Richard looked at Ivy. ‘I think you would look well in the green, Nan, but you could try them both on. I’m sure Miss Andersby would help you with that.’
‘Oh, but of course! That’s my job. And you’ll no doubt need a hat to go with the outfit. I’ll take you down myself to the millinery department and introduce you to Miss Larklin. She’ll look after you. Now then, I’ll fetch the suit in your size and . . .’
‘My size?’ Ivy laughed nervously. ‘I have no idea – unless you have a “skinny” size! There’s not much meat on my bones, Miss Andersby. It will have to be trial and error.’
Miss Andersby’s smile was full of reassurance. She had quickly realized that her client was very advanced in years and was unused to shopping at such a famous store as Harvey Nichols. She might be finding it a trifle daunting. ‘It’s no problem, Miss Busby. I’ll help you into the fitting room and while you take a moment to rest, I’ll pop along and fetch my tape measure. We shall have your measurements in no time. You must not worry at all. Just relax and let me find you what you need.’ She smiled at Richard. ‘Your mother is in good hands.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not the son, Miss Andersby, but you’re close! Miss Busby was once my nanny – and a very good one, too!’
Ivy said, ‘Richard is taking me back to America to spend my remaining years with the family.’
Miss Andersby clasped her hands. ‘Then we must find you the perfect outfit for such a wonderful adventure.’ She held out her hands. ‘Let me help you rise, Miss Busby, and we’ll make our way to the fitting room. I can’t wait to see you in the green wool . . . but having said that, we also have a warm tweed with heather tones. I’ll show you that one also.’
With some trepidation, Ivy allowed herself to be guided towards a curtained alcove. She moved carefully, determined not to stumble or to exhibit any sign of frailty. Nothing must prevent her from going back to America.
While Richard and Ivy were busy in Harvey Nichols, Georgina was attempting to continue her letter. She had laboriously rewritten the page that had been spoiled by the ink splatter and was about to continue when Cook sent Lorna up to tap on the door.
‘Mrs Matlowe, there’s a man asking for you. Cook says will you please come down and speak with . . .’
‘A man? What’s his name?’ Georgina’s heart skipped a beat. Who on earth could this be? ‘Is it the police?’ She almost held her breath. How ironic if her secret had been discovered and she was arrested. The plan was to confess after her death.
‘I don’t think so, Madam. He looks just ordinary and he said Mr Croom sent him.’
‘Mr Croom?’ Georgina’s mind raced. Did she know a Mr Croom? The name sounded vaguely familiar. Should she refuse to speak to him? Maybe that would arouse suspicion. If she asked him to call another day, that would simply prolong the agony of not knowing what this was about.
‘What’s his name?’
Lorna screwed up her face in concentration. ‘Cook did tell me but I forgotten. Sorry, Madam.’
‘So you should be, you silly girl! I’ve told you a dozen times or more, always ask for the name. The name!’ Lorna stared at the floor. ‘Because it may be someone I don’t want to speak to. I suppose I’ll have to come down but I’m not pleased, Lorna.’
‘I’m sorry, Madam.’
‘I’ll be down in a moment or two,’ Georgina agreed with reluctance. ‘Show him in to the front room, Lorna, and wait with him.’ She hated allowing strangers into the house but was not going to discuss whatever it was on the doorstep. Too many nosy neighbours!
Minutes later she found a middle-aged man standing by the empty hearth. He wore some sort of cape and held a deerstalker hat and, for some reason, reminded Georgina of Scotland.
‘Your name, sir?’ she asked curtly.
‘Edgar Lunn.’ He paused, smiling, then continued. ‘I was given your name and address by—’
‘And your business with me, Mr Lunn? Please be brief. I am very busy.’ Turning, she waved Lorna away.
‘The thing is, Mrs Matlowe, I’ve just bought a very expensive boat from Mr Croom’s boatyard.’ He smiled again. ‘Something I’ve always wanted and an unexpected legacy has suddenly made it possible. They say all things come to those who wait!’ He laughed.
Georgina did not return his smile. She disliked his confident attitude. A little too friendly, she thought.
Unaware of her hostility, he continued. ‘We live about two miles away – we moved here a few months ago – and the land runs down to the river. All we lack . . .’
