Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “It’s in here, Miss. A dark blanket of some odd sort.”

  Evy felt a wave of repulsion. Yes, that awful dark thing the intruder had worn for concealment.

  “It was this way, Miss…”

  Wally told his tale of what had happened that frightful afternoon back in October.

  He had left the parish hall at Mrs. Croft’s request to go to the cottage to see why Evy hadn’t come to the supper.

  “By the time I got there, I was soaked. I hammered on the door, but you didn’t answer. So knowing as how Mrs. Croft would’ve sent me back anyway if I’d just gone back to the supper saying you didn’t answer the door, I went ahead and tried the knob.

  “Well, it was unlocked, and I went inside. I stood there and called to you a couple times, but you didn’t answer. First, I thought Mrs. Croft was wrong, that you might’ve been at the supper, and we just didn’t see you. But that didn’t make no sense, either. Then I smelt smoke. It came from the kitchen. So I walked there, still calling your name. When I got to the pantry, I saw you lying there at the bottom of them attic steps. I was scared to death, Miss. You looked dead to me. It was a week or two later I got to thinking about how things were. And it seemed a bit strange to me. So I talked it over with the Hooper twins, and they thought the same thing.”

  He swallowed, and Evy asked, keeping her voice calm, “What did you think was strange, Wally?”

  He took a step closer, lowering his voice even more, and glanced around the trees and bushes as if someone was following him.

  “Well, it was the lamp you had, Miss. The one you must’ve brought with you up them attic steps.”

  “Yes, I carried a lamp…”

  “Well, I remembered there was something about how it was lying on the floor that bothered me. Well, when I mentioned this to the twins, we all three decided it was time to go back and have a look. So we went back there and got in through a window. The first thing I looked for was pieces of the lamp, but the broken glass had been swept up since that awful night. Mrs. Croft probably swept up after you was taken up to Rookswood and London. But we three had us a careful look around the attic steps and—hope you don’t mind, Miss, but even up in the attic, and…well, we found a thing or two that made us more curious.”

  “Go on, Wally,” she said breathlessly.

  “I found that blanket up in the attic. You want to see it, Miss?”

  Evy looked at him for a long moment.

  “Wally, what was it you remembered that bothered you about the lamp?”

  He scrunched up his eyes. “Well, the biggest pieces was far away from the smallest pieces—like they was moved to the other side of the room or something. And the lamp must have made the fire on the floor when it fell beside the stairs, ’cause of all the smoke I smelt. Well, later on I kept wondering why the fire went out. After we went up the attic and found the blanket, it smelled like smoke and kerosene. When I looked at it, I saw some charred cloth. I thought maybe someone had used it to beat out the flames from the broken lamp. But I didn’t see the blanket when I found you at the bottom of the stairs. Then, I asked myself, now how did it get up the steps into the attic?”

  Yes, that seemed to fit. Whoever had pushed her had to contend with the kerosene fire. So they used the blanket to beat it out, then in a frenzy must have brought it back up to the attic, not realizing it would be noticed.

  “You were very clever, Wally.”

  He grinned and dug the bag out from the bush. He opened the top and pulled out a dark blanket. She forced herself not to recoil. Yes, that was the one she’d seen on the intruder. She took it gingerly and smelled it. Yes, kerosene and smoke… She touched the charred spots near the hem. Evy’s hand tightened on the cloth.

  “And this was up in the attic?”

  “Aye, by your uncle Edmund’s desk, sort of tossed aside on the floor. But that ain’t all, Miss. The Hooper twins found this. “He pulled something else out of the bag. “Don’t know if it means anything or not. The twins kept it for you. Beth smuggled it out to me awhile ago when she told me she and Mary couldn’t come here to see you.”

  Evy took the old envelope.

  “But there’s nothing inside,” he said. “Beth thought there was at first. She found it crumpled on the floor under the desk, as if somebody kicked it aside. Looks like it was written to your uncle, Vicar Edmund.”

