“And of course you must come and see me, Lyris,” Aunt Clem continued. “It has been far too long since we had some time together.”
She accepted her computerized receipt from Sheila and headed for the exit. Aunt Clem turned in front of the door. “Come by on Sunday for tea. You are past due for a reading, my dear.”
Then she was gone in a flurry of floating garments that covered her from neck to ankles, guarding her from the nasty UV rays as efficiently as a suit of armour. And the icy prickling in the middle of my back increased. Aunt Clem always had that effect on me. She was a spooky lady. She was also the family psychic. Or Family Psychic, as I called her.
Sheila was unabashedly interested in the exchange and waited for me to explain. How could I begin to explain Aunt Clem? I didn’t try.
I attempted to settle myself to some work, but knowing I would be on vacation for a week made it impossible to concentrate on anything as mundane as billing statements or customer complaints, not to mention budget forecasts.
I had been working at the Blackshore Hydro Commission for twenty years, beginning right after high school graduation, with four months off when Mitch was born. I liked my job, but sometimes I felt I needed something different, something more. Every year or two we were re-organized, downsized or right sized, depending on your point of view. And now it was happening again.
My entire body felt weighted down with nameless anxieties. I stood up to check on Daphne, but all her rings and tattoos jangled my nerves, so I sat back down. Perhaps I would feel better after a week away.
When four o’clock came, I left the office behind with relief. I felt like a kid released for summer vacation.
Hammersleigh House slumbered under a blistering sun and a sky empty of clouds. We had decided to stop using the underground sprinkler system for fear of running the well dry, and Hammersleigh’s luxuriant lawns and abundant flowerbeds were beginning to dry out. Conklin mentioned that it usually took several weeks for the grounds to recover after a reunion, but he was worried the lack of moisture would be more damaging.
While I waited for Conklin to answer my ring, I ran a fond eye over the stone lintels and sills. They were of a contrasting, darker stone than the limestone walls, with a pattern of curlicues and swirls carved into them. Quite handsome, and more or less mine. All of a sudden, I felt cheerful again and thumped the door with the ancient brass demon knocker, just for the fun of it.
The door opened at last. I said to Conklin, “Avon calling. Do you need any moisturizer today? Or perhaps some bath oil? It’s on sale.”
Conklin looked down the length of his nose. “Madam.”
I meant to go right upstairs to change for my upcoming interview with the prospective housekeeper, but I stopped short at the bottom of the staircase. The antelope was gone again.
I raced into Uncle Patrick’s study at the end of the great hall and removed the head from the wall where Conklin had placed it, or replaced I guess I should say. I was keeping it at the bottom of the staircase for the moment when I felt I could enter the tower room again. But Conklin kept taking it back to the study. I would put it on the hall floor. He would carry it to the study.
I don’t know how many trips the antelope had already made. It had more miles on it than my four-year-old Corolla. I dropped the head on the floor—today was not the day I would enter the tower room—and took the stairs two at a time.
I returned in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I thought about dressing more conservatively for the interview, but decided against it. Begin As You Mean to Go On was my motto. Or one of them. I had many mottos. It was while I was making the return descent, just rounding the turn in the staircase, when I saw it.
I don’t understand how I could have missed it. On an upholstered shelf above the landing squatted the most flamboyant peacock I had ever seen. The outspread tail was dotted with dozens of dark circles, the proud head topped by a magnificent crest. My mind’s eye must have been so used to the sight that it didn’t register the fact that here was the most colossal stuffed trophy in the house.
“It’s the tower room for you, my fine young cock.” And this time I would go into the tower room. Or I could open the door and toss the peacock in, maybe the antelope as well. I was Woman. I was Invincible.
There was one problem. The shelf was much too high for me to reach. And I couldn’t place a ladder on the stairs and prop it against the shelf without Conklin finding out. I’m sure he’d have noticed if I carried a ladder through the kitchen right under his nose. And where would I find a ladder?
