by Sarah Kelly
India was beginning to warm to the kind hearted, scatterbrained artist already. “How much did she take, this Felicia?” India asked.
Laurence made a pained face. “Twenty thousand pounds.”
Xavier turned to India and winced. She stared back with wide eyes. It sure was a lot of money.
“The worst thing is I need it desperately. The roof in the west wing has been leaking for nearly a year now. I got Liam – that’s the gardener – to scramble up there with a tarpaulin and get it nailed in, but it comes off every time there’s a strong wind and he hates going up there. He says it’s like a haunted house. To be frank with you, the repair costs £80,000. I had £65,000 and was hoping that with the exhibition I was putting on here at the end of the month I would be able to sell a couple of pieces and get the rest of the money. But there is no way I can make £35,000 in one event. £15,000 perhaps, if I am exceedingly fortunate. On a piece that has taken over three years to craft.”
India thought of what Tom the driver had said about the mansion being a money pit. She kept her voice light, knowing it might well be a sensitive subject. “Many people in your position would sell.”
“That is what I’m doing,” Laurence said, frowning. “Selling my art.”
“I think she meant…” Xavier spoke delicately. “Well, selling up the house.”
“Oh yes, I suppose many would,” Laurence said. “But father made me promise not to. It was an exchange, you see. He would pay for my art education, which he was always against, as long as I would promise to keep the little house.”
Xavier furrowed his brow. “What little house?”
Laurence laughed a little. “Oh, it’s just what we call it. So as to not get too big for our breeches. Aston Paddox Hall sounds ever so stuffy. Everyone round here just calls it ‘The Hall’. In any case, I will keep my promise to father. I would be an awful wretch if I didn’t. However, I plan to convert the west wing into an art school for promising young painters and sculptors. It has long been my daydream, but I have only been as practical as picking up a paintbrush.” He stuck his chin up. “However, I shall realize this dream. I shall.”
CHAPTER 2
They continued across the meadow toward an ancient wooden door, heavy with its iron latch and bolting, embedded in a stone wall trailing with ivy. “I’m sure Liam is around here somewhere,” Laurence said as he opened the door. They walked through a narrow path lined with bushes, then it opened up onto what looked like a resting area of some kind. A square ornamental pond glimmered up from its stone surround in the spring sunlight, while bushes around it tickled the surface with the tips of branches, sending gentle ripples across to the other side. A bench stood parallel with each edge, and Laurence flopped down onto one of them. “I expected he’d be here, cleaning the pond. Oh, well. Do take a seat.”
India and Xavier sat on the same bench as Laurence, as the others were too far away for polite talk. There was a lull in their conversation for a few moments, and India reveled in the bird song and the wind whispering through the many trees that were part of the Aston Paddox Hall estate.
Laurence let out a noise of relief, his arms spread out over the back of the bench, his head tipped toward the sky. “Ahh.” When he brought his head back up and straightened his gaze at them, his eyes were full of light. “You know what keeps me going? Imagining all those young artists. Those in hostile environments. Those whose parents, like mine, discourage their talent, discount their passion as meaningless. Those who are told again and again they must forget their art and dreams and focus all their energy getting a so-called proper job. And yet they keep pushing, keep creating. It’s for those people I want to open this place. A refuge. Where they can immerse themselves in their art. Art changes the world. It touches people on the deepest level. I firmly believe that. And that’s worth much more than money.”
India had never thought about it like that before, not really being all that interested in art, but she supposed she agreed with him. Her father had a glossy book of paintings of the impressionists, and as a child she’d loved to pour over the soft, fuzzy worlds they created with their dabbing paintbrushes. As Laurence spoke she felt like digging it back out.
“Oh, mornin’,” a voice said behind them, not sounding best pleased.
India started and she saw that Xavier did too. Laurence was cool, still draped over the other side of the bench. They all turned to see who India supposed must be Liam, maneuvering a barrow through a door so covered in ivy India hadn’t even spotted it. He wore a dark blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side, and a cap in exactly the same color scheme.
