by Carola Dunn
“I expect he did, as far as the physical fabric is concerned, at least. The firm is noted for good, solid workmanship. Aesthetically—”
Daisy laughed. “Aesthetically, grottoes are noted for a mishmash of Romantic sentimentality, Gothic grotesquerie, and Classical pretensions.”
“Indeed! I shall have to make sure to visit the place while I’m here.”
“I understand you’re at Appsworth to do business with the firm.”
“Not on my own account,” Sir Desmond said quickly, as if Daisy had accused him of robbing a bank.
“Of course not.”
“You’re laughing at me, Mrs. Fletcher. Your generation may find it quaint, but I assure you, it’s not so long since being personally involved with a manufacturing business could get one blackballed.”
“How fortunate that you’re involved only on behalf of the government—or so I hear? And in the building business, rather than manufacturing.”
His eyes narrowed, though on the surface his manner remained urbane. “You seem to know a great deal about my business. You’re a journalist—but this isn’t the place or the time. I’d like a word with you after dinner, if you please.”
“I’m not a reporter. And even if I were in the habit of regaling the scandal sheets with tidbits, which I’m not, I rather doubt they’d be interested in this particular snippet of news. But if you need further reassurance, I’ll be happy to give it to you later.”
He gave an abrupt nod, and turned away to respond to Mrs. Howell’s anxious twitterings on the subject of the lack of fish.
While sparring with him, Daisy had overheard Rhino, seated on Mrs. Howell’s other side, ragging her about the bad soles. Lucy now distracted him with a question about some mutual acquaintance on the London social scene. She had been chatting quite happily with her other neighbour, the sandy young man, who had a Canadian accent. His name was apparently Armitage, but Daisy hadn’t been able to hear enough of their conversation to work out what his place was in the scheme of things. His attention, in turn, was captured by the doctor’s wife, as loquacious as her husband was taciturn. Perhaps, Daisy thought, her loquacity accounted for his taciturnity.
At least his silence left her free to study the rest of the diners. Armitage, though attending to the doctor’s wife sufficiently to make the proper noises in the proper places, was gazing diagonally across the table at Julia, with a besotted expression on his face.
Oh dear, Daisy thought, another victim, and by the look of him one who was not likely to win Lady Beaufort’s approval even if he earned Julia’s.
Julia was on friendly terms with Owen Howell, as far as Daisy could tell, though they were on her side of the table, beyond the doctor, so she couldn’t see them properly. A pleasant chat at the dinner-table was hardly significant, but what a turn-up if Julia were to fall for the plumber! It seemed at least as likely as that she should accept the abominable Rhino.
At the far end of the table, the unlikely quartet of Mr. Pritchard, Lady Ottaline, Lady Beaufort, and the young bureaucrat were getting on like a house on fire. Daisy decided Pritchard must be a brilliant diplomat, wasted on the world of plumbing.
A couple of maids removed the soup dishes. Sir Desmond turned to Daisy and said in a low voice, “Why all this fishy business?”
“Much ado about nothing. I’ll tell you later if you really want to know.”
The maids reappeared. An astonished silence fell as they placed in front of each diner a small plate with a couple of sardines, decorated with croutons and parsley.
Daisy looked at Lucy. Lucy looked at Julia. All three burst into fits of laughter. The infectious sound made most of the others smile, but Mrs. Howell looked ready to weep. Rhino didn’t help by saying disdainfully, “Fish! This might just possibly be adequate as a savoury.”
“I told Cook to do the best she could.”
“Very ingenious of her,” said Daisy. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howell. We were just laughing at a private joke. Nothing to do with your cook, or your excellent dinner.”
“Are you going to share it with us?” Pritchard enquired with a grin.
“Certainly not,” said Lucy, simultaneously with Julia’s, “Oh, we couldn’t possibly, I’m afraid.”
“Just a bit of juvenile schoolgirlish nonsense,” Daisy explained. “Not at all funny to anyone else.”
