When she’d descended to precisely the centre stair, she began to speak. In a voice worthy of Medea or Clytemnestra at Drury Lane, Felicity Manners-Gore declaimed, “Excellent, our troupe of players is assembled! Are you all prepared?”
The three members of the ‘troupe’ – Sebastian Treadmill, slender forty-something butler-cum-valet to the Major; Nella Barnes, matronly cook-cum-housekeeper; and Kitty Walker, parlour maid and general dogsbody, nodded dutifully.
“Now,” continued her Ladyship, “I am thrilled to announce we have no less than six guests arriving for our charity event this weekend – isn’t that wonderful?”
Murmuring ensued, followed by a congratulatory bang on the gong and hearty cries of “Hear, hear!” from the Major.
“Thank you, Reggie. Now, if you would be good enough to read out the guest list for the troupe?”
The Major ceremoniously cleared his throat and consulted a rectangle of crisp white paper. “Our guests will be a Miss Lily Green, Mr Frank and Mrs Diane Pargitter, Police Constable Peter Beresford . . .”
“PC Beresford – what’s a real-life copper doing coming to a pretend murder?” whispered Treadmill.
“. . . Miss Cecelia Morris. . . And last but by no means least,” beamed the Major, “we will be pleased to welcome Dr Simeon Bailey, an eminent and distinguished man of science and may I say, a very dear friend of mine.”
“Roping in his mates to make up the numbers,” sneered Treadmill behind a surreptitiously raised hand disguised as a nose scratch, “I’ve heard it all now!”
“Will you belt up, or we’ll miss something important,” hissed Nella.
“Quiet please cast while I give notes,” ordered Lady Manners-Gore imperiously. “Between now and when our guests arrive for dinner, I shall expect you to go over your lines and what we’ve rehearsed. And remember, you’re to stay in character at all times, even while performing your usual duties as members of the household staff. You may now return to those duties and reassemble here for a final briefing at four p.m. Is that understood?”
There was a murmur of assent whereupon Lady Manners-Gore descended the last few stairs and took her husband off towards the drawing room, issuing him with a volley of edicts and instructions on the way.
When they were both out of earshot Treadmill said loudly, “I’d like to know how I’m supposed to carry on serving the sherry or whatnot when I’ve been murdered.”
“Ooh, is it you that gets murdered then?” asked Kitty excitedly.
“My alter-ego, Jasper Flynn, who apparently has a secret inheritance and an identifying mole on his left–”
“That’s enough of your vulgarity!” snapped Nella. “And didn’t you pay attention during rehearsals yesterday, Kitty? Come with me and we’ll go over the script again while we’ve got time. Remember, once the murder’s been committed, all we have to do is answer questions from the guests about where we were and if we have alibis.”
“What’s an alibi?” asked Kitty.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” winked Seb mischievously.
“Take no notice of him, he’s not taking this seriously,” said Nella as she took Kitty off towards the kitchen, leaving Seb smirking to himself.
At around half-past three, having washed the Manners-Gore’s Rolls Royce and parked it according to her Ladyship’s instructions, conspicuously on the gravel turning circle by the main entrance to the Hall, Seb headed into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. He found Nella – her cheeks red and puffed from kneading a quantity of pastry for a huge pie – coaching Kitty on the finer points of the upper-class accent required of her character in the murder mystery.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it,” said Kitty. “I’m going to make a right fool of myself.”
“No, you won’t and it’s only for a couple of days. Think how pleased her Ladyship and the Major will be if we pull this off. You know how they miss the good old days in the theatre.”
“It’s just the posh accent,” wailed Kitty, her face a mask of anxiety.
“All you’ve got to remember is How, Now, Brown, Cow and The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain and don’t drop your aitches.”
“Or anything else for that matter,” said Seb.
“I hope you’re ready too,” Nella said briskly, brushing a wisp of silver hair back and leaving a trail of sticky flour adhering to her temple. “The guests will be here soon – have you done the car?”
“It’s gleaming like a new pin, don’t worry. Any chance of wetting our whistles before the invasion?”
“I’ve just made a pot,” said Nella. “You can pour us all a cup.”
As the trio drank their tea, Kitty said, “Is PC Beresford really coming here as one of the guests?”
“He’s the only Peter Beresford I know around these parts, so we’ll all have to be on our best behaviour.” Seb slurped his tea nosily.
“Will PC Beresford be in uniform?” Kitty continued, hazel eyes curious. “I mean, it would suit the occasion if he was–”
“Why are you so interested in him?” asked Seb. “Has Cupid’s arrow struck by any chance, eh, eh?”
“Don’t be daft,” Kitty laughed, blushing furiously. To change the subject, she said, “I think it’s lovely, raising money for charity – I wonder which one? This weekend will make a nice change.”
