The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  Uncle Tristan sat behind a wooden writing desk. A spider plant struggled for life in a small pot on one corner, a leather briefcase on the other. His cape hung across the back of his chair. He wore the outfit of the previous evening, the only difference being the shadow of stubble across his chin and the ruffled, unkempt nature of his hair.

  "Welcome, dearest Maggie," he said, rising to his feet. "Enter the beating heart of the Harbottle commercial enterprise." He pranced light footed in front of his desk, pulled up a chair, and said, "Take a seat; we've got work to do."

  I sat down, sniffed, covered my nose, and said, "What's that loathsome smell?"

  "They cure hides in a shack at the back of the butchers. Alas, the unsavoury aroma seems to drift up here where it multiplies in intensity. It's not so bad when you get used to it."

  I removed my hand from my nose. "How long does that take?"

  A particular noxious stench wafted into the room. Uncle Tristan paled, covered his mouth, and coughed. "Ah, well, as you can see, I'm still adjusting."

  When Uncle Tristan wrote for me to come to Cromer, I'd had visions of working in an office with great glass windows that looked out onto Norfolk scenery. A tiny windowed loft at the top of a butcher shop wasn't what I was expecting nor the foul smell from curing hides.

  I said, "Uncle, how long have you been here?"

  Uncle Tristan ignored the question and pointed to a small writing bureau crammed up against the brick wall. "Maggie, that's your workspace."

  The view was of the dust-ridden brick wall with cobwebs in the corners.

  Now the faint trace of concern from Vicar Humberstone's earlier words were combined with the shabby sight of my uncle and the stench of the office. It grew like a snowball gathers ice as it rolls down a hill. This was definitely not what I expected.

  I said, "No, this will never do. At least the prisoner glancing up through the bars can see a little of the daytime sky."

  "It's only until we move to more suitable accommodation."

  "When is that?"

  He raised a hand. "How much were they paying you in the pie-and-mash shop?"

  "Twenty-five shillings a week."

  "Then I'll pay you fifty!"

  "Are you sure?"

  Uncle leaned across the desk and took my hands in his. "Oh, yes, Maggie. I know you want to bring Nancy home—your mother would want that. But you'll need money."

  "You want to bring Nancy home to Cromer too, don't you?"

  Uncle turned away. "Nancy is not my child. It is not for me to say, but her mother would have wished it so."

  I glanced around the space. There were no filing cabinets, no hanging files, no stacks of papers strewn about the desk. Not even a typewriter. There was nothing at all to suggest a working office.

  My mind went back to Mr Pritchard who always said, "You can have the world's best pie-and-mash shop, but if it is in the Sahara Desert, it will soon close."

  I said, "Uncle, is the business profitable?"

  "Oh, yes, very profitable."

  I glanced around. The bare brick walls, exposed wooden floors, and lack of furniture told a different story.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Oh, dearest Maggie, it is not as it seems."

  "Really?"

  Uncle leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the desk. "You know I'm wearing Mr Gunthorpe's clothes. Alas, I have no others."

  I'd suspected as much, but nonetheless, his candid admission shocked me. Then it struck me—I'd left London to work for my dear uncle who couldn’t afford to put clothes on his own back. In a blind panic, I cried, "No!"

  "And I'm living in a shed—"

  I felt dizzy. "Dear God!"

  "At the bottom of Mrs Banbury's garden. She's a patron of Saint Magdalene and good friends with the vicar's wife."

  My throat went dry. "A shed at the bottom of a garden?"

  "By the vegetable patch."

  I swallowed hard, regretting for the first time leaving Mr Pritchard's pie-and-mash shop. "Tell me it isn't so, Uncle."

  Uncle Tristan burst out in fits of wild laughter. He was barely able to get the next sentence out. "And I bathe in the river!"

  "Uncle," I said in a stern voice, "you jest!"

  "Every word I've spoken is perfectly true."

  And from his tone and manner, I knew that it was.

  "But, Uncle, why are you living in a shed? Why are you wearing a dead man's clothes? And how can you afford to pay me fifty shillings a week?"

  Uncle stood. "Aren’t you worth fifty shillings a week?"

  "It is rather a lot, but—"

  "But nothing. Nancy is worth a hundred shillings a week, and so are you!"

