She shrugged. “I’m more worried about Mrs Pargitter. She was very subdued just now as we were leaving – perhaps it’s the fall.”
Peter nodded, keen to get moving. Or perhaps something else is going on that we don’t know anything about,” Lily suggested mysteriously.
“Like what?” Peter said, heading off after Cecelia. “Mustn’t let her go too far – she’ll probably get lost.”
Behind the Hall a short way ahead, Lily and Peter found Cecelia peering at the trunk of an old oak tree. As they approached, she pointed to an area of bark. “This is interesting, someone’s carved their initials,” she pointed out.
Peter peered at the rough marks in the wood, making out what looked like a blurred 'O’ and possibly an ‘A’. “Can’t be part of the clue, this was done years ago.” He stepped away, his interest lost.
Cecelia’s face grew mutinous. She was not used to men treating her as though she were stupid or, for that matter, coming second place to a plain librarian. “I suppose if Lily had discovered it, the story would be different,” she sneered. “I think it’s very interesting – someone obviously carved it for a reason.”
Peter gave her a pitying look that did little to salve the sting of rejection.
Searching in her notebook, Lily tried to diffuse the tension. “Ringing tones . . . must be a bell of some kind, don’t you think, Cecelia? But what sort of bell? A doorbell, a hand bell–”
“Church bell,” Cecelia interrupted, pointing to a small, squat building nestling in the distance like a toad in the undergrowth.
“I didn’t even see that!” Lily cried, unable to believe she’d missed it. Setting off briskly, her sensible shoes were no match for the slippery leaves underfoot.
“Are we actually going there?” Cecelia muttered in disbelief.
In a sudden moment of immense clarity, Lily loudly declared her hunch as she marched away. “It’s a little church, probably once used by the whole village. The bell part fits the clue. Inside, we’ll find a parish register of births, marriages and deaths.” She stopped and turned to beam widely, immensely satisfied, before striding determinedly onward again.
“That’s brilliant!” bellowed Peter, “Sounds just the sort of thing the Major might set as a clue, but–”
Lily stopped dead and rounded to meet his glance, her happiness suddenly evaporating. “But?”
“Who are we looking for, exactly?”
With arms folded across her chest, Lily fell into step with Peter as Cecelia gave a smirk of derision.
Diane’s moon face was pale in the afternoon light. Lady Felicity had opted to stand over her in what she considered was a no-nonsense way. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your family, Mrs Pargitter?” she purred.
Diane stuttered incoherently as the older woman determinedly held her gaze. “Now, if you know what I think you know, we could have a very interesting chat, couldn’t we?” Felicity’s innocent eyes were round and deep blue, her smile dazzling.
“I d-d-don’t know w-what you mean,” Diane’s voice petered out miserably.
Lady Felicity leaned forward, her face only inches from her target. “Tell me your name – your real name.”
“You know my name – Diane Pargitter, nee Morris.” She refused to make eye contact with the other woman, her shocked face becoming even paler. Has she completely lost control of her senses?
Lady Felicity’s eyes glinted maliciously. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Y-yes, of course.”
“What about your schooling?”
Diane was stunned. What on earth is happening? She grew slightly annoyed but was afraid to show it in case her interrogator reacted badly. “I went to school in Fulham. I told you, my father had a grocer’s shop–”
“You didn’t go to boarding school?” Lady Felicity growled, her face losing its delicacy as her features became completely animated, their definition blurred.
“N-no. I always lived with my parents – until I met Frank, that is . . .” Diane’s voice trailed away to nothing.
Steepling her fingers, Lady Felicity was deep in thought.
“Why do you want to know anyway?” Diane asked the question rather briskly, as if she didn’t care.
“I’m trying to determine some information.” Felicity said honestly.
Diane’s over-plucked eyebrows formed two raised, sparse lines over the tiny dots that were her eyes. “Why? Is it important?” As natural overwhelming curiosity returned, any fear evaporated.
The cool sapphire blue stare of a Siamese cat came in reply. “It’s a very important matter indeed. But it seems that you’re not who I’m looking for.”
“Oh, you can tell me!” Diane exclaimed with enthusiasm, leaning conspiratorially close. “The intimacy of strangers, as they say–”
Lady Felicity turned suddenly, leaving Diane alone.
What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment? Diane wondered.
The chapel was a perfect rectangle of cool, timeless white stone with a solid oak door. As the trio stepped inside, the sound of their eager footsteps resounded up from the flagstones, bouncing back from the smooth, pale walls. There was a carved oak pulpit with an eagle’s outstretched wings to hold the Bible during a service. A huge arrangement of yellow chrysanthemums, pink carnations and green foliage stood next to a covered altar under a beautiful stained-glass window. Low autumn sun streamed in to reveal cobalt blue, amethyst, emerald and ruby-red shards of light reflected on the stone floor.
