by Nancy Warren
Then, Rafe said, “That’s quite enough, Henri. Go and get some exercise.”
The bird tossed his head as if to say, ‘As if.’ Then Henri turned and waddled back, dusting the road with that single tail feather.
When we stood up, Rafe said, “Welcome.”
“This place is incredible.”
“Thank you. The original house is Tudor. It was quite run down when I bought it. I added the wings on either side in the late seventeen hundreds. Capability Brown planned the garden and grounds.” Built of the local stone, the manor was like something you’d visit on a tour, not a place where anyone but a celebrity might live.
The door opened before we’d climbed the stairs and a middle-aged man wearing a blue suit stood waiting. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said to me. And to Rafe, “Welcome home.”
I mumbled, “Good afternoon,” then walked through the doors into a Jane Austen novel. Honestly, that’s how I felt. Like Elizabeth when she visits Pemberley. Maybe this house was on a smaller scale, but I got the feeling of wealth, good taste, and history all working together. And I was still only in the foyer. It featured tiled floors with rich carpeting, a grand staircase in the middle and a fireplace big enough to roast an elephant.
The man in blue shut the wide double doors as Rafe said, “Thank you, William.”
“Ring when you’re ready for lunch.” And then the man disappeared.
I stared at Rafe. “Is he Alfred to your Bruce Wayne?”
Rafe looked at me as though I might have a fever. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know, Batman?”
He still looked as though he had no idea what I was talking about. I rolled my eyes. “Has popular American culture completely escaped you?”
“I certainly hope so.”
So, tall, dark and undead didn’t know everything. I was determined, one day very soon, to get him into a darkened movie theater and expand his cultural education.
As I was thinking of movies and TV shows I wanted him to see, he was leading me off the foyer to the left of the grand staircase. He opened one of a pair of double doors and we walked into a large room with modern, comfortable couches and chairs, a large Georgian fireplace, and a chandelier of epic proportions. But all that was nothing to the paintings grouped on wooden paneled walls.
I nearly swallowed my tongue, which was probably as well as it stopped me from saying something stupid. One entire wall was Monet and the blues and greens were so fresh, the water lilies might have been painted that week. So fresh, I had to ask, “Monet’s not a vampire, is he?” Could he still be there? The ghost of Giverny, painting away and selling his work in the literal underground economy.
Rafe looked amused. “If he is, I haven’t heard of it.”
“You must be a fan of the impressionists,” I said, walking around to study a wall of pictures that included two Van Goghs, a few Turners, a Pissarro and some artists I’d never heard of.
“My walls change according to my mood.”
When I raised my brows in a silent question, he turned a brass handle at the bottom of a section of paneling, and two panels opened like doors. Behind, was another series of paintings.
I recognized the Rembrandt, had to squint at the signature to get the Van Dyck and when I saw a series of sketches by Da Vinci I nearly had a heart attack. “These are old masters. Do you have any idea what they are worth?”
He came to stand beside me, and we both studied the sketches. “To me, they are priceless, as is the pleasure they’ve given me over the years. Money becomes meaningless after a while.”
I couldn’t imagine ever being that blasé about money, but then I couldn’t imagine being a vampire, either.
He opened another set of panels to reveal an entire wall of Picasso. “Gertrude Stein and I used to argue about him.”
“You and Gertrude Stein. In Paris, in the 1920s?”
“Of course. Her salons were quite remarkable.” He smiled, a little sadly. “I miss that crowd. Those were exciting times.”
He showed me around the rest of his house and I became more and more intrigued by the man behind the vampire.
His library was, of course, amazing, and, with its double height walls covered floor to ceiling in books, had an elaborate system of ladders and brass rails that they slid along.
Behind the library, was a very modern office with two computers and modern office furniture. The bedrooms were a mix of old and new. New mattresses, bedding and curtains, and mainly antique furniture.
