Down the Garden Path (22 page)

At ten o’clock Hyacinth suggested an early night. I heaved a silent sigh of gratitude. By three, when Harry would be waiting in the Ruins, the sisters would surely be asleep. And, if I did bump into either Butler or Chantal returning from wherever they had been, I could say I was searching for Minnie. Chantal might find the excuse repetitious, but she had been out after the dog herself the night before.

In the nursery I lay down on my bed fully dressed, the letter to Dad in my pocket, and picked up
The Tramwell Family.

When I opened my eyes I felt as though I had slept for hours, but my watch said only 10:45. I wound it, retrieved the book, and opened it to the chapter on Tessa Tramwellyan. Eyes striving to blink awake, I skimmed lines. The author related numerous incidents of Tessa’s nobility—her love of her family, her generous nursing of the sick during an epidemic of scarlet fever, her sewing of altar cloths, her generosity to the poor. But as I turned each page I felt, as Chantal had said, that the curate would have laid on the same fulsome commentary if Tessa had been a mass murderess. As to murder—nothing was said about Tessail other than that Tessa’s father had died before she was born. I came to Tessa’s death, and was pleased to learn that it had occurred when she was past eighty. The gypsy curse had been getting a little rusty.

Reaching under my head to draw down my pillow something crackled under my hand. I drew out a square of folded paper, and wonderingly unfolded it. On it were printed the words “If ever you need me hang something orange out the window.” And then a scrawled signature. Was it “Your Harry” or “Yours Harry”? Hard to tell, but a lovely warm glow suffused me. He was worried that I had not made it to the Ruins the last two nights.

What a chance he had taken breaking into this room—up the apple tree, I supposed. How fortunate I had left the window open. Carefully I refolded the paper and, leaning over the edge of the bed, tucked it under my mattress. The hands on my watch showed half-past one. I was surprised I had been reading so long. If only I had found something about Tessa that would have given me a clue to my origins. As last night, when I had been talking to Maude, I had the feeling that I had walked past something important without seeing it. Maybe it wouldn’t come to me until I had left Cloisters—which I had to do the next day. I couldn’t feign amnesia any longer. And yet I hated to leave with so many questions unanswered. Funny ... several of those questions had nothing to do with my origins. But in the time left I had better concentrate on those that did.

I had hoped that the missing gallery portrait might mean something—that, if I could find it, it might prove to be a face that resembled mine—but now I thought it as likely it had been sold as removed in disgrace.
The Tramwell Family
was sliding off the bed and I reached for it. Still, if that portrait was in the house, my guess was it might be in the attic.

* * * *

My candle singed a small pale hole in the velvet darkness of the hallway as I stole towards the attic staircase. When I came close to Hyacinth’s and Primrose’s bedrooms my feet stopped on their own accord; stupid, when what I wanted was to get past those potential trouble spots as quickly as possible. As I stood cupping the flame I heard a faint buzz of voices and almost retreated back to the nursery, until common sense insisted that one of the sisters must have fallen asleep with the wireless on. I took a step closer to the door in question but could not judge whether this room belonged to Hyacinth or Primrose. Didn’t matter. The voice speaking now was deeper than either of theirs. It could have been a man’s or that of a woman of low pitch.

Move, Tessa. I got up the attic stairs as fast as I could, glad that I had put matches in my skirt pocket in case the candle went out. It did so halfway up and time was wasted when I pulled out three dead matches from the box. Finally, a live one; guarding the candle so close my hand grew hot, I made it up the last few steps and pushed open the door.

Two o’clock. Not much time. I placed the candle on a trunk near the window. Chantal had been standing right here.... Suddenly I realized that the shock of finding the girl in Harry’s bed had imprinted the smallest gesture she had made during our attic meeting on my mind. That picture, lying face down on the trunk under the window—she had picked it up and placed it there! Putting the candle down on a trunk I bent and lifted the frame. In the misted yellow glow a face looked up at me. A face that I felt I would have recognized if some amateur had not topped the owner’s puffed and cascading white wig with a wide-brimmed black hat—along with other concealing flourishes. Why? Hands shaking I scraped around the mouth, paint clogging under my nails. In order to see better I hoisted the picture closer to the candle, and my foot came down on something that felt like a folded rug. Jerking my leg sideways I tried to shove it away. But it wouldn’t be shoved.

