I’d missed most of the day at the orchard while taking care of dead sparrow hawks. “What happened?” I asked.
“I can only tell you what I saw—dark looks from Adam and sly smiles from Mr. Peacock. Louisa seemed quite embarrassed. I heard harsh words between the two men inside the cider house, and Cecil stepped in and called Adam off. Good thing they didn’t come to blows.”
They might not have come to blows on Cider Day, but what about later? Did they come to blows Monday evening?
“Freddy didn’t seem the type to spend a day in the orchard,” I said. “What did he do, try to price the antique press?”
Vesta nodded. “Could fetch a thousand pounds on the right day at auction, apparently.”
—
Vesta and I spent the remainder of the afternoon on busywork. I emailed the firm that would provide the marquees for the market and ordered jackets for our rowdy boys-cum-dustmen that read: “Smeaton-under-Lyme Official Collections Unit.” I tried not to look as if I were keeping an eye on my phone, waiting for a text from Michael.
“You could ring him, you know,” Vesta said as we locked up. “Explain whatever your misunderstanding was.”
But my roadblock was already in place and I couldn’t see how to get round it.
—
The silence of early evening drifted through the Hall—everyone in his or her own corner before gathering later in the library for drinks. I changed clothes and wandered down to the kitchen to find my piece of chocolate cake from Nuala. I must remember to tell her she needn’t do this every single day. The kettle was still warm—someone must’ve been in moments before me—and so it took no time at all to reheat for my tea. I got out cup and saucer, and nibbled at the cake while worries nibbled at my mind. Blackmail loomed large in the motives for murder, didn’t it?
Sheila would be in soon to finish up the dinner. I could smell beef in the oven. I took my phone off the table where it had lain silent as the rest of the house and dropped it into my pocket. I’d half a cup of tea left and hadn’t finished my cake, and I found I was not that eager to—but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I shoveled in the last few bites as I rose. Taking my teacup and saucer, I reached for my plate and knocked my fork on the floor. I bent over to retrieve it, and when I stood, a woman had appeared on the other side of the table.
I screamed and dropped my plate, cup, and saucer. Tea splattered as the dishes struck the corner of the table and shattered, pieces shooting across the floor.
“Jumpy little thing, aren’t you?” she asked in a liquid voice, low and throaty.
She didn’t move, only smiled, her full red lips set off against a tanned, unlined face with prominent cheekbones and heavy eyelids lined in black. Her hair fell in stiff, dark blond curls to her shoulders. Her entire body was one of angles shown off to perfection in a sea-green dress wrapped tightly round her form, accenting her full breasts, which seemed to defy gravity and, I thought, looked as if they’d had some assistance in the matter—either temporary or permanent.
“You scared the wits out of me,” I said. The adrenaline rush left me weak. I dropped to the floor and began gathering broken pieces of china, as Sheila bustled into the kitchen and stopped dead, eyes darting between the blonde and me.
“Oh, well, here the two of you are together,” she said. “And so you’ve met, have you?”
“No, we haven’t met,” I said, taking a second look at Sheila’s flushed face. I put down the broken dishes, regained my composure, and held my hand out to the stranger. “Hello, I’m Julia Lanchester.”
Her smile grew as she contemplated my hand before she reached out and offered hers, turned palm down.
“How lovely to meet you, Julia. I’m Isabel Fotheringill.”
Chapter 28
No family photos adorned the walls and mantels registering the years that Isabel lived at Hoggin Hall, only snapshots of Cecil as a boy, so how was I to know?
I kept up my bright and cheery professional manner despite the unaccountable pounding of my heart. “Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you, Lady Fotheringill. I’m the manager of the Tourist Information Center in the village.”
“Please do call me Isabel. Cecil has told me about you and the amazing work you’re doing.”
Somehow that sounded a bit extreme for Cecil. “Well, thank you. We’ve a fantastic group of people working on events—that’s the secret of our success.”
