by Cathy Ace
Annie chewed the inside of her cheek as she trawled through her childhood memories. Wayne? Wayne Saxby?
‘Got it!’ Annie exclaimed. ‘Had nits all the time and played for the school football team. Right? Are you his mum then?’
Finally the light settled on the woman’s face and Annie could see a person, rather than a blob. No bells rang. She could have sworn she’d never seen this woman before. And, even if she had recognized her, she wondered what on earth she was doing in a pub in the Welsh countryside. She looked to be about Eustelle’s age, so around her mid-seventies, and was dressed in a countryside uniform of a long Barbour coat and a pair of Hunter wellies. A headscarf was doing its best to contain a head of dyed hair set in a springy perm. It was failing.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Saxby,’ said Annie, extending a hand.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the little, round woman, ‘come here love, it’s Olive.’ She reached up to Annie, who had stood upon the woman’s arrival, and hugged her somewhere around her middle. Annie looked taken aback, as did Jacko.
‘Know each other then?’ Jacko’s tone had returned to its ‘suspicion’ setting.
‘Course we do,’ said Olive Saxby. ‘She and Wayne were joined at the hip as youngsters, weren’t you?’
Annie didn’t recall being attached to anyone by any part of her anatomy when she was a child, but she decided that smiling was the best response.
‘So, what brings you to this part of the world?’ said Annie, feeling somewhat bemused, and becoming increasingly alarmed that this woman might know something, somehow, about her real employment.
‘I think I should be the one asking you that,’ replied Olive Saxby jovially. ‘I live here. Well, not far from here. With Wayne. Bought a place out here he did. With one of those granny apartments. Lovely, it is. Looks after his old mum a treat, he does. How’s Eustelle, by the way, dear? Still the right side of the grass?’
Annie nodded. ‘Yes. Eustelle’s doing just fine, thanks. Living in Putney Hill now,’ she added, though she wasn’t sure why.
‘I’d forgotten you did that. Always called her Eustelle, ever since you was this big.’ Olive indicated a very small child indeed. ‘I don’t know how she put up with it. But there you are. So why are you here? We’re very close to the middle of nowhere here, you know.’
‘That was the attraction,’ said Annie. ‘Though I didn’t expect to bump into a pub landlord from Bethnal Green and you from the Mile End Road. I was thinking more Welsh beer and sheep.’
Olive drew close and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘I’d give both of those things a very wide berth, if I were you,’ she whispered. ‘So how about I drive you out to see Wayne? He’d be tickled pink to see you again. Come and have dinner. Come and stay. Or am I trying to take business away from you, Jacko?’
Embarrassed looks flew between Annie and Jacko.
Annie tried desperately to think of some way by which she could remain in the village to fulfil her snooping duties, but she couldn’t think of anything that would hold any water, in the face of Olive’s kind, though utterly unwanted, invitation. She wanted the chance to find out why Jacko had tensed up when she’d mentioned stolen goods; she wanted to find out more about people in and around the village who might be up to no good. But here was this woman from her past trying to drag her off.
‘There would be the matter of not being able to not charge for the booking,’ said Jacko firmly.
Annie was immediately grateful for a glimmer of a chance to redeem her situation.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied quickly. ‘It might be nice to pop out for a bite, but I really should get back here this evening. You know, not too late. I haven’t even unpacked. And I’m not really dressed for—’
Olive held up her hand. ‘Sorted. I’ll drive you out, and back. I don’t drink anymore, see? Can’t. But I’m fine to drive after dark, even at my age. I’ll get you back early. And no one will care what you look like. Never were a fashion plate in any case, as I recall.’ She looked Annie up and down. ‘Not much point really. Not married, I see.’
Annie looked at her left hand, where Olive’s gaze had landed with a deafening thump. ‘No. Not yet,’ she said brightly.
Olive smiled. ‘Ah, bless. Still hoping, are you love?’ she said scathingly. ‘Come on then. The trusty steed is just outside.’