  "Have you finally let slip the reins of sanity?" Not for the first time, I wondered if my uncle hadn't gone completely mad. "This is crazy talk."

  Uncle Tristan sat down and rocked back and forth with laughter. "When I worked in the circus, I made a pretty packet. Saved most of it too. They called me Lord Avalon, Man of Mystery. The crowds flocked to see my illusions. I'd hoped one day to break into the big time like John Maskelyne."

  I said, "I'd heard he used to perform in London."

  "He was the greatest Victorian stage magician." Uncle paused, closed his eyes, and said, "Alas, for me, fame never materialised, and I gave up the profession. But I knew one day my chance to become rich would arrive. I've waited and waited, and now at last my turn has come."

  Again, I glanced about the tiny room trying to make sense of his words. "Are you talking about Tristan's Hands?"

  "No. Tristan's Hands is my latest venture." His eyes opened very wide. "There is one before it, one which shall reward me handsomely and very soon."

  Intrigued, I said, "What other venture?"

  Uncle got up and hurried towards the door. Satisfied there was no one listening in the corridor, he returned to his desk and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Maggie, I've invested everything I own to buy shares of a gold mine in Peru. I got the tip from a client. I believe I wrote to you about him, Sir Richard Sandoe?"

  Chapter 11

  Uncle Tristan was on his feet, prancing with quick little steps back and forth across the tiny room.

  "I first met Sir Sandoe at the Norwich horse races: a rather unusual man, small with the long face of a mule. It was he who gave me the idea for Tristan's Hands, and later when he saw it excited me, mentioned the gold mine in the jungles of Peru."

  The thought of Uncle Tristan betting everything on a gold mine in a distant land caused my stomach to churn. Didn’t he know not to put every egg in a single basket?

  I opened my mouth to speak then closed it again. Uncle Tristan was extreme by nature, and after all, was this not the great opportunity he'd waited all his adult life for? What right did I have to tell him not to take the chance?

  Uncle Tristan said, "If I could, I'd sell Mr Gunthorpe's clothes and walk about naked!" He stopped and placed a hand to his cheek as if considering the possibility. Then he returned to his frenetic pacing. "But decency wouldn't allow it, and of course, I've put a little aside for the running of my motor vehicle, food, and the like. But not a penny for the clothes on my back!"

  "Well," I said, "at least you haven't totally lost your mind."

  He tapped a finger at the side of his head. "Maggie, it is all there. What does it matter being without fine garments and housing for just a short while? Sir Sandoe expects word of a great discovery before the year is out. Then I shall buy myself a wardrobe fit for a king."

  Again, I opened my mouth to sound a warning, but I clamped it shut. If I had more than five shillings in my purse, I, too, would grab Sir Sandoe's shares and use the money to bring Nancy from London. Then I'd visit Sharrington Insane Asylum and buy the freedom of Antoinette Sandoe.

  I said, "Are all the shares sold?"

  Uncle Tristan was still pacing back and forth. "When news breaks, there'll be an unholy dash to buy." He stopped by the door, opened it, and peered out into the corridor. Then he closed it an
d leaned his back against the wood and smiled. "That's when I shall sell! Oh, darling Maggie, soon your uncle will be a millionaire."

  The wheels whirred in my brain, trying to take it all in. "A millionaire?"

  "Well, maybe not. But I will be rich, and if the mad dash to grab the stock is strong enough, who knows? That is why Sir Sandoe has sworn me to secrecy."

  "But you told me?"

  "So you can invest as well. I'm going to write to your father." Uncle Tristan danced on the spot. "Soon, we all shall be rich."

  "Uncle, I only have five shillings to my name."

  Uncle Tristan stopped his merry jig, stared at me for a long moment, then said, "If you had more, would you invest?"

  "Oh, yes!"

  "I'm paying you fifty shillings a week, aren’t I? Take an advance from the next year's wages and use that." He twirled around in a circle kicking his legs high in the air like a French cabaret performer. "Come, Maggie, let's dance."

  Before I could protest, he swept me up in his skinny arms, and we twirled around the tiny room. "Last week, down our alley, came a toff. Nice old geezer with a nasty cough…"

  At last he stopped, doubled over to catch his breath, beads of sweat running down his forehead.

