Betrayal at Cleeve Abbey

by Anita Davison

  ‘You know what you asked me the other day, Miss Flora?’ Tom broke the companionable silence. ‘About where Mr Maguire might have been off to the day he died?’ He stared straight ahead, swaying gently with the movement of the cart. He looked as if he had forgotten what he was going to say, but she resisted the urge to prompt him, and waited. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘Mr Maguire asked Bracenose about those men who became ill after the fête.’ His inflection on the estate manager’s name conveyed dislike. ‘Not that I was listening, not on purpose. They were outside the stable door and I was inside cleaning tack.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were, Tom. Go on.’

  ‘Mr Maguire talked as if he thought the beer had made them ill.’

  Flora nodded. ‘Do you know why he thought that?’

  ‘No idea, but Bracenose took umbrage. He said Mr Maguire had no right to question him, like he had accused him of something.’

  This came as no surprise. The estate manager had been at Cleeve Abbey for longer than her father had, and assumed this gave him special privileges. He had the reputation of being a surly, bad-tempered man rumoured to be less honest than she should be, but Flora had always found him polite and gentle. Bracenose must have known Lily, perhaps he could tell her what she needed to know? Why didn’t she think of it before?

  ‘He was in a bad mood for days,’ Tom went on. ‘He didn’t join the search for Mr Maguire either.’ His brisk nod indicated he had done his duty and what she chose to do with the information was her business.

  ‘I see, thank you, Tom.’ The question of the contaminated beer had already been solved. Or had it? There could also be any number of explanations for Bracenose’s failure to join the search. Lord Vaughn could have sent him on a different errand elsewhere.

  Thus preoccupied, it took a moment for Flora to register that Tom had guided the cart into a left fork on a track that ran between the fields. ‘Why are we on this path, Tom? We used the main road on the way here.’

  ‘It’s a shortcut back to the Abbey. It brings us in at the rear of the stables instead of the front drive.’

  They passed through a set of slightly crooked white gateposts in need of a coat of paint, beyond which straggly hedgerows changed to manicured privet and neatly trimmed grass verges. ‘Is this part of the estate?’ Flora frowned, not recognizing it.

  ‘The main house is over there.’ The track disappeared round a small rise, and evidently eager to get back to his work, Tom flicked the reins so the horse picked up its pace. A small gate appeared on Flora’s left, beyond which a small white house stood encircled by hedges; its red tiles and roofline reminiscent of the Abbey, but in miniature. A diamond of bottle glass was set into a wooden front door beneath a stone porch between a pair of wooden pillars. A grey gabled roof with twin bay windows flanked a small tiled porch over the front door.

  As the gig came level with the fence, Flora’s stomach gave a lurch and she gasped. ‘Stop!’

  Tom reacted immediately and brought the gig to an abrupt halt. The horse pawed the ground and mouthed its bit in protest.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong, Miss Flora?’ Tom couldn’t keep the annoyance from his tone. ‘The Abbey’s just round that corner. We’re nearly there.’ He pointed ahead with his whip.

  ‘I know this place. The diamond shaped pane in the front door stirred a memory. ‘I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Probably. It’s part of the estate. You’re likely to have been here.’

  ‘No, not recently. A long time ago.’ She climbed down from the gig onto the road. ‘Could we stop here for a moment?’

  ‘As you wish.’ His sigh implied he would never understand females, as wordlessly, he secured the rein to the hook beside the brake handle.

  Flora pushed open the waist-high wooden gate and stepped onto a paved pathway set with green, red and beige tiles. ‘Who lives here, Tom?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘No one on the estate.’ Tom now lingered at the gate. ‘Lord Vaughn rents it to a solicitor from Southam and his sister.’

  ‘The house looks empty.’ Flora approached the solid front door which resisted her touch. ‘It’s locked!’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘I don’t think we should be in here, Miss Flora.’ Tom threw a nervous glance behind him.

