by Plum Sykes
Ursula stared at her, disbelieving.
“Be sensible, Nancy,” scolded Horatio. “Why would Lord Brattenbury want to dispose of his only heir? Now’s not the moment to kill off his daughter and reveal a love child in Australia.”
“I guess,” said Nancy.
Just then Ursula saw the elderly gentleman from the lodge house closing up the chapel doors. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “but where is Lord Brattenbury?”
“Got t’ malaria back.”
“You can get malaria here?!” Nancy shrank away from the old man.
“Don’ worry y’self. Lord B got t’sickness int’ Africa. The fever comes back now and again. ’E’s a’bed.”
“Horatio, we’ll see you later,” said Ursula, turning on her heel. “Come on, Nancy. We haven’t got long.”
* * *
The great hall of Brattenbury Tower resembled an ancestral hunting lodge. Every spare inch of wall was decorated with old trophies—foxes’ tails, stuffed game birds, and huge sets of antlers were hung among decorative swords, ancient shields, and elaborate daggers.
“Forget Rapunzel, this is totally The Jungle Book,” Nancy quipped.
But Ursula’s mind was already elsewhere, her attention focused on the dramatic staircase sweeping upstairs ahead of them. She and Nancy could easily sneak up there now and find Lord Brattenbury’s bedroom, before the funeral party reached the house. Ursula glanced around the great hall—there was no one else about. “Quick,” she said, beckoning Nancy to follow her upstairs.
The girls had only leapt up a couple of steps when a voice rang out behind them. They turned to find a severe-looking housekeeper dressed in black standing in the hall, trailed by several uniformed maids and butlers carrying silver trays laden with platters of food. The woman looked startled.
“Goodness, we’re not ready for the wake yet,” she said, regarding her watch with a worried frown. “I thought we had another half hour yet. Oh Lordy!”
“Actually, everyone’s still outside the church,” said Ursula, thinking on her feet. “We were just . . . erm . . . looking for the loo.”
The housekeeper sighed, relieved, and smoothed her dress down. “Go up to the first landing, turn left onto the main corridor upstairs, past the late Lady Brattenbury’s old bedroom on the right, and you’ll find a bathroom up there. Do keep your voices down as poor Lord Brattenbury is trying to rest up there. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d better get the buffet laid out.”
“Oh my God, this is a Colefax and Fowler dream,” said Nancy, gazing admiringly at the décor as they headed along the second-floor corridor. “Mom would die to decorate like this.”
The corridor was painted a sunny yellow, and a frieze of bows and leaves had been hand-stenciled in crisp white beneath the cornicing. At each window, swagged chintz curtains bulged onto the cream silk carpet, which had a yellow Greek key pattern embroidered on it. The look was, Ursula noted, extravagant, luxurious, and of-the-moment.
“We’re going to have to try every one,” said Ursula, looking along the vast corridor with doors all the way down it.
“Okay,” said Nancy, poking her head into an empty room on her right.
Suddenly Ursula noticed a door opening at the far end of the corridor. The girls froze for an instant, then silently sneaked behind one of the huge swagged curtains. From a tiny gap, they watched as a woman dressed in a green-and-white-striped nurse’s uniform and an apron and cap walked past them towards the grand staircase.
“She must be Lord Brattenbury’s nurse. He’s got to be in that room,” whispered Ursula, closing the gap in the curtain so they couldn’t be seen.
They heard the nurse’s footsteps fade away. With the coast now clear, they tiptoed along until they reached the far end of the corridor.
The door to Lord Brattenbury’s room was slightly ajar. With her heart thudding, Ursula pushed the door open a little more and took in the scene. The room was plain and masculine in style, the half-drawn curtains making for a gloomy atmosphere. The navy linen that upholstered the walls was barely visible, covered as it was with numerous black-and-white sporting prints. A faded Aubusson rug covered the floor. A writing table had been taken over by a heap of tablet boxes, medicine bottles, thermometers, syringes, and a pile of garish knitting. A mahogany-ended bed, flanked by two large side tables, was positioned in the middle of the far wall. The girls could see the outline of the sleeping Lord Brattenbury in it, hidden under mounds of blankets.