I started back on my mess, but Sheila pulled a broom from the cupboard and shooed me off. “Here now, I’ll take care of that. You’d better go change.”
Brown tea spots now decorated my blouse like polka dots. “Yes, right.” I moved to the door, and Isabel shifted slightly so that I could pass her. “I’ll see you at dinner,” I said.
“Will you?” she asked with a note of surprise.
—
I shut the door to my room and slipped off my shoes. What would I wear to dinner? Isabel had been quite turned out, and I felt compelled—as the only other woman at the table—to meet the challenge. My black trousers were none the worse for the tea spill. I was studying a gray silk jumper when Sheila knocked and came in.
“Are you all right?” she asked, handing me a fresh cup of tea.
“I’m fine.”
She blushed crimson. “We were taken quite by surprise this morning,” she said. “I don’t think even Master Cecil knew she was coming. And his Lordship, the poor man, he was gobsmacked, to be sure.” I thought how odd it was we were talking about Isabel without naming her.
“She doesn’t visit often, I take it?”
“I haven’t seen her in almost two years. Occasionally she would accompany Master Cecil when he came for his summer holidays, but she never stayed long. Always had somewhere else to be.”
“And she’s never remarried?”
“And cease being Lady Fotheringill?” Sheila shook her head. “Mind you, she’s always had an admirer or two—someone to whisk her off to Switzerland or Monaco or some such place. There now,” she said, her cheeks red, “I’ve said enough. Give me that blouse and I’ll get those tea stains out.”
I pulled the top off over my head. “I can do it, Sheila, leave it for me.”
“I know you can do it—I’ve barely anything to do to look after you—allow me this one thing.” She walked to the door. “That is, if the laundry room isn’t already occupied. When I walked in a bit ago, Lady Fotheringill was starting a wash of her own clothes. There’s a change in the world order.”
Sheila Bugg had never said a word against Isabel since I’d known her, but now that the lady herself was in the house, the housekeeper fairly bristled with indignation. After Sheila left, I stood in my black lace bra and wool trousers taking a sip of tea and pulling out sweaters and blouses, unable to settle. Here, this sparkly red top. Too sheer? I had worn it only once when Michael and I went into Bury for dinner. That was a lovely evening, I thought with a heavy heart. I laid the blouse on the chair.
When a light knock came at the door, I walked over, saying, “It’s all right, Sheila, you can just come in.” I opened the door to find Linus standing there. The millisecond it took for me to realize my mistake was long enough to notice Linus’s eyes taking in the scenery and his face lighting up red. I closed the door all but a crack.
“Oops, I thought you were Sheila,” I said with a giggle.
“I’m terribly sorry, Julia,” Linus said. “I would never disturb you in your own quarters, except that I did want to have a quick word with you on a certain matter before you came downstairs.”
Now I knew why he had left all those messages. “It’s all right, Linus—I’ve met her.”
“Oh.”
I peeked through the crack in the door. “Would you rather I didn’t eat in the dining room this evening? You might like to have a family meal.” True, my offer contained a bit of the devil; I was fast getting the impression that Isabel frightened people. She had certainly scared me.
“No, please,” he said, with a fr
antic note to his voice, “you must join us. I don’t want to…Addleton will be here. And I’d very much like your company.”
Suspicions confirmed.
“Linus?” Isabel’s sharp voice shot down the corridor of the north wing.
He started. “Yes?”
“Have you dispensed with drinks in the library, or has something delayed you?”
“On my way,” he called, turning to me and whispering, “Everything will be fine, Julia,” as if I was the one who needed reassuring.
He left. I kept the door open, and I heard Isabel’s retreating voice.
“Is this what you’ve sunk to, lurking in corridors?”
If Linus replied, I didn’t hear.
I sat on my bed and fumed. I had known Isabel all of twenty minutes, and already I resented her treatment of Linus and how nervous she made Sheila. But the Fotheringill family affairs were not my own, and so I really should keep myself under control this evening. I put on the red blouse.
