02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  “A terrible sad business this.” Constable Watt removed his helmet. Holding it over the front of his tunic, he tapped out a few bars of “Rock of Ages” with one finger, mournfully shaking his bald head. “My Missus is going to be none too pleased, what with me not about to see home nor a hot dinner till we’ve nabbed our bloke.”

  “Food!” breathed Inspector Lewjack, and his rich, fruity voice deserved to inhabit a far more attractive body. His nose twitched more blatantly. “I smell breakfast. An early morning corpse always makes me ravenous.”

  Oh, Angus! But he would have enjoyed the inspector’s irreverence immensely. Constable Watt’s shocked expression indicated he was thumbing to page 696 of the police manual. Must not partake of victuals on premises associated with unnatural death. He turned to Harry.

  “You’re some roundabout cousin of the Tramwells, right?” Bending over the inspector he stage-whispered, “This here young man’s related to the Tramwells.”

  The inspector’s manners were more polished than his appearance. He refrained from responding that he wasn’t deaf. His good eye was on me.

  “Tessa, you said? Tessa Fields. The nurse said you and this young man found the deceased.”

  “He wasn’t dead when we found him,” said Harry. “This has been a dreadful shock for Tessa; he was a friend of hers. She worked for him at The Heritage Gallery in London.”

  “Deepest regrets, Miss Fields. May I ask your connection with this house?”

  “I’ve been a guest here for the past few days.” My voice was surprisingly steady. “Harry and I are friends and he wanted me to get to know his relatives.”

  Constable Watt placed a beefy hand between his mouth and the inspector’s left ear. “He’s in line for all this here property, stands to reason the old girls would want to give her the once-over.”

  The eye moved from me to Harry. “The nurse said she would go in round the back and wait with the ladies of the house, so if you would please direct us to where they are gathered ...”

  “This way,” said Harry, but it was Constable Watt swinging his truncheon who took the lead. The inhabitants of the sitting room—the Tramwells, Mr. Deasley, Mrs. Grundy and Godfrey, Bertie and Maude (her cape still around her shoulders)—were all seated, balancing plates of bacon and eggs on their laps. Constable Watt introduced the inspector over the general flurry of everyone standing up, and Hyacinth announced that Butler and Chantal were fetching more coffee and toast.

  Bertie’s eyes were big as currant buns, and the hand that wasn’t holding his plate had his jersey pulled up and was scratching away underneath it. The others had become a semicircle of mouths. The room was dominated by mouths, all of them wary. Nothing moved, save Bertie’s finger and the pendulum of the mantel clock. A shaft of sunlight beamed across the room. Flashbulb. Picture taken. Subjects blinking back to life.

  Hyacinth and Primrose began talking over each other.

  “So kind of you to come, Inspector, I know we all feel so much safer already.”

  “And we do hope you will not think us heartless to be eating breakfast, before closing all the curtains and wrapping the door knocker in black crepe.” Hyacinth stared down at the plate she was holding, removed her sister’s eggy platter, and over the inspector’s black curly head addressed Constable Watt. “Ah, George, if you would be so kind, set those down on that table beside you. And do please close the door you left open. None of us will benefit from a draught.”

  Flushing up to his bald dome, Constable Watt shrivelled before our eyes. In a pathetic attempt to re-elevate himself he put his helmet on, took out an official-looking notebook and red pencil, went to make a notation, realized the pencil had no lead and, under cover of Primrose’s twitching and stammering, sidled it into his front pocket. Primrose was in the throes of her favourite character part again: tedious elderly female on the loose. But I could not feel she was enjoying herself this time. She might well deem the pose deadly necessary. No one that inane could plot murder. Could she?

  “One feels one must keep going. It is what is expected of those in our position, as I was saying to dear Ethelreda, Inspector ... forgive me, I did not quite catch your name. What was that?” Primrose daintily cupped a hand behind her right ear. “Coatrack? What a very odd name, to be sure, but memorable.”

  “Lewjack, you ninny,” squealed Godfrey. The inspector urged everyone to be seated and immediately the company relaxed, except Mrs. Grundy, who had sat down on her plate. I went to assist her as Harry stood resting his elbows on the top of Hyacinth’s high-backed chair.

