by Cathy Ace
Henry was struck by her incongruous, poker-wielding figure sitting in a room where flocks of painted birds flew through exotic branches upon the walls and cabbage roses bloomed on every piece of upholstery.
‘Mother, what on earth is going on?’ He knew the right tone to adopt was one of supportiveness, but he couldn’t help but sound cross. Henry was immediately annoyed with himself. He tempered his voice as he continued, ‘I don’t think you need the poker, Mother. Everything’s quite all right. I have been into the dining room and there was no sign of a dead body at all. I think maybe you dreamed it. Come along now. Let’s get you back into bed.’
Henry thought he’d handled himself, and the situation, quite well.
Althea, Dowager Duchess of Chellingworth, stood with as much dignity as her billowing attire allowed. She retained her grip on the fire-iron as she did so. ‘Thank you for coming, Henry. You say you’ve been into the dining room?’
Henry nodded. ‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And you say there is no one there? No one dead, that is?’
Henry nodded again. ‘That is correct, Mother. No one dead, nor alive. No one at all.’
His mother sighed. ‘So where’s he gone, then? The dead cannot simply walk away. If he’s not there any longer, someone must have removed him.’
Henry’s mind whirred. He wasn’t sure about the extent to which he should mollify his mother by subscribing to her delusions. He wished he had been possessed of the foresight to know that this day would surely come, and to have taken professional advice ahead of time.
‘Would you like me to show you, Mother? We could go and look together. I could help you down the stairs.’
His mother looked wounded, then indignant. ‘Why on earth would I require assistance to walk down to the dining room? I’ve never needed it before. Henry dear, I am neither infirm, nor gaga. Though if, as you say, the body has been moved, then I think we should telephone the police, post-haste. There might be an intruder still on the premises. Hence the poker.’ She settled her small shoulders and raised the implement higher above her head. ‘Once I saw the boy, I picked up this potential weapon from the hearth in the dining room and telephoned you. I considered pushing a chair against my door, but they’re all far too heavy for me to move.’
Henry panicked. ‘I don’t think we need to bother the police, Mother. The alarm was in working order upon my arrival, the front door was secured and, as you know, every window and door in the Dower House is connected to the alarm system. No one could have come in, or out, of the house without it sounding. I assume it hasn’t?’
His mother shook her head. Her small, wrinkled face puckered with a mixture of puzzlement and defiance.
‘Did you alert Jennifer or Ian to the situation?’ asked Henry. He thought it a reasonable question, though if her answer were yes, the next question would be: where were they?
‘Of course not,’ replied his mother in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Why would I want to get the staff involved with a murder?’
Henry stiffened. ‘A murder? You didn’t mention murder.’ His concern for his mother heightened.
Althea made her way past her son to the door. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Henry, if a young man is lying on the floor of my dining room with a nasty head wound, what on earth could be the reason for it other than murder? You can be very dim, on occasion.’ She swept out into the corridor and toward the head of the staircase before Henry could catch up with her.
‘Mother, I don’t think …’
‘Exactly, Henry. Quite often you don’t. So let’s just do, rather than think.’ She released her wriggling charge and said firmly, ‘McFli, stay.’ The little dog sat upright, wagging his tail, then showed he would try his best to obey his mistress’s command by laying down and resting his head on his front paws.
Henry was pleased to see that his mother was steady on her feet, and that she made her way down the stairs with ease. Always a fit, active woman – she’d ridden a variety of horses over the years, every day, until well into her seventies – he’d noticed that her movements had, of late, become a little slower. But she was extremely sprightly for her age and, at that moment, her agility was all but putting Henry to shame, as he cantered awkwardly to keep up with her.
Once downstairs in the entry hall, Henry’s mother stopped and listened, indicating that her son should do the same. He did. He heard nothing. Which was very curious, because he’d expected the staff to be up and about by now.
Henry managed to get ahead of his mother so that he entered the dining room first. Somewhat rattled by her certainty, he checked again to ensure that the room was unoccupied, then announced, ‘See? No one. Nothing. No dead bodies. No intruders.’
