“That’s it in a nutshell,” said Hyacinth. “With your charming talent for romancing you will do splendidly—and when the old dog comes trotting over, you can remain in this room and safely leave everything to Primrose and me.”
“While you two tackle a man we believe has killed twice?” I protested. “I may be a bit thick first thing in the morning, but I am beginning to grasp why you didn’t mention your brainstorm to Harry.”
“My dear.” Hyacinth squared her thin shoulders. “We are old; if something should go wrong, Primrose and I have led full lives.”
Beaming bravely, Primrose patted my hand. “If you could—supposing the very worst—see that Harry gives us a good send-off.... Neither of us having experienced the thrill of a wedding, we have always promised ourselves rather splashy funerals.” She sighed sentimentally. “Now, if you are willing, we will go downstairs and eat a nourishing breakfast. We’ll need all the energy we can muster. You can write that note and we will have Butler deliver it. No pouting, dear, please! Butler is also to be excluded from the final confrontation. We will tell him to go up to London, immediately after seeing Mr. Deasley, and see if he can discover with whom Mr. Hunt spoke after leaving Flaxby Meade, and if he discussed his mysterious find at Cloisters.”
“And what of Chantal?” I felt the old jealousy rising.
“When Primrose, Mr. Deasley, and I enter the priest hole,” said Hyacinth, “Chantal will station herself by the fireplace. If all goes well and he disintegrates in response to our threats to keep silent regarding the evidence only for the price of a cosy little life annuity, I will rap on the chimney wall. These old houses echo splendidly. When Chantal hears those raps, she will immediately telephone the police.”
Typical. Chantal gets the plum role. “But two watchdogs are much better than one,” I insisted.
Hyacinth compressed her orange lips. “Harry would be extremely angry if we involved you in any danger. When Prim and I first talked about taking you to the card games we were concerned that he would not be pleased.”
Huh! Flinging one end of the eiderdown over my shoulder I flounced across the room. If they were afraid of Harry, I was not. And why did they think he would have no qualms about Chantal? They weren’t worried about Mr. Deasley escaping from the priest hole and rampaging through the house—they were worried about my botching the grand plan. I’d show all of them! The sisters couldn’t force me to stay in my room like a difficult child.
I was mightily tempted to telephone Harry; not because I needed to hear his voice, you must understand, but because I felt this might be one of those rare times requiring masculine intervention. Should I have done so; much terror might have been spared us. But all I could see were the sisters’ trusting faces. And I could not deceive them as Harry had deceived me. I knew too well the bitterness of betrayal after having conceived the perfect plan.
In the parlour I sipped coffee and penned my literary gem to Mr. Deasley on pale pink paper garlanded with embossed flowers.
“My dear Mr. Deasley, or may I please call you Clyde? I have discovered something of great interest here at Cloisters and, having worked for Mr. Hunt ...” The pen nib bit into the paper and I had to force myself to continue.... “I wonder if—but perhaps it would be best if I explain when I see you. Could you please come here at noon today? The Tramwells will be out, also the servants, so we will be quite alone.”
Primrose peered over my shoulder as I wrote the last line. “A pity—it has a nice ring—but upon reflection I think ‘Yours devotedly’ might be a shade too much. Best keep it simple—your signature followed by an agitated scrawl.”
Duly summoned to perform his errand, Butler looked mildly pleased at the prospect of a bit of spying in London. “Anything I can do to be of service, mesdames, to h’insure a certain gentleman being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure is most gratifying.” He bowed his way out of the room.
“I’m afraid Butler would never care for any gentleman who called upon us.” Primrose preened a little. “I don’t think he believes there’s a man alive who is good enough for either of us.”
“And he’s right,” said Hyacinth. “Tessa, perhaps you would enjoy arranging some flowers for the sitting room. I have some cut on the hall table.”
