by N. C. Lewis
"Come in," shouted Uncle Tristan.
The door latch raised. It swung open with a sharp creak.
The long swan neck of Boots peered around the door, his narrow, bloodshot eyes like slits of glitter in the gloom. He hesitated.
"Enter," boomed Uncle Tristan.
Boots stepped into the room. He wore polished, black shoes, a neatly pressed chauffeur suit, white shirt with stiff collars, and on his head, a peaked cap. His eyes darted about as if he were afraid a fiend might jump out of the shadows.
"Phew, it stinks worse than the devil's cesspit in 'ere. How can yer stand it?"
Uncle Tristan ignored the comment, stood to his feet, and said, "To what do we owe this pleasure?"
"Mrs Rusbridger mentioned Miss Darling would be 'ere."
Uncle Tristan frowned. "Did Lady Herriman send you?"
"Aye, and I've been driving all over. Just come from the boarding 'ouse. The ladies were all agitated about the events of last night, an' said you'd be at the butcher shop. I come straight over."
Uncle said, "Has something happened to Withers?"
"Mr Withers ain't doing no more driving about the place. Now I'm the chauffeur, footman, and anything else." Boots grimaced then spoke with the dry hiss of a snake. "I'm at his beck and call worse than a hound dog. More work, same pay. It ain't bloody right!"
"Would you like to join us?" said Uncle Tristan, his voice fast and eager. "I'll add your name to our new staffing agency."
Boots froze on the spot, blanching.
"Well… I… er… you see—"
"Come, come, man. You can be our very first worker. Now what do you say?"
"No, no, no. I can't be doing no deals with the"—his voice dropped off, and he began to tremble—"like that. So I thank yer very much, but no thank you."
Uncle Tristan winced. "Well, what do you want of Miss Darling?"
Boots turned to me and gave a low bow. "Lady Herriman sends 'er apologies for the cancelled dinner yesterday evening and requests yer attendance for an evening audience."
"When?" Uncle Tristan and I said simultaneously.
Boots pulled out a gold pocket watch and scrutinised it for several seconds.
"Dinner will be served in about an hour and a half. They have sent me to drive you over."
"Thank God!" cried Uncle Tristan, jumping to his feet and prancing over to where I sat. He grabbed hold of my shoulders so fiercely I almost cried out. "Maggie, ask her about the gold, my bank cheque, your advance, and when we can expect payment for our services."
"We must leave now, else we will be late," said Boots. "And Her Ladyship is in a sour enough mood as it is."
I stood up and followed Boots through the door. Uncle Tristan hurried behind.
"Bring home the bacon, Maggie. Your ole uncle, father, and sister, Nancy, are counting on you."
Chapter 46
It was a dull and cheerless afternoon with the sun hidden behind a bank of dark clouds. Boots eased the motorcar onto the narrow lane, his white-gloved hands on the steering wheel. Every now and then, he'd take his eyes from the road to peer into the back as if I might be a dangerous snake.
I said, "Boots, did you happen to see a silver envelope near Sir Sandoe's body yesterday evening?"
His head swivelled and fixed me with a direct gaze. "Don’t like to remember it, Miss Darling."
"Now think, close your eyes… no, don't do that, but did you perhaps pick up the envelope?"
"It were a right bloody awful sight. Like a scene from hell. Not the sort o' thing a lady ought to think about neither."
I ignored the rebuke and persisted. "Or perhaps you saw someone else pick it up?"
Boots turned back to the road. "Like I says, that's not what an honest, God-fearing man puts his mind to." He raised a white-gloved hand from the steering wheel. "Her Ladyship 'as asked that I walk you to her private chambers."
The finality to his tone made it clear there would be no answer to my question.
I loathed the thought of being at the beck and call of Lady Herriman. But until Tristan's Hands had additional clients, there was little I could do about the situation. And then there was the problem of staff. So far, no one had signed up for the agency. Not even Mrs Mullins, who I witnessed being abused by Withers; nor Boots, who had been ordered to work for less pay.
"Until we get new clients and staff sign-ups," I muttered, "all we've got is a stench-filled room at the top of a butcher shop and no money."