She was eyeing him intently. A niggling doubt had entered her mind and was taking hold. Was this man genuine or was he another of those wretched private investigators or, worse, a detective using this rather absurd disguise? If the man was an impostor, she must not be taken in by him. But now she also recalled a Mr Croom whose family owned the boatyard her own family had used on various occasions. ‘So you are a friend of Mr Croom.’
‘Hardly a friend, Mrs Matlowe. More a business acquaintance, although I do catch sight of him from time to time on the golf course. A pretty neat putter, although I hate to admit it.’
He sounded genuine, she thought cautiously, preparing to relax her vigilance. ‘And why are you here?’ she demanded.
‘It’s about the boat house,’ he told her.
The boat house! At once alarm bells rang in her brain and she moved quickly to the nearest armchair and sat down in case she was overtaken by the faintness that troubled her recently in times of stress. She indicated that he also might sit and he availed himself of an upright chair.
‘The point is,’ he went on blithely, ‘we are having a boat house built but it takes time and Mr Croom wants us to take delivery of our boat. He wondered, knowing that your boat house is empty, if you might allow me to rent your—’
‘Mr Croom said that? He said our boat house is empty?’ Her voice was a little shrill. ‘How can he say that? He has never seen the inside of our . . .’ She stopped abruptly, aware that her visitor might think she was overreacting. But they were trying to find out about the boat house! She should have known it would happen one day but had been lulled into a false sense of security. Her heart thumped against her ribs and she felt a fine perspiration breaking out on her skin. Her breathing was becoming ragged but she fought to remain in control.
Her visitor suddenly realized that she was in some distress. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Mrs Matlowe?’ He stood up, staring down at her anxiously. ‘Can I call someone?’
‘Please don’t fuss,’ she managed shakily and he sat down again.
‘He suggested,’ he went on, ‘that is, Mr Croom suggested that you might be kind enough to rent out your boat house for . . .’
‘Rent it out!’ The idea immediately terrified her. How could she possibly allow complete strangers the use of the boat house when she could not even risk allowing anyone to enter the place? It was quite out of the question.
‘It would only be for perhaps six weeks,’ he went on, ‘and naturally we would come to some kind of monetary agreement by way of rent. I can assure you I am willing to pay a fair price . . .’
Georgina leaned back against the chair, fighting for breath. Without warning she became aware of a faint pain in her arm. In her left arm! She was going to have a heart attack! ‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘Please go! Please! Whoever you are! I won’t rent out the boat house! I don’t . . . It’s not a good idea. I’m sorry but I want you to go!’ She clutched her arm.
‘Mrs Matlowe! I didn’t intend to . . . Really I just wanted . . .’
She waved her hand weakly, unable to force any words to her lips. Her head swam and she watched through a blur of panic as he finally left the room and let himself out. As the front door closed behind him Cook appeared in the doorway.
‘Madam! Are you all right? What’s happening? I was making you a tray of tea . . .’
‘He was a . . . I don’t know who he was. He might have been . . . he said he wanted to put his boat in our boat ho
use. That’s what he said but I don’t trust him!’ She gulped in more air. The pain in her arm had not grown worse and she clung hopefully to that fact.
Cook said, ‘Did he threaten you or something? Should I call the police?’
‘The police? For heaven’s sake, woman! Just bring me a glass of water and hurry! And my pills, please.’
Cook disappeared, obviously flustered. Georgina tried to take stock of her condition. Was the pain in her arm getting worse? No. Maybe it would go away when she took the pills. There was no pain in her chest although her heart was still racing. She found her handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from her face. Take care what you say to Cook, she told herself. She must not alarm Cook or anybody else. But who was that man? That was the problem. Had he deliberately mentioned the boat house to study her reaction? Was he a detective? Surely not after all these years . . . but you could never be sure.
‘This is not a heart attack!’ she whispered. ‘It’s not! It’s . . . it’s just fear. Not even that,’ she amended hastily. She must not allow herself to become fearful. It was anxiety and that was dangerous.
When Cook returned she gave her a faint smile. ‘One of my funny turns,’ she told her, sipping the cold water gratefully. She took one of her tablets. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ To Cook she said, ‘You may go now. It’s nothing for you to concern yourself about.’