His mother entered the room in the oddest of manners. Henry noticed she was walking on tiptoe, the poker raised, ready to strike, her whole body alert and her head swiveling to take in the entire room. Eventually she was satisfied and relaxed. She lowered and rubbed the arm with which she had been holding the poker.
‘Have you searched all the other rooms?’ she asked abruptly.
Henry heard himself tut before he replied, ‘No, Mother, I haven’t. You told me there was a corpse in this room. I didn’t think to check the entire Dower House because I didn’t envisage the place being overrun by the walking dead.’
‘I suppose he might not have been dead at all. Just stunned, you know, like the blue parrot, in the Monty Python sketch,’ said his mother quietly. She brightened. ‘That must be it. Oh, I say, thank goodness for that. He must have regained consciousness and left.’
Henry bit his lip, trying to prevent himself from over-reacting to his mother’s inappropriate levity, then spoke, ‘I don’t think that can have happened, Mother. As I have already said, the front door was locked and the alarm was set.’
‘I don’t care what you say, Henry, I know what I saw. I saw a young boy wearing one of those hooded jackets that everyone, regardless of age or sex, seems to favor these days, even in the height of summer it seems. He was flat on the floor in front of the fireplace. On the Aubusson rug, off to one side. Look for blood there, Henry. I hope he didn’t bleed on it.’
Henry did as he was asked. ‘There’s no blood, Mother,’ he said as gently as he could.
‘Good,’ replied his mother. ‘I wouldn’t want it ruined. And, by the way, where the devil is everyone? I decided not to involve them initially, but what are they all thinking, not coming down to find out what’s going on with us rattling about the place at this time of night?’
Henry knew his mother had made a very good point, and noted she hadn’t made it unkindly, but in a very puzzled tone. Other than his concern about her mental state, he was feeling more than a little uneasy about the lack of attention that his arrival, and the wanderings of himself and his mother, had brought.
‘Why don’t you stay here, Mother, and I’ll go to Ian’s room to find out what’s up?’
‘Very good, Henry. I might be quite happy to use the stairs when necessary, but I don’t need to march up and down them all night just to prove my capabilities. Not at my age. You’re youthful enough to get up to the top floor in a few minutes. Young Ian’s in Old Ian’s room, of course. It seemed appropriate that his son should have it after him. You know the one?’
Henry nodded as he turned to leave. ‘There really isn’t any need to refer to him as Young Ian any more, Mother; his father’s been dead almost five years now. I think we can simply call him Ian.’
‘He’ll always be Young Ian to me,’ responded his mother firmly as he left the room. Leaving her alone in her own dining room, Henry was quite happy she was perfectly safe; there couldn’t possibly be any intruders in the house – dead, or alive.
By the time he reached the top floor, Henry was out of breath. Again. For a brief moment he wondered if, maybe, he should cut back to one cigar each evening. He took a few deep breaths before knocking on Ian’s door. He waited patiently for a moment, then less so. He knocked again, this time as hard as he co
uld.
Eventually he set aside his good manners and shouted, ‘Ian? Are you there?’ There was no response. Finally, Henry turned the doorknob. The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open. The room was dark. No moonlight peeped in at the curtained window. Henry felt along the wall and switched on the overhead light. In the middle of the sparsely furnished room, Ian Cottesloe was fast asleep in his bed, flat on his back, snoring quietly each time he exhaled.
Throwing caution, and all his breeding, to the wind, Henry crossed the room and shook Ian by the shoulder. All Ian did was turn onto his side and snuggle himself beneath his blankets.
Henry couldn’t believe it. What on earth …? He shook Ian quite violently. The man finally rolled onto his back again and peeled open his eyes, groaning.
Henry watched as the factotum rubbed his face and eyes with his large, calloused hands. Finally propping himself up on his elbows, Ian peered at Henry as though a mile or more lay between them.
