Getting into the driver’s seat, I nosed my way out of the alleyway into the high street, which was even heavier with traffic than it had been earlier. But at least I now had my bearings, making it unlikely I would take a wrong turn on my way back to Cragstone House.
Why hadn’t I spotted Mr. Scrimshank as a murderer the moment he opened the door? It was there in his eyes, that nasty dull brown color, with no eyelashes to speak of. I pictured him seated at his desk thinking up his next move, instead of doodling like a normal person. Though Betty might have been wrong about Lady Fiona’s being the one who did away with her husband, I now thought it sadly likely the man was dead.
But always the silver lining. I was no longer fixated on Val and whether Ben was one of the rare people ever to call her Valeria, or why after all these years she’d remembered that the uncle he’d worked for in London had been named Sol. People don’t need to be in a relationship of a lifetime to remember such details. What did keep popping into my head was the thought of Mrs. Malloy’s bag of toffees. I was starving. But there was no hope of her having left them on the backseat. They would be on her bedside table, along with a framed photo of herself, adding a personal touch to her room away from home, as advised by her favorite travel magazine.
Slowing my driving to a crawl, I focused on Mr. Gallagher’s demise. Could it be that her ladyship and Mr. Scrimshank had been partners in bringing it about? One thing seemed clear. The Gallagher money had been severely depleted. Tom and Betty had said so, and in addition Lady Fiona had sold her ancestral home.
What if she’d found out her husband had squandered her fortune through bad investments or riotous living? Maybe he’d had a gambling problem or bought racehorses that went lame. She could have lost her head and decided he had to go. What if Mr. Scrimshank’s offense was not embezzlement but covering up the losses on paper in an attempt to rid her ladyship of a motive for murder? Had he really been desperately in love with her for years? It was hard to imagine, given his desiccated appearance, but let’s not forget old Lord Snearsby’s searing passion for his forty-year-old female ward in The Faulty Fortress.
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.
“It’s so good of you to come, Madam LaGrange,” she said.
“The girl’s phone call impelled me to do so. At the first sound of her voice, I felt the overshadowing of a soul trapped in the timeless warp between this world and the next. In almost all cases this happens when a death is violent, and there is a need to communicate with someone.” Madam LaGrange had a suitably throaty, hypnotic voice. I enjoyed listening; it kept me from continually glancing at Ben to see if he still had that shuttered look on his face. But Tom cut her off.
“Shall we go into the drawing room?” he suggested brusquely.
“Have you felt a presence in there?”
“No.”
“Yes,” said Betty.
With this we made the move. I’d have liked a sandwich in my hand for additional company, but with luck Betty or Tom would offer Madam LaGrange refreshments and I could take a bite off her plate.
She swrept into the center of the room, spread out her arms, and turned in a circle, adding the possibility that she would trip on the hem of her long skirt to the mounting sense of expectancy.
“Nothing,” she announced, on ceasing to revolve. “This room has recently been redecorated? That could be the reason the departed does not feel comfortable joining us in here. Is there a room that is much as he left it?” Pausing, she held up a hand. “No one speak yet. I am seeing a study… dark paneling, a Jacobean oak table, leather chairs.”
Ariel giggled, nervously, I thought.
Ben stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking inscrutable. I wished desperately for the comfort of Mrs. Malloy’s presence. She would be so sorry to have missed this.
“Is there a room such as I describe?” Madam LaGrange swiveled to glance at the assemblage.
Tom looked askance at the invitation to speak in his own home, but Betty did so eagerly. “Mr. Gallagher’s study. According to Mrs. Cake, the cook, he spent most of each day there. And the furniture is the same. We bought those pieces with the house, because Tom liked them.”
“And he has to have his own way sometimes,” chipped in Ariel, who was standing on one foot.
Betty didn’t waste time glaring at her. She was leading the way to a door next to the dining room; we all swarmed in after her. Madam LaGrange had described the study accurately-little surprise there, considering it was typical of its kind, but she looked pleased with herself.
“Yes, this is where he wants us to be. I can feel his presence strongly. He is eager to get through, but sometimes there are difficulties… other entities trying to make contact. I never promise anything, but if someone will draw the curtains to block out most of the light, I suggest we seat ourselves around the table.”
Tom saw to the curtains while the rest of us positioned the necessary six chairs. A hush filtered into the room as we took our places. It was still possible to see one another’s faces, but the shadowed effect blurred some contours and sharpened others, so that the known became unknown. I shivered despite my conviction that Madam LaGrange was a fraud and Mr. Gallagher was no more likely to join us than the man in the moon.
“Let us hold hands to form the life circle.” Madam LaGrange closed her eyes.
“Aren’t we supposed to light a candle?” Ariel muttered from my right.
“Unnecessary. The strength of our belief is the beacon that will light the uncertain passage that leads from their world to ours. There must be no doubters here.”
Tom gave a snort, which he converted into a cough.
Ben cleared his throat. I knew he was trying not to laugh.
“Then we begin.” Madam LaGrange’s hand tightened on mine. I had the privilege of being seated to her right. She began to hum, a low deep unmelodious sound that thickened to a rasp… then to a growl. I bit my lip and stared straight ahead to prevent myself from shaking with rude mirth. My brief unease gone, I was ready to enjoy the show: sedately, if possible. Madam’s grip slackened; I felt her body sag. The growling ceased. All was silent. A shaft of light slid through the narrow gap between the curtains, making for a nice visual effect. Betty squealed. Ariel giggled. Someone said shush. Silence again. The tension mounted nicely; a maestro couldn’t have orchestrated it better. Then came the voice, and despite myself I jumped. Earlier in the hall I had wondered if the one coming out of my mouth was my own. Did Madam LaGrange find herself in a similar situation?