They walked as close as they dared to the bed, and Ursula noticed a glamorous black-and-white photograph on one side table. It showed a man dressed in white standing on the deck of a sailing yacht. He looked gorgeously raffish and tan, his thick hair ruffled by the wind, the sun catching his sharp cheekbones; he was holding a young child in his arms.
“That must be Lord B. when he was young, with India. How sad,” whispered Nancy, pointing at it. “But boy, was he handsome. How come all these English guys look like JFK?”
“We just do, my dear,” said a thin voice suddenly.
There was a rustling among the bedcovers. Lord Brattenbury emerged from the layers of blankets and wearily propped himself up against the pillows. Despite the film of perspiration over his face, he still looked remarkably attractive, an older version of the astonishingly handsome man from the photograph. That thick head of hair, only slightly graying, was unmistakable, and his sharp cheekbones were instantly recognizable, if a little too prominent in his drawn face. He picked up a small hand towel from the other side table and patted down his forehead and cheeks.
Nancy and Ursula peered at him curiously. He managed a smile.
“You couldn’t open a window, could you?” His voice was a rasp, almost gone. Lord Brattenbury sounded very, very sick. “That dreadful Nurse Ramsbottom is trying to kill me. All these blankets and heating! Feels hotter than hell in here.”
“Of course,” said Ursula, pushing back a curtain and opening a window.
“Thank you. Air,” he said weakly. Then he asked, “India’s friends?”
The girls nodded.
“How lovely,” he said croakily, and asked for their names, which they gave.
“I remember,” said Lord Brattenbury, ever the gentleman, even as he sweated and sweated. “Miss Feingold . . . I recall India had invited you to her shooting party. She did love Americans. Quite right. Did you go to the service?”
“Yes, it was really moving,” said Nancy.
“Poor, poor darling India. My heart’s broken, you know. To lose a child before you die is the greatest punishment life can inflict on a mother or father . . .”
The girls watched as a tear left the corner of Lord Brattenbury’s left eye and settled on his cheek. Suddenly, he started shivering violently. “Sorry,” he stuttered. “Can that window be shut now? Got the shaking chills again. My dear girl’s death has brought the malaria back. I don’t think I’m going to recover this time.”
“Don’t say that!” exclaimed Ursula, closing the window.
Lord Brattenbury drew his blankets right up to his chin and lay back on his pillows. His teeth were chattering now, and it seemed he was weakening a little more with every word he spoke.
“The illegit,” he mumbled shakily. “Can you find him?”
“The what?” asked Ursula.
“My son. The illegitimate boy . . . Mary. She was called Mary. Mary Crimshaw.”
“Who’s Mary?” said Nancy.
“The girl. Her mother still lives in the village. Runs the shop—”
There was a light tap at the door. To their surprise, Nancy and Ursula suddenly found themselves face-to-face with High Provost Scrope and his secretary.
“Feingold? Flowerbutton? What on earth—?” demanded the high provost.
“We were just . . . er . . . chatting,” said Ursula with an innocent smile.
“Look, jolly sorry to interrupt the chat and all that, but I’m afraid I must speak to Lord Brattenbury urgently. Alone,” said Scrope.
/> “I think he’s gone back to sleep,” said Nancy quietly. “He seemed really sick.”
Lord Brattenbury was, indeed, lying on his pillows, eyes now closed.
“This is most inconvenient. I suppose we’ll have to wait until later. Mrs. Gifford-Pennant, remind me to return here in an hour.” With that, Scrope and his secretary reluctantly exited the room.
The door closed, and Nancy and Ursula were left with the sleeping man.
“I can’t believe what Lord Brattenbury just said,” whispered Ursula.
“There’s another heir?” Nancy asked.
“I think so.”
Lord Brattenbury opened one eye and squinted at them both.
“Now get a move on,” he said, “and find that boy before I croak!”
Chapter 34
By the time Ursula and Nancy got back down to the great hall, it had already filled with mourners. As the guests sipped more and more glasses of Lord Brattenbury’s finest vintage champagne, served by an army of house staff, the funereal atmosphere was gradually replaced by that of a fabulous cocktail party. The girls soon located Horatio, who was, naturally, hogging the buffet, enthusiastically consuming large quantities of food and drink.
