Dreadful as it sounds, Mr. Tribble’s shocking demise had the advantage of taking my mind off Val’s blatant attempts at resurrecting a relationship with Ben and his failure to give her the cold shoulder. I’d like to say it was the reminder that there are real sorrows in this world on a daily basis that brought me up short. Mr. Hardcastle had seemed very fond of the old gentleman and there would doubtless be others to miss him, but I didn’t think about that at the time. It was more a matter of the practicalities taking over.
Betty made the necessary phone calls. Mr. Scrimshank offered to drive Lady Fiona back to her hotel, a good move on his part or the undertaker might have mistaken him for the corpse. Miss Pierce, after tut-tutting about the evils of brandy served in a teacup, something Mr. Nigel’s parents would never have countenanced, appeared energized by the excitement. It took some persuasion on Val’s part to get her to return to the Dower House. She was talking volubly as they left and I would have liked to hear what she was saying, but while Tom and Ben sat with Mr. Hardcastle, I helped Mrs. Malloy to clear away the tea things. Ariel trailed after us into the kitchen, and a moment later Betty hurried in, all agog.
“Didn’t I tell you that woman’s a killer?”
“What woman?” Ariel peeked up from the chair where she now sat hunched. If ever a child looked as though she needed a cat on her lap, she was it. And no wonder! She might talk glibly about death, but having been in the room with it was something else. I placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.
“Oh, don’t be dense!” Betty did not bother to look at her. “Lady Fiona! Who else would I mean? She’s struck again!”
Mrs. Malloy handed Ariel a cucumber sandwich. “Get that down you. Having something inside will help settle your nerves. Works wonders every time.”
“Surely, Betty,” I said, “you don’t think her ladyship killed Mr. Tribble?”
“Certainly I do. She must have slipped something, a tablet or a little packet of powder, into his teacup when she poured him the brandy.”
“How did she do it without anyone’s noticing?” Ariel bit into the sandwich as if it also might be poisoned.
“Sleight of hand. Those fluttering gauzy sleeves of hers. She could have had whatever it was in her skirt pocket.”
“She just happened to have the stuff on her, like it was a lipstick?” Mrs. Malloy elbowed me aside to get to the sink and deposit more plates.
“It could have been some medication she keeps with her at all times.” Betty poked at her red hair as she scanned the room in search of believers. “Or something she brought along for the specific purpose of killing him.”
“Why?” Ariel demanded.
“She must have recognized his name when I mentioned he would be one of the guests. Her need to shut him up has to connect in some way to her motive for murdering dear… her husband. Remember how Mr. Tribble kept going on about being sure he’d performed her wedding ceremony?”
“Do we look gormless?” Mrs. M might have her hands in the sink, but she remained quite clear about her true position in this household. “Of course we remember, and I’m sure the same thought occurred to Mrs. H as did to me: that her ladyship was married to someone else before she tied the knot with Mr. Gallagher, and he found out about it, right before he disappeared.”
“There was that other man you told me about, Ariel,” I said.
She gave one of her characteristic shrugs. “Betty would know about him too, if she’d ever bothered to talk to Mrs. Cake.”
“Oh, please! Just for five minutes can I not be the wicked stepmother?”
“The first marriage could have took place on the sly if her ladyship’s family was against it.” Mrs. Malloy handed me a tea towel to dry the cups and saucers. “Sounded that way, from how Mr. Tribble talked about its just being the bridal couple. There’d have been witnesses, of course, but they could have been anyone: people off the street. Yes,” Mrs. M mused, “it should have been easy to hush things up when the marriage turned out to be a mistake. Better to do nothing perhaps than bother with a divorce, as would have got in the papers.”
“There you are!” Betty drew in a breath. “When Nigel discovered he’d married a bigamist, he must have been so outraged he threatened to go to the police and press criminal charges.”
“Perhaps he said he would keep quiet only if she signed the house and all the money over to him-what was left of it.” I looked at Mrs. Malloy. Did the possibility ripen that Mr. Scrimshank and Lady Fiona had joined forces in murdering the man everyone assumed to be her husband? Had they each seen themselves facing imprisonment for different reasons if Mr. Gallagher remained on the scene? The likelihood of Lady Fiona’s being slammed up for bigamy struck me as slim, but she might have panicked or, even more, disliked the thought of being embroiled in a scandal. Mr. Scrimshank’s situation was more dire. If her ladyship had discovered he’d embezzled her money, agreeing to help her out of her difficulties by way of recompense might have struck him as a good alternative to the realistic prospect of spending a considerable portion of his declining years behind bars. What was one small murder between friends? Now, if Mrs. Malloy and I were to believe Betty, there had been a second.
