02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  Instinctively I said, “Your poor mother. I can’t think of anything worse than—”

  “She never gave way. Never cried. She had Father to tend, you see. His hair went white in a week. Outsiders thought they knew him, that he was mainly interested in his wines and in sporting his fancy waistcoats. But his children were everything to him. He was the perennial child himself. Father was the one who put the swing in the nursery. The house would ring with laughter. Lily had the most infectious laugh. Rather like yours. Sometimes even now, I can hear ... such a merry sound, and then the screams.... But enough of that.” Hyacinth turned and came back to me. “It was all a long time ago.”

  Laughter, minutes before she fell? Then Lily had not been driven from the house by irate parents who had discovered that she was pregnant. Unless ... unless she was defiant, spirited, determined to brazen matters out—I shivered—and an infuriated someone had come up behind her and given her an angry shake or a shove.

  “A terrible accident,” I said.

  “Yes.” Was Hyacinth agreeing that it was terrible or that it was an accident?

  Fergy says prying into people’s grief is like going through someone’s handbag, but I persisted. “Was Lily very young when it happened?”

  “Naturally.” Wasn’t Hyacinth paying attention? Old people fell downstairs.

  “How old was she?” I asked.

  Hyacinth took my elbow and guided me from the room. “Come away. No point in focussing on the morbid. Chantal has lunch ready, and I thought that afterwards you might like to help me with some weeding in the garden. Nothing like fresh air for curing all manner of ills.”

  Not only was she unwilling to discuss Lily further, but those last words were perhaps a hint that I was beginning to outstay my welcome. I was being hurried towards the stairs, Hyacinth explaining that since Butler and Chantal were both having this evening off we would have a substantial meal now and a cold one at dinnertime.

  After lunch, which was a rather silent meal—Primrose appearing rather abstracted—I did go out and help Hyacinth weed the rose beds. The sun was warm on our backs as we knelt companionably, prodding our trowels into the damp earth. I thought of Mum. So long ago, those afternoons when I had sat beside her dropping stones in my small bucket as she worked. Often when I thought of her my sense of loss was a dull ache, but now it was raw and fresh as though dragged to the surface like the weeds in my hands.

  The rest of the day passed and I found I was counting the minutes until I could get to Harry in the Ruins. If I could get to him. At six o’clock precisely Butler served us a ham salad and cheese and biscuits in the parlour, and announced that he and Chantal would be leaving in half an hour.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” said the sisters.

  “Thank you. I h’always find my therapy sessions most rewarding, mesdames.” He swept a cracker crumb into his open palm and padded noiselessly from the room.

  “So pleased he is getting this release.” Primrose poked at a lettuce leaf.

  “But I thought ...” I could not help myself. “I thought you didn’t believe in psychotherapy.”

  “The home-brewed kind we do,” replied Hyacinth. “Pass the mustard pickle, please, Tessa.”

  Who could Butler be seeing? A sympathetic woman? The curtains had not been drawn, and in looking towards the windows I was overcome again by the feeling that someone was lurking in or near the grounds watching. Bertie? But I hadn’t experienced this prickly chill when I had caught him playing Robin Hood earlier in the morning. Chantal crossed the lawn, a scarf fluttering around her head. Off to some pub, I was sure: Perhaps the Traitor’s Head?

  The meal over, we removed to the sitting room, and I had to fight to keep my jumping limbs still. The sisters picked up books to read, and suggested that I might find The Dutiful Daughter soothing. Burying my scorching face in it, I turned a page every now and then without reading a word. Hyacinth was sitting on the same couch as I, and Primrose on the one opposite. When I did lift my head briefly I noticed that although the silvery head was intently bent, one hand was lying across the open pages. Five minutes later I looked again, and the hand was in the same place.

  This time Primrose caught my eyes on her and closed the book. “Dear me, I can’t settle,” she said. “I haven’t heard Minnie, and wonder if she got out when Butler and Chantal left. I’ll go and have a quick peek round for her.”

  About ten minutes later she came back to inform us that she could not find Minnie anywhere in the house, and that Clyde had warned her that morning to keep a watch on the dog because several animals had been kidnapped in the village in the last week or so.