  Godfrey shuffled his feet on a footstool, murmuring to no one in particular, “I do hope the body can be whipped off to London soon so the sanguinity of Flaxby Meade can reign once more.”

  The door opened, bumping Constable Watt in the rear. Chantal entered with a plate of toast, followed by Butler with the teapot. My eyes couldn’t avoid his shoes. He was treading gingerly as if they pinched. The inspector watched him briefly as Hyacinth offered assurance that she and her sister would be gratified to offer their home as a headquarters for questioning.

  “Indeed yes,” quivered Primrose. “And I am quite certain, sir, that you will not inconvenience us long.”

  “Not a moment more than necessary.” He fought his way out of his raincoat, his eye pursuing Chantal as she laid it on an unoccupied chair. Was he admiring her beauty or wondering what Holloway might do to that complexion? Constable Watt was fumbling furtively inside his pockets, a look of desperation heightening his already ruddy complexion. Hopes of promotion dashed! He couldn’t find another pencil.

  “Your cooperation is much appreciated.” The inspector’s moustache crept into a purely routine smile. “We so often find a homey atmosphere sets people more at their ease than if we have to haul them down to the police station.”

  Silence most profound. Again the door nudged open and in came Minerva, head lolling, tail drooping.

  “Your most vital witness, Inspector.” Mr. Deasley’s tone indicated that he was bent on lightening the mood. Standing with one elbow on the mantelshelf, he fingered a small ivory elephant. “Minnie, the noble beast you see before you, was the one who set up the alarm—bringing Mr. Harkness and the young lady, Tessa”—he bowed gallantly in my direction—“onto the appalling scene of murder.”

  Butler stood in the middle of the room clasping the teapot in its bright bumble-bee cosy. “H’excuse me, sir, but mustn’t say ‘murder,’ must we? Murder is a very libellous word. Not to be used until all the h’evidence is h’in.” The spout had taken a downward tilt and brown liquid dripped on to his shoes. Brought to a realization of his intrusiveness, Butler cleared his throat and sailed off on his rounds with the pot.

  Constable Watt gave the inspector a poke in the back, followed by one of his raucous whispers. “Knows a deal about the law, does that one—if you get my meaning.” Fishing the red pencil out of his pocket, he portentously licked the tip and remembered it was unloaded.

  “H’inspector, may I h’offer you tea?” The mask of impeccable servant had ravelled upwards and I caught a glimpse of crafty terror as Butler removed Mrs. Grundy’s cup, even then raised to her lips, arched the teapot over it, and handed it to the inspector. The mask came down as if pulled by an inner string. “If that will be h’all for the present, Chantal and I will retire to the kitchen.”

  Inspector Lewjack took a sip of tea and nodded. The door closed and he moved into the centre of the room. Under the pretext of feeding Minnie a piece of toast, I handed Constable Watt a pencil from the bureau. Wouldn’t hurt to keep in his good books—but the ingrate merely checked the point for sharpness.

  Putting his cup on the coffee table the inspector rubbed hairy hands together. “For such a quiet little village you certainly seem to have a bustling social life, and so early in the day, too.”

  Constable Watt looked affronted. “Only among a certain set. My wife will have been at the washtub for three hours.”

  “Don’t be such a snob, Geo
rge. Your wife told me that watching her Bendix was better than television. A clearer picture and she got to read at the same time.” Hyacinth stared him down.

  “Such a particularly spiteful crime, murder!” sighed Primrose, “but I don’t think it can permanently tarnish Flaxby Meade’s reputation.”

  “Tarnish! It will do it the world of good” came Mrs. Grundy’s comfortable voice. “Excuse us, Inspector. You were about to say?”

  The puckered eyelid drooped. “As this is the only house close to the avenue where the murdered man was found, and as all of you appear to have either been here or en route, I will speak with each of you in turn.”

  “And don’t miss the point that we all knew him to some degree or other.” Mrs. Grundy’s hands were folded complacently over her stomach,

  “I suppose there can be no doubt that the man is Hunt,” enquired Mr. Deasley. “His being here at such an hour has us all rather puzzled. He took the train back to London yesterday, or I assume he did....” His voice petered out.

