“Oh, but I studied domestic science at university. And I took a cooking course too. As a matter of fact, I was all set to go to France to study at a well-known cooking school, but I got married instead.”
“Tell me about that. I don’t want to pry, but this is a live-in position and requires a single person. I understand from John Brixton that your marriage has broken up.”
Caroline did not respond to my unspoken query. She was looking down at her printed cotton skirt, pleating the material with her fingers.
“What I mean is, if there’s any chance of reconciliation, perhaps you should not be looking at a live-in job.”
She said quietly, “I will not be reconciling with my husband. I am applying for this job because I want to make a fresh start and look after myself. I have a copy here of my resume. It lists my education and pertinent training as well as some personal references. Perhaps I could leave them with you? You might want to know that I grew up in my grandmother’s house. Although not quite as fine as Hammersleigh, it contains many antiques and collectibles, so I know how to care for valuable pieces.”
I had been glancing through her resume as she was speaking. I made up my mind. After all, she was not a complete stranger—she was a distant connection of my mother’s. “If you want the job, Caroline, it’s yours. But if you want to think about it for a day or two, I understand. And we should talk about your salary.”
“I don’t need to think about it, Ms. Pembrooke. I’ll take the job. And Mr. Brixton explained about the trust and we discussed the salary. When do you want me to start?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Tomorrow?”
This was my lucky day. “We’ll see you tomorrow then. I’ll get a room ready for you.”
The pleats fell out of Caroline’s skirt as she stood up. “Thank you very much, Ms. Pembrooke. I appreciate this opportunity and I’ll try to do a thorough job.”
“I’m sure you will, Caroline. And please, call me Lyris. Ms. Pembrooke is too formal.”
“Thank you, Lyris. And what do I call the butler?”
That stopped me. “Well, I don’t quite know. Mrs. Beadle, the former housekeeper, called him Arthur. I call him Conklin. Perhaps you could ask him. I’ll introduce you now. I’m sure he can tell you more details of your duties too.”
The doorbell rang as Caroline followed me into the hall. There was no sign of Conklin and presuming he was still pouting in the kitchen, I answered the ring myself. Standing outside was Peter Tackaberry, an eager smile lighting up his thin face, a heavy, ornate earring just brushing his neon-green T-shirt. I saw he was wearing pressed khaki shorts and clean sandals, and his dark-blond, shoulder-length hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. I was touched that he had dressed up to visit Hammersleigh.
He glanced at Caroline hovering behind me. “I’m sorry, Lyris. I know I’m early. I didn’t have many customers today, so I closed the shop. Did I come at a bad time?”
“No, not at all. Come in. Caroline, this is Peter Tackaberry, a friend of mine. Peter, meet Caroline Fournier. She has just agreed to take the housekeeper’s position.”
“Lovely.” Peter was looking at something over my shoulder and I turned around to see Conklin brandishing a wooden spoon.
“The beans are disarmed, Madam. What do I do next?”
Conklin’s thick white hair was standing up in a tuft and he was wearing a bright blue bib apron. He looked so much like a Smurf, I had to stifle a smile.
He stopped dead when he saw my two visitors, but before I could introduce our new housekeeper to him, Peter spoke up. “Did you say beans, Mr. Conklin? I have a great recipe for beans. If you want, I can write it down for you.”
Conklin stared at Peter for a moment. I held my breath and waited for the deep freeze to engulf us all. He threw a curve ball instead. “That would be very helpful—Mr. Tackaberry, isn’t it? The kitchen is this way.”
“Wait. Conklin, I would like you to meet Caroline Fournier. She’s our new housekeeper and she’s starting tomorrow.”
“How do you do, Miss Fournier? I look forward to working with you, but if you’ll excuse me now, my beans await in the kitchen and I fear they are at a critical stage.” After a courtly bow in Caroline’s direction, he disappeared into the kitchen wing with Peter. Peter did not react to the debris on the floor.
Well, that went not too badly. I felt Conklin would be his usual courteous self with Caroline.