Boots' long neck twisted at the sound of my voice, his eyes making contact with mine for an instant before he turned back to look at the road.
Suddenly my mouth went dry, and I was swept up by a violent desire to tell Her Ladyship where she could shove our contract. The thought caused me to laugh out loud.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha."
It sounded like the cackle of a witch.
Boots slowed the vehicle to a crawl, his eyes peering into the back of the motorcar. Again, our eyes met, then he turned around, and the motorcar picked up speed.
A renewed wave of determination washed over me. I'd ask Lady Herriman directly about the gold mines, Uncle Tristan's bank cheque, advance payment for Tristan's Hands services, and demand Withers tell me everything he knew about the death of Miss Antoinette.
I swallowed hard at the memory of her desiccated body and breathed in deeply to control a rising anger at the lack of progress by the local constabulary.
"I will be persistent and polite. But I have to get answers."
For the fourth or fifth time, Boots twisted his head to peer into the rear. The motorcar swerved, narrowly missing the hedge that ran alongside the lane.
"Keep your eyes on the road," I yelled. "Else you'll have us both mangled and dead in a ditch with Black Shuck gnawing on our bones!"
His dry, raspy gulp was audible.
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss."
But a minute later, his head rotated, beady eyes peering into the back.
Annoyed, I said, "Have you been to the Norwich zoo lately?"
"No, miss."
"Is that why you are watching me like some exotic exhibit?"
His long neck flushed. "I don't wish to appear rude, miss."
"Really!" I let the word hang in the air. "Then why are you staring?"
A tide of crimson washed up his neck to his face. Again, he turned. His beady eyes met mine. The whites were reddish, and he looked fearful. Or tired. Or both.
"Everyone at Bagington Hall is talking, miss. Not me, mind you. I ain't got no time for gossip and don't spread it neither."
But I could tell in the anxious line of his jaw, the half-furtive look in the eye, there was something gnawing at him. All that he needed was a little prod, and his lips would begin to flap.
I said, "I suppose the talk at Bagington Hall is all about the murder of Sir Sandoe."
"Yes, miss, and Miss Antoinette"—his voice darkened—"and you."
"Me?"
The grey stone of Saint Magdalene church came into view.
"Explain yourself," I said, my voice still dry with a touch of the witch's cackle.
"Don’t like to say nothin', miss."
Boots slowed the motorcar to a crawl, his face turned towards the churchyard. For a long while, he stared through the headstones towards the Bagington Hall family plot and the spot where Miss Antoinette lay.
I followed his gaze.
Under the dim afternoon light, it was bleak and cold and lonely.
I tried to make a little conversation to help loosen his lips. "Such a peaceful place to rest on a summer's day, don't you think?"
"Wouldn't know about that, miss."
"Don't you find churchyards relaxing?"
"Not especially, miss."
"I like to practise my penmanship while seated on a bench or leaning against a headstone."
His eyes fastened on mine. "Prefers it inside the church, on me knees in the pews asking for forgiveness."
The church bell chimed for the quarter to the hour. His body stiffened, and he
let out a cry. "Gonna be late. I'll be for it for sure with Mr Withers, now."
I said, "Don't worry. I'll tell him it was my fault."
Boots relaxed.
I took my chance. "Do tell what people are saying about me? It's not right that it should be kept from my ears."
Boots sighed. "Suppose you'll hear it soon enough, miss."
"Go on," I said. "I'll not hold it against you."
He spoke fast, the words flying out like arrows from a bow. "Some at Bagington Hall says you brought a curse with you. Others, that you and your uncle are in league with the devil."
Startled, I cried, "What on earth are you talking about?"
Boots twisted his head, bloodshot eyes wide open. "Since you showed up on Monday with all this talk of a staffing agency, there has been nothing but bloody murder and mayhem at Bagington Hall. The talk is of witchcraft and a curse over your business. Ain't NO worker in Norfolk will put their name down for THAT."
Chapter 47
I was amazed to see Dolly Trimmings at the entrance to the carriage house when I arrived. I was even more astonished at what she wore—a plain, black dress with a white apron, and on her head, a simple, frilled white cap.
