The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall

by Prudence Ambergast

  “There was something about ‘in the lack of a male heir’, but that fat woman kept interrupting.”

  Cook, who had not laid eyes on either the green-eyed Mata Hari or the hippoesque woman who’d criticised her rabbit casserole, worried for the future of the Hall. Things had to be done properly and, having been resident at the Hall for more years than anyone else, she had her loyalties. Nella needed to talk to her son, but this option wasn’t possible at the moment, given his position.

  “Her Ladyship just had a show down with her – the posh one – but she’s refusing to leave. Says she’s staying till the end!” Seb’s eyes shone as he considered this level of defiance, wondering where it would get him if he tried it.

  “Her Ladyship’s right to say so and she has the gumption to stomach it all for a bit longer,” Nella decreed.

  “Stomach what?” Kitty enquired, wide-eyed as she entered the kitchen, rubbing her hands together against the autumn chill. Nella fixed her with a look that could set jelly. Kitty promptly left to strip the beds, hanging her head and not uttering another word. Nosiness is next to mishap, as my mother would say.

  Kitty climbed the back stairs listlessly, musing on how she was always being left out of things. Perhaps people don’t trust me . . . After finding that diary under Miss Morris’s pillow she’d confided in Cook straight away, but where had it got her?

  Reaching the top landing, Kitty unlocked the second door on her left, choosing to begin with the stylish woman’s room first; it was wonderfully fragrant and Kitty promised herself one last sniff of the very expensive perfume on the dressing table as a special treat.

  The room felt peaceful, the bed already partially stripped. Kitty eagerly sat at the dressing table and dreamily ran her fingers over the cool emerald leather of the vanity case. She tried to open the lid but found, to her disappointment, that it held firm. Her keen fingers touched the cool metal lock, willing it to open, knowing it was unlikely. Kitty considered that if someone wanted to steal the contents, they could just pick up the whole case and take it as it was neither large nor heavy. So, what’s the point of a lock?

  After a satisfying sniff of the heady scent, Kitty went about her duties, pulling the white sheets off the bed so they sent up another waft of Cecelia’s perfume, throwing the tapestry counterpane onto the chair while she worked.

  A soft metallic clang made her stand completely still as she tried to determine where it had come from. Looking around at the tangle of sheets, Kitty spied a tiny key shining on the wooden floor just in front of the fireplace, having been catapulted there by a vigorous tug on the bed cover.

  Kitty bent to scoop up the pretty little gold key, realising in a flash that it most probably, with very little doubt, fitted the tiny but effective lock on the vanity case. With rising excitement that felt like a field of butterflies tickling her insides, Kitty tried the key, finding it a perfect fit as the lock turned easily. She lifted the smooth leather lid cautiously, as though a rare and precious creature might inadvertently escape from within if she was too clumsy.

  The sky-blue envelope sat snugly atop Miss Morris’s expensive cosmetic jars, protecting them from all comers by rapidly diverting the seeker’s attention. Unsure of what to make of the find, the elaborate copperplate writing on the envelope told Kitty all she needed to know:

  Last Will and Testament of Thaddeus Ambrose

  One of Kitty’s small white hands shot to her throat as shock cloaked her. Very slowly and with the delicacy applied to handling fine bone china, she took up the envelope and turned it over. With a gasp, she saw that the seal had been slit open so the edges of ragged red wax no longer served a purpose. Kitty stared down at the envelope in her hands – should I go ahead and read the contents or put it back in the vanity case, pretending I know nothing?

  Curiosity and fear jostled inside her. Kitty slid the document – whose secrecy had clearly already been violated by Miss Morris – from its standard blue cover, provided by a solicitor for safekeeping in recognition of an important legal document. The will was written on a single page, brief and to the point:

  I, THADDEUS CORNELIUS AMBROSE, hereby revoke all former Wills and Testamentary disposition made by me. I leave my home, Fig Tree Hall in the county of Kent and all my worldly possessions, itemised and lodged with my solicitor, Darius, Cummings and Bennett, to my only Son and Heir.

  Kitty’s sharp mind instantly recalled her conversation with Cook regarding the untimely death of Nathaniel Thaddeus Ambrose in 1930 due to scarlet fever. The will she held in her hand was dated 20th March, 1934 and Professor Ambrose had disappeared later that year. Kitty’s mouth opened in a silent gasp as realisation dawned – this will doesn’t mean the poor little boy who died . . .

  In a daze, Kitty pushed the document back inside the envelope and slid it into her apron pocket before speeding around the remaining rooms. She stripped the beds at lightning speed, bundling the laundry up in a pile that almost toppled her as she carried it down the back stairs.

  A TANGLED WEB

  By late afternoon there was very little left to say. Seated in the drawing room, Lady Felicity repeatedly threw filthy looks in Cecelia’s direction, but there was also an air of relief in the older woman’s demeanour. Although spoken of, thankfully the weekend has not ended in murder, she thought. I doubt my heart could take it . . .