“We’ll tell him tomorrow that you’re married, not a Miss, although he might call you Caroline.” Maybe he would; maybe he wouldn’t.
“Come tomorrow whenever you’re ready. I’m having a few people over for dinner tomorrow night and I’ll do the cooking myself. You’ll need a little time to get acquainted with the house before you start your duties.”
“Oh, no, Lyris. Please let me cook for your dinner party. As long as I know where everything is in the kitchen, I’m sure I’ll have no trouble. I’ll be here at eight in the morning.”
“Great.” I managed a smile. I had been hoping to sleep late on my first day of vacation. “And it isn’t a dinner party. It’s nothing that formal. Just my son, his girlfriend, and a few other people. I’ve already bought the food.”
Caroline stopped at the foot of the staircase and looked down. “Did the wildebeest head fall off the wall as well?”
“Sort of, and it’s an antelope.”
After I closed the door on her I thought with satisfaction that tonight was the last time I would have to eat Conklin’s cooking. Despite Peter’s recipe, my hopes were not high for that pot of beans, and my stomach rumbled in distress. I looked around the hall and sighed.
I swept all the bits of debris into one pile—a pile much higher than the peacock from whence it came—then sorted through it to pick out all the porcelain pieces. These I set aside before shovelling everything else into three garbage bags, which I dropped outside the kitchen door. Peter and Conklin had their heads together over a casserole dish and an assortment of spice bottles. They paid no attention as I dragged the bulging garbage bags through the kitchen.
After searching through various closets and alcoves in the kitchen wing, I located the vacuum cleaner and managed to eliminate all traces of the accident. Except for more pitiful pieces of the figurine that I placed on the sideboard. I thought it prudent to save them for Marc, so he wouldn’t think I was withholding evidence, although I could imagine what would run through his mind when he looked at the dozens of tiny fragments.
Ravenous as a caged lion at feeding time, and prepared to eat anything, I wandered back to the kitchen to see how dinner was coming. I was surprised to see Peter setting three places at the table. I looked at Conklin, but he was reaching into the oven with mitts on his hands. The air was redolent with spices and cooked tomato.
“Dinner is served, Madam.” Conklin turned and held out the casserole dish, the source of the heavenly smells. “Mr. Tackaberry has agreed to dine with us. I hope that meets with your approval.”
“Certainly. Delighted.”
Not only did we have baked beans for dinner, but one of them had whipped up a huge salad―glory be, I hadn’t had anything green to eat in days―and an entire loaf of garlic bread. My money was on Peter as the creator of this bounty, but while we ate, he kept telling Conklin how wonderful the food was, as if Conklin had done it all himself. Conklin sat there and beamed—when he wasn’t scooping food into his mouth—and I was so bemused I almost forgot to eat. This must have been the way Dorothy felt when she woke up in Oz, disoriented and a bit dizzy with the strangeness of it all.
I would have bet anything that Conklin would never allow Peter into the kitchen, never mind let him help cook. And to invite Peter to dinner. A dignified butler extraordinaire and a gay hand-to-mouth antique dealer who moonlighted as a painter and paper hanger? While Peter and Conklin bustled about cleaning up the kitchen, I watched the two of them, trying to figure out what Conklin’s game was and how it was going to affect me.
&n
bsp; True, they seemed to talk the same language—they discussed antiques, Conklin’s war experiences and Peter’s plans to create an English wildflower garden in his back yard. Conklin advised Peter on the hardier types of English plants that might survive our harsh winters. And how would he even know, since to my knowledge, Conklin had never set foot in England? Unless he spent time there during the war, when I doubt he would have had time to learn the names and habits of English flora. And Peter took notes, if you can believe it.
I hate it when people act out of character, since it suggests I was wrong about them in the first place. Could Conklin be more human than I gave him credit for? Or was he more devious? I pushed myself away from the table.
“Conklin, would you mind getting me the key for the doll cabinet? I want to show the dolls to Peter after he looks at my room.” It was difficult to pry a key out of Conklin, and I was gratified that he did not hesitate this time. Gratified, but suspicious.
