Alice-Miranda Holds the Key 15

by Jacqueline Harvey

  ‘Right. Lists,’ Shilly muttered to herself. ‘I need to make some lists.’

  ‘I’ll call Doreen and then I’m going to head back downstairs for a little while,’ Dolly said, pushing herself out of the armchair. ‘There was a delivery this morning of some more food samples to test. I’ll also ask Hugh for copies of the grocery receipts to see if there’s anything youngsters particularly like to eat.’

  ‘Children are notorious for sharing their food in the playground – perhaps there are some who are sick and their parents haven’t even shopped at Kennington’s recently. That might explain why a pattern hasn’t yet emerged,’ Shilly said.

  Dolly nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I wonder …’

  ‘Well, I’d better pop upstairs and check on the patient before I get on with my planning. She’s been very quiet this morning.’ Shilly stood up and went to take the tray.

  ‘Leave that, dear. I’ll see to it,’ Dolly said.

  Mrs Shillingsworth headed up the back stairs to the second-floor landing. She gave the wide hallway an appraising glance, mentally calculating if there would be time to have the Chinese carpet that ran down the middle of the wide timber boards steam-cleaned before the garden party. Although, after last year’s muddy debacle, perhaps she wouldn’t bother. It was just that she’d spotted the smallest hint of a stain in one corner and knowing it was there would be a source of constant irritation until it was removed.

  She straightened a huge portrait of Cecelia’s father and whipped out a dusting cloth from her apron. Desperate times called for desperate measures – she couldn’t afford to walk past a stick of furniture without giving it the once-over. Along the hallway, three matching French side tables on elegant cabriole legs stood with their bulbous inlaid bodies like overweight sentries. Their cream marble tops played host to an array of family photographs, ceramic vases and other dust-gathering antiquities collected over the decades. She gave each surface a quick spit and polish before rapping quietly on Alice-Miranda’s bedroom door.

  ‘Are you awake, dear?’ she said, turning the ancient ceramic handle.

  ‘Hello Shilly,’ the child chirped from a cloud of pillows. Alice-Miranda slotted her bookmark between the pages and set Anne of Green Gables onto her bedside table.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ The woman ran her dusting cloth along the roof of Alice-Miranda’s doll’s house.

  ‘Much better, thank you. I managed five chapters this morning and my head isn’t hurting at all. I think the concussion must be better because I couldn’t read so much as a label in hospital before the world began to spin before my eyes. And I’ve been to the toilet on my own this morning too,’ Alice-Miranda said proudly.

  ‘You were supposed to call down so I could help you,’ the woman scolded. ‘What if you’d slipped?’

  ‘But I didn’t, Shilly,’ Alice-Miranda pointed out. ‘And I’d really like to have a shower, if I may. My hair feels awful. Mummy tried to give it a sponge but it needs a proper wash. Speaking of Mummy, is she home?’

  ‘She and your father are at Kennington’s head office. She’ll be back tonight,’ the woman said as she dusted the windowsills and the rocking horse in the corner. ‘I think your father won’t be home until tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Is there any news?’ Alice-Miranda asked. ‘Please don’t keep me in the dark, Shilly. I know you think I can’t do anything to help, but it won’t hurt to know what’s going on.’

  The older woman looked at the child and hesitated. ‘Why don’t we get you into the shower and I’ll fill you in then?’

  The girl smiled at her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And maybe afterwards I can come downstairs and keep you company. We could even play Old Maid. I’ve become quite good, you know. But first I should write my thank-you messages and then maybe I could make some get-well cards for all the people who’ve fallen ill from this nasty bout of food poisoning. I know the cards I got while I was in hospital made me feel so much better. It’s always nice to know that people are thinking of you when you’re not at your best.’

  ‘I don’t think I have time for games, my dear. I’ve got a lot of work to do. There’s a certain garden party and open day at the end of next week,’ Shilly said, paling at the thought.

  Alice-Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘Of course! I love the garden party,’ she gushed. ‘It’s one of my favourite days of the year.’

