by Faith Martin
And whilst some in the village thought that it should all be decently laid to rest and least-said-soonest-mended, others had a lot of sympathy for the dead boy’s parents. It was, after all, only natural that they’d want to know the truth about what had really happened that Easter Sunday.
And the cook was firmly in the latter camp.
Nevertheless, she took her time to prepare a pot of tea and set out two plates with a slice of her own-recipe lardy cake. It gave her time to think and arrange her thoughts in order.
Not that she knew anything that might actually help him. Like the rest of the staff, she hadn’t had anything to do with the Easter egg hunt. But if the squire wanted his staff to answer the man’s questions, then she’d go along with his orders.
And so, she took a seat at the table opposite him, and smiled politely.
‘Do you know the Proctors well?’ Clement asked first, leaning back easily in the kitchen chair and ignoring the slight squeak of protest it gave.
‘Only as well as I know most folk in the village,’ Hilda said comfortably. She was a comfortable-looking woman altogether, with a figure like one of her own cottage loaves, and a mess of grey hair done up in a surprisingly elegant chignon. She’d removed her pinafore as he’d been introducing himself, revealing a loose, soft, blue-grey dress, which matched her wide, rather watery-looking eyes.
The moment she’d sat down in her own chair, an enormous tabby cat had leaped onto it, and had settled down with practised speed and continued to purr contentedly as she absent-mindedly stroked it.
‘I see Doreen in the village shop and at church most Sundays,’ the cook admitted. ‘Her husband not so much – men tend to find excuses not to attend so often, don’t they? And I don’t go to the village pub, so…’ She gave a shrug, but spoke without censure, and Clement got the impression that she was well content with her life here at the Hall. She seemed the sort who liked to keep herself to herself, but probably didn’t miss much.
They quickly established that she’d been the cook here for over twenty years, and she informed him with another gentle smile that her title of ‘Mrs’ was strictly an honorary one, as she was quite happy being single.
He got the feeling that she was one of those rare people who was not inclined to ask life for more than they already had. No doubt, she had rooms up in the servants’ quarters that she considered to be perfectly adequate, enjoyed whatever hobbies she had outside of work, and was probably a very good cook. Most importantly, she was an unbiased observer with no axe to grind, which, he felt sure, would make her a mine of useful – and untainted – information.
‘Mr de Lacey feels guilty about the well not being covered properly,’ Clement said. ‘At least it’s covered over now.’
The cook shook her head sadly. ‘It takes something like this to remind you how hard life can be,’ she agreed quietly.
Clement nodded. ‘The poor little girl, Emily, misses her friend keenly.’
‘Yes, she would,’ Hilda agreed, chucking the purring cat under his chin. ‘They were best pals, those too. They often came down here to help me mix cakes and do some cooking. They liked making orange butterfly cakes the best. All that butter cream icing meant they could lick the bowl.’
‘And then have first pick of them as they came out of the oven?’ he mused with a tolerant smile.
‘Well, naturally, as is only fair!’ Hilda agreed with a smile of her own. ‘There was no harm in that boy,’ she added quietly but firmly.
Clement nodded. ‘That’s good to know,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ve talked to Emily, of course, but she says she has no idea what her friend was doing in the orchard at all that morning. I think I believe her,’ he said, letting his tone become slightly cautious.
Hilda Verney was silent for a moment or two, then sighed. ‘Emily’s a good girl. She wouldn’t lie out of spitefulness or mischief. She’s very clever, though, like a cartload of monkeys.’
Clement thought about this for a moment or two, then smiled. ‘She was the leader of the pair?’
‘Oh yes. Always full of ideas.’
‘And Eddie was always happy to follow?’ Clement mused.
‘More often than not.’
Clement sipped from his mug of tea, and glanced out of the window. The kitchen was not quite below ground, but the windows were high, and sunlight filtered down from high up, meaning that they were without a view of the gardens.
