The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  "All done here," cried one gravedigger.

  "A crying shame," muttered the other. "And at her funeral. Can you believe it?"

  "Aye, I believe it. Not that I wouldn’t mind a bit of gold, but I'd not touch anything Sir Sandoe had his hand in. What type of devil tries to sell shares at his own daughter's funeral? Bloody hot out here. Let's get inside and 'ave a cup of tea."

  Uncle Tristan's jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his eyes narrowing as if a new truth had suddenly entered his mind.

  Chapter 31

  It was getting towards twelve o'clock when Uncle Tristan bounded in the direction of the last sighting of Sir Sandoe. He took enormous prancing strides, head tilted skyward, eyes fierce.

  For a second too long I hesitated, unwilling to call out or to venture after him, yet unwilling to linger in the shade of the oak tree with Boots, the gatekeeper, and other Bagington Hall workers.

  It wasn't until Uncle Tristan disappeared behind a tree, I hurried after him. I thought about gold, Peru, and the gravediggers' words. If there were no mines in Peru, no shares and no gold, I wanted to be there for Uncle when that exceedingly comfortless news broke.

  I cut through a rough part of the graveyard. Overgrown tufts of grass stretched between the headstones with untidy beds of weeds where it once had grown azaleas. The wind picked up, blowing strongly through the tall oak trees, making their leaves rustle and crackle like the embers of a dying fire. I could see Uncle's cape as he turned a sharp corner beside the church.

  Near the entrance, I stopped. Vicar Humberstone talked to Withers. He jabbed his fingers into the man's chest, shook his fist, and then slapped the man on the back. All the while, the butler's head hung like a wilted flower needing water.

  I stood watching them. The vicar's face contorted as he spoke, his eyes locked on the drooped head of Withers. I thought he looked like a boxing coach in the corner urging his fighter on for another round.

  "What on earth?"

  Keeping out of sight, I walked closer and continued to watch from behind a tall stone monument. The vicar's mouth was working hard, his lips drawn back exposing two rows of very large uneven teeth, slightly tarnished. But all that carried were snippets of words.

  Curiosity got the better of me. With the stealth of Swiftee, I edged closer, careful to keep from their direct line of sight.

  "Withers, it is not your fault." Vicar Humberstone's voice carried on the breeze. He spoke fast, in the tone of a parent comforting a child. "Dear me, it is not your fault at all."

  Withers tapped his sword cane on the bare dirt. "But you—"

  The vicar raised a hand, cutting off Withers. "Good man, we'll have none of that! Do you hear me? None of that, at all."

  Withers persisted. "Vicar, it is just that my hands are—"

  The vicar grabbed the man by his shoulders. "Leave Chief Inspector Little to his job. Focus on your work. From all accounts, you run Bagington Hall with an iron rod. Don't spare it; the workers will thank you, as I thank you for your continued support of our parish church."

  Withers bobbed his head up and down, a white-gloved hand resting on his top hat. "Yes, you are right."

  The vicar said, "I'm sure they'll track down the culprit—"

  Withers interrupted, his voice a jangling ball of nerves. "Miss Antoinette disappeared three years ago. Surely, all the clues are long gone."

  "And when they catch him, he'll swing for it."

  Withers said, "Do you think so?"

  "Now, man, you can't blame yourself for what has happened. There is no reason for you to feel guilty because you ordered the old chambermaid's quarters to be sealed and painted over three years ago. How were you to know Miss Antoinette Sandoe's body lay within? But keep that to yourself. No need to share it with the world, now, is there?"

  The words appeared to galvanise Withers, for his shoulders went back, neck straightened, and once again, his posture was that of the master rather than servant.

  "Vicar Humberstone, all I request is you add myself, Sir Sandoe, and Her Ladyship to your daily prayers. Will the usual compensation be adequate?"

  "Indeed. I shall do as you requested," said the vicar. "In terms of compensation, I intend to do a spot of bowmanship this afternoon at Bagington Hall. I'd like a partridge for supper. Will the gamekeeper be occupied elsewhere?"

  Withers touched the tip of his top hat with the sword cane. "Sir, you have free range over my land." He gave a slight nod of the head, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "The coast will be clear until six."

