Arsenic For Tea: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery (A Wells and Wong Mystery) (3 page)

‘Goodness, how should I remember?’ asked Lady Hastings, who was busy trying to brush dog hair off her cape. ‘The agency, I suppose. There was a letter . . . Heavens, Daisy, why must you complain about your governesses? You know perfectly well that I can’t look after you.’

‘Quite obviously,’ said Daisy icily. I knew what lay behind the question. Daisy wanted to understand Miss Alston, and what made her so different – but there was no easy answer to that. Miss Alston kept on being privately interesting and publicly dull, and Daisy and I became more and more curious about her.

Lady Hastings, when she was not mysteriously on the telephone, spent all her time organizing Daisy’s birthday party – although it was quite obvious that the party was really going to be Lady Hastings’, not Daisy’s.

‘A children’s tea!’ said Daisy scornfully. ‘How old does she think I am?’

At least Daisy had been allowed to invite guests. Kitty and Beanie, from our dorm at Deepdean, were coming for the weekend, which made me glad. Being at Fallingford was making me think almost longingly of Deepdean’s scratchy blankets and smell of washed clothes and boiled food.

On Friday morning we were in the dining room, and I was halfway through a piece of toast (plum jam from Fallingford’s walled garden, butter from its herd of cows) when we heard the growl and crunch of a car on the drive outside.

Daisy stood up, leaving her kipper half eaten. ‘Kitty!’ she said. ‘Beanie!’ She shoved back her chair and went rocketing out into the hall. I followed her, still chewing and licking jam off my sticky fingers, turned left through the dining-room door – and went thumping straight into her back.

I yelped and grabbed at her cardigan to stop myself falling over. ‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘Whatever—’

Daisy had frozen, just like Millie with a rabbit in her sights. ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

I craned round her to see who she was speaking to. There, standing in the arch of the stone doorway, was a man. He was quite young for a grown-up, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist just like a man in an advertisement. He came into the hall, slouching fashionably, and I saw that his face was good-looking, his dark hair very smooth and his smile toothpaste-wide. He did not look at all the sort of man who might belong in the front hall of Fallingford House.

The man shone his teeth at Daisy. ‘You must be Daisy,’ he said. ‘The little birthday girl.’

‘Yes,’ said Daisy, coming forward to shake his hand with her prettiest smile – though I could tell that she was burning up with fury at being called
little
– and burning with curiosity to know who this man was, and how he knew her when she had never met him. Daisy, you see, hates to be at a disadvantage with anyone.

Then the dining-room door banged open again, and Daisy’s mother appeared behind us.

‘Mummy,’ said Daisy lightly, ‘who is this?’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Lady Hastings. Her voice had gone very shrill and her cheeks were pink. ‘How lovely! I wasn’t expecting you until later, Denis. Daisy dear, this is my friend Denis Curtis. He’s here for your party. Be nice to him.’

‘I
always
am,’ said Daisy, beaming up at Mr Curtis, and I knew that inside she was absolutely seething.

‘Your mummy and I are
very
good friends,’ said Mr Curtis, who seemed to be under the impression that we were seven.

‘Denis is
tremendously
clever,’ said Lady Hastings, batting at Mr Curtis’s arm with her fingers. ‘He’s in antiques, you know. He knows all about beautiful things. He’s going to look at some of the things at Fallingford this weekend. But . . . Daisy, I want all this to be a lovely surprise for your father. You mustn’t tell him.’

Despite herself, Daisy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’ she asked.

‘Yes!’ Lady Hastings’ voice was shriller than ever. ‘You know how sentimental he can be. But just think – how exciting, if some of those horrid old paintings turn out to be worth something after all! I can get rid of them and buy lovely new ones instead!’

This worried me. But what worried me even more was the way Mr Curtis was smiling at Daisy’s mother, and the way he kept his hand on her arm for far longer than was necessary. It was the sort of nasty grown-up thing that I do not understand . . . or understand, but wish I didn’t.

Then the drive crunched again – car tyres and feet – but when the door opened, it was still not Kitty or Beanie. A very large and broad old lady was standing there, her hair all done up in a puff around her head, a bedraggled fur and several scarves around her neck and none of her clothes matching.

‘MARGARET! DAISY!’ she shrieked, waving her arms and her scarves in the air. ‘I’M HERE!’

Lady Hastings turned round and looked at her, lips pinched together. ‘Hello, Aunt Saskia,’ she said. ‘Oh no, don’t bother to ask to come in. Denis, this is Saskia Wells, George’s aunt.’