“It’s beautiful in here,” Lily said, slowly rotating to get the full vista of the small place of worship. The air was perfectly serene. “Imagine getting married here – how totally romantic it would be!” Her face assumed a wistful look that was not lost on Peter.
Adopting an expression of utter contempt, Cecelia examined her perfectly manicured nails with great interest. “What are we doing here, exactly?”
“We’re looking, as I’ve already explained,” said Lily with irritation at having her daydream interrupted, “for the births, marriages and deaths records.” She glared directly at Cecelia, whose attitude she found tiresome.
“And where might they be?” Peter mediated, peering around the echoing space. The sharp scent of chrysanthemums, mellow wood polish and worn hymn books stung his nostrils.
“I might just head back to the house and leave you two to it,” Cecelia announced. She pulled her cream cashmere coat with the toffee-coloured silk lining tightly across her chest then turned on one spiked heel, stalking out before there was time for anyone to object.
Peter shrugged. “Just you and me then,” he said, grinning sheepishly. This is a very good result. The chapel offers some privacy, away from the prying, judgemental eyes and minds of the others.
Lily sniffed, “I prefer it that way – I don’t really like her. We’re completely different – I love books and I’m an incurable romantic. She loves, well, only herself.”
She approached a promising-looking door set on the far side of the chapel beyond the oak pews. “Maybe in here,” she indicated, turning the heavy iron ring that formed the handle. She expected to meet with resistance but found it was unlocked.
Throwing a grin over her shoulder Lily entered the small vestibule, finding it contained three folded chairs. Two high shelves held thick beeswax candles and several leather-bound books.
“Should we be in here?” Peter faltered. “What if someone catches us?”
Lily reached up for the first book, nudging it down into her welcoming hands. “We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Maybe we should pray for a sign – to help us solve the clue?” Peter grinned childishly, but Lily had her back to him.
Without turning, she said, “Not funny,” in an unamused voice.
“I was thinking . . . When we spoke about my family – I could take you to meet my mother, she lives near here. We could–”
“This is the wrong one . . .” Lily went up on tiptoe again and pushed the bo
ok back on the shelf, pulling down the next in the row. She turned the yellowing pages rapidly. “That’s better. Early 1900s.” She ran her index finger down the entries.
“So, what do you think?” Peter’s blue eyes held the question, but Lily failed to notice.
“The clue said something about a book that contains the rite.” She knew exactly what the clue had meant, having committed it to memory, but she didn’t want to put him off. Some people find continual quotation and analysis of facts infuriating rather than endearing . . .
Peter said nothing. Is Lily ignoring my offer? Did she even hear me?
“I remember a few months back,” Lily continued, raising her chin in recollection, “a man came into the library because he was doing some research into Fig Tree Hall, but I never did ask why.”
Peter managed a noise to show he was listening.
“Apparently, Professor Ambrose, who had the Hall completely re-designed, mysteriously disappeared in . . . 1932.” She dropped her gaze. “Rumour has it he vanished within the Hall itself, although nobody knows how he managed it and obviously, the body’s never been found. There were two children, as I was told, so I’m looking for a record of their names.”
“That’s amazing!” Peter’s eyes shone in sheer admiration.
Lily turned with curiosity. “I have a good memory for facts. The whole disappearance thing just increases the mystery surrounding the Hall – the fact that people rarely came here in those days because the Ambrose’s kept their lives very private.”
“So, what does it say?”
Lily scanned the pages once more. “Ah! This entry shows a Dorcas Elizabeth Ambrose, born in 1923 to parents, Thaddeus and Evelyn Ambrose.” She traced her finger down the page. “Oh, I missed this other entry. A boy . . . Nathaniel Thaddeus Ambrose, born in 1924. Oh, how awful! He died aged six of scarlet fever and his mother then passed away that same year of a heart condition.” She stared at the page in disbelief.
“But the girl’s still alive? Is that what it means?”
“Woman now,” Lily corrected, “she’d be thirty-four . . . Wonder where she is now? All that misery – the passing of the mother, her brother’s death and then the disappearance of her father. . .”
“I wonder what Cecelia’s up to?” Peter voiced the thought that had just entered his head.
“What are you thinking about her for? She’s not even here!” Lily exclaimed with annoyance.
“Just seemed a bit strange, the way she sloped off like that. Why even bother coming, this weekend? She doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much.”
Lily nodded, calmer now as she returned the book to the shelf. “She’s a strange one, but who cares about her?”
“I suppose she did find those initials on the tree – O.A. – not that it really helps us much.”
“No!” Lily cried. “Not ‘O’, it was ‘D’ . . . D.A – Dorcas Ambrose, probably carved years ago when she was a child.”
Peter shrugged. “As I said, not much help though. So, what about meeting Mum – do you fancy it?”
“What?” Lily stared at him with total shock.
