by Ann Granger
Agnes rose to her feet, went to the piano and seated herself. Beresford followed her and positioned himself to turn the sheets of music for her. I was expecting her to be accomplished. Young ladies are taught these things. What I had not expected, but knew from the first notes, was that she was a true musician, a gifted performer. When she was at the piano she was no longer shy and awkward, with little to say for herself. As the notes rippled beneath her fingers the piano spoke for her, communicating her thoughts and emotions through the music. I glanced at Mrs Parry and caught a look of surprise on her face, though she quickly concealed it. Then I looked at Sir Henry. He was leaning back in his chair, his fingertips together in front of his cravat, his abandoned cane propped against a small bureau behind him. He watched Agnes as she played, a slight smile on his lips and something in his eyes I did not quite like.
But where was Harcourt? I realised he was not with our seated group. I turned my head and saw that he had removed himself to stand by the fireplace, with his arm resting on the mantelshelf. He may have been listening; but he was not watching Agnes. He was looking towards the portrait of our host’s late wife, and I could not read his expression.
‘Well, that was a most pleasant evening,’ declared Mrs Parry, as we rattled homeward in the creaking old berlin. ‘Sir Henry is such a charming gentleman.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, as it was expected I should. But I had not found Sir Henry charming. If urged to express what I felt about him, I might even have confessed that something about him had frightened me.
A good dinner, wine, a little later to bed than usual, and a great deal of new information to sort through in my brain, together with the sea air, all combined to send me into deep slumber. I was awoken by a dreadful shriek.
I sat up in bed with a start. My first instinct was to think I must have been dreaming, and had cried out. But, no, what I’d heard was real enough. There were raised voices on the floor below and wails of disbelief and dismay. I scrambled from the bed and after donning my shawl and slippers hurried out into the corridor. As I made my way towards the head of the stairs I met Nugent, hurrying towards it from the other direction. She was at least dressed, but her hair was still tied up in rag curls.
‘You heard it, too, then, did you, Mrs Ross?’ she demanded. ‘Whatever could be the meaning of that?’
‘Something’s wrong,’ I said. ‘But it may be nothing more than a dropped dish.’
‘Not a scream like that,’ said Nugent firmly. ‘No one ever yelled out like that on account of a dropped dish of kidneys!’
Remembering Mrs Parry, who had not joined us, I began to ask, ‘Where is—?’ But I did not complete the sentence. Nugent was ahead of me.
‘Still fast asleep,’ she told me. ‘It takes a fair bit to waken her in the morning.’ Recalling that she spoke of her employer, she added, more respectfully, ‘Madam was very tired last night when she returned. She was falling asleep as I got her ready for bed. I dare say she won’t have heard it.’
Below us, a pattering of feet caused us both to lean over the balustrade. A flash of red hair indicated Jessie Dennis, evidently the source of the shriek. She stopped at the foot of the staircase, becoming aware that there were spectators on the landing above, and looked up at us, her mouth agape, eyes wild.
‘Oh, madam!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, Mrs Ross, a terrible thing has happened up at the Hall.’ She clasped her hands at her breast. ‘Like nothing before, never!’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘You’ll never believe it, ma’am, but it’s true. Oh, ma’am, Sir Henry is dead!’
My heart sank like a stone and I hope my dismay did not show in my face. In my mind’s eye I saw Cora Dawlish, in her black gown and jet necklaces, seated on the bench and loudly prophesying that I would bring death. Death, it seemed, had not tarried.
Chapter Five
Well, well, now we’ll see what they all do. They do so love their secrets, that family. They have them all penned up like water behind a dam. But now there is a crack in the dam wall. They will be seeking to stop it up before it widens and a spate of truth rushes out.
Elizabeth Martin Ross
Jessie was clearly in deep shock at the unexpected news, but it struck me she was also excited. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth hung open. Her breath was ragged and fast. It was the undercurrent of thrill that worried me most. From high excitement the emotional barometer could plunge to a panicked low; and it could happen in a trice. She might faint or begin to sob uncontrollably. At the very worst, she might have a fit. Did I attempt to soothe her? Or slap her?
