Murder at Cleeve Abbey

by Anita Davison

  ‘It will be harvest time soon,’ Flora murmured into his shoulder. A trickle of perspiration slid between her shoulder blades beneath her gown as images of her childhood returned. In weather too hot for stockings and encumbered by earthenware pitchers of lemonade and sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, she had run through waist-high wheat stalks to where the harvesters worked. Her hair had always frizzed in the moist, heavy air, while wheat grains rubbed the skin raw between her toes. Endless days that seemed utter perfection now.

  The weight of Bunny’s look made her fidget. ‘You’re staring at me again. Do I have soot smuts on my cheek? Not that it would surprise me, it was stifling in that train.’

  ‘You’re lovely as always.’ Bunny pushed his spectacles further up his nose with a middle finger. ‘I like to remind myself on occasion that you’re mine, though I knew we would be married the first moment I saw you on the deck of the SS Minneapolis.’

  ‘Did you really?’ Flora asked, enjoying their physical closeness. In the train they had shared a carriage with a sour-faced couple and their miserably silent brood of children, unable to exchange more than a brief handclasp, leaving Flora to endure her raw misery in solitude.

  ‘Really,’ Bunny insisted. ‘When you stroked Matilda’s engine, cowling as if it were a favourite dog, I took one look and everything slotted into place.’

  ‘I still cannot believe you named your motor car.’ Flora nudged him gently with an elbow. ‘We hadn’t spoken at that point.’

  ‘When I finally plucked up the courage to speak, you were so startled you banged your head on a support.’

  ‘You required courage in order to approach me? Surely not?’ she teased. ‘It was your motor car after all and I presumed to examine it without permission.’

  ‘Then you chastised me like a schoolmarm and laughed at my name. From that second, I was lost.’ He laced the fingers of his free hand into hers and squeezed. ‘I still am.’

  Flora recalled her first sight of the handsome, blond young man with the devastating smile, so eager to show off his horseless carriage. She hardly listened to what he was saying, fearful that he would discover she was a governess whose employer had bought her a ticket on a first-class ship as guardian to her thirteen-year old son. That would have been enough for most young men of his class to avoid her for the rest of the voyage, but it had not taken long for her to discover Bunny was not like that at all.

  ‘I didn’t want you to take fright and leave,’ he continued. ‘That would have given me no excuse to engage you in conversation.’

  ‘You’re trying to make me feel better about Father, aren’t you?’ His ability to fill awkward silences with fascinating snippets was one of the endearing qualities she loved about him.

  ‘Yes, but every word is true. I hope I’ve distracted you slightly. I cannot bear to see you so distressed.’

  ‘You have, honestly.’ She squeezed his hand again. ‘I appreciate your coming with me. It means so much to me to have you here when I know how busy you are with Mr Batson and your motorcycles. It’s a bad time for you with the opening of his new factory.’

  ‘Sam was very understanding, and most of my work is complete now. Besides, where else would I be?’

  ‘At The Coach and Horses in Kew with your mother, perhaps? You could have supervised the rebuilding work as she wanted.’ She slanted a look up at him, conscious her hair had slipped from its pins and sat in a heavy, damp bun at the back of her neck. ‘She was quite angry about you leaving her wasn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate her competence. She likes to play the helpless female in case I expect too much of her. In truth she’ll enjoy holding court at the hotel to every builder, decorator and furnishing emporium in West London.’

  He planted a brief, warm kiss on her cheek, then straightened as something caught his eye through the window. ‘I think we’ve arrived.’

  Easing upright, Flora looked past him to a grey stone Jacobean mansion squatted on a rise and surrounded by a bank of ancient hedgerows manicured into submission by generations of gardeners. Wide, undulating lawns dotted with oak and elm trees that had probably been saplings during the Civil War, stretched down a gentle incline to a brook.

  The horses swept through a pair of wrought-iron gates and down a tree-lined drive onto a circular forecourt in front of the house where they rolled to a gentle halt. A series of bangs and thumps followed by a scrabbling above was followed by a tilt of the bodywork, and then the footman opened the door.