The rain had stopped and the day was developing a gentle golden haze. It was hard to believe, looking out onto that glorious vista of smooth lawns, variegated pastel flower beds, and the cool darkness of the woods, that anything unpleasant could touch this place. The scent of roses drifted through the room and a bird fluttered singing up from the sundial.
“Nature, how lovely it is and yet so cruel.” Primrose came in and sat opposite me, a darning bag placed carefully on her lap.
“My dear, you look tired,” Hyacinth cooed. “You know, Prim, I think we could all benefit from some of your splendid herbal tea—the one you concocted from last summer’s wild flowers. You remember—such a delicious brew it made.”
Her sister nodded. “You must mean the one Minnie enjoys so much.”
“Where is Minnie? I haven’t seen her this morning.” I asked.
“Out of harm’s way.” Primrose stood up. “Harry took her with him and, although I was a little hurt that she went so readily ... well, never mind that. Always rambling, that’s me. I do believe I have a packet down in the priest hole. Tessa, kindly ring for Chantal and ask her to heat some water. We won’t need a teapot as the petals should be steeped directly in the cup. Hyacinth, do you remember exactly where I left those packets?”
“Next to the bottled plums; they’re on that old tea tray along with the dried figs.”
Primrose was back in minutes with a brown paper packet. Chantal had answered the bell and she returned carrying a loaded tray. Sunlight highlighted the beautiful planes of her face as she bent over the coffee table. Had she also been tempted to telephone Harry—to warn him of the Tramwells’ plan? She was moving Primrose’s chair forward so the elderly lady could more comfortably reach the water jug.
My reaction to the tea Hyacinth handed me was not entirely favourable. Dabbed on the wrists it might have been all right, but who wants to drink perfume? I took another pursed-lips swallow and another. A man would have to be a fool not to want Chantal. Beautiful, clever, complex ... Why hadn’t Harry telephoned us? The flowery brew began to grow on me. Hyacinth and Primrose should stop tinkling with their spoons and drink up. It was rather nice, really, once it went down. Warming and sort of floaty. Another swallow and I set down my cup and watched it topple sideways onto the saucer. My hand moved languorously to my mouth to suppress a yawn. Very relaxing, that tea. If I didn’t stand up I would fall asleep.
“You look tired, Tessa,” murmured someone, Chantal, I think, but the figure was rather blurred. As I struggled up I saw with surprise that Hyacinth and Primrose had merged into a two-headed monster, swaying in place. Blinking, I pried them apart, the effort exhausting me. My limbs suddenly felt so heavy. What was wrong with me? A nasty struggling suspicion. Something ... knock-out powder in the tea. But it couldn’t be, they wouldn’t. Why, they were even opposed to aspirin! Now I was fully upright I did feel better, hardly acrobatic but at least marginally alert.
I reached the nursery, having spurned the offer of Chantal’s arm upstairs. I thought, Won’t lie down yet, must tidy up a bit first. Spotting a duster draped over the wastepaper basket I lunged for it, nearly losing my balance, and began sliding it conscientiously across the furniture, including my bed-tumbled blankets. But my arms began swerving away from me, going off on travels of their own. Wassat? Wassat I heard? Footsteps creeping up the stairs.
In order to hear better I moved to the door, or tried to move to the door; somehow I got entangled in the swing, the ropes spinning around faster and faster, crushing me. It was evil, that swing—it was trying to murder me. I stood still, the swing relaxed its hold, and I made a break for the door but found myself at the window. The open window. I was lucky not to have gone flying through it. The apple tree was
staring at me. Was it my friend? Did it want to help me against the forces of evil?
My head swam, but this time with a memory—an idea. Orange. I only had to hang something orange in the apple tree and I would be rescued from the swing and those footsteps on the stairs. My knees buckled as I turned from the window, but at once I saw what I wanted. Bertie’s pyjamas. Like a tortoise with ingrown toenails I headed for those pyjamas. At last I had them; now the painful return to the window. Could I make it? Yes. My arm jerked outward and the orange pyjamas fluttered onto the branches of the apple tree.
