Cavendon Hall (22 page)

Immediately, Hugo ran to the next stall, where DeLacy’s horse, Dreamer, was also panicked and rearing up on its back legs. He released the latch, opened the door, and another horse sped away, heading after Greensleeves.

As he moved on to the third stall, he heard Charles shouting, “Miles, get the fire extinguishers! Guy, pull out the pump and hose. We’ve got to stop the fire spreading! Walter, help him.”

Charles ran up to Hugo. “Thanks for that warning. If you hadn’t seen the blaze all of this would have soon burnt to the ground.”

“I couldn’t sleep, and got up. Lucky, wasn’t it? When I saw the flames, everything I knew from my childhood rushed back to me. I knew I had to get here as fast as possible to save the horses.”

Charles nodded, and then, when he saw Hanson running into the yard, followed by two footmen, he cried, “Please rescue Dulcie’s little Shetland pony in the stall here, Hugo. I’ll get Hanson and the footmen to free the horses on the other side of the yard. We must move them into the meadows for their safety.”

“Shall I take the pony into the fields?” Hugo asked.

“Good idea,” Charles shouted over his shoulder, already on his way to give Hanson and the footmen their instructions.

*   *   *

Within three hours all of the flames had died down, most of the stalls had been hosed and cleaned out, and the burnt and wet hay removed. Most importantly, none of the horses had been hurt, or injured in any way.

The stable boys, who lived in the annex near the estate offices at the far end of the stable block, had arrived soon after the fire started. Awakened by the furor, they had quickly come tumbling and running onto the scene. And they had done their fair share of work. Eventually, the horses had been led back to the yard, carefully examined, and then put in their stalls where they were watered and fed.

As the stable lads sat drinking their mugs of hot sweet tea and eating bacon sandwiches, they talked amongst themselves, wondering aloud how the fire had started. It had been huge. Hanson, Walter, and the two footmen were doing the same thing in the servants’ hall. The fire was a mystery to them all; therefore it stayed in their minds.

*   *   *

Once they had cleaned themselves, and changed their clothes, Charles, Guy, and Miles went down to the dining room for breakfast, where they found Hugo nursing a burnt hand. He had wrapped a towel around his fingers, but he kept anxiously looking at the burns, a frown on his face.

“Come on, old chap, let me take a look at that hand,” Charles said, striding over to his cousin at the other side of the dining table.

“It’s nothing serious, Charles, but it does sting a bit, I must admit.” He lifted the towel.

Charles nodded. “Wilson, Felicity’s lady’s maid, is a very good first-aid person. Miles, do me a favor, and go down to the kitchen. Ask Wilson to please come up and look at Hugo’s hand. I think she will have the right salve and a bandage.”

“Right away, Papa.”

“You’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Charles murmured. “They’re only surface burns. However, you were lucky.”

Hugo merely nodded. After a moment, he said, “I can’t fathom how that fire started … that hay wasn’t merely smoldering, it was really burning … like a great bonfire. You don’t think it was arson, do you?”

For a moment Charles was startled, and he sat up straighter, stared at Hugo. “It hadn’t crossed my mind. Why do you bring it up?”

“I thought of it when I was changing in my room. You see, Charles, I burnt my fingers on the metal latch, which was hot from the fire. The latch on the stall door wouldn’t open, and when I looked closer I saw a piece of wood wedged behind the latch. I had to take off my shoe and use it as a hammer, to get the wood out. Only then could I open the stall door.”

Charles gazed at him. A worried expression had now settled on his face. His brows drew together in a frown, and he shook his head. “Now why would anybody do that? A latch doesn’t have to be so tightly shut. The horse isn’t going to leave the stall. And you of all people should know that only too well. You grew up in the yard of your father’s stud in Middleham.”

“That’s why I wondered about the wedge. Which then led me to the thought of arson. Do you think you ought to call the police?”

“Perhaps I’d better, if only because of the insurance. Anyway, a fire must be reported.”

Twenty-eight

I
nspector Michael Armitage of the West Riding Police and his sidekick, Sergeant Tim Pollard, were standing in the stable yard with the Earl of Mowbray, surveying the stall where the fire had started.

