Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  With the morning light, good sense returned and Nelson knew the idea was irrational, an impossible dream. Instead, he would find Miss Martin and scare her into leaving the Hall, and finding safety.

  He discovered she was no delicate young lady, easily terrified, but a determined fighter. She saw danger, and faced it. Enlisting her help seemed the next, natural step.

  Now, he could see and speak with her, watching emotions chase across that perfect, ivory face, without giving away the depth of desire that had brought him so treacherously close to a kiss, in the wood.

  All conversations could be limited to the mysteries at the Hall.

  After a moment, elation faded, leaving anxiety in its place. What had happened in the woods? Nelson felt sure a shadow had slipped through the trees, half-hidden from sight in the dappled shade. Maybe the woman in the woodland house knew something.

  Grandmother Caxton’s cottage was closer than expected. All was quiet. No smoke escaped through the chimney. The wooden door, painted once but now scratched and battered from years of weather, was closed. Nelson pushed. It creaked open.

  There was no one within. The fire lay cold in the hearth. A dish and tin cup lay on the rough table. An old square chair, constructed of two woods he recognised as oak and ash, with a rush seat, stood in the corner, its back against the wall. A rope lay curled in a spiral under the chair. Nelson crossed the room to look more closely.

  He supposed Grandmother Caxton and her grandson had some use for the rope—perhaps to tie bundles of wood together for ease of carrying. It was a curious object, though. About five feet in length, it was constructed of three separate lengths of rope twisted together, with a loop tied in one end. Perhaps the other end would be slipped inside it to secure the sticks. That made sense.

  What didn’t make sense, though, was the decoration on the rope. Every few inches, a feather stuck out at an angle. They were not unusual: Nelson recognised the black feather of a rook or crow and one from a goose, closely entangled in the rope, inserted when the strands were twisted together. Fascinated, he pulled on one end. The rope slithered along the ground. He held it aloft by the loop, twirling it through the air.

  “Can I help you, sir?” An old woman—Grandmother Caxton, Nelson supposed—stood in the doorway. “Were you looking for something?”

  Nelson shook his head. The rope fell to the floor. “I came to ask for more of the medicine you sent to the Hall yesterday, after Miss Martin’s accident.”

  “Then you shall have some.”

  She came closer, grinning with a gaping mouth that contained only two teeth, so far as Nelson could see. Her cheeks were sunken and, at rest, her mouth wrinkled into a circle, as though she’d sucked on a lemon. The woman made her way across the room, shuffling in over-sized boots, to a stoneware jar that stood near the hearth. Grasping it with wiry arms, she heaved, but the jar hardly moved.

  “Let me.”

  “Put some in here.” She held out a tin cup. Nelson wondered what it had been used for most recently. Still, he’d asked for help. He shrugged. It was no worse than some containers he’d drunk from during the time in the army. He dipped it into the jar, letting it fill with pale green liquid. The woman gestured to him to drink. A pungent aroma made his eyes water, but he swallowed a long draft.

  As though he’d passed a test of good faith, the woman’s manner underwent a change. She settled down on the old rush seat and waved the visitor to an upright bentwood chair by the table. “Sit with me a while.”

  Nelson sat. “You young people need to take your time,” she said. “Rushing around, hither and thither, as though there’s no time to waste. Look at those young ladies from the Hall. Running through the woods, frightening the deer. No wonder they never heard what was coming.”

  Nelson leaned forward, one elbow on the table, chin supported on his fist. “Do you know what happened?”

  She cackled. “If I knew, I’d be telling Lord Thatcham, now, wouldn’t I?”

  “I hope so.” Nelson met the small black eyes. She was putting on a great show, probably designed to intimidate. “Now, tell me, Grandmother, what is it you think you know?”

  “I know about these woods, my boy. I know people. I’ve lived here for more years than I care to remember. I know what goes on in the village, too. When people come from foreign parts, it disturbs things. The birds fly away, and the deer hide. It’s a bad sign.”

  What was she talking about? Was this an act to keep people away from the woods? Well, Nelson would find out anything he could from her, and leave her be. “Tell me what you know.”