‘Good luck,’ called Jacko, as Olive pulled Annie toward the door.
Annie’s terror that there might be horses involved with her imminent means of conveyance dissolved as she spied a battered old Land Rover parked at something of an angle to the grass verge. But her mind was still whirring. She couldn’t ignore her work responsibilities entirely.
Just as they approached the vehicle Annie said, ‘Just a mo, Olive. Look, if you don’t mind waiting, I think I’d better pop to the loo before we go bobbing along the country lanes, and I wouldn’t mind a quick ciggie, too. I haven’t had a chance to have one since I got off the bus, and I don’t suppose for one minute that I could—’
Once again Olive Saxby cut her off, which was not something with which the voluble Annie Parker was overly familiar. ‘Ah now, I might not drink no more, but I still smoke meself, love, so don’t worry. Smoke your head off while we drive, and at the house too. Wayne’s into them big old cigars these days, but he’s always leaving them everywhere, so there’s no shortage of ashtrays. He says an Englishman’s home is his castle, and no government busybody is going to tell him what he can and can’t do in his own home. So go and have a tinkle, by all means, but then we’ll get going. Okey dokey?’
Annie nodded, and waved as she rushed back into the pub.
‘Jacko, before I go, where’s the ladies, please?’ called Annie, drawing raised eyebrows from the two octogenarian patrons.
Jacko pointed toward the staircase, ‘Along the bottom, on the right,’ he said.
As soon as Annie sat, she punched the speed-dial button for Carol’s home phone.
‘Hiya, Annie, how’s it going? Nice village?’ said Carol as she answered.
‘Imagine a mixture of Midsomer Murders, Lovejoy country, and a more than healthy dose of EastEnders and you’ve just about got it,’ replied Annie.
‘EastEnders?’ said Carol, sounding surprised.
‘Yeah – long story. Too long. Look, I haven’t got much time, and I’ve got to keep my voice down, so listen and take notes, all right?’
‘Ready,’ replied Carol seriously.
‘OK, John James, known as Jacko, landlord of the Coach and Horses, from Bethnal Green. Wife Delyth, from Hay-on-Wye. Find out all you can. My nose says he’s not as straight as he makes out.’ Annie scrambled in her pocket. ‘Tristan Thomas, of A Taste of Time. Antiques shop overlooking the common. His card says he’s the proprietor and valuer. Slimeball. Also check out Wayne Saxby. Used to live in Mile End, now he’s living here somewhere, in some fancy house, probably a newish-build. I used to be in school with him. His mother just spotted me, but I don’t think my cover’s blown. Hope not, anyway. I’m off to have dinner there, with the Saxby clan. I can’t get out of it. But I’ll come back tonight and be on the case, promise, doll. Any news for me?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Carol.
Annie flushed. ‘All right. Gotta go, I’ll phone later, when I get back to the pub.’
‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’ asked Carol.
‘’Course,’ replied Annie, dragging paper towels from a wall-mounted holder.
‘Take care,’ said Carol. ‘You never know who might take a dislike to what we’re doing,’ she added.
‘Car, you do fuss,’ said Annie, ‘talk later, doll.’
As she dashed from the loo, Annie Parker noticed that Tristan Thomas had arrived in the pub and she overheard what he was saying to Jacko: ‘… midnight tonight, round the back …’
As soon as he caught sight of Annie he shut up, and his equine features settled into a broad grin. Annie acted as though she hadn’t noticed anything unt
oward and waved cheerily at both men.
‘See you later,’ she called as she headed to the door. As she made her way to Olive’s vehicle, she wondered what the revolting antiques dealer had been talking about so conspiratorially with the pub landlord, then she threw herself into the Land Rover, winding her legs and arms about her as she squirmed to buckle her seatbelt.
Her apprehension about her journey returned as Olive Saxby merrily ground her way through the gears with one hand, and swung the steering wheel about with her other, which also held a cigarette. The vehicle bounced onto the road with a lurch, the back wheels throwing up stones. Annie grabbed onto the door and wondered if she had enough courage to let go, so she could light up and have a smoke. It was a difficult decision.
