The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall

by Prudence Ambergast

  In the gloom of the attic, Peter muttered in a low voice, “These things can be very complicated, so I’ve been told. Maybe one of them couldn’t have children. Perhaps there was no opportunity to adopt, or they just left it too late for the sake of their careers.”

  Giving him a compassionate look, Lily wondered if all this talk of children and parents had upset him, given what he’d confided. Peter caught her expression and she saw his face rapidly change to assume an inquisitive smile.

  “Where did you go to school then, Cecelia? Bet it was a private Ladies’ College somewhere in the Home Counties.” He grinned cheekily, hoping to lighten the serious mood, veering the subject away from parenthood.

  Cecelia responded with a glare but chose not to raise her voice. “Not that it’s any of your business. . . If you must know, I was schooled in America.” Still motionless, she stared coolly ahead, letting him absorb the information.

  “But you don’t speak with an American accent,” Lily observed. Having regained her balance following the hat box incident, she waded further across the floor. Lily was now happily poking around in a huge old tin overflowing with costume jewellery.

  ‘So, when did you come back to England? Why didn’t you stay over there?” Peter interrogated.

  Cecelia bristled at his insistent tone. “I had my reasons.”

  After hobbling to her feet, Diane was once again busy exploring the numerous rooms scattered throughout the ground floor. As she opened each door, several of the interiors appeared cold and unwelcoming and Diane guessed they were used infrequently or not at all. As she was about to try the handle of another door, it opened suddenly. Felicity Manners-Gore stood squarely in front of her with a quizzical expression on her face.

  “Oh! I wasn’t expecting . . . Was there something?” The older woman’s words were kindly, but her tone incorporated a definite shade of irritation. Felicity had envisaged the whole group staying out of her way, amusing themselves for several hours, only coming together again with the Major, herself and Simeon for their evening meal. But, she reminded herself, hostility is clearly not the mark of a good hostess.

  Diane faltered. She hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with Felicity who, from her frosty tone, obviously didn’t want her there. The sudden sting of bitter resentment washed over her. “I-I’m fine, thank you. Just bored of being on my own.”

  Lady Felicity tightened her jaw in frustration, wanting to curtail the conversation quickly and return to her sewing. “I’m sure the others will be joining us shortly for afternoon tea. It’s nearly that time, isn’t it?” She swung exaggeratedly around for a clock, knowing there were none nearby.

  Diane peered at a gold-coloured expanding band wristwatch that dug deeply into the chunky flesh of her thick right wrist. Lady Felicity absorbed the information like a sponge, filing it away. The woman is left-handed, or else why wear a watch on the hand she writes with? Of course, she considered, the alternative explanation is that the Pargitter female simply does not write.

  “Ten to four,” Diane announced in an unsteady voice. “Think I’ll go to my room for a rest. It’s been a very trying day.”

  With a surge of relief, Lady Felicity watched the other woman turn and retreat towards the stairs. She noted that Diane was visibly limping and a wry smile crossed her cherry blossom lips.

  Cecelia was rapidly losing patience and it showed. “Can we get on with it, please?”

  Peter, in turn, was also becoming irritated with the seemingly unending search for he knew not what. The clue had been so vague, he began to wonder if it was deliberately set to keep them guessing with little hope of actually solving the mystery. Suddenly, a thought struck him. “What if it’s not a suitcase we’re searching for? What if it’s a trunk?”

  “Brilliant!” chimed Lily, crossing the attic space carefully towards an old, battered brown box, upholstered in well-worn faded leather with brass studs along the edges. “This looks hopeful – I didn’t notice it before, but where else is there to look?”

  Cecelia finally moved, advancing on the trunk in the hope of bringing a welcome end to the interminable clue. She wanted to make progress with her own plans: the real reason she’d stayed on at the Hall after Frank Pargitter’s death. Cecilia watched as Lily flung open the dusty top of the old trunk to peer inside, as though she were expecting something miraculous would manifest itself.

  “Oh! Just a box of old clothes . . .” Lily’s face fell as Peter helpfully shone the torch directly on her so she could get a better look before he moved in closer.

  “Not just old clothes,” he announced with interest, “old dressing up clothes. Must date back to when the Major and his wife trod the boards.” He crouched down and began to rifle through the contents.

  Cecelia, resisting the urge to make a sarcastic comment about Peter’s arcane observation skills, ducked as a battered red fez came flying close to her left ear. “Watch it! Be more careful,” she yelled with venom.

  With similar enthusiasm, Peter continued, stacking pieces of clothing onto the very limited floor space next to the trunk. As he dug like a tenacious terrier, Lily picked up a few garments, examining each one before putting them carefully back down again amid the chaos.

  “I really don’t see how this helps to solve the clue,” Cecelia said in a bored voice, arms folded. “Have you forgotten – we’re looking for something in a dark place connected to a journey? Well, surely that’s this trunk.”

  “Presumably, being packed to visit an old friend means their days in the theatre when they were playing certain characters,” Lily added hopefully.

