‘Miss Middleton to see Mr Travers Smyth,’ I told him and his solemn face cracked into a boyish grin.
‘Oh yes, miss, please come in.’ His hair was parted in the middle and so black that, if he had not been so young, I would have thought that he dyed it.
The hall was a high-ceilinged square with a pink-veined marble floor and pillars and white-plastered walls. The middle of the hall was dominated by a life-sized statue on a tall plinth – a heavily bearded man covered only by a cloth over his loins and holding a sickle in one hand, the other being raised, palm upwards above his head. I did not need Sidney Grice to deduce that this was the god Saturn.
The sculpture was backed by a wide stone staircase, the whole area awash in light. A glass-fronted cupboard had been built into the wall and was stuffed with Oriental bric-a-brac.
The valet stepped smartly to a double walnut door and parted the leaves with his white-gloved hands to announce me, barely having time to finish before a high voice called cheerily, ‘Send her in, Colwyn. Send her in.’
Colwyn stood back and to one side. Something flitted through my mind but I shook it away and went into the room.
6
Sherry and the Magpie
I FOUND MYSELF in an oak-panelled library with glass-fronted bookcases built on to every wall.
‘Welcome. Welcome.’
And I saw that the greeting came from an elderly man at the top of lofty wheeled library steps. He had a big red leather book in one hand and let go of the rail to wave with the other, leaning towards me at an alarming angle as he did so. The steps wobbled and I hurried towards him round the many bookracks and small tables that were dotted everywhere. I could not catch him if he fell from such a height but at least I could try to steady his perch.
‘Miss Middleton, Miss Middleton,’ the man greeted me merrily as he scrambled down with an agility which would have done credit to a metropolitan fireman. He took my hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘How very, very good of you to come so soon, so soon.’
‘I hope I am not inconveniencing you.’
‘Not in the least, the least.’ He was a tiny man, slightly bent, with a little face upturned to me, topped by a mass of thinning, wiry ginger hair that erupted from under a vermillion smoking cap embroidered in gold thread, all bordered in a frizz of whiskers ending in a long, wispy goatee. His lips were wide but thin and clean-shaven, below a narrow nose ending between big sunken eyes made all the larger by thick-lensed, wire-framed spectacles. He reminded me so much of a capuchin monkey that I had to resist an urge to reach out and stroke his head. ‘I must show you this book.’ He waved it over his head like a victory flag. ‘But first we will have sherry, yes, sherry.’ All the time he was talking he was jigging about excitedly. ‘I am so pleased to meet you, dear lady.’
‘Please call me March, Mr Travers Smyth.’
His face fell. ‘But I cannot do that, dear lady, unless you agree to call me Uncle Tolly. I do so hope you will.’ He peered up at me like a child begging for a sherbet.
‘Uncle Tolly,’ I said and he rubbed his hands.
‘Capital, capital. We shall be the very best of friends, March. I feel it already.’ He put his head sideways. ‘Do you feel it too? Please say you do, but only if it is the truth.’
There was a raised mole on his left temple, almost black, and the shape and size of a broad bean.
‘You have made me feel very welcome.’ I laughed. ‘I have never had such a dramatic greeting.’
He furrowed his brow. ‘My climbing down a ladder? I am so sorry if I unsettled you.’
‘I meant the lighting.’
Uncle Tolly chortled. ‘Oh yes. It is powered by,’ his voice dropped conspiratorially, ‘something called electricity.’
‘I have seen electrical lighting before,’ I said, ‘but never in such quantity or brightness.’
‘Ah!’ He hopped from one foot to the other. ‘These are the new Swan Incandescent lamps.’
‘But are you not worried your house will catch fire?’
‘Oh no. The conducting wires are all thickly insulated in something else called gutta percha but,’ Uncle Tolly looked mortified, ‘if you are concerned for your safety, I shall have the generators disconnected and light the mantles or, if you are affrighted by the thought of igniting potentially explosive gases, I shall instruct the servants to bring out the old oil lamps. Shall I do it now?’
‘Please do not trouble.’