TEN
Almost every member of staff at Chellingworth Hall did their best to get to a window as the arrival of the duke’s weekend guest became imminent. Some were able to do this quite unobtrusively, others had to make a supreme effort, but most managed it. The last of the members of the public had to be out of the hall by four on the dot, and Christine had arranged to arrive at four thirty.
The rush to prepare the most palatial guest room, the requests for special meals, the necessity for the visitor to be given every courtesy and treated as a most honored guest – all this had piqued the interest of those who knew very well that Henry Twyst never, ever, received lone females at his home.
Seemingly oblivious to the attention that quivered behind the glittering windows of Chellingworth Hall, the Honorable Christine Wilson-Smythe, only daughter of the Viscount and Viscountess of Loch Carraghie and Ballinclare, alighted demurely from her vehicle, and was greeted by Henry Devereaux Twyst, eighteenth Duke of Chellingworth, with a handshake which was warm and friendly. Having already decided on her role, Christine embraced him and pecked him on the cheek, which sent staff of all types and ranks scurrying away from their watching posts with a great deal of grist for the rumor mill, which was just what Christine had planned.
Henry Twyst blushed and stammered, ‘Good to see you again, Christine.’
‘You too, Henry,’ said Christine loudly enough that the suited and booted man waiting to take her bags from her car could hear her. ‘It’s so wonderful to be back at Chellingworth. It’s such a pretty place.’
Henry looked up at his two-hundred-and-sixty-eight-room Jacobean pile with Georgian wings as though with fresh eyes. ‘Pretty?’ He’d never heard it described as such before. ‘Handsome, I’ve always thought,’ he replied.
Christine looked again at the house that filled her view. She knew that parts of it had been built in the fifteenth century, and that Elizabeth I had visited. Indeed, a dozen royal visits had occurred between 1565 and 1635. The weathered stone was now a fairly uniform buttery-gray, but she noted the differences between the Jacobean central section, the Georgian wings, and the brick-built Victorian buildings she’d passed as she drove through the 6,000-acre estate.
‘I agree,’ she responded. ‘Handsome. Good choice of word, Henry. You’ve hit the nail on the head as usual.’
Henry blushed again. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, holding out his arm.
Christine took the proffered limb, nodded, and the couple proceeded to mount the sweeping stone steps that led to an ornate main entrance.
Waving Christine ahead of him, Henry acknowledged his butler, Edward, as they entered, as did Christine.
‘Miss Wilson-Smythe is in the blue room, I believe, Edward,’ said Henry. ‘Would you like to go up right away?’ asked Henry of his guest.
Christine smiled. ‘Not right away, thank you, Henry. I thought we might have a cup, or a glass of something, first?’
Henry stammered, ‘B-but of course.’
‘This way, ma’am,’ said Edward, bowing a little and leading Christine across the cavernous marbled hall toward an open door, through which she spied a delightfully decorated sitting room. Pushed to one side at the door was a velvet rope strung between two brass posts.
‘Your guests don’t come in here?’ asked Christine, walking confidently into the bright, welcoming room.
‘They are allowed to peer, but not enter. It’s the ceiling. Those who know, tell me that it’s in a perilous state. The plaster might begin to drop on to us at any moment.’
‘They’re always telling Daddy that about the house in Ireland,’ replied Christine laughing. ‘He just ignores them. But I dare say there’s a question of liability, so it’s best to keep them out.’
Henry nodded. ‘If enough of them come to visit, I can get it fixed. Big job, they say, but what can one do?’
‘Exactly,’ replied Christine. She wanted Henry to feel as comfortable as possible in her company – given the circumstances – and also wanted to signal to the staff that she was his friend. His ‘almost equal’. If she knew anything about living in a home with staff, it was that the gossip would have begun long before she’d arrived, and that she’d be under a very discreet microscope every moment she was at Chellingworth.
