by Cathy Ace
‘Tell me again what the police said about the drugging of your mother’s household,’ she said.
Henry’s gaping mouth told her that she’d raised the topic out of the blue and that he’d twigged to the fact that she hadn’t been listening to him at all. He looked sulky as he refilled his glass with the last of the wine from the decanter that had arrived to accompany the lamb course. Christine felt guilty, but impatient. Henry had invited her here to work for him, after all, yet he seemed content to poo-poo all her questions.
Finally realizing that she was waiting for an answer, Henry put down his glass and looked Christine straight in the eye. ‘I sent all the information I had to your office. The woman I spoke to on the telephone there told me that she would disseminate it to your team. What more can I tell you?’
Christine sat forward in her seat, leaning toward Henry. ‘I gathered that an assumption was made about drugging, but that there was no proof. Is that correct?’
Henry nodded. ‘Yes. Everything used to prepare and serve the stew that was eaten that night had been washed up and put away before anyone retired. The assumption of the staff having been drugged was based upon their statements that they each felt tired as the evening wore on, they all therefore went to their rooms earlier than usual and all slept very soundly. No one has any idea what might have been put in the stew to make this happen.’
‘Were any tests, such as blood tests, conducted to try to ascertain the nature of the drug?’
‘The police didn’t think it necessary,’ replied Henry dryly.
‘And have the local police given you any information as a result of their testing of various foodstuffs they removed from the kitchen after the event?’
‘No, but I don’t see how they could, given that all the stew had been eaten or washed away. They only took a few carrots and an onion or two. It seems ridiculous that they could find anything amiss with a selection of random root vegetables.’
Christine tried to not show her irritation as she changed to a different approach. ‘Was it unusual for your mother to not eat dinner?’
Henry wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. Christine had noticed that this was a normal affectation for Henry when he felt he was being blamed for something. ‘Not that I am aware of,’ was his telling reply.
Christine tried not to sigh. Henry was obviously concerned about his mother, but he had made it pretty clear to her that he looked to her staff to take primary responsibility for her wellbeing.
‘I haven’t met your mother, Henry, at least, not since I was very young. I know she had a reputation as a fine horsewoman and was a well-known breeder and trainer of Jack Russell terriers. Tell me, have there been any other changes in her behavior about which you are not telling me?’
Again, Henry did the shoulder thing.
He replied grudgingly, ‘She’s been seen talking to herself and she ignores people when they speak to her. As though they were not there. Mother’s never been like that before.’ He spoke quietly, disquiet lacing his voice. ‘I’ve overheard the staff mention it. I haven’t seen it myself. And … well, there was the incident with the mushrooms.’
‘What incident with the mushrooms?’ asked Christine calmly. Poison? An attempt on her life?
‘It was at the shop in the village. There is only one. It’s a post office and a general store thingy. Mother was there one day. She insists upon walking into the village on occasion, despite her years. Anyway, one day she threw all the mushrooms onto the pavement, outside the shop. It caused quite a commotion. Ian had to be sent to fetch her back to the Dower House in the car.’
It wasn’t what Christine had expected.
‘Did she explain her actions?’
Henry wriggled. ‘She said that no one should have to eat the mushrooms.’ He sounded mortally wounded. ‘I paid for them, of course.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Christine with trepidation.
‘The herb garden.’
Christine didn’t need to do more than raise her eyebrows to force Henry to elaborate.
‘Mother has never, ever, shown the slightest interest in anything that grows. Animals, she loves them all, but plants, flowers, trees – they have never interested her. To her, they are just there. Then, about a year ago, she insisted that Ian dig up a whole section of her walled garden to plant a herb garden. And she’s been tending it herself. It’s extraordinary. She insists that everything she grows is used up here at the hall and in the tea rooms, and so forth, as well as in her own kitchens. The cooks are very happy to accommodate her and I have to say that her efforts have resulted in some cost-saving for us. But mother working the soil? Tending crops? It’s bizarre.’
