Dandy Gilver and a Spot of Toil and Trouble

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘But it’s Minnie who’s …’ I said, then shook the words away. That did not matter. ‘Was it in the Scotsman?’ I said knowing my voice had dried out a little. She heard it and hastened to pour me a cup of coffee.

  ‘Only the Mail,’ she said. ‘It’s my little treat, I’m ashamed to say.’

  I sat back and took a draught of the coffee in my relief. Hugh would not have the rag in his part of the house and none of the servants would be so disloyal as to enlighten him. I ran over them all quickly, paused a moment at Pallister, but then told myself that even Pallister had a heart.

  ‘Mother,’ said Billy, sitting down and slinging one long leg over the other, making Winifred frown at the billowing swathes of his trousers, I am sure. ‘Mrs Gilver has something to ask you.’

  He spoke with an innocent air but, having two sons of my own, I was not to be taken in by it. For some reason, Billy Annandale was toying with me. I thought about it for a moment while drinking my coffee and eating my biscuit. Both were excellent, the coffee piping hot and very strong without being the least bit muddy and the biscuit fresh and short, probably made that morning and only just cooled in time to be crisp for her Ladyship’s morning refreshment. Mespring House struck me as the sort of ordered place where everything is just so.

  ‘It’s about the ruby necklace,’ I said at last. Winifred Annandale dropped a hand on to her dog’s head and stroked its ears. I wondered if the gesture was meant to soothe her and, if so, why she needed soothing. ‘The Bewers seem to have rechristened it the Briar Rose and I’ve heard it called the Cut Throat as well as the Judas Jewel.’

  ‘Briar Rose and Cut Throat?’ she said. ‘I imagine those were dreamed up in the Bewers’ sitting room about a week ago to make it sound romantic to the romantic and exciting to the ghoulish. And one can see the sense in Cut Throat – it does look rather ghastly against a white neck. Briar Rose is a little fanciful, for aren’t they usually white? Or the palest pink? But I can certainly account for Judas Jewel. That name was given to it by my late husband’s Aunt Anne to mark what she saw as a betrayal by the House of Bewer.’ Winifred was staring distractedly at the dog’s ears as she fondled them and her pretty face had come as close to a scowl as I supposed it ever did. It did not look like discomfort; it looked like displeasure. ‘I wonder what they would say if we went along there and joined in,’ she said. ‘Found the thing and brought it back where it belongs.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where it is?’ I said. Surely they would squirm now if the necklace was already here in their own safe. ‘Do you know the castle well?’ I added innocently.

  Lady Annandale blinked and came out of her reverie, with a tinkling little laugh. ‘Heavens, no!’ she said. ‘I tried several times to mend fences and put things right between the two houses, but years go by, don’t they? My last attempt was just before Bluey and Minnie’s wedding and … Well, let’s say it wasn’t entirely successful and leave it at that. As to my knowing the castle, I’ve never been there actually. I was musing, that’s all. It rankles a bit that someone might carry it off. If it weren’t so unseemly I might even check with a solicitor to see if the Bewers have the right to give it away. It might still be ours.’

  ‘Not if Anne gave it in a gift,’ I said.

  ‘Anne?’ said Lady Annandale. ‘How could she? It was to be part of her dowry when she married, but she didn’t marry.’

  ‘So I heard,’ I said. ‘Dorothy and Anne – devoted friends right to the end. Despite everything.’

  ‘Despite what?’ said Lady Annandale.

  ‘Well, the curse for one thing,’ I said.

  Lady Annandale put her cup down and stared at me. ‘Curse?’ she said. ‘What on earth do you mean? I’ve never heard tell of any curse.’

  ‘You’ve really never heard about the curse of the ruby necklace?’ I said.

  ‘Have another cup of coffee and tell me now,’ said Lady Annandale. Again her breeding, the long years of being a delicate and decorative ornament to the family she had married into and the house over which she presided, stopped her from sounding the least bit grim. Her voice was light and her face wore its perpetual slight smile, but I would not have thwarted her with an army to help me.