  "Maggie, all is tickety-boo in the world."

  As my heartbeat slowed, practicality kicked in. "Uncle, will your clients advance you my wages?"

  "They will," he huffed. "It is but mere blackbird scratchings from their purse. I have only to ask. If you wish, I shall invest the advance on your behalf."

  Peru was a long way from Cromer, and I knew nothing of gold mining, but an opportunity presented itself, and after a life of toil and grief, I would take it.

  "Keep back fifteen shillings a week. I'll need that for living expenses."

  Uncle Tristan touched his forelock in the dramatic manner of an actor in a London theatre. "As you wish, madam."

  It was then I thought of Sir Richard Sandoe. I couldn’t risk meeting the man, not yet, anyway. I had to persuade Uncle Tristan to assign me to another account. "How many clients do you have?"

  "Let me see." His eyes narrowed. "Now, what a question."

  "Uncle, how many?"

  He raised the fingers of his right hand and counted like a child. Then he looked up, eyes blank. "Right now?"

  "Yes."

  "One. The Sandoe account."

  "Are there no others?"

  "Lady Blackwood expressed an interest, but I've heard nothing."

  My heart sank like a stone tossed into a well. "Oh bother!"

  "No bother at all. One fat-pursed client is better than none." Uncle sat down at the desk. "Lady Herriman is in charge of staffing. She makes all the decisions: doubt we'll need to bother Sir Sandoe. He is a busy man."

  Uncle's words lifted my mood. Sir Sandoe ran a large estate with an army of servants and helpers, and I was to work as Uncle's bookkeeper in this stench-ridden office. What was the chance we'd meet again? And even if we did, such an encounter might be weeks or even months away. With time, the memory fades. He might not even recognise me.

  Now I knew I could do this.

  Everything would work out just fine.

  "Very well," I said, "Let me familiarise myself with the account. Where are the books?"

  Uncle scratched his head. "Well, er, you see, the account is new." He reached for the briefcase and pulled out a bundle of papers. "The details are here. Can you tootle over to Bagington Hall with these documents? Lady Herriman is expecting you at three."

  Chapter 12

  A ray of sun shone through the tiny window, casting a hazy beam into Uncle Tristan's office at the top floor of John and Sons butchers.

  "We shall drive to Bagington Hall. Once there, Lady Herriman will receive you." Uncle Tristan spoke fast as if fearful I might see something distasteful between the gaps in his words. "Everything has been carefully worked out and arranged."

  The thought of meeting a real-life lady left me nervous. As the sun ducked behind a cloud, and the gloom returned to the room, I said, "Should I curtsy when I meet Her Ladyship?"

  "It can't hurt. See if you can throw in a bow as well. And don't forget to doff your cloche hat."

  "Uncle! Be serious. I don't want to make a mistake and let you down." Nor did I want to run into Sir Sandoe, but I kept quiet on that.

  "Maggie, you worked in a pie-and-mash shop; you can handle Lady Herriman."

  An image of the elongated donkey face and owl-like stare of Sir Sandoe came to mind. "But what is she like?"

  "In looks, nothing like Sir Sandoe, different family line, and her character…" Uncle Tristan grinned like a Cheshire cat. "In your letters, you mentioned Mr Pritchard. Well, I suppose he has a lot in common with Lady Herriman."

  "How so?"

  "They both like to lord it over people."

  "That's it." I stamped my foot. "When we meet, I shan't say a word, just follow your lead."

  "Maggie, I won't be with you."

  "Eh?"

  A waft of putrid air filled the room.

  Uncle coughed. It was a little too long, a little too hard. Then he waved his right arm about, like a London policeman directing traffic. And that was a little too theatrical.

  Something was wrong, and I wanted to know what.

  "Now listen here," I said, "Maggie Darling wasn't born yesterday. What is going on?"

  "Just like your mother," Uncle said in a soft voice. "It is quite simple. You are to give Her Ladyship the documents. Then she will dismiss you."

  "If that is all I have to do, why won't you be with me?"

  "I shall remain in the carriage house, with Boots."

  "Who?"

  "Boots is a kind of footman. The carriage house acts as a garage for motor vehicles these days. Lady Herriman is rather particular with the titles of household staff. Dolly Trimmings is Her Ladyship's chambermaid."

