by Nicola Slade
I felt under no compulsion to inform the magazine editor or Mother’s publisher that Jasper and Crombie were two of our hens. They had been named after gamekeepers at our grandmother’s childhood home, a crumbling castle not far from the northern coast of Aberdeenshire. So far, the hens have never complained about their masculine names and Granny had fond memories of the keepers who had taught her the excellent poaching skills that provide us with meat and keep down the rabbits in the park at the Hall. (She had acquired the skills deemed essential for a daughter of the nobility from her mother’s elderly governess who, crippled with rheumatism, had been pensioned off to live at the castle. Sadly, Granny’s shyness was a hindrance in Polite Society so her poaching skills have proved far more useful in our straitened circumstances.)
As soon as Granny and I had the family finances completely under our control, we knew where we stood, and very worrying it was too. It was a good job we had no idea that our lives were soon to be further complicated by murder.
Chapter Two
Friday, 8th March
‘It’s time we stopped pretending that next door is simply a giant dolls’ house,’ I announced sternly one morning. ‘We’ve spent an awful lot of time and money doing it up, what with new mattresses and so forth, and now we’re ready for some guests. We desperately need more income so I’m going to write a letter to Dr Pemberton up at the hospital.’
When Alix set off for Groom Hall that afternoon she insisted Addy and I should accompany her for the honour of our house, though we suspected she really wanted to show the officers how much prettier she was compared to us. This revelation would, she hoped, galvanise one of them into making her an offer. I secretly hoped to explore the tower room as it sounded romantic, but Alix laughed when I confessed that.
‘It’s just a big round bay window in the drawing-room,’ she said. ‘There’s enough room for a couple of beds but it’s certainly not romantic and nor is the conservatory that leads off the drawing-room at the side. It’s such a badly-designed house, inconvenient and completely unsuitable for its current use,’ she added.
The sun was surprisingly warm for early March, so we strolled up the hill towards the house.
‘There’s been a complete turnaround in patients,’ Alix told us, stooping a little to admire her reflection in a passing puddle. ‘Almost all the officers have left, either back to their families or to nursing homes nearby. The only one left is young Lt Trevelyan. He’s the one I told you about, poor fellow, and he’s still waiting for a bed to fall vacant in Kent.
‘That means…’ She surveyed us and shook her head in exasperation. ‘Honestly, I wish you two would smarten yourselves up once in a while. There are fifteen new officers being brought here today. In fact,’ she brightened up, ‘they might already have arrived; they were only coming from the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley, after all. It’s too bad,’ she looked downcast once more. ‘They used to accommodate more than double that number here when the Hall was a proper hospital. Anyway, what was I saying?’
‘You don’t think we’re smart enough,’ I said, with a resigned sigh. ‘I brushed my hat and put on a clean blouse, Alix, and I mended Addy’s green knitted sports coat so you can barely see the darn. What more do you want?’
Addy looked less than grateful and stalked along behind us. She was sulking because Alix had refused to take no for an answer, but she’d given in because she was curious to see the Hall though she wouldn’t admit it. I had with me the invitation I had so painstakingly created, and I also took some of Mother’s books for the patients. She always has spare volumes and I sneaked a copy of Lt Crombie’s first opus into the basket too.
I had my doubts as to whether the injured officers would appreciate Mother’s learned tomes on heroines of women’s suffrage, such as her Life of Lydia Taft whose subject, as I’m sure you know, was the first American woman to vote – in Massachusetts in the 1760s. You didn’t know? You are not alone, but luckily Mother’s New York publisher was delighted with it. Not that Mother knows anything about America and it was yet another reason to mourn Papa’s inconvenient drowning; he had promised to do some research for her next book. We all knew he would do no such thing but once in a while Mother likes to pretend her married life was all moonlight and roses.
