The Last Mrs. Summers

by Rhys Bowen

“You should see it when the lilac is out on those bushes in the spring,” Belinda said to me. “And the daffodils all over the woods.”

  “It’s a treat, isn’t it?” Jago looked back at her and smiled agreement.

  “The gardens still look good,” Belinda said. “Does he not have gardeners living on the premises?”

  “No. They don’t live in. We have a team coming once a week in the winter. There’s not that much to do. And no resident housekeeper either.”

  “And you keep an eye on the place, do you?”

  “That sort of thing,” he said. He struck out through the woodland at the front of the estate, and then instead of going to the big iron gates, he went up to the wall and opened a small door, half concealed by ivy.

  “I never knew this existed,” Belinda said.

  “It didn’t. The boss had it put in, so that the main gate doesn’t have to be opened when people like me go in and out.” He stood back to let us through. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t show you the house but . . .”

  “Of course. I understand. You have your orders,” Belinda said. She turned back to him. “Thank you, Jago. It seems you’re a man of many talents.”

  “You don’t know half of them,” he replied with a flirtatious glance. I felt an odd pang of jealousy, or was it regret. I was now a married woman. There would be no more flirting in my life. Then I remembered the goings-on among the British aristocrats in Kenya. They didn’t seem to care that they were married. Goodness, I’d never want to live like that. I should be happy I had such a wonderful husband.

  “Well, that was a turn up for the books, wasn’t it?” Belinda said as we heard the gate closing behind us and we started to walk away. “I wonder if he really does work there or if he was also on the property illegally? He certainly was anxious to get rid of us, wasn’t he?”

  “He’s probably a groundskeeper, or watchman, and trying to do his job,” I said.

  “Or he’s using the property to store items he’s smuggled?” Belinda said. “It’s convenient that there’s a dock. Perhaps he keeps his stash in the outbuildings.”

  “Belinda, why are you so sure he’s a smuggler?” I asked.

  “Why else would someone creep into White Sails in the middle of the night?” Belinda shook her head in exasperation. “And why would we miraculously find him here the next day? And you know what? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my uncle Francis was in on it too. ‘See a man about a dog.’ That’s what he said. I remember that was his expression when he was up to something shady and wanted to keep it from my grandmother.”

  “Anyway, it’s none of our business,” I said. “I’ve seen the house from the outside and it is lovely and being well looked after, so you should be happy. And now I suppose we should get back and face the music.”

  “Oh dear.” Belinda sighed. “I’m in no rush to get back to Trewoma, are you?”

  “I can’t say that I am,” I agreed.

  “So you feel it too, do you? The tension. And a strange atmosphere. Rose is clearly ill at ease.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you be with a housekeeper like that hovering all the time and disregarding your orders? I wonder Rose doesn’t sack her and get in someone more friendly.”

  “Doesn’t dare, I suppose. I’m beginning to have more sympathy for poor Rose. It can’t be easy when everyone knows you were the cook’s daughter.”

  “And apparently everyone adored Jonquil, including Tony,” I pointed out.

  Belinda nodded. “We won’t stay long, I promise. As soon as I’ve decided what needs to be done with White Sails we’re off. I know.” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s go back to the cottage now and take another look. Let’s see if it’s feasible to put in a bathroom.”

  “And electricity,” I added. “It’s scary in the night when lamps go out.”

  “It was. I’m beginning more and more to think it might be best just to put it up for sale and walk away. But then I keep thinking it’s my last link to Cornwall. My mother grew up here. I had happy childhood memories.”

  “You have come into money, Belinda. Buy yourself another cottage—one with all modern conveniences.”

  Belinda laughed. We drove off, speeding past the entrance to Trewoma, just in case anyone was looking, and continued on around the headland to White Sails. Waves were breaking over the little rocky island, sending up impressive sheets of spray. Seagulls circled, screeching. As we left the motorcar and opened the gate I could see the value of that little harbor. Waves splashed against the harbor wall, but inside the water was sheltered and calm. I was surprised to see a boat tied up against the wall.

