Becky clattered out of the back kitchen as they reached the front door, her nose pointed with curiosity. “Going to call on Mrs. Ravilious are you, M’ms?”
“Yes,” said Harriet.
“Lady Weston just passed by,” said Effie, looking conspiratorially at the maid.
“Oh!” said Becky, fully enlightened. So you see the dark passage and stairs were no hindrance at all.
Becky nodded twice, in a portentous manner and then said wistfully, “I wish I could be a fly on that wall.”
“We’ll tell you all about it later,” promised Effie.
“There will be nothing to tell if you continue gossiping on the front doorstep,” remarked Harriet briskly, and set off up the street as a pace nicely calculated between the idle saunter and the definite objective, hastily followed by Effie.
“I am sure she turned up Church Street,” puffed Effie, a little out of breath, “and it can only have been five minutes, or at the most...oh look! The Packards have a new display of ribbons, how pretty! I did have some thought of re-trimming my old straw; I think a well placed knot of ribbons, or possibly a flower, would completely hide the fray at the side...or at least distract...oh, good morning Mrs. Carter! Such a good woman, she keeps those boys in excellent condition, never a trace of dirt...Harriet! Is that not Mrs. Alworthy’s Clara there, in the distance? What is she wearing? It seems to me to be a patterned blouse, but surely Mrs. Alworthy would not...although of course things are greatly changed from our day, but still!...A patterned blouse! And not even Sunday! Oh, here we are, Church Street and no-one to be seen. I mean, no Lady Weston, for to be sure there are several persons, but that I think must be only old Jacob, who tends the graveyard, and those ladies just entering the lych gate...”
Harriet turned into the gate that led to the Rectory and trod determinedly up the winding path to the house. It was an ample, square-built establishment, constructed and solidly rooted on high and dry church principles, and the reverberations of the polished brass doorknocker hardly had time to fade away before the door was opened by the Rector’s manservant.
“Good morning, Hobbs, how are you?” said Harriet to the man, who looked as if he would take a lugubrious pleasure in detailing the state of his feet given half a chance, but Harriet did not give it to him. “Is your mistress in?”
“H’in a manner of speaking, she is,” replied Hobbs, “although I am not sure if she is h’able to see you just at the moment. In her studio, she is. The Master, however, is in the drawing room with Lady Weston, who called to see him, and I am sure he would be delighted if you would step in.” He opened the door wide and bowed the two ladies inside.
“In her studio?” said Effie, puzzled.
“H’indeed, Ma’am. The Mistress has a new hobby, as I am sure she, or the Master, will tell you all about. H’if you’ll excuse me?” And, having been excused, he trod in a stately manner ahead of them to throw open the door of the drawing room, announcing: “Miss Fotheringay, Miss Euphemia Fotheringay,” and bowing them into the room. Unlike Peter, the footman at the Manor, Hobbs didn’t bother standing listening at the door. He was a great deal older than Peter and in his experience there were very few things in life really worth overlistening, and besides, he was tender in the care of his feet and preferred to sit whenever possible.
The Rector surged up to greet them, “Miss Harriet, Miss Effie, what a pleasure! How good of you to call,” he beamed. Lady Weston nodded at them from her seat on a sofa with less obvious pleasure.
It was a pleasant, square room with the sun just beginning to slide in through the tall, glazed windows and doors, two pairs of which could, on a warm day, be folded back to open onto the garden where daffodils were just beginning to give way to tulips and forget-me-nots. The far wall was taken up with bookshelves, and an open roll-top desk in an embrasure seemed to show that the Rector either had no study of his own, or that he preferred the company and distractions of his wife's drawing room.
“I fear dear Margaret will be forced to forego the pleasure of your company on this occasion, since she is...up to her elbows, I might almost say, in her new hobby.”
“Your wife has a new hobby, Doctor?” Harriet looked politely interested; Mrs. Ravilious was one of those persons who is always attempting to beguile the tedium of country life by adopting enthusiasms, none of which seemed particularly appropriate to the wife of a Rector.
“Photography!” cried the Rector, “She is determined to emulate Lady Hawarden.”
