by Tessa Arlen
Mrs. Wickham went out last night dressed in her finery to meet someone in the orangery, a man to be precise, and to the best of Mrs. Jackson’s knowledge the only men who knew that the building was accessible were:
1. Mr. Evans
2. Mr. Stafford
3. Mr. Clark (unlikely)
But who could have attacked her—if it was not the man she was meeting? However much Mrs. Jackson could picture Mr. Evans making a romantic assignation with Mrs. Wickham, she simply could not imagine him being violent—even if he did not get what he wanted. Mr. Evans was an opportunist, not a brute. She picked up her pencil and wrote the names of the two people staying in the house who had retired to their rooms for the night: Mr. Urquhart and Mrs. Bartholomew. Next she wrote Mr. Wickham.
And then, because he was the only person in the house who knew the orangery was open, she wrote Mr. Evans. But she did not, or could not find it in herself to write the name Mr. Stafford. After a moment’s pause she added a fifth name to the list: Mr. Haldane. And then she stared down at the names on the paper:
1. Mr. Urquhart
2. Mrs. Bartholomew
3. Mr. Wickham
4. Mr. Evans
5. Mr. Haldane
And then finally, because this was, after all, an investigation and she knew she must, she reluctantly wrote Mr. Stafford’s name.
Sitting next to Lady Montfort as they ate their breakfast, she ran over the four names of the men in the house that Mrs. Wickham might have gone to meet in the orangery. She discarded all of them except for Mr. Evans and Mr. Haldane. She took a sip of her strong Darjeeling tea. Mr. Evans’s florid charm and ornate manners might very well appeal to a coquette like Mrs. Wickham.
The thought that she’d had yesterday, as she stood in the covered passageway with the butler, came into her mind again: the reason why there were no young women working in the house was because Mrs. Haldane or her housekeeper, Mrs. Walker, had the wit not to tempt the butler’s weakness by hiring young women servants. It was not because Mr. Bartholomew was untrustworthy with young and pretty women servants, as intimated by Mr. Urquhart; it was probably because Mr. Evans was.
She sighed and hoped that she had this right, hoped she was not being as silly as Mrs. Wickham evidently was in her judgment of men. Her sigh must have been an audible one, because on looking up she saw Lady Montfort’s brows were up in interrogation.
“Something just occurred to you, Jackson?” she asked in a low voice.
And she answered, “Possibly, m’lady, I am not quite sure.”
“Good, then when we are finished here we shall enjoy a little after-breakfast stroll on this particularly lovely summer day, so you may deliberate further.”
Mrs. Jackson chewed absentmindedly on a mouthful of breakfast, seeing in her mind only the open door of the orangery on a moonlit night and the tall, broad-shouldered figure of the butler as he walked up the steps, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand as he did so.
How on earth could Mrs. Wickham possibly be interested in the attentions of this apology of a butler? A man as unsavory as Mr. Evans? It was preposterous.
Hold on a moment, she thought. Just because she dresses in expensive clothes and swans around all day long doing nothing does not make her a lady. No lady would run around outside in the dark of night with someone other than her husband. An image of one of Lady Montfort’s friends who had done just that crept into her head. Well all right then, she thought, no real lady would be caught running around outside at the dead of night with someone other than her husband.
And was she only supposing it must be Mr. Evans because she couldn’t bear the thought that Mr. Stafford might find a nincompoop like Mrs. Wickham attractive? Before she could stop herself she saw again Mr. Stafford walking up the steps, in the moonlight, to the open door of the orangery. She felt her cheeks flush and reminded herself to keep a cool head. That is exactly what the trouble is with these investigations, she thought. They always turn up facts that are unsavory and make you wish you hadn’t started snooping around in the first place.
For the sake of this investigation she must be willing to accept that Mrs. Wickham intended to meet either of these two men. But what was far more to the point, who in the house had attacked her? Was it her husband, her host, the recently made widow, the elderly bachelor, a jealous butler, or the man she found herself very pleased to spend time with?
