02 - Down the Garden Path

by Dorothy Cannell

  I should have known when the sisters discussed the priest hole as though it were a vacuum cleaner with a faulty switch that its present function was sadly prosaic. At some time, after priestly heads stopped rolling down Tower Hill, someone had converted this place into a booze cellar. Most of the wine racks were now empty, but I did spy about thirty bottles in an odd assortment of sizes and shapes. Picking up one, I dusted it off (Butler must have missed it) fully expecting to find a French label. What I read was hand-inscribed—Parsnip: 1963. Another lifted at random—Rhubarb: 1971. I found only three bottles of venerable old port. Being an “after the ladies leave the gentlemen to their cigars” beverage, maybe the sisters had given Daddy’s supply away to the heir so he could acquire a touch of the gout in preparation for his impending change in circumstances. Coming to the sisters’ stock of brandy I was sure he would not be overwhelmed by that portion of his inheritance. Only a few had French labels.

  What could have kept Butler down here so long or brought him back to the sitting room covered with grime? The bleary yellow beam of the torch pricked into the gloom of distant corners, settled on a group of small wooden kegs, then went wavering along the wall below the sitting room fireplace; nothing there but a towering expanse of brick and a gigantic tattered cobweb that hung wispily down from the ceiling. My arm brushed along the wall, snagging on something. I let out a yelp of pain, and the torch slipped out of my hand. Either I had pressed the switch or the wretched thing died in the fall, for I was immediately adrift in shadow. Blast! But I was still curious. Reaching up, I felt a metal tip like a nail or picture hook. Nerves brought on a feeble giggle. Had someone once tried to liven up this place with artwork?

  Sobriety returned with a rush. I couldn’t find the torch and I was too far from the aura of candlelight for it to aid me in my search. Time was against me, too. Any moment the Tramwells might notice the gaping door and, disgusted with my snooping ways, decide to toss me out of the house. I had been very foolish, and nothing was gained. Stumbling, I made my way to the candles. I would use one of them for the return trip. A pair of absent-minded old ladies would not find anything ominous about a misplaced torch. I blew out all but one candle and, holding this aloft, made my way slowly up those steps.

  The return voyage wasn’t fun. What was that noise above? What if one or both sisters had a wacky sense of humour and were to screech out “Boo” just as I neared the top? The very thought almost made me trip. My palms began sweating and the candle felt like a stick of melting butter. I squeezed it hard. What if I dropped it? Hurry, hurry! I could not cup the flame to keep it safe as my left hand was fully occupied in feeling the way up the wall; one small slip and ... my breath whistled out in a gust and the candle promptly went out.

  I wanted my mother. And I did not mean the fabulous, fascinating woman of my imagining, but the Mum who had sat with me through thunderstorms and come in with the broom to beat out the witches who had moved in behind my wardrobe. My hand was sliding wetly off the wall. Calm down. Think happy thoughts. Think how Harry would miss me if I died. Or would he marry that naked creature under the sheets? Oh no! I drew a deep steadying breath. Those two were not getting rid of me this easily. All I had to do was pretend I was climbing a rope at school. Claw my way up an inch at a time. Surely I must be getting close now. My foot felt for another step and I came close to fainting. I was back in the little alcove.

  Success could not have tasted sweeter to Sir Edmund Hillary. Only seconds more, and I would be pushing open the hidden door. Please God, let the sitting room still be empty and ... please let the door still be open! Why couldn’t I find the crack of light? My hands beat frantically against the walls like a bird trapped in a chimney. But it was no use. The door—and I knew I had found it by its wooden back—was shut as tight as the corner shop on early closing.

  I pushed, shoved, and jostled while telling myself fiercely that the wind had done this. It had howled in through that gap in the French windows, whipped around the silk screen, and slammed the door shut. The members of this household knew about the faulty catch. They would not close the priest hole without first checking to see if someone were down there. Not unless one of them was secretly bonkers and incurably evil.

