‘Where’s Barnard’s Row?’ Bunny resumed his seat, the delicate china dwarfed in his hands. ‘Could your parents have lived there at one time?’
‘It’s a notorious slum area in town. I doubt they lived there. Father couldn’t have functioned as Lord Vaughn’s butler had they not lived on the estate.’
‘Perhaps there was a gap in his employment? Did they marry before he became butler here?’
‘No.’ Flora shook her head. ‘They met here.’
‘I see.’ Bunny moved closer and wrapped an arm round her shoulders. ‘Look, you said yourself Hetty’s memory isn’t what it used to be. She may have got it wrong.’
‘It all fits, Bunny.’ Flora wiped her nose. ‘How do you feel about being married to the daughter of a loose woman?’
‘Not like you to be self-pitying, Flora.’ Bunny ran a finger gently down her cheek. He hugged her to him, his lips against her hair. ‘What your mother did, or did not do doesn’t matter a jot to me. I married you, not a ghost from the past. Besides, if she could see you now, she would be proud of you.’
‘Would she?’ Flora blinked tears from her lashes and rested her head on his shoulder, groaning as another thought jumped into her head. ‘Your mother! Should she ever find out that mine was little more than—’ she released a shuddering sob. ‘Oh, Bunny I cannot bear it.’
He wrapped both arms tightly round her, murmuring endearments into her hair she was too distressed to appreciate.
Flora’s own experience of gossip below stairs and rivalries that festered there returned. Perhaps what Lady Vaughn referred to as ‘that unfortunate business’ was an isolated slip of Lily’s, but one everyone remembered. It didn’t take much to sully a young girl’s reputation.
At that moment the door clicked open. Instinctively, Flora pulled away from him, a hand brought up to her hair where it had come away from the pins at the back.
‘Sorry, did I interrupt?’ Jocasta said in a way that displayed no regret whatsoever. She flounced over to the trolley and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘I would have thought the honeymoon well and truly over by now. It’s been a year hasn’t it?’ Balancing a slice of Madeira cake on the saucer, she crossed the room and perched on the sofa arm at Bunny’s elbow.
‘Sixteen months.’ Flora sniffed and wiped her damp cheeks.
‘Well, it’s nice to see anyway.’ She stirred her tea with tiny clicks of a silver spoon. ‘What have you two been doing this afternoon?’ She accompanied her question with a sly look.
‘Flora has been interrogating the servants.’
‘He’s teasing,’ Flora narrowed her eyes at him, which he countered by miming a kiss. ‘Although I wish someone had warned me about Hetty.’
‘Dear me yes.’ Jocasta spoke through a mouthful of cake. ‘Didn’t Mama tell you? No of course she didn’t,’ she answered her own question. ‘The poor woman is fine most of the time, Hetty I mean, not Mama. At times the old dear can be quite dotty. I take it today was a bad day?’
‘It was, and speaking of your mama,’ Flora said, ‘I expected her to be here. I know how she loves her teatime rituals.’
‘She had a migraine so went to lie down. She’ll be better by dinner time I expect.’
‘What a shame, migraines can be very distressing.’ Bunny handed Flora her refreshed tea. ‘My mother gets them sometimes.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ Flora murmured. Bunny slanted a look at her and she smiled. He smiled back, nodding in silent acknowledgement that Beatrice Harrington regarded the word headache as too ordinary, so insisted she suffered from migraines.
‘I ran into Tom when I took back the dog cart,’ Jocasta said. ‘The craft fair was positively dire in case you’re interested,’ she continued without waiting for an answer. ‘He said you met Diabolus. He’s quite magnificent isn’t he?’
‘He is indeed, although I most likely upset Tom by implying the horse may have been to blame for Father’s accident. Then made it worse by questioning whether or not he should have let Father take him.’
‘He’ll get over it.’ Jocasta waved a careless hand. ‘Besides, Diabolus is a pussy cat if you know how to handle him. Papa would never keep a bad-tempered animal on the premises. However, one can never tell what will spook a horse. Comes with the territory.’ She swiped another piece of cake from the plate. ‘Did Tom say anything of interest?’
‘He didn’t say much at all. Nor did he have an idea of where Father went that day, or why.’
