by Carola Dunn
Below her was a blank whiteness, as if the world had ceased to exist but for the smooth humped islands of the highest hills.
Turning to look ahead, she saw a shallow green valley opening out, protected on three sides by higher ridges. The stream tumbled down the far slope then meandered towards her. A copse stood out brilliant yellow in the late afternoon sun. A square house of grey granite, its stone roof lichened and multi-chimneyed, showed its age by its small, mullioned casement windows. Two more modern wings with larger sash windows, early Victorian perhaps, reached forwards to shelter a circular patch of colour that must be a flower garden.
Smoke trickled from the chimneys, promising warmth within. Though isolated, not eerie after all, Daisy was happy to note. Not really eyrie, either, since for that name the farmhouse ought to be perched on a crag, but she wasn’t about to quibble.
Feeling happier about her odd errand, she drove on and parked the Gwynne on the gravel sweep between the flowerbeds and the front door. She sat for a moment in the car, tired—relieved to have arrived safely, enjoying the display of roses, chrysanthemums, asters, and Michaelmas daisies in the beds and the fading hydrangeas along the south-facing wall on either side of the door. From the nearby copse of sycamores came the cawing of rooks.
Daisy shivered. The air was growing decidedly chilly.
The door had a large brass knocker in the shape of a bird of prey, appropriate, she supposed, to the eyrie. She rapped loudly.
Abruptly, before she could lower her hand, the door swung open. The woman who stood there was certainly not a maid. Short and plumpish, she wore a crimson wool frock, the hem a few inches below her knees as befitted her apparent age of somewhere just on the right side of fifty. Over it was a warm, cable-knit cardigan.
She smiled. “Oh, hello, you must be Mrs. Fletcher. I’m Ruby Birtwhistle. I was just going out to cut some asters for the dining room table.” She had a slight accent, mostly Northern English with an odd touch of American, to Daisy’s surprise. She waved a hand in a stained glove, wielding a pair of secateurs. “Excuse me, won’t you? Do go on in. Lorna will have heard the knocker and be on her way.”
With that, she slipped past Daisy and headed with a brisk step for the flower-garden, followed at a more dignified pace by a stiff, elderly black-and-white sheepdog. Daisy saw her stoop to pull a weed or two.
Amused at the odd welcome, Daisy stepped into a wide, low-beamed hall. She guessed it to have been the main room of the old farmhouse. The beams still had iron hooks where sides of ham and strings of onions must once have hung. The floor was stone, with large, faded rugs here and there. The ambience was a trifle gloomy in spite of walls and ceilings painted white, except for the beams. Well-stuffed Victorian sofas and chairs, reupholstered in the lilac and primrose floral patterns beloved of the Edwardians, clustered about the hearth. A small coal fire in a wide iron grate in a large fireplace left the large room almost as chilly as outdoors.
Lorna—whoever she might be—did not immediately appear. Nor did anyone else, so Daisy looked about her. On either side, a staircase rose from the front to the rear of the hall. Beneath the stairs, doors to left and right must surely lead to the wings. There were two more doors in the back wall, one on each side of the fireplace, perhaps to the kitchen and what the Victorians called “domestic offices.”
It was very quiet, could almost have been deserted, but the solid stone walls of the old building were probably responsible. Even the raucous crowing of the rooks outside was cut off by the small windows. The eerie feeling returned.
Had Sybil simply succumbed to the atmosphere of dread in the isolated house? She had apparently been quite contented to live here for seven or eight years, so it hardly seemed likely.
And dread was far too melodramatic a word for the depressing effect.
One of the back doors opened and through it came a pale, gaunt woman with grey hair scraped back from her face into a bun. She was clad in a dark-grey dress with a drooping hem, a ratty mustard-coloured cardigan, and plaid carpet slippers.
At the same time, a girl appeared through the left-hand door, from the west wing. She was an elegant figure in a low-cut pink-and-black silk frock that ended quite two inches higher than Lucy would have worn in town, let alone in the country. Long, silk-clad legs ended in very high-heeled shoes that made them seem even longer.