Aunt Saskia came barrelling into the hall, shedding multi-coloured gloves and bits of fur, and squashed Daisy against her bosom. She did not seem to have noticed me.

‘DAISY!’ she cried again. ‘Where is your brother? Where is your dear father? And of course, it is your birthday! Twelve years old! Such a lovely age. I have a present for you – somewhere . . . unless – oh dear, I believe I have left it at the Bridesnades’. It was a scarf – at least, I think it was . . . Oh no, wait – here it is!’

And she dragged her hand out of the pocket of her cardigan. Clutched in it was a very small and crumpled square of fabric.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Aunt Saskia cried. ‘It’s silk. At least – I think it is. Unless it isn’t.’

‘Thank you, Aunt Saskia,’ said Daisy. ‘My birthday is tomorrow. I’ll be fourteen.’

‘Of course you will!’ said Aunt Saskia, blinking. ‘Of course it is. Didn’t I say so? And – goodness, who is this? Daisy – Daisy, dear’ – she pulled Daisy towards her again and muttered like a foghorn – ‘there seems to be
AN ORIENTAL
in your hall.’

She said it as though I were a bear, or a snake.

‘
I know
, Aunt Saskia,’ said Daisy. ‘This is
my friend
, Hazel. I
told
you about her. She’s a
guest
.’

‘Really!’ gasped Aunt Saskia. ‘
Such
goings-on! In my day it would never have been allowed.’

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ said Daisy politely. Aunt Saskia turned to Lady Hastings, and Daisy put her head close to mine and whispered, ‘In
her
day they shot servants and ate bread made out of wallpaper paste. The past is awful, only old people never realize it.’

I felt a bit comforted – but only a bit.

Then Miss Alston came out of the music room, where she had been preparing our lesson. We were to have a holiday on Saturday in honour of Daisy’s birthday, but up until then we had to work. One of the few similarities between Fallingford and Deepdean is that the grown-ups are all sure that it is dangerous to give children any free time. I think they worry we might get up to something awful.

Miss Alston saw Mr Curtis standing in the hallway, his suitcase at his feet. For one blink of an eye she stared at him, absolutely frozen. I was looking at her face, and saw the oddest expression on it – a sort of fierce determination, as though she had found something to do, and could not wait to do it. Then her usual blank expression was back. Her fingers tightened around the straps of her fat brown handbag, and she swung round and marched back into the music room again. The movement must have caught Mr Curtis’s eye, and he looked after her, puzzled.

That was odd
, I thought to myself. From Miss Alston’s expression, I assumed that she knew Mr Curtis – but Mr Curtis did not seem to recognize her at all. Of course, he had only seen the back of her head and the set of her shoulders, but that ought to be enough. And anyway, why would a square, serious woman like Miss Alston know a fashionable, smooth man like Mr Curtis? This made Miss Alston seem odder and more interesting than ever – and made Mr Curtis more interesting too. I glanced at Daisy, and saw that she had noticed it as well. She was gazing at Mr Curtis with her blankest expression. I could almost feel her thinking,
Suspicious
.

Lord Hastings came in from the garden, brushing leaves and cold air off his Barbour jacket. He stared around in astonishment. ‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘Hullo! Guests! Aunt Saskia, how delightful. And . . . who might you be?’ He looked at Mr Curtis under his beetling white brows and stuck out a fat pink hand for him to shake.

‘Denis Curtis,’ said Mr Curtis. ‘Friend of your wife’s. Met at a London party a few months ago. She invited me.’

There was a smirk in his voice behind the word
friend
. We all heard it. My heart sank. Lord Hastings cleared his throat and didn’t look at Lady Hastings. ‘Splendid,’ he said hollowly. ‘How splendid. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, what?’

‘I’m sure I shall.’ Mr Curtis’s voice glowed with laughter. ‘Such a beautiful old house. Unique. I can’t wait to take the tour.’ He flashed his teeth at Lady Hastings as he said this.

‘Of course,’ said Lord Hastings. ‘Of course. Margaret, do— What I mean to say is – I think I shall go and sit in the library for a while. Saskia, will you join me?’

I could feel the misery coming off Lord Hastings as he led Aunt Saskia into the library, calling, ‘Chapman! Ho, Chapman!’

I did not like smug, rude Mr Curtis at all, I decided, and from the way Daisy was vibrating with anger next to me, I could tell that she felt the same. There was something about the way his voice kept nearly laughing, as though he was telling a private joke, and the way Daisy’s mother’s cheeks were turning pink . . . Something was Going On.

The front door creaked open again, and everyone in the hall turned.

