Down the Garden Path (35 page)

As usual at the mention of her name Minnie lurched up off her blanket, barking hysterically.

Hyacinth coughed and her voice emerged unsteadily. “I am not angry with you, dear. On the contrary, I am extremely proud.” She turned to me. “I feel you have something else to tell us, Tessa.”

“It’s about details,” I said. “I think that Mr. Deasley got carried away with details. He shouldn’t have taken the watch. He should have left it and admitted that Angus came to his shop and bought it, but I suppose he was afraid the police would make something out of that visit.”

“How do you know Hunt bought his watch from Deasley?” asked Harry.

“Well, I don’t for certain, but I remember Hyacinth or Primrose saying that Mr. Deasley specialized in timepieces, and as his is an antique shop, and Mr. Hunt never passed a small village antique shop without indulging in adding to his collection, I think I’m right.”

“I think you h’are, miss.” Butler’s expression was almost jolly. “Ever since I met him, I have thought the gentleman in question a very nasty customer, fawning over my ladies like they was a couple of fancy pieces propping up a wall at the Palais.”

“Now, Butler,” said Hyacinth, “please get on with what you have to say.”

He murmured an apology and looked at Harry. “You, sir, and the young lady, I dare say, do not know how I spend my h’evenings out, but I occupy myself in the perusement of h’architecture. Meaning I keep my hand in, professionally speaking.”

His words sank in slowly. “You don’t mean burglary?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking.” Butler adjusted his cuffs. “You see, miss, it’s in my blood, and for all I’ve tried to put the past behind me since coming to Cloisters, there has been the occasional lapse. It’s the thought of all those years of h’apprenticeship going to waste, my father always said he would rise from his grave if any of his h’offspring went straight. Fortunately, when I discussed the matter with them, the Misses Tramwell were most understanding.”

“How nice,” I said weakly.

“It were Miss Hyacinth what devised the plan. One night a week I go out and case a particular premises, setting up a job, so to speak. Often I return to the same premises a dozen times, checking on the comings and goings of the h’inhabitants, doing the rounds of the doors and winders. All merely practice, you understand, quite harmless ...”

“Harmless? When someone pops up in bed and catches you leering at them through the window?” I said.

Harry cupped his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. “Last night were you casing Deasley’s place?”

“Precisely, sir. In the general way he is home of an evening, so I hadn’t previously had the pleasure of shinning up his ivy—very partial I am to ivy—but last night I passed him on the road to Cloisters and decided to indulge myself. Imagining myself stripping that place down to the last tea-cloth was an h’enormous pleasure, but when I shone my torch through one of the bedroom winders I saw a man seated in a chair, his back to me. As I looked he started to get up, and I slithered down that ivy at such a pace I lost one of my shoes.”

“Didn’t you think it odd at the time that Deasley would have gone out when he had a guest?” Harry asked.

“I imagined the man in the chair might have been a customer, interested in purchasing something from Cloisters, as that’s where Deasley had looked to be going sir. I never thought of him again until the question was raised as to where Mr. Hunt, rest his soul, spent last night.”

“You say you only saw the man from behind?” said Hyacinth.

“Yes, madame; but when he stood up, I saw that he was very large.”

“I’m becoming convinced.” Harry relit one of the candles that had blown out. “But we need a motive.”

“Oh, I’ve got that all figured out.” I shook back my hair and arched my neck to ease its growing stiffness. “It has to be something to do with antiques. The Heritage deals in more than pictures, and Mr. Hunt was highly knowledgeable about all kinds of valuable artifacts. My guess is that Angus suspected something at Cloisters was immensely valuable, and sensing in Mr. Deasley a kindred spirit—that shared interest in pocket watches, remember—confided in him.”

“I wonder if that is why Hunt said ‘tell them I’m sorry,’ ” said Harry. “He and Deasley chat in the shop; Deasley is all enthused at the Tramwells’ possible good fortune; Hunt agrees to check out his suspicions; and, if the news is good, return to Flaxby Meade that evening. He accepts an invitation to spend the night with Deasley, arrives, and is somehow put off from calling at Cloisters at once.”

“Deasley could easily have said they would be out,” Chantal said, speaking for the first time since she had broken the news about her relationship with Egrinon Snapper.