Her head was turned to speak to someone following her, presenting to Daisy’s view a long bob of chestnut hair. Daisy wondered if the colour was natural. She couldn’t be sure in the dim light. It made a striking combination with the pink dress and a long string of pink glass beads. Together with the extra-short skirt, the effect could be seen as a symbol of independence—or defiance. Defiance of whom? What was her position in the household? Did she have anything to do with Sybil’s mystery?
The girl turned. She looked to be eighteen or nineteen, ten years or so older than Sybil’s daughter could possibly be.
Seeing the droopy woman, she said, “Aunt Lorna, isn’t it about time to light the lamps? It’s like a dungeon in here.”
“I can’t do everything at once, Myra.” Her Northern accent was considerably stronger than Mrs. Birtwhistle’s. She gestured sullenly at Daisy, who had taken her for a maid, a function she appeared to fill. “Just coming to answer the door, I was.”
“Oh, how did you get in?” Myra asked Daisy, the words less than polite but the tone merely interested. “You must be Sybil’s friend. You’ve no idea what a relief it is to see a new face in this mouldy mausoleum.”
“Your … Mrs. Birtwhistle was just going out as I arrived. She invited me to step in.”
“Aunt Ruby’s always busy! This is my other aunt, Miss Birtwhistle. She’s always busy, too. Do come and sit by the fire and get warm while I give her a hand with the lamps.”
“I can manage them, thank you very much! Not a thing would get done in this household if we all had to wait on your help.”
Myra ignored the censorious part of this, but blithely accepted the first part as a rejection of her offer of assistance. “Not that it’s much of a fire, I’m afraid,” she went on. “Would you rather go to your room first? Oh, this is Walter, by the way.” She indicated with a casual wave the man who had followed her in. “Walter Ilkton, I should say. Walter, this is Mrs. Fletcher. At least, I suppose that’s who you are?”
“Right, first try. How do you do, Mr. Ilkton?”
Ilkton was considerably older than Myra, in his mid-thirties at a guess. Tall and fair, he, too, was dressed rather more smartly than was appropriate for a farmhouse in the depths of Derbyshire. He wore dark-grey “Oxford bags” and a black blazer with an Old Harrovian tie, black with double white stripes, transfixed with a large pink pearl tie-pin. Apart from the pearl, he would have fitted nicely into a house party at one of the more formal country houses.
The vulgarly obtrusive pearl made Daisy doubt that he was justified in sporting the tie, but when he returned her greeting, his voice confirmed his schooling. Though he spared her a glance as he spoke, his devoted—almost worshipful—attention was only momentarily diverted from Myra’s manifest charms.
These were revealed more clearly as Miss Birtwhistle shuffled round lighting oil lamps. Neither gas nor electricity had yet made its way to the isolated farm. In Daisy’s view, this was sufficient to account for Sybil’s sense of impending doom. She could only hope modern plumbing was not likewise lacking but up here in the hills it seemed only too likely.
Be that as it might, Myra was an exceptionally pretty girl.
“Mrs. Birtwhistle is your aunt?”
“By marriage. Sort of. My mother was Uncle Humphrey’s favourite cousin. Aunt Lorna is his sister, so she’s really more of an aunt than Aunt Ruby is. My name is Olney, though. I’m sure you’d like tea, wouldn’t you? Aunt Lorna, how about a spot of tea?”
“And who’s to bring in Mrs. Fletcher’s bags, I’d like to know? The girls have gone home already.”
Daisy was about to announce that she was q
uite capable of bringing in her own bags, but Myra said carelessly, “Oh, Walter’s man can fetch them, can’t he, darling? Be an angel and find him. And he may as well take her car round to the stable yard, Walter, while he’s about it.”
Wondering whether the “darling” was a casual modernism or a sign of a close relationship, Daisy let herself be bustled up to her room to powder her nose while Walter Ilkton departed through one of the doors at the rear, a trifle sulkily.
“Is Mr. Ilkton another relative?” Daisy asked.
“Heavens no! I made his acquaintance at a house-party last year. He’s utterly dotty about me, you know. He actually wears that frightful tie-pin I gave him. I bought it in Woolworths for a shilling, as a lark. I can’t decide whether it’s a scream or simply too divine of him.”
“I wonder if he’d go so far as to wear it in London if you met him there.”
