2. Tuppenny Tourists
A WOMAN PLANTED HERSELF in front of Araminta. Short, stout, and blonde, she was encased in a sleeveless white dress which revealed expanses of lobster pink sunburnt flesh. “It’s after two. Why hasn’t the tour started?”
Araminta smiled politely. “We’ll begin as soon as I’ve collected everyone’s tickets.”
“Here’s ours.” The woman thrust a piece of paper at Araminta. “Your website is total rubbish, by the way.” She sniffed. “Tristan gets bored easily, so I hope it’s worth the money.” A lanky teenager lurked in the vicinity, clearly trying to avoid any deliberate contact with his mother.
A tour of an old Georgian home didn’t seem like an activity most adolescents would jump at, so why bring him at all? But Araminta wasn’t about to quibble; eight pounds was eight pounds, after all.
She continued checking tickets from the group of ten people standing in the gravel square in front of the house. Several of them were from her village of Cranley and familiar to her.
Bridy Fisher, the owner of the village shop and post office and an inveterate gossip, clutched at her arm. “Why, Araminta! Are you giving the tour? How nice! Back from Italy for good, are you?” She gave Araminta a bucktoothed smile while her nose, long and pink, twitched in anticipation.
“I’m back for now,” Araminta answered, moving smoothly away.
Rev Percy, dressed in a rumpled brown suit—without his clerical collar—bobbed up in front of her. “Good afternoon, Araminta. I can’t wait to see the pièce de résistance in your collection.”
Araminta lifted her eyebrows. “And by that you mean...”
“The Len Hutton cricket bat, of course. What else?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” The reverend, she belatedly remembered, was something of a cricket tragic. “I look forward to showing it to you.”
Moving on, she collected tickets from a group of ladies before halting in surprise at the next person in line. McVeigh was barman at the local watering hole and just about the last person Araminta would’ve expected to see on a tour of Missenden Hall.
Short, nuggety, and bald, McVeigh was in his customary uniform of frayed jeans, black boots, and white T-shirt that exposed an armful of tattoos. Araminta wasn’t sure what his first name was; everyone simply called him McVeigh. From her limited experience, he was a taciturn man who was good at pulling pints, mopping up spills, and throwing out anyone who got too rowdy in The Jolly Fox. A man who had never shown the slightest interest in the Winthrops or Missenden Hall. Yet, here he was.
He thrust his ticket at her with a suspicious look.
“Thank you, McVeigh,” Araminta said. Then, her curiosity too strong to resist, she added, “I never knew you were interested in historic homes.”
McVeigh eyed her warily. “Ain’t nothing says I can’t, is there?”
Araminta digested the triple negatives before responding, “Of course not. I’m glad you could make it.”
“I paid for me ticket,” he added, a touch belligerent. “I got every right to be here.”
Was McVeigh the person Hetty had referred to when she’d complained about riffraff? The housekeeper had snatched the plate of scones from Araminta and marched off before Araminta could clarify her remark, while Isla, still clutching the Victoria sponge, had scurried after her. Hetty was a woman of strong opinion and conservative values; she could take exception to any number of things. Perhaps she merely objected to McVeigh’s tattoos entering Missenden Hall; it could be as trivial as that.
“I hope you enjoy the tour,” Araminta said warmly.
The last visitor was a smartly dressed man in his late thirties or early forties.
“Hello, Joel Taylor’s the name,” he said with a friendly smile. He produced his ticket from the breast pocket of his pressed linen suit. “Are you our tour guide?”
“I am. I’m Araminta Templeton.”
“A lovely name.” His blue eyes sparkled at her. “I’ll enjoy listening to you.”
Hmm, this one was a bit bold, Araminta thought. A snappy dresser too, with his off-white suit, green gingham shirt, and brown Oxford loafers.
As she moved away, she saw him nodding at McVeigh in a cordial manner.
“Afternoon. Nice weather for a day out, isn’t it?”
McVeigh shrugged his burly shoulders. “S’ppose,” he said out of the side of his mouth. The barman shuffled to one side, as if he didn’t care to stand too close to Joel’s immaculate clothing.
