Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  The music would disappear forever unless she wrote it down. Humming, Olivia ran, feet crunching across the gravelled drive. Diving through the door, she tugged off coat and hat, dropping them in a careless, jumbled heap on a table. Taking the stairs two at a time, she burst in to the music room.

  She stopped. John sat on the piano stool, staring into space. Terrified the music would die away and never return Olivia ignored the boy, sped across the room, pulled out a drawer in the desk that stood against the window and grabbed a handful of manuscript paper sheets. She snatched up a pen from the desktop, dipped it into the porcelain inkwell and, working feverishly, covered the first page with a scribbled notation. When the page was full, the melody translated into minims and quavers, Olivia sighed, threw down the pen and heaved a noisy sigh.

  “What are you doing?”

  Olivia closed her eyes. She’d forgotten all about the boy. What a way to behave toward the son and heir of the master of the house.

  She drew a shaky breath, fighting the urge to laugh. Another faux pas. How many indiscretions could she commit during one visit? “Good day.”

  The boy watched in silence.

  She tried to think of something else to say. “I’m composing.”

  John nodded as though there was nothing odd in this adult’s behaviour. “I’m supposed to practise every day, but I can’t play this music.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mozart.”

  “Oh, Mr. Mozart’s music is delightful. Let me see.”

  Olivia leaned across the boy to read the music propped on the stand. “A sonatina. How lovely. May I try?”

  John nodded, shifting along the stool to make room. Olivia knew the piece well and launched into its first, lively movement. At the end, John sighed. “It never sounds like that when I play it.”

  “Well, I’ve played it many times, and I had to work hard to get it right.”

  “I hate practising. Papa and Mama say I must, because,” he screwed up his nose in thought, “because I must learn that everything isn’t easy in this world.”

  “They’re right.”

  “‘Course they are. I know that.” He heaved a sigh. “They think I’m spoiled because I live here.”

  “Are you?”

  “I suppose so.” He swivelled his head around to stare at Olivia. “Mama was poor when she met Papa.” He groaned and continued in a deep voice, startlingly like that of his father. “They want me to ‘realise my luck’ and ‘earn my good fortune with hard work.’”

  Olivia bit back laughter. The boy was such a mimic. He beamed, the picture of happiness, then grimaced, confiding, “Mama insists I accompany her when she visits people with baskets of things. I have to sit quietly for hours and hours!” His eyes brightened. “Sometimes we go to see Theodore and Grandmother Caxton, though.”

  Theodore? Oh, that was the boy Olivia met yesterday when she was lost. “Is that fun?”

  “Theodore knows everything about the forest. He shows where the deer hide and he taught me how to climb the tallest trees and how to whistle so the birds come closer.”

  Footsteps in the passage outside the room interrupted. John rolled his eyes. “I’d better play it again,” he hissed and set to.

  Olivia tried not to flinch as he missed one note after another.

  Miss Dainty peered around the door. “There you are, Olivia. Good gracious me, you rose early this morning. When I came down to breakfast, you’d already gone out.”

  Olivia felt a twinge of guilt. “John and I are working on his Mozart Sonatina in C Major.”

  Miss Dainty snorted. “He’s been trying to learn that for months. Perhaps he should be allowed to listen to your performance one evening. My example doesn’t encourage him to put too much effort into his music, I am afraid.”

  She skipped across to the piano, chatter uninterrupted. “Well, we have such a busy time ahead of us, you know, before the dance. Philomena—Lady Thatcham—will be overseeing all the arrangements in the kitchen. She asked to go through the guest list in case we’ve forgotten to invite anyone.”

  She took Olivia’s place on the piano stool, elbowing her nephew further along. “Last year, you know, we forgot to send an invitation to Dr. Thompson, because he had been away for months, and we didn’t realise he’d returned. Philomena was so upset. Of course the doctor forgave her at once, and his wife—well, she’s a silly woman, Mrs. Thompson—anyway, Philomena invited her to a special tea party, and she was so delighted, she quite forgot we had insulted her.”