She had lost her appetite for her breakfast. She put down her knife and fork and patted her mouth with her napkin and looked across at her ladyship to see if she was ready to go to the orangery.
* * *
“What a perfectly beautiful morning. I think it is going to be a hot day.” Clementine adjusted her hat brim against a bright morning sun as they stepped out of the terrace door and crossed a lawn still shining with dew. “Really, Jackson, the grounds are quite superbly kept, top marks to Mrs. Haldane’s head gardener. Shall we go by way of the rose garden?” She noticed that her housekeeper was still preoccupied, as she seemed barely aware of the beauties of the day, and certainly no gasp of appreciation escaped her as they walked along ranks of late roses in their well-manicured beds.
“Mmm, yes, what a pity. Lots of hybrid teas. I have to say I dislike their stiffness, and there is a distinctly garish hue to some of them. But I do approve of the overall design of the garden beds. And look at that very pretty rustic summer house at the far end of this rose arch, taken as a whole it is really quite charming.” She chattered on, aware that her housekeeper was immersed in her own inner conversation as they walked down the central path of the garden under a continuous tunnel of shockingly pink roses.
She is on to something, Clementine thought. What a keen brain. And wondered if she should tell her housekeeper about her humiliating experience the night before last when she had tiptoed along a corridor at two o’clock in the morning to eavesdrop on Mrs. Haldane’s cries of misery in the company of her husband. No, no need at all. No need to completely throw in the towel and tell her everything. She would never understand my behavior, any more than I can forgive myself for it.
“So we are to meet Mr. Stafford in the orangery to hear what he has learned from the two young gardeners who found Mr. Bartholomew?”
Mrs. Jackson came out of her reverie and said, “Yes, m’lady, he said he would meet us there at ten o’clock.”
“Since we are a little early, let us stand here and look at the lovely view from this pretty summerhouse; it will be quite breathtaking when the lake is completed. How clever he is.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Now we have a minute to ourselves, Jackson, tell me what occurred to you at breakfast.”
“Most certainly, m’lady, but might I have a few more minutes to think some more on it? It is an idea only half thought out.” Her housekeeper’s voice was distant and preoccupied and there was a frown on her face as she stared across the lawns at Mr. Stafford’s crater.
“By all means, Jackson, by all means. Oh look, there is Mr. Stafford now, walking up the rise toward us. There, he has just waved, he has spotted us. So let’s walk on to meet him.” And, turning, she beheld her housekeeper’s cool stare as she watched Mr. Stafford coming up the steps, two at a time, from the lower lawn toward them.
Now for heaven’s sake, thought Clementine, why the frost? I thought these two were getting on splendidly when we went to the lake with Miss Jekyll yesterday.
Mr. Stafford took off his hat as he came up the steps. “Good morning, m’lady, Mrs. Jackson.” Clementine watched her housekeeper nod rather stiffly as she returned his greeting. Which caused Mr. Stafford to look slightly puzzled, but being the steady sort of man he was, he preceded them, without a word, up the path to the orangery.
“What a lovely building—what graceful proportions.” Clementine wished most fervently that her husband’s forebears had had the intelligence to build an orangery in the grounds of their house. This one was particularly elegant. The orangery was a tall one-stor
y glass-paned building with a large glass dome. Its proportions were perfect, the seven graceful floor-to-ceiling single Palladian windows spaced regularly across its stone front took up the entire south wall. The center window had a pair of double doors as an entrance. In front of the building was a wide flagstone terrace so that in summer the citrus trees could be wheeled to stand in front of the orangery, and then taken back inside during the cold winter months where they would produce a bountiful crop of oranges, lemons, and limes.
The sun shone brightly on the glass dome and roof of the house, lighting the line of dark-leaved trees within. In front of the building’s terrace was a formal herb garden. The sweet fragrance of thyme that edged its chamomile paths and the stronger, more pungent scent of rosemary and lavender in the last flush of bloom perfumed the warm morning air.