  Chapter 32

  "What in heaven's name are you doing?"

  A firm hand gripped my shoulder.

  I spun around.

  Dolly Trimmings stared back.

  "I… er… well..." I kept my voice low as I fumbled for words, my eyes wide with embarrassment.

  "Is that you, Miss Darling? Oh Gawd, yes, yes, it is you!" Dolly placed a thick finger to her wide hippopotamus mouth. "Eavesdropping, eh? Good for you. Only way to find out what's going on around here."

  I hunched my shoulders and shifted my feet, trying to stop the flush I could feel on my cheeks. Then I collected myself, straightened my shoulders, and whispered, "Not intentionally, I was—"

  "Stuff and nonsense," Dolly whispered. "Withers worries me to death, Miss Darling; he really does."

  "Splendid," said the vicar, giving Withers a slap on the back. "A wonderful day for it."

  "Indeed it is, Vicar Humberstone," replied Withers.

  Dolly's birdlike eyes twitched towards the voices. "Withers is up to something. Do you know what they were talking about?"

  Before I answered, Withers looked in our direction. If our presence surprised him, it did not show on his face. The man raised his top hat like a Victorian gentleman and tapped the sword cane on the ground. The vicar followed his gaze. His ruddy complexion seemed to deepen as he rubbed a hand over his heavy moustache.

  In a voice that was barely a whisper, Vicar Humberstone said, "Well, hello, Dolly and Miss Darling."

  Instantly, I was on the alert. Was the vicar testing how far his voice travelled and how much we might have overheard?

  I was about to say, Pardon, can you speak up? when Dolly said, "How do, Vicar? I just got 'ere, but Miss Darling has been watching you two miscreants for quite a while. Ain't that so?"

  The sight of two piercing sets of male eyes, with their cold, hard stares, produced in me a moment of dread. The skin on my face tingled. I could feel it stretching tight over my cheeks as I forced a smile. For some seconds I could neither think nor speak. When I began to think, I thought very quickly, and my subconscious and conscious mind worked together. But what they came up with was hardly worth the effort.

  In a thin voice I said, "Gentlemen, I was looking for Mr Harbottle. Have you seen him?"

  Withers and the vicar stared back with unblinking eyes.

  Now my face did a passable imitation of a beetroot.

  I tried again. "I believe Mr Harbottle came this way; did you see him?"

  The sun dipped behind a cloud. The chatter of squirrels sounded out above the peace of the early afternoon. Neither Withers nor the vicar moved. For a few moments, it seemed they would stand there all day, like so many of the stone monuments scattered about the church graveyard.

  "Miss Darling," said Dolly, breaking the silence. "I have been thinking that you really ought to give a little subscription to the parish magazine."

  "But—" I murmured.

  "We ought not to think of ourselves," interrupted the vicar. "Cromer is a small village. Our local magazine is in need of extra help. Can I put you down, Miss Darling?"

  The skin tightened on my face. "I'd be delighted."

  Vicar Humberstone smiled, but it did not extend to his piercing, bright eyes. "Then I shall put you down for five shillings a week. That seems fair, doesn't it?"

  Before I could object, Dolly put a thick hand on my arm. "Lady Herriman would like a word with you. Come, she is waiting i
n her motorcar."

  Chapter 33

  Dolly and I strolled towards the Daimler Landaulette parked on the verge a short distance from the gates of the ancient, grey-stoned Saint Magdalene church. She chattered almost without taking a breath, but her voice seemed to me, high pitched and forced.

  At the motorcar door, Dolly stopped abruptly and made warning signals with her eyes. Then she raised a hand to her mouth simulating a cup. Her Ladyship had been at the bottle. I stared at the curtained windows and drew myself up stiffly. Where was Uncle Tristan?

  Dolly tapped the glass.

  "Come," came the voice of Lady Herriman.

  "Miss Darling is here for an audience with you, madam."

  Lady Herriman gave a slight nod as I settled into the seat.

  It was like a luxury hotel room on wheels. All elegant wood, waxed leather, and exquisite touches. The Daimler Landaulette was top of the line and a far cry from Uncle Tristan's bone-shaking, old banger. But the motor vehicle's exquisiteness paled into nothingness at the strong scent of alcohol that infused the still air. It oozed from the polished wood, rose from the shiny pelt, and hung about Lady Herriman like the boozy whiff of hops shrouds a brewery.