‘Hello?’ said Kitty. ‘We did knock, but no one came. Beanie couldn’t lift her case, so it’s still outside. I say, are we late?’

For a while I thought that the house party might be complete – but then, just after we had all finished lunch (cold chicken and new potatoes, with a splendidly oozing rhubarb trifle for afters), the last guest arrived. He flashed up to the front door in a blaze of glory, a silver car with a nose like a space rocket, and leaped out, leaving the engine still running, waving his arms and shouting. It was Lady Hastings’ brother, Daisy’s uncle Felix, and he was just as young and glamorous as his sister.

There had been so many rumours about him at Deepdean – that he was a secret agent, that he had saved Britain single-handed, twice, and received a letter from the King thanking him – that when I saw him it was as though I was looking at a character from a book. It did not help that he looked alarmingly like one of the better-looking heroes from a spy novel. His blond hair was slicked back, his suit was perfectly pressed, he had a gorgeously bright silk square in his buttonhole and a little glittering monocle screwed into his left eye.

He left the car for O’Brian to take round to the old stables and dashed up the front steps, where the four of us were standing (Kitty goggling the way I wanted to, and Beanie saying, ‘
Ooh!
’ in excitement), bent down and kissed Daisy’s hand. ‘Hello, Daisy,’ he said, winking at her.

‘Hello, Uncle Felix,’ said Daisy, curtseying and winking back.

Uncle Felix seemed to know the right thing to do at all times. He kissed my hand as well, and Kitty’s and Beanie’s, and Kitty got quite giddy (I nearly did too). Then he went rushing through Fallingford greeting the others. He thumped Toast Dog and Millie’s behinds, punched Bertie lovingly on the shoulder, shook hands with Stephen, gently kissed Lady Hastings’ cheek, clapped Lord Hastings on the back and bowed to Aunt Saskia. Mr Curtis only got a very stiff and distant handshake – and a very assessing look. Watching them together made me see again just how wrong Mr Curtis was. They were both as handsome as each other, but Mr Curtis was all brash and rude and ugly inside, while Uncle Felix seemed to glow in a way that made you want to stare and stare at him.

Mr Curtis sauntered away, muttering something about looking at paintings upstairs, and Daisy stood on tiptoe and began to whisper crossly into Uncle Felix’s ear. I knew she was telling him the story of Mr Curtis’s arrival. He raised an eyebrow – even his eyebrows were elegant – and said something in a low voice.

‘He told me not to worry,’ Daisy whispered when she came back to stand beside me, the wrinkle that always appears when she is concerned by something showing at the bridge of her nose. ‘He says it’s nothing. Uncle Felix is very rarely wrong, but all the same . . .
you
know.’

I nodded. It had not
sounded
like nothing.

‘At least he’s here now,’ Daisy went on, gazing after her uncle as he climbed the stairs to his room. ‘He’ll make sure that everything’s all right . . . At least— Oh, I don’t like it! Why didn’t he believe me just now? It’s not like him at all!’ She folded her arms across her chest and scrunched up her nose more than ever. I didn’t know what to say.

Oddly, the only person who seemed to make Uncle Felix’s good manners desert him was Miss Alston. They met in the hallway, when Miss Alston came to collect us for afternoon lessons: the moment Miss Alston caught sight of him she went all uncomfortable and stiff. Her awkwardness seemed to infect him, and they shook hands like automatons, Uncle Felix squinting through his monocle and Miss Alston sticking her chin out.

‘Daisy’s uncle, I presume,’ said Miss Alston coldly. ‘Delightful. If you’ll excuse me – come along, girls . . .’

She strode away into the music room, and we had to follow. I looked back and saw Uncle Felix with his eyebrow raised, staring at nothing. He seemed quite amused, although I could not see the joke. Was Miss Alston really immune to his charm? It made her seem stranger than ever. And why had he not been as polite to her as he had been to the rest of us? I had the feeling that they did not like each other – but why? It was yet another mystery in what was becoming a very mysterious weekend.

That evening, Daisy, Kitty, Beanie and I dressed for dinner in the nursery on the top floor. This is where Daisy sleeps – and where we were all staying during our visit. It was very odd, putting on our best shiny dresses in such a shabby old room: the patterned wallpaper is peeling off in strips, the rag rugs are frayed and the bed-frames are battered, as though they’ve been beaten with hammers. Candlelight from candles in holders shone on our faces and arms, and made our dresses look soft and faded. Daisy’s was rose shot silk, and I could feel the rest of us coveting it, me especially – even though rose makes me look ill and pale, like a goblin child.