  Yes, and sent from Henry Chantry. How interesting, and how odd. What could Henry have written Vicar Edmund? Had Aunt Grace been privy to the contents? There was no postage on the envelope, which meant it must have been written here in Grimston Way and sent to Uncle Edmund by a message boy. Henry must have written it before his death. But why had Uncle Edmund never said anything about its contents if it was important?

  Then again—if it wasn’t important, why had someone wanted it? Or was she jumping to conclusions? Had the intruder she’d interrupted in the attic been after this letter or something else? Perhaps he, if it was a he, had merely tossed it aside hastily to locate something else. But if so, why bother to crumple it? The fact that the letter was missing convinced her it had been sought.

  But only the letter? There must have been other items taken, which made her rebuke herself for not having gone through her uncle’s desk long ago. She’d told herself there was nothing important, just mementos about his work, and she hadn’t wanted to deal with the emotions it would bring her.

  Evy held the envelope in her hands. “Wally, you’ve done a grand job. So have the twins. I’m not sure what it all means, but it strengthens my case that I—” She stopped. No, it wasn’t safe for Wally and the Hooper twins to be told she’d been pushed down the attic stairs. Containing that secret was too much to ask of three young detectives bubbling over with childish enthusiasm. If it was true that Wally was being watched these days, as he’d said earlier, she must get them disengaged somehow. For their own safety.

  “Have you mentioned any of this to anyone?”

  “Oh no, Miss. That would have landed us in the crick for sure—especially me. The twins can worm their way out of most things with Mrs. Hooper. They just keep talking circles around her. By the time they’re done, Mrs. Hooper, who’s none too clever about talking, don’t have a clue what’s going on. But me, I’d end up getting blamed for luring her daughters into mischief like Mrs. Hooper always says. But I tell you, Miss. It’s mostly the other way around. And if my pa finds out—well, I’d be in a bucket of trouble for sure.”

  “My lease of the cottage hasn’t run out yet,” she assured him. “And in my judgment you’ve not broken in. I’m pleased you found this blanket. And the twins, the envelope—though I’m not sure what the envelope means, if anything…but if you hadn’t gone back to the cottage—” She hesitated again, reminding herself that the less the children knew, the better for now.

  In fact, she thought warily, the intruder may well have gone back after things settled down, thinking of the smell of kerosene on the blanket.

  Wally’s eyes narrowed as he glanced again about them, then watched her.

  “Miss Evy, what I don’t understand is how did you beat out those flames?”

  Her mouth tightened. She remained silent, fingering the blanket.

  “Well then, who did it, Miss?”

  She avoided his suspicious gaze. “Maybe someone found me before you did and put out the fire, but failed to get to the parish hall before you. Maybe you outran them, arriving first to tell Mrs. Croft and Dr. Tisdale.”

  “Now, Miss.” His voice seemed hardly more forceful than an indulgent parent.

  Evy felt her mouth turn into a wry smile. “Don’t think it’s possible?”

  “No, Miss. I didn’t see anyone on their way to the parish hall when Mrs. Croft sent me to the cottage. I was the first one to find you—except whoever put out the flames with this.” He pointed deliberately to the blanket.

  Evy placed the blanket back inside the bag. She wasn’t going to admit someone had pushed her and beat out the flames. The story would sp
read quickly around the village. But Wally was already getting too close to the truth. He watched her alertly.

  “Miss? Shouldn’t you talk to the Yard about this?”

  “I’ll look into all this,” she said evasively. “In the meantime, Wally, please don’t mention this to anyone. That goes for the Hooper twins, too.”

  He nodded and shoved his big hands into the pockets of his worn breeches. “We kept it quiet so far, Miss.”

  “Yes, and that was very wise of you three. Did you actually see someone following you?” she asked again suddenly.

  “I didn’t see no one, but Digger did.”

  She looked at him. “Digger? Oh, your dog.”

  He nodded. “Digger was growling the other night outside the bungalow, so I got me up and out to see if I caught a rabbit in my trap by the barn. Then I saw Pa’s barn was open, with all his carpentry tools. I went to shut the door, but I knew I closed it before supper like I always do. It was then I saw someone run away. I think he’d been in the barn.”

