Malice in Miniature (6 page)

She clicked away with her mouse, layering one incomprehensible display atop another.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” I lied earnestly. “Very impressive, indeed. I can see how entering the data must be tiresome, though, with so many thousands of separate items.”

“That's the snag, of course, especially when Sir Mordred keeps on changing—”

She stopped abruptly, and I chuckled.

“It's all right, you don't have to say it. Even I had the impression Sir Mordred was—shall we say—tampering with history a little now and then. I always thought museums did as little restoration as possible.”

Meg sighed gustily. “
Proper
museums. But here, I'm afraid—not that the work isn't well done; he's extremely skilled. And of course it's
his
collection, so in a way I have no right to complain. But as curator I can't help being annoyed when an eighteenth-century baby house is fitted out with as many twentieth-century reproductions, or antiques from another source, as miniatures that came with the house originally—and nothing to show which are which. The guides do tell people, of course; it's part of their speech. At least, they do if I'm told. Sometimes he puts things in the houses, things he's made or bought, and forgets to tell me.”

She reminded me of a kitten, young and fluffy and extremely serious about her own importance. I hid my smile. “He did strike me as being somewhat absentminded. Did he tell you about the clock?”

“Clock?”

“He's just finished a grandfather clock for—let's see, I think he said one of the French rooms. I forget which century.”

“A long-case clock,” Meg corrected automatically, shaking her head with exasperation. “Probably for the Marie Antoinette house—he's nearly finished restoring it. He would have told me eventually, I suppose. He's always frightfully apologetic and promises never to do it again.”

“It's a beautiful piece of work.”

“Yes, it would be.” She sounded depressed.

“He also mentioned some thefts,” I said tentatively.

“Nonsense! He's simply lost things and doesn't want to admit it. I've never believed in the thefts; the security is too good.” She frowned at the screen, entered a word or two, and looked back up at me.

I was forced to take the hint. “Heavens, my dear, I said I wouldn't take up your time and I've done nothing else. You won't mind if I look around?”

“I do have to get this done, I'm afraid, though I'd rather talk. Feel free.” She waved an airy hand and bent back to her work.

I wandered to a bookshelf and pulled down a volume at random. Taking it to a half-hidden table, I sat down and tried to think.

I'd gotten all I could out of Meg for now, it seemed, but friendly relations had been established, and I could find an excuse to try again. And if I were to accomplish anything, I'd certainly have to try again. So far I had very little material to ponder. In fact, the afternoon had produced no information except that Mrs. Cunningham didn't believe in any thefts, and that she disapproved of her employer and feared his housekeeper's son. The latter was probably irrelevant, since Claude had presumably been in London when the incident with the tea set occurred. Oh, yes, the tea set, that was another piece of information: It was worth a lot of money. But, I reminded myself, mostly because of its historical background, which also made it virtually unsaleable.

I gave it up. Inspiration might strike later. Meanwhile, Alan would be another half hour at least, and my book was copiously illustrated and unexpectedly interesting. I read on . . .

The knock on the door, when it came, startled me considerably; I dropped my book. The knock came again, louder.

With a glance my way, Meg went to the door. “Yes?” she said. “Who is it?”

I was also apprehensive about the answer. From my secluded corner I could hear no more than a murmur through the heavy oak panels, but Meg's shoulders relaxed and she opened the door. A man slipped inside.

Surely I only imagined that the room became a little brighter when he entered. Maybe it had something to do with the look on Meg's face. Certainly the man's face was as dark as any thundercloud.

“He's gone,” he said briefly. “Back to London. I thought you'd want to know. Now listen, Meg—”

She gestured toward me in my corner, just a nod, but the man lowered his voice. I retrieved my book and studied the two of them over the top of it.

He looked like a gardener. I would have bet he was Bob's boss, probably doing odd jobs inside on a day like this. His checked shirt and worn corduroy pants and tanned face spoke of the earth and the sun; his huge hands were made for handling a spade. And not only his hands were huge. He was constructed on a large scale altogether, including his deep voice, which was rising again.

