THE MYSTERY AT
FIG TREE HALL
Lily GreenMysteries
Book One
Prudence Ambergast
Copyright © 2020 Prudence Ambergast
All rights reserved
ISBN: 9798631427648
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, persons or animals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
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GREAT EXPECTATIONS
In the Milford Village Library, Lily Green had just finished the latest Miss Pringle mystery novel. She’d thoroughly enjoyed it, though as with all good books, was feeling rather deflated now at having to emerge from the world she had so deliciously escaped into for the last few hours.
As a shy girl and an obsessive reader, the post of Assistant Librarian really seemed the ideal occupation. It allowed her to immerse herself in stories all day – breaking off now and again to stamp the odd book or re-stock the shelves – and she felt at home in the hushed, soothing atmosphere, where no-one ever raised their voice and the Victorian wall clock ticked rhythmically.
Most of her old school friends had gone to work in noisy offices among clattering typewriters and odious clerks and managers. Here, her only colleague was the Head Librarian, the ancient Mr Lucas, who rarely spoke to anyone. Lily did her work and was left alone.
Only lately she’d begun to feel a certain discontent. Lily realised one morning, with something of a shock it had to be said, that she’d been working at the Milford library now for six years. She was also aware that many of her school friends who had gone off to work in the noisy offices with clattering typewriters, had become engaged to and then married the clerks and managers – not all of whom turned out to be entirely odious.
At home, her widowed mother had begun to talk about Lily being left on the shelf. The phrase – as intended – sent a chill wind through Lily’s soul. In the Miss Pringle novels, the young heroine always met a dashing fighter-pilot turned stockbroker, either that or a handsome refugee, an intellectual who always turned out to have an unexpected inheritance. How was she possibly going to meet such a person in the cathedral of silence that was Milford library, other than in the pages of a book? There were eligible young men who frequented the library, of course, but they never seemed to notice her.
Lily never deluded herself that she was in any way beautiful, but she could not help feeling that in other surroundings she might appear different – enigmatic, even charming in some way that would arouse interest. Here, she was merely the Assistant Librarian – hardly the stuff of romance – however much of the make-believe variety she might cram herself with during the day.
Lily closed the Miss Pringle novel with a sigh and opened the Milford Advertiser. Her glance fell on an advertisement that sparked much interest that serene Tuesday morning: A Murder Mystery Weekend at Fig Tree Hall.
The words seemed to shimmer enticingly before her. In smaller print, there was mention of raising funds for charity and the instruction that tickets could be purchased at two guineas each from Milford Post Office.
She was not quite sure what the event might entail though. The idea of having to make conversation with total strangers terrified her, but if it was more a kind of amateur dramatics group or fancy-dress party, she felt she might be able to cope with that. And there could well be kindred spirits there. Lily had never really met any kindred spirits, but she believed everyone had them – you just had to be lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to bump into them.
If that happened during this weekend she thought, well, her life might take on a whole new meaning. It might even result in – and she dared hardly entertain such a thought – her mother never mentioning shelves and the danger of being left on them ever again. Lily Green looked over to where Mr Lucas was sitting, his head buried in the card index box and without saying a word, she slipped silently out to the Post Office.
Cecelia Morris took a deep, satisfying breath, leaning back into the leather upholstery to gaze down her long, aristocratic nose out of the window. The lounge of the Crown Hotel was an ideal place to observe the comings and goings of the locals on a weekday afternoon. At first, she had thought Milford a dull place. Indeed, it seemed just the kind of tranquil, stereotypical scene one would expect. But her research had been thorough and, Cecelia was sure, the trip could be therapeutic following the histrionic break-up with her latest lover.
She had driven headlong out of London late the previous Friday evening, following the winding country roads to wherever they would take her. Reaching this sleepy English village and the Crown Hotel with its burnished brass, log fire and blissful anonymity appeared perfect for her intentions. It offered the additional benefit of heavenly repose and the chance to lick her wounds before returning to the exciting fray of London life and the forthcoming ‘season’.
Bored with the view, Cecelia took herself on a walk along Milford High Street until she came upon the local library. Not normally a patron of such places, Cecelia reminded herself that she wanted to try new things, pushing on the brass handle to enter the world of books within. The old oak floors reverberated with the resonance of her step while the smell of the shelved tomes reminded Cecelia of being back at school. Behind a substantial desk stood a twenty-something redhead whose interest seemed taken by the newspaper in front of her.
“Hello there!” Cecelia called, wondering what she was going to say.
“Good morning. Can I help at all?” Cecelia relaxed a little, deciding she had no interest in obtaining anything other than a light-hearted, easy-going read. “I’m just visiting and wondered . . . is there anything to do around these parts?”
