But, even though Orlando had been productive and earned himself a spot of investigating, he wasn’t with Jonty today. Despite how much he’d been looking forward to it, his ambitions had been thwarted due to more of that wretched, and still mysterious, business with the plagiarist. While Jonty was heading off from Cambridge, Orlando was part of an early morning deputation to take the bounder’s statement for the defence. Whatever the problem was, it was nagging away at Orlando, although he’d still bottled it up. If the man didn’t let the secret out soon, Jonty was going to have to force it out of him. He couldn’t live with those distant, tortured expressions much longer.
Orlando had arranged to catch the train as soon as he was done, and they’d agreed to meet for lunch at a local Downlea hostelry that one of the porters at St. Bride’s had recommended. At that point, the bragging about who’d found out most so far could start.
Despite his worries, Jonty couldn’t help grinning as he sauntered down towards the village green. With any luck, he’d be able to steal a march on his lover, which always got right up Orlando’s nose. He’d had fourteen years of perfecting the process.
Funny how since the war they’d fallen back into the same sort of roles they’d had when they first met—Orlando creeping back into his hell, keeping worries to himself, while calling Jonty illogical and scatty, even when he wasn’t being particularly so. Jonty was happy to play both of those to the hilt for the moment, if it helped Orlando lose the baggage he’d acquired in France and on his return home. Please God they’d have plenty of time to reestablish the norm, but for the moment, they could enjoy a day’s sleuthing.
Downlea was bigger than he had expected. He’d a memory of passing through it years ago, en route to a cricket match in the grounds of an estate lying to the north. He’d been on a coach then, and had been given the privilege of riding up next to the driver as his family was taken from the railway station to the house. Downlea had seemed a small place in those days, pretty and picturesque, though quaint (even to a boy of eleven, who was already developing a mature eye for the world).
It had expanded now, Edwardian villas having sprouted two by two along the road and in lanes leading off from the high street. The village shops looked as if they were thriving under the influx of business from the new houses and, while the place wasn’t quite as pretty as his rose-tinted recollection had made it, it still had a genteel, tranquil appeal. No wonder Peter Priestland had chosen to live here as long as he had. The house where Peter died, the house his widow still lived in—and which, according to Bresnan, she showed no signs of moving from—lay on the other side of the village, but Jonty didn’t mind the walk. He wanted to get a feel for the atmosphere of the place, as though in absorbing that atmosphere, he might begin to get a feeling for what had gone on. Orlando would sneer at such subjectivity, but Orlando could lump it.
Thorpe House was a Georgian villa, set back from the road along a gravelled drive, with gardens full of rhododendrons and azaleas that must have looked a picture in the spring and early summer. This time of year was clearly not their best, for the only patches of colour were clumps of autumn crocuses. In a few weeks, it would no doubt be a riot of colour again as the leaves donned their richest hues.
If the house and garden were just as he had pictured in his mind thanks to the excellent pen portrait from Bresnan, Rosalind Priestland was not. He’d built up a mental picture of some flighty little thing, powdered and painted and dressed to the nines, but the lady who awaited him in the morning room was nothing like that. She was plump, pretty, dark haired, had a deep, attractive voice and wore the sort of clothes even his mother might have regarded as somewhat staid. No wonder most people, who no doubt put far too much importance on appearance, hadn’t had a bad word for her. They’d look at her, see someone who appeared kind and nice—and possibly reminiscent of the sort of benevolent maiden aunts who’d had a string of admirers but lost the one they really wanted—therefore kind and nice she must be.
Nor was the housekeeper quite what Jonty expected, either. Tall, slim, with an impressive bearing and hair tied back in a bun, Mrs. Hamilton looked more like a governess to a ducal family than the keeper of the pantry keys. She’d opened the door herself, which was surprising, welcoming Jonty with a brief smile and a nod before ushering him in.
“Dr. Stewart, thank you for calling. I really do appreciate you making the effort.” Rosalind rose to meet him, offering her hand and indicating a seat in the sunlight. A small table was laid with cups and biscuits, awaiting the arrival of the tea or coffeepot.
