“No one, I daresay,” he said, “really liked Uncle Oliver very much, did they?”
“He’s an unusual boy, Max,” Tom remarked, his thoughts returned to the present.
“Very bright. His father could be more attentive to him. Georgie seemed in many ways to withdraw from motherhood, with the death of Arabella, I’m sorry to say. Marve is the one who really mothers him. Phones and texts him at Ampleforth. Writes long letters—yes, letters. Remember letters? Telling him all about what’s going on here at Eggescombe and so forth. And the Gaunts are very good with him.”
“Would you say …” Tom hesitated to voice a passing thought.
“Would I say what?”
“Would you say Max was perceptive?” asked Tom.
“You’re referring to that remark of his at breakfast about Oliver not being liked.”
“Yes. Out of the mouths of babes.”
A silence of more than several beats had followed Max’s remark at the breakfast table. Was it shock at the boy’s manners? Or shock at his candour? Into the breach, not even crossed by the boy’s mother, Jane had supplied the gentle admonishment: “Max, that’s unfair.”
“I think Max has picked up on some of the atmosphere here this week,” Jane said now after a minute. “Hector and Oliver have never got on, as far as I know. They each have their tribe’s sort of fearless, arrogant authority, but—”
“Tribe?”
“You know, the upper class.” Jane drawled the last word. “They all seem to have this unthinking self-confidence. It’s useful in many ways, but there are moments … and when you’re a simple Mountie’s daughter like me …” She laughed. “… well, I feel like her.” Jane pointed to the first of the figure topiaries past the boundary wall. The subject matter of the garden was self-evident. Greeting them was a six-foot-high figure of a girl remarkably rendered in boxwood with certain details, the face, for instance, cast in painted clay, the Peter Pan collar a band of small white flowers. Beyond, where Max and Miranda had travelled, were shrubberies trimmed into other recognisable Wonderland shapes: a waistcoated rabbit, a hookah-smoking caterpillar on a mushroom, a flamingo-wielding queen at croquet, a grinning Cheshire cat, even a cluttered tea table with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare at one end.
“I’ve felt a sense of social displacement myself this weekend,” Tom remarked, marvelling at the masterful sculptures.
“I often feel that way.” Jane laughed again, as if her life were as fantastical as the garden before them. “But then I married above my social station.”
And I’ve sinned above mine. Tom pushed the thought from his head. “This is brilliant,” he said.
“To open next summer. Not even in the brochures yet. There’s some fine-tuning to do, I gather. Hector’s … great-grandfather, perhaps?… had this designed originally for his own pleasure, and Hector’s father used to have an annual Alice party, but it went wild in later years. Some of Hector’s staff have spent the last several years restoring it.” Jane ran her hand along the puffy dress sleeve of the Alice figure. “I think the estate managers thought Eggescombe Park needed another attraction for visitors, particularly kids.”
“The Labyrinth being for visitors with more serious intent.”
“Yes. Hector prefers Eggescombe be more a place of pilgrimage. There’s the abbey ruins near the village, for instance. But of course, these great estates have to pay their way now, don’t they? So he’s permitted a bit of whimsy. Anyway.” Jane cast an eye towards the children, who had set themselves down on the empty seats at the Mad Hatter’s herbaceous tea party. “I was saying”—she dropped her voice—“that Max may well be picking up on the atmosphere, which has been thickened by Lucy’s and Dominic’s unexpected presence. Oliver has always loathed his stepmother—Lucy’s mother—and has resented Lucy, I think, for simply being born. And now this trouble about Morborne House and who has the right to live there. I’m not sure why Dominic has tagged along.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I think I do.” He told Jane about Dominic’s contention that Oliver was committing a fraud against the Morborne family trust by selling its priceless works of art, pocketing the money, and hanging fakes in their place. “I didn’t intend to overhear. They argued right in front of me—and Miranda—on the terrace last night, and being somewhat immobilised I couldn’t easily get out of the way.”
“Good Lord, I had no idea. What would Olly need the extra money for?”
“I’m not sure the music business is as lucrative as it once was.”