  “We are basing our belief that he is one Angus Hunt from the contents of a wallet found on the body and from the identification of Miss Tessa Fields.” Inspector Lewjack nodded at me. “Now, young man”—he levelled a finger at Bertie—“would you like to come with me first?”

  “I didn’t see nuffink. I didn’t hear nuffink. Fred was the only one what saw ...” Bertie’s eyes threatened to pop out and roll across the floor.

  “If we could use a room on this floor? The library, last door on the left towards the front door? That will be ideal.” The inspector was speaking to Hyacinth. Maude had her arm round Bertie’s shoulders.

  “If you want your mother along, that’s fine. This has been a shock for her, too, and if I know beans about mums she’ll be carrying you around in a backpack until you’re twenty-one.” The inspector ruffled the ginger head.

  “No, I won’t.” Maude’s voice came at a clip, but I noticed her blue eyes were extra bright as she prodded Bertie forward. “Don’t need an echo, do you, dear?”

  It could have been Mum speaking. Bertie’s eyes ceased popping and his stance grew soldierly.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the inspector said. “They do talk more easily when the parents aren’t around.”

  The sitting room door closed and Constable Watt was once more The Law in Flaxby Meade. He swelled importantly, the helmet strap threatening to lacerate his chin.

  “Ladies and gents, there will be no discussing of the murder.”

  “Oh, stop huffing and puffing!” whined Godfrey. “If you are so highly dedicated to caution, why aren’t the servants in here with us? We wouldn’t have to talk to them.” He gestured vaguely from his chair with a limp hand. “They could be kept busy dusting some of these fussy little ornaments, or by lighting the fire. I tell you, I’ve come over all shivery.”

  “He’s absolutely right.” Mr. Deasley tugged at his handkerchief. “Please don’t think I am implying that they are in the kitchen cribbing up on their stories, but ...”

  “My darling Goddy! Shivering! You must be coming down with one of your colds. Let me give you something to make you feel better.” Mrs. Grundy was digging into her bag. “And, Tessa, you are trembling, too.”

  She was right. I was besieged by a dense chill, but it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room or anything physically wrong with me. I looked from face to face, thought about Butler and Chantal somewhere outside this room, and struggled with the truth. Whatever I tried to tell myself about vengeful artists pursuing Angus to Flaxby Meade, I still grappled with the strong possibility of the murderer being someone in this house. (Is it quite as much fun playing detective now, Tessa?)

  “Forget it, Mumsie. Should I drink one of your poisonous potions when we already have one body too many?” Godfrey shifted irritably on the sofa, snatching his hand away from his parent.

  Planting enormous feet apart, the constable blew out his chest. “Let’s have some hush, if you please. I will decide whether the other suspects will be brought in for surveillance.” His face grew a little less assertive as he spoke. If he went to fetch Butler and Chantal he would have to leave us untended.

  Mrs. Grundy inclined her beautiful white head. “Murder, like parenting, is something certain people find they should never have attempted until it is too late. Now, my dear husband and I took the matter very seriously. We viewed raising Goddy as our ultimate work of science.”

  I was close enough to Mr. Deasley to hear him mutter, “And botched the experiment, by God.” I could feel the tension mounting in him and the others. Harry was pacing up and down, Primrose was fussing with oddments on the bureau, Mr. Deasley was fiddling again with the ivory elephant, Hyacinth and Maude were sitting on one sofa and the Grundys on the other. No one was making eye contact.

  I got up from my chair and brushed against Harry. His fingers touched mine, and weakly I wanted to hold on to him, keep us both safe. If the murderer were here he or she perhaps knew that Harry and I had been with Angus at the end. And perhaps crouched behind the trees, listening.... I stepped away from Harry. We should have been together in this, united as I had believed us to be in the search for my origins. Anger was a powerful shield; it would guard me against fear as well as grief. I didn’t need Harry. Detective Tessa would go it alone.