“Horatio, you gotta drive us down to the village,” said Nancy breathlessly.
“But I’m having a roaring time,” he protested, gulping down another forkful of coronation chicken. “This is a funeral of bacchanalian indulgence. I can’t leave until I’ve tried absolutely everything.”
Horatio whipped a devil-on-horseback from the sideboard. He polished it off in one bite. This was swiftly followed by a slice of fruitcake, a scone loaded with strawberry jam and clotted cream, and another glass of champagne.
“Mmmmmm!” Horatio groaned with pleasure. “Surely we don’t need to leave yet.”
“Actually, we do. There’s a new suspect in the case,” said Ursula.
Horatio’s interest was piqued. “Oh, who?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” said Ursula. “But I’m sure there is. Come on.”
“All right,” agreed Horatio, sneaking some homemade shortbread into his pocket and following the girls outside.
By the time the three of them had made it back to the car, Ursula was starting to have serious doubts about Horatio’s ability to drive. He had swayed his way out of the house, tripped over nothing at all on the graveled drive, and been unable to operate the handle of the driver’s door to get into the car. When he eventually got into it, he had wrestled his way over the top of the front seat, collapsed onto the mess in the backseat, and promptly passed out. His thumb soon found its way to his lips, and he proceeded to make a noise like a blocked drain as he sucked it vigorously.
“Now what are we going to do?” said Ursula, looking at the lumpen form asleep in the backseat.
Nancy stretched an arm into the back of the car, rifled through Horatio’s pockets, and found the car keys, which she dangled in front of Ursula.
“No self-respecting American high schooler hits seventeen without getting her license.”
A hair-raising twenty minutes later, during which Ursula tried to explain to her American friend the logic of driving on the left-hand side, Nancy parked the car opposite the village shop. The girls left Horatio snoring in the backseat.
A sign above the doorway of the shop read “Brattenbury Stores.” The tiny window contained various parish notices and a few ancient-looking packets of crisps. As Ursula opened the door, a bell tinkled. Nancy tottered behind her on her high heels and followed her inside.
The small store was sparsely stocked with the kind of provisions that would last at least four or five years in a larder—or during a war. There were tinned peaches, baked beans, cans of corned beef, and packets of “squashed fly” biscuits. There was a confectionery shelf meagerly supplied with a few Walnut Whips, Caramac bars, Flumps, Black Jacks, and foam bananas. Food-wise, the residents of Brattenbury were not exactly indulged.
Ursula spotted a neat pile of newspapers on the counter, on the top of which was the Daily Mail. She gulped when she saw the headline: who killed the it girl? Splashed under the words was a grainy black-and-white photograph of India dressed in a mini puff-ball dress at an Oxford ball.
“Nancy, look,” said Ursula. The girls read the article, which was of course by Neil Thistleton.
Brainy society beauty Lady India Brattenbury, only daughter of mining tycoon Lord Arthur Brattenbury, will be buried today at the lavish family estate in Derbyshire. Her body was discovered on Monday morning in the room of an Oxford don. Lady India was last seen alive late on Sunday night. She had been partying at a wild bash with members of the so-called Champagne Set in the rooms of her boyfriend, aristocratic rowing Blue and fellow Oxford student the Earl of Wychwood. Police sources told the Daily Mail, “We have a young male suspect in custody,” but would not be drawn on the identity of the suspect. However the Daily Mail has learned that Wentworth Wychwood was arrested late on Tuesday night.
“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for Wenty,” Ursula said, returning the newspaper to the counter.
“Me too,” said Nancy.
There was no sign of anyone running the shop, but Ursula could see the door behind the counter was just ajar.
“Hello!” she called out, hoping there was someone inside.
“Two ticks!” came a locally accented voice from within.
Moments later an immaculately coiffed, overly made-up woman appeared. She was dressed in a cream-collared, neatly tailored bright red wool dress that strained over her ample bust. Her brightly dyed auburn hair had telltale gray streaks at the temples.
“Wow!” exclaimed Nancy when she saw her. “You look like you should be running the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s.”
