Flora was so intent on leaving his presence without a backward look, she found herself on the front drive with no recollection of what to do next and with a whole morning stretching in front of her with no purpose.
The stillness of the summer morning pulled her back through time, when summer was a time of picnics in the field stubble on sunny afternoons, and fishing for sticklebacks in the stream used primarily as an excuse to cool hot feet in the shallow, running water.
With no duties to claim her time, she wandered the pathways, picking out the areas of shadow to avoid the hot sun burning her skin. She strolled beneath a hornbeam arch that ran down one side of the long stone building that was once a Benedictine monastery, long enough ago for no one to understand quite what that meant. The abbey had kept its name, although had been subjected to Henry VIII’s systematic dissolution in the mid-sixteenth century. The chapter house and refectory hall formed the main part of the house, set one in front of the other at different levels. The two high, uniformly square buildings with gabled roofs, thick stone walls and cavernous ceilings, one a floor higher. The original buildings were most likely purchased from the church by some enterprising soul, possibly as the result of a financial incentive given to Thomas Cromwell.
Lord Vaughn had informed Flora once that his family had not inherited the Abbey, but had purchased its jumble of run-down buildings sometime during the early Eighteenth Century.
His great grandfather had split the rectangular refectory into three floors, the lower rooms panelled, and a matching wide oak staircase that dominated the entrance hall installed.
The cloisters had all been demolished long ago – the only evidence it ever existed, a line of stone foundations along the edge of the kitchen garden, set too wide apart for the child Flora to use as stepping stones. The sight of the even row or round stones tempted her to use them in this way again, but conscious that falling into a ditch wearing deep mourning would be more shaming than then it had as a child, so she resisted the impulse.
The dormitory had been converted to the kitchens, dairy and storerooms, all required to furnish a wealthy gentleman’s home, and bounded with early Victorian red-brick walls.
Flora entered the kitchen garden through a wooden gate, the latch slightly crooked just as she had always remembered it. She paused for a while on a wooden bench set against the far wall with a view of the vegetable plots; uniform square patches bordered by three rows of bricks with cobbled pathways in between.
She had always loved this space, where the maids chatted together and flirted with the gardener’s boys, the entry used by the tradesmen and callers, who passed through at all times of the day. A noisy, busy place in sharp contrast to the serene grounds, but remote and empty rose gardens that were Lady Venetia’s pride.
‘Don’t change much, does it?’ a voice she knew, but had not heard for a while spoke from behind her.
‘Not at all, Mr Bracenose,’ Flora turned to where the estate manager regarded her from the same gate she had used a few moments before. ‘And I’m very glad it hasn’t.’
Bracenose was one of those men she had always considered old, even as a child. But close up she realized he must be in his early fifties. His mop of wayward brown hair almost matched his brown suit, teamed with a mustard waistcoat that was his version of livery.
Flora could never recall him wearing anything else except at the estate Christmas party. She always wondered if he had a new one delivered every couple of years, or it was indeed the same one. Not that she had ever had the courage to ask.
When he removed his felt hat, she noticed his hairline receded more than it had a year ago, and his jowls were softer too.
‘How are you, Miss Flora?’ He seemed to have trouble meeting her eyes. ‘Please accept my condolences for your father. He was a good man.’
‘He was, and thank you.’ Her voice remained calm though once again mention of Riordan Maguire caused a stinging sensation behind her eyes. She swallowed and nodded to the triangular canes of bamboo that marched alongside one wall, the raspberry canes and potatoes in neat rows. ‘The garden looks nice.’
‘Something else which doesn’t change.’ He nodded gently.
.Mr Bracenose?’ she asked on impulse. ‘Do you know where my father was going that day?’
‘What day would that be?’ then in answer to his own question, added, ‘the day he died?’
‘He didn’t have many friends, his life was here. I wondered where he could have been going on horseback. That wasn’t like him.’
He shifted his feet and stared off. ‘I’ve no idea. Far as I know it wasn’t until he was missed that anyone knew he had gone.’ He signed then gestured towards the kitchen door. ‘Best be off. I-I have to make inroads into the accounts. Good weather has been keeping me away from my office.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.’