Christine gave Henry’s comments some thought, then returned to her original point.
‘The police established that the stew was unattended in the kitchen for quite some time, allowing access to the pot by anyone in the household, and that, on that particular day, several people were known to have visited the Dower House. Correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, looking at his empty glass sadly. ‘Elizabeth Fernley called in with some eggs. Mrs Davies, my cook, visited Mrs Wilson, mother’s cook, to take tea. Stephanie Timbers and a chap from the pub in the village had an appointment with mother to discuss plans for the harvest supper at St David’s Church. We provide the food for the supper, and he cooks it.’
‘Which pub?’
‘I believe it’s the Coach and Horses. Yes, that’s it.’
‘Tell me about Stephanie,’ said Christine.
‘Look, I know you said you didn’t want dessert, but would you mind if we moved to the library where I can smoke?’ said Henry plaintively.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ said Christine. Henry helped her from her seat and they returned to the library. The fire had been stoked, a bottle of port, a humidor and a large crystal ashtray had been set on a small table beside the fire, and Henry motioned for Christine to sit. She felt quite at home, so she wafted her black chiffon to one side, so that she could pull her feet up onto the chair. Henry’s raised eyebrows descended as he poured drinks, lit a very large cigar, and settled into what was obviously his favorite, very well-worn leather seat. Christine imagined that his father might have felt the same way about it.
‘So, you were going to tell me about Stephanie Timbers,’ said Christine, enjoying the fumes of her port, but merely sipping from her glass.
‘Fine woman,’ said Henry expansively.
Christine was taken aback. Intrigued, even. This was the first time she’d seen Henry Twyst exhibit anything but a polite warmth for a member of the staff at the hall.
‘Full of energy and a good brain too. A little older than you, dear …’ He was now beginning to sound patronizing, and Christine began to worry about how much was too much for Henry to drink to be useful to her. ‘She has brought a new vitality to this place since she arrived,’ he enthused. ‘Been here a few years now and we’ve really noticed the difference. Very good CV. Lots of experience in the world of commerce, you see. Lots of big clients. Not that we are big, and we certainly don’t have the sort of money she’d like us to spend on what she calls targeted communications, but a good egg. Not a very illustrious past in terms of upbringing, but her energy and intelligence have brought her a long way.’
‘So you don’t think she could be—’ Christine didn’t get any further.
‘I won’t hear of it!’ exclaimed Henry, almost dropping his cigar. ‘Stephanie Timbers is a first-class type. Don’t libel her here.’ Christine noted that Henry was quite pink in the face, though she couldn’t be certain if that was because of a special feeling he might have toward Stephanie Timbers, or the amount of alcohol he’d consumed during the evening and his closeness to the fire.
‘It would be slander,’ muttered Christine, ‘but I know what you mean. And I didn’t intend to imply that—’
Once again she was interrupted by her host, who ground his cigar into the ashtray and plopped his glass of port onto the ta
ble. ‘I won’t hear of it, I say,’ he snapped. ‘I did not invite you here to make accusations against people I like.’ He seemed to suddenly be aware of what he’d said and wriggled his shoulders. ‘These are the people I trust most in this world. I’ll thank you to not besmirch their character. I believe it is time I retired and I’ll be so bold as to suggest you do the same.’
Christine decided that, despite the fact that this man was both her client and her host, she had to regain control of the situation. He might be almost twice her age, but she suspected he was far more than twice as intoxicated as she.
Christine stood. ‘Thank you for a delightful evening, Henry. I think you’ve made a very good suggestion. I shall go to my room now and look forward to pursuing my investigation first thing in the morning. I’ve arranged for coffee to be brought up to me early, but I will join you for breakfast. Until then …’ She held out her hand to Henry, who looked as though he’d been smacked in the face by a large haddock.
