Before his retirement to one of the estate cottages, the senior Murray had spent his entire life caring for the Vaughn horses; the coach house and stable blocks treated like his private temple. Flora guessed he most likely kept an eye on things even now.
Avoiding the shallow gutter that carried water to the drains, she came to an open stall where a man of about thirty stood in shirtsleeves beside a piebald pony and applied oil to the animal’s hoofs. The pony raised his muzzle and whickered softly as Flora approached.
The groom straightened and swung round, his enquiring frown turning to delighted surprise at the sight of her. ‘Miss Maguire. Uh, I mean Mrs Harrington. I heard you was here.’ He dropped the oily brush into an earthenware pot on a bench and wiped his hands on a cloth draped across one shoulder. ‘I’m that sorry about Mr Maguire. We was all shocked when he was found.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ Flora said through the lump in her throat. ‘Lady Vaughn invited us to stay until after the funeral but it feels strange being here without my father.’
‘Strange for all of us, Mrs Harrington.’ Tom had apparently lost his penchant for blushing, but he still swiped that stray lock of hair from his forehead in a self-conscious gesture. ‘He treated everyone fairly did Mr Maguire. Don’t seem right he had ta go.’
‘We’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Flora.’ She reached a hand to stroke the pony’s velvet muzzle. ‘Perhaps he didn’t have to. Go that is.’
Tom’s eyes narrowed into wariness, then softened immediately. ‘Don’t know what you mean by that. It was an accident, no more.’
‘Maybe. Would you mind telling me about the day my father died?’
‘I don’t know much, though I do know it weren’t Diabolus’s fault, whatever they say.’
‘The Devil?’ Flora did a rapid translation. ‘Is that the horse my father rode? Is he as troublesome as he sounds?’
‘Well, he’s not the quietest of the bunch. Master bought him last year and he’s taken a while to settle. One thing I do know is he didn’t trample Mr Maguire. Not deliberate anyway.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Flora straightened. No one had mentioned that her father had been trampled. Lady Vaughn had said it was a fall.
‘Well – I s’pose I can’t.’ His lower lip trembled and he swiped a hand beneath his nose. ‘Not for certain, like. But he never bites or kicks when he’s shoed, even when the lads come at him from the rear.’
‘Did Diabolus have any injuries when he returned that day?’ Flora asked. ‘He may have stumbled or run into some wire or fence which might have been why he unseated my father.’ She was reaching and knew it, however at this point she didn’t know what direction she should take. Nothing made much sense.
‘Nay. Not a mark on him. He wasn’t sweating or nervy either. He just walked into the stable with his rein trailing. All quiet like. To be honest, Miss Flora,’ he picked up a curry comb from a wooden bench, then set it down again, avoiding her eye, ‘I was surprised he asked for a horse at all. He’s never done that before. In fact it was only because all the other horses were out that day, I agreed. Left to me I wouldn’t have given him Diabolus at all.’
‘Do you mean my father shouldn’t have taken him?’ Flora’s voice hitched at the thought he had been given an unsuitable animal.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Tom huffed a sigh, frustrated at her questions. ‘It wouldn’t have been my first choice is what I meant. Besides, Mr Maguire was insistent. Said he had something important to do, and ordered me to saddle him.’
‘What was it he had to do that was so vital?’
‘He didn’t tell me.’ He poked the toe of his boot against an uneven slab on the floor and wiped one hand across his brow.
Flora sighed inwardly. If only her father hadn’t been such a private man.
‘Just how dangerous is this horse?’
‘He’s in the third stall on the right. Look for yourself.’ The words ‘if you don’t believe me’ hung in the air between them.
He didn’t seem worried at her seeing the horse at all, as if anything Flora saw would exonerate the horse. With little hope of learning anything new, she followed Tom along the row to the stall where a reddish brown horse munched on hay. His black mane, tail, edges of his ears, and upper legs categorized him as a bay.
Though the head swung toward her as she approached, the animal continued nibbling at the hay net, black liquid eyes studying her with mild interest.