Seb winked at her and said, “Especially now you know a certain member of the constabulary is going to be staying under our roof.” Furrowing his brow sceptically, he returned to his theme. “But as for being something completely different, you’ve got to be joking. I mean, who else would go along with this daft parlour game alongside all their normal duties? And no mention of any extra wages either, I might add. I could’ve been escorting a young lady to the pictures on Friday–”
“Stop complaining. Plenty would be glad to oblige, especially those who are pleased to have jobs and want to keep them,” Nella scolded.
“Don’t bank on it. I reckon if we’d each refused point blank, what would they have done, given us the sack? I can’t see anyone queuing up to take our places. Makes me wonder why they’re inviting people here after so many years of pushing them away.”
“That’s their business,” Nella said quietly, keen to get on with preparing for the new arrivals.
“Perhaps they’ve got their own reasons?” Kitty suggested
Encouraged, Seb went on, “Any guests turning up here for a murder mystery need their heads tested. There’s more to this than meets the eye. You mark my words . . .”
“Seb! Careless talk and all that,” Nella warned, waving a tablespoon for emphasis.
Seb shook his head. “This place is full of theatrics and secrets and you know what, I don’t think anyone would be surprised if that dozy copper who’s coming finds himself with a real murder on his hands this weekend.”
SHARP TONGUES & SUBTERFUGE
Friday, September 24th, 1957
On the dot of six p.m., Diane Pargitter eagerly exited the car into the weak autumn sunshine and was up the remainder of the extensive driveway before Frank had switched off the ignition. Her keen little eyes scanned the patterned brick exterior of Fig Tree Hall, taking in the gothic styling of the skyline, the mullioned windows and the imposing studded oak door. The gleaming Rolls Royce also didn’t escape her attention. She cooed loudly over her shoulder, assuming Frank was in earshot and also in agreement.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A silky female voice made Diane jump and she turned quickly, one pudgy hand shooting to her chest in shock.
“Oh! I thought you were my husband!” Diane scanned the other woman, taking in the sleek shoulder-length blonde hair, the startling green eyes and the beyond-perfect figure. This vision of loveliness wore a tailored cream suit and silk blouse in a shade of coffee that was most becoming, truly accentuating those eyes – eyes that appraised Diane like a cat watching a mouse.
“Cecelia Morris . . .” The woman held out an expertly manicured hand
for Diane to admire, then shake. On the fourth finger sat an expensive gold ring with an impressive emerald stone at the centre. Diane wondered whether it was an engagement ring.
“Diane Pargitter,” Diane said, feeling distinctly under-dressed in her floral frock and best white cardigan that was rather expensive at the time of purchase but had now seen better days.
Frank joined them and smiled widely at Cecelia, earning him an irritated tutt from his wife. He attempted to extend a hand to shake Cecelia’s but Diane was having none of it.
“Do you think we should ring the bell?” Diane continued, closely observing her husband’s every move, not wanting to turn away in case she missed anything.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Cecelia agreed. The observation came from between frosted coffee lips and sounded like a cat’s purr. Frank was smitten.
Diane’s forehead immediately folded into a well-practised frown so that her piggy eyes were almost lost completely. “You did remember to bring your heart pills?” The question, in Diane’s shrill, hectoring voice, was intended to leave Cecelia in no doubt about Frank’s physical status.
The sturdy front door opened suddenly to reveal a tall, thin man who surveyed the new arrivals. Sebastian Treadmill’s brown eyes twinkled as he dropped his dark head in acknowledgement of their presence. He then hopped aside, saying, “If you’d like to follow me.”
Frank raised a hand to his mouth, whispering loudly, “Not without more talcum powder,” as he entered the hallway. This earned him another sharp look from Diane while the thin servant grappled with their weekend bags, depositing them in an alcove adjacent to the hallway.
“Don’t show me up,” Diane hissed, marching forward to stare around her. A generous smile from Cecelia showed excellent teeth as her tapestry bag was placed with the Pargitter’s luggage.
They were shown into a drawing room decorated the colour of old gold with a sweeping marble fireplace, richly-hued tapestries and an array of expensive antiques in the form of clocks and vases. Diane sniffed appreciatively. The air was redolent with the fragrance of freesias, strategically placed on the central oak table by Lady Felicity Manners-Gore as a gesture of lasting friendship. The strains of 1930s jazz came from a distant room.
“I’ll inform her Ladyship that you’ve arrived,” Treadmill announced, beetling away.
“Just look at this place! It simply oozes taste and class,” Diane cooed, running a hand over the cool marble expanse of the fireplace. Without skipping a beat, she fingered a George III flower vase. When a slightly delayed clock struck six she turned abruptly, almost dislodging the fireguard as she took in the scene around her.
Cecelia too did not fail to notice the abundance of silver candlesticks and photograph frames that adorned the walnut sideboard.
Diane stared rudely as a petite woman appeared with rich chestnut hair swept up and secured with mother-of-pearl combs. As she walked, her pale lilac gown undulated and shimmered with iridescence, suggesting silk.
“Welcome, welcome!” she enunciated. “I’m Lady Felicity Manners-Gore. My husband, the Major, will be along shortly. Do make yourselves comfortable.”