  ‘The story I heard,’ I said, ‘was that Beulah died in a hunting accident on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Billy said, and when his mother flicked a look at him he added, ‘Father told me to make me stop jumping the paddock gate.’

  ‘But the reason she died, was that she took the necklace away to the house party with her instead of keeping it within the castle walls,’ I went on, speaking quite fast and trying to ignore their blank faces. ‘That was a problem because when it was given, she was told it was to adorn her neck throughout her life in the castle – I forget the exact wording – but it wasn’t to be taken away. And so when she took it away, she died.’

  Billy and his mother were staring at me open-mouthed. Winifred gathered herself first.

  ‘Beulah,’ she said, ‘Bluey’s grandmother, wore the ruby necklace?’ It seemed an odd point to get stuck on.

  ‘And the story goes on even further,’ I said, in for a penny in for a pound, ‘that when she was lifted out of the ditch she had thirteen droplets of blood on her neck where the vine – a briar rose as a matter of fact – had garrotted her.’

  ‘And why was it cursed?’ Winifred asked, rather faintly.

  ‘Because Harold Bewer was supposed to marry Anne Annandale. But he jilted her. And so she gave his bride a poisoned chalice of a wedding gift.’

  Winifred Annandale put her cup back into its saucer. It did not rattle. I daresay she had never rattled a cup and saucer since she was first taught to use them in her nursery many years ago, but the putting down hinted that she did not feel able to hold it safely. I ploughed on.

  ‘That is why the necklace was never worn again. Richard’s father believed it had killed his wife.’

  ‘And how exactly did you come to hear this wild tale?’ Winifred said.

  ‘Dorothy told Richard, Richard told Otto and Otto told me,’ I said, wondering again what was puzzling her. How else could the story have come to my ears after all?

  ‘Richard’s father having told Dorothy initially?’ she added.

  ‘Presumably,’ I agreed.

  ‘It’s a good account,’ Winifred said. ‘It explains a lot. Does Otto believe it?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Otto never believed a word of the curse. She had her portrait painted wearing the necklace and she would quite happily have put the thing in her jewel case and taken it wherever she went. But she wasn’t troubled by living under its yoke either. It wasn’t until Minnie came on the scene that it started to annoy her. She wished Richard would stop being silly and just let Minnie have the pretty necklace. That’s when he left.’

  ‘At last,’ said Winifred. ‘A matter of plain fact. Richard left. But can you believe it took us almost two years to find out? I was here by then and all I knew was that one of our neighbours was in very poor health. My mother-in-law told me that much and no more.’

  ‘Your footman didn’t tell you?’ I said. Both of them stared. One could see the family resemblance when their expressions chimed in that way, although ordinarily Billy’s twinkling and Lady Annandale’s serenity got in the way. ‘I mean, didn’t your footman regale the servants’ hall and didn’t your own maid then tell you?’ Still they stared. ‘Your footman,’ I repeated. ‘He used to be a valet for the Bewers and then he came here when Otto changed the staff in honour of Minnie’s arrival. But perhaps he left quickly and never got chummy with the rest of the servants. Funny, though, I rather got the impression from Nanny that he had stayed and risen. How odd.’

  ‘Our butler came here thirty years ago,’ Lady Annandale said. ‘Do you mean him? Gunn? I have no idea where he came from. Except that I guessed he had been with the family since before the flood and done someone a great service sometime. But while my father- and mother-in-law were alive I took no part i
n running the house. Is it Gunn you mean, Dandy?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ I said, ‘but if I could speak to him perhaps?’

  Lady Annandale was visibly shocked. ‘Have him up here telling tales?’

  ‘Not here,’ I hastened to make clear. ‘And not with you in attendance. I am quite used to going below stairs and talking to servants on their level.’

  This did nothing to lessen her shock, but she did not speak.

  It was Billy who stepped in. ‘You want to interview our butler to see what he knows about a scandal in our family and why he didn’t tell us anything about it?’

  ‘No!’ I shot back, before I had had a chance to think about it, for it sounded monstrous. ‘I want to interview your butler – if he’s the man I mean – to see what he remembers about a different household from decades ago and the particulars of Richard Bewer’s flight. Nothing to do with your family at all, I assure you. Nothing more than that you have an interest in the jewel Richard either hid in the house or took away with him when he left.’