“I did read he’s planning to expand the Icarus club idea to other cities,” Jane mused. “Maybe this is why Oliver came down to Devon days before the parachute jump—unusual for him to spend much time lingering in the countryside—to avoid Lucy and Dominic. Although,” she added as they moved on to the Cheshire cat topiary, “I don’t think Olly has ever had much problem with confrontation. His self-confidence isn’t only unthinking—it’s colossal. I don’t think he’s the type who ever questions his motives or feels guilty about the way he’s behaved.”
Tom looked at her sharply. “Really? That makes him seem rather like a—”
“I know what you’re going to say. I’ve made Olly sound more like a … madman, but I didn’t intend to. I only mean that he’s always had a very large dollop of ego. I’ve heard he can be quite ruthless at business. But lots like him, I’m sure—and that’s what I meant at breakfast when I contradicted Max, who half the time only sees his uncle during family rows. Olly seems to get on well enough with the others in the Leaping Lords. I think he thrives on that sort of masculine company. He was in the Paras after school, after all. He and Georgina are close—though I don’t know how much they see of each other. And there’s Serena Knowlton. I’ve met her. She’s lovely, I mean as a person, which makes me wonder what …”
“The attraction is?”
“Yes, actually. Olly’s been through quite a few women along the way, which I don’t think makes him the best marriage prospect in the world.” She added after a moment, “He’s likely made enemies in business …” She trailed off, then shrugged. “His death is stunning, really.”
“And you?” Tom ventured. “What are your views on the late Lord Morborne?”
“Me? I’m not sure, really. Jamie and I had little to do with him. Not out of … disaffection, you understand. Our daughter Olivia’s named for him, after all, but that was more family tradition. Really, Tom, our paths rarely cross. Oliver moved in different circles. I think he’s only ever thought of me as this peculiar colonial his cousin decided to marry.” She shrugged. “I suppose Jamie finds … found him tolerable. Oliver lived with Jamie’s family in Shropshire for a time when he was in his early-mid teens and his parents were going through their horrendous divorce. I think he was a handful. Getting into trouble at school and the like. ‘Scrapes,’ my father-in-law calls them.”
She glanced again at Max and Miranda and murmured, “I’m so glad we didn’t bring the children on this trip. I’m sorry, what am I thinking?” she amended quickly, giving her head a little shake. “Here I am saying that, and there’s your child … and Hector and Georgina’s.”
“I don’t think they’re in any danger …” But giving the notion voice suddenly made him uncertain.
“Maybe. But the atmosphere now …”
“It’s hard to know the effect on them. Miranda seems to take everything in her stride, remarkably so—though now it seems she’s seeing ghosts, which is quite unlike her. We’ve had more than one unhappy incident in the village. Of course, I first met you in Thornford after our music director’s daughter was murdered. And there was another one in the village the past winter.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tom looked at Jane as she studied the next topiary. He felt an un-Christian desire to divorce himself from the troubles of this privileged extended family, give his evidence to the police, and quit Eggescombe as soon as it was permissible. But he owed a debt of thanks to
Lord Fairhaven for lending his home for a charity event. And he felt a pang of concern for this likable young woman whose husband had helped organise the Leaping Lords for St. Nicholas’s benefit and whose family had not been untouched by violent death: one brother-in-law murdered a dozen years ago, another imprisoned, and now her husband’s cousin, strangled to death.
“You said before that you’d become involved yourself in the past in certain … investigations.”
“Still do, from time to time. I have a little agency in Kingly Street that I involve myself in between running my children to their various extracurricular activities. When I was on staff in the Royal Household years ago, before I was married, there were a few incidents in which I was of some help. I can’t really talk about them, you understand.”
“Of course, and I’m glad of that. I’m glad that you value discretion.”
She regarded him curiously. “What is it?”
He hesitated, but felt the need to voice his qualms. “I’m wondering now if I’m being indiscreet, but … I feel in need of an ally, of sorts. Someone close to the fforde-Beckett and the Strickland families, but removed a little, like you. Someone with a vigilant eye.”
“Now you’re frightening me, Tom. This doesn’t have anything to do with the kids, does it?”
“No, I really can’t imagine harm coming to them, but—”
“You don’t think it’s some stranger, this trespasser that’s been troubling Mrs. Gaunt, for instance, who’s responsible for Olly’s death.”
