Ageless! thought Effie, for once struck dumb. She managed to school her features into a polite smile, but could hardly do more. The face above the pink satin cloak was set into a strained grimace; Effie remembered how difficult it had been to keep still, and every second of that stillness seemed to have etched itself in the tight lines around the mouth, and the faint look of terror in the eyes. And - apart from that, there were other lines... really, rather a lot of other lines. Did she really look like that? Her bottom lip quivered and she hastily took another piece of toast and drew the conserved Scottish raspberries towards her. Her world might be tumbling around her ears, but luckily there was comfort at hand.
The second photograph showed...probably it was Grace, thought Harriet. It must be Grace, and yet it was a little hard to tell...Mrs. Ravilious was looking at them expectantly, but Effie was only looking at the pots of jam and marmalade.
“Is it Grace?” asked Harriet, “the image is a little blurred, is it not?”
“Julia Cameron uses blurring,” said Mrs. Ravilious defensively.
“But presumably her photographs are not entirely blurred?
Mrs. Ravilious looked disconsolate. “I suppose it is a little too blurred,” she said, “but this one is much sharper, although...” She took the tissue from the next print, but then hesitated before showing it to the sisters. Harriet looked enquiringly at her and Mrs. Ravilious gave a short laugh. “Well, the truth is, you know Grace was rather upset about... about young Gervais Weston? She claimed he had behaved improperly?” Harriet nodded and Effie stopped masticating toast and jam. “This print is really very sharp, I think I got the exposure absolutely right. There is just one area of...of blurring...You see? It almost appears as if Gervais has no hand, and his forearm is hazy, but one gets the definite impression...”
One certainly did, thought Effie. Grace was clearly shown, bending over the bowl of flower-strewn water, and most of Gervais was also quite clear, but he had quite obviously moved his hand while the photographic plate was being exposed, and it was also really rather obvious where he had moved his hand to.
“Ah!” said Harriet, in tones of deep satisfaction. She looked at her sister.
“The stick?” said Effie.
“The stick,” confirmed Harriet.
* * *
On the way home, with Harriet carefully carrying the tissue-wrapped print, Effie said “I think I will give the pink satin cloak to Grace.”
Harriet looked sideways at her sister. “It is a beautiful cloak,” she said, “you do not think it a little inappropriate for a young woman in her position?”
“You mean that she is poor and should not have beautiful clothes?” said Effie rather petulantly.
Harriet’s heart softened; she knew what her sister was feeling. “You are quite right, Effie dear, and it is a very generous thought of yours to give her something that she will treasure for always. We can hope that it will be a wedding present.”
Effie seemed to cheer up a little at this. A shadow of a smile passed across her face, but then the smile passed and the shadow remained. “'Inappropriate', you said, Harry; inappropriate for Grace, but we both know who it is really inappropriate for. Such a lovely garment should be worn by a lovely young woman, and not...”
Harriet reached out for Effie’s hand and tucked it into her arm and the sisters continued on their brisk way with arms linked. “The photo upset you,” she said.
“Oh Harry, it did. I looked at the picture and I saw myself, and - oh Harry dear! I hadn’t realised I was an old lady. And I thought, how foolish it looked for an old lady like the one in the photograph to be wearing such a garment. It is so sad, Harry, that while one feels still so young inside, yet one’s outside quite lets one down. I will give the cloak to Grace.”
CHAPTER 15
Cocker goes fishing and Mr. Benjamin buys Silas a pint
However the Miss Fotheringays were not fated to arrive home before a small occurrence completely diverted Miss Effie’s mind from its policy of gentle resignation to age. As they walked down the road, they were passed by two gentlemen walking up. The taller of the two, a man with a memorable nose, gave a swift, appraising glance at the ladies and then ignored them, but the other gentleman went so far as to raise his hat to the sisters, with a slight bow and a smile - Effie could not but think that the smile was intended for her and she grew quite pink with pleasure. As soon as the gentlemen had passed she informed her sister, in a thrilling whisper, that those were the two policemen sent down to investigate the murder; did Harry not recognise them from church?