“Ah, you’re in luck! Lily replied. “I’ve just spotted an advert for a murder mystery weekend being held nearby at Fig Tree Hall. As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought my ticket.” Lily pushed the Milford Advertiser towards the fashionable young woman with enviable green eyes and smiled.
Sliding on her stylish spectacles, Cecelia Morris studied the wording carefully. She had no idea who the Manners-Gores were. Were they indeed anybody? The name suggested so, although placing an advertisement for a ‘do’ in a local rag seemed rather preposterous, not to mention vulgar. Cecelia prided herself on knowing everybody in London and always felt instinctively that nothing went on outside the metropolis, or nothing of the slightest interest. But something about the advertisement made her think – for the first time in her life, it was true – that maybe she was mistaken, that perhaps she’d been missing out on something in confining her social life to a few square miles either side of Hyde Park.
The event might well turn out to be an utter waste of time, full of crashing bores and ridiculous country bumpkins. This risk notwithstanding however, Cecelia felt, with a sense of anticipation, more than willing to be proved wrong on the matter. She would go along to the Milford Post Office and purchase a ticket to the Fig Tree Hall murder mystery weekend.
She smiled, passing the newspaper back to Lily. If nothing else, Cecelia thought, it would be one in the eye for her horrid ex if she met an Earl or a Duke and if a disaster, she would come away with an amusing anecdote – suitably embroidered if need be – to dine out on. Now, with an almost childish sense of merriment, Ce
celia was looking forward to Friday evening immensely.
“Frank, Whisky is missing!”
“What? He was barking at six o’clock this morning. I told you not to put that damn dog outside as he always annoys the neighbours.”
“But he’s gone! No sign in the garden, or outside the house. I think he’s been dognapped!”
Diane Pargitter’s small piggy eyes were full of dismay as, for once in her life, she seemed concerned with something other than local gossip and trivia.
“Why would anyone want to steal that moth-eaten old hound?”
“Frank! He’s my beloved pet and you know he never wanders far. We should report it to the police straight away.”
“I don’t know what you think they’re going to do – they’re busy with proper crimes like burglaries.”
Having none of it, Diane grabbed her coat from the hall, indicating that Frank should follow to drive her to Milford Police Station without delay.
“Can I be of assistance?”
Diane glared at the stocky policeman as she gave details of Whisky, his foibles and preferences and the last time he was seen in the back garden of the Pargitter residence.
“Your dog’s gone missing?” Constable Peter Beresford reiterated, much to Diane’s irritation. “I’m sorry to hear that Madam, let me take a few details. Now, he’s a brown and white Springer spaniel, you say, last heard early this morning? Very good Madam, I’ll put the word out – and if I could just take your name and address, I’ll contact you as soon we hear anything.”
The Constable repressed a sigh. He never gave up hoping that someone might report a big robbery in the area, or even a small one. Last week, the vicar had reported his bicycle missing, leaving Peter to speculate excitedly about an organised gang of cycle thieves, active in Milford. Then the vicar remembered he’d taken it to be repaired the day before. No one seemed to have the gumption to commit a proper crime in Milford; a source of perpetual disappointment to Peter.
The police force had not brought him the thrilling life he dreamed of after joining up, well not yet at any rate. If only he could get promotion, move into the plainclothes division, then he could really use his undoubted talents for solving crime – tackling racketeers, smugglers, embezzlers, bank raiders, diamond robbers and crooks of all kinds. Preferably with a good dollop of violence thrown in for good measure. A nice juicy murder was what he really wanted to get his hands on . . .
Diane was guided away from the front desk as her husband urged her towards the exit, suggesting that Whisky was probably comfortably snoozing in their neighbour’s lounge in front of the fire. Frank had an afternoon of golf planned and there was no way he was going to miss it. Suddenly, Diane caught sight of an advertisement on the notice board. Her beady eyes shone with excitement as she pointed out the cutting from the Milford Advertiser.
“What is it?” Frank grunted.
Diane’s long, scarlet-varnished fingernails tapped the notice board as she scrutinised it avidly with keen piggy eyes. “Major and Lady Manners-Gore are pleased to invite guests to their first murder mystery weekend at Fig Tree Hall!”
Frank raised his wiry grey eyebrows and grunted once more.
“It’s like a whodunit,” Diane continued, “and you have to work out–”
“Who dun it?”
“Exactly!” beamed Diane. “Oh, we simply must go – I’ve heard they’re the most enormous fun.”
“Really.” her husband said, looking singularly unimpressed.
Diane’s hands flew emphatically to ample hips, her round, demanding face set with impatience. “Frank, you have no imagination, that’s your trouble!”
