by Tessa Arlen
Clementine pulled her notebook out from under her pillow and started to write. She would have to be very careful not to arouse suspicion with what she intended to find out. The thought of that angry, violent man turning on her made her heart beat furiously, as she wrote, Where was Roger Haldane on the morning that Rupert Bartholomew ate his poisoned breakfast?
Chapter Nine
Lady Montfort and Mrs. Jackson had decided to go down to breakfast together to familiarize themselves with the room in which Mr. Bartholomew had eaten his last meal. As they descended the wide staircase into the hall, Mrs. Jackson wondered if she would have any appetite at all for breakfast in this house, but as they arrived in the dining room she was reassured by the beautifully appointed room with its well-polished mahogany table set with fine china and silver. Sunlight streaming in through windows fell on vases of simple summer flowers arranged in the center of the table. Even more reassuring was the sight of the sideboard with its familiar row of well-polished silver chafing dishes, which every country house in England set out to greet its guests each morning. The silver dishes glinted in the morning light, each offering the glories of a well-cooked and bountiful breakfast that had been the tradition of hearty English country squires down through the ages. The only difference in this modern century was that there was no small-ale on offer, but the delightful aroma of fresh coffee.
Miss Jekyll, already seated at the table, was tucking into a buttered kipper and two poached eggs, with a rack of toast awaiting her attention to her right. There was a purposeful and rather grim expression on Miss Jekyll’s face. And was it Mrs. Jackson’s imagination or did she send a rather reproachful look in Lady Montfort’s direction as they walked into the room? She is probably not looking forward to this rose-judging business, Mrs. Jackson thought, and given the overly competitive nature of the individuals involved, I don’t blame her one bit.
She lifted the lids of the chafing dishes on the sideboard and noticed that there was no kedgeree among the many offerings. She helped herself to a sausage, some mushrooms, and a grilled tomato, then sat down next to Miss Jekyll, who was already in conversation with Lady Montfort as her ladyship sipped her tea and nibbled toast and marmalade. She noticed, in the bright light of morning, that her ladyship’s face was strained and tired and that she was barely listening to what Miss Jekyll was saying to her.
“That won’t be enough to fuel you for the day,” Mrs. Lovell said, her plate piled with eggs, bacon, and kidneys, as she lowered her newspaper and gave Lady Montfort’s lean breakfast a critical once-over. Her ladyship merely smiled and sipped her tea, her tired eyes politely fixed on Miss Jekyll’s face as she listened to her opinions on the overuse of statuary, urns, and fountains in the naturally designed garden. “Excessive use of these objects ruins the aesthetic balance of a well-planned landscape and simply designed gardens, as they clutter the lines of sight,” she pronounced and, judging by her creased forehead, it was clear that Hyde Castle’s owner was guilty of sprinkling the terrain with far too many objets d’art.
Mrs. Lovell put her newspaper to one side and said to Mrs. Jackson, “I do hope you were not put off by Mr. Urquhart talking about his conversations with the long-dead Henry Bennett.” Her round plain face was wrinkled in concern that her friend might be thought a crackpot. And Mrs. Jackson smiled in what she hoped was encouragement as she poured milk into her tea and picked up her knife and fork. The sausage, she noticed with approval, was absolutely delicious, simply bursting with flavor. She made a silent vow to visit Hyde Castle’s dining room every morning for breakfast.
“Finley has many eccentricities, but he is a very dear man, and would not harm a fly,” Mrs. Lovell pursued, her large breakfast left untouched on her plate. “But he truly believes that we can converse with the spirit world.” She picked up her knife and fork but made no attempt to eat as she watched Mrs. Jackson’s face, no doubt hoping for signs of disbelief. “It is quite a harmless preoccupation, I assure you. It is not as if he dabbles in the occult.”
The occult? The words conjured up images of the Hellfire Club. Mrs. Jackson had to look away and bite the inside of her lips so that she did not smile at the image of Mr. Urquhart luring tender young virgins up to the West Wycombe caves where a group of elderly Regency roués lay in wait as they took snuff and flicked specks of dust off their impeccable Honiton lace cuffs. She shook her head in incomprehension as she took another bite of heavenly pork sausage and wondered if it would be greedy to help herself to another one. Images of an uneaten plate of kedgeree came to mind and she decided against a second helping.
