The Winter Garden Mystery (2 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery
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“Over to Whitbury, miss. ‘Tis market day. Most o' the women take the early bus in to do their shopping. And the childer's in school, over yon behind St. Dunstan's, next the vicarage.” As he gestured, he
glanced back at the church clock. “They'll be out any minute, and the motor-bus from Whitbury's about due. Me and Hotspur's out of date, and that's a fact,” he added sadly. “'Tis her la'ship keeps us going, for she don't like to see any motors in Occleswich saving her own. Spoils the view. The bus has to stop down bottom.”
“It certainly sounds as if Lady Valeria is accustomed to having her own way!” Daisy exclaimed.
“Oh, aye, that she be,” agreed Ted Roper.
Beyond the Cheshire Cheese, the street curved to the right. Curlicued lettering over one cottage's door proclaimed:
“Village Store
&
Post Office,
” and a sign in the next-door window: “POLICE.” Between them a fingerpost pointed along a gravel path to the Village Hall behind, hidden by a hedge. That appeared to be the entire extent of the commercial and social centre of Occleswich.
A hundred yards farther on, the street ended in a T-junction. On the far side of the crossroad, a high wall of the same pinkish stone as the church barred the way ahead. As Hotspur plodded patiently up the slope, Daisy saw a white wicket-gate in the wall.
“Where is the main gate?”
“Turn right and another quarter mile or thereabouts.”
She glanced to the right—and gasped in astonishment. “My sainted aunt, what a simply frightful eyesore!”
The last cottage in the street was the village smithy, with living quarters beside and above the forge. Instead of a front lawn and flowerbeds, it had a paved yard. And the yard overflowed with heaps of rusting metal. Bent horseshoes and ploughshares, broken bedsteads, old-fashioned kitchen stoves and boilers, and countless bits of the bodies and innards of deceased motor-cars were precariously stacked higher than the sills of the grimy windows.
“Stan Moss, the blacksmith, he wanted to put in a petrol pump,” said Ted Roper, grinning. “Her la‘ship wouldn't hear of it, acourse. Spoil the pictureskew charicter o' the village, it would. Well, Stan do hold a powerful grudge. 'Tis a mite tidier round back, where he works. Nobbut a mite, mind.”
“I'd have thought Lady Valeria would have forty fits. She lets him get away with that mess?”
“Not for want o' trying. Two year, now, they been battling. She brung in outsiders to clear it, but he chased 'em off. So she brung ‘em back, and a couple o' coppers, too, when he was away to Nantwich. Well, blow me down if he didn't come back wi' a new load o' scrap, just like as if he guessed what she'd be up to.”
“Irresistible force and immovable object,” Daisy observed.
“No one don't move Stan,” Ted Roper agreed. “Always was a cantankersome bloke, and young Gracie running off ain't sweetened his temper so's you'd notice. He lost her pay and his housekeeper all in one.”
“Gracie?”
“His daughter. Went off wi' one o' they commercial travellers, couple o' months past. Mind you, there's not many as blames her. A pretty girl as liked a bit o' fun, and her drudging for Stan on her day off from parlour-maiding up the Hall, and him taking every penny o' her wages off of her. Oh lor', here come her la'ship. We best be on our way.”
As he urged Hotspur to a trot, turning the corner, Daisy looked back to see a commanding figure emerging through the wicket-gate, followed by a liver and white pointer. Dressed in brown tweeds and a mannish slouch hat with a pheasant feather, Lady Valeria carried a hefty blackthorn walking-stick, brass-knobbed.
Glancing neither to left nor right, she marched across the road, picked her way between Stanley Moss's scrapheaps, and beat a thunderous tattoo on the door with her stick.
Trees hid the forge from Daisy, but above the sound of Hotspur's hooves she heard two irate voices raised in furious altercation.
“At it again,” grunted Ted.
Her first glimpse of Lady Valeria was not promising. When, a few minutes later, the lodgekeeper swung open the wrought-iron gates of Occles Hall, Daisy passed between them with considerable misgiving.
