by Alisa Craig
It would beat a Cardiff jail, too. If Ludovic could recognize a Mountie in his pajamas, there was probably a reason. Rhys smiled up at the butler in comradeship.
“Is Miss Wadman awake yet, do you know?”
“The young ladies are both asleep, sir, or were when I glanced into their room. Miss Valerie does not take tea in the mornings as a rule.”
Ludovic took the empty cup from Rhys. “Speaking as a Welshman and not as a butler, sir, I have seen a great many young ladies in and out of this house, but never one to beat Miss Wadman. She is not also Welsh, by any chance?”
“Her mother was a Hughes, so she must have one foot over the border, at any rate. The Wadmans came out from Derbyshire, I believe, shortly after that unfortunate disagreement among the colonies. They were yeoman farmers and bought part of a Loyalist grant down in Pitcherville.”
“The land has remained in the family, sir?”
“Absolutely. Her elder brother is doing an excellent job with the ancestral acres and is raising three fine sons to carry on after him.”
“You will be doing the same soon, sir.”
Rhys smiled. No doubt Lady Rhys and Janet had that all arranged between them. A boy’s best friend was his mother. “Mine is not a hereditary position, Ludovic. Who gets the property after Squire?”
“Strictly speaking, Squire has never had it. Mr. Cyril, as the eldest son, is the legal owner. There is an entail of sorts. Excuse me, sir. I have enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of your conversation, but I must be getting on with my work. Squire will be down to breakfast any minute now.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you. I’ll be down myself as soon as I get dressed.”
“Squire will be glad of your company.”
“Ludovic, does he know who I am?”
“He knows you are Sir Emlyn’s son and Sir Caradoc’s nephew, sir.”
“Great-nephew, actually. Thank you, Ludovic. I’ll do as much for you sometime.”
“I trust I shall not require to avail myself of your services, sir.”
They parted on the most amicable of terms and Madoc went to get shaved. So Ludovic knew the Mounties had arrived and Ludovic, unless he was a liar as well as a sometime knave, had not seen fit to apprise his employer of that fact. Rather had not informed his non-employer. It was hard to think of Squire as not being head of Graylings in fact as well as in demeanor and appearance. Rhys wished very much indeed that he knew exactly how the financial arrangements worked at Graylings and what effect Granny’s death was going to have on them.
So Cyril was the actual lord of the manor? But did Cyril have any control over the purse strings? And where did Donald, May, and Clara come in? Not to mention Herbert the faithful steward, Lawrence the faithful family lawyer, Ludovic the allegedly faithful old retainer, Valerie the no doubt frequently unfaithful granddaughter, whatever offspring Lawrence and Clara might have, and that pair of May and Herbert’s who, from the look of their eyeballs by the end of last evening, had been playing at something other than billiards. With a silent cheer for the marvels of modern electronics, Rhys turned on the shower, reached under the things in his shaving kit, and pulled out a small black box.
“Dick Tracy here,” he murmured into the microphone end. A tinny cackle from the receiver assured him he was on. “Listen, Hercule, I think I’ve got into something. No, murder for gain, most likely. Looks to me like an old woman done with a pillow, but I’ve nothing but hunches so far. Everyone’s being very polite about it. I’m not asking for help. You’d have a job flying anybody in under these conditions, and at this stage there’s not even a case to warrant the effort. I just wanted you to know what’s up, and be ready to fly my girl out if things turn sticky. When’s the storm supposed to...oh, not good, eh? Well, Joyeux Noël.”
Down in the States, radio disc jockeys must be dreaming of a white Christmas. Over in Britain, some sweet middle-aged lady with a penchant for gore and a driving lust for an advance royalty check would be pounding out a mystery novel about a house party trapped in a blizzard. This wasn’t any real blizzard, not by Canadian standards, but it was pretty thick out there and likely to remain so for a day or two, according to his informant. Fa la la. Rhys buried the midget transistorized two-way radio under his shaving tackle again and went to put some clothes on.
As he was leaving his room, looking especially poetic in the rust-colored heather mixture pullover Janet had so lovingly and laboriously knit for him, the knitter herself came stumbling out into the hall, still wearing her bundle of blue fleece and, no doubt, her pearls and thermal underwear.