I studied the problem for about ten seconds. What I needed was something long to shove the peacock off the shelf, and something to catch it in. A broom and a net of some kind would be just the ticket. The broom was easy, but a net? It had to be more substantial than a butterfly net, but not as cumbersome as a fishing boat net.
Ha.
I knew just the thing. There was a utility room off the summer kitchen. I had noticed a store of sports equipment in one corner of the room—stained tennis rackets, a croquet set, and more. I was sure there was a fish net too, the kind an optimistic angler would take along in hopes of bagging Old Lucky, the monster trout.
Conklin was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen quarters, and I was able to fetch the net and a broom without awkward questions being asked. Back on the stairs, I found I had to raise myself on my toes before the broom would reach the shelf.
I poked at the peacock with the broom, ensuring the net was underneath the shelf. At first nothing happened, and I feared the peacock was glued to its cushioned perch. But after a few more jabs with the broom, it started to rock. Back and forth, back and forth. Then it stabilized.
I poked it again. It leaned forward. I dropped the broom and grabbed the net with both hands. In slow motion, the bird swayed. Then, without warning, it plummeted. I held the net up and the peacock fell inside. Perfect. Direct hit.
To my surprise, the peacock ripped right through the netting, bounced off the stairs, and flew over the railing. Hearing a loud thud and a tinkle on the floor below, I looked over the banister.
The peacock had exploded.
There were feathers everywhere. On the tiered sideboard, on the tufted chairs, the cabinets, the tables, everywhere. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Pieces of wire and some brown matter that looked like long curls of sawdust were scattered from one end of the great hall to the front door. What on earth did the Victorians use for stuffing? As I watched, iridescent feathers drifted past my head and wafted to the floor. I weighed my chances of getting the mess cleaned up before Conklin saw it. Not good, I decided.
It was a nightmare, nothing less. Conklin glided into my line of vision, twirling a feather between thumb and index finger. The dark eye on the top of the feather betrayed its origin. He looked around in puzzlement, shaking his head and mumbling. I froze for a moment, and then backed slowly up one stair at a time. I hadn’t gone very far when he looked up, and our eyes locked.
I toyed with the idea of denying any knowledge of the mess in the hall, but since I was still holding the remains of the fish net, I knew that wouldn’t work. I stepped down the staircase. I would have to face this catastrophe like a woman and the mistress of the house. I was not, after all, a child to be chastised for breaking a knickknack.
However, standing face to face with Conklin, I was a bit worried about his set expression and rigid stance.
“Quite a mess, eh, Conklin.” My feeble attempt at jollying him. “Who would have thought that one peacock could contain all this…this...whatever it is. What is this stuff, anyway, Conklin? It looks like desiccated snakes.”
“Excelsior, Madam. They used a wire armature and excelsior a hundred years ago in the art of taxidermy.”
“Well, they sure used a lot of it. Don’t worry, Conklin, I’ll clean this up. You sit down and relax. It won’t take me a minute.”
His eyes swept the length of the hall, then fixed on the remains of the net in my hand. With a depth of bi
tterness that surprised me, he said, “Madam, you have managed to destroy two antiques at one fell swoop.”
To this day I don’t know what a fell swoop is, but I got the picture. “Antiques? Are you telling me this ratty net and that stuffed peacock are antiques?”
“What you are holding, Madam, is the remnant of a net that is at least one hundred years old. You may have noticed it was displayed with a few antique fishing rods and other sports paraphernalia. The peacock dates back even further. It was here when your great-grandfather bought this house from the Hammersleigh family. It has sat there above the landing all these years. And now, look.”
His sad gaze encompassed the hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jacqueline crawling across the floor on her belly. Before I could open my mouth, she snatched up the head of the peacock, which was the only body part to survive intact, and ran into the drawing room.
I only just stopped myself from screaming at her and giving chase, but I didn’t want to upset Conklin any further. A peacock’s head wasn’t all that easy to hide. I expected I could find it later. I turned back to Conklin.