“I was not joking last night when I said he consulted the long-dead Henry Bennett on the procedures for breeding roses,” Mrs. Lovell explained, her eyes watchful, her manner alert to how her words were received. “Of course Maud, being the kind soul she is, obliged him in a little séance years ago. That is until Clive put a stop to it. He said that sort of thing was against all the tenets of the Anglican faith, but Clive can be very judgmental.” She laughed. “I just wanted you to understand that Finley only calls on benevolent spirits.” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes I am almost tempted to ask him to talk to Henry Bennett about my roses.” She sighed at the frustrations she evidently experienced in producing the perfect rose. “Once one has had a little success with breeding a good specimen, it is terribly hard to produce another that does not replicate the first one. I am hoping that Miss Jekyll will be able to offer some helpful advice.”
“I am very much looking forward to seeing your roses.” Mrs. Jackson decided she had heard enough of Mr. Urquhart’s fascination with table turning and Ouija boards. She rather agreed with Mr. Wickham that contacting the spirit world was sacrilegious. “What is the name of your rose, Mrs. Lovell?”
“I have two,” Mrs. Lovell corrected. “Lovely Amelia is my very first pink tea rose. And Lovell’s Beauty is the rose I am working on at the moment. We are nearly there, but a rose-breeder’s work is never done.” She smiled, and Mrs. Jackson thought what a well-meaning individual she was. It must have been quite a task for her to help keep the peace with the touchy Mr. Wickham, the aggressive Mr. Haldane, and the apparently flirtatious Mr. Bartholomew causing havoc among the ladies. But for the life of her she could not imagine this kindly woman being jealous of Mrs. Haldane’s crush on the late Mr. Bartholomew.
“And Mrs. Haldane’s roses?” she asked innocently, quite aware that there was no specimen on view from Mrs. Haldane in the conservatory.
“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Jackson, I have just remembered to arrange for the roses to be moved from the conservatory, before they all expire in the heat. Charles…” She gave detailed instructions to the footman to arrange for the head gardener to move the trestle table out onto the terrace, and after all her orders had been repeated faithfully back to her, she turned to Mrs. Jackson to explain her reasoning.
“It is a lovely morning; there is absolutely no need for us all to be confined in the heat of that conservatory on such a delightful summer’s day,” she said, with an almost indulgent smile for the elderly man. “Finley will wrap up warmly and we will all enjoy the beauties of the day.
“I am so sorry to have interrupted you, now where were we? Ah, yes, you were asking about Maud’s roses. Dear Maud has so far not produced a specimen that she wishes to share with us. She is still a novice and, to her credit, does not take risks or shortcuts but is patient to learn her craft. But when Maud produces a specimen I expect the world will most certainly sit up and take notice.” She ended quite passionately, making Mrs. Jackson wonder again at Mr. Urquhart’s gossip that Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell had been at each other’s throats over the irresistible Mr. Bartholomew. Perhaps now that Mr. Bartholomew is no longer around to cause trouble between them, their friendship has regained its original happy state, she thought as she regarded the earnest face before her.
“Maud is a selfless woman,” Mrs. Lovell continued. “She is generous-hearted and sympathetic. I respect her loyalty to a husband who
is sometimes a little selfish where she is concerned.” For a moment Mrs. Jackson thought that perhaps Mrs. Lovell was going to say more on the subject of Mr. Haldane, but clearly she felt she had said enough about her host. She patted her mouth with her napkin and put it down next to her plate. The footman came over to pull her chair back from the table as she stood up.
“Now I must go and get my roses ready for Miss Jekyll.” And she left the room.
Mrs. Jackson decided that she rather approved of Mrs. Lovell. But she was not entirely sure that Mr. Urquhart had the relationship between Mrs. Haldane and this kindly woman quite right; she simply could not imagine Mrs. Lovell being jealous of Mrs. Haldane, and it was quite clear that she valued their friendship and was Mrs. Haldane’s loyal friend.
