The jumper almost came to Rose’s knees, but the clear blue suited her and Violet gave a satisfied nod. ‘Looks good with the riding breeches,’ she remarked, ‘but I’d say that in London you’d have no excuse to wear them. It will have to be skirts.’
She picked up a soft moss green, put it aside with an appraising look, and then took the black jumper from the pile.
‘Try it on, Daisy,’ she urged.
‘It will make me look ridiculous, as if I’m in mourning,’ objected Daisy, but it was easier to give in to her sister so she pulled it over her head. It felt incredibly soft, and warm as a blanket.
‘Looks good,’ said Justin from the windowsill. ‘Makes you look very grown-up. Shows up your hair too. Makes it a lovely silvery blonde. And makes your skin seem very white.’
Daisy felt herself blush and hoped that Violet would not notice, or if she did that she would not make any comment.
‘Come down and you can see yourself in the looking glass,’ suggested Violet, but Daisy shook her head.
‘No, I can’t, Vi. I’ll help you carry down the stuff but I need to work on my film. Rose, why don’t you do your schoolwork now and then when I’ve finished developing we can plan the film together and you can do some title cards for the frames we select.’
When Daisy reached the basement she was surprised to see Sir Guy coming in the back door, followed by Morgan carrying something large, wrapped in brown paper, in his arms.
‘Ah, my favourite goddaughter,’ said Sir Guy, looking a little embarrassed.
‘I’m your only one,’ responded Daisy mechanically, wondering what on earth Morgan was carrying. Sir Guy had volunteered, to everyone’s surprise, to escort the Duchess to the station at Maidstone and had gone off, after an early breakfast, sitting beside Her Grace in the squashy back seat of the ancient Humber.
‘Just go out and see if I left my newspaper in the car, would you, Daisy?’ said Sir Guy and she went out of the back door, shivering a little as she crossed over towards the stables. She was half sorry that she hadn’t grabbed one of the discarded jumpers from Robert’s trunk. Even if that dark green was quite unbecoming on her, it would have been warm. Today, with the frost still silver in the shadowy parts of the stable yard, was definitely a three-jumper day – especially in the icy darkness of her dairy. In a while I’ll have a hot mug of cocoa, thought Daisy. It will warm my hands as well as my insides. She would take another out to Justin, she decided. Even if the sun was on the bridge it would be cold work fishing on a day like today.
There was no newspaper on the seat of the Humber and none in its capacious boot. In the distance Daisy could see her father riding slowly down the back avenue – he had come home earlier than usual from his morning ride. He would be worried about the house party and would be racking his brains to think how he could get money to buy new clothes for his daughters. His instinct would be to refuse permission to allow the visit and that would solve all his problems. As long as he could shut away the outside world he could avoid confronting his financial problems. But first of all he had to justify himself and Daisy was the one he usually chose in order to unburden himself of guilt.
I’m not going to tell him that turning down this visit is the right thing to do, thought Daisy. Not this time. This is too important for Violet. She has a right to have her chance.
There were voices inside the open door to her darkroom as she came in and she stopped short.
There was a smell of oil in the room, but that was not all.
Standing in the corner of the dairy pantry, well fenced in with an ancient fireguard, was an upright oil heater, painted black and with the word PERFECTION stamped on it. It had a screened window to view the flame and a small brass fuel-level indicator to show how much oil was in it. Already a wave of delicious warmth was filling the tiny room. Daisy gasped. Her eyes began to fill with tears. Her voice shook as she said uncertainly, ‘That’s not for me!’
Daisy was not used to being given treats. It was so seldom that anyone had time to think of her. She was sensible enough to know that Poppy needed to be treated carefully and that her music lessons were essential, that Rose was a delicate child who needed extra care, that life at Beech Grove Manor was harder on Violet than on anyone else, but sometimes she felt that it would be nice to think someone was concerned about her.
‘No, no, no.’ Sir Guy sounded shocked. ‘Not for you at all, m’dear. I’m just worried about the film. Isn’t that right, Morgan?’