T
he east front of Occles Hall was utterly spiffing. The black-painted timbering was laid out in chevrons, hexagons, lozenges, rosettes, scallops—surely more decorative than structural. Each of the three storeys protruded a little above the one below. In the centre, a two-storey gatehouse stood out from the façade, its ground floor an open archway topped by a massive beam, warped with age. A flat stone bridge led to it over the remains of the old moat, a placid sheet of water in which the whole edifice was spectacularly reflected.
Daisy decided with regret that the late afternoon light was too poor for photography. In fact, a few stray drops of rain were just beginning to dimple the moat, so that the reflection wavered. However difficult Lady Valeria proved, she was jolly well going to stay on until she got some really good shots.
Ted Roper drove over the bridge and under the archway. With what sounded very like a sigh of relief, Hotspur came to a halt in the middle of a tunnel dimly lit from either end by rapidly fading daylight.
Peering about, Daisy saw a massive, iron-studded double door in the nearest wall. Lucy's precious camera slung over her shoulder, she clambered down and went over to the door. She was faced by an old-fashioned bellpull and a heavy iron knocker in the form of a snarling
mastiff's head. Experience had taught her that old-fashioned bellpulls not infrequently attempted to pull one's arm out of its socket. She dared the mastiff and beat a resounding
rat-tat.
She powdered her nose while Ted unloaded her bags into a neat pile beside her. Still no sign of life from the house. She paid him and was about to ask him to try the bell for her when at last the door opened, with a positively Gothic groan.
The butler was a gaunt, stoop-shouldered individual with lank, thinning grey hair, who looked as if he had just put his last half-crown on a non-starter at Goodwood. “Miss Dalrymple?” he enquired in a despairing voice.
“Yes, I'm Miss Dalrymple,” said Daisy firmly, and stepped across the threshold into a small, panelled room lit by gas.
“I'm Moody, miss. Please to come this way.”
Following him at a grave pace through a series of similar rooms, she hoped he had good moods as well as bad ones.
They emerged into yet another panelled room, but this one was long, though low-ceilinged, with a row of windows all along the opposite wall. What with rain, dusk, and the tiny diamond panes, Daisy could not see out. She looked around instead. The other three walls had numerous doors and the beginnings of at least three staircases, with portraits in elaborate gilt frames hanging in between. The only furniture consisted of several ancient chairs with backs so elaborately carved they must be excruciating to sit on.
“The Long Hall, miss,” said Moody gloomily, “and this is Mrs. Twitchell, who will show you to your room.”
The housekeeper, a cheerful middle-aged woman in a grey dress with white collar and cuffs, was a pleasant change from the regrettable butler. She chatted as she led Daisy up one of the narrow staircases, enclosed in the ubiquitous panelling.
“Miss Roberta'll be that sorry not to be here to welcome you, Miss Dalrymple. She went out riding after lunch and likely went farther than she meant to. It's getting dark, though, besides the rain. Not that rain ever stopped Miss Roberta, but she'll be back for her tea.”
They continued round corners, up steps and down, through galleries and endless chains of rooms small and large, some panelled, some whitewashed. The Tudor builders appeared never to have heard of corridors, and to have made their ceilings whatever height they fancied without regard to the resultant varying levels of the floor above. There was even a step up to the door of Daisy's room when they reached it at last.
“I'll never find my way back!”
“You'll soon get the hang of it, miss. Here's Gregg, her ladyship's maid, to give you a hand. She'll show you to the Yellow Parlour for tea when you're ready.”
Gregg, a sturdy, stolid countrywoman, had already unpacked Daisy's portmanteau, which had been in some magical fashion spirited up to her room ahead of her. She offered to iron Daisy's best evening gown, of rose pink charmeuse. Under the influence of Daisy's particular magic, she even roused herself to remark that it would be a pleasure.
“Being as her ladyship don't care about fashion and what I mostly do for Miss Roberta is get the mud off of her riding breeches and golfing stockings,” she explained.