He inclined his head, replaced his hat and loped off along the herringbone path, leaving Flora to return through the gate and back onto the front drive, her circular route complete. The honey-coloured Cotswold stone walls of the front façade had softened over the years with creeping vines on one end of the gable that curled over the edges of the roof and the upper windows; a purple wisteria cradled the stone front porch, its base as thick as the trunk of a tree, it climbed the corner of the front wall and drooped over the stone porch, where lately carriages and the odd motor car pulled up to disgorge visitors.
The stepped façade was punched through with a row of symmetrical casement windows on two main levels, with smaller dormers in the roof line.
Flora shielded her eyes with a hand and counted the row of windows until she located her former bedroom, the one she had shared the previous night with Bunny.
As if thoughts of him summoned his presence, the coach house gates opened and Bunny appeared with Jocasta. He looked every inch the country gentleman in buff trousers, a well-fitted tweed hacking jacket and high leather boots.
A rush of pride filled Flora’s chest at how handsome he was, his head bent to listen to something Jocasta said. Early morning rides that took an hour without ever leaving the estate had been the fabric of Bunny’s life up until his own father’s death when Bunny was a schoolboy.
Ambrose Harrington had left his wife and son in comparatively straitened circumstances, though far from impoverished. Presented with a need to earn his living, Bunny had thrown himself into the commercial world with enthusiasm. Did he miss that privileged environment, where the most pressing problem of the day was how to spend the time?
‘Hello, Flora?’ Jocasta spotted her and strode towards her, her riding crop held loosely in both hands and her face was flushed and healthy looking after her ride. ‘What are you doing out here, looking so lost?’
‘Is everything all right, Flora?’ Bunny peered at her, concerned. ‘You seem on edge.’
‘Scrivens chased me out of the servant’s quarters, even Bracenose seemed nervous to see me.’ Flora released a nervous laugh.
‘Scrivens chased you?’ Bunny’s eyebrows rose.
‘Ah no, not literally. That’s just me feeling victimized. He told me to come back this afternoon when it would be more convenient.’
‘Cheek!’ Jocasta pouted. ‘A week ago he was simply the footman. That man takes his new position far too seriously. I’ll have a word with him.’
‘No, please, Jo, there’s no need.’ Flora pleaded. ‘Anyway, he was right. Hetty wouldn’t have had time for me straight after breakfast. I’ve been enjoying the sunshine, and wishing I hadn’t left it so long to return. I forgot how much the Abbey meant to me until now.’ She split a look between them. ‘You weren’t very long. I didn’t expect you back so soon.’
‘I’ve an appointment in Cheltenham this morning with my seamstress,’ Jocasta explained. ‘I also want to see Papa before I go.’
‘Your mother said he and Eddy were in the lower field somewhere,’ Flora said. ‘Didn’t you see them on your ride?’
‘They came back
to the house a little while ago,’ Jocasta said. ‘Apparently, Eddy became sullen and complained about being tired.’
‘Shall I go up and see him?’ Flora took a step in the direction of the house, but Bunny blocked her way.
‘I know you only want to help,’ he said gently. ‘But you forget, Eddy isn’t that little boy you once had to watch over.’
‘Sorry. Force of habit. I have looked after him since he was ten, remember?’
‘Bunny’s quite right, Flora,’ Jocasta said. ‘Eddy is spoiled enough, and although you did a sterling job with him, I applaud Papa for sending him to boarding school. He’s grown up a lot in the last year, although he can still be irritating. Like an ear of wheat trapped inside your dress.’
Flora didn’t think he had changed much at all, apart from his physical height. She could still see the sensitive child who needed reassuring about monsters under the bed.
‘I was about to take a walk over to the stables to have a talk with Tom Murray,’ Flora said. ‘He’s still head groom here isn’t he?’
‘He is.’ Jocasta nodded.
‘Shall I come with you?’ Bunny tucked his riding crop beneath one arm and removed his gloves.
‘I don’t want to intimidate him. If he does know anything, I want him to feel comfortable talking about it.’ Not like Bracenose did just now. ‘I’d like to ask about the horse Father rode that day as well. I have no idea whether or not that’s important but it’s somewhere to start.’
