Sheer Folly (9 page)

The latter was probably the case, she decided. She wasn't well acquainted with him, and she couldn't even see his face clearly. In fact, she was indulging in pure speculation, as Alec would undoubtedly have pointed out to her.

As she pondered, they penetrated deeper into the grotto, passing a number of statues on the way. Most stood in niches in the walls, impossible to identify in the prevailing gloom. Ahead however, a stalwart Neptune barred the way. From the navel
down, as a change from the usual scanty drapery about the loins, he was modestly clad in stylised marble waves with the heads of horses in place of whitecaps. From this frozen sea emerged a naked torso, a head adorned with the usual wildly curling hair and beard, and two muscular arms, one wielding a trident.

Lucy stopped to contemplate the water-god. “I wonder if it's always being wet that makes his hair curl. Rain plays havoc with mine.”

Daisy laughed. “I bet you're the first person in history who's posed that particular question!”

“What about the original artist who depicted him that way? Back in Rome or Ancient Greece or wherever it was?”

“Neptune or Poseidon. Sir Desmond, which do you—? Oh, he's disappeared.”

“He went round behind the statue. Everyone must have gone that way.”

“Yes, I can hear them. Come on.”

Poseidon stood sentry to one side of a low arch. His wife Amphitrite guarded the other side, crowned with shells and crab-claws, dolphins frolicking about her legs. Beyond the arch was a short tunnel.

“It's much lighter at the end,” Lucy said thankfully. “I'm getting tired of groping through the dark.”

“Hush a minute. I heard Rhino say something about a second monk.”

“Here's a stone one,” Lord Rydal cawed as Daisy and Lucy emerged from the tunnel. “Much to be preferred to the real thing, what?”

“St. Vincent Ferrer,” said Pritchard, “the patron saint of plumbers.”

“Popish nonsense!”

“What makes you think you have the right to disparage anyone's religion?” Pritchard demanded angrily. He had put up with a lot from the earl, but apparently this was the last straw. “I happen to be a Methodist, and as you can see, I've put St. Vincent
out here with a lot of pagan gods, not in a shrine in the house, but I don't hold with disrespecting other people's beliefs.”

His outburst stunned Rhino. “Hold on, hold on! No offence meant. I just say what I think.”

“It's about time you started thinking before you say.”

“Gosh,” Lucy whispered in Daisy's ear, “I thought Pritchard was a bit of a milksop, but Rhino is positively cowering.”

“A milksop wouldn't have risen to be Bathroom King. Though I wouldn't exactly say Rhino is cowering.”

“Perhaps not quite, but I've never seen him even slightly taken aback before. It must have been a severe shock to the system. I bet he's seething.”

“He wouldn't try to . . .”

“Try to what?”

“Oh, you know, get his own back.”

“Do him in, you mean? Don't be silly, of course not. You've got murder on the brain, my girl. That's what comes of marrying a detective. I'm going to see what excuse Mr. Armitage has for playing the fool in a monk's robe.”

“You were talking to him at dinner,” Daisy said, trying to keep an eye on Pritchard and Rhino as they went towards the hermit. His cowl thrown back to reveal Armitage's roundish, snub-nosed, sandy-haired, altogether un-ascetic countenance, he was chatting with Carlin and Julia. “Who is he?”

“Some sort of colonial,” Lucy said vaguely. “Canadian? Yes, Canadian. Quite amusing. Mr. Armitage, I do think you might have warned me you were planning to scare us all to death.”

“Would you have been scared to death if I'd warned you, eh, Lady Gerald?” he asked with a grin.

“I must say,” Carlin put in, “you ladies don't look as if you turned a hair.”

“Hairdressers can work wonders these days,” said Daisy.

“Naturally, I wouldn't have risked making your hair stand on end if I hadn't known modern hairdressing methods could put it right in a trice.”

“I, for one,” said Julia grandly, “am quite capable of brushing
my own hair. Lucy, Daisy, Mr. Armitage has been telling us that Mr. Pritchard employs him to play the hermit.”

“Not exactly ‘employs,' eh? He doesn't usually bother with a hermit at this time of year, but I wanted to take a look at some old papers he has in the house, and he offered me access and room-and-board in exchange for playing hermit now and then. He'd already heard from you, Lady Gerald, and Mrs. Fletcher, about putting the grotto in your book. In the summer, when he has constant requests to see it, he hires an actor full-time. He's even built in quite a decent sort of bed-sitting-room through there.” He pointed at another archway.