“Before we convict Lady Fiona in absentia”-I dried the last of the cups-“we need to find out if indeed there was a prior marriage and, if so, whether or not it was legally terminated.”
“And how do we go about that?” Removing Ariel’s half-chewed sandwich, Betty tossed it in the trash bin.
“Well, what I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Malloy, “is that tomorrow morning me or Mrs. H should phone Milk Jugg and ask him to see what he can track down.”
“Who’s he?”
“A private investigator we know. Its being Sunday, he won’t be in his office today, but I’m sure we can talk him into lending a hand, seeing as we did him a favor recently and got no thanks in return.”
I wasn’t convinced that Milk would be ready to forgive our interference in one of his cases, but Mrs. M knows far more about the male psyche than I do.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Betty said, after a moment’s thought. “I only hope it’s what Nigel would want.”
“Can’t you stop talking about him?” Ariel pounced up from her chair. “I’ve never seen you go all silly about Dad. I wish I had run away for good.”
“Oh, Ariel, I am sorry,” Betty said surprisingly, as the doorbell rang.
“Why don’t I get that?” I hurried out into the hall, but Tom was there ahead of me to let the doctor or the undertaker, whoever he was, into the house. They disappeared into the drawing room and I stood thinking about what had transpired in the kitchen. Poor Ariel! Had motherhood taught me nothing? The focus should have been on her reaction to Mr. Tribble’s death, rather than a discussion of matters better left until she was not present. Guest in her house be blowed, I ought to have cut Betty off when she got started. How likely was it anyway that Lady Fiona was responsible for the old gentleman’s dropping so abruptly off the twig, to use Mrs. Malloy’s phrase? Betty had talked glibly about sleight of hand, but her ladyship, so far as I knew, was not a professional magician. What would she know about misdirecting the eyes of her onlookers? Or had she got lucky in that regard with the water dripping from the ceiling? Could it be Lady Fiona who had crept upstairs earlier after Ariel admitted her to the house and subsequently left her alone? Had she entered the bathroom above the conservatory, put the plug in the basin sink, turned on the taps, and left it to overflow? Someone had done this, and Ariel had been vehement in her denials. Who better than her ladyship would know how to make Cragstone a conspirator? And yet somehow, I couldn’t see it. Perhaps I didn’t want the lovely young woman in the portrait transformed into a demon.
There was something else I couldn’t see as I remained in the hall, looking down at the Chinese chest with its exquisite display of snuffboxes on top. The cobalt blue and gold one I had particularly admired on first entering the house was missing. Had it been stolen or merely moved to another location? According to Betty and Tom, their kleptomaniac friend Frances Edmonds had never helped herself to any of their possessions. But the relationship had altered. The Hopkinses were now filthy rich and hadn’t rushed to be generous. Had an already resentful Frances snapped this afternoon after discovering that Mr. Scrimshank was one of the guests for tea? Had she, however unreasonably, considered this another act of betrayal on Betty’s part and taken the snuffbox in retaliation?
“What are you thinking about?” Ben came up beside me.
“This and that.” I continued to stare at the chest.
“You look troubled.” His gaze was intent.
“A man dropped dead less than an hour ago.”
“It was sad and startling, but-”
“Betty thinks Lady Fiona poisoned his brandy.”
“Don’t tell me you believe her? Mr. Hardcastle was just saying that the poor old gentleman was well over ninety, making it unlikely he had the heart of a twenty-year-old. His doctor is amazed he’d kept on ticking this long. That cupful of brandy alone might have been enough to finish him off.”
“That’s the sensible view,” I agreed, wishing that I didn’t sound so stilted but not able to help myself. Had Ben swept me into his arms I would have felt he brought Val in tow. Perhaps sensing this, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and began talking about Betty.
“You can’t go by what she says, Ellie, she’s dealing with a lot of issues: the lottery win, her problems with Ariel, and… whatever else she’s got on her mind.”
“Such as?”
“Tom. You could see how he reacted to her behavior at that ridiculous séance.” This was the moment to tell him about the false Madam LaGrange, but I didn’t. Childishly, I decided that if he could have secrets so could I. Receiving no response, he continued. “There’s always stuff going on in any marriage that outsiders aren’t tuned in to.”
“Are you speaking about them or about us?” It was out. I told myself I felt better. Nothing was worse than the distance growing between us. I saw the hesitation in his eyes, waited for him to say something-anything-but when he did I wished I’d left things alone.