A sudden realization of what was happening showed on the ruddy face, and Ian Cottesloe tried to leap out of his bed, only to trip and fall onto Henry. Both men hit the floor, Henry making first contact with his backside. Rarely had Henry been so grateful for the fact that his rear end was rather well padded.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace,’ spluttered Ian as he helped the duke to his feet. ‘Are you quite all right?’
Henry assured Ian that he was, indeed, all right. He also noted the look of terror on the younger man’s face.
‘Is something the matter, Your Grace?’ asked Ian. He was clearly very confused that he’d awoken to find the duke in his bedroom, in the dead of the night.
‘Rather,’ replied Henry. ‘The dowager and I have made some very considerable noise about the place during the past twenty minutes or so, to which you have not responded. How on earth could you have managed to sleep so soundly? I thought you were supposed to be looking after Her Grace.’ Henry sounded more annoyed than he had meant to; there were lengthy connections between the Twysts and the Cottesloes which meant a great deal to him.
Although Ian Cottesloe was just twenty-seven years of age, he was the grandson of the original Cottesloe who’d come to Chellingworth Hall as a gardener after World War I, long before Henry’s time. This Ian was a strapping young man with hands that spoke of rugged toil, and a complexion which indicated that most of his work took place outdoors. Henry always felt dwarfed by his six-foot frame and intimidated by Ian’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. In the confines of the small room, Henry was more than usually aware of his bulk, and drew back, unsure of how to conduct himself in such unusual circumstances.
Ian rubbed his head. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. I don’t know what happened, honest I don’t. I felt so tired after dinner that I came to bed early. I haven’t heard a thing. I feel a bit groggy, if I’m honest. Maybe I’m coming down with something?’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Is Miss Jennifer about? Or Cook? I mean … I’m sorry, Your Grace. If you just give me a moment I’ll pull on some clothes and be with you as quick as I can.’
‘Neither of them has appeared either,’ replied Henry sulkily. ‘I’ll thank you to rouse them both, as the dowager will need attending to. I’ll see you in the dining room in a moment,’ he added. He withdrew while the young man dressed and made his way back downstairs to his mother.
Upon re-entering the dining room, Henry was alarmed to realize that the dowager was no longer there. ‘Mother?’ he called as loudly as he could. ‘Where are you, Mother?’
‘Don’t shout inside the home, Henry, it’s terribly bad form. Besides, there’s no need. I’m right here.’ Henry knew his face must have betrayed his apprehension as his mother marched in from the main hall. She was still grasping the brass poker, though he noted that her headgear was askew, and she was looking a little flushed.
‘Where have you been, Mother? I asked you to stay in the dining room.’
The dowager spoke defiantly, ‘I’ve looked all about this floor and there’s no one else here. Young Ian, Cook and Jennifer can search the rest of the house. But I’m quite convinced he’s been taken away. I’ve been thinking about it, Henry, and I am more certain than ever that he was, in fact, dead. I realize I only saw him for a moment or two, but the expression on his face was not that of a man who has lost consciousness. It was that of a human being for whom life no longer exists. I am one hundred percent sure that he had, indeed, shuffled off this mortal coil.’ Althea twinkled wickedly as she used a comedic voice for this last sentiment.
‘Mother!’ scolded Henry. ‘There’s a time and a place for Monty Python references and I do not believe that this is either.’
Henry had never understood his mother’s love for, and fascination with, the entire canon of those Monty Python chaps. He didn’t think they were even slightly amusing. Whenever he dared to mention this fact, his mother would tell him he’d been given a sense of humor bypass immediately after she’d given birth to him, which always resulted in Henry choosing to leave the room, the conversation at an end.
When all three members of the staff had arrived, each claiming to have been in a very deep sleep, Henry admitted to himself that he felt very uneasy about the whole affair.
