The Old Contemptibles (16 page)

“The Holdsworths?” asked Connie Fish, beads dangling over the bar, sherried breath wafting over Melrose. “Tragedy, they are. Something always happening. Lost their son, isn’t that so, Mrs. Letterby?”

“Aye.” She made a gruesome gesture with her two hands curved round her throat and her tongue stuck out. “ ’Ung up, ’e were. From a beam.”

A careful assessment of his clothes had been made before he left the pub; Melrose wanted to make sure he looked properly seedy. The elbows of the tweed jacket were rubbed and the cuff was darned—nearly invisible, but you could still make it out. The freshly polished shoes could not hide the scuff marks on toes and heels. And the collar of his expensive white shirt was almost, not quite, frayed. But the new handkerchief in his jacket pocket showed that he was keeping up appearances, this aristocrat fallen on hard times.

He had decided to leave the car at the pub, and to walk to Tarn House.

The corner where stood a little post-office store appeared to mark the end of clustered cottages and he kept on walking and trying to breathe deeply in this rarefied and cleansing air with the glorious views of fells and mountains. But he didn’t feel nearly as healthy and robust as he would have sitting in his chair at Ardry End smoking and drinking Graham’s ’44.

Melrose passed, about an eighth of a mile farther along, a walled-in drive that swept in and out of deciduous trees up to a turreted and towered building on a high rise of ground and with a backdrop of misty fells and mountains that the Lake poets had loved but that made him feel agoraphobic. At first, he thought he must have finally come to Tarn House (a Poe-esque name, he thought), but a brass
plaque embedded in the stone announced this to be Castle Howe.
Refined Retirement.
Translation: Rip off the Relations.

According to his new drinking companions, this was the place where Adam Holdsworth had chosen to live, rather than in his own home, so that must say a lot about
his
relations. Melrose struck out again down the road. At least that was the picture he would have liked to present, himself the country gentleman with knobbed stick and trusty dog. He should have brought Mindy. Mindy? She would have taken one step and crawled back into that rattletrap Japan called a car.

He sighed and looked down the narrow road. Not a house, a cottage, a smoking chimney stack in sight. But there were signs of life coming toward him in the persons of three, no, four, back-packing tourists who, as they passed him, waved and gave him the thumbs-up sign as if they had met on one of the poles and lived to tell about it. One of them looked twice his age, her leathery skin set in deep crevices, and smiling (smugly, he thought) because she was walking faster than the whippet she had on a lead.

That thumbs-up sign was the giveaway: just who did they think they were kidding, all of these people who came up here to this area known for its execrable weather, its dozen lakes, its smoking mountains, its fells full of sheep? He was not passing judgment on the place, merely thinking that it really would take a person of a poet’s or painter’s sensibility to appreciate it. But for some reason or other, droves of tourists would race up here in the summer, slog about in waterproofs and Wellingtons, and give you the thumbs-up sign of pantheism. That lot he had just passed had probably just had a high tea up the road somewhere, talking six-to-the-dozen while the poor whippet twitched beneath the table. Oh, he was sure that there really were those few who blew cold breath in caves and cabins, wrestled crocodiles, let the North Sea spray them in the face while they crested mile-high waves and truly communed with Nature. But he thought there were very few of them and, looking at the enormous peaks of Scafell and Great Gable ringed in mist, marveled at Wordsworth’s and Coleridge’s interminable walks.

He finally caught a glimpse of the house. Within less than five minutes he was there and wondered why Jury hadn’t told him it was a good mile from the village. Of course, how would Jury know, since he’d never seen it?

How could he know that Tarn House, from its surrounding wall to its main structure, was a mysterious mass of dun-colored and weathered stone that had found an expedient setting in a large expanse of weedy, boggy, vapor-covered ground with those mountains as a backdrop. Melrose had to walk across peaty ground through dull brown bracken for some little distance on an old footpath after the proper driveway stopped. Wheeling above him were what he wanted to believe were peregrine falcons but which he knew were buzzards. Waiting.