Already primed, Treadmill diligently appeared in the doorway and Lady Felicity swiftly requested, “Could you serve the sherry to our guests, Treadmill and the canapés?”
Playing the stereotypical butler, Seb Treadmill fought valiantly to keep a compliant expression on his face. He took a silver salver from the sideboard, carrying it to a sherry decanter where he dispensed a measure into three crystal glasses. Treadmill offered the contents of the tray to the new arrivals who, he considered, were cluttering up the drawing room.
“Oh, lovely!” Diane chirped, her fingers engulfing a glass. She immediately lifted it to her wide mouth, taking a generous and ill-mannered slurp.
As Treadmill approached, Cecelia shook her head, her golden hair moving fluidly as her green eyes dropped. “I won’t, thank you.”
Frank took possession of a glass but did not immediately drink from it. His preference was to stare at a particularly impressive painting above the fireplace of a thickset man in full hunting regalia, his bright red jacket stretching around a generous midriff, fat rubicund cheeks in competition with the vivid colour.
“That’s Reggie – I mean Major Manners-
Gore. Isn’t it magnificent?”
Frank nodded wholeheartedly as Lady Felicity silently glided up next to him. She turned to address the others and announced, “He’s very much looking forward to meeting everyone, although we are still waiting for some late arrivals. Now, do come and tell me a little more about yourselves. We’ve planned this evening as a get-to-know-everybody, then tomorrow, the fun really starts!”
Seb threw himself into a wooden kitchen chair so hard, it scraped backwards across the flagstone floor. “Canapés!” he chortled, “She’s calling them bits of old ham spread with chutney and a few cubes of mouldy cheddar with apple bloomin’ canapés!”
Kitty giggled, her hazel eyes twinkling with excitement as she withdrew a tray from the refrigerator and placed it in front of him. “What are they like, then?” she asked. Her young face was inquisitive, her cap askew on a mop of jet-black hair. She lifted a skinny arm to straighten it, aware she had dislodged her headgear by misjudging her lean into the cool box.
Seb pursed his mouth into a thin line, considering the trio who had arrived so far, then tipped the chair back so only two legs supported him. “One’s no better than she ought to be . . . one’s got ideas above her station and the bloke does everything his wife tells ‘im,” he said.
Nella shot the gossip a scowl. “You’ve only just seen them!”
Undeterred by Cook’s lack of curiosity, Seb continued, “They were speaking before I opened the front door. I just listened in for a bit.”
Kitty giggled again.
“Just telling you what was asked.” Seb replied, sweeping up the tray of canapés and retreating before Nella could continue to scold him.
Nella smiled and shouted after his disappearing back, “Bloomin’ cheek – being rude about my ham and cheese nibbles.”
The roar of a powerful engine on the outside gravel glued Diane to the drawing room window. She saw an imposing figure exit a red sports car and stride towards the front door. From her observation point, Diane assessed he was very well-dressed with shrewd features and that he held his head with arrogant contempt.
“Someone’s just arrived,” she squawked excitedly.
“We know that, dear, we all heard the car.” Frank gave his wife a pitying glance, mostly for the benefit of Cecelia, something Diane wholeheartedly chose to ignore.
Lady Felicity seemed flustered as she recognised the sound of the car, but Treadmill appeared simultaneously with a tray of what looked like cubes of meat and cheese, diffusing the tension as he deftly placed it on the sideboard. He went to let the visitor in before the newcomer had chance to ring the polished brass bell.
The new arrival swept into the hallway and Treadmill held back a sigh as he was inconsequentially brushed aside. “Dr Simeon Bailey,” the man announced, despite the fact that Treadmill had clearly recognised him. “My luggage is in the car. Is the Major here?”
In the drawing room, Cecelia watched as Lady Felicity held her breath at the timbre of the man’s voice, her hands clenched to her stomach in anticipation.
Treadmill said politely, “The Major’s in his study, sir, if you’d like me to tell him you’re here?”
With total disregard to the question, Dr Bailey stalked off down the hallway, choosing to ignore the drawing room and the sea of expectant faces within. “I know where it is,” he muttered.
Lady Felicity gave a nervous laugh, the need to fill the silence with explanation overwhelming her. In a voice full of tension, she said, “One of the Major’s oldest friends. They’ll both be joining us later.”
As Treadmill retreated to the kitchen, Cecelia took up the tray of food, offering it around. She was mildly disgusted to see Diane gre
edily selecting a chunk of ham and one of cheese with her red nails, useful extensions of her rather thick fingers. The morsels swiftly disappeared into her cavernous mouth and did not appear to touch the sides.
“Delicious!” the unsophisticated woman announced with satisfaction.
Scanning the room, Cecelia saw that Lady Manners-Gore still appeared disturbed by the latest arrival as she took a sherry glass from the sideboard and filled it. She quickly gulped down the contents, wary of what her guests may think of her. The older woman’s hands continued to shake slightly while Cecelia proffered the canapé tray towards Frank and he took a piece of cheese and apple.
The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall Page 2