Before the motorcar had pulled to a stop, her plump hand was tugging at the door handle.
"Miss Darling, is that you?"
Dolly's birdlike eyes twitched. The wide hippopotamus mouth stretched upward at the edges. She climbed into the vehicle and threw her arms about me. There was a strong whiff of plum wine about her person. Her hug was that of a bear.
"Oh Gawd, yes, yes, it is you!"
You would have thought we were long-lost sisters, separated at birth, and reunited after twenty years. You would have thought her friendly shout came from snatches of shared nostalgic childhood recollections. But I'd met Dolly Trimmings for the very first time on Monday. Today was Saturday. Our acquaintance was less than a week old.
I could sense that something was wrong. "What's going on?"
"Miss Darling, I shall walk you to the house where Her Ladyship awaits your presence." Dolly twisted a strand of loose hair. "Boots, you go about your business. Miss Darling is in my capable hands."
"But I have orders to walk Miss Darling to—"
"Don't you dare argue," Dolly snapped.
Boots hesitated.
"Be off with you," she cried violently, stamping her foot. "Else it'll be the horsewhip again for you. And now Sir Sandoe is dead, I'll 'ave to do it myself!"
Boots' face flushed; his eyes became saucers. "Got to check the coal stores then work on the stables, and Mr Withers wants the motorcar washed, waxed, and cleaned from top to bottom before I begin my inside duties. Suppose it'll be all right."
Dolly grabbed my arm. "This way, Miss Darling. We must hurry, else you'll be late."
Once we got some distance from the carriage house and turned onto the gravel path that ran alongside the main house, I said, "Don't you think you were rather rough with Boots?"
Dolly's voice was low and controlled. "Oh Gawd, yes. It's the only language the lad understands. Nothing like a good horsewhipping to keep 'im in line."
I didn’t agree. Violence against domestic staff led to simmering resentment that might boil over at any moment. I changed the subject. "Where are your pearls?"
Dolly's right hand flew to her throat as if grasping for a necklace, then she shrugged. It was supposed to be a careless gesture, but something in the slump of the shoulders and tremble on her wide lips told another story.
"Mere trinkets and baubles," she said flatly. Her lips thinned, and she spoke in the tone of Lady Herriman. "Pearls are best left in the depths of the sea rather than slung with garish vulgarity around the neck, don't you think?"
"I admire your philosophy," I said. But there was more to this. Dolly Trimmings wasn’t the sort of woman to easily give up trinkets and baubles.
Then it struck me.
With Boots in a pressed suit, and Dolly dressed in a maid's uniform, there was only one logical explanation. Bagington Hall was in mourning for the passing of Sir Sandoe.
I said, "Your outfit is a touching tribute and a mark of deep respect."
"Practical too," she said tartly. "Pearls don't go with work clothes."
Having got over my initial shock of Dolly's plain outfit, I wanted inside information about Lady Herriman's demeanour. "How is Her Ladyship this evening?"
Dolly raised a hand to straighten her cap. "Been her loyal servant for years; ain't no one but me can put up with her. But I've 'ad enough. When me gold shares come in, I'll give me notice."
That wasn't what I expected, but the mention of gold pricked my interest. I said, "Any news from Peru?"
"Oh yes!" She placed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "I hear they've struck gold in two mines, and I've got my lot of shares, thanks to Sir Sandoe. The discovery will be in the Norfolk News next weekend, I suppose."
I kept my voice level, not wanting to give away my growing sense of excitement. "Are you quite sure… about the gold discovery?"
Dolly rubbed her chin. "That's what I heard from Withers, and he knows everything about Bagington Hall, all the secrets an' all."
As soon as the opportunity arose, I'd corner the sleazy butler and pepper him with questions about the gold mines and also Miss Antoinette. This time he'd not wriggle away without answering.
I allowed myself to relax a little. Uncle Tristan's investments were sound, Father's savings secure, and Nancy's future no longer in peril. Still, I'd request the bank cheque from Lady Herriman and have Uncle deposit it first thing Monday morning in Norwich.
Dolly's hand suddenly shot out and gripped so tight on to my arm I almost yelled out in pain. "Oh, Miss Darling, the shock of everything has knocked Her Ladyship right off her rocker."