  ‘Well, of course he took it with him when he left!’ said Billy. ‘This treasure hunt is a piece of trickery. Obviously the thing is long gone.’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘And so does Bluey. And so does Otto too, deep down. But …’ I realised I could not say any more without compromising my client’s privacy rather badly. I could not talk about the fact that Richard had never been declared dead or that he was just about to be, once and for all. I could not mention the death duties hanging over the Bewers’ heads, even though such considerations were surely behind the Annandales’ decision to open up their house and let the great unwashed troop through it.

  ‘I just can’t believe you didn’t know the story,’ I said. ‘If Dorothy came here every day until her death and actually lived here latterly. Or was it Anne who died first? How could such a story be kept from your ears? From everyone’s?’

  ‘The story that Harold jilted Anne, who gave a cursed gift to his chosen bride, who promptly died?’ said Winifred. ‘That’s the sort of thing any family would keep quiet.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that bit. The story that Richard believed the curse and Otto didn’t and the ruby vanished when he left her. Thank you for letting me go and grill the butler about that end of it. He was right there on the spot when the events took place. He must know something.’

  Thus I managed to sweep past the fact that they had not actually agreed at all. I stood, left them sitting there in stunned silence and went on my way.

  15

  Below stairs at Mespring was a little more bustling than above them, but there was still nothing like the frantic careening around that was the order of the day at Castle Bewer. Black-clad maids and under-footmen in shirtsleeves were abroad in the warren of passages and gave me no attention as I prowled around looking for the headquarters. I wondered a little at that. Had they been warned not to pay attention to strangers in the house now that there were to be so many? But surely the visitors would not be down here in the servants’ passages. Or perhaps they took me to be someone who had legitimate and unremarkable business here. Perhaps I looked like a seamstress or a friend of the housekeeper. It was not a gratifying thought and I determined to speak to Grant about my clothes when we were home again. I am so used to resisting her every suggestion that it was possible I had drifted imperceptibly away from simple tidiness in my zeal to avoid fashion.

  Before I could ponder it further, I turned a corner and knew that I was reaching my destination. Here were coat pegs where those footmen had left their livery and here were baskets and parcels awaiting attention. Somewhere near here, the housekeeper, cook and butler – that triumvirate of power in these parts – would be going about their business. At that moment a door just ahead of me swung open and a maid in blue cotton backed out with a wooden tray in her arms. Upon the tray were a single cup, a tiny coffee pot and two biscuits on a plate. It could have been for the housekeeper but the tray cloth was without any lace at its edge and the china was very plain.

  ‘Is that for Gunn?’ I asked the maid. She started, but well trained as she was, not a drop of coffee was spilled on the snowy cloth.

  ‘Aye,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take it in.’

  Her quick glance showed me which of the closed doors was his pantry.

  ‘Who—?’ she began. ‘I mean, is Mr Gunn expecting you, madam?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I told her crisply and took the tray from her hands. ‘Open the door for me though, would you?’

  She knocked and unlatched the door before beetling off back to the kitchen to regale her workmates about the happenings. I entered the little room and cleared my throat politely.

  Mr Gunn, the Mespring butler, was not at all what I had been expecting. Pallister, our butler at Gilverton, is a good example of the type, being portly in his bearing and possessing a face apparently carved from granite. Even Pugh along at Castle Bewer was snooty and unbending in his own peculiar way. Gunn, as he looked up from his wine ledger, could have been a park keeper, a bus driver or a schoolmaster. He did not have a butler’s bearing at all. He did not even glower at the intrusion.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said mildly.

  ‘I’ve intercepted your maid and brought your coffee, Mr Gunn,’ I told him. ‘I’ve come to interview you, with Lady Annandale’s permission, about the goings on along at the Bewers’. Rather neat timing if you were stopping for a little break, don’t you think?’

  Gunn had some butler’s instinct after all. At my words he turned as still as a deer in a clearing when it hears a stick break nearby, and he stayed that way until I began to feel every bit of the tray’s weight and glanced at his table top to see if there was room to set it down there.