  “So, what do we do now?” Lily ventured bravely, earning her a sharp look of irritation from the mistress of the house.

  “Why are you always asking that question? Is it not polite to let events unfold at their natural pace without you having to have a full itinerary each time? It somewhat spoils the element of surprise.” There was no denying that Lady Felicity Manners-Gore felt exasperated, in no mood to be accommodating now the drama had peaked.

  “I just meant–”

  “What she means,” Diane supplied helpfully, “is what do we do now? I thought the police were coming to question us about finding the Professor’s body – they’re certainly taking their time.” She shot an accusing look at Peter, laying the blame squarely at his door for what she considered to be the shortcomings of the entire police force.

  “I must admit, I find it rather strange, what you said earlier.” Peter observed, directing his comment toward the Major as he waited for a response.

  “With regard to?” the Major said, his moustache bristling alarmingly as if it had a life of its own.

  “With regard,” Peter replied, taking a deep breath as he paused to consider the tedium of extracting accurate information, “to what you say the police told you. The mystery over Professor Ambrose’s disappearance has been unsolved for over twenty years. The police would be very keen to resolve a high-profile case like this. Perhaps I should get onto the county police, check they have all the details?”

  The Major’s face turned an alarming puce and he spluttered, blurting, “There really is no need to interfere! I’ll chase it up myself.” He rose unsteadily, briskly leaving the room before Peter could put him on the spot again. After the Major’s departure, Peter looked directly at Lady Felicity, explaining, “I just meant it’s odd they didn’t offer to get straight over here . . .”

  Having regained some composure, Lady Felicity smiled genially. There’s no need to be overly anxious about the police turning up as that treacherous green-eyed creature is alive and well. Reggie would never have gone through with actually killing her, even if he did briefly joke about that option. . .

  “What you must understand is that Reggie – the Major – likes to be in full control of things at all times. It comes from years of treading the unforgiving boards and having to be precise in the theatre – with lines, timing . . . every aspect of his performance and career for over forty-five years. He finds it very difficult to let go of that level of precision – it’s in his blood.”

  Peter nodded. “I understand. It can get extremely busy at the station, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Peter chose to let it go, giving Lily a knowing look.


  Lady Felicity’s face relaxed, realising she had narrowly escaped further questioning. “Tea! Let’s have some tea,” she chirped suddenly, rising like a hunted gazelle to pull the cord by the fireplace, eliciting a distant jingle.

  Cecelia tried hard to prevent a smile. Inside, she felt utter contempt for the twittering woman. What the Lady of the house didn’t know was that she, Cecelia, had the last will and testament ever drawn up by Thaddeus Ambrose. And without that, she thought with satisfaction, there’s no legal document to show who the new owner of the Hall should be, perpetuating the uncertainty. This mysterious son and heir, whoever he is, will never know his father left him this magnificent property. And that meant Cecelia could still cause some major trouble on that front.

  Kitty stumbled into the laundry room, almost losing her balance as she trod on the corner of a crumpled sheet that was rapidly escaping her grasp. She deposited the unmanageable pile with the other items needing to be cleaned in the morning then stood completely still, wondering what to do next. Her hand reached into her apron pocket to touch the firm rectangular envelope, the contents of which could change everything. The maid had an inkling that Cook would be very interested in what she’d found and Kitty knew the reason why.

  “You’ve been quicker than usual,” Nella remarked with surprise as Kitty entered the kitchen. She looked furtive, Nella thought, and she’s made sure we’re alone. Cook spoke to break the tension Kitty had brought into the room with her. “Seb’s taken tea through to them – I expect he’ll be having another long listen into their conversation while he’s at it. That man will never learn – eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.”

  She dropped a pile of peeled potatoes into a pan of water with a splash, a toppling tower of skins remaining on a wooden chopping block beside her.

  The opportunity was too good to miss and Kitty did not intend to waste it. “While it’s just us two,” she said quietly, “there’s something I think you should know.” Kitty’s fingers danced over the quality paper forming the envelope in her pocket as Nella gazed firmly out of the window, where rain once again threatened.

  “Don’t dilly-dally then, or Seb will be back, getting under our feet. I might need to add more onions to bulk this up a bit.” She poked a wooden spoon into the stuffing mixture that sat in a bowl in front of her.

  Clearing her throat, Kitty spoke in a clear, measured voice. “I found the Professor’s will upstairs. It was already open, I swear and it says the Hall and everything in it is to go to his son and heir . . .”

  Nella promptly dropped the wooden spoon with a squeal and rounded on Kitty, her face waxen. “What did you just say?” She pulled a chair out from under the table and flopped down into it.

  “I said,” Kitty repeated falteringly, “that the Professor’s last will, dated well after little Nathaniel Ambrose died, leaves the Hall to his son and heir. Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”

  Cook’s reaction to the news was completely unexpected. Nella’s face crumpled as she began to weep copiously, wiping balled fists across her damp cheeks ineffectually as hot tears streamed down over them. Kitty was at a loss – this was not what she’d expected. A good telling off was the usual way of things. She crossed the kitchen, handing Cook a clean hanky to wipe away the deluge that kept on coming. The sobs were loud and so wracked with emotion, Kitty feared Seb would rush in on them to discover what he was missing.