Uncle Tolly slapped his forehead. ‘Oh, March – you are sure I may call you that?’ I nodded and he continued. ‘But I am forgetting myself. I promised you sherry and what have you had thus far? Not a drop nor a drizzle.’ He rushed to the sideboard where a silver tray stood and took the stopper out of a long-necked decanter to pour two drinks, holding out a tulip-shaped glass to me and raising his own in a toast. ‘Your ever so very good health, March.’
‘And yours, Uncle Tolly.’ It was strange to have lived two decades without having used that title before. I sipped my sherry. It was a little sweet for my taste but welcome nonetheless. ‘It is so nice to find I have a living relative.’ I hesitated and all at once he was filled with concern.
‘But what is it? You are troubled, dear March. Have I managed to upset you already? Oh, I am such a rough-and-ready fellow, so set in my bachelor ways indeed that I have forgotten how to behave in feminine company. If I have offended you…’
I raised my hand. ‘Oh no, quite the reverse. It is just… You are quite sure we are related?’
He sighed with relief. ‘Oh no, dear March. I am not quite sure of it at all.’
‘But—’
‘I am absolutely positive.’ His big eyes glittered. ‘Yes, positive is the very actual word. That is why I was fetching that book when you so delightfully arrived. It is an account of the life of Samuel Travers Smyth, my grandfather and your great-grandfather, and which you may care to borrow.’ He scratched under the rim of his smoking cap. ‘But there again, you might not. He did little of interest to anyone other than himself and sometimes, I suspect, not even that. Still…’ His feet performed a complicated shuffle. ‘He is the river from which the streams of our lives have sprung. Oh, but what am I thinking of now?’ Uncle Tolly swiped his brow with the ball of his hand. ‘I have kept you standing whilst I chatter away like a stimulated magpie.’ He guided me to a deep armchair, and we sat facing each other on opposite sides of a low table before a crackling fire.
I placed the book down. It left a fusty smell on my fingers.
‘I know so little about my family,’ I said and he crossed his hands over his middle.
‘I am afraid to say that I am all there is to know.’
‘You wrote that you are my father’s cousin.’
‘Do finish your sherry, dear March.’ He raised his glass. ‘And then I shall tell you who we are, and why I was so anxious to see you.’
7
The Donkey and the Quill
UNCLE TOLLY TOSSED down his sherry and I followed suit.
‘Nectar of the gods.’ He jumped to his feet and rushed to a large map table on the other side of the room near the door. ‘Come, my dear lady.’ I hurried to join him. ‘Here we are.’ He unrolled a sheet of yellowed paper, holding it down with a brass compass and an inkwell as paperweights at each end. ‘The Travers Smyth family tree all the way from Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Adam…’ He prodded the top. ‘To…’ He ran his finger down. ‘That handsome young fellow, Ptolemy Hercules Arbuthnot Travers Smyth, who has the honour of standing here before you today. I will set that aside for the time being.’ He was bringing out other documents, some in rolls tied with red ribbon, some unfolded certificates. ‘And here we have the Middleton family tree. Starting at the bottom…’ Again he traced his words. ‘We have you, March Lillian Constance Middleton; your father, Colonel Geoffrey Charles Pemberton Middleton, who married Constance Elsie Stopforth, your mother, in November 1861. Goodness, I believe this calls for another sherry, yes.’ He fetched the decanter and re
charged our glasses, and while I sipped mine he continued.
‘Giles Middleton over here,’ he prodded the name, ‘had a second son, Gervaise, who married Beryl, my mother. And so you will see that, though I have asked you to call me Uncle, in view of the disparity in our ages, I am in fact your second cousin, Tolly.’ He took a breath.
‘Then I am very happy that you discovered me.’ I gazed at the unfamiliar names and tried to make sense of the countless births and marriages, deaths and remarriages and progeny.
‘I have a confession to make, March.’ Uncle Tolly wiggled his fingers through his beard. ‘I had a selfish reason for inviting you here today and I hope you will manage to forgive me for it. You see,’ he teased the strands apart, ‘I wished to put you to the test. Am I a terrible man?’
‘That depends on how you plan to test me.’
