He was heading for the stairs, footsteps growing softer.
“Don’t wriggle, dear. You might catch your dress alight and”—Primrose paused—”it is so pretty.”
“I wonder how he will react when he finds the priest hole door closed?” Hyacinth wondered with hollow amusement.
“He will certainly not risk being trapped here as we go up in smoke,” replied Primrose. “Even should he escape death himself, he ...”
The priest hole door was not closed. I had left it ajar ... there, the sound of the door being pushed open! Exclamations of consternation, bewilderment from the sisters. I flung myself away from the wall. My left foot came down on something cylindrical, something that rolled under me, causing me to fall forward with a yelp.
“Who is it? What is it?” came the sisters’ voices.
“Don’t move,” I cried. Bending, I picked up the object so it would not trip me again and stuffed it into the pocket of my skirt. One of the candles was almost down to the wick. Would I be in time? I was afraid to run in case I caused its flame to waver, fanning out across that sea of alcohol. Dropping to my knees, I crawled forward and scooped up the small glowing blob, crushed it in my hand and tossed it away over my shoulder. Then, skirt trailing in the wet, almost drowning in fumes, I inched around the rest of the circle snuffing and tossing as I went. I knew that, for the moment, we were all safe. Untying Hyacinth in the dark took five minutes; Deasley must have been a Boy Scout.
“I dare say it would not have worked.” Hyacinth rubbed her wrists. “A man could not be expected to know that one must always heat rum or brandy before flambéing.”
“Not”—Primrose lay perfectly still as I worked to release her—”not that we aren’t extremely grateful to you, Tessa.”
I apologized for not closing the priest hole door behind me and offered the small consolation that Chantal would be returning any moment with the police.
But would they come in time to catch Mr. Deasley?
“How foolish of us not to have made sure the telephone was working,” Hyacinth said. “But no time for recriminations. We have all meant everything for the best. You in coming down here, we in attempting to keep you out of harm’s way by giving you that tea. It is what we give Minnie before taking her to the vet’s, and what Primrose gave her the other night.”
As I stood up, my hand brushed my skirt pocket and I pulled out the cylindrical object. I had imagined it to be a bottle, but now I realized it was too short and squat, with a rough little nub about halfway down. A jab with my thumb and it turned into torch, beaming a frail but beautiful light.
“Tessa, sweet girl,” exclaimed Primrose. “How splendid of you to have displayed such foresight.” I opened my mouth to say I had dropped the torch when I was last down here but she rattled on. “Foresight and ingenuity. You must tell us later how you escaped from the nursery, but now, if you will give me the torch, we will follow Mr. Kneesley Deasley.”
Purely to humour her, I handed over the torch. She was suffering from shock, or paralysis of the brain, as Fergy would say.
“Dear Primrose, nothing is to be done right now but wait patiently until Chantal arrives with the police.”
“Wait placidly here, like geese ready for carving! Indeed we will not,” stormed Primrose
“I know it is frustrating, but we have no choice,” I said pacifyingly.
“Rubbish, my dear,” sniffed Primrose. With the torch held out at arm’s length she headed for the chimney wall, Hyacinth and I following in her wake. “We were unable to reach this area to rap for Chantal because of Deasley menacing us with that broken bottle. The villain! Wantonly smashing one of my best parsnip wines. The wasted rum doesn’t bother me—we never use the stuff except for a dribble at Christmas in the egg flip—but if he had dared touch one of dear Father’s last bottles of French brandy, that would have been a different story! Only a couple left.... Poor Father, he always was a hearty drinker. A blessing really he never knew he had brought his family to the brink of ruin by his gambling on the stock exchange. He never noticed all the things we had to do without, like having our portraits painted as adults.”
Nothing seemed odd anymore. Not even discussing Mr. Tramwell’s financial status while beating our hands against a brick wall. I had relieved Primrose of the torch but my free hand had taken up the drum-rap. What were we looking for?
“Our lives have been spent attempting to retrieve enough of what Father lost to save Cloisters. But I am afraid it has been a losing battle,” supplied Hyacinth. “Ah-ha!” She paused, grabbing the torch and beaming it on a nail—the nail I had taken for a picture hook on my last visit. Chuckling in gratification, she pressed down upon it.
