02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Anything except brass crinoline-lady bells and World War I medals.” Mr. Deasley beamed at me.

  Rising from her chair, Hyacinth said, “Occasionally our friend gives us advice on ... insuring some of our pieces. So if you will excuse us, my dear, we will leave you for a few moments while we go to the library for a little business chat.”

  “Of course,” I replied as Primrose scuttled out of her chair, and Clyde raised a hand to smooth out the fuzz on top of his head. Why did I get the feeling that the gesture was a little studied? Almost embarrassed. If it were, he recovered instantly. Bowing over his tummy he did a disappearing act through the open French windows. Back he came holding a full-blown, almost lavender rose in one hand. His elevated nose and the way he held the flower rigidly out in front on him reminded me of Butler with the tray.

  Breathless of voice, he stuttered, “Ro-oses a-re r-red, vi-violets bl-blue, su-sugrhh ...” A sneeze, a veritable earthquake of a sneeze, enveloped him and Primrose stepped forward to pry the rose from his clenched fist.

  “Such foolishness, Clyde—with your severe hay fever! And after my removing the flowers from the table when you came in! You could give yourself a heart attack. We knew a man who sneezed himself to death at a funeral, didn’t we, Hy?”

  Mopping at the tears rolling off the crests of his full cheeks, Mr. Deasley gasped apologies. “Should have ex-press-sses-ed admiration more simply.” With his glasses resting on top of his head his eyes appeared over the handkerchief rim. “Ah! But come to think of it, I have not as yet been presented with the pleasure of your name.”

  The earrings for once immobile, Hyacinth regarded him acidly. “Why should I enlighten the wicked purloiner of one of my roses on any subject?”

  A wave of emotion, stronger than any I had felt since coming to Cloisters, flooded through me. Gratitude. The Tramwells had not regaled their gentleman caller with the truth about my presence in this house. And then she spoke words which, if I had been a sprig-muslin heroine, would have caused me to faint dead away. “Severe memory loss, Clyde. I am beginning to think you suffer from that effect of encroaching old age.” Her back was as straight as the wall behind her. “Surely, Prim or I told you that our charming house guest’s name is Tessa.”

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Horror settled like a custom-made shroud about my shoulders. I was discovered. Gratitude indeed! But how did the Tramwell pussy cats know?

  “Tessa!” Clyde Deasley rolled the word around on his tongue. “A flower indeed among names and, need I say, it suits you to perfection!” Lifting my nerveless fingers he brushed a kiss across the tips. The moustache did tickle. My mind focussed glassily on that small revelation. He was moving to the door alongside Primrose when Butler glided in and started clearing the table. Hyacinth delayed following the others. She instructed Butler to leave the dishes for ten minutes as Miss Tessa would like to have another cup of coffee.

  When we were alone, she said, “I saw no reason to supply Mr. Deasley with the details of your sorry plight. He is an old and dear friend, but even the best men do tend to gossip.”

  Behind my back my hands squeezed each other for courage. “Why then, why did you tell him my name was Tessa? Is it?” No need to fake the tremor in my voice this time.

  “Dear, dear!” Hyacinth’s unevenly painted ebony brows moved into squiggly but fairly level lines. “I never thought about raising false hopes. Tessa was simply the first name that came to me. It’s a family name although traditionally used as the second Christian name. My sister Violet is Violet Tessa. Years ago—hundreds—a baby named Tessa was abandoned on the doorstep of a former ancestral home of the Tramwells. Her father was a young monk and her mother a village girl. Primrose and I are descended from her because she married into the family and indeed lived in this house after it was built. We were talking about her last night after you went to bed.”

  I had lowered my face to hide my immense giddy relief; now I raised it. “What was she like? If I am to be named after her temporarily, and I do take that as a great compliment, I think I would enjoy learning something of her history. Was she a colourful character?”

  Hyacinth’s dark eyes looked more hooded than ever. “If by that you mean did she run off with a duke or smoke cigars—no. From all the family stories she was the ordinary motherly sort. But what’s ordinary? Despite the intolerance of the times she persuaded her husband, so the family story goes, to let the gypsies camp in the woods behind Abbots Walk. Remarkable, since it was said a gypsy had cursed her father—the monk—and the spell took. He died by hanging, I am sorry to say.”