“Gas and water laid on, I assume,” Lucy drawled.

“But of course. All the same, I'm glad he doesn't expect me to live there at this time of year. In the summer it would be OK.”

Pritchard came over to them. Daisy looked to see if Rhino was pouting in a corner, but he had joined the Wandersleys and Howell. He was lighting a cigarette yet again, and his expression was no more bad-tempered than usual. No doubt Pritchard's rebuke had disconcerted him for only a moment. In fact, if anyone was pouting, it was Lady Ottaline.

Daisy wondered momentarily what irked her. However, what little she had seen of the lady had not inspired any desire to become better acquainted. Curiosity might be her besetting sin, but she simply didn't much care what her ladyship's troubles were.

“Mr. Pritchard,” Julia greeted him gaily, “how could you play such a trick on us? If my mother had come, she'd have been startled out of her wits.”

“No she wouldn't. I consulted Lady Beaufort first. I wanted to be sure she had no objection. Besides, she has too many wits ever to be startled out of them.” He patted Armitage's shoulder. “How do you like my hermit?”

“He's quite the best hermit I've ever seen,” said Daisy.

“The only one, I expect,” he said, laughing.

“Unless you count hermit crabs. They'd have a wonderful time in here with all the shells.” She glanced about. In his shell-walled
sanctuary, St. Vincent dwelt among Oceanids, Nereids, and Naiads, all scantily draped.

“Do tell,” said Lucy, “is the hermit's lair decorated in the same style? Mr. Armitage says you've provided living quarters here in the grotto.”

“No, creosote to keep the place dry, and plain white distemper. You can have too much of a good thing. Would you like to see it?”

Lucy started to deny any desire to do so, but Daisy forestalled her. “Yes, please. I doubt I'll use it for the follies book, but I've been meaning to ask if you'd mind if I wrote a magazine article about Appsworth . . . ?”

“As well? Delighted. I'm sure Armitage'll be able to help you with family history, the way he's been poring over all those fusty old papers the Appsworths left behind.”

Armitage muttered something, looking as if he could think of approximately fifty-thousand ways he'd rather spend his time. He dug his pipe-and-tobacco pouch out of the depths of his robe and started stuffing the fragrant shreds into the bowl.

“Did you light the gas in the back room?” Pritchard asked him.

“Yes, sir. Both the lights and the fire.”

“Good, good. This way, anyone who'd like to come.”

As Julia took Pritchard's arm and moved towards the next arch, Daisy hung back and said to the Canadian, “I don't want to bother you if you'd rather not.”

“That's all right. Mr Pritchard's been very accommodating. I guess if he wants me to give you a hand. . . .” He struck a match and started that desperate puffing that eventually results in a lit pipe. Sometimes. Pausing in mid-puff, he asked, “What sort of information are you looking for? What sort of articles do you write?” He sounded annoyed and a trifle defensive.

Why defensive? Not that she was after scandal, but in any case, if the Appsworths had wasted their last pennies in riotous living, it was no skin off his nose, nor Pritchard's. What exactly was his interest in the Appsworths' history?

The only explanation she could think of was that he'd found a really good story and wanted to keep it for a scoop of his own. But what had brought him to Appsworth Hall in the first place? All the way from Canada!

Curiouser and curiouser.

Armitage struck a fourth match as he and Daisy followed the others into a surprisingly spacious room. At last the tobacco caught and blue smoke wafted up. Alec smoked a pipe and Daisy didn't mind the smell as much as cigarette smoke, or worst of all, cigars.

They were followed in turn by the Wandersleys, Rhino, and Howell. They were all smoking, Rhino waving his cigarette holder as he made some vehement remark Daisy didn't catch. She hoped the hermit's lair was well ventilated.

“Well,” said Armitage, “what about this article of yours?”

“I'll tell you later. Hush, I want to hear what Mr. Pritchard has to say.” She moved closer, notebook in hand. Armitage went over to a small wardrobe—brought in in pieces, presumably, given the hazards of the path—and shrugged out of his habit. Emerging in his dinner jacket, he hung up the robe and headed towards Julia like a moth to a woolly jumper.