Remembering Bobbie at school, Daisy was not surprised.
She washed the railway grime from face and hands at the china bowl on the washstand in the corner of the small room, then renewed powder and lipstick. Tidying her hair, she pushed the hairpins in more firmly. Perhaps she
would
get a bob, or even go straight for the new shingle-cut, she mused. Lucy was always ragging her about it, and Mother already had so many causes for complaint, one more would not hurt her.
Her pale blue jersey jumper suit was presentable if not precisely elegant, a bit short for the latest near ankle-length hemlines. But after all, she wanted to appear professional, not glamorous. She announced herself ready to be escorted to the Yellow Parlour.
Two gentlemen rose to their feet when Daisy entered the room. She had eyes only for one. Madge's description of Sebastian Parslow
as a beautiful young man had not prepared her for the reality.
In his early twenties, he was tall, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, and long of leg. He had thick, wavy hair of the purest corn gold. His eyes were cobalt blue with miraculously dark lashes; his nose and mouth were chiselled perfection; his chin was square and very slightly cleft. An English Adonis!
Daisy wished she'd changed into her amber chiffon tea-gown.
“Miss Dalrymple? How do you do. I'm Sebastian Parslow.” His voice was a resonant baritone, and he moved with an athlete's light grace as he crossed the room to meet her, apparently oblivious of her stunned admiration. “I'm sorry the rest of the family is not here to greet you. This is Ben Goodman.”
“Sir Reginald's secretary.” The voice was light and dry. “How do you do, Miss Dalrymple.”
Daisy wrenched her gaze from Adonis to the slight, dark gentleman beyond him. She appreciated both Mr. Parslow's delicacy in not announcing Ben Goodman's subservient position and his own in making it plain. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His thin, pale face was the sort that in a woman might be called
jolie laide,
plain to the point of ugliness, yet with a curious appeal.
“How do you do, Mr. Goodman.” She offered her hand.
He limped as he came forward to shake it. She immediately knocked ten years off his probable age and inserted a war wound in his curriculum vitae. His warm smile confirmed his attractiveness, crinkling the corners of his eyes and deepening the lines by his mouth.
“I expect you're ready for your tea after that endless journey,” he said. “I told Moody to bring it as soon as you came down.”
“I could do with a cup, though the trek wasn't really too frightful.” Thanks to a first-class ticket and a box of chocolates. “At least I didn't have to change at Birmingham, only at Crewe. I enjoyed the drive from the station. Ted Roper told me all about Occleswich.”
A shadow of embarrassment crossed Mr. Parslow's faultless features. “The Daimler should have been sent to meet you,” he said
apologetically, “or at least the Morris, but … .”
“Daisy!” Bobbie Parslow burst into the room and slung a hard hat onto the nearest chair. She was dressed in a damp hacking-jacket and breeches, and her boots left muddy tracks as she strode across the carpet. “It's simply topping to see you.” She wrung Daisy's hand.
Miss Roberta Parslow was obviously Sebastian's sister, but in her case nothing was quite right. The height and broad shoulders so impressive in a man were out of place in a woman, and her figure was robust, in contrast to his elegance. Her hair, straw to his gold, was cut in a very short bob as straight as a horse's tail. Her square face was a blurred copy of his, as if a painter had laid a portrait wrong side down before it dried, and her eyes were pale blue, with invisible lashes.
But she was undoubtedly delighted to see Daisy.
“I'm frightfully sorry to be so late,” she said. “I was heading for the station, so as to ride home beside the trap, but Ranee cast a shoe. Have you met Mummy yet?”
“Not yet,” Daisy told her, “though I saw … .” She stopped as a parlourmaid brought in the tea.
“Oh good!” Bobbie exclaimed. “Will you pour, Ben? I'm ravenous and I always spill the beastly stuff anyway. Have a sandwich.” She offered Daisy the plate, helped herself to a handful of the tiny, crustless triangles, and dropped into a chair.