His bedroom was the most modern, with a king-size bed and deep, comfortable chairs. The paint, carpets and bedding were a soothing, cool gray palette. The windows were shuttered so the light was muted. The ensuite bathroom included a large, glassed-in shower with about seventeen shower heads, a sauna and a deep bath tub.
Even if I hadn’t known he was an insomniac, I think I would have guessed. Everything in this room was meant to soothe, and from the number of books, I imagined he spent a lot of time reading instead of sleeping.
We had lunch, not in the formal dining room, but in a glass-roofed conservatory. The air smelled of roses and orchids and the glass walls were perfect for keeping out the chill but offering views of the acres of grounds. He even had his own lake, glinting like the pewter surface of my scrying mirror.
I’d never eaten lunch with a vampire before and I was a bit worried about what I’d be served, but William came in with a tray of assorted sandwiches, cold meats, cured salmon and salads.
He offered wine, soft drinks, tea or coffee and I chose sparkling water. I filled my plate, feeling hungry after hiking the acres of this house and figuring I’d better carbo load if I was going to make it around the huge garden. Rafe put a generous helping of the raw salmon on his plate, and some salad. He also drank sparkling water.
“This is so beautiful,” I said as we ate. “What do you call it? Crosyer Castle?”
He shook his head. “Woodbridge House, actually. That was the original name and I’ve kept it. I prefer to remain as anonymous as possible.”
I finished my meal with coffee and a delicious lemon cake that William had made himself. Rafe had more ice water and watched me eat. “I feel terrible William made this whole cake just for me.”
“I think he’s happy to have someone to cook for. My meals aren’t as interesting to prepare.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Does he know?”
“Oh, yes. His family have served me for centuries. Each generation is brought up to it and have remained faithful and discreet. William’s sister is the head gardener and his cousin keeps on top of repairs. They all hire extra staff as needed, but between them, the three of them run the place.”
“Must be a great place to work.”
“I think so. It’s where I do most of my work, too.”
I pushed my plate away, licking the last of the lemon from my lip.
He reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Come, let’s walk outside before it gets cold.” And so we did, around the lake, and through a wood. “An ancient right-of-way passes through here,” he said, pointing to a well-used footpath. “So it’s always open to walkers and horse riders.”
“You don’t mind?” He seemed such a stickler for privacy.
“There wouldn’t be any point in minding. England is covered in public footpaths that cross private land. But, no, I don’t mind. I’m happy to share these grounds with those who appreciate them.”
We walked back to the house and, when I went to thank William for lunch, I found him in a very modern kitchen, complete with top-of-the-line appliances and granite counter tops. The wood plank floor looked pretty old and outside the window I could see a kitchen garden, bursting with herbs that had probably been planted hundreds of years ago.
“Thank you for lunch, William. It was delicious.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” And he offered me a basket.
“What’s this?”
“Leftover cake. You seemed to enjoy it.”
“Oh, but you should have it. You made it.”
He shook his head, then patted his belly. “Since Rafe doesn’t have a sweet tooth, I’d end up eating all of it. Please, you’ll do me a favor if you take it away.”
What could I do but accept?
As we drove home, I said, “Thank you.”
Rafe looked at me sideways, his lips curving. “For what?”
“For everything, today, but mostly thank you for not even mentioning the murder. It was nice to have a break.”
My break didn’t last long.
CHAPTER 14
M onday morning, I opened as usual.
"May I help you?" I asked the group of ladies who entered my shop. I recognized them as the four women who had taken tea on that fateful day when Colonel Montague died.
Once more, Miss Everly led the group. She looked as well turned out as the last time I’d seen her, this time in a camel coat and heels. Her friends looked as frumpy as the last time I’d seen them. She came forward, "We've always loved this shop, haven't we, girls?"
I loved that she referred to them as girls when they must all be in their seventies or eighties. “I believe it was your grandmother who used to run the place. Agnes Bartlett? Oh, my, that’s a lovely photograph of her on the wall. She was such a nice woman. I was very sorry to hear of her passing."