And then I looked down and saw that the rug was Minnie.

The picture, whatever its secret, would have to wait; I leaned it against the wall and sat on the floor, lifting Minnie’s head into my lap. The yellow eyes were glased, and kept drooping closed.

“Wake up, old girl,” I whispered, stroking her ears. An awful thought came: Primrose had been afraid of kidnapping, but what if someone was
poisoning
dogs? I shook Minnie hard, and her head came up, eyes open. What an idiot I was. If she had been poisoned she would have been dreadfully sick. But perhaps she had been, somewhere else, before crawling up here ... to die.

Die! She wouldn’t die if I could help it. The rough part would be getting her downstairs in the dark, for I could not carry both her and the candle. It was a long slow descent but it gave me time to decide against waking the Tramwells. Old people shouldn’t be startled out of sleep in the dead of night. Not unless absolutely necessary. If I could not bring Minnie round they had the right to be informed, but I would do what I could first.

After getting Minnie to the kitchen and in a big chair by the fireplace, I made strong instant coffee, using lukewarm water and, prying those massive jaws apart, poured it down her ungrateful throat. The rumble rising deep from within her belly was not going to deter me; the more horrible the medicine the better it works. So I told Minnie and, miraculously, by the time I had emptied a third jugful into her she was up on all fours and frisking at the garden door, begging to be let out.

Fickle creature that I am, my enthusiasm for her waned fast. She would follow me to the Ruins and raise enough racket to wake the dead monks
and
the Tramwells. But I was wrong. Minnie showed her appreciation for my endeavours by abandoning me before I was halfway across the lawn. If I found Harry still waiting, I would forgive her. If it was past three and he was gone, that would be something else. I couldn’t see my watch in the dark and I hadn’t thought to look at it while trying to resuscitate Minerva. I had hardly heard the random chiming of the clocks. A shadow disconnected itself from the other shadows in the Ruins and stepped towards me.

“Damn you to hell and back,” Harry greeted me, and I was so pleased to see him, so reassured by his nurturing, protective attitude, that I ran the short distance towards him, twined my arms around his neck, and pressed my lips breathlessly against his. For five seconds he responded, his arms crushing me to him, his breath every bit as ragged as mine, and then—frigid creature—he pushed me away.

“Only two nights, two and a half hours late,” he informed me icily, studying his watch. Unlike mine, his was a modern one with a luminous dial.

“But I never promised I would be here on any specific night,” I began.

“Nearer three hours late than two,” he said. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

“But it can’t be,” I cried. “Your watch must be wrong, or ...” Oh no! I remembered that feeling of having dozed longer than my watch had indicated. It must have stopped at 10:45.

Brushing past him I sat down on a broken piece of wall. Its being damp and cold did not mellow my mood any. Through two of the crumbling pillars I could see a reddening of sky. Harry came and sat beside me. His hand hovered over my hair for a moment, and then came down to touch it gently.

“I’m sorry, Tess. I was worried about you, not angry. This obsession of yours—won’t you give it up? You haven’t come up with anything, have you?”

“Why so sure? As it happens I have discovered a host of interesting facts since coming to Cloisters, including one that seems to be of particular interest to you.” I hunched my shoulders and scowled.

“Why that tone of voice?” He moved his hand away from my hair and brought it down to catch hold of my hand. “Tessa, you know how much I care about you.” With his free hand he was turning my face to his, his voice warm and caressing. “If I have done anything that has made you think otherwise, please understand that it was only because ...”

What was he saying? “You knew,” I cried, breaking away from him to stand, arms folded, eyes flashing. “You wretch, you
knew
when I came here that your gypsy love was the maid in this house....” The words slowed to a trickle, then ceased. The surprise on his face was so blatantly genuine that I sat down again. My hand stroked the sleeve of his jacket.

“Harry, I’m sorry. That was beastly of me. I know that if you had realized Chantal worked at Cloisters you would have warned me.” He said nothing, and I stared around the Ruins. “Last night when you came here you saw her, didn’t you? Didn’t the sight of her almost bowl you over? It hit me hard, I can tell you. Did she see you? Did you speak to her?” My hand was clutching at his sleeve now, and I despised the note of desperation in my voice. Her face illuminated by moonlight had been so lovely. “A real comedy of errors this.”