  ‘I’m glad the garden party is somebody’s favourite time of year. All those people traipsing through the house and me worrying myself into a stupor that things will go missing, let alone losing sleep over the weather forecast. I was still getting the mud out of the carpets months after last year’s disaster,’ Shilly huffed as she vigorously polished the nostrils of Alice-Miranda’s rocking horse.

  ‘Be careful, you’ll make him sneeze,’ Alice-Miranda laughed.

  Shilly sighed. ‘Well, if I could do that, I’d have some sort of magic powers and cleaning this house would be a cinch.’

  ‘Anyway, no one knew we were going to have the worst storms in a hundred years that weekend,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘I thought everyone was very well behaved, all things considered. That is, except Mummy’s cousin Richard’s son.’

  ‘I warned your mother after last year’s garden party that I’ll lock that boy in the larder if he shows his face again,’ Shilly blustered. ‘By accident, of course.’

  Alice-Miranda giggled at the naughty grin on Mrs Shillingsworth’s face. She could only agree, seeing as though she had been the one who had caught the reprobate seven-year-old smearing Vaseline on the banister rail and pouring his lemonade into the coffee urn. He had even found time to sprinkle salt all over the cinnamon donuts Mrs Oliver had made. He was definitely tricky.

  ‘Lucky for you, Mummy said they’ve gone to live in the Middle East,’ Alice-Miranda reported.

  Shilly scoffed. ‘I wish the Arabs luck teaching that little mischief-maker some manners.’

  Jemima Tavistock strolled through the third-floor hallway, wondering how soon she could get the builders in. The classical decor was not to her taste and she was dying to redo the ceilings. Those hand-painted frescos were so fussy. If she had her way, she’d get rid of most of the furniture too. It was all terribly … brown. She was excited to finally be able to put that interiors course she’d done a few summers ago to practice.

  Her husband, Anthony, had never fancied himself taking on the stately pile, but Jemima had managed to convince him that it was his duty by virtue of his lineage. Besides, it wasn’t a long trip into the city. They still had the townhouse and could travel back and forth when necessary, which seemed to be every week as far as her husband was concerned. Jemima, on the other hand, had spent much of her childhood dreaming of a country estate. She was going to have dogs and horses and learn to ride. She would host the most splendid garden parties and fundraisers, and her new friends would turn green with envy. She’d get to meet all the right people and attend the most exclusive events. The opportunities would be endless. There were other things she needed to do too – things that would correct past injustices.

  She was counting on the fact that their neighbours Cecelia Highton-Smith and Hugh Kennington-Jones would invite them over to dinner soon. Jemima had expected it to happen long before now and was actually feeling a bit miffed. They had sent her and Anthony a wedding present – a beautifully useless antique silver tea set, which she’d half considered selling – but there was still no word of a face-to-face meeting. Cecelia and Hugh knew everyone worth knowing, and Cecelia’s sister was married to that dreamy actor Lawrence Ridley.

  Jemima stopped to check her reflection in an enormous gilded mirror and thought about how many generations of Tavistock women must have stood in that spot doing the exact same thing. Their portraits stared down at her from the stairwell. She wanted hers up there as soon as possible but was yet to choose an artist and line up the sittings. As the most recent Lady of Bedford Manor, she needed to make her mark.

  She tucked a rogue strand of
blonde hair behind her ear and ran her forefinger down her brand-new nose. It had certainly made a difference – that and the iris recolouring. Who knew that, when she had copped a wayward bag of cement to the face while walking past a building site a couple of years ago, it would actually work out for the best. For a few months she’d been shocked whenever she’d seen her reflection, but overall she was pleased with her fresh look. Jemima had also gone from brunette to blonde. Though none of it was planned, the changes were probably best, given recent events.

  Her husband bounded up the staircase to meet her halfway. ‘I’m afraid I must be off, darling,’ he said, kissing Jemima goodbye. ‘I’ll call you when I get to town.’

  ‘Goodbye, my love,’ Jemima sighed wistfully.