‘Mrs Roper seems a rather unfriendly soul, I thought.’ He changed tack slightly, and wasn’t surprised to see the cook’s smile turn slightly wry.
‘Yes, I can see how she might appear that way, especially to what she would term “outsiders”. She is very loyal to the family who took her in after her husband died.’ The cook sliced up more of the lardy cake, and pushed it across towards him. ‘It’s sometimes hard for people who have wealth and privilege to understand how frightening life can be for those who have neither,’ she explained carefully. ‘Mrs Roper felt the loss of her husband keenly. She’d left home, moved to a new place, and suddenly she was all alone.’
‘I can see that must have been terrifying,’ Clement said truthfully.
‘Yes. But then old Mrs de Lacey took her in. Gave her a job as her maid – a roof over her head, a regular wage, and perhaps most importantly of all, a new purpose in life,’ the cook said slowly. ‘At that time, Mrs Vivienne was just beginning to get old you see – I mean truly old. Unable to get around much, and becoming forgetful. She was not the force she had once been, and she needed someone not only to see to her comforts and her needs, but also to be her eyes and ears in the house. And Cordelia needed someone to look after and make her feel secure. It was a match some might say was made in heaven.’
Clement cut a slice of his greasy cake with a fork and chewed it slowly for a moment or two. ‘But you didn’t think it was very healthy?’ he finally said.
Hilda Verney shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Who am I to judge?’ she asked simply. ‘It suited them both, that was certain. As she got older, and her physical and mental faculties began to fail her even more, I’m sure Mrs Vivienne was happy in her choice of companion and confidante. But when she died…’
‘Cordelia Roper was left rather bereft?’ he hazarded. ‘So where did she turn her energies then? I doubt Mr Martin would have welcomed her mothering.’
‘Not he!’ Hilda said with a snort of laughter.
‘The children then?’
Hilda again shrugged. ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? But I’m not so sure. George was little more than a baby and had his own nanny. And Emily… Emily doesn’t really like her, you know. Mrs Roper was too much her grandmother’s creature, and Emily has a rather secretive nature.’
‘Ah. So now Mrs Roper is a dragon without a hoard of gold to guard over? How sad.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick as to presume that,’ Hilda warned him, in her usual quiet but impressive way. ‘She still sees herself as the guardian of the old lady’s legacy.’
‘Which is?’
‘Family first and last,’ the cook said promptly. ‘Mrs de Lacey was fiercely proud of the family’s place here, and its history. And its future.’
‘Ah. So no wonder Mrs Roper isn’t happy about all the fuss that’s been kicked up by Eddie’s death. She must have hated the press attention in particular, and the criticism of the family in not securing that well properly.’
‘Yes,’ Hilda said simply.
Clement, delighted to have found such a perspicacious witness, cast his mind around for anything else that he might need to know, and remembered the curious attitude of the village people in the pub when he’d mentioned Martin de Lacey’s deceased wife.
‘How did the old Mrs de Lacey get on with Jennifer, her daughter-in-law? How did Mrs Roper, come to that?’
Hilda reached for the teapot. ‘Refill?’ She got up to boil fresh water. It was clearly a device used to give her time to think, and Clement obligingly waited her out, then held out his half-empty
mug for a top-up when she was finished doing her thinking.
He was well aware that, if this woman hadn’t wanted to speak, he’d have been unable to make her. She would have responded to threats, bribes, flattery or guile with the same bland smile, routing him utterly.
‘I’m afraid Mrs Roper always took her cues from the old woman and treated them like gospel,’ Hilda said, and Clement began to pay even more careful attention. ‘And Mrs Vivienne hated her daughter-in-law like poison.’
Although she spoke the words in her same, usual quiet tone, and with no undue emphasis, it only served to make her actual words all the more shocking.
Clement blinked, then shifted a little in his chair. From a woman so clearly not given to exaggeration, the words hit him with quite some force. Here, clearly, was evidence of raw emotion indeed within the usually enigmatic and aloof de Lacey family.
