Murder on Bonfire Night
Page 6
‘Daphne, my dear, do you really need to order so many dresses?’ Linus’ words flooded back into her mind, boringly repetitive and persistent as he studied the dressmaker’s bills, and always in that pompous voice of his that he seemed to reserve just for her. Really, he spoke to her as if he were speaking to a child. Oh dear, had the recollection caused a frown to appear on her face? That would never do. The countess would take it as a slight. She would think that her guest didn’t quite approve of her.
‘Lady Belvedere, how very good of you to invite me to tea, and on the merest introduction … I must apologise for barging into your mother’s house like that. You must have thought me very rude.’ Daphne paused a moment to survey her surroundings. ‘Oh I say, what a very fine room this is.’ Something caught her eye and she was out of her seat in a moment, her plate discarded. ‘Is this a genuine …?’ She did not bother to complete her sentence, her hand was outstretched and in a matter of seconds a small wooden statuette was in her grasp. ‘Oh, do say it is, genuine, I mean.’
‘I believe so,’ said Rose, inwardly wincing at the way her guest clasped the ornament to her with such passion, finding herself fighting the urge to snatch it from her and return it to a place of safety. ‘How do you take your tea, Miss Spittlehouse?’
‘Rather strong, I’m afraid. I think I learned that from my brother. They take their tea quite stewed in the army, did you know? Just a splash of milk, please.’ Daphne abandoned the statuette, setting it down rather haphazardly on the mantelpiece so that it was positioned at an odd angle, and returned to her seat. ‘Oh, Lady Belvedere, I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘And I yours,’ said Rose politely, eyeing her visitor with a degree of interest in spite of herself.
It was obvious, even to the most casual observer, that Daphne Spittlehouse could not settle. Already she had forsaken her chair again to roam the room in a restive manner. From time to time she paused in her pacing of the room to pick up some object at random and study it in a cursory manner; she took a strand of her hair and twisted it between her fingers; she pulled at the finger of one glove. All in all, she fidgeted, as if the art of sitting still was quite beyond her.
‘Miss Spittlehouse, won’t you tell me why you wished to see me?’ Rose said at length.
Daphne stopped abruptly in her pacing of the room and looked surprised.
‘Why I wished to see you? But it was you, dear Lady Belvedere, who wished to see me,’ protested Daphne. ‘You invited me to tea.’
‘Yes, I did,’ admitted Rose, ‘but …’
She said no more, allowing her words to stop abruptly in mid-sentence, wondering if she had said enough to encourage the woman before her to give voice to what was on her mind. There was a possibility that she had imagined it, that the woman was only nervous to be in her presence, but she did not think so. The silence that followed was awkward and uncomfortable. Rose ostensibly busied herself with pouring tea into the fine bone china cups and with straightening the plates of sandwiches and cakes. All the time, however, out of the corner of her eye, she was distinctly aware of Daphne’s distracted movements, as keenly as if they were her own, the clasping and unclasping of the woman’s hands, the clearing of her throat and even the utterance of a queer, high pitched little laugh.
‘You are quite right, of course. I did wish to see you,’ Daphne Spittlehouse said at last, perching herself on the edge of a chair and taking the cup and saucer offered her. After pausing a moment to take a sip of tea, and perhaps affording herself an opportunity to choose her words carefully, she looked Rose directly in the eye and said: ‘How silly of me to think that I could pull the wool over your eyes.’
‘You are referring to my detecting abilities?’ Rose said rather abruptly.
‘I am,’ agreed Daphne, taking another sip of tea.
‘You wish to consult me?’ asked Rose.
She gave what she hoped was a look of encouragement for the woman to proceed. She found herself wishing fervently that Daphne Spittlehouse would either decide to speak freely or to leave. Anything was better than this atmosphere of pent up energy and awkwardness, and words unspoken.
‘Yes, though perhaps not in the way you might imagine.’ Daphne gave Rose something of a penetrating look. ‘I have to confess, Lady Belvedere, that I was not aware that you were intending to continue with your … hobby, not after your marriage, I mean.’
