by Cathy Ace
Jennifer left the room as Althea returned her attention to Mavis.
‘Did you bring anything suitable for dinner?’ asked the dowager. ‘Henry has invited us to join them at the hall later on.’
Mavis nodded. ‘I have a black dress that suits most occasions,’ she replied. ‘Though I left my pearls at home, I’m afraid.’ She winked at the dowager.
‘Pearls are not a requirement,’ replied her hostess with an impish grin. ‘I like you, Mavis MacDonald,’ she added.
‘I’m glad,’ replied Mavis, ‘because I don’t imagine you’re a person I’d enjoy having as an enemy.’
‘How very perceptive of you.’
‘I’ve never been accused of being blind to the obvious.’
The two women raised their coffee cups toward each other and drank.
For several moments a comfortable silence filled the room. Althea returned her attention to the newspaper, and Mavis stood to admire the borders in the walled garden beyond the windows. She watched Ian Cottesloe as he moved easily between the tall plants, pulling at the odd weed and resetting stakes as he moved from one end of the pathway to the other. Mavis considered his role with the local youth and especially the football teams.
She’d spent some time with him as he’d shown her around the property the previous day, and she’d warmed to him. What she’d read as surliness as he drove her from the railway station had, she believed, been a product of the fact that he wasn’t sure of her status in the household. Once Mavis had made it clear to him that she had nursed the dowager, many years previously, while she was visiting the Scottish estate, he seemed to open up. He finally appeared to be able to relate to her within his world view. Mavis wondered what it must have been like to grow up on the Chellingworth Estate as the son, and grandson, of men who had performed the same duties. Concepts such as continuity, a pride in the achievements of previous generations, and a sure knowledge of one’s future and past seemed, to Mavis at least, to be in short supply in the modern world.
Ian Cottesloe was not a young man struggling to find himself by wandering the world with a backpack; he knew who he was, and what was expected of him, and he’d made it abundantly clear to Mavis that he was more than happy with his lot. When Mavis had sought to draw him out about those he knew within the local environs, eager to understand if there was a person, or people, in his life who might entice him or encourage him to allow them access to the Dower House, his demeanor had suggested to Mavis that, while he was tied to the local community in many ways, they were not ties that would bind him in such a way that he would break the trust that had existed between his family and the Twysts for three generations.
He had no girlfriend, that much she had established. In fact, Ian had laughed when she’d asked him about a young woman being in his life, and had responded that he was happy to wait to meet his wife, as his father had been to meet his mother. He told Mavis about how his mother had come to the estate as a kitchen maid and how she and his father had finally married when she became the under-cook. Ian was good looking, there was no question, and his very demanding work meant that he was in excellent physical shape. But Mavis wondered if a modern woman would be able to cope with the life he clearly wanted to lead.
‘A penny for them,’ said Althea as she pushed her folded newspaper to one side.
Mavis turned. ‘Ach, I’m a Scot, Althea. How about I charge you a pound and we call it quits?’
‘Do you think Ian had anything to do with it?’ asked Althea, glancing beyond Mavis to the garden. ‘I do hope not. He’s a treasure. Like something from a lost age,’ she added wistfully. ‘Very much like his father, in many ways.’
Mavis sat opposite the dowager and weighed her words carefully. She sighed. ‘I realize this must be difficult for you, and I don’t want to speak out of turn. But, if someone came into your home, and managed to do so without setting off the alarm system, then I’m afraid it’s most likely that they received help from an insider. Now, to be sure, that person might not be one of your staff. My colleague at the office, Carol, will pursue enquiries into the people who installed the alarm and, as you know, we’re also checking into the backgrounds and local links not just of the permanent staff here and at the hall, but also of the more casual workers.’
‘But not Ian,’ said Althea quietly.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Mavis. ‘His roots here run very deep.’
‘And what about Mary? She’s a very good cook, you know.’
