The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall

by Prudence Ambergast

  As the embarrassing silence escalated, Lady Felicity said in a soft voice, “I forgot to say at breakfast – there are newspapers in the hall, if anyone’s interested.” She looked around the room, taking in the sea of blank faces, wishing she’d remained silent. The front page of The Times was all about a radioactive leak at a huge power plant but, she realised, everyone was probably thinking about that poor man yesterday rather than events in the outside world. And that prominent blood stain on the wood floor will be difficult to shift . . .

  In common with Diane Pargitter, Nella Barnes also looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink. Cook had produced breakfast in a haze of remorse about the deathly tea. She now stood quiet, appraising the size of two rabbits to go in a casserole that evening.

  Kitty bounced into the kitchen carrying the last of the breakfast things. To her, the previous day had provided nothing but excitement and, as the day ahead held similar promise she chirped, “Did you know there’s arsenic in apple pips?” Her hazel eyes peered at Nella, concluding she didn’t seem her usual self.

  “What are you wittering on about?”

  “Apple pips – they’re poisonous, or so Doctor Death’s just said. I heard him telling the Major when I collected their tea cups.”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  Kitty was taken aback. “But Seb said it!”

  “Yes, and it’s very disrespectful. What happened was an accident . . .”

  “The poor man yesterday or the woman committing suicide?”

  Nella looked exasperated, running her fist over her forehead to sweep a wisp of steel grey hair from her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for telling tales.”

  “But you said–”

  Nella struggled to contain her feelings. “That poor Mr Pargitter,” she wailed, staring mournfully into space. “If I hadn’t made that tea, the heart attack when he hit his head wouldn’t have happened. He’d still be here now . . .”

  “You weren’t to know he had a bad heart. Besides, the Major told you to make the tea for everyone. It’s not your fault.”

  In a whisper, Nella said, “Perhaps you’re right. But her Ladyship’s already faced enough death in this house, so I should have known better.”

  “Who else has died?” Kitty’s mouth gaped to form a perfect ‘O’ as she held her breath, waiting for the answer.

  Cook considered whether she should share the truth about Simeon Bailey, deciding it would do no harm. “Well, here’s the truth of the matter . . . the woman who died in Dr Bailey’s care – the one who killed herself – was Lady Felicity’s sister, Margaret.”

  Kitty almost had apoplexy, crying out, “You mean, he killed her? Why does he hang around here all the time then?”

  Nella looked weary, taking a deep breath. “Now, we’ll have none of that. The woman was unwell and prone to suggestion. Lady Felicity doesn’t like him much, but he’s a great friend of the Major. Dr Bailey’s helped him out in the past – financially. That means Lady Felicity has to tolerate him.”

  “How do you know all this?” Kitty’s hazel eyes burned like amber coals.

  In the process of carefully considering what she would say next, Seb Treadmill arrived and instantly busied himself in a far corner of the kitchen, all ears.

  “I’m the only original member of staff left from when the Professor had the Hall redesigned. I was only in my early-thirties then and nearly a decade later, his poor wife died.” Nella puffed out her pink cheeks then expelled the air slowly, remembering the sadness. “Then little Nathaniel passed too and the Professor himself went missing. The other child, a lovely girl, was suddenly sent away to boarding school by the Professor’s brother. He wanted her out of the way.”

  “But what’s that got to do with Doctor Bailey and the Major?”

  Nella gave Kitty a quizzical look and began preparing the vegetables for lunch. “Do you want to hear this, or not?” She carelessly scrapped a carrot, almost skinning her knuckle in the process.

  “Sorry,” Kitty muttered.

  “Never mind anyway, there’s lunch to be prepared.”

  Kitty’s eyes grew huge. “But it’s not even nine in the morning!” she protested.

  The golden drawing room was gloomy as rain continued to make the day grim. Despite this, no one had thought to turn any lights on. Sensibly, everyone seemed to have acquired a jumper or, in the case of Cecelia, a baby blue cashmere scarf.

  “Now we’re organised,” bellowed the Major directly at Diane, who sat hunched over with a chunky white knitted cardigan pulled tightly around her bulky frame so she resembled an unsheared sheep, “I’ll give you the next clue.” He patted the pocket of the thick tweed jacket he’d chosen for its warmth, realising that the cards he wanted were in the other side. “Ah, here we are. Everyone ready?” His shiny black eyes peered around the room, ensuring he had the attention he craved.

  Lady Felicity looked positively radiant in her attire but she also wore a faraway look, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Clearing his throat, the Major projected unnecessarily to the back of the room, as he had been trained to do. “Clue number two: LINEAGE OF A STATELY HALL; WHO’S IN LINE BEFORE THE FALL?”

  The powerful declaration shocked Diane into a squeal of surprise. She gazed at the Major distractedly and said, “Could you repeat that please? I was thinking that I’ll have to make the funeral arrangements.”

  His performance interrupted, the Major stuck by the old adage that the show must go on. As a trained actor, he could excellently disguise his real feelings, frequently priding himself on this fact. He spread his hands expansively, saying in a softer voice, “Of course, my dear.” After repeating the clue without a trace of resentment, he added, “whatever you require to take your mind off things.”