  Cecelia nodded absent-mindedly, feeling the luxuriant material of the rather delightful 1920s dress she’d just discovered in the pile.

  “Sounds about right. Where do we go from here? Maybe find the Major, tell him we’ve discovered the old trunk so he’ll give us the next clue?”

  “Wait! What’s this?” Peter pointed to a rip in the trunk’s lining revealing the corner of what looked like a sheet of tattered paper. “Maybe this is another clue.” He extracted the find carefully, revealing a battered stage play script as the remaining pages came with it.

  Lily leaned in and squinted at the stained cover, depicting an Art Deco design of a woman dressed in a red cocktail frock, languishing backwards over what appeared to be an angular table. Above the image in boxy black print it read:

  MISS CARSTAIRS IS DEAD

  Lily shivered excitedly. “Oh, how thrilling!

  This must have been from one of their plays – let’s have a closer look.” She snatched up the thin script and quickly scanned the contents, her face growing steadily more dismayed as she read.

  “Well?” demanded Cecelia, hands on hips again, “What does it say?”

  Lily shook her head, trying to make sense of what she was reading. “This script appears – well – to be basically what we’re actually doing right now. There’s a bit about an old manor house and a murder mystery weekend where they put on a play. The guests find all the clues are set around solving a genealogy problem, who’s who and whodunit. Hence, Miss Carstairs – who unfortunately seems destined to die.”

  Cecelia’s eyes grew wide and very green. “And what happens to this woman in the end?”

  Lily flicked to the end of the script. “Can’t tell you.”

  Cecelia’s face flushed with anger as she hissed, “Why not?”

  Taking the script from Lily’s grasp, Peter flipped it over for Cecelia to see. “Because someone’s ripped the last few pages out.”

  IT’S ALL IN A NAME

  Lily, Peter and Cecelia waited in the drawing room for the Major to surface. Lily imagined it must be like waiting for a telling off from the headmistress, although she had never actually experienced this. It was very odd, she considered, that although he would have been starring in the planned play, suddenly the Major could not be disturbed since the untimely death of Frank Pargitter. They had been instructed to always find Lady Felicity when a clue was solve
d and she, in turn, informed the Major on their behalf.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for that drink.” Peter sighed, peering around the golden drawing room, his eyes falling on the almost-empty sherry decanter.

  Diane slipped into the room unseen and said from behind him, “Here, here. A gin and tonic would go down very well.”

  Starting badly, Peter hadn’t realised she was there, the whole scene causing Lily and Cecelia to giggle like a pair of schoolgirls. The joke appeared lost on Diane, who clearly very rarely managed to sidle up to someone without making a noise.

  “I don’t feel as though I can face another clue just yet,” Peter continued, still clutching his chest for effect. “The last one was a bit ambiguous,” he told Diane by way of explanation, although her expression told him she didn’t really care.

  At that moment, Lady Felicity breezed in, her well-defined eyebrows arching in expectation as she asked what they’d discovered. Lily explained, but felt a little foolish when describing the script of Miss Carstairs is Dead. She glanced at Peter, who nodded, loyally, backing her up.

  “Ah! So, you found some old photographs and a script,” Lady Felicity summed up. “Perhaps there’s no direct answer to the clue. Perhaps you’re meant to see beyond it to the more general meaning of children and their destiny – the lengths someone might go to for money, power, or inheritance?”

  She looks and sounds as obscure as a veiled fortune teller at the end of a seaside pier, Lily thought. It was all a bit far-fetched and didn’t really make sense. Whose children; what destiny; what inheritance? Lily thought, gazing around to see that Cecelia looked supremely bored.

  “Can we please have a drink and then do something different?” Cecelia asked in a wheedling tone that had not been there before.

  “Of course,” Lady Felicity nodded, not giving much away about whether this meant the potential drink or the change of focus. She gave the bell rope by the fireplace a sharp tug and a far-off tinkling sound could be heard at the end of the long corridor. Moments later, Sebastian Treadmill appeared in the doorway, looking fresh as a daisy and ready to please.

  “Ah, Treadmill,” Lady Felicity enunciated in her best telephone voice, “could you please serve some afternoon drinks? And, I think, perhaps some peanuts?” She said the last word with such grave seriousness that Cecelia struggled to stifle a guffaw. From her position by the fireplace, Lady Felicity suddenly rounded on the room, her tiny frame nonetheless commanding.

  “I have the next clue for you, although I must warn you, this one involves searching outdoors.” She drew her perfect pink cardigan around her at the very thought of it.

  “I can’t go out there!” Diane cried sulkily. She looked frightened and Peter wondered what lay behind the emotion.

  “Whatever you feel comfortable with,” offered Lady Felicity, knowing the large woman was scared. She had pushed Diane Pargitter earlier, but not enough to topple her into that deep chasm of the well. Just enough to unnerve her so she might be encouraged to leave.

  Treadmill reappeared with a tray of drinks and placed it on the sideboard, suggesting that none of the guests could be trusted with empty glasses and a full bottle of anything alcoholic from the Major’s personal supply. As the liquid settled in the glasses after transit from the kitchen, Lady Felicity indicated that they should help themselves.