‘Do you know why?’ he asked at last. He was careful not to insult Hilda Verney by trying to ‘wangle’ information out of her. Either she could tell him, or she wouldn’t, and they both knew it.
But he thought he had the measure of the woman now. And whilst she might be careful who she spoke to and what she said, she was also the kind of woman who had a keen sense of her civic duty, as well as a moral compass of her own.
And the death of a little boy, by any standard, was wrong. Even if she could see no correlation between old family feuds and a village boy’s recent death, she was not about to gainsay a man like Clement Ryder.
‘I believe the old Mrs de Lacey had some doubts regarding her daughter-in-law’s… fidelity to her marriage vows.’
Clement let out a long, slow, breath. ‘Ah,’ he said, then added carefully, ‘And was she biased, in your opinion? Some mothers can be over-fond of their children, especially their sons, and in those kinds of cases, no girl can quite be good enough.’
Hilda Verney smiled a shade grimly. ‘I don’t think anyone who knew her would ever accuse Mrs Vivienne of being the “doting” mother type,’ she said, and then rose from the table. ‘And now, I really must be getting on with preparing the family dinner, Dr Ryder. It’s been so nice chatting to you.’
She had gone as far as she was willing to go and would go no further. And as frustrating as he found it, he respected her limits.
‘Well, it’s been very nice talking to you too, Mrs Verney,’ he said graciously as he rose from the table.
And he meant every word of it.
Chapter 22
Whilst Dr Ryder was letting himself out of the kitchen, and contemplating with some satisfaction his meeting with a rather remarkable woman and an even more interesting interview, Trudy was walking down the village lane. She was surrounded by Eddie Proctor’s collection of brothers and sister, but was learning very little for all her careful questions.
Oh, she could tell that the eldest boy felt somehow guilty for not saving his brother from his fate, and was consequently inclined to be rather angry and aggressive with everyone and everything. And she had discerned that the youngest of them hadn’t really understood the concept of death, and still expected to see Eddie sometime soon – perhaps sitting down for his share of the family dinner.
The ones closest to his age knew him and his habits best, but apart from the fact that he was always ‘up at the Hall with Emily’ or playing conkers or cards when it was raining, she could learn little more.
But one thing she had established to her own satisfaction – if Eddie had come into some money recently, he hadn’t shared it with any of his siblings.
Trudy walked them as far as the turn-off to their house and watched as they all rushed up the path, eager for their meal. She was very relieved to see that it was the children’s mother who opened the door to them, but was careful not to let Mrs Proctor see her.
But at least Doreen Proctor was now up and about and had started caring for her large family. That had to count for something, didn’t it? Even if she did look pale and washed out.
Feeling pensive, Trudy turned and made her way back towards the Hall.
*
Two men up on the edge of the woods, taking care to make sure they were concealed by the outer edge of trees, watched her movements through binoculars.
They were the same two individuals who had been sitting, unnoticed and mostly forgotten, at the back of the pub on the day that Trudy and Clement had gone there to chat to the regulars.
One of them meticulously noted her movements down in his notebook, whilst his companion turned his attention back to the Hall. He was just in time to notice Dr Clement Ryder emerge after his interesting chat with the cook.
Like his companion, he duly noted down details of the coroner’s activities in his notebook.
After he’d done so, they watched in silence as the policewoman and the old man met up and began to talk.
‘Do you think these two are going to cause problems?’ one of them asked thoughtfully.
‘I doubt it,’ his companion said shortly. ‘They’re hardly Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, are they?’
*
Down below, Trudy told Clement about her mainly negative findings after talking to Eddie’s brothers and sister, and Clement filled Trudy in on what the cook had been able to tell him.
‘Sounds like you had a more productive time of it,’ she said wryly. ‘So that’s why the villagers all went quiet when we mentioned Martin de Lacey’s wife. If she caused a bit of a scandal, they would close ranks about it around strangers.’