“I wasn’t the first on the scene, Inspector,” Charles explained. “It was my cousin, Hugo Stanton. He was the one who saw the flames from his bedroom window, and he literally banged on my door, shouted ‘fire,’ and ran straight out here. Ah, here he is now.”

When Hugo came to a standstill next to Charles and the policemen, Charles introduced the three men to each other, and said to Hugo, “I was just explaining that you were the first on the scene.”

“That’s right,” Hugo agreed. “This particular stall was on fire, or rather, I should say a large bale of hay was burning furiously. Fortunately, the stall was empty. But there was a horse in the adjoining stall.”

“And so you released the horse before doing anything else, am I right about that, Mr. Stanton?”

“You are, Inspector. Greensleeves, the horse in this stall…” He moved toward the second stall, indicated it, and continued. “… the horse had been spooked, she was up on her hind legs, frightened out of her wits.”

He told the inspector how he’d discovered a piece of wood wedged behind the latch, and had knocked it out with his shoe. “I didn’t quite understand that, why it was there, since a horse isn’t going to move out of a stall, even if the door is open. I grew up in a professional yard, my father’s, and naturally I was puzzled. I suddenly wondered if the fire had been caused by arson. Perhaps someone with a grudge against the family? A person who had purposely trapped that horse.”

“I see what you mean. Tell me, Mr. Stanton, did you smell anything when you arrived, petrol perhaps? Anything like that?”

“No, nothing. Just the stench of burning hay. Do you agree with me that it might have been arson, Inspector?”

“In one sense I do, because I can’t quite fathom how hay would burst into flames of its own accord. Someone might have been out here in the stables, of course, having a smoke, and thrown the match away. Carelessly. But then I don’t think a smoldering match would start that kind of huge fire.” He turned to the earl, and said, “From what you told me earlier, it was a big blaze before you got here, Lord Mowbray.”

“Almost out of hand, and the second stall had already caught fire when I arrived with Walter Swann, my valet, and my sons. They tackled the fire with extinguishers and the water pumps, and when the butler and the footmen came we were able to control it.”

“No strangers seen on the property, Lord Mowbray?”

Charles shook his head. “Not the kind you mean, Inspector. However, we gave a supper dance last night, and we did have a number of guests. Approximately fifty friends. Naturally they came here in chauffeur-driven cars.”

“So, in a way, there
were
strangers on the estate. The chauffeurs,” Inspector Armitage asserted.

“That’s correct,” Charles replied. “But I seriously doubt that one of them came into the stable block and started a fire.”

“Where were the motorcars parked, m’lord?” Sergeant Pollard asked politely.

“Mostly at the front of the house, and down the front drive. However, there were fewer cars than you might think. You see, our fifty guests were mostly made up of married couples, and some brought their daughters. So there were a number of people in most of the motorcars.”

“I understand, m’lord,” Pollard answered.

Charles and Hugo walked around the yard with the two policemen, answering any questions they asked. But it was soon obvious that the professionals were at a dead end, just as Charles and Hugo had been earlier that morning. Quite simply there were no real clues which could point to arson. How the fire had started
was
a mystery, as it had been right from the beginning.

*   *   *

Hugo was sitting on the terrace, reading
The Times,
when suddenly Daphne was standing there next to him, as if she had walked up to him in silken slippers, so quietly had she arrived.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you, Hugo,” she said in her soft, light voice.

“No, no, not at all,” he answered, putting the paper down, pushing himself to his feet.

“I just wanted to thank you again for saving Greensleeves. Father gave her to me, and I love her,” Daphne explained, and then glanced at his bandaged left hand. “Does it hurt very much?”

He shook his head. “No, just a few burned fingers, nothing too bad. They’ll be healed in a couple of days, according to Dr. Shawcross. Please, sit down for a moment, won’t you?”

Smiling at him, she did so, settled back in the chair next to his. “I am in your debt. If ever you need anything, you must let me know.”

I need you. Marry me. Be my wife
 … Those were the sudden thoughts running through his head, but he did not turn them into words. Instead he said, “There is one thing I would like you to help me with, Daphne.”

