02 - Down the Garden Path Page 12

  I had come to enjoy sewing after Fergy told me that men married women who could turn collars. The treadle hummed on, one seam flowing into another. Before starting on my evening finery I altered some day clothes Primrose and I had found in the attic. I only left the room once during the morning when I discovered I was thirsty and went down for a glass of water. From the discordant booming, chirping, and ding-dings of the clocks it must have been about eleven o’clock. Glancing over the bannister rail as I reached the last few stairs, I saw Primrose talking with Mr. Deasley in the hall. He was holding a book in one hand and was patting, or rather stroking, her arm with the other.

  “Dreadfully childish of me.” I barely caught her words. “But I feel such a sense of... amputation parting with any book, even ones from the public library, but you understand that, Clyde, and I know your friend will respect Evelina, volume I, and not use a cigar for a bookmark or ...” The pudgy hand gravitated towards her shoulder. They looked up, saw me, and Mr. Deasley rushed to assist me to ground level. “Ah, the lovely industrious Tessa.”

  “Clyde has dropped by to borrow a book for a sick friend. Unfortunately he can’t stay even a moment more.” Primrose almost scuttled to the front door and held it open. “Have a pleasant walk home, my dear.” She practically bundled him out of the door and then turned with a serene—almost absent-minded—expression on her face. “Tessa.” She took my arm and led me down the hall. “I would be so appreciative if you wouldn’t mention to Hyacinth that Mr. Deasley was here. She’s been working in the garden all morning and might resent my socializing when I should have been giving Minerva a bath.”

  I agreed solemnly. If Primrose in the midst of her maidenly fluster wanted to delude herself that Hyacinth was unlikely to spot the elderly swain wending his way homewards, that was all right with me.

  I did not see Chantal all that day. Primrose brought me up a sandwich for lunch, then a slice of Victoria sponge and tea late in the afternoon. Minerva, ambling up with her, remained nestled down on the mound of scrap material on the floor until the room began to darken. Grunting awake she nosed to the door as I snipped off the last thread and shook out the soft floating material. Time for my ablutions and the fun of dressing up. Through the high lozenge-shaped window I could spy a heavy surging of cloud, and by the time I reached the nursery a spasmodic spatter of rain could be heard. A quick bath would warm me up if I could ever find the bathroom. It would have to be especially quick if I wasted many more minutes opening wrong doors into rooms furnished only with a few stray cobwebs.

  Back in the nursery later, I stared in mild panic at my watch, and laid it with my charm bracelet on the bedside table. Neither were suitable accessories for my ethereal attire. Sighing wistfully, Primrose had supplied me with silk underwear and stockings from her “bottom drawer.” In the attic we had found a pair of ivory shoes that exactly matched the dress. (I had no idea of the age of that dress. Its style was timelessly simple, and long evening gowns did keep bouncing in and out of fashion.) As the cool rustle of the ivory material slid over my head I felt myself slipping back into a distant, more elegant past. For a brief moment I had another of those crazy feelings that the real world was the figment of my imagination; and then the symphony of clocks struck up.

  Dignifying the occasion by approaching the cherub mirror above the washstand for the second time in one day (my habit was a pause as I dodged past in the morning), I decided my hair was all wrong. Not having a brush I ran my fingers through its still damp mass and thrust it on top of my head, securing it at strategic points with some early Victorian hairpins I found in a Coalport bowl on the wooden ledge in front of me. Enough. Hyacinth and Primrose would be having kittens if I didn’t get down to the sitting room immediately.

  “Splendid. Right on time. You look lovely.” Hyacinth settled an enormous tartan knitting bag over her arm as she circled around me. Primrose, striving to disentangle her shawl from her handbag clasp, joined enthusiastically in the verbal applause. So what could I do but tell the sisters they, too, looked splendid? An outrageous lie. Hyacinth’s gown like mine was long, a slinky sleek number in salmon satin. Matching feathers gusting at the neck and sleeves. Tonight her elongated earlobes bore the weight of enormous blobs of rhinestone glitter and across her non-bosom lay tier upon tier of the same sparkling reddish-purple stones. I tried to tell myself that Primrose’s navy blue schoolgirl gym slip wasn’t that bad. It was frightful. It made her look a hundred years older, and the mini-length accentuated her sparrow legs. Why? Why was she wearing lavender fishnet stockings? Silly me! To coordinate with her shawl, of course!