  “What makes you think it had something to do with you and the blanket?”

  “Uds, Miss. That’s where I was keeping this here bag all the time! Up in the loft, under the hay. Maybe whoever I saw peeping about thought to find it. Maybe he saw me bring it in there. I don’t know for sure, Miss, but that’s what I’m supposing. An’ it’s a good thing Digger was carrying on like that. ’Cause when I lit the lantern in the barn, I saw someone had brought the ladder up to the loft and must’ve been ready to climb himself up and have a look, but Digger’s barking scared him off. Well, that was three days ago or thereabouts. After that, I brought the bag into my room and hid it under my bed.”

  Evy’s alarm grew. At least now the bag would be in her care, deflecting any more attention from Wally.

  “I’ve both the blanket and the envelope now,” she stated. “Perhaps the safest thing is to let others know about this, after all. Whoever left them up in the attic will now see it’s too late to come back for them. They’ll then know it’s wiser to step back into the shadows.”

  “Then you’re thinkin’ like me and the Hooper detectives. That someone was up to no good, Miss Evy. And you never did say how you fell down them steps.”

  “Wally, it’s best not to discuss that now. I’ve decided to tell the vicar. Maybe Lord Brewster as well.”

  “I’d feel better about it after that, Miss.”

  She picked up the bag and took her crutches from Wally.

  “’Tis a shame about your back, Miss. We’re all praying you get strong again.”

  She managed a smile. “Thank you, Wally. But even if I don’t, God will remain faithful and have His good plans for my life.”

  He nodded. “Then if you be needing me for anything, or the twins, well, just let us know.”

  “I will. And thanks again.”

  He grinned and stepped out of her way. “Shall I walk back to the rectory gate with you, Miss?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’m fine. Getting stronger each day that passes. Besides, I don’t want us to be seen together.”

  “Aye, but that bag’s sure to have folks seeing it.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. As they say, the cat’s already out of the bag.”

  Wally grinned and chuckled. “G’day, Miss Evy.”

  As Evy walked back to the rectory, she carefully made her plans. She would need to return to the cottage to arrange for the transport of the trunks and desk to the storage room at the rectory. The sooner, the better. She wanted to look around the attic one more time for herself as well. Just what had Henry written to Uncle Edmund? Why did someone feel it important enough to enter her attic secretly? Had Henry written to confess to being her father? That, in itself, seemed no cause for breaking into her cottage. But…perhaps it was. She was sure the Chantry family would not approve of her discovering she was a relative.

  As such, she even had rights to live at Rookswood! Not that she would ever demand such a thing. But if Sir Lyle Chantry’s brother had heirs—then perhaps she could inherit from that end of the family just as she would from her mother Katie van Buren.

  Why, I could very well be an exceedingly wealthy woman. The idea was numbing.

  She would tell Mrs. Croft at breakfast tomorrow that she wanted to go to the cottage.

  When she neared the rectory, a familiar shiny coach waited, attended by a man dressed precisely in uniform, not a hair of his waxed mustache out of line.

  “Hello, Mr. Bixby.”

  Lady Elosia’s footman tipped his tall hat and bowed his head. “A fair afternoon to you, Miss Varley.”

  Varley. At least everyone in the village continued to call her by the name she’d grown up with.

  “Lady Elosia has requested you come up to Rookswood to see her this afternoon if possible.”

  Curious, she could read nothing in his face, but one never could with Bixby.

  “She wishes to see me now?”

  “For afternoon tea, Miss, if you would be so inclined.”

  She smiled but saw his gaze drop to the bag she held pressed against her crutch, then he looked away. Did he recognize it? Or did it merely look out of place here in the gardens?

  “I should be delighted to take tea with Lady Elosia, Mr. Bixby.”

  “Then I shall wait for you here, Miss.”

  “I shan’t be long. I’ll tell Mrs. Osgood.”

  “Very good, Miss.”