When I’d first taken over the shop, words of condolence had stabbed me in the heart every time. Now that I was aware my grandmother was undead and a sleepwalker, they filled me with trepidation.
It wasn't too bad when strangers or tourists caught sight of a slightly pale and very sleepy looking octogenarian wandering around the shop, but when it was someone who had known her in life... I shuddered. The spell I’d cast on Agatha had saved me once this week, I didn’t want to rely on my budding powers any more than I had to. I only hoped my trap door spell held.
I agreed that it was very sad to lose her. And yes, I was her granddaughter, Lucy. The four ladies wandered around the shop as customers did, poking into baskets and flipping through knitting catalogs.
The shoppers in Cardinal Woolsey’s came in two categories. There were browsers and there were buyers. Most buyers came in with a specific project in mind or a general idea of what they wanted. For instance, "I want to make a thick, warm sweater for my grandson. His favourite color is blue." Or, "My daughter’s expecting. It's my first grandchild, I've been looking forward to knitting baby’s first sweater since I learned to knit. I suppose I’ll have to do something in yellow or green since we don't know the sex."
The browsers on the other hand, wandered around with their gazes flitting from one thing to another. Sometimes they might buy on impulse, but usually they were killing time. These four seemed like browsers.
Of course, the fun for me was trying to turn browsers into buyers.
Miss Everly, after making a pretence of studying Icelandic sweaters suddenly put down the book. "I believe I saw you in the tea shop. When poor Colonel Montague passed away."
I nodded. "That's right. It was a terrible shock."
"I knew him, you know."
Oh, I knew all about her history with the colonel. But, since she only knew me as young Lucy from across the pond, she wouldn't have any idea of the information my grandmother had passed on to me. I looked politely interested. "How sad for you to lose a friend."
She glanced at me strangely and I wondered if I’d put too much emphasis on the word friend. "I've been racking my brains to think who would want to wish the colonel harm. Although I was sitting closer to him than you were, I had my back to him. But you had quite a good view, didn't you?"
Was she doing her own amateur sleuthing? Did she really wonder if I might have extra information? Or was she checking to see whether I might be able to implicate her? I had no way of knowing, but I told the truth. "I probably had a better view of the colonel's table than you did, but I was having a conversation with my friend. I really didn't see much of what went on."
"There was that very unfortunate incident when he was served the wrong tea. I can't help wondering whether the tea was meant for someone else?"
One of her three friends giggled nervously over the crochet hooks. "Why, then, any of us could have been the intended victim. Makes one wonder, doesn't it?"
“But couldn’t the poisoning have been accidental? Some kind of food poisoning?”
Miss Everly shook her head. “I was a biochemist. The symptoms were all wrong. No, he was poisoned deliberately.”
I looked at them all, so seemingly innocent. Four kindly old ladies who’d only wanted a quiet cup of tea after their friend's funeral and had become embroiled in such a horrible death.
And yet, I am not fooled by old ladies. My grandmother and her friend Sylvia have two of the sharpest minds I know. I looked at them. "Do you have enemies?" It seemed to me that people who got murdered generally had enemies who wanted them dead.
Miss Everly said something very surprising. "I imagine we all have enemies. It's a question of knowing how far they will go."
I was relieved when the door opened and a young mother came in pushing a pram containing a sleeping baby. Naturally, the four ladies all went into grandmother mode and cooed over the sleeping child. The tired looking mother glanced at me. "Do you have any patterns for baby blankets?"
This woman was a shopper. I didn’t know how long that baby would keep sleeping but I suspected the woman timed her shopping expeditions precisely to the length of the nap. I’d better be snappy if I didn't want to lose the sale or have a screaming baby on my hands. I took her immediately to the patterns and leaflets and picked out three fairly simple blanket patterns, one slightly more complicated and an advanced pattern.