  “So glad you think we look nice, dear,” she preened, forcing me to look into her face. Round patches, like pink cement, stood out on her cheeks, and her lashes had been dipped in tar. Her lipstick, raspberry red and sticky, made her look like she had been eating jam.

  The door opened noiselessly and in came Butler, notifying us that he had brought the car around to the front door. Suddenly I didn’t want to go. How could I concentrate on ferretting out information if the other guests were snickering behind their sherry glasses at the Tramwells? The elderly are so vulnerable.

  And so, on occasion, are the young. The drive to Cheynwind Hall brought out insecurities concerning life and death which I had not known I possessed. Butler did not drive us. He did no more than open the doors of what looked like a vintage model hearse. It was Hyacinth who took the wheel as Primrose and I settled ourselves beside her.

  “Everyone cosy? People grimaced twenty years ago when Wilkinson’s went into cremation in a big way and we bought Old Reliable. But we knew we were on to a good thing. These have to be one hundred percent dependable. Wouldn’t do to have the dear departed stalled in the middle of a traffic jam, would it? Should you feel tired on the way home, Tessa, you can lie down in the back on Minnie’s eiderdown. She does enjoy the occasional jaunt.”

  Hyacinth’s foot hit the accelerator and I made a clutch at the door handle as we rocketed off into the dark. A dark unalleviated by the beam of headlights: she refused to turn them on because the glare bothered her eyes.

  “Miss Tramwell, have you had your driver’s licence for many years?” I asked through bitten lips.

  “What’s that? Licence?” Hyacinth reached out a finger and made a peephole the size of one eye on the steamy windscreen. “Never had one of my own. Use my mother’s—for sentimental reasons. Ah, here we are! Cheynwind Hall.”

  The hearse jolted and jarred its merry way down the long winding drive, pounced on an unsuspecting tree, did a brief detour over part of the lawn, and halted with a roar. Easing up from my ungainly sprawl across Primrose’s lap I realized I still lived but might be left with a permanent tremor in my extremities.

  Ducking out into a fierce whistling wind and a burst of sudden rain, we made the short dash across a hard surface and up two steps in record time. Still, we got rather damp. Skirts winding around our legs, we clutched at each other to save ourselves from being blown away. To the impeccably austere butler who opened the door we must have resembled members of a chain gang.

  Do butlers attend classes to perfect that look of disdain? This one accepted our wraps, with the veriest tips of his fingers—rather as though they were newspapers used for wrapping fish and chips—and dropped them into the arms of the hovering underservant.

  “This way, if you please.”

  We followed his rigid back across a glassy expanse of parquet flooring and past a marble statue of a virile Greek god. Primrose averted her eyes. And I had to fight to suppress a nervous giggle. This place was more of a museum than The Heritage. All that was missing were red plush ropes to cordon back the masses and £1.50 admission. Barely had I regained my pose of debutante demureness when a pair of lofty double doors were slid open and the butler proclaimed, “The Tramwell party, sir.”

  I went in hopefully, almost happily. That drive over had been a deepening experience. Life was wonderful.

  It can also hit one over the head with
a sandbag. But I didn’t feel or see the sandbag descending in those first seconds of looking around the drawing room. The people scattered about, seated or standing, were as yet faceless cardboard figures. If the hall was baronial, this was royal. A huge chandelier dripped a pool of silvered light onto a sea of rosewood, marble, glass, and velvet. From the ceiling-high windows velvet midnight blue curtains streamed to the floor. A semicircular ivory silk sofa faced the marble-and-gilt fireplace, and daffodil brocade chairs nestled against small inlaid tables. In one corner a triple-panelled glass screen reflected the jewelled light of the chandelier and the ruby sparkle of the fire.

  Every ornament, every lacquered cabinet must have been worth the Royal Mint. Frozen into a gawking trance I was impeding Hyacinth’s and Primrose’s progress into the room. A gentle nudge from one of them and I moved forward. It was then the sandbag hit me. Two of the cardboard figures immediately in front of us moved apart. One, a Little Lord Fauntleroy type with bulging yellow eyes and obviously permed locks, wearing a pink velvet jacket, came sashaying forward. The other metamorphosed under my beseeching, horrified gaze into Angus Hunt. The room rocked. Blindly I held out a hand and felt it lifted. Knew that it was being flapped up and down by my host, Squire Godfrey Grundy. Heard myself murmur “Delighted to be here” over Hyacinth’s droning introduction. Angus, stalled in his tracks for a merciful minute or two by a stout, white-haired lady, was now ploughing towards me, floorboards creeking under his enormous bulk. Any minute it would all be over. He was beaming at me, his several chins quivering in welcome.