  “Look,” I said to Belinda. “Is that Jago’s? It wasn’t there this morning.”

  “It can’t be. He’s at Trengilly. Although we didn’t see his boat at the jetty there, did we?” She gave me a knowing look. “Interesting. Perhaps this is part of the smuggling chain—someone come to pick up the smuggled goods.”

  “I don’t know where Jago could have stashed them,” I said. “We didn’t see any sign this morning, did we?”

  “Maybe in the cave down below? Although that might be risky because I think it gets flooded at high tide.” She gave my shoulder a pat. “Come on. Let’s go and see if we have an intruder. Perhaps they have been using this cottage for years with impunity. We’ll soon put a stop to that.”

  “Belinda, if they are smugglers . . .” I began. “Well, they might be dangerous. We should go carefully.”

  “Nonsense,” Belinda said. “The sooner they know they are not wanted here, the better.”

  I watched her stalking resolutely down the steps ahead of me and had to admire her bravado. Why did I always have to think of what could go wrong with every situation while she never seemed to? Perhaps it was because my old nanny always brought me up to be careful. “Watch where you are going. Don’t be too hasty.” Those were the sort of things she always said. And of course I had recently found myself in several dangerous situations. I knew that some people could be violent and desperate and could even kill.

  We reached the cottage. Belinda did not hesitate. She turned the key and we stepped into the living room that still felt pleasantly warm with the lingering ashes of the fire. It also smelled of this morning’s toast and of something else: cigarette smoke. I looked at Belinda.

  “Someone’s here,” I whispered.

  She nodded, went over to the fire and picked up the poker. “Right. Let’s investigate,” she said. She pushed the bedroom door slowly open. Nothing.

  “Must be down in the cellar,” she mouthed to me and started down the stairs. Halfway down she froze and motioned for me to freeze too. I heard the tinkle of water and saw to my embarrassment that a man was standing in the far corner, peeing into the lavatory. She gave me an inquiring glance, looking first at the poker, then at him. I got her message. Hit him while he is otherwise occupied. I shook my head furiously and began to retreat silently up the stairs. She followed suit, waited a respectable amount of time and then called out in a loud voice, “Is somebody down there? Show yourself instantly or I’ll have you up for trespassing.”

  We heard scrambling and a voice saying, “Belinda? Is that you? It’s only me. Uncle Francis.”

  He came into view, staring up at us, looking horribly embarrassed.

  “What are you doing here?” Belinda asked. It seemed as if the last few hours had been a repetition of that phrase. Everybody was surprised to see everybody else in this part of the world.

  “I had the boat out so I thought I’d just take a look at the old place, remind myself whether it was as ghastly as I remembered it.”

  “How did you get in?” Belinda asked.

  “Oh, you know. The way we always used to,” he said, looking even more embarrassed now. “Through the cave. There are steps in the wall.”

  “You do know that’s trespassing, don’t you?” Belinda sa
id. “Now, if you would please come up and leave by the front door?”

  He came up the steps, eyeing her with suspicion. “You can put down that poker. I’m not a burglar,” he said.

  “Only because there is nothing worth stealing,” she said.

  “What an awful thing to say to your old uncle, who is so fond of you.”

  “Uncle Francis, I know perfectly well that you would strip the rings from your dying grandmother’s fingers. Now please go down to your boat and sail into the sunset.”

  “Well, I must say,” he answered huffily. “There’s family spirit for you. Your old uncle pays you a friendly visit and you cast him out into the storm without even the offer of a cup of tea.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time for a cup of tea,” Belinda said. “We came to have another look and see if it might be possible to put in a proper bathroom—one with some privacy,” she added, giving him a knowing glance. “But we have to get back to Trewoma or they will wonder what has become of us.”