Morgan gave a grin. ‘That’s right, Sir Guy. Expensive stuff, films. Cold and damp must be very bad for them. I feel the same about my drums. Never let the fire in the range die down too far.’
‘There you are then,’ said Sir Guy happily. He accepted Daisy’s kiss, but said hurriedly, ‘Now get working, Miss Daisy. I’m looking forward to seeing this film. Remember, tell a story and tell it through the pictures. Don’t say this to Rose, but the fewer the title cards, the better your film will be and the more your audience in the cinema will lose themselves in the story.’
‘And don’t move that heater from that safe corner, or fill it yourself,’ added Morgan. ‘Sir Guy has bought a barrelful of oil that will be delivered later. I’ll keep it in my workshop in the stables and I’ll light the burner and check the level every morning. Don’t you touch it, my lady! If anything is wrong with it come and fetch me.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed her godfather. ‘Film is dangerous stuff. Will burst into flames as easy as anything. Always happening in studios! These young lads insist on smoking and one spark and the place goes up in flames. I make my youngsters go outside to smoke. Can’t stand the smell of their cheap cigarettes either.’
Talking fast to cover Daisy’s thanks, he went out and Morgan, giving her a smile, went after him.
Two hours later, Daisy sat back and thought. The reel of film had been developed and pegged on to the little line to dry. Then she had taken out her scissors and cut out promising sequences. Normally she rushed in and out, doing one job at a time, but today, in this delicious warmth, she just sat and thought. What did she want to achieve with this film? A movie that had substance . . . that would have the audience sitting on the edges of their seats . . . a story that would bring gasps of horror – even the odd tear.
What had she got so far?
Well, lots and lots of wonderful background shots. Violet’s first sight of Justin that day by the lake; Justin looking up at Violet as she sat on her horse and looked demurely down at him. A few interesting close-up frames – Justin and Violet dancing together, their eyes locked, every fibre of their being showing how attracted they were to each other. Daisy gazed for a long time at these frames. It was such a shame that they were just pretending. Justin was exactly the sort of man she wanted for her eldest sister – someone who had some spark. But it was impossible – Justin had made no secret of the fact that he was as poor as they were, living by his wits at the moment. He would be on the lookout to marry a rich heiress, not someone like Violet without a penny to her name, a girl from an almost bankrupt estate that would descend to a hostile heir. Denis Derrington had no interest in the family, no desire to do anything that would make their life more bearable, and that fact was unalterable. Violet had to marry money. And, thought Daisy wisely, she would be happiest if she married a man with a country estate and a grand house. Unlike her younger sisters she had never become reconciled to their poverty.
Still, her professional side told her that the frames were excellent. There were other good ones: Rose listening to the Duchess with bated breath; Baz and Poppy laughing together; Great-Aunt Lizzie with a look of satisfaction in her gimlet eyes; Maud serving demurely at table; Bateman bending over her father offering him wine with a look of such affection, such concern on his old face; Violet crying hopelessly (but still looking pretty) sitting on the windowsill of her bedroom . . .
Not enough drama, she thought. She got to her feet, leaving her prize frames on the table. She would walk around and think, she de
cided. Perhaps being so warm was robbing her of ideas. Almost automatically she took her camera, loaded a new spool of film into it and went out into the stable yard. Morgan was out there, a workbench spread with nuts and bolts from the ancient Humber in front of him.
Morgan seemed to be having trouble with one of the nuts on a bolt. She heard him swear as he desperately twisted the wrench, but nothing seemed to happen. He stood back, took a long breath, his chest swelling under the tight singlet that he wore. Immediately Daisy raised the camera. A look of fury was on his face as he eyed the nut – more than fury, a look of intense hatred, a look such as she had never seen him wear before. He was so immersed that he did not look towards her and did not hear the camera whirring. He swung the sledgehammer and brought it crashing down on the bolt.
Then he looked over at Daisy, surprised to see her. She lowered the camera and eyed him appraisingly.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I always imagine that I am hitting the man who killed my best friend when we were in the trenches. There’s nothing like good honest hatred. Gives you that extra bit of strength. There’s always a way around things, isn’t there?’
