02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Didn’t you think it odd at the time that Deasley would have gone out when he had a guest?” Harry asked.

  “I imagined the man in the chair might have been a customer, interested in purchasing something from Cloisters, as that’s where Deasley had looked to be going sir. I never thought of him again until the question was raised as to where Mr. Hunt, rest his soul, spent last night.”

  “You say you only saw the man from behind?” said Hyacinth.

  “Yes, madame; but when he stood up, I saw that he was very large.”

  “I’m becoming convinced.” Harry relit one of the candles that had blown out. “But we need a motive.”

  “Oh, I’ve got that all figured out.” I shook back my hair and arched my neck to ease its growing stiffness. “It has to be something to do with antiques. The Heritage deals in more than pictures, and Mr. Hunt was highly knowledgeable about all kinds of valuable artifacts. My guess is that Angus suspected something at Cloisters was immensely valuable, and sensing in Mr. Deasley a kindred spirit—that shared interest in pocket watches, remember—confided in him.”

  “I wonder if that is why Hunt said ‘tell them I’m sorry,’ ” said Harry. “He and Deasley chat in the shop; Deasley is all enthused at the Tramwells’ possible good fortune; Hunt agrees to check out his suspicions; and, if the news is good, return to Flaxby Meade that evening. He accepts an invitation to spend the night with Deasley, arrives, and is somehow put off from calling at Cloisters at once.”

  “Deasley could easily have said they would be out,” Chantal said, speaking for the first time since she had broken the news about her relationship with Egrinon Snapper.

  “He must have invented some excuse for going out himself.” I nibbled at a fingernail. “And then telephoned his house in the early hours saying he was at Cloisters and would Angus please come immediately to Abbots Walk, because one of the sisters was threatening to hang herself from one of the elms.”

  Drawing herself up in outraged hauteur, Hyacinth snorted, “I am rather disappointed in Mr. Hunt, if such is the case, for believing such twaddle. Neither Prim nor I would make so rude a spectacle of ourselves in a public place.”

  Harry turned to Chantal. “You talked about a game of patience. I wonder ... I wonder if Deasley already knew that there was this valuable ‘whatever’ in the house. That would account for the frequency of his visits. A man biding his time until he could get his claws on the grand prize.”

  “He certainly paid us very fairly—even handsomely—for all the furniture, silver, and books he bought from us.” Hyacinth’s eyes gleamed like jet under the hooded lids. “When it comes to money, Primrose and I do have our heads screwed on right. We did a deal of checking as to market values before letting Mr. Deasley handle our sales.”

  “As he must have guessed you would—at first. But have you been as cautious lately? Patience would seem a pretty sound investment. Would you have disbelieved him at this time if he had told you a certain item was worth very little?” asked Chantal.

  “Probably not,” sighed Primrose, eyes misting as she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “Particularly if it were something that we would prefer to let go over something else. Having always lived among old things, we don’t have the nouveau-riche appreciation of antiques, whereas Clyde craves history in his hands. To think! Even when it came to murder he could not resist putting on a pageant.”

  “Especially when doing so focussed attention on Cloisters until Mrs. Grundy became a handy scapegoat,” I said.

  “Godfrey murdered presumably because he guessed the culprit.” Harry looked at me. “What did Godfrey have to say for himself when you went over to Cheynwind?”

  “Oh, my dear ... when did you go?” asked Primrose.

  I told them everything, wondering as I did so if the police had found the fish knife and whether it still represented a danger to the Tramwells. From their faces I knew they were wondering the same, but Harry concentrated on something else.

  “You say he mentioned the possibility of coming into unexpected wealth. That, coupled with his expecting a guest at a time when all the servants were off the premises, sounds like he was about to indulge in a spot of blackmail. Grundy guessed that Deasley was the murderer—but did he also know why Hunt was killed?”

  The electric lights flared on, causing us all to blink rapidly. For about ten minutes we sat pondering what we could do to bring Mr. Deasley to justice. The small difficulty we faced in accomplishing this end was that we had absolutely no evidence and the police had batty Mrs. Grundy. Butler went out and made cocoa, and when this had been drunk it was agreed that we would all think better after a few hours of sleep.