  Bunny unwound from Flora’s side and alighted, then turned to help her down. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘No, and I don’t think I ever will be.’ The tensions that had twisted Flora’s gut for the last twenty-four hours increased, and she fought an urge to turn and run.

  She wanted to go home, forget the awful telegram and imagine her father as she always thought of him; issuing curt and half amused orders to saucy footmen and chivvying maids like a benevolent headmaster.

  Her hand trembled as she placed it in Bunny’s firm one. They approached the familiar double front door with its row of studs big as half crowns, the long iron bell pull attached to the stonework on one side.

  ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be here,’ Bunny nodded to a solid façade with its row of mullioned windows. ‘We’ll face it together.’

  Unconvinced, though more confident, Flora allowed him to lead her up the short flight of worn steps, where one half of the double doors had swung open silently as if of its own accord.

  A small, vestibule opened into a wide hall, its walls panelled with pale oak linen-fold. A curved, cantilevered staircase wound up two stories to where a glass lantern ceiling spread daylight onto a marble tiled floor. The Tudor solidity of the exterior gave way to pastel-painted walls favoured by the early nineteenth century.

  ‘Quite a mixture of architectural styles,’ Bunny whispered at her shoulder.

  ‘You ought to see the kitchens. I think they still roast whole oxen on the fire down there,’ Flora replied.

  She caught sight of a man in Vaughn livery who stood in the hall and her breath hitched, unprepared for the sharp pang of disappointment that he was not her father.

  This man was of about the same height, but at least twenty years younger, a lanky, soft eyed man with thick blond hair darkened by pomade. His eyes were set close together and his nose was asymmetrical, as if he had broken it at some point.

  His unremarkable face held none of the stoic politeness concealing private amusement her father had mastered. This man returned her look with an almost sullen expression. His clothes were the standard black for a butler but did not quite fit him. The material at the shoulders wrinkled as if the jacket was designed for a larger man and his shoes were dull, the laces loose.

  Had they bought him new ones, or did he quite literally occupy a dead man’s shoes?

  ‘Lord and Lady Vaughn are in the sitting room, sir, madam.’ He threw open a door to his right without looking at either her or Bunny.

  Flora couldn’t bring herself to respond, though her practical side told her she was being unreasonable, yet her throat burned with emotion as she stepped into the room.

  Venetia, Lady Vaughn rose slowly from a gold brocade sofa and glided forward on a whisper of silk. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry about Maguire, my dear.’ She took both of Flora’s hands in hers, her head tilted on one side in sympathy. ‘I never imagined this would be the reason for your return to Cleeve Abbey.’

  Tall for a woman, she topped Flora’s own five foot five by at least two inches, her back ramrod straight, her waist as tiny as Flora remembered. Her ebony hair was now streaked with steel grey, while tiny lines creased the corners of her intelligent grey eyes.

  Her papery complexion sagged a little around her jawline; changes which should not have been a surprise as she must be in her early fifties.

  ‘And dear Ptolemy.’ She transferred one delicate hand to Bunny’s shoulder. ‘How nice to see you again, although the circumstances are regrettable.’<
br />
  Flora’s carefully prepared greeting came out almost unintelligible.

  ‘We’re delighted to be here, Lady Vaughn,’ Bunny answered for her. ‘Bearing in mind the circumstances.’ He dropped a kiss onto the lady’s knuckles while his steady gaze behind his spectacles held hers, making her blush like a schoolgirl.

  Flora couldn’t help but smile as she observed the effect Bunny had on Lady Vaughn, the same effect he had on women of all ages.

  ‘We’ll all miss Maguire dreadfully.’ Lady Vaughn sighed, then intercepted the glance Flora threw the man who stood in the door frame, his eyes cast down, white gloved hands clasped in front of him. ‘Ah yes.’ She gave a discreet cough. ‘I see you have already met Scrivens.’

  An awkward silence ensued, then she dismissed the butler.

  ‘I confess to a mild surprise myself whenever Scrivens answers the bell.’ Their hostess urged Flora toward a Wedgewood blue sofa. ‘It will take a while to get used to.’