‘I am profoundly ashamed to disclose,’ Uncle Tolly told me coyly, ‘that I have already done so. I wanted to discover if I liked you and I am delighted to declare that I find I like you very much indeed.’ He beamed before repeating it. ‘Indeed. I am a mortal man, March, and no longer in the full flush of…’ His voice trailed away before he regathered his mental thread. ‘I have accumulated a considerable fortune in the course of my life – considerable – and nothing would give me greater pleasure than for you to say that I might leave it to you.’
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘That is very good of you but—’
‘Witnesses.’ Uncle Tolly rubbed his hands. ‘We need witnesses.’ He pressed a brass button on the wall.
‘You hardly know me,’ I protested, but he was racing across the room and pulling open several drawers behind his desk, crying, ‘Aha.’ Then he rushed back with a sheaf of blank paper.
‘We are flesh and blood, March, and that is enough for me.’
‘But, Uncle Tolly, we have only just met.’
The maid came into the room. She was a tall girl and slim, with masses of beautiful flaxen hair piled under her starched white hat, but her face was marred by a cleft in her upper lip so wide that an upper left incisor jutted through it.
‘Fetch Colwyn, Annie,’ her employer instructed. ‘We need him immediately.’
Annie left and Uncle Tolly hopped about excitedly. ‘A pen. We shall require a pen.’ He scurried back to his desk and tossed a stack of documents on to the floor. ‘A pen.’ He held it aloft triumphantly, an old-fashioned goose quill, as he skipped back. ‘Ink.’
‘You have an inkwell here.’ I moved an ostrich egg out of the way. ‘But what exactly are you going to do with it?’
‘Why, nothing.’ Uncle Tolly looked blank. ‘It is you who will be using it, dear lady.’
Annie returned with a puzzled Colwyn.
‘Now,’ their employer cried, ‘I need to ask you both an extraordinary favour.’ He crooked his first finger in front of his eye. ‘I want you to witness two important documents.’ He dabbed his finger towards each of the servants in turn.
‘Certainly, sir.’ Colwyn spoke for them both.
‘But where are the documents, sir?’ Annie asked.
‘They are in my mind,’ her employer declared. ‘But the wonderful Miss Middleton will transfer them from there on to pristine leaves of paper by a process known in commercial circles as dictation. If you would be so kind, my dear.’ He handed me the pen. I took it uncertainly and dipped the tip into the well. ‘To whom it may concern,’ he declaimed and I scribbled furiously. ‘I, Ptolemy Hercules Arbuthnot Travers Smyth…’ He paused while I redipped the pen and caught up. The ink was very thick and tinted green. ‘Being of sound mind,’ he added as Annie stifled a snigger, and he continued unabashed, ‘do hereby bequeath all my worldly goods to my second cousin, March Lillian—’
‘Uncle Tolly,’ I broke in, ‘I really cannot continue with this. There must be a friend or worthy cause more deserving than me.’
But Uncle Tolly was not to be diverted. ‘Please continue for we are nearly done… Middleton.’
I wrote my name reluctantly, then said, ‘I cannot be a party to this.’
Uncle Tolly’s lips whitened and he tugged firmly at his goatee. ‘I have a solution,’ he announced at last. ‘If you do not agree to the terms of my will I shall leave all I own to the most undesirable cause I can think of.’ He marched on the spot. ‘I have it – the Society for the Reintroduction of Slavery. I shall leave everything to that foul institution – cross my heart and hope to be unwell.’
I thought about it. ‘Very well. I shall accept your bequest, but every penny shall go towards alleviating poverty in the East End.’
The blood flowed back into Uncle Tolly’s lips and he reached out as if to embrace us all. ‘Capital, capital,’ he declared and, taking the quill from my grasp, placed his exuberant signature on his testament. ‘Now you, Colwyn.’
His footman wrote his name fluently, dipped the pen and handed it to Annie, who took it in her fist, bit her extruded tongue, wrinkled her brow and printed carefully underneath.
‘You said there were two documents,’ I reminded Uncle Tolly and he threw out his arms, nearly striking Annie in the middle. She jumped back.
‘It is a small thing,’ he said, ‘but important to me and concerns Jennifer.’
‘Jennifer is a donkey,’ Colwyn explained. There was something about the way he stressed his words that made me smile.