‘Perhaps your father used the wood as a shortcut on his way to somewhere else?’ Bunny suggested. ‘What lies beyond Bailey Wood?’
Jocasta scrutinized the ceiling for a moment. ‘Mr McCallum’s House is out that way, although I can think of no reason why Maguire would want to call on him.’
‘Who is this Mr McCallum?’ Bunny asked.
‘Ah.’ Jocasta wiggled her backside on the sofa arm closer to Bunny. ‘Now there’s a subject worth discussing. He was the object of Caroline Mountjoy’s attentions before my Uncle William arrived and turned her head.’
‘I think I remember him, vaguely.’ Flora delved into her memory, unearthing an image of her escorting Eddy up the grand staircase to bed while a tall, dark man was shown into the sitting room.
‘He bought the old brewery out at Battledown from the previous owner’s heirs,’ Jocasta continued. ‘They were so glad to get rid of it, they threw the old man’s crumbling pile in for free.’ She hunched her shoulders in delight. ‘He doesn’t live there though, it’s too dilapidated. He stays at the lodge, I think. Anyway, Mr McCallum is in his late thirties, incredibly handsome and has more money than God. Oops.’ She cast a fearful glance at each of them in turn. ‘Sorry, I’m not slighting anyone’s religious convictions here am I?’
Flora couldn’t help a smile erupting despite her bleak spirit. Jocasta could always be relied upon to lift her mood, reminding her of nights they huddled beneath the cover of her monumental bed in the ladies’ wing and gossiped into the small hours.
‘It was a few weeks before we went to America for Amelia’s wedding.’ Jocasta licked cake crumbs from her fingers. ‘Don’t remind Mother whatever you do. She made the mistake of inviting Mr McCallum here for dinner soon after he moved in. Amelia developed an immediate crush on him and threatened to call off her engagement. Mother was furious.’
Flora nodded slowly as a memory surfaced. ‘He had the look of King Leopold of the Belgians as a young man. All forward brushed hair, sardonic brows and dark whiskers. Not that I know much about him.’ She chose not to mention Lady Amelia’s outburst that she couldn’t possibly go to America now she had met the man she really loved was the talk of the servant’s hall for weeks.
‘Neither did anyone else, at first.’ Jocasta crossed to the trolley and poured herself more tea. ‘He didn’t spend much time here until the last year or so. Since then it came out he’s a divorcee.’ She drew out the last word with relish. ‘He’s rich and very eligible. Jeremy almost didn’t want me to stay for the rest of the summer without him until I promised faithfully not to spend any time with Graham McCallum. Isn’t that sweet?’ Jocasta pressed a finger to the crumbs on her plate and brought it to her mouth.
‘Was his liaison with Mrs Mountjoy common knowledge, or simply rumour?’ Flora asked.
‘No rumour.’ Jocasta peered over the rim of her teacup. ‘For months, she was seen all over Cheltenham in his company.’ She dropped the remains of her second piece of cake onto her saucer. ‘Village gossip had them almost married off at one point. Then, for no apparent reason, they simply stopped spending time together.’
‘Um—’ Bunny interrupted them. ‘If you ladies are going to discuss the landed gentry’s love affairs, I’ll think I’ll just, um—’ He backed toward the door, a finger pointed at some vague space beyond it.
‘Well. He certainly lost interest fast, didn’t he?’ Jocasta exclaimed as the door closed behind him. ‘No stamina for the important things, men.’
‘I think he finds female gossip em
barrassing,’ Flora said. ‘However, I would love to know what ended the liaison between Mr McCallum and Mrs Mountjoy.’
‘As it happens I’ve no idea,’ Jocasta replied, thus rendering Bunny’s swift departure entirely unnecessary. ‘When Uncle William turned up all tanned and healthy from Durban a few weeks ago, she switched her attentions to him.’
‘How did Mr McCallum take this transfer of Caroline’s affections?’
‘I never found out, and as far as I know it was never mentioned. Graham and Uncle William get on very well as far as I know, so they aren’t love rivals. And you saw for yourself William has no time for her. Anyway—’ she broke off with an airy wave of her hand. ‘I shouldn’t repeat village gossip.’
‘Of course you should.’ Flora knew Jocasta needed only the slightest encouragement, confirmed when she threw a conspiratorial glance at the door and leaned closer.