“Well, Lord Rydal, at least your obsession has given us all a bit of a laugh. If this isn’t enough fish for you, you’re welcome to mine, too. Winifred, you know I don’t like fish.” Ignoring her resentful look, he beckoned to his butler. “Barker, present this to Lord Rydal, with my compliments.”
Rhino looked askance at such a brazen departure from ordinary etiquette, but to insult his host at his own table would be an even worse breach of decorum. He was apparently conversant with the rules of good manners, even if the guiding principles escaped him. Daisy noticed that he ate all four sardines.
Dinner continued without further untoward events. Mrs. Howell managed to eat with her lips pursed. Daisy wondered whether she was contemplating revenge, perhaps in the form of offering her brother-in-law nothing but kippers and kedgeree for breakfast. Silent, she made no demands on Sir Desmond’s attention. He apparently forgave Daisy for being a journalist and entertained her with a smooth flow of small talk. He had an endless fund of anecdotes, no doubt very useful to a civil servant, and some of them were even quite amusing.
At the end of the meal, Mrs. Howell was still lost in a brown study. She made no move to lead the ladies from the dining room. Daisy disliked the practice except insofar as it allowed her to escape cigar smoke—it was bad enough that Rhino had lighted a fresh cigarette after each course. She wondered whether the plumber’s household had abandoned the custom of the ladies’ withdrawal, or had never followed it. Then she realised that Lady Beaufort was staring at her with a slightly desperate fixed look. When her ladyship saw that she had Daisy’s attention, she nodded towards their hostess.
Daisy leant forwards and said gently, “Mrs. Howell, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars?”
She came to with a start and a shudder. “Cigars? Horrible things.” She stood up. “He will smoke them, though he knows I hate the smell.”
Daisy didn’t believe it was the thought of cigars that had made her shudder.
The host went to the door and politely held it as the ladies departed. Daisy hung back so she was last to reach him. “Would you mind awfully if I used your telephone, Mr. Pritchard?” she asked. “It’s a trunk call, I’m afraid, but of course I’ll reverse the charges.”
“Of course you won’t, my dear. Make as many calls as you want.”
“Thanks, one will do! I promised my husband I’d ring to let him know I arrived safely.”
“That’s the ticket. But don’t hang about waiting for the connection. Barker can fetch you to the telephone when the call goes through. I’ll tell you what, how’s this for a notion? Why don’t you ask Mr. Fletcher to join us at the weekend? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. He’d be very welcome.”
Daisy beamed at him. “That’s frightfully kind of you. I’m not sure whether he’s going to be free, but I’ll pass on the invitation.”
“And . . . I don’t suppose . . . Do you think Lord Gerald might like to come down as well?”
“I’ve no idea what his plans are, but I’ll tell Alec to ring him up and ask.”
“Better check with Lady Gerald first.”
“She won’t mind. If he comes, either she’ll be glad to see him, or she’ll be too busy taking photos to notice. We’re both so much looking forward to exploring the grotto tomorrow.”
“No need to wait if you’d like to take a look later this evening. I had gaslights put in, you know.”
“Did you really? I’d like to see it.”
“I think you’ll find the effect quite . . . interesting.” Pritchard’s tone had suddenly become mysterious, even creepy. “I’ll have it prepared.”
&nb
sp; “Thank you.” Daisy went after the rest of the ladies.
How odd, she thought. Could anything be more prosaic than plumbing? Or manufacturing? A creepy manufacturer of plumbing supplies seemed like a contradiction in terms. All the same, she was jolly well going to drag Lucy out into the frosty night to accompany her to the grotto, like it or not.
SEVEN
Daisy’s call came through quite quickly. Barker summoned her before the men rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. He led the way across the front hall.
“The master said to use the apparatus in his den, madam,” he said, opening a door.
“Thank you, Barker.” Pritchard’s den, at a glance, resembled any country gentleman’s private retreat. Somewhat to her disappointment, she saw no obvious reminders of plumbing, historical or modern, just a large leather-topped desk, leather-covered chairs by the fireplace, several bookcases. She promised herself a quick look at the books after her call. It wasn’t nosiness, she assured herself, just her usual inability to resist satisfying her curiosity about people. Reading a few titles wasn’t snooping.
