Withering Heights (16 page)

My mind went to the portrait of her ladyship as a young woman. She was beautiful and, according to Ariel, in love with a man her parents considered unworthy. What if that were because he was a mere accountant, rather than a member of the gentry? What if that man were Mr. Scrimshank, and despite the passage of time he’d continued to worship her, so that when she went to him begging for his help in concealing up
the murder, he’d agreed to make up that story of a phone call? Far more convincing to the police than her ladyship saying she had heard from her husband. Had Betty thought along those lines? Was that her reason for inviting Mr. Scrimshank to tea tomorrow afternoon, to see if he and Lady Fiona avoided eye contact when Mr. Gallagher’s name was mentioned?

I had arrived back at Cragstone. Having driven through the gateway, I was about to pass the Dower House when someone stepped almost in my path. Fortunately, I was driving so slowly a three-year-old on a tricycle could have zapped past me, or I might have knocked the person down. But I had applied the brakes in the nick of time, and when a face appeared at my window, I quickly rolled it down.

“I’m sorry,” said a quavering voice. “I thought you were Val, but I see you’re not. On you go, I won’t keep you!” I was looking at a very old, much wrinkled lady with scant white hair twisted into a knot on top of her head. Her surprisingly sharp eyes were sufficiently dark as to be almost black.

“Are you Miss Pierce?” I asked her.

“That’s me, and you’ll be one of the guests of the new owners at Cragstone. I remember this car now; I saw you arrive earlier.”

“We brought Ariel home after an overnight stay with us.”

“Oh, yes! I heard by way of Mrs. Cake.” The black eyes gleamed. “The things children get up to these days. What is the world coming to? My Mr. Nigel would never have pulled such a stunt. You’ll know I was his nanny?”

“Yes.”

Miss Pierce continued to hover at the car window. “I came with Mr. Nigel when he married; nothing—certainly not his bride—could have persuaded him to leave me behind. Such a nice house his people had in Staffordshire. He never had any reason to run away when he was a little boy.” Her voice
cracked, but she went gallantly on. “It’s some comfort now, when I find myself wondering when I’ll see his precious wee face again, to remember that his was a happy childhood.”

“Of course.”

“I saw to that. His parents were so supportive and sensible, never any interference on how I brought him up.”

“Really?”

“Extremely well bred, both of them.” Miss Pierce might have been discussing a pair of cocker spaniels that had done well at Cruft’s. “They stayed in the background, as is best. Always concerned for his welfare, always pleased when I brought him down to the drawing room for half an hour after tea. They did enjoy hearing him recite his little poems.”

“It must have made their day.”

“Very proud they were of his stout little legs. ‘Legs,’ his mother used to say, ‘are very important. His will stand him in good stead throughout life.’ And so they have, with all the walking he does on his travels. But she and her husband understood that it’s confusing for young ones to be thrust into family life too soon. It’s Nanny they want until they’re older.” Miss Pierce’s face was like an apple that has been stored too long in a dark cellar. At her age it was understandable that she clung to her memories.

“We’ve heard that Mr. Gallagher . . . went away.” I floundered.

“It was something in him, the need to answer the call of nature. Bless him!” The dark eyes gleamed with pride. “He never needed to tell Nanny when he had to go; I knew the signs by the way he’d stand, getting fidgety all of a sudden. And there would be that mournful look in his eyes.”

“Really?” What were we talking about?

“Her ladyship was never quick to see what was happening,” Miss Pierce lamented. “But I will admit she never did get annoyed
afterward. It’ll all come out in the wash, seemed to be her attitude. Every other time, she carried on just as usual. But this time, when Mr. Nigel went, she phoned the police.”

This was interesting. “Was there something different on this occasion?”

The white head nodded. “He’d forgotten his walking stick. I suppose she thought they might be able to advise her on how to have it sent to him. He goes to quite remote places. Once he felt compelled to go to the Amazon, and a few years later it was the Himalayas . . . or was it Honduras? Off he’d go, without saying a word beforehand.”

“So as not to upset Lady Fiona ahead of time?”

“It was me he worried about. And he was always a touch absentminded, even when he wasn’t thinking about Brazilian butterflies or arctic sunrises. It really wasn’t kind of Lady Fiona to put the wind up me this time with her imaginings, silly as they were. It placed a cloud over things, and now I have this premonition that I won’t be here to greet dear Mr. Nigel when he returns from his happy wanderings.”

