by Maggie Humm
The shadows of the tall sycamores ahead crept towards her, and she watched them undressing for autumn as if they had a surplus of leaves and didn’t quite know what to do with them. Waiting for a moment, lost in the sight, she had to admit whatever she and Louis might have shared, it was always going to be impossible. This was clear from his deep affection for Norman, and now life would have to continue without him, or without the idea of him she seemed to have carried with her since she first saw him smile. Was it a kind of comfort? she wondered, staring at the leaves shuffling and rustling around her shoes. Winter would follow the autumn, but she knew spring never failed. She stood more upright, thinking the dead don’t actually go till we do; Louis would always be there, somewhere behind her eyes, somewhere in her mind, whenever she studied a painting. She had to finish Mrs. Ramsay’s portrait, for him as much as for herself.
The climb back up the hill to Talland House, always tiring, now exhausted her. Fresh sea air dried the tears from her cheeks as it blew more autumn leaves from the trees, which stuck blindly to her coat. Showers of dust fell around her feet, obscuring the dappled light, bringing hints of rain. Trees had lost their rounded shapes with the falling dead vegetation exposing twisted branches, and, in the distance, a single church bell tolled as if calling out for a companion. She pulled her hat over her brow and dabbed her face with a handkerchief. She wouldn’t tell the Ramsays about Louis. Mr. Ramsay would barely remember him anyway from the afternoon at Studio Day. It was almost twenty years ago.
Reaching the house at last, Lily sat alongside her easel, resting in Mrs. Ramsay’s favourite nook where the escallonia hedge joined the house wall; the intertwined ivy was turning yellow and the soil cracked and dry. Too upset to struggle with choosing colours, she watched Mr. Carmichael asleep in his deckchair, the sun dappling his bald head into pink-and-yellow patches; his unfinished coffee had dried into hard streaks of dark brown in his cup, his slurps congealed into thick drops around the rim. The fine bone china would be difficult to clean; the servants will have to be very careful.
She remembered Mrs. McNab chattering about her memories of Mrs. Ramsay, of watching her wearing a grey cloak, bending over the garden flowers, as if her soul were held captive in a dahlia. Mrs. McNab would have witnessed everything in the house as all domestics did, so she must have seen any strange actions in Talland House; she might have information. It would be impossible to finish the portrait without knowing more about Mrs. Ramsay.
Mr. Carmichael’s snores were becoming insufferable. Lily left him sprawled in his chair, tucked her paints into her satchel to keep them dry, and placed the easel further into the nook. Mrs. McNab would probably be in Sophie’s kitchen at the rear of the house, but it would be best to walk around on the outside path rather than through the hall in case she met Mr. Ramsay. She didn’t know how to talk with him, and questions might bring down a screen between them—like a fire curtain in front of theatre scenery. She’d never learn the truth by talking to him, and Louis had asked her to be careful.
In the kitchen, Mrs. McNab was rooted in an easy chair near the open door, her roughened, swollen fingers clutching a mug of tea she sipped slowly as if to prolong her break from cleaning. The kitchen was spotless, and Lily glanced around, approving the work. Years of wartime dirt had been thrown out into the garden, the walls smelled lemon-sharp with fresh whitewash, and everything shone. Shelves held each utensil and pan in parallel rows, resembling sterilised medical implements laid out ready for an operation. With the warmth of a kitchen lamp and the freshly blackened iron stove, the air was heavy, in spite of a breeze from the door; she watched Sophie and Mildred, the maid, bustling around, assembling cooking ingredients on a plain deal kitchen table.
The cook’s fat body and sizeable breasts made her movements ponderous, and she left to Mildred the collecting of boxes from high shelves as she began to check the packets.
“Pray we don’t need extra ingredients,” Sophie said without looking at Lily. “I want to get all the biscuits baked up today. The family always eat so many.”
“I don’t want to delay you, Sophie,” Lily said. “I simply wished to ask Mrs. McNab for some information. May I watch you cook? I need to learn how to cook more than simple dishes for my father, and he does love biscuits.”