She sat down at the desk.
“If madam would be so kind as to hang up the receiver when the call is finished . . .”
“Of course,” said Daisy, surprised.
“I beg madam’s pardon for mentioning the matter, but the fact is, one of our present guests never does so.”
“Lord Rydal? It would be just like him!”
“Far be it from me to contradict madam. Will that be all, madam?”
“Yes, thank you, Barker.” Daisy picked up the phone. “Alec? Darling, we arrived safely.”
“So I gather.”
“You do sound grumpy. Bad day at work?”
“So-so. I got home early enough to play with the twins, for once. It would have been nice if you’d been there, too. Mrs. Gilpin was at her most difficult.”
“She always is when I’m away.”
“What’s more, I’m going to have the weekend free, barring trouble, and you’re off in the wilds of Wiltshire.”
“Do come down, darling. Mr. Pritchard’s invited you, without my saying a word on the subject. He’s rather a nice little man.” Daisy remembered the creepy feeling and added, “I think.”
“You think? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. I can’t explain, not on the phone. It’s nothing really.”
“I’m coming down, as soon as I can get away.” Alec’s tone said, I’m a policeman, don’t argue with me.
“Oh, good!”
“Ring me every evening till I arrive. Not before Saturday afternoon, I’m afraid. And if I find you’re making a mystery just to get me to come—”
“Darling, I wouldn’t! Oh, by the way, the invitation is for Gerald as well. Could you ring him, and if he can manage it, you could drive down together.”
“I can’t see squeezing him into the Austin.”
“Why not? If you can fit Tom Tring in, you can fit Gerald.”
“I was thinking more of his dignity than his size.”
“Gerald’s not that fussy! But let him drive.”
“Then the Bincombes would have two cars there, and we’d have none.”
“That’s all right. I’ll go back to town in luxury in Gerald’s Daimler, and you can have the grand adventure of being driven by Lucy.”
“Not on your life! I’m too fond of mine. I’ll ring him and we’ll work it out one way or—”
“Caller, your three minutes are up. Do you want another three minutes?”
“No, thanks,” Alec said. “Don’t forget to ring tomorrow, love.”
“I won’t. ’Night, darling. Give the babies a kiss from Mama.”
She wasn’t sure how much of that he’d heard before they were cut off, but the babies were young enough not to notice if they didn’t get a proxy kiss from Mama. In fact, they’d long since be in bed and asleep anyway. She missed them already.
Hanging up, she took extra care to make sure the receiver was securely in its hook. She didn’t want the butler thinking she was as careless as Rhino of other people’s convenience.
Beside the desk was a deep cabinet that appeared to hold wide but shallow drawers. Blueprints, Daisy guessed vaguely. She wasn’t absolutely sure what a blueprint was, but something to do with technical designs, she thought. Resisting the temptation to peek, which really would be prying, she turned to the nearest bookcase.
The titles left her not much the wiser. There were books on hydraulics, hydrology, metallurgy, geology, and a couple more ’ologies she’d never heard of. Her school had not considered it necessary, or indeed advisable, for young ladies to study the sciences. Ceramics wasn’t much more comprehensible, and how could anyone find enough to say about coal-gas to write a whole book on the subject? But others included pottery, porcelain, earthenware, and tile-making. Bathtubs and lavatories and wash-basins, sewer pipes and drainage tiles, Daisy assumed. As a landowner’s daughter she had at least heard of these last. At Fairacres, the watermeadows by the Severn had flooded every winter and the drain tiles were constantly in need of upkeep.
Plumbing was a much more technical and scientific occupation than she had realised. And then there was the financial side of creating and running a large and successful business, successful enough to enable Mr. Pritchard to buy the estate from the impoverished Appsworth family. He must be a much cleverer man than he appeared on first acquaintance.
Daisy returned to the drawing room. During her absence, the men had gone in, but as she entered, the doctor said to his wife, “Time to go, Maud.”