“Oh, I do see him in town, quite a bit.” She giggled. “And no, he doesn’t wear it there.”
“Is he staying for long?”
“As long as he’s allowed, I expect. He wrote to say he was going to visit an elderly relative at Smedley’s Hydro in Matlock—he has Expectations; not that he needs them, he’s rich as Midas, which is why the pearl is so funny—and as he’d be nearby, he said, he’d like to pop in to say hello. Of course, Aunt Ruby invited him to stay the night. That was three days ago and he’s showing no signs of leaving. Last time he visited his elderly relative, he stayed for a week.”
“Doesn’t your uncle mind?”
“He’s having one of his bad spells, poor dear. Aunt Ruby may have told him Walter’s here, but their paths haven’t crossed.”
“I’m sorry he’s unwell. It’s not a very good time for me to visit.”
“It’s nothing serious. He gets sort of depressed and lethargic and dopey, and all he wants to do is sleep all day.”
“Rotten for him,” Daisy commiserated.
“It would cast a bit of a blight over all of us if I let it. I come down from town now and then to cheer them all up.” Myra opened a door. “Here you are. You should have everything you need. I did your room myself. Well, with Betty. She’s one of the farm girls who comes in. The other one’s Etta. Very confusing, like a tongue-twister—I get mixed up and call them Betta and Ettie. But I do help when I’m at home, whatever Aunt Lorna says! She likes to play the martyr.”
“That was my impression.”
“How right you were! Bathroom and lav opposite. Running water laid on, piped down from the spring where the stream rises. But if you’d like a bath, please mention it to an aunt in advance because the boiler takes simply ages to heat up again afterwards. Speaking of heat, I’m frozen.” She hugged herself, shivering. “I think I’ll go and put on a cardigan, however much it disappoints Walter. Perhaps even woollen stockings, if I can find any, and sensible shoes.”
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Daisy agreed, boggling at the vision of that frock topping woollen stockings and sensible shoes. “When you’ve done that, would you mind letting Sybil know I’ve arrived?”
Myra looked doubtful. “Is it five o’clock? We’re absolutely not allowed to disturb her before five.”
Daisy checked her wristwatch. “By the time you’ve put on your woollies, it will be.”
“So that’s why it’s so beastly dark in the old house! The windows are bigger in the wings, so it’s lighter here, but would you like a couple of candles? Unless you’d rather have a lamp? We don’t usually bother with them upstairs until it’s time to change for dinner…”
“No, no, thanks, it’s quite light enough.”
“Right-oh. I’m glad you’ve come, after all. You’re not a bit like I expected an old school friend of Sybil’s to be.”
“Quite human, in fact.”
“What? Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that! Sorry! Come down as soon as you’re ready. I happen to know Aunt Ruby’s made a sponge cake for tea.”
Divesting herself of hat, gloves, and coat, Daisy wondered what on earth she had let herself in for. She hadn’t expected the acme of comfort in a farmhouse, however well adapted for an author who could afford a secretary-cum-personal assistant. However, Sybil might at least have warned her that half a dozen people would apparently be sharing an unreliable hot-water supply and a minimal, part-time staff.
Did Mrs. Birtwhistle reign in the kitchen, or merely make an occasional cake for visitors? Did she do all the gardening, too, or just pull weeds she happened to notice when cutting flowers? Was the drooping Lorna really as put-upon as she made out? Were the farm girls who came in by the day the only servants when Walter Ilkton, with his man in tow, wasn’t wearing out his welcome?
Still, the bedroom looked comfortable enough.
A knock on the door presaged the arrival of Ilkton’s manservant with Daisy’s suitcases. A small, neat, sandy man, very correctly clad in black, he didn’t look at all as if he’d be willing to lend a hand with such tasks as stoking the boiler and scrubbing the kitchen floor.
Though she was dying for a cup of tea, Daisy dawdled over making herself presentable to go down. She hoped Sybil would come and explain the situation more frankly than she had felt able to in the presence of Lucy or by letter. At least she could give Daisy more information about the inhabitants of the house.
But Sybil didn’t come. Daisy was tired and thirsty. She was probably keeping the others from their tea. Besides, it might be more useful to meet them without preconceptions, without being influenced by Sybil’s view of them.