  Simeon Bailey stood in front of the fireplace, peering at the people gathered before him. He could analyse every single one of these individuals in a heartbeat, predicting their likes and dislikes, their ambitions and emotions, how they would react, their motives and who they would trust. He smiled inwardly; summing up of personalities gave him pleasure. While the Major droned on with his silly charade – all staged literally because he could not let go of the past, the doctor amused himself with his favourite game:

  Lady Felicity is a mouse of a woman who’s never forgiven me for the death of her anxiety-ridden sister, apportioning the blame for Margaret’s death entirely on my shoulders. Felicity’s deluded and tends to live in a fantasy world.

  That attractive creature, Cecelia is stylish with a cool countenance, not unlike myself. She’s capable of being devious and playing people to get exactly what she wants.

  The ginger girl is clearly bright but extremely shy, although prone to excitable outbursts when she thinks she’s right – easily manipulated and too trusting.

  The man next to her obviously prides himself on being an upright citizen – hence he joined the police force to prove himself worthy. But he definitely has hidden depths that can manifest themselves when necessary.

  Then, finally, there’s the widow – loud, brash, thoughtless, self-obsessed, abrasive, need I go on? She has ideas above her station and doesn’t want to miss anything, why else stay on after her hen-pecked husband’s untimely death? Clearly, each guest has decided to stay put for their own individual reasons . . .

  The Major peered behind him to see his friend deep in thought, Simeon’s lit cigarette burning down in his fingers. The man has been a useful ally in the past, although Felicity doesn’t care for him . . .

  “Everyone clear on that?” the Major boomed, taking in the sea of nodding heads. All bar that of the obstinate Diane Pargitter, who fixed him with a beady eye.

  “So, it’s another book clue then, is it?” she challenged. “I don’t want to go in the library. Why would anyone think that I–”

  The Major swiftly interrupted before her rant reached a crescendo. “Of course not, my dear. Apologies . . . the clues were set before your husband’s, err, accident. You may stay in here
by the fire and Felicity will keep you company.”

  “That must mean that it is another book clue, or else he would have denied it,” Peter whispered to Lily from behind a hand raised parallel to his cheek.

  Lily shook her head gently and smiled. “I hadn’t thought of it like that . . .”

  Lady Felicity fixed her husband with a basilisk stare for saddling her with that difficult woman. She had hoped that Diane would go off with the others, leaving her with her needlepoint in peace. The Major raised his shoulders around his ears, making his very sturdy neck all but disappear in the shrug. “Thank you,” she mouthed with irritation.

  SARCASM & SECRETS

  Any opportunity for Lily and Peter to talk further about what they’d overheard the night before was cut short as Cecelia approached with a wry smile. “Looks like some more thrilling time spent in that fusty old library then,” she remarked. Lily was unsure if the reference was to her job being a seemingly boring one, or because of Frank Pargitter’s demise, but she took it as the latter.

  “Let’s go then!” Peter enthused, trying to sound cheery. He’d come to the conclusion that Lady Felicity’s comment about the wrong person dying concerned the now abandoned play. But an element of doubt still remained. He led the way to the library, letting his subconscious continue to work on the problem.

  Half-expecting Frank’s prone, lifeless body to still be lying in front of the fireplace like a grotesque rug, Lily hesitated as they entered the room but found, to her relief, that the body and the bloodstain had thankfully vanished.

  Cecelia immediately saw the expression of concern on Peter’s face. He and Lily are thick as thieves, she thought, and that could get in the way of my plans. She cast a glance at the library shelves and said, “Now, what are we looking for?”

  Taking a few moments to reorient her brain from one subject to another, Lily suggested, “Ah, well, there’s Turnbull’s Guide to Ancestral Heritage. That might be of use, although it’s been out of print for years. It shows family crests and the derivation of names.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Peter said, grinning. He gestured widely around the room. “Don’t suppose you’ve any idea where it might be, assuming they have a copy?”

  Cecelia rolled her eyes. “I expect the Major thought up the clue exactly because he has a copy of the book and not the other way around, or else, how would we find the information we need?”

  Peter took the point. “Right Lily, do your stuff!” He beamed proudly.

  Cecelia repressed the urge to roll her eyes again. The man is being so obvious and this exercise is turning into a school trip, looking things up in the library because questions will be asked later . . .

  Again, with a seemingly natural ability to locate a book just by its name, Lily headed to some shelves to the right of the fireplace, carefully avoiding the area where Frank’s body had lain. She scanned the rows of bound books as a lover might gaze at her betrothed. For several moments, Lily was lost in caressing the sensuous leather bindings; viewing the glorious tomes uniformly ordered on the long reaches that covered the walls; hearing the crackle of a cover as it gave to reveal what lay within. The spell was broken as Lily suddenly became aware she was looking straight at the very book they needed.

  “Here we are! Turnbull’s Guide,” she chirped. The book, bound in black leather with gold lettering, was thick enough to be a house brick.

