Think back! Remember: He had spoken of knowing Flaxby Meade. Or had he actually said that? I had been so tense the day I had gone to visit him, what with feeling the desperate need to recruit him, and then finding Chantal in his bed. Oh, Chantal! You are much too good for him. Now I understand why you did not denounce me. Harry must have told you everything and in his inimitable way procured your silence.
No wonder in the Ruins just now he took the news of my “interesting discovery” so placidly. I bet he thought I had found out everything. Yes, that day at his house was all coming back to me. His knowledge of the Ruins had impressed me because they were not famous and I had never found Harry particularly fascinated with that kind of stuff. And hadn’t he said that Flaxby, while lacking the prestige of being the birthplace of Shakespeare, was the birthplace of some of his relatives?
I was seated alone in the sitting room. Hyacinth had despatched a cringing but gleeful-eyed Godfrey to phone the police and had gone herself to fetch a bowl of water so I could wash my blood-stained hands. Now she returned and stood over me while I let my hands float in soapy suds and stared at the wall. She was so relieved, she said, that Harry was not the one dead (as she had first feared) that her exclamations of regret for Angus sounded mere politeness. I must have told her when first entering the house—five or ten minutes ago—about my previous acquaintance with Angus, because she now wondered aloud what in the world could have brought him back to Flaxby and to the walk at such an uncivilized hour? Patting me on the shoulder, she handed me a towel and apologized for distressing me. Then she again made a gallant attempt to turn Harry the Heel into Harry the Hero. When I recovered from this shock I would understand that his deceit had sprung from the purest of motives.
“My dear Tessa, when you and Harry have a quiet moment alone together I am sure he will explain everything to your complete satisfaction.”
“He tricked me. I know that my wishing to trick you was wrong, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t know you.”
“Nor we you, but we have become so fond of you. And you must not imagine for a moment that Primrose and I have not been delighted to have you with us. When Harry first unveiled your scheme to us we were highly intrigued and most impressed. So many young people these days have no sense of adventure.”
I looked down the room to where Bertie was sitting. How awful of me. I had forgotten him, but he looked absorbed, stroking Minnie’s drooping ears. From her slack jowls and occasional mournful yelps she had not recovered from what she had seen in the walk, and guilt merged with my fury. I should be thinking only of Angus, but I couldn’t escape the realization hammering away in my head that the Tramwells had known what I was after, what I wanted to know. So, if they weren’t afraid to have me in the house—prowling around in the dead of night, listening at keyholes—they either knew my origins were not rooted in this house (in which case why hadn’t they told me so?) or they felt the secret was secure from my snooping.
“You are probably wondering why we didn’t just have Harry bring you here to tea one afternoon and tell you whether we knew anything about your parentage,” Hyacinth said. “I am afraid I can’t answer that; I don’t feel I have the right. But both Primrose and I felt you had the right to conduct your search. If we hadn’t, well, by now you know that we have our reasons for not entertaining much at Cloisters.”
“You’re saying”—the towel slipped into the bowl—”that you do know the identity of my mother, but that revealing her name would be to break a trust? But please tell me one thing: Does Nurse Krumpet know?”
“A child hasn’t been born in Flaxby Meade in the last thirty years with which Maude hasn’t had some dealings. But she may not be willing to talk, should you tackle her,” Hyacinth said soothingly. “Excuse me, my dear, I must go and find Primrose. So unlike her to be down late for breakfast, but I expect she had trouble sleeping through worrying about Minerva. You understand—I don’t want her to come down unprepared to a house full of policemen. By the way, I think we should tell them that you are romantically involved with Harry and are spending the week here so that we can all begin to feel like a family.”
“And what if Bertie pipes up with what he saw in the walk the other day?” I lowered my voice so he wouldn’t hear.
“He’s a highly imaginative child who talks to a friend who doesn’t exist. Not that we would accuse him of lying—that would be dastardly. We will say that what he saw was a game. A practical joke pulled by you and Harry which has had Primrose and me in stitches ever since.”