‘Well, rumour says Graham conducted a liaison with someone else for some time. That Mrs Mountjoy found out about it and was furious. There was apparently some dreadful scene at The Queens Hotel.’
‘I gather their alliance has ended too?’
‘Hmm.’ Jocasta paused to swallow a mouthful of tea. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t believe in idle gossip.’
Flora almost choked on her last mouthful of tea. ‘I don’t suppose there were any witnesses to this alleged scene between Mr McCallum and Mrs Mountjoy?’ Flora asked after a brief fit of coughing.
‘Come to think of it, no.’ She tilted her head on one side. ‘Never mind Mrs M, did the staff have any useful information for you?’
‘I only spoke to Hetty, who isn’t exactly reliable, and Amy, who’s only been here a short while. Perhaps I should simply accept Father’s death was an accident which no one could have prevented.’ She chose not to mention the more upsetting aspects of her interview.
‘Papa will be so relieved.’ Jocasta’s features softened. ‘He felt responsible for Maguire, you know. After all, it was his horse, even if the accident didn’t take place on our land.’
‘There was something else Hetty said which got me thinking,’ Flora began. ‘She mentioned that some people became ill after the fête. Father made some enquiries as to what had caused it.’
‘The workmen you mean?’ Jocasta nodded, thoughtful. ‘Papa said they must have drunk too much of the free beer on offer.’ She shrugged, the subject obviously of no interest to her.
‘Might it have been food poisoning?
Jocasta frowned, the remains of her cake halfway to her mouth. ‘I don’t think I heard that. Maybe. I cannot say.’
‘Did those men see a doctor?’
‘I believe so.’ Jocasta chewed her cake thoughtfully. ‘He diagnosed some sort of neuritis. I’m not sure what that is, but apparently it damages the nerves and causes temporary paralysis. They lost weight rapidly and complained of being unable to get out of bed – though as I said, Papa was convinced they were malingering at first.’ She took a sip of her tea, adding as an afterthought. ‘Until one of them died.’
‘What?’ Flora straightened. This was the first she had heard of any death. Neither Hetty nor Amy had mentioned it. ‘Hardly malingering then.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Jocasta agreed, though with so little inflection she may have been talking about a lost sheep rather than a person. ‘He was older than the others. Dr Fairbrother said his constitution wasn’t strong enough to fight off the infection.’
‘That’s awful.’ Flora said, though this explained why her father was so concerned. A man died, so naturally her father would have tried to discover why.
‘Is there any more tea in that pot, Jo?’ Flora asked, pushing the subject to the back of her mind.
*
‘Have you seen my cufflinks, Flora?’ Bunny called through the communicating door between their bedroom and the sitting room.
Flora slung a loose cotton gown over her chemise, not bothering to fasten it. The combination of her glowing skin after her bath and the warmth of the summer evening made her want to enjoy the freedom of being unrestrained, thus she put off dressing for dinner until she had to.
She sighed at his mildly accusatory tone and unrolled a pair of silk stockings and laid them on the bed beside her combination drawers and corset cover. ‘You’re always misplacing your things,’ she called back. ‘How did you manage to keep track of your belongings at Marlborough?’
She withdrew an oyster-coloured corset from the cover, the pale pink of the sateen resembled a disembodied torso beside the other items. Heavily boned, it was more formal that the one she wore during the day, and designed to create a fashionable ‘S’ bend. Flora’s girlish figure could hardly be described as voluptuous, but the garment accentuated her tiny waist.
‘I didn’t.’ Bunny’s voice was accompanied by the sound of drawers and cupboards being flung open at random. ‘They disappeared with monotonous regularity. Oh, what’s this?’
‘What’s what?’ Flora replied, only vaguely interested.
‘Newspaper cuttings.’ Bunny said over the rustle of paper. ‘From one of the Manchester papers. They were stuffed at the back of the bureau drawer. Don’t know how we missed them earlier.’
At Bunny’s urging, Flora had summoned the courage to begin the task of sorting through her father’s belongings. His bedroom still proved too upsetting as yet, but she had compromised by agreeing to tackle the contents of his bureau. Riordan Maguire had stored what appeared to be every receipt, note and postcard that had passed through his hands during the previous ten years; all neatly tied with pieces of what looked like second-hand string.
