02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Two men all to myself. I shall have to take care not to let the occurrence go to my head.” The pink cement of Primrose’s cheeks cracked a little in excitement as Mr. Whitby-Brown and the Reverend Snapper soldiered up on either side of her, and we all marched in to dinner.

  I would even eat pigeon now with equanimity. But when we passed through the velvet-hung archway and sat down at the table lavishly set with white linen and lace, crystal, and hothouse flowers, I discovered that fowl had been left off the menu entirely. The genetic makeup of the soup was a bit of a mystery but delicious, as was the lobster mousse, the roast lamb, and the queen pudding.

  But, alas, the dining experience was itself not without its unpleasant incidents. The first was Mrs. Grundy’s false teeth. She removed them when the lamb arrived—and she did so discreetly, behind her serviette—but then she slipped them into her finger bowl, saying the lemon slice would keep them fresh. Seated beside her, there was no way I could avoid the sight of those floating choppers for the rest of the meal. Beautiful white head nodding, Mrs. Grundy squeezed my arm. “You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear, but I really can’t chew with the things and at my time of life my only pleasures are Goddy and food.”

  “But not in that order,” squealed the beloved son.

  “Always one for a joke.” Mrs. Grundy sliced into her meat, the knife and fork almost lost in her large hands, and I may have imagined the edge of steel in her voice. “Even as a boy Goddy tended to be rather exuberant in company. My husband, like most scientists, was rather solitary, and now I’m pretty much past the social whirl. I have my turns, you know.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. Your heart?”

  The butler refilled my wineglass, and Herr Wortter on the other side of Mrs. Grundy claimed her attention, leaving me free to listen in on the other conversations around the table. Angus was discussing a picture, reputedly by van Gogh and recently acquired by The Heritage. How hard it was for me not to display enthusiasm. I was relieved and saddened that he never looked directly at me.

  “Hunt is a recognized genius at uncovering frauds,” Godfrey burbled. “So beware”—he wagged a finger—”those frauds amongst us.” Everyone, except Herr Wortter, who was fussing with his monocle, laughed mightily while my insides shrivelled up.

  Angus, chins jostling, responded to Godfrey’s compliment, “Ach, I’m no genius. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. Art is a passionate, demanding, magnificent mistress. Aye! And sometimes it’s hard to keep a cool head in dealing with her.”

  Conversation continued. Mrs. Grundy, signalling to a hovering servant, had him fetch her the coffee pot. All Mother Knows Best, she poured a cup for the Reverend Snapper, chiding benignly that he really should have had wine like everyone else—and then poured another for Godfrey. Reaching into a pocket in her dress, she pulled out a lace hanky and a small packet. “Glucose,” she said. “Vicar, you will join me in a sprinkle. You should, too, Goddy. So much healthier than sugar.” Godfrey looked mutinous and Snapper silly, while the rest of the group listened to Hyacinth talking about drains.

  “Bad plumbing has always been the scourge of this country. In my opinion, it is what prevents our keeping up with the Americans and the Russians.”

  Who would snicker first? It wasn’t Mr. Whitby-Brown. Leaning forward he thumped a fist on the table. “Couldn’t agree with you more—especially in cases where a body is stuffed down inside the main drain, eh, Grundy?” Now came the laughter. A gleeful titter from Godfrey.

  “So you’ve heard about our jolly little murder of 1803, have you?”

  “The padre here was mentioning earlier ...” Mr. Whitby-Brown waved two fingers as if holding a cigar.

  “Yes, yes, I was indeed.” The Reverend Snapper set down his coffee cup, hitting the rim of his saucer and almost causing a flood. “Such a colourful manner of disposition. The modern murder is so lacking in aesthetic appeal. As a man of the cloth, I naturally cannot approve of breaking any of the Lord’s commandments but ...”

  He did keep harping on about being a man of the cloth, didn’t he?

  “Ve take your point, sir.” Herr Wortter was not looking at the Reverend Snapper but at Primrose. “Either leave your enemies to make their own destruction or do them in vell and good.”

