enlarger and display them to us before the weekend is over.’
Nell laughed. ‘Gibbering jellyfish, Arthur, I’ll say this for Lady Clarice. She’s never daunted. Is this Mr Trotter a genuine medium?’
‘He seems to be. Unlike Mr William Hope, whom Harry Price so famously unmasked recently, our Mr Trotter is under no such investigation by the Society of Psychical Research.’
‘Why are you telling me all this, Arthur?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I hope Lady Clarice doesn’t see me as part of this great entertainment.’
‘Not to my knowledge. But I wanted you to be aware of, shall we say, increasing tension – that even your exquisite cuisine might not be able to calm.’
When the belated summons came to join Lady Ansley in her Velvet Room, Nell saw all too clearly just how upset she was. Nell had taken special pains with the dinner menu in particular: scallops cooked in the French way with bacon, parsley and white wine, followed by Aylesbury duck, and Boodles’ orange fool, a firm favourite. Just as well in the circumstances, she thought.
‘I’m glad it’s a very special dinner this evening, Nell,’ Lady Ansley said, laying down the menu. Nell suspected she hadn’t even read it. ‘Our friends will be tired after the rehearsal this afternoon.’ Nell could see it was an effort for her to smile. ‘We’ll have dancing afterwards. That will cheer everyone up.’ Lady Ansley suddenly looked dismayed. ‘But that spirit photography proposal. Really, it’s too bad. Mr Trotter seems eager that our guests are photographed in the rooms that Clarice assures me are haunted by Wychbourne ghosts. I’m not at all clear why our guests should feel any affinity with our ghosts, but Clarice seems to hope they will encourage our guests’ ancestors or any other spirits roving around to join them. I shall ensure that our guests don’t feel obliged to attend, but what else can we do to entertain them? Mr James has naturally called off the shoot for this morning, as the snow is really quite thick. Gerald at least is pleased at the cancellation – he cannot abide shooting, but the gentlemen expect it. What can we offer instead? Cards? Board games? Hide and seek?’
‘Perhaps not. The housemaids and chambermaids will still be working.’ Nell pictured Mrs Fielding’s face if her beloved routine was disrupted by hide-and-seeking guests. ‘Why not build a snowman or have a snow fight?’
She had suggested it as a half-hearted joke but Lady Ansley seized on it with relief.
‘What fun. I’d like that.’ Then her face fell. ‘I don’t see Hubert Jarrett or Alice Maxwell playing in the snow, much as I’d like to toss a very big snowball straight into Hubert’s face. Nell, I know that you will have your hands full with dinner preparations this afternoon, but I would be so grateful if you could oversee tea. It will have to be brought to the ballroom because we shall be in the midst of the rehearsal. I’m sure Mrs Fielding would appreciate it if you’re present.’
Mrs Fielding undoubtedly would not, but she would have to put up with it, Nell thought, speedily rearranging her schedule in her mind. ‘Of course.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should speak or not. Yes. ‘Are you worried about the Follies, Lady Ansley?’ she asked.
Lady Ansley grimaced. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Our three musketeers, as Gerald calls our supposedly adult children, are trying to make the revue a success – even Helen is doing her best. Richard of course is driving them mad with his usual impetuousness and Helen is obediently obeying. Sophy, who is usually the one with the common sense, has been taking a back seat because she’s so busy elsewhere, but now she’s taking much more interest. I’m hoping the snow may prevent her waving flags for the Labour Party, and that she’ll pitch in to help backstage. Rex is here for the weekend, of course – such a nice man.’
Nell agreed. Rex Beringer adored Helen who merely took him for granted, and he was therefore often an ally of Sophy’s. Indeed, it often occurred to her that Rex and Sophy would make a far better match than Rex and Helen.
‘Nevertheless,’ Lady Ansley continued, ‘I’m afraid …’
‘Of what, Lady Ansley?’ Nell asked.
‘I don’t know, Nell. If only I did.’
Greatly perturbed, Nell returned to the servants’ east wing. It couldn’t just be the Follies or ghostly gathering that was troubling Lady Ansley. It had to be Mary Ann Darling. That gave her an idea. Instead of taking the back stairs to the east wing, she took the grand staircase down and through the Great Hall, curious to see the postcards and posters exhibited there of the Gaiety days.
; There they all were in their former glory: not only the guests here at Wychbourne this weekend but Gertie Millar, Nellie Farren, the great Forbes-Robertson, Seymour Hicks, his wife, Ellaline, and dozens more, some of whom she did not recognize. But one of the postcards stood out: that of Mary Ann Darling. Nell studied it curiously. She was indeed beautiful – but then all the Gaiety Girls were, so what was so special about Mary Ann? She couldn’t decide at first, but eventually concluded that it was the fact that she didn’t look aware of her own beauty, that she was not challenging the viewer to admire it as so many of the other Gaiety Girls were doing in this array of postcards. Nell thought she would like to have known Mary Ann Darling.
‘You make a wonderful monster, Rex.’ Helen giggled.
Sophy agreed. She liked Rex Beringer a lot, even if their politics differed – he never understood her reasoning on socialism – but her sister didn’t seem to care too hoots about him. Nevertheless, Helen expected him to dance attendance on her as though it was her due. That was the trouble with being beautiful, Sophy supposed. She herself had never had that problem and was glad she was herself and not Helen.
Even though he was busy at work, Rex had come down specially from London for this extended weekend as they had asked him to help with the Follies. He was such an easy-going man that she thought he’d be a dreadful actor but had turned out to be first class – if you could call prancing around on a stage wearing a mock monster’s head acting. He was playing the beast in the half-hour pantomime, which they had planned for the second half of the revue, Princess Beauty and the Beastly Rotter.
At the moment Richard was lounging on the sofa in the Blue Drawing Room, where they had elected to run through the plans for the pantomime before the afternoon rehearsal. A prehearsal, he’d called it, and was even enthusiastic about it. That was good, because he wasn’t very enthusiastic about anything nowadays, Sophy thought. His love life was amiss of course. He hadn’t fallen in love with anyone for at least a month, and the weekend guests hardly provided any suitable candidates.