Later, Rose thought that it was probably at that very moment when she decided that she definitely would continue with her sleuthing activities. After all, Cedric was not against the idea and her sister-in-law positively enthused at the prospect. But above all it was Daphne Spittlehouse’s attitude towards it that influenced her the most. The raised eyebrow, the slightly mocking smile, the trace of arrogance about her manner, even the way she said ‘Lady Belvedere’, as if it were not Rose’s rightful title.
‘Yes,’ said Rose, meeting the woman’s gaze.
If Daphne’s attitude had not infuriated her so, she knew that she would have remained silent, would not have been prompted to give voice to one solitary word that was in her mind. All she could think as the word escaped her lips was how glad she was that her mother was not present to see her hopes dashed. Rose wondered whether Daphne was aware of the inner turmoil that she had unleashed in her breast. Surely her face must be crimson, if only as a consequence of the woman’s condescending stare? But on studying her guest, Daphne appeared blissfully ignorant to the emotions she had released. Her thoughts now were on herself for, having touched on what was foremost on her mind, she appeared to require no further words of encouragement to proceed.
‘As I said,’ Daphne continued, as if she had not posed a question and Rose had not spoken, ‘perhaps not in the way you might think, though I suppose embezzlement might fall within your field?’
‘Embezzlement?’
‘Yes. I think that my brother may have embezzled my inheritance. But,’ Daphne said hurriedly, seeing that Rose was about to interrupt, ‘that’s not why I wished to see you … consult you, should I say? Oh dear, that sounds frightfully formal, doesn’t it?’
‘Perhaps you are merely seeking my advice?’ suggested Rose, suddenly afraid that the woman might falter and dry up.
‘Oh, yes. That sounds much better, doesn’t it?’ said Daphne enthusiastically. ‘Well you see, Lady Belvedere, the predicament I find myself in is like this …’
‘She asked you to do what?’ cried Cedric aghast.
‘Shush, darling, the servants will hear you,’ said Rose, somewhat amused by her husband’s reaction. It was a few minutes after the departure of her tea guest and, following her husband’s arrival, she had rung for the footman to bring more hot water and sandwiches. ‘You’ll say it doesn’t matter, but I did promise Miss Spittlehouse that I wouldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone but you.’
‘The cheek of the woman! Whom does she think she is? Fancy asking you to do such a thing.’
Her husband had taken umbrage on her behalf and Rose found it oddly endearing. His brow was furrowed with his annoyance, and it gave her an idea of what he would look like when he was older and his forehead lined. As she stared at him, tenderness welling up inside her, the footman entered the room with the tray of refreshments. Inwardly she sighed. She supposed that in time she would become used to their conversations being overheard by the staff, their ever presence in their lives like shadows. Cedric, who had never known anything else, had become accustomed to it so that it barely registered on his consciousness; in time, she thought, it would be the same for her. Was there not a certain inevitability to it? After all, masters and servants inhabited the house together, lived out their lives in its many rooms and corridors. And, if they did not exist exactly side by side, at least they lived in close proximity.
Rose had little doubt that in the years that followed she and Cedric would provide the food for gossip in the servants’ hall. Sedgwick Court’s old retainer, Torridge, would have frowned upon and admonished id
le tittle-tattle among the staff. However, following his retirement as butler, the situation had changed. Manning, his successor and the previous under-butler, would adopt a more lenient approach, she felt certain. Even so, gossiping about the family outside the house would be actively discouraged and a case for certain dismissal.
‘What she is asking you to do is quite unreasonable,’ Cedric was saying. ‘Why, you’ve never met her brother, have you? And she is little more than a stranger to you. How can she possibly expect you to plead to the major on her behalf?’
‘I think she thought there were certain similarities to our positions.’
‘Oh?’
‘We have both been faced with the unfortunate obstacle of wishing to marry someone outside our class.’
‘Does Daphne Spittlehouse wish to marry a duke? I wouldn’t have thought Major Spittlehouse would have a problem with that.’
