3. Tiffs and Tea
“THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR coming.”
Araminta’s cheeks ached from her forced smile as she ushered the last of the tour group out of the mansion. She watched them amble towards the tearoom, then, heaving a sigh, turned to Laura who had stayed behind with her.
“Come on.” Laura crooked her finger. “I need a ciggie break.”
As they headed away from the Hall and the day trippers, Araminta said gloomily, “Well, that could’ve gone better. A boy gets injured, and his mother screams at me. Hardly an auspicious start.”
“What tosh,” Laura said. Reaching the privacy of a tall hedge, she paused to light up a cigarette and took a quick puff. “It was just the right bit of entertainment to spice things up a little.”
“Meaning the actual tour was dry and boring?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, sweetie. By the way where did you get those shoes? They’re divine.” She waved her cigarette at Araminta’s black-and-white low-heeled mules.
“Lake Como,” Araminta replied. Perhaps she should’ve remained in Italy. “I thought this tour guide thing would be a breeze. I mean, I know all this.” She waved a hand at the honey-coloured stone walls of Missenden Hall. “And I’m good at dealing with people...at least, I thought I was. Maybe I’m not anymore.” Not after the Incident in the Library. (She was already thinking of it in capital letters.)
“Look, Tristan was behaving like a terror, and his mother was simply insufferable. Everyone could see that, and no one blames you for dropping that lid on his fingers.”
“But I didn’t drop the lid! He did it himself!”
“Really?” Laura snickered. “Well, McVeigh was right; the boy is a spoiled brat.” She chuckled harder.
Araminta gave a reluctant smile which quickly faded away. “If these tours are to succeed, I must learn how to be more diplomatic.”
“You? Diplomatic?” Laura hooted at the idea. “That’s one of the things I like best about you, sweets. You don’t suffer fools gladly.”
“But I should, if only for my aunt and uncle’s sakes. There’s a lot riding on these tours.”
“Is that right? I wouldn’t imagine they’d rake in much cash, at only eight pounds a pop.”
“Every penny helps, believe me. The situation is quite dire.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I didn’t realise things were that desperate.”
“They haven’t shared the precise financial details with me,” Araminta admitted, “but I know they need more cash flow. To my mind, the tours are just the beginning. They could start hiring out the hall for weddings and functions. It’s a lucrative market. But it depends on people liking Missenden Hall and spreading the word. I just hate to think what Debra and her precious Tristan are saying about us right now. And what will my aunt and uncle think?” As the gloom sunk in, Araminta filched her friend’s cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke.
“I thought you’d given up,” Laura said when Araminta handed back the cigarette.
Araminta blew out the smoke. “It’s an ongoing saga.”
“By the way, I saw Joel chatting with you after the tour. It looked to me like he was flirting with you.”
“Flirting!” Araminta coughed and thumped her chest. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“His body language, the way he leaned into you, how he ran his fingers through his hair. He’s a good-looking man, and you’re beautiful. Of course he was flirting.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m many things, but beautiful isn’t one of them. Not when I’ve been blessed with the Winthrop nose.” Araminta tapped her proboscis which was best described as Romanesque. “A nose like this looks distinguished on a man, but not so much on a woman. I’m rather proud of it, actually, even though my dear father once suggested surgery. Can you believe the hide of that man?”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Laura said. “I scrub up all right with makeup and clothes, but you don’t even have to try with your red hair and, shall we say, aquiline features. Anyway, Joel was definitely interested, and there’s no harm in a little flirting, you know.”
Araminta touched her nose, remembering how her husband would run his finger along its ridge as if he were a blind man trying to “see” her features. The memory made her blink, forcing her to turn away to regather herself.
“Oh, sweetie. I’m a blundering idiot.” Laura touched her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to remind you of dear Ian....”
“You’re not an idiot, and I don’t mind in the least.” At least she didn’t have to explain herself to Laura. Lifting her face to the sunshine, she breathed in the lavender-scented air. “I know you mean well, but I’m not ready yet.” Would she ever be ready? Maybe not. But that was fine by her.