* * *
After breakfast, Mrs. Jackson, in the company of Miss Jekyll and Lady Montfort, spent a pleasant hour inspecting the large, irregular crater that Mr. Stafford had made in the middle of what had once been a smooth south-facing lawn. And when they had finished exclaiming about long views, perspective, and the simplicity of a well-balanced landscape, Miss Jekyll took Lady Montfort off to the shrubbery on their walk back to the house, leaving Mrs. Jackson to walk with Mr. Stafford.
“I feel rather stupid, but I don’t understand how you create a lake,” Mrs. Jackson said to Mr. Stafford as they crossed what remained of the lawn and made their way to the flight of stone steps leading up to the rose garden and from there to the terrace of the castle.
“Oh, you simply dam a small stream, or deepen and widen a pond that is spring-fed, as I am doing. But it is a protracted business.”
“And very expensive?” Her Lancashire prudence about money never left her, even working as she did for a rich man who spared nothing to gratify his wife’s often rather grandiose garden plans.
“Terribly expensive.” He laughed. “But Mr. Haldane can well afford it. And if there is to be war then he will be still richer, if he can persuade the government to give him a contract for supplying the army with his tinned beef stew.”
Mrs. Jackson shuddered at the thought of opening a tin of stew. “How can men go into battle with nothing but that sort of stuff in their stomachs?” Her disgust made him laugh again.
“Because it’s convenient. What do you imagine the army ate when it went into battle, before there were tinned rations? I promise you, army victuals have always been unpleasant and frequently scarce; more often than not, men fought on empty stomachs after a day of marching.”
But she didn’t hear him, as she was thinking that if Mr. Haldane had coveted Mr. Bartholomew’s lucrative government contract and was jealous of his romantic friendship with his wife, then here were two very strong motives for his getting rid of his friend.
“What was the name of Mr. Bartholomew’s tinned beef?” she asked.
“Bartholomew’s Bully Beef; it was what we all ate in the Boer War. It was awful stuff, a lump of beef fat and gristle, with turnips. Eat it hot or cold, it said on the tin. But you had better try to eat it hot, because cold it was lethal. Mr. Bartholomew increased his fortune considerably through the Boer Wars with his tinned rations, and he was still under contract to the government when he died. But now the contract is open to new vendors.”
“I didn’t know you fought in the Boer War,” Mrs. Jackson said, thinking he was surely far too young and also that it was interesting that on Mr. Bartholomew’s death a plum contract was now available.
“I was, for a mercifully short time, at the very end. I was at the relief of Ladysmith in 1900 with Lord Dundonald, to my everlasting shame. I was shot through the shoulder, a flesh wound, so I was back in England when they rounded up the Boers, burned their farms, imprisoned their women and children in camps and then, when they were broken and defeated, shipped the men off to different parts of our glorious empire. Later I found out that most of those men died when they were transported.” She glanced up and saw how grim his face was. This was a different account of the Boer War from the one that Iyntwood’s butler, Mr. Hollyoak, loved to tell. “Did we really do all of that to the Boers?” she asked.
“Yes, we really did all of that to the Afrikaner men, women, and children—we took everything they had from them and when they had nothing left, took their dignity and the lives of their families. War brutalizes men. It doesn’t take much to strip away the thin veneer of civilization and expose our barbarity.” She was struck by his thoughtful understanding of human nature. It is true, she thought, it doesn’t take much to push a man, or woman, to do the most terrible things if they believe the lives of those they love and protect are threatened, or, she thought of that lucrative contract, are motivated by greed.
She stopped and they stood looking out across the crater toward the distant hills; she tried to imagine it brimming with placid blue water, its scarred outline softened by mossy banks and trees shading its edges. It would be a beautiful prospect when it was finished. She could easily see from this distance that the lake would fit quite perfectly into the shallow valley. She realized that she appreciated the ornamental landscape in much the same way she appreciated a well-appointed and beautifully furnished room. Miss Jekyll had said in her lecture yesterday that a garden was like a house, it had several rooms, and that each had its own particular identity.