The dowager explained again, clearly and slowly, exactly what she had seen in the dining room. Henry noted that his mother’s staff managed to contain their amazement quite well, and tea was requested prior to a search being conducted. Henry sat for a whole hour with his mother and McFli, who’d been summoned from the dowager’s bedroom with a piercing whistle, and had arrived bearing an expression of excitement and delight at being reunited with her. During that time, Jennifer Newbury and Ian Cottesloe made a thor-ough search of the ground floor and the two floors above it. Cook checked every cubbyhole, pantry and walk-in cupboard of her domain below stairs.
Finally it was agreed that every door and window in the building was secure, and there wasn’t a single sign that there’d been an intruder. All three staff members agreed they had slept unusually soundly, and had not heard anything at all, not even McFli’s barking. As he heard his name being mentioned, McFli nuzzled harder against the dowager’s ankles, licking her sleepily.
By three o’clock in the morning, Henry Twyst was flagging. He decided to stay in a guest room for the night, unable to summon the strength to walk back to the hall, and not wanting to leave his mother unattended. His mind was made up; he would seek professional advice about his mother’s likely condition as soon as he could find someone discreet and reliable.
With the staff all returned to their beds, Henry and his mother were finally alone again, outside her room. The dowager grabbed her son’s arm with surprising strength and said quietly. ‘I know you think I’m imagining things, Henry, but I saw what I saw. And if I didn’t’ – she pulled something from the pocket of her capacious robe – ‘then where did I get this?’ She handed Henry a hat, knitted from black wool with a dirty blue bobble on the top.
Henry took the hat from his mother and examined it. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked, somewhat apprehensive about what she might answer.
‘It was on the floor beside the dead man,’ she replied triumphantly.
Henry’s whole body sagged. But this time it wasn’t because he feared that his mother was becoming senile, it was because he’d realized there was blood on his fingers. Blood that had come from the bobble.
He knew immediately that he wasn’t going to get any more sleep that night.
TWO
Annie Parker sprayed almost half a can of heavily scented air freshener into the toilet cubicle and around the washbasin area.
‘I know you’ve been hanging out of the window smoking in there, I can smell it from here,’ called a cross voice from the open-plan office beyond. ‘It’s not fair, Annie. I’m four months pregnant. You promised you’d stop doing that when I told you about the baby. You’re over fifty now, and even though I get it that you use cigarettes as some sort of mark of rebelliousness, it’s high time you ga
ve it up. Your mum’s not stupid, Annie, it’ll dawn on her one day that you didn’t give up ten years ago, like you told her.’
Annie entered the office somewhat sheepishly, pulled the door to the lavatory shut tight behind her, and smiled at her friend and colleague across the large, neatly ordered room. ‘Sorry, Car. I left the window open, doll. It’ll be safe for you to go in there in a mo. I ’spect the smell of primroses will make you want to chuck though.’ Annie’s broad cockney accent always made Carol feel warm and safe. She had no idea why. It just did.
Carol Hill’s gentle eyes peered out from beneath her naturally curly, dirty-blonde hair and over her large, round spectacles, which sat comfortably on her happy, round face. She tried to sound stern as she said, ‘I am not a motor vehicle, Annie. My name is Carol. It’s just one extra syllable. Can’t you ever make that much more effort to say my entire name?’ It was a request she’d made on countless previous occasions and, as was always the case, Annie Parker responded with an impish grin and a wink.
‘Sorry, doll, it’s just me way. You know what I’m like.’
Carol couldn’t help but return her good-natured friend’s smile. ‘Yes, I do indeed, and I’m not your “doll” either … though I’ll let you off with that one, because I know you use it on everybody.’
‘Right you are,’ quipped Annie, ‘except, of course, you’re my little blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, Welsh pregnant-doll, not my glamorous, posh Irish tottie-doll, who’s Chrissy, or my prim, neat, Scottish bossy-doll, who’s Mave. What would you call me if I was your doll, Car? Carol,’ added Annie, stifling a chuckle. She answered her own question with: ‘Tall, black, big-bummed English clumsy-doll I ’spect.’ Annie busied herself untying the laces on the battered old trainers she wore for her bus and tube journey from Wandsworth Common to the offices of the WISE Enquiries Agency just off Sloane Street every morning.