“Of course. Plenty of time for that later. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the shop. Here, why don’t you finish this?” Laura handed the stub of cigarette to Araminta.
“Thanks, but no. I really shouldn’t. You go ahead. I’m going to stay here for a bit longer. Maybe we can meet for a drink later.”
“Excellent idea. I’ll tell Garrick to come along, too. Meet you at The Jolly Fox tonight.”
Araminta watched her friend walk away, half-wishing she hadn’t refused the cigarette. But she didn’t need the nicotine hit, she told herself. And she hated the smell of cigarettes on her clothes anyway.
The sound of angry voices caught her attention. Peering over the hedge, she spied the grumpy gardener from earlier now haranguing one of the visitors.
“Oh, dear,” Araminta murmured to herself as she recognised the bald-headed, tattooed visitor. “What’s McVeigh up to now?”
“Look what you’ve done to my petunias!” the gardener yelled in a thin, high-pitched voice.
“Your petunias! Didn’t know they were yours, mate,” McVeigh retaliated. “You don’t own any bloody petunias anymore. You’re just the help now, like the rest of us.”
The gardener clamped his mouth shut, his nostrils flaring as he glared at the barman. He lifted the spade. McVeigh, undaunted, took up a boxer’s stance, fists raised.
Araminta darted around the hedge and ran towards the two men. “Ah, hello, there!” she called out, the heels of her mules sinking into the soft soil as she skirted the edges of a large flowerbed. “I hardly think fisticuffs are called for. What’s this all about?”
McVeigh scowled. “Ask him.” He jerked his chin in the other man’s direction. “You should keep an eye on that clodhead.” He flicked his hand under his chin, the rude gesture aimed at the gardener, then turned and marched away, deliberately stomping over a patch of flowers.
The gardener made a strangled noise in his throat. “Mongrel!” he muttered under his breath.
“All right, he’s leaving now,” Araminta said. “What’s your name?”
“Ollie Saunders.” The gardener eyed her sullenly. He looked to be in his mid-forties, a raw-boned, awkward figure with work-roughened hands and deep-set eyes. He wore muddy jeans and a soiled, red-and-black AFC Bournemouth jersey. “You’re the Winthrops’ niece,” he said with a touch of resentment.
“That’s right. Araminta Templeton. You must be new.”
“Started a coupla months ago.” Ollie drew his forearm across his mouth. “That McVeigh is a troublemaker. Why’s he here anyway? Up to no good, I’m sure. You seen what he did to them petunias!”
“Well, I’m glad you’re so protective of the flowers, but keep in mind we’re giving tours, and he is a legitimate visitor. We need to be as welcoming as possible.” Even as she said the words, she was reminded of her own failings. “I know it can be hard sometimes.”
Ollie grunted. “I suppose I should be grateful I got this job. Lord Winthrop’s been fair with me.” He was still gazing after McVeigh, who was now out of earshot.
“Why were you and McVeigh arguing?”
Ollie shrugged. “He likes to throw his weight around. Don’t believe nothing he says.”
“Such as?”
T
he gardener’s eyes narrowed. “How would I know?” With a final shrug, he slung the spade over his shoulder and tramped away.
THE TEAROOM WAS SET up in a disused potting shed near the kitchen garden, separated from the house by a courtyard with a pergola, heavy with fragrant blooms of wisteria. Several visitors sat at the outdoor tables, enjoying their tea and cake. One of them was Debra, furiously powdering her reddened cheeks. When she caught sight of Araminta, she paused, then pointedly turned her head away and continued with her primping.
Why was that woman still here if she felt so insulted, Araminta thought to herself?
Inside the tearoom, Hetty stood at the makeshift counter serving a customer.
“That’ll be six pounds and fifty pee,” the housekeeper said to the man. “Go on, then,” she chided the woman standing beside her at the counter. “You heard—one slice of lemon cake and two scones. Honestly, Cherise, I don’t know what’s got into you.”
Cherise seemed unaffected by Hetty’s reprimand. A solidly built thirtysomething-year-old with freckled skin, blunt cut brown hair, and a slight squint, she moved listlessly as she shovelled cake and scones onto a plate and shoved it towards the customer without a word or a smile. The man took his plate and walked out, shaking his head.