‘No, of course not. She … well, I suppose you might say she wishes to marry beneath her. A solicitor I think she said her young man was. Archie Mayhew. He works in his uncle’s firm in Bichester. Oh dear,’ said Rose, suddenly deflating. She put a hand to her head and gave her husband an exasperated look. ‘It was all so very difficult, you see. I found myself taking against her. I daresay it wasn’t her fault, but I couldn’t help it. There was nothing that I could exactly put my finger on but –’
‘There was something about her manner to you? It was her fault but you still felt guilty for not liking her so you were particularly nice to her?’ said Cedric laughing. ‘Darling, I can quite see that happening.’
‘Something like that. It does sound rather silly when you put it like that, doesn’t it?’
‘Not to me. But, look here, what’s this chap like? Archie Mayhew, I mean. From what little I know of Spittlehouse, he’s always struck me as a reasonable sort of a fellow. A bit pompous and full of himself, but a good egg all the same. I don’t see why he should have any objections to the marriage. And, even if he has, his sister is of age. She doesn’t need his permission.’
‘Well, unfortunately she does. That’s to say she told me a bit about their parents’ will. Her brother was the sole heir to their estate. They didn’t leave her anything, no money in her own name or a yearly allowance, or anything like that. Instead they left strict instructions that her brother was to provide for her. That was all.’ Rose put aside her teacup and began to pace the room. ‘Isn’t that awful? Because of course you can see her difficulty, can’t you? Such instructions might be construed in a manner of ways. The major might think he was fulfilling his duty to his parents by giving his sister a generous lump sum of money or by giving her a yearly allowance, or by providing her with a roof over her head …’ She left her unfinished sentence hanging in the air.
‘Yes. An odd sort of a will, if you ask me,’ agreed her husband. ‘Open to too much interpretation. If Spittlehouse were a different sort of fellow … though I don’t think his sister had come of age when her parents died; within a few months of each other, I believe. I daresay they would have changed their will had they lived. ‘I must say I feel rather sorry for old Spittlehouse. The poor old chap probably didn’t know what to do for the best.’ He sighed. ‘I take it he objects to her intended? Is that why she wishes you to plead her case? She wants him to bestow a fantastic sum of money on the two of them?’
‘Yes, something of the sort. She told me that Archie Mayhew did not earn enough to keep a wife, at least not in the manner to which she was accustomed.’ Rose paused. ‘I had the distinct impression they were his words, not hers. Having said that, Daphne Spittlehouse does not strike me as the sort of woman who’d make do, who’d abandon everything for love … Of course it’s rather hard not to feel sorry for her.’
‘Yes. The major obviously must have thought he was complying with his parents’ wishes by giving his sister a roof over her head and probably also giving her a generous allowance. Of course he could put a stop to the allowance. Is that what she is afraid of?’
‘In a manner of speaking. She spoke of embezzlement –’
‘Did she really?’ Cedric looked appalled. ‘That doesn’t sound like the major at all. A pillar of the community and all that. Even so, she cannot expect you to speak to him about it. Tell me that you didn’t agree to do such a thing, darling?’
‘Of course not,’ said Rose, bending forward and taking her husband’s hand in hers, ‘I said it would be much better if you did, your being acquainted with him, and particularly as he happened to be coming to see you already about the arrangements for Bonfire Night.’
Chapter Seven
‘What are you doing with yourself today, m’lady?’ enquired Edna in her best lady’s maid voice. Brush in one hand, she was attempting to tame her mistress’ unruly locks. ‘It’s another fine day and not too cold considering. The second day of November, would you believe? Bonfire Night will be upon us so it will, and then it’ll be Christmas ...’
‘Is it really?’ murmured Rose, only half listening. She opened her eyes and stared at Edna’s reflection in the dressing table mirror. It had taken her a few moments to respond for she had been lulled into a soothing, daydream like state by the steady rhythm of the brushstrokes. ‘Do you mean to say Guy Fawkes’ Night is on Thursday?’ It was only then, as the words escaped her lips, that she recalled Cedric had mentioned he would be reviewing the preparations that afternoon for the village’s bonfire festivities.