Tea was served, along with tiny almond cakes, and Henry and Christine were left to themselves, the door being closed silently as Edward withdrew.
As soon as they were quite alone, Henry sprang from his chair and began to stride about. ‘This is much more stressful than I’d thought it would be,’ he said, wiping his brow with a large silk square which he pulled from the pocket of his rather snugly fitting Prince of Wales checked jacket.
Christine stood too, and approached Henry. She knew she had to calm him. ‘Henry, don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Look at it this way; I really am an old friend just coming to visit. All you need to do is act as though that’s all this is, and I will do the rest. You don’t have to snoop, or pry, or even really lie. Just let’s be who we are, and I will take it from there. But we do need some opportunities for me to mix with, and be able to get to quiz, the staff. So I suggest a tour of your home. Now, be honest, do you think there’s any chance at all that Edward could be mixed up in whatever might have caused a bloodied bobble hat to appear at your mother’s house?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ exclaimed Henry, shocked. ‘There’s absolutely no way that Edward could be involved. He was my father’s man, and now he’s mine. He’s almost a Twyst himself. No, no. No question. Not Edward.’
‘Any suspicions at all about anyone else, since I’ve asked you to think about it?’ pressed Christine.
Henry looked thoughtful. He stood gazing through the ancient windowpanes, which always pleasantly distorted the outside world just a little. He seemed to be searching for the right words. Christine waited patiently.
‘I do not feel adequate to the task of pointing the finger of suspicion at anyone,’ said Henry, without turning around. ‘It is not in my nature to be a suspicious person.’ He turned to face Christine, and she could see the anguish in his expression. She also noted the family resemblance between Henry and the fourteenth duke, who stood, fully regaled in his ducal robes, in a defiant pose beside what must have been a favorite steed. The portrait of him was fully twenty feet high and dwarfed the mere mortal who stood beneath it.
‘I understand,’ said Christine quietly. She sensed the weight of history upon the man’s shoulders. She’d seen it in her own father, on occasion, when being a viscount required responsibilities of him that he found difficult. ‘But I need something to go on, Henry. If I am to be able to help you, that is.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Henry, tersely. ‘But I find it challenging to believe that someone I know here would be mixed up in – whatever it is.’
‘Did you make a list, as I asked?’ Christine hoped he had.
Henry nodded and pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. He held it toward Christine, seemingly reluctant to hand it over. Understanding she’d have to take the lead, she grasped the paper and sat down to read Henry’s notes.
‘Should I assume that all those listed under “not possible” are those you know well, and those under “maybe” are those you know less wel
l?’
Henry nodded. Christine had suspected that that was how this would play out. She knew how it felt to believe that one knew one’s staff as though they were family members, their being so much a part of one’s daily life. But she also knew, from sad experience, that this was not always the case. She’d had to point out to her father that his valued and trusted driver of many years was listening to his private conversations and passing on information about deals he was brokering in the City to others, for a financial reward. It had shaken her father’s trust in every member of his staff, and they’d both agreed to keep it from her mother.
‘I propose that you begin to take me around Chellingworth, Henry and, under the guise of showing off the place to me, you find a way to introduce me to each of the persons you have listed as possibly being able to come under suspicion, as well as your trusted staff. I propose we begin immediately, because it’s quite a task.’
As Henry led Christine from the sitting room, he explained that some of the people listed had already left the hall for the day, some worked in other buildings on the estate, and some lived in the village. Christine felt less worried about the village-dwellers, because she knew that Annie was covering that angle, and she determined to try to come up with some sort of plan that would allow for Mavis to help out with those who lived on the estate.
‘Who’s first?’ she whispered to Henry as they entered the grand, pillared hall.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Henry, sounding lost.
Christine stifled a sigh. Why was every man she’d ever met of her class either a buffoon or an ass? ‘Well, let’s begin in the kitchens. I can have a cogent conversation about tonight’s dinner and meet everyone there. How about that? If my experience is anything to go by, the people who work in the kitchen know everything about everyone in a household.’