‘I didn’t see any newspaper clippings.’ Flora looked up from the neatly arranged undergarments. ‘I don’t think Father knew anyone in Manchester. What are they about? Court circulars or advertisements for silver polish?’ She winced, aware it was too soon to make jokes at her father’s expense, and yet for a moment she had forgotten he wouldn’t be coming back.
‘Neither,’ Bunny said. ‘They’re about some incident at a brewery.’ He appeared at the open door, a shoulder against the door frame as he scanned the pages in his hand. ‘It’s quite interesting actually.’ His look swept her state of undress and slowly, he lowered his spectacles further down his nose and peered at her over them.
The hairs on her arms prickled as he stood watching her, but she pretended not to notice. After his insistence she stop looking for shadows, his own interest had been piqued without her having to do a thing. ‘You were saying?’ she prompted, self-conscious at the same time a ripple of excitement crept into her belly beneath his steady stare.
‘Um, ah where was I?’ He jiggled an arm of his glasses with his free hand and went back to the page. ‘A Royal Commission was set up at the Westminster Palace Hotel in London to investigate the cause,’ he read aloud, then gave a low whistle. ‘One hundred and fifteen people died as a result of contaminated beer.’
‘That’s dreadful!’ Flora’s hands stilled on the soft fabric of a silk camisole. ‘Even so, what an odd thing for Father to be interested in, unless—’ She quickly skirted the bed, took one of the pages from him and began to read as a phrase she had heard lately emerged from the back of her mind.
The discovery that poison lurks in one of the most popular of the nation’s beverages has been a rude shock to the inhabitants of Salford and its neighbourhood.
For about 4 months, the medical men of Salford have been called upon to deal with a considerable number of cases in which the complaint has been weakness and pains in the limbs, like ‘pins and needles’ in the hands and feet, general numbness and rheumatism all over. In more advanced cases patients declared themselves paralysed and quite unable to get about. Both men and women have sought medical advice and in all cases they were beer drinkers.
The Manchester Brewers Association analysed the beer and traces of arsenic were present, thought to be from sulphur used to treat the hops to prevent blight. Further investigation revealed arsenic in sugar used for brewing.
> She reached the end of the article and stared at it unseeing. Contaminated beer. Is that what had caused the men at the summer fair to get sick? It would explain it in part, though not the question of why more people weren’t affected. Lord Vaughn’s fêtes usually attracted over a hundred people from the outlying villages.
‘More of your father’s things to dispose of, I suppose.’ Bunny plucked the page from her fingers and headed for a box in the corner of the room designated for items set out for burning later.
‘No, don’t destroy them.’ Flora took the pile from his fingers. ‘They might mean something.’ Her thoughts drifted, while snippets of conversations circled in her head.
‘Like what?’ He rifled through a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, apparently still on a quest for the errant cufflinks. ‘That article is dated December the year before last. It’s hardly news.’
‘This one is a summary of the incident printed in a London paper, but this,’ she held up a second cutting, ‘is the original report. Father must have sent off to Manchester for a copy. The Salford Reporter isn’t available in Gloucestershire.’ Flora compared the two reports. One was much creased and yellowed, while the other relatively new.
‘The significance of which is?’ Bunny straightened, and splayed his hand through his hair as he gave the bedroom a swift glance. ‘Where are those blasted cufflinks?’
‘I don’t know but Father must have kept them for a reason. And don’t swear.’ Flora slid the pages into the drawer of her nightstand with the intention of studying them more thoroughly later. ‘There’s a pair of cufflinks on the mantle in the sitting room. Behind the clock. You must have left them there and forgotten.’
‘Thanks.’ He disappeared into the next room, but reappeared almost immediately. ‘Found them!’
‘I’ll wager you didn’t even look there,’ she murmured as she shrugged out of the cotton gown, and let it fall to the floor. She wrapped the corset round her midriff over the chemise and hooked the metal catches at the front into place. Perhaps Father noted similarities between the Manchester incident and what happened here at the fête, but before he could ask the right questions, he died. Or someone killed him. The instant the thought jumped into her head she shook it away. If she voiced such a thing aloud, Bunny would assume she was deranged by grief and treat her accordingly. Or was it her grief which drove her to look desperately for reasons and answers that might not exist?
Murder at Cleeve Abbey Page 10