‘Start?’ Jocasta frowned. ‘What is it you are trying to find out? It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘Flora simply needs to sort out the details in her head in order to come to terms with what happened.’ Bunny wrapped a protective arm round Flora and hugged her to him, indicating she had been indiscreet. ‘She’s still shocked about the whole thing, aren’t you, my love?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to imply criticism of anyone.’ Flora resolved to be more discreet in future, or she would offend everyone who had thus far been so kind to her.
All she wanted to do was find out the truth about her father’s death, though perhaps she was going about it the wrong way. But what other way was there but to ask questions? She couldn’t put her worry into words, but something didn’t sit right about this accident everyone had accepted so readily.
‘What is it you aren’t sure of, Flora?’ Jocasta asked, evidently sensing her unease.
‘Nothing specific,’ Flora said before Bunny could answer for her. ‘Just that Father was an insular man with few friends, and Cleeve Abbey was his life. He rarely left the estate, and had no private affairs that I knew of. What would send him off on horseback alone? I need to know where he went the day he—’ she broke off, unable to summon the word that consigned him to oblivion.
‘Nobody knows, or at least they haven’t come forward to tell us.’ Jocasta thought for a moment. ‘Some of the inside staff did mention that he had seemed preoccupied lately.’
‘Father was always preoccupied.’ Flora sighed. ‘His main fault was that he thought about things too much.’ Something she had inherited perhaps? Should she just forget about it and let him go? After all there was nothing she could do which would bring him back?
‘I wonder if it had something to do with that young girl who disappeared.’ Jocasta tapped her crop against the palm of her hand.
‘What young girl? Flora asked, suddenly alert.
‘She worked in the kitchens, I think. Or was it the laundry?’ Jocasta shrugged. ‘Anyway, her name was um-Betty.’ She waggled her fingers as an aid to her memory. ‘No Betsy, Betsy Mason. She disappeared after the annual summer fête held at the Abbey.’ She took in Flora’s frown and laughed. ‘Or perhaps I should have said left. I doubt there was anything mysterious about it. Most people thought she had run off with someone; a man most likely.’
Jocasta appeared to be taking the incident very lightly, the girl could be lying dead somewhere for all they knew.
‘Have the police been informed of her disappearance?’
‘I believe a constable called Jones questioned the staff after the fete, but I doubt he got very far. There was a search as well, but what with all the fuss about Maguire-Oh,’ she checked herself. ‘Not that I mean it was unnecessary of course. But it was quite chaotic for a while. I’m afraid most people forgot about poor Betsy.’
Jocasta tossed her head, dislodging a strand of hair from the snood that held her bun in place.
A spark of interest ignited in Flora’s head. Her father wouldn’t have simply let a kitchen maid walk out of the Abbey without asking a few pertinent questions. Staff welfare was important to him. Why hadn’t this girl Betsy been mentioned before?
Flora bit her tongue at the way Jo has so callously dismissed her father and asked instead, ‘Did everyone in the district attend the fête?’
‘Oh, you know how Papa loves to play Lord Bountiful. He throws the grounds open to the hoi polloi several times a year.’
‘Sorry about all these questions, Jo.’ Flora’s voice became brittle. ‘I need to clarify things for my own peace of mind.’
‘Of course you do.’ Jocasta patted Flora’s hand. ‘Maguire was an integral part of the Abbey and we’ll all miss him.’ She pouted in what she probably imagined was a sympathetic expression. ‘And if it helps, then you must ask Tom anything you like, though I doubt he knows much more than the rest of us. He’s doing well these days. Very different from that skinny boy with red hair who used to blush every time I spoke to him. He’s quite an attractive man now.’
Flora’s returning smile was perfunctory. Fond as she was of Jocasta, the fact that she referred to her father still as ‘Maguire’ even after he was gone illustrated the differences in their worlds. Or maybe Bunny was right and she was overly sensitive when that was what everyone at the Abbey had always called him.
The crunch of wheels on gravel brought their attention to where four beautifully matched horses and a black closed carriage rolled to a stop beside the front door. A uniformed footman jumped down before the wheels had stopped turning and flung open the door.
‘Oh dear, that’s Caroline Mountjoy’s carriage.’ Jocasta sighed. ‘I expect she’s hoping to run into William.’