I broke free of her grip but sensed an undercurrent of nervousness. "Two deaths in a week is a tough challenge."
"You don’t understand!" Dolly stopped. A sheen of perspiration covered her fat upper lip. "There is to be no period of mourning for Sir Sandoe."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Sir Sandoe is to be laid to rest this Wednesday by Vicar Humberstone in a common plot without a headstone."
"Dear God," I murmured. "I know Sir Sandoe and Lady Herriman didn’t see eye to eye, but surely…"
"The stress has been too great for Her Ladyship," said Dolly, hurrying ahead. "And there are those who will take advantage of the situation. Please keep up; we don't have much time."
I hurried after Dolly and said, "But a common plot, what can it mean?"
Dolly said, "Her Ladyship's been as secretive as a fox planning an attack on the henhouse."
"Lady Herriman is bound to be a little fragile in mood," I said. "Let us not forget it has only been a day since… well, and the police are looking for Frank Perry. All that is required is a little patience, charity, and goodwill towards the woman. At times like these, I find it best just to listen."
Dolly stopped, took a deep breath, and shrugged. "I'd listen, but Her Ladyship refuses to speak with me. Been cast out like a used dishcloth, I 'ave." Again, she gripped my arm, her forehead beaded with sweat, face white and expressionless. "There is something else you should know."
"Yes," I said, easing my arm from her firm grip. "What is it?"
Dolly's voice dropped so low I had to strain to hear the words. "Withers is stealing from Bagington Hall. Please have Her Ladyship ring for me, and I'll give her the details. I'm sure she will listen to you." She let out a piggish snort and began to run. "Come on, else you'll be late."
Chapter 48
As we hurried along a dim hallway, questions tumbled around my mind. How long had Dolly known about Withers' thievery? Why had she waited until now to reveal it? And why to me? And then there was the business about Sir Sandoe's funeral. It just didn’t make any sense.
Dolly Trimmings moved remarkably fast for a large woman, her heavy breaths like a donkey pulling a cart. I struggled to keep up. We w
ere at the door of Lady Herriman's antechamber before the first question came from my lips.
Dolly applied a timid knock.
"Come in," called Lady Herriman in a high-pitched, fruity voice reminiscent of a London stage actress calling to her lover. "I've been awaiting your arrival."
"Go ahead," said Dolly, giving me a gentle shove in the back. "She'll be delighted when she realises it is you. I'll wait outside, and you can call me in when you tell her about Withers."
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Gradually, the edges of furniture came into view. Next, the large glass cases—the lion, tiger, and leopard in full stride. Then, at last, I saw Lady Herriman.
She sat in the darkest corner, on a high-backed seat with golden swirls, velvet, and leather. It was more throne than chair. And she was queenlike and graceful in a mauve, silk gown with a little diamond-encrusted tiara perched atop her exuberant Elizabethan wig. In one hand she held an oversized goblet. With the other, she gave a regal wave. At her side, a little table on which rested a giant leather-bound Bible and her lorgnette spectacles.
"Miss Darling? I expected another. Not to worry, you are here in good time. Please, take a seat." She waved at a claw-footed velvet settee. A flimsy, black dress with a little white apron and frilly cap lay loosely over one arm. "There is much to discuss."
I watched Her Ladyship closely as I settled into my seat. Her ancient eyes were bright and clear, her powdered cheeks tinged with rose, and her thin lips curved up at the edges. I hadn’t expected sackcloth and ashes, but there was not a shred of anything resembling distress in her face. She appeared quite the opposite. If the woman was in mourning for Sir Sandoe, she hid it well.
As if to confirm my thoughts, Lady Herriman said, "Despite the ghastly events of the last twenty-four hours, I've had the best night's sleep in years." She took a long, slow gulp from the goblet all the while her eyes fixed on my face. "One must make the best of things."
The woman appeared happy, almost joyous. What happened to the sour toad? I wanted to ask but remembered Uncle Tristan's admonition to eat humble pie in her presence. I said, "That is so admirable. When life throws a terrible blow, weaker beings go to pieces."