  ‘Goings on?’ he said.

  ‘You must have heard about the play and the treasure hunt,’ I said. ‘I’m staying there at the moment to help.’

  ‘Are you an actress?’ he said, inevitably.

  ‘I’m a detective,’ I told him. ‘I’m interested in what happened all those years ago. What happened to Mr Bewer when he left. Where he went. When he died. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Does Mrs Bewer know you’re here?’ he said. ‘Mrs Richard Bewer?’

  I thought about it before answering. Did Ottoline know that I was interviewing the discarded servants? No. Did it matter whether I told this man the truth on that score? Not a bit. But which answer would help me more? That mattered a great deal and I was not sure.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, in the end, judging that less likely to shut him like a tapped oyster. ‘She sent me along here to talk to you. Practically,’ I added, with a burst of honesty.

  ‘Why?’ said the butler. ‘Is she ailing? She’s a grand age but I never heard she was starting to fade. Why now?’

  ‘It’s Mr Bewer’s grand age that’s the salient fact,’ I said. ‘Mr Richard Bewer. He turns a hundred at Halloween.’

  ‘Turns a hundred?’ came the echo. I wondered if the chap could really have blanched and if he had, why that might be.

  ‘Have your coffee,’ I said, sitting down.

  Gunn poured a cup and drank thirstily from it. He broke one of the biscuits too but only stared at it and put the two pieces down without eating a crumb.

  ‘Has he written again?’ he said at last and, whether or not I had imagined the blanching, I did not imagine the note of strain. ‘Is he really still alive?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I said. ‘It would be notable enough had he lived quietly at home. Spending his golden years and dotage traipsing around the Empire isn’t the surest way to reach a century. It would be more accurate to say that the hundredth anniversary of his birth is coming and with that milestone comes his legal death, no more shilly-shallying.’

  ‘And – if you don’t mind me asking – why does that need a detective?’

  It was a good question from a butler’s point of view, I daresay. As long as a man like Gunn had a little pot of cash somewhere
to cover the expense of his funeral he could afford to die whenever he chose. He would never feel the cold shadow of what hung over Bluey’s head.

  ‘Well, Mr Gunn,’ I said, ‘it’s about what Mr Bewer might have taken with him when he left the castle, you see. Or where he might have put something if he left it behind.’

  ‘The Cut Throat,’ said Gunn, and he sounded like a man who had just given up on a long-held dream. I had no idea why the mention of it should take him that way. ‘Why does that suddenly matter after all these years?’

  ‘The Cut Throat indeed,’ I said. ‘As to why it matters. Well, if he took it with him then it is not part of the estate and the Bewers will not have to pay tax on it after All Souls’ Day when the dust settles. And if he hid it in the castle and it is found, well, at least its sale will provide the funds to pay the tax bill.’

  ‘But it said in the paper they were giving it away to anyone who laid hands on it,’ said Gunn.

  ‘Proving, if you ask me, that they know it’s long gone.’

  The butler nodded slowly, considering the point. ‘And – pardon my impertinence – but how can I help you?’ he said after a silent moment. ‘It’s a long time since I had any doings with the Bewer family. Or any of the household at all.’

  ‘Thirty years,’ I said. ‘Quite. I understand that there was a wholesale change of personnel after Mr Bewer left.’

  ‘A clean sweep,’ Gunn agreed. ‘For the wedding. Blow the cobwebs away.’

  ‘The words Nanny used,’ I said. ‘A clean sweep. And the new servants – well, hardly new any more, but you know what I mean – did mention that the castle had rather got away from you all.’

  ‘Got away?’ said Gunn.

  ‘Wasn’t exactly bowling along like a hoop,’ I said. ‘Disarray’ was the word Mrs Porteous had used but it would be rude to repeat it. I changed the subject. ‘It was jolly accommodating of you all to take it in such good spirit, I must say.’

  ‘I landed on my feet,’ said Gunn. ‘I was valet to Mr Bewer along the road and I came here as a footman and rose and rose until you see me now.’