The wind did not moan, nor the skies darken ominously at her words, but she looked a very old lady in her gray skirt, prim white blouse, and hand-knitted cardigan.

“Would you like me to walk you back to your house?” I asked.

“That would be kind. I came outdoors looking for Val, my great-niece. I can’t think what can be keeping her! I’ve had dinner waiting this past half hour.”

“She was at Cragstone House when we left.” I got out of the car.

“I don’t understand that—her wanting to get in thick with people who don’t now and never will really belong there. I know you and your husband are friends of theirs”—Miss Pierce caught herself—“but I’m sure you can understand my feelings.”

“You’ve had a long relationship with the Gallaghers,” I said, offering her my arm. The early evening air was heady with the scent of roses that cascaded in pink and yellow exuberance over the low brick wall that separated the Dower House from the rest of the property. A yew arch provided entry onto a path that curved its way across a velvet spread of lawn to a white door with black iron hinges and knocker.

Miss Pierce sat down on a garden bench. “Val came back here this afternoon looking emotional. Maybe those Hopkinses didn’t get excited about her latest choice for wallpaper. Then she went off in her car. Some errand, she said. I don’t pry. She and her brother, Simon, who’s two years older, came to stay at Cragstone one summer when they were children. It was the best their parents could do for them by way of a holiday. Mr. Gallagher didn’t mind my having them. I was still living in my rooms in the west wing in those days. And I am happy to say they didn’t disturb him. Naturally, I made sure they behaved well and entertained themselves quietly. Not that Lady Fiona would have noticed if they’d fallen on her from the ceiling. Poor Mr. Nigel, she didn’t know he was alive half the time.”

“Oh, dear!”

“But, bless his sweet face, he never complained, not even to me, the one person in the world he could always trust, even when others let him down.”

Miss Pierce got up and opened her front door. I followed her down a cream-painted hall, with an ebony floor and staircase banisters, into an equally bright sitting room arranged with some handsome wood pieces and a comfortable-looking slip-covered sofa and easy chairs. Looking worn out, either from her evening constitutional or the emotional upheaval of talking about her absent pride and joy, she accepted my help in getting seated.

“May I get you a cup of tea?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

I hesitated, wanting to get back to Cragstone. It wasn’t fair to keep the others from sitting down to dinner, but I didn’t want to appear too eager to get away.

“There’s my Mr. Nigel.” Miss Pierce pointed to the mantelpiece and I duly admired the photo of a blank-faced man in his sixties. “I wish I could show you one of my great-nephew Simon, but it’s not in its usual place. Val must have moved it. She will touch things and then say I’ve forgotten where I put them.”

“I misplace things all the time.”

“Simon is very good-looking—as you can imagine, having seen his sister—or he was when I last saw him, twenty years ago at least. Of course it was a great pity about his ears. My heart would have broken if it had been Mr. Nigel. But his were perfect little shells from the day he was born.” Her voice broke and I said that must be a great comfort. “Val occasionally kept in touch with me. It was different with Simon. He’s living in Ireland . . . or would it be Scotland? He married a woman from whichever it was. Not at all suitable, from what I gathered. Something about a brush with the law, or was it selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door? The best of men behave foolishly when a woman is determined to haul him to the altar like a sacrificial lamb.” Miss Pierce’s eyes searched the bookcase next to the fireplace. “Where
is
Simon’s photo? It was always next to that little bud vase. Perhaps I
am
getting forgetful; dear Mr. Nigel would worry,” she was saying, when Val came into the room like a breath of rose-scented air.

“Hello again,” I said, feeling my petals droop.

“What a good thing you’re back,” said the vision of loveliness. “You’re wanted up at the main house.”

“Oh, dear, I must have held up dinner!”

“I don’t know about that. It’s what else is planned for this evening that had Betty all excited. That’s all I can say without spoiling what Ariel called her big surprise.”

“I suppose this means you have to leave.” Miss Pierce looked at me as though she’d had her rice pudding taken away. “And just as I was about to tell you about the day Mr. Nigel—”

“Perhaps another time,” said Val.

Promising to come again and receiving no further protests, I scooted out of the house and into the Land Rover. During the minute it took to reach the end of the drive, I congratulated myself on a successful second meeting with the woman from Ben’s past. She hadn’t insulted me with a gushing greeting, and I hadn’t ripped off her eyelashes. All very civilized. I parked and went up the steps to Cragstone’s front door, eager to know the nature of the surprise in store.