  The sitting room greeted Flora like an old friend; a feminine haven decorated in blue, white and cream where painted shelves in alcoves sported Meissen figurines in regimental rows and gilt-framed mirrors that rose to a bossed plaster ceiling; all Georgian additions commissioned by Lord Vaughn’s grandfather. Flora’s reflection confronted her at every turn, and she groaned inwardly. The heavy black bombazine dulled her bright chestnut hair and leached colour from her already pale skin, made worse by the matronly hat that wouldn’t sit right.

  ‘Do sit down, my dears.’ Lady Vaughn indicated an intimate arrangement of three sofas set in a horseshoe before an Adam fireplace. ‘I’ll send for some tea, and—’

  ‘Oh, not for us, Lady Vaughn,’ Flora interrupted her. ‘It’s almost six and the kitchens must be busy with preparations for dinner.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Lady Vaughn stepped away from the bell-pull handle beside the fireplace. ‘You always were a considerate girl where the staff were concerned.’

  ‘I used to be one of them,’ Flora said, sotto voce, aware she sounded arch when Bunny gave a minute shake of his head.

  ‘Flora’s a little on edge, Lady Vaughn.’ He took a seat on the camelback sofa. ‘Your news came as something of a shock.’

  ‘I don’t mean to reject your hospitality,’ Flora said in an attempt to compensate for her lack of manners. ‘I’m simply eager to know exactly what happened to my father.’

  ‘Of course you are, that’s quite understandable.’ Their hostess lowered herself onto the sofa opposite, her knees inches from Flora’s and her hands clasped demurely in her lap. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell you, my dear. The day before yesterday, Maguire took one of the horses from the stables.’ At Flora’s sudden start, she lifted a hand. ‘With permission of course, I don’t mean to imply otherwise. No one thought it strange, being as it was his day off. However, some hours later, the horse came back alone. A search was organized, but he wasn’t discovered until it was almost dark.’

  ‘Discovered?’ Flora pounced on the word. ‘Was he still—’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my dear.’ Lady Vaughn cut her off. ‘He was already dead when he was found, and had apparently been for some time.’

  ‘What happened? Flora croaked, tears perilously close.

  ‘The doctor said his injuries suggested a fall from the horse.’

  ‘Something must have caused it.’ Flora twisted her hands in her lap that felt clammy inside her gloves. ‘Did the horse panic? Did a carriage come past and unbalance him?’

  Bunny plucked one of Flora’s hands from her lap and held it between both of his. She left it there, drawing comfort from his touch.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know. As far as everyone was aware, he was out riding alone.’ Lady Vaughn threw Bunny an anguished look. ‘No one witnessed the incident.’

  ‘I see.’ Flora exhaled in a rush, her hope flowing with it. ‘Had he been located sooner, might he have survived?’

  ‘Flora,’ Bunny dragged out the word in warning.

  She turned and glared at him, then snatched her hand away from his. ‘I have to know.’

  An image of her father lying hurt and with no one to help while the strength drained slowly from him flashed into her head. Her gut twisted and a tiny cry issued through her lips, suppressed at the last second.

  ‘We cannot be sure.’ Lady Vaughn’s eyes misted with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry, Flora. I wish the outcome had been better.’

  ‘Where was he going?’ Flora asked when she trusted her voice not to crack. ‘Whenever he went out on personal errands, he always used the dog cart.’ Her voice trailed off into memory. ‘Messages he called them.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lady Vaughn cast a vague look at the door as if the answer would magically appear. ‘Perhaps one of the servants might answer that question. He certainly wasn’t on estate business. There’ll have to be an inquest, of course.’

  Flora’s head jerked up to stare at her hostess. ‘Inquest?’

  ‘It was a sudden death.’ Lady Vaughn lowered her voice. ‘The reasons for which must be decided by law.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course, I didn’t think.’ Flora’s nose began to run and she fumbled in a pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘In Bailey Wood.’ Lady Vaughn’s brow creased in mild confusion. ‘At least that’s what I was told.’

  ‘Why would he go there?’ Flora crumpled the handkerchief in her fingers. ‘It’s several miles in the opposite direction to either the village or the town. From what I can recall, there are only a few houses out that way.’

