by Anne Weale
Her parting was warmer than her greeting which had been noticeably off-hand, Imelda remembered.
“The Lodge used to be my home,” said Mrs. Wingfield, while her grandson escorted Mrs. Otley to her front door, and waited while she found her latchkey. “I was sorry to have to leave it. Small houses are so much cosier than large ones. The Hall, as you will see in a moment, is a delightful old house. But it was designed to be run by at least half a dozen servants, and nowadays people in the country are lucky if they have one good daily help. We are extremely fortunate to have a couple. Mrs. Betts cooks, and Mr. Betts does a bit of everything. Goodness knows how we should manage if they retired. You see, my elder grandson and his wife were in an appalling air disaster three years ago. So Charles and I have joined forces to keep the place up until Henry, my great-grandson, is old enough to take over.”
By now it was apparent to Imelda that Mrs. Wingfield must be considerably older than her trim figure and energetic appearance suggested, and that although social changes might make it impossible to staff the Hall in the manner of former times, the family still enjoyed a life style much grander than that to which the Calthorpes were accustomed.
From the Lodge, the drive passed through open parkland for some distance, and then curved round the edge of a small wood. For an instant the headlights illuminated the graceful facade of a Queen Anne manor house. As the car crunched to a halt on the gravelled sweep, the front door was flung open and three children burst from the house. The smallest, a girl of not more than six, was wearing pyjamas and clasping a large teddy bear. They were followed by a stout, middle-aged woman to whom, after she had hugged the children, Mrs. Wingfield said, “Have they been good, Mrs. Betts? What are we having for supper? Something elastic, I hope. Miss Calthorpe is spending the night with us.”
“Good evening, miss.” Mrs. Betts gave Imelda a friendly nod. “It’s my steak and kidney pudding tonight, madam. With Mr. Charles being out all day, I thought he’d be glad of something substantial this evening.”
“Yes, indeed. We shall all enjoy it.” Mrs. Wingfield fondled the ears of a grey-muzzled, elderly labrador which had been waiting, tail thrashing, for a share of her attention. “Hello, Poppy, old girl.”
Charles had disappeared. After unlocking the boot, and instructing the children to take charge of Imelda’s light case and his grandmother’s parcels, he had driven the car to its garage somewhere behind the house.
About twenty minutes later, when Imelda had just finished tidying herself in a bedroom papered and curtained with red and white toile de jouy, and furnished with walnut chests which she judged to have been made for the Hall’s first occupants, ten-year-old Henry came to show her the way to a small sitting-room at the back of the house.
“My sisters have gone to bed now. I stay up till nine in the holidays,” he told her.
His uncle did not reappear until the two women, sherry glasses in hand, were on their way to the dining-room. While Henry attended to his great-grandmother, Charles drew out the chair on which Imelda was to sit.
The children had had high tea at six. “Can I watch TV?” Henry asked his uncle. “Mrs. Betts says it’s okay with her.”
“Yes, for an hour. But don’t let me catch you at it after quarter to nine,” Charles warned him.
“The Betts have a television set, but Charles and I prefer other relaxations in the evening,” said Mrs. Wingfield to Imelda. “He reads, when he’s free of the paperwork which bedevils modern farming, and I do canvas work - popularly known as ‘tapestry’.”
“Do you sew, Miss Calthorpe?” asked Charles.
It was so obvious that his question was a perfunctory politeness, and that he had no interest in whether she sewed, or in anything else about her, that Imelda felt a flash of irritation. If he could not conceal his indifference, it would be better to ignore her.
“I sometimes make clothes for myself and my younger sister. I’m not a skilled needlewoman,” she answered.
“Embroidery is a plum to reserve for one’s middle years,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “I didn’t take up my needle until I was forty.”
The second course, a fresh fruit salad, was on the table before Charles felt it necessary to address another remark to Imelda.
“I think you are optimistic in hoping to find homes for Miss Partridge’s collection of cats. It’s difficult to persuade people to take kittens, and full-grown animals are less appealing,” he said. “Your best course would be to have the whole lot put down.”
“Perhaps.” Her tone was non-committal.
