They passed through the Palladian entrance into the Great Hall where, on a table to one side, a selection of guide books and postcards were laid out. Mrs Carey held up a glossy brochure resplendent with colour photographs of the rooms they were about to see.
‘If you want a souvenir of your visit, may I suggest you buy one of these? Unfortunately, in view of the rising number of burglaries from Stately Homes, we’ve had to ban the use of cameras inside the house. We know thieves use photographs to plan raids, and as you might have heard, we had an attempted break-in the other day. I’m sure you’ll understand that we must keep to the rule, even with private parties.’
‘And it’s also good for business!’ Valentine Perry murmured in Helen’s ear as they obediently queued at the table.
After some comments on the Hall in which they stood and the family portraits that lined it, they proceeded to the Library, a dark room whose walls were entirely lined with books. It was dominated by a huge desk on which stood several signed photographs of the Royal Family in silver frames and a display of enamel snuff-boxes.
Then came the Gold Drawing Room and the Dining Room, with its famous Louis XV chairs and a long table resplendently laid with a Meissen dinner service and tall crystal glasses. This room, Mrs Carey informed them, could be hired for wedding receptions and private parties, a way, no doubt, of offsetting the ever-increasing costs of running a country estate.
And everywhere there were urns, vases and jardinières filled with flowers, grown in the greenhouses on the estate. In the middle of winter, these seemed to Helen even more luxurious than the gold plate.
The Music Room housed a collection of ancient instruments; the Breakfast Room, decorated in green and gold, a cabinet of early Broadshire porcelain, with its distinctive gold and silver scrolling. Helen, bemused by the splendour and despairing of remembering even half the facts and dates which Mrs Carey reeled off, was glad she’d bought the brochure to refresh her memory.
Then they were led up the wide, sweeping staircase to the first floor and the brocade and canopies of the State Bedroom, where royalty had over the centuries been entertained. The private apartments were cordoned off, but one of the large rooms had been made into a museum of family history, with more portraits and glass cases of medals, decorations and letters from various battle fronts. On display at the far end were the robes worn by the present Duke and Duchess at the Coronation.
The tour ended in the basement, where the huge kitchens, now superseded by more convenient facilities, preserved their open ranges, and meat hooks hung from the ceiling. The dairy next door housed a collection of butter churns, while the laundry, also lovingly restored, retained its pump and an ancient pair of coppers for boiling clothes.
It was with a feeling almost of displacement that they emerged from a side door into the twentieth century. Helen, still caught in the past, followed Melissa and Mrs Carey along the terrace to the glass-fronted Orangery, where small tables were laid for lunch.
‘Well, what did you think of it all?’ queried Miss Chalmers, seating herself beside Helen and sliding her unused camera under the chair.
‘A surfeit of splendour,’ Helen said.
‘Indeed. And I’m glad to sit down, I can tell you! I find it very tiring, walking slowly and stopping all the time to look at things.’
They were joined at their table by Mr and Mrs Highton, one of the middle-aged couples on the course, and Helen was relieved that Valentine Perry, who’d been making his way towards them, had been forestalled. She was anxious to dispel any idea he might have that, since they’d travelled out here together, they were companions for the day.
Lunch consisted of soup and rolls, quiche with salad and apple pie and cream, all of it either cooked or grown on the premises. During the meal, they discussed what they hoped to see of the grounds during the afternoon.
‘Melissa mentioned a murder,’ Mrs Highton said, her eyes wide. ‘Does anyone know anything about it?’
‘The body of a young woman was found in the lily pond,’ Miss Chalmers told her. ‘Actually, it turned out to be manslaughter, but there was a real murder in the village soon afterwards.’
‘Good gracious me!’ Mrs Highton’s eyes were popping. ‘And did they find out who’d committed them?’
‘Oh yes, justice was done all round,’ Miss Chalmers returned drily. ‘Incidentally, I shouldn’t mention them in Mrs Carey’s hearing; she was involved in both cases.’
