The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall

by Prudence Ambergast

  Peering down into the inky dank blackness below, Diane recalled there was a local tale about a man who’d fallen down a well somehow, many years before. But nobody could help get him out again because the well shaft was one hundred feet deep and very steep. The man had plunged, breaking an arm and both legs in the fall, so he couldn’t haul himself out when a rope was lowered down. His pitiful cries eventually faded, but it had taken several days . . . Diane shivered at the recollection, her dark thoughts increasingly menacing as she imagined a pair of cold hands thrusting up out of the consuming blackness to pull her back down with them.

  In a world of her own and without any warning, she received a viscously rough shove from behind. Taken by complete surprise, Diane cried out and attempted to brace herself against the cool, slimy brick. But she failed to stop herself from losing her balance. As her ample weight righted itself, Diane toppled backwards rather than forwards, coming to a sudden halt when her body hit the carpet of wet leaves with the thud of a dead weight. Dazed, winded and frightened, she registered a persistent throbbing pain in her right ankle that had twisted awkwardly. Bewildered, she took a few moments to get her bearings.

  Diane hadn’t heard anyone approaching, or am I mistaken? Her brain refused to supply any useful information. Peering cautiously around her, the grounds appeared to be deserted. From her sudden horizontal viewpoint, Diane could see only a distant figure, who she took to be Lady Felicity, thirty feet away and tending very attentively to a huge aspidistra within the confines of the orangery.

  INSULT & INJURY

  “This can’t be right,” urged Cecelia, trying to throw the others off the scent. “We should leave, as the clue obviously isn’t down here.”

  Lily scrutinised her, trying to assess Cecelia’s age. There was certainly no sign of crows’ feet at the corners of those amazing green eyes and her forehead appeared smooth under that slinky blonde sweep of hair. Thirty-five, she guessed. Lily prided herself on her accuracy in these matters, although she knew Cecelia would probably bite her head off if she asked for clarification.

  “I think Cecelia’s right,” Peter agreed reluctantly. “Nothing to see here.”

  “Right then,” said Lily with determination, driven by the dank chill of the cellar, “let’s get out of here, relax and review the clue again. We must be missing something vital.”

  “Like a sane mind for spending so long in this cellar,” sniffed Cecelia without making eye contact. “I need a proper drink.”

  Lily took Cecelia’s sanity comment to mean their need to think more carefully about the clue. She didn’t like to think badly of people – they were only human, after all. And I really haven’t known Cecelia long enough to be too judgemental.

  Making to leave the unwelcoming little room, Peter led the way. He held the torch aloft like a stocky tour guide, the beam only serving to highlight and exaggerate his slightly gappy front teeth. Once the two women were standing back in the main area of the cellar, he persuaded the lock shut again, rattling the door to ensure all was secure before setting off towards the stairs.

  “Once a policeman, always a policeman,” Cecelia could not help but quip in a mocking, sing-song voice.

  Lily followed the tightly-clad ascending backside of Cecelia Morris as she insisted on going first. Thinking again about the other woman’s comments as she climbed the stone steps, Lily reconsidered. She could now safely say she didn’t actually like the sharp-tongued and very selfish fashion plate very much.

  As the last to leave, Peter followed Lily, appreciating the librarian’s pert bottom as it jiggled up the stairs in front of him.

  Diane sat by the crackling log fire – thanks to Kitty – and, to all intents and purposes, it looked to the new arrivals as though she hadn’t moved an inch all morning.

  “Any sign of the Major and Lady Felicity?” Peter enquired as he seated himself with Lily and Cecelia back in the drawing room. He hoped their arrival would herald a good strong drink to warm him and (his stomach told him) an overdue lunch. At a quarter-past one, Sebastian Treadmill suddenly appeared in the doorway to announce just that. Peter was the first to rise out of his chair at the prospect, trotting after the tall, rangy man who led the way to the dining room.

  “Are you coming, Diane?” Lily asked gently, bending slightly to make more intimate eye contact with the woman who sat hunched and forlorn.

  “Yes, I could do with something to eat for the shock,” she replied in a low, even voice. But she did not move.

  Assuming Diane was referring to Frank’s passing, Lily placed her hand on the other woman’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. She found it was freezing cold. “You’re perished! I’ll ask Kitty to build the fire up some more and get you a blanket. Perhaps you’d like to eat in here?” Lily imagined that as well as allowing the poor woman to warm herself, it would avoid Diane being on the receiving end of Cecelia’s spiteful vinegar tongue, although the same could be said of Diane, when she was in the mood.

  “That might be best. You see,” Diane whispered as she peered around, her small piggy eyes scanning the room in a highly vulnerable gesture, “I’ve hurt my ankle.”

  Lily gave a gasp, surprised to hear that Diane had actually left her comfortable seat. “How on earth did you manage that?” she exclaimed, almost biting her tongue as her voice sounded sharp and disbelieving.

  “I managed it, as you so eloquently put it, because someone pushed me over out in the garden,” Diane hissed between clenched teeth.

  “Who? Why would anyone do that?” Lily’s head swam, finding it difficult to understand what Diane was telling her.