“It seems a bit tactless to say ‘my pleasure,’ given the circumstances, but I hope you’ll understand.” He took his appointed place. “I’ve felt as if my father has been nudging me to do this from beyond the grave, or at least respect for his memory has. Or something.” He tried his best to sound slightly muddled and totally appealing. Rosalind’s kindly smile showed that he seemed to be succeeding.
“I have to confess I only vaguely remember Peter mentioning your father. Ah, Glenys, thank you.” Mrs. Hamilton had entered with a steaming silver coffeepot, and the next few minutes were lost to pouring, sugaring, and creaming. Jonty wondered whether his hostess was dissembling as much as he was, with her “vaguely remember.”
“Although,” Rosalind continued, “I do recall him telling me a wonderful story about your mother. I hope you’re not offended if I say it’s the one about her knocking out a chap who proposed to her?”
“Not offended at all. It’s one of my favourite stories, although I only found out about it when I was nearly thirty.” So Peter Priestland had known the Stewarts, or at least had known of them; another bow drawn at a venture had hit its mark. Funny how often they did, especially where the Stewarts and their extended web of social contacts were concerned. Many of the breakthroughs they’d had in investigations had been more a matter of luck than judgement, although he wasn’t going to get into that discussion with Orlando. Not until maybe 1928. “Did your husband often talk of the old times? Perhaps he knew some more tales about my parents that they’d managed to keep secret from their offspring.”
“That’s the only one I can recall. It’s a shame you never got to meet Peter, as he might have been able to turf all sorts of skeletons out of closets. He had such a zest for life, right up to the end.” She breathed deeply, as if holding back tears. Either Rosalind felt genuine affection for Peter Priestland or she was a very accomplished actress.
“My mother and father were the same. This wretched influenza robbed us of so many good, decent people.” Jonty thought he might shed a tear himself, if he wasn’t careful. Generating some sympathy in Rosalind’s maternal-looking bosom might help the investigation, although he didn’t want to risk being held there for comfort.
“Did your parents die recently?”
“Last year, although it feels like yesterday.” Even though so much had happened in between, the loss still felt raw. “I don’t actually know if it was the Spanish flu, as some people say it was too early to have been, but I’m convinced in my heart that was what took them. It was all so quick.”
“I hope they didn’t suffer. Peter seemed to be getting well, you know. We had such optimism that he’d make a full recovery.” A hint of a tear again. “He looked so peaceful sitting out in the conservatory, where we found him. It truly seemed like he was just sleeping, tucked under his blanket in the middle of some lovely dream. Maybe he was, maybe he’d seen his mother again, just at the moment he . . .” Jonty proffered his handkerchief, but Rosalind shook her head and produced her own. “Thank you, no. I don’t want to mess up your linen.” She suddenly smiled. “I’m being a silly old thing.”
“No, you’re not. If it still hurts, then you’re right to cry. You must do as your feelings dictate.” He looked away to give her time to compose herself. Plenty of people might have said Rosalind should hide her grief. They’d have said that a stiff upper lip and repression of any outward show of emotion was appropriate, especially in front
of a stranger.
Mrs. Stewart wouldn’t have agreed. Let it out, dear, she’d have said. Let it all flow away and then move on. Better than dwelling on it or hiding it away. Won’t do you any good.
Jonty had wiped away plenty of Orlando’s tears these last few months, when the man had woken in a muck sweat, dreaming he was back in the trenches. Mrs. Stewart wouldn’t have seen those tears as a sign of weakness nor Jonty’s tenderness in dealing with them as anything effeminate or unsuitable. He cast a sidelong, surreptitious glance at his hostess, and caught her doing the same to him before looking away again, nervously. Was that heartfelt grief real, or part of some skilful act?
“I do miss him, that’s the problem. I suppose I’m young enough to find another husband, but I’m not sure I want one.” Rosalind blew her nose demurely. “Not if I can’t have my Peter.”