  Quickly, I thought about the best way to play this. I decided to stick with compliments and humble pie. I caught my breath and clenched my hands, curling the edges of my lips upward into a pleasant smile.

  Lady Herriman peered out from under thick-pencilled eyebrows, her face stiff with pale powder. In her hand, she held an oversized goblet. And next to her, leaning against the door, were a hand mirror, a leather briefcase, and an old hunting rifle.

  "You may leave now," Lady Herriman said to Dolly. "This will only take five minutes. Please tell Withers I am ready to return to Bagington Hall."

  Dolly nodded, gave me a wink, and withdrew from the vehicle.

  After the door eased shut, Lady Herriman placed the goblet in a little holder and said, "A most trying day." From her mouth came the stench of aged wine mingled with sour milk. My stomach lurched.

  I turned away.

  "I can see it has affected you too, child." She reached out a hand and tapped my knee. The flesh on her face had a wasted and sandpaper appearance. "Death strikes at will and where it chooses. Nevertheless, it is always a shock."

  I lowered my eyes, held my breath, and said, "Lady Herriman, I am sorry for your loss."

  "Antoinette has left a hole in my heart. One wonders how it continues to beat." She reached into her handbag, pulled out her lorgnette spectacles, picked up the hand mirror, and surveyed herself under lowered eyelids. "Do you think the strain of it has aged me?"

  I played the compliment card. "To lose a loved one would age anyone."

  Her thin, wasted fingers bedecked in jewellery touched her hollow cheeks. "So you think I look older?"

  "Very tired," I said, wondering how it was possible to look any more ancient. "And in need of relaxation."

  "Yes, yes, you are right. If only Sir Sandoe didn’t keep me caged up like a museum exhibit." Again, she scrutinised herself in the mirror, raising her chin and slightly pursing her thin lips. "Do you think I am too old to remarry?"

  I shifted in my seat. "Well… love is eternal; isn't that what they say?"

  "Oh my, such wise words for one so young. Reminds me of my time in France. Have you been to Paris?"

  "No, Your Ladyship, only London." I tried to sound like Withers. Her Ladyship seemed to relish that sort of treatment.

  "I suppose," she said, putting down the mirror, picking up the goblet, and staring into my eyes, "you should like to see a little of France?"

  A thought crept slowly into my mind. I'd seen that look in Lady Herriman's eyes in many a man and woman in the pie-and-mash shop. Despite the hustle and bustle of running a large estate, she was lonely. And there was something else, but I couldn’t think of the word.

  "Yes, I should very much like to see France one day," I said, feeling a twinge of sadness for her. I'd made of point of making conversation with the patrons of Mr Pritchard's pie-and-mash shop. I paid particular attention to the elderly. They seemed to live in the past and were always in need of a little cheer. There and then I resolved to offer the same kindness to Her Ladyship.

  Lady Herriman said, "When I was in Paris back in eighteen seventy-three, they said I had the look of the Mona Lisa. You have seen da Vinci's portrait, I take it?"

  "Yes, madam. It is a masterpiece."

  "Monsieur Bonhomme was quite taken aback by the resemblance. He insisted I visit his studio every day during my visit."

  I thought back to my stay at Bagington Hall. I'd seen several portraits of Lady Herriman, all when she was much younger and dressed in hunting gear. I said, "Did Monsieur Bonhomme paint the pictures hanging in your private antechamber?"

  Lady Herriman raised her right wrist. A gold bracelet jangled.

  "Monsieur Bonhomme ran an exquisite jewellery studio off the Champs-Élysées. I believe this little bangle is one of his."

  "Ah, I see it all now," I said then added, "Gold suits your skin tone."

  "And diamonds too. I have a trunk full of Monsieur Bonhomme's trinkets from that vacation." Lady Herriman paused, reached for her goblet, and took a long slow drink. "Tell me, do you see the Mona Lisa in me?"

  "Why… yes! Now you mention it… both you and the masterpiece… have eyes… I mean… there is a certain similarity around the eyes."