“You can always buy Peek Frean’s, Miss, though I’ve no truck with shop-bought food. Never trusted their quality, never will.” Sophie’s face was stern. “Make yourself welcome, Miss. It’ll be good to keep Mrs. McNab awake with your talk. She’ll nod off over her tea otherwise.”
At the second mention of her name, Mrs. McNab glanced up and rose a little from her chair.
“Oh, please, Mrs. McNab, do continue resting,” Lily insisted. “We can chat while Sophie cooks.” She flinched as Sophie banged a rolling pin onto the table. “Are they gingerbread nuts? I know they’re a family favourite,” she asked the cook, remembering Hilary Hunt’s story of how Sophie had invited Hilary into the kitchen to collect gingerbread nuts for Mr. Ramsay so she could speak of Mrs. Ramsay’s death. Perhaps Sophie might disclose more information today, too, overhearing the conversation with Mrs. McNab. The kitchen at Talland House was the intact heart of the house, not the public thoroughfare of the drawing room, and its walls hid servants’ gossip from the family. Taking a chair opposite the cleaner, Lily thanked Mildred for the mug of tea.
Sophie carefully opened the lid of a golden syrup tin warming on the range, and a glorious sugary smell enveloped the women. She poured some of the syrup into a hollow in the flour mixture in a large bowl, and the warmth released a ginger aroma. While Sophie focused on rolling little balls of dough, Lily glanced at Mrs. McNab.
“I would be grateful, Mrs. McNab,” Lily said, “if we could talk a little about your work in the house.”
The cleaning woman put her mug down on the floor and placed her arms akimbo, as if challenged by Lily’s question.
“You’re an expert cleaner, Mrs. McNab. I’m sure you swept out every bit of dirt from Mrs. Ramsay’s bedroom. I wonder if there was anything left, a remembrance perhaps, as you made the room ready for the return of the guests?”
“Mr. Ramsay told me to clean everything thoroughly,” Mrs. McNab replied, “but it’s not to be used by any guests, he said. No one is ever to sleep in her bed.”
Lily placed her hand on Mrs. McNab’s chair arm.
“You’re such a good worker, Mrs. McNab. I heard you’d performed wonders on the house during the family’s absence, had cleaned it from top to toe.”
Sophie finished rolling and began picking up each ball with her knife, staring hard at the two women.
“Talland House wouldn’t be standing today if it wasn’t for us cleaners, Miss Briscoe.” Mrs. McNab leaned back in her chair. “I did clean everything in the dear lady’s bedroom but left her grey cloak hanging on the back of the door. She was fond of the cloak.”
Mrs. McNab gazed over at Sophie and Mildred as if seeking their permission to continue, and Sophie nodded while placing baking trays on the table.
“Things were rotting in the drawers,” Mrs. McNab said. “It was right to throw them away and scrub down all her furniture. I’m as honest as they come, Miss, Sophie here will vouch for me.”
She half turned again to Sophie, who was scrutinizing Lily.
“We’re all very loyal, Miss Briscoe.” Sophie threw the remark over her shoulder as she finished assembling dough balls onto the trays.
“Of course you all are,” Lily said. “The Ramsays depend on you such a great deal, I know. And treasure you.”
“And get a lot of work in return, Miss, I’m sure,” Sophie said, slamming shut the door of the stove.
The clock whirred in the hall before sounding a single chime. She must be quick in case any family appeared. She’d have to tell the servants why she’d returned to St Ives and why she was here now in the kitchen. It was an intimacy she’d never repeat.
“I miss Mrs. Ramsay more than I can say,” Lily said. “My dearest hop
e is to finish her portrait, but finishing depends on knowing more about her death. Mr. Hunt has told me what he heard, and he also knows of my visit. I believe you discussed affairs when Mr. Hunt called to pay his respects to Mr. Ramsay after the funeral.”
At the mention of Hunt’s name Sophie stopped frowning and leaned against the table, listening, as Lily continued.
“Apart from the rotting items, was there anything unusual in the dressing table drawers you carefully cleaned? On my last visit, I thought there to be a rather strange acrid smell coming from them, and I saw a small bottle.”