  “My oh my, what a gorgeous thing you are!” Godfrey cooed. “I was only saying to Mumsie before the rabble came trooping in that I can’t do a thing with this room. Horridly insipid. And now here you are, adding just the right touch of sparkle. That dress ... exquisite! You must tell me where ...” Angus was upon us. Nothing to be done. Nothing. I took my hand back from Godfrey and tried to hold it out to my former employer, but my arm wouldn’t bend at the elbow.

  “Ach, this is a rare pleasure, one I didn’t expect for a wee moment when I came here tonight.” His hands came out to envelop mine in vast warmth. He was looking from me to the Tramwells, including them in his pleasure.

  My voice rang in my ears, cool, clear, and immensely prim. I would hate myself forever. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.—umm—” He held on to my hand and instantly I felt the tensing of his fingers, followed by an enquiring squeeze. I squeezed back and forced myself to look into his eyes; they now held the blandest of expressions. My pulse steadied a fraction but the pain deep within my breastbone worsened. Godfrey was prancing around us making the introductions, explaining I was a guest of the Tramwells. Would Mr. Hunt be a dear and get the old ladies a drink while he showed me off to the other guests?

  “Old ladies?” said Mr. Hunt in a tight voice, looking around. “I canna say I see any of those but I will be delighted to share a noggin with these two fair lassies.” Tucking a hand under the elbows of each of the sisters, both dipping their eyelashes and uttering delighted disclaimers, he looked at me. “As I said, a rare pleasure to ... make your acquaintance.”

  “And yours. Perhaps—perhaps we can talk later.” I had to fight the urge to turn and look back as Godfrey drew me towards a burly red-faced man who looked far more the “rides to hounds” squire than ever my host did.

  “Ah, Mr. Whitby-Brown, dearie, this is Tessa ...” Vaguely I realized that Godfrey believed my surname was Tramwell. “A distant connection of those wacky old hoots over there.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure.” My hand was being wrung dry once more, and cigar breath wheezed in my face. Would Mr. Hunt with all his expansive generosity be able to excuse my web of deceit? I had once heard him described as a brilliant man with a clay foot—too damn honest for his own damn good, or anyone else’s.

  I could feel his mind working from across the room. Angus, I’m sorry. The stout old lady with beautifully waving white hair appeared at my elbow. “Did I hear Goddy say you are a relation of the Tramwells? What a pretty, pretty child you are.”

  I nodded numbly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hyacinth and Primrose with Angus. What were they saying? I strove to hear even as I smiled fixedly at the old lady.

  “Tell me, are you one of Violet’s girls? She does have something of the look of Vi, doesn’t she, Goddy?” She twinkled across my head at him. “And you know you always did have your eye on her, didn’t you, son?”

  “Never, never did. She was the one who gave me the dead frog for my birthday present. I’m not a bit surprised that the gruesome thing would ...”

  I looked like Violet?

  Angus would understand when I spoke to him. I would make him understand.

  I inhaled deeply and Mr. Whitby-Brown, with a covert glance at my inflated bosom, excused himself and went off in a fog of cigar smoke to join two other gentlemen at the far end of the room.

  “Now now, dear, you can’t blame Violet’s marrying beneath her on a dead frog,” chided Mrs. Grundy. In her black silk dress with the cameo brooch pinned at the lace collar she exuded a kind of cosy familiarity, as if she were someone I had met or at least seen somewhere before. Here was a nice ordinary woman who would adore talking to someone young and lively. As Godfrey picked up an ashtray and dodged after Mr. Whitby-Brown, I told her I wasn’t one of Violet’s daughters and, unfortunately, didn’t even know much about her.

  “Then I don’t feel quite so bad about what Godfrey just said.” She patted my arm comfortably. “Being an only child, he’s been overprotected. Dreadfully shocked he was when Violet turned Catholic after that marriage. I keep telling him the R.C.s are human beings just like the rest of us. But, between you and me, it’s the mumbo-jumbo he doesn’t like—all those idols and the smelly smoke signals. Now, dear, what is your connection to the Tramwell family?”