  Harry offered to spend the night at Cloisters but the sisters grew quite flustered at the idea. They had no bed to offer him and would not hear of his sleeping on the sofa. Plausible. But I think the real reason they were so opposed to the idea was that they thought it unseemly for a single gentleman to sleep under the same roof as two young females. They need not have worried on my account, and I’m sure the only reason I was irritated by their antiquated attitude was that it was so utterly snobbish. (Butler no threat to virtue because he was a servant. Huh!)

  Bidding Harry a cold goodnight in the hall I watched him walk out the front door without a pang. He was not the least necessary to my security. Maude was in the nursery, and if any danger threatened during the night we would manage very well. As I started up the stairs, Primrose handed me a brass poker. I saw that she was equipped with its twin, whilst Hyacinth wielded a toasting fork. Surely they didn’t think that Deasley would ...? The baby alligator grinned down at me from his shelf on the landing. I no longer thought him adorable. His smile was very much like Mr. Deasley’s. The urge to run back down those stairs, throw open the front door, and pelt after Harry receding in the hearse reared up inside me. But I had promised never to run after him, never beg him to shield me from the wicked world, never beg him to love me. But surprisingly the sisters kissed me goodnight, and I felt somewhat comforted as I went down to the nursery. Maude was asleep when I went in—would it be selfish to wake her? I tiptoed up to her bed, reached out a hand and then drew it back. Tomorrow. Bertie was breathing in short gruff little snores in the bed nearest the window. The bright orange of his pyjamas clashed with his hair. Did he know anything about his origins? Did he care?

  As I sat on my bed, kicking off my shoes and unbuttoning my blouse, Maude turned over, opened her eyes, and sat up. She had brushed out her hair, and I was embarrassed as if I had caught her naked. Long flowing locks did not fit the everyday woman. I stared at her, not knowing what to say, and yet not wanting this opportunity to pass without asking her about my origins.

  Moving over slightly, she patted the edge of her bed. She was wearing a pink flannel nightgown of the kind that Fergy favoured. “Come and sit here and tell me what has been happening. Something must have occurred if you are only now coming to bed.”

  I told her about Godfrey’s death and Mrs. Grundy’s arrest, debated whether I should reveal our suspicions of Mr. Deasley, and decided that in fairness to her and Bertie someone must. She agreed with me that Mrs. Grundy would never have killed Godfrey under any circumstances but seemed dubious about Mr. Deasley’s culpability.

  “Aren’t you all making rather a lot out of his interest in antiques and in Mr. Hunt’s being in a similar field? And his having an overnight guest who may or may not have been Mr. Hunt? Should a man be condemned because he is a flatterer and a bore?”

  Was she right? Were we rushing to convict Mr. Deasley because we were afraid to look too closely at other candidates? I explained to her about Fred and her response was that, to her mind, the attempt to eliminate him pointed to an outsider.

  “Isn’t it possible that one of the other card players the other night had a grudge against Mr. Hunt?”

  Of course it was possible—anything was possible. Herr Wortter also had a grudge against Primrose. Had I been wickedly, dangerously arrogant in pointing t
he finger at Mr. Deasley? Where was Herr Wortter now? Did he, like Whitby-Brown, have an alibi for the time of Angus’s murder? Frowning, I twined a curl around one finger and looked into Maude’s blue eyes.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I do have a reason for hoping the murderer isn’t a local man, but ...”

  “What reason?”

  Bertie stirred and we both watched until he burrowed back down into his pillow and the snores started again.

  “I am afraid that one of the local men may be my father.” I was clenching and unclenching my hands. “The Tramwells may not have told you about my history or why I came to Cloisters, and I know this is not a good time ...”

  “Tessa dear, they didn’t have to tell me anything, I realized who you were almost immediately.” She sat up straighter. “The likeness to your father is quite strong. A local man, yes but not Deasley; forget that fear.” She studied my face. “And surely you didn’t suspect Godfrey Grundy ... no, no, my dear. Never in a thousand years.”

  “You must have delivered hundreds of babies”—my voice was barely a whisper—”but did you ... do you see anything of the baby I was in me now?” Why couldn’t I ask her the most important question of all?