‘Let me, Mrs Ross.’ It was Nugent who spoke. An experienced upper servant, she knew how to deal with hysterical underlings. She stepped forward and took charge.
‘Pull yourself together, my girl!’ she ordered Jessie crisply. ‘And stop making an exhibition of yourself. No more squawking! Do you hear me?’
Jessie closed her mouth and blinked, as if someone had shaken her awake.
Nugent then turned to me and said, ‘I’ll go down, Mrs Ross, and get some details. If you don’t mind my suggesting it, perhaps you could slip into something you’d prefer to be seen wearing.’
She gripped Jessie’s arm. ‘Come along, my girl. Back to your mother!’ She marched the girl away in a fashion an arresting constable would have been pleased to copy.
I returned to my room and wriggled hurriedly into a day gown. I brushed my hair and twisted it into a coil, well secured with pins at the back of my head. Then I made my own way downstairs at a dignified pace. I hoped my demeanour would pass muster, as inwardly I was now anxious to learn whether such shocking news could be true. But something had happened and, in the continued absence of Mrs Parry, I must give the appearance of authority. I went into the small parlour, seated myself, folded my hands in my lap and waited. I had not to wait long.
Nugent returned with Mrs Dennis. Somehow, in the time during which I’d dressed, skilled lady’s maid that she was, Nugent had found time not only to fetch the housekeeper, but to untie the rag knots dotted about her own head. The result was a haphazard tangle of greying curls. As for the housekeeper, she was pale but not, I was pleased to see, hysterical.
She bobbed an awkward curtsey, and said, ‘I am sorry, ma’am, for the disturbance. It’s my girl, she was that scared when she heard the awful news. I was took aback myself.’
I thought the housekeeper’s outward control was maintained with difficulty and she might give way at any moment.
Nugent, after a minatory glare at the housekeeper, took over. ‘I am afraid, Mrs Ross, there has been an accident, a fatal one.’
‘What kind of fatal accident?’ My own voice echoed in my ear as though the words were spoken far away by someone else.
Mrs Dennis, now visibly trembling, replied: ‘’Tis the squire, ma’am. He’s been found dead in his bed!’
This did not tally with the first report. People died in their beds in the course of nature. It was not usually termed an accident. I began to suspect the news might yet turn out to be unfounded rumour. ‘Are you sure of this?’ I asked sharply. ‘This would be a very serious story to spread.’
‘It’s the truth, ma’am. There’s Davy Evans in the kitchen, brought us the news not twenty minutes ago. I’m afraid my girl let out a great screech. She was frightened. It’s given me a terrible shock, as well.’
I tussled with the housekeeper’s undoubted certainty, and was forced to accept it. She was a sensible woman. She would not repeat something she did not believe to be the truth. I sought to clarify the facts, such as were known. ‘When you say Sir Henry has been found in his bed, then has he died in his sleep?’
‘He didn’t die natural, ma’am. He was shot. There was blood everywhere, so they say.’
‘Shot?’ Into my mind leaped the memory of that tension between the three men I had noticed the previous evening. ‘How so, shot?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ the housekeeper confessed. ‘I don’t think Davy knows exactly. Only that Sir Henry’s manserva
nt found him this morning, lying there dead, with blood all over the pillow and a pistol on the coverlet.’
Had Sir Henry shot himself? He had not struck me as the sort of man to take his own life. Nor had he seemed to be in any kind of despair the previous evening. But the alternative sent a cold shiver running along my spine. If it were not suicide, and it could hardly be an accident, we were left with murder.
The housekeeper was standing before me, awaiting my reaction to the news. Her red country face gazed at me as if awaiting orders about the menu for the day. It brought me to my senses. In the absence of Mrs Parry, I was in charge here and expected to show it. I stifled my alarm and made a quick decision. Nothing could be accepted without all the facts, or as many as could be learned. ‘Is Davy still here?’ I asked.
‘Yes’m. In the kitchen,’ confessed Mrs Dennis.
Consoling the distraught Jessie, no doubt, I thought. ‘Bring him in here,’ I ordered, ‘I want to hear his account myself.’ Then, realising that it would help the housekeeper if she had something to do, I added, ‘Perhaps you could make some tea? It will help us all.’