Pritchard, meanwhile, said with pride, “You wouldn't guess it started as another natural cave, would you? The workmen broke through into it by accident when we were dolling up the second cave.”

He turned out to be a good storyteller. He made finding the cave and exploring it sound almost like a Rider Haggard adventure. Even Rhino listened. Daisy took a few notes, on both the original discovery and the resulting room.

With ten people in it, the room felt crowded, but for its intended solitary inhabitant it was more than adequate. Apart from the lack of a window, it could have been anywhere. Though there was no natural light, the plain white walls made it bright, and rush matting gave it an air of comfort. Against one wall was a divan bed covered with a counterpane in a jazzy blue-and-green pattern. Two Windsor chairs flanked a deal table. A gas fire dispelled the subterranean chill.

“As you see,” Pritchard continued, “we've laid on gas. There's good natural ventilation, luckily.” With the flourish of a conjuror, he drew aside a curtain to reveal a wash-basin and a copper geyser. “And hot and cold running water. This is one of the same new-style safety geysers as we have in the house. Unless the water supply is turned on, the gas won't turn on, so it's not likely to blow up from steam pressure and practically impossible for it to get hot enough to melt down.”

His nephew started to explain the technical details. Daisy's mind wandered.

A row of paperback books on a shelf nearby made her squint to read the titles. Thrillers and detective stories! It was all very well Lucy saying she was obsessed with murder. Not only was it untrue, she wasn't the only one by a long chalk.

Carlin asked about the ventilation. He seemed to be the only person still concentrating on what Pritchard and Howell had to say. Julia, Lucy, and the hermit were chatting in low voices. Armitage's pipe appeared to be giving him trouble; he was striking match after match, and puffing away without apparent effect. Daisy decided one reason she didn't mind pipe smoke was that pipe-smokers so rarely actually managed to keep their tobacco alight for long.

Lady Ottaline had sat down on one of the chairs. She had her husband and Lord Rydal in attendance. As Daisy glanced that way, Rhino was staring hungrily at Julia. He started towards her, only to be called back by Lady Ottaline.

“Rhino, darling, you'll take me back to the house, won't you? I'm getting frightfully cold. I do believe my toes are frostbitten.”

With obvious reluctance, Rhino turned.

“Those shoes!” Sir Desmond said testily. “You'll be colder outside. Just wait till everyone's ready to leave.”

Pritchard couldn't help but have heard Lady Ottaline's complaint. Fortunately, he seemed to be amused, rather than justifiably affronted. “Owen, we've got carried away by our hobby-horses again. Time we were heading back to the house.”

Howell took out a gold pocket-watch. “Good lord, yes, Uncle. Mother will be worrying about when to serve coffee. I'll show you the rest later,” he added to Carlin. “We've the same machine in the house, and I already promised to demonstrate it to Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Thank you, sir,” the young civil servant said with every appearance of delight. He should rise high in his chosen profession.

Daisy, however, had decided against an article on modern inventions.

“Coffee!” exclaimed Lady Ottaline. “Bliss! Anything hot. I'd even drink cocoa. Rhino!” She grabbed his arm as he once again drifted towards Julia, who was on the way out with Armitage, heads together. “I'll need your support on those dreadful steps.”

“You can take my arm, Ottaline,” said Sir Desmond. “It sufficed on the way up.”

“But darling, these ridiculous shoes! I shan't feel safe without a
strong
arm.”

The three of them followed Julia and Armitage, who had retrieved a lamplighter's pole from the niche behind one of the naiads. Lucy, Daisy, Carlin, and Pritchard went next, with Howell bringing up the rear, making sure all the gas fixtures were safely turned off.

Carlin went first down the steps. “I'll catch you if you slip,” he told Lucy and Daisy.

Pritchard was close behind Daisy. One hand on the railing, she looked back to say to him, speaking loudly, over the sound of falling water, “Such a good idea to illuminate the cascade. I'm glad you persuaded us to come out in the dark.”

“So am I,” he said with a grin, “even though you spoilt my little surprise.”

“I shan't spoil the surprise when I write about your ghostly hermit,” she promised. “Unless you'd rather I gave away the secret so that you don't get too many people coming to see the ghost for themselves?”