It seemed likely that the female staff at the Hall would prefer her less erudite but far more profitable flowery romances such as Love’s Painted Petal. This meaningless title is actually the most successful of the books Mother has produced as Mabel de Rochforde – yet another pseudonym – as she writes the serious books under her maiden name, Margaret Gillespie. She is deeply ashamed of these short novels which are aimed at foolish and lovelorn young women, as she feels that they betray her principles, but it is a compulsion and she adores writing them. They’re light relief after her serious books and she churns them out at a great rate of knots: at least three per year. Being able to throw herself into Mabel de Rochforde’s world enables her to banish painful thoughts of Bertie. We all have our own ways of escaping.
Mother’s – Mabel’s – heroines always win the heart of a handsome and wealthy aristocrat, something Alix is determined to emulate, which is why she volunteered to be a little ray of sunshine at the Hall in the first place. Whatever Mother thinks about our looks we’re all presentable enough but Alix, being slightly-built, and fair, has the edge on Addy and me. We’re tall and brown-haired with a tendency to loom over people, which they find unsettling.
‘The men we might have married have all been killed and we certainly have no fortune and precious little birth.’
Alix frowned at me as she spoke and knowing Addy wouldn’t bother to comment, I nodded weakly.
‘We’ve been brought up by Granny’s standards, as the great-granddaughters of an earl,’ she continued. ‘But we live anxious, penny-pinching lives with no proper training or the prospect of marrying well. We’re not stunningly beautiful so we’re unlikely to be like the famous Gunning sisters who came from nowhere and took London society by storm. They married a clutch of dukes.’ I nodded again, and Alix went on. ‘I imagine the best I can hope for is a wounded young man who’ll think me an angel of mercy. I don’t care if he has a limb or two missing, as long as he has a handsome bank balance and thinks I’m wonderful.’
You must understand that my sister Alix isn’t mercenary, she’s actually kind and practical, it’s just that she, even more than the rest of us, hates the way we scrape a living. Bertie’s death simply crystallised her determination to make a good match which, as she often points out, would also be to our advantage. A wealthy brother-in-law would naturally send Addy to Oxford to take her degree and further her medical studies and would provide the mythical Lt Crombie and me with an elegant apartment in London which would, of course, become a magnet for the best of literary London society.
‘Bertie promised to look out for lots of eligible young men,’ she sighed. ‘He swore he’d find me a Mr Darcy, or even a Bingley, when he went up to Oxford.’ There was a bleak twist to her mouth and a catch in her voice, as she added, ‘I’m still cross with him for leaving the job unfinished.’ She drew a long breath and shook herself, the way we all do nowadays when we think about our darling brother.
The note from Mother was a masterpiece, though I say so myself. Dr Pemberton and Matron were certainly impressed when the former read it out loud, spraying everyone within reach as he lisped through his shiny new teeth which were sadly ill-fitting. (You’d think a doctor would be able… oh well, never mind.)
The Lady Elspeth Gillespie & Mrs Percival Fyttleton
beg to announce that ‘Balmoral Lodge’ now offers
hospitality to ladies visiting patients at Groom Hall.
Quiet surroundings, comfortable accommodation and
wholesome meals are offered at a modest price
to ladies wishing to make a stay in the area.
Rates for Bed, Breakfast & Evening Meals on application.
Although Alix had mentioned the new gro
up of convalescent officers who were to arrive at any time, Addy and I were taken aback when we filed in to the great, gloomy hall to see what looked like a regiment of men in varying stages of disrepair: in wheelchairs, in darkened spectacles or leaning on crutches or wearing slings. Others reclined or perched on sofas or had drawn chairs up to tables for reading or playing cards, and most of them were wreathed in blue smoke from their pipes. We Fyttleton girls reacted characteristically, which is to say that Alix blushed and simpered while Addy and I edged nearer to each other for comfort and looked round for the door in case we had a chance to turn tail and run. The smell of tobacco made my throat burn and my eyes water, and then, to my intense embarrassment, I began to cough. I hid behind Addy till I could compose myself.