  Uncle Francis leaned against the mantelpiece and took out his cigarette case. He extracted a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it without offering one to us. He took a long drag then asked, “So how is it? As extravagant as one hears? And lord of the manor, that blighter Summers? You know him, presumably?”

  “From our youth,” Belinda said carefully. “We all used to play together as children.”

  “Did you? He lived around here? I don’t remember him.”

  “They rented a place in the summer. His father was a big shot in the City.”

  “I must have been away at the time,” he said. “So he was a childhood friend. How convenient.”

  “His wife too,” Belinda said.

  “He married the Trefusis girl, did he? Of course I’ve been out of the county for too long but one heard rumors.”

  “Yes, he married Jonquil, but unfortunately she died. Now he’s married to another person from my childhood, Rose Barnes.”

  “Barnes?” Uncle Francis frowned. “The name rings a bell.”

  “Granny’s old cook’s daughter.”

  “Rosie Barnes? My God. The cook’s daughter is now mistress of Trewoma and I, a peer of the realm, am reduced to sleeping in a small sailing boat? What is the world coming to?”

  Belinda laughed. “You were the one who was advocating communism this morning. Equality for all, remember.”

  Uncle Francis stood looking around him. “Nice little spot this. Sheltered, private. But you wouldn’t really want to keep it, would you?”

  Belinda laughed. “You are suggesting that I give it to my aged uncle, is that right?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to. You did get the house in Bath and the money and jewelry after all. A mere crumb to a struggling relative would be a noble gesture.”

  “You’ve had your share, Uncle Francis. I believe Granny settled a good amount on you when she sold Trengilly.”

  “I told you, dear child. Most of it in the form of an allowance, doled out in spoonsful by a stingy and critical bank manager. Never enough to really enjoy myself or to get ahead.”

  “You could find yourself a job,” Belinda said.

  “At my age?”

  “You are not that old. You can’t be more than fifty.”

  “But I’m a peer of the realm. Our sort don’t take jobs. We own things. We ride to hounds. We give orders. I should be living at Trengilly. I should be lord of the manor here, not that upstart Summers and his cook wife.”

  “Life is hard, Uncle Francis,” Belinda said. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it. And we must be going. So out with you, please.” She gave him a shove and moved to open the front door. When we were all outside she turned the key in the lock.

  “You are an ungrateful, heartless wench, you know that,” he said. “One day you’ll regret this.” And he stomped down the stone steps cut into the cliff face toward his boat.

  I began the climb up to the motorcar. Belinda followed. Neither of us spoke until we had regained the road.

  “Oh dear,” she said, panting a little because there were a lot of steps. “I feel awful. Do you think I should let him have the cottage? I mean, I did inherit everything and he’s living on a boat.”

  “You just said that he squandered his money. And he fondled you when you were a child.”

  “Yes, but he is family. And I don’t really need the cottage, do I?”

  “It’s up to you, Belinda. But I don’t think you owe him anything.”

  We climbed into the motor, and Belinda started the engine. “You’re right. I’m too softhearted. And I’m sure if he had this place he’d use it for his nefarious schemes.”

  As we drove along the headland we watched the boat putting out to sea. Against the backdrop of the Atlantic it did look awfully small.

  Chapter 11

  OCTOBER 16

  TREWOMA, CORNWALL

  Back at Trewoma after a rather unpleasant encounter at White Sails. Golly, I hope this evening is not going to be too tense.

  We returned to find my belongings unpacked, my toiletries arranged on the dressing table and my slippers beside the bed, just like Jonquil’s had been in her room. I got the feeling that Mrs. Mannering had supervised and presumably snooped at what I had brought with me. She wouldn’t get much joy from my things, except for the photo of Darcy and me on our honeymoon.