  “Crime rampant in Flaxby Meade,” sniffed Hyacinth, but she looked rather anxious.

  “My dear, if you and Tessa will look in the Ruins and around Abbots Walk, I will go down the other way and call for her.” Primrose ducked back out the door.

  Half an hour of searching and cajoling brought no sign or sound of Minnie, and I began to fear that a ransom note might soon be winging its way to Cloisters. Leaving Hyacinth still circling the grounds I went back into the house. With all those rooms it would be easy for the dog to have burrowed away behind a piece of furniture and gone unobserved by a nervous Primrose. I searched the kitchen first, then the parlour and sitting room in hopes that Minnie had wandered into one of these friendly haunts the minute we all left the premises. Not a sign, so I started opening other doors into rooms that were almost as empty as the ones upstairs ...

  I stood in the centre of the hall, the wind knocked out of me as though I had been hit with a mallet. Angus had been right when he had suggested that the sisters might be in financial trouble. They must have been forced to sell their furniture in order to retrieve the funds they had gambled away! Now I began to wonder if their choice of servants was as liberal as I had supposed. An ex-burglar and a gypsy would never be sponsored for membership in such groups as the Joyful Sounds.

  Everything began suddenly to fall into place. Godfrey Grundy would know the Tramwells’ financial state, but his lips would be sealed for his own purposes; and I would bet his mother, when she came to Cloisters, would never be allowed to set foot beyond the sitting room. Maude Krumpet seemed to be only an occasional visitor, and Clyde Deasley ... how much did he know? Clyde Deasley, antique dealer! Wasn’t it likely he was the one who was buying up the furniture and other items of value? Or at least offering valuation estimates. That book Primrose had handed him yesterday, Evelina, volume I: Was that really a loan to a friend of Mr. Deasley’s, or was he taking it to show a client? This morning when I had been told to ask him to look at the silver teapot, had the spout needed repairing or was the pot off to the auction block? What sort of detective was I? A detective wearing rose-coloured glasses. I had liked the idea of the ancestral home having its ghosts, yes, but that one of them should be poverty ...

  I was so rooted to the ground that when Primrose leaned over the bannister rail and let out a small cry of surprise, I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare blankly up at her.

  “How you startled me, Tessa dear. I imagined you were still outside. When I couldn’t find Minnie down the lane I decided to look up on the third floor.”

  Footsteps. Hyacinth entered the hall saying she hadn’t had any luck, and Primrose came down the last few stairs, hands twisting, eyes directed at the floor.

  How could they bear it if Minnie was really gone? Hadn’t they lost enough already? They had been foolish and imprudent, but everyone needs a little fun in her life. I went to where they stood close together and put my arms around them. “Minnie will be back. She’s romped off with her boyfriend the way she’s done the last couple of nights.”

  I made tea and, coming down the hall with the tray, I heard the phone. It was Maude, ringing to ask how I was doing. Kind of her, but I was glad when she rang off quickly, saying she was on her way out to spend the evening with Mrs. Grundy, who seemed to be on the brink of another of her turns. The slight tension in her voice was thus expl
ained, but Maude wouldn’t buy my delayed recovery much longer.

  At ten o’clock Hyacinth suggested an early night. I heaved a silent sigh of gratitude. By three, when Harry would be waiting in the Ruins, the sisters would surely be asleep. And, if I did bump into either Butler or Chantal returning from wherever they had been, I could say I was searching for Minnie. Chantal might find the excuse repetitious, but she had been out after the dog herself the night before.

  In the nursery I lay down on my bed fully dressed, the letter to Dad in my pocket, and picked up The Tramwell Family.

  When I opened my eyes I felt as though I had slept for hours, but my watch said only 10:45. I wound it, retrieved the book, and opened it to the chapter on Tessa Tramwellyan. Eyes striving to blink awake, I skimmed lines. The author related numerous incidents of Tessa’s nobility—her love of her family, her generous nursing of the sick during an epidemic of scarlet fever, her sewing of altar cloths, her generosity to the poor. But as I turned each page I felt, as Chantal had said, that the curate would have laid on the same fulsome commentary if Tessa had been a mass murderess. As to murder—nothing was said about Tessail other than that Tessa’s father had died before she was born. I came to Tessa’s death, and was pleased to learn that it had occurred when she was past eighty. The gypsy curse had been getting a little rusty.