Practical joke. Had the dressing up of Angus in that monk’s habit been someone’s idea of a twisted practical joke? Something prodded at my subconscious; a memory bubbled slowly up towards the surface and then submerged again.
“And as for Maude”—Hyacinth was on the move towards the door—”she won’t say a word about the amnesia. You can count on that. Being no fool, she sensed that everything was not as it seemed. The boy playing in the walk that afternoon made it impossible for Primrose not to call her in, but perhaps it was for the best.”
“Her loyalty to the family must be extreme if she will keep quiet,” I said.
“Loyalty?” Hyacinth’s hand turned the doorknob as I took the washbowl from her other hand. “Now I didn’t say it was a matter of that, did I? Look, the boy is coming over. Why don’t you take him to the kitchen for a hot, sweet drink.”
A hot drink! I had promised Maude that I would see that Bertie had one the moment I reached Cloisters and broke the news. Instead ... but I wouldn’t think about Harry. What had Hyacinth meant by that last remark? How soon would the police be here? Oh, Angus. They will be grouped around you now. They and some doctor, referring to you as the body.
“You all right, miss?” Bertie reached out to touch my arm, eyes under the spiky ginger hair wide with concern.
“Fine.” I squeezed his hand. We were at the kitchen door, and I didn’t remember coming down the hall. The room was empty, and I blindly filled the kettle while Bertie climbed on to a stool. My hands lit the gas, reached for the tea caddy, pulled down cups from hooks. Keep going—that was the secret. The kettle sang out shrilly, and when I picked it up water sloshed out, but I didn’t feel any pain. So quick. Had Angus’s death been quick? Who was the false friend who had telephoned? Who was the woman who had threatened suicide? Were they one and the same? Harry had thought so, but ... Don’t think about Harry. I couldn’t help it. I was back on the ground with him kneeling over Angus, listening to those words about Minnie, and trust, and the aunties in ... I could see Angus, hear him take that last sighing breath—and he hadn’t said the word “Dundee”. And yet Harry had asked me whether he had any family other than the aunties in Dundee. Ah, but that was all easily explained now ... wasn’t it?
How soon until the police got here? Hyacinth had pointed the way out of my dilemma—or had she? Harry and I were the ones with Angus when he died. Bertie would tell his story; but would the police believe him? He hadn’t been able to describe the killer to us. The police might think Harry and I were in the murder together, but there had to be a motive. And neither of us had one for killing Angus, unless ... I came back to the card games. How much of what he had said to the sisters would come out?
“Tell them I am sorry,” Angus had said. But had he been talking about the Tramwells or the aunties in Dundee? If the former, then neither sister was the “false friend.” So who ... ? I had slopped half of Bertie’s tea into his saucer and now tilted it back into the cup. “False friend”; what I must not do is assume that everything Angus said was in context. Had he been speaking about himself, believing that somehow he had failed me? Knowing Angus, that almost seemed a probable explanation.
And what would the police make of the monk’s habit? Would they decide this was likely to be the work of some religious fanatic? A member of some goat-worshipping sect that every hundred years made a sacrificial offering of a Christian? A vision came of a group in flowing robes, holding black candles, chanting mumbo-jumbo
—and led by, of all people, the Reverend Snapper.
“I think you’re a real smash! That’s what I telled Aunt Maude.” Bertie was leaning forward on his stool as I poured the tea. His hands still twitched a bit on his knees and his colour wasn’t too great, but he seemed to have got himself together very well for a boy who had just witnessed his first murder. His life at the orphanage had bred a unique brand of stamina. Looking at him as he sipped his tea I felt a loving, protective kinship. I wanted to tell him that I was adopted, too, that we were members of the same special club, but this wasn’t the time.
“Aunt Maude thinks you’re pretty, too. She asked me if I thought as ‘ow you reminded me of anyone.”