‘Shouldn’t someone warn him?’ Bunny’s mouth twitched, evidently entertained by the idea of William being pursued by a wealthy widow.
‘I don’t think so,’ Jocasta said through a mischievous smile. ‘Uncle William ought to be used to predatory females by now. Let him take his chances.’
‘Wicked girl.’ Bunny nudged her in the casual, easy way of lifelong friends, which made Flora unsure whether to feel pleased or jealous.
The front door swung open and Scrivens appeared on the top step, his white gloved hands clasped in front of him.
The lady unhurriedly alighted her carriage and paused to give the façade of the ancient building a slow, appraising glance before she climbed the steps, brushing past Scrivens without an acknowledgement.
‘I have an ambition to be just like Mrs Mountjoy.’ Jocasta sighed when she had disappeared inside. ‘She’s buried two rich husbands, is still beautiful and now she does exactly as she pleases.’
‘Is your Jeremy aware of this ambition of yours?’ Flora asked.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Jocasta pouted, her eyes glinting with mischief. ‘I wouldn’t wish any harm to come to my darling Jeremy. Though life can be a dangerous thing, you know.’
Flora stared at the ground, and Bunny gave a self-conscious cough.
‘Would you both like to come with me into Cheltenham?’ Jocasta split a look between them. ‘We can take one of the new trams which run from Cleeve Hill right into the centre of town. But don’t tell Mama, she doesn’t approve of public transport. She says it’s for the workers.’
Flora didn’t comment, though she quite enjoyed travelling on trams. Beatrice also regarded them beneath her and insisted Flora take the carriage, even for the shortest journey. Flora had a plan to ask Bunny to teach her to
drive his motor car, but had decided to wait until she was certain he wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. She didn’t want to start a family rebellion.
‘I wouldn’t mind taking a proper look around the town,’ Bunny said. ‘But I think Flora has other plans.’
‘I think you should go.’ Flora said with enthusiasm. ‘Jocasta could show you the pump rooms, which are quite impressive. Not to mention the park and lake, which are lovely.’
Bunny deserved a little entertainment and he hadn’t seen the town properly before. He would never complain, but Flora’s preoccupation with the reasons for her father’s death must be hard for him. Her time was best spent here, trying to make some sense of everything that had happened. The answer might be simple, in which case need not trouble Bunny at all.
‘What an excellent idea.’ Jocasta bounced on her toes as if eager to be off. ‘You can treat me to a cup of tea at the café on Pittville Lawn with dragons on the roof. I’ll just go and change.’ She set off toward the house, calling over her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you back here then in about fifteen minutes.’
‘I thought she wanted to speak to Lord Vaughn first?’ Bunny said, watching her go.
‘That’s Jocasta for you, a butterfly mind which flits from one thing to another. She means well, and she’s a good friend.’ Flora adjusted his immaculate collar.
Bunny stood passive and allowed her attentions. ‘I suppose it would be one way to pass the morning while you interrogate the staff.’
‘I don’t intend to interrogate anyone,’ Flora said carefully, aware he was only teasing. ‘Though as least if you’re in town, you’ll be out of the way of that lady’s clutches. And I don’t mean Jo’s.’
‘No worries on that score, my love.’ Bunny planted a swift kiss on Flora’s cheek. ‘I’m a married man and not nearly wealthy enough to attract the likes of Mrs Caroline Mountjoy.’
7
Flora crossed the drive to a set of high arched wooden doors that opened into a three-sided range of stone barns round a cobbled courtyard, the neat arrangement constructed early in the previous century by a Vaughn ancestor. Apart from four equine noses poking over half stable doors, there didn’t appear to be anyone about. In search of some life apart from the four-legged variety, Flora entered the building on her left, where the sickly sweet smell of hot horseflesh, dry feed, hoof oil and manure made her wrinkle her nose. A door stood open to one side, which gave a view of rows of hooks which bore bridles and saddle racks. Bales of hay had been neatly stacked in the loft above, while the floor where Flora stood was remarkably clean, devoid of any stray bits of hay or streaks of mud. Rakes and pitchforks hung on hooks in a line on the back wall; all signs that Tom had inherited his father’s penchant for order.
Murder at Cleeve Abbey Page 7