“Delightful,” murmured Clementine, glancing at the upright figure of her housekeeper pacing alongside her with her chin up and her eyes on Mr. Stafford’s back.
“How did you manage to get a key?” she asked Mr. Stafford as they stopped outside the double doors of the building.
“I asked the head gardener if I might have one for a few days. I told him that I want to create a view of the lake from the orangery. He was a little reluctant until I explained my reason. Mr. Haldane has been very clear that the orangery not be left open,” he said as he turned at the entrance. “Look, Lady Montfort, you see if we remove those trees over there”—he pointed to an overgrown group of ash trees on the far side of the herb garden—“anyone standing in the orangery or on its steps, right here, will have a view across the herb garden and down onto the new lake.”
“Oh really? How frightfully clever of you, Mr. Stafford. Of course I can’t see what you mean until you remove the trees, but I am sure we are looking in the right direction.” Clementine felt just the slightest tension building between her companions and was anxious for it not to take hold. It was bad enough having to pick her way among such a volatile group in the house; surely out here with her two friends she might relax and enjoy a pleasant break in her morning?
“Was the orangery locked up last night, Mr. Stafford?” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was polite but formal.
“No, I had an appointment in the village and was running late after we met here, and I simply forgot to lock the door.” He reached out his hand and opened the door, standing back to allow them both to enter the lofty interior crowded with trees that scented the air with the last of their blossoms.
“An appointment in the village?” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was a little sharp-edged. Clementine thought she sounded like her husband’s maiden aunt questioning the veracity of a schoolboy nephew.
Mr. Stafford did not answer her, but a small frown deepened the lines between his eyes.
“What a delicious scent!” cried Clementine, trying to distract from the animosity in Mrs. Jackson’s voice and chilly expression. “Actually, in the warmth of this glass room, it is almost overpowering.”
“Yes, that is why the windows in the roof are open to provide air circulation, otherwise it would be too hot in here for citrus; they should have been wheeled outside for the summer, not left in here. They are not a subtropical species, but Mediterranean in their temperament.” He laughed and glanced at the housekeeper, who made no response.
Clementine decided to nip any conversation that criticized temperament of any kind in the bud. “Did you tell Mrs. Jackson that you had a chance to talk to the two gardeners who found Mr. Bartholomew?” she asked.
“Yes, I brought up the subject with both Peter Wainwright and Johnny Masters. It was young Johnny who found him. He’s only about fourteen, but a decent boy and he works hard. One of his jobs is to sweep up and water the trees in here and pick up any fallen fruit so they don’t stain the floor.”
Clementine looked down; the floor was beautifully tiled in a Moorish pattern and the huge pots that the trees were standing in were glazed in a similar design. The tall, silent room was magnificent. She shuddered to think that a man had come in here to die.
“Where was Mr. Bartholomew? Where did Johnny find him?”
“Over here.” Mr. Stafford walked to the far side of the room to a corner where, concealed behind a large lime tree, were a collection of taps fixed to the walls connected to some neatly coiled garden hoses. In the dusty corner were stray dried leaves, curled, brittle, and browned with age.
“Poor man,” Clementine said, thinking how much he must have suffered as he crawled across this beautiful floor to die. “Was he trying to get to water, perhaps?” she added, looking at the hoses attached to the wall.
Mrs. Jackson said nothing.
“I am sure he was. Mr. Wainwright was outside weeding the herb garden later that morning when he heard Johnny’s cries of shock—they were so loud they brought him in at the run. When he came in he found Johnny on his knees about here. And Mr. Bartholomew was lying about there.” He paced the area, pointing to the tiled floor. “Mr. Wainwright sent Johnny for help and stayed here to try and revive Mr. Bartholomew, although he guessed almost immediately that he was dead. Mr. Haldane had just arrived back at the house from Manchester and it was he who summoned the doctor. No one was allowed in here until Dr. Arbuthnot came.”
“Did Mr. Haldane come into the orangery when he was told of Mr. Bartholomew’s death?”
