The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall

by Prudence Ambergast

  Sensing progress, Cecelia ventured an opinion. “Right, well that sounds like it could be a room, don’t you think? What kind of room though?”

  As inspiration struck again, Lily almost leapt from her seat. “An unused room, or why else would it be dark! Although that is a bit obvious, if the lights are off–”

  Peter rewarded her with an admiring grin. “It makes sense. What else have we got? The ‘journey’s end’ bit. Well, as Diane says, if it is death, then that’s underground, so . . . what rooms are underground?” He looked around him, hoping for suitable suggestions. Peter’s glance came to rest on the giant vase of freshly cut freesias in the centre of the drawing room table, his thoughts immediately turning to funerals and whether Diane would expect everyone there to attend Frank’s farewell.

  In deep thought, Lily rhythmically tapped the back of her left hand with the slender fingers of her right before saying, “Well, there’s a crypt, a bunker, or a cellar of course, as it has to be somewhere in this house.”

  “That’s it! It has to mean the cellar!” Peter cried, grabbing Lily’s hand as though there was no one else in the room.

  Observing his reaction, Cecelia rose elegantly from her chair, carefully smoothing down her skirt. A trip to the cellar again in these heels? Oh dear . . .

  As she entered the kitchen, Kitty looked carefully around the room to check whether Seb was in the vicinity. Satisfied, she nervously approached Cook. Nella glanced up to see the maid hovering nearby, noting her odd expression. She wondered what silliness the girl was up to now.

  “You were gone a good while. Get lost, did you?” Nella enquired with a raised eyebrow as she continued to prepare lunch, adding the thick custard layer to a giant bowl of trifle.

  “I found something . . .”

  Nella spread the custard, not realising the implications of Kitty’s news. “What sort of something? Fluff under the beds, dead bird down the chimney?” She now had her back to the younger woman, whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

  “. . . A book – an old diary. I think it was written by the Professor who went missing.” There, it’s out there now and I can’t take it back.

  Kitty held her breath, watching as Cook almost dropped the wooden spoon she was using to encourage the remainder of the cooling custard from the pan. The older woman continued to keep herself turned away so her face wasn’t visible.

  “And did you take a look at this diary? What did it say?” Nella asked, her voice wobbling dangerously.

  “I saw enough to know,” Kitty hesitated, not sure whether it was wise to add where she’d found it, “that you offered him comfort after his wife died.” Kitty finally took a ragged breath, mustering the courage to stay put.

  Nella slowly turned, giving herself time to consider a reply. “Have you seen Seb?” she asked distractedly. “I sent him on an errand twenty minutes ago. Where is that wretched man?”

  Kitty shrugged her thin shoulders and continued to peer intently at Cook, urging a proper answer.

  The tension in the air seemed electric and Nella finally exclaimed, “Course I offered him sympathy, he was my employer and his wife was the world to him. And those lovely children! Oh, they were a joy to Professor Ambrose. He loved children . . . I can’t bear the thought of what his brother did.” Nella turned away once more, clenching her fist tightly around the wooden spoon as though it were Ezra Ambrose’s neck.

  Kitty steadied her breathing, aware that Cook’s reaction to the revelation could have turned out very differently. She decided to keep any direct questions to herself, but couldn’t help fishing for more information. “He sounds like a very horrible man – the brother.”

  “Drank himself to death eventually, not soon enough to my mind. Ezra Ambrose made sure that poor young girl was packed off as far as he could send her, to America, if I recall. And he had her name changed . . . sweet girl, a woman now of course. Probably doesn’t even remember being called Dorcas – very unusual, just like her father’s name.” Nella looked wistful as she stared at the plump yellow layer that had found its own level in the trifle bowl.

  “It’s sad that the Major and her Ladyship never had any children in a big old house like this,” Kitty observed, hoping for more detail as she picked at a small remnant of chopped apple that had not made it into the trifle, popping it into her mouth.