As he poured cream on his fruit, she glanced at him again. He reminded her of a picture of the Duke of Wellington on the wall of John’s bedroom. But where her brother’s hero had had blue eyes and a high colour, Charles Wingfield’s eyes were light grey, and his skin was tanned rather than ruddy, suggesting a recent skiing holiday. But his large, high-bridged nose was extremely Wellingtonian, and there was something about his mouth which made her suspect that, in spite of finding her uninteresting, where women in general were concerned, he might share the Iron Duke’s propensities. Probably the type who appealed to him was a glamorous Amazon, almost as tall as himself, for whom hunting, sailing and roaring round the county in a fast car were life’s greatest pleasures.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my coffee to the library. I have some rather urgent letters to write,” said Charles, at the end of the meal.
When he had gone, his grandmother said, “Would you care to see my collection? As Charles has retired to his sanctum, let’s take our coffee to mine, shall we?”
Mrs. Wingfield’s antique sewing tools were housed in two glass-topped tables in her sitting-room upstairs. “This is really a bedroom, but I had so many belongings which I didn’t wish to leave at the Lodge when we decided to let it that I converted this room into my private parlour, and I sleep next door in the dressing-room,” she explained. “The tables are not locked. Do open them and take out anything which interests you. Sophie and Fanny often do, and nothing has ever been damaged.”
She put on a pair of spectacles, and sat down at a table on which a piece of half-finished canvas work was stretched on a beechwood frame. “I shall ‘whistle and ride’ as they say in Norfolk. Embroidery doesn’t call for hours of leisure, as so many people seem to think. The secret is to do a little every day.”
For the next half an hour her needle flew back and forth through the canvas while Imelda pored over the tools, asking questions about the objects she did not recognise. One of the tables held tools made of ivory, bone and nacre, and the other contained those made of wood, brass and tartan ware.
She was peering at five views of Coventry through a minute lens, smaller than a grain of rice, in the end of a carved bone needle-case, when a tap at the door was followed by Charles’s reappearance.
“I’m taking Poppy as far as the post,” he told his grandmother. He turned to Imelda. “Shouldn’t you telephone your people, Miss Calthorpe? In view of your rather vague ideas about where you might spend the night, they must be a trifle anxious, I should have thought.”
“Yes, do ring up your home, Imelda,” urged Mrs. Wingfield, her pleasant tone leavening the bite of sarcasm in his. “Charles will show you where the phone is.”
“You will have to dial 0. We’re not on STD here yet,” he said, when they were downstairs. On the point of turning away, he checked and studied her for a moment. “You seem very young to be sent on an errand of this nature. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty. How old are you, Mr. Wingfield?” she retorted.
“Too old to embark on a journey without making sure of suitable accommodation when I reached my destination,” he replied sardonically. Followed by the old black bitch, which had been lying on a rug patiently waiting, he let himself out of the front door.
Had it not been for upsetting Mrs. Wingfield, with whom in spite of the great difference in their ages she felt a strong rapport, and also for the fact that two or three miles of unlighted co
untry roads separated the Hall from the town, Imelda would have sought shelter at the nearest police station - anywhere rather than spend the night under Charles Wingfield’s roof.
She managed to keep her vexation out of her voice during a brief conversation with her brother. John said that, a few minutes earlier, he had been talking to their mother and Ben, now far away in Devon.
After the call, Imelda waited for the operator to tell her how much it had cost, and then she ran upstairs to fetch the necessary coins from her bag, and put them beside the telephone.
“I hope your mother’s anxiety was not redoubled on hearing that you were staying with strangers,” said Mrs. Wingfield, when Imelda returned.
Imelda explained why her mother was also away from home that night.
“Good gracious! No wonder you look tired, my dear. If I were you, I should go to bed. Would you care for a hot drink to help you to sleep in a strange bed? I can soon make one for you.” She opened a cupboard, revealing an electric kettle and the provisions for various types of nightcaps. “I always have a cup of hot chocolate to make me drowsy.”
“No, thank you - and thank you again for being so very kind to me.”