“Photography!” repeated the sisters in some surprise, but Effie was thrilled. “How very interesting, Dr. Ravilious, so that is what she is doing in her studio? Hobbs mentioned she was in her studio and I could not think...for I am sure that it is now several years since she decided that drawing was not her forte...”
“Oh yes,” smiled the Rector, “she has it all fitted up with black curtains, and a sink, and rows of chemicals and I know not what! I myself am not allowed in there...”
“I see no reason why you should be interested in going in there,” opined Lady Weston. “An unnatural practice, in my opinion, and the results hardly worth all the effort and fuss.”
“I have to concur that dear Margaret’s work has not yet developed...hah! developed - the process of extracting, as it were, the images from the photographic plate, you see - quite amusing! No, it has not yet developed to the point where we will be filling the Rectory with charming images of all our friends, although Margaret is always eager for new sitters.”
“Oh I would love to sit to her,” cried Effie. “How thrilling it would be to see a...a mechanical image of oneself!”
“If you were able to recognise yourself, that is,” snorted Lady Weston.
“It is true that the images are often rather blurred, but dear Margaret has had Cartwright make her up a wooden device that helps people to keep their heads quite still. It is not the fault of the process, you see, Miss Effie, that causes the blurring, but the inability of the persons to keep absolutely still for quite some time.”
“Oh I am sure I could sit as still as a statue,” cried Effie.
Harriet looked ostentatiously out of the window. She was not going to have her eye caught by anyone in the room who might also be thinking that while Effie’s head might just possibly be still enough, there was very little likelihood of her mouth being in a similar condition.
At that moment the door to the drawing room opened and Mrs. Ravilious came in in a rush.
“Miss Fotheringay, Miss Effie, how delightful...and Lady Weston, how very kind of you to visit, I am so sorry I was not able to come straight away...” Mrs. Ravilious waved her hands about in an excess of emotion and the attention of all the ladies was fixed on her gloves. Gloves, in her own home?
“Oh you are all looking at my hands - well, what you can see of them,” laughed Mrs Ravilious, her voice ending in something of a squeak. “It is the chemicals, of course - my fingertips quite black, I assure you.”
Lady Weston nodded and the plumes on her hat nodded too. “Just as I said, wasting your time and spoiling your hands.”
“Oh, but in such a good cause,” cried Effie, “I think it is splendid of you to give up your...your hands...for your art...I mean to say...for hands should be used for creation, do you not agree? Not for display...although of course hands can be very beautiful...”
“So they can,” enthused Mrs. Ravilious, “I am always careful to place my sitter’s hands in a prominent position, they can tell us so much about the soul, I always think, and I seek to capture the soul in my compositions.”
“The soul. Really?” said Harriet politely. “And are you fortunate in the souls of your sitters?”
Mrs. Ravilious only laughed again. “I know you, Miss Fotheringay, I am not afraid of your wit, and indeed I have been fortunate in my sitters - although perhaps I should not say that as I have just lost my best sitter in tragic circumstances.”
“Your best sitter?”
“Millie Budge.”
“Millie Budge posed for you?” asked Effie, round eyed.
“Oh Millie was a splendid model, she could hold so still, which is essential, and then her form - such beautifully rounded arms and shoulders.”
“Shoulders, Mrs Ravilious!” said the affronted Lady Weston. “Do you say that the girl exposed her shoulders for these photographs?”
“Indeed she did, she was a charming model; I draped her as...well, I almost fear to say it, given the poor girl’s fate...but I had her pose as a water nymph.”
“Good grief!”
“Ha! Yes, very unfortunate,” broke in Dr. Ravilious, “very unfortunate indeed, and I have to say that I was not totally in favour of Margaret’s taking up the girl, but I regarded it in some light as an opportunity - an opportunity to say a word, if you take my meaning.” By the looks on the faces of the ladies, they were not totally clear as to his meaning, and the Rector went on: “Millie used to attend Zion chapel, but I was of the opinion that Myers' discourses - a fine man, of course, in his own way, but a thought too much of the 'fire and brimstone', in my opinion - well, I believed that Millie would find my own gentler approach in the pulpit more suitable to her...to her station in life.”