“Hello, Liam,” Laurence said. “This is Xavier Bradford, and India Kirby-Bradford, and they’re investigating after Felicia.”
“All right,” Liam said to them as a greeting, nodding as he wheeled the barrow in. “Well, good luck with that. She’s as slippery as a fish just dragged up by its mouth.”
“That’s a charming image,” Laurence said.
Liam shrugged. He rested the barrow down, then leant against one of the stone walls, rolling himself a cigarette. “Would think only a fool in your position would defend her. If it was me… well.”
A question struck India. “Laurence, what happened when you called your brother?”
Laurence turned his lips down. “He told me he hadn’t seen Felicia because he was on business in California. But no one else in his Florida circle had reported seeing her, and she hadn’t called him. He said I better hurry up and find her or he’s holding me responsible since he left her in my care.”
“But isn’t she an adult?” Xavier said.
“Exactly,” Laurence said. “He’s just saying that to throw me into a panic, I’m sure. They’re probably in some California five star hotel throwing away the roof money as we speak, having a good laugh at me.” His voice took on a growl of anger. “Well, if they want to piss away the family legacy and inheritance, they can. But I’m going to stand firm and do my part with a clear conscience.”
***
“Sorry, Old Row,” Laurence said for the hundredth time. “We forgot.”
Mrs Rowan pressed her lips together as she poured the tea into Laurence’s delicate flowery teacup. The wind on the patio wisped her hair around her face and she blew violently to get it away. “You really must get a sense of practicality, Laurence.”
Laurence picked up the Scottish shortbread biscuit from his equally flowery saucer, looking sheepish. “I’m getting much better. Really I am.”
She planted her fists on her substantial hips and looked down at him like he was a troublesome, lovable son. “You are, that I’ll say. Yes, you are. Now, I’m off to flower arranging with Tasha in a minute. I’ve set up the room for you two, India and Xavier. Anything else for me to do for the afternoon, Laurence, or I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
“That’s all, thanks,” Laurence said. “And I’ll do the washing up from all this.” He picked off a bitesize piece of lemon drizzle cake and popped it into his mouth. “Your cake’s better than ever, Old Row.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t resist smiling. “Trying to butter me up, are we?”
“Just telling the truth,” Laurence said.
“It really is delicious,” Xavier added.
India nodded, as the cake melted in her mouth. “It’s truly wonderful, Mrs Rowan.”
The sturdy, firm lady actually blushed and looked rather coy. “Oh, well, thank you, dears. How nice of you to say.” Then she smiled. “India, dear, you don’t want to come along to flower arranging, do you?”
India’s interest in flower arranging was… nonexistent. She was just trying to formulate a polite way of saying no.
“Honestly, it’s lovely. There’s me, and Tasha – that’s Liam the gardener’s girlfriend. She’s pregnant, by the way. And Muriel Forsythe…”
Laurence made an annoyed tutting noise.
“It’s not Muriel’s fault Geoffrey didn’t have a proper eye on your money,” Mrs Rowan
snapped at him, then turned to Xavier and India. “Geoffrey Forsythe’s Laurence’s accountant, and between us, he’s been doing a rather shoddy job of it.”
Laurence was turning red. “When I went over there, telling him money was missing – which I knew from checking my online banking – his records were in a shambles. Someone could have been siphoning money for the past five years and he wouldn’t have had a clue.”
Mrs Rowan shook her head and patted him on the back. “You eat your cake, dear, and try not to worry. Everything will come right in the end, I’m sure of that much. Anyway,” she said, turning to India again, “lastly there’s Anne Clitheroe. An elderly lady, but ever so passionate about flowers. We meet in her home and she shows us the ropes.”
India’s brain was beginning to tick over. Perhaps it would be good for her to go. After all, she would meet people who might have useful information about Felicia and her disappearance. “All right, I’ll come,” India said. “What about you, Zave?”
Mrs Rowan laughed. “A strapping young man like him, flower arranging? Doesn’t seem right.”