‘He doesn’t look very troublesome.’ Flora reached a hand to the muscled neck. The slightly oily flesh rippled beneath her fingers, but the horse remained passive.
A shaft of sunlight through the stable door gave the black mane a halo of blue. He was a beautiful animal.
‘I thought Mr Maguire could handle him.’ A note of apology crept into Tom’s voice. ‘I watched them top the rise and he looked good in the saddle.’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Her father had been an upright, well-built man, and still handsome at forty-three. ‘I’m not trying to apportion blame, Tom. Nor am I suggesting my father was given an animal he lacked the skill to handle. He was evidently happy to ride Diabolus, or he wouldn’t have taken him. I’m trying to find out what happened after he left here. Have you no idea where he went?’
He shook his head, repositioning the same sandy lock of hair. ‘He was in a hurry, and didn’t stop around for a chat like he normally did. When this boy here came back on his own.’ He slapped the animal’s neck firmly, but Diabolous didn’t flinch. ‘I alerted Lord Vaughn straight away. Master organized the estate workers in a search, though it was getting dark by the time they found him in Bailey Wood.’
Flora frowned. Bailey Wood wasn’t on the Cheltenham road, nor in the direction of the village.
‘It was unusual for him to ride. He always used the dog cart if he needed to go into town.’
‘He didn’t go into town though did he?’ Flora murmured, mostly to herself.
‘Look, Miss Flora.’ Tom swiped his sleeve under his nose. ‘It don’t matter how many ways you ask. I don’t know where he was going. He wasn’t likely to explain himself to me in any case.’ He turned away and began to scoop feed into a bucket with a wooden ladle. ‘It was an accident, plain and simple. Diabolus must have trod in a rabbit hole or something and Mr Maguire was thrown. It was unlucky his hitting his head like that, but these things happen. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’ He heaved the bucket onto his bent arm and strode down between the stalls.
‘Yes,’ Flora mused to his retreating back. ‘These things happen.’ At the last moment before he reached the door something struck her and she called him back. ‘Tom? Do you happen to know a girl called Betsy Mason?’
Was it her imagination, or did he freeze for a second before he turned toward her?
His mouth twitched into a knowing smile. ‘All the lads know Betsy. She’s a real looker and knows it. She came to work in the kitchens about six months ago. I don’t think she took to it, mind.’
‘I hear she’s missing.’
Tom lowered the bucket to the floor, an action which Flora interpreted as a play for time. ‘Not missing, so much as took off. The fête was a month ago and she left the day after.’
‘You know where she is then?’
He shook his head. ‘Nay, why should I? Her uncle thinks she went off with some man. Not that he cares, sees it as good riddance.’
‘Who is her uncle?
‘Mr Griggs, the landlord of The Red Kite in Clayton village. Betsy came to lodge with him to help with the housework and look after him and his boy Peter. Not that Betsy was much good at laundry and such. More trouble than she was worth, Griggs said. Mind you, he ignored her mostly as his son hasn’t been well.’
‘Where does Mr Griggs think she went?’
‘Don’t think he knows or cares.’ He snorted in derision. ‘Betsy will be all right, she’s a canny girl that one.’ He heaved a long sigh and retrieved the bucket. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Miss Flora
, I have to get the animals fed.’
‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from your work.’ Flora let him go, sensing he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.
*
Despite Lady Vaughn’s repeated assurances, William did not put in an appearance for luncheon; a meal to which an increasingly annoyed Caroline Mountjoy had invited herself. When he failed to appear by the end of the main course, she had refused an exceptionally good Charlotte Russe and had taken herself home in a huff.
Bunny and Jocasta returned from their outing in good spirits, though Bunny’s mood shifted to concern when he greeted Flora.
‘How are you feeling? Not too lonely, I hope?’
‘I’m fine, you don’t have to keep asking me how I am. And don’t feel guilty about enjoying yourself. Whatever I am going through will happen anyway.’ She made an effort not to look sad, and pushed aside the questions her talk with Tom had stirred, determined not to spoil their luncheon.