  “How awful.” I glanced out the window to where the Ruins shone soft and grey in the sunlight. “In his cell?” The Reverend Snapper had not said where the deed was done.

  “No. In the grounds,” said Hyacinth, and I tried not to refrain too obviously from looking towards the window. “Chantal can probably tell you as much as I about the family curse. Her people have been in these parts as long as ours.”

  “The family curse? Was the hex upon the monk’s descendants also?”

  “All nonsense, of course, but Tessa died from a fall down the stairs ... and through the years other”—she paused—”happenings have caused it to be said that the curse is still in force.”

  I drew my hands up to warm my arms. “Does Tessa have any other descendants in the village outside your family?”

  “Not direct ones. The younger sons and daughters tended to move away, but her mother’s family were village people. I suspect one-quarter of the present population is distantly connected with Tessa, if they would acknowledge it.” Instructing me not to worry at showing no sign of returning memory, Hyacinth left to follow the others, with me staring after her.

  What had she meant by that last remark? Restless, I went out the French windows into the garden. Was Tessa also considered a bad seed? The morning was fairly warm but the sky was combed with clouds in shades of pearl and charcoal. No need for some choleric old gardener to tell me it was going to rain soon. Did the Tramwells have a gardener? Yes, I was sure that was a man’s jacketed sleeve protruding around the forsythia. I was about to walk over and speak to the old codger when I realized that would mean more questions; awkward for me and unfair to the Tramwells.

  Turning back to the house, I suddenly felt immensely happy. By lending me Tessa’s name the Tramwells had provided me with a marvellous excuse for asking questions about the family. I was at the windows when my mood changed again just as swiftly. The gardener wasn’t clipping away at that bush. He was watching me. And it wasn’t a nice kind of watching.

  Back in the parlour I conjured up Fergy’s scolding voice telling me the only one watching me was the Man upstairs and felt better. I was being wicked and deceitful but I was sure God would see it was all in a good cause. No one was likely to get hurt by my masquerade and when I came to myself I would tell the Tramwells that I believed Angus Hunt had the original of the copy in the portrait gallery.

  An urge to look at the gallery again in daylight took hold of me. I might meet Chantal in the hall. But no—Butler was in the hall, and he informed me that Chantal had taken the family car down to the village on errands for the ladies. I was seriously beginning to wonder if the girl existed in solid human form.

  I was about to turn with a mental flounce in the direction of the portrait gallery when Butler emitted a confidential cough. “Pardon me, miss, if I am talking out of turn, but if I was you, I’d be on the watch when it comes to a certain gentleman presently on the premises.”

  “That nice Mr. Deasley!” said I, sounding suitably shocked.

  “Kneesley Deasley, as he’s known in these ‘ere—here—parts. On account of his having a keenness for touching ladies’ knees in church.”

  “No!” I gasped.

  “A harmless divershong some might say, but I have my two ladies to consider. I would wager my grandmother’s pension he’s not here to do them any good.”

  “But he might ge
nuinely want to—court one of them,” I suggested.

  “Precisely, miss.” Butler elevated the tray on his fingertips and went into the parlour.

  I stood for a minute or two after the door closed and went along to the gallery. This part of the hall was rather dark, so I switched on a light. In its whitish glare I searched again among the long-dead faces for some hint of resemblance to myself. Finding none, I fleetingly pondered which, if any, had suffered violent death. Cloisters must have had its share of religious heretics, beheaded Royalists, and oppressors of the poor.

  This man, Sinclair Tramwell, in a heavily embroidered waistcoat and wearing his own hair, in 1756, looked a wily old reprobate. The kind to drop dead at his daughter’s coming-out ball—from a knife wound in the back. Smiling, I moved on but when I reached the copy my amusement ebbed, like blood seeping from a death thrust. Last night I had not noticed the name of the subject. I saw now that he was the Marquis De Salutare. A sliver of memory slid into place—Angus telling me that the reason the original was extremely valuable was that it was painted by a brilliant artist of the French court who had been guillotined during the Revolution. The majority of his work had been destroyed and the marquis himself had been killed after ferrying many of his fellow aristocrats across the channel to freedom.