  Evy was staying in her girlhood room. She refused to loiter amid melancholy memories and went straight to business. She concealed Wally’s bag in her wardrobe on a back shelf not easily noticed, then turned her attention to choosing a suitable afternoon dress. She settled on the summery blue pastel and arranged her tawny hair in a becoming upsweep. She stared at her image in the mirror. Standing here as she was without the crutches, she looked as she did a year ago. Only a year? It sometimes seemed a decade.

  She picked up her crutches, squared her shoulders, and refused to look again.

  She turned her thoughts to the tea with Lady Elosia Chantry. What could the formidable woman want to see her about? Perhaps just a kindly invitation to see how she was recovering, or was there something more serious on her mind?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rookswood looked just as Evy remembered it as they approached. Mr. Bixby drove the Chantry coach through the tall arched gateway beneath overhanging oak branches. Mrs. Croft’s cousin Harley, the old gatekeeper, had died not more than ten days after Hiram Croft the sexton, and now Harley’s son, Harry, stood near the small rose-covered cottage he occupied. Harry grinned and lifted his cap, then shut the gate after them.

  Inside, the road changed from dirt to small cobbles. Evy looked upon mounds of green turf that gently rolled toward a horizon of trees on the perimeter by more private woods. The land went even farther back beyond the woods to farmland cultivated by workers employed by the squire.

  The shrubbery along the lawns was meticulously manicured, the handiwork of Mr. Tibbs, Rookswood’s main gardener. Not far from the gate was a familiar narrow lane—the route to the bungalow where she and Aunt Grace had lived until her death. And ahead, within sight, were the luxuriant Rookswood gardens where she and Rogan had said their good-bye over two years ago. Her heart hid its silent disappointment. A disappointment she must not feed with memories, for she was Henry Chantry’s daughter. It caused her no uncertain pain to learn from Heyden that she had been used by Rogan.

  The coach bore her along the S-shaped carriageway to the mansion, rimmed on one side with white birch and on the other with elm. When the horses at last came to the end of the S, Mr. Bixby brought them to an easy stop. Evy looked up at the forbidding mansion. Some of it was twelfth century, with crenelated towers and turrets. The same old gargoyles with bulging eyes and evil scowls glared down at her.

  Mrs. Wetherly remained as the Chantrys’ housekeeper, wearing black bombazine and a stiff white apron, and she smiled warmly as Evy entered the Great Hall.

  “How wonder
ful to see you looking so much stronger, Evy.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wetherly. I do feel much more optimistic. I’m here to have tea with Lady Elosia. Is she in the parlor?”

  “Her Ladyship’s not come down yet. I’ll show you to the parlor, where you may wait.”

  Evy had not done much socializing in the parlor while Aunt Grace had worked as governess. She well remembered the time Lady Camilla Brewster had asked her to come down for tea and Sir Julien Bley had unexpectedly walked in on them. He had confronted Lady Camilla, wife of Lord Anthony Brewster, with uncalled-for rudeness. Sir Julien had been overbearing with her. To this hour Evy still wondered if Camilla might not have been contemplating telling her that her mother was not the missionary Junia Varley who had been killed in the Zulu War, but Katie van Buren. Evy also recalled how Sir Julien had faced her in the glaring lamplight, had cupped her face in his hand and boldly searched her features. Now, of course, she knew why he’d done so. He had been making certain in his own mind that she was Katie’s daughter. Even so, he had done nothing about it until recently. If she allowed her emotions free rein, she could become very upset over the injustice that had been done her by the secret kept hidden for so many years.

  The dark wood furnishings in the parlor were done in burgundy and gold. She moved across the thick rugs to an array of family paintings staged grandly above the huge fireplace mantel. It did not take her long to find Henry Chantry—with his rugged dark features and that somewhat arrogant smile that reminded her of King Charles—and Rogan Chantry. Strange, she had always thought there was some resemblance between Henry and Rogan rather than Rogan and his father, Sir Lyle. How odd that it was she who was related to Henry.

  She tried not to look at Rogan’s handsome face, but instead she concentrated on Henry. She walked up close to the painting and stood staring at it intently, as though she could will the truth from those dark eyes, that enigmatic smile.