by Tessa Arlen
“What is it about some guests, Mrs. Jackson? I mean, letting a dog go in the house!”
Mrs. Jackson listened with sympathy; she could tell Mr. Hollyoak was exhausted. How old was he now, fifty-eight or fifty-nine? This week had been hard on all of them, but it had taken its toll on her old comrade. She closed her ledger, tucked it under her arm, and walked behind the butler toward his pantry.
“Time for a sit-down and a nice cup of tea, Mr. Hollyoak. Everyone is working to your directions, perhaps you can take a little time? I’ll get Elsie to bring in a tray to you. Been a long week, and considering everything that’s been thrown at us, I think everyone has stood up very well. Training will out, as you so often have said.”
Hollyoak turned at his pantry door as he said, “Yes indeed, Mrs. Jackson, they have done a sterling job, every one of them. I am especially pleased with young Dick. You know something? He was completely in step with me on the night of the ball, I didn’t have to ask twice, he pulled out all the stops … anticipating every single thing.” Remembering Dick’s sterling performance helped him return to his stately manner. He nodded to her, knowing she would understand the importance of proper training. A disciplined and trained army was how Baden-Powell had triumphed at Mafeking; it was why the empire continued to prosper. Training, discipline, and pride in the work one did. Mrs. Jackson had heard it a hundred times. But Hollyoak was proudly remembering Dick’s victory on the night of the ball, which in some way reflected his own dedicated service in the Boer War.
“Yes, he’s a bright lad, Mr. Hollyoak, and shows promise. Worth the extra effort to bring him on, don’t you think?” she said, hoping to circumvent Mafeking.
“Oh yes, I think so. Of course he needs to learn the importance of punctuality. Almost perfect performance throughout that night, but went missing towards the end. Couldn’t find him anywhere, but I kept that to myself, what with all this nosiness going on in the house.”
“Oh really, Mr. Hollyoak, went missing when?”
“Must have been right at the end, just before four o’clock. One moment he was in waiting on the terrace, the next moment he had vanished, reappeared about twenty minutes later of course. Have to have a little word with him about that…” He sat down at his desk and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Well, he’d been at it for eighteen hours at that time; perhaps he needed a little break,” she said, knowing that he would understand the need to get off your feet at the end of a long day. But no, she had miscalculated Hollyoak’s belief in discipline, order, and obedience—they were precepts to die by.
“I give the little breaks in this house, Mrs. Jackson,” he reminded her.
“Yes, of course you do, Mr. Hollyoak. I’ll go and get you a nice cup of tea.”
* * *
Having spent the greater part of her day confronting the stark truths that had emerged as a result of her visit to Lucinda, Mrs. Jackson felt drained by the enormity of this new intelligence, but her day in London had at least given her the opportunity to leave the stifling atmosphere of the servants’ hall for a while. Now on her return she found it almost impossible to order her thoughts, and even with the departure of the visiting horde of servants, belowstairs still felt crowded and claustrophobic. She knew that at any moment Lady Montfort would ring for her and want to hear the outcome of her visit to London, and she dreaded this moment.
She realized that for the first time in over a week she had not had a moment to enjoy her usual late-evening walk. A turn in the grounds would clear her head and give her a moment alone to decide on the proper approach to take over the subject of Violet, she decided, as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stepped out into the cool night air of the kitchen courtyard.
James and John were standing in the dairy-room door, smoking and laughing at the sort of joke that footmen particularly enjoy. Dick was sitting on the top step of the scullery door, cleaning his boots, his face turned expectantly toward them; one day Dick would wear house livery, smoke his cigarette cupped protectively in his hand, and laugh at some shared observation that only footmen are privy to—the footman’s world of upstairs gossip and intrigue.
But Mrs. Jackson had had enough of servants’-hall gossip. She walked out of the courtyard in the direction of the lake. It was a beautiful night, with enough of a moon to light the way.