  We came downstairs and after a couple of wrong turns that led to the kitchens and then the library we were rescued by a maid who informed us that the mistress was taking tea in the long gallery and escorted us there. It really was a most confusing house! Rose was sitting in a room that must have been the original hall in medieval times where family life went on. It was a vast room overlooking the ocean with heavy tapestries of battles hanging on the walls and dark velvet curtains at the windows. On one side was a minstrel gallery and in the middle was a hearth big enough to roast an ox. Not what I would call a friendly room.

  But it was a scrumptious tea with clotted cream and strawberry jam to go with the warm scones and a variety of tiny meringues, éclairs and iced cakes. I watched Rose tuck in with relish. I wondered whether this was wise, given that I had been told Tony had a roving eye.

  We chatted pleasantly enough through tea, then Rose urged us to go for a walk around the grounds. Black clouds had been rushing in from the Atlantic and it didn’t look too promising as we stepped out of the front door.

  “It’s going to rain, Rose,” Belinda said. “Better put this off until later.”

  “Oh, come on, Belinda. Don’t be a spoilsport,” Rose said. “You know good old Cornish rain. It’s only a fine mist usually, isn’t it? I’m really keen to show you around. It’s still all so new to me too.”

  And she looked so hopeful that Belinda shrugged and went along. “Oh well. It’s only rain,” she said. “I suppose it can’t kill us.”

  I, having been raised at Castle Rannoch, was used to rain, snow, sleet and hail so it didn’t worry me, but I did wonder why Rose was so awfully keen for us to see the grounds when she had a whole lovely house to show off.

  We set off, along the front of the house and across a manicured lawn with a statue of a Greek nymph in the middle of it. A flower bed around the edge was bare at this time of year. Beyond, a rose arbor was also pruned down to barren sticks. It didn’t look particularly appetizing and again I wondered why Rose wanted to get us out of the house. Something to do with being away from Mrs. Mannering, I thought.

  We had only made it halfway across the lawn when the heavens opened. This was certainly no Cornish mist but a full-blown downpour. In seconds we were drenched with icy water and we had to dash inside again where Mrs. Mannering was waiting to greet us, tut-tutting at our foolishness. So Rose gave us a tour of the reception rooms instead. These were certainly impressive. We admired the white grand piano and full-sized harp in the mus
ic room, the walls lined with leather-bound books in the dark and somber library and the family portraits in the drawing room. Former owners of Trewoma, those who had established plantations in far-flung corners of the globe, had brought back interesting objects and these were displayed in every nook. In the library there was a glass case of spectacular butterflies; a stuffed king cobra poised to strike and looking horribly realistic; brightly colored stuffed birds; evil-looking masks on walls as well as many strange weapons: swords, daggers and cutlasses.

  “What on earth is this?” Belinda asked, pausing in front of a sword adorned with what looked like strings of human teeth.

  “Oh that?” Rose made a face. “It’s a headhunter’s sword from Borneo. Those are the teeth of his victims. Isn’t it horrible? We’ve also got some shrunken heads somewhere. But come and see the pretty little conservatory at the end of the hall. That has nothing disgusting in it and it’s lovely to sit there on sunny days.”

  The conservatory was delightful, filled with white wicker furniture and tall green plants. “There were also some orchids,” Rose said. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a green thumb. I tried taking care of them and I killed them. Mrs. Mannering was angry, I know. But I wanted to do something useful. It’s strange having nothing to do expect be waited on.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said. “You should get a dog. Several dogs. They always make a house feel more like home and they are great companions.”

  “I’m afraid of dogs,” Rose said. “I was bitten once as a child, by your grandmother’s dog, Belinda.”

  “What, old Spingo? He was the only dog I remember and he was harmless.”

  Rose shook her head. “Well, he bit me,” she said.

  “Dogs always know who is afraid,” I said. “They sense fear and that makes them nervous.”

  “Tony keeps saying he wants dogs,” Rose said. “Jonquil had a couple but they were put down when she died.”

  “How horrid—who did that?” I asked, being incredibly fond of the dogs I’d grown up with.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t anywhere around here in those days,” Rose said. “I was up in London, remember.”