“No.”
Jane sighed audibly. “Nor do I. It might be better for all if a stranger does turn out to be the case. I’m sure that’s what everyone back at the Hall is thinking. Or nearly everyone,” she added ominously. “But murder is rarely random. And this is a murder.”
Tom glanced at the topiary queen, whose severe frown had been well rendered. “Shortly after you left the Labyrinth earlier this morning, I happened to notice a dew path in the grass. Well, two dew paths. One moved towards the Hall, the other more or less towards the village. I had to choose one before they both evaporated in the heat, so I chose the one leading to the Hall.”
He explained glimpsing a woman’s head in the faint light of sunrise, the sound of the hedge being defoliated, then his following the trail over the damp lawn towards the former servants’ entrance.
“And the footprints vanished,” Jane murmured, echoing his last remark.
“Then Mrs. Gaunt appeared. She said she hadn’t seen a soul. I did tell her Lord Morborne had met with death. She expressed shock, of course. Oh, and she must have kept the news from Miranda and Max, when they went to the kitchens later for breakfast. That was the best thing to do.” Tom rubbed his fingers absently over the queen’s leafy dress. “Anyway, I’m sorry to say it, but it does rather link Lord Morborne’s death with Eggescombe Hall and its inhabitants.”
“There was the other dew path.” Jane raised her eyebrows. “Or am I simply refusing to face the truth?”
“You can’t have risen much later than I this morning. Did you hear—?”
“Not a thing. The house was as quiet as a …”
“Tomb?”
Jane nodded. “I saw nothing, either. No, that’s only true for the house. Once I was on the drive, I could see a figure well down towards the Gatehouse who looked to be coming in my direction. It looked like Gaunt, but then you called out to me and …”
“There’s something else.”
“Oh, dear. What?”
“When I returned to the Labyrinth a little later, after my conversation with Mrs. Gaunt, I happened to witness our host—” Tom frowned in memory. “—going through Lord Morborne’s pockets.”
“Oh, God.”
“He claimed he was looking for Oliver’s mobile to phone the police, as he had forgotten his.”
“But I phoned the police, as I told Hector I would. He’d come out of the shower when I got to his room. When I told him what had happened, he raced out in his bathrobe and slippers. I called after him that I’d make the call, since he seemed in such a terrible hurry.”
“I remember you saying so when you and Jamie arrived at the Labyrinth. Hector’s taken something. I don’t know what.”
“Nor do I.”
As the four of them turned off the main drive into a lane bounded by flowering hedgerows, a Range Rover crawled the gravel behind them, a figure silhouetted in the windscreen. As they parted to make way, a pale arm, copper bracelet slipping, emerged in greeting from the driver’s-side window. A hundred yards down the drive, where the apron nestled in the shadow of a large chestnut tree, Dowager Lady Fairhaven stepped out dressed in a grey jumper, sleeves pushed to the elbow, and blue jeans pressed into black riding boots. Behind her, the dower house glowed a mellow pink in the midmorning sun. It was, Tom thought, a diminutive foretaste of Eggescombe Hall itself with its red brick and stone quoins, corner turrets and fanciful chimney pots.
“Hulloooo,” she called, opening the car’s rear door. “How is everyone this morning?”
“Roberto thought you were out riding,” Jane said when they came up to her.
“Oh?” Marguerite bent down as Max removed his boater and proffered his cheek for a kiss, setting his lips in a little moue. She stepped back to admire him. “Don’t you look splendid!
“And Miranda. It wouldn’t be fair to miss you.” Marguerite gave her a dainty peck. “You look splendid, too. And Tom, how is your ankle? I have the cast boot for you. You slept well?” She held his eyes for the moment rather than glance at his foot, a swift appraisal that seemed to sift his soul. He felt guiltily that she could smell the whiff of sex on him, though after breakfast he had showered and shaved and changed into mufti. The sensation vanished. “Yes, I slept well,” he replied. “And my ankle feels remarkably better.”
“We phoned over … well, Hector did,” Jane continued, “and Roberto answered. I’m afraid we—”
“I thought I wouldn’t ride this morning.” Marguerite bent into the car’s interior. “I had an errand in the village.” She pulled a bulging carrier bag from the backseat. “The Sundays.” She lifted the bag and smiled. “Coffee? When you rise as early as I do, elevenses come at ten o’clock. Come through.” She pushed through the dower house’s great oak front door. “I have my old albums out for you, Tom.”