‘Not just a donkey,’ Uncle Tolly exclaimed. ‘Jennifer is family. She lives in a paddock nearby and I visit her at least three times a day.’
‘More like ten,’ Annie teased.
Uncle Tolly’s face fell. ‘But she is getting old now and I fear that, if I should die, she will pine for me or that she will become ill and not receive the treatment she deserves.’
‘I have no room for a donkey,’ I told him. ‘But I can promise to pay for her care.’
‘Oh, I was so hoping you would say that.’ Uncle Tolly blinked a teardrop. ‘But we must make it legal. I should hate anyone to imagine that you have no rights or duty towards her. Perhaps you could write this second document too, dear March, if your wrist is not too cramped.’
‘I can manage quite well,’ I told him and took his dictation again.
‘I, March Middleton, do hereby swear to ensure that Jennifer, Ptolemy Travers Smyth’s donkey, is cared for but, if she should be suffering incurably, I will pay one hundred pounds to have her killed humanely and her body buried in her paddock under a small memorial slab of granite.’
I signed my name and the servants left after witnessing it, and Uncle Tolly blotted both documents with great care.
‘Hurrah,’ he cried and with a sweep of his hand toppled the inkwell, spilling its contents over his chart. He whipped out an enormous yellow handkerchief. ‘Oh my goodness!’
‘Do not rub it,’ I warned, but I was too late. In a quick scrubbing motion he had managed to smear a large area of paper, rendering its contents illegible.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ he flapped. ‘What shall I do? What can I do? I cannot un-rub it. Oh, what an oaf I am. I hope I did not get any on your beautiful dress.’
I reassured him that I was all right. ‘Perhaps we should leave the chart to dry and see how bad the damage is later,’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ he echoed so unhappily that I was afraid he might burst into tears. His big brown eyes were brimming and I did not have the heart to point out that he had ink all over his hand and on his shirt.
The door opened.
‘Dinner is ready, sir,’ Colwyn announced and Uncle Tolly perked up.
‘Capital, capital.’ He rubbed his hands in a valiant effort at cheerfulness. ‘There is not a problem in the world that is not improved by a good meal.’
‘Except perhaps indigestion,’ I suggested and he managed a smile.
8
Guns and Pickles
THERE WAS A vast mahogany table in the dining room with twenty chairs along each of the long sides, but it had only been set at one end.
‘It is a cold collat
ion, I am terrified to confess.’ Uncle Tolly guided me to the sideboard. There were rows of plates piled with carved ham, beef and mutton; a whole salmon, glazed and decorated with slices of cucumber; terrines; a dish of potato salad; a bowl of mustard. ‘Do help yourself.’
‘There is enough here to feed a brigade,’ I said and he put his fingers to his mouth.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. The truth is I am unused to entertaining.’ He nipped his lower lip. ‘And now I have made a complete hodgepodge of everything.’
‘No, really.’ He was so little and lost that I wanted to go over and cuddle him. ‘This is lovely. I only mean I hope you will not be insulted if I cannot do it justice.’
‘My dear March,’ Uncle Tolly took a white linen napkin from the tray, ‘your very presence does it justice.’ He wiped the outer corners of his eyes. ‘Do try some of my pickles. I make them myself… myself.’
I took a selection of food and we sat facing each other under a crystal chandelier glittering with a dozen electrical bulbs. There was a carafe of deep red wine at my side.
‘Shall I pour?’
‘Would you mind?’ He blinked anxiously. ‘Do you mind? Only I have had so little success with it in the past. I always end up spilling it over the tablecloth and then Annie gets cross and scolds me.’
‘Your maid tells you off?’ I could see his problem. The carafe was very heavy and the stem too thin to afford a good grip, but I managed to fill our glasses without mishap.
Uncle Tolly protruded his lower lip. ‘She makes me scrub it up.’
‘But why do you not dismiss her?’
‘Because,’ he said simply, ‘she tells me I must not think of it.’ And we ate for a while without conversation.
‘That,’ Uncle Tolly indicated over his shoulder to the portrait of a scowling wedge-faced woman over the merrily crackling fire,‘ is Great-Aunt Matilda.’ He giggled. ‘I believe she was even fiercer than she looks.’
Death Descends On Saturn Villa (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 3