She picked an easy one out of my hand, then looked at me in bewilderment. "I don't know what to do with myself. I used to be a banker, with a team of eight employees. I had my nails done weekly and went on business trips to Zurich, Frankfurt and Paris. Now, I barely have time to shower. The baby finally goes to sleep and I'm so tired I want something mindless to do with my hands."
She wasn’t a walking advertisement for motherhood, that was for sure. The poor mother looked absolutely exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and clothes spattered with milk and what looked like baby spit up.
"This pattern won’t be very taxing on your brain." And then I offered her a selection of yarns that would be appropriate. She picked several colours almost at random and thanked me. I rang up her purchases and she tucked them into the basket of the pram just as mewling noises emerged from the baby.
She turned the pram toward the door when a sound like a baby seagull crying emerged from the pram. The mother moaned in despair. I soon saw why. After a couple of experimental seagull cries the child broke out screaming. I would not have believed any creature that small could make so much noise.
“My, that’s a healthy pair of lungs,” one of Miss Everly’s friends said, taking a step back. Mother looked like she was going to start screaming herself. She said, “I just want a little peace and quiet. I want to knit, is that too much to ask? Half an hour of peace and quiet so I can knit?”
At that moment Sylvia came in the front door. She was carrying a shopping bag from the most expensive shoe shop in Oxford. She nodded politely to the ladies and then, pretending to be a shopper, began to look aimlessly into the various baskets.
I felt the distress coming from the poor new mother and from the baby. I came out from behind my counter and walked forward. “May I? I’ve always been good with babies.”
I didn’t even wait for the mother’s approval. I leaned down and picked up the squalling baby. He was a little boy all in blue except for the red on his face. Bright red. He was screaming so loud he could barely draw enough breath before he started screaming again. I held him like a football and looked down into his eyes, so blue, so confused, so angry. He opened them wide and stared right into mine.
I leaned in close and murmured, “I know it’s going to seem strange a
t first, but this is a good place and you get used to it.”
He took another breath but he didn’t scream quite so loud this time. He looked at me, puzzled, as though perhaps we’d met before but he couldn’t remember where. I smiled down at him. I could smell his lovely baby smell and feel the warmth of his little body curled into mine. I began to rock in an ancient rhythm that I don’t think any woman ever learns, perhaps rocking is passed down in our genes. He began to breathe with my rhythm and then drifted back to sleep again.
I said to the new mom, who still jangled with stress. “Sit in that chair and knit for a little while. I’ll hold your baby.”
She nodded and did as I said. One of the old ladies looked at me. “It’s like you have a magic with children.”
I stared at her. Ever since I was a kid and started babysitting I’d been able to settle children. Had I been using magic without even knowing it?
The four ladies sighed blissfully as the baby and I rocked. One of the frumpy friends said, "I miss my daughter and my grandchildren. I know you asked us to stay, Gina, but I really think I'll take the train home to Warwick tomorrow.”
Her friend agreed that she would also like to leave. I thought Miss Everly looked less than pleased by this abandonment. There was only the verger left to support her and I suspected she was busy being a verger.
"Why don't you come with us? There's nothing you can do here."
Miss Everly shook her head. "I can’t leave. Someone must support the colonel's wife. Poor, dear Elspeth."
I wondered if the poor colonel's wife had any interest in being comforted by the woman who had once been in love with her husband and suspected the answer was no. I was fairly certain my opinion coincided with that of the other three. They glanced among themselves looking disapproving. I wondered if it was nosiness keeping Miss Everly in Oxford and she’d be better to get on the train and go home.
However, I kept my forthright American opinions to myself.
One of them said, "All this shopping is making me tired. I’d dearly love a cup of tea. What a shame the tea shop is closed." She gave a gasp, realizing how insensitive she sounded, and fell over herself trying to explain that she hadn't meant that the shop should reopen. But what a shame there wasn't another tea shop close by and then she looked at me. "At least, it's been such a long time since I lived in Oxford. Perhaps there is another tea shop nearby?"