Alix frowned at such cowardly behaviour and tossed her head as she marched us round the ward, introducing herself and us to the patients from a list of names she found on a side table. Matron greeted us with a professional smile and Dr Pemberton waddled over as I made laborious conversation, under Alix’s supervision, with a one-armed major in his forties.
He had enormous horse-like teeth and I caught a strong waft of lavender from the brilliantine he used on his glossy slicked-back hair and matching black moustache. That, as well as his loud, “hee-haw” donkey bray of a laugh, would drive a saint to drink, so I knew Alix would cross him off her list.
‘Ah, Miss Alix,’ the doctor hailed her with a smile that had his false teeth clicking and shifting ominously about in his mouth. ‘You need no introduction of course. I understand that you are the musical sister and I would like to draw your attention to our new piano which has kindly been donated by the vicar’s wife.’ He waved a hand at the battered upright then turned to Addy and me.
‘And now I must greet these charming young ladies.’
I saw his face fall as he surveyed the charming young ladies in question – one merely reluctant and resigned, the other actively hostile and glowering at him – but he rallied and took a gallant stab at it.
‘Indeed, young ladies, we are delighted to see you both and to know that you have chosen to join your sister in volunteering your precious time helping our gallant heroes to prepare for civilian life. Miss Christabel, a little bird tells me that you like to pen pretty little stories, so perhaps you will read to some of our gentlemen guests.’
I glared at Alix who smirked. I’ve always said that girl talks too much. And considering that our days are filled with paid work, school, cooking, housework, gardening and other chores, when did anyone think we’d have time to entertain the patients at the Hall? The doctor hadn’t finished with me and I tried to avoid the brandy fumes when he came close, and not to start wondering how soon his false teeth would come loose from their moorings.
‘Perhaps, my dear young lady,’ he suggested, pushing his pince-nez further up his nose and looking hopeful, ‘we may look forward to hearing you recite some of your pieces? We hope to get up a little concert in the near future.’
I nodded miserably, wondering whether he would appreciate Lt Crombie’s first published work, Prefects on Picket Duty, the first line of which reads: “I say, Carruthers, some blackguard has shot my bally leg off. That’s not cricket…” I noticed that a young captain was leafing through the book in question and grinning appreciatively as he did so. The smile was wiped off his face as Matron bore down on him.
‘Finally,’ the doctor sounded glad to be finished, ‘we come to the youngest Miss Fyttleton.’ As he spoke, the young captain jerked up his head and squinted at Addy, then stared at me and turned round to look at Alix. The doctor was still speaking. ‘Miss Adelaide,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you will soon find yourself quantities of tasks to suit your youth, but I should like to charge you with cheering up our patients. Girlish laughter will lighten the atmosphere delightfully.’
I gulped at the image of awkward, brilliant Addy lightening anyone’s atmosphere with her disconcerting hoots of glee, when her current interests lie in anatomical theory supplemented by practical dissection. (This, at present, occurs only if the cats, or Granny’s mousetraps, yield a suitable specimen.) Though, to be sure – I was saddened by a sudden thought – Addy’s hoots have been scarce and subdued of late.
The doctor glanced round the hall and addressed the officers and the two nurses who stood by the door. ‘Gentlemen, I speak to you, our new arrivals. You have survived the field hospital in France, the military hospital at Netley and now, here you are for a short period of recuperation. Groom Hall,’ he said in portentous tones, ‘is designed to be the last staging post before civilian life.’
‘You mean it’s between Heaven and Hell,’ Addy put in helpfully. ‘Like Purgatory?’
The wounded officers hastily stifled their burst of laughter at this and Matron’s spectacles added a baleful glitter to her already forbidding stare. I saw Alix drag our young sister into the former library to play ping-pong out of harm’s way and heard Addy’s indignant protest. ‘That’s not fair. I was going to ask some of them about their wounds. I’m sure they’d let me examine their scars if they knew it was in the interest of scientific research.’
As I turned back to the room I heard a diffident cough.