She paced along the path, immersed in thought. At the edge of the shrubbery she stopped and gazed out onto the dark surface of the lake. A cool breeze ruffled the surface, causing the reflection of the moon to shiver and jump. She unclenched her jaw, took a deep breath, and rehearsed her opening words to Lady Montfort: It would seem that Violet had every reason to run away … and stopped. Perhaps it would be better if she let Lady Montfort begin; her ladyship was always brimming with questions. Get a grip on yourself, Edith, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. Just open up your mouth and get the words out. There’s no right way to say them. And you do have to say them, so just get on with it.
Far off in the woodland she heard the sharp, eerie territorial cry of a vixen hunting, and a nightjar churred in the park beyond the lake. Behind her she heard a slight rustle in the rhododendrons as field mice went about their business. She returned to her thoughts, immersed in an imaginary conversation with her ladyship. Again a movement behind her, and she almost wished she had brought one of the dogs.
She was about to turn when the rustles in the undergrowth behind her coalesced into one definite and solid sound as something altogether heavier and larger than mice came up directly behind her. A cold, strong hand closed over her mouth and her head was jerked back to rest against the chest of a tall man, wearing what felt like a heavy tweed overcoat. She felt herself lifted easily by a powerful arm around her waist as she was pulled backward into the shrubbery, off the path.
Her neck was stretched so far back that she could barely swallow, and she felt her heart convulse in a bounding leap to fill her throat, where it seemed there was no space to contain it.
There was silence, except for his harsh breath in her ear and the sound of her own thudding pulse in her head. Mrs. Jackson tried not to give way to an overwhelming flood of fear. She could barely breathe as adrenaline coursed through her in painful, prickling waves.
Finally he spoke: “Keep quite still; one twist will have your neck.” He tightened his hand on her mouth, and she felt stifled.
Keep still? She was too frightened to move. Find calm, she instructed herself, be calm.
He spoke again: “Now then, Mrs. Nosy Parker.” The voice seemed familiar but his tone certainly wasn’t. No one she knew ever spoke to her like that. She felt the beginning of indignation and it helped her push back against unreasoning fear.
“You be a good girl now. Keep quiet and listen hard.” The hand on her mouth was clean; it smelled of soap, its skin smooth. The coat her head was pressed up against was of good quality. This wasn’t the tramp, the London stranger. But it wasn’t the voice of a gentleman, either.
“Been prying, haven’t you, Edith?” He knew her name, then. “Been poking that long nose about and we don’t like that.”
Her mind struggled to remember the many men who had been at the house in the past week: visiting servants, chauffeurs, and valets. She waited for him to speak again.
“Now, Edith, we know what you’ve been up to and we don’t like it. No more of this taking an interest. No more running nosy errands for her ladyship sitting up there in her big house. Understand? Otherwise…” he stroked down the length of her taut throat, reached the hollow at its base, and tapped hard twice, “we don’t know what we’ll do.
“Now then, girlie, just stand there nice and quiet. Don’t turn around until I’ve gone. Count to a hundred, then you can go back to the house and fold your napkins and arrange some flowers, and everything will be all right. The very last thing we want is for someone to get hurt. Just say ‘yes’ if I have made myself quite clear.” He lifted his hand off her mouth.
She obediently said yes an
d was released. She gasped in cool air, her mind racing through possibilities.
Two hands descended on her shoulders and held her still for a moment, and then he was gone.
Now she felt fear, real fear. It swept through her in ice-cold waves. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. She remained there on all fours like a frightened hedgerow creature. She felt faint, giddy, and powerless. How long she crouched there she was not sure, but when she summoned up enough energy to move and got to her feet, she found to her relief that training will out after all. Her childhood had been a tough one: the workhouse and the orphanage had been full of bullies; she had long ago learned to keep all signs of fear in check, because to show it was fatal. To her complete surprise, she discovered that she was no longer frightened. Her mind was clear, and if she remained calm it would come to her whose voice she had heard. And if he was the murderer, had she just escaped becoming his second victim, or was that moment still to come? The thought was enough to send her gibbering at the run for the servants’ hall, but she made herself stand still, forced herself to remain quiet.