  I watched in surprise the faint smile that flitted across Primrose’s face before she wiped it away with her hand, and so heard rather than saw Reverend Snapper rise from his chair. When I did look he was gripping his belt buckle convulsively. His nose had deepened to a Rudolph glow but the rest of his face was ashen.

  “Excuse me, most embarrassing ...” And legs wedged tightly together he shuffled in short rapid steps through the archway, leaving us in varying stages of astonishment.

  “I say,” guffawed Mr. Whitby-Brown. “Seen plenty of men who can’t hold their liquor but haven’t met one yet who can’t hold his murder!”

  A flare of lightning cut through the candlelit room, sharpening the faces around the table. They all betrayed varying degrees of astonishment at the sudden exit. But apparently it was not considered the “done thing” to question where Snapper was headed.

  “No disrespect to Ethelreda or Godfrey, it was really a rather unexceptional murder.” Hyacinth’s voice broke the silence. “Apart, of course, from that frilly touch—the drain. Eldest son threatens to marry someone unthinkable, and the family, sitting over their glasses of hock, decide to uplift the family motto: Strike While the Sword Is Hot. Yes, Godfrey”—she inclined her head—”ours doesn’t translate well from the Latin either, but my point is that your little murder is not nearly as pleasantly macabre as ... as some in other families.”

  Godfrey pouted and opened his mouth to reply when the butler edged to his side and informed him that the cleric had remembered that this was the Feast of St. Vitas and hoped his excuses would be accepted. I wished Dad had been around to hear that one. My eyes met Angus’s and I longed to ask him what he was thinking. If the Reverend Snapper had been suddenly taken ill, why had he been embarrassed to say so?

  “No great loss.” Godfrey heaved, prissing up his mouth. “Really didn’t want to invite him but he practically went on his knees to come.”

  “On his knees, eh? Force of habit,” chortled Mr. Whitby-Brown. “Ah well, I would have felt a qualm or two if the fellow had lost the collection money. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I am feeling lucky tonight.”

  A change came over the group, a thickening of excitement. Only Mrs. Grundy and I seemed to be outside it. Rising from her seat she said, “Yes, Goddy dear, I know when Mumsie isn’t wanted. Unnecessary of you to ask Maude Krumpet to come and spend the rest of the evening with me, but I will go up to her now.”

  Chairs creaked as everyone stood up, echoing her goodnight. Angus was rubbing his hands together the way he often did when waiting at the back door of The Heritage for some precious shipment. That “one vice” he had mentioned, could it be cards? Mrs. Grundy bent to whisper a special farewell to me. “Now remember, don’t be a stranger. Some nasty-minded people have called me an overzealous mother, but all I have ever wanted is for Goddy to be happy ... and you really are so pretty!”

  Away she trudged, Angus moving ahead of her to open the drawing-room door. Fingers elevated like birds on the wing, Godfrey ordered the trailing butler to fetch in the brandy. “My, this is such fun!” An ecstatic squeeze of those soft white hands, then a flourish indicating a table prepared for cards at the south end of the room. “Shall the play begin? And, remember—no whiny thumb-suckers!”

  “Excuse me, I should explain ...” My confession that I did not play whist, bridge, or fish trickled in tepid pursuit of retreating backs. Hyacinth was rummaging in her tartan bag, unwinding from its depths a flaglike object in shades of purple and brown, its pattern so varied that no four-inch span was alike.

  “I absolutely cannot play without my knitting,” she said. “But don’t worry, it’s not the least hindrance. I have become highly adept at working with both pins under
my arms.”

  “Do as you please, madam,” came the voice of Fritz Wortter, “but please bear in mind that some of us take the cards very seriously.”

  “My good man,” huffed Primrose, now delving into her black bag and to my horror bringing out a green eyeshade, “so indeed do we.”

  Oh, what could I do with them! They were incorrigible. How could I endure sitting idly by, watching my very own pigeons get plucked?

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  A vicar’s daughter need never sit idle. She can always pray. But Dad’s influence was sometimes tempered by Fergy’s belief that God was a very busy man with little patience for trivia. And, alas, it had to be admitted that the sisters were behaving in a deplorably trivial fashion. Bleating at each other in fretful accents, one was moaning that she had forgotten to wear her talisman purple garter, while the other was lamenting that this was the fourth day of the fourth week and that she never, never did well with a pair of fours.