Mrs Dennis, as I’d guessed, brightened at having a task given to her. She bobbed a curtsey and hurried out.
‘Just wait here with me, would you, Nugent?’ I asked.
‘Of course, Mrs Ross. I wouldn’t leave you here alone with that scallywag!’ declared Nugent, drawing herself up and ready for battle, if necessary.
It was not the thought of being left alone with Davy that worried me. It was the prospect of Mrs Parry being awoken and told the news by her lady’s maid, with gory details of blood on the pillow and a pistol lying nearby. But rumour quickly adds detail to a bare skeleton of fact. Perhaps there had been no blood, no pistol, only the lifeless body of an elderly man who had eaten and drunk well the previous evening. A heart attack? That was much more likely. In any case, surely, someone would have sent for the doctor, if only to certify the death. We should soon hear what had really happened.
‘We must not leap to conclusions, Nugent,’ I said firmly. ‘First we must hear how Davy Evans learned the news. It will help assess how accurate it may be. I would not wish Mrs Parry to be frightened by kitchen gossip.’
We heard the clump of heavy male boots outside and Davy Evans appeared. He held his hat in his hand, and ducked his head beneath the low lintel of the doorway. Ignoring Nugent, he made an awkward bow in my direction.
‘Morning, ma’am. You sent for me.’
He looked and sounded sombre and the mocking gleam I remembered in his dark eyes was gone. But his gaze was still sharp and wary as he glanced around the room before returning his attention to me. I wondered if he was checking no one else had joined us. Had he expected Mrs Parry? I drew a deep breath.
‘Good morning, Evans. I understand that you have brought some very shocking news regarding Sir Henry Meager?’
Davy nodded his head. ‘Aye, he’s dead.’
‘From whom do you have this information? Is it reliable and not some foolish rumour?’
‘No,’ said Davy simply, ‘he’s a goner, all right.’
‘That is no way to speak of the gentleman!’ snapped Nugent, shocked.
Davy was not in awe of a middle-aged lady’s maid. ‘’Tis true, even so.’
‘So, from whom do you have this tragic news?’ I demanded sternly, repeating my original question. At the back of my mind lingered the fear that he had it from Cora Dawlish or her sister. Where Cora might have learned it, goodness only knew. She would claim it was by second sight, if asked.
He nodded his mop of dark curls again. ‘From Tom Tizard.’
This was serious. A member of Sir Henry’s staff should know the facts. At the same time, I felt a sense of relief that the news had not originated with the sisters. I said, ‘Go on.’
‘Well, then,’ resumed Davy. ‘I was walking up on the main road, meaning to cut across the heath to Hythe. I sometimes help out on the ferryboats. The dogcart came rattling along, Tom driving. He pulled up the pony and shouted down to me that the squire was dead, and by his own hand. He was driving over to Mr Beresford’s house, to break the news, and ask him to go at once to his uncle’s, to the big house. Tom was intending to drive on afterwards and fetch the doctor, to come and certify the death. Mr Harcourt had told him it would be necessary.’
‘Mr Harcourt is presumably at the house and has taken charge?’ I asked.
‘So Tom Tizard said.’ Davy nodded. ‘Until Mr Beresford gets there, Mr Harcourt is giving out the orders. Someone has to, I reckon. Warton, the butler, is an old fellow and he’s got religion. He reckons the end of the world is nigh and this is proof. You’ll get no sense out of him. The cook has her hands full with the maids. They’re all wailing; and that valet of Sir Henry’s had a funny turn when he saw the blood and hasn’t got over it.’ Davy allowed himself a grin and looked, briefly, as he had when I’d spotted him in the doorway of the Dawlish sisters’ cottage. ‘They’re running round like chickens when the fox is in the henhouse.’
‘You mind your tongue!’ snapped Nugent, incensed. ‘Speak respectful when talking of a death!’
Davy gave Nugent a careless glance. ‘All right, m’dear, keep your wig on!’
At that Nugent looked so furious I feared she might set about the fellow, and box his ears, if she could have reached them. It was fortunate she did not have her trusty umbrella to hand, or she might have attempted to belabour him with that. Still, I had to admit that Davy had painted a lively picture of the scene. Harcourt had plenty to deal with. Nevertheless he’d struck me as a capable man, and must be, if he ran Sir Henry’s estate and business matters.
