Well, what was I complaining about? My amateur theatrical production demanded atmosphere, didn’t it? It also demanded that Hyacinth and Primrose play the parts assigned to them. And so far, in a sense, they had. The stage-managing of the production had been almost disconcertingly easy. I had experienced that unexpected feeling of alarm during the feigned attack, but I quickly realized that this was a primitive female reaction to the idea of assault; nothing really to do with Harry himself. And other than the appearance on the stage, when the scene shifted to Cloisters, of a couple of rather colourful bit players and a guard dog capable of flaking the flesh from one’s bones, all had worked like a charm. No intrusive introduction of policemen or doctors. So why was it that the Tramwells’ falling for the Old Regency Masquerade scam no longer seemed as easy and harmless as it had when talking it over with Harry?
Harry was the one who had suggested Abbots Walk as the setting for Act I. He had reported back to me a few days after my visit that he had done a bit of research, disguised as a binocular-slung American tourist in the public bar of the Golden Goose. He had uncovered information that each Monday Miss Primrose Tramwell passed along the walk at approximately three in the afternoon on visits to the needy. That’s one of the characteristics of elderly people. I had nodded. They are so wonderfully predictable. It’s leading those dull lives, I suppose. But Miss Primrose Tramwell will be meeting adventure very soon now.
So merrily complaisant; but this afternoon when we had come tottering out of the walk, I had wondered if the break in her routine might not be too much for one so frail. And yet, when she had suggested thwacking me over the head to cure the amnesia hadn’t I sensed a hint of steel under the feather duster? Or had I been reacting to that breathless hush of evil in the atmosphere? Harry had said Abbots Walk was considered almost a sacred place by the locals, so was it my conscience that was stalking me ... or what?
“Cloisters,” Primrose had said as we finally got away from the trees, “is not a palace. Only seventeen bedrooms and five receptions, not counting the parlour. Some people find the idea of the house being built on monastery grounds a trifle unearthly, but the family joke is that having taken a vow of silence, our ghosts don’t answer back. A very old joke because we have lived in the house since the first of April, 1561. Henry gave us the land, Bloody Mary took it back, and construction did not begin until Queen Bessie returned it.... Oh, well! Without royal bickering, we wouldn’t have history books, would we? Earlier we—the family—lived on the site of what is now Cheynwind Hall.”
“What a splendid memory you have,” I said, my pensive sigh uttered to show that my infirmity had been brought home to me.
“Dearest child,” trilled Primrose with a silvery laugh, “I did not say I was speaking from personal recollection. It is Flaxby Meade itself that has the long memory. The stories are handed down. There is the one about the duel between my great-great-grandfather and the squire of the day. They fought it out on a dining room table with fish knives instead of swords. And, bless me! There was the time Maude Krumpet’s father was thrown in gaol by my own father for poaching. He had been shooting blackbirds out of our trees.”
We veered slightly left on coming out of Abbots Walk, passed the Ruins on our right and the common with its stocks on the other side of the narrow cobbled road.
“Would you believe that this road once went all the way to Warwick?” Miss Tramwell chattered on. “Progress. But at least we have not been boxed in by rows of semis. The only house within a mile of us down the road belongs to our dear friend Mr. Deasley.” I slackened our pace further as she coughed gently, a slight flush mounting her cheeks. “Cloisters—you will glimpse it now just ahead—will go to a cousin’s son after Hyacinth’s and my day, so we are the last of the direct line. Our only other surviving sister, Violet, lives in America and will never return. Once colonized they can never readjust to our plumbing.”
A delicious quiver of excitement trickled down my spine. “What charming—perfumey—names you all have.” (Violet. Devon violet paper!)
“How very dear of you! Yes, our mother adored flowers. And how fortunate we were all girls. There were four of us, you know. Lily was the one who died.”
The trickle turned to ice. Which was stupid: Lily could have been six months or eighty when she passed away. I opened my mouth to say, “I’m sorry, was she ...” but Primrose was twittering on. A rise of stone appeared beyond a clustering of elm.