  She cackled again. “Very well, boy. I know that the girl from the village has been here, asking for my help. I know someone at the Hall has no love for their employer.”

  Little black eyes peered into Nelson’s face. “And I know your heart is nowhere near as black as you think.”

  Nelson grinned. “You know that, do you?”

  She nodded, wispy strands of grey hair floating round her face. “You make what you can of yourself, my boy. Don’t throw away fresh apples with the rotten fruit.”

  Nelson kept his face straight. “That’s very sound advice. I thank you. Is there anything else?”

  She shook her head. “You young people think you know best. Take my advice, boy, and you’ll be glad you did, one day.”

  Before Nelson thought of a suitable comment, a bang on the door shattered the quiet. The woman waved the newcomer in. Nelson stared.

  He’d seen this girl, somewhere. Where was it? His brain ran through the faces he’d seen since he arrived at Thatcham Hall, and the answer came to him. This was Eileen Hodges, the baker’s daughter. He’d been on his way to talk to her when he met Miss Martin. The girl had been watching from the window, thinking she was out of sight, as he talked to Miss Martin.

  Grandmother Caxton appeared to have no intention of making introductions. Nelson, seeing no reason why a village girl, however lowly, should be treated with disrespect, bowed. “We haven’t met, I’m afraid, Miss Hodges. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Nelson Roberts, at your service.”

  The girl’s mouth hung open, and she breathed heavily. “Pleased to meet you, sir, I’m sure.” She curtsied, eyes flickering from Nelson to Grandmother Caxton and back. If she had something to say to the woman, she obviously had no intention of speaking in front of Nelson.

  He relented. “I must be going. Thank you, Grandmother Caxton, for your help.” He nodded at Eileen. “I trust we’ll meet again soon.” She turned brick red, eyes lowered.

  Grandmother Caxton accompanied Nelson the few steps across the cottage to the door. She hissed in his ear. “Now, be off with you. Watch yourself. The past has a way of catching up, and every man must put his own ghosts to rest.”

  Nelson shivered. The woman’s words weren’t as random as he’d thought. Had they met before? Suddenly, he wanted to get away. The weird rope and feathers in the house disturbed him, and so did the crone. “Thank you for the tea. And your advice.”

  “Good boy.” She grinned, black eyes twinkling. “Come back soon. You’ll find me here.”

  Nelson set off down the path, but soon curiosity overcame good manners. Every gentlemanly instinct told him to leave, but his steps slowed. He’d come to investigate a mystery. Eileen Hodges’ part in the investigation had ended. Her errand with Grandmother Caxton was none of his business. All the same, he knew the baker’s daughter had a secret.

  Lips set firm, Nelson trod quietly back along the path of compacted earth and took up a position just beside the single small window. Leaning to the left, he could just see the grandmother’s profile. Voices were muffled, but he could make out a few words. The woman was talking, shaking her head at Eileen as she had shaken it at Nelson. “Do you know what you suggest?”

  The girl replied in a voice so low Nelson could only catch a few words. “Soon…too late.” There was a muffled sob. Nelson winced. He shouldn’t be listening, but he had to know. The girl’s voice rose in distress
. “Mama asked me…put her off…please help.”

  The woman started across the room. “You girls. Do you think? No. Not until too late. Every one of you thinks you’re the lucky one. When will you learn?”

  As she reached the door, Nelson slipped around the back of the cottage. He was only just in time, for the door creaked open. “Here’s what you need.”

  A spade thudded in the earth; the woman groaned. “My old bones,” she grumbled. “Now, girl, take these with you. Boil some water and steep them for three minutes, then drink it down. It won’t do what you want, but it will make things easier when your time comes.”

  The girl blew her nose. “Thank you, Grandmother, thank you.”

  The woman grunted. “Think carefully before you use it. Make sure you don’t regret it.”

  “I won’t.” Eileen Hodges sped down the path. Nelson watched from behind the cottage until she disappeared. Grandmother Caxton banged the cottage door closed.

  As Nelson took a few steps the woman’s head appeared at the window and she laughed, the old voice rasping like branches in the wind. “Think I didn’t know you were there, boy? Make what you will of it. Everyone has to find their own way in this world.”

