Down the Garden Path (30 page)

“So now what do you do? What do we both do? Stand wringing our hands?” I wasn’t sure that I liked her any better, but I felt a closeness to her, a trust. I scraped a knife over the butter and started spreading. “My dad says guilt is nothing but an excuse for doing nothing to change things. If you and I want to make some return to the Tramwells for imposing on them, then we must find the murderer so their lives can return to normal. Unless you think one of them did it?”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“No.” And I meant it.

She pushed the butter dish closer and her lips curved slightly upwards. “And perhaps I am wrong in what I fear.”

I was afraid to ask her what she meant in case she said Harry’s name. She continued: “I have always thought the police labour under a decided disadvantage, coming in as they do at the last scene while we have been here for the entire performance.”

“Only if we believe that the source of the murder is here—in Flaxby Meade,” I said.

“You knew Angus Hunt; is there any other possibility?”

“I don’t think so.” Placing sliced corned beef on top of bread, I told her about the reason behind Angus’s visit to Cloisters. Perhaps that was foolish of me, and I faltered when I saw a glimmer of relief in her eyes. “I told you,” I said, “that I don’t believe the Tramwells are guilty. But I am convinced that the card games are in some way the reason for Angus’s death.”

“Godfrey, that squelchy creep.” She was slicing cucumber. “He would be capable of almost anything if someone threatened to take away his toys.”

“And his mother would kill without a qualm to keep him happy.”

“Who else was at that game?”

“A Mr. Whitby-Brown, a man named Fritz Wortter, and a clergyman.”

The knife had slipped and blood beaded up from the tip of one of her fingers. As she ran her hand under cold water, I asked, “When you spoke about seeing a game of patience in the crystal, was that just gibberish to turn everyone’s mind from what Primrose and Mr. Deasley had just revealed?”

“No.” She turned off the tap. “I felt it—an overpowering sense of watchful waiting.”

I had felt it in the garden. Someone hidden behind the bushes, biding his time. And that was before Angus had come to Cloisters.

“Patience is also the gypsy’s stock in trade. We get a lot of doors slammed in our faces.”

“When did you ever peddle wax flowers door to door?” My voice was irritated.

“I didn’t mean that kind of door. I wonder if that shrewd Inspector Lewjack will recognize the type of mind he is up against? Or if Mr. Hunt’s having only recently appeared on the scene will lead him to suppose this is a crime of mad impulse?”

Our hands touched as we placed sandwiches on a plate. “Gamblers,” I said, “are creatures of impulse.”

Chantal looked up at the clock on the wall. “At this moment, I am more worried about Butler than the Tramwells. If his interview with the inspector had concluded he would be out here. I warned him that he should be straightforward about his activities last night and about his shoes, but he was so unsettled by his feeling that anything he might say about his life at Cloisters would shed unpleasant light upon—”

“His past?”

“Upon the Tramwells, revealing them as a pair of eccentric old ninnies. He is absolutely devoted to them. You know he came here to burgle, and their only complaint was that he smoked on the job and didn’t wash up after making himself a cuppa. I truly believe Butler would die for them.”

“At least Primrose has an alibi.” I arranged sliced cucumber and tomato on a glass dish. My voice petered out; I was recalling the murderous look in Hyacinth’s eyes when she looked at Mr. Deasley. Under normal circumstances I would have been horribly shocked myself. I picked up the dish, Chantal reached for it, and between us we nearly dropped it.

“We should get these sandwiches in, I can come back for the tea,” Chantal said as she loaded up a tray. “But I do want to say something to you about Harry.” Her face was turned slightly away from me—and that perfect profile could still rile me. “I can understand your shock at discovering the truth about him, but misguided or not, he—”

“I don’t want to listen to anything about Harry.” Her making excuses for him put me on the outside of their closeness. How long had I had this headache? It was a pressure on the top of my skull, so powerful that I was sure my forehead must look like corrugated paper.

“Did you ever listen to him, or were you too busy sobbing out your tales of woe? I listen”—her lips moved into a slow self-mocking curve—“when he talks about you. I love him. I’ve loved him for a long time; didn’t I say that gypsies are good at patience? So be warned—when you have driven him away, I will be waiting for him.”