He was at a bit of a loss about how to proceed. The young widow sounded believable, those tears seemed real enough, but he couldn’t forget that suspicious look he’d just seen. “Have you any family to help you through?”
“No, I’m afraid not. My parents died when I was quite young and I was an only child. Mrs. Hamilton, my housekeeper, has been a great help, as has the vicar, Reverend Mitchell.” Rosalind wiped the last tear away, folding her handkerchief in her hand.
“Mrs. Hamilton was with you when you found your husband, I believe? At least you weren’t alone to face the ordeal.”
Rosalind nodded. “Oh, yes. I often wonder what it would have been like if I’d been here on my own. I might have been, you know, because Mrs. Hamilton was due to go out that afternoon to buy some material for curtains, but we had this terrible infestation of ladybirds and had to call someone out to deal with them. Afterwards, we went around the house making sure they’d all gone. You can never be sure workmen do a proper job, and I couldn’t stand the thought of the things still lingering in the joints of the sash windows.”
A stray thought about whether something used in the fumigation process—what was it Mrs. Ward swore by, Keating’s Powder?—had been a contributory factor in Peter’s death demanded attention. He’d have to consider the possibility or else Orlando was bound to upbraid him for casting aside the investigator’s strict neutrality. And yet . . . call it intuition, or hearing what he wanted to hear, but there was definitely something in what his hostess had said that sounded like she’d been setting up her own alibi in advance. Not the words so much as an intonation of voice or a resonance of implication. He had no evidence for it, of course, except his natural, completely illogical (and much scorned by Orlando) scepticism towards alibis. He’d actually have been much less suspicious if Rosalind had been on her own in the house when her husband had died.
“No, that’s very true. About slapdash workmen.” Jonty cast around to find exactly the right, incisive question to follow up. He couldn’t. I must be losing my touch; too far out of practice. “This might sound a bit odd, but if you could clarify something, it would put my mind at rest . . .”
“I’m sorry?” The wary note in Rosalind’s voice matched her earlier guarded look. “Put your mind at rest about what?”
“Mrs. Priestland, I should be the one to apologise. My mother always said I was a terrible one not just for woolgathering but for voicing my thoughts out loud and making little sense in the process. I tend to just blurt out what I’m thinking and then nobody knows what I’m going on about.” He hoped his brightest smile might lull his hostess back into a less wary state. “I was thinking about your husband and hoping that it was you who’d found he was dead. Silly, I know, but it would be sort of comforting if it had been a loved one and not, well, one of the domestic household. Does that sound too snobby?”
“No.” Rosalind sounded relieved. “No, I quite understand. Yes, it was me who found Peter, and you’re right. No matter how much it hurt, it was better that way than Mrs. Hamilton discovering him. More fitting. She went to call for the doctor, just in case we were wrong, and I held his hand even though he was gone.” She sounded tearful again. “I’ve heard people say that the spirit lingers on for a while. Maybe Peter knew I was there and was grateful.”
“I’m sure he did.” Jonty felt the need to go and gather his thoughts, but it was too soon to stop the interview and not appear impolite. Best fill the breach with chitchat. “I may have got this wrong, but I heard that your husband was a St. Bride’s man.” It was worth drawing another bow at a venture.
Rosalind laughed. “Oh no, that’s not right at all. He was at Apostles’. Not quite your archenemies but not said to be your greatest friends.”
“You’ve got the measure of us, Mrs. Priestland. Still, I won’t sneer at an Apostles’ man. My brother-in-law’s brother went there, and he’s not a total disgrace.” Jonty smiled.
“Peter and I visited the college last summer. He said it didn’t seem to have changed at all.”
“I’m not sure Apostles’ has changed since Oliver Cromwell used to take his catapult and fling stones at the windows.”
The conversation drifted onto Cambridge and its inability to embrace the nineteenth, let alone the twentieth, century. Jonty didn’t feel inclined to pull it back in. He’d learned as much as he was going to learn at the moment, he guessed, so he concluded the interview and took his leave, his hostess showing him to the door herself. He’d wondered if the housekeeper would return to perform that task, but she was busy down by the front gate to the property, talking to a tall, reed-slim young man who appeared to be the grocer’s boy.
