by Lynda Wilcox
“So, how did your father manage that then?”
“It was a really neat trick. He sped after him, then swung the car around towards the man and at the last minute stamped on the brake. The thief ended up pinioned against the wall.”
“Good heavens! I hope there was no damage to either the car or the man.”
Serena laughed. “Not a scratch on either, thankfully, though I don’t know who was more scared, the thief or me. Daddy was well pleased with himself, though he had some explaining to do when the constable arrived. For a moment I thought he was going to arrest them both.”
Eleanor smiled at the anecdote, then forgot it as they talked of other things.
It was nearly seven o’clock before she left the Savoy and drove back to Bellevue Mansions, wondering if Serena, or any of her other friends, thought of her as seedy.
Chapter 6
After a loud and alcohol-filled party at Lady Flaxwood’s the previous evening, Eleanor’s head was in no state to withstand the shrill ring of the telephone.
She swallowed a gulp of coffee and listened to Tilly’s footsteps across the hall.
“Bellevue Mansions, Lady Eleanor Bakewell’s apartment.”
Eleanor put down her slice of toast, wiped her hands on a napkin and swallowed more coffee before getting to her feet.
“His Grace is on the telephone for you, my lady.”
Eleanor groaned. “Botheration! What the deuce can the old man want at this unearthly hour of a Sunday?”
Tilly sniffed, and forbore pointing out that it was already half past ten.
“His Grace didn’t say.”
Throwing the napkin onto the table, Eleanor went and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Father,” she murmured.
“That you, Eleanor, old girl?”
She winced. The duke could be far too loud and hearty at times. He might at least assume that his daughter had a hangover and show some consideration for her fragile state. Besides, who else would he be speaking to, if not her or Tilly?
“Yes, Father. Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, it’s not me, dear. It’s your mother.”
Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. “Mother? Is she ill? What’s wrong with her?”
“No, no, she’s hale and hearty, thank heavens. It’s just that she’s got it into her head to come to London for this here Empire Exhibition.”
He sounded totally woebegone, and his daughter smothered a laugh.
“Well, it’s going to be the event of the year, so it’s said.”
“In London, maybe. Up here, that’s likely to be the County Show and I’ve got my dogs to get in shape. I’m training up a young Collie pup for the sheepdog trials. Winning that will be the highlight of my year, not traipsing all the way to London so that your mother can see the sights.”
“Don’t be such an old curmudgeon. You’ll have a whale of a time down here, and it will be lovely to see you both. Besides Mother deserves some fun, too, you know. She can’t get much of that stuck in the back of beyond with only you and a flock of sheep for company.”
Rowsley Park, the ancestral home of the Dukes of Bakewell, lay a little over a hundred and sixty miles north of London in an area known as the Peak District. The estate that surrounded the house stretched for miles and covered many acres of the hilly countryside, though the duke often remarked that the only thing it was fit for was growing sheep. He did, however, admit that the family made most of its money from the backs of these same sheep.
Eleanor loved the area. As a young girl she had travelled around with her father visiting the villages, speaking to the tenants, getting to know the people. The duke took a keen interest in their welfare, extending his support and his charity to all who had need of it and employing, at a fair wage, as many of them as he could.
He chuckled at Eleanor’s words. “I get more sense out of the sheep than I do out of your mother sometimes, especially when she remembers she’s Russian and gets on at me in her native tongue.”
“It’s probably no more than you deserve, darling. So, are you going to bring her to London? I haven’t seen a programme, but I’m sure the Australians and New Zealanders will be well represented. Who knows? They might even bring a sheep shearing team with them. Then you can go and watch them, Mother will have the culture she craves, and you’ll both enjoy yourselves.”
“Ah, well. It makes no odds. As long as your mother is happy, I’m satisfied.”
“So, when do you plan on coming down?”
“I’m not absolutely sure yet. We had an invitation from their Majesties inviting us onto the royal barge next Saturday, but it was fairly short notice and I’ve had to refuse. “
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes, your mother is disappointed, but it would have been a fairly stodgy affair, from Windsor to the Tower of London, then a civic banquet of some sort. Anyway, when we do come down we may be staying for quite a while, so rather than have the expense of an hotel, I thought we’d open up Bakewell House for the duration. I shall bring the staff down, and that way they’ll have a chance to visit the exhibition too. If they wish to, of course.”
It was typical of the duke to consider his staff, but his next words appalled his dutiful daughter.
“Will you go round to Berkeley Square and make a start, please? I’m thinking of sending everyone but Mrs Walton down in the next day or two.”
“But, Dad, I’m working on a case at the moment.”
“A case of what? Red wine? Brandy? Ha ha!”
“You know what I mean. My job. I can’t drop everything to see to Bakewell House. And why aren’t you sending Mrs Walton? Tilly’s looking forward to seeing her mother.”