They all glanced instinctively at the table where the guide sat talking to Melissa. ‘How awful for her!’ said Mrs Highton in hushed tones.
‘But interesting for everyone else,’ Helen commented, adding with a smile, ‘We’re lucky to have you with us, Miss Chalmers, to bring the history of the house right up to date.’
‘Well, I live in the county and take what I like to think is an intelligent interest in local affairs.’ The slightly pompous words were offset by a sudden smile. ‘In other words, I’m incurably nosy! I devour all the local papers and have a fairly retentive memory. My brother insists I should have been a detective!’
Their conversation was interrupted by Melissa rising to her feet and clapping her hands for attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, when you’ve finished your lunch you are free to walk round the grounds. The antique market and gift shop are, I’m afraid, closed at this time of year, but there’s still plenty to see, and those of you who bought the brochure will find the grounds mapped out at the back of it. But do please assemble at the coach promptly at four o’clock.’
There was a scraping of chairs and Miss Chalmers retrieved her camera. ‘At least I can use it to my heart’s content in the grounds,’ she said with a smile.
The Hightons had moved away. ‘May I walk round with you?’ Helen asked. ‘You can advise me of the best places to see, though I think I’ll give the lily pond a miss.’
‘I can’t say I blame you. Yes, I’ll be glad of your company. The statues in the Italian Garden are well worth a visit.’
The afternoon passed pleasantly. The grounds were vast, but there were rustic benches at strategic points, so it was possible to rest briefly and take in the panoramic views, though too cold to sit still for long. They visited the folly, lost themselves in the maze as was expected of them, marvelled at the topiary and, keeping an eye on the time, gradually wended their way back towards the main gates.
It was as they were walking through longer grass between the trees that Helen, tugging at her scarf to ward off the strengthening wind, inadvertently caught it in her necklace. Before she realised what was happening, the string snapped and a shower of beads went cascading to the ground.
‘Oh, no!’ Helplessly she caught at the broken strand, managing to retain the few remaining beads before, stuffing it in her handbag, she went down on her knees to gather up the rest.
Miss Chalmers went to her assistance, bending stiffly, but the beads had scattered over a surprisingly large area and Helen despaired of finding them all.
‘I’ve been meaning to have them restrung,’ she lamented. ‘I knew it was getting slack — I shouldn’t have worn them.’
‘Surely that’s all?’ Miss Chalmers said, straightening with difficulty and passing her a final handful.
‘I should think — no, there’s another.’ But when Helen retrieved the object which had caught her eye, it was not a bead but a small gold button.
‘What have you got there?’ Miss Chalmers came over and peered down at Helen’s palm. ‘That’s unusual. I’m sure its owner was annoyed to have lost it.’
Helen stood looking at the button, frowning slightly. It was embossed with an old-fashioned sailing ship and the letters CYC were inscribed round the edge.
‘I’ve a feeling I’ve seen one like it before, though I can’t think where.’
‘It’s certainly distinctive.’ Miss Chalmers paused. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but if you’ve collected all your beads, we should be making our way to the coach.’
‘Yes — yes, of course.�
�� Helen slid the button with the rest of the beads into the pocket of her handbag and zipped it shut. But the impression of the little sailing ship lodged tantalisingly at the back of her mind as she boarded the coach for the return journey.
*
The evening was also enjoyable. Rooms had been allocated at Melbray where they could wash and change before dinner, and when they returned to the lounge-hall, it was to find drinks being served and competition forms handed out.
‘Dotted round the hall and the lecture room,’ Melissa told them, ‘are a number of objects. I want you to walk round and identify them, then fill in on your forms what you consider to be the date and value of each object. There’s a list of choices for each answer, so all you have to do is tick a, b or c. Then put your name at the top, and hand the forms in before we go to dinner. The results of the competition will be announced over coffee.’
It was the sort of challenge Helen enjoyed and as she walked round, glass in hand, she felt quietly confident of her judgement and impatient to be back in the world of fine art and antiques.
