Down the Garden Path (20 page)

“I could stop ye both, be well aware o’ that. A word in the right places that the play at Cheynwind Hall is rigged, and Godfrey Grundy would be blackballed from his club. That’s where I met him, and I imagine he does a fair bit o’ his business there. ‘Want to play a real feisty game o’ poker? I know these two wee old maids who claim they can beat the trews off any man alive.’ Aye! What red-blooded, cigar-smoking, card-shuffling male could resist that challenge?”

“Such a shockingly poor loser you are, Mr. Hunt.” Primrose tweeted like a ruffled sparrow. “I cannot conceive that dear Godfrey may not invite what friends and acquaintances he wishes to his home for a quiet evening of...”

Quiet. Last evening she had come close to being deflowered.

“Tush.” Angus’s voice rose. “Either you gels cease of your own accord, or I’ll see ye stopped. It’s no’ just the principle. Aye, and I do believe in playing by the rules, but what I fear is that one o’ these fine days ye will land yourselves—and the pretty lassie—in very hoot water. All it will take is tangling with the right tough customer.”

Herr Wortter. An exceedingly unpleasant vision came of his stalking the sisters on their way to church....

“Enough said. I’ll take that wee cup of coffee.” Someone crossed the room and as I backed away from the door I heard the jangle of the bell rope. Butler or Chantal would be coming, but I couldn’t get myself moving. Angus’s voice now sounded mumbled. He may have been bending down to pat Minerva, because I caught, “How long have ye had the dog?” before propelling myself towards the front door end of the hall.

Godfrey Grundy! The taste of the name was enough to make me want to rinse out my mouth with salt water. I should have been tipped off—when the sisters referred to him as the present Squire—that he didn’t do a lick of honest work. Being as rich as Midas, he might not have the incentive; but to feast off two elderly women and their ill-gotten wins was wicked. Yes, what they were doing was reprehensible. I wished Dad had been there to give them a good talking to. But Godfrey was the real maggot in the apple.

What now? I didn’t want to go upstairs because doing so would make it difficult to waylay Angus, yet neither did I want to be found loitering. Best to slip into one of the rooms and remain with my eye at the ready. Turning the nearest knob, I entered, to find myself in the library—and not alone. Chantal was at one of the shelves, a duster in one hand, but not in action. She was bent over an open book. I was about to turn around and find a more auspicious place to hide, when all those leather-bound volumes reminded me that I must not let what I had overheard entirely deflect me from my purpose for being at Cloisters. Chantal did not turn as I came up to her, and over her shoulder I read the words
Monasticism in the Middle Ages
along the top of the right-hand page.

“Not the latest best seller,” I said.

She turned, the book closing with a thud. Making no excuse for reading on the job, she dusted off the binding and returned the tome to the shelf. Fleetingly a deflating thought intruded. In addition to her other attributes, might Chantal be a secret intellectual? More than I could bear. But, not being a total twit myself, I remembered that mediaeval times were fraught with witchcraft and devil’s curses. Was Chantal doing a bit of brushing up on the good old days?

“May I help you, miss?” She smoothed out the white half-apron covering her dark blue skirt. The nerve! Acting as though she had never hissed horror in my face last night? I told her distantly that I wanted to read up on local history. As I scanned the shelves she reached up and pulled down a thin olive book titled
The Tramwell Family.
I was impressed. She did get around with that duster.

“You’ll not find it highly entertaining,” she offered. “Having been written by a local nineteenth-century curate, it’s been well-laundered. All the tasty bits—such as how the Tramwells connived to get this land at the Reformation—have been either adjusted or totally deleted. Old Sinclair the pirate comes off like a missionary, and, need it be said, the Tessa story is the trumped-up version.”

“Trumped-up?” The book stabbed into my rib cage, but I felt no pain.

“How foolish of me to keep forgetting you know nothing about all that. In brief, the lavender-scented version is that her father, Tessail the monk, committed suicide. But between these walls”—she lowered her voice to a husky purr—”what really happened was that the God-fearing villagers murdered him. And who could blame them, miss! Only doing their yeomanly duty, same as they burnt my people’s caravans when they camped on the common.”

Murdered. Tessail murdered.

“And the amusing thing is, miss, that for all the righteousness of hanging the fornicating celibate, the present-day villagers would rise with their pitchforks against anyone who let that old truth leak out. Doesn’t flatter the Sunday school image Flaxby Meade chooses to present to the tourist bureau.”