  Nelson didn’t reply. He’d heard enough of Grandmother Caxton’s cryptic utterances. He waved and walked away. So that was the girl’s problem. An unmarried girl’s trouble. How did a baby fit in with the strange happenings around Thatcham Hall?

  Miss Martin knew. He must talk to her again, and soon. He hurried along, then halted, surprised. The pain in his leg, that ache that accompanied him day and night, had disappeared. He spun on his heel, looking back. The cottage was out of sight, obscured by trees. Was it his imagination, or could he make out the sound of the old woman’s chuckle?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Olivia scribbled notes on a scrap of paper, clicked her tongue, scored a line through the page of cross-hatched writing and tried again. No, that was just as bad. She turned the paper over, leaned back until the chair’s two front legs left the floor and sucked the end of a well-chewed pen. It was one thing agreeing to assist Mr. Roberts’ enquiries, but quite another planning how to interview servants.

  The temptation to impress the lawyer had overcome every reservation. She didn’t quite trust Mr. Roberts; an undercurrent of danger sometimes ruffled that polite surface. In the music room, the man’s sudden shifts in mood had alternately scared and electrified Olivia.

  It was easy for a lawyer, with years of training, to prise the truth from reluctant witnesses. Olivia was quite ignorant of the proper techniques. Still, she had native wit and an insatiable curiosity. She’d managed to winkle the truth from Eileen Hodges with little difficulty. She set the chair straight and bent over the task.

  Violet burst in, beaming. Olivia slid a book over the page and moved to the dressing table.

  “Why, Miss Martin, I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “James told me it was all your doing, that they let him go. If you hadn’t talked to th-that Miss Hodges…” Violet sniffed, “…he’d still be in that dreadful gaol.”

  She picked up Olivia’s hairbrush. “If there’s anything I can do, miss, you know you only have to ask.”

  This was too good an opportunity for Olivia to ignore. “Well, Violet, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some other odd things have happened. We need to get to the bottom of them.”

  “Oh. Yes, Miss. The stolen things. I know all about them. “

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I heard Mr. Mayhew talking to Mrs. Rivers. He said that new man, Mr. Roberts, has been brought here to investigate.”

  She stopped brushing, waving the brush indignantly. “It’s a disgrace, what’s been happening. Lord and Lady Thatcham are the best master and mistress you could wish for, and someone’s got it in for them. Well, at least they haven’t blamed any of us.”

  “Us?”

  “The servants, Miss. Lady Thatcham was nice about it.” Violet folded both arms across a puffed-out chest. “Of course, I knew Lady Thatcham when she was just Philomena Taylor. She knows none of us would take anything from the house.” She resumed brushing with increased vigour.

  Olivia winced and put up a protective hand.

  “Anyway, there are only a few newcomers here. I think it must be one of them.”

  “Really?” Olivia avoided Violet’s eyes. How long would the maid take to remember she shouldn’t gossip?

  “Yes. I don’t trust that new footman, Edward, or the silly little scullery maid. Eliza, she calls herself. She don’t know right from wrong, that one, and if someone told her to pinch things and offered something in return, she’d do it as soon as look at you.”

  “She’s very young.” Olivia was cautious. Rivalries among the servants were common downstairs, and Eliza may have offended Violet. Perhaps James’ wandering eye had something to do with it.

  Violet brushed oil on Olivia’s hair, stood back and nodded. “There, miss, your hair’s as neat as can be, now.” She tidied brushes and combs away. “That Eliza’s a silly little madam, if you ask me, out to make trouble. She said the earl himself had something to do with Eileen Hodges’ condition. As if Lord Thatcham would look at a baker’s daughter. We told Eliza what we thought of that, downstairs, and no mistake.”

  Olivia waited for more, but Violet had noticed a walking dress, lying crumpled on a chest. She flicked dirt from the hem. “Oh, miss, just look at your lovely green dress. It was that tumble you took. It’s all covered with mud.”

  She sucked her teeth, shaking the dress like a terrier with a rabbit. “I’ll take it downstairs and give it a proper clean, if you don’t need it for a few hours. It’ll brush up nicely.”