I was slithering down in a heap. I couldn’t move a limb. What if I had been wrong about Mr. Deasley? My eyes slowly closed onto nothingness.
* * *
Chapter 19
I had been buried for eternity in a deep dark tomb. Rather cosy and peaceful, but now someone was persistently rattling my coffin lid. “Tessa, wake up. You have to wake up.” The voice was Chantal’s, and I resented her ordering me about. The vibrations got stronger. The noise louder. I was awake and I knew the sound of the chisel was real.
“Tessa, do you hear me? They took the key and I can’t get the door off. Get out of that bed. The Tramwells are still down with Deasley. It’s been more than half an hour, and I haven’t heard a sound. I can’t leave to fetch help unless—”
“Stop! I’m coming.” Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed I struggled up. A creaking started inside my head when I opened my eyes, but surprisingly I felt fairly peppy. I had not—thank you, Dad’s Boss—drunk all of my tea. And I did not suspect the sisters of polluting my system with some poison off a chemist’s shelf. The tea must have been a natural opiate, nothing artificial added. How healthful!
“Forget the door, Chantal.” I pressed my face up against its cool surface, feeling stronger by the minute. “I can climb out the window.”
“No you can’t. When the Tramwells came up to check that you were out cold, they didn’t only lock the door and remove the key—they stuck the window down with Eterna-Hold.”
“You mean the glue that sticks airplane wings back on? Blast! But Chantal, you can’t worry about me now. The Tramwells could be rapping on the wall this minute. But even if they haven’t signalled you can’t wait any longer. You have to ring the police.”
“The phone’s out because of the storm. They should have checked the line this morning—but these are two elderly women, not professional sleuths. We have to help them, but if I go down into the priest hole and Deasley gets me while you are holed up here, we are worse off than ever.”
True to the distraught heroine syndrome, I rattled the doorknob in absolute futility. What did I expect? The door shimmied but did not give. Scarred, scratched, and slightly warped, it must be immensely old. Old enough to be eaten up with woodworm?
“Nothing else for it, we will have to knock it down.” Despite my concern for the Tramwells, I spoke those words with a spurt of elation. Chantal and I would manage. What was needed was a heavy object with which to ... My eyes travelled around the room, past my bedside table to the beds themselves. Wouldn’t work. Those beds weren’t on casters—they were from the days when good quality meant unbudgeability. I couldn’t ram one with sufficient force to break down that door. What I needed was momentum—speed, and one sharp thrust after another. The swing! I would swing up high, arch myself back until I was prone, and kick out at the door.
Ignoring Chantal’s instructions that I search for an old cricket bat, I sat down on the wooden seat and clutched the ropes. Back and forth, one swooping arc following another until my head grazed the ceiling. Toes up. Heels out. Explosion. A horrific crash and splintering of wood. Only as I came spinning off into full solo flight did I think to squawk out a warning to Chantal to scram.
How that door failed to knock her unconscious I do not know. Even more miraculous was that my only injury was a grazed knee. As I scrambled to my feet and gazed down over the balcony rail to the debris of wood a mile and a half down, I shuddered.
“Foolhardy and noisy, but brilliant,” came Chantal’s throaty, stunned voice from behind me. When I turned she was leaning against the wall.
“We postpone our nervous breakdowns for a time when we can enjoy them, right?” she said. I nodded and we went down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. “You go for the police,” she said. “Flag down the first car you see, and ...”
“No—better for you to go, I’m a rotten runner and you know the way to the village. I will go down into the priest hole and see what is happening.”
“All right.” She ran out the front door, leaving it hanging open. I was glad she did. The outside world seemed a little closer. The unearthly silence of an empty house in midafternoon surged around me as I fumbled with the secret catch on the fireplace wall. The brick door inched open. I would have to go down without a candle, surprise being my only ally. I began the grim descent. A murmur of voices came up to meet me. I could hear Hyacinth, not frightened—more outraged. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard a laugh. A man’s laugh. Dreadful in its joviality. Speak, Primrose! I had to hear her voice, to know she was unharmed. The chill damp seeped through my clothes. I was almost at the bottom; I could see the glow of candles and pressed myself against the wall. Hyacinth was tying up Primrose while Mr. Deasley directed the jagged end of a broken bottle at them.