“Ellie, I’m caught up in a situation that I would have given anything to avoid. But it was flung at me, and there it is. I want to talk to you about it, but that might complicate things even more. Also I gave my word to-”
“Val? Or, as you call her, Valeria?” I almost choked on the words.
A muscle tensed in his cheek, but he kept his hands in his pockets. “She feels so guilty. Ellie, you’ve probably come to your own conclusion and think I’m behaving like a cad.”
“Heaven forbid! You’re my knight in shining armor!”
The drawing room door opened, making an end to our tete-a-tete. All at once there was activity. By the time the body was removed and its entourage, including Mr. Hardcastle, had departed, I was not the only person looking less than cheery when we gathered in the drawing room. Ben and Tom stood in silence; Mrs. Malloy said her feet were killing her and sank into a chair. Only Betty displayed an interest in chatting about the death, and even she gave up on this idea when Ariel flung herself down on a sofa and began sobbing uncontrollably. Galvanized into unexpected speed, Tom knelt at her side, patting her heaving shoulders and looking around in accusatory alarm at his wife.
“Betty, what’s set her off?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re always getting at her.”
“That’s not true.” The green eyes flashed. “Most often it’s the other way round. Oh, move over, do!” Betty knelt down beside him. For that moment they looked like a set of concerned parents, thinking only of their child.
“What’s the matter, Ariel love?” Mrs. Malloy asked from her chair, while Ben and I hovered in the background.
“It was so sad! His eyes were open and he was looking at me, like he was asking me to tell him he wasn’t really dead. He was such a tiny little old man, not big enough to look after himself properly.” Ariel raised a tear-drenched face. “It’s different talking about death when you’ve never seen it. I wish I’d never made cracks about wanting people out of the way.” She turned away from Betty and her father. “And I never again want to hear about murders. It’s like tempting fate to come up with another dead person.”
“You see, Betty!” Tom got to his feet. “What have I been saying for weeks about this nonsense of yours regarding Lady Fiona? It was bound to lead to trouble, and now it has! You’ve filled my daughter’s head with fear. If she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown, it won’t be your fault!”
It was time for Ben, Mrs. Malloy, and myself to clear out. Seeing that Mrs. M wanted to talk and not feeling up to a heart-to-heart, I said I had a headache that would only cure itself if I went for a lie-down in a darkened bedroom. Ben started to say something, but I waved a hand and headed upstairs.
I rarely get headaches, but I was not fibbing about this one. A couple of aspirins later, I crawled under the bedclothes and willed myself to sleep. It took some doing, but finally Val’s triumphant voice stopped telling me she was an Irish rose and I was a dandelion growing where it wasn’t wanted. Ben reduced his pleas for my forgiveness to an incoherent muddle. Blessed oblivion.
When I opened my eyes and looked groggily at the bedside clock, it was several hours later. I would still have benefited from taking off my head and putting it on a hat stand, but that was mostly because doing so would have made thinking more difficult. The physical pain had eased considerably. For several minutes I contemplated the advisability of getting up. I was thinking that perhaps I had better do so when Ariel stuck her head around the door and asked if I would like something brought up on a tray, everyone else already having had dinner. Her eyelids were still puffy and she looked in need of a good night’s rest.
“Or perhaps you’d rather just go back to sleep, Ellie.”
“I think I’ll do that. Good night, Ariel.” Suddenly the best possible move seemed to be total inaction. No thanking anyone, especially Ben, for bringing me a heartening bowl of broth; no being drawn back into the Hopkinses’ emotional turmoil. Tomorrow would be better or worse. Either way it would be there. For now I would burrow back down and hope to be asleep when my husband came to bed… or didn’t.
When I awoke the next morning, the other side of the bed was still warm. Ben had come and gone, like a visitor showing up when no one was home. I was filled with a wild longing to run and find him, to tell him the business with Val was madness and when we got back to Merlin’s Court he would realize it had been no more than a midsummer night’s dream. But I realized, as I set one foot on the floor, that I couldn’t bring myself to grovel. Pride balked at the idea, and fear raised the ugly possibility that he had no wish to be saved from his folly.
After taking a hot shower that did nothing to warm me, I went downstairs in the wake of Mrs. Malloy, who had just come out of her bedroom.
“How’s the head, Mrs. H?”
“I’m still wearing it.”
“Now, don’t go getting snappy with me.” She eyed me severely.
“Sorry.” I folded my arms.