Mavis smiled. ‘Dinner last night proved that, Althea. And I know that Carol is continuing to check into her background. But I have to say that I found her most unhelpful when I spoke with her. At least, when I tried to speak with her. Now, to be fair, she was preparing our food while I attempted to engage her in a revealing conversational topic or two, but, in terms of her general approach to life I’d say she’s a person who sees the glass as more than half empty, and has little desire to see it refilled, for fear she’ll have nothing to complain about.’
Althea smiled. ‘Did she try to tell you about all the ailments she’s suffered?’
‘Aye, she did. But I cut her off. Believe me, as a nurse, I’ve had more than my fill of that type over the years. She’s one of those women for whom a hangnail would be interpreted as requiring the immediate amputation of a limb, probably without an anesthetic, and a simple cold would be perceived as some dreaded tropical disease. When she spoke to me about being drugged that night – which she did quite openly by the way, despite the fact that she has no idea that I am here carrying out enquiries – she had at least a dozen possible means and methods by which her unnaturally deep sleep could have been induced. I listened to that part of her conversation at least, but had to give her the benefit of my experience when she began to claim that the after effects were still being felt.’
‘Did anything she said make sense at all?’ asked Althea, leaning toward Mavis with her elbows on the table.
‘Maybe,’ replied Mavis enigmatically. ‘She was at great pains to explain how the stew was unattended in the kitchen for long periods, and she was keen to tell me, as far as she was aware, of everybody’s comings and goings that day. One thing she did mention, that maybe you can illuminate for me, is the question of whether it is, in fact, possible for any uninvited members of the public to gain access to this place. I’ve seen the wall that surrounds this house, and the locked gates within it, with my own eyes. I gather from Mary that Mrs Fernley has a key to the rear gate and that a warning telephone call, plus the use of a pull-bell at the gate, will mean that Mary will open the gate from the inside to allow those without a key to enter. Is that the case? Do you know whether Mary has ever left an unlocked gate unattended?’
Althea rose from the table and walked to the window. ‘Such a beautiful day,’ she said, ‘though it looks like we might have rain soon. Maybe a shower will send everyone running back to the hall.’ She turned and added, ‘If Mary left a gate open, she wouldn’t tell me, Mavis. She is a good cook, but I am not blind to her nature. She works for me. She would be afraid that she would lose her position for such an oversight. Henry has made it abundantly clear to my staff that they are responsible for my wellbeing, and my safety. Not that I imagine my son has ever suspected my life to be in peril in my own home.’
‘And Jennifer Newbury? Is she merely an employee, looking out for herself?’
Again Althea gave the matter some thought. ‘Ultimately, yes.’
Mavis nodded. ‘I see.’
Pulling her notebook from the pocket of her cardigan, Mavis flicked through its pages. She paused. ‘Althea?’
The dowager turned. ‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if I could talk to you just one more time about that night,’ said Mavis.
Althea sighed. ‘If you must. Though to what end I don’t know. I cannot imagine there is anymore I can say. We’ve been over it several times already.’
‘It was something you didn’t say that I wanted to talk to you about,’ replied Mavi
s.
Althea resumed her seat at the table. ‘I’m intrigued.’
Mavis smiled. ‘You told me that the young man lying on the floor had a hood over his head, but that you could see blood on the side of his face.’
Althea nodded.
‘I wonder if I could ask you to close your eyes once more and picture the scene again?’
Althea did as she was asked.
‘You’re standing above the young man. You’re close to him, as close as you ever came. McFli is causing a commotion behind you, as you told me, and you notice the blood. Can you describe that to me?’
Althea’s head tilted, her eyelids flickering. Mavis heard her breathing slow, and she could tell that the woman was willing herself back to the moment in question.
‘He’s lying on his front, prone,’ began Althea, ‘but his face is toward me. The hood is on the back of his head, not covering his entire head. The blood is … the blood seems to have begun its journey beneath his hood and to have run down from his hairline, onto the side of his forehead, and then his cheek.’