‘Isn’t it exciting? A proper bonfire and all. Mrs Farrier’s been telling me how they set great store by Bonfire Night in the village,’ said the lady’s maid, pausing in her brushing. ‘Quite a big occasion it is here and no mistake. His lordship’s ever so generous. He contributes to the fireworks and provides all the food. Something of a family tradition. Still, you don’t need me to tell you that do you, m’lady?’
‘No … my husband …’ The novelty of using those two intimate words still brought a glow to Rose’s cheek. ‘My husband was telling me all about it last night. It’ll be my first Guy Fawkes’ Night at Sedgwick. Now … what did he say? Oh, yes there’s some sort of a Bonfire Night Committee, I think he called it, which is chaired by Major Spittlehouse. From what I could gather, it is the major who is really in charge of all the arrangements.’ She bent her head towards her maid. ‘Between you and me, Edna, Cedric … Lord Belvedere, is feeling rather guilty. He hasn’t been able to go to as many of the committee meetings this year as he would have liked. He has rather left poor Major Spittlehouse and the rest of the committee to organise everything.’
‘Well, it’s not every year you get married and go on your honeymoon,’ retorted Edna briskly. ‘And, from what I hear about the major, he’s just the sort to like to be left in charge. He’s full of his own importance, as my mother would say.’
‘Your mother has a great many sayings, Edna,’ said Rose laughing, ‘and all of them very good ones. But Lord Belvedere still feels rather badly about it and is keen to make amends. As it happens, he’s meeting with Major Spittlehouse this afternoon.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Now tell me what you’ve heard about the festivities. Will there be plenty to eat?’
‘Won’t there just!’ exclaimed Edna. ‘Potatoes cooked in their jackets, steaming tureens of hot chicken soup, sausages and of course Mrs Broughton’s special black treacle toffee; very popular with the children, it is.’ The hairbrush was now all but forgotten, lying discarded on the dressing table; for Edna was employing her fingers to reel off the various delicacies, rather than to deliver strokes with the brush. ‘An old secret family recipe passed down from mothers to daughters across the ages, so Mrs Broughton swears,’ she added rather mysteriously.
‘Indeed?’ Rose’s thoughts turned to the various fine dishes prepared by the cook.
‘Oh, and the fireworks. Major Spittlehouse, being a military man, is very particular about them. Have to be Standard fireworks, them that’s based at Crosland Hill. On account of the company producing munitions for the war effort, so Mr Manning says.’
‘Oh, that would be the Air Bombs,’ said Edna assuming an authoritative air. ‘And then of course there’s the Snow Storms … showers of beautiful snowflakes, I think they say they are. You must have seen their boxes of fireworks? Ever so colourful, they are.’
‘Yes, I am sure I have,’ said Rose. ‘Well Edna, you have quite made up my mind for me. I think I’ll take a walk in to the village to see these boxes of fireworks. But first I must deal with some correspondence I’ve rather been putting off. I’ll ring for you when I’m ready to leave.’ She smiled as a thought occurred to her. ‘The children should have quite finished making their guys by now. I daresay some will be out on display. I should love to take a peek at them. Lord Belvedere informs me that I am to be responsible for judging the best guy this year.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about that,’ said Edna excitedly, clapping her hands together. ‘They’re all paraded in front of the bonfire and there’s a prize each year for the best guy. The children take it ever so serious like. Quite realistic some of the guys are to look at, you’d swear they were real people so Mrs Farrier says. Some of the children take weeks and weeks to make them. Of course, some of the effigies are just old rags that have been stuffed with heaven knows what, but some are quite grand, I believe.’ Edna bent forward and lowered her voice. ‘My dad’s a bit of a miser. He says it’s all fuss and nonsense and just an excuse for young lads to cause trouble and to go about banging on respectable people’s doors. He don’t hold with them shouting at the tops of their voices and begging like. Daresay that’s why it’s so popular with the children, making the guys, I mean. They can get a little money. And there’s a splendid prize for the best one.’