The old iron gate was flanked by stubby pillars (fortunately unlioned) and he had passed a gatehouse, apparently tenanted. The main house was manorial, but not at all as impressive as Refined Retirement back down the road. Tarn House had taken its name from the dark pools—lakelets?—of water that sat on either side of the overgrown drive. The grounds were not impressive, merely brooding, nor was the house—a flat-fronted, slate-roofed, dark structure whose tall windows were neither leaded nor firelit, nor hung with any curtain that drew back and quickly fell again at the sight of him. He knew his problem: free association. It should have been the House of Usher, and E. A. Poe, and Baltimore in Maryland where Ellen Taylor was zipping through rain-darkened streets on that damned BMW. Or the setting for a Praed mystery. When had he last seen Polly Praed? Not that
she
cared.

Melrose sighed heavily, pushed the uncreaking gate closed, and walked toward the house. How much he would have preferred to be back at Ardry End, ah! That fire, that Graham’s. That aunt. Forget it.

Someone
must have watched his approach, for the door was opened almost before the knocker fell.

Melrose quickly drew in breath at the sight of the little girl and sent up a prayer to Samuel Taylor Coleridge. She seemed proof of the positive alchemical interchange or magical transposition or whatever was going on in “Kubla Khan.” It was as if Ardry End appeared before him in human form. Plain dress of green and hair the color of Graham’s ’44, irises in which tiny coals burned and at her feet the blackest cat Melrose had ever seen, a cat from Hell.

The girl looked up at him. Unfortunately, she was probably no more than eleven or twelve, which would put her entirely outside his conversational jurisdiction.

And that tilt to her mouth was not a smile, but a study in exasperation mastered. She then turned and went, apparently to summon an older person. When he didn’t follow, she stopped and put her hands on her hips.

No thumbs up here, he thought.

 • • • 

“That was Millie,” said Madeline Galloway, as if that explained all of Melrose’s questions.

Madeline Galloway was attractive, a look heightened by her nervousness; it was as if it were she, not Melrose, who was seeking this modest employment.

They were in the much-touted library, and Melrose had to admit it was quite impressive. As if she wanted to get the bad news over first, she plunged right into an accounting of the position of librarian, saying, “I’m awfully afraid the pay isn’t much.”

“I really wasn’t expecting much.”

There was a tapping at the door before Millie entered with a tray on which were a decanter of sherry and two glasses. Silently, she looked at Madeline.

“Why, Millie. Where’s Hawkes?” She explained to Melrose that Hawkes was the manservant. She smiled. “We can’t exactly call him a butler.”

Judging from Millie’s face, they certainly couldn’t. Millie turned to leave.

“But you haven’t said where he is. This is his job.”

Millie chewed the inside of her cheek and said, “Down cellar. With Cook. Looking at wine.”

Melrose thought he detected in those pauses something that suggested butler and cook were doing more than looking.

Millie left; Madeline turned to Melrose. “Your friend Superintendent Jury said you sometimes picked up a job here or there that suited your interests.”

Derelict Plant, apparently, shuffling about in baggy trousers tending to the philodendron cuttings or searching the dustbins. He’d have preferred, if not a nobler, at least a more mysterious cover . . . and now she was saying something about “eccentric,” lifting an eyebrow, smiling as if they shared a secret, Melrose, Madeline and the Superintendent.

Eccentric. He was tempted to remove the silk-fringed lampshade and put it on his head.

“We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Yes. Well, the job won’t last very long, I’m afraid. Of course, it depends how fast you can do the cataloguing. Since you were a librarian, I understand, it should go very well.”

A down-at-heel, eccentric librarian. “Not for very long.”

“I hope we can find arrangements that suit you. You’re welcome to live at Tarn House or if you prefer I could find a room for you in the village. The Old Contemptibles does rooms, I believe.”

“I’d much prefer the house.” He rubbed his hand over his knee and thought of Crutch and Cripple. “Bit of a game leg, so I avoid doing too much walking.” He had forgotten the car.

She looked down and frowned. “I didn’t notice anything.”

“Comes and goes.” He wanted to get off gimpy legs and pursue more interesting paths; he picked up the picture and waited for her to comment but she had walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up a Staffordshire figurine, a shepherd leaning on his staff, looked at it blankly and held it probably without knowing she held it. Obviously, she had other things on her mind.