“Come again, love?” said the woman, looking confused. “Right. What can I get you?”
“I’m starving,” said Nancy, picking up a Milkybar and putting it on the counter. Ursula filled a paper bag with Flumps.
“Thirty pence please.”
As Ursula handed over the coins, she said, “Do you know where we could find Mrs. Crimshaw?”
“You’re looking at her,” replied the woman. “Why?”
Ursula and Nancy regarded her nervously.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Crimshaw.
“Actually, we were wondering if you could tell us where your daughter Mary is?” said Nancy, unwrapping her Milkybar. “We need to speak to her. It’s super-urgent.”
A melancholy expression crossed the shopkeeper’s face.
“She passed away,” said Mrs. Crimshaw, in a desolate tone of voice. “Died in childbirth. Twenty-two years ago now.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Nancy.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Crimshaw. Ursula noticed the woman’s eyes welling up as she produced a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her face. “Dear me. Always get like this about poor Mary. Despite the trouble she caused when she was with us.”
Mrs. Crimshaw took out a compact from a drawer beneath the counter and pressed powder as thickly as she could beneath her teary eyes.
“What kind of trouble?” said Ursula.
“So-fetching-she-was-pregnant-at-fourteen kind of trouble, that’s what,” said Mrs. Crimshaw.
“Fourteen?!” exclaimed Nancy. “Oh my God. She was a child.”
“Unfortunately, she didn’t look like one.” Mrs. Crimshaw shook her head. “She was always sneakin’ off with boys. Got with one o’ those lads in the village and that was it, she was pregnant.”
Clearly, thought Ursula, Mrs. Crimshaw had absolutely no idea who the real father of Mary’s baby was.
The woman went on, “Poor lass. Poor bairn.”
“Barn?” Nancy looked puzzled.
“The baby. We have a saying in our family: ‘Those as thinks a bairn’s a baby call a sprog a child and a lass a lady.’ Mary’s baby was a little boy. That’s all I ever knew about it, really. I would have kept him, loo
ked after him here even with the shame of it in the village, but Ian—that was Mary’s father, my late husband—well, he’d arranged for the child to be adopted even before he was born. Said it wouldn’t be fair ont’ baby to be brought up with everyone knowing he was illegitimate, but . . .” Mrs. Crimshaw couldn’t go on. Her face had clouded with regret.
“Do you have any idea who adopted Mary’s baby?” asked Ursula, as gently as she could.
“Well, what a strange question,” said Mrs. Crimshaw. “Why come here asking that now, after all this time?”
“I’m trying to solve Lady India’s murder,” said Ursula. “I think the whereabouts of your grandchild could help us figure out who killed her.”
Mrs. Crimshaw looked doubtfully at Ursula, then Nancy, then back at Ursula again.
“You don’t look much like policewomen,” she said.
“I’m a student reporter,” explained Ursula, trying to sound as grown-up and professional as she could. “For Cherwell. It’s just a university newspaper. We really need your help.”
“All right then.”
Mrs. Crimshaw walked to the door of the shop and turned the sign around so that “Closed” faced outwards, then returned to the counter and rested her ample bottom against it while she talked.
“As soon as Mary started showing, Ian packed her off to the Catholic Crusade of Rescue. Miles away, it was in Leeds somewhere. It was a home for unmarried mums and babies. If the mothers didn’t have anywhere to go—and Ian wouldn’t think about having Mary back home—the babies were adopted. When Ian told me that Mary had passed on and that the adoption was going ahead . . . well, there was nothing I could do.”
“It’s a terrible story,” said Nancy.
“There’s not a day goes by I don’t regret not going and getting that bairn. But round here, it wouldn’t be accepted. Not then, not now.”
“Do you think your husband had any idea who adopted the baby?” asked Ursula.
“He always said to me he didn’t. But . . .” Mrs. Crimshaw looked wistful. “Sometimes I wondered.”
“Why?”
“He used to go fishing for a day or two, a couple of times a year, with Brian Wood, the blacksmith, but there was this one time when he said he’d gone fishing and I saw Brian shoeing horses at the stables. I found an address in Ian’s diary written next to that date.”