I could hear voices in the hall. Clutching the book, I left Chantal without another word. Poor Tessail and that unknown girl who had been Tessa’s mother. Angus was saying goodbye to the sisters in the hall and I went up to them. It was now or never. I had to find some acceptable reason for speaking to Angus alone, but for the life of me I couldn’t get my lips to move. He was looking at his watch, saying he had ample time for the walk to the station, and then, miraculously, Primrose helped me.

“In about ten minutes Butler will be finished washing the car, but if you wish to take Shank’s pony, Mr. Hunt, I am sure Hyacinth would be pleased to show you the short-cut through Abbots Walk. I want a word with our friend Clyde Deasley who is”—she fussed with her seed pearl necklace— “yes, I am sure he is somewhere about. Ah, here he is coming downstairs, he must have popped up to use the—cloakroom. Otherwise, Mr. Hunt, I would be pleased to show you the quickest possible route to the station.”

Setting my book down on a chair, I said, “If Hyacinth isn’t absolutely pining for fresh air, I would enjoy getting outside, and I think I remember the way to Abbots Walk.” It was agreed.

Minutes later I found myself outside the house, with Angus hefting along beside me. We passed Butler, lathering up the hearse, and I felt his eyes upon our backs as we crossed the narrow road. Could I be catching Chantal’s ESP? The vibes I was getting struck me as decidedly hostile. Didn’t Butler like his ladies to have gentlemen callers?

Neither Angus nor I spoke a word until we were well out of earshot and eyeshot of the house. Then he planted a heavy hand on my shoulder and said, “Your noot said ‘all will be explained.’ Get with it, Miss Fields, if that is still your name. All the gory details for old Uncle Angus, if you please.”

Taking a deep breath I spilled the beans. We had reached Abbots Walk before I had finished.

“Your friend Harry needs his head examined on a butcher’s block,” he growled.

“No, you mustn’t blame him. I made him help me.”

“Such an honest cheat you are, Tessa.” And then he roared with laughter. “My dreary bachelor existence has been fair illuminated by knowing you. But that’s not to say that if I were your father I wouldn’t flay you alive. What would he say if he knew you were holed up with as canny a pair of card sharps as ever dwelt among the Cotswolds?”

Ridiculously I felt an urge to defend the Tramwells. “Don’t be too hard on them, Angus.” I tucked an arm cosily through his. “Being old must be desperately boring. All they have is their library books, afternoon tea, and knitting.” My eyes swerved up to his and I winced. “Forget the knitting.”

“Shame, lassie, you were at the keyhole.”

“The house echoes.” I shook back my hair. “The butler was giving us jim-jam looks back there. I wonder if he had his ear glued to the wall and overheard what you said to the old ladies.”

“Oot and away! What difference if he did? He must know what they’re aboot.”

He was right. Butler must have known a fair bit about the Tramwells before he dropped by that night to burgle the house. Why, they may have been out playing cards on that very occasion. We were in the walk, under the rustling archway of the trees, and stealthily, chillingly, terror soaked through my pores.

“What is it, lassie?”

“Nothing. Only that this place gives me the spooks.” We stopped and he tilted my chin up with one of his enormous fingers. “Go home, Tessa; forget all this hashing and be a daughter to a man who loves you. Aye, I know he does, because if a wee bairn could have been dropped on my doorstep I’d have liked it to be you.”

I picked at his silver watch chain so he wouldn’t see my tears. “If you had had me to raise, you wouldn’t have been able to indulge yourself at every pokey clockmaker’s in every village you amble through.”

“On the subject of extravagance”—his voice was pensive—”do you think, Tessa, that despite appearances, the ladies of the manor may be noon too flush in the pocket?”

A fierce tooting of a car horn burst into the stillness of the walk and, turning, we saw Mr. Deasley’s car across the lane. “Want a lift into the village? Going that way and more than happy to oblige any friend of the Tramwells.”

“Aye, I’ll no refuse. I’m noo much of a walker,” said Angus.

How could he rush off like that? I thought of all the things I wanted to talk with him about—the missing picture in the gallery, Chantal’s shattering words last night.... He winked, then said in a rumble, “A rare pleasure meeting you, young lady—and one I hope will be repeated soon.” The last I saw of him was his trying to unravel the seat belt to accommodate his vast bulk before the gleaming Vauxhall chugged away, Mr. Deasley’s mouth opening and closing faster than the wheels turned.