“Blessed are the meek, eh Doctor?”
“Exactly, Lady Weston. For those whom God has placed in a subordinate position in this world, I believe that the teachings of our Lord - humility, tolerance, etcetera, etcetera...”
Harriet sniffed - but quietly. “So the girl did come here after church, or chapel, but it was to pose for you, Mrs. Ravilious?”
“Yes, of course! why, has someone being saying something different?”
“I have heard a...just a hint...But doubtless it was the result of the necessary secrecy surrounding the photography, for I rather think that you would not have approved, Lady Weston?”
“Approved? Of course not. Sheer waste of time, and puffing the girl up in her own estimation. I always tell Hodges to get plain gels as servants, pretty ones are more trouble than they are worth.”
Certainly this particular pretty girl had caused her ladyship a great deal of trouble, thought Harriet. Effie was thinking only of the photography.
“So she posed as a water nymph, but how delightful, and what was she wearing?”
“Some splendid drapery that I have - a shawl, quite gauzy, and I put a bowl of water before her, with the edge softened by moss and branches, so that it looked quite as if she were on the brink of a forest pool...”
“Oh, how wonderful,” sighed Effie, “what a pity she...”
“Quite,” said Harriet.
“And the photographs? How did they appear?
Mrs. Ravilious looked a little embarrassed. “I have to confess they did not match up to my imagination. The pose was, I admit, a little difficult to hold perfectly still...leaning, you understand, over the pool...the bowl. And now the whole scene will have to be given up, there is really no-one else...”
“Oh, but have you not seen Grace Albright?” cried Effie, “she is just made for a water nymph! And then there is the poor gardener...”
Harriet felt tempted to give her sister a kick on the ankle. They were supposed to know nothing about Elwin, and here was Effie being carried away on a tide of artistic enthusiasm!
“The missing gardener?” queried the Rector, and Effie turned a devastated look on her sister, who, however, was quite up the situation.
“My sister and I saw him once, in the village, some weeks ago it was, before all the...all the...”
“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Ravilious.
“And my sister was quite taken with his looks, weren’t you Effie dear?”
“Oh yes,” said Effie, grateful for the lifeline that had been thrown her, “such a wild look about him, a wild creature of the forest, a Faun, that is...”
“Certainly wild,” said Lady Weston sharply, “wild enough to drown the poor girl he had been leading astray.”
“Goodness,” said the Rector, “is that what the police believe?”
“The police?” Lady Weston’s beak of the nose rose as if something unpleasant had been placed just beneath it. “What those impertinent jackanapes believe has very little to do with the Truth, in my opinion.”
“Precisely,” said the Rector, and the ladies nodded their agreement, as they were obliged to do.
“But is he quite gone away?” asked Mrs. Ravilious, “I must say I would have liked to see him.”
“Really, my dear Mrs. Ravilious, I cannot be expected to give employment to murderers merely in order to provide you with artistic models!”
“No, of course..., and there is always Grace, did you say her name was?”
Effie nodded. “And,” she said hesitantly, and with a blush, “if you should have any need of an...an older lady...I would be...that is, if my sister did not think...and really...dear Harriet, the most indulgent of sisters...” Effie smiled mistily at her sister.
"But how splendid!" cried Mrs. Ravilious, "I would indeed be most grateful if you would sit to me, my dear Miss Effie! Now when can you come?”
Lady Weston rose somewhat abruptly. "I will leave you to your arrangements, then, Mrs. Ravilious; we are not all fortunate enough to be able to spend the day just as we choose and there are things I must do this afternoon. Goodbye, Rector, if you need my help in the matter of the Temperance League perhaps you will come up to the Manor."
"Certainly, Lady Weston, I will be happy to attend you there at any time," said that obliging gentleman, bowing over her hand.
"Oh, Lady Weston, must you go? So soon?" said Mrs. Ravilious.