She didn’t have the answers right now, but given time something would help her to recognize that voice. Because, she realized, their investigation had stirred up enough mud at the bottom of the pond to alert the man they were trying to identify. But she had also been warned, and she must be very careful. There was terrible danger here and at the moment it was directed at her.
Years of dressing in the dark of early morning came to her aid; she automatically combed her hair with her fingers and found enough hairpins to make herself respectable. She took her handkerchief and dipped it into the cold water of the lake and washed her face, scrubbing her mouth where she could still feel his hand, and she shuddered. Then, squaring her shoulders and taking a steadying breath, she straightened her clothing and brushed the dirt off her knees.
It was hard to walk back through the night alone. You’re not in danger, she told herself. He may be watching you but he has delivered his warning, you’re safe for the time being.
No one felt as reassured and welcomed by the lights of the great house spilling out across the lawn as Mrs. Jackson did that night. As she walked toward the back stairs, acknowledging Dick’s call that Lady Montfort would like to see her as soon as possible, she told herself that one thing was certain: telling Lady Montfort about Violet would be a piece of cake in comparison with her other news.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Clementine’s sleuthing hour with her housekeeper last night had so thrown her off-balance that she had been unable to sleep. Conflicting emotions of fear and remorse were all that remained to torment her throughout the night after Mrs. Jackson returned to the servants’ hall.
Teddy’s vicious treatment of Violet had been devastation enough and had left her senses reeling, but the news that her housekeeper had been accosted so aggressively on the grounds of her house was such a shock to her already stunned sensibilities that her self-recriminations knew no bounds. How could she have put her loyal and trusted servant at risk? How could she have been so utterly naïve as to suppose their questions would not arouse the interest and intervention of violent men? She replayed the last of her conversation with Mrs. Jackson over and over in her mind.
“We should stop all this, Jackson, right now. I can’t run the risk of your being hurt. What was I thinking?” she had said to her housekeeper, who stood before her, frighteningly composed and seemingly detached from everything she had told her.
“Ordinarily I would agree with you, m’lady. But I believe it was a threat and nothing more than that. How could I possibly be in danger in this house? If you are in agreement, I think we should continue, that is, if we can. Deep down I have a feeling that this is all linked. We are closer than we think. We are missing one small piece.”
How could she have allowed her housekeeper to talk her into continuing? It was sheer madness. Ralph would be furious if he found out what had happened. She felt her confidence ebbing away the darker the night became. She turned restlessly in her bed as the hours slowly crept by, her head hot, her feet cold. By dawn she had arrived at no intelligent conclusions and was even more distraught than she had been on retiring. By eight o’clock she was up and dressed, after a fashion, and decided she would go down to breakfast in the dining room. She needed the reassuring presence of her family around her.
As soon as she entered the small dining room she knew she had made a mistake. Her family, together with Ellis and Oscar, were gathered together, happily eating great platefuls of food and going over their plans for the coming day. She felt immediately awkward and alien among them, with her ugly secrets.
“What are your plans for the day, Mother?” Verity asked.
“I think I’ll drop in on Stafford,” she answered automatically, relying on her usual summer pursuits when she had time for recreation during the day. Yes, she thought, it would do her good to get out of the house; a day spent in the garden would order her thoughts.
Daylight and a good breakfast helped to strengthen her resolve and dilute some of her dark nighttime fears. She tuned in to the lighthearted chatter around her, looking for a momentary distraction from the leaden sadness and anxiety that she felt within.
Harry, Oscar, and Ellis were off to play cricket at Northcombe House. The Iyntwood Cricket XI had played Northcombe for sixteen straight summers and was made up of all the cricketers that Haversham village and the Iyntwood estate had to offer, including Fred Golightly from the Goat and Fiddle; the first footman James, second footman John, and young Dick Wilson; Mr. Hollyoak, Horace Wobbley from Haversham Hall, Ernest Stafford, and Tom Makepeace; and Dr. Carter and the Reverend Bottomley-Jones.