  Anthony Tavistock could hardly believe his good fortune. His parents had at times despaired that their only son and heir would never marry. There had been girlfriends over the years, but it wasn’t until recently that he had known what it was to fall head over heels in love. It was one gloomy day ten months ago that he’d been introduced to Jemima at a party and she had quite literally taken his breath away. The rest, as they say, was history. Jemima made him feel so worthy, when he had often struggled with the idea of his dumb luck. He was painfully aware that he’d done nothing to deserve his title, and the wealth that went with it, and lived with the nagging guilt that he could enjoy a life of relative luxury compared to most. It just didn’t seem fair, really.

  His father had always encouraged him to study hard and make something of himself. He said that everyone needed a career and doing nothing was not an option – for which Anthony was now very grateful. He loved working for a non-profit low-cost housing provider and, no matter what happened, he wasn’t about to give it up anytime soon. He had no desire to swan about being Lord of the Manor when there were people who didn’t even have a roof over their heads. In any case, Jemima was perfectly capable of running the house. She’d told him so herself. And she seemed to revel in the ways of country life.

  Alice-Miranda hung up the telephone. It was wonderful to hear Millie’s voice and to catch up on the Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale news, but it was rather strange not being there with all her friends. She’d never been at home during the school term and found there was something especially peculiar about it. At least she had the reading list for next term, which she planned to work her way through over the break.

  Alice-Miranda snuggled in under the blanket on the couch, where Shilly had set her up with her cards and pencil case and a little tray to work on. There was a glass of water and a plate of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in front of her. She picked up a black felt-tip pen and started to draw a smiling Bonaparte, having decided that he would make quite a fetching subject for a get-well card.

  The sound of heels tripping on the timber floor echoed through the kitchen.

  ‘Is that you, Mummy?’ Alice-Miranda called.

  ‘Darling, what are you doing down here?’ Cecelia walked into the room and gave Alice-Miranda a big hug and kiss.

  ‘I thought Shilly might like some company,’ the child replied. ‘Well, that’s not entirely true. I was mind-numbingly bored upstairs. I’ve tried to keep myself busy and have written lots of thank-you cards and had a chat with Millie. Apparently, Miss Grimm threw up in Mr Plumpton’s mortar board at assembly – can you imagine it?’ Alice-Miranda giggled, then quickly sobered. ‘I hope she hasn’t been struck down with food poisoning. That would be too awful for words. And Millie said that Chops is coming home with Bony because Bony refused to get on the truck this afternoon without him. Apparently, the stables at Millie’s place are being renovated, so that works out well for everyone. Millie might come to visit in the holidays and we can go riding,’ the child said, stopping to catch her breath.

  Cecelia frowned. ‘Steady on, darling, we’ll have to see about that.’

  ‘I was also thinking that maybe Mrs Oliver would like some help downstairs. I could write lists and check things off for her,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘I could even assist her with some of the testing. I’m quite good at Science and Mr Plumpton said that my lab work was excellent this past term.’

  ‘Perhaps not today,’ Cecelia began, then, spotting the look of disappointment on her daughter’s face, added, ‘but we could run the idea past her tomorrow. Now, I think I might make a cup of tea and have some of that delicious hummingbird cake I spied in the kitchen. Would you like a slice?’

  Alice-Miranda grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And why don’t you set us up a game of Scrabble?’ Cecelia called as she walked back out to put the kettle on. ‘Work can wait a little while. It’s not often I get you at home to myself.’

  Alice-Miranda hastily set aside her stationery. Maybe being home from school wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  Queen Georgiana tossed and turned. She usually slept like a stone but, tonight, despite a mug of cocoa before bed, her mind simply refused to switch off. She had lain awake for hours, a showreel of worries playing in her head. On the one hand, she was relieved to hear that Alice-Miranda was on the mend, but there was still this nonsense with Kennington’s. People were dropping like flies yet there were apparently no clues as to the source of the contamination. The whole thing beggared belief.

  Poor Cecelia also had the garden party coming up too. It was a terribly important occasion, particularly with the relaunching of the Paper Moon Foundation after that dreadful swindler made off with all the money. Her Majesty sighed and reached across to snuggle the feather-down pillow beside her. She almost went through the bed canopy when the object yelped loudly.