“No,” he said. “She didn’t see or speak to me. Her being here is certainly a complication, but if she hasn’t revealed your identity to the ladies of the house, I think you can safely assume she isn’t going to.”

Men are so gullible, but I didn’t pursue the matter of Chantal. I remembered my letter to Dad and gave it to Harry. He tucked into his jeans pocket and then began stroking my hair again, and I felt safe. Really safe for the first time in days, which was odd because nothing terrible threatened me. Even if Chantal did her worst I faced nothing more than acute embarrassment. Hyacinth and Primrose were the ones in trouble. I touched his sleeve again.

“Harry, I’m worried about the Tramwells.   Wednesday night we went to a card party at Cheynwind Hall—that’s the home of Godfrey Grundy, the local Squire—and although they won, I’m afraid they aren’t always as lucky, because they’ve sold off nearly all the furniture and are now starting on the silver and books. And the most unfortunate thing ... you won’t believe who was among the guests, along with ...”

Harry laughed, sliding a hand over my mouth. “Oh, Tessa! Your imagination is a witch’s cauldron.”

I pushed his hand away. “I tell you, those two women are hardened gamblers, and what is more, they cheat. Rather creatively, to give them their due, but someone recognized what they were up to—and that someone was Angus Hunt.”

“The man you worked for at The Heritage?”

“Exactly.”

“I gather he didn’t give the game away where you were concerned.” Harry stood up and paced slowly up and down in front of me. It was now light enough for me to see the olive green of his thick-knit sweater and the faded blue of his frayed jeans. “You say that Hunt caught on to what the women were doing. Did he start some sort of row?” His voice was so grim that I was afraid he now viewed Cloisters as a gaming hell and that he’d carry me off to prevent my being totally corrupted by two sweet old ladies. (Sweet! Whatever else they were, they certainly weren’t
that.)
A straggle of hair tickled my nose, and I blew it away.

“Angus is too much a gentleman to verbally attack anyone publicly if it can be avoided. And there was someone else present—one Fritz Wortter, who was thirsting to do Primrose bodily harm. Angus came over yesterday morning to admonish and warn the Tramwells....” My words were interrupted by a soul-wrenching howling in the distance.

“Some animal is in deep trouble. Either hurt or trapped somewhere.” Harry slid off the wall and grabbed backwards for my hand. “We’d better look.”

“It must be Minnie, the Tramwells’ dog. I found her semiconscious in the attic just now. I thought she was all right or I would never have let her go off.” I watched Harry’s face as he listened. The sound came again, still anguished.

Harry was yanking me forward. “I was wrong. That sound isn’t pain. It’s more like ...”

“What?” We scrambled over a broken ridge of wall. If anything happened to Minnie the sisters would be devastated.

“... Terror. That dog is deathly afraid. Listen! The sound is coming from the walk. Let’s go.” He dragged me to the lane, and as my feet sent pebbles and twigs scattering, I thought, Who would want to harm Minnie? But someone apparently did. I had been too preoccupied after finding her to consider the significance of the attic door being closed when I went to enter. Minnie couldn’t have shut it behind her and it could not have swung to on its own. And as for an accident, who would go up to the attic at night? Primrose had said it was rarely used, and Chantal ... Chantal was out.

The leaves on the elms were olive, almost black. No light penetrated beneath the canopied branches of the walk. The secret patter of the trees deepened as we walked beneath them. The air was cold. Why did I hate this place? Was it only that it was steeped in my guilt? I would go back to Cloisters; I would confess all to the Tramwells and beg their forgiveness. What was a little cheating at cards compared with my deception?

“Look!” rasped Harry. He pointed forward, the other hand digging into my arm. About halfway down Abbots Walk a giant shadow lay sprawled on the ground. A man-sized shadow. A dark brown robe stretched wide across the splayed legs. Even when Harry dragged me down with him to kneel on the ground we could not see the face for the attached hood that covered it. A thin rope was knotted around the waist. A monk’s habit. Someone wandering away from a fancy-dress party in a drunken stupor? But who would blunder into this lonely spot at this lonely hour? Harry was reaching forward to draw back that hood, and I wanted to stop him. Stop time, or push it back behind the day when I had first come to Flaxby Meade.