Down the Garden Path (16 page)

“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 psychiatrist.”

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.

“Two men all to myself. I shall have to take care not to let the occurrence go to my head.” The pink cement of Primrose’s cheeks cracked a little in excitement as Mr. Whitby-Brown and the Reverend Snapper soldiered up on either side of her, and we all marched in to dinner.

I would even eat pigeon now with equanimity. But when we passed through the velvet-hung archway and sat down at the table lavishly set with white linen and lace, crystal, and hothouse flowers, I discovered that fowl had been left off the menu entirely. The genetic makeup of the soup was a bit of a mystery but delicious, as was the lobster mousse, the roast lamb, and the queen pudding.

But, alas, the dining experience was itself not without its unpleasant incidents. The first was Mrs. Grundy’s false teeth. She removed them when the lamb arrived—and she did so discreetly, behind her serviette—but then she slipped them into her finger bowl, saying the lemon slice would keep them fresh. Seated beside her, there was no way I could avoid the sight of those floating choppers for the rest of the meal. Beautiful white head nodding, Mrs. Grundy squeezed my arm. “You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear, but I really can’t chew with the things and at my time of life my only pleasures are Goddy and food.”

“But not in that order,” squealed the beloved son.

“Always one for a joke.” Mrs. Grundy sliced into her meat, the knife and fork almost lost in her large hands, and I may have imagined the edge of steel in her voice. “Even as a boy Goddy tended to be rather exuberant in company. My husband, like most scientists, was rather solitary, and now I’m pretty much past the social whirl. I have my turns, you know.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Your heart?”

The butler refilled my wineglass, and Herr Wortter on the other side of Mrs. Grundy claimed her attention, leaving me free to listen in on the other conversations around the table. Angus was discussing a picture, reputedly by van Gogh and recently acquired by The Heritage. How hard it was for me not to display enthusiasm. I was relieved and saddened that he never looked directly at me.

“Hunt is a recognized genius at uncovering frauds,” Godfrey burbled. “So beware”—he wagged a finger—”those frauds amongst us.” Everyone, except Herr Wortter, who was fussing with his monocle, laughed mightily while my insides shrivelled up.

Angus, chins jostling, responded to Godfrey’s compliment, “Ach, I’m no genius. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes. Art is a passionate, demanding, magnificent mistress. Aye! And sometimes it’s hard to keep a cool head in dealing with her.”

Conversation continued. Mrs. Grundy, signalling to a hovering servant, had him fetch her the coffee pot. All Mother Knows Best, she poured a cup for the Reverend Snapper, chiding benignly that he really should have had wine like everyone else—and then poured another for Godfrey. Reaching into a pocket in her dress, she pulled out a lace hanky and a small packet. “Glucose,” she said. “Vicar, you will join me in a sprinkle. You should, too, Goddy. So much healthier than sugar.” Godfrey looked mutinous and Snapper silly, while the rest of the group listened to Hyacinth talking about drains.

“Bad plumbing has always been the scourge of this country. In my opinion, it is what prevents our keeping up with the Americans and the Russians.”

Who would snicker first? It wasn’t Mr. Whitby-Brown. Leaning forward he thumped a fist on the table. “Couldn’t agree with you more—especially in cases where a body is stuffed down inside the main drain, eh, Grundy?” Now came the laughter. A gleeful titter from Godfrey.

“So you’ve heard about our jolly little murder of 1803, have you?”

“The padre here was mentioning earlier ...” Mr. Whitby-Brown waved two fingers as if holding a cigar.

“Yes, yes, I was indeed.” The Reverend Snapper set down his coffee cup, hitting the rim of his saucer and almost causing a flood. “Such a colourful manner of disposition. The modern murder is so lacking in aesthetic appeal. As a man of the cloth, I naturally cannot approve of breaking any of the Lord’s commandments but ...”

He did keep harping on about being a man of the cloth, didn’t he?

“Ve take your point, sir.” Herr Wortter was not looking at the Reverend Snapper but at Primrose. “Either leave your enemies to make their own destruction or do them in vell and good.”