Chapter 29
“Thank you, Thorne,” I said, accepting my glass of sherry. We stood about in the library, only a low fire burning in the grate, instead of the usual conflagration. Linus on one side of the mantel, Cecil and his mother on the other. Isabel had taken in the full sight of me when I had walked in. Linus had smiled and blushed. Cecil had asked me a question about the electrics that would run lights for the market stalls.
Thorne served Isabel a martini with three olives. It suited her, I thought—an elegant, sophisticated drink. And after she had eaten the olives, she could use the little skewer to jab people.
As the butler gave the two men their whiskies, Isabel took a sip of her drink, looked up through her lashes, and said, “Thorne, I do so miss your martinis. Of course, they are only one of your many talents.” The butler nodded a reply.
Her coquettish manner gave me the creeps, especially as only moments ago I’d heard the harsh tone she took with Linus. Never mind, I told myself. She wasn’t my problem.
When Addleton arrived, he stopped just inside the library door, doing his usual impression of a standing stone, and waited. Linus welcomed him and introduced Isabel, after which the agent crossed the room and gave her an imperceptible bow, more a nod of the head. “Your Ladyship,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Addleton.”
The agent took his whisky from Thorne. Conversation faltered, and we all shifted our feet and looked at the fire. I dived in first. “We’ve had a busy time since Mr. Addleton arrived,” I said. “We’ve several events coming up and only last weekend Cider Day. Quite a success, all in all.”
“Except for the dead birds,” Addleton said, spoiling the image I’d hoped to create of an estate ticking along.
“What’s this?” Isabel asked.
“Sparrow hawks poisoned,” Linus said with a grim look. “Julia came across them on her way that morning. Dreadful business.”
“And this wasn’t your doing, Mr. Addleton? It seems in keeping with your position—make short shrift of those pesky birds?”
“I’m the agent, not the gamekeeper. And I don’t hold with killing sparrow hawks—I admire them too much to harm them.”
I could see from Isabel’s arched brow she found this impertinent. “Perhaps you acquired that view from your last post. Where were you working before you took this position?”
“Dorset.”
“They must do lovely house parties there,” she said, “even if there is no shooting.” She watched him over the rim as she drained her glass. “Nothing like a good house party with all the right people,” she added with a coy smile.
“I was an employee, my Lady, and didn’t attend the house parties.”
“Still, Dorset’s lovely. I’m surprised you wanted to leave.”
“It was time to move on,” he replied, looking up at her from his whisky. “Circumstances being what they are.”
And I had thought an evening with the men insufferable. I prayed Thorne would come soon to announce dinner and release me from this hell.
“Well, if you have any questions about the running of the estate, you can ask Cecil,” Isabel said, placing a hand on the crook of her son’s arm. “That’s why I’ve come to visit—to see how my son is getting on. As heir, one day this all will be his responsibility.” She looked up at Cecil with a mother’s love.
“I can inherit a title, Mother, but I must learn the skills to run the estate. I must work at it,” Cecil said, dropping his arm so that Isabel’s hand slid off. “Both Father and Mr. Addleton are helping.”
—
I quite liked Cecil for standing up for his father, although it did seem to put Linus in the spotlight, as at dinner, Isabel turned her attention to her ex-husband and the past.
First it was “Do you remember, Linus, the time we took Cecil to the seaside—was it Lowestoft?—and he buried you in the sand and we had our tea on your chest?” and after that, “You had a devil of a time finding a solid surface to teach Cecil how to ride a bicycle—Linus was a fiend for the bicycle in those days and would cycle all over the estate.”
Linus remained a fiend for the bicycle, but apparently, Isabel didn’t know that. I saw her use these memories as a way to make it appear as if she remained a vital part of the estate, and I thought it rather sad.
“It’s lovely that Linus has been able to offer housing to his staff,” Isabel said after Thorne had served the first course. She smiled benignly at me after glancing at the estate agent.