‘Thank you, Evans,’ I said loudly and firmly. ‘You can go now.’
He bobbed his head at me and left.
‘That rogue,’ spluttered the still enraged Nugent, ‘is nothing but trouble! Mark my words.’
‘You are probably right,’ I agreed with her. ‘But I am afraid the moment has come to wake Mrs Parry and tell her the bad news.’
We gazed at one another, united in apprehension. ‘I’ll wake madam,’ said Nugent. ‘You tell her.’
I elected to wait outside the bedroom door until Nugent called me in. But it didn’t work out as we had planned. The hustle and bustle had reached her ahead of us. As soon as Nugent entered the room, Aunt Parry broke into voluble speech. She began by demanding to know why she was being awoken at such an early hour (it was now a little after ten), and what was going on downstairs?
‘I am very sorry, madam, but someone has brought some very bad news,’ the maid began.
‘What sort of bad news?’ snapped Mrs Parry, unimpressed by Nugent’s soothing tone. ‘It must be desperate indeed to cause such a racket.’
Nugent told her the bare facts. There was a moment’s delay and then Aunt Parry exploded in rage.
‘Gossip, Nugent! After all these years, you come and worry me with malicious servants’ gossip? And about Sir Henry! It’s wicked to say such a thing.’
‘It’s a fact, madam, and there’s no mistake, I’m afraid. That fellow Evans has been here to bring the news.’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t believe anything he says!’ Mrs Parry vehemently repulsed the suggestion. ‘He is making mischief, and probably already drunk. How would he know, anyway?’
‘He had it from the coachman, Tizard, madam. He met him on the road, driving to break the bad news to Mr Beresford.’
At the mention of Andrew Beresford being brought into it Mrs Parry fell silent for a moment or two, before demanding, ‘Where is Mrs Ross?’
It was time for me to put in an appearance. Nugent greeted me with a wry expression and muttered, ‘I had to tell her, ma’am. She was already awake and aware something was going on.’
‘Tell me?’ Mrs Parry had excellent hearing. ‘I should think so! Who should be told, if not me? Why, I sat at the gentleman’s dinner table only a few hours ago! How can he be dead?’
‘I am so very sorry, Aunt Parry. This
is dreadful news and you are naturally very shocked, as are we all…’ I began.
‘Shocked?’ burst out Mrs Parry. She was propped up on the pillows, swathed in a salmon-pink satin wrap, her hair invisible beneath a lace cap. Her face was much the same colour as the wrap.
‘Nugent,’ I suggested, ‘perhaps you’d be so good as to go down to the kitchen and see if Mrs Dennis has made that tea.’
When we were alone, Mrs Parry announced, ‘It is the beginning of a revolution, mark my words. The lower orders are about to slaughter the landowners! There is no other explanation.’
‘I don’t think anyone else has died, only Sir Henry and we don’t know—’
‘Who found him?’ she interrupted.
‘Apparently his valet did. Dead in his bed with a pistol beside him.’
Mrs Parry leaned forward and said firmly, ‘Sir Henry was not a man to blow out his own brains! Whyever should he? He was a most gracious host this last evening, charming. He would hardly hold a dinner party and then go to bed and shoot himself!’ In a last rebuttal, she added, ‘If he wanted to make away with himself, why go to bed first? It would be much more seemly to be found fully dressed, not in a nightshirt.’
It was a good point to make. I was reminded that Mrs Parry was a very competent woman in her business affairs. Another elderly lady might have swooned away, as a suitable reaction, or burst into tears. Not so Mrs Parry. If anything, she seemed to be taking the idea that Sir Henry, who had kissed her hand so charmingly the previous evening, should have blown out his brains a few hours later as preposterous, as well as downright insulting. Actually, I was inclined to agree with her about the inexplicable nature of the event.
‘You are an astute woman, Elizabeth,’ continued Aunt Parry, in a rare compliment. ‘Does it make any sense to you that a gentleman of breeding and property would host a dinner party, behave naturally in every way, bid his guests goodnight, go upstairs and make ready for bed, get into bed and then finish the evening by putting a bullet in his own head?’