“You should see yourself, standing there all defensive. Come on, what’s the bother?” She can always get to me when that kindly light beams from her eyes, like the last hope for a drowning sailor. “Trouble with Mr. H over that Val woman?”
“However did you guess, Mrs. Private Detective?”
“From the soppy way she was looking at him at tea. If you ask me, he looked downright embarrassed.”
“An awkward situation for both of them.”
“Yes. Well, don’t go thinking yourself into trouble, like Tom accused Betty of doing. Just you cling to the thought that it’s always darkest before dawn.”
“It is dawn.” I looked at the long case clock. “In fact, it’s nearly ten.”
“You’re right.” She followed my gaze. “Unless it’s telling wicked falsehoods, as wouldn’t surprise me in this house, where-present company excluded-taking what anyone says for fact could be a big mistake.”
“Does that include Mrs. Cake?”
“Why?”
“Breakfast doesn’t have its usual appeal. Ben and I aside, Tom and Betty could benefit from some time with Ariel without our looming presence. Why don’t you grab a slice of toast and come with me to talk to Mrs. Cake?”
“I’ve already had several chats with her. That’s what I wanted to bring you up to speed on, Mrs. H, when you went and got your headache. Have a word with her on your own, and afterward you and me can decide if anything she has to say about Mr. Gallagher’s disappearance is important. As for now, I’m off to ring Milk Jugg and ask him to find out whether her ladyship forgot to untie the first knot, so to speak.”
“You brave soul! I’ll keep my fingers crossed that he doesn’t bang down the phone.”
“Look for Mrs. Cake in the room next to the butler’s pantry. That’s where she sits most of the time, resting her foot and doing a bit of mending.”
“Should she be hobbling downstairs each morning?”
“I suppose she feels she’d better. The things some women do for fear of losing their jobs!” Mrs. Malloy sighed heavily. I assured her that under similar circumstances I would hire an around-the-clock nurse for her who looked like Cary Grant and sang like Elvis, and we went our separate ways: she to the library, where she could telephone in privacy, and I down the passageway to the left of the kitchen. No sign of anyone else about. No footsteps hurrying to catch up with me. No anguished male voice begging me to turn around and fall into his arms. It was a relief, I told myself staunchly. Ben could at least have left a note on the pillow. No, scrap that thought! Pillows, like mantelpieces, are rarely the deposits for good news. They are for missives that begin: Forgive me for leaving you destitute, pregnant, and with the pox…
It was pleasant to remind myself that I was none of those things as I entered a cozy parlor. Maybe it was the quarry-tiled floor and deep windowsill that made me feel more at home than I had yet done since coming to Cragstone. There was a feeling here that reminded me of my kitchen. Instead of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack above the cooker, there were equally well-polished kettles and platters on shelves around the walls. I stood in the doorway drinking in the atmosphere as if it were a life-restoring elixir. The most comforting sight of all was the woman seated in a worn easy chair with her feet on a hassock, the left one was bandaged to the ankle. She was stout and cheerful-looking, with a rough red face and gray hair permed to last.
“Good morning,” she said. “I expect you’re that nice young gentleman’s wife. Such a relief, him taking over the cooking, especially with the caterers letting Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins down for Thursday.”
“Yes, I’m Ellie Haskell. I do hope your ankle is better.”
“On the mend. You sound a bit choked up. Coming down with a cold?”
“I don’t think so.” But was it something to consider? It could be my excuse for holing up in my bedroom. I could claim that the headache had been the precursor. Thank goodness I had gone straight to bed! How wretched I would feel if anyone, especially Ben-with the Hopkinses so dependent upon his help-were to catch what might even turn out to be the flu! And-I didn’t grind my teeth because it might have frightened Mrs. Cake-what anguish for my once-devoted husband if I should pass from this world without ever telling him I forgave him and that venomous woman… I returned to what senses I had left. Death was out. Ariel had said she couldn’t take any more of it. And, most important of all, there were my own children to consider.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you, Mrs. Cake.”
“Sit yourself down in that chair opposite mine. It’s right pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Haskell.”
“Thank you.” I did as directed. “Ariel speaks of you fondly.”
“The little lost lass is what I call her.” The voice was kindness itself. “She doesn’t know what she wants and takes it out on Mrs. Hopkins; then around they go with the dad in the middle. And now they’ve had that poor old vicar drop dead in the conservatory, adding fuel to the fire.” She picked up a pillow slip from the table next to her chair and began stitching up a seam.