Here we are, then—like mother, like son. Soft words followed by a barb in disguise. Addleton attended to his soup, and so I smiled back at Isabel.
“Yes,” I said, “it was kind of Linus to invite me—well, he insisted, actually—that I move in here while my cottage is under repair. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
She lowered her eyelids to half-staff. “Of course, however expedient it is to conduct business over dinner,” she said, “the Hall is primarily a family residence.”
Leave it, Julia. “Oh, business or pleasure—it doesn’t seem to matter. Linus and I have such lovely dinners together. And of course now with Cecil and Mr. Addleton.”
Isabel watched me as I finished my soup. It was a relief when Thorne arrived with the beef.
Why was she here? And did she always hover over her son? Linus was nervous—was he afraid of something? Had she come because Cecil was in trouble over this business with Freddy—and Freddy’s death? I wanted answers, but those were not topics for dinner conversation.
Instead, for the rest of the meal, we skimmed the surface of life at the Hall as pond skaters glide about on water, their thin insect legs keeping them afloat. I felt an undercurrent move beneath us, but whether excitement or dread, I could not tell.
Isabel tried to get Cecil to talk about the daughter of a duke she’d introduced him to, but he offered no details, and countered her questions by asking his mother about someone named Sergei.
“He’s quite well, Cecil,” Isabel replied, “and sends his best to you. We returned on his private jet from his flat in Nice only yesterday.”
I apologized to Thorne when he returned and took away my almost-full plate. I took no pudding—I’d lost my appetite. Dinner conversation continued about people I didn’t know as my thoughts drifted away, settling on Michael. I imagined how lovely it would have been to be climbing into bed with him just about now.
In what sounded like a vain attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, Linus had asked about Addleton’s upcoming meetings with tenants. I asked the agent if he would take fliers along with him for the Boxing Day Bird Count.
“Rupert has offered to appear at a gathering a week later so we can tabulate the results and perhaps have some giveaways for the children involved.”
“Yes, of course,” Isabel said, a spoonful of apple crumble poised halfway to her mouth. “Your father is the famous Rupert Lanchester. It’s no wonder Linus was impressed with your CV.”
“Julia is manager of
tourism based on her own skills and experience,” Linus said.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at him while wishing I was far away or Isabel would stop talking—either possibility too remote to offer any hope. “I’m happy to count Rupert as one of our great supporters for activities here on the estate—and he and Linus get on quite well.”
I walked with the group to the library for coffee, but begged off. Linus caught me at the bottom of the stairs. “Julia,” he said in a low voice. “Will you be coming down for cocoa later?”
I wasn’t terribly interested in cocoa, but saw the unspoken plea in his eyes. “Yes, of course.”
—
I waited what I thought a reasonable amount of time for everyone to clear out. Journeys to the kitchen were becoming dangerous affairs these days. But the longer I waited sitting in my chair with my robe wrapped round me, the sleepier I became, and so thought I’d better make a move.
I padded down the stairs, freezing at the landing when raised voices drifted out of the open library door.
“Is this how you take care of your son?” Isabel asked in a voice full of derision.
“How can you ask me that?” Linus replied. “I would do anything for him—you of all people should realize that.”
“Your actions have left him vulnerable—you’ve put him in worse danger. How did you think that this might turn out?”
“Cecil will be fine—if he can manage to shake you loose from his life,” Linus said. I’d never heard such anger in his voice.
“Well, don’t think you’ve heard the end of it—it’s your responsibility now, and I don’t care what you have to do to sort it out.” Her voice grew closer. I whipped my head left and right, looking for an escape before she came out the door and saw me. Back upstairs or to the kitchen? I chose kitchen, and ran for it.
—
I got busy with the saucepan in case Isabel stormed in and demanded my reasons for being there. I set the milk on to simmer and reached for a second mug, not knowing if Linus would really show after the argument I’d heard. Isabel had as much as accused Linus of killing Freddy—she knew nothing of her ex-husband if she could believe that. I heard a light tapping at the door.
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