“A secret exit, up the chimney!” I exclaimed as a portion of the wall groaned open. Stepping into the brick-lined cavity my voice developed the sort of echo that comes with a bad head cold. “Why—why, this is how Butler got so grimy the day I arrived! He must have been trying to come up this way because the other door was jammed.” We stood now at the foot of a narrow staircase running up one side; an acrid smell of soot almost choked me, and I saw a large number of cracks in the wall dividing this hideaway from the chimney itself.
“Dearie me, no. Butler was not using this as a means of exit. This is his Ali Baba cave. Alas, we have not yet completely broken him of his jackdaw tendencies—spiriting pretty trinkets away. Mind you”—Primrose mounted the first step—“he is making remarkable progress. He returns everything in time and what we find highly encouraging is that valuables—watches and good jewellery—always get put back pretty speedily. The cheapies he hangs onto a little longer.”
I would be getting my charm bracelet back any day. Starting up the stairs behind Hyacinth and Primrose I looked sideways and spotted a battered suitcase in the corner. Butler’s trinket box.
“A priest hole within a priest hole, you see.” Primrose was barely panting as she went up. “If the king’s men did manage to locate the main area, they would find it empty. Trust Lily to be the one of us children to find this place. She always was such a spirited, curious child. Careful, Tessa.” I had stumbled and had to catch Primrose around the waist.
“Don’t fall,” called back Hyacinth, our leader. We were almost at the top. “Such a long way down to the cold floor. I remember Lily—that laughter turning into screams. She was playing blind man’s bluff with Father on the second-floor landing and he was coming after her with the little stuffed alligator, saying it would eat her up if it caught her. Oh, it was agonizing. I can see him now clutching that alligator to him, the look of a bewildered child on his face as he looked down the staircase to where she lay on the bottom step. No wonder people whispered “murder.” He thought of himself as Lily’s murderer.”
“This place makes for gloomy thoughts, I fear,” sighed Primrose.
But I didn’t think of them as gloomy—just terribly sad.
Hyacinth’s voice brightened. “Here we are. Now, can we all squeeze on to this platform? Good.” She had found another catch and again a door grated open. It hit the edge of the bookcase and we each took deep breaths, emerging sideways. Would Mr. Deasley still be in the house? How much time had elapsed since he had left the sisters to burn to a crisp—ten, fifteen minutes?
He was still in the house. He was coming through the sitting room door now, a framed picture under his right arm and a couple of books in his left hand. He saw us and reluctantly I had to give him credit for holding up well under pressure. His eyes flashed behind his spectacles but his lips, under the sliver of moustache, struggled to form a smile.
“Ah, dear ladies! So you could not resist coming to see me off.” A trace of a swagger appeared in his gait as he crossed the room. He was coming towards us. What could one unarmed man do against three women? He dropped the portrait and the books on one of the sofas and kept coming. He was at the fireplace, his free hand moving, reaching towards the mantel clock. He was going to pitch that clock at us. I lunged, an inch ahead of Hyacinth and Pr
imrose, and he ducked, dragging up one of the bronze dragons—sending a splay of pokers and shovels scattering. His change in direction was so fast I blinked, and in that instant he grabbed me, while holding the dragon out towards the sisters.
“Come any closer,” he wheezed, “and I will crack her head to scrambled eggs. This,” he panted in my ear, “is your reward for that sweet, come-hither note of yours. I would not still be here if I had not ransacked the house hoping to find you. Wayward Tessa! You and Daddy are going to have some wonderfully jolly times together. I know all about you, Tessa—overheard you talking to Primrose.... I am your daddy, you know.”
“That’s a lie. But even if you were I don’t give a damn. I don’t believe in bad seeds.” I kicked him hard in the shin. He wouldn’t crack my skull; he needed me alive.
“I have absolutely no desire to get anywhere near you,” quivered Primrose. “Oh, I do feel faint—if only I had my smelling salts.” Blindly her hands fluttered outward. She was lifting a vase of yellow roses from the bookcase. “Perhaps a whiff of these will bring me round.” She sagged sideways against Hyacinth, head drooping over the blooms.