  Nella lowered her voice, although no one was likely to hear through the thick tiled walls of the kitchen. “It’s a shame, you’re right, but she couldn’t. Some people just can’t. Too late now though – she’s approaching sixty and the Major’s almost sixty-five!”

  Kitty looked down at her clenched hands, growing bolder. “I was wondering the other day, why is her Ladyship called Lady Felicity?”

  Nella shook herself out of her reminiscences over the untimely death of Thaddeus Ambrose’s son, Nathaniel and the whereabouts of his daughter. She gave Kitty a direct look, hating the thought of gossip. “And what business is that of yours, my girl?”

  Kitty continued, having bravely come this far with her interrogation. “It’s just that, well, at Piddingford Hall in Wenham – according to my friend Shirley, who’s a housemaid there – it’s Lord and Lady Bennington-Smythe. The Major isn’t a Lord, so why is Lady F a Lady?”

  Nella had a sudden moment of weakness, deciding to tell Kitty what she wanted to hear, just to shut her up. “If you must have all the details, but don’t you breathe a word of it, mind, Lady Felicity decided to take the title when they moved into the Hall. The acting work had dried up a bit by then as younger actresses were getting the parts she was going for, so she set herself up as the Lady of the Manor instead.”

  “Oh, so she’s not a proper Lady then?”

  “No,” hissed Nella, “she was plain old Felicity Smith before she met the Major.”

  Descending the uneven cellar steps, Lily found herself standing in a large, central stone area with rooms positioned around the edge in a starburst layout. Folding her arms against the chill, she shivered, registering the marked drop in temperature and the accompanying sweet, damp atmosphere. Lily glanced up at the bulb that gave off a dim, yellow glow, her eyes taking a while to adjust to the gloom.

  “Creepy old place,” offered Cecelia to no one in particular, hanging back slightly to demonstrate that this really was the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  Peter produced a torch from his pocket and banged the side of it in frustration. “Batteries keep giving out but I’m glad I brought it along – had a feeling it might come in useful.”

  “Clever old you,” Cecelia said out of the corner of her painted lips, her comment loaded with sarcasm.

  “I wonder what Diane will do with herself while we’re down here?” Lily said as she peered around at the various doors, wondering where to start. “She really would be better off staying with friends as she’s had such a terrible shock, just while everything is being sorted out.”

  “Her dog disappeared, too . . .” Peter added, trying some of the doors and finding nothing of interest inside the small rooms.

  “The woman is a nightmare,” Cecelia commented, her tone suddenly turning nasty as Diane became the topic of conversation. “Strikes me she couldn’t care a jot that her poor husband’s gone – Diane only cares about herself. All she’s done since he died is moan and carp on about how things don’t revolve around her. I shouldn’t think she has any friends willing or gullible enough to take her in.”

  Lily’s compassionate face was a mask of surprise, the torchlight and overhead dimness giving her features an eerily elongated appearance. “Oh, that’s a bit harsh! Yes, she can be a difficult woman, but it must be so awful. She persuaded Frank they should come here, only for it to turn into something tragic.”

  Cecelia fixed Lily with her cat-like stare.

  You’re tragic if you think Diane Pargitter’s a victim. Women like her are manipulative me-me’s – everything has to revolve around them getting their own way. I’m not surprised the dog ran away.”
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br />   As the situation slid markedly downhill, Lily decided Cecelia’s attack was getting far too personal. Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? she wondered. Her mouth felt dry, her brain searching for any suitable retort. “I actually think I’m a fairly good judge of people,” she faltered.

  “Having spent your earlier years with your nose in a book and, oh yes, your later ones too?” Cecelia sniffed. “It’s hardly experience in how to handle difficult people.”

  “Ladies, ladies!” Peter interjected, feeling distinctly uncomfortable as he found himself standing between the feuding females. There was something very unnerving about Cecelia’s assuredness, he decided. She was clearly that sort of ultra-confident woman, not afraid to challenge anyone, regardless of the consequences.