  Ignoring him, Flora cupped her hands against the leaded glass and peered inside. An open fireplace faced the window in a neat parlour, empty but for a vase of dried flowers, flanked by two armchairs. Various pieces of dark oak furniture had been arranged round the room, with oil lamps and figurines set at intervals. After the jolt of recognition that had brought her there, this room wasn’t at all familiar.

  Tom’s hunched shoulders conveyed his reluctance as he followed her down the path. ‘I really should get back to work.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Flora squinted into the next window along and froze. Her stomach felt as if a hand had gripped her innards and twisted.

  She straightened and took a step backwards. It was all there. The black-leaded range, the scrubbed pine table, even the rag rug on the floor she remembered from her dream. A door at the other side, though closed, she knew led to the rear garden. The china set on the tiny dresser was unfamiliar, as were the pots on the stove – but the room was the same. She had sat on that rug, rolled marbles on that grey flagstone floor. She could even recall the two-foot long crack in the largest slab of stone that sat in front of the leaded range.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Flora?’ Tom’s voice held impatience, as if he had asked the same question several times, and she had not heeded him.

  A roaring filled her ears and she could feel again the scratch of her mother’s skirt against her hands. The terror she had felt as a small child flooded back and she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘This is where it happened.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ Tom asked, a frown in his voice. ‘Where what happened?’

  She brushed past him and retraced her steps to the road, her hands shaking as she climbed back onto the gig. ‘I-I have to get back to the Abbey.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying this ten minutes since, Miss,’ Tom murmured from behind her.

  *

  From the end of the deserted hallway came the low tone of a man’s voice, followed by a nervous-sounding female one. Flora turned a corner and almost walked straight into the butler, Scrivens, who had backed Amy into a corner, trapping her by the servants’ door. His dirty blond hair was in need of a comb, his close set eyes narrowed in anger.

  ‘I never want to hear you mention that again.’ He prodded her shoulder with the finger with each word.

  ‘I would never gossip, sir. I only repeated what—’ Amy broke off, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Flora over the man’s shoulder.

  Scrivens straightened, took a step back and drew himself up to his full height. His eyes when they met Flora’s held a challenge but neither embarrassment nor remorse.

  Flora stared him down, determined not to let him intimidate her. Long seconds passed and then he gave a slow dip of his head in a bow that was more insolent than polite, and murmured, ‘Mrs Harrington,’ before he pushed through the door and disappeared into the servants’ quarters.

  The door flapped gently behind him on oiled hinges as Flora took in the girl’s flushed cheeks. ‘What was that all about, Amy? He looked as if he was about to strike you.’

  ‘It was nothing, Miss Flora, honestly.’ Amy dropped her gaze, her teeth chewing her bottom lip as she hoisted the pile of linens higher in her arms. ‘Just a difference of opinion is all. He doesn’t like his orders being questioned.’

  ‘It looked more than that. He sounded as if he were threatening you.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Amy hesitated, as if debating whether or not to explain.

  ‘You can trust me, I won’t tell anyone,’ Flora urged.

  ‘He went somewhere on his day off last week and didn’t come back ‘til next day. He overheard me asking one of the maids where he went, just casual like, I didn’t mean an
ything by it.’

  The one thing her father never allowed in the servants’ hall was bullying. It seemed his spirit had been forgotten already and if she could do something about it, she would. ‘I would be happy to mention this to Lord Vaughn if you wish? I know he wouldn’t allow it, he’s a kind man and would be discreet—’

  ‘Oh, no, Miss.’ A flash of fear entered Amy’s brown eyes. ‘That would only make things worse. Mr Scrivens runs the servants’ hall now. We all have to get used to his ways.’ Her eyes darted in the direction the butler had taken, then back to Flora.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Frustration sharpened her tone. The man shouldn’t be allowed to get away with treating the staff like that.

  ‘I am. Miss. And it’s kind of you, but well you’ll be gone soon and I shall still be here. With Scrivens.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Reminded again of her father’s absence, she chose not to linger on that thought, so quickly pushed on. ‘Actually, I’m looking for Lady Vaughn. Do you happen to know where she is?’