“He must have invented some excuse for going out himself.” I nibbled at a fingernail. “And then telephoned his house in the early hours saying he was at Cloisters and would Angus please come immediately to Abbots Walk, because one of the sisters was threatening to hang herself from one of the elms.”

Drawing herself up in outraged hauteur, Hyacinth snorted, “I am rather disappointed in Mr. Hunt, if such is the case, for believing such twaddle. Neither Prim nor I would make so rude a spectacle of ourselves in a public place.”

Harry turned to Chantal. “You talked about a game of patience. I wonder ... I wonder if Deasley already knew that there was this valuable ‘whatever’ in the house. That would account for the frequency of his visits. A man biding his time until he could get his claws on the grand prize.”

“He certainly paid us very fairly—even handsomely—for all the furniture, silver, and books he bought from us.” Hyacinth’s eyes gleamed like jet under the hooded lids. “When it comes to money, Primrose and I do have our heads screwed on right. We did a deal of checking as to market values before letting Mr. Deasley handle our sales.”

“As he must have guessed you would—at first. But have you been as cautious lately? Patience would seem a pretty sound investment. Would you have disbelieved him at this time if he had told you a certain item was worth very little?” asked Chantal.

“Probably not,” sighed Primrose, eyes misting as she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “Particularly if it were something that we would prefer to let go over something else. Having always lived among old things, we don’t have the
nouveau-riche
appreciation of antiques, whereas Clyde craves history in his hands. To think! Even when it came to murder he could not resist putting on a pageant.”

“Especially when doing so focussed attention on Cloisters until Mrs. Grundy became a handy scapegoat,” I said.

“Godfrey murdered presumably because he guessed the culprit.” Harry looked at me. “What did Godfrey have to say for himself when you went over to Cheynwind?”

“Oh, my dear ...  when did you go?” asked Primrose.

I told them everything, wondering as I did so if the police had found the fish knife and whether it still represented a danger to the Tramwells. From their faces I knew they were wondering the same, but Harry concentrated on something else.

“You say he mentioned the possibility of coming into unexpected wealth. That, coupled with his expecting a guest at a time when all the servants were off the premises, sounds like he was about to indulge in a spot of blackmail. Grundy guessed that Deasley was the murderer—but did he also know why Hunt was killed?”

The electric lights flared on, causing us all to blink rapidly. For about ten minutes we sat pondering what we could do to bring Mr. Deasley to justice. The small difficulty we faced in accomplishing this end was that we had absolutely no evidence and the police had batty Mrs. Grundy. Butler went out and made cocoa, and when this had been drunk it was agreed that we would all think better after a few hours of sleep.

Harry offered to spend the night at Cloisters but the sisters grew quite flustered at the idea. They had no bed to offer him and would not hear of his sleeping on the sofa. Plausible. But I think the real reason they were so opposed to the idea was that they thought it unseemly for a single gentleman to sleep under the same roof as two young females. They need not have worried on my account, and I’m sure the only reason I was irritated by their antiquated attitude was that it was so utterly snobbish. (Butler no threat to virtue because he was a servant. Huh!)

Bidding Harry a cold goodnight in the hall I watched him walk out the front door without a pang. He was not the least necessary to my security. Maude was in the nursery, and if any danger threatened during the night we would manage very well. As I started up the stairs, Primrose handed me a brass poker. I saw that she was equipped with its twin, whilst Hyacinth wielded a toasting fork. Surely they didn’t think that Deasley would ...? The baby alligator grinned down at me from his shelf on the landing. I no longer thought him adorable. His smile was very much like Mr. Deasley’s. The urge to run back down those stairs, throw open the front door, and pelt after Harry receding in the hearse reared up inside me. But I had promised never to run after him, never beg him to shield me from the wicked world, never beg him to love me. But surprisingly the sisters kissed me goodnight, and I felt somewhat comforted as I went down to the nursery. Maude was asleep when I went in—would it be selfish to wake her? I tiptoed up to her bed, reached out a hand and then drew it back. Tomorrow. Bertie was breathing in short gruff little snores in the bed nearest the window. The bright orange of his pyjamas clashed with his hair. Did he know anything about his origins? Did he care?