“How fortunate that I never leave home without my manicure scissors,” he purred as I tiptoed down the last step and slithered towards the fireplace wall. “And how fortunate that you ladies wear such serviceable petticoats. Are you sure you have left sufficient strips for your own bondage, Hyacinth, my dear?”
No response.
“Have Primrose lie down before you tie her ankles. I’m a gentle person by preference and don’t wish to have to knock her to the ground. Perfect! I am now ready for you, old friend.”
The bottle fell from Mr. Deasley’s hand—the sound of its shattering hard-edged and spiteful. Binding Hyacinth’s arms behind her back he ordered her to join her sister on the floor.
“Really, Clyde, this is too tedious for words.” How brave, how clever she was! Not a hint of being anything more than slightly miffed. I was the one having difficulty exercising restraint. Only by focussing on the imminent arrival of the police was I able to keep from bursting across the room and leaping on Mr. Deasley’s back. If he only knew that in trussing up the Tramwells like Christmas geese he was knotting the rope around his own neck....
“Down. That’s right—face down. Dear, dear! I regret the nasty chill of that stone floor, but I will have you warm in a tick.” Mr. Deasley moved away from the sisters, but he did not head towards the stairs as I expected. He was now standing in front of the kegs in the opposite corner. He was heaving one up, wheezing in the attempt. Nothing that I had heard him say was as evil, as menacing as that laboured breathing. He was staggering forward, he was going to drop that keg. Deliberately drop it! Not on the Tramwells’ heads, please! Now when I wanted to move I could not.
He dropped it a few feet away from them. A violent thud and the sickly sweet odour of rum soaked into the air.
“Yes, I will have you warmed up in no time.” He was walking towards the candles.
“Thank you so much, but I would prefer you take no extraordinary measures to ensure our comfort,” trilled Primrose.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. What are friends for?” Mr. Deasley went over to the candles, plucked them from their bottles, walked back to where the broken keg lay, kicked it aside, and set them in a circle around the Tramwells. Five small orange flames licked the dark. “Please accept my apologies for having lied to you when I said I would not harm you if you cooperated in permitting yourselves to be tied up.”
“You will achieve nothing by killing us.” Hyacinth’s voice did not quaver.
“True, dear lady. The life of a fugitive lies before me whatever course I take now, but this time I am not killing from necessity but for pleasure. If you had been the gullible old fools you feigned to be, I
could have achieved my heart’s ease and lived the life of king instead of a vagabond. An eye for an eye! Ah, I see your eyes are on the candles. Little more than stubs all of them. Soon they will burn down, the rum will ignite, and you two will blaze away like a pair of Christmas puddings.”
Silence.
“Dear ladies, you may feel I am an irreligious man, but I do count my blessings this day. What a blessing that your forebear Sinclair brought back those kegs of rum from his travels and that he did not live long enough to consume the contents. What a blessing that his descendants, including your light-weight father, considered rum the drink of able-seamen and peasants. What a blessing this floor is full of shallows so the rum can puddle!”
“Surely you have matters to attend, more important than gloating over our demise,” spluttered Primrose. “Pray don’t let us detain you.”
“Yes, it is time to be away. I have a business acquaintance who will be delighted to conceal me under or in her bed until the coast is clear. By the bye—should I chance to see the luscious Tessa as I pause to pick up my last souvenirs from Cloisters, I will bring her down to join you. A pity if, as you say, she has left the premises in the company of the servants. I would like to thank her for her charming note.” Mr. Deasley retreated some distance from the candles, and now made a courtly bow. “And so adieu, My Lady Chickenthroats, squirm—and you may shorten your lives by—minutes.”
02 - Down the Garden Path Page 29