“Not a word to Hyacinth, but I will tell you, primroses were always Mother’s absolute favourite flower. Here we are—a few more yards, and do be careful of those two steps at the gate. Down the garden path we go. Cloisters, you notice, has only a modest front lawn these days. People just don’t go in for the lodge keeper at the gates anymore.”
She may have rambled on. I wasn’t listening. The lawn did look as though it had been cut from too skimpy a piece of green cloth, but the house was positively splendid. It actually belonged in one of those Regency novels and I fell instantly, madly, passionately in love with it. Built of Cotswold stone, somewhere between Jersey cream and warm custard, its gabled roof had faded to a pigeon grey, blushed with the faintest hint of rose. Ivy traced the walls in a delicate mesh of twine and leaves. A stone trelliswork decorated the pinnacles, and an arched jade and lavender stained-glass window flamed above the triple-arched portico.
The door should have been opened by a superbly aloof butler, but Primrose let us in herself. We were in a vast hall, and my eyes lit on a topsy-turvy grouping of Wellington boots in one corner, a plate of dog biscuits tucked under a table, and a stack of hot water bottles sitting on a chair. The fantasy faded, but this was even better. Real people lived in this unreal house. No everyday clutter could disperse the antiquity wafting in the air. Ancestors in gloomy oils scowled down upon us from the wainscotted walls. Angus Hunt would have scowled back at them. But would the first Tessa be among them? The Reverend Snapper had said the family had moved into this house when she was a young woman.
We were standing at the foot of a magnificent dark-oak staircase, which owed its rich mellow sheen more to age than to Johnson’s lavender wax. Fergy would have said that the place looked like it hadn’t smelled a polishing cloth since World War I. She would also have taken exception to the way the faded Persian rug lay sprawled unevenly across the floor, but she would have termed the general air of shabbiness “proper classy.” To Fergy, anyone reduced to buying furniture hadn’t come from much.
“Home Sweet Home,” chirped Primrose. On her last word a nearly invisible door in the oak panelling sprang open, releasing the ugliest, most rabid-looking canine (of bulldog extraction) I have ever seen. With one fell, ear-splitting swoop it came yelping and slithering across the floor, juicy fat tongue lolling, yellow eyes bulging in what I desperately hoped was a near-sighted glare. No such luck. It was making directly for my legs. Would he—she—bury the bones under the sofa? Terror had me dodging behind Primrose’s back, clutching her breathlessly and whispering “nice doggie” over her shoulder. Incredible! The creature fell back and lay spread-eagled, flattened, pretending to be dead. The peculiar angle of the Persian rug was now explained.
“Good girl! Sweetie baby,” purred Miss Tramwell, beaming down fondly at the canine monstrosity. “Minerva dearest, sit up and offer our guest a paw. That’s the way.”
I timorously accepted Minerva’s overture, trying to ignore the hungry look in those yellow eyes as she sniffed my hand.
“Now, Minnie, this is Miss ...” murmured Primrose. “Oh dear, how very awkward. Or, dare I hope, child, that you have sensed some indication of incipient recovery?”
This was tricky. If I made my case too hopeless, the Tramwells might deem me beyond the powers of a Maude Krumpet. On the other hand, to underplay my part would defeat my object. Clasping my hand to my brow, I whispered regretfully, “Strange—as your dog came across the hall, a memory—frightening ... someone trying to hurt me, but it is gone. Everything is a complete ...”
; “Fog,” supplied Miss Tramwell with a bright little nod. Setting her string bag and shawl on top of the hot water bottles, she was about to lead the way across the hall when that door in the panelling opened again and the other Miss Tramwell materialized. Today she was wearing a knitted orange suit which sagged at the shoulders and dipped at the hemline. The violent colour emphasized her sallow skin and made her black hair not only suspicious but blatantly dishonest. Had I noticed in the cafe how dark and hooded were her eyes?
“Primrose, my dear, tea is growing cold. You know how I dislike ...” She broke off when she saw me. “Good afternoon.” The heavy lids descended even lower. “I believe you are the young person who called the other day, collecting for the Uninsured Motorist Fund. Surely our butler told you then that we do not give at the door. Primrose, really, you must not be so soft-hearted.”