Lord and Lady Vaughn left for an appointment in Cheltenham straight after the meal, so Jocasta instructed Scrivens to serve coffee on the sunlit terrace.
Flora smiled to herself at Scriven’s sullen look as he set the miniscule cup in front of her, ignoring the fact he had slopped dark liquid into the saucer.
Bunny frowned and raised his hand, but Flora gestured it wasn’t necessary. The man gained nothing by his hostility towards her, nor did she lose anything by it.
Shielding her eyes with a hand, Flora followed the fanned tail and white underwings of a red kite in the cerulean blue sky, as it soared and dipped above them and darted off over the Cotswold Hills.
That lone bird in an empty sky struck her as infinitely sad, reminding her that her father was gone. Pestering the staff for the details would change nothing, so perhaps she should accept what had happened with more grace and less suspicion, or she risked making herself appear ridiculous, even hysterical.
‘You’re miles away, Flora,’ Bunny said, making her jump. ‘You missed almost our entire conversation just now.’
‘Sorry, just thinking.’ And glad to be here in the place father loved. She glanced at Jocasta, who regarded her with her head on one side. ‘We were just saying Eddy was quiet at luncheon, which wasn’t like him.’
‘I noticed that.’ Flora brought her thoughts back to the present. ‘He didn’t eat much either, is he still below par?’
‘I expect the wretch is malingering.’ Jocasta relaxed against the cushions in a white-painted peacock chair and nibbled a Florentine biscuit. ‘One minute he’s all pale and shaky and the next he’s flushed and energetic. I suspect he’s trying to get out of accompanying Father to the county show. He’s more interested in machines than livestock.’
Bunny leaned a hip against the boundary wall, cup and saucer in hand. ‘I’ll try not to discuss motorcycles with him, to avoid making things worse. I don’t wish to bring down the wrath of Lord Vaughn.’
‘Never mind my little brother,’ Jocasta licked chocolate off her fingertips. ‘Cleeve Abbey will be his one day, so it jolly well serves him right if he has to put some effort into learning how the estate is managed. Now Flora, what did you and Mother talk about at breakfast after we left? Your husband’s tactic of dragging me away so you might talk in private wasn’t exactly subtle.’
‘Believe me that was subtle for Bunny.’ Flora threw him an indulgent kiss, rewarded by his miming one back. ‘I suspect Lady Venetia found my mother a difficult subject to broach.’
‘In what way difficult?’ Jocasta studied first Bunny’s face and then Flora’s. ‘What did she say?’
‘Apparently, Lily discovered she was pregnant with me although still unmarried. The situation caused your mother some unsettling moments.’
‘I can imagine.’ Jocasta poured more coffee for herself before settling back in her chair. ‘Mama was always terrified of doing the wrong thing. The lady of the house was required to be a moral compass for one’s staff in those days, even more so than now. Appearances counted so much more then, and if your staff strayed it was considered your fault.’
Flora’s hand stilled, a biscuit halfway to her mouth. Was it her imagination, or was Jocasta unsurprised at what she had just said about Lily’s pregnancy? She usually homed in on anything mildly outrageous with enthusiasm, and yet in this case reacted with disinterest. Or had she already known?
‘Lady Venetia said my mother redeemed herself however by marrying the father of her child,’ Flora said in an attempt to keep the conversation going.
‘Did Mama actually say that, about Lily I mean?’ Jocasta poured more coffee into her cup with more than normal concentration.
‘That’s exactly what she said. Why?’
‘Nothing, I just thought—’ Jocasta glanced up at the clock on the tower above the stables, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Goodness is that the time? I’m late meeting Amanda Liscombe.’ Her cup clattered onto the table, spilling coffee onto the surface. ‘She wants me to accompany her to some craft fair at Sudeley Castle. Must go.’ She hurried inside without a backward look.
‘Are you all right, Flora?’ Bunny crossed the terrace and took the chair Jocasta had vacated.