“Of course, Madam. I’ll fetch it for you immediately.” He went through his ritual of removing the key from his belt and taking himself off to the butler’s pantry. There, I knew, he would unlock a drawer which contained more keys, organized and labelled by room and cabinet. In the drawer beneath was a complete inventory of each cabinet, including the value of every item at the last insurance appraisal.
After he handed me the key, I had to drag Peter out of the kitchen. He wanted to linger and continue discussing plants with Conklin.
I was afraid Conklin might accompany us upstairs like he did when I wanted to show Marc my room, but he seemed to know Peter was no threat to my virtue. And that was another thing—all the world knew that Uncle Patrick had shared his sheets with Mrs. Beadle on occasion, but I couldn’t see Conklin following them around to prevent the dastardly deed being done. So why was he appointing himself the guardian of my virtue?
“Do you want me to do something with this wildebeest, Lyris? Carry it to the attic maybe?”
“No, just leave the antelope there for now, Peter. I’ll deal with it later.” And I still didn’t know where to find the attic.
When we reached the upper hall, I was hoping Peter wouldn’t ask to see the tower room, and he didn’t. We entered my bedroom, where he went into raptures over the cherubs. “Cunning little imps, aren’t they? I can see why you want this room, but I agree the furnishings are overbearing. Can we look into some of the other bedrooms and see what we have to choose from?”
We spent a pleasant hour foraging through the other five bedrooms, bickering amicably over which furniture would be the best choice. We decided on a Queen Anne suite, a style much more restrained than the others.
“Although it’s reproduction,” advised Peter. “Queen Anne died in 1714, and this stuff is more like 150 years old, not 275.”
“Fake is fine with me. At least it won’t give me nightmares.”
“It’s not fake,” Peter said, outraged. “It’s genuine Victorian reproduction. Very valuable.”
“The subtlety escapes me. And now that we have settled the furniture question, what about the rest of the room? Walls and curtains.”
“I have some sample books of Victorian wallpaper and fabrics at the shop. I’ll bring them over and we’ll decide on a colour scheme. First, though, I could bring some guys over and move the furniture. Tomorrow, if you like.”
“Perfect.” Tomorrow was shaping up to be a busy day. A few minutes later, we were standing in front of the doll cabinet.
Ten feet wide by eight feet high, the cabinet was filled with dolls of a bygone era.
“What a marvellous collection.” Peter stepped closer as I turned the key to open the cabinet door.
“All these dolls belonged to Aunt Deborah, Uncle Patrick’s wife. Most were given to her as a child although some, the earliest ones, were passed to her by her mother and grandmother.”
Peter touched the dress of a doll that resembled his own Samantha. “This is a Simon and Halbig head, but I can’t tell if the body is by Kamner and Reinhardt, not without examining her up close. Simon & Halbig manufactured their own bodies too, of course.”
I indicated a doll about fifteen inches tall with dark bobbed hair and brown eyes. “This might be a Schoenhut. Look at the holes in the bottom of the feet. Schoenhut often did this so the doll would fit onto a metal stand.”
“I think you’re right,” said Peter. “The inventory sheets will have them all indexed, but it’s fun to guess.”
He worked his way along the shelves, exclaiming every time he recognized a doll’s make. I am not ignorant about antique dolls myself, but Peter’s knowledge far surpassed mine as he identified a Kestner, a Jules Steiner, two Handwercks and an Armand Marseille. He got excited about a trio of French fashion dolls, whose costumes were perfect replicas of the fashions of the time.
There were many dolls neither of us could identify and we would have to resort to the insurance inventory lists to be sure. There was one special doll I was pretty sure was a long‑faced Jumeau. She was about two and a half feet tall with long, chestnut ringlets and dark blue eyes. Her wistful expression went straight to my heart. I lifted her out of the cabinet and straightened the flounces on her faded rose dress.
“This is Amelia. When I learned I was in Uncle Patrick’s will, I hoped he remembered how much I loved Amelia and left her to me.”
“I imagine you were a little overwhelmed when you got the whole enchilada, not just the doll.”