Saving any alternative, Henry shook Christine’s hand and she left the library, seeking the solace of her own room and a chance to catch up on any messages that Carol had sent. She fumed silently as she mounted the grand staircase. If Henry Devereaux Twyst didn’t want her help, she wondered, why had he approached her? By the time she reached the top of the stairs she had her answer: he wanted her to explain away the bobble hat, not find out why it had come into his mother’s hands. She hoped that Mavis had good news about the woman’s state of mind. Henry’s tales about some particularly dotty behavior had Christine concerned, but she felt more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it all.
SIXTEEN
Mavis MacDonald settled herself into her magnificent bed and pushed her reading glasses onto her nose. She was looking forward to reading what Carol had sent by way of research, so powered up her tablet device, downloaded the email attachments to a message and opened up the document.
As she read, she made pencil notes in a little pad beside her, smiling at the fact that her handwriting was so illegible – to anyone but herself – that many doctors with whom she’d worked at the beginning of her nursing career had decried its form. Mavis, therefore, had two distinct varieties of cursive upon which she could call: her natural scrawl – ideal for her work as an enquiry agent when she needed secrecy, and her legible form – which she reserved for those occasions when it was essential that others could read what she had written.
Once she had read, she began to type. She’d insisted that her tablet had a real keyboard, because she just couldn’t cope with typing little letters on a screen, so her speed and accuracy were adequate.
She reported back to Carol, copying in her two other colleagues, that she had now met the three members of the dowager’s household. Many of her questions about Jennifer Newbury had already been answered by the results of Carol’s research, as had her interest in Ian Cottesloe’s involvement with local youth groups, about which he’d enthused when she’d been wandering the servants’ quarters with him. She requested that Carol try to find out more about Mary Wilson, to whom Mavis had taken an instant dislike.
‘I cannot find it in me to condemn a woman who cooks so well, but she has the most acid of tongues and an unpleasant nature. I know you’ll appreciate that I am attempting to not be overly judgmental when I say she has an edge to her that could slice a girder. I suspect you’ll find pointers in her past, because a woman brimming with so much anger and spite could not have lived her entire life without one or two wee incidents somewhere along the line. I suggest you also check her maiden name, Mary Vaughan. She’s a very large woman, in all dimensions, and I will admit that I find her intimidating, but that’s not the issue. She has a temper and a sense of entitlement, and those do not sit well together, in my experience.’
Mavis continued to read her penciled notes, this time, the ones she’d made earlier in the day. She quite happily spoke aloud as she read and formulated her requests and notes.
‘Althea Twyst seems to be in generally good physical shape, though it is clear from the way that her clothing sits upon her frame that she is losing height and girth. It is not unusual for a woman of her age, and it would appear to be a gradual decline. Her bowed back is, I suspect, the result of the natural aging process. She suffers from arthritic pain, largely in parts of her body where bones have been broken as the result of riding accidents. Her eyesight is, I believe, very good for one of her age. I see no signs of cataracts and she wears spectacles to allow for easier reading. Her mid- and long-distance sight seems good. I do not detect any signs of depression, and her medicine cabinet shows she is on few medications, save statins and, when necessary, over-the-counter painkillers. I have noted no signs of dementia, to date, though that is a condition which can present in many forms and might only be detected over a period of time. Her wits and brain seem sharp.’
Mavis thought for a moment about what she had gleaned about the night in question, reread her notes from her two major discussions with Althea, then began to type. As usual she tried to convey to Carol and, through her, to her other colleagues, the reasons why she was saying what she was.