Time for a stern self-to-self lecture. Saving the sisters from their nefarious practices was not my job—yet. If and when I discovered we were related I would take them in hand. Now I would return to Cloisters, write a letter to Dad and Fergy, and make notes of all I had learned about Lily and Violet. Busy work, but I would have to wait until everyone was in bed tonight before scouring the house in a last-ditch effort. Quickening my step, I passed the Ruins. Crumbs! Was that the Reverend Snapper standing behind a crumbling pillar? It was. And how peculiar, he pretending not to see me. Unless he was remembering his undignified exit of the night before.

As I crossed the back lawn I saw Chantal exit from the side of the house. A series of gurgling yelps, and Minerva came romping up to me. By the time I disentangled her paws from my neck, Chantal was gone. So was Minerva half a second later, diving off towards the Ruins.

Thoughts of her chasing the Reverend Snapper up a pillar cheered me as I went into the empty sitting room. Good—as long as the Tramwells weren’t in the hall I should be able to get upstairs without being hailed for a chat or a cup of coffee. Despite my defence of the sisters I still wasn’t ready to face them without feeling angry with them. I didn’t feel I would be very adept at hiding my emotions at this time.

And was proved right. A faint, distant, tinny clatter caused my hands to clench in the pockets of my borrowed skirt. My nerves must be in a bad way if a saucepan dropped in the kitchen ... Walking slowly to the wall on the left of the French windows, I said softly, “If I could hear that
and
Chantal’s singing, part of one of the kitchen walls must back onto this room.” Even so, with the notorious thickness of old walls it was surprising that sound travelled so well. Perhaps not. Two feet from the edge of the curtain was an unobtrusive hatchway. How delightfully convenient for passing through a plate of sandwiches when the family was alone and informal, and the servants all down with the plague. The shutter was closed, but I lifted it an inch, without making a sound, and spied the top of a dresser. Not all that convenient, after all, to pass anything through, one would have to stand on a step-ladder.

Out in the hall I picked up
The Tramwell Family
and, thumbing through the pages, mounted the stairs. In the nursery I placed it on my bedside table to read that night while I waited for sleep to overtake the other inhabitants, and automatically fingered my wrist. I hadn’t put on my charm bracelet that morning and it was gone from the table. Neither had I worn my watch—doing so would have made me feel even more unworthy when meeting Angus—but it still lay coiled up like a sleeping dormouse on the scarred wooden surface. Think! I hadn’t worn the bracelet last night. Very fishy: first the watch is missing, then returned, and now this. Either I was going demented in true Gothic fashion, or someone was playing Gothic games. The same someone who had locked me in the priest hole? Looking for moths in the wardrobe—fie on you, Butler! What a pity Detective Fields is here on personal business, or she could have a lot of fun pondering your checkered past.

Back to business. Seating myself at the ink-stained desk, I tore a sheet of paper out of a dog-eared exercise book, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a quick letter to Dad. Quick because I did not wish to dwell on the reassuring fibs I was telling. Ah! Here was an envelope and Harry would provide the stamp.

Now to seine the subconscious. I wrote “Violet” in square stubby strokes. Move, pencil! And it took off as if bewitched by Chantal.
Mrs. Grundy said I resembled Violet but Maude said not physically, Maude writing letters to her. Airmail letter this morning
—
Wilkinson
(and now the pencil went wild)
She once gave Godfrey a dead frog ... “morbid girl,” he said, turned Catholic, the hearse, Wilkinson ...
the pencil lead snapped off and I sat staring down at the paper. Spooky—not that I seriously believed some unseen force had guided my hand any more (a shiver) than I had believed in evil atmospheres before entering Abbots Walk on Monday. My mind was just spilling out fragments of information it had filed away and which ... Why did the hearse and the name Wilkinson go together? Then I had it! On the way to Cheynwind Hyacinth had said the vehicle had been sold to them by Wilkinson’s, the undertakers, who had gone heavily into cremation.

Violet married into a family of undertakers? Rather gruesome. But perhaps she had been driven into it, on the rebound from the ill-fated union that had produced me. Absently touching the exercise book as I reached for the paper, I read in the top right-hand corner the words “Violet Tramwell.” Hands shaking, I flipped it open, calling myself all sorts of names for not searching this gold mine of a room sooner, and found that all the writing on the filled pages was in French. Never mind, there were plenty more exercise books on the shelves next to the desk.