‘I say?’ The speaker was the captain who had been looking at my book. A stockily-built young man with a shock of mousey-fair hair and grey eyes, he was hovering in front of me, leaning awkwardly on his crutches. ‘Do excuse me, but are you Miss Fyttleton?’
‘That’s right.’ He looked relieved as though he had expected to be snubbed and I couldn’t help smiling at him. ‘Strictly speaking my sister Alexandra is Miss Fyttleton, I’m Christabel and Adelaide is the youngest. Can I help you?’
‘Um,’ he stammered a little and looked bashfully at the floor. ‘I-I think I was at school with your brother,’ he said. ‘That is if Bertie Fyttleton was your brother? My name is Henry Makepeace. I’ve just been transferred here.’
Hearing my brother’s name out of the blue like that made me catch my breath and close my eyes. I swallowed but he seemed so anxious that I managed to answer. ‘Yes, Bertie was… Are you… are you Makepeace Minor, his friend the cricketing hero who saved the match against Marlborough? Or the much-admired rugger champion and captain of the House, Makepeace Major?’
A shadow crossed his face and I wanted to kick myself.
‘Well, I shan’t be playing much cricket from now on,’ he said, with a pinched, sidelong glance at his crutches. ‘Even though I hope to be getting rid of these soon. And I’m Minor and Major both, now. Jonty – Jonathan – my older brother, was killed at Passchendaele last August.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said and fell silent, for what can you say?
He surprised me by reaching out and shaking my hand, saying in a kind, quiet voice, ‘It was rotten news about Bertie. When I heard we were to transfer to Ramalley I hoped I’d run into you. Bertie told me so much about your family. I saw him just over a week before he bought it. Some of his lot were at the Casualty Clearing Station and he’d dropped in to see his colonel who’d been wounded, so he came over for a chat when he spotted me. We had a good old catch-up about school then he had to say goodbye when I was carted off to have a bullet scrape on my shoulder fixed up. That was a month or two before this blessed nuisance.’ He indicated his lame leg. ‘He was a… a very decent chap and we were good friends at school even though he was a year or two below me.’
‘He liked you,’ I said, when I found my voice after a moment or two. ‘You looked after him when he was a new boy; didn’t the school call it acting sheepdog?’ Captain Makepeace blushed and didn’t seem to know what to do with my hand which he was still holding so I removed it gently, adding, ‘We were all so grateful to you for that, for the kindness you showed him. We always wished we could have met you.’ I interrupted myself. ‘Oh, do excuse me for a moment…’
Addy had escaped from Alix and was tucked away in the nearest corner with a book she had acquired. I stepped sideways and looked over her shoulder and was not at all
surprised to see that it was a copy of Grey’s Anatomy. I only hoped she would remember to leave it behind when we went home, and not smuggle it out, tucked under her coat, though she already has a copy so perhaps it was safe. As I returned I could hear Alix laughing with one of the more able-bodied captains. Henry Makepeace was watching her.
‘She looks very like Bertie, the same fair hair; I seem to remember they were twins, weren’t they? Was your sister very much cut up about him? There’s a chap in my unit who was a twin and when his brother was killed he was distraught. I shouldn’t think he’d ever get over it.’
‘Well,’ I temporised, not wanting to give him the wrong impression about Alix. (She may be shallow sometimes, and vain and annoying but she’s my sister and I love her, so I’m allowed to be rude about her. Woe betide anyone else who tries it though.)
‘She was dreadfully upset, of course, we all were – we all are – but Papa always said the pair of them, she and Bertie, burst out into the world with their hands at each other’s throats.’ He looked startled, so I added, ‘Papa was always prone to exaggerate, of course.’
Suddenly, Matron’s loud voice rose above the hum of conversation.
‘Now then, Captain Halliday, isn’t it? I realise that you cannot speak but that doesn’t mean you cannot make an effort to be sociable. Just you sit here quietly beside poor Lieutenant Trevelyan. His sight is poor but I’m sure he’ll be pleased to have company and it will do you the world of good to know that others are in worse cases than yourself.’