“Hold your horses!” thundered the voice. “Who wants me?”
“Are you Nigel Gallagher?”
“Bill Johnson… used to deliver the milk.”
“Another time, perhaps. This evening it’s Nigel we need.”
“Bugger!”
I had to admit Madam LaGrange was doing a good job of switching voices. As herself, she sounded drained of energy. She now jerked and strained upward in her chair.
“Nigel?”
“Yes. It is I!” This male voice was lower, more cultivated.
“Would you prefer that I address you as Mr. Gallagher?”
“Doesn’t matter. Have to hurry! Others pushing me aside, mustn’t lose the connection.” Did he think he was on the phone? “Must talk to the woman who bought the house.”
“She’s in the room, Nigel.”
“Yes, I’m right here,” said Betty steadily.
“Elizabeth…”
“No one ever calls me that.”
“Beautiful name… suits you.”
“Thank you.” Would she begin to believe he’d fallen in love with her from beyond?
“Right for Cragstone. The west wing… Elizabethan. Other tragedies over the years… papist priest met the same end as I.”
I could almost hear Betty thinking, My darling, I think only of you! “Tell me how I can help you,” she urged tearily.
“Know you care, felt it from the first. Tried to get through… sent indicators.”
I heard Tom snort and agreed wholeheartedly. A funeral wreath and some dead birds as love tokens? I scoffed inwardly. But then men always say they never know what to send.
“How can I bring your murderer to justice, Nigel?”
“You will know when the moment comes… soon. Very soon. Don’t… tell anyone what you are about to do. Might try to stop you… Go alone. Promise me, Elizabeth.”
“I do.”
“Can’t stay… have to leave.”
“Must you?”
“Until… we meet… again.”
A depleted sigh issued from Madam LaGrange’s lips. She had done such an admirable job of conjuring up Nigel Gallagher that I missed him deeply until I came to my senses. Nobody spoke for several minutes.
“Did he come through?” she finally asked in her own voice.
Betty’s was thick with emotion. “Oh, yes!”
“I can never be sure. We need no longer hold hands.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Madam LaGrange.”
“We can pay her the fee Ariel promised her.” Tom sounded understandably sullen. He’d been forced to witness his wife throwing herself at a ghost. Who better than I to appreciate his feeling, having watched Val do the same thing with Ben? Or hadn’t that been the other way round? I suddenly felt as worn out as Madam LaGrange was pretending to be. When Betty excused herself and rushed from the room, I was tempted to follow suit.
“I never accept any payment in situations that involve murder. My gift is meant to help make the world a better and safer one,” Madam was telling Tom when we heard Betty talking to someone in the hall. She did not return. It was Miss Pierce who hobbled quickly into the study.
“Where is he?” she quavered.
“Who?” Ariel pranced toward her as Tom and Ben got to their feet and Madam LaGrange fiddled with the fringe on her sleeve.
“My Mr. Nigel. I woke up to hear Val telling me he was home where he belongs, but when I sat up in bed she said I’d been dreaming and cried out in my sleep.”
“That’s what happened.” Her great-niece was suddenly at her side. “Aunt, you shouldn’t have come up here.”
“I’ve got a coat over my nightgown. I wouldn’t let Mr. Nigel see me not properly dressed.”
“I know; you look entirely presentable. But he isn’t here and you’ve interrupted the Hopkinses’ evening with their guests.” Val looked apologetically at Tom, but was it the sight of Ben looking at her intently that brought the lovely flush to her cheeks?
“Miss Pierce, Mr. Gallagher hasn’t come home,” Tom told the old lady, with a kindness that surprised me.
“He did pay a fleeting visit”-Ariel began, then checked herself-“to Istanbul, Mrs. Cake told me.”
“He never went there,” Nanny Pierce replied crossly. “He went to Constantinople, somewhere quite different. Oh, I am disappointed that I don’t get to make Mr. Nigel a welcome-home cup of cocoa.”
“Someday soon.” Val put an arm around her, to have it shoved away.
“No need to coddle me like I’m demented. I’m as sharp as I ever was. None of that forgetting names and faces for me.”
Madam LaGrange pushed up her sleeve to look at her watch. “I’d better go out to wait for my taxi. I booked it with the man who brought me here, for ten minutes from now. But he’s going to be early.”
“It must be marvelous to know things ahead of time.” Ben smiled at her. He had stopped looking at Val.
“Yes, there is that.” Madam glided into the hall with Tom following like a bridesmaid. After they left, Nanny sat down in the nearest chair and began reminiscing about her Mr. Nigel. Val looked embarrassed. Ben didn’t look any way at all. And Ariel asked me if I’d enjoyed her surprise.
“Betty did. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” Suddenly I couldn’t stand the constraint between Ben and myself a moment longer. Without bothering to excuse myself as Betty had done, I hurried into the hall. Deciding that wasn’t far enough away, I opened the front door and headed down the stone steps in time to see Madam LaGrange get into her taxi. It was still quite light.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Malloy popped up at my side and pointed a finger at the departing guest.
“Is your eyesight failing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you should recognize Madam LaGrange.”
“But that wasn’t her.”
“Are you sure?” We stood staring at each other.
“ ’Course I am. Madam LaGrange is a slip of a girl, not much taller than Ariel and no more than eighteen years old.”
“Then who was that woman?”