The Midnight Peacock

by Katherine Woodfine

  Beside them, Lady Tremayne and Mrs Whiteley were talking about fashions. Tilly had already heard the maids exclaiming over their beautiful gowns, and now she glanced quickly at them, knowing that Lizzie and the others would want a full report when she was back in the Servants’ Hall. Mrs Whiteley was wearing a silver satin dress, with a collar of diamonds, whilst Lady Tremayne looked sleek in embroidered velvet and a long string of pearls.

  Mr Vincent was lounging against the mantelpiece, looking bad-tempered. He waved Tilly away like she was an irritating insect when she approached with the coffee pot.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering with these kids’ games,’ he said brusquely to the card players. ‘Why don’t we have a game of something decent – like whist or baccarat?’

  Miss Leo looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, I don’t think anyone cares to play for money!’

  Mr Vincent sneered at her. He was certainly handsome, but his face was quite spoilt by his expression, Tilly thought. ‘Well perhaps you wouldn’t, but I am sure these gentlemen would prefer a proper entertainment.’ He eyed Jack and Mr Pendleton speculatively. ‘I’m quite certain they won’t refuse a little flutter – eh?’

  Miss Leo looked worried, and Tilly could guess why. Everyone in the Servants’ Hall knew that Mr Vincent had a taste for gambling. When he’d had those London friends of his to visit they’d been up half the night playing cards. Now she feared he was setting out to leave their guests with empty pockets. Neither of the young gentlemen seemed in the least bit worried though: Mr Pendleton was smiling, whilst Jack shrugged easily.

  Mr Vincent was already taking a seat at the table. ‘You ladies can watch,’ he told the rest. ‘Miss Rose, you sit by me. I believe you’ll bring me luck.’

  Across the room, Tilly saw Her Ladyship stiffen and purse her lips as Mr Vincent flashed a snarling grin in Miss Rose’s direction. Across from him, Miss Whiteley rolled her eyes disdainfully. So much for making an impression on the wealthy debutante, Tilly thought!

  Mr Vincent was shuffling the cards with swift, practised ease. ‘Now to set the stakes – let’s make things interesting, shall we?’ he said, reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Jack. He produced a handful of Christmas bonbons wrapped in shiny paper.

  ‘What are those?’ demanded Mr Vincent in disgust.

  ‘This is what we’re going to play for,’ said Jack, cheerfully. ‘Thought it’d be a bit of fun.’

  ‘Oh – jolly fine idea – those are my favourites!’ agreed Mr Pendleton enthusiastically.

  Mr Vincent stared at them both in disbelief.

  ‘Go on, Vincent, deal the cards,’ said Miss Leo, giggling.

  Muttering under his breath, Mr Vincent had no choice but to go ahead and deal. Miss Leo caught Tilly’s eye and winked at her, as the housemaid slipped quietly back out of the room.

  An hour later, Sophie closed her bedroom door behind her with a sigh of relief. The evening seemed to have gone on for a very long time: dinner alone had lasted for what felt like hours. Every time she had thought that they must have finished, another round of dishes had appeared – soup or cheese or petits fours. It had felt very strange, sitting at the long polished table, as powdered footmen presented her with each new plate, and carefully filled up her crystal glass. In the light and shadows cast by the candles, she felt almost as though she had been transported into one of the old oil paintings that hung upon the walls. The people around her were like figures from an oil painting too, she thought, glancing up the table at the craggy silhouette of Leo’s father, Lord Fitzgerald, speaking to the Countess of Alconborough, stately in ostrich plumes, and then down to the other end, where Lady Fitzgerald was scrutinising the table with a sharp eye.

  Sophie knew that she was watching them. She had given them a frosty reception, and the other guests had followed suit. Leo’s old Great-Aunt Selina had stared at them with undisguised curiosity, whilst the Countess of Alconborough had actually lifted up her lorgnette to peer at them. Only Leo’s godmother, the elegant Lady Tremayne, had been polite and welcoming, taking the time to make conversation. It was obvious that she and Leo were fond of each other, and she seemed to be genuinely pleased to meet her goddaughter’s friends. Otherwise, it had all been rather embarrassing: indeed, at the worst moment, it had seemed that she and Lil would not even be allowed to come down to dine with the rest of the party, but instead would be dismissed to the Nursery for a bread-and-milk supper with Leo’s old Nanny.