  ‘Her ladyship has gone into Cheltenham.’ Amy looked about to push through the green baize door, then changed her mind and hurried at Flora’s side as she strode the long hallway. ‘Miss Flora.’ Amy overtook her and halted in front of her, shifting the linens in her arms higher. ‘Could you spare me a moment?’

  ‘Could we do it other time, Amy, if you don’t mind?’ Her head still full of the white-painted lodge house which had stirred her most disturbing memories. The building was tucked behind high hedges and on a narrow back road she had rarely used, but how had she never realized it was there when she had lived at Cleeve Abbey for most of her life?

  ‘Of course, Miss. Another time.’ Amy sketched a curtsey and stepped aside to allow her to pass. She sighed and muttered to herself before turning back the way she had come.

  Her air of dejection halted Flora outside the sitting room door. She was about to call Amy back when Jocasta called to her from inside the room.

  ‘Is that you, Flora? I would know that purposeful stride anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ Flora stepped into the room and looked back over her shoulder, but Amy had gone.

  ‘I’m playing lady of the house during Mama’s absence.’ Jocasta stood before a console table with ornamental gilt legs, a basket of assorted flowers beside her she was using to fill a heavy-bottomed porcelain vase decorated with Chinese symbols.

  She held up a long-stemmed pink rose. ‘Not that I’m making a very good job of this particular task.’ She dropped a second flower back into the basket with a grimace and thrust a forefinger into her mouth. ‘Beastly things keep attacking me,’ she said round it. ‘How’s your morning been—’ she broke off and frowned as she caught sight of Flora’s face. ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve encountered something awful.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Flora paused, unable to summon words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. ‘Jocasta, do you recall if my parents lived in an estate cottage before we moved into the attic apartment?’

  ‘A cottage?’ Jocasta stuffed flowers into the vase haphazardly, her eyes studiously averted. ‘We have several, I believe. Which one would that be specifically?’

  ‘It’s more like a lodge.’ Flora watched her mangle another rose into a mess of scattered petals, suspecting Jocasta knew exactly which one she meant. ‘This one sparked a particular memory.’ She plucked a magenta gerbera from the table and brought it to her nose. Despite the glaring pink colour and velvety petals, the bloom had little smell. ‘I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘There must be lots of cottages on the estate I know nothing about. We used to play in those meadows behind the stables, don’t you remember?’ Jocasta’s voice took on a high-pitched, excited quality. ‘Most likely you saw it then.’

  The flower stem broke with a tiny snap, leaving Flora’s fingers slick with water. She hadn’t mentioned the cottage was behind the stables.

  ‘It’s almost time for luncheon.’ Jocasta laid the scissors in her hand onto the hemp covering that protected the table. ‘The men are in town and Mama won’t be back in time to eat with us, so how about I ask Scrivens to serve ours on the terrace?’ Abandoning the flowers, she skirted the table. ‘We’ll talk then. I promise.’ Was it Flora’s imagination or was there a deeper inflection to her words?

  ‘That sounds lovely, thank you.’ Flora would have to be patient a little longer.

  *

  The open-sided glass canopy attached to the terrace had been designed to reflect light, with its filigree ironwork, white-painted trellises and the matching chairs and tables scattered around the paved area. Manicured flowerbeds in the parterre below a set of shallow steps provided an expanse of soft green broken by white blooms. The only colour variation was Lady Venetia’s rose garden beyond the hedge, where red, apricot, yellow and pink appeared in riotous contrast.

  Flora debated whether or not she should mention to Jocasta the incident with Amy and the butler despite her promise, or respect the girl’s wish to treat it as nothing. She pushed the thought away, conscious she couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, not with so many of her own to contend with.

  Their luncheon was a cold collation of meats and delicately arranged salads and fruit perfect for the hot weather. Bees buzzed in the nearby flowers and occasionally flew close to the girls’ faces, drawn by the sugar on the table.

  Flora batted a particularly persistent drone away with her fan, having almost convinced herself Jocasta had forgotten her oblique promise to talk about the lodge. She was therefore surprised when she brought the subject up without prompting.