“My dear, take three deep breaths,” murmured Hyacinth. I could not help feeling peeved. What of my plight? Mr. Deasley was dragging me towards the French windows. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it pounding inside my head like rumblings of thunder or ... hoofbeats? The sound was mounting, drumming to a formidable torrent. Those pounding hooves were not inside my head. The curtain brushed my face. Did no one else hear? Twisting my face sideways, I saw a magnificent black horse emerge from the woods. Mr. Deasley was clutching at the curtain, desperation on his face. Oh, Harry, whatever else you have done, at this moment you are my knight in shining armour!
To give our villain his due, he had not had all the starch washed out of him yet. “He can’t stop me,” he cried. “No one can stop me. I meant it—I’ll crack her head open!”
It was then that Primrose struck. She took aim and flung the vase of yellow roses into Mr. Deasley’s open-mouthed face. What a weapon. The man dropped the dragon— thankfully missing my feet—and, clutching himself dementedly, gasping, sneezing, wheezing, sank to a despicable huddle clawing at the floor.
A shadow dark as a thundercloud blocked out all light from the window. The wall shook with violent sound. Hyacinth and I had barely time to yank a screaming Primrose out of the way before horse and rider ploughed into the room. Devastation. Furniture crashed in all directions, but the mighty hooves of the gallant black steed, ridden by a man and a ginger-haired boy, skimmed over Mr. Deasley’s body as though it were a pebble on the beach. The room tilted and slowly righted itself.
A new commotion—wild barking—and Minnie hurtled through the window. In a rush of narrowing circles she came at last to rest beside Mr. Deasley, her yellow fangs only an inch away from his throat and a look of bliss on her furry, beautiful face.
“Harry, dear boy.” Hyacinth stood holding the chair she had caught one-handed as it flew through the air. “These impromptu visits of yours are charming, but if you had let us know that you were bringing Bertie to tea we would have prepared something special.”
* * *
Chapter 20
The sitting room looked much more presentable after Harry led Highflyer down the verandah steps to a nearby tree. Bertie, eyes glowing, eagerly agreed to watch him eat grass. A good idea, because he would be better off outside when the police arrived. They did so a moment after Harry rejoined us. Chantal walked in and announced in wry amusement as she took in the scene before her, “Inspector Lewjack and Constable Watt.”
Mr. Deasley had recovered from his sneezes and listened to the reading of his rights with only a slender lessening of his usual aplomb. Indeed he had the effrontery to ask if he might take the books he had been planning to borrow so he could have a little read in his cell. I was surprised he did not ask to take the picture, too.
Constable Watt picked one leather-bound volume off the floor and tossed it in his hands. “Evelina!” he scoffed. “Sort of romantic bosh the wife would read.” A regretful shake of the head. The constable expected his murderers to be of the he-man variety; even had he discovered the 1778 date indicating a first edition I doubt he would have been any more respectful of Mr. Deasley’s literary interests.
Handcuffs were snapped on and the prisoner taken away. “Well, that’s that. I think we can all do with some tea, don’t you, Prim dear?” said Hyacinth.
“Was it Evelina he wanted all along?” I asked. “But I thought you gave him a copy the other day to show to a customer.”
“We gave him volume one; these are two and three. I can see why he took them—easy to transport and easy to flog for a nice little sum. But they aren’t of great value because when she was little Violet scribbled in all three and tore out some of the pages.”
“Then it must have been the picture that he especially ...” I bent and lifted it up, looking down at the canvas. It was a portrait, the portrait I had seen in the attic, but now, without the false black moustache and eye patch, I recognized the face. I hadn’t looked at Harry since that first moment he had gallopped into the room, eyes searching until he found me, shouting my name, and I had to force myself to look at him now. The painful feelings of restraint were still there. “This man is your double. Dress you up in silk and lace, add a fancy wig, and you would be he, or he you.”