  ‘These girls are not out!’ Lady Fitzgerald had exclaimed disapprovingly. ‘Really, Leonora! If they have not yet been presented at court, then they cannot possibly dine in company!’

  Leo looked embarrassed. Spots of colour appeared on her pale cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I – I didn’t think – I mean, no one cares a bit about any of that sort of thing any more,’ she mumbled.

  Lady Fitzgerald arched her eyebrows. ‘Indeed?’ she said in a cool voice. ‘Well, I suppose that may be the way things are at art school, Leonora, but we still abide by the proper rules of society here.’

  It was Mr Sinclair who had resolved that. Fixing Lady Fitzgerald with his warm smile, he had gently suggested that on this occasion, perhaps her daughter might be right? ‘Of course, all your traditions are so wonderfully charming. But they can’t apply to girls like Miss Taylor and Miss Rose, here. Why – they’re new women! They don’t have a bit of time for anything as delightful as a court presentation. I work them much too hard for that!’

  There was a polite titter of laughter, the tension faded, and Leo’s hands unclenched.

  They had certainly never expected to find Mr Sinclair at the Winter Hall house party. They had all been astonished when he had arrived late that afternoon, having driven himself up from London in his Rolls-Royce automobile. He had strolled in as they were taking afternoon tea in the Drawing Room.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he had said, casting his motoring goggles, cap and gloves easily into the waiting hands of a footman. ‘You know how it is with motoring. There’s always something that goes wrong.’

  Sophie had feared he would be displeased to find that they were at the party, as though they were his equals and not merely his employees. But to her relief, he had seemed only tickled to find that Sophie and Lil were amongst the guests. ‘I never know where you girls are going to turn up next,’ he had said, with a grin.

  As it happened, Mr Sinclair was not the only familiar figure at the house party. Amongst the haughty ladies and gentlemen, she had been relieved to spot two friendly faces – Mr Pendleton, and Miss Veronica Whiteley, both of whom they had met through their adventures earlier that year. Mr Pendleton was enraptured to see them, and perhaps more surprisingly, Miss Whiteley looked delighted too. ‘Which is really something,’ Lil had muttered to Sophie later. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Veronica would be pleased to see me!’

  Yet even in spite of their company, Sophie felt very relieved now that the evening was over, and she was able to relax in the quiet of her room. Her bedroom was situated on the first floor, not far from the mysterious East Wing that Leo had told them about. Lil’s room was next door, with an interconnecting door that linked it to her own; whilst Jack was a little way along the passage. Each of their names had been carefully handwritten on a small card that was ceremonially displayed on the front of their bedroom door: Miss Sophie Taylor; Miss Lilian Rose; Mr Jack Rose.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry that I couldn’t give you the best guest rooms,’ Leo had said. ‘The Indian Room and the Rose Room are the nicest, I think – but of course, Mother always keeps those for her friends.’

  Surveying it now, Sophie wondered again how any room could possibly be more luxurious than this one. It seemed full of wonderful comfort – from the blue silk paper on the walls, to the dressing table with its vase of hothouse flowers, to the little writing desk ready laid out with writing paper headed WINTER HALL. As for the bed, a vast four-poster with draped curtains, it seemed far too grand to actually sleep in.
The sheets were deliciously soft and smelled of lavender, but even after she had climbed between them, Sophie felt restless. She was not used to lying in such an enormous bed – nor to eating such an extraordinary dinner in the company of so many strange people.

  What was more, she could not stop thinking about Colonel Fairley. She had decided she would set out to visit him first thing in the morning, and the thought made her both nervous and excited. What would he be like? Would he be pleased to see her? Would he really be able to help unravel any of the secrets that puzzled her about her father’s past?