“In his bed, I suppose. Oh, I’m sorry; I was forgetting our little truce.” The furrows in my brow were now deep enough for the planting of seeds, as Fergy would have said. If only I could see her, see Dad; but most of all I wished I could see Mum—hold on to her and tell her all about Harry.

“I wasn’t forgetting our truce,” said Chantal. “A week ago I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I almost like you, and I want to be fair with you.” Brushing stray bread crumbs into the sink she handed me a tray, picked up another, and without further talk we went out into the hall.

Harry was coming towards us past the portrait gallery, and I seethed as he took Chantal’s tray. “Don’t speak.” I glared as he elbowed the sitting room door open for me. Chantal returned to the kitchen to make tea. “You might break a blood vessel in your tongue.”

“Know something, Tessa?” He looked tired. “I’ve spent a long time loving you, and I guess I’m finally bored with the whole stupid business.”

My lips pried apart. “Suits me.”

“Splendid. But should you ever chance to change your mind, you will have to be the one who comes running with the ring in the velvet box. All right, sweetheart?”

Never. I would never grovel. Especially to a man I didn’t want anyway. And he needn’t stand there like one of those damned Regency heroes glowering down his arrogant nose at me. Those dark blue eyes of his couldn’t throw me into a fit of the transports or convince me that my life would be total emptiness without him. I had Dad, I had Fergy, and I
would
have my mother. She would fill any void. I was sure I was right in what I suspected. I would talk to Maude; she would tell me the truth. But what if ... what if my mother’s life had no voids? Would she want a stranger bursting in upon her world? In giving me a new life, hadn’t she earned one for herself?

“A shallow pair, aren’t we? intruding our personal disputes into the midst of murder and mayhem?” Harry edged my tray to one side and set his down.

“Considering you are the walking definition of the word shallow—” I began, but mayhem was re-emerging with the opening of the sitting-room door. Hyacinth, Primrose, and the other witnesses had been congregating in the parlour, assuming that was where luncheon was to be served. But when I explained that Chantal and I had automatically returned here, Primrose absently patted me on the arm, saying that informality was much cosier.

The mood wasn’t cosy. Butler was still incarcerated in the library, or so we believed. Barely had Chantal appeared with an assortment of teapots and we had begun filling our plates than Inspector Lewjack ambled into the room with Constable Watt in tow.

My mind focussed on incidentals. The wrinkles in Maude’s blue dress, Mr. Deasley’s red nose, Hyacinth’s earrings hanging motionless against her neck, Godfrey still holding the volume on art, Mrs. Grundy opening up her sandwich to peer inside, Bertie ... What had he wanted to tell me?

“Mr. Jones has agreed to accompany us down to the station to clear up a few remaining points,” announced the inspector.

Jones! My surprise was not that Butler was being taken away, but that his name was Jones.

“Oh, but surely we haven’t made you feel so unwelcome that you have to rush away,” protested Primrose. “The library is at your disposal for as long as you wish, and as for Butler, I cannot see that he could possibly be of the least use to you in your enquiries.”

“Miss Tramwell is right, you know,” decreed Mrs. Grundy. “I’m sure you won’t get a word out of him at the police station. He’ll get lockjaw, remembering what it’s like behind bars.” That woman!

“Just doing our job,” said Constable Watt.

Ten minutes after the official departure, the luncheon party broke up. We all gravitated to the hall, informal departures by way of the French windows being socially inappropriate in a house of death. Hyacinth and Primrose were both grey with fatigue. Neither looked at the other as, echoing general farewells, they went up to their rooms. Harry was standing talking to that other gay blade, Mr. Deasley. Godfrey disappeared to use the phone, and his mother fished in her bag for change to pay for the call. Maude, buttoning her cape at the neck, came up to me.

“I am glad the Misses Tramwell are going to get some rest. Too much for them, all this, at their age. Terrible. The memories it must bring back of Lily’s death. Police in the house then, too—and that dreadful inquest! They never talk about it, but ...” Bertie had sidled up and was clinging to her hand, whispering something. “Shush,” she admonished gently. “I know you want to talk to Miss Fields, dear, so do I—when there are less people around. Remember the man who died was her friend.”

Would Maude’s talk deal with the immorality of feigning illness? What had the Tramwells told her? A hammer started beating inside my head. Bertie had said she had asked him if I reminded him of anyone. Did she mean a man or a woman? But I couldn’t wonder about my father now—I wasn’t up to it.