“You are most welcome. Goodnight, child. Sleep well.”
In her room, Imelda discovered that there was nothing a guest might want which had not been provided. A vacuum flask of iced water, and an airtight tin of biscuits, stood on the bedside table. There were books on some hanging shelves, tissues beside the eighteenth-century dressing mirror and, in the adjoining bathroom, an expanding line which could be stretched across the bath alcove so that guests might wash and drip dry such things as tights. The final addition to her comfort was to find, when she climbed into bed, that although the house was centrally heated, a hot water bottle had been placed between the sheets.
When Imelda woke up and looked at her watch, she was dismayed to find it was eight o’clock. At home, an alarm clock woke her at seven, and she had hoped habit would rouse her at about the same time this morning.
It was twenty minutes before she was ready to go downstairs. Shortly before she left her room, she heard children’s voices below her window, and glanced out to see the three young Wingfields running across the lawn towards the fence which kept the ivory-coloured cattle grazing the park from invading the pleasure gardens. All three children were wearing navy jerseys with fudge corduroy trousers tucked into gumboots, for the grass was silvery-grey with heavy dew.
There was so much to admire in the house that the night before she had overlooked the mezzotints on the staircase wall. As she paused, half way down the stairs, unable to resist a closer look at an eighteenth-century picnic scene entitled “The Angler’s Repast”, she heard the rustle of a newspaper, and Charles Wingfield’s voice asking, “How long is Miss Whatsit staying here?”
“She has to return to London on Sunday,” was Mrs. Wingfield’s answer. “You seem very hostile towards her. Why? I think she’s a nice girl.”
“I wouldn’t say I was hostile. It’s merely that I have enough on my plate without being involved in old Miss Partridge’s obsequies.”
“You haven’t been asked to involve yourself, my dear.”
“No, but Miss Thingummy doesn’t impress me as being too competent, and as you’ll be out all day she may think she can turn to me when she can’t cope.”
“Considering your marked lack of amiability towards her, I don’t think you need fear that,” was the dry reply.
“I daresay she’s only come down here for what she hopes to get out of it. She admits that it’s years since her family had anything to do with the old girl. It’s amazing how distant relations appear on the scene at the sniff of a legacy. But I think she’ll be disappointed if she’s expecting to find a fat stocking hidden under Miss Partridge’s mattress.”
“You’re too cynical, Charles. I’m sure that’s not why she’s here.”
“You’re too trusting, Granny.” Imelda heard a short laugh. “If Miss Partridge had any money, which I doubt, she’s probably left it to those fleabitten cats of hers.” The newspaper rustled, and there was silence.
Realising that the solid wood door of the dining-room must be an inch or two ajar for her to have overheard this conversation, Imelda was forced to remain on the stairs for some minutes. Her embarrassment at being an unintentional eavesdropper on an exchange which certainly bore out the adage that listeners never heard good of themselves was secondary to her intense resentment of Charles’s contemptuous assessment of her character.
“Good morning. I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, as she entered the dining-room.
Mrs. Wingfield put aside the letter she had been reading, and took off her spectacles. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Very well, thank you.” With a brisk “Good morning” to Charles, who had risen to his feet, Imelda took her place at the table.
“I’ll have the coffee pot refilled, and tell Mrs. Betts you’re down,” he said. “What would you like for breakfast, Miss ... er ... Calthorpe? We had bacon and eggs, but perhaps you would prefer a boiled egg?”
“I’ll have cornflakes, if I may?” said Imelda, turning to Mrs. Wingfield. She had noticed several packets of cereals on the Sheraton sideboard.
“Help yourself, my dear,” said her hostess. While her grandson was fetching fresh coffee, she added, “Unfortunately I have to attend a Women’s Institute conference today, Imelda. I’ll drop you at Miss Partridge’s house on my way to Norwich, and pick you up on my way home, about five o’clock. I wish I could help you to deal with everything, but I think Sergeant Saxtead at the Police Station will be the best person to turn to if you find yourself at a loss. He’s a very nice man who has been in this area for several years.”