“Oh, what are you doing here?” The note of hostility and resentment in Diane’s voice was clear. Her face assumed a purposeful sneer as she rose from her chair, placing the newspaper she’d been too distracted to read clumsily on the floor. Diane crossed the room to confront the other woman. An exaggerated limp, designed to gain sympathy, did not go unnoticed.
“What do you want?” Cecelia demanded, sweeping past Diane who, she considered, had all the grace of a baby hippo.
“Why are you still here, exactly?” Diane demanded.
“What’s it to you?” Unafraid of confrontation, Cecelia was in the mood to take Diane on, but judged the whole prospect
too tiresome.
“You’ve been swanning around as though you own the place since Frank’s death, instead of going back to London. I don’t like that,” Diane challenged, staring up at Cecelia who, in heels, was a good six inches taller than her.
Cecelia exhaled quickly, unable to believe the temerity of someone who happily trod on other people’s corns as a hobby. With an ice-cool gaze, Cecelia hissed in a low voice, “I beg your pardon?”
Belligerently standing her ground, Diane replied, “Lady Felicity is on to you. She told me there’s something suspicious going on. I know it’s not that policeman or the mousy librarian, so it must be you!”
I would never tire of slapping your stupid round face with its ridiculous, cosmetically emphasised features, Cecelia thought, staring at Diane. Her green eyes narrowed as she shook her head in disbelief. “You haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, you stupid woman.”
“On the contrary,” countered Diane with bravado, “Lady Felicity knows there’s someone here this weekend with questionable intentions. Now, I’m a very tolerant woman, but I won’t see Lady Felicity upset when she’s been such a welcoming hostess.” Except when she pushed me by the well . . .
Diane hoped her face didn’t betray her thoughts. Convinced something strange was going on, she was determined to find out what, as it helped divert her thoughts from Frank. Grudgingly and because she didn’t like to admit that anyone would do such a thing to her, she accepted the shove as purely accidental.
“I am perfectly fine with my intentions, thank you,” Cecelia looked Diane up and down with disgust, “but I advise you to look very deeply into your own. Maybe deep, deep down in a cold and slimy, echoing place. You’re nothing but a deluded fantasist and a trouble-maker – Lady Felicity has told you nothing.”
Shocked at the reference to her earlier fall, Diane stammered, “I-it was probably you who did the deed! Jumped up little Madam!” Hands on ample hips and glaring defiantly, Diane waited for an explanation.
“What I can’t believe,” Cecelia retorted unrelentingly, “is that your poor husband died less than . . .” she studied the gold watch on her slim left wrist for emphasis, “twenty-four hours ago and you’re still here, throwing your accusations around, acting as though Frank’s death was a mere inconvenience.”
Diane’s mouth gaped open as the words hit like a full body blow. “You horrid bitch!” She shook her head from side to side in disbelief, making her chins wobble with the momentum. “It’s a well-known fact that people express grief in very different ways. I happen to react this way.”
Having heard enough, Cecelia strode away, her stilettos clicking across the solid wood floor like rapidly surfacing cicadas.
HYPNOSIS & RABBIT CASSEROLE
On the stairs, Cecelia encountered Lady Felicity, who seemed displeased to see her. This house and its mixed bag of visitors definitely has an unwelcoming vibe, Cecelia decided.
Felicity forced a smile that failed to reach her eyes as she peered down from a higher step. “Have you solved the clue already? Where are the others?” she interrogated, irritated at the prospect of people hanging about in the drawing room when they should surely still be busy outside.
Giving a non-committal smile, Cecelia tried to make her way politely past.
“You must be exhausted,” Lady Felicity empathised, hoping to detain the smart young creature in conversation for several more minutes.
Cecelia shook her blonde head, wondering what was behind the sudden change in manner. “I decided it’s far too chilly to be poking about outside. The others had more stamina. Thought I might read for a while and then freshen up before dinner.”
A slight nod suggested that Lady Felicity didn’t really care. “Ah, but I expect you’re young enough not to become easily tired like myself. How old are you exactly – twenty-eight, thirty?”
This is definitely strange . . . “Why do you want to know? Is it part of the clue?”
“No, not at all, I’m just curious,” Felicity waved a dismissive hand to enhance the effect. “You have some lovely clothes and you wear them well. It’s merely the passing whim of an old woman to reminisce on past halcyon days, full of beauty and style.”
She hoped the compliment would put Cecelia at her ease. Lady Felicity assumed a faraway look, embellishing further. “The 1920s and 30s to be exact. . . now that was style! The clothes, the architecture, the furniture. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to go back to my heyday in the theatre!”
Making allowances for certain idiosyncrasies, Cecelia tried to escape from the awkward situation she found herself in. “Anyway, if you don’t mind, I–”
Lady Felicity assumed the look of a startled parrot. “But, you haven’t answered my question!”
“Well, if it’s that important to you, I’m in my mid-thirties. Now, I really would like to get to my room, if you don’t mind.” I desperately want to read some more of that fascinating old diary, safely locked in my vanity case . . .
The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall Page 11