Araminta checked her watch. According to the clipboard notes that Isla had handed her, there was one more ticketholder yet to show up. But it was already six minutes after two, and the crowd was getting restless, especially the sunburnt woman in the white dress. Tristan, the teenager, was lounging against a stone urn, a scowl on his forehead as he gazed at his mobile phone.
Araminta raised her voice, “Well, perhaps we should start—”
“About time, too,” sunburnt woman muttered loudly.
At that moment a familiar Volvo raced into the parking lot and screeched to a halt. A tall, willowy blonde burst from the car and hurried forwards, waving and grinning at Araminta.
Oh, of course, Araminta thought. She should’ve guessed.
“Laura.” She smiled, stepping out to greet her friend.
“Sorry I’m late!” Laura scattered smiles of apologies to everyone around her before aiming an air kiss at Araminta’s cheeks. “Bet you didn’t think I’d be here, huh?” she said in a lowered voice, pulling Araminta aside.
Laura Picard was one of Araminta’s closest friends and owned a high-end fashion boutique in Farrington, the nearby market town.
“You’ve been here before,” Araminta said. “I hardly thought you’d want a guided tour.”
“Ah, but I had to come and see your performance.”
Araminta rolled her eyes. “It’s not a performance. I’ll just be pointing out interesting facts.”
“Which I will listen to with rapt attention. I tried to drag Garrick along, but he was too busy with his cheeses.”
Garrick, the eccentric owner of Good Nosh, an upmarket delicatessen, was another of Araminta’s friends. “I’m glad you didn’t bring him,” she said. “It’s hardly his cup of tea.”
“Well, go on, then.” Laura made shooing motions. “Let’s not keep the punters waiting any more than they already have.”
“No thanks to you,” sunburnt woman muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Araminta turned to the waiting crowd. “Thank you for your patience. If you’ll follow me, we’ll inspect the main staircase first.”
“AND THIS IS A PORTRAIT of William Winthrop, the third Baron Winthrop, who toured extensively on the Continent and brought back many of the collectibles we see today.” Araminta gestured at the huge painting that took pride of place on the wall.
From his lofty height her handsome ancestor gazed down at her, looking like the epitome of noble establishment. Dear Willie had been an extravagant and unrepentant spender who had almost bankrupted the estate with his buying trips to Italy and France.
She had already shown the crowd the main staircase, the upstairs gallery with its view over the grounds, the drawing room, and the morning parlour. They were now in the Great Hall, the most impressive room of Missenden Hall, with its double height windows, coffered ceilings, and crown mouldings. Several large glass-fronted display cabinets held a curated collection of silver, china, and clocks. The nondescript jumble that generations of Winthrops had accumulated had been swept away so that the paintings, antiques, and collectibles could be fully appreciated.
Araminta guessed Aunt Edwina, Isla, and Hetty must have been hard at work for weeks to get this area looking like a proper Great Hall again, but a part of her mourned the loss of the comfortable clutter that used to be here. Dog-eared copies of Punch and Country Life, cracked vases filled with untidy bunches of hyacinths, chipped Toby jugs and tarnished silver—nothing of monetary value but all an intrinsic part of life in an old country mans
ion. However, not many people would be happy paying eight pounds just to see genteel tat.
“He looks like a proper toff,” Debra, the sunburnt woman said after peering at the portrait at length.
“Is he the one who had an Italian princess as a mistress?” Bridy asked, a gleam in her eyes. “And an illegitimate son as a result?”
“Oooh, a scandal, eh?” Debra tittered.
“He did have several mistresses,” Araminta admitted. “He made no bones about them.”
“I pity his poor wife,” Rev Percy murmured.
A few of the other women tut-tutted in unison.
“She did have to put up with a lot,” Araminta said. The baron hadn’t bothered to commission a portrait of her. By all accounts the lady had been meek and mild and far too accommodating. “She and the baron had no children. Moreover, when the Italian princess died, he brought the son back here and raised him as his ward.”