  The book I had lifted from a table, piquantly titled One Thousand and One Practical Jokes, lay unopened on my lap as I sat in my priceless velvet chair a few yards away from the table. Herr Wortter kept muttering “Ach, mein Gott.” And Godfrey was making further disparaging remarks about the green eyeshade. “Vastly vulgar, Primmy dear.”

  Primrose bristled. “I see nothing vulgar or ludicrous about it. Do you never watch American cinema? Those documentaries on Old West culture classify these as the emblem of the dedicated card player.”

  Mr. Whitby-Brown looked pointedly at his watch, but the fray continued. “Honestly, Prim,” fumed Hyacinth, “I wish you hadn’t mentioned that. Now I’m remembering Dr. Holiday and the dead man’s hand. Should I get aces and deuces tonight I won’t sleep a wink when I get home.”

  “If ve may begin,” snarled Herr Wortter. At last! A basic seven-card stud was decided upon. (Meaning poker, I supposed.) Primrose beckoned me to come closer to the table, but I shook my head. Really, it was a bit much my being stuck with no better means of entertaining myself than listening to “four over, two down, dealer picks, first ace bets,” or reading this silly book. Better means of entertaining myself! Of course there was—and work to be done! Maude Krumpet was in the house.

  Like a thieving parlour maid I stole across the room, but at the door I risked a glance back and noticed a thoughtful look on Angus’s St. Bernard face as he fanned out his cards. Beside him Hyacinth clicked away at her needles making another snide remark to Primrose sitting opposite.

  The staircase at Cheynwind, unlike Cloisters, was carpeted. I padded up it soundlessly. I would have to come up with some reason for speaking to Maude away from the presence of Mrs. Grundy. But first I had to find her. I had just reached the last stair and was wondering how much time I could take before the butler was despatched to find me, when a voice called out, “looking for the loo?” And there was Maude Krumpet coming along with a blanket over her arm.

  I couldn’t waste time on blatant lies. Shaking my head, I slipped on a wistful smile and said confidingly, “They’re playing cards downstairs and I got restless. Is Mrs. Grundy asleep already?”

  “Not a bit. She had something she wanted to do, and didn’t want me hovering. How are you feeling, dear?”

  “Better. I remember things in—patches. But the patches are getting bigger.”

  Could what I had said be medically unlikely? Maude’s broad face certainly held what appeared to be a look of disbelief.

  “I’m sorry.” She took a few steps forward, hoisting up the blanket, which had slipped a little. “I must have been staring. Funny tricks light plays sometimes. Caught as you were in the shadow of the bannister rail, for a moment you reminded me of someone. Not often I show signs of Bertie’s fertile imagination.”

  Here was an excellent wedge into her good graces, and I would weave the conversation back to the someone Maude remembered when she looked at me. “Did Bertie tell you we met again? That he was my rescuer from another close call?”

  “He and the invincible Fred? I expect the Misses Tramwell have told you about him.” Maude still had an odd expression on her face. She must be listening for Mrs. Grundy, so I had better get a move on.

  “They may have mentioned Fred,” I moved my two index fingers forward and twirled escaping curls around them. “Such wonderfully kind people, the Tramwells, taking me in as they have. Fascinating and unusual, too. All the sisters being named after flowers.” Here I gave a surprised little gasp. “How strange your saying what you did about my looking like ... because earlier Mrs. Grundy said, in passing, that I reminded her of Violet—the one who went to America.”

  “Perhaps that is it,” Maude said, and I thought to myself what a comfy sort of face she had when she smiled, “although it would have to be some mannerism in common—the determined set of the mouth maybe, because you are nothing like her in build or features. She writes to me occasionally, you know, we were—rather good friends. Violet was never the sort to be bothered by such things as social position. She did her own thing, as they say nowadays.”

  Excitement surged through me. Friends! Friends helped one another in times of trouble. Admittedly I wished Violet could have been a more glamourous figure, living in England and without quite so many children, but Lily was dead. As out of reach as Mum. And Hyacinth and Primrose ... no, I still could not visualize either of them taking the steps necessary to become a mother.

