‘Come into my office and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she said grandly. ‘You come, too, Justin. You might have some ideas for me.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that I will. But it’ll be a bit of a squash in there. Let’s go up to the schoolroom,’ said Justin, taking charge without any show of false modesty. ‘Violet might have some ideas too.’
I doubt it, thought Daisy, but she didn’t like to say what was in her mind. More to the point, Rose would probably be in the schoolroom, struggling with some mathematical problems. She had already produced some cleverly phrased dramatic title cards and would be eager to get on with the story behind the film. Rose was always so creative and by now probably had another forty ideas to propose.
‘On the top floor,’ groaned Sir Guy.
‘It will get you fit in time for the hunt,’ said Daisy unsympathetically, but she took his arm and slowed her steps to his, making sure that Justin followed behind as they went up the narrow back staircase to the third floor.
Sounds of music, interspersed with the rattle of the treadle sewing machine, came down to them as they climbed the last flight of steps. Poppy was playing some jazz on the clarinet, Rose accompanying her on the schoolroom piano. Just as they reached the top step, the clarinet ceased and Poppy’s exasperated voice shouted, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Violet, do you have to make such an awful noise with that machine?’
‘Well, I like that—’ Violet stopped in mid-sentence as they came in. Her eyes went to Justin immediately. She smiled graciously, but there was a flush of annoyance on her face.
‘Didn’t know that you were musical, Rose,’ Sir Guy observed tactfully. ‘I thought Poppy was the only one.’
‘Rose is very musical too, but she’s never had lessons,’ said Daisy. Rose was neglected, she thought. It seemed as though once she had been slotted into the pigeonhole of delicacy, her father was uninterested in the talents of his youngest child.
‘Not enough money,’ said Rose cheerfully. ‘Talented Girl Neglected. Musical Genius Left to Starve in the Garret. Blues Singer Begs for Guitar, but is Repulsed by Unfeeling Family.’ She played a chord on the piano and began to sing ‘The St Louis Blues’ in the low, slightly croaky voice that she affected when singing jazz and Poppy lifted her clarinet and accompanied her, while Violet started to run her sewing machine again.
‘It’s not just the machine, it’s that you deliberately put it on top of that loose board,’ shouted Poppy, breaking off in mid-phrase. She was always quite uninhibited and Daisy was not surprised that she took no notice of either Sir Guy or Justin.
‘You could go somewhere else,’ pointed out Violet, trying to smile sweetly. ‘As for loose floorboards, well, I have to have this machine here; it’s the only part of the room where there is enough light for me to see what I’m doing. Why don’t you go down to Morgan’s cottage or something?’
‘No, we can’t; Rose has to do her maths,’ snapped Poppy. Sir Guy grinned at the discarded books on the table and Rose giggled.
‘Why don’t I have a look at that loose floorboard?’ said Justin. ‘My Boy Scout pocket-knife makes a good screwdriver, even if it failed the test as a lock-picker.’
‘What are you sewing, Violet?’ asked Sir Guy at the same moment.
Both of them were keen to bring a smile back to the leading lady’s beautiful face, thought Daisy. It did seem to her that Violet was making an unnecessary noise with that sewing machine. She continually refused offers of help with the clothes, but then wore a martyred air that she was left with all the sewing.
Justin lifted the sewing machine as if it were feather-light, then knelt down on the boards with his knife in his hand. There was no doubt that this particular floorboard seemed to fit badly. First he tried tightening the screws, but then shook his head with annoyance. Daisy watched as he loosened all the screws again, lifting the board from its place.
‘It just doesn’t seem to fit . . .’ he began at the same moment as Violet said in alarmed tones, ‘Don’t get dust on our skirts.’ The other two stopped playing.
‘There’s a box under there,’ said Daisy, bending down.
‘Long-lost Treasure Uncovered from its Centuries-Old Hiding Place.’ Rose came out from behind the piano.
‘No wonder that floorboard didn’t fit. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I put my trusty knife on to it.’ Justin dusted his hands with satisfaction and bent down, taking out the box. Daisy took it from him and carried it over to the window. The schoolroom was tucked into the north-eastern corner at the top of the house, and the light was poor there for most of the day.