“Hyacinth, you are mistaken.” Primrose gently ushered me forward. “Something frightful has occurred,” she whispered. “I came upon this poor girl being attacked by some ruffian in Abbots Walk. The most contemptible fellow in a purple silk jacket with a cravat at the throat. And yes! I am positive he limped. So fortunate that my memory has not yet failed me. Oh dear, how frightfully insensitive. The terrible truth is, Hyacinth, that this abused girl has completely lost her memory. Knows not who she is, where she comes from, or who that villain was.”
“So she hasn’t come collecting?” Hyacinth sounded more relieved than anything. “Such an annoyance, strangers rapping on the door, particularly when”—a meeting of their eyes from which I was somehow excluded—”when You-Know-Who’s little problem prevents our keeping petty cash around.”
Both Minnie and I pricked up our ears, hoping to hear more of You-Know-Who and his problem. But we were out of luck. The sitting room into which Hyacinth led us was another room of ample proportions. Pictures hung thick upon its walls. A time-muted carpet covered the centre of the oak floor, flanked by two sagging rose-and-green chintz sofas. In front of the massive stone fireplace lay a lumpy patchwork blanket where Minerva immediately disported herself, giving us full benefit of her unique profile. On a walnut coffee table between the sofas, tea awaited. Graceful curves of a silver teapot spout and handle protruded from a bumble-bee-striped cosy. A Wedgwood biscuit stand, stacked with an assortment of broken digestives and custard creams, stood next to the blue-and-white-striped milk jug and sugar bowl and the mismatched assortment of plates, cups, and saucers for three.
Hyacinth gestured for me to sit down on the sofa facing the French windows overlooking the lovely back garden but I hesitated, eyes on the china. “Excuse me, I must be very much in the way—I see you are expecting company.”
Primrose understood at once. She gave her pretty tinkling laugh. “Dear child, you will think us very silly, but Minnie always joins us for afternoon tea. Hers is the Queen Victoria coronation cup. Makes our big girl feel important. But I am sure she will be a kind, unselfish person and let you have it, seeing that you are feeling poorly.”
“Please, no!” I cried. No faking the faintness in my tone this time. “Minerva is quite put out by the idea!”
“I fear so.” Primrose wagged a reproving finger at the inert lump. “The trouble with you, Miss Minerva, is that being an only dog you have never learned to share. I will ring for Butler and have him bring us another cup.” She did so, but repeated jangling of the bell rope failed to bring the sound of hurrying footsteps. A shame, because a butler named Butler was something I very much wanted to see. Primrose went to fetch another cup.
Picking up a Royal Doulton cup and setting it in a Woolworth’s saucer, Hyacinth poured a tepid trickle from the silver spout. “You must take some refreshment,” she insisted, “and then we can talk about your situation. Do you take milk and sugar?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Hyacinth’s lips, orange to match her dress, lifted into a half-smile. “Forgive me. How about milk no sugar?”
I would rather drink poison than sugar in my tea. “Thank you,” I sighed as Primrose came back through the door.
“Odd,” she said. “Butler is nowhere to be found, and this is Chantal’s day off.” She turned to me. “Our maid—of gypsy blood and a wonderful worker, when she’s here. Takes two days off every week; but they do hate to be cooped up, don’t they? And Nurse Krumpet did warn us that being too strict with the girl might be a mistake; possibly even dangerous. By the way, Hyacinth, Nurse’s boy Bertie was in the walk, and I sent him to fetch her.”
“Splendid!” approved her sister. “Fortunate that boys are such a ubiquitous breed. A pity the same cannot be said of Butler; ah! I hear him.” Hyacinth’s dangling earrings bobbed against her long neck like Egyptian mummies. I was looking at the door until I noticed that she and her sister were gazing at the fireplace.
The next moment I was half rising from my seat, spilling tea in a sickening warm slither down my legs. A huge, right-hand section of the fireplace was caving in on us. Hyacinth handed me a serviette to wipe myself dry as Primrose stood up.