I wasn’t to be kept wondering. Ariel pounced on me as I stepped over the threshold.

“Here you are, Ellie!” She grabbed my arm. “But where’s Mrs. Malloy?”

“Spending the evening with her sister.”

“Oh, no! She can’t possibly. We’ll have to rush over and kidnap her!”

“Ariel? What’s going on?”

“If you’d listened when I tried to tell you earlier, you’d know all about it! And nothing would have kept Mrs. Malloy from being here.” She stepped back to glare at me, through the typically askew spectacles. “Madam LaGrange is what’s happening.”

“Say that again?”

“When Mrs. Malloy told me about her, last night, and said Madam’s new specialty is conducting séances, I knew I had to get her to perform one here because it would please Betty so much she might ask you and Ben and Mrs. Malloy to stay.
Well, that all worked out anyway. But phoning Madam LaGrange this morning at Merlin’s Court, and arranging for her to come by train and take a taxi here, isn’t a wasted effort on my part. A séance will be enormous fun. Of course I had to promise she’d be paid triple her usual rate in addition to traveling expenses, but I knew that even if Dad threw a fit Betty wouldn’t begrudge the money if she could have a revealing chat with Mr. Gallagher.”

“Did you get Madam LaGrange’s phone number from Mrs. Malloy?” I asked, through my own trance.

“No. I looked it up in the phone book. If Mrs. Malloy had any idea, do you think she’d still be with her boring old sister?”

“Probably not.” My lips moved, but was the voice coming out of my mouth my own?

“I suppose it’s too late to go and get her now. Madam La-Grange will be here in ten minutes if she takes the train I told her to. Luckily I still had the timetable I’d used to get to your place.” Ariel scowled ferociously. “Oh, I do hate families!”

“So I’ve noticed.” Betty appeared out of nowhere. “Go upstairs and at least comb your hair if you insist on being at the séance.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’d think you’d want me there in case you get frightened when Mr. Gallagher asks you to join him for an evening in the grave. Dad won’t be any use; he’ll be asleep.”

“Go!”

Ariel scampered and Betty turned to me. “Tom went against me as usual and said I should appreciate the effort she’d made for me and let her be there. I suppose it was sweet of her, but I can’t help wondering what she’s got up her sleeve. If you’re hungry, Ellie, there’s the quiche we had for lunch and some sandwiches Ben made. After Ariel dropped her bombshell,
it seemed best to let everyone forage for themselves instead of having a sit-down dinner.”

“Where is Ben?”

“Somewhere. Probably with Tom having a scoffing session about the séance. Men just don’t get these things.” Betty pressed tiny fingers to her brow. “I do hope I’m not getting a headache. It was stressful having Ariel make her announcement with the Edmondses and Val present. It seemed ungracious not to ask them to participate, but I really didn’t want them. From what I’ve heard, Nigel Gallagher didn’t enjoy large gatherings. And it would be so disappointing if the numbers kept him away.”

“What makes you so sure he was murdered?” I asked her.

“Besides the inexplicable events that Ariel is bound to have told you about, it’s a feeling deep inside.” Betty gave up on her brow and moved her hand to her breast. “I think I’ve always been a little psychic, and now this house has brought it to the fore. Finally I have a talent for something. . . . It’s rather nice.”

“I can see that.” If it were real, and not the wishful thinking of a woman who suddenly found herself with too much time on her hands and an emotional void to fill.

Betty had started to say something else as the doorbell rang. “That will be her!” She hurried forward. “I do hope she’s not too theatrical; Tom will hate that. But it’ll be a letdown for me if she looks as if she should be pushing a grocery cart around Tesco’s.”

The hall filled with people. Tom and Ben came out of the dining room. Ariel raced down the stairs. She didn’t appear to have combed her hair, but she had added a string of red beads to her ensemble. Madam LaGrange couldn’t reasonably complain about the welcoming party. And I decided upon her entrance that she looked just as a psychic should, meaning she
conformed to the image I had formed in my mind when Mrs. Malloy talked about her: reasonably tall, sturdily built, and dressed all in black from the silk scarf wound around her head to her flowing skirt. There might be a touch too much fringe and red lipstick for Tom’s taste and not quite enough for Ariel’s, but Betty looked suitably impressed.