‘You’re odds-on favourite to win!’ teased one of the younger women as she passed, and Helen noted wryly that Valentine Perry was in earshot. She waited for his caustic comment but none came, despite the fact she had managed to avoid his company on the return coach. Perhaps he’d tired of trying to annoy her.
Dinner was duly served, an interesting menu with wine provided, though Helen, remembering her drive home, limited herself to one glass. Too bad this wasn’t the normal residential course; then not only would she have been able to enjoy the wine, she’d have been spared the discomfort she now increasingly felt at the Seven Stars. And remembering it for the first time in hours, she experienced the customary twinge of unease. On top of which, she reminded herself, there were Perry’s comments about Gordon and the horoscopes still to analyse.
After the meal, as they relaxed over coffee in the lounge-hall, Melissa went through the competition with them, discussing the various objects which they’d had to assess. Helen realised that nearly all her answers had been correct, and she was gratified but not surprised to learn finally that she was the winner. Her prize consisted of a charming little print of Melbray Court in the seventeenth century and a bottle of champagne.
‘Now,’ Melissa said, when the applause had died away, ‘tomorrow, those of you who have friends or relatives in the area may wish to spend the day with them. The rest of us will meet here at ten o’clock and there’ll be a coach to take us into Steeple Bayliss. There’s a list of church services for those who’d like to attend; the cathedral is magnificent and has a world-famous choir. There are many places of historical interest, and we can arrange a guided walk in the afternoon if enough people are interested.
‘If you won’t be coming with us, please let me know now, so we don’t waste time waiting for you.’
Helen, Valentine Perry and Miss Chalmers were the only ones to opt out. ‘See you on Monday,’ Helen said to the group at large, and, collecting her things, she went out into the cold night to her waiting car.
10
Helen had arranged to call for Penelope at eleven, so for once she was in no hurry. Underlining the relaxed Sunday feeling, the four owners were having their own breakfast in the garden room when she finally appeared. Michael was, as usual, hidden behind his newspaper, but he lowered it to smile at her and ask how her day had gone.
‘Very well, thank you. Beckworth House was magnificent.’
‘Any sign of the botched break-in?’
‘None. It was referred to briefly, but only to explain why cameras couldn’t be used in the house.’
‘I should have thought those lavish brochures they produce would be more use to thieves than an amateur snapshot.’
Helen smiled her thanks at Stella, who was putting coffee and toast on her table.
‘How’s your house coming along?’ she asked Michael, as Stella moved away.
He picked up his coffee cup and came across to join her. ‘No point in shouting at each other,’ he commented. ‘Actually, I was most annoyed; hardly any work seemed to have been done since I was last there and at this rate, God knows when I’ll be able to move in.’
‘That’s too bad. Did you meet your daughter?’
He made a wry face. ‘No, but I didn’t really think she’d be free. How about yours?’
‘I’m spending today with her.’ She paused, then added on impulse, ‘Would you like to join us?’
He looked startled. ‘That’s very kind of you, but mightn’t she object?’
‘I’m sure she won’t. We’re only going to wander round Steeple Bayliss, but you’d be very welcome.’
‘Well, if you’re sure I won’t be intruding —’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then I’d be delighted, provided you let me act as chauffeur and pay for lunch.’
Helen smiled. ‘Done!’ she said.
*
If Penelope was surprised to see her mother’s escort, she gave no sign of it, merely smiling hello as Helen introduced them.
Yesterday’s sunshine had gone, but the day was fine and clear, with high white clouds scudding across the sky before a keen wind. Michael had brought a guide book, and they sat in the car outside the halls of residence studying it.
‘Main points of interest appear to be the cathedral, the medieval town hall, and the gorge, which was carved out during the last Ice Age.’ He looked up. ‘There are some old houses down there, let into the cliff face. Have you seen them?’