  Reaching under my head to draw down my pillow something crackled under my hand. I drew out a square of folded paper, and wonderingly unfolded it. On it were printed the words “If ever you need me hang something orange out the window.” And then a scrawled signature. Was it “Your Harry” or “Yours Harry”? Hard to tell, but a lovely warm glow suffused me. He was worried that I had not made it to the Ruins the last two nights.

  What a chance he had taken breaking into this room—up the apple tree, I supposed. How fortunate I had left the window open. Carefully I refolded the paper and, leaning over the edge of the bed, tucked it under my mattress. The hands on my watch showed half-past one. I was surprised I had been reading so long. If only I had found something about Tessa that would have given me a clue to my origins. As last night, when I had been talking to Maude, I had the feeling that I had walked past something important without seeing it. Maybe it wouldn’t come to me until I had left Cloisters—which I had to do the next day. I couldn’t feign amnesia any longer. And yet I hated to leave with so many questions unanswered. Funny ... several of those questions had nothing to do with my origins. But in the time left I had better concentrate on those that did.

  I had hoped that the missing gallery portrait might mean something—that, if I could find it, it might prove to be a face that resembled mine—but now I thought it as likely it had been sold as removed in disgrace. The Tramwell Family was sliding off the bed and I reached for it. Still, if that portrait was in the house, my guess was it might be in the attic.

  * * * *

  My candle singed a small pale hole in the velvet darkness of the hallway as I stole towards the attic staircase. When I came close to Hyacinth’s and Primrose’s bedrooms my feet stopped on their own accord; stupid, when what I wanted was to get past those potential trouble spots as quickly as possible. As I stood cupping the flame I heard a faint buzz of voices and almost retreated back to the nursery, until common sense insisted that one of the sisters must have fallen asleep with the wireless on. I took a step closer to the door in question but could not judge whether this room belonged to Hyacinth or Primrose. Didn’t matter. The voice speaking now was deeper than either of theirs. It could have been a man’s or that of a woman of low pitch.

  Move, Tessa. I got up the attic stairs as fast as I could, glad that I had put matches in my skirt pocket in case the candle went out. It did so halfway up and time was wasted when I pulled out three dead matches from the box. Finally, a live one; guarding the candle so close my hand grew hot, I made it up the last few steps and pushed open the door.

  Two o’clock. Not much time. I placed the candle on a trunk near the window. Chantal had been standing right here.... Suddenly I realized that the shock of finding the girl in Harry’s bed had imprinted the smallest gesture she had made during our attic meeting on my mind. That picture, lying face down on the trunk under the window—she had picked it up and placed it there! Putting the candle down on a trunk I bent and lifted the frame. In the misted yellow glow a face looked up at me. A face that I felt I would have recognized if some amateur had not topped the owner’s puffed and cascading white wig with a wide-brimmed black hat—along with other concealing flourishes. Why? Hands shaking I scraped around the mouth, paint clogging under my nails. In order to see better I hoisted the picture closer to the candle, and my foot came down on something that felt like a folded rug. Jerking my leg sideways I tried to shove it away. But it wouldn’t be shoved.

  And then I looked down and saw that the rug was Minnie.

  The picture, whatever its secret, would have to wait; I leaned it against the wall and sat on the floor, lifting Minnie’s head into my lap. The yellow eyes were glased, and kept drooping closed.

  “Wake up, old girl,” I whispered, stroking her ears. An awful thought came: Primrose had been afraid of kidnapping, but what if someone was poisoning dogs? I shook Minnie hard, and her head came up, eyes open. What an idiot I was. If she had been poisoned she would have been dreadfully sick. But perhaps she had been, somewhere else, before crawling up here ... to die.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Die! She wouldn’t die if I could help it. The rough part would be getting her downstairs in the dark, for I could not carry both her and the candle. It was a long slow descent but it gave me time to decide against waking the Tramwells. Old people shouldn’t be startled out of sleep in the dead of night. Not unless absolutely necessary. If I could not bring Minnie round they had the right to be informed, but I would do what I could first.