Harriet did, of course, but disdained to admit to allowing her eyes to wander once prepared for worship in a sacred edifice.
Once safely indoors, and having called to Becky to bring tea, Harriet carefully removed the hatpins from her hat at the hallstand, while Effie considered the stick and the policemen.
“Harry, do you think we should tell about Gervais?”
“Whom are you suggesting we tell?”
“Well, perhaps those policeman?”
“Euphemia! Are you seriously suggesting that we should speak to a policeman? Dear Papa would turn in his grave if he could hear you!”
“But Harry dear, since dear Papa is in his grave, he cannot possibly hear me - and if he was capable of hearing me then he wouldn’t be in his grave! Besides, I have never understood why it should be so bad to turn in one’s grave. I know that when I wake up at night I generally find that there is nothing so comfortable as to plump up my pillow a little and turn over. It makes me settle down again immediately... unless there is something really dreadful on my mind of course, such as how to get that spot of iron mould out of my Brussels collar - I really do not see what I am to do with it, for iron mould, as you know, is so staying. I have tried milk, I have tried a tiny amount of diluted lemon juice... perhaps if I were to put the whole collar in cold tea overnight it would all turn a more creamy colour and the spot would not be so noticeable, do you think? But then it would be such a shame, the lace so finely worked by dear Mama and since she did not intend it to be a creamy colour, but quite white, it would be rather going against her wishes… just as it would be going against Papa’s wishes for one of us to speak to a policeman, I suppose. Dear Papa was always so protective…”
As the Miss Fotheringays discussed the impossibility of speaking to policemen, the policemen in question were discussing the Miss Fotheringays.
“See those two old biddies we passed a way back, Chief?”
The gentleman addressed as 'Chief’ nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “They were in church on Sunday,” he replied, “right hand side, their maid sitting a couple of rows behind them.”
“Spot on,” said the Sergeant, pleased - as ever - with his Chief’s recall. “The Miss Fotheringays,” he continued, “the old one is Miss Harriet, and the one with pink ribbons is her younger sister Miss Effie.”
His Chief nodded again, awaiting developments.
“They say as they know everything that goes on in the place,” said the Sergeant.
This only got a dismissive sideways glance.
“Then they are just two of the legion that infest every town and village in England,” said the Chief Inspector.
“Yes, but what makes this pair different,” went on the Sergeant with undamped enthusiasm, “is that unlike the majority of old biddies, who just make up what they don’t know, this pair ferrets it out. They say Miss Harriet is sharp as a needle, and Miss Pink Ribbons aint as stupid as she looks, neither.”
“Is that so?” said the Chief Inspector, thoughtfully. “And where do they get their information?”
“Well, said the Sergeant, pleased to have got his superior’s full attention, “it seems that, although they’re as poor as church mice, they’re some sort of cousins to the gentry up at the Manor, so they’ve got an in - as you might say - to the top folk; then o’course seeing as they’re so poor, they’re on chattier terms than you might thi
nk with the shopkeeper class - they go to chapel sometimes as well as to church. And that maid, Becky her name is, she keeps up with all the servants’ gossip.”
His superior raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t made your questions too obvious, I hope, Cocker?”
Cocker looked hurt. “Now then, Chief, you know me better than that!” The Inspector smiled and Cocker continued, “Nah, it’s the easiest thing in the world to get the middle classes talking about the servant problem; the only difficulty is getting 'em to stop again,” he added with a grimace. “And there’s two servants who get most of the complaints around here; there’s Mrs. Alworthy’s Clara who’s always chatting up the menservants, and there’s the Miss Fotheringays' Becky who gets far too much license and is always to be seen gossiping in the High Street at all hours of the day - so they say, anyway.”
“Who says?”