  Being discovered in a ridiculously unflattering situation was now the least of my problems. When rescued I would tell the Tramwells that my twentieth-century highwayman had come leaping at me through the window and, remembering the priest hole, I had fled to safety, drawing the door shut before he could follow. My first scream wasn’t much more than a squeak, so I could hardly believe my luck when I heard a faint grinding noise and slowly—painfully slowly—the door moved outward as if my rescuer were not quite sure he, or she, was doing the right thing in letting me out.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  He looked like a ghost. And yet he—not your heroine—was the one who looked ready to pop out of his skin. I had also never heard of a short, freckle-faced ghost wearing knee-length check trousers, purple socks bunched around the ankles, and an orange jersey.

  Those freckles stood out fiercely on his pudgy cheeks, his round brown eyes reminding me of one of Harry’s horses about to bolt. Poor little nipper. A glance around the room showed me we were alone, and my gratitude towards him was boundless. He had saved me not only from imprisonment but from disgrace with the Tramwells. Pushing the priest hole door firmly shut behind me, I took a deep breath of relief and tried to think what I could bestow on him in reward.

  “You’re Bertie, aren’t you?” I said.

  Eyes widening, his lips crept into a joyful smile. Seems I had given him his reward.

  “Cor, miss! Fancy you remembering. And you so sick an’ all yesterday! Wait till I tell Fred!” The pudgy fists burrowed into the pockets of his trousers. Bertie grew two inches before my eyes.

  “Fred?”

  “Me mate. We was playing ball an’—an’ it sort of rolled into the garden. Couldn’t find it nowhere when ...”

  “Maybe the gardener got snotty and took it?”

  “Gardener, miss? There ain’t no gardener. Aunt Maude’s always saying the old girls is wonderful, keeping the lawn an’ flowers an’ stuff up theirselves.”

  I wouldn’t let myself conjure up any more horrors. That sleeve obtruding from the forsythia must have belonged to shy Fred. And that silly feeling of being watched had come from two boys playing.

  Bertie was fumbling for words, his ears edged with red. “You see, miss, we come to the winder to ask one of the ladies to—to let Aunt Maude know if they ever come across the ball, when we saw you go into that there wall. You left the door open a wedge, didn’t you, miss?”

  “Right. Did you see how it came to be closed? Did anyone come into the room?”

  He stared at his feet. “I—I dunno, miss. We, Fred an’ me, couldn’t get no one to ‘ear us at the winder, so we went back to scour the rosebushes. No luck, an’ when we looked through the glass again the fireplace was all bricked back up. ‘Cripes!’ I says. ‘Wonder if Miss is all right.’ Aunt Maude told us about that dungeon place and how the door kept getting jammed. Dangerous, she called it.”

  “You didn’t have any trouble finding the secret spring?”

  “Not me, miss.” The orange jersey swelled importantly. “Were easy. Read all the Famous Fife books I ‘ave. So’s Fred, but he wouldn’t come in.”

  “Bertie, you are my hero.” Solemnly we shook hands, but all the time I was wondering why he had looked so scared when the door opened. My hair couldn’t have turned white from terror or my nails grown into claws in so short a time. Moving towards the French windows I asked, “Where’s Fred now? If he’s a friend of yours I would like to meet him. Is he shy? Or afraid—of something in this house?” I turned back to face him. “It’s a very old house and there must be a lot of stories, even scary ones, about it.”

  “Fred’s afraid of people.” Bertie spoke with fond superiority. “But he thinks you’re a princess. Even better than Diana, honest. And we
in’t neither of us bothered”—the wind rattled against the windows and Bertie jumped— “about that monk what got ‘anged nor any other ghosts, ‘ere or in the walk.”

  “Have you heard a lot of stuff about that monk? It’s a pretty good yarn, isn’t it?” Could I edge Bertie towards more recent gossip?

  “Only a trickle, miss. Funny thing is, people turn a mite funny when you ask about old Tassel or whatever ‘is name was. Aunt Maude said some television people come down once and wanted to make a play about it, an’ they got told to buzz off or get a boot up the ...”

  “I get the general vicinity.” I’d been right in thinking that honest enquiry into my origins would have been futile, but I was surprised that the villagers were still bent on hushing up a mild scandal several hundred years old. “About your Aunt Maude,” I said. “Why do you call her that, not Mum or Mummy? You’re adopted, aren’t you?”