As I sat on my bed, kicking off my shoes and unbuttoning my blouse, Maude turned over, opened her eyes, and sat up. She had brushed out her hair, and I was embarrassed as if I had caught her naked. Long flowing locks did not fit the everyday woman. I stared at her, not knowing what to say, and yet not wanting this opportunity to pass without asking her about my origins.

Moving over slightly, she patted the edge of her bed. She was wearing a pink flannel nightgown of the kind that Fergy favoured. “Come and sit here and tell me what has been happening. Something must have occurred if you are only now coming to bed.”

I told her about Godfrey’s death and Mrs. Grundy’s arrest, debated whether I should reveal our suspicions of Mr. Deasley, and decided that in fairness to her and Bertie someone must. She agreed with me that Mrs. Grundy would never have killed Godfrey under any circumstances but seemed dubious about Mr. Deasley’s culpability.

“Aren’t you all making rather a lot out of his interest in antiques and in Mr. Hunt’s being in a similar field? And his having an overnight guest who may or may not have been Mr. Hunt? Should a man be condemned because he is a flatterer and a bore?”

Was she right? Were we rushing to convict Mr. Deasley because we were afraid to look too closely at other candidates? I explained to her about Fred and her response was that, to her mind, the attempt to eliminate him pointed to an outsider.

“Isn’t it possible that one of the other card players the other night had a grudge against Mr. Hunt?”

Of course it was possible—anything was possible. Herr Wortter also had a grudge against Primrose. Had I been wickedly, dangerously arrogant in pointing the finger at Mr. Deasley? Where was Herr Wortter now? Did he, like Whitby-Brown, have an alibi for the time of Angus’s murder? Frowning, I twined a curl around one finger and looked into Maude’s blue eyes.

“You’re wrong,” I said. “I do have a reason for hoping the murderer isn’t a local man, but ...”

“What reason?”

Bertie stirred and we both watched until he burrowed back down into his pillow and the snores started again.

“I am afraid that one of the local men may be my father.” I was clenching and unclenching my hands. “The Tramwells may not have told you about my history or why I came to Cloisters, and I know this is not a good time ...”

“Tessa dear, they didn’t have to tell me anything, I realized who you were almost immediately.” She sat up straighter. “The likeness to your father is quite strong. A local man, yes but not Deasley; forget that fear.” She studied my face. “And surely you didn’t suspect Godfrey Grundy ... no, no, my dear. Never in a thousand years.”

“You must have delivered hundreds of babies”—my voice was barely a whisper—”but did you ... do you see anything of the baby I was in me now?” Why couldn’t I ask her the most important question of all?

She reached out and picked up my hands, gripping them tightly. “Tessa, before Violet took you that morning to leave at the vicarage, she stood in the doorway holding you up. ‘The best and prettiest baby in the world,’ she said. Dear Violet. I am glad she is happy; she deserved to be ...”

I was numb, unable to think or feel. All the years of wondering, waiting ...

A violent scratching at the door caused me to jerk away, and by the time I made it across the room Minnie was barking, small, puppyish, yelping barks. Exploding through the door she surged in a flying leap onto Maude’s bed and then dived for my ankles. I tried to hush her but she became more excited, tugging at my skirt, urging me back towards the door.

“Maybe she didn’t get fed,” I said. And it was strangely comforting to know that in the midst of profound revelations life went on as usual. I was being given time to draw myself back together before asking Maude those many important questions. Any minute Bertie and the rest of the household would be awake. “I’ll run down to the kitchen and drop a few biscuits in her bowl, won’t take a jiff.”

“I would come with you, but I don’t want Bertie to wake and find me gone.” She was standing, the pink flannel nightgown clinging to her stocky form, the long hair making her look oddly pathetic.

“Count to a hundred and I will be back.” Smiling over my shoulder I followed Minnie out into the hallway. Flipping a light switch I hurried towards the stairs. Minnie was already halfway down, still whining and yipping. What if hunger wasn’t her problem? Suddenly I was frightened, terribly frightened. This house was so large. So many nooks and crannies where anyone could hide. How stupid of me to have forgotten the poker. I hesitated, ready to run back to the safety of the nursery. Then I heard a creak; a creak that was definitely a footstep behind me. Another and another, closing the gap. Run, Tessa. My hand left the bannister rail and I whirled down those curving slippery, wooden stairs. A voice called out from above, and I sped faster. Too fast— I was falling, my arms flailing out, searching for the rail.