Among other things she didn’t know, she realised, was what sort of books the “dopey” Mr. Birtwhistle wrote, and under what name.
THREE
With all its lamps lighted, a heavy curtain drawn across the front door to keep out draughts, and the fire built up, the hall was more cheerful and a few degrees warmer than on Daisy’s arrival. Coming down the stairs, she was surprised to see, hanging over the mantelpiece, what appeared to be the skull of a Highland bull. Or did the cows also have those huge, wide-spread horns? In any case, it was an odd sight where a heavily antlered red deer buck would be unremarkable—stuffed, not skeletal.
Perhaps Mr. Birtwhistle had gone shooting in the Highlands and bagged a cow by mistake. In that case, the trophy showed an ability to laugh at himself. Did he write humorous novels, ironic, droll, witty, or facetious?
Somehow funny fiction didn’t chime in with Sybil’s sense of foreboding. Daisy could imagine, though, how working constantly with someone else’s sense of humour might destroy one’s own.
Sybil came to meet her at the foot of the stairs. Behind her, three men stood up: Ilkton, impeccable but for the Woolworths pearl; a younger man, equally tall, lean, with wavy, very dark hair; and a slender youth whose crimson velvet smoking jacket, silk cravat in a red-and-blue paisley pattern, wispy moustache, and rather long hair, fair and untidy, suggested artistic leanings. Watercolours or poetry, Daisy surmised. Mrs. Birtwhistle and Myra were seated by the fireplace.
“Daisy,” said Sybil, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t available when you got here. When I’m in the throes of … typing, I get muddled if I’m interrupted, so there’s a rule that no one is to disturb me. I forgot to tell people that it didn’t apply when you arrived.”
“Do you have trouble reading your own shorthand if you don’t transcribe it at once? I do. But no, you couldn’t keep a job like yours if you were as hopeless as I am.”
“No, it’s not that. Have you met everyone?”
It struck Daisy that she was still being evasive about her employer’s literary endeavours. Was it possible Lucy had been right? If Mr. Birtwhistle was indeed writing obscene stories, or ribald, combining raciness with humour, Sybil might have just found out that she could be prosecuted for merely typing them.
Surely, though, she wouldn’t have stayed for years in such a job, however badly she needed to earn her own living.
As these thoughts crossed Daisy’s mind, she said, “I met Mrs. Birtwhistle, in passing. And Miss Ol
ney and Mr. Ilkton. Miss Birtwhistle, too, but she’s not here.” Unless she was lurking in some dim recess. “And an aged sheepdog, though we weren’t introduced.”
“Scurry. Not very appropriate now he’s growing old. Retired from the farm, of course.”
“He’s bagged the hearth rug, I see.” The dog had raised his head and looked round at the sound of his name. Realising he wasn’t being summoned, he sank back into paw-twitching dreams of rabbits, or of sheep.
Sybil smiled. “His favourite spot at this time of year.”
They crossed the room to the group by the fireplace. Sybil introduced the black-haired, slightly shabby Neil Carey, who turned out to have sparkling-blue Irish eyes. The artistic young man turned out to be the son of the house, Simon Birtwhistle.
“For God’s sake, call me Simon,” he said. His voice had nothing of his mother’s or his aunt’s accents. “I can’t abide that horrible mouthful.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” said his mother in fond reproach. “Simon is writing a literary novel, Mrs. Fletcher. The younger generation seems to find it necessary to use bad language, I can’t think why. I’m not referring to your work, of course. I read your articles with a great deal of pleasure.”
“Thank you,” said Daisy. Bang went that theory. Surely Mrs. Birtwhistle couldn’t remain in ignorance of the content of her husband’s books, and he could hardly produce salacious stuff without using “bad”—if not blasphemous—language.
“So you also write, Mrs. Fletcher?” asked Carey.
“Yes, mostly magazine articles about places and family history, that sort of thing. Someday I’d like to try my hand at a novel, but I never seem to find the time to settle down to it. I have toddler twins, you see, as well as an older daughter. There are too many interruptions. Do you find that a problem, Simon?”
“Certainly. One needs sustained periods of quiet thought to produce anything of literary value.”