  Miss Dainty flipped through the music on the piano. “Really, John, this is the easiest of pieces. There are hardly any black notes to play at all. I can’t imagine why you find it so much trouble. Let me hear you.”

  Olivia was forced to listen to John’s halting rendition of Mozart’s work once more.

  “There you are,” said his aunt as he stumbled to the end. “It’s easy, isn’t it?”

  John giggled, and Miss Dainty ruffled his hair. “Now,” she turned to Olivia, “let’s go through the guest list, and then we’ll take John into the woods to see Grandmother Caxton. Philomena has asked for some flowers. We don’t need them, really, but we like to look after the old woman. Her daughter used to work here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia let Miss Dainty take her arm as they strolled downstairs and spoke in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I have to ask you something, dear Olivia, and you must not be annoyed. I’m sure you didn’t, but, well, I need to know whether you borrowed a comb from my dressing table yesterday.”

  Startled, Olivia stumbled, almost missing a step. Why would her friend imagine she would take something from her room? Miss Dainty, face solemn, patted her arm. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry to have to ask, for I’m sure you didn’t, but I was hoping that perhaps you took it by mistake when we were there yesterday. You know, just put it in your pocket without thinking.”

  Olivia withdrew her arm, happy mood shattered. A spurt of anger shook her voice. “I wouldn’t touch any of your things. Especially such a lovely item as your silver comb!”

  Her friend groaned. “I knew you’d be offended, but I had to ask. You see, I’d hate to find one of the servants had stolen something. Violet has been here for so many years that I thought I could trust her, but it seems I may have been mistaken. Or perhaps it was one of the other servants. I’ve searched and searched, but it’s nowhere to be seen.”

  For once, Miss Dainty’s smile was absent. A rare frown creased her brow.

  Olivia felt only a little mollified by her friend’s evident distress. “Have other items been missed?” What was it Violet said that had puzzled her? “Oh, but there is something odd. Last night, Violet was tearful, and I lent my handkerchief. She worried Mrs Rivers might think she took it without permission. I thought it strange at the time for it is but a small piece of muslin with the tiniest trim of lace around the edge.”

  Miss Dainty took Olivia’s arm again. “Yes, it’s all very unfortunate. I am afraid one or two things have been lost. Philomena’s hairbrush disappeared the other day, and John mislaid several handkerchiefs, although,” a little of Miss Dainty’s normal high spirits returned, “John loses things constantly, so that’s no surprise to any of us. Still, Philomena and I have been wondering how we should proceed. I mentioned the comb this morning.” She bit her lip. “It will make so much trouble among the servants if we have to ask questions.”

  “Are the items of great value?”

  “That’s one of the oddest things. There is far more expensive silver, in Mayhew’s pantry for example. Hugh and Philomena use the best silver only when they give a dinner. Mayhew guards it so carefully, though, that I suppose no one would be able to touch it.”

  She heaved a deep sigh, her face suddenly gloomy. “Everything seems to go wrong, these days. Did you hear that Philomena broke her favourite vase yesterday? She knocked it off a table, and she’s usually so careful. It was a present from Hugh last Christmas, so she was most
upset.”

  Olivia was hardly listening. Missing silver―that seemed familiar. She murmured, “Someone’s taking small items that are easy to pick up and put in a pocket.”

  “Yes, and they mostly come from our own rooms. Nothing’s been lost from the drawing room or even the morning room.

  “How odd.”

  The young ladies came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. “You see?” Miss Dainty waved toward a silver-backed clothes brush that lay on a table in the hall. “If there is a…oh dear, I hardly can bring myself to use the word, but if there is a thief in the Hall, why would they not take something so small and easy to hide as that brush?”

  Olivia could think of no sensible answer, but her mind worked furiously. She remembered the chapel. There was something… “Wait a moment. I believe I saw something.” She squirmed. “I couldn’t resist the temptation of visiting the chapel, this morning. I was looking at the scratches on the walls, and I’m sure I remember seeing something shining under one of the pews. I hardly noticed it at the time. It may not be anything, of course—”

  Miss Dainty was already halfway down the stairs. “Let us go at once.”