The women shook their heads. Helen had previously been to the town only to collect or return her daughter and hadn’t stopped to sightsee, while Penelope’s knowledge of it after one term was limited to pubs, cinemas and wine bars, with occasional visits to the new shopping mall.
‘We must decide where to go for lunch, too,’ Michael added. ‘I suppose you know the Barley Mow, Penelope? It’s always full of students.’
‘No, I’ve never been; we usually go to the Cap and Bells.’
‘In that case, let’s have lunch there.’ He turned to Helen. ‘It’s a converted grain barge moored on the river. They’ve preserved its nautical flavour, and there’s always something interesting to watch — passing boats, fishermen, swans.’
‘It sounds lovely,’ Helen said.
‘Well, if no one has any strong preferences, I suggest we follow the walk set out in the book. It begins just down the road, at the viaduct.’
The morning passed agreeably, strolling down narrow cobbled streets, peering up at old buildings, watching the ducks on an unexpected pond. They passed the cathedral, immense in its Gothic splendour, but since a service was in progress, postponed their visit until the afternoon.
Michael proved quietly knowledgeable on history and architecture, which added to Helen’s enjoyment, and, having explored the town on previous occasions, was able to lead them into unexpected corners — an ancient flight of stone steps, two houses meeting across the street — which they might otherwise have missed.
Their leisurely itinerary brought them finally to the steep road leading down to the river, far beneath the high, wide arches of the viaduct which formed the main entrance to the town. Here, as Michael had told them, was a fascinating collection of houses built into the cliff face, some old, some new, but all harmonising with their golden-yellow stonework.
At the river edge a series of small boats bobbed gently on the water, and on the opposite bank were the trees and steep grassy banks of the university grounds.
Ahead lay the grain barge which was their lunch-time objective, and as they approached it the path broadened into a wider, cobbled area with wooden benches and tables where, on warmer days, customers could sit to watch the passing river traffic. Today, the wind skimmed round them, and Helen was glad of the warmth which came to meet them as they went up the gangplank and down the wide, polished staircase into what had once been the hold.
As Michael had said, the conversion was imaginative. Opposite t
he entrance, a lifebelt painted with the name ‘Barley Mow’ hung in pride of place, with port and starboard lights on either side, and the walls were decorated with prints of barges and steamboats. Along one of them stretched a polished bar with stools in front of it — most of them occupied — and against another, tables were placed beside small round portholes.
Helen and Pen seated themselves at one while Michael procured a menu from the bar. To Helen’s relief, although there were several groups of students dotted about, there were also quite a few people of her own age, including a couple of family parties.
During their brief moment alone, Penelope whispered, ‘Have you told Dad about this dishy admirer of yours?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Helen said sharply. ‘He’s nothing of the kind.’
‘Come on, Mum, who are you fooling? He’s jolly attentive, and you know it.’
‘Only because he’s our escort for the day.’
There was no time for more; Michael returned with the menu and their drinks and Helen, aware of her daughter’s interested gaze, avoided his eye. But though throughout the meal conversation was continuous, a seed had been sown, and, under cover of her chat, Helen warily examined it.
It was only natural she and Michael should come together, she told herself, since over the weekend they were the sole guests at the Seven Stars. There was no more to it than that. Perhaps he was attentive — certainly more than Andrew had been for years — but he was also lonely, which was why she’d invited him along.
And Pen was right, she acknowledged less readily, he was attractive, too, especially when he smiled and his face became less severe. But what of it? Was she supposed only to speak to uninteresting men?
She looked up defiantly, catching Penelope’s eye, which closed in a knowing wink. Helen smiled, as much at herself as her daughter, and shook herself free of her introspection.
*
When they emerged from the barge, the temperature was noticeably cooler and the wind had sharpened. They walked briskly up the hill, the muscles tugging at the backs of their legs, and on reaching the top level, retraced their steps towards the cathedral. But as they approached the close a man came hurrying round the corner, almost bumping into them, and to her astonishment Helen saw that it was Andrew.
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