Xavier laughed right along. “You’re right, it’s not my thing. But saying that, the florist for our wedding was incredible. And he was a man, taller and wider than me, too.”
Mrs Rowan smiled. “Well, I never.”
“He was awesome,” India agreed.
“Once you’ve finished your cake, we’ll go,” Mrs Rowan said. “Tasha will be here any minute now.”
***
“Ladies, we have a total beginner,” old Mrs Clitheroe said, her eyes shining. She had been walking on slightly unsteady legs back from a cupboard, and reached out her gnarled hands to pass India a square of green foam. “Don’t you fret, sweet,” she said in a voice that meandered up and down. “It’s wonderful to be a beginner. You have a whole new world to explore now, don’t you?”
Tasha, who had driven them over in her battered old Ford Fiesta, nudged India and smiled. “I’ll take her under my wing, Mrs Clitheroe.” Her bump was protruding out in front of her, but not so much that she was impeded in gathering up huge bunches of flower stalks and bending ferns.
The dining room in Mrs Clitheroe’s thatched cottage was just how India had imagined England. The table itself was dark polished wood. The matching chairs had delicate cream upholstery and ornate shining woodwork in their backs. Heavy blood-orange curtains draped over the French doors leading onto the patio, and a thick, floral rug spread across the wooden floor. And, of course, flower cuttings and stray petals and leaves were everywhere. Five blocks of green foam perched on the table, one for each of the women present.
Mrs Clitheroe gave her a quick tutorial, then each of the ladies settled into doing their own arrangement, staring at the blocks for a while between picking out the perfect stalks.
“So you’re from Florida, right?” Tasha said. “I bet the weather’s a lot nicer than here. I mean, today’s lovely, but it’s supposed to be spring and most days are nothing but drizzle and gray.”
“Oh, I’m from Wisconsin, actually,” India said. “We get a lot of rain and snow there.” She flashed a smile. “So I can relate.”
Muriel Forsythe, a tall slender woman with a long face and a ball of auburn fuzz just about tamed enough to curl into her shoulders, spoke in clipped tones. “You didn’t ever run into Alexander Drummond-Coe did you? Or that dreadful Felicia? I believe they live in Miami.”
“Oh, no,” India said. “Florida’s a big place, and I don’t live anywhere near Miami. But as soon as Xavier and I get enough leads here, we’ll be getting a flight back and get started looking for her.”
“That’s where Laurence thinks she’s gone,” Mrs Rowan explained, twirling a rose stem in her fingertips as she frowned at her foam block. “Though Alexander says no one has seen her. Rather convenient that he’s in California, don’t you think?”
Tasha shook her head as she tied a pale green bow around a white basket. “That way he can pretend he’s not involved.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Mrs Clitheroe said, “is if Alexander is so wealthy, why on earth would he send Felicia over here to take only £20,000? Surely that’s pocket change to them?”
“I doubt he sent her, Mrs Clitheroe,” Tasha said. “Maybe she went by her own choice but now he’s protecting her. Even if he has all the millions he claims, that doesn’t mean he gives her any, does it? You remember Isabelle Tomlinson from Ayle-Upon-The-Water?” She looked at India. “That’s the next village over. Her mother had millions and Isabelle didn’t see a penny of it until her mother passed away.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs Rowan said. “That’s true enough. And she had to sell the estate to pay the inheritance tax bill. Shame, great shame for her.”
“What happened to it?” India asked, curious.
“A Pakistani man bought it,” Muriel hurried to say before anyone else could. They obviously enjoyed a good gossip down at the flower club, Muriel most of all, it seemed. “Lovely chap, I’ve heard. Plays cricket down on the green when he’s here, but that’s not very often. He works in London, you see, and travels abroad. It’s empty most of the time, except for the security guard at the gate. And Georgia Sands, the girl who nips in to clean it for him. She says he’s done it all up like a palace.”
Mrs Clitheroe trimmed the end of a daffodil stalk to a sharp point, then stuck it decisively in her foam. She was working quickly and confidently, a fresh arrangement of white and yellow emerging. “The whole place had been going to seed, to be fair, and Mrs Tomlinson didn’t have the money to repair it.” She sighed. “Not unlike Lord Laurence.”