He was stooping over a pile—one of the many piles—of debris. When he straightened, knees creaking audibly, he was holding something in his palm. He held it out to me and I saw a delicate porcelain arm and part of a shoulder. I looked up at Conklin.
“What is it?”
He bent down again, every joint cracking and popping, and rummaged among the feathers and excelsior. After a few minutes, he stood up and showed me a tiny head and another hand.
“I’m not sure, Madam. I believe this may be the Meissen shepherdess that was believed taken from the house the night young Tommy disappeared. It was an eighteenth-century figurine and stood on that sideboard over there. One of the cleaning staff conveyed this information to me many years ago.”
“I didn’t know something was stolen that night. But if this is it, it never was taken. It’s been here all along. Just like Tommy. Quite a coincidence, it showing up now.”
We looked at each other.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind informing Chief Allaire about this, Madam?” Conklin had too much class to make further reference to a fell swoop, but I felt awful about the valuable figurine, smashed in dozens of pieces. Three antiques. Nice going, Lyris.
“Why don’t you lie down and rest, Conklin? I’ll clean up in here and make dinner. Even though it’s not my turn.” I felt virtuous in making the offer.
“Thank you, Madam. However, if you recall, I am preparing baked beans tonight. Perhaps you could trouble yourself to find Jacqueline and retrieve the head before she buries it in the furniture?”
I thought I was showing sufficient remorse for destroying the peacock and the net, both just junk as far as I was concerned. I didn’t care if Queen Victoria fed one and fished with the other. And God knows I did feel wretched about the shepherdess.
The doorbell rang.
“I will allow you to answer that, Madam,” Conklin said before turning away.
“Why don’t I just tie this broom to my ass and sweep the hall while I’m at it?” I muttered under my breath.
“No need, Madam, I’ll fetch the vacuum cleaner for you.” He had ears like a bat, a vampire bat.
Jacqueline had returned to the hall, grasping her prize in her mouth. When the bell pealed again, she dropped the head and started to bark.
“Shut up!” I made a futile grab at her.
Conklin stiffened, then continued to march toward the back of the house without another word, hard as that may be to believe.
I made another move toward Jacqueline, but she dashed past me, head in mouth once more, and I lost her. The bell sounded a third time and I threw the door open.
A young woman was standing there and something she saw in my face seemed to startle her. She stepped back and looked around, no doubt to gauge if she could make it to the front gates before she was caught.
I made a conscious effort to smile and extended my hand.
“You must be Caroline Fournier. Come right in, won’t you? I’m Lyris Pembrooke.”
She shook hands, just a slight brushing of my fingers. I rearranged my face the best I could and ushered her through the hall, both of us wading through the mess.
Her bewildered expression called for reassurance.
“Just a slight accident. Nothing to worry about. This place is very neat, most days.”
I sat Caroline down in a sofa upholstered in yellow velvet and took the cream brocade-covered rosewood side chair opposite her. Since the seat was at least an inch higher than the sofa, I felt I had a psychological advantage in case I needed it. While she settled herself and looked around the drawing room, I studied her.
She was attractive, in a rather washed-out way. With a little makeup, Caroline could be quite pretty. But she had made no attempt to show herself to her best advantage, perhaps feeling that an interview for a housekeeper position warranted a plain appearance.
Her pale brown hair was short and clung to her skull, and her eyes were a light grey, perhaps hazel in another light. I judged her age to be mid to late twenties, young for the responsibilities she would face as housekeeper to Hammersleigh House.
“Caroline, let me begin by telling you something of Hammersleigh and the duties you would be expected to perform. Then, if you’re interested in the job, you can tell me about yourself, qualifications, training and so on.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. Pembrooke. This is such a beautiful house. I would be honoured to work here if I was hired.”
She had a soft, hesitant voice, and I had to strain to catch all she said.