  She reached out and picked up my hands, gripping them tightly. “Tessa, before Violet took you that morning to leave at the vicarage, she stood in the doorway holding you up. ‘The best and prettiest baby in the world,’ she said. Dear Violet. I am glad she is happy; she deserved to be ...”

  I was numb, unable to think or feel. All the years of wondering, waiting ...

  A violent scratching at the door caused me to jerk away, and by the time I made it across the room Minnie was barking, small, puppyish, yelping barks. Exploding through the door she surged in a flying leap onto Maude’s bed and then dived for my ankles. I tried to hush her but she became more excited, tugging at my skirt, urging me back towards the door.

  “Maybe she didn’t get fed,” I said. And it was strangely comforting to know that in the midst of profound revelations life went on as usual. I was being given time to draw myself back together before asking Maude those many important questions. Any minute Bertie and the rest of the household would be awake. “I’ll run down to the kitchen and drop a few biscuits in her bowl, won’t take a jiff.”

  “I would come with you, but I don’t want Bertie to wake and find me gone.” She was standing, the pink flannel nightgown clinging to her stocky form, the long hair making her look oddly pathetic.

  “Count to a hundred and I will be back.” Smiling over my shoulder I followed Minnie out into the hallway. Flipping a light switch I hurried towards the stairs. Minnie was already halfway down, still whining and yipping. What if hunger wasn’t her problem? Suddenly I was frightened, terribly frightened. This house was so large. So many nooks and crannies where anyone could hide. How stupid of me to have forgotten the poker. I hesitated, ready to run back to the safety of the nursery. Then I heard a creak; a creak that was definitely a footstep behind me. Another and another, closing the gap. Run, Tessa. My hand left the bannister rail and I whirled down those curving slippery, wooden stairs. A voice called out from above, and I sped faster. Too fast— I was falling, my arms flailing out, searching for the rail.

  It wasn’t there, but I was no longer falling. Someone held me prisoner. A voice, low and shuddering, said, “Tessa, you could have broken your neck.”

  “Harry!” I clung to him. “He’s coming ... after me.” I tried to pry loose, to point upwards in the direction of my pursuer, but I was too late. A blurred blackness descended on Harry’s head ... and then with a grunt he toppled over, to lie in a sprawled heap before sliding slowly down the remaining stairs.

  “Cripes,” came Bertie’s gasp and I looked up to see Maude still holding the poker aloft.

  * * * *

  Harry came round in under ten minutes, accepted Maude’s apologies in gallant spirit, and explained that on leaving the house he had set the front door catch so he could return when everyone was in bed. If Minnie had not come charging up to announce his arrival, all would have been well. And if Maude had not decided to waken Bertie and follow me I would not have pelted down the stairs.

  But everyone had meant everything for the best, and the lesson learned was that excessive caution was more likely to be our undoing than anything else. I could see that Harry had a headache, but he insisted that the blow had been a glancing one and that he would feel fine in the morning. Part of me yearned to plump up the pillows on the sofa where he lay and adjust the cold compress on his forehead, but most of me was afraid to get too close to him.

  Maude, Bertie, and I returned to the nursery and climbed into our little beds. Hunching the eiderdown up to my neck I hoped that the boy would fall asleep quickly so Maude and I could continue where we had left off. I wanted to know Violet ... but I found that I was the one sinking into sleep. My last rational thought was that I still hadn’t found out what Bertie had wanted to tell me. Monks came flying at me on gigantic bat wings, and I was running past a drainpipe that gushed water onto a sodden pile of clothes that grew into Godfrey. He was reading an illuminated manuscript marked: Rare Priceless First Edition. “That’s my pretty boy.” Mrs. Grundy came riding into view, dressed as a witch on a gigantic test tube. “All dressed up for his wedding, and doesn’t Tessa look lovely?” Untrue. The Miss Haversham-type bride posing as me looked more ready for the coffin than the altar. Strike that thought! But it was too late. Mr. Deasley had his hands around my throat and a man wearing a name card saying Arthur Wilkinson—Violet’s husband—was informing me that if I wanted cremation I would have to find myself another undertaker, but he would be delighted to tell Vi that he had met me.