‘Was it my imagination, or was that performance entirely for my benefit?’ She nodded towards the French door that had slammed behind Jocasta.
‘What performance?’ Bunny’s brows puckered in confusion.
‘Never mind.’ Flora drained her cup slowly, her thoughts racing. ‘Am I making an unnecessary fuss about Father’s accident? Should I simply stop asking questions and just get on with mourning him?’
‘You want my honest opinion?’ Bunny returned his coffee cup to the table. ‘I worry that you see shadows where there aren’t any. I know this is utterly wretched for you, but only once you accept the circumstances of his passing will you be able to reconcile his loss.’
‘I certainly cannot blame that beautiful horse.’ She summoned a reassuring smile. ‘You’re right, I should accept whatever the official verdict of the inquest and not try to make more of it.’
‘I think that would be best.’ Bunny scraped his chair closer. ‘Will you continue to try and find out the truth of what happened to your mother?’
Flora hesitated, aware even her husband’s patience had limits. ‘I would like to put that ghost to rest if I can. But maybe there isn’t anything to uncover about her death either. In which case, I’ll have to face the fact both my parents are an enigma.’ Smiling up at him, she held out her cup for a refill.
Bunny made no comment as he upended the coffee pot over her cup, but the sideways glance he gave her indicated he didn’t believe her on either count, but he was prepared to let it rest for the time being.
Flora was happy to leave it that way temporarily, as something Jocasta said had sent her thoughts off in another direction. And then there was also Eddy. Was he simply tired and being overworked by Lord Vaughn, or was there something else wrong?
8
At exactly three thirty-four, Flora eased open the door of the butler’s pantry, a well-ordered room next to the door leading down to the cellar that contained the racks of bottles he had dusted meticulously every day. A floor-to-ceiling wooden dresser took up one wall, filled with books of tradesmen’s ledgers dating back twenty years. The hooks where the household keys hung on identical wooden slips on the wall beside the door were labelled by hand in his careful cursive script. She inhaled on a tiny sob, forcing images of her father in his favourite workspace away.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Harrington.’ Scrivens appeared silently behind her, his brow raised in sardonic enquiry as if she trespassed on his territory.
‘I always liked this room,’ Flora refused to let him intimidate her. ‘So much of my father is still here.’
‘Indeed,’ he skirted the cramped space and took the chair behind the desk, leaving her to stand. Her lips twitched at his lack of manners, confirming her impression he wouldn’t last long in his post. A head butler needed impeccable manners
or how could he pass them on to the staff. She wondered how long it would take Lord Vaughn to come to the same conclusion.
‘Is this a convenient time to call on Hetty, Mr Scrivens?’ she asked, not bothering to hide her contempt.
‘Of course, Miss Flora,’ he replied as if the question were unnecessary. ‘She’s taking her tea at the moment. However, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you.’ He inclined his head with all the reverence of a crown prince dismissing an underling.
He did not look up as she left, her rapid, angry footsteps sounded along the flagstone floor. She inhaled a breath and gave the kitchen doorknob a sharp turn. The double height room with its vaulted ceiling was painted the same sage green Flora remembered, an eyebrow window above head height ran the width of the room, flooding it with daylight. The walls on one side were taken up by wooden dressers, the shallow shelves crammed with china tureens, copper jelly moulds and rows of shiny saucepans in varying sizes, from the palm of one hand to a soup tureen big enough to serve thirty people.
The massive fireplace with its roasting spit frame stood at one end, while at the other sat a black-leaded range for less ambitious cooking, its chunky metal doors and stained hotplates scrubbed to a shine every night before the kitchen maids were allowed to retire to bed.
The smell of baking, herbs and carbolic soap instantly propelled Flora back to her childhood. Days when the pine table that took up the entire length of the room reached her chin; the pattern of scars and scratches on its uneven surface a map of the meals produced over the years. How many biscuits and scones had she helped make on that same table?
Murder at Cleeve Abbey Page 8