“I’m surprised Staunton is still going ahead with his cricket match after this wretched business.” Lord Montfort was not a cricketer; her husband didn’t enjoy games that involved a ball. They were an important part of boyhood and school, they taught teamwork and strategy, but he found them tedious to watch. He considered polo a terrible sport, hard on the horses’ legs and backs, and refused all invitations to Hurlingham.
“I’m a bit surprised Valentine never let on our neighbors had been so thoroughly burgled while they unsuspectingly danced the night away at our ball,” said Harry. “It wasn’t very sporting of him to be so secretive. He must have known about it when he came back from London. They lost all the good stuff apparently, the Staunton emeralds and the diamonds, some rare pieces of very old silver. I hope they were backed by Lloyd’s.” He returned to his smoked kipper.
“How far are we from Northcombe? Five, six miles? Do you wonder about the stranger the locals all saw hanging about? I bet you anything he was part of the…” Ellis looked up and caught Clementine’s frozen stare across the table. Evidently embarrassed at having brought up an unsavory topic at breakfast, he got up to help himself to more bacon and sausage and another heap of mushrooms.
“You’re going to be pretty low in the batting order if you eat all that,” said Oscar as he crunched his toast and scrambled egg and gazed critically at Ellis’s rather solid middle. Everyone laughed.
“Yes, but he’s a crack bowler and he’s going to be spinning bosies at you all morning, so perhaps you’d better have a bit more than toast,” Harry replied. Oscar had drawn the short straw and was to bat for Northcombe as they were one man down on their side.
Lord Montfort was paying attention only to part of the conversation; he was reading The Times and shook it every so often when the noise at the table became too loud. Clementine hoped her husband would take himself off to the stud farm after breakfast. She remembered that Mr. Broomstock was coming over to take a look at his favorite mare, Flossie, whom her husband intended to breed to Bruno. She needed an empty morning with no interruptions.
She heard an exclamation from behind the newspaper. “No wonder Shackleton looked tense all week, did you read about the White Star Line? Not doing too well and it looks like Cunard is waiting in the wings to scoop them up if things get
any worse.” He half lowered his newspaper and looked at her over the top.
“That’ll make Emerald Cunard even more detestable than she is now.” Verity looked across at her mother for agreement as she ate her scrambled eggs.
“And that would explain Wilfred’s preoccupation all week, poor man. Is it bad, darling?” Clementine asked her husband.
“Probably a hiccup; I’m just a farmer, you know I don’t understand these things. White Star had a lot of problems with the Olympic’s collision with the Hawke, it says here. I don’t remember that, do you? Oh yes, and then there was that strike over lifeboats, that was nasty. The Olympic was steaming out of port, and the crew turned the ship round—they said none of the lifeboats were seaworthy, so the ship has been out of commission for a refit, taken months apparently. The legacy of the Titanic still haunts White Star, I’m afraid. Too bad all this publicity … Still, Wilfred’s up in town now taking care of things, I expect.” Her husband, financially secure, with his eighty thousand fecund acres, could afford to be offhand about Sir Wilfred’s financial responsibilities in the City.
So this was why Sir Wilfred had been so preoccupied and anxious, she thought, and she wearily crossed another minor suspect off their list. More bad news to share with Mrs. Jackson.
All their suspects for Teddy’s murder had dissolved, with questions left unanswered and only the sordid facts of Teddy’s mistreatment of Violet laid bare. And now this most disconcerting new element, this man in the shrubbery who came out of God knows where. Their investigation was foundering.
“When we go to war with Germany, won’t that put a stop to passenger ships to America?” asked Ellis, and she could have screamed. Not war talk at breakfast surely; this was why women had breakfast in their rooms. She harrumphed to herself.
“If we go to war … you’ve been listening to Winston again, Ellis. I can’t believe how much money we are spending on building dreadnoughts. Pray we do not go to war with Germany. It is not the answer, my boy. But yes, if we do, then all our ships will join the navy, passenger liners included. Our best defense has always been our huge navy.” Lord Montfort hated the thought of war.