Perhaps he will know of someone who will put me up as a p.g. for the rest of my time here, thought Imelda. Aloud, she said, “Yes, the policewoman who came to tell us about Great-Aunt Florence said the local police would do their best to help me with any problems.”
When Charles returned to the dining-room, he said, “I’d better be off. Would you care for the paper, Miss Calthorpe?” He placed the local morning newspaper on the table at her elbow.
As he bent to kiss Mrs. Wingfield’s cheek, Imelda thought, How would you like it, I wonder, if anyone suggested that you are only attentive to your grandmother in the hope of being her legatee?
“I’ll see you both this evening.” With a glance at Imelda which held, she felt, a sardonic glint, he snapped his fingers as a signal to the recumbent labrador, and they both left the room.
You definitely won’t see me again, Imelda resolved.
Before she departed for the city, Mrs. Wingfield introduced Imelda to Miss Partridge’s next door neighbour, Mrs. Bessie Medlar.
“Well, miss, I in’t a-saying you in’t related to Miss Partridge. But my instructions from the police sergeant was not to let nobody in the house, do they might take something,” remarked this old body, eyeing Imelda with keenest interest. “Do you send them up to see me, Mrs. Medlar, he say to me.”
Did it occur to you to bring some sort of identification, Imelda?” asked Mrs. Wingfield, as they drove to the police station which she had to pass on her way to the city.
“Yes, Ben - my stepfather - said I should need something. I have my own birth certificate, the certificate of my mother’s first marriage, and my father’s papers as well.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve been expecting you, Miss Calthorpe,” said Sergeant Saxtead, when Imelda presented herself to him. “If you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes, I’ll run you down to the house and you can have a look round for any papers the old lady may have left. You might be a little bit nervous in there on your own. It’s very old-fashioned - and very neglected! The cats have kept the mice and rats away, but there are plenty of spiders about, and cockroaches too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Far from being the middle-aged country bobby she had visualised, Sergeant Saxtead was young, good-looking, and no more cou
ntrified than Imelda.
“You spent last night in Norwich, I expect?” he said, as he started the police car.
Imelda explained about meeting Mrs. Wingfield on the train, and being invited to stay at the Hall.
“She’s a very nice person, Mrs. Wingfield,” he said. “She told you what happened to her grandchildren’s parents, I suppose?”
“About the air crash? Yes, she did.”
“It happened just after I came here. They’ve had several tragedies in that family. Mrs. Wingfield lost both her sons in the last war, and her husband died earlier than he would have done if he hadn’t been badly wounded at the start of the 1914-18 lot. Trying to find out if Miss Partridge had any relations reminds me that it was quite a job to contact Mr. Charles Wingfield after his brother and sister-in-law were killed. Eventually he was traced to an island in the Mediterranean.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I couldn’t say. He’d been all over the place before he had to come back and take charge at the Hall. A bit of a rolling stone, by all accounts.” With an abruptness which suggested that he felt he had been indiscreet, the Sergeant changed the subject.
Imelda was glad of his company the first time she entered the late Miss Partridge’s home.
“Have you ever read Great Expectations, Sergeant?” she asked, as they stood side by side in the musty-smelling gloom of her great-aunt’s sitting-room.
“No, but I saw the film,” he answered. “You’re thinking of Miss Haversham who was jilted at the church and was still wearing her white dress and veil years later. I remember the scene where the mice were scuttling about on the table among the remains of the wedding breakfast. Yes, I thought of Great Expectations when I first came in here.”
“The majority of old people are very concerned about their funeral expenses,” he went on. “However hard up they may be, they nearly always have an insurance policy, or some money put by in the house. There’s none here that I can find, and the old dear next door - who misses nothing! - says she never saw an insurance man calling on Miss Partridge. Or anyone else, for that matter. But your great-aunt was still active, and she went to Norwich regularly once a month. She may have paid her premiums there, and there may be a policy, and a will, hidden away somewhere in here. I’ve looked in all the obvious places, and in some less obvious ones that we and thieves get to know about. But I haven’t found even her pension book, and it wasn’t among the effects which she had with her in hospital. Have you any suggestions, Miss Calthorpe?”
