Bird of Prey (4 page)

When Mrs. Creed and Caroline had moved into the hall he caught up Caroline’s case and dumped it unceremoniously outside the door, then retired again to his study, closing the door decisively behind him.

For a long moment the housekeeper stared at Caroline, her harsh expression softening slightly as she saw the fatigue on the girl’s pale face. She sighed. “Well, there’s no use discussing it any further tonight,” she said with an air of what was almost resignation. “You’d better get off to bed, for it’s clear that you’ve had a long day.”

She led the way up flight after flight of stairs, Caroline accompanying her and carrying her case herself. Somehow she clung to it as the one familiar thing in the bewildering kaleidoscope of events into which she had plunged herself by her impulsive rush from London.

At last the housekeeper threw open a door in what must once have been the attic quarters of the big house. She switched on the light and Caroline found herself gazing around a small but spotlessly clean room with sloping walls papered with a pattern of yellow roses. The spread on the brass bed was yellow candlewick and the curtains patterned with roses in a shade of yellow just not quite matching that of the walls. It was a small, cold, lonely-looking bedroom, in which Caroline was very conscious of the distance to the warm, inhabited rooms so many flights away downstairs. Not that it really mattered! Now all she wanted was to lie down on that yellow-covered bed, close her eyes and sink into oblivion.

The housekeeper gave one last look around. “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. Breakfast is at seven. But I’ll get Betty to give you a call.”

As she got into bed, Caroline could hear the hounds barking as they prowled about the grounds.

What did the future hold for her in this strange house? she wondered. But already her eyes were closing. Instantly she fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

TO Caroline it seemed that she had scarcely closed her eyes when there was a sharp knock on her door, the light was switched on and, abruptly sitting up in bed, she found herself blinking at a sturdy, fair-haired girl who was wearing a pale grey overall.

“You’d better get up,” the girl informed her breezily. “It’s gone half-past six and breakfast’s at seven, and her ladyship’s in a rare bad humour this morning too, so you’d better look sharp.”

Caroline tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Surely it can’t be morning already?” And then she asked, a little dazedly, “But who are you?”

The girl laughed. “I’m Betty: I work here. And it’s plain to see you haven’t worked in a big house before, or you’d be used to getting up in the dark of a morning.” She regarded Caroline curiously. “The story is that you’re the wrong girl and that the master took you when the right one didn’t turn up.”

Caroline didn’t pretend to misunderstand this rather mysterious statement. “No. It seems the parlourmaid didn’t turn

up and Mr. Craig took me on instead.”

The maid gave vent to a long whistle of astonishment. “So that’s why Creed’s like a bear with a sore head this morning. Well, you’d better get up and face the music, otherwise we’ll all suffer for her bad humour. Just go straight downstairs to the basement and first brown door on the left.”

With this information she whisked away and Caroline got up and hurried along to the small old-fashioned bathroom at the head of the stairs where, to her relief, in spite of its antique appearance, she found that the water was really hot. When she returned to her room she put on one of her oldest frocks and ran downstairs, flight after flight, until she reached the basement quarters and entered the first brown door on the left, as Betty had directed.

When she opened it, she found herself in a snug dining-room where a bright fire crackled in a black iron grate. Of Mrs. Creed there was no sign, but at a long table sat Betty and a rather lugubrious-looking elderly man whom she addressed as “Fred”.

Betty good-naturedly offered to fetch Caroline’s breakfast from the kitchen and while she was gone Fred pointed sternly to a seat at the end of the table. “That’s where the new girls sit,” he informed her shortly, as he buttered a slice of toast.

Fred, who, it transpired, was Mrs. Creed’s husband, was a round, rosy-cheeked man who evidently enjoyed his victuals from the way he tucked into his breakfast of bacon and egg, fried bread and tomato. “So you’re the new girl!” He chewed energetically and surveyed Caroline. “But not the right new girl,” he told her, as she docilely took the seat pointed out to her.