“. . . won't have it, I say! How can you—”

Meg said something, briefly and very quietly, that shut him up completely. He shot a furious glance in my direction; I ducked down behind my book and heard the door slam.

I stood, a little creakily—the chair was very hard— and walked across the room.

“That, I gather, was a friend of yours,” I said.

Meg glared at the door through which he had passed. “Friend, ha! He can be so—” She shook her head in angry frustration and took a deep breath. “Anyway, Claude's left, thank God, so you can stop pretending to read that book, and leave.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn't mean that the way it sounded! Please don't—”

I laughed; I couldn't help it. “My dear girl, I, too, suffer from the habit of speaking first and thinking second. It isn't exclusively the province of the Irish, nor, I'm sorry to tell you, of the young. I know what you meant, and I was about to leave anyway. It's almost four o'clock, and my husband is joining me here for tea. So I'll scoot for the tearoom, if you can show me—”

“But you can't!” she said, dismay in her voice. “It isn't open today! With the terrible weather, we—Mordie said I should put off the tearoom volunteers . . .”

“Oh. Oh, dear. Well, then, I'd better go out and wait for Alan, so he won't bother to come in.”

I peered out the window. I could see, through the trees, a pond that was rapidly becoming a lake.

“Yes, but it's pouring, and—look, I've an idea.” She hesitated for a moment, then made up her mind. “Mrs. Hawes, the cook, does tea for the staff. Why don't you and your husband join us? There'll be plenty of food, if you don't mind eating in the kitchen.”

“Well—”

“Please. I'd enjoy your company, and anyway, I do
not
want to have to deal with Mrs. Lathrop alone. I need to try to keep the right side of her, and with guests, she won't be quite so . . .”

That settled it. I hated to disappoint Meg, whom I was beginning to like a good deal, but tea and polite conversation in Mrs. Lathrop's company—no thank you. I started to refuse the invitation, when somewhere in the distance I heard the shrill summons of an electric bell, and Meg brightened.

“That'll be your husband, I'm sure, and you wouldn't want to push him out into the wet again, would you now?”

She smiled, and those Irish eyes did it. She managed with a melting glance to convey that she would be devastated if I turned her down, and overjoyed if I accepted. I gave in. Alan would provide moral support, after all, and I might get in some useful conversation, even with the gorgon around. I went out to tell my long-suffering husband what was going on.

“I don't know what Sir Mordred is going to think of this arrangement,” I said in an undertone. Alan also looked dubious as Meg led us to the kitchen.

It was a cavernous room in the semi-basement, the high windows admitting little light even on the best of days, one suspected. On a rainy November afternoon, the atmosphere was so shadowy I was sucked back into my horror movie fantasy. I half-expected to see great torches stuck up in iron brackets on the walls, or sconces with dripping, sputtering candles. They might, at that, have been an improvement on the electric lights, single bulbs dangling from the ceiling on long wires, their dim rays obscured by little paper shades in an unfortunate blue-green that turned the air the color of dirty water.

We need not have worried about Sir Mordred's opinion; he was not, it seemed, to be present. “Oh, no,” said Meg, her eyes raised expressively heavenward. “He takes his tea in his office. A bit lonely if you ask me, but he's far too grand to mix in with the rest of us. No, with so few here today it'll just be Mrs. Lathrop and us. And Richard, of course.” Her eyes dropped. “Do be careful; the floor is a trifle uneven I'm afraid.”

We were shown to a large round oak table, covered in the kind of plush cloth I thought had gone out of fashion at the end of the last century. Its color, somewhere between moss and mud, fit nicely into the prevailing decorating scheme. I stole a glance at Alan, who shrugged eloquent shoulders behind Meg's back and held out a straight, hard chair for me.

“They're more comfortable than they look,” Meg said in an undertone. “Wicker seats, and unless you're unlucky enough to land one of the frayed ones, not too bad. And,” she went on in a suddenly louder voice, “I'm sure Mrs. Hawes is giving us something marvelous to eat.”