I watched in surprise the faint smile that flitted across Primrose’s face before she wiped it away with her hand, and so heard rather than saw Reverend Snapper rise from his chair. When I did look he was gripping his belt buckle convulsively. His nose had deepened to a Rudolph glow but the rest of his face was ashen.

“Excuse me, most embarrassing ...” And legs wedged tightly together he shuffled in short rapid steps through the archway, leaving us in varying stages of astonishment.

“I say,” guffawed Mr. Whitby-Brown. “Seen plenty of men who can’t hold their liquor but haven’t met one yet who can’t hold his murder!”

A flare of lightning cut through the candlelit room, sharpening the faces around the table. They all betrayed varying degrees of astonishment at the sudden exit. But apparently it was not considered the “done thing” to question where Snapper was headed.

“No disrespect to Ethelreda or Godfrey, it was really a rather unexceptional murder.” Hyacinth’s voice broke the silence. “Apart, of course, from that frilly touch—the drain. Eldest son threatens to marry someone unthinkable, and the family, sitting over their glasses of hock, decide to uplift the family motto: Strike While the Sword Is Hot. Yes, Godfrey”—she inclined her head—”ours doesn’t translate well from the Latin either, but my point is that your little murder is not nearly as pleasantly macabre as ... as some in other families.”

Godfrey pouted and opened his mouth to reply when the butler edged to his side and informed him that the cleric had remembered that this was the Feast of St. Vitas and hoped his excuses would be accepted. I wished Dad had been around to hear that one. My eyes met Angus’s and I longed to ask him what he was thinking. If the Reverend Snapper had been suddenly taken ill, why had he been embarrassed to say so?

“No great loss.” Godfrey heaved, prissing up his mouth. “Really didn’t want to invite him but he practically went on his knees to come.”

“On his knees, eh? Force of habit,” chortled Mr. Whitby-Brown. “Ah well, I would have felt a qualm or two if the fellow had lost the collection money. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I am feeling lucky tonight.”

A change came over the group, a thickening of excitement. Only Mrs. Grundy and I seemed to be outside it. Rising from her seat she said, “Yes, Goddy dear, I know when Mumsie isn’t wanted. Unnecessary of you to ask Maude Krumpet to come and spend the rest of the evening with me, but I will go up to her now.”

Chairs creaked as everyone stood up, echoing her goodnight. Angus was rubbing his hands together the way he often did when waiting at the back door of The Heritage for some precious shipment. That “one vice” he had mentioned, could it be cards? Mrs. Grundy bent to whisper a special farewell to me. “Now remember, don’t be a stranger. Some nasty-minded people have called me an overzealous mother, but all I have ever wanted is for Goddy to be happy ... and you really are so pretty!”

Away she trudged, Angus moving ahead of her to open the drawing-room door. Fingers elevated like birds on the wing, Godfrey ordered the trailing butler to fetch in the brandy. “My, this is such fun!” An ecstatic squeeze of those soft white hands, then a flourish indicating a table prepared for cards at the south end of the room. “Shall the play begin? And, remember—no whiny thumb-suckers!”

“Excuse me, I should explain ...” My confession that I did not play whist, bridge, or fish trickled in tepid pursuit of retreating backs. Hyacinth was rummaging in her tartan bag, unwinding from its depths a flaglike object in shades of purple and brown, its pattern so varied that no four-inch span was alike.

“I absolutely cannot play without my knitting,” she said. “But don’t worry, it’s not the least hindrance. I have become highly adept at working with both pins under my arms.”

“Do as you please, madam,” came the voice of Fritz Wortter, “but please bear in mind that some of us take the cards very seriously.”

“My good man,” huffed Primrose, now delving into her black bag and to my horror bringing out a green eyeshade, “so indeed do we.”

Oh, what could I do with them! They were incorrigible. How could I endure sitting idly by, watching my very own pigeons get plucked?

A vicar’s daughter need never sit idle.  She can always pray.  But Dad’s influence was sometimes tempered by Fergy’s belief that God was a very busy man with little patience for trivia. And, alas, it had to be admitted that the sisters were behaving in a deplorably trivial fashion. Bleating at each other in fretful accents, one was moaning that she had forgotten to wear her talisman purple garter, while the other was lamenting that this was the fourth day of the fourth week and that she never, never did well with a pair of fours.