  She tore off her eye mask and came face to face with one of her beagles. The pooch resentfully wriggled from her grasp and leapt to the floor.

  ‘Oh heavens, I am sorry, Petunia,’ the Queen apologised.

  She looked around for Archie and saw that he was sound asleep in his basket in front of the hearth.

  ‘This is a nonsense,’ she muttered, pushing back the covers and swivelling her feet to the ground. ‘A snack is what we need. Are you two coming?’ She pulled on her dressing-gown and stuffed her feet into her favourite pair of lamb’s-wool slippers.

  Archie raised his head and hopped out of his bed. Petunia scampered to the door. Neither creature wanted to be left behind if there was a pantry raid in the offing.

  The Queen and her dogs tripped along the hallway towards the back stairs. Although it was the middle of the night, Evesbury Palace was far from silent with its abundant creaks and groans, not to mention the ticking of the thousand or so clocks which seemed to grow louder in the evenings. She reached the kitchens, comprised of a labyrinth of rooms beneath the palace, and was glad to find the place empty. She hated startling the staff and quite liked being able to make herself a cup of tea and some toast every now and again.

  Archie and Petunia danced around her feet, eager for a treat.

  Queen Georgiana walked into the larder and pulled the cord to switch on the lights. She squinted, then rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Heavens, we’ve been robbed!’ the Queen exclaimed as she surveyed the empty shelves. Her Majesty hurried to the nearest telephone and punched in three numbers. ‘Mrs Marmalade, get down here immediately,’ she ordered. ‘I think we have had an intruder.’

  Not a minute later, Marian Marmalade thudded down the stairs. She was a sight to behold in her floral robe and her hair in rollers, clutching the brass candelabra she’d thought to snatch up along the way.

  ‘Ma’am, what is it?’ The woman cast a bewildered glance around the seemingly undisturbed room, wondering why Her Majesty hadn’t thought to call Dalton, her personal bodyguard, instead of her lady-in-waiting. Marian had been having the most marvellous dream and had not appreciated the call one bit.

  ‘The larder is practically empty,’ the Queen blustered.

  Marian gulped and lowered her weapon. If only Her Majesty had stayed out of the servants’ quarters, she’d have been none the wiser. ‘Ma’am, I�
�m afraid the staff have removed all of the Kennington’s products. On Dalton’s orders.’ The woman wasn’t averse to that silly old trout being blamed.

  The Queen’s nostrils flared. ‘And what about my favourite marmalade? I came down for some tea and toast and you know I cannot take my toast without Kennington’s marmalade.’

  ‘Gone,’ her lady-in-waiting squeaked.

  Queen Georgiana balled her fists. ‘Well, this is utterly preposterous! I’ve been eating Kennington’s marmalade my whole life and I do not intend to stop now. There’s only one thing for it.’ Her Majesty nodded to herself. ‘Get Marjorie on the phone. This business with Kennington’s cannot go on a minute longer.’

  Marian Marmalade scurried away and pressed the red emergency button hidden behind a tin of shortbread. It was the direct line for Marjorie Plunkett, Head of the Secret Protection League of Defence.

  Alice-Miranda woke with a start. She’d had the same troubling dream ever since she’d returned from Chattering. Each time, she imagined someone standing over her bed, muttering a stream of incoherent babble. The words weren’t audible or in any sensible sequence but were spouting forth like speech bubbles in a cartoon. Suddenly, the voice would stop and the person’s mouth would lift into a sinister smile. No matter how hard Alice-Miranda tried, the rest of the person’s face refused to come into focus.

  She pushed back the covers and carefully manoeuvred her way out of bed, using her crutches to hobble to the closest of two double-hung windows in her room. She leaned them against the wall and wriggled behind the billowing cream curtains. Pink rays streamed between tufts of fluffy white clouds and onto the emerald fields below. Beyond the walled garden, Heinrich was out early on the tractor. There was a small herd of cattle milling about near the western fence and wisps of smoke unfurling from the chimney at the Bauers’ farmhouse. Perhaps she should invite Jasper and Poppy to visit after school today.