‘That’s probably very true,’ said Daisy gravely. Yes, she thought as she walked back to her darkroom. There is always a solution if you juggle ideas enough.
She knew now how to handle her film.
Morgan would be the murderer, she thought as the gong went for lunch.
Chapter Ten
‘I have a brilliant idea,’ said Rose next day. She was studying the frames laid out on the table and stretching her thin hands appreciatively towards the lovely warmth coming from the oil heater. She picked up the ones that showed Morgan brandishing the sledgehammer and smiled.
Daisy waited. Her youngest sister had a wonderful imagination.
‘Murder in the Dark,’ said Rose.
‘You mean for a title?’
‘No, the game.’
‘Oh, the game.’ Daisy was beginning to guess. Right through the winter months the Derrington girls and the jazz band boys played the game Murder in the Dark, an elaborate and much more thrilling form of hide and seek. ‘Yes, we play Murder in the Dark, you film it – now, wait a minute, let me think . . . Yes, I’ve got it.’ Rose took a deep breath and shut her eyes.
Daisy watched her with amusement. Rose could be very dramatic.
‘The film,’ began Rose in her story-telling voice, ‘all takes place at a house-party weekend. The heroine, a beautiful girl (Violet), is madly in love with a handsome young man (Justin). Her father—’
‘Sir Guy,’ interrupted Daisy. She was beginning to guess. ‘He said that he wanted to be a victim,’ she added.
‘Her father,’ continued Rose, ‘refuses to allow them to marry. So during a game of Murder in the Dark, he is actually murdered.’
‘But not by Justin,’ stated Daisy.
‘Of course not. The hero is never the murderer,’ said Rose wisely. ‘The murderer has to be Morgan with that great shot you took of him.’
‘So who will Morgan be, then?’ asked Daisy.
‘Morgan will be the chauffeur. That’s easy to set up – just shoot a couple of frames of him with the car. Anyway, for years he has nursed a hopeless passion for Vi. A bit like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. When he hears her father deny his daughter her last chance of happiness – well, he thinks he will willingly go to the scaffold in order to give his beloved her heart’s desire. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done,’ she added dramatically. Rose was a great fan of the works of Charles Dickens and had read them all before she was ten years old.
‘I think that would work,’ said Daisy slowly, seeing the story in dramatic black and white unfold in her mind’s eye.
‘While the young people are playing the game of Murder in the Dark during a house party,’ resumed Rose, ‘he listens at the window, then steals into the house, finds Sir Guy and hits him over the head.’
‘That’s very good,’ said Daisy admiringly. ‘But I need some more shots, don’t I – as well as the Murder in the Dark ones, of course. I need to have Justin quarrelling with Sir Guy. I think I might have an idea about that,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘but the difficulty will be to have Morgan gazing longingly at Violet.’
‘Excuse me, your ladyship, Lady Elizabeth is looking everywhere for you.’ Maud tapped on the door and then put her head inside and gave Rose a quick smile.
‘I’ll slip out the back door,’ said Rose rapidly. ‘Tell her I have gone for a health-giving walk.’
‘Take my spare jumper – I don’t need it. I’m really warm here.’ When Rose had disappeared, Daisy eyed Maud. There seemed to be no way of asking the question tactfully so she came straight out with it, explaining Rose’s idea for a film and showing the picture of Morgan and his sledgehammer. ‘I just want one of him looking longingly, lovingly at someone,’ she finished, looking hopefully at Maud.
‘Not seen him do that, my lady,’ said Maud briskly. ‘You’d best be asking Lady Poppy. She’d know him better, I reckon.’
So there was no love interest between Morgan and Maud – or if there were, she was not willing to divulge it. She would have to ask Poppy. Perhaps he looked lovingly and longingly at his drums. That would be quite a bonus, thought Daisy, and then switched her mind to Sir Guy. He had told her firmly that he couldn’t act, but he was happy to be a body. However, she had an idea and now was the time to put it into practice.