  As if to demonstrate this point, Cecelia snapped her fingers in his face. “Let’s get on with it then. If we must be down here in this hideous hell-pit, at least we can make it quick. It’s not exactly thrilling, this weekend. I can see what Diane means. All the Major seems to do is disappear into his study with that sinister doctor and Lady Felicity just twitters around, primping the flower arrangements and doing her embroidery.”

  Lily bit her tongue hard in an effort to avoid further confrontation and moved closer to Peter. She wanted to jump loyally to the Hall owner’s defence but decided not to get into a full-blown argument with Cecelia Morris, who was clearly not a very nice sort of person at all. Lily caught a smile from Peter and admired how he forged ahead, opening creaky wooden doors at random, shining the torch beam inside. All seemed to be empty bar a few old wine crates and some sticks of furniture. He finally came to a locked door and Cecelia feigned disinterest, which Lily interpreted as boredom.

  “Now, this looks interesting!”

  “It’s a locked door,” Cecelia observed sarcastically.

  “Ah! But what’s behind it? That’s what we must ask ourselves. Think back to the clue – deepest dark, the journey’s end. If we get this sorted out, we can head back upstairs for a stiff drink and some lunch.”

  Cecelia sighed. “The door’s locked for a reason, probably because they don’t want us nosing around in there. Plus, that wasn’t all of the clue. There was something about an old friend . . .”

  “Let’s just see, shall we?” Peter said in an even tone, taking charge and removing a set of skeleton keys from his trouser pocket.

  “Oh, very honest, I must say! You’re supposed to be a policeman . . .” Cecelia turned away in mock-disgust, hoping Peter would just leave the locked room alone so they could get back to the open fire, well away from where she had borrowed the diary.

  Peter handed the torch to Lily, who dutifully held it in position while he crouched beside the keyhole, selecting a suitable key. Satisfied with his choice, he wiggled it in the old lock and, to his surprise, it gave almost instantly. “Looks like it’s been opened pretty recently,” he said, delighted.

  Standing upright, Peter pushed the door and found it gave a creak of protest before opening grudgingly. He entered, taking the torch from Lily and shining it into the high corners of the cramped room, causing a hairy black spider to scuttle into a crack in the wall.

  “Ugh!” Lily cried, “I absolutely hate spiders!”

  Peter smiled. “It won’t hurt you – it’s just looking for a meal.” He edged forward into the narrow space that had once been some sort of laboratory. Rows of coloured bottles still sat on several high shelves against one cold stone wall. A desk, tired and stained with rings from constant use during experiments, sat under a much lower shelf on the far wall.

  “Who could write or work down here? It’s so dingy and dark.” Lily observed as she hugged herself for warmth, wanting to be gone but equally, intrigued enough to stay.

  “I expect they used those things called candles or even an oil lamp,” suggested Cecelia impatiently, “like you do when there’s no natural light or working electricity.”

  Lily chose to ignore the sarcasm and peered around the small space, her acclimatised eyes now able to distinguish more detail. Above the battered desk she saw that the lower bookshelf contained only two chunky volumes with tiny, indistinguishable gold lettering on the worn spines. Both books looked well-used and were bound with an olive green, tight-weave material, with several darker stained patches on the covers.

  Lily examined one book more carefully, taking it down from the shelf, screwing up her eyes as Peter obliged with the direct beam of the torch. “Undiscovered Flora and Fauna – A to M,” she read.

  “If it’s undiscovered, why write two books about it?” Cecelia scoffed.

  Again, Lily ignored the comment. She didn’t want to encourage any animosity or patiently explain that the creatures and plants within were undiscovered to the reader, not the author. Instead, she flicked through the yellowed curling pages, coming to rest on a double-page rather comical depiction of a hippopotamus.