  Somewhere in the big house, she heard the low, hollow sound of a clock chiming midnight – then a door opening and closing somewhere, and footsteps on the stairs. Everyone must be going to bed, she thought. She turned over under the heavy weight of the blankets and closed her eyes – but then, all at once, they snapped open again.

  There was a noise coming from across the room: she was sure of it. She could hear the faint creak of a door opening very slowly. Then the soft pad of footsteps. Someone or something was tiptoeing across the room – coming closer and closer towards the bed! She lay flat and still, frozen with dread as the tall, dark shape grew closer. A shadow loomed over her.

  ‘Sophie . . .!’ came a voice, tremulously out of the dark.

  ‘Lil!’ exploded Sophie in a furious whisper. ‘What are you doing? You almost frightened me to death!’

  ‘I’m sorry! I couldn’t sleep! I know it’s stupid – but I kept thinking about Leo’s story of the East Wing being haunted, and it’s only just down the passageway. And it’s so dark here, and I kept hearing all these queer noises and . . . well, I wondered if I could just stay here with you for a little while?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Sophie, as Lil clambered up on to the bed. ‘There’s certainly more than enough room. This bed is big enough for half a dozen people. But you’ll have to be quiet.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lil obediently, nestling down under the sheets and pulling up the blankets. For a few moments, there was silence, and then she spoke again:

  ‘I say, Sophie . . . You don’t think that there really could be a ghost at Winter Hall . . . do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sophie decidedly. ‘Now stop being an idiot, and go to sleep.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The first thing that Sophie wanted to do on Christmas Eve was to go back to Alwick to visit Colonel Fairley. But it soon became clear there would be no possibility of doing so that day.

  ‘I’m afraid Father has gone out in the motor,’ said Leo apologetically. ‘He’s driven over to see one of the tenants right on the other side of the estate and he won’t be back until later. I’m awfully sorry.’

  ‘Oh well – perhaps I could walk to Alwick instead?’ suggested Sophie.

  But Leo looked worried. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea. It’s almost ten miles from here, you know. Besides, it looks like there might be more snow coming. But don’t worry – I’ll make sure you can drive over to Alwick first thing on Boxing Day.’

  The four of them were tucking into big plates of kedgeree and hot coffee, all by themselves in the Breakfast Room. ‘Mother and the other ladies probably won’t come down for hours yet,’ Leo explained. ‘They mostly take breakfast in bed.’

  In spite of the fact that she had not yet come downstairs, Lady Fitzgerald had made very definite plans about how the younger members of the party were to spend their morning. Vincent had been told to take the young gentlemen out riding, whilst Leo took the young ladies on a tour of the grounds – a plan that Sophie guessed had been devised specifically to keep Vincent as far away from Lil as possible.

  She felt frustrated as she put on her hat, coat and gloves, and followed the other girls into the gardens. She didn’t think Leo understood just how important this visit was. Suppose the Colonel wasn’t at home on Boxing Day? Suppose they missed him altogether? She was so impatient to meet the Colonel that she felt more than ready to contemplate a ten-mile walk through the snow.

  But once she stepped out into the garden, her disappointment began to lift. Winter Hall lay under a thick white blanket of snow, and her breath puffed out in little clouds, as the four of them picked their way carefully down the stone steps. In the formal gardens, they found the ponds were thick with ice, and the sculpted hedges and trees were laced with frost. Birds twittered and scurried in the undergrowth as Leo pushed open a door in the wall, and led them out on to the lawns – a great expanse of perfect whiteness.

  The snow was so different here, Sophie thought, enjoying the satisfying whumph it made when she set her boot down into it. It was fun to tramp through as Leo led them up towards a small stone building standing at the top of a little hill.

  ‘I wanted to show you the old folly,’ she said. ‘It was built in 1760 by one of my ancestors – Henry Fitzgerald. He was a great traveller and he was inspired by old buildings he had seen in Italy and Greece. He called it the Temple of Birds.’