  “You do ask a lot of stupid questions,” Diane snapped. “I don’t know who did it, there was no one there when I looked. As for why, well, your guess is as good as mine. You can get me a tray and a blanket. They certainly skimp on the heating in this place.”

  After a very good lunch where Peter had enthusiastically helped himself to a second portion of trifle, the tension crackled between Cecelia and Lily. But it was decided that the two women should make their peace for the sake of achieving a solution to the clue. The Major smiled to himself. Now that the play was off, this was exactly what he’d hoped for – plenty of intrigue and not too many interruptions while he made important plans with Simeon Bailey. Lady Felicity still claimed to be suffering with a difficult headache, again slipping away after lunch to her sewing room for what she described as ‘a bit of well-deserved relaxation’.

  “Remind me of that dratted clue again,” Cecelia demanded, easing herself gently into a comfortable chair in the drawing room. She shot a glance at Lily, fully expecting the rapid emergence of the small lilac notebook before she’d even finished the sentence.

  Lily did not disappoint. “IN DEEPEST DARK THE JOURNEY’S END, PACKED OFF TO VISIT SOME OLD FRIEND,” she provided. “I think we need to consider the whole clue, not just one part – that obviously hasn’t got us anywhere.”

  Peter, replete and happy, nodded his wholehearted agreement. They remained seated in the drawing room to give Diane some company, although her protruding bottom lip, downturned mouth and sulky face full of resentment engendered the opposite desire from anyone in the same room as her.

  “Right,” said Lily brightly, “perhaps the ‘packed off to visit’ part refers to a suitcase or travelling bag. Come to think of it, that fits in with the ‘journey’ part too. Still not sure about the ‘dark’ or ‘friend’ bits though.” She was hugely pleased with herself, refusing to let Cecelia’s smug expression or Diane’s sour features ruin the experience.

  “Sounds good,” said Peter, “but where do we look?” He assumed a pensive look until Cecelia shot him down in flames.

  “Do you mean a place, or a room in this house? I haven’t got the foggiest what you mean!”

  It really does seem as though today, she’s no holds barred in revealing her true colours, Lily thought, watching Peter’s reaction. He drew himself upright in his chair, fixing Cecelia with a look of pity. “I mean .
. .” he took a deep, steadying breath to deliberately prolong the agony, “in which part of the house would we look for something like a suitcase?”

  “Well, the attic of course, you oaf!” Cecelia exploded, completely resenting the intimation that she didn’t have the intellect to grasp his meaning first time round – in other words, I’m not as intelligent as Librarian Lily, Cecelia fumed inwardly. She glanced with utter contempt at him, deciding he was nothing more than a thickset prig of a man with a cube-like head, absolutely no neck and a weak chin. Whatever did that silly ginger girl see in him? They make a jolly good pair . . .

  “Wait, that’s it!” Lily cried, jumping to her feet and opening the lilac notebook again in one fluid movement. “The ‘deepest dark’ part . . .that could be an attic, couldn’t it? ‘Packed’, ‘journey’, ‘visit’ – it all points to a suitcase, surely?” Lily’s pale blue eyes shone.

  “Let’s go and see!” Peter was up on his size nine feet to stand by Lily’s side before she could even blink. “Want to come with us, Mrs P?” He made the invitation to Diane, who stared into the dancing fire and sullenly shook her head without speaking.

  As Lily and Peter left the room, Cecelia rolled her eyes in despair, reluctantly following on behind.

  The trio began to climb the four dog-leg flights of stairs to the attic. When Lily was reasonably sure they were out of earshot, she spoke in hushed tones. “Diane’s hurt her ankle, so I don’t think she wanted to tackle all these stairs.”

  Cecelia let out an unladylike guffaw as she reached the first turn in the staircase. “And how’s she managed that? The fat heifer hasn’t moved all day!”

  Lily ignored the nasty comment, opting to provide a non-judgemental update on Diane’s condition instead. “Apparently, she took a walk before lunch and says she was pushed from behind, out near the well. Twisted her ankle quite badly as she went down.”

  Cecelia was relentless. “Whoever it was must’ve given her a good hard shove to get that sack of spuds over – bet she’s making it all up for attention.”

  Desperately worried that Diane might still be able to overhear their conversation, Lily whispered through clenched teeth, “You really don’t like her, do you? What is it exactly that she’s done to make you come out with such awful things?”

  Cecelia considered the question carefully for a few seconds. “Nothing specific, it’s just her very unfortunate manner and that unpleasantly acid tongue of hers. And there’s the fact that she basically looks like a gargoyle – very apt in this old gothic pile.”

  Lily began to fume, turning her back on Cecelia as she continued to climb so the emotion was lost on the other woman.

  “And,” Cecelia went on in a devil-may-care way, following Lily up the staircase, “the woman’s a complete drama queen – hence the need to create a story about someone pushing her over. I’d say it’s probably because she’s at that certain age, but I suspect she’s always been that way.”