I didn’t pretend not to know what she was getting at. “You’re talking about Mrs. Hopkins’s idea that Lady Fiona murdered her husband.”
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if your friend Mrs. Malloy hadn’t broached the matter in our talks. It’s upsetting, and not just for Ariel and her dad. Mavis has got wind of Mrs. Hopkins’s suspicions. She’s not usually a gabber, but she hasn’t taken to Mrs. Hopkins, and if there was to be a real blowup she might do some repeating of what she’s heard in this house. I’d hate for Lady Fiona to be upset.”
“You like her?”
“Yes, I do. She’s odd, there’s no getting round that. She and Mr. Gallagher made quite a pair that way. Eccentric wouldn’t be putting it too strongly. I suppose that’s why they got along.”
“They were happy?”
“Very, I would say. And I’ve worked for them these twenty years or more.” Mrs. Cake rethreaded her needle and started on another seam. “They weren’t the sort to show their feelings, not in a public way. But it was clear they meant the world to each other. Surprising, you might say, because from what I’ve heard theirs didn’t start off as a great romance. But they each knew how the other thought, and in my book that’s a good foundation for the sort of love that grows and lasts.”
“Mrs. Malloy and I have been told this wasn’t the first time that Mr. Gallagher left home on the spur of the moment.”
“She said you got that from her sister, Miss Tabby. There’s a woman you can tell has had her heart broken.” Mrs. Cake shook her head sadly. “Same old story-married man-but new every time it hits home. A pity if she lets the past stop her from making things permanent with the good man she’s now found.”
I didn’t advance the information that the previous love interest had been Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre. That would have been gossiping. Besides which, I was too surprised. “Melody Tabby has a gentleman friend?”
“There!” Mrs. Cake slapped herself on the wrist. “What a one I am for spilling the beans! But at least I haven’t said his name. I’m a talker right enough, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep the occasional secret. As I’ve said to Ariel, my lips are always sealed when I’m told straight out to keep mum.”
I wanted to say she had that in common with my husband; instead, I brought her back to Mr. Gallagher by asking how frequent had been his disappearances.
“I’d say he’s taken off half a dozen times since I’ve been here,” responded Mrs. Cake. “Some bee would land on his bonnet and away he’d flit to a place in the back of beyond with a name only the native inhabitants can pronounce. Even Lady Fiona wouldn’t know where he’d gone until a letter or postcard would arrive.”
“Didn’t she get upset?”
“You’ve met her, Mrs. Haskell. She floats through life; most things slide right off her shoulders.”
“She never got angry with him for not bothering to let her know he was going away?”
“It does seem odd to the likes of you and me.” Mrs. Cake smiled comfortably. “But we’re talking about two people living on a totally different plane from the rest of us. All her ladyship ever said to me was that Mr. Gallagher couldn’t bear goodbyes. And my guess is that came from being brought up by Nanny Pierce. I wouldn’t be surprised if every time he said he was going out, either by himself or with friends, she got upset and he ended up staying home. Far too possessive, that woman! I’m not surprised her great nephew has stayed clear of her over the years. She explains that by saying he married a woman that’s not up to snuff, but who knows? Anything less than him being Lord Mayor of London wouldn’t count for much. Having her great-niece come to live with her should make her happy. But Nanny blows hot and cold with her too.”
“Really?” Was there any hope of Val being booted out in the next ten minutes?
“One minute it’s all working out wonderfully, and the next you hear a long list of complaints from Nanny. Something has been misplaced, she’s left on her own too much: that sort of thing. I really don’t know how her ladyship managed with having her underfoot for so long. Finally, it was Mr. Gallagher who put his foot down and said it would be best if Nanny was moved to the Dower House. There was a scene I couldn’t help hearing. She was shouting and carrying on like you wouldn’t believe.”
“When was that?”
“Just a couple of days before he left.” Mrs. Cake, having finished with the pillow slip, picked up a linen table runner to work on.
“So she had a reprieve on going to the Dower House?”
“That’s right. She didn’t move in there until this house was sold.”
“How did Miss Pierce react to Mr. Gallagher’s most recent departure?”
“As always, she blamed Lady Fiona for his need to get away, this time because of the upset-that had to be all her doing. But-and I could be wrong-I sensed some relief on Nanny’s part. And looking at it from her side, the timing couldn’t have been better. It gave her the opportunity to put that row behind her, perhaps forget it even happened. There’s no doubt her memory is failing some; she’s old. I should be kinder in my thoughts.” Mrs. Cake stopped stitching and sat staring at her needle.