No, she reassured herself. It had been a false alarm. The pain in her arm was subsiding. She was sure of it. That wretched man! When she felt better she would telephone Mr Croom and ask him if he really had sent the stranger to her home. A suspicious stranger, at that, who asked suspicious questions. How dare Mr Croom put her through such an ordeal? Rent out the boat house indeed! The boat house had been out of bounds for years and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
She sat for a while, after Cook had gone back to the kitchen, until she felt fully restored. Gradually her confidence returned. She thought long and hard about Mr Edgar Lunn. He was a fraud, she decided. A cape and a deerstalker hat in June? How unlikely was that? Did he even look like a man who would be familiar with boats? Of course he didn’t. He may have fooled Mr Croom but he had not fooled her. The best form of defence was attack. She would waste no more time worrying but take action. She would telephone Mr Croom and warn him not to be so gullible in future – and never to talk about the boat house with anyone else.
Before she could carry out this plan, however, Cook came back, flushed with excitement. ‘That man, Madam. Lorna said his name was Edgar Lunn. I said it never is! Edgar Lunn! It can’t be!’
Georgina frowned. ‘He did say that was his name. Should I have recognized it?’
Cook’s smile broadened. ‘Only if you read his books, Madam. He’s a writer. Writes mysteries. The Church at Long Eagle – that’s one of his. I’ve read that twice. And The Secret of Downey Hall. And Once A Villain. That’s wonderful, too. My aunt buys all his books and lends them to me. I haven’t read The Secret of Downey Hall yet but I know it’ll be very good. Edgar Lunn is ever so famous. I knew he’d moved to Henley but I never thought I’d meet him. Well, I didn’t actually meet him, did I, but I saw him in this very house – although his back was to me so I didn’t quite see his face. Fancy him coming here. It just goes to show . . .’
Georgina said faintly, ‘Cook, please!’
‘Oh yes!’ Cook cried. ‘I nearly forgot. Shadow Over Marksby. That was about a soldier who deserted while on active service and . . . I can’t remember how that one ended.’ She took a deep breath, beaming with excitement. ‘Wait ’til I tell my aunt he was here.’
Georgina sat very still after Cook had returned to the kitchen. An intense relief washed over her and, with clasped hands and a bent head, she gave thanks to God. Despite his eccentric appearance, Edgar Lunn was genuine. So why did he have to wear that ridiculous outfit? She thought about the recent scene and wondered what the poor man would make of it. Not that he was poor in any sense of the word if he had just bought a house and an expensive boat.
Oh dear! What a fiasco! Georgina smiled faintly. Maybe he would write her into one of his mysteries as a silly, hysterical old woman! Should she write and apologize, she wondered? No, because how could she explain her apparently irrational fear?
Thoroughly mortified, she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Thank heavens she had not made that irate telephone call to Mr Croom! Cook had saved her from that mistake. Now that she understood she began to regret that she had sent him packing. A famous author coming to her for help. That would have been something to tell the people at her next bridge night – something to impress them . . . Unless Edgar Lunn was at this very moment planning to tell his version of the meeting to his cronies at the golf club!
The minutes ticked by and at last Georgina decided there was no way to undo the damage and the entire stupid incident was best forgotten. Water under the bridge. She allowed herself a wry smile. ‘Sometimes, Georgina Matlowe, you can be very foolish,’ she admitted and her deep sigh was heartfelt.
Ida had bought the twins a dolls’ house and had invited them over for the day to play with it. Georgina had insisted that she was too busy with ‘various correspondence’ but had nominated Marianne to escort them and they arrived around eleven on the Monday following the debacle with Edgar Lunn. While Ida and Marianne chatted, Emmie and Edie explored the dolls’ house, discovering that the entire front wall opened and the roof lifted. They gazed into it, enchanted.
‘Downstairs it’s the kitchen and the front room,’ Edie explained, ‘and upstairs . . .’
‘It’s the bedroom and the teeny box room. There’s a big bed for the mother and father and a small bed for the little girl.’
‘We should give her a name, Emmie.’ Edie picked up a small pegtop child and considered her. ‘Does she look like a . . . a Caroline? Or Madeline?’