  As they reached the last flight of stairs at the top of the house, Lily turned in irritation. “I think Mrs Pargitter’s had more than her fair share of trauma this weekend – what with the dreadful death of her husband. If she says she was pushed, then I believe her. And the poor woman can’t help how she looks. I suppose you think her mind’s confused because of her grief.”

  “Ha! I’ll bet that’s what you think as well and even you don’t believe her!” Cecelia chortled.

  “Don’t forget, she’s recently lost her dog as well as her husband,” Peter added, wondering if he’d emerge from this weekend, unscathed after the effort of keeping the peace between squabbling women. He attempted a distraction, announcing that they’d now reached the top of the house – something that was rather obvious.

  He caught a derisory look from Cecelia as she passed through the door into the attic, where dull autumnal light squeezed through a small, cobwebby eyebrow window. Wood pigeons cooed loudly from somewhere outside, the sound echoing eerily around the musty room.

  Peter pushed forward. “There should be a light switch . . . Ah, yes, here we are.” He flicked it on and the room was suddenly bathed in the thin, artificial yellow glow of a temperamental electric light. He stood still and surveyed the scene, all irritations forgotten. The antediluvian atmosphere smelled of stale, ancient papers and fabric. Multiple dust motes floated this way and that as the air current changed, caught in some strange private dance.

  “This place is packed with stuff!” Peter observed, stepping carefully forward, hearing the floorboards groan with an infestation of woodworm. “Look at this! Paintings; a screen with cut-out pictures stuck to it; artificial flowers; dancing shoes; old china; a chest of drawers; an old trunk . . . Where do we start?”

  “It’s called passementerie,” sniffed Cecelia, “and that old chest of drawers is probably Sheraton.”

  Peter shook his head, not understanding her. “What is?”

  “The pictures stuck on the screen, as you so ignorantly put it.”

  He ignored Cecelia, smiling at Lily and thanking his lucky stars that she wasn’t a difficult female. Diane’s twisted ankle was a lucky escape, he decided. Three of them up here together would have been far too much to cope with. “So, we’re looking for suitcases, or a travel bag, or something . . .” His voice trailed off as he surveyed the sheer mass of things they would have to search through. For the first time that weekend, Peter felt the nagging sensation that it would be far easier to just give up.

  “There’s a suitcase over there with the locks flipped up,” Lily exclaimed, pointing excitedly to a dusty far corner of the attic. She made to tiptoe through the detritus scattering the floor, but Peter suddenly flung out an arm to thwart her. Stopping dead, Lily stared at him with surprise.

  “Be very careful,” he warned, “these floorboards are a bit ropey and we don’t want you falling through to one of the rooms below.”

  Cecelia’s vivid green eyes rolled to the ceiling with despair – yet again – over how obvious Peter was being. Despite this, she remained completely still, heeding the warning. She watched as Lily edged carefully towards the suitcase, managing to lean far enough over to flip open the lid. One corner remained stubbornly in place, but the battered old leather case gave slightly in the middle to reveal what looked like ancient theatre programmes.

  “I can’t see very well in this light,” said Lily. “Doesn’t look very promising. If you consider the erstwhile Major needed to put the props in place so we could solve this clue, I can’t imagine him being able to get over here very easily.”

  “He’s not that old,” Peter observed. “What do you think, Cecelia? Late fifties, early sixties?”

  Cecelia, in a world of her own, was startled by the question. “What? I was thinking about something else . . .”

  Lily tutted quietly, then repeated what Peter had said. She fixed the other woman with an inquisitive stare, assessing that she looked just like an elegant Art Deco lamp stand, positioned there with hands poised on narrow hips.

  “I don’t know – sixty-something? Does it matter?”

  Lily stepped backwards, nearly falling over a large hatbox. Cecelia shot her a look suggesting she should be more careful, rather than trying to emulate a baby elephant.

  “Do either of you actually know what we’re looking for up here?” Cecelia muttered to move things along.

  “I thought we’d agreed it’s some sort of case,” Peter said evenly, his bull-like head thrust forward to examine a teetering stack of photograph albums. “Oh look! Here’s some old school photographs.” He collected up a couple of loose sepia prints depicting two children in school uniform – a young boy holding a sporting trophy and a schoolgirl with pigtails and a severe scowl radiating from under the low brim of her boater hat.

  “Wonder who these two are? The Major and Lady F when younger, do you think?” Peter took a long moment to peer more closely at the photographs, seeing that they were old and curled at the edges, before thrusting them under Lily’s nose for her inspecti
on.

  “Difficult to say really,” Lily mused. “I don’t think the Major and his wife have any children, but only because I haven’t seen any photographs of children or young people about the place.”

  “Must be difficult, planning for a child when you work as an actress in the theatre. Not many roles for a galleon in full sail at eight months gone.” From her statuesque position on a safe piece of floorboard, Cecelia made the observation, considering it far too much effort to move and actually inspect the photographs Lily was holding.

  Deep in thought, Lily pondered this. “Do you really think that’s the reason? Perhaps she couldn’t have children. With all these clues about birth rights and everything, you’d think they’d have had children if they could, as it seems important to them.”