Now for Justin, thought Daisy. She needed his co-operation, so first of all she made two mugs of hot cocoa and carried them out to the bridge over the lake.
‘Drink it quickly while it’s still hot,’ she ordered. He didn’t look too happy, she thought and the fishing basket was empty of fish. All to the good – he might be more willing to fall in with her suggestion.
‘Do you remember telling me that you were very good at annoying people?’ she began, omitting to point out that he had a chocolate moustache around his mouth. He had a touchy sense of his own dignity and she wanted to get his agreement to her plan. ‘When you were at school, at Harrow,’ she added.
‘Oh, that!’ He began to laugh. ‘I could tell you some funny stories.’
‘How did you do it though?’ she asked, trying to sound meek and admiring.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s easy when you understand psychology. Once you can put your finger on someone’s weak spot, you can always needle them.’
Daisy nodded admiringly. ‘That’s very clever,’ she said. ‘So if you wanted to annoy Sir Guy, you would criticize one of his films.’
‘Never seen any, to my knowledge,’ he said promptly. ‘Anyway, why do you want me to annoy him? He seems a nice fellow.’
‘It’s for my film and I’ve got an idea. He and my father have gone over to Brampton to see about the drag hunt; they’ll be back soon – you could meet him in the yard. I’ll ask Rose to get Father out of the way. Try to make Sir Guy stop just outside the hen house. I’ll be inside, with the camera on the windowsill, and the clucking of the hens will stop him hearing the whirring sound as I’m filming. I only need a minute or so.’
‘So what am I going to say?’ To her relief, Justin sounded amused.
‘Just tell him that you hear he’s going to make a film of A Tale of Two Cities, and as a lover of Dickens—’
‘Can’t stand his books – too long-winded,’ interrupted Justin, ‘but I get your point.’ A mischievous smile curved his lips. Daisy could not resist and reached up with her handkerchief to wipe the chocolate foam from around his mouth.
‘Stop behaving like my nanny,’ he said, but he was still smiling. ‘Trust me. I think I can annoy anyone when I put my mind to it – sheer jealousy of a superior mind, of course. That always does the trick.’
There was a very good view of the avenue from the front windows of the ballroom and Daisy waited there until she saw her father and Sir Guy come riding slowly through the large iron gates. They stopped then, and after a minute
’s conversation the Earl turned off towards the farm manager’s cottage, leaving Sir Guy to ride on alone. This was an unexpected piece of luck. No need to get Rose to separate her father from his friend. She ran downstairs, grabbed her camera and was safely in the hen house by the time Sir Guy rode past towards the stable yard.
Justin gave him a few minutes and then sauntered up, loitering around the cobbled yard, nudging with his boot at hens that came running up in the hope of being fled.
‘Ah, Sir Guy.’ His tone of voice was condescending and Daisy smiled to herself as she saw the slightly offended look on her godfather’s face.
But that was nothing to the look that dawned when Justin went into a passionate tirade about the sacredness of Charles Dickens’s work and the idiocy – Justin repeated the word with satisfaction – of expecting to be able to convey the depths of the novelist’s genius through such a trumpery medium as cinema. There was a lot more like that. Justin liked the sound of his own voice and began to be carried away by his own artistic pretensions. Not only did he give his opinions in a way that was quite unlike any young man of his age, continually interrupting Sir Guy’s attempts at justifying his project, but he poured such scorn on it and made it sound so ridiculous that Daisy, safely hidden within the hen house, had to bite her lip hard to stop giggling and risk jerking the camera.
The fury on Sir Guy’s face was wonderful. Daisy kept the camera going, shooting frame after frame. Justin was good too. Blank astonishment, rising anger, and then, as the older man’s fury erupted, head hanging, backing away. Sir Guy shouted after him that he did not know the first thing about cinema, that cinema was an art form . . .
And then Daisy emerged, picking feathers from her hair and holding out the camera.
‘And cut,’ she said, bursting out laughing at his expression.
‘What! You little monkey.’ Her godfather began to laugh. ‘You put him up to it, didn’t you?’
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