“May I?” As she turned, Melrose indicated one of a pair of leather Queen Anne chairs that stood on each side of the table on which rested the silver tray.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Yes, please sit down.” Madeline stopped fidgeting with the china shepherd lad and set it on the table before pouring the sherry, a very fine amontillado. Her own glass now in hand, she sat in the other chair. “I’m afraid I’m pretty rotten at this interviewing business. Mr. Holdsworth seems to think that simply because I like to read”—and here she looked round the noble library—“that I must be bookish enough to know whether you’d make a good cataloguer and indexer. Or whatever he wants.”

“But, then, why isn’t
he
doing the interviewing? He’s the one I must suit.”

She shook her head. “Shy, I expect. Well, that’s not true, really. He’s probably out there waiting in the wings for the right moment to come wandering in, looking terribly preoccupied. It’s his little, oh, pose, I expect. He’s such an admirer of Robert Southey that he apes his posture and attitudes. From pictures and portraits. I’m sure he’d love nothing more than to wear a high collar and tie a cravat rather
carelessly. As in one of the portraits. Times I believe he thinks he
is
Southey.”

“Inconvenient, Robert Southey being dead.”

Her smile was a bit forced. The fate of her sister would hardly leave her in a mood for a bad joke. “Should I explain your duties?”

“That sounds appropriate.”

“Your being a librarian, you’ll understand better than I. Crabbe wants his collection indexed and cross-referenced. You know—subject, author, title, and so forth. Have you been to Greta Hall yet?”

“No, I haven’t. Just arrived.” Attendance at the Southey shrine would no doubt be one of his duties. Why Southey, for God’s sake? If one had to get into this so-called Lake school of poetry, why not Coleridge? Because he was demonic, probably; whereas, Southey was a gentleman.

Her eyes took in the rows and rows of books. They were so perfectly arranged, so beautifully bound in tooled leather, that Melrose wondered if they were actually being read. “Crabbe’s library is nearly an exact copy of Southey’s,” she said. “His library was his absolute pride and joy, and he loathed having people muck about in it, especially Wordsworth, who was a gobbler of books . . .”

Madeline Galloway’s voice trailed off, lacking interest, clearly, in her subject. “I’m sorry, but I saw you looking at my sister’s picture.” She picked it up. “I should tell you something because it’s cast pretty much of a pall over the house. She’s dead; it happened three nights ago.”

Melrose replaced his glass gently on the tray. “I’m terribly sorry. I can see why you’d rather not be doing—can’t understand why Mr. Holdsworth wouldn’t have time.”

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet. “Don’t be sorry on my account. It’s all—very complicated. Very.”

The voice trailed off again as she held the silver frame. “It’s terrible. Overdose of barbiturates.” She added quickly, “An accident, it must have been. But the police won’t let us claim the body until the autopsy’s done.” She paused. “I expect there’s always got to be one in cases of suspect deaths.” Her fine-boned hand gripped the chair arm and she looked at Melrose as if he might ease her mind about what sort of suspicion might have attached itself to her sister’s death.

“I think it’s routine, yes.”

In a brief silence that followed, he studied Madeline Galloway,
finding her rather conventionally pretty, with her wide eyes and dark hair held back by a velvet band—a rather childlike look, though certainly not insipidly so, but a woman of blurred outlines. She did not appear to have great strength of will, although her slightly diffident air might have been a posture struck for the benefit of the Holdsworths. It was strange that she would want to stay on in a place that must have been a constant reminder of humiliation.

“The police were here. I can’t see why it’s a matter for police.”

Melrose shrugged. “Again, routine, I expect.”

But when she looked round at him, straight in the eye, he readjusted his former opinion of spinelessness. “I don’t think so.”

Having forgot her mission, she was talking about the sister, her death at a young age, her son, the tragedy of it all.

 • • • 

“It was indeed,” said a male voice, and Melrose turned to see a tall, thin man with a small book in his hand, and his head lowered over it, come into the room. He was introduced as Mr. Crabbe Holdsworth, Melrose’s future employer.

Crabbe Holdsworth sat, still with his book, on the little sofa facing them. “Devastating, that death,” he said, snapping the book shut. “And so young, yes.” He looked in a slightly unfocused way at the Staffordshire figurine, picked it up, stared at it, set it back. Apparently, Madeline having already appeared in his stead to verse the new librarian, Mr. Holdsworth thought further introduction superfluous and continued his line of thought: “He was only twelve.”