Bridy sucked in her cheeks. “That was very bold of him.”
“I wouldn’t’ve stood for that.” Debra wrinkled her brow and folded her arms. “That’s just too weird.”
“Why?” Joel asked. “He was only trying to do right by the boy.”
“And rubbing his wife’s nose in it. Nope, he was a right pillock.”
Joel frowned and turned away.
Debra glanced at Araminta. “Where’s the current Baron Winthrop, then?”
“Lord Winthrop is at home,” Araminta replied, “but he’s attending to something else.” Hopefully, not the whisky bottle. Not that her uncle was a hard drinker, but these were stressful times for him, and he’d already indulged in a few nips this afternoon.
“Why don’t you call him Baron Winthrop?” Debra said. “He’s a baron, in’t he?”
“Yes, he is, but formally he would be addressed as The Right Honourable, The Lord Winthrop, and less formally as Lord Winthrop. It’s just the way things are. We British like to complicate these things.”
“And you’re related to the baron?” Debra narrowed her eyes at Araminta, as if she expected more gobbledegook.
“That’s right. My father is Lord Winthrop’s younger brother.”
“So who gets the title when your uncle pops his clogs? Has he got any kids?”
Rev Percy smothered a cough at the blunt question.
“No, he doesn’t,” Araminta replied.
“He did once,” Bridy volunteered. “A boy. Robert. Died when he was small. Lovely lad. Pity.”
A sympathetic murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Did you know him?” Joel asked Araminta. “He would have been your cousin.”
The questions were becoming rather personal, Araminta thought. But then again, since she had been regaling them with stories of her forbears, their curiosity was only natural. She shook her head. “He passed away before I was born.” She didn’t add that her aunt and uncle never mentioned him; it was as if Robert had never existed.
“So that means your father will become the next Lord Winthrop, right?” Debra asked.
“I suppose so,” Araminta replied. Assuming, of course, that her father outlived Uncle George, which was a moot point, given her father’s carousing lifestyle.
“And you?” Debra continued doggedly. “Could you eventually be Lady Winthrop?”
McVeigh turned away from the display cabinet he’d been studying to let out a scoffing sound. “Tch, no she can’t! She’s a woman. Women can’t inherit a title, only blokes can.”
Debra pressed her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s just plain daft. We got a queen on the throne, don’t we? So why can’t she—” she jabbed a finger in Araminta’s direction “—become Lady Winthrop?”
“She can’t. That’s just the way it is,” McVeigh said dismissively. He jerked his bald head. “Ask her. It’s true, innit?”
“A few titles do allow women to inherit, but not in this case,” Araminta explained. “The title will eventually pass to my younger brother.” Her half-brother, to be exact, a sibling she barely knew. She’d last seen Terence five years ago, when he’d been an obnoxious sixteen-year-old. “All right. If there are no further questions, let’s proceed to the library.”
She led the way out of the Great Hall, down the hallway, and stopped at the library to hold the door open for the tourists. They filed in one by one. Laura, near the back, gave her a thumbs up as she passed. “You’re doing a smashing job!” she stage-whispered.
Next came Joel, with a sympathetic smile. “It’s so backward, these laws on hereditary titles. It’s not right that a mere accident of birth should deprive you of your rightful inheritance.”
“I’ll leave others to debate that,” Araminta replied.
“Very diplomatic of you. If it were me, I’d be very cheesed off. Ah well, c’est la vie, I suppose.” With another nod, he strolled past her into the library.
In the library Rev Percy went into rhapsodies when she showed them a cricket bat signed by Len Hutton.
“...one of the greatest batmen in the history of cricket. Scored 364 runs against Australia. Outstanding. Injured his arm during the War, you know. His left arm ended up almost two inches shorter than his right. Had to readjust his technique and play with a shortened bat. Captained England, too, you know. What a fine player.”
As the reverend burbled on, the rest of the crowd began shifting their feet. Debra’s teenage son was picking his nose. McVeigh was trying to read the spines of books on the shelves. Laura, catching Araminta’s eye, lolled her tongue out and made a gagging gesture.