  "Oh, that is so kind. Withers often compliments me on that feature." Her lips curved into a self-indulgent smile. "He even said you and I might be mistaken as sisters."

  Not bloody likely, I thought, but said, "Isn't it fascinating how our physical features carry across the generations."

  Lady Herriman put the lorgnette spectacles to her face and stared hard for several seconds.

  "Oh dear, I would like very much to find the resemblance Withers speaks of. Your features are far from that of a da Vinci masterpiece, and you require some serious skincare. For a girl not yet in her twenties, your pallor is aged."

  My jaw tightened. I looked down at my hands.

  Lady Herriman said, "Never mind, child. We can't all be raging beauties. Take half a cup of donkey's milk daily, and things should improve. If you don't take care, you'll look like a prune in ten years!"

  Disturbed! That was the word. Lady Herriman was lonely and disturbed. It was as if she'd been hypnotised and was living in a dream.

  I said, "Donkey's milk… yes… that sounds… interesting… Do you use it yourself?"

  "In our little audiences, I shall share with you all the beauty tips I would've liked to have given my niece."

  A dissenting bell rang distantly in my mind. I rubbed my hands together for a moment, wondering what she meant by "our little audiences."

  Lady Herriman let out a sigh, put the lorgnette spectacles down, and said, "Miss Darling, I've reviewed the documents you gave me. They are all in order."

  Relieved her mind had drifted away from beauty tips, and we were onto the purpose for the audience, I said, "Tristan's Hands will be delighted to serve you and your household. Is there anything else you or Sir Sandoe should like to know?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," snapped Lady Herriman. "Sir Sandoe has no part in the running of the household or the hiring of domestic staff. That is my responsibility and mine alone."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Sir Sandoe's responsibilities are that of the head of the estate—the grounds, farmland, buildings, and so on. I'm in charge of all domestic matters."

  She reached into the leather case, shuffled through a pile of papers, placed her lorgnette spectacles to her face, and read in silence. After a moment, she looked up. "All that remains is to agree on a suitable date for payment and for Mr Harbottle to supply the required staff. But let's not discuss those details today. I'd like to invite you to dinner on Friday."

  My first thought was this is amazing. I could barely hold my excitement. I'd secured the deal. And to top it off, a celebratory meal at Bagington Hall. It
was a good feeling. Then I thought of Uncle Tristan, what he would wear, and how I'd keep him from annoying Her Ladyship. That wouldn’t be easy, but I'd remind him gruel would be back on the menu if he messed up.

  I said, "Thank you. Uncle Tristan will be delighted to attend the—"

  "Not Mr Harbottle. Just you, child. How does roast swan with buttered potatoes sound? Queen Victoria swore by it. The leg is particularly tender."

  The dissenting bell rang out in full alarm. "Roast… swan?"

  Lady Herriman reached out a hand and pulled back the curtain. "Things are going to change around here. The death of Miss Antoinette has clarified my mind. Dolly, my chambermaid, is getting long in the tooth, and I don’t like to say it, but the woman has a drinking problem."

  Chapter 34

  The shouts of Uncle Tristan drifted from the churchyard as I stepped from the Daimler Landaulet. I stopped still on the verge by the grey-stoned wall that ran around Saint Magdalene then pivoting, hurried to the wrought-iron gates.

  From the entrance, I could see a great sweeping vista from the ancient stone church to the tall mossed monuments and headstones, both worn and new, but no Uncle Tristan.

  Unlike London, where people hurried away after a funeral, here in Cromer, little groups milled about. The glorious weather played a part, and everyone wanted to make a day of it. Withers, in his Victorian gentleman's dress and sword cane, strode like a lord, along a narrow track. Dolly scurried at his heels. Before our paths crossed, I turned my back on the vista to look at the Daimler Landaulette. Through a pulled-back curtain, Lady Herriman peered out. She gave a regal wave of the hand. I waved back.

  "Why do I get myself roped into these things," I muttered. "It must be some personality defect."

  Again, I scanned the churchyard and frowned.

  "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!"

  From a narrow path that dropped away behind a large stone monument, I saw the edge of Uncle Tristan's cape. It fluttered like a tatty flag in the quickening breeze. There was another burst of shouts, and Uncle Tristan appeared from behind an oak tree.