Lily’s eyes met Felicity’s once more, both searching for meaning. Cecelia, observing the action, gave a harrumph of indiscriminate meaning before lifting the coffee cup to her immaculately made-up Cupid’s bow lips.
From her very comfortable position in front of the fire, Diane offered, “Of course, my maiden name was Morris, Diane Morris – only daughter of Percy and Margaret Morris. My father was a shopkeeper, a grocer’s in Fulham. No kids, one pet – me obviously, not my parents. I won a prize for hockey once, but that was only because–”
“Really?” Lady Felicity cut in, her face becoming animated. “So, we actually have two Miss Morris’s in our midst, so to speak!” Diane stared, surprised by the reaction and, for once, was not sure of what to say. Suddenly, Lady Felicity rose to her feet. “I’ll go and rouse the Major so he can give the next clue. Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable at home with friends, Mrs Pargitter? We could arrange some transport for you.” She looked hopeful.
“No, no. I’m fine here,” Diane replied, adamant. “The funeral director said he’d be in touch on Monday, so nothing can happen until then. I feel as though I’m among friends here.”
It appeared Diane would be set in the chair for the rest of the day.
Making her way swiftly out of the drawing room, Felicity needed to discuss something very urgently with her husband. But with Simeon Bailey permanently ensconced in the study and these people in the drawing room, she doubted this would happen until very much later.
“How are they today?” Clearing away the coffee things in the kitchen, Kitty made a huge effort to sound grown-up about the unfortunate event the previous day.
Seb eyed her suspiciously and said, “It’s all a bit awkward, but at least the policeman’s keeping the librarian’s spirits up.”
“What do you mean by that?” Nella asked sharply, busily preparing the soup for lunch. It was thick and brown and consisted mostly of turnip.
Seb let out a chuckle. “He’s fetching her coffee – I was watching from the hallway. Fawning all over her, if you ask me.”
“Nobody did ask you. He’s just being kind.” Nella continued to stir the big pan vigorously but looked worried.
Kitty guessed Nella still felt bad after Frank Pargitter’s death. She attempted to take Cook’s mind off her recriminations by changing the subject. “I was thinking about Professor Ambrose and his family. You said one of the children was sent away . . .”
Nella pondered over the next instalment, then said, “The Professor’s brother, Ezra Ambrose, came to the Hall and took over after the Professor’s disappearance, virtually running it into the ground. He sold off all the interesting animals to the circus, keeping up one bedroom and the study, letting the rest moulder. I was the only staff doing all I could, but it wasn’t enough. Ezra spent all the money Thaddeus had intended for the children so by early 1935, everything was gone.”
There was regret in Cook’s huge blue eyes, magnified several times by her strong spectacles. She continued, shaking her head at the injustice of it all. “The Hall then needed to be sold because of Ezra’s gambling debts. The son, bless his soul, died young of scarlet fever and the lawyers couldn’t trace the daughter of Thaddeus Ambrose because Ezra changed her surname when she was sent away – she’d be in her thirties now, of course, if she came forward.” Nella wiped away an imaginary tear from under her left eye with a fat index finger. “The lawyers eventually found a distant relative – the Major
– but as I heard it told, he didn’t quite have the funds to buy this place.”
It was Seb this time who was mesmerised by the story. “You mean they were struggling with money back then . . . I always thought they were loaded?”
Nella nodded. “Apparently, Dr Bailey stepped in to help.” She fixed Kitty with a sharp look, daring her to interrupt. “As you were asking before, he leant the Major some money to buy the Hall outright. They’ve now been here twenty years and the doctor is naturally free to come and go as he pleases.”
“Cor!” Kitty blurted succinctly. “No wonder her Ladyship gets so agitated near him . . . what with the death of her sister on top of it all.” Her hazel eyes were like saucers.
“And that’s not the end of it,” Nella shook her head, “not by a long chalk.”
“So, what have our surnames got to do with anything? And how does that fit in with the original play?” Diane boomed so her voice could be heard several counties away. Looking for inspiration at the Major, who had joined them after coffee to deliver the next clue, Lady Felicity saw that Simeon Bailey skulked as close to her husband as a conjoined twin. The larger of the two men cleared his throat and smoothed down his moustache, stroking it as if it were a beloved ginger tom. Felicity let out a tut of irritation, urging her husband to get on with it.
“The original idea, as you all know, was to stage a play where you all assumed the role of a character. Clues would lead to who the murderer was while the victim remained blissfully ignorant,” the Major’s reiterated, his well-fed cheeks shining as an image of the original scenario played out in his mind.
“It’s not much fun for me!” Diane cried scornfully. “I’m completely bored now, but I suppose things would only be worse at home.” She looked down into her lap and gave a huge dry sob, more for effect than due to genuine emotion.
The Major looked alarmed as he registered the need, once more, to obliterate any inconvenience. He spread his arms and said in a persistent tone, “My dear! Are you certain you couldn’t stay with a friend? Perhaps someone who can care for you in a way we can’t.”