Mr. Goodman enquired as to Daisy's preference for milk or lemon, sugar or none, and Sebastian handed her her tea.
“The mater went down to the village to tell Mr. Lake what was wrong with yesterday's sermon,” he told his sister. “You know she can never pass the smithy without ticking off Stan Moss, otherwise she'd be back by now. They'll come to blows one of these days. I'm surprised they haven't yet.”
“Blast! He'll be in no mood to shoe Ranee for me tomorrow.”
“You take your horses to the blacksmith in the village?” Daisy asked.
“Yes. The place is a filthy mess and Moss has a filthy temper, but he's still the best smith around, as well as a genius with machinery. I
just wish Mummy hadn't chosen this afternoon to upset him. All the same, I'm glad she's still out,” said Bobbie frankly, between mouthfuls of pate sandwich. “I was afraid I wouldn't get home in time to warn you, Daisy.”
“Warn me?” Daisy asked with a sinking feeling.
“About Mummy. I say, Ben, is that a Victoria sponge? Cut me a nice big piece, there's a good chap. You see, Daisy, I'm afraid she wasn't frightfully keen on your coming to stay.”
“Oh dear, I wish you had let me know. I can't write about Occles Hall without her permission.”
“You needn't worry about that,” Ben Goodman said with a reassuring smile. “Lady Valeria is delighted that the Hall will receive the public recognition it deserves.”
“Then what … ?”
“Bobbie made a hash of it.” Sebastian pulled a wry face. “She invited you without asking the mater's permission, a cardinal sin.”
“Your letter came when Mummy and Sebastian were in Antibes,” Bobbie excused herself with an absurdly guilty air. “Writing persuasive letters simply isn't my forte, and I didn't want to ask Ben to do it because he was feeling jolly seedy at the time. It was that beastly damp, cold spell, remember, Ben? You were coughing your lungs out.”
Mr. Goodman flushed. “Mustard gas,” he explained to Daisy. “I wouldn't want you to think you've been landed in a house with a consumptive.”
Daisy nodded, putting as much sympathy into her glance as she could. There was nothing to be said. Since the War, England was full of young men with corroded lungs. Whether they were luckier than those buried in Flanders, like Gervaise and Michael, was a moot point.
“The mater wouldn't take Ben to the Riviera with us,” said Sebastian. His lips tightened as if with remembered anger, then he shrugged. “It's useless arguing once she's made up her mind.”
“Utterly useless,” Bobbie agreed. “That's why I asked Daddy
about inviting Daisy rather than risk a flat-out no from Mummy. Daddy thought it was a spiffing idea. Where is he?”
“Sir Reginald hasn't come back from the dairy yet,” Mr. Goodman said.
“Poor Daddy. I suppose he's expecting another row now that Daisy's actually arrived.”
“I don't want to be a bone of contention.” Thoroughly uncomfortable, Daisy wondered if she'd be able to find another house to write about at short notice. If all else failed, she could always appeal to Cousin Edgar and Geraldine. Her old home, Fairacres, was nowhere near as picturesque as Occles Hall, but any port in a storm. Abandoning professionalism, she hurriedly suggested, “Perhaps I'd better leave in the morning.”
“No!” All three voices were equally vehement.
“Please stay,” Bobbie begged her. “Now Mummy's got her hopes up about seeing the Hall in
Town and Country
, she won't be fit to live with if it doesn't come off. To tell the truth, the real trouble is that she disapproves of girls having jobs—our sort of girls, that is. She thinks you'll give me ideas. But when she sees that one can still be a lady even if one works, perhaps she'll relent and let me do something useful. After all, you're a dashed sight more ladylike than I ever was or will be. Pass the biscuits, Bastie.”
Her brother obliged. “Do stay, Miss Dalrymple,” he urged. “We have too few visitors.”
Uneasily Daisy recalled Tommy Pearson's notion that Lady Valeria was afraid of her son's escaping her apron-strings by marrying. Was that another, unspoken, reason why she objected to Daisy's presence?

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