  Why was he here among the Tramwells? If he had been a family connection, it would have been friendly to put him over some fireplace, but ...

  Butler came out of the parlour with a loaded tray and I moved away from the wall. The sight of him in the mundane occupation of carrying crockery to the kitchen forced me back to reality. This picture might mean nothing more interesting than a need to cover a damp spot on the wall. The Tramwells wouldn’t want one of their own growing musty, would they? I meant to look again at the Tramwell sisters, but Butler was walking extremely slowly and I did not want him to think me well enough for prolonged art gazing. I would have to return to the parlour, or the sitting room, and stifle. I glared at the grandfather clock in its alcove to my right, its wheezy tock-tock bursting into splintered booms as I passed. Time was wasting. No Chantal. No Maude Krumpet—unless I sprained an ankle to fetch her here. I might have to resort to that ploy yet, or I would soon begin to think of myself as a prisoner, completely cut off from the outside world.

  Hand on the sitting room door, I hesitated. Not completely cut off. The telephone! However quaintly old world they might be, the Tramwells must have a phone. I had not seen one in the sitting room or parlour, so it should be out here—and surely if I were quick and quiet I could call Harry. I lifted cardigans and hats off tables and chairs, looked behind vases, peered behind curtains, searched under tables and inside small chests. All to no avail. I was close to concluding that the Tramwells had not succumbed after all when I heard a strange burping sound.

  Cloisters was possessed of a phone, and it was ringing. From somewhere in this hall. Where hadn’t I looked? Burp-burp. Hurry. And suddenly I knew. The cupboard under the stairs! Crouching down, I opened a small wooden door, reached into darkness and pulled out what might have been one of Minerva’s buried bones. A long curly tail was attached and I knew all was well. Lifting the bone to my ear I spoke into the mouthpiece in a breathy rush, success making me giddy. “Tramwell Ancestral Home.”

  A responsive giggle. “Oh, you funny thing!” The voice sounded like a child, I could not tell which sex, but the next words were jarringly those of an adult. “But, please! Spare me any more gush, Chantilly, is it?” I opened my mouth but the voice gurgled on like a playful but chilly little brook. “I’m taking Mumsie out in a teensy bit to get her fitted for a new coat. Oh, that it might be a strait jacket! Will you be a pet and tell them tomorrow evening, that’s important—Wednesday—not Thursday this week. But still at the usual time. Dinner naturally. I’ve bagged some plump juicy pigeons so we should have a simply mouth-watering time. And do tell them, will you, girl, not to wear black again. It does cast such a pall. Hold on a minute”—pause and then—”all right, Mumsie, I’m coming, yes, Mumsie, I am talking to a lady. I haven’t asked her to marry me yet, but I will. Promise.” Another pause while a lot of muttering went on. I was wondering whether to say something when the caller whispered down the line, “Remember—tomorrow, Wednesday,” in that squishy baby voice.

  With the receiver dangling from my hand, I forgot all about phoning Harry. The Tramwells had some strange friends. Pigeons for dinner! Everyday fare in the Regency era, but ... I crept out from the cupboard. The phone message was not sufficiently urgent to warrant my interrupting the Tramwells in their private discourse with Mr. Deasley.

  I would sit on one of the sofas in the sitting room and think about Harry ... no, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. I might get too clear a picture of him and the woman with the sultry eyes. Much better to search the bookshelves for something on the Tramwells of Warwickshire. Unfortunately, all I discovered were novels I had already read and the same inspirational volumes sent to Dad at Christmas by people who thought that kind of thing light reading for a vicar on rainy afternoons. Anything documenting the history of the Tramwells must be in the library where the sisters were entertaining Mr. Deasley.

  Plodding about the room, I inspected ornaments and peered at pictures on the walls. Having grown up in a shabby old house where little money was to be found for refurbishing I recognized many little dodges that made up thrift. And I wasn’t much surprised that people in the Tramwell condition—all those Welsh dressers in the kitchen stuffed with silver and crystal, Minerva dining out of an Oriental bowl—should resort to them. Dad had an elderly and immensely rich cousin who sent us an obviously reused Christmas card each year.