  I’d had such dreams when I entered this house; of romantic lineage and of seeing, for the first time, a reflection of my face in someone else’s. Now what did I have? The possibility that my mother was linked to a house of old secrets and present-day murder. Fergy always said that wishes are gilded carriages that turn into overripe pumpkins. I had told Harry that the fantasies were dead, and they were. Even if I found my mother she would not be the magical figure I had searched for all these years. That woman was as much a ghost as Mum. But I had wished this family upon myself and now I was stuck with it. The detection business wasn’t fun anymore, but I had to discover the identity of the murderer. I had to discover the identity of my mother because, bad seed or not, I had to know who I was. Horribly egocentric, and yet I felt Angus would understand.

  I looked from Hyacinth to Primrose. How terrible for one if the other ... but how much worse to live with suspicion. The sisters couldn’t live out their lives, each wondering, fearing, perhaps growing to hate the other. Unless ... unless they had collaborated. I sat down and found myself praying, “If it is them, remember they are old and have been kind to me.”

  I studied Mr. Deasley. On the drive to the station, might Angus have confided in him? Asked for support in persuading the sisters to give up the card games? Discretion was never Angus’s middle name. But I couldn’t see Mr. Deasley committing murder purely on chivalrous grounds, not unless he was truly in love with Hyacinth or Primrose. As for the card games—their being halted would surely be beneficial financially to Mr. Deasley. With the sisters’ nefarious source of income removed, they would have to sell off the silver teapots even faster.

  What was Bertie saying to the inspector? Hyacinth had almost convinced me that the word of a highly strung, imaginative child would be taken with a large pinch of salt, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  I focussed on Maude. If this were a thriller, it would be discovered that she harboured an insane hatred for all men—because the ones of her acquaintance sat in the pub quaffing Guinness while the wife was in labour. But what did I know that might place her on the suspect list? She had telephoned last night. Suppose Primrose, distracted by the loss of Minnie, had phoned her back at Cheynwind and confided in her about Angus’s morning visit? Had Maude plotted to incriminate the sisters as vengeance for an old family feud?

  My heart beat quicker ... old family feud. I leaned forward watching her. I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe, or suspect that ... but something about the way she sat, so solid, so steady, in her rumpled uniform with the white frilled collar, made me realize that I had never really seen Maude before—not as a woman. Until now I only thought of her as a nurse, Bertie’s parent, and a source of info
rmation. A woman alone, taking into her life a troubled child, she must be an extremely strong and indomitable woman.

  My heart slowed and I made myself look at Mrs. Grundy. Now here was a woman capable of murder, especially if anyone threatened her darling Goddy. The notion that she might have done away with Angus because she hated porridge would never occur to the police, but I ...

  Godfrey was speaking, and in my mind the words “false friend” fitted him better than anyone else in this room. Far better than Angus thinking himself a false friend to me, or the sisters. Godfrey was the corrupting force behind the Tramwells’ folly. He said, “Nurse Krumpet, knowing my weak stomach as you do, you should be able to persuade the police that I could never commit murder. Thinking about that knife sliding into flesh is enough to make me turn the colour of those putrid dragons.” He pressed a soft white hand against his angora jumper and grimaced at those beasts on the hearth. “Really, Hyacinth and Prim, why don’t you let Deasley cart those off to his junk shop? And I’ll have my decorator scurry around here with something tasteful in brass. My treat. No? Then at least get them plated.”

  “Enough, Goddy,” admonished his mother. “We don’t want to upset the Tramwells.”

  “Plated!” huffed Hyacinth, eyes on the beloved son. “I’ll have you know those two—Marco and Polo as our father named them—are solid bronze. Admittedly not particularly fashionable, with chrome being in, but if they were composed of cow manure they would still stay. Primrose and I are excessively fond of them.”

  “Would we get rid of our beloved Min because she is” —Primrose, rigid in her chair, spelled out the word—“p-l-a-i-n?”

  Up leapt the object of this praise, wooffing enthusiastically, and reaping an automatic chorus of “Enough of that” from Constable Watt.

  “You know”—Harry bent and patted Minnie as she whirled in a tailspin—“your abbreviating her name like that makes me think of Mr. Hunt. Those last words of his—I hadn’t thought before, but it is interesting ...”