“Well, this is a beautiful house, Caroline, but it’s also a spacious estate. The grounds are cared for by gardeners who come in on contract when needed. All the plants in the house receive loving attention from a retired gentleman once a week. Four cleaning ladies also come weekly, on Fridays, to dust, vacuum, mop floors, all the usual things. They also clean the Waterford chandelier in the hall, the stained glass fanlight, the Venetian mirrors and the other larger items according to a schedule. All the collectibles, the contents of the cabinets—and there are a great many cabinets throughout the rooms in this house—are the responsibility of the housekeeper. I believe Conklin has an inventory list of everything. He can probably come up with a schedule for the housekeeper’s cleaning duties, too. And by the way, it’s Ms. Pembrooke.”
“And Conklin is…?”
I took a deep breath. “Conklin is the butler. I’ll introduce you to him later.”
She looked surprised, as well she might. I didn’t know anyone else in the western hemisphere who had a living butler, and we shall not see his like again.
“What else does the housekeeper do, Ms. Pembrooke?”
“Ah, well, many things.” I was floundering. I found I had no real understanding of what a housekeeper did. Except for the things I was sick of doing. I should start there.
“The housekeeper does the cooking. That may not be usual, but here at Hammersleigh the housekeeper has always done the cooking. Just plain food, nothing fancy.” I was firm about cooking.
“That would be no problem for me. I love to cook, and I think I’m quite good at it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and combed my brain for further duties. There, in that cool, dim room, I was beginning to sweat.
My glance happened to fall on the slim-legged table placed beside the sofa. A handsome Boston fern rested on the marble top. It radiated health, thanks to the plant man. Underneath the table reposed a stringy, off-white lump.
I made a quick dive across the floor and grabbed the object in both hands. She growled, but refused to release the peacock’s head. The head was beginning to look the worse for wear and it made Caroline recoil when I plunked Jacqueline down beside her. Jacqueline looked a little surprised to find herself on the sofa, placed there by the person who always ordered her to get off the furniture, dammit.
“What is it?” Caroline asked, and moved a few i
nches to put more distance between her body and the squashy object.
“It’s just the head from a peacock. You saw the slight disorder in the hall? A stuffed peacock fell off a shelf and disintegrated. It wasn’t new.” Another of my mottos: Never Apologize, and Keep Explanations to a Minimum.
“No, I mean, what is that?” She pointed at the tangle of dingy fur chewing noisily and wetly on the head.
Jacqueline looked up at her with indignation written all over her hairy face. I shared the sentiment. “That? That’s Jacqueline, the housekeeper’s dog.”
CHAPTER 7
“A dog? What kind of dog?”
“It’s a poodle.” I looked at the item in question. “She’s missed her last two grooming appointments. That’s why she looks a bit…untidy.”
That was an understatement. There’s nothing quite as slatternly as a poodle that’s let herself go.
“And you say she’s the housekeeper’s pet?”
“Well, let me put it this way, Jacqueline is the responsibility of the housekeeper. She belonged to my Uncle Patrick, but his former housekeeper was devoted to her and looked after all her needs. I hope that isn’t a problem?” There had to be a touch of hellfire in my distant future.
“Oh, no. No. She’s quite cute. Once her fur is washed and trimmed, I’m sure she’ll look fine.” Caroline looked far from convinced by her own words, but I decided not to notice.
Jacqueline dropped her treasure and leaned over to rest her head in Caroline’s lap. She looked up and batted her eyelashes. It would have been more effective had the matted hair not grown down over most of her face, but Caroline seemed marginally charmed by this display anyhow. I was grateful Jacqueline had been too preoccupied with the peacock’s head to bite Caroline at first sight, and now she knew who was going to be doling out her kibble.
Caroline rubbed Jacqueline’s fur with a circular motion, the dog’s favourite kind of attention. I relaxed. A major hurdle had been cleared.
“Caroline, how about telling me about yourself now. For instance, why did you apply for this job? It isn’t a common career for someone your age.”
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