Noticing an electric kettle on a cupboard shelf, I asked if she would like me to make her some tea and, upon her ready acceptance, made a strong brew, which was how she said she liked it. Having found milk and sugar and a tin of biscuits, I set a loaded tray down on the table, from which she had now cleared her mending, before sitting back down with my own cup and saucer.
“Thanks, love. I was gasping for a cuppa.”
“You’re very welcome.” I took an invigorating sip. “Why do you think Lady Fiona reacted with more than usual concern to Mr. Gallagher’s most recent departure?”
“It was like this.” Mrs. Cake dipped a ginger biscuit into her tea. “There’d been a recent rash of burglaries in the area. I used to say to both of them they were asking for trouble with that outside door to the west wing always left unlocked. How much bother would it have been to get a new lock fitted? But they never got round to it. Neither have the Hopkinses, for that matter. Anyway, that night-the last night Mr. Gallagher was home-her ladyship went up to bed earlier than usual, with a headache. She gets them bad sometimes.”
“I can sympathize, having just had one.”
“There’d been some tension between them that day. The police asked me if there’d been anything wrong and I told them, there being no reason to hide it. Mr. Gallagher had tried several times that day to reach Mr. Scrimshank on the telephone. Each time he couldn’t get hold of him, he’d come into the kitchen and I’d hear his nerves jangling. Mr. Gallagher had been holed up in his study for the previous couple of days, so I guessed it had to do with business. I don’t know anything about stocks and bonds, except that sometimes they need to be bought or sold in a hurry, so that may have been it.”
“What about Lady Fiona? Do you think she knew why her husband was trying to contact Mr. Scrimshank?”
“I’m sure she didn’t, because the one time she came into the kitchen when he was there telling me he still wasn’t having any luck with phoning, he changed the subject right quick. Wants to surprise her with the good news that there’s a windfall in the offing, was what I hoped. As the day went on, it could be he saw a golden opportunity slipping away, because it was clear he was getting tense and finally irritable, which wasn’t like him at all-there never being an easier-going man. Floated aloft he did, as a rule, just like her ladyship. It ended with them having words, which I don’t remember them doing before. I’m sure that’s what gave her ladyship the headache that sent her to bed about eight o’clock.”
“Did you tell that to the police about the argument?”
“I’m not one for causing trouble, but there wasn’t any reason not to.” Mrs. Cake set down her teacup and picked up another piece of mending. “Lady Fiona would have told them herself. There was nothing to it. Just Mr. Gallagher carrying on about his clean socks. He always laid them out each evening, well before he went to bed-something Nanny Pierce had insisted upon when he was a child, I expect. I heard him grumbling about how he couldn’t find the pair he wanted, a sure sign he wasn’t himself, considering Mavis always put them away as tidy as you please, all in the same drawer that could be pulled out from here to next week for a good look. It was the blue-and-black Argyle pair he couldn’t find. And Lady Fiona lost her temper, if you could even call it that, she’s so mild. I remember thinking the upset with Nanny was what had them both on edge, but that they’d both forget about it if she’d ever let them, instead of bearing a grudge, which is her way. Always best to keep on Nanny’s good side has been my motto; that’s what I’ve told Mavis.” Mrs. Cake rethreaded her needle. “And that’s why I had your husband go down and ask Nanny for her scone recipe.”
“What about the burglaries?” I got up to pour her more tea.
“Thanks, love.” She picked up her cup. “It was like this, you see. There was a lot of nervousness about the houses that had been broken into over the previous few weeks. We’d never had much of that before. Anyway, there was a Mrs. Johnson living about half a mile from here at the time who always walked her dog this way around ten-thirty of an evening. A nice animal, a sheepdog.”
“I’ve seen a man walking a black-and-white one.”
“Probably the same. Mrs. Johnson recently moved in with her sister that owns the bed and breakfast on the corner by the traffic light where you turn onto the high street. Some of the guests enjoy taking Keeper for a walk. He’s named for Emily Bronte’s dog, Mrs. Johnson told me. Lovely animal. Anyway, on the night we’re talking about they stopped at the gate out front because the dog had to go, and Mrs. Johnson saw a man come running out of the house. Like his life depended on it, she said. She always carried a torch with her because the road isn’t well lit, but she only got a brief glimpse of him because he dodged around the shrubbery. She went straight home and rang the police, and they came round quick as a wink, waking me and Lady Fiona up with their wailing sirens and flashing lights.”
“Was Mrs. Johnson able to describe the man?” I set down my cup and saucer.