“What did you say?” Yesterday I would have waited desperately for his answer, but now I was no longer clear about my desire to find my birth mother. I’d had so much and been so greedy. Now Angus was dead. If I hadn’t been here—if he hadn’t come back to Flaxby Meade—I want, I need; that had been my cry. No thought about the hurt I might be dishing out, or whether the woman who had given birth to me wanted or needed me. I lifted a teacup, watching a thick leaf—a stranger—floating on the top.
“I says, did she mean someone famous like on the telly an’ Aunt Maude says no, someone local—from the village.”
“And did she tell you who that might be?”
“Well, I says back to ‘er, was she meaning a gent or a lady, an’ ...”
Before Bertie could finish, the door from the servants’ staircase opened and Chantal came in, moving as always with a careless, sultry grace. Her dark dress emphasizing her glowing skin and her hair was drawn back into a coil low on her neck, giving her the appearance of someone from another century.
“I’ve been talking with Butler,” she said, her voice flat. I continued staring at her. She was afraid, and afraid of showing she was afraid. For Butler or for herself? Either way I should have been relieved. Looking down at my hands I said, “Have you also heard that Harry was with me when I found Angus Hunt?”
“Yes.”
I forced my eyes to meet hers. “Nice that Harry’s name is no longer taboo between us. Knowing about his relationship with the Tramwells finally answers the question of why you did not give me away.”
She was standing next to the big deal table, the black cat sidling up against her. “What a perverse creature you are,” she said. “You’re actually angry with him for asking me to keep quiet because nothing—nothing must be allowed to spoil your little masquerade.”
I bit my lip, hoping she would not see the tears that filled my eyes. “Perverse, but not helpless. Maybe I can assist with breakfast.”
“Sit down,” she said. “You’ve been through enough. Butler got the news from the hero of the hour.”
I winced and turned my face away.
“I’m sorry. That sounded rather brittle didn’t it? And I meant Squire Grundy—not Harry.”
“Don’t apologize. None of us know how to handle this kind of situation. How is Butler doing?”
“As expected. With his past he’s not exactly serene. But I assured him he wouldn’t be the only one whose life would be turned into a dustbin for the police to rummage through. They’re likely to be prejudiced against all kinds of minority groups besides burglars. Gypsies and ...”
“Impostors?” I squeezed both hands together.
Chantal stood beside me. “Don’t get an undue sense of your own importance, Tessa dear. I’ve been amused by your little masquerade. We are all members of that faction—one way or another.”
“Are you telling me that you are not ...?”
“Culturally entitled to bang a tambourine? Oh yes—I am certainly a gypsy.”
“In that case, what kind of impostor are you?” I asked.
“I prefer to wait to be found out.” She was looking at my right palm. “It’s gone.” Her head turned slowly from side to side. “All finished. The future is now the past. The horror I saw the other night, the sense of advancing evil, misled me. I thought ‘H’ represented Harry because the brand was so deep on your palm; and I don’t understand why, when the murdered man was a stranger to you ...”
“Hunt,” I whispered. And Harry slipped through our hands like a shadow. The idea of the “H” representing a surname had never crossed my mind. “He wasn’t a stranger. I worked for him in London and we were friends.”
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. Moving to the marble counter, she opened up a cupboard, took down a tin of biscuits.
“Don’t you think it’s mean, frightening people by seeing dead people in their hands?” Bertie had been hovering a foot away from my chair, but his angry growly voice startled me.
Chantal smiled faintly at him and handed him a biscuit. “Most of the time I make stuff up, the kind of gibberish guaranteed to provide pleasant chills. The other night I even frightened myself. There is certainly something about this house ...”
The servants’ door opened again and Butler appeared. My first impression was that the impact of murder had not affected his demeanour. But as he came across the room I saw that the image of the impeccable servant had intensified and the real Butler, whoever he was, had crept further down into the shell of total anonymity. And there was something else about him. Why was I looking at his feet? Then I realized that for the first time I was seeing him wearing shoes. Sensible. The police would have wondered about his padding around in his socks. But wouldn’t they also wonder why he was wearing women’s shoes? They were lace-up brogues, but even so ...