“You have no idea.” Handing Amelia to Peter, I rearranged the dolls so her absence would not be noticeable, then locked up the cabinet.
Still gazing at the dolls, Peter said, “This collection is worth a fortune. Some of these dolls are extremely rare, and all are mint examples of their type.”
“The whole house is full of collections. Most are locked up, with some odds and ends just sitting around on tables and shelves. I’m afraid I’ll knock something over and break it.” I didn’t mention the Meissen shepherdess since that was totally not my fault.
I took the doll back from Peter. “There’s no reason why Amelia should sit on that shelf for another hundred years. I’m going to keep her in my room.”
I ushered Peter out and ran upstairs to deposit Amelia on one of the window seats in my bedroom before returning the key to Conklin. I was sure I would never have to explain to him why the doll was not in her accustomed place but in my bedroom. Conklin would never enter my private place, not even to save me if my bed was on fire and I was in it.
CHAPTER 8
I was up with the damn birds again the next morning and found Conklin already at the kitchen table with his bran cereal and tea. He wore his daytime butler attire of dark grey-striped pants and black jacket over a stiff-looking white shirt. And a bow tie, just in case the Queen stopped by.
I made myself a cup of liquorice root tea―good for the liver and general internal cleansing―and sat opposite him. “Conklin, where did Mrs. Beadle sleep? I have to get a room ready for Caroline. She’ll be here any minute.” I liked to plan ahead.
Since Uncle Patrick and Mrs. Beadle had been so...uh, close, I figured he gave her one of the upstairs bedrooms to keep her handy and Caroline might as well have the same room. It would be good to have another living body upstairs with me at night.
Conklin got up without a word and opened a door I hadn’t noticed before. Assuming for no particular reason he wanted me to follow, I was right behind him as he glided down a corridor.
He opened the first door. “These are my quarters, Madam.”
I didn’t want to appear nosy, but one quick glance was enough to note an expansive, comfortable room that included a double bed covered by a navy and taupe spread, window coverings in matching fabric, and off-white walls. A dark blue recliner sat before a flat screen television, which no doubt was tuned to the hockey game on Saturday nights. If I had to guess, I’d say Conklin was a Leafs fan. That’s all I saw before he closed the door on the hum of an air conditioner.
“These next two rooms a
re bedrooms also, Madam. However, they are unfurnished at the moment. Across the hall, as you can see, is the sitting area.”
I stepped into a bright, airy space filled with plump sofas and ergonomically correct easy chairs surrounding a television even flatter and wider than Conklin’s.
Bookcases lined the walls, while a microwave and miniature refrigerator were tucked into one corner. It was blessedly cool, thanks to another air-conditioning unit.
I was tempted to linger a while, put my feet up and maybe watch a little television, perhaps make myself another cup of tea with the electric kettle sitting on the counter by the spotless sink. But duty called.
Conklin was already back in the hall and when I caught up to him, he was standing by a door at the end of the hallway.
“This was Mrs. Beadle’s room, Madam. I took the liberty of turning on the air conditioner earlier this morning.”
It was comforting to know Conklin and Caroline would not be sweltering in their quarters at night like…well, like me. The air-conditioning units in this wing alone would keep one unit busy at the nearby Bruce Power nuclear plant.
“I think Miss Fournier will be comfortable here, Madam.”
“Conklin, Queen Elizabeth would be comfortable in this room.”
The suite was even more expansive than Conklin’s and it would be strange indeed if Caroline could not be happy in these surroundings. Here there was no television to mar the pastel femininity of the taupe walls and the peach and celadon-green floral of the bedspread and curtains. The carpet was a lighter shade of taupe than the walls and extended through to the ensuite bathroom.
“It’s wonderful, Conklin. Caroline will love it. Oh, and before I forget, she’s a Mrs., not a Miss.”
“I’ll remember that, Madam. Shall we return to the main house now? By the way, there is also another bathroom here.” He touched the knob. I was glad he didn’t open it. I don’t know if I could contain my joy if the bathroom had a hot tub or whirlpool bath. Or more air conditioning.
Cheat the Hangman Page 7