“Most irritating,” she said. “Hyacinth, that catch has stuck again. We should have had someone in to fix it, but working on priest holes is another lost art. Excuse me, my dear.” She moved in front of me and, reaching forward, pressed a stone in the lurching cliff. Slowly it creaked outward, displaying a murky cavity within. “All right, Butler, I have released the spring. You may come out.”
A flicker of golden light and that classic figure of upper-crust British life emerged, candle held aloft. At the moment he bore a striking resemblance to another musical comedy breed, the chimney sweep, but his aplomb was magnificent. Blowing out the candle, he set it down on a pie-crust table.
“Pardon me, mesdames, it would seem I have rather lost track of time. Tut! And you having to serve your own tea! With a guest and all! May I be permitted to make up for my shocking lapse by fetching you fresh tea and a plate of your favourite fish-paste sandwiches?”
Hyacinth winced as his grimy hands shot forward to pick up the tray. “Do not touch a thing! What can have occupied you so long in the priest hole?”
“It had come to me, madame, in the pursuit of my domestic round, that your late govenor’s—that is, your h’esteemed parent’s—bottles of brandy might benefit from a dab with the duster.”
Hyacinth sniffed, apparently unimpressed by her hireling’s zest for work. “I trust you have not been polishing them off in more ways than one.”
Butler’s expression became, if possible, more imperious and inscrutable under reprimand. So far he had not accorded me more than a cursory glance, but I got the oddest feeling that if faced with a thirty-second quiz, he could have named my shoe size, the date I had my ears pierced, where I spent my last summer holiday, and the name of my perfume.
“Will the young person be remaining for the h’evening repast, mesdames?” he enquired. “Tonight, being Monday, it should be baked beans on toast, but for something a little more festive I could top that off with a poached h’egg. Chantal did inform me she will not be back until late. She is visiting an acquaintance confined to bed.”
“Yes, yes, Butler,” flustered Primrose. “A fresh pot of tea would be very nice, please.”
Flicking out his hands like a penguin’s wings Butler picked up the tea tray with his wrists and padded around the back of my sofa. (Butler wasn’t wearing shoes.) As he passed behind me on his way out of the room he murmured, “Lovely scent, miss. Concubine h’if I don’t mistake?”
A shiver passed down my spine. He was right, of course.
As the door closed behind him Primrose murmured vaguely, “I do wish we could persuade him to wear shoes, but then we’ve been so successful in rehabilitating him in other ways. Butler was a burglar, and a very successful one—only one visit inside—before coming to us.”
“A burglar?” I put my hand over my teacup to stop it rattling on its saucer.
“Yes, indeed. His whole family was in the ‘trade’, as he calls it. Most reprehensible, but in many ways marvellou
s training for a servant. Unobtrusive. So light and quick on his feet, and not the least fear of heights. I don’t think the attic windows had been washed outside for thirty years before he came.” Primrose was moving over to the priest hole door, which was still hanging open. I could see now that it was not solid brick, but a false front adhered to a wooden back. “I really don’t know, Hy, what we are to do about that catch.” She pushed the door shut. “If one of us were to go down while the house was empty ...”
A terrible desire to giggle almost overcame me, and I had to take refuge in drinking my tea. My plight was rapidly taking a back seat to household difficulties.
At that very moment a loud knocking sounded in the distance, causing Minnie to lurch off her blanket and dash whining to the door. Sturdy footsteps approached and Butler impressively bowed the visiting nurse into our presence.
I had told myself I was getting off lightly by being checked over by a nurse rather than an august M.D. Now I was less sure. Nurse was a large woman with the look of an oversized Dutch doll about her. Her greying brown hair was bound in tight plaits across her head, and her face was large, round, and rosy, making her blue eyes appear small. Those eyes were merry, but shrewd.
“Well, this is a right to-do.” With bustling warmth she came forward. Reaching out one of her large hands, she touched me gently. “Bertie has been telling me such things about a wicked man and a beautiful young lady. The boy does have a lively imagination but I see he had some of it right. What a pretty thing you are! Feeling any better, dear?”
02 - Down the Garden Path Page 6