When Butler spoke his tone was as lofty as ever, but his “H’s” had rather got the better of him. A sign to anyone who knew him that he was nervous, but meaningless to the police. Now why did I feel such relief at that? Was it because of Butler himself, or because I didn’t want anything to perk police scrutiny of Cloisters?
“ ‘orrible h’experience you’ve been through, miss. And the young boy. H’everything being at sixes and sevens I ‘aven’t got breakfast started yet, but I think the ladies will require something steadying on this mournful h’occasion, like bacon with their h’eggs.”
Noises. Voices raised, feet trampling in the hall. “I should be getting back to them,” I said standing up. “If Bertie can stay with you until his aunt arrives, I think it would be best.”
A violent pounding on the kitchen door caused us all to move closer together. Had the police already decided on an arrest? Were they here to haul one of us away? A nose nudged around the door and Minnie trundled drearily over to her Chinese bowl. Butler reopened the door for me and Chantal came up to us. “We’ll see the child eats some breakfast,” she said. “He and I should get along splendidly, having in common that we both see the invisible.”
“So you know about Fred.”
“Nurse Krumpet talked to me about him. She is a believer in my powers and wanted to know when Fred would leave; I told her I didn’t know.”
“I think h’under the circumstances I will set a place at the kitchen table for Fred, miss. H’it’s not as though he will make any extra washing up.” Butler disappeared back into the kitchen, but Chantal went with me into the hall. Other than ourselves it was empty.
“Tessa, I want to say something to you.” She touched my arm.
“Yes?”
“Our first meeting was unfortunate, and finding me at Cloisters cannot have spurred any friendly feeling on your part. But despite my background I am fairly civilized. Shall we call a truce in the hostilities until the outcome of this morning’s happening is settled?”
I ran fingers through my tangled hair. “I bear you no animosity. Believe me, I’m not the least jealous of whatever you and Harry have going, for the simple reason that he now means absolutely nothing to me at all. Invite me to the wedding and I’ll be happy to bang my tambourine in the choir loft.” Awful. I sounded pettish and hateful and every bit as jealous as I was insisting I wasn’t.
“I don’t believe you, much as I would like to. Harry thinks your—”
“I don�
��t give a damn what Harry thinks.”
“He thinks your fertile imagination is winsome and madly appealing, but I find your genius for pretence a sign that you haven’t grown up yet. You view me as a woman who plays musical beds, don’t you? Wrong. If Harry didn’t mean a great deal to me, I wouldn’t have gone through the hell of listening to him extolling your charms, anguishing at your pitching his ring at him. Both of us always looking over our shoulders watching for you to waltz back into his life.”
“Oh, don’t you see,” I said, “we’re both better off without him.”
“True; you because you don’t love him, and I because I do.”
“I have to go into the sitting room,” I said, taking a few steps away from her. “As I’m not the total spoiled brat you think me, the truce is on. Permanently if you wish.”
Her husky reply reached me as I touched the doorknob. “No. We won’t swear undying affection. Let us leave it until the case is solved, whether or not one of us is found to be the guilty party.”
I turned to stare at her, but she was gone.
The sitting room was a fairground of people milling about. In addition to the Squire I spotted his mother. (No sign of men in blue.) She was trotting around in circles with a vase of daffodils in her hands.
“Really, Mumsie, they won’t bring the body in here,” twittered Godfrey. A violent sneeze burst through the room. Three more sneezes, and I understood why Mrs. Grundy was holding the daffs. Mr. Deasley was also present, and she was looking for a place where they could cause him the least irritation. Primrose, her face crumpled like a wad of tissue almost the colour of her dove-grey dress, took the vase—setting it inside a cupboard—and returned to help Hyacinth plump up cushions. Mr. Deasley graciously assisted in tidying by pushing a couple of magazines under one of the sofas.
02 - Down the Garden Path Page 19