  They floundered through some deeper snow and clambered up the stone steps. Inside, Sophie saw that it did look rather like a classical temple on a miniature scale: its curving roof was supported by a circle of elegant columns, now crumbling with age. There was nothing inside, but the floor was laid with a beautiful mosaic in blue, green and white tiles, forming the picture of a tree with birds perched upon its branches.

  ‘How pretty!’ exclaimed Lil. ‘And I say – what a splendid view!’

  Leo smiled with pride: she looked happier out here, away from the house, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink with the cold. They all stood still for a moment, taking in deep breaths of frosty air, and gazed out over the perfect winter landscape that was spread before them: a silent vista of pale hills and silvery woods. At that moment, Sophie felt as though the hustle and bustle of Piccadilly and Sinclair’s could have been in another world.

  As it happened, on Christmas Eve, the offices of Sinclair’s were significantly less hustling and bustling than usual. The desks were empty, the typewriters were silent, and Billy was the only one there to witness the earnest conference that was taking place between Miss Atwood, Claudine and Mr Betteredge about the latest plans for New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Whatever Monsieur Chevalier may wish, we cannot possibly have live peacocks wandering about the store!’ declared Miss Atwood.

  ‘You do not have to tell me that!’ Claudine snapped back, sounding twice as French as usual in her agitation. ‘I know quite well we cannot! That is what I have been saying all morning. But he says he must have his peacocks – that the Captain has promised –’

  ‘There, there,’ said Mr Betteredge, patting Claudine’s arm. ‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear. I know Monsieur Chevalier has been rather demanding. But I am quite sure that we will find a way to keep him happy.’

  ‘But that is not even the worst of it!’ exclaimed Claudine. ‘Monsieur Chevalier is now saying that he wishes to fill the Entrance Hall with water – and transform it into a Venetian canal – with gondolas!’

  Mr Betteredge was a good-natured gentleman given to making the best of things, but even he paled at this suggestion. ‘Dear dear – what a pity Mr Sinclair insisted on going away to this country house party!’ he said anxiously. ‘I am sure he would have been able to talk Monsieur Chevalier round.’

  ‘Mr Sinclair has a very busy social calendar,’ Miss Atwood informed Mr Betteredge. ‘He can’t be expected to be here all the time, you know.’

  ‘Well, we shall have to come up with something. Perhaps if we agree to the peacocks we can persuade him to give up the gondola idea?’

  ‘Could we tell him we will have the peacocks up on the roof garden?’ suggested Claudine.

  ‘A splendid idea! But oh – what about the weather?’ Mr Betteredge glanced out of the window at the frozen street. ‘Might peacocks mind the snow?’ he mused.

  Miss Atwood turned to Billy. ‘Parker,’ she instructed briskly. ‘Go down to the Pet Department and ask Mr Shanahan to come up at once.
We need his expertise on birds. And while you are about it, I suppose you may as well take That Dog out for its exercise.’

  ‘That Dog’ – Mr Sinclair’s pug, Lucky, who had been left behind with Miss Atwood as she disliked going anywhere in Mr Sinclair’s motor car – was currently snuffling about under Billy’s desk. As Billy got to his feet, and she heard the jingle of her lead, she began wriggling her little tail in a frenzy of excitement. A moment later, after having passed on Miss Atwood’s message to Mr Shanahan on the first floor, the two of them were outside in the weak morning sunlight, heading towards the stables – and Daisy and Joe.

  Billy had been keen to talk to Joe ever since the previous evening, and wasted no time in relating what he had seen from the office window. Whilst Lucky and Daisy pranced around each other in the stable-yard, Joe listened attentively.

  ‘Righto – so let me get this straight,’ he said at last. ‘Yesterday evening, you’re the last one in the offices. You take a dekko out of the window, and you see that an empty office in that big place over the road has just been let. You see a fellow in there, moving crates about – and when you see his face, you think you recognise him.’

  ‘I know I recognised him,’ Billy corrected. ‘It’s just that for the life of me, I can’t think from where.’

  ‘Then you notice that the boxes he’s been shifting are stamped with the symbol of a dragon,’ Joe went on.

  ‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ Billy agreed.