  ‘Papa rented that cottage, lodge, or whatever it is, to some legal man who wanted to live out of town.’ Jocasta concentrated on pouring iced water into two glasses. ‘It had not been lived in for years, and the shrubbery was up to the roof until six months ago, which may explain why you’ve never noticed it before.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Flora pushed her food round her plate with a fork, not fooled by Jocasta’s causal tone. For someone who didn’t know which cottage she meant, Jocasta certainly had plenty of details at her command.

  ‘It’s part of a memory I cannot place.’

  ‘Maybe you once visited someone there when you were younger and the image has persisted?’ Jocasta swirled her glass, ending the ice cubes into a tinkling frenzy.

  ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’ Flora’s patience snapped. She took a deep breath. ‘The more I think about it, the more I am certain that I lived in that cottage when I was very small. It was there that someone, a man, hurt my mother in the kitchen. I remember every detail of that room, but I can’t recall the man’s face.’ She stopped and looked away. ‘Well, maybe not every detail. However, that scene features in disturbing dreams I have had throughout my childhood.’

  ‘I never knew you had nightmares?’ Jocasta’s glass hit the table with a click. ‘Why have you never mentioned them to me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Flora shrugged. ‘They were part of my life for as long as I can remember, so didn’t strike me as worth mentioning. They’re not so frequent now, in fact I hadn’t had one for a while. Until my first night under this roof two days ago.’

  ‘You mean, being here at Cleeve Abbey has brought them back?’

  ‘It seems so.’ She shrugged. ‘Bunny thinks they will persist until I find out what happened to my mother eighteen years ago.’ She hoped that to invoke her husband’s name might make Jocasta more open as the two of them seemed to like one another.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Flora.’ Jocasta’s features twisted in what appeared to be an internal wrestle with her conscience. Her eyes closed briefly and she sighed. ‘Look, I don’t know as much as you think I do, but once, I heard Papa refer to the white lodge as “Lily’s house”. When I asked him about it, he said it was in the past. Over and done with. You know how people are with children. They expect a child’s memories to be as short as their own.’

  ‘They aren’t.’ Flora’s
breath hitched. Had Jocasta deliberately kept this from her? Or did she regard it as unimportant and not worth mentioning?

  ‘No, and those dreams of yours are proof.’ Jocasta plucked Flora’s hand from her lap and massaged it gently, the facets of her diamond engagement ring winking as they caught the sunlight. ‘I was very young at the time. Mama and Papa had returned from a trip, and I had missed them so much, I sneaked away from Nanny and hid behind a sofa in their room. I planned to jump out and surprise them, but they began arguing with my grandmother, which is why the episode stuck in my mind.’

  Flora waited as Jocasta paused to take a sip of water. Her nerves tingling at the thought that, finally, she was about to hear something important.

  ‘Grandmamma was perfectly calm and she didn’t raise her voice once, but Papa did.’ She lowered the glass and stared into it. ‘He was shouting things like, “How could you leave Maguire to cope with the situation on his own? Is the child all right?”’

  Is the child all right? A sudden breeze stirred the treetops and Flora shivered, though the sky remained clear.

  ‘I’m sorry if you think I hid things from you, but at the time I didn’t understand their significance.’ Jocasta leaned closer, her expression sympathetic. ‘Do you remember your mother at all?’

  ‘Not very well. I know what she looked like from photographs Father gave me. I can even recall her voice, but I didn’t know what sort of person she was.’ She recalled her favourite picture was of Lily reclined on a lawn with her feet crossed at the ankles, smiling up at the camera from beneath a wide straw hat. The thought of that photograph now made her strangely uncomfortable, as if her memory of her mother, however small, had been tainted.

  ‘You should speak to Mama, but she might not be willing to discuss it.’

  ‘Why? I thought your mother liked mine.’

  ‘I know, but – look.’ Jocasta’s pretty features twisted in anguish but did nothing to spoil her looks. ‘When Mama married Papa, she was very conscious that her family were involved in trade, when Papa was from a long line of landowners. Very lucrative trade, but still trade. Papa didn’t care a fig as theirs was a love match, but my grandparents did. Mama had a difficult time those first years trying to live up to them.’