  I set down a brass bell and walked in a slow circle around the edge of the carpet. Mum would have liked this room. She had also been ingenious at putting cast-off items to unconventional use. In one corner sat a rose-patterned chamber pot blooming with trailing ivy. On one of the bookshelves an iron boot jack did duty as a book end. On the open bureau shelf lay a torch and a mother-of-pearl handled fish knife. Pretty and perfect for slitting open envelopes.

  Continuing my prowl I noticed something else. Many objects in the room came from the Far East. Those brasses ... that silk screen brilliant with jewel coloured peacocks, blocking any draught between the fireplace and ... I looked down at the hearth and saw that the fire dogs were a mottled sickly-green pair of dragons breathing open-jawed resentment at having their backs burdened with pokers and shovels. Stuffed alligators upstairs, dragons down. What a fey, mischievous house this was! Turning back to look at the wall hangings I found several hand-inked maps with the signature Sinclair Tramwell in their right-hand corners. Sinclair ... ? Of course! And I smiled smugly. The knife in the back at his daughter’s coming-out ball might have been a bit far-fetched, but I had been right about the man being a colourful personality. Commander of one of the King’s vessels or, better still, a pirate? An exquisitely embroidered Indian shawl placed sensibly under glass hung over a black lacquered, gilt-inlaid chest. Were both souvenirs of Sinclair’s travels? The idea that this man’s blood flowed in my veins was decidedly intriguing.

  In a sudden rush I remembered the priest hole. I moved over to the fireplace, running my hand down the brick on the far right-hand side of the mantel. Thoughts of the Tramwells’ imminent return would not deter me; I was bored, and who knew what secret family documents I might find below? I pushed, pulled, and rubbed, felt a nub of cement, thought of Harry’s bedfellow’s nose and gave a vicious pull. Then a yank and a twist. An anguished vibrating groan and the stone door swung slowly outward.

  I listened. No one was coming down the hall. If I took a very quick peek, bearing in mind that the chance might not come again ... I was about to enter the black void and hunt for a light switch when I remembered Butler emerging with his candle. Mmm ... nasty palpitating things, candles. I had had enough of them last night. What I needed was a torch. Fetching it from the bureau shelf I pressed it alight and with a half-glance over my shoulder st
epped heroically into the black hole.

  Careful! Mustn’t become overconfident. Cripes! I had almost closed the door behind me. That would have been fun, Tessa. With that faulty catch I might have been stuck in the nether regions for a long, long time. Okay—mustn’t overdo the Gothic bit. If I did get stuck my voice would carry through the wall. Someone would come, wouldn’t he?

  I left the door agape, for my blood pressure. Hopefully, anyone glancing casually into the room would never notice. This was fun. I loved the heavy dank smell that settled about me, and the chill. A few firm strides forward brought me to a flight of stone steps leading down into nothingness.

  Built today, that staircase would never have met nit-picking safety code regulations. It lacked a rail. All I could do was hug the brick wall to my right as I felt my way down. The torch wasn’t much help, throwing out only an inch or two of furtive shadow. Wise Butler. A candle would have been better. Wise and resourceful, for how he had whiled away an afternoon down here I could not imagine. Must be part mole. The smell—damp and earthy with a hint of underground habitation—intensified. I was, I sensed, about halfway down. Thank you, God. Murky shapes were beginning to take form below me. Another dozen steps and I recognized some of the shapes as two upturned wooden cartons and rows of bottles on shelves. I reached the bottom and the floor was flagstone like the kitchen, only dustier and many degrees colder.

  On one of the cartons was a cluster of candles stuck in bottles, a large box of matches lying beside them. Igniting a cheery little blaze I warmed my hands for about ten seconds before snapping to my senses. Mustn’t linger. And really, when I looked around the small dim chamber, I wasn’t greatly impressed; no heavy coil of chains lying snake-like in a corner. No rack. No thumb-screws. No stack of family papers marked Top Secret that I could see. Huge disappointment. My lurid imagination had confused dissident’s refuge with dungeon.