The box was made from a thin, fine wood with a hinged lid. That was not what Daisy looked at though. There, on the outside of the box, scrawled in large, uneven, childish capital letters, was the name ELAINE CARRUTHERS.
‘The mysterious Elaine again,’ said Violet, peering over her shoulder. ‘She’s apparently an aunt of ours,’ she added to Justin.
‘We imagine that she had some huge row with Great-Aunt Lizzie so her name must never again be breathed within the sacred portals of Beech Grove Manor,’ explained Rose.
‘Open it, Daisy,’ said Poppy.
‘Hope it’s jewellery,’ said Violet. ‘I could just do with a string of pearls like Daisy’s.’ Then she blushed and gave Sir Guy an embarrassed look.
‘You shall have one as soon as I am snapped up by one of the top London law firms – at a top salary, of course,’ promised Justin, and Violet glared at him.
‘I hardly think that will be necessary once I am married to a duke,’ she said airily. Justin made a show of being shot in the heart and falling down dead and she laughed.
‘Look, everyone – it’s a doll!’ exclaimed Rose.
The box was narrow and deep. On the top of it lay the most beautiful doll. She was a baby doll, her wax face so delicately made and so skilfully tinted that she almost looked real. She had pink cheeks, blue eyes and blonde curls made from real hair. She was dressed in an elaborately flowing gown of palest pink satin with a lace bodice, a frilled hem and a long sash of pink velvet.
‘What’s underneath?’ asked Rose. ‘Oh pray, let me hold her and imagine what it would be like to be young again.’
Daisy handed the doll to her sister. ‘It’s like a little bed,’ she said as she lifted out the tray where the doll had lain. It was covered in a tiny patchwork quilt with a small satin pillow. Underneath was a linen sheet, and beneath that a miniature mattress. ‘Oh, it’s a wardrobe!’
The rest of the box was designed like a child’s wardrobe, painted white with tiny primroses stencilled between the decorative scrolls. It had a hinged door. Daisy set it on end and opened it.
Hanging on the rail were more dresses and fur cloaks, even a muff the size of a stamp to keep the baby’s hands warm. Beside the hanging space was a row of drawers, each with a little brass knob. The top drawer was full of nappies and safety pins, the second had caps of all descriptions – lace caps, cotton caps and knitted wool caps – and the third held aprons.
Daisy pulled out the top apron and then she had a shock.
The apron, like all the clothes, was exquisitely made, but the embroidery on it was obviously done by a young child. In large, unsteady, uneven stitches was the word DAISY. The other aprons also bore that name.
‘She’s called after you,’ said Rose. ‘She must be your doll from another life.’
‘No, she’s Elaine’s doll,’ said Daisy. For a moment she had been puzzled by the name, but then she found an explanation. ‘I suppose when I was born I looked like Elaine’s doll – I was blonde and blue-eyed so Mother decided to call me Daisy – anyway, it went well with Poppy and Violet,’ she added briskly. For a moment she hesitated and then spoke out. ‘Don’t let’s say anything about this,’ she said with a glance at Justin and Sir Guy.
‘Or Great-Aunt Lizzie will sell it.’ Rose nodded wisely. ‘It’s a sad thing to watch one so old becoming so mercenary,’ she added.
‘Let’s talk about t
he film,’ said Daisy hurriedly. ‘Justin, can you put back the floorboard? Give me the doll, Rose. I’ll just take it down and hide it in my wardrobe.’
By the time she came back Poppy had disappeared but the others were busily discussing the film – or at least Justin was giving his views and everyone else was listening: Sir Guy with a good-humoured expression on his face, Violet with bated breath, needle in hand, and Rose drawing spiders inside glass boxes on the back page of her mathematics book.
‘What we’ve decided is the best plan, Daisy,’ said Justin with authority, ‘is for you to film me and Violet in all sorts of outdoor locations: near the stables – it could be me and Violet about to ride together, sitting on our horses, with Morgan watching over the hood of the car, of course – and then there could be Violet feeding the hens with me watching her, showing love and admiration on my face, and then . . . and then,’ he said with a sidelong glance at Violet, ‘there could be a scene where Morgan goes for a walk through the garden and comes upon me and Violet kissing under the archway . . .’