  “Ha! Look at this!” she chortled, showing the illustration to Peter, then thrusting it vaguely in Cecelia’s direction. The shake of the other woman’s blonde head indicated she was not at all interested.

  “How is that a proper clue?” Cecelia sighed, looking around for a means of escape.

  Lily’s attention remained with the drawing. “Just look at this! I suppose they didn’t really know what a hippo looked like, so they were just guessing.” The sketch showed an overly elongated, unfortunate-looking animal with excessively rounded ends and very sharp teeth, like a dragon’s.

  “Looks as though there was another book here until quite recently.” Peter shone the torch so the beam fell directly on the shelf. He pointed to show there was dust almost everywhere, except for the width of a small book where the shelf appeared clean.

  Diane looked around the large drawing room, finding herself alone by a dying fire. Fighting a surging feeling of utter abandonment, she rose to her feet and immediately felt her stiff, sturdy limbs protest. The mantle clock showed a quarter past twelve and she wondered what would be for lunch. Now that she thought about it, Diane realised she was considerably peckish. There was fruit in her room of course, but she hated fruit – well raw fruit, anyway; it was far more palatable dressed up as an apple or peach crumple or cobbler with cream. Now Frank absolutely loved my apple and cinnamon crumble . . .

  A ray of autumn sun suddenly pierced the gloom of the drawing room and, for the first time, Diane realised that the relentless smack of rain on the glass had stopped. She had no idea where the twitchy Lady Felicity had got to, but was pleased to note that at least, she’d stopped watching her. Diane stretched her back indulgently; braced against the fireplace, she registered the insistent feeling of being alone once more. If Frank was still here, we’d be joining in . . .

  Assuming that everyone else was occupied, Diane decided to take herself off on a mini mystery tour of her very own, heading out through the second drawing room door – the one no one ever seemed to use. She found herself in a long corridor with a total of six doors running the length of it. Her natural curiosity was dimmed by persistent hunger teamed with misery and instead of investigating each room thoroughly, she decided to make her way straight ahead, where daylight poured in through a large glass door. Her heels ricocheted on the earthenware tiled floor like bullet shots and Diane was suddenly afraid someone would appear out of nowhere, demanding to know where she was heading.

  At the glass door, Diane saw it led out into the expansive grounds. The weather was holding well with no grey clouds threatening overhead and she turned the handle to discover the door was not locked. Trotting purposefully outside, she carefully closed the door behind her, peering around to find somewhere interesting to inspect.

  Diane spotted a huge cast-iron and glass orangery to her right, stretching along the entire south side of the house. Healthy-looking plants pushed gently on the glass inside the magnificently gothic construction, although she had never heard mention of a gardener living in or visiting at the Hall. There must be one, or even several, Diane considered,
as the lawns are well-tended, the hedges neat and trimmed. She found that the mild breeze was bearable and if anything, it was warmer outside than it was in.

  Some way ahead, Diane spied an old brick-built well, extensively covered with a blanket of long-established green-brown moss. She made her way slowly towards it, having no other focus and remembering a similar-looking well from a story book as a child. Perhaps it’s a wishing well – perhaps one day, I’ll feel more like my old self again and my life will return to some semblance of normality . . . At that moment in time, this possibility seemed unattainable.

  She stumbled forwards over the damp grass tussocks and through a carefully raked pile of shiny, wet red and gold leaves that were gradually escaping back to other parts of the garden as the wind determined. Diane sniffed the air, finding that it smelled mostly of rain and faintly of bonfires before she grew closer to the rounded brick structure.

  Her dark piggy eyes were forced to close as a sharp burst of low autumn sunlight hit her straight in the face. Diane squinted and blinked hard several times, accentuating her crow’s feet. She scanned the letterboxed scene, taking in the majestic oak, beech and ash that stood on duty, rustling occasionally when the mood took them. Reaching her destination had been more arduous than she imagined and Diane stood awhile, hands on the cool mossy well edge. Her lungs heaved as she panted for breath.