“Ooh!” Tasha said, putting her hand on her belly, her face spreading into a wide smile. “Toby just kicked me! Muriel, India, feel.” She snatched up their hands and placed them on her belly, beaming from ear to ear. “Can you feel it? He’s going to be a little footballer, I just know it.”
India could indeed feel the little kicks, and was totally amazed by it. Almost in awe, in fact. She’d never felt that before, or even really been around any pregnant women. She was an only child and none of her close friends had had babies yet. Her mother’s sister Aunt Anna had been pregnant when India was 11, but she lived in Texas and they’d only seen her when she was three months along. A little fluttering movement pushed Tasha’s belly up and India laughed with joy. “That’s amazing, Tasha!”
“I know!” she said. “He’s so strong.”
Mrs Clitheroe watched on affectionately, but Mrs Rowan’s expression was quite different. “How’s that Liam of yours now? Getting his act together?”
Tasha’s smile vanished. She pushed her lips out and shook her head. “Not really. Well, kind of. He gave me £20 to get babygrows yesterday.”
Mrs Rowan huffed. “That is just not good enough. I’ve got a good mind to take that boy and bang his head against a brick wall, put some sense into him. It’s that Charlie Tomlinson. He’s an awful influence. Horrible lad.”
“There’s no need for that,” Mrs Clitheroe said. “Now, you mustn’t worry, Tasha. My Edward was the same, you may be surprised to know. We met in the war in Poland, though he was from Cambridgeshire. He handled everything in war in good stead. Then we returned and got married and he went to work in an office. Married women didn’t work in those days, so I stayed at home, cooking and cleaning and taking care of the home. Then when I got pregnant, it seemed to be the shock of his life, as if he didn’t know how babies were made.” She laughed and everyone tittered along. “It’s rather amusing now, but at the time it was dreadful. But once I’d had the baby he loved little Patricia very much. And Marion and Hugh afterward. So don’t fret, sweet. I’m sure he’ll come around. There’s hope for you yet.”
Tasha looked a little cheered by her story. “Maybe things will be all right. What about you, Muriel? What was Geoffrey like when you were pregnant?”
India watched as Muriel Forsythe straightened up, determinedly staring at her sparse arrangement. She was obviously uncomfortable. Marriage probl
ems, perhaps? She plastered on a smile. “Oh, Geoff? He was ever so kind and helpful. Getting me cups of tea when I was too big to move, and indulging me in my nonsense cravings. When I was carrying both Megan and Amanda. Each time he was wonderful.”
India’s internal radar went off: Lies. Lies. Lies. There was no doubt in India’s mind that Muriel was hiding something. But was it just an unhappy marriage, or maybe something more sinister beneath it all? Perhaps Geoffrey was involved in stealing Laurence’s money. India’s mind ran away with her before she could stop it. Maybe when Felicia had come over from Florida, she’d visited Geoffrey to talk accounts. She could have initiated an affair, to get him to help her siphon the money out. Maybe she talked about them running away together, and then had left him high and dry, the money safely deposited into her U.S. bank account. Perhaps Muriel even discovered the affair? Maybe she chased Felicia out of the village. India told herself to stop being so dramatic and focus on her flower arrangement. It couldn’t really be called such actually, since it was just a couple of sad stalks sticking up from the foam, looking bare and stark. She wanted to put some fern leaves in but it wasn’t easy to know where to put them.
“That’s nice to know,” Tasha said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
Muriel was blushing, staring at her arrangement with unnecessarily sharp focus.
Mrs Clitheroe hastily changed the subject. “So, India, you and Xavier are staying at the Hall?”
“Yes,” India said. “Though I haven’t seen my room yet.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve made it up all nice for you,” Mrs Rowan said. “You’ll be very comfortable, I hope, and if you need anything you just ask me. Don’t bother asking Laurence, he’s hopeless, bless his heart.”