Lady Weston raised her pointed beak at the Rector's wife. "I have actually been here quite some time," she said, "but unfortunately you were not able to join us earlier." With a chilly inclination of the head she left the room, escorted by the Rector.
"Terrible woman," whispered Mrs. Ravilious, "scares me half to death!"
Harriet looked disapproving, but did not repress a faint smile, and Effie turned a laugh into a cough as the Rector came back into the room.
"Now," he said genially, rubbing his hands, for it had been cold standing on the doorstep waiting for her ladyship to disappear down the drive, "how about a glass of sherry, ladies, on such a chilly morning?" And he moved over to the decanters set out on a little Buhl table. The morning might have been chilly, but all present seemed to feel that the temperature of this particular room had risen a degree or two with the departure of Lady Weston.
* * *
Half an hour later, Harriet and Effie were walking back down the drive of the Rectory, Effie floating in excited anticipation of a sitting with Mrs. Ravilious the very next morning, Harriet frowning slightly. “There now,” she said, “we will have to cross Dr. Ravilious off our list, and I quite favoured him as the murderer of Millie Budge.” This penetrated even Effie’s dreams of photographic immortality.
“Harry!” she cried, quite scandalised, and then caught her sister’s sidelong glance, “Oh Harry, you wretch, you were just teasing me! Not but what,” she added wistfully, “it would have been terribly exciting...I mean, terribly shocking! A Man of the Cloth! Of course,” she brightened, “there is still Mr. Myers at Zion Chapel.”
“And Sir William, and Master Gervais...”
“And Uncle Tom Cobbley and all,” sighed Effie.
“Not to mention Elwin.”
“Oh no, Harry, not the Faun!”
“I don’t know. I don’t quite trust those eyebrows.”
Effie’s eyes brightened, “I say, Harry, it could still have been Lady Weston!”
“I don’t really think so,” said Harriet reluctantly, “depressing old battleaxe though she is.”
“Well, but I don’t see why not,” argued Effie. “I’m sure if she thought it was the best thing for Gervais, she would do it. And if you still have Gervais on your list I don’t see why you shouldn’t have his Mama. She’s got twice his d
ecision and determination! And I’m sure she’s strong enough to push a maid into a pond.”
“Yes, that’s true. Isn’t it interesting that Lady Weston, so strong minded herself, should dote so on her rather limp son?”
“Perhaps he’s the daughter she never had,” giggled Effie.
“I don’t know about that,” said Harriet, “he seems far too fond of the girls himself to be at all backward in that direction!”
It wasn’t until much later, once the lamps were lit and Becky had brought up the tea things, that something Effie had said recurred to Harriet’s mind. It was that particularly comfortable time of day, when the bustle was over, and the to-ings and fro-ings of a normal day all accomplished; when the body could honourably relax into a favourite armchair with the aroma of Darjeeling and freshly-made griddle scones to warm its senses, and the mind could spread itself in contemplation of all the little happenings of the day, that Harriet put down her teacup on the tambour table at her side and said, “You remarked that Lady Weston was strong enough to push a maid into a pond.”
Effie looked up, her mouth full of warm griddle scone, and chewed hurriedly. “Yes?” She rather wished her sister had not chosen just this time to begin a discussion, for griddle scones were far best eaten warm, with a sprinkle of sugar and just a dab of butter. Or two dabs if she were feeling indulgent. Perhaps if she nodded with enough enthusiasm, she could continue to be silent and enjoy her scones - her 'one scone and one to follow' as she had taken to saying in emulation of Mr. Benjamin - while Harriet did all the talking.
It would certainly be an unusual circumstance, but all things are possible, as the modern physicists tell us.
Harriet, who had already despatched her normal one scone, had nothing to impede the flow of her words, or thoughts. “We have not thought enough about the manner of Millie’s death,” she said. “Now, obviously the girl was not wandering around the formal gardens ready for a passing murderer to push her into the pond. And we must remember that, according to the policemen, she was already dead before she went into the water.” Effie nodded. “So someone had to take her from where she was murdered - presumably at some distance from the lilypond in the formal gardens - and put her into the water. Now that takes strength.”
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 12