  After getting Minnie to the kitchen and in a big chair by the fireplace, I made strong instant coffee, using lukewarm water and, prying those massive jaws apart, poured it down her ungrateful throat. The rumble rising deep from within her belly was not going to deter me; the more horrible the medicine the better it works. So I told Minnie and, miraculously, by the time I had emptied a third jugful into her she was up on all fours and frisking at the garden door, begging to be let out.

  Fickle creature that I am, my enthusiasm for her waned fast. She would follow me to the Ruins and raise enough racket to wake the dead monks and the Tramwells. But I was wrong. Minnie showed her appreciation for my endeavours by abandoning me before I was halfway across the lawn. If I found Harry still waiting, I would forgive her. If it was past three and he was gone, that would be something else. I couldn’t see my watch in the dark and I hadn’t thought to look at it while trying to resuscitate Minerva. I had hardly heard the random chiming of the clocks. A shadow disconnected itself from the other shadows in the Ruins and stepped towards me.

  “Damn you to hell and back,” Harry greeted me, and I was so pleased to see him, so reassured by his nurturing, protective attitude, that I ran the short distance towards him, twined my arms around his neck, and pressed my lips breathlessly against his. For five seconds he responded, his arms crushing me to him, his breath every bit as ragged as mine, and then—frigid creature—he pushed me away.

  “Only two nights, two and a half hours late,” he informed me icily, studying his watch. Unlike mine, his was a modern one with a luminous dial.

  “But I never promised I would be here on any specific night,” I began.

  “Nearer three hours late than two,” he said. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

  “But it can’t be,” I cried. “Your watch must be wrong, or ...” Oh no! I remembered that feeling of having dozed longer than my watch had indicated. It must have stopped at 10:45.

  Brushing past him I sat down on a broken piece of wall. Its being damp and cold did not mellow my mood any. Through two of the crumbling pillars I could see a reddening of sky. Harry came and sat beside me. His hand
hovered over my hair for a moment, and then came down to touch it gently.

  “I’m sorry, Tess. I was worried about you, not angry. This obsession of yours—won’t you give it up? You haven’t come up with anything, have you?”

  “Why so sure? As it happens I have discovered a host of interesting facts since coming to Cloisters, including one that seems to be of particular interest to you.” I hunched my shoulders and scowled.

  “Why that tone of voice?” He moved his hand away from my hair and brought it down to catch hold of my hand. “Tessa, you know how much I care about you.” With his free hand he was turning my face to his, his voice warm and caressing. “If I have done anything that has made you think otherwise, please understand that it was only because ...”

  What was he saying? “You knew,” I cried, breaking away from him to stand, arms folded, eyes flashing. “You wretch, you knew when I came here that your gypsy love was the maid in this house....” The words slowed to a trickle, then ceased. The surprise on his face was so blatantly genuine that I sat down again. My hand stroked the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Harry, I’m sorry. That was beastly of me. I know that if you had realized Chantal worked at Cloisters you would have warned me.” He said nothing, and I stared around the Ruins. “Last night when you came here you saw her, didn’t you? Didn’t the sight of her almost bowl you over? It hit me hard, I can tell you. Did she see you? Did you speak to her?” My hand was clutching at his sleeve now, and I despised the note of desperation in my voice. Her face illuminated by moonlight had been so lovely. “A real comedy of errors this.”

  “No,” he said. “She didn’t see or speak to me. Her being here is certainly a complication, but if she hasn’t revealed your identity to the ladies of the house, I think you can safely assume she isn’t going to.”

  Men are so gullible, but I didn’t pursue the matter of Chantal. I remembered my letter to Dad and gave it to Harry. He tucked into his jeans pocket and then began stroking my hair again, and I felt safe. Really safe for the first time in days, which was odd because nothing terrible threatened me. Even if Chantal did her worst I faced nothing more than acute embarrassment. Hyacinth and Primrose were the ones in trouble. I touched his sleeve again.