There was something about errand lads, some combination of innocence and enthusiasm, that had always touched Jonty, and that affected him even more given his experiences of the last few years. He took a deep breath and strode along the path. Thorpe House wasn’t a property in the same league of any of the Stewarts’ homes, but it wasn’t small, and the expanse of garden and sweep of the drive meant the road was a reasonable walk from the front door. Or, more appropriately in the case of Mrs. Hamilton and the other servants, from the tradesman’s entrance. If this lad was making his deliveries, there seemed no logical reason why the housekeeper should have accompanied him all the way to the gate. Unless she was escorting him off the premises with her rolling pin at her side because of improprieties committed with the maid, but that was surely a hypothesis too far.
“Good morning again.” He raised his hat. It was still morning—just.
“Dr. Stewart.” Mrs. Hamilton spun round at the sound of his voice and performed a little bob. “What a stroke of luck.”
“That’s not what my students say when they see me coming.” He grinned, even more intrigued now about what was going on. “What’s lucky about it?”
“You coming along just as young Billy here was delivering the groceries.” The housekeeper nodded for emphasis, her tight bun of grey hair hardly moving as she did so. Perhaps it had been threatened with a seeing-to from the hairbrush if any strand dared loose itself. “I thought he’d gone without you being able to catch him, but he was dawdling here at the gate, as usual.”
“I wasn’t dawdling, ma’am.” Billy was a gangly, spotty streak of lad, maybe eighteen or nineteen, who’d have made a slice of bacon look solid.
“Don’t mumble, Billy. Dr. Stewart needs to hear every word.”
Jonty wasn’t aware that Billy had been mumbling, but he smiled encouragingly.
“I said I wasn’t dawdling, Mrs. Hamilton. There’s a red kite over Mr. Norris’s fields and I was watching it. It’s looking for its prey.” The last few words sounded as if they’d been overheard, remembered, and reused.
“Red kite, indeed.” The housekeeper sniffed, loudly and with emphasis.
“Ah now, Mrs. Hamilton, I’m going to have to stand up for this young lad, here. There was a red kite around. I saw it as I came down the drive.” Jonty gestured vaguely in the direction of where the bird might have been, taking pleasure in the I told you so look on the delivery lad’s face. He’d not seen any such thing, of course, but he was determined to
get Billy on his side. “Now, why should I want to catch this budding young ornithologist? I was actually hoping to have a word with you before I went.”
Mrs. Hamilton pulled herself up to her full, impressive height. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can add to what Mrs. Priestland has told you. Unlike Billy, who was also here the day the master died. He’d been lent by the grocer to help Fred Houseman kill those ladybirds.”
I’m sure he was, but why are you so keen for me to talk to him? And why him and not the scourge of flying things, Mr. Houseman himself? Or yourself?
Jonty had been careful not to give the impression he was deliberately probing into the events of that day, yet here they were, being thrust at him. Either he’d been less subtle than he thought or the women had been on the watch for him, somehow. Although there was a simpler explanation: that Mrs. Hamilton had been listening at the door while he spoke to her mistress. That was more satisfying than the nagging thought that they were losing their touch . . . although it could even be just another case of his name, even without the “and Coppersmith” bit, being recognised from reports of their cases in the newspapers.
“I like ladybirds. It was sad to have to get rid of the little things.” Billy earned himself a dirty look from the housekeeper. She seemed like she was about to give him a tongue-lashing to go with it and had to hold herself in check.
“An ornithologist and an entomologist.” Jonty felt inclined to pull the bumbling Cambridge don card, even if his initial cover story had been blown. Billy didn’t look the brightest thing on two legs, yet Jonty had taken an immediate shine to him. He’d had lads like this out in France, lads just the right side of being a little too dim for the King’s shilling, doing their bit for England. All of them had seemed to appreciate their commanding officer for the fact his undoubted intellect hadn’t elevated him out of the sphere of his fellow men.
Lessons for Survivors Page 6