Fred’s speech was slow and he appeared to think carefully before uttering his observations.

“Yes, that’s true,” Caroline agreed. “She didn’t turn up, so I got her place.”

At this point Betty returned with Caroline’s breakfast and placed it before her.

“Mind you, I won’t do this every day,” she informed her, as though rather regretting her good nature, “but as it’s your first day I’ll make an exception. Is it a fact,” she asked, when she had returned to her own place, “that you used to mend broken china?” She giggled delightedly. “What a queer way to earn your living! If we’ve any broken china here we chuck it out.”

“Only the kitchen stuff,” Fred put in sternly. “When it comes to Mr. Craig’s antiques that’s a different matter.”

“Not that anyone would dare as much as chip them,” Betty observed, “or the sky would fall about our heads.”

“All the same, can’t be much money in that business!” Fred put in sombrely.

Caroline was tempted to tell him of the very considerable sums paid by collectors for the expert handling of their precious antique pieces, but she refrained because she got the impression that Fred would resent any signs of uppishness from a newcomer like herself. Apart from that, she felt convinced that neither Fred nor Betty would believe her and that it would only sound like boasting.

She was saved from having to make any rejoinder by the entry of Mrs. Creed, upon which Betty hastily finished her breakfast and scurried away.

“Three minutes late this morning with his breakfast, and the master’s in a nice taking. It’s really very provoking,” Mrs. Creed exclaimed, her face slightly flushed. “Surely you can’t have let the clock run down again, Fred!”

“Correct to the second,” he informed her, glancing at the big old-fashioned wag-o’-the-wall in the corner of the room.

“Well, that’s the second time this week his breakfast has been late, and you may be sure I got the sharp edge of his tongue.”

Her eyes fell upon Caroline. “A trained girl would have made all the difference. However, I know
that’s
too much to expect!” Fervently Caroline wished she had every bit of the training that Mrs. Creed desired—or indeed that she was trained in anything—as she felt the impact of the housekeeper’s basilisk glance.

“I suppose I’d better set you to polishing the corridors,” the housekeeper went on, “and after a while you’ll get into things, no doubt. Goodness knows, there were plenty of girls answered my advertisement, but as soon as they found out that the house is a bit remote they backed out in a hurry, I can tell you. It’s all pleasure and gadding about the young people want nowadays. Why, I remember when I first went out to work, the house was at the back of beyond and we had to get up at the crack of dawn. I started in the kitchen and worked my way up, you might say. But in your case I think we’d better begin by polishing, for I’ve a feeling you’d be more of a hindrance than a help in the kitchen.”

In spite of the housekeeper’s unflattering opinion of her culinary abilities, Caroline felt her spirits rise somewhat at the knowledge that she was not to begin her apprenticeship in the kitchen under Mrs. Creed’s critical eye. She had caught a glimpse of the kitchen and it had seemed to her a huge, dreary cavern of a place. Besides, if she were engaged in cleaning she would be on her own, with time to assess her position and become acclimatised gradually to her surroundings.

“Oh, but I’d like that,” she said eagerly.

Mrs. Creed looked surprised at this declaration. “Well, I must say,” she conceded grudgingly, “you sound willing enough. No doubt, in time, you’ll get into our ways, so if you’ve quite finished your breakfast I’ll show you your duties for the morning and let you get on with them. We’re particularly busy at the moment,” she added pointedly.

Caroline quickly drained her cup of hot, strong tea and stood

^u
p.

As Mrs. Creed turned towards the door, closely followed by Caroline, she glanced tight-lipped at her husband, who sat slouched over the table, nursing a large tea-cup, gazing vacantly ahead. “It’s time you began the windows, Fred,” his wife informed him sharply. “You’re giving a very bad example to that Betty, for goodness knows, she’s lazy enough as it is, always dodging her duties, her mind on nothing but boys all the time.”