Diane answered quickly. “There’s nobody I can call on.”
Cecelia watched as Lily and Peter exchanged glances. She guessed that the catty woman had no friends she could descend upon in her time of need, as well as potentially being a rather fine actress herself, if the speedily conjured distress was anything to go by.
“You see,” the Major continued, unwilling to let the subject drop, “the idea was . . . we were all going to act out the play with someone scripted to be the murderer, and you,” he gestured expansively around the room, “were all going to solve the clues and guess who that person was. Unfortunately, unforeseen circumstances mean it’s now far less entertaining as you’re just left with the clues.”
He looked at Diane with an ill-disguised glare, implying he could not possibly forgive her. But she continued to stare benignly ahead, a heifer facing a stun-gun. “Perhaps this next clue will be a bit more enthralling for you all,” the Major continued despondently as he searched deep into his pocket once more. He seriously wondered if the Pargitter woman would actually leave the Hall after dinner on Sunday evening. At this rate, she was likely to want to move in permanently.
“It’s not another one where we have to look in a dreadfully dreary book, is it? They’re so tiresome and Miss Carroty over there gets to be the goody-goody class swot all the time!” The words erupted cruelly from Diane’s wide, toad-like mouth, causing both Lily and Lady Felicity to gasp simultaneously.
The Major’s beetle-black eyes hardened and, even with his extensive acting training, he was hard-pressed not to physically strike the immensely irritating woman who now seemed even more ungrateful and discourteous. “Here’s clue number three,” he said evenly, refusing to make eye contact with the harridan. He fixed the delightful visage of Cecelia in his line of sight, projecting towards her, “IN DEEPEST DARK THE JOURNEY’S END, PACKED OFF TO VISIT SOME OLD FRIEND.”
“Oh, very sinister!” cried Cecelia, clapping her hands together. “How positively thrilling.”
The Major grinned at the welcome praise then swiftly departed to deposit himself once more in his study with the cold-as-marble Simeon Bailey. Lady Felicity felt an urgent migraine coming on and retired to the main bedroom, reflecting that the unpleasant Diane Pargitter really was hell-bent on spoiling the whole exercise.
Peter stood and stretched his broad back. He now wore a burgundy jumper over black slacks which he considered perfe
ct for the changeable autumnal weather. “So, what are your thoughts on the clue?” he asked, addressing the question to Cecelia, Diane and Lily, although his gaze held firm on the latter.
Considering the clue carefully, Cecelia pursed her lips in thought. “It’s a difficult one.
Not sure what to make of it . . .bit ambiguous.”
Hatchet-faced, Diane unleashed yet more poison from her seemingly unrelenting source. “Ohhh! Now there’s a long word from Lady Muck. We need some proper suggestions, not just you showing off because you’ve swallowed a dictionary.”
Cecelia smiled generously, recognising that Diane’s anger was clearly being taken out on whoever was in closest proximity. She noticed Lily flinch slightly at the remark. In different circumstances, I could quite easily take Diane on to give as good as I get, if not better, Cecelia mused. It was almost as though Diane didn’t care what she said under the protective shield of her bereavement, knowing people would make allowances rather than challenge her. Perhaps she just can’t help it; she clearly doesn’t consider how hurtful she’s being before deciding to open her mouth.
“Well . . . I think it could mean something buried underground – in deepest dark,” Peter offered, to break the tension. “Maybe a letter or postcard, as it mentions being sent to an old friend.” His heart quickened as Lily smiled at him. She seemed only too aware that he was trying to impress her.
“Maybe it means some kind of map,” Lily suggested, “as in the ‘journey’s end’ bit?”
“Or maybe,” Diane blurted in a sarcastically morbid tone, “it means death and a premature burial. Or even being buried
alive – have you considered that?”
Kitty was busy making the beds before joining Cook in the kitchen. She hurried to finish the Pargitter’s room which she found rather creepy, positive some sort of presence lurked there.
She knew the room next door was occupied by Cecelia Morris because of the fine clothes in the wardrobe, the emerald green leather vanity case and the crystal perfume bottle on the dressing table. And there were the beautiful emerald earrings, nestling in a crystal dish. Kitty had seen Cecelia wearing them in the dining room the day before and the maid now aspired to be just like her one day, with elegant clothes, sophistication, independence and her own money.
Sitting at the dressing table, Kitty fingered the stylish perfume bottle in front of her, pulling out the crystal stopper and taking a generous sniff. It was flowery with a sensuous hint of musk. She liked it very much and daydreamed of swanning around a ballroom in a flowing gown, leaving wafts of the scent in her wake as she stalked through the many eligible and handsome young men, all wanting to dance with only her . . .
Suddenly, Kitty became aware of a woman’s carrying voice rising from below. Afraid of being told off for dawdling, she realised with relief that it was just one of the guests, namely, Mrs Pargitter. Kitty continued to daydream, knowing she couldn’t risk trying some of the perfume on her own skin as Cook would be furious. The housemaid crossed the room to the bed and ran her fingers over the delicate emerald silk that was Cecelia Morris’s nightgown. Kitty didn’t own anything so expensive, her own night attire being made of timeworn flannelette. You needed to have the bedroom fire on constantly, she mused, if you were going to wear something in flimsy silk.