Araminta cleared her throat, interrupting the reverend’s painstaking explanation of a cover drive. “Well, that’s fascinating, Reverend, but we’ll have to move on, I’m afraid.”
She walked over to a wooden display cabinet. The long, rectangular box contained several swords and daggers. At the sight of them, the visitors perked up and crowded in, leaving the Reverend behind with the prized cricket bat.
“These weapons were collected over several generations,” she began. She proceeded to talk about the eighteenth-century Spanish sword, the curved Japanese katana, and the Victorian sterling silver dirk.
Tristan, the teenager, who up until now had exuded only boredom, was now pressed up against the cabinet, his face agog with interest.
“Can I try out that Japanese sword?” he asked, his fingers already lifting the glass lid.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t,” Araminta said, trying to shut the cabinet. Why wasn’t it locked? Either the lock was broken, or the key was missing.
The teenager kept his hold on the lid. “I won’t hurt anyone,” he insisted. “I just want to see what it feels like.”
“Tristan does kendo,” Debra said with a touch of pride. “You know, it’s martial arts with big sticks. He’s really good at it. Don’t see why he can’t have a go. I’m sure that sword’s as blunt as a butter knife.”
Were these people serious? “It’s out of the question.” Araminta motioned to Tristan to remove his hand. Sniggering at her, the teenager began to toy with the lid, lifting and lowering it. “Would you mind not doing that?” She glared at him in exasperation and reached out towards the lid. A second later, the lid slipped from his grasp and slammed down on his other hand.
“Owww!” Tristan squealed as he snatched his hand away. He stuck his finger into his mouth, suddenly transforming into a sullen toddler.
“Tristy! Oh, my poor baby!” Shoving everyone out of the way, Debra rushed to her son’s side. She tried to put her arm around Tristan, but he shook her off and stomped away to the other side of the room.
Debra turned on Araminta. “How dare you?” Her flushed cheeks were as red as her sunburnt arms. “You could’ve broken his fingers!”
Araminta stood her ground. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“You deliberately banged the lid onto his hand! You did it on purpose!”
“He dropped the lid himself after I asked him to stop playing with it. This is precisely why we prefer guests don’t handle the ex
hibits.”
Waggling her head from side to side, Debra proceeded to mimic Araminta’s voice. “And this is precisely why I’d prefer it if you weren’t such a berk!”
Araminta stiffened. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Stuck-up cow,” Debra continued, her temper gathering steam. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you, Miss Hoity Toity? Or should I call you Lady Hoity Toity?”
“Oh, my!” Bridy Fisher murmured, eyes darting back and forth.
“Hey, you!” Laura began, her face ablaze, before Araminta hastily motioned to her to stop. The last thing she needed was her best friend leaping to her defence and escalating the situation.
Then, Joel stepped forward. “Don’t you think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill?”
“What?” Debra quivered with rage.
Joel winked at Araminta, a gleam in his eye.
“If your son had broken a finger he’d be making a much bigger fuss,” he said to the outraged mother.
“You don’t know anything about my boy!” Debra hissed. She glared at the others. “None of you do.”
“Well, we know one thing,” McVeigh’s gruff voice rose from the back of the crowd. “Your boy’s a spoiled brat, and it’s no wonder with a mam like you.”
Someone in the room snickered.
Debra gasped and spluttered for several seconds before swinging back to Araminta. “Are you going to stand by and let these—these lummoxes insult me?”
Araminta sighed inwardly. Although she might agree with Joel and McVeigh, Debra and Tristan were customers, after all.
“I’m sorry your son hurt his hand,” she said to Debra. “If you’d like to take him to the tearoom, the housekeeper has a first aid kit there. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”
“A first aid kit?” Debra screeched as if she’d been offered arsenic. “I’ve never been so insulted. Come on, Tristan, we’re leaving. And you!” She stabbed a finger at Araminta, her eyes narrowed to slits. “You better watch your back, Lady Hoity Toity. As for this ratty old dump, I hope it falls down around your ears!”
A Stab in the Dark Page 2