“Oh, Madoc, am I late for breakfast?”
“You’ve missed your morning cuppa, that’s all. Ludovic was around with tea a while back. He begged leave to congratulate me on my taste in brides, which I graciously granted. Don’t get up yet unless you feel like it. Breakfast will be laid on for at least another hour, I’m sure. And don’t prim that stiff upper lip at me or I’ll kiss it.”
He did anyway. “I’m going down and break a bun with Squire. As to Granny, Ludovic says the drill is that we behave as though nothing has happened.”
“Madoc, has something?”
“Not now, darling. I’ll see you downstairs. One doesn’t make one’s own bed, by the way.”
Janet looked horrified. “All right if you say so, but I’ll never be able to explain to Annabelle.”
She gave him a peck on the cheek to ease the pain of parting and went along to the bathroom. Rhys knew he should wish her elsewhere, but how could he when the mere thought of being away from her was too dreadful to admit into consciousness? Anyway, there was no chance of getting her out without putting her to greater risk from the weather than she stood at in the house, and furthermore Ludovic liked her. Whatever had happened to Granny must surely be a family affair. The best protection Rhys could give Janet was to leave it that way, for as long as he could manage.
Playing the role of an undistinguished member of a distinguished family, in love with a young woman as eminently loveworthy as Miss Janet Wadman and not much interested in anything else, should convince any murderer that neither he nor she was a threat. It would involve a lot of hand holding and so forth, but Rhys was not one to shirk so manifest a duty. He had no trouble putting on a shining morning face for Squire.
“Ah, there you are, Madoc. I was wondering if I’d have to eat my porridge alone.”
Rhys went to the sideboard and took a plate. “Janet should be along sooner or later. She’s getting up now, I believe.”
“That’s a pleasant surprise. I thought she and Val would chatter half the night and sleep all day.”
“Oh, they ragged a bit. Girls will be girls and all that. But Janet was rather done in as she’d mentioned before we went up. By the way, I must tell you that she and I are aware of last night’s sad event. We were with Babs and Clara when they found Mrs. Condrycke. It had been a question of whether we were to be introduced, you see. We quite understood why they felt it would be wiser not to spoil the memory of a delightful evening by rousing everyone and spreading the bad news. Janet and I do sympathize most sincerely. If the weather permitted, we’d take our discreet departure, but as we can’t do that, please count on us to do whatever will make things easier for you and your family.”
“My boy, you mustn’t think of leaving. Surely you realize that while we’re all naturally grieved, we’re not in the least surprised. Considering Granny’s age and the state of her health, she could have gone any time these past two years. We’d all bowed to the inevitable some time ago.”
Squire put down his porridge spoon and bowed to the inevitable a moment longer, then shook his head and bravely picked up the spoon again. “With the lads home from school and the whole family gathered together for a happy holiday, it would be too cruel to go into mourning for what couldn’t have been helped. Clara was quite right in her decision. We must carry on. Granny wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, nor do I.”
He took a manful scoop of porridge.
“Between ourselves, Madoc, life can be damned dreary up here for my daughters during these long winter months. Not that they complain. Wonderful women, both of them, always ready for a prank. I can’t help thinking of Queen Alexandra and her children. Did you know that when they got together, those grownup princes and princesses used to romp and play like a crowd of young hobbledehoys? That’s the true family spirit, Madoc. That’s what I like to see here at Graylings. And damn it,” Squire wiped his nose rather savagely on his napkin, “that’s what we’re going to have this Christmas. I suppose,” he added on a more conventionally matter-of-fact note, “it’s much the same when your family get together.”
Rhys tried to picture his Welsh relatives romping like young hobbledehoys for the edification of his great-uncle and couldn’t manage it. They’d more likely be either singing in parts, making up rude rhymes in the ancient bardic tradition, drinking, eating, or exchanging heated views on their pet subjects of religion, music, and sheepdip.
“Oh, you know the Welsh,” he murmured. “Our idea of a wild time is reading the juicier bits from the Song of Solomon. This is marvelous bacon, Squire. Home-cured, by any chance?”