“What is said about Lily’s death?”

“Nothing much now. Gossip fades.” She touched back that strand of hair that kept falling over my forehead. “You should get some rest yourself, dear, or you won’t be of use to anyone, and I do think you are the best therapy for those two ladies. Nothing like someone young about the house.” She smiled down at Bertie.

“You take care of yourself and Bertie. Do you have someone he can stay with while you are working?” I was tired. I felt like crying.

“I’m going to take him on my rounds for the rest of the day, and the Tramwells did say we could spend the night here if I think there is any likelihood of my being called out. Very kind of them, I thought.”

“Very kind,” I said.

Bouncing up and down against Maude’s arm, Bertie oohed, “Can we really stay here?” Not a boy consumed with fear that the murderer might seek to silence him before he remembered who fitted that murderous shadow in the walk. But if I were Maude, I would not sleep until the case was closed. For that matter I doubted the murderer would get much rest knowing that Bertie’s very vital subconscious—Fred—might come alive at any minute. Of course, it was possible that the net was already being drawn over the murderer’s head ... that Butler was the one ...

Only Mr. Deasley displayed signs of a struggle in making his departure. He was still casting anguished bassett-hound glances up the staircase as he followed the Krumpets and Grundys out the door. A week ago I wouldn’t have believed that an elderly man could be passionately in love with anyone, but I myself had aged a lot. I thought of Dad and Vera’s sister, hoping that Fergy would put her foot down—and yet I did want him to be happy. Nothing could change the way he felt about Mum.

Harry’s farewell to me was brief—a mere pause in his offering to give Chantal a lift into the village in the Tramwell hearse on his way home. The motorbike was temporarily out of commission, and my heart almost softened towards him when I heard him telling Chantal that he had hitchhiked here last night. Then I asked myself why she was leaving the house. Only one good reason sprang to mind, and I hoped the horses rushed to welcome Harry back by biting off huge chunks of his anatomy.

What would Dad think if I became a nun? I pictured myself wan but alluring in my habit and felt faintly cheered. I would begin my life of penance with the washing up. Totally irresponsible of Chantal to leave me to it, but I would grow inured to the selfishness of others. She probably never did the washing up anyway. I had seen Butler at the sink.... What was happening to him now? Could it be that Chantal had gone down to the police station to try to see him? Now she was making me feel ashamed of my prurient thoughts.

Someone had to prepare the evening meal. I discovered a pork roast and shoved it, surrounded by onions, leeks, and potatoes, into a slow oven. Would Butler be home for dinner? The clock on the wall dauntingly informed me that it was after four. Could listing his aliases be what was taking so long? I closed the doors on the Welsh dresser from which I had taken the casserole dish, and looked at the step-ladder leaning beside it. Had Butler stood upon it yesterday morning and listened with his ear to the hatchway to what Angus was saying? The same could be true of Chantal. She would then have had to go through the garden and enter the library via a window. Had I been foolish to begin to trust her where Harry was not concerned?

Minnie scratched at the door and I let her in. “If you weren’t such a close-mouthed female, you could tell us a lot.” I broke up left-over sandwiches and tossed them into her Chinese bowl. “This is an incongruous house—the Tramwells gambling for a livelihood yet here you sit, you revolting hound, gobbling up your grub from a vessel most people would lock away behind glass doors.” The bowl reminded me that I had not yet finished reading that elevating book,
The Tramwell Family,
and that I
did
want to know more about Sinclair.

As I went by the portrait gallery, I thought about the picture I had seen in the attic, looked up, and met Tessa’s eyes. Today, they seemed sad, as if she knew all that had happened and wished to comfort me.

I found the volume where I had left it in my room and settled down for a read. Make that
tried
to settle. My head still ached dully. I found the chapter on Sinclair, but he did not fit my image of swashbuckling pirate leaping from a chandelier to steal a giant ruby out of some maharajah’s turban. No, indeed! He had replanted twenty elms and sired seven children. (Was that in order of importance? Yawn.) He had given money to the church even though he had not attended regularly, due to his travels. (And an allergy to prayer books, I’ll bet!) On those travels Sinclair had attempted to impart the joys of English civilization to the heathens. Another yawn and the book ruffled shut—but I mustn’t fall asleep reading it as I had done last time. The roast might shrivel.