‘Certainly not,’ said Violet, but she said it with a smile and Daisy noticed Sir Guy look appraisingly from her face to Justin’s.
‘Quelle histoire ennuyeuse,’ said Rose with a yawn. Aunt Lizzie had taught her from the battered copy of French for Young Ladies that she had used when teaching the older girls, but that was not enough for Rose so now she was teaching herself French by means of the books of Victor Hugo and a dictionary and liked to sprinkle her conversation with French phrases. Justin looked annoyed and Sir Guy amused.
‘Some good ideas there,’ said Daisy briskly, trying to banish speculations about the doll from her mind. ‘I’ll talk to Morgan,’ she said. ‘Now let’s plan what I need to film during the hunt and during the Murder in the Dark game.’
Chapter Eleven
The day of the hunt started off gloomily but once breakfast was over the fine rain had begun to cease and the sun had appeared through the trees by the time the first of the neighbours trotted up the avenue. The Beech Grove Manor drag hunts were famous and people came from miles around to attend them. Traditionally everyone brought their own sandwiches and their own flask, whether of coffee or something stronger, so this was one of the few social events that the Derrington family could afford to keep up.
Daisy and Poppy had made up six packages of sandwiches for the house party the night before, sitting cosily in front of the kitchen stove wrapping them in greaseproof paper and filling flasks of coffee and tea. Lunch would be eaten at The Folly, an eighteenth-century copy of a Roman temple built by an ancestor on top of a hill in order to give a good view of the whole estate and its woods. The Folly, though open at the sides, was furnished with a cast iron table and a dozen chairs. Morgan had found pieces of an iron stove out in the stables which he had carried out and reassembled inside the stately building. Now everyone would be warm as well as sheltered while they ate their lunch.
The scene outside the stables was very colourful with black, brown, white and palomino horses and orange and white harrier hounds. Some of the neighbours were in hunting pink, although most, like the Earl himself, just wore their usual tweed jackets.
One by one everyone mounted, until only a single horse was left without a rider. Eventually Sir Guy appeared and looked without favour at the huge animal being held by the stableman.
‘What’s his name?’ he asked dubiously.
‘Morning Cloud, sir.’ The stableman moved the horse a little nearer to the mounting block.
‘Are you sure it’s not Brute?’ muttered Sir Guy as the horse backed and tossed its head.
‘C’mon, Guy,’ said Michael Derrington. ‘You’re always saying that you would like to experience a hunt. Well, now’s your chance. Anyway, that’s the only horse in the stable that will bear your weight, old man.’
Daisy eyed her father with a grin. She was a little sorry for her godfather, but on the other hand it was lovely to see her father so cheerful. She hoped that the day would go well for him. It would take a lot to disturb his mood this morning with the prospect of a good run through the beech woods ahead of him. He loved dogs, he loved horses, and above all he loved the woods and fields of the estate that had been owned by his family for hundreds of years.
‘Keep to the rear when we get into the woods, Sir Guy,’ she advised. ‘You’ll be all right with him. He’s an old horse. He won’t be too interested in trying to keep up with youngsters.’
‘Tell him that, not me,’ grumbled Sir Guy.
‘Lifeless Body of Well-known Film Magnate Dragged Through Historic Woods,’ chanted Rose as they walked their horses down the avenue behind the whirling, tail-wagging medley of white and orange dogs.
‘“Nothing to do with me,” says Earl. “The man just did not know how to ride”,’ chimed in Baz.
‘“Gave him the best horse in my stables”,’ said Edwin from the other side of Poppy.
‘Ugly Rumours in the Neighbourhood,’ went on Rose happily.
‘You can mock,’ said Sir Guy, ‘but I’ve got a huge Fuller’s walnut cake, sent down by train yesterday, for my lunch; I’m warning you now that only sympathetic and understanding young people will get a slice of it.’
‘They’ve picked up the scent!’ yelled Baz. ‘Hold on to your hats, you guys and dolls. Can you take that hedge, Poppy?’
‘You betcha,’ said Poppy. She jumped and they heard Baz yell ‘Jeepers creepers!’ as her horse almost tumbled, righting itself at the last moment.