  At that I awoke, and for a moment I hoped that Angus’s death was a nightmare, too. The view from the window did nothing to lift my spirits. The rain had slackened but it still trickled sullenly down the panes and the sky was a dirty grey. Looking across at the other two beds I saw that they were neatly made and that Bertie’s pyjamas lay folded on top of the pillow. Reaching for my watch, I discovered that it was past eight o’clock. I was about to slither out of bed when a knock came at the door and the sisters entered. They were both fully dressed, Hyacinth in a purple-and-yellow paisley dress and Primrose in a navy skirt and faded blue twin set.

  “We have to talk to you.” They spoke in unison, voices lowered for fear, I guessed, that the walls might have ears, or that Mr. Deasley might be listening in the apple tree. Swiftly crossing the room, Primrose drew the curtains tight, and then sat down beside Hyacinth on the bed closest to me.

  “Maude has left on a case and Harry—willful lad sneaking back here—has taken Bertie back home with him. The boy wanted to see the horses, and ...” Hyacinth paused.

  “I’m surprised that Maude would let Bertie go with him,” I said. “After all, she doesn’t know Harry.” I drew the eiderdown around my shoulders to try to get warm.

  “True, dear; but she knew his grandfather. He used to come and visit at Cloisters quite often. A wonderful, rakish old gentleman, and Harry takes after him. Not a bit like his father, thank heavens—no one in Flaxby Meade could stand him. A nasty combination of conceit and simpering bashfulness. The only good thing I can say about him is that he was genuinely fond of Cloisters.”

  “Really!” I hugged the eiderdown closer.

  “But never mind him. Maude knows Bertie will be all right with Harry. Primrose and I have not slept all night.” From the black rings under all four eyes, I believed Hyacinth. The earrings moved slowly this morning.

  “We have come up with an idea, but have said nothing to Harry or Maude.” Primrose smoothed down the neatly darned sleeves of her cardigan. “The dear boy would think what we propose is dangerous, and perhaps it is, but Hyacinth and I feel a moral obligation to get Mr. Deasley.”

  Hyacinth looked at me. “The rogue wanted me to believe the worst concerning his night with my sister. He wanted to set us at each other’s throat. But what he did not barga
in for was the depth of our affection and what he will not bargain for is that we are capable of a ruthlessness equal to his own.”

  A finger strayed nervously to my mouth.

  “I suppose it is un-Christian, but I rather think I will enjoy myself.” Primrose’s face flushed and the shadows under her eyes became less apparent. “We have been playing the same parts for so many years now—dithery old ladies—that a stretch in range will be a real challenge. And in such a good cause, too.”

  What was she talking about? I nibbled a fingernail while she explained. “We are going to take a leaf out of Godfrey’s book. Blackmail. We—or rather you, dear Tessa—are going to lure Mr. Deasley to Cloisters. But don’t worry, once he is in Hyacinth’s and my clutches you will not even appear on the scene. We will take him down to the priest hole, where he cannot leave until we permit. He has always been eager to see our little hideaway. Dear me, yes, we will get him inside easily enough. Then! We tell him we have the evidence. We won’t have to say what evidence, because a guilty man ...”

  I shook my head, causing the eiderdown to slip. “You’re wrong. He will ask to see the evidence, and I think you should tell him that Godfrey gave me a sealed letter last night when I went to Cheynwind. It was to be opened in the event of his sudden death and ... but never mind about that. Why do you want me to be the one to lure Mr. Deasley here?”

  “Oh, my dear! Isn’t that quite apparent?” Primrose shook her head in faint disappointment at my obtuseness. “What we need is to throw him off balance. Playing upon his vanity and his lust for a pretty face and figure may give us the advantage. And then, too, you worked for Mr. Hunt at that art gallery. He may suspect your educated eye of spotting what he’s after. Ah yes—I see you understand. What we ask is that you write Mr. Deasley a flowery epistle on pretty writing paper, heavily laced with all the gushing ecstasies of a young girl in the throes of her first passion for an older man of the world. You will beg him to come over this afternoon while Hyacinth and I are shopping for wreaths, because you want to show him something of interest you have discovered at Cloisters. Dear Tessa, it will be quite easy; all you have to do is sound extremely silly and eager to show off for him.”