“Yes, dear.” She went on talking to Lady Beaufort.
“Maud!”
“Coming, coming. So you see, Lady Beaufort, I had absolutely no choice. I told her there was no question . . .”
Giving his babbling wife a look more likely to kill than cure, the doctor sat down in a corner and brooded.
Mr. Pritchard saw Daisy come in and came over to her. “Call go through all right?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. Alec will be happy to come down on Saturday if he can get away—he can never be absolutely sure till the last moment, I’m afraid. And he’s going to ring Lord Gerald to see if he’s free.”
“Excellent, excellent. And the children, how are they getting along without you? Lady Beaufort mentioned that you have twins.”
Daisy warmed to him again. No one who enquired after her babies could really be creepy. “They have a very good and trustworthy nanny, or I wouldn’t leave them.”
“Glenys and I always wanted children,” he said regretfully, “but it was not to be. Her nephew Owen is like a son to me. He’ll have everything when I go, the house as well as the firm. But let’s not think of such gloomy things. Have a liqueur to warm you and then I’ll take you to the grotto. I recommend a Drambuie. Those Scots know a thing or two about keeping out the cold.”
Having accepted his offer, glass in hand, she looked for Sir Desmond, intending to reassure him about her lack of interest in writing about council house bathrooms. She wondered why he was so anxious about it. Was there some sort of shenanigans going on? Bribery and corruption, she thought vaguely, but she didn’t know enough about any aspect of the subject to have a clue whether he was in a position to sign a contract in favour of Pritchard’s, or anything of the kind. Perhaps Alec would be able to enlighten her, though she wasn’t at all sure she really wanted to be enlightened.
The Principal Deputy Secretary was talking to Julia and Rhino, so Daisy joined Lucy, who was chatting vivaciously with the Principal Deputy Secretary’s Private Secretary.
“Daisy, did you meet Mr. Carlin?”
“Not properly. How do you do?”
“How do you do, Mrs. Fletcher.” Carlin was very young, scarcely down from Oxford, at a guess. His family must have influence for him to be a Private Secretary rather than a common or garden secretary or a mere clerk; not sufficient influence to get him into the more prestigious Foreign Office, however.
> “I’ve told him Alec is a civil servant, too,” said Lucy, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She knew that was Daisy’s usual evasive description. Most people equated bureaucrats with dullness so it generally served to head off further enquiries.
But to young Carlin, not yet jaded, the civil service that had recently swallowed his life without a hiccup was still a subject of absorbing interest. “Which office is Mr. Fletcher in?” he asked eagerly. “What’s his line?”
“Oh, this and that.” Daisy gave a vague wave intended to signify that she’d never bothered to find out what Alec did every day. “Lucy, Mr. Pritchard has offered to show us the grotto tonight. You will come along with us, won’t you, Mr. Carlin?”
“I say, of course! Only too delighted.”
“Darling, you can’t be serious,” Lucy protested. “At this time of night? It’s freezing cold outside, and I wouldn’t be able to take any photos. You can write about the grotto by night if you want, but I’m not wasting plates and flash-powder when I can’t even see what I’m photographing.”
“Mr. Pritchard has put in lighting. He says the effect is worth seeing so you’re jolly well going to come and see it, photos or no. You won’t be cold if you wear your motoring coat.”
Between them, Daisy and Mr. Pritchard rounded up most of the party for the expedition. Lady Ottaline wasn’t keen, but when she realised it was the older ladies—Lady Beaufort, Mrs. Howell, and the doctor’s wife—who were staying behind, she obviously didn’t want to be counted among them. Daisy noticed that it wasn’t till Lady Ottaline committed herself that her husband agreed to go. However, as they all set out across the gardens behind the house, Sir Desmond offered the support of his arm not to his wife, but to Daisy.
The only person unaccounted for was the mysterious Mr. Armitage. He hadn’t joined the others in the drawing room. Daisy resolved to interrogate Lucy about him. After sitting next to him at dinner, she surely must have learnt something about him.