  Olivia looked sadly at her best walking dress. There was a tear in one of the flounces. “It needs a stitch in it before I can wear it again.”

  “Well, I’ll keep it away from Lady Thatcham.” Violet giggled. “She still likes to do all the mending for the Hall, even when there’s plenty of us below stairs who can use a needle. She’s busy this week on Miss Dainty’s gown for the ball. Ooh, Miss Martin, it’s going to look such a picture. Blue silk, tight in the waist and one of those new crinoline hoops underneath it all.” She ran a professional eye over the visitor. “Not that you won’t be one of the loveliest there yourself, Miss Martin, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Olivia supposed being described as ‘one of the loveliest’ was better than being called an ugly duckling.

  Violet gathered up the dress and trotted away. At the door, she turned back. “You ask Eliza where she got those new shoes from, miss, that’s my advice.”

  Was Olivia any farther on in the investigation? Violet could be pointing the finger of suspicion at the scullery maid out of sheer spite. On the other hand, the ladies’ maid had been at Thatcham Hall for years. She understood life in the servant’s hall. Olivia would talk to the new scullery maid before the day ended.

  She stood, testing the injured ankle. It still ached, although the doctor, called at Lady Thatcham’s insistence, had decreed it was just “a slight sprain.” Olivia might, after all, dance at the ball. The thought triggered a twinge of disappointment. She’d been looking forward to watching the guests with Mr. Roberts.

  She smoothed a final strand of hair in place and ventured downstairs, leaning her weight on the banisters to prevent further damage to the ankle, determined to hide a sudden attack of nerves. A stream of houseguests—complete strangers to Olivia—were due to arrive in readiness for the ball.

  Miss Dainty ran across the hall, giggling. “Oh, Miss Martin, we shall have such fun today. I long to know your opinion of each of the guests, for you are so droll.”

  Olivia had never been called droll before. She wasn’t sure she liked it over much. It sounded a little like Mama’s admonition that she was sometimes “too clever by half.” She didn’t mean to make jokes at the expense of others, but sometimes she couldn’t restrain herself. She mu
st take care not to offend any guests.

  Miss Dainty counted the expected guests off on her fingers. “First, dear Lord Hadden will come. He’s an old friend of Hugh’s—practically one of the family. His brother, George Warren, will be here in time for dinner. He is in the army, you know, and excessively smart. Everyone will want to dance with him at the ball, but I’m sure he’ll come to you first. You will look so stylish in your green taffeta—Oh dear!”

  Miss Dainty clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, Miss Martin, I’m so sorry. I forgot you might not be able to dance. How dreadful that would be. Do tell me your ankle is better.”

  “Indeed, it’s already healing very well, but I must confess I shan’t mind if I can’t dance.”

  Miss Dainty frowned at her friend as though at the most peculiar of creatures. “Well, there’s Miss Philpott and her sister Jane, and their horrid brother, Oscar.” Miss Dainty heaved a loud sigh. “We’ll have to be polite to them as you know, because Philomena insists, although they’re the most annoying people I’ve ever met. They’re some sort of relative, though I can hardly remember how we’re connected.”

  Olivia struggled to keep a straight face. Miss Dainty grasped her hand. “Now, I can see what you’re thinking. You’re a friend as well as a cousin. No one would wish to be friends with Miss Philpott if they weren’t obliged by blood. She’s the most irritating girl. She believes herself extremely beautiful and she’ll flirt most outrageously with Lord Hadden and his brother, as well as our new friend, Mr. Roberts.”

  It took every ounce of Olivia’s control to hide a start of self-consciousness. She shot a surreptitious glance at her friend, relieved to find she’d noticed nothing. Gossip about the guests completely engrossed Miss Dainty.

  In a bid to stop the blushes that threatened to give her away at the mention of Mr Roberts’ name, Olivia thought back over the strange events of the past few days. The biggest mystery was Daniel’s death. Had that had been an accident? Mr. Roberts thought it was more than that. He’d even suggested someone attacked Olivia. Well, she’d keep her eyes open in future, just in case.