‘Or Jaqueline?’
‘Or Angelina? Or Marianne!’
They both giggled.
Edie said, ‘Or Maude – like the lady at Sunday School, because they both have dark hair.’ Replacing the doll she peered into the kitchen with squeals of delight. ‘Look! It’s a teeny, tiny frying pan . . . and there’s a kettle and a saucepan . . .’
In the kitchen Ida had asked Marianne for a report on Georgina’s health and Marianne had described the incident with Edgar Lunn.
Ida shook her head, mystified. ‘I’ve heard of him, of course, but I don’t read mysteries. I like romance . . . But what on earth could he have said to upset her? Had he been rude to her?’
‘Who knows? I can’t imagine why he should be unpleasant in any way. According to Lorna—’
‘Who was no doubt eavesdropping!’
‘I daresay she was.’
‘Servants always do.’
Marianne felt uncomfortable. She was being encouraged to spy on her employer so presumably that made her no better than the servants. ‘Lorna thought they were talking about the boat house,’ she said, ‘and a Mr Croom was mentioned. Mr Lunn was sent packing in no uncertain terms, it seems, and Mrs Matlowe was obviously shaken by the meeting and needed a glass of water and her tablets. Cook said she was terribly pale.’
‘Tut! She’s not supposed to get upset. It’s bad for her heart. Mr Prendergast told her to stay calm.’ Ida sighed. ‘I do wish she’d confide in me. I’m sure I could help her if she would only trust me . . . Maybe I ought to move back in with you but she seems set against the idea. And what is all this about “various correspondence”? Who is she writing to? I asked her but she snapped that it was private and that she didn’t ask me about my correspondence – which is true, but then I don’t hide myself away the way she does.’
Edie appeared, holding a bed from the dolls’ house. ‘There are no sheets and blankets. How can they go to bed?’
Ida laughed. ‘I was waiting for you to spot that,’ she told her. ‘You and Emmie will have to make some sheets and blankets. Now . . . let me see what I can find.’
Emmie arrived with a tabl
e that lacked a tablecloth. Within minutes Ida had found a sewing basket and some pieces of material, remnants of earlier sewing activities. Two small pairs of scissors completed the finds. ‘Now off you go and measure up the beds and the table, cut out the materials and see how it looks. If you want to you can turn up the edges. You’ll find needles and threads in the sewing basket.’
The twins went back to the front room, chattering excitedly over the project.
Marianne said, ‘At least she takes the pills regularly.’
‘That’s something to be thankful for!’ After a short silence Ida leaned forward confidingly. ‘Not a word about this to anyone, Marianne, but I am thinking about offering to move into The Poplars permanently to keep an eye on Georgina. To be close at hand in case . . . Well, in case she has a heart attack.’ She sat back. ‘You look shocked.’
‘Shocked? No, but surprised. Do you think your sister would agree to that? It might be a good idea . . .’ She hesitated, certain in her own mind that Mrs Matlowe would fight the idea tooth and nail. But if she did agree to the idea, would it improve matters?
‘We don’t get on very well, I admit, but now I feel Georgina needs support if she’s to survive this wretched heart trouble. I would keep my flat on so that, if things become fraught, I can slip away for a few days and let any friction fade. Even if the idea doesn’t work out, I shall have had time to understand more of what is going on with her. I’m convinced that something is troubling her and I’d like to know what it is. She is the only family I have . . .’ She sighed heavily. ‘Anyway, we shall see. When I think the time is ripe I shall put it to her. I’ll think of an excuse that makes me the needy one!’ She smiled regretfully. ‘I know Georgina better than she thinks I do!’
That afternoon Georgina made another attempt to finish her letter to Ida.
The trouble started with a quarrel between us when Neil was at the dentist and one morning I found Leonora in the boat house, which was against my most strict orders. She had decided to explore, she told me airily. When I challenged her she suddenly announced that, as a surprise birthday present, she was going to buy a new punt for Neil. She said it was such a waste to have the boat house and never use it and that Neil had expressed regret that they never took part in the regatta. Whether that was true or not, I don’t know. She told me this, knowing how much I hated the idea of the regatta and anything to do with the river . . .
The Boat House Page 17