‘Come on, Justin,’ shouted Violet.
But Justin had reined back his horse, watching Violet. It was not a good angle for her but she cleared the hedge magnificently.
‘I’m going around by the gate,’ Daisy heard him say as she herself cleared the hedge a little further down, but by then Violet was almost out of sight.
I should check on Sir Guy, thought Daisy, but she couldn’t make herself slow down or stop. Ahead were the dogs, screaming with excitement. Their noses were to the ground where a bag of aniseed had been trailed across the wet earth earlier this morning which still gave off a pungent, exciting smell. These were dogs bred to hunt and this was what they lived for: the rushing through trees, the scrambling up hillsides, the splashing through puddles, the swimming through streams, the agony of losing the trail, the ecstasy of finding it again.
There was nothing in the world as exciting as drag hunting, thought Daisy, who had never quite accepted the idea of hunting a living, breathing animal. She should have been filming, she knew, but she could not resist the first run of the day. Morgan had promised to bring her camera when he came out to light the fire at The Folly and she would sacrifice the second run for the sake of her film.
After two and a half hours of hectic riding, the hounds eventually found the bag of aniseed in a disused chalk quarry at the foot of Folly Hill. The dog cart was there already and the stableman had a bag of treats for the dogs to distract them from the aniseed, which was quickly packed away to be kept for another day. Wearily everyone dismounted. The horses were rubbed down and allowed to drink from the river before they could have their own lunch.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ said Justin in aggrieved tones to Violet as they climbed the steep hill ahead of Daisy. ‘After all, you were the one who invited me to go on this hunt. Pretty rude to go off without your guest, wasn’t it?’
Violet turned to face him, her colour high. She never could bear criticism.
‘Well,’ she said with a shrug, ‘come to that, why were you such a coward? Why couldn’t you jump that little hedge instead of going all the way around? I hate not being in the front of the hunt. I wouldn’t have mentioned it,’ she added loftily, ‘if you hadn’t been so rude. Well, go on then, why didn’t you stay with me?’
‘Didn’t want to get myself killed.’ Justin’s voice was cold.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Violet impatiently. ‘Who gets killed jumping a little hedge?’
My Uncle Clifford did,’ said Justin.
‘I saw him break his neck – not a very nice sight. I was about five years old at the time – on my first pony – he was seventeen – it made quite an impression on me – rather put me off all this hunting stuff, I’m afraid.’
And with that he almost elbowed Violet out of the way and strode at a fast pace up the hill. Violet raced after him, but when Daisy got there they were apart – Violet greeting their guests, a little red in the face, and Justin sitting alone, gazing with a set expression into the flames of the lovely fire that Morgan had lit in the old stove. He did not even approach the table when Rose shrieked with delight at the sight of the magic name of F & M on the label of a large, handsome wicker basket.
‘Fortnum and Mason hamper! Oh I say, old boy, that’s very generous of you,’ said the Earl as Sir Guy came staggering in.
‘Pour me a glass of brandy and no one speak to me until I have swallowed it,’ said Sir Guy, limping over to a chair and sitting down stiffly. ‘Daisy, I shall accompany you and your camera this afternoon. Nothing would ever persuade me to get up on that brute again.’
‘Take you back to the house in the dog cart, sir, if his lordship is agreeable to that,’ said Morgan. ‘You could have a bit of a rest.’ He grinned at the stableman. ‘Tom here will lead back the two horses, won’t you, Tom?’
‘A nice sleep on my bed until all you lively people come back . . . well that sounds just right,’ said Sir Guy, beginning to revive a little after finishing his brandy. He leaned forward with interest as Rose untied the red silken ribbon and pushed back the wicker lid. ‘They told me that it is a hunting hamper, but I made them add a Fuller’s walnut special. C’mon, m’dear, find something for a dying man. And who knows,’ he added, ‘I might just last until I am murdered in the dark tonight.’
Surveying with satisfaction the astonished glances from the neighbouring hunting squires and their offspring, Sir Guy seized the knife from the hamper, sliced off a neat segment from the large iced walnut cake and offered it to Daisy.
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