“I say, Grandmama,” Max began as they passed into a cool dark hall, his voice rich with import. “I have some astonishing news.”
“Oh, do you.”
“Max!” Jane’s voice contained a world of warning, but the boy could not be stopped. He darted around his grandmother as she entered a bright reception room first. He did a little jig around her as she dropped the bag on top of a pile of books on a large ottoman.
“Uncle Olly’s gone and snuffed it.”
Miranda giggled.
“Miranda!” Tom cautioned.
“Sorry, Daddy.” She turned her head to look back up at him, but she didn’t appear remorseful.
Vexed with his daughter, he almost missed Marguerite’s response or, rather, lack of it. She half turned, her handsome profile accentuated by the light from a high window.
“You don’t say.”
“I do say.”
Lady Fairhaven gazed gravely at her grandson for a moment, then turned a slightly cocked eyebrow to the other adults in the room.
“It’s true, I’m afraid, Marve,” Jane said.
“He was murdered, Grandmama.” Max plucked a sweet from a bowl of dolly mixture on a side table, then offered the dish to Miranda. “But we’re not to know how. We’re children, don’t-you-know. Bonbon, Miranda?”
“Why don’t you two go and visit the chickens?”
“But I want to look at the pictures, Grandmama.” Max pushed his lower lip out.
“Then you make a start. The albums are there.” Marguerite pointed to a pile tucked against the arm of a couch. “I’m going to take Jane and Mr. Christmas into the kitchen for a moment, for some adult conversation.”<
br />
“Oh, all right. If you must. Don’t be long.”
Whereas the drawing room, despite its considerable clutter of objets and chintz, had been showroom-tidy, perhaps little used, the kitchen showed strong evidence of being the stage for the dower house’s day-to-day life. If in earlier times it had been a warren of drab kitchen, spartan scullery and formless pantries, which Tom guessed it had been from the architectural irregularities, all had been knocked together into one commodious common room, bright with a wash of creamy yellow on the walls, brighter still by the sun slanting through low windows overlooking a back garden. A fireplace, unlit, filled with logs, flanked by two Windsor chairs, occupied one wall, while a long oak dresser shelving a hodgepodge of plates and bowls, cups and saucers, occupied the other. In a far corner, next to a rank of book-laden shelves, which might once have been a butler’s cupboard, sat a roll-top desk, top up, its surface laden with papers, pens, books, phone, clock, a teacup, evidence of work interrupted. In another corner, almost a discordant note, a large flat-screen television perched on an oak refectory table faced towards a many-pillowed couch and a newish kitchen island with jutting sink faucet and cooker knobs, above which blackened beams teemed with gleaming copper pans. The TV screen was black, but strains of a radio switched on sounded under the scrape of their shoes along the stone floor.
“Strangled, Marve,” Jane said as Marguerite moved deeper into the room and reached for a kettle.
“Ah.” Marguerite turned, her composure little affected, but for a slight lift of her brow. “How is Georgina?”
“In shock, but bearing up, I think.” Jane looked to Tom for agreement as Marguerite poured water into the kettle. “But it does have an awful echo of eleven years ago.”
A play of emotions crossed Marguerite’s face—sorrow, pity, exasperation—but none settled. Finally, she sighed, put the kettle on the hob and said simply, “I’ll make coffee, shall I?”
Not waiting for their assent, she moved around the island to a length of cupboards over a long counter against the wall, removing a bean grinder. Tom’s eyes went to the long pine table, which anchored the room, large enough to seat ten. At one end, half hidden by a bowl of summer blooms, was the remains of breakfast: An old wooden cutting board with a loaf of whole-meal bread sat in a dusting of crumbs, several pots of jam and marmalade, opened, with sticky spoons left on their tops, another glued in a sticky puddle on the well-scrubbed surface itself, filmy glassware next to a carton of orange juice, coffee mugs, cream jug, and cafetière, the last drained but for a puddle of coffee grounds. Jane lifted it.
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 12