  Miss Dainty pushed open the heavy chapel door. It creaked just as it had before. They passed through in silence; the door clanged shut behind them. Miss Dainty gasped.

  The cold chill swept over Olivia once more. She pulled her shoulders back and stood straight.

  There was nothing to be afraid of, but even Miss Dainty seemed uncertain. “I have never liked the chapel.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s always cold. Hugh no longer uses it for worship but prefers to walk down to the village church, although Mama still insists on a service here whenever she visits.” She took Olivia’s elbow. “Let us be quick. Where do you think you saw something?”

  Olivia bent to examine the floor under the pews, uncertain now. Maybe it had all been in her imagination. It was so difficult to remember which pew. “I think I just caught a tiny glimpse. I may be wrong.”

  Clasping her shawl close, she made her way down the aisle. Miss Dainty soon became tired of the search. “I think you must have been mistaken. Let’s go back.” She shivered, theatrically.

  “Wait.” A spot of light drew Olivia’s eye. She dropped on her knees and pulled a silver comb from a dusty corner. “Here it is.” Thank heaven, now they could leave the chapel and return to the sunlight. She handed the comb to Miss Dainty.

  Her friend sighed. “Well, that is very strange. I am sure I had this yesterday, and I haven’t been in here for weeks.” She shrugged. “Philomena will be pleased, although I still think it odd to find it here.”

  A search of the remainder of the chapel yielded nothing else of interest. Miss Dainty shrugged. “I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for the comb’s presence. Perhaps I dropped it a long time ago and am mistaken in thinking I used it the other day. I have other combs. I don’t think we will find anything else here. Besides, it’s too cold.”

  Olivia still didn’t like the chapel. The old carvings loomed over her, menacing. She breathed more easily as they stepped into the fresh air.

  “Good day. We meet again.” Mr. Roberts. How did he manage to appear so suddenly?

  Olivia looked down, hiding the heat she felt rising to her cheeks, but she need not have worried. Miss Dainty seemed delighted to see the lawyer and engaged him in conversation. “We’ve been in the chapel. I lost my comb there, somehow, and Miss Martin helped me search.”

  “Successfully?”

  “Thank you, yes. Though, how it got there, I can’t imagine.” She shrugged and took Mr. Roberts’ right arm. “Now, where are you off to?”

  “A walk into the village, for a few necessities.”

  Olivia, accepting the other politely proffered arm, glanced at the narrow scar, the only part of Mr. Roberts’ face she could see, as he smiled on the earl’s sister. The lawyer made no mention of yesterday’s meeting in the village. So, it meant little. Well, she couldn’t blame the man for finding Miss Dainty attractive.

  There had been a moment, as they walked back to the Hall yesterday, when Olivia had thought—had let herself imagine—well, it must have been a mistake. Why should this sophisticated man of the world care about such an ordinary, nondescript woman when Miss Dainty’s beauty shone so brightly nearby?

  Olivia hadn’t often wished for glamour or beauty, and had certainly never suffered any attack of love of the kind described in Miss Elizabeth Barrett’s poetry, although several times she had made the acquaintance of men. Some of Papa’s music pupils had admired her. One, a sallow stick of a youth, hardly out of short breeches, had even proposed marriage. Olivia had battled to keep a straight face, refusing the lad as kindly as possible, on the grounds of the difference in their ages.

  She would willingly live alone, finding enough passion in music. Or so Olivia had thought. This intense awareness of Mr. Roberts disturbed that equanimity. Every word and expression stirred new feelings. Each look he bestowed on Miss Dainty roused a disagreeable swell of envy.

  Now, he was taking leave, offering civil bows to both young ladies, bestowing the warmer smile on Olivia’s friend.

  Good, he had gone. She would forget those nonsensical feelings. She smiled at Miss Dainty, hoping no lack of warmth showed. “I am glad we’ve retrieved your comb.”

  Miss Dainty remained in high spirits. “We must tell Philomena we found my comb, but first, Miss Martin, let’s take John to Grandmother Caxton’s cottage as we promised.”