The cleaner glanced again at Sophie, whose eyes darkened as she stepped over to the kitchen door, closing it fast and nodding at Mrs. McNab.
“Why, the dressing table had ladies’ bits and pieces—handkerchiefs, ribbons, and I don’t know what …” Mrs. McNab’s voice trailed away, as if reluctant to bring her memory into the daylight. She cleared her throat and continued. “Sophie, you told me not to tell anyone. After all this time, you have to say something. It’ll be good for you.”
Lily stared at the cook, but before she could speak Sophie opened the larder. Reaching deep into the back, she turned and gave Lily the glass bottle with its faded label.
“It was empty, Miss, nothing of value,” Sophie said, “but I saved it to give to Mr. Hunt in case it meant something. The mistress used these bottles a great deal.”
The stopper was in place, but Lily could detect the same scent she remembered from the sunny afternoon exploring the house and Mrs. Ramsay’s bedroom while the family was below. The bottle resembled one Mrs. Ramsay had taken from her purse at the Arts Club dinner.
“I’m very grateful to you both. May I keep this for a while, Sophie? A good friend, Mrs. Beckwith, arrives later today—I think Mr. Ramsay must have told you. She’s very knowledgeable about medicines, and I want to hear what she thinks of this bottle. Everything will be in complete confidence. I will certainly not be telling Mr. Ramsay about our conversation or about whatever Mrs. Beckwith discovers.”
The servants nodded, their faces lightening with relief at hearing Mr. Ramsay excluded. Hanging in the air before them all was a belief: Mr. Ramsay shouldn’t know about Lily’s detective work. The clock in the hall began whirring again, ready to strike. Sophie grabbed a cloth, opened the door of the range, and brought out the browned gingerbread nuts, their aroma both sharp and sweet.
There was less than half an hour before the connecting branch line train would arrive from St Erth carrying the London passengers. A quick wash of her face and hands would have to do, but before Lily was halfway to her bedroom Cam rushed down the stairs towards her.
“We must go instantly to the Lookout place in the garden, Miss Briscoe. We always wait there to spot the London train, then we run down to the station.”
Cam’s invitation meant a great deal; the family were treating her as one of their own. The bossy child had turned into a slim young woman on the cusp of adulthood, with features uncannily like Prue’s. Lily could take sanctuary in her chatter, away from her swirling thoughts about Louis and Mrs. Ramsay, but as she took Cam’s hand, Nancy came out of Mr. Ramsay’s study.
“No need to go to Lookout, Cam,” Nancy said. “Father has ordered the pony and trap to collect Mrs. Beckwith. She is elderly, I understand. The climb up the hill will be too tiring, and she may have a heavy bag.”
“It’s most kind of your father,” Lily began, smiling at Nancy’s maternal concern, but Cam’s impatience burst through.
“Oh, drat, Nancy! I so wanted to run down to the station as soon as I saw the train. You know we always do.”
“You can help the boy with the pony and trap. He’s new to driving and may be a little uncertain handling the reins.”
Jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of holding the pony’s straps, Cam’s hair swung free like the little girl she used to be.
Climbing the staircase to show Mrs. Beckwith her bedroom, Lily closed the door tight behind them and unfolded the history of the strange events of Mrs. Ramsay’s death, together with Louis and Hunt’s stories about Mr. Ramsay, and her own knowledge of the Ramsay family. Mrs. Beckwith sat on her bed writing in one of the pharmacy’s old medical registers.
“I have followed most of this,” she said, “but may need to refer to my notes.”
Mrs. Beckwith was unchanged, calm and collected, Lily could see, delighted she’d treasured the hospital book.
“I’ve so missed our daily discussions, Miss Briscoe, the way in which we would tease out together medical symptoms. I’m very glad you invited me. We will embark on our medical ‘puzzle’ as soon as you wish. Precise clues, exact evidence are what I believe in. We will keep all this to ourselves over dinner?”
Moments later, Lily stood silent on the landing, staring into Mrs. Ramsay’s open bedroom on the other side of the corridor, all clean and polished by Mrs. McNab. The low evening sunlight streamed onto the tall mirror of the dressing table, making the polished table appear oily smooth. The surface was bare now of jewellery, brushes, and little bowls holding Mrs. Ramsay’s hairpins, but the bed was freshly made and turned down at one corner, as if awaiting her return.