As she plumped the pillows on the bed, Kitty found the corner of a book protruding from under the bottom one, pulling it out for inspection. It seemed to be a tatty old diary; the red leather binding split and well-worn, grimy with years of dirt. It was an odd contrast to the beauty and femininity that embodied Miss Morris’s other possessions. Kitty opened the book at a random page and read keenly, seating herself down on the bed she had just made.
‘I find myself in a difficult position. My dear wife has been gone for some time now and I miss her terribly. Her heart failed and a piece of my own seems to have died with her. I am cheered though by my loyal member of staff. She has offered me great comfort in so many ways and I am grateful to her for that.’
Rising from the tapestry bedcover, Kitty began pulling it taught again before sliding the diary back beneath the bottom pillow. She wondered if it was placed deliberately for her to find, as it seemed obvious Kitty would ultimately stumble across the diary when tidying the covers. Drawn as if by a magnet, she slipped her hand back beneath the bottom pillow, drawing out the diary once more. Ignoring her work and knowing Cook would be wondering where she’d got to, Kitty settled herself down into one of the bedroom chairs. The book fell open and Kitty saw this as fate as she eagerly read the entry:
‘The time has come to draw up my will to ensure the true line will inherit what is rightfully theirs. I have recently become aware of certain changes which, whilst unexpected, are very welcome. My experiments continue and I am
making good progress concerning
the effects of animal toxins on the nervous system.’
Kitty read several more entries, gathering information at random. With a gasp, she realised the author was the old Professor that Cook had mentioned. Only he was not so old at the time of writing – this was just the impression Cook had given. From what the diary told her, Kitty worked out that Professor Thaddeus Ambrose must have been somewhere in his mid-forties. And hadn’t Cook said that she was also in her forties when the Professor’s wife died? The member of staff offering her generous comfort could well have been Cook . . . Kitty gasped again and shook her head. What should she make of this knowledge and, more importantly, should she let on to Nella?
CURIOSITY BODES BADLY
Peter gestured an upturned palm towards the three ladies as he stood before them, summing up what had been said. This was more for his own benefit than anyone else’s.
“So, Cecelia thinks the clue could mean several different things. Diane thinks it’s all about, err, death. Lily thinks it’s about a map and I think there could be something buried – an object, perhaps?” He pursed his lips, pacing the room to help make his thoughts come.
Lily insisted, “It’s has to be a map because–”
Diane suddenly became animated, turning her moon-face on Peter as he passed her chair. “As I said, death,” she interrupted Lily with little patience. Satisfied to have got the point across, Diane then turned her body away from the rest of the group, showing she wished to distance herself as far as possible.
“Why don’t we search outside – maybe we’ll get some inspiration in the grounds?” Peter suggested, arching hopeful eyebrows as he pushed a strong hand through his thick, chestnut-brown hair.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Diane sneered, still refusing to look at anyone. “Why would I want to cavort about in acres of undergrowth just to look for a stupid clue to a fictitious murder? Over my dead body, as my dear Frank would’ve said!”
There was a blast of silence. Peter resisted the urge to retaliate, reminding Diane she’d complained to the Major that the weekend was a total disappointment. Instead, he assumed a friendly expression and said sympathetically, “Well, if you don’t feel up to it, that’s understandable. We can go while you rest here.”
“What would be the point? That just leaves me out of things again. I really do think–”
Lily attempted to calm muddied waters with solidarity, suggesting, “Diane’s got a point though. Why would the Major set such an obscure clue, expecting us to go outside to search the grounds? There must be several acres of land around the Hall – the solution could be anywhere. No, I think the clue definitely points to something inside the house.”
Brightening, Peter said, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Run the clue by me again.”
Lily retrieved a small lilac notebook from her pocket, confident this would assist with the whodunit analysis. She’d written down the third clue efficiently in her neat handwriting and now read the entry in a clear voice: “IN DEEPEST DARK THE JOURNEY’S END, PACKED OFF TO VISIT SOME OLD FRIEND.” She stared at the page, a look of recognition dawning across her freckled little face. “We need to pic
k out the key words! ‘Dark’ . . . ‘journey’ . . . ‘friend’,” she cried.
“And then what?” Diane said with marginally diminished venom now that she’d decided to take a vague interest in proceedings. Amused by the Pargitter woman, Cecelia shook her head.
“And then,” said Lily triumphantly, “we decide what those words could possibly refer to.”
“Good idea,” Peter encouraged as he took his seat next to Lily again, waiting for her interpretation of the words.
“So, we’ve got the word ‘dark’ – that could be night-time, black, sinister, unlit . . .” Lily shot a quick look sideways at Diane, fully expecting to be charged with reciting a Thesaurus. But she saw the woman was subdued and now seemed to be in a world of her own again. Lily thought it best that she stayed that way.
The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall Page 7