  Peter immediately took advantage of the offer. “What’s your poison? Ha-ha.” He grinned at the aptness of his joke and trotted over to claim two small glasses of what looked like sweet sherry, although it was difficult to tell. Ignoring the diminutive offering of peanuts, Peter returned to his position next to Lily, passing her a glass before gratefully sipping the warming alcohol.

  “Where’s mine?” Diane demanded, not letting the policeman forget his manners. “And hers for that matter?” She pointed an accusing index finger tipped with chipped scarlet nail varnish at Cecelia. The fall by the well had severely damaged Diane’s manicure and her ego.

  Peter immediately bounced back to his feet. “it’s just small measures, but better than nothing. Sweet sherry, although I couldn’t swear to it.”

  Diane waved her hand regally. “As it comes.”

  Cecelia looked thunderous at having been left until last. She’d expected Peter to fawn over Lily as a priority, but to be placed last after the Pargitter female in the hierarchy of drinks etiquette was really too much. One solitary and very miserly measure of liquid remained on the tray and, for one awful moment, Cecelia wondered if she’d been forgotten altogether. Perhaps that last glass is actually destined for Lady Felicity?

  “You help yourself, my dear,” Felicity gestured towards the tray, as though she were directing traffic. “I don’t wish to partake of spirits this afternoon.”

  Cecelia rose from her straight-backed chair, stalking over to take possession of the unappetising specimen. Back in her seat, she raised the glass to her nose and sniffed suspiciously. It was alcohol but its origin was unrecognisable, making her reluctant to taste the brownish liquid. Glancing up, Cecelia caught the intense gaze of Lady Felicity, who quickly looked away. With disgust, Cecelia banged the glass down on the occasional table next to her chair, slopping the liquid over her hand.

  But only Lady Felicity was watching the ardent rejection and a wry smile met her lips. Having guzzled her small sherry in practically one swallow, Diane fixed Lady Felicity with her stony stare and barracked, “Come on then – get on with it!”

  “Ah, yes. The next clue . . .” Felicity gazed around her with growing unease. I shouldn’t be expected to have to do this on my own, she thought bitterly. With true acting ability she continued brightly, “IN RINGING TONES OF DEATH AND LIFE, A SCHOLARLY WORK CONTAINS THE RITE.”

  Felicity crossed to the fireplace, smiling with satisfaction as the clue was met by a sea of puzzled faces. Hopefully, this will keep them occupied for several hours, although the Pargitter woman will be unable to join them, with her ankle looking so puffy. Felicity resolved to take advantage of the circumstances and spend some overdue quality time with Diane.

  Lily finished scribbling down the next clue in her little notebook, automatically beginning to analyse what it could mean. The reference to a scholarly work again suggested some kind of book which was, of course, her forte. But what sort of book would be kept outside of the house? Lost in thought, Lily missed the irritated look Cecelia shot her.

  Cecelia marched out of the drawing room en-route to her bedroom to retrieve a coat, her heels determinedly clacking across the wood floor as she reached the stairs. Diane remained huddled by the fire, a vulnerable baby bird eyeing Lady Felicity as she drew up a chair, a predatory cat-like grin gracing her lips.

  “What’re they doing this afternoon?” Kitty asked Cook, ever-curious about the goings-on in the main house.

  Nella chopped an onion vigorously then gave a vicious sniff, wiping a sleeve ineffectually over her spectacles as her eyes began to stream with tears. She snatched the frames from her nose, reached into her apron pocket for a large square, white hanky and blew noisily into it.

  “I mean, you hardly see them about, do you? I thought they’d be in and out of here, getting under our feet.”

  “Talking of getting under my feet,” said Nella, sniffing loudly, “you could do worse than get peeling those potatoes for the casserole.”

  Kitty gave a sulky look, but continued to probe for information as she seated herself at the kitchen table. “Talking of kids, did you ever want any?”

  Nella looked bemused. “Were we – whatever made you think of that?”

  Kitty hid her embarrassment, selecting a peeling knife from the drawer under the table. “Just wondering about babies . . .” she ventured.

  “You’re not telling me you’re in the family way!” Cook’s face was aflame with the scandal.

  “No, I’m not!” cried Kitty, outraged. “I just wondered if you ever regret not having children.” As her words trailed off, Kitty suspected she’d probably gone t
oo far. But it’s too late now . . .

  “As a matter of fact, I do have a son. He’s twenty-five now – I’m ever so proud of him,” Nella smiled.

  In shock, Kitty dropped the knife she was using to peel the King Edwards.

  In the cold chill of the grounds, Lily pointed ahead. “Why don’t we try this way?”

  “Do you even have any idea what the clue means?” Cecelia challenged, taking in the growing ruddiness of Lily’s wind-chaffed cheeks.

  “Solved the other one, didn’t we?”

  Cecelia let out a sharp laugh like a choked bray, shaking her head in disbelief before striding away in the opposite direction.

  Peter placed a hand on Lily’s arm. “Take no notice, it’s just her way.”