  “So, do we look up everyone’s surname to see where we came from?” Peter asked, his voice jovial although his keen blue eyes were hesitant. Now fully attuned, Lily recalled he hadn’t known his father, so there was no real name to search for. Peter had told her the night before that his mother picked his surname in preference to his father’s, which was very distinctive.

  Lily and Peter sat on one side of the library table, with Cecelia on the other like book ends. He was sitting far too close, in Cecelia’s opinion, although Lily did not seem to mind.

  “So, we’ve done me,” she announced, “now let’s do Cecelia.” There were no complaints from Peter, who’d already told Lily, in a loud voice so Cecelia could hear, not to bother with the surname ‘Beresford’ as he wasn’t that interested. Lily read the ‘Morris’ entry out to Cecelia, although she didn’t appear to be very interested either.

  “MORRIS originates from Mauricius – the name of a Saint martyred in 286 AD. The surname was introduced to Britain by the Normans, with whom it was apparently very popular.” After Lily had shared the information, Cecelia yawned rudely.

  “We did promise to look up Pargitter and tell Diane about it,” Peter reminded, leaning in closer as Lily turned the pages forward to the letter ‘P’.

  “I wonder if I should take the book through and read it to her, or just look up Pargitter and try to remember what it says?” she mused, looking distinctly worried about the prospect of forgetting something and having to come back.

  “It’s unlikely you’ll forget, you’ve been spot on so far,” Peter grinned.

  Cecelia looked positively irritated by his indulgence.

  Lily smiled, suddenly buoyed up with confidence as she read, “PARGITTER . . . Oh, It’s not the same spelling. PARGETER, meaning the pargeter or playster – someone who rough-casted walls. The earliest recorded use of the surname was James Pergeter in Norfolk, 1533.”

  Rolling her eyes in a ‘so what?’ way, Cecelia sighed. She couldn’t see the point of this tiresome exercise. Anyone coming to the Hall for this event would have different surnames, so why bother to look them up? Unless, as she suspected, it was just to fill the time. Any clues to identify a certain surname would have been decided long before the guests arrived. But for what purpose?

  “Let’s go and find Diane, then it’ll probably be time for coffee,” Lily suggested as she rose to replace the book, repeating under her breath, ‘someone who rough-casts walls, 1533’.

  They made their way along the narrow corridor to the drawing room, taking them past the Major’s study. From within came the haughty timbre of Simeon Bailey’s voice, although it wasn’t clear enough for them to catch what was said.

  Entering the drawing room, Lily saw that Diane was exactly where they’d left her. She came to a stop next to the seated woman and said cheerily, “Diane! We found it, or a version of it at least.”

  But Diane merely turned a look of irritation on her. “Found what?”

  “The origin of your surname, of course! It’s – oh, what was it now? I remember the date but not the words!” cried Lily, deflated as the anxiety of forced recall robbed the words from her.

  “It means someone who plastered walls, dates back to the sixteenth century,” Peter provided, looking very pleased with himself.

  Lady Felicity glanced up from her needlepoint, hoping that she could now be relieved from having to sit with Mrs Pargitter who, she felt, really should have gone to view her husband’s body at the undertakers. It was the done thing.

  “They’ll be wanting their morning coffee now,” Nella observed, peering at the kitchen clock through her smeared owlish glasses, wondering how on earth it was almost eleven in the morning already. She put the kettle on to boil, watching as Kitty laid out cups on a tray.

  “What are they doing instead of the play?” the young girl asked, slightly disappointed that she was no longer playing the role of the glamorous Lydia Beaumont.

  Seb muttered something unintelligible, utterly relieved there was now no need to bother with play acting. He’d always held what could only be described as a degree of contempt for the Major’s inability to let go of his former profession. In Seb’s opinion, the Major treated his whole life like a play and often seemed hard-pressed to get a grip on reality.

  Nella poured the coffee into a jug and Treadmill took the tray along to the drawing room. The mood, he assessed, seemed sombre as he quietly placed the tray on the sideboard. He didn’t fail to notice that Lady Felicity was engaged in a deep discussion about surnames, for some reason.

  “So, you did what the clue said?” Lady Fel
icity enquired keenly, her face glowing with anticipation at what might have been discovered.

  Lily looked up as Peter handed her a coffee, grinning as he said, “Milk, one sugar – OK?” She smiled, watching him purposefully trotting back to the sideboard as Cecelia nodded that she too would like some. He certainly is kind and thoughtful, Lily observed and Cecelia’s clearly too lazy to get coffee for herself.

  “I wasn’t sure what the ‘before the fall’ part of the clue meant though,” Lily said, looking puzzled. “Does it mean whether the name was originally a trade, or perhaps historically linked to some bad deed?”

  Lady Felicity pondered, not even sure if she wanted coffee, let alone how she should phrase her response. She laced her elegant hands together, looking straight at Lily. “It relates to certain surnames being linked to the history of Fig Tree Hall.” She dropped her gaze, knowing this sounded intriguing. “In the past, names have changed due to certain circumstances. The clue was set to unearth any interesting titbits like that.”