“Exactly, my dear.” Primrose was fluttering about the room setting chairs upright and resettling doilies. “That is why we had Chantal take it up to the attic before you arrived. And then we became afraid that you might find it, so we had her dab on a few concealing touches. Where is Chantal? Gone to get the tea, I suppose. I must thank her for having washed off the portrait and brought it down again. So industrious—considering everything else she had to do this morning.”
“I should have realized that what Deasley wanted and what Angus spotted was likely to be a picture,” I said but Hyacinth shook her head.
“Not this picture. I suspect Deasley grabbed it off the wall at random. There will always be buyers for ancestors to hang on their walls, but this one I know was painted by a very mediocre artist.” Hyacinth adjusted the curtains which had been wrenched from some of their hooks. “Harry, it was all very noble, your flying in here on that horse, but why did you not drive to Cloisters?”
“The hearse died.” Harry picked up the dragon, and looked from it to me and back again, his face grim.
“Amazing,” Hyacinth responded. “That vehicle has never given us a day’s trouble. Must be your driving, young man.”
Harry smiled, a finger tracing the dragon’s wings. “Well, Marco ... or is it Polo? Back to the fireplace with you. Fortunately with no blood on your scales. A bit of a comedown for you and your brother; such grandiose beasts, ending up on a hearth as fire dogs ... Dogs’. Dogs—plural. No apostrophe, as in ‘The dog’s got the weapon,’ or ‘The dog’s chasing my killer.
Hyacinth and Primrose were staring at him as though he had lost his wits, but I understood. I had been wrong about Minnie’s Chinese bowl, but on the right track.
Harry put the dragon down on the coffee table. “Angus Hunt tried to tell us the dogs were Ming. If you two hadn’t named your dog Minerva, light might have dawned sooner. What do you think, Tessa?”
“I’m sure you’ve got it. And this explains why Godfrey came a cropper. Remember his ranting on yesterday about how ugly they were? Then, when Hyacinth or Primrose said they were bronze, he shut up double quick. I bet that book he brought back from the library after his session with the police had a page or two of info on Ming. One of our history teachers was rather keen on ancient artsy stuff, and I remember her saying once that most people associate Ming with china—vases and such—but it can be bronze, or ...”
“Poor Godfrey,” sighed Primrose. “One can’t help wishing he had used that sharp mind of his in worthier endeavours. Blackmail is so ... so ... pedestrian. Still, Ethelreda will enjoy putting up an
enormous monument, and she will have nice little visits with her boy. All the nicer now that he can’t answer back.”
Chantal had come in with Bertie and the tea things, and she and the boy stood listening. Harry took the tray from her as she said, “I wonder if anyone else was ever murdered on account of Marco and Polo.”
“One prefers not to delve into how old Sinclair acquired them,” sighed Primrose. “I suppose they may originally have come from one of those depressing, overly ornate temples. Silly of me, but I don’t think I will ever again experience the same comfy affection for them. Hyacinth, my dear, despite the memories they evoke, I believe I am ready to part with them.”
The earrings rocked in vigorous assent. “Yes, I am afraid there is a certain gaucherie in having pet names for objects that must be worth ...”
“... Enough to set Cloisters up for the next century or so.” Chantal smiled as she poured tea. Harry was studying her face and I wondered if, in the warm glow from the rose wall lights, he thought her beyond price.
The object of our united interest being returned to the hearth and the companionship of his brother, we all sat around the coffee table sipping tea.
“This has all been so very exciting—in a dreadfully sad kind of way, of course.” Primrose’s cheeks were flushed and she looked almost girlish. “And I have been contemplating how flat life will seem when returned to normal, particularly as the card parties have come to an end. What do you think, Hyacinth, of our going into the private detection business? We could send out little cards to all our friends and acquaintances—the kind of people who when they are in a spot of bother would prefer confiding in someone from their own walk of life. Not some well-meaning rustic with a pencil tucked over his ear.”
“What a marvellous idea.” Hyacinth’s lips cracked into a delighted smile. “Butler will be of immense use to us. As dear Father always said, although he knew nothing of the matter; the sudden acquisition of vast wealth is disastrous unless one keeps busy.”
02 - Down the Garden Path Page 30