There was a trunk tucked into a corner, more visible now because a bright brass lock caught the sunlight. It resembled her mother’s trunk, and Lily imagined Mrs. Ramsay unpacking the contents and dressing up her children, as Mother used to do. The trunk would probably be empty or contain a few shawls, but she’d add it to the list of things Mrs. Beckwith might want to look into. In spite of the bright day, everything in the room seemed to have hard edges.
That evening at dinner, Mrs. Beckwith was dressed in a smart red serge costume contrasting well with her grey hair, her antique jewellery deferring to older habits of changing for the evening. She was no longer the bent, tired figure Lily and Cam had met at the station. She gave Mr. Ramsay a firm handshake, and he immediately sat her next to his own chair at the head of the table. Their talk was easy and light, with a surprising number of questions from Mr. Ramsay to his guest. The usual misery of social occasions at Talland House with all Mr. Ramsay’s silent sulkiness was clearly at an end.
Lily was caught up in the children’s chatter since Nancy and Cam insisted on sitting on either side of her, Cam having adopted her as a favourite aunt. Earlier it seemed as if a palimpsest, the shade of Mrs. Ramsay, had shone through Nancy as they all stood together in the hall. Her pacification of Cam had been neatly done, saying exactly what her mother would have said. Lily had held Cam’s hand then, and the relief of touching a warm person and playfully ruffling her auburn curls after stroking Louis’s moist head had been intense. The rush of happiness had led her back into the everyday world. She had leaned for a moment against the pony’s neck and pushed her fingers through the thick bristles of his mane, calming her nerves. Cam’s body resting gently against hers as they rode to the station on the trap, their breaths misty—cigarette smoke in the chilly evening air—had almost made everything into a normal day again.
Now, with the clattering of knives and forks, it was difficult to hear the conversation at the other end of the table, but Mrs. Beckwith’s face seemed untroubled. As this was Mr. Ramsay’s first sight of his guest, they must be appreciating the usual sharing of family histories and personal interests. Lily overheard Mrs. Beckwith asking, “Do all Cornish names begin with ‘Tre’?”
Mr. Ramsay gave his usual didactic reply. “Not at all, but ‘Tre’ is an important suffix indicating homestead.”
Lily sat back, contented. Tomorrow would be for investigations, if the house could be clear of the Ramsays for a few hours.
The next morning Lily sat upright against the hard back of a chair close by the breakfast room window. Yesterday she’d left Louis dying and climbed the hill as if her grief walked alongside her. Up to then, she’d been unable to stop thinking one day she’d be with him, and they might share more than a studio, but everything had been stripped away by the sight of Norman with Louis. He loved No
rman. They were a well-matched couple. Today it was as though she were a different person. She felt the energy of life growing again, filling her entirely with its possibilities. Now, with the servants’ stories about Mrs. Ramsay, and Mrs. Beckwith’s certain confidence, it seemed to Lily the world had been subtly changed. She had a deep need to be sure about Mrs. Ramsay, to discover how she’d died in order to focus on the portrait. She’d give herself to nothing else.
The sunshine warmed her shoulders as she sipped coffee, but she felt awkward, aware at any moment she might let slip her thoughts, and she sat conscious she and Mrs. Beckwith would need a good amount of time to thoroughly examine Mrs. Ramsay’s bedroom. The children were grown and occupied themselves in tasks without asking for assistance, but they rushed from room to room, and Mr. Ramsay was likely to burst in spouting poetry at any moment. Her fingers twisted restlessly in her lap as the desire to make a start became intense.
Through the open door, clattering sounds from the kitchen suggested some kind of early lunch was being prepared when Mildred entered, placing a dish of bread and butter and a tall glass of milk in front of Cam.
“Why must I always have milk when everyone else has coffee?” Cam exclaimed. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Cam’s distress was clearly exaggerated to gain attention, and Lily moved closer to comfort her with a gentle hug. Mr. Ramsay smiled at Cam and winked at Lily.