The lady in question clumped to the table as Meg finished speaking, a huge tray in her muscular arms. The sound she made as she put it down just escaped being a grunt.

“Not what I'd have done if anybody had bothered to tell me we were having guests,” she said, frowning portentously.

The tray was laden with sandwiches, scones, and a large fruit cake from which a few slices had been invitingly cut. We hastened to voice appreciation, and Meg attempted to placate. “But you've given us a feast, as usual, Mrs. Hawes.”

She sniffed. “And far more than is needed, as nobody bothered to tell me most of the staff wasn't here today, neither.” In heavy silence she brought another tray, with a teapot and its satellites, as well as large bowls of strawberry jam and clotted cream.

“I did mention something to Mrs. Lathrop,” Meg whispered, “but—”

Mrs. Lathrop chose that moment to make her entrance. The murky atmosphere did nothing to flatter her; nor did what was obviously a full-blown snit. Pushing the kitchen door open so hard it slammed against the wall, she approached the table, lips pressed together, breath coming in heavy gusts.

“I seem,” she said glacially, “to be intruding. I was under the impression that this was staff tea, but I gather it is a party.”

Alan stood courteously; I tried to smile. Meg, however, straightened up and met the steely glare with lifted chin and a glare of her own. The Irish was coming to the top.

“These are my guests, Mrs. Lathrop,” she said, the edge in her voice daring the housekeeper to speak. “Sit down and let me pour you some tea and introduce Mr. and Mrs.—Martin, I believe it is? This is Mrs. Lathrop, Sir Mordred's housekeeper.”

“We've met,” I said sweetly. I would have gone on to correct Alan's name, but he stepped on my foot and said, “I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Lathrop. Thank you for letting us share this excellent tea.” He extended his hand, smiling blandly. Mrs. Lathrop hesitated, then half-surrendered to his charm.

“Hmmph,” she replied graciously, plopping down in her chair with an audible creak of corsets. “A better tea than you'd have got at that tearoom, I will say that for Mrs. Hawes. And free as well.” She clamped her excellent teeth down on a ham sandwich.

I met Alan's eye and then looked quickly away before we both disgraced ourselves.

The food was delicious, but the atmosphere was not conducive to enjoying it. I'd downed one sandwich and was reaching for a scone when several more people came into the kitchen. Most of them headed for the other table, where Mrs. Hawes presided. One of the young women was the one who had opened the door to me; the other two, who looked like teenagers, I assumed were maids. But the last one in the door was the giant in checked shirt and old cords who strode to our table and sat down without a word to anyone.

Meg looked at him the way she might have greeted a cockroach in her scone, but her manners were excellent, even when her heritage was showing. “Richard,” she said, widening her mouth in a splendid imitation of a smile, “I'd like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Martin. This is Richard Adam, our gardener.”

He glowered at both of us, nodded curtly, and helped himself to several sandwiches, which he proceeded to devour in silence.

I cleared my throat. The sound echoed in the vast room. “Who is the young woman over there in the red sweater?” I asked brightly. “She opened the door for me, but I never caught her name.”

“That's Susan—Susan Eggers,” answered Meg. “She's a university student, one of our best guides. She lives in Little Denholm, so she'd left for work this morning before I could ring her and tell her not to come in. Mordie was annoyed, but agreed she could help me with the computer project. I've had her running about all day checking accession cards against the collection.” She laughed, without much amusement. “It helps—somewhat—with the problem we were discussing earlier.”

She had spoken in a low tone, but Mrs. Lathrop caught the last remark. She chewed industriously and swallowed before taking a deep breath that visibly lifted her imposing bosom. “If,” she said ponderously, “you are once again referring to Sir Mordred's lovely work, I wonder if it's quite appropriate for an employee to pass judgment on her employer's habits.” She took a healthy swig of tea. “Of course, as a mere employee myself, perhaps it is not my place to judge.”

Really, conversation was hard going in this crowd! I cast about for something to keep the ball rolling, and hit on the two maids, eating their food in subdued fashion under the eagle eye of Mrs. Hawes at the other table.