  ‘Is it really important where he was going, my dear?’ Lady Vaughn held both palms upwards in a gesture of surrender, then left her seat and reached for the bell pull again. ‘You must be tired after your journey. Perhaps a rest before dinner would be beneficial.’

  Flora was about to say it mattered her, but the door clicked open and the butler appeared like a silent ghost at the door.

  ‘Ah Scrivens.’ Lady Vaughn bestowed a cold smile on him. ‘Take Mr and Mrs Harrington’s luggage upstairs, would you?’

  ‘We appreciate the gesture, Lady Vaughn,’ Bunny began, rising. ‘We didn’t want to intrude, I’m sure there will be enough to sort out without worrying about us. If I might impose upon you again for the use of your carriage to take us into town later, we would be quite comfortable at the Queens Hotel.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it, you’ll stay here with us, naturally.’ Her tone brooked no argument. ‘I thought the blue room would be the most suitable.’

  Flora’s stomach lurched at the thought of the suite with its Italianate furniture, the canopied bed draped in sapphire velvet and the trompe l’oeil walls. The thought of the lavish suite with its Adam fireplace, antique porcelain ornaments and crystal chandelier where duchesses had slept made her feel inadequate. What she craved just then was the familiar and comforting. Somewhere she could mourn her father among the trappings of his life, surrounded by their joint and more personal memories.

  ‘If-if you don’t mind, might we stay in my old apartment in the attic?’ At her hostess’s surprised start she rushed on, ‘I’ll need to sort out Father’s things in any case and—’ she trailed off, unable to think of a way to refuse the offer without insult.

  ‘Very well.’ Lady Vaughn’s smile wilted round the edges. ‘If you feel that would be more comfortable.’

  ‘I’m sure the apartment will be more than adequate,’ Bunny said.

  Flora threw him a grateful smile. Bunny was born into wealth and privilege, where meals appeared by magic, and laundry was some vague concept, but despite that, he understood how Flora might feel out of place in her former employer’s home.

  Scrivens was dispatched to retrieve their luggage and as Flora climbed to the third floor, albeit via the ornate grand staircase and not the plain wooden servants’ stairs at the back of the house, Flora had time to ponder the question of what Riordan was doing on horseback in the middle of a wood miles from anywhere.

  He w
as a creature of habit, whose inherent consideration for others would never have allowed him to go anywhere without telling someone where he was going and why. As for riding, she had never in her life seen him astride a horse.

  Nothing about his death made sense.

  3

  ‘What a charming room.’ Bunny discarded his jacket on a wheel back chair as he strolled the green and gold attic room. ‘Not like a servants’ quarters at all.’

  Flora clamped her lips together, nodding as the rooms closed in on her and images from her childhood rushed back and threatened to break her fragile self-control. She knew coming back would be sad, but the strength of her nostalgia was almost painful.

  Set beneath the eaves on the second floor, two dormer windows overlooked the grounds, which gave the room the impression of a cottage. A semi-circular rug sat before a tiny fireplace, the black grate bordered by ceramic tiles in a Morris design of red lilies.

  She wanted to explain that the Strawberry Thief Morris wallpaper was her choice, the cushions on the twin armchairs her own work on cold winter evenings, the polished brass candlesticks on either side of the mantelpiece had been kept shiny by her own hands.

  ‘Our bedrooms open onto this room,’ she said at last, her throat burning. ‘The bathroom is across the hall.’ She pulled the hatpin from the hated hat and tossed it onto a chair. ‘The other servants sleep on the far side of the house, so it is like being in our own little world up here.’

  Her eyes welled as she inhaled lavender and furniture polish which evoked so many memories. The handmade rag-rug, a china shepherdess on the mantle, the twin wing-back chairs in front of the fire where she and her father had sat together and shared their day.

  Everywhere she looked, from the dent in the cushioned chair back where her father’s head rested, to the cracked tile beside the fireplace she had once damaged with a badly aimed foot when she was in a temper; memories crowded the room making tears well. She fought them down, hearing his voice in her head saying, ‘Cease yer greeting, lass.’