“Every bite of it. Herbert’s a great hand with the hogs. There’ll be roast suckling pig tonight.”
“My word, you do your guests proud. Tell me, sir, do we go ahead with the mumming you mentioned?”
“Absolutely. They’ve all been working on their costumes for months, I shouldn’t wonder. Can’t deprive them of the chance to show off.”
“I’m afraid Janet and I didn’t come prepared for a masquerade.”
“Oh, we’ll rig up something for you. Ah, Janet, there you are now. Looking blithe and bonny, I must say. Did you sleep well?”
“I slept later than I should have, I’m afraid,” she replied in a neat evasion. “I do hope I’m not the last one down. Where is everybody?”
“Most of them are still in bed, the wretches. May’s out in the kitchen holding a staff conference. Babs is up in the attic hunting out the Christmas trimmings. We always set up the tree on Christmas Eve. Clara came to my room earlier, but I sent her back to bed. I expect she’ll be down to help with the tree, though. Perhaps you’d like to lend a hand after breakfast?”
“Of course, I’d love to.” Janet hesitated a moment, then came over and gave Squire her hand. “I expect Madoc has told you how sorry we are about your mother-in-law.”
“Thank you, my dear, he has. And I’ve told him we’re grateful to have had Granny with us for so many years longer than we could have hoped, and we’re not going to spoil our happy time by useless mourning. We’ve done what little we could for her until the storm lets up and the undertaker can get through, and now we’re going straight ahead with our plans as Granny would have wanted us to.”
He patted the hand he was still holding. “You know, my dear Janet, back in earlier and happier times when Old England was truly Merrie England, there’d be a Lord of Misrule appointed to preside over the holiday festival, and everybody was expected to obey his royal commands. I’ve given myself that exalted position, and I hereby command you to step over to that sideboard and choose whatever suits your fancy. Come along and I’ll show you what we have.”
“No you won’t.” Janet deftly freed herself from his grasp.
“It would be highly improper for the Lord of Misrule to wait on one of his subjects. You stay where you are and look regal. No, Madoc, sit down and finish your eggs before they get cold. I’ll be a lady-in-waiting and wait on myself.”
Squire chuckled. Madoc had no trouble managing a suitably fatuous laugh.
“Yes, my love. You see, Squire, I’m practicing to become a happily henpecked husband. It’s the only way, don’t you think?”
“It’s the path of least resistance, at any rate. By the way, Janet, you did say you’d been working for Donald?”
“For the firm, at any rate. Not very long, actually. I worked for a while last year, then went home for the summer, and now I’m back and set to quit. He’ll be glad to get rid of such a feckless creature, I daresay.”
“I find that impossible to believe,” Squire replied gallantly. “And you’ve been sharing an office with Val’s friend Roy?”
“Heavens, no. Roy has an office all to himself. I’m only in the typing pool.”
“But didn’t I hear you say you did his letters?”
“I used to sometimes. Not lately.”
“Why not?”
“Because Miss Stewart hasn’t assigned me to him, I suppose. Miss Stewart’s our department head. She parcels out the work to whichever of us happens to be free, and we just do what she tells us to.”
Miss Stewart was as aware as everybody else around the office of the way Roy had chased Janet, then dumped her when she came down with acute appendicitis and spoiled his birthday party. She was much too kind a woman to put Janet in the awkward position of having any further dealings with him. Even though it didn’t matter any longer, Janet was not about to explain that to Squire.
“He’s a good-looking chap.” Was Squire baiting her, by any chance?
“Most of the girls seem to think so.” She took her place beside Madoc and picked up her fork. “Roy’s well-liked around the office, I should say.”
“But you yourself have been too preoccupied to notice, eh? Tell an inquisitive old man how you happened to meet Madoc.”
“I tracked her down,” Rhys answered for her. “I’d heard about Janet from a mutual acquaintance,” Fred Olson, the Pitcherville town marshal, to be specific, “and simply presented myself at her door with my suitcase in my hand. At her brother’s door, I should say. I passed myself off as a long-lost relative. Did I not, Cousin Janet?”