Mr. Creed regarded his wife lugubriously over the rim of his cup, then with a sigh laid it down and straightened. “Why must you always be on at a body? Can a man not take a reasonable time to his breakfast without being continually chivvied about? Goodness knows the master’s particular enough without your being on to one as well.”

His wife sniffed disapprovingly. “It’s because the master’s so particular that I have to see that everything’s to rights. There’d be short shrift for the both of us, I can tell you, if I didn’t see that things go like clockwork. ”

“Yes,” her husband agreed. “He’s a hard bitter man, without a bit of heart!”

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,” Mrs. Creed rejoined cautiously, “but he certainly expects to be obeyed, and anyone who thinks otherwise will be out of a job in jig time, I can tell you that.”

Caroline listened to this exchange with growing dismay. She was inclined to agree with Mr. Creed’s assessment of Randall Craig. There was something decidedly implacable about the hard, hawk-like features and the steely, deep-set eyes of her employer.

As she followed Mrs. Creed along a subterranean corridor she determined to work diligently so as not to win his disapproval, but mainly she resolved to keep as much out of the way of her imperious employer as possible.

Mrs. Creed stopped before a large cupboard that contained all sorts of cleaning materials including an electric vacuum cleaner and a floor polisher. She took out a selection of dusters and instructing Caroline to follow her with the polisher, she led her up a narrow stairway to a further corridor off which lay bedrooms. “In future,” Mrs. Creed informed her, “you’ll use the back stairs. It’s all very well for you to use the main staircase, seeing it’s your first day, but it wouldn’t do at all to make a habit of it.”

To Caroline, lugging the heavy polisher, it seemed as if they traversed miles before Mrs. Creed stopped and pointed out where Caroline could insert the plug. “Now get on with it,” she instructed briskly, “I want to be able to give Mr. Craig a good account of you and I’ll have enough to do myself, without having to keep an eye on you.”

As the housekeeper bustled away along the corridor, Caroline set to work with a will. She plugged into the points, as instructed, then set the machine going and with a whirring sound it sprang into life.

She moved slowly along the corridor, making sure that each patch of floor was a gleaming golden amber before going on to the next.

Now that she was alone she felt her spirits rise somewhat. Some time, no doubt, she decided, these rooms had been occupied. In former generations, children had scurried and laughed about these corridors, but now they lay deserted. Some of the doors were ajar and she peeped cautiously in. The rooms were enormous with high, elaborately ornamented plaster ceilings, the furniture massive and old-fashioned, but although the furniture glittered and was obviously kept spick and span under the care of the competent Mrs. Creed, there was the unmistakable air of desertion about this part of the house, the faint, musty, nostalgic scent of rooms that had been long out of use.

But then Randall Craig was a bachelor! Perhaps some day these corridors would once again resound to children’s laughter and the sound of their feet as they scurried up and down the polished floors.

As always when she was aware that she was completely alone Caroline began to sing softly to herself. In her thin, sweet voice she sang “Oh, that We Two were Maying. ” Effortlessly as a bird her voice rose above the hum of the polisher and Caroline began to daydream.

She could visualize herself on the concert platform. She was wearing a beautiful pale blue dress with touches of pink at the shoulder and waist. Her hair was piled high and fell in glowing profusion upon her shoulders. The accompanist was just playing the concluding notes and now the vast audience was applauding her. She was moving forward to receive the bouquet of crimson roses and freesia handed up to her by her admiring fans: she was bowing graciously while the applause rose to a storm, but in spite of her efforts her delighted audience wouldn’t let her leave Caroline, in her dream world, had stepped forward and was curtsying again and again when a deep voice said behind her “So now that your song is ended, you’re bowing to the plaudits of the audience, no doubt! ”

With a little squeal of alarm Caroline returned to the present. She spun around and blundered into the polisher. It slid across the corridor and struck against the wall, fell over, gave out a loud, rasping sound, then abruptly became silent.

She looked up to find the tall figure of Randall Craig regarding her sardonically.

“Oh, you did startle me,” she said confusedly. “I didn’t see you come along the corridor.”