“And you are incorrigible.”
“Fig Tree Hall though, isn’t that amazing!?” said Diane, unable to keep the glee out of her voice. “And with Major and Lady Manners-Gore as the hosts – I heard a rumour they were thespians, or ex-thespians anyway.”
Frank gave a knowing look. “Ah.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me, are they arranging this little entertainment out of the goodness of their hearts?”
“There appears to be a modest charge–”
“How modest?”
“Limited tickets can be purchased from the Post Office, it says here, at two guineas per head.”
“Daylight robbery!”
“But it’s for the whole weekend,” insisted Diane, “and I’m sure the accommodation and cuisine will be top notch.”
“Pah!” exclaimed Frank. “A draughty attic room and re-heated soup, no doubt. Everyone knows the gentry are all on their uppers these days – this is obviously a last- ditch attempt to avoid flogging off the family silver.”
Diane wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t know about murder,” muttered Frank darkly, “but from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a few skeletons in the cupboards there.”
“What you’re saying simply isn’t true. I don’t listen to horrid, envious gossip.”
“No, you’re usually the one starting it,” murmured Frank under his breath.
“It mentions it’s for a charitable cause,” wheedled Diane. “In fact, I have it on good authority that both the Major and Lady Manners-Gore are very comfortably off, not to say exceedingly wealthy. What’s more, they’ve both been very successful theatrically . . .”
“Bit of a come-down then, putting on amateur shows in their own living room!”
Diane continued, undaunted. “This is obviously their way of raising funds, opening up their home at long last to a select few special guests.”
“Anyone fool enough to stump up two guineas, you mean.”
“The cost is clearly intended to keep out the riff-raff. Oh, let’s go, Frank!” Diane leaned forward on her stilettos. “Do say yes.”
Frank squirmed. “I’ve err – arranged a game of golf that weekend.”
Diane immediately assumed her vinegar expression, the one she always deployed when she was not getting her own way. “You haven’t even seen the date,” she parried acidly.
“Well, whenever it is, I’m otherwise engaged.”
“This Friday evening at six p.m. and no, you don’t have anything on. Come on, let’s live a little. And listen,” she breathed heavily into his face, “I’m sure you’ll be able to mix a little business with pleasure while you’re there – know what I mean – people with money, n’est-pas?”
Frank had to admit, he could see that his wife had a good point. The insurance business was going through a slow patch; he could do with writing a few generous policies. If the Manners-Gores were not as pressed for cash as he’d assumed, over a convivial weekend they might well be amenable to signing up for a policy or two, especially if there were family heirlooms about. And then there were the other guests: everyone needed insurance these days, that’s what he always told people. It would mean putting up with his wife’s excruciating company for the entire weekend, but he now saw that the payoff might be worth it.
“Well, perhaps we could go along and see–”
Diane’s rammed her lurid red lips against Frank’s cheek and did a little dance of triumph, forgetting all about Whisky.
As Constable Beresford shook his head at how the manipulative woman with the lost dog managed to get her own way, he opened the Milford Advertiser and read the announcement for the murder mystery weekend. If only it were a real murder . . .
Then a thought occurred. This might be just the opportunity to prove myself. If he were to turn up at Fig Tree Hall and put his razor- sharp mind to work on a fictional case, there’d surely be no one else who could match him? He’d have the solution all wrapped up and the murderer unmasked before the other guests even had time to blink. Peter imagined becoming the talk of Milford, probably getting his name in the papers. That would make the Chief Inspector sit up and take notice. And the Manners-Gores were not without influence either. He’d be out of uniform and up for promotion in no time.
Peter decided the advertisement
must be a sign, yes definitely a sign and meant to be. It was right up his alley and just the thing: a chance to put his deductive skills to use. And when he got that interview with the promotion board – and Peter Beresford was certain of it after all the acclaim that would ensue – he could explain to them just how he’d solved the whole thing single-handed. Peter smiled to himself, visualising the day when he could call himself Detective Inspector Beresford. He might be a humble Constable now and a very frustrated one, but what he didn’t lack (he told himself proudly) was ambition. Yes, he’d show them all right. It was as good as in the bag.
Beneath the grand sweeping staircase of Fig Tree Hall, the three staff, summoned by the Major’s strident banging of the gong, stood quietly assembled, awaiting their employer. A moment later Lady Manners-Gore, timing her entrance with customary theatrical finesse, began to descend slowly from the upper landing. She was dressed, as at any time of the day or night, immaculately. This morning she had selected a flowing lilac crepe de chine gown with a high collar over which tumbled her elegantly arranged auburn curls.
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