  Bertie’s round brown eyes showed surprise. “Never really thought about it, miss. Names don’t mean nothing, do they? Ever since she come an’ brought me ‘ome she’s been the tops to me, an’ she knows ‘ow I feel about her.”

  He was a really decent kid. And he could have no idea that he was making me feel vaguely uncomfortable. His kind of loving was so uncomplicated, so clear. Could the word I was looking for be “mature”?

  Voices out in the hall. Voices at the sitting room door.

  “I’d better ‘op it.” Bertie’s ears turned a darker red. “I’d die for you, miss.” Then he darted out the window. He might not be scared of ghosts but he wasn’t keen on facing either of the old ladies. Hyacinth’s crisp tones rose above Primrose’s soft patter, but a man’s voice was overriding them both. Bother. Mr. Deasley must be staying for lunch. Disposing myself on the sofa facing the windows I assumed my wistful, little-girl-lost expression as the door opened.

  Primrose trotted in ahead of Hyacinth, her crumpled flower face puckered with consternation. “Dear child, the oddest thing has happened! We don’t quite know what to think.”

  “No, but I insist that Maude Krumpet not be blamed.” Hyacinth’s tone indicated that some bickering had occurred regarding that lady. “The boy must have blabbed. Annoying, but no point in recriminations. Tessa, a doctor has just arrived—a tourist, it seems. He was in the tobacconist’s shop and overheard a rumour about a girl suffering from amnesia.”

  “A tobacconist’s!” huffed Primrose pettishly as I sank limply back against the sofa cushions. “An M.D. should not be frequenting such premises. And indeed, I do not at all like the look of him, or the sound of his name. Dr. Hotfoot. How unpleasantly ... perspiry.”

  I was the one perspiring. Standing up, I felt the room shift unpleasantly and sat down. What was to be done? What chance had I of fooling this meddlesome medic? Hateful man to come trudging out of his way to tend the sick. “Please,” I cried, clasping my clammy brow, “can’t you get rid of him? I really don’t feel well enough to see a doctor.”

  A coy, questing rap sounded at the door and Primrose began fussing with her curls. “No escape, I fear, but we will remain with you, Tessa dear.” The next words came out in a bright gush. “Come in, doctor! Yes, here is the patient, most anxious to see you. So, good of you to ...”

  Primrose rambled on but the words jibber-jabbered into an incomprehensible whirl of sound. Dr. Hotfoot strode omnipotently forward as the sisters sank on to the opposite sofa, his eyes fixed on my ghastly pallor. In rising out of my seat again, I almost stumbled and had to catch the sofa arm for support.

  “Well, well.” He twitched his little black bag. “And how are you today, young lady?”

  The menace. I would gladly have strangled him if I could have grabbed hold of his stethoscope. He was unravelling it an inch at a time from that evil bag, beaming encouragement at me from under bushy eyebrows. Gold-rimmed glasses slid halfway down his nose and a heavy moustache drooped over his upper lip.

  “May one enquire, doctor, the location of your practice?” Hyacinth’s long hands flexed on her lap, the nails glowing like small coals.

  The doctor smiled gently upon her. “At a charming Gothic prison for the criminally insane. Studying the minds of society’s deviates has been a life-long passion.”

  Primrose sniffed deprecatingly as I cringed farther back against the cushions.

  Clasping the stethoscope around his neck, Dr. Hotfoot rummaged deep into the bag. Out came a small bottle of dark topaz liquid and he shook it vigorously, holding it up to the light. “In layman’s vernacular—truth serum,” he announced. “Now, if you please, I would like to speak with my patient alone. Nothing must be permitted to distract if I am to achieve results.”

  The sisters did not rise. “I really think, doctor,” fluted Primrose, “that one of us, at least, should stay with Tessa. A temporary name, but one that suits her, don’t you think?”

  Somehow I managed to force words between my teeth. “Perhaps I should see the doctor alone.” I garnered strength. “I think it might be best.”

  “You are quite sure?” Hyacinth nudged Primrose up and they moved with reluctance to the door. “Remember, we will be right outside in the hall. Call if you should need us.”

  The door shut softly and I sat watching Dr. Hotfoot, mesmerized with anger and fear.