  I told her it was “rather vague,” and that this was my first visit to Cloisters.

  “Not too vague a connection.” Mrs. Grundy chuckled. “Or your name wouldn’t be Tessa. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? Tell me, have you encountered any cold shoulders? The villagers still consider that old business a blot on their copy book. Bless us, here at Cheynwind the Grundys have always been extremely proud of their old scandal, one of the most famous unsolved murders. Goddy told me that one gentleman here tonight, the clergyman— he’s standing with his back to us—is writing a book about that sort of thing.”

  “How interesting.” I smiled limpidly at her as the butler handed us each a sherry. Somehow I must find a means of speaking to Angus alone. Try to explain.

  “I was only saying to Goddy earlier that something is always happening in Flaxby Meade. I cannot for the life of me understand why Nurse Krumpet took in that boy—from goodness knows where.”

  “Nothing known of his origins, I suppose?” The sherry was very dry, but even if it hadn’t been I would have thought it bitter. Across the room I could see Hyacinth and Primrose still talking with Angus, and suddenly I liked their outfits—monstrous tartan knitting bag, fishnet stockings— a lot better than a black silk dress and cameo brooch.

  “Sad to say, poor little thing—that type of child has only one place of origin—the gutter. Bertie! The very name is common, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I always thought as much when I heard George VI was called that by the immediate family.” My simper was perfection.

  “A place for everything, of course. But I did breathe a word of warning to Mrs. Gregory when I ran into her in the Spider Web Cafe last week that she was running a risk letting her boy Ricky—such a silly name—associate with a child who has definite mental problems. My late husband was a scientist, you know, and he felt most strongly that ...”

  “Bertie—mental problems?”

  “You didn’t know? Oh, how indiscreet of me, but as I was saying to Goddy earlier, if he had ever talked to people who weren’t there—and someone called Fred, at that—I would have rushed him straight to a psych
iatrist.”

  Fred. Imaginary!

  “It’s all in the way they are brought up, isn’t it? Goddy, apart from liking to dress up in my clothes every now and then, has never given me a moment’s worry. Ah, here’s my boy, coming to escort me in to dinner. A mother’s privilege, dear, although I am sure he would like to do you the honour.” Her large face billowed into a smile.

  “Really, I don’t need an escort.” But I did. Arm in arm with Angus, I could whisper in his ear that all would be explained later.

  Goddy, with a flabby-lipped pout, jabbed out an elbow for Mumsie to take his arm, and they went off to stand at the alcove leading into the dining room. Bother! Hyacinth was crossing the room on Angus Hunt’s arm while Mr. Whitby-Brown and the other two gentlemen—one with a bullet-shaped head shaved to shadowy stubble, and the vicar interested in murder—shifted their feet and slowed down their hand gesturing. I took this as a sign they were about to make a move. Meanwhile, Primrose scuttled over and clutched my arm. “That courtly Mr. Hunt wanted to take me in to dinner, but Hyacinth turned pettish, and he suggested that I permit that bristle-haired man with the monocle to ...”

  Embarrassed, because her treble voice carried, I suggested we escort each other. The men were ambling in a leisurely way towards us and I got my first front view of two of them. My breath went down the wrong way to the wrong place. It couldn’t be! Finding Angus Hunt here had done something to my brain. Now, I was seeing spectres from my past at every turn....

  The vicar was the Reverend Egrinon Snapper. Time to succumb to a fit of the vapours. My past was encircling me. It had me by the throat. Fergy says unpleasant coincidences are really the devil leaping out and crying “Gotcha.” But twice in one night. Had I really been that wicked?

  Herr Fritz Wortter, with a click of heel, offered me his arm. Like a condemned woman I took it, waiting for the axe to fall. No time for a last prayer ... but, amazingly, I remained alive. Reverend Snapper gave nary the teensiest sign of recognizing me as part of the group who had visited the Ruins. What a pansy I was! It had been a good-sized group, he had been carried away like any genuine fanatic by his theme, and I had no distinguishing features—like his nose. Uncanny the way it twitched when he uttered the conventional pleasantries, but at that moment I wouldn’t have minded if he picked up his socks with it. He was harmless.