  "How very Victorian!"

  "Ah, yes, remnants of that time still exist. While you meet with Her Ladyship, I shall remain at a safe distance in the carriage house. I must speak with Boots and other staff. After all, Tristan's Hands needs a list of workers for when it gains new clients. No matter how genial the landowner, there are always one or two unhappy fellows on staff."

  "How about I remain with Boots, and you visit with Lady Herriman?"

  "Alas, that is impossible."

  "Why?"

  "Lady Herriman is rather a challenging woman."

  "Uncle, you worked in the circus."

  He put on his best American accent, face twisted as if he'd sucked on a lemon. "Ain't nobody can tame that lioness. Anyway, she refuses to see me."

  "Uncle, what did you do?"

  "Nothing."

  "If I am to meet with Her Ladyship, I must have a clear head. How can I do that if my mind is filled with what you might have done to offend the poor woman?"

  "Ah, your logic makes perfect sense, but I have done nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "That's right. If you want to blame anything, blame the passage of time."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Maggie, I am considerably older than when we last met."

  "Uncle, you've hardly changed, apart from losing a bit of weight, and your sense of fashion may be a little outdated."

  "And neither have you changed, my dearest niece. If anything, you appear younger. It is quite remarkable."

  Uncle Tristan knew how to flatter.

  "Thank you. I feel no older than thirty."

  "Seventeen at most, with a good corset."

  I giggled. "Oh, do you think so? That is so kind."

  Uncle Tristan continued, "Lady Herriman says I remind her too much of the nineteen twenties."

  "But this is nineteen twenty-three!"

  "Her Ladyship has rather conservative sensibilities." Uncle Tristan let out a sigh. "I thought Mr Gunthorpe's Victorian cape would help. But no, Lady Herriman refuses to see me. I am too colourful for her tastes."

  I glanced at his striped
-peach-and-white shirt open at the neck, and bright orange silk scarf. "I can't see why Her Ladyship should think that."

  Uncle jumped to his feet, pointed a finger, and said, "Maggie, you were never a good liar. Anyway, I'm banned from an audience with Her Ladyship. Fortunately, Sir Sandoe insists she uses my company for new staff. That is where you come in."

  A sinking feeling filled my stomach. I could sense one of Uncle's plans coming on. "Please explain."

  Uncle Tristan sat down. "Lady Herriman has a fascination with youth."

  "What's unusual about that? She is a lady. I imagine she surrounds herself with pearls and diamonds and beautiful objects."

  Uncle Tristan let go another cough, this time both hands waved in the air. "Well… er… yes."

  I said, "What is it?"

  "I let her know I have a pretty, young assistant, barely out of secretarial school, from a sophisticated borough in London, working as my clerk." Uncle Tristan turned to stare me in the eye. "That would be you, Maggie."

  Aghast, I said, "I'm forty-two!"

  "You were twenty-five when we last met and young for your age."

  "My God, Uncle, you've gone too far this time. How on earth can I pass for a girl in the first blossom of her youth?"

  "Have you no powder, no rouge, no imagination?"

  "It won't work. I'm a pie-and-mash-shop woman with a figure to match!"

  He folded his arms. "Then how shall we get the money for your advance?"

  I had no answer to that.

  Uncle Tristan's voice dropped to a soft whisper. "A dab of powder here and there will work wonders." Before I could protest, his lips twisted into the grin of a fox that had discovered a secret entrance to the henhouse. "Lady Herriman greets visitors in a darkened room. I've asked Dolly Trimmings, her chambermaid, to hide Her Ladyship's lorgnette spectacles. She won't be able to see a thing."

  "Uncle!"

  "All you have to do is keep your distance and giggle a little here and there. Now why don't you go back to Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house, slap on some makeup, and I'll pick you up at a quarter to two."

  Chapter 13

  The sky was bright blue with immense silvery clouds when we approached the gatehouse of Bagington Hall. There were tablecloths spread on long wooden benches; red, white, and blue bunting; and flags fluttered at the tops of long poles. Women in summer frocks, with bonnets perched on their heads, handed out plates of food. Small children played on the green grass that led to the high stone wall of the estate.