  Trying to quell the explosion of emotion before her, Kitty placed a very small, pale hand on one of Cook’s formidable shoulders, patting it gently. Nella’s arm immediately flew up to knock it firmly away and her body turned in the chair, leaving Kitty in no doubt that her comforting was not required. Nella then slumped forward with her head in her hands, energy spent.

  “Leave me!” Nella thumped a balled fist down on the scrubbed wooden table in frustration, causing a vegetable knife to bounce dangerously into the air.

  Kitty cautiously handed the blue envelope over to the distressed woman, doing as she was told without another word. Going by the back stairs, Kitty sought solace in the idea that a thorough cleaning of the bedrooms and bathroom was called for.

  The Major re-entered the drawing room, having rehearsed his speech several times. He waited until he had the full attention of everyone present before making his announcement. “It appears the details of my former contact went astray, therefore the county police were unaware they needed to call. The desk sergeant assures me he’ll pass the matter to his superior officer without delay – a detective will be with us at some stage this afternoon or early this evening.”

  Peter nodded with satisfaction at the news and the Major looked relieved.

  Lily was about to say something when she abruptly snapped her mouth shut, giving an apologetic smile to no one in particular.

  “You were about to enquire,” observed Simeon Bailey, who missed nothing, “what we should do to pass the time. As you know, the mystery weekend is now over – you’ve all managed to solve the clues very quickly. Dare I ask if you enjoyed the process?” His unreadable countenance showed no animation, disinterested in receiving an answer.

  “You make it sound like a laboratory experiment,” Lily’s blue eyes shone with defiance and Diane Pargitter nodded as she thought of poor Frank, realising there was nothing to lose by speaking out.

  Simeon Bailey met her gaze but gave nothing away, fixing the large woman with a far-superior stare as he directed his answer at Lily. “It’s the nature of any group that can be observed – the way you each interact, deal with adversity, cope with whatever unexpected issue arises.”

  “So, we were an experiment and you’ve been taking notes?” Diane challenged. “What about the death of my Frank – was that all part of the game?”

  Lily watched the psychiatrist closely as he responded. The thought had also crossed her mind that Frank Pargitter died in a rather contrived way, although the coroner would probably conclude an accidental death following the consumption of fig wood tea in association with pre-existing heart problems.

  A seasoned professional, Dr Bailey took Diane’s accusation coolly in his stride. “You appear to be dealing with your husband’s unexpected death very well, Mrs Pargitter.”

  Unprepared to let this go, Diane fixed the horrid, sinuous man with stony eyes. That’s an insult! A personal attack aimed directly to hurt – an implication that I don’t care!

  “Meaning that I haven’t grieved much for him? Acted as though I loved him? Is that what you mean – is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything, Mrs Pargitter, other than that people deal with grief in very different ways and you appear to be coping extremely well under the circumstances. Don’t attempt to read any more into it than that.”

  Diane sat, arms folded, face crumpled in disgust. Aiming her comment deftly, she turned her glare on the Major. “You know, the person who calls in the police is usually the chief suspect . . .”

  Lily gave Peter a wide stare and he returned it, both fully expected Diane to accuse the Major of Frank’s murder.

  “Mrs Pargitter,” the Major’s voice rose in exasperation, “you’re well aware the police were contacted due to the discovery of Professor Ambrose’s body. He died many years ago and admitted to taking his own life. Paraphrasing a line from An Inspector Calls does not help the situation.”

  “I’m merely saying that if you follow your nose–”

  “In that particular play,” the Major interrupted, “the Inspector never actually existed – he was merely a product of the imagination. That’s something you should be very familiar with.” He glared viciously at Diane, who glared back, while Felicity felt panic rise again.

  “So, is this the finale of the entertainment?” Cecelia enquired innocently, not making eye contact with Lady Felicity as the other woman loyally nodded in wholehearted agreement with her husband.

  “In what way do you feel this is entertainment?” Simeon Bailey asked with interest, still feeling a strong
connection with the mysterious woman possessing those vivid green eyes – the person, he mused, who in different circumstances could have shaped up well as a suitable life partner.

  Feeling under intense scrutiny, Cecelia responded in kind. “Well, character analysis by a top London psychiatrist . . . People pay a lot of money for that sort of thing and here we are, getting it for free – assuming it wasn’t included in the entry fee – just because we turned up this weekend.”

  Dr Bailey took this as a compliment, giving the merest hint of a smile across thin lips. “It helps pass the time,” he said, demurely.

  The crunch of damp gravel outside the Hall heralded the arrival of a Detective Sergeant and his companion Constable from the county police. Lady Felicity rose rapidly from her seat and headed to the door, her face full of concern. But before she could exit the drawing room, Treadmill answered the brass bell, making himself busy ushering the visitors into the hallway.