  “I can’t help wondering”—the quiver in my voice was perfect—”if my being in that avenue ... could mean that I was actually on my way to visit the Tramwells. It does seem odd that in two hours two people have linked me with Violet.”

  “You mean that, unbeknown to the Tramwells, you may be related to the family?”

  “It does sound far-fetched,” I sighed, “but if it’s true, and if I could find out how, I would be closer to discovering my own identity.” Fergy had said once when I was little that I never told the truth when a lie would do. But now the truth served very well.

  “There’s the heir, a cousin of sorts.” Maude took the blanket off her arm and folded it. “He didn’t visit for years; something to do with his father having married a divorcee or a widow. Old Mr. Tramwell had some very odd ideas, considering he wasn’t in much of a position to throw stones. But I understand contact has been resumed, so the Tramwells would know if there were any girls around your age in that branch of the family, wouldn’t they, dear?”

  “I’ll have to ask them....” The person I wanted to ask Maude about was Lily, but I felt a hesitancy, almost a fear, whenever the face of that enchanting little girl came into my mind. What had she looked like when she grew up? If she grew up. Strange that there were no portraits of any of the Tramwell sisters as adults in the gallery.

  I had hesitated too long. Maude was saying that she really must get this extra blanket on Mrs. Grundy’s bed. “Have to do something to earn my pay. Most of the time she’s no trouble at all, and I sit sewing or writing letters. You know, I think I will drop Violet a note, tonight. Goodnight, dear. And take care of yourself.”

  The way she said those last words gave me a funny feeling. Why? Why take care? I felt sort of lost, almost abandoned as she disappeared down the corridor. Stupid! My situation was tricky, especially now with the complication of Angus—but not dangerous. Peering over the bannisters I saw no sign of life and decided while up here I might as well make a trip to the loo. If I could find an old lipstick lying around I could write a note to Angus and try to sneak it to him. Several doors opened into ruffled and quilted splendour, and I was enticed into entering some of the rooms. Tomorrow I must attempt a similar tour of Cloisters. Could the portrait missing from the gallery be one of an older Lily? Or Violet? Banished out of ... guilt or grief? My hand turned another knob.

  If this wasn’t a loo, I was going back downstairs. I stepped into a laboratory, not a lavatory. Test tubes, fizzing and frothing like mini-geysers all over the place. Something vaguely resembling a red-hot TV aerial sat on a table near a s
ink shooting off lightning sparks. A figure in a grubby white coat appeared from a side door. Thick safety glasses hid the eyes, but I would have recognized that beautiful crop of white hair anywhere. Mrs. Grundy!

  “Hello,” I said feebly, leaning up against the door, the popping and hissing throbbing in my ears. What kind of experiments were conducted here? A poor thing he might be, but I could understand Godfrey’s concern if this was the form his mother’s turns took. Cripes! Was there anything in the Bible to suggest that the end of the world would come through the intervention of a stout old lady who took out her teeth at the table? Some detective I was not to have recognized the sinister aspect of such behaviour.

  “Tessa, how dear of you to come up and see me!” She picked up the rod thing and was coming towards me like Florence Nightingale with the lamp. As I backed up, the doorknob stabbed me in the back, and I almost pitched forward. A savage gust of wind blasted the windows and something gurgled nastily inside the room.

  “You will be careful not to touch anything, won’t you, child?” It was amazing; we might have been in a china shop. “Godfrey worries so about accidents, but really I take every precaution. My late husband taught me everything he knew. Such wonderful times we had puttering about up here before he went and poisoned himself.”

  “Poisoned himself?”

  “On cigarettes.” Mrs. Grundy set down her “lamp.” “Such a dreadful, costly way to go. The price per packet! Did everything I could, but Hector’s one fault was extravagance. As I always say to Goddy, look after the pence and the pounds will look after themselves. And I can tell you, Tessa, I do look after the dear boy’s money.” Several of the tubes burped coarsely, letting off ghastly fumes. “Don’t be intimidated by the explosive aura, dear. Nurse Krumpet has complete faith in me. I only let her come here because it pleases Godfrey. Provides her with a little extra money—which I don’t begrudge.”