  “Relax,” he breathed. Setting the little bottle down on the coffee table he drew a syringe from the bottomless bag. With one eye half closed, he studied its gleaming silver tip. The moustache twitched. “Now, young lady, if you will roll up your sleeve we will have you spilling your life history in no time.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I whispered, leaping up and darting to safety behind the sofa. “The patient wishes to hear a little more about your background, doctor. Do tell where you acquired your medical licence and how long you have had it.”

  “My dear Miss Anonymous, I completely understand your misgivings. To be examined by a stranger ...” His voice was low enough not to carry to the hall. “But you need have no fear; I will not ask you to remove your clothes—immediately.” That overweight moustache crept up slowly into a furry smile. “As for my licence, don’t worry your pretty head about trivia. It would never have been revoked but for that one unfortunate fuss. A pity. She was a devoted wife and I do miss her.”

  “You’re mad.” Screeching in a whisper was hard on the vocal cords. “You are certifiably insane. Come one inch closer with that needle and I swear I will jab it where it will do permanent damage.”

  “Oh, damn it, Tessa! You are such a spoilsport,” sighed Harry. “One teensy stick with this, practically painless I promise, and I would have you exactly where I want you— flat on the sofa.”

  “You—you toad.” Yanking the syringe out of his hand I threw it into the black bag filled, I now saw, with horse paraphernalia and a couple of bottles of stout.

  “Admit it, Tess.” Harry lounged against the fireplace, the heel of one shoe resting on a dragon’s head. “You are pleased to see me.”

  “I am not.” Slashing the zip across the bag I glared at him. “For starters, you overdid the ruffian stuff yesterday.”

  “You got exactly what you asked for, my sweet. Attempted rape isn’t pretty. What did you expect me to do? Touch my forelock and shout abuse from a kneeling position? In my own humble opinion I was great. And just consider my range. Villain one day—noble physician the next.” The glasses slid farther down his nose and he seesawed that monstrous moustache about on his lip.

  “Will you get out of here?” Stamping one’s foot silently takes rigid self-control.

  “Then spill the beans. I’m not leaving until you tell me what progress you have made. Any regrets?”

  I stole across the room, listened at the door, and tiptoed back. “None. When I go down to Devon I may set myself up as a private eye. Don’t laugh. I really think I have the knack.”

  “Your nose always was one of your best features.” Harry jiggled a poker with his foot.

  “How glad I am that I didn’t marry you. But, Harry, what do you
think of this? I have discovered that the Tramwells had two younger sisters.”

  “Had?”

  “One is dead. The other went to America. There’s a gypsy curse on the house, half the village is related to the first Tessa but not pleased by the connection. So I can’t see one of them naming a child after her. The visiting nurse has an adopted son, so she is bound to be sympathetic if I can gain her confidence. A portrait has been switched in the gallery, and ...”

  Harry moved away from the fireplace, took hold of my hands, and smiled down at them. “Well, as long as you are enjoying yourself.”

  Seething, I pulled away. “Don’t patronize me. I am going to find my mother.”

  “Tessa, your mother is dead. You won’t find her in some stranger. And will you be satisfied with a different kind of affection, friendship perhaps?” He lifted the black bag, swinging it gently. “I heard someone singing as I came in. Tunefully, so it couldn’t have been you. Does either of the old ladies fancy herself as an opera star?”

  “Don’t patronize them either. They are really rather— special. The singer must be the maid, Chantal.”

  Harry adjusted his moustache. “Have you met her?”

  “Not yet. Let me tell you, anyone looking for unobtrusive household help would find her a rare gem. She’s a gypsy. The butler is a reformed—or semi-reformed—burglar; the Tramwells hinted that he suffers the occasional lapse. Such fun. And my bedroom has every luxury, including its own private swing. Oh, and Harry—” My irritation evaporated. “This morning positively flew.” His raised finger warned me to keep my voice low. “I spent much of my time escaping from priest holes.” A gesture towards the fireplace. “Over there. Someone accidentally locked me in.”

  His bushy eyebrows met. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Harry, were you outside, in the garden earlier this morning?” Before he could reply, a knock came at the sitting room door. Hyacinth held it open as Primrose entered with a tray, chirping, “Are we decent? What is the verdict, doctor? Will the patient live?”