“She said she thought he had gray hair, but it could have been fair, and perhaps she had leaped to the other conclusion because she’d assumed the man was Mr. Gallagher, fleeing because of a problem inside. She imagined a fire or a gas leak. When the house was checked and him not in it, the thought was that there’d been another break-in and he’d surprised the burglar and gone chasing after him. Under those circumstances, her ladyship did get quite worked up-for her, that is. Even when Mr. Scrimshank got the phone call and the police accepted that Mr. Gallagher had gone off on another of his holidays, I could tell she wasn’t easy in her mind.”
“If that’s all there was to it, why would he have raced out of the house in the manner Mrs. Johnson described?”
“Police Sergeant Walters said that could’ve been the burglar.” Mrs. Cake looked up at me from her sewing. “Such a lovely man-and a wonderful knitter-is the Sergeant, a shame he’s still not married. If I could have a word with his lady friend, I’d tell her not to keep him waiting.”
“Rather a coincidence, a break-in on the night Mr. Gallagher disappeared.”
“They do happen. Or it could be Mrs. Johnson saw things her own way.”
“Presumably a check was made to see if Mr. Gallagher had taken a suitcase and some of his clothes.”
“Her ladyship wasn’t sure. She said he always kept one packed, ready to go, but she couldn’t remember where, and with a house this size it’s hard to track things down. She did look, so did Mavis and myself. It was Mr. Gallagher not taking his walking stick with the lion’s head that bothered Lady Fiona. But like I told her if he was in a hurry to be off, it would be easy to forget.”
“What was the weather like that night?”
“Cold and damp, it being January.”
“So he’d have taken a coat?”
“His waterproof jacket was gone from the hall closet.”
“Mrs. Cake,” I said, “is Mr. Gallagher of a similar height and weight to Mr. Scrimshank?”
“Not far off.” She stopped sewing, her kindly face puzzled.
“I’m wondering if it was Mr. Scrimshank Mrs. Johnson saw leaving the house and, because of the resemblance, assumed he was Mr. Gallagher.”
“Could’ve been, I suppose. There’d been all those attempts by Mr. Gallagher to get hold of him that day. That’s why it made sense that it was him he phoned a few days later. But if Mr. Scrimshank had been here at the house that night, he’d have told the police, wouldn’t he?”
“Perhaps not, if there’d been an argument.”
“About what, for instance?” Mrs. Cake moved her bandaged foot gingerly, as if it had begun to hurt.
“Problems with the Gallaghers’ finances?”
“Now you’ve said it, Mrs. Haskell. I have wondered why they were in a bad state and, nasty as it is for me to say, I never took to Mr. Scrimshank. I’ve always been sorry for Miss Tabby having to work for him. There’s something about his eyes, sort of a dead look, that gives me the creeps. Even so, it’s a big leap from not liking someone to thinking he could be wickedly dishonest. It never crossed my mind; but I do see where you’re going. Oh, dear, this does frighten me! What if Mrs. Hopkins has it right about Mr. Gallagher being murdered, even though she’s off the mark in thinking it was her ladyship that did it?”
“Would you like another cup of tea?” I asked her, noting that Mrs. Cake’s red face had paled.
“I could do with one, love. Don’t bother to make fresh, just heat up what’s in the pot and give it a good stir… Thanks,” she said, when I handed back her cup. “One thing that’s struck me as strange is that Mr. Gallagher would have gone away right after that row with Nanny Pierce, leaving her ladyship to deal with the old girl. She has her ways of getting even. I think that’s the reason her ladyship, leaving aside the shock of the police being brought in, has never felt quite settled in her mind that this was just another of Mr. Gallagher’s adventure trips.”
“That’s a lovely portrait of her in the gallery.” I sat warming my hands on my teacup, the brew being too stewed for my taste. Mrs. Cake didn’t seem to mind.
“That was painted long before my time here.”
“Ariel says that, prior to her marriage, Lady Fiona was very much in love with someone else.”
“It’ll be me that told her that. Like I said, my mouth can get going nonstop, but it wasn’t a secret. Mrs. Johnson’s sister told me about it, and so did several other people. From the sound of things he was very good-looking, quite like a film star, but her father thought him a bounder. Probably that was a good part of the attraction for a gently brought up young lady. Anyway, her parents put an end to it, threatened to cut her off with a shilling if she married the fellow.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
“No.” Mrs. Cake was still looking anxious. “But I’m sure her ladyship and Mr. Gallagher have some idea.”