“Well, I got most of that from Mrs. Cooper at the Dairy. But I got similar stories from a couple of others as well.”
The Chief nodded again and there was a pause. “Then,” mused the Chief, as they began ascending the hill that took them past the Norman church and out beside the stream that eventually - in the other direction - fed into the river, “your Miss Fotheringays, if they are as you describe, are doubtless ferreting out the murderer of the servant girl at the Manor and from what you say possibly already have three corners of the jigsaw puzzle.”
Cocker waited.
“The question is, where do they go for the fourth corner?” The Chief raised both eyebrows and looked directly at Cocker.
“The fourth corner, Chief?”
“Come now, Cocker. The Miss Fotheringays have the upper, middle and lower classes in which to trawl their net - or set their ferrets, if you prefer. Three corners of the puzzle. But where, Cocker, do you always go first for information when we come to a new town?”
“Me, Chief? Well I make a round of the pubs of course - strictly in the line of duty, of course. Nothing like a public bar for picking up information.”
The chief nodded again. “Exactly. And so?”
“Well, but the Miss Fotheringays couldn’t go into a pub, Chief!”
“But if Miss Harriet is as sharp as you say, Cocker, she would hardly ignore so obvious a source of information. So who gets it for her?”
“Ah,” said Cocker, as light dawned. “They aint got a manservant,” he mused, his brow furrowing. “Too poor, and I aint heard as their Becky’s got a follower - although the biddy who bent my ear for half an hour complaining about Becky always being out on the gad did say as she’d seen the chap who’s got a pottery half a mile down the river going along with the Miss Fotheringays and Becky one Sunday - and just after chapel, too, which she seemed to think made it all twice as bad.”
“The potter, eh?” said the Chief, slowly. “And does the potter drop into a pub after his day’s work is done?”
“The fourth corner, eh, Chief?” said Cocker hopefully.
“Could well be, Cocker, could well be. Worth keeping an eye on him anyway. Maybe you could go and lean on the bridge for a while this afternoon?”
“Can’t lean on a bridge for hours,” objected Cocker, “but - if you’ve got no objection, Chief, there’s something I could be doing along the river bank and no-one would question how many hours I spent.”
“Are you coming up with an excuse to go fishing again, Cocker?” said the Chief, but there was a smile in his voice, and he nodded at the little man.
So it was that when, that very afternoon, the Miss Fotheringays took their now accustomed walk along the river path, their usual accompaniments of ducks, moorhens and a bob-necked coot had been augmented by a lone fisherman apparently absorbed in watching the slow drift of his float and its attendant, dangling worm.
The man, his face shaded by a slouch-brimmed hat, grunted a perfunctory greeting as they passed and the ladies inclined their heads in polite acknowledgement, Miss Effie’s 'Good afternoon' being whispered so as not to disturb the fish. Although would it disturb the fish, she wondered? One rarely saw a fisherman in the afternoon; she had a vague idea that fish did not bite in the afternoons, they were, perhaps, taking a nap... And then her brain caught up with what her eyes had seen and she caught at her sister’s arm to bring them onto a level. “That was one of the policemen!” she hissed.
Harriet nodded. She had been trying to place the man ever since catching sight of him. It was really rather naive of him to think that he would be inconspicuous along the riverbank. Or indeed anywhere in a small town - hardly more than a village, really - where everyone knew his neighbours, and, just as importantly, knew where his neighbours were generally to be found at any hour of the day. The fishing fraternity formed only a small school, and - as Effie had already noted - were more likely to be found on the riverbank in the early morning or at dusk when the fish were rising; certainly not on a quiet, sluggish afternoon like this. The policeman was as out of place fishing on the riverbank as a shark would be in the river itself. Therefore, like the shark, he must be hunting something. “Is he watching us?” she asked, and Effie glanced back at the hunched figure.