‘Poor chap,’ Clement said mildly. ‘Martin de Lacey, I mean,’ he added, when Trudy shot him a slightly puzzled look. ‘The cuckolded husband is always a figure of fun. If his wife had been the sort to have affairs, it must have made him very angry.’
Trudy nodded. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Well, whilst we’re here, we might as well go and see if Mr Oliver de Lacey or his mother are in,’ Clement mused.
‘She might be, but he’ll probably be at the college, this time of day. Or up in London,’ she added gloomily.
But for once, her pessimism was unwarranted, for after they’d made their way to the charming dower house, it was Oliver de Lacey himself who opened the door to their summons.
Chapter 23
At 35, he was younger than his cousin, and his head of plentiful, well-cut dark hair showed that, unlike Martin de Lacey, he was yet to be bothered by the prospect of incipient baldness. Also unlike his cousin, he preferred not to sport a moustache, and – in Trudy’s opinion – was rather the better-looking for it. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking him for anything other than a de Lacey, with the same wide grey eyes and square chin that could be seen in many of the family portraits that were hung on the walls back at the Hall.
‘Hullo?’ His glance went first to Trudy, his eyes widening slightly as they took in her neat dark uniform and the cap perched pertly on her head of upswept hair. ‘Police eh? Has mother been forgetting to pay for her dog licences again?’
Trudy smiled politely, introduced herself and the coroner, and somewhat coldly stated their business. Why was it that so many people mistook her for a meter maid?
‘That poor young chap who drowned in our well? Bad business that. Better come in then,’ he said at once, stepping aside to let them pass. ‘Mother’s not in. Playing bridge at some old pal’s place, I expect. I’m not in for much longer myself – got a tutorial at four.’ As he spoke, he eyed a grandfather clock that was ticking ponderously in the hall they were passing through. ‘Into the sunroom I think. Second door on the left.’
The sunroom was aptly named, and resembled a sort of small mini-library-cum-lounge, with one wall dedicated to bookshelves. The rest of the room was taken up with a large low coffee table and several easy chairs. A generous amount of spring sunshine slanted in through a set of modern French windows, doing its usual party trick of flirting with the dust motes dancing in the air before falling across an ancient dog that was snoring in front of an unlit fireplace.
‘Bit of a bad sh
ow on our part, that well not being properly covered and all that,’ Oliver de Lacey admitted at once, taking a chair and indicating they should do the same. ‘Not like my cousin not to be on top of stuff like that. Mind you, it’s really the estate manager’s job to… Yes, well, it’s easy to apportion blame after the fact, isn’t it?’ he said smoothly.
He was dressed in a rather fine three-piece suit of dark navy with a fine red pinstripe, black Oxfords, and an Eton tie, and looked as unlike a country squire as it was possible to be. Clement found it easy to picture this man, dressed in the colourful and ornate academic gown that he was surely entitled to, striding towards the Sheldonian Theatre to attend some academic function or other, looking for all the world like the Oxford don he was. Little wonder the well-heeled Marjorie Chandler was having difficulty taking her pick of the cousins.
‘I’ve spoken to your cousin Martin,’ Clement began amiably, ‘and on behalf of the boy’s father, he’s asked me to investigate the incident just a little further.’
‘Oh? But surely there’s nothing untoward in the inquest’s findings?’ Oliver said, one dark eyebrow rising in query. He neatly crossed one leg over the other at the knee, careful to smooth out the slight crease in his trouser leg that this motion instigated, and began to sway his loose foot lazily in the air. ‘The poor tyke fell in by accident, didn’t he?’
‘Oh, we’re not disputing that,’ Clement lied smoothly. ‘But obviously his parents would like to find out, if possible, exactly how that came about. Just for their own peace of mind.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see that,’ Oliver conceded immediately. ‘It must be beastly for them not knowing the whys and wherefores. But I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ he said, looking at Trudy, then back to Clement. ‘Who can ever know what’s in someone else’s mind, especially at a time like that? Perhaps he saw a bird fly out and was looking for its nest? Robins and blackbirds do nest in some queer places you know.’