“Do you think we will go to war?” she asked the silent man standing next to her, gazing down over his carefully thought-out contribution to the immaculate grounds they found themselves in.
“Our Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, is trying to set up a meeting to negotiate for peace in Europe—I hope it is not too late. War accomplishes nothing in the long run. At the very least it creates a muddle for future generations to deal with and at worst it destroys civilization. But I fear there will always be wars; it is part of man’s nature.” And then, perhaps hearing how grim he sounded, he added in a different tone of voice altogether, “I would much rather discover who might have murdered Mr. Bartholomew with you.”
She did not dare look at him when he said this, but she felt the hairs on her neck prickle in delight and she had to force herself to say quite matter-of-factly, “So you think he was murdered, then?”
“I have no idea, but it would be interesting to find out, don’t you think?” She risked a glance at his face and felt her throat tighten. He was smiling at her with such a tender expression, his brown eyes in the morning sunlight were bright with good humor, and she could see the flecks of gold in the irises, like tiny splinters of barley sugar.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It would be interesting to find out.”
* * *
Clementine’s walk into the garden in the early-morning sunlight in the company of practical and straightforward people whom she liked and trusted was a tonic after the miseries of her night. She had not yet spoken to Mrs. Jackson about what she had overheard last night. Part of her was reluctant to share this information. Mr. Haldane’s bullying behavior was outrageous, but she felt that her corridor-creeping had been both dishonorable and ill bred. As soon as the right moment occurs I will ask her what she thinks about what I overheard, she said to herself, still feeling acute embarrassment at admitting to anyone that she had eavesdropped on her host.
As she and Miss Jekyll broke free of the path through the shrubbery and approached the flagstone terrace, Clementine was conscious of an atmosphere of tension mounting among the members of the Hyde Rose Society. As they walked up the wide, shallow stone steps to the long trestle table set out in front of the conservatory and covered in a heavy dark cloth—the better to display the specimens to be judged—the chatter ceased among the competitors and they fell into a watchful silence.
The pots of roses were separated into four distinct groups with each of their nervous creators standing behind them.
“Oh dear.” Miss Jekyll’s plain, round face expressed reluctance and Clementine felt guilty for having involved her. “I am sure they will be most awfully annoyed with me when I have finished with them.”
&nbs
p; “Perhaps leniency is the best approach,” Clementine suggested, and Miss Jekyll turned a disapproving face toward her. “I don’t think I need to let them off that easily, Lady Montfort. As serious rose breeders they need to know that they have produced some specimens that will be a blight on the rose world unless they are told of their deficiencies; except perhaps for Mr. Bartholomew’s Golden Girl and his other white rose. In the end all that will be bruised will be their egos, and it is not the ego that should be considered here but the interests of horticultural science.” She took a deep breath and strode forward purposefully toward the now-silent group.
Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Haldane, both dressed in white cotton voile dresses and wearing ornate hats covered in silk roses, were standing side-by-side, sharing a lacy sunshade. Clementine had not yet seen Mrs. Haldane this morning and was surprised that after her night of suffering, she appeared to be quite normal in her unsuitably ornate dress. Standing next to Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Haldane, Mrs. Jackson’s handsome face glowing from the exertion of her early-morning walk in contrast to the two pale ones beside her, made Clementine almost catch her breath. But there is something else going on here too, she thought, for as Mrs. Jackson turned her head to listen to something Mr. Stafford had just said to her, Clementine perceived in the angle of the way they were standing, a little apart from the group and even from each other, that they were wholly wrapped-up in their conversation and completely oblivious to the others standing around them. The look on her housekeeper’s face was, as usual, quite composed and yet there was a distinct gleam in her eye as she responded to what Mr. Stafford had said and then she gave a quick smile as she nodded her head and the smile almost broke into a laugh. Great heavens, Jackson is certainly very pleased to have met up with Mr. Stafford again. I wonder …