“After he had telephoned for Dr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Haldane came down here and saw for himself that Mr. Bartholomew was dead. And he waited outside, along with Mr. Wainwright, for the doctor.”
Mrs. Jackson had listened attentively to all of this and now she turned and walked to the nearest window to look out into the herb garden. “What is that?” she asked, pointing. “There by the side of the path on the left. Do you see? It looks to me”— Mrs. Jackson turned to look at Mr. Stafford—“as if it is a shawl.”
“So it is!” cried Clementine. “What keen eyesight you have, Jackson.” And the three of them walked outside.
Mr. Stafford bent over and picked up a white lacy evening shawl and held it up. It was a very fine shawl indeed, as light as the froth on whipped cream before it begins to thicken. And caught in the lace were stray leaves and bits of broken twig.
“Did you know that Mrs. Wickham was accosted last night at about ten o’clock when she went for a stroll in the garden, Mr. Stafford? She said someone threw something over her head and pushed her to the floor.” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was without any expression whatsoever. Mr. Stafford stood quite still, with the shawl in his hands.
“Yes, everyone has heard about it, Mrs. Jackson, from the scullery to the potting-shed.” He held the shawl out to them. “Do you recognize it as belonging to Mrs. Wickham?”
Clementine took it and said, “I don’t know but it will be easy to find out.”
“What on earth was she doing out here at night?” he asked, his hands on his hips as he stared thoughtfully at Mrs. Jackson.
“She was possibly here to meet someone. Even though everyone knows the orangery has been locked for several months, that is until yesterday afternoon and evening, of course.” Mrs. Jackson’s voice was quite even, although she did not look at Mr. Stafford as she answered his question, but gazed off into the middle distance of the herb garden.
“Ah yes, I see now. Someone let it be known that the orangery was open.” Mr. Stafford’s face was solemn. “The only people who knew it was open were her ladyship, you, me, and Mr. Evans, and of course old Mr. Clark, but since he rarely bothers to talk to anyone I doubt he is our culprit. Is Mrs. Wickham often to be found wandering the grounds alone at night?” His voice was light and there was the beginning of a smile on his face.
“We do not know about Mrs. Wickham’s habits,” said Mrs. Jackson, finally returning her gaze from the center of the garden to the steps up to the orangery. “But she said when she came into the house last night, after her attack, that she had been strolling either in the shrubbery or the rose garden. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind which.”
“When s
he was actually in the orangery, do you mean? Waiting to meet someone in the orangery? And in your polite and thorough way you are trying to work out who that might have been.” He sighed in what seemed to be exasperation and Clementine realized that she was witnessing a falling-out between her housekeeper and Mr. Stafford.
“Or, even more interesting,” said Mrs. Jackson, looking down her nose at the herb garden’s beds—anywhere but at Mr. Stafford, “who it might have been who came up behind her, threw her shawl over her head, and then pushed her down onto the floor of the orangery before running away.”
“What an exciting evening you must have all had,” Mr. Stafford said, folding his arms across his chest. Clementine couldn’t bear it any longer. This was quite ridiculous; what was Jackson driving at?
“Actually it was I who had the exciting evening; Mrs. Jackson had retired early. I was downstairs when Mrs. Wickham came rushing into the conservatory, sobbing that she had been attacked. As Mrs. Jackson says, Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. Haldane seemed to believe that she was out in the garden to meet someone. The attack, on the other hand, was supposed to have been made by a tramp, who had wandered willy-nilly into the grounds.” Clementine laughed, anything to soften the polite exchange that had just taken place between the two of them. Why on earth is Jackson being so accusatory?
“I think Mrs. Wickham met someone here in the orangery. There were dried leaves and bits of cobweb on the hem of her gown and a little sprig of orange blossom in her hair. She said her attacker came up behind her, threw her shawl up over her head, pushed her to the floor, and ran off; hardly the action of an admirer. I suppose that when she picked herself up and started to run for the house she dropped her shawl in the herb garden. It all seems quite straightforward to me.” She realized that she was overdoing her explanations and that Mrs. Jackson appeared not to be listening.