“That’s exactly what he did, Squire. We spent our first evening together looking at the family album. After that we—well, we got along rather well together and one thing led to another and here we are.”
To a Condrycke, that of course was a marvelous joke. “There’s one for the books! But you’re not really cousins?”
“There is a very distant connection somewhere or other,” Madoc replied.
That was undoubtedly true. He’d read somewhere recently that if you could trace anybody’s family tree in its entirety back six generations, you’d find that everybody in the world was connected to everybody else now living by the simple laws of mathematical progression. He and Squire might well be related, too, but he didn’t think he’d go into that. It wasn’t going to hurt Janet’s position at Graylings to have it thought she also was related in some degree to Sir Emlyn and Sir Caradoc. She soon would be, in any event.
“Well, look who’s here!”
May blew into the room like a gust off the bay. “Everybody getting enough to eat?”
She checked the dishes on the sideboard with a great rattling of lids. “Lawrence can’t be down yet. There still appears to be plenty left. Janet, have you tried the finnan haddie? We finnan a great haddie around here. Don’t we, Squire?”
“Everything is delicious,” Janet assured her. “After that fantastic dinner last night I thought I’d never be hungry again, but I am.”
May gave another stir to the smoked fish in its rich cream sauce. “I suppose you’ve heard about Granny,” she said abruptly.
“Yes, and we’re terribly sorry. We were just saying so to your father.”
“And I told them we’re going to carry on as Granny would have wanted us to,” said Squire. “Right, my dear?”
“I should hope so.”
May did not look to be bowed down by weight of woe. She was wearing a green and yellow striped jersey this morning with, most unfortunately, bright orange stretch-knit trousers. As she was still bending over the sideboard, her husband came in.
“Good God, May, you look like the moon coming over the mountain in that getup,” was his fond greeting. “I thought the mumming wasn’t till tonight.”
He gave her a presumably affectionate skite on the Mount of the Moon and began shoveling eg
gs and bacon on his plate. “Michel been out to the barn yet?”
“Ages ago. Do you realize what time it is?”
“No, and don’t tell me. If this were Vancouver it wouldn’t even be sunup yet. Speaking of which, has anybody heard a weather report?”
Rhys had, of course, but he wasn’t about to say so.
“Fifine’s got that transistor radio blaring in the kitchen as usual,” said May. “Or you could ask Aunt Addie. She always knows.”
“She was incredible about that fire ship last night,” said Janet, “and she told me a couple of other things that,” she blushed charmingly, “I would hope might be true.”
“You can bank on Aunt Addie,” Herbert replied with his mouth full. “Never been wrong yet. Has she, Squire? Oh, Babs. Join the party. We were just discussing Aunt Addie’s batting average, as they say down in the States. Ever known her to be wrong about one of her present’ments?”
“Hi, Babs,” said May. “Did you find the trimmings?”
“Yes, no problem. They were all stacked just where we left them last year. I’ve left them stacked at the foot of the attic stairs. You know this stupid arm of mine when it comes to carrying things. Maybe Franny and Winny can bring them down. Hello, Janet, Madoc. I think I’ll have another cup of coffee and perhaps just a bite of that finnan haddie if you promise not to tell Donald I sneaked a second breakfast. It’s freezing in that attic.”
Babs fixed herself a plate and sat down next to Squire. “Getting back to your question, Herbert, I can’t say that I ever have known Aunt Addie to miss the mark. You’re around her a lot more than I am, of course, so I shouldn’t presume to contradict you in any case.”
“Tell that to Her Highness, will you? See, May, Babs appreciates me even if you don’t.”
“I want to hear more about your aunt,” Janet insisted. “Can she do it all the time, or just now and then?”
“That depends,” said Herbert. “The weather’s her big thing. She feels that in her bones, she says. Remarkably sensitive bones Auntie has. Sometimes she’ll tell you right to the minute, almost, when a storm’s coming and when it’s going to stop. But if she doesn’t get a feel for it, she won’t predict. The fire ship she hears, though don’t ask me how. Of course the ship doesn’t come along very often, so you couldn’t count that as one of her major effects, but it’s a whizzer when she brings it off. Weren’t you scared stiff last night, Janet?”