“Just a cup of tea, please,” Araminta said when it was her turn. “Milk, no sugar.”
“Of course I remember how you like your tea, Miss,” Hetty huffed. She turned back to her assistant. “Cherise, we’re running out of milk. Can you go to the kitchen in the big house and bring back a couple of bottles? And don’t dawdle,” she added as the woman shuffled away.
“Busy afternoon?” Araminta asked with a sympathetic smile.
Hetty nodded and sighed. “We would’ve coped nicely if only Cherise had her head screwed on properly. I don’t know what’s got into her.”
“Maybe the job’s too overwhelming for her.”
“Shouldn’t be. She works at Good Nosh, you know, that fancy food shop and café in the village. That’s why I hired her in the first place; because I thought she’d be used to dealing with customers. There’s nothing complicated here, just tea and cake. But I’ve had to chivvy her all day.”
“Is she feeling ill?”
“She’s feeling something all right. Now, I’ve run out of teapots. Do you mind a bag?” When Araminta shook her head, Hetty dunked a teabag into a cup and filled it from an urn of hot water. “My guess is it’s man trouble again. Me and her mam are friends, you see. I’ve known Cherise since she was a teenager. She’s a decent worker most of the time, but she has a habit of picking up prats. Or, more like, she attracts them. She’s got a weakness for smarmy men who suck her in and then leave her high and dry.” She placed the cup in front of Araminta. “Sorry it’s not proper leaf tea, Miss.”
“It’s perfectly fine.” Araminta went to draw her purse from her pants, causing the housekeeper to draw back in horror.
“Oh, no! I can’t let you pay. You’re family, and besides, you’re guiding the tours.” Hetty flapped her away.
“Well, thank you, Hetty.” Araminta poured milk into her cup.
“Hope the tours are going well. Me and Isla spent weeks getting the house ready. There was ever so much stuff to tidy up. And it’s not my fault the place was going to rack and ruin. That house needs at least two fulltime maids, and I’m just one pair of hands.”
“You’ve all done a marvellous job. I’ve never seen the place so free of clutter.”
“We couldn’t go through everything, you know. There wasn’t enough time. We ended up putting most of the leftover stuff downstairs. Me and Isla will still have to go through all that later, I suppose.”
“I should be able to lend a hand with that,” Araminta said.
“That would be wonderful, Miss. So, you’re back for good, then, is it?”
“Possibly, but who knows?” Araminta picked up her cup. ““I think I’ll take this outside. I should have enough time before the next tour.”
Hetty nodded. “You do that, Miss. Now where’s that Cherise gone? If you see her, tell her to get a wriggle on. Honestly, that woman. She should give up on men, that’s my opinion. Ends in tears every time.”
With Hetty’s grievances still filling her ears, Araminta went outside. Sunburnt Debra had thankfully disappeared. As she settled into a seat, she spied Cherise trudging back from the house carrying two bottles of milk. The woman looked weighed down by life, her hair hanging over her face, her feet dragging in the gravel. As she paused to adjust the bottles in her arms, her head twisted to the left, and she suddenly froze. Following the direction of her gaze, Araminta saw a handful of visitors strolling around the gardens. Which one of them had caught Cherise’s attention?
Then, she made out the familiar bald head of McVeigh as the barman strode towards the parking lot. Where had he gone after his brief spat with the gardener? McVeigh seemed in a tearing hurry. He hurried up to a decrepit motorbike, jammed a helmet onto his head, and flung a leg over the saddle. The motorbike roared into life. Blue smoke rose from the exhaust as he revved the engine and peeled off. Seconds later, there was a loud bang.
Araminta started, almost losing her grip on the teacup. A woman at the next table squawked and dropped her cake on the ground. The barman roared off, apparently unconcerned and unrepentant.
“That dratted McVeigh,” Araminta muttered to herself.
She drained her cup, then stood up to straighten her white crepe pants. It was time she got ready for the second tour.