A loud sigh proceeded from the receiver. “Because, clever clogs, your mother and I still need to eat while the house is being readied for our arrival. I can manage without butler, housekeeper, footmen and maids. I can’t manage without my cook.”
“Oh!”
“Oh, indeed. Heaven knows how you hope to solve your cases if you don’t engage your brain. Bess would make a better detective than you.”
As Bess was the duke’s favourite sheepdog, this was hardly a flattering comparison. Unseen by her father, laughing at her all those miles away, Eleanor stuck out her tongue.
“Besides,” the duke went on, “I thought you said you’d found a caretaker for the house. Get him to help you.”
Two months ago, while investigating a gang of spies, Eleanor had made the acquaintance of Joe Minshull, a young paperboy. She’d offered him the job of keeping an eye on Bellevue Mansions and also the house in Berkeley Square. When Joe had gone missing, abducted by the gang, Eleanor had discovered the boy’s mother, ill and living in poverty and squalor in a damp-riddled hovel, together with his younger brother.
Without a second’s hesitation, she had fetched a doctor, medicine, and groceries, then rehoused the family by installing them at Bakewell House.
She had told her father nothing of this, except to say that she had thought it best to employ a caretaker at their London home, and whether Mrs Minshull would be able to help prepare the place before the hordes descended was debatable.
“But, Dad —”
“Now, now, no buts, Eleanor. If I have to squire your mother around both exhibitions and sights, and she’ll no doubt want a party or two so she can play the grande dame to her friends, then I’m at least going to do it from the comfort of my own home.”
Parties? Eleanor knew what that meant. Parties meant her mother inviting a lot of young men to Bakewell House and getting Eleanor to dance with them. It meant her mother trying to marry her off to any number of chinless wonders with a title, an annoying laugh, and no money, simply because the Duchess considered them eligible.
It meant it was to be avoided at all costs.
“Well, why don’t you stay up in Derbyshire, then. By the sound of things you aren’t going to enjoy yourself down here.”
“Because staying put would
make your mother unhappy which means she’d make me unhappy. So, I might as well be unhappy down there.”
Although the duke had made an unfavourable comparison between Eleanor’s detective skills and Bess, the former had all of the latter’s sheepdog cunning.
“I must admit that parties sound fun. I could get my friend Lady Ann Carstairs to organise them. She makes a living out of doing just that.”
And she and Ann between them could come up with a darn sight better mix of people to add to the guest list than anyone Her Grace might suggest.
“Just as you wish, my dear. As long as your mother is happy. Now, I’d better go. I’ll be sending the staff down on Friday. All right? See what you can do at Bakewell House before then. Your mother sends her love. Bye.”
With a sigh of frustration, Eleanor put the receiver down.
Once back in the kitchen she explained the situation to Tilly, who was suitably sympathetic.
“I’ll give Mrs Minshull a hand, my lady. It only needs the staff bedrooms airing and the beds making ready. Plus getting the boiler going and so on. It shouldn’t take us long, assuming she’s not a slacker, that is.”
Eleanor shrugged. “I’ve no idea, Tilly, nor what she did at her old job. We’ll go now, if you don’t mind. I want to speak to young Joe. And thank you, my dear.”
“You’re welcome, my lady. Are we going to walk to Berkeley Square? It’s a lovely day out there. You’ll not need a coat.”
“Yes, all right, though I don’t want to stay too long. I’m going to visit Lady Ann afterwards.”
Mrs Minshull peered around the door when the pair arrived at Bakewell House, then smiled a greeting and stepped back to let them in. She bobbed a curtsey to Eleanor then, much to that Lady’s amusement, did the same to Tilly.
“Good morning, my lady. Is everything all right?”
“Fine, thank you, Mrs M. I was going to ask the same of you.”
Both she and Tilly had noticed that the paintwork of the front door was clean, the brass knocker recently polished, and the step swept clear of leaves and dust. It wasn’t part of Mrs Minshull’s duties, but it impressed the visitors that the woman had lavished some care on the house.
In a sense it was now her home — she and the children had a couple of rooms in the servants’ quarters, usually occupied by the cook and her staff. Eleanor provided her with sufficient wages to pay for their food and clothing with, she hoped, a little bit over that Mrs Minshull could save. If, heaven forfend, the family should fall on hard times again, they would have something put away to help them through it.
“We’re all very well, thanks to you, my lady.”
She certainly looked a lot better than the first time Eleanor had seen her, rheumy eyed, sallow skinned, and greasy haired, lying on her sick bed in the hovel on Cook Place. Now, she had a healthy bloom to her cheeks, her light brown hair, neatly tied at the base of her neck, was clean and shining, and her figure had filled out thanks to having at least one square meal a day.
At first, she had been unwilling to cook in