However, Cocker might have been foolish enough to think he could pass unobserved as a fisherman (or he might just have hoped to enjoy a few hours’ tickling up the fish with a rod and line instead of leaning on the parapet of the bridge watching them glide by underneath), but he certainly wasn’t going to make it obvious that he had the ladies under observation. He knew where they were heading; it was most unlikely that genteel, middle-aged ladies would risk their skirts by hopping across the stepping stones into the Manor grounds, or by plunging across country in a walk over the fields.
“No,” whispered Effie, and the two passed on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until they reached the pottery.
* * *
When the Fotheringay sisters re-traced their steps back along the river path later that afternoon, the fishing policeman was still there, and so he was still when Mr. Benjamin strolled up to town at the close of his working day. “Evenin’” said Mr. Benjamin as he passed, and “Evenin’” responded Cocker, noting that the potter carried a light bag with a flat package inside it. He watched him under the brim of his hat until the potter reached the bridge and turned across it and up the hill into town, then he swiftly packed up his gear, debated over the three small silver fish resting disconsolately in a few inches of water in a waterproofed canvas bag and, deciding in favour of clemency, poured the lot back into the river. He shook out the bag, folded it and stuffed it into his carry-all, un-threaded the rod and broke it into its component parts and was treading in Mr. Benjamin’s footsteps within five minutes of the man passing out of sight.
Slowing to a saunter as he reached the High Street, Cocker paused at The Old Granary, its richly warm brick facade reflected in the river just beyond the bridge, and peered in. It didn’t seem to be Mr. Benjamin’s chosen destination this evening, so he passed on and crossed the road to The Bull on the other side. There he was lucky enough to catch sight of the potter just coming away from the bar with two mugs in his hands. Two, noted the policeman. Cocker debated for a moment whether to go straight into the pub, but decided to pass on to his lodgings, have a word with his Chief and dump his carry-all; if Mr. Benjamin had only just bought drinks for himself and his guest he would be sure to stay in the pub for at least half an hour or so.
When he returned, some fifteen minutes’ later, he found himself a space at the bar, nicely crowded in by a group of burly farm hands wetting their whistles and exchanging news of the day in voices used to carrying clearly over the length of three fields. Cocker managed to make himself heard enough to order a half of mild, and stood leaning against the bar with it - to all intents and purposes one of the farming fraternity and, he hoped, unobserved by the potter, who was sitting with his back to him.
A few minutes’ later, his Chief came in, carrying a newspaper. He too bought a half pint at the bar and then went and sat down
with it in a dark corner, opening up his newspaper as a useful shield between himself and the rest of the pub, only occasionally lowering it sufficiently, during the turning of a page, to observe the other drinkers.
With the second pint, Mr. Benjamin thought Silas Budge - for of course it was Silas that was his drinking companion, was in a prime state to be stirred a little with Miss Fotheringay’s stick. When he had first entered the Bull he had seen Silas standing at the bar, gloomily contemplating his empty glass and giving all the appearance of man who had nursed his one drink for as long as he could and was now weighing up the slender chances of finding someone to re-fill it for him with the depressing alternative of going home to a scanty meal in an echoing house. Silas had been mildly interested to see the potter, but was roused to real enthusiasm when Mr. Benjamin offered him a drink. During the course of the first free pint, Silas’s spirits rose like the full moon that would shortly become visible over the marshes in the east, and the effect of the - now sadly unaccustomed - alcohol on a stomach empty of food and with only his own hard-earned half pint to keep it company lead him to treat the potter as a bosom friend. With the second pint, the light of Silas’ expansive mood became slightly obscured; an eclipse, as it were, was beginning to cut away at the full moon. Benjamin drew him on to discuss his sorrows:
“Times must be getting a bit hard for you now, Silas?” He took a sip of his beer. He had kept pace with Silas for the first pair of pints, but had no intention of doing more than occasionally tasting his second. There was no knowing what the effect of Miss Harriet’s stick would be, and Mr. Benjamin wanted all his faculties alert.
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 16