Back at the house, she used the downstairs bathroom to wash her hands and tidy her hair. Emerging in the hallway, she looked around her. All was quiet and empty.
Her aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight. Uncle George was probably closeted upstairs, trying to block out reality, but she had expected to see her aunt around. Didn’t Edwina want to know how the first tour had gone? Perhaps she, too, couldn’t stomach the reality of the paying public filing through the house that had been her home for so many decades.
Now, where was that clipboard containing her tour notes that Isla had given her? She couldn’t remember where she’d put it. The library was the last place she recalled holding it.
She crossed the hallway, her mules click-clacking on the tiled floor, and pushed open the doors to the library. She circled the room, casting about for the clipboard.
That’s odd. One of the bookcases was out of alignment. The bookcase that masked the hidden staircase. She moved towards it, intent on shutting it. A second later she stuttered to a halt.
Sticking out from the bookcase was a foot, clad in a polished brown shoe.
Araminta rushed forward and swung the bookcase open. At the foot of the staircase a man lay on his back, his face twisted away from her. He was very still. And very quiet.
Her heart boomed in her chest. Instinct screamed at her to flee. Instead, she leaned over to see who it was.
Joel Taylor’s sightless eyes stared back at her. A lock of dark hair curled boyishly across his forehead. In the centre of his chest was a dagger, buried to the hilt. Blood bloomed across his shirt like some hideous flower, pooling beneath him on the dusty floor.
4. A Gruesome Discovery
PC BAWTREE’S ADAM’S apple bobbed up and down. “Blinkin’ heck. Don’t expect much of this around here.” He stared at the dead body with awe. “So, you say you know this fella?”
“Yes. His name’s Joel Taylor. He was on my tour earlier.” Araminta stood a good distance away from the open bookcase, but she could still see the dead man’s protruding foot. His shoe was a polished, chestnut brown Oxford loafer, his sock an Argyle print in beige-and-pink. His linen trousers had ridden up slightly to reveal an inch of tanned skin. She still couldn’t believe he was dead, still couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to stand up, brush himself off, and declare it was all a practical joke.
After making the gruesome discovery, Araminta had locked the library doors and used her mobile phone to call the local police station at Cra
nley. Within five minutes two constables had arrived. Soon, detectives would arrive from police headquarters in Farrington, the same station where her late husband, Detective Chief Inspector Ian Templeton had worked for many years. How many dead bodies had Ian seen during his long career? She’d never contemplated that, until now.
Raised voices sounded from the hallway outside. Then, the door to the library swung open, and Lady Winthrop swept in. Beneath her perfectly coiffed hair, her face was pale and set in rigid lines.
“What’s going on?” she demanded of Araminta. “Someone’s died in our library?” Rather than shocked, she sounded offended, as if such a thing were a complete breach of manners.
“I’m afraid so, Aunt Edwina,” Araminta replied. “I’ve called the police, as you can see. This is PC Bawtree.”
The constable jumped to attention. “Afternoon, my Lady. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Ignoring him, Lady Winthrop moved towards the hidden staircase. “Who is it? Good gracious! What is it doing there? That place is out of bounds.”
PC Bawtree edged in front of her and held out his hands, blocking her path. “Sorry, my Lady, but I can’t let you come any closer.”
Lady Winthrop gave him an icy glare. “It’s ‘your Ladyship.’ Only female judges are addressed as ‘my Lady.’”
“Er, yes, my La—I mean, your Ladyship.” PC Bawtree tugged at his shirt collar. “The victim’s name is Joel Taylor.”
“Victim? You mean he’s been murdered?”
“There’s a dagger in his chest,” Araminta said as she tried—and failed—to draw her aunt away from the scene of the crime.
“How preposterous!”
The knife, so stark and hideous, pulled Araminta’s gaze once more. She sucked in a breath as recognition hit her. “That knife! It was in there before.” She hurried across the room to the wooden display cabinet that housed the collection of swords and knives. “I showed this to the tour group earlier, the one Joel was part of. Look, the silver dirk is missing.” She pointed to the empty slot beneath the Japanese katana that the teenager had been so eager to try.
A Stab in the Dark Page 3