“Both of them?” I said in surprise.
“He was Mr. Gallagher’s cousin. That’s how her ladyship met him, at a house party that was intended to bring her and Mr. Gallagher together, or so the story goes.”
I assimilated this piece of information. “Mrs. Cake, have you heard any rumors that Lady Fiona and this young man may have been secretly married?”
“Not a tweet.” She looked bewildered, then anxious again. “Oh, Mrs. Haskell, now I can’t get the idea out of my head that Mr. Scrimshank was here that night and”-a sob caught in her throat-“did something awful to Mr. Gallagher. But I can’t see the police doing anything just because I’ve got a bad feeling, not if there isn’t more to go on.”
“That’s the problem.” I turned over an idea. “Mrs. Cake, is Mavis as fond of her ladyship as you are?”
“Every bit. Between you and me, we’ve both said we can’t wait for her to have a place of her own so we can go back to taking care of her. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have the glimmering of an idea, but I’d like to talk with Mrs. Malloy before saying anything more.”
As it happened, that was the end of my chat with Mrs. Cake. Betty poked her head around the door to ask if I’d seen Ariel. I told her I hadn’t but, seeing she was worried, offered to help look for the child. Once out in the hall, Betty stood twisting her hands.
“Silly of me to get nervous,” she said, “but you saw her reaction to Mr. Tribble’s death, and she still didn’t seem right at breakfast. Tom asked if she’d like to go for a walk, but she wouldn’t so he left on his own. Here am I as usual with all the responsibility and none of the perks. What if she’s run away again?”
“How long have you been looking for her?”
“At least an hour. I’d thought to take her out to buy something for her to wear at the garden party on Thursday. A little shopping trip and lunch, to help cheer her up.”
“You’ll have looked in all the obvious places?”
“I’ve gone through the house and searched the grounds. If only Tom would get back. I don’t want to phone the police without talking to him.” Betty raked her hands through her red hair, which as usual had a humanizing effect, although in this case it didn’t seem necessary. She looked more real than I had yet seen her. Her eyes did not look like glass when misted with tears.
“Have you gone through to the west wing?” I asked her.
“What?”
“She took me up there yesterday. It’s worth a try.”
“Come with me,” she said. “I always find it creepy at the best of times.”
I thought of Lady Fiona’s account of the priest who had been walled up behind the wainscoting. Had emanations from that ancient tragedy affected my mood during my former visit? Or did Nanny Pierce’s presence still loom beyond the bedroom where she had kept her shrine to Mr. Gallagher’s boyhood? Had she left his toys in place as a reminder to him and to her ladyship that she might have been ousted to the Dower House but there was no removing her influence, either past or future?
We passed through what I thought of as the ballroom and entered Nanny’s personal domain. All was as I remembered, neat and organized, apart from a slightly rumpled bed and a small blue and gold object placed in the middle.
Betty picked it up and held it out to me. “What can this be doing up here?”
Not Frances Edmonds, I thought. Surely she would have taken the snuffbox from the Chinese chest home with her if she had bothered to steal it. I shook my head, hesitant to suggest the most likely scenario, which seemed confirmed when Betty opened the lid and drew out a twist of toffee papers.
“I suppose it must have been Ariel; there’s no one else, but I still have trouble believing it. Whatever that girl’s faults, she’s not sneaky: too much the other way round, with her in-your-face rudeness. And she’s not one to want someone else blamed for what she gets up to. She had to know that if I’d realized the snuffbox was missing, I’d have thought Frances had taken it to get back at me for not helping her and Stan out after we came into the money. No, I just can’t-”
“It wasn’t me, Betty.” Ariel came around the door. “I saw it when I came up here and have been trying to figure it out myself. I was going to bring it back down with me, but I wasn’t ready. I wanted more time to think. This is always where I come when I want to be alone.”
“Now that I know,” Betty said tartly, “I won’t panic the next time I can’t find you. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through this past hour, searching every nook and cranny, afraid something was terribly wrong and your dad and I would never find you?”
“Nice to know you care.” It was a familiar pert reply, but Ariel brushed at her eyes and her voice trembled.
It was time for me to slip away. I went down the back stairs, as Ariel and I had done on the previous occasion, and entered the passageway connecting the two parts of the house. I was about to go out into the garden when I heard Ben’s voice.
“I can’t go on like this,” he said. “I’ve never kept Ellie in the dark about anything, so with or without your agreement, Valeria, I’m going to tell her what’s been going on here.”
“And what would that be?” I said, coming out into the open.