She leaned forward slightly, and said swiftly, “Please, tell me what it is. Of course I’ll help you, Hugo.”

The scent of her freshly washed golden hair, the hint of roses emanating from her skin, the very closeness of her, made him feel weak. If he had to stand up at this moment, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He was also unable to speak. He simply stared into her deep blue eyes, smiling at her, and feeling dizzy, almost light-headed.

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “It’s you, Daphne. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes on.” A small smile flickered on his mouth, and lifting his hands in a helpless gesture, he said in a jocular manner, “I am your devoted slave and always will be.”

His joking tone and his exaggerated words made her laugh out loud, and she exclaimed, “Oh don’t be silly, Hugo! I’m just another girl, and there are several of us in this house.”

Leaning toward her, wanting to breathe in the intoxicating scent of her yet again, he said, “I’ll tell you a secret … it’s Dulcie who’s really enslaved me.”

This comment made her laugh even more, and then she murmured, “You haven’t told me what you want me to help you with.”

“Ah yes, that’s perfectly true.” Adopting a more serious tone, he explained, “Last night Aunt Gwendolyn told me there is a house I should see nearby, that I should go there this afternoon. And I was wondering if you would accompany me? I think a second pair of eyes is always necessary, and most helpful, especially when looking at bricks and mortar. Don’t you agree?”

“I do indeed, and I will certainly come with you. What is it called?”

“Whernside House, and it was the home of Lady Muschamp, widow of a local politician and member of Parliament. She died, a few months ago. Her daughter told Aunt Gwendolyn she would sell to me, if I wanted it.”

Daphne had a beatific expression on her face when she said, “I have only been there twice, but it is one of the most beautiful houses in Yorkshire. Not too far away from Cavendon, about twenty minutes in the motorcar. Have you checked that Gregg can take you there this afternoon?”

“I have indeed. I also mentioned it to your father, and he told me he will be here all day. Because of the fire, and other matters he has to attend to. What time shall we plan to go there, Daphne?”

“Immediately after lunch, I think. I know you’re going to fall in love with it, Hugo.”

I’m already in love. With you. Forever,
he thought, but did not utter a word. He was filled with longing for her, wanted to hold her to him, keep her close, keep her safe. Make her his. Stop it, he told himself sternly. Get ahold of yourself. And he did.

They sat on the terrace chatting about casual things, totally at ease with each other. And at one moment, Daphne couldn’t help thinking what a truly lovely man he was. And most engaging.

Twenty-nine

D
ownstairs in the kitchen, there was an edginess in the air: raw nerves, free-floating temperament, tiredness, and concern. Cook was well aware of this, and understood. The fire had upset everyone, and most of the staff had been up half the night, as she had herself. What an end to the gorgeous supper dance.

The mystery of how the fire had started was worrying, and she had already heard whispers and bits of gossipy talk about arson.

Now who would want to purposely set fire to the stable block and put those beautiful animals at risk? Only a maniac. Or somebody who harbored hatred for the family.

The latter did not seem possible to her. The earl was a fine man, a good employer, loyal to his workers. And he was honest, straightforward, and compassionate, felt responsible for everyone who worked on the estate, and those who lived in the villages of Little Skell, Mowbray, and High Clough. There wasn’t a better man alive, in her opinion, and Hanson and Mrs. Thwaites agreed with her, as did Olive Wilson, the countess’s maid.

They were the longtime employees, understood that Cavendon was a superior place to be in service. The family behaved impeccably, and never gave the staff problems. Tempers and tantrums were unheard of, unless little Dulcie was carrying on.

It was Mrs. Thwaites who squashed the idea that arson was involved, because she said there was no one alive who could possibly hold a grudge against Lord Mowbray.

They had gone along with her, put the matter to one side. But there were mutterings amongst the maids and the footmen. Although Nell Jackson had noticed that Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane were quiet on the subject, had attended to their duties efficiently, and in silence.

Cook knew Malcolm Smith was a troublemaker, a bit of a rabble-rouser, and that he had influence over Mary Ince and Elsie Roland, who seemed to think he was a matinée idol who had stepped off the London stage and into their midst, just to entertain them.