  Olivia first accompanied John and his aunt into the kitchen where the cook, Mrs. Bramble, flushed and hot, mixed puddings in rows of basins. “Miss Selena, now don’t you come a-bothering me this morning, there’s a good girl.”

  “Nonsense, we just popped in to collect some baskets. We’re off to see Grandmother Caxton and fetch flowers for the vases in the bedrooms, but we want to take her one of your lark pies.”

  Olivia jumped as her friend squealed with delight. “Oh, look, John. Mrs. Bramble’s made one of those Charlotte Russe puddings. My favourite! Mrs. Bramble, do keep some back for after the dance. You know how hungry we all are when everyone leaves.”

  “Yes, and you all come down to the kitchen, expecting me to provide even more food in the middle of the night.”

  “Oh,” Miss Dainty’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “We only do it because we so love your cooking, dear Mrs. Bramble.”

  The cook’s face, already flushed from the heat of the kitchen, turned lobster-red. “Get along with you, do. Go, go go!” Clucking like a mother hen, Mrs. Bramble flapped the trio away through the kitchen door.

  Grandmother Caxton greeted Olivia with a nod and a wink, as though they shared a secret.

  “You young ladies will be looking forward to your dance, tomorrow, then,” the woman announced. “‘appen you’ll have all the young men at your feet.”

  Miss Dainty giggled. “Well, I certainly hope so. All my brother’s old friends are coming. They never tire of Lady Thatcham, you know. Philomena is quite the most exciting person any of us ever met.” She leaned closer to whisper in Olivia’s ear. “It was thanks to me that they married.”

  Grandmother Caxton cackled. “You’ll be looking for a husband yourself, then?”

  Miss Dainty coloured. The woman patted her hand. “Don’t you worry about past mistakes, now. You’ll find the right man, one of these days.”

  Miss Dainty tossed her head. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

  Miss Dainty seemed quite discomposed. Olivia, distracted, jumped. The grandmother’s attention had moved her way. “Watch yourself, my dear. There’s a load of trouble in your pathway if you don’t take care.”

  Olivia shivered. Her friend’s sudden laugh sounded strained. “Nonsense, Grandmother. Don’t try to frighten poor Olivia. She isn’t used to our ways, yet.”

  Grandmother Caxton shook her head. “Don’t you listen to a foolish old woman, my dear. I say things, but only the Lord knows what they mean. They jump into
my head and out of my mouth before I can stop them. Don’t you take no notice. Now, come outside, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Olivia tried not to wriggle under the woman’s gaze. “Er…what I want to know?” Good gracious, it was as though the woman could see straight into her head.

  “Interested in what my plants can do, aren’t you?”

  “Well. Yes, but how did you know?”

  The grandmother chortled. “I can always tell.” She leaned closer. “Some of us old folk know more than you think. The older you get, you see, the easier it becomes to read thoughts.”

  “But, how do you do it? Can anyone learn?”

  “Of course. Watch the eyes, that’s my advice. Now, in your case, young Miss Olivia, your eyes keep straying to my little garden. Every time you get a chance, you take a peep outside. I expect you’re wondering what I put in the drink last time, aren’t you?”

  Olivia bit her lip as Miss Dainty looked from one to the other, eyes shining. “In your drink?”

  Talk of that previous visit made her uncomfortable. She’d behaved like a foolish child, scared of shadows. “Oh, it was just some sort of tea.”

  The woman cackled. “That’s it. Tea!” She hobbled out the door, still chuckling.

  Olivia, taking care to avoid Miss Dainty’s eye, followed. She watched, fascinated, as the woman squatted in front of a row of plants, touching and sniffing the array of leaves, selecting the strongest, greenest specimens. “Marshmallow,” she grunted. “Some say it makes the drinker tell the truth.”

  “And does it?”

  “Not if they have no truth to tell, but it’s good for the digestion. Here, take some. Some folks’ll need it if they take too much wine at the ball.”

  Olivia tucked the plants in a wicker basket. “What’s that over there?” She pointed to a bush with dark berries.

  Grandmother Caxton staggered to her feet. “You stay away from that, my dear. The leaves and the berries both. They’ll be the death of you.”