‘Would you say it looks as though gravity has done this, in that the blood is in one stream, or is the blood smeared?’
‘One stream. Yes, it looks as though it has rolled down, not been brushed down.’
‘Good. Now tell me about his hair.’
‘I can’t. I didn’t notice his hair,’ replied Althea quickly.
‘All right,’ said Mavis quietly, ‘let’s go back to the blood. You say it’s come from his hairline onto his forehead. Let’s focus there. Can you see his hair now, Althea?’
‘It’s dark. It’s not very short and it’s not very long. It’s flat, but it’s very black.’
‘Good. And now his skin, dear. I know you told me he was brown-skinned, but is his skin very dark? Or is he a lighter brown?’
‘Mid-brown. Like strong, not very milky coffee.’
‘Good. And now, finally, tell me about his eyes.’
‘They’re open. No, it’s open. I can only see one. He’s like a fish on a plate, just one eye. It’s glassy.’
‘And what color is it?’
‘Black. Well, a little bit brown, very dark brown, but mainly black. And dead.’ Althea opened her eyes and, once again, Mavis could see the fear in them.
‘You did very well, Althea.’
Althea picked up her coffee cup and drained the few last drops. ‘Good,’ she said dryly, ‘because I don’t want to have to do that again. It’s very unnerving.’
‘I know, dear,’ said Mavis, ‘but it was very helpful. I’m just going to phone Carol at her home so that she can refine her research into missing persons to focus on non-Caucasian, possibly Asian, or mixed-race young men, which could save her a good deal of effort. You remembered much more than the other times, Althea. Good job. I’ll just pop up to my room, now, if you don’t mind. I’ll join you for lunch later, how about that?’
Althea nodded and McFli barked his agreement.
TWENTY-ONE
Christine was exhausted and she’d only just finished a light Sunday lunch. She’d been up early, to get going before the public was allowed to enter the hall, and had spent the entire morning working her way from one staff member to another, raising topics of conversation which could then be turned to her advantage. She had no doubt that many of the people she’d spoken to would end up gossiping with each other about how strange she was, but she couldn’t care about that.
Her efforts had revealed two things: most of the staff were viewing her as a possible future duchess and sizing her up in their own way, and not one of them seemed to have the slightest inkling about a bobble hat having been found in the Dower House. True, most had heard about the dowager’s ‘funny turn’ almost a fortnight earlier, but it seemed that the staff at the Dower House, and the local police, had at least managed to remain tight-lipped about the bloodied bobble hat.
Lunch with Henry had been excruciating. He really had few topics of conversation except those which concerned the running of the hall, which Christine accepted was a major undertaking. However, Henry appeared to now view her as some sort of confidante, and was clearly glad that he had someone with whom he could share his deep despair that the hall would ever fund its own renovations. Though she would not reveal her anxieties to her colleagues, Christine was also beginning to panic that Henry Twyst might not, after all, come up with the readies to pay them for their time and effort.
A wave of relief washed over Christine when Henry told her that he had an important meeting to attend after lunch, and invited her to join him. She saw a chance for escape, but, on the point of declining Henry’s offer, she changed her mind when she realized it would give her a chance to make her assessment of someone she’d not been able to corner thus far: Stephanie Timbers.
The meeting took place in the estate office, to which Henry led Christine via a circuitous route, which avoided any areas open to the public. Stephanie’s delighted expression upon seeing Henry enter the office altered more than subtly when she spotted Christine behind him. Almost immediately the young woman managed to rearrange her features to present a welcoming front, but Christine had seen what she’d seen, and was sure of one thing: Stephanie Timbers was keen on Henry Twyst. That, when taken with the way Henry had defended Stephanie the night before, meant that Christine was determined to pay particular attention to the public relations professional who’d, apparently, walked away from a successful career in London to become the head of a non-existent marketing and promotional ‘department’ at Chellingworth Hall.
Accepting a rickety seat, and pulling it to an angle from which she could observe both the duke and his employee, Christine decided to allow the meeting to go ahead as planned and to become an observer. Stephanie was attractive, but not in the pretty sense. Christine noted pale skin, glossy, naturally very dark brunette hair, an aquiline nose, a strong, determined brow and a hint of the regally horsey about her. She didn’t smack of jolly hockey sticks, but Christine could see how she’d fit in – in an unremarkable way – with the county set. Of course, her English accent meant she’d stick out like a sore thumb with the locals, but it would matter less if she were to find herself mixing with tourists. In terms of her build she was short, stocky and had a not unpleasant figure, but she’d probably never look blousy, even in an evening gown. Christine reckoned she was in her early thirties, so a little older than herself, but with several good child-bearing years ahead of her.
As the meeting progressed it became clear to Christine that Henry and Stephanie were very comfortable in each other’s company; their body language showed how relaxed they were, and yet they shared a common energy, as though everything that was transpiring between them bore a little edge, which made it more exciting, even if they were having a rather hum-drum conversation about the selection of jams being served at the tea shop.
‘I wonder what your guest thinks?’ said Stephanie quite pointedly. ‘Which would you prefer to take home?’
Christine blinked with embarrassment. ‘Sorry? I just wasn’t listening for a moment there. Could you repeat the question?’
Possibly taken aback by such honesty, Stephanie repeated her query. ‘Henry and I were wondering about the comparative merits of serving the estate honey versus the local honey from the Builth Wells Country Market in the tea room. The one from the market is pretty local too, so they both fit our brand proposition. You see, the problem is, we can sell our honey for a good profit in the little shop, where people like to buy it as a souvenir for themselves, or even take it as a gift for others. Or we can put it on the tables in the tea shop for people to use. We don’t produce enough to do both, properly. I feel we should be growing the offering we have under the Chellingworth Estates brand, and that works better when people take it home, in a labelled jar. Henry’s not so sure. What do you think?’
Christine decided to give the matter some serious thought. ‘I’d say sell your stuff in the shop, use the locally produced stuff on the tables. People will
remember this place when they see the jar at home, and it’ll get the name about if they give it as a gift. But, if honey’s such a good seller, then maybe make some plans to be able to produce more?’ She’d given it her best shot, and felt satisfied.
Henry looked at her with disdain. ‘So, exactly what Stephanie said.’ He seemed to be damning Christine for some dreadful type of plagiarism, but beamed at Stephanie and said, ‘I agree with you, Stephanie. Let’s do that.’
Oh, yes, they’re more than a little keen on each other, thought Christine. I wonder what’s holding them back? Their professional relationship, or is Henry that much of a snob?
Aloud, she said, ‘Well, I’m glad to have been of some little service.’ The couple’s glances told her they didn’t think she had been, but they were both far too polite to say so.
Christine looked at her watch. The day was slipping away from her and she felt she’d learned all she could about Stephanie Timbers; a woman so smitten with the duke probably wouldn’t threaten any possible future relationship by aiding and abetting someone in their desire to gain access to the Dower House. ‘I wonder if I might excuse myself?’ she added. ‘I have some phone calls to make.’
Henry raised himself from his seat in anticipation of Christine doing likewise, and she quite rightly took this as a sign that he’d be happy for her to leave. The gleam of relief in Stephanie’s eyes told her she’d be glad to see the back of Christine – whom she, possibly, viewed as a challenger for Henry’s affections.
Having told a white lie to get out of the dingy office, Christine decided to settle herself in the sitting room to write up her reports. Wandering back the way Henry had brought her, she eventually found her safe hiding place and, having bumped into Edward on the way, she settled herself, poured herself a cup of tea from the supplies brought along by the butler, then went so far as to close her eyes and allow the afternoon sunlight to warm her skin after she’d shut up her laptop. She all but drifted off into a semi-peaceful nap.