If her brain and eyes are sound, then the question remains, what did she see that night? I have now had a chance to take her through her experiences twice: once before, and once after, dinner. On both occasions her story remained the same, but there were some interesting details that I would like to put to you all for consideration.
a) I believe that her wee dog, McFli, played a greater part in the proceedings that we had been led to believe. It was he who awakened his mistress, it was also he who drew her attention to the dining room, rather than any of the other rooms. According to Althea, McFli showed considerable interest in the body, which is to be expected, but she mentioned that he was darting about in the dining room while she gave her attention to the figure on the floor. I believe there is every possibility that the bobble hat she found might not have originally been lying where she discovered it. McFli might have picked it up from anywhere in the room, or possibly even another room, then dropped it between the body and the fireplace, which is where it lay, according to Althea.
b) On both occasions, Althea spoke of a ‘hot smell’ in the dining room. She cannot be more specific. I am going to try some experiments (I shall burn and extinguish candles, for example) tomorrow, to see if I can recreate the aroma, so I will give you more information if I can. But please bear this in mind when making your enquiries. I’m sorry to be so vague, but I only have her words to work with.
c) I believe that all three members of the dowager’s household would be capable of lying about being fast asleep that night, and all three have the ability to disarm, and rearm, the alarm system. I will investigate the power supply to the alarm first thing in the morning, as requested by Carol, and will report back via text.
Mavis stopped typing and gave her report some thought. It had been a long and largely productive day, but she was tired. She looked over at the folding alarm clock she took with her on every trip away from her home. She’d long ago learned that it was foolish to rely upon unknown alarm clocks, or even an electronic device, so always packed the small, collapsible clock that her younger son, James, had given her as a gift for a long-ago Mothering Sunday. Behind the face, in the half of the shell that could just be seen when it was opened, she’d carefully inserted a photograph of the entire family, taken when the boys were small, before her poor, dear husband’s early death. The faded colors, sunburned faces, summer clothes and a backdrop of the Lake District’s picturesque landscape always made her smile. It was happy memories of a too-short but joyful marriage, and the knowledge that both her boys were now, themselves, settled with supportive wives with bonnie children, that soothed Mavis MacDonald to sleep that night, though in her dreams her three grandsons appeared to her wearing hoodies and bobble hats, and running about with wee dogs tucked beneath their arms as they raided a jewelry shop in London for a collection of fire irons which turned out to be the plants, Red
Hot Pokers, which she recalled her grannie used to grow in great clumps in the front garden of her slate-roofed bungalow in Dumfries.
SEVENTEEN
Hello Girls – Annie here, as if you couldn’t guess. Sorry I’m so late reporting in. You’ll never guess what – I thought my cover was blown today, but I think I got away with it. DON’T PANIC, Mavis, cos I know you will. It all went OK. I’ll tell you. So, I got off the bus and went to the pub. Met a bloke on the way who turned my tummy with his teeth. Tristan Thomas – Carol put him in her report. Antiques dealer, he SAYS, but I think he’s dodgy. Not because of his teeth, though, frankly, they’re enough, but I saw him later in a photo … right, let me tell you. Sorry. No, I’m not redoing all this, just follow along.
Before I got to the pub this antiques dealer introduced himself, more about him later. At the pub I met the landlord and his wife. They have a son. They are all in Carol’s report. My impressions? He looks the part, but he acts like a fish out of water, even after all the years he’s been running the pub. Doesn’t fit. She’s a local, but looks like she dresses from the markets. Welsh. Bottle blonde. Chip on her shoulder about something. Possibly him. They’ve got a son, like I said, but he’s back in London with family. More about him later too.
Anyway, I was chatting to Jacko, the landlord, when this blast from the past shows up and recognized me. Olive Saxby was friends with Eustelle back in our Mile End days. I was in school with Wayne, her son. He’s only living in that posh estate up on the hill here. Had to go there for dinner. I couldn’t get out of it. Big house. Mansion, really. Ugly as sin and decorated in early Hammer Horror. Plus bling. On his second wife. She’s all right. Merle. Good cook. Quiet. Likes her drink. Olive doesn’t anymore, and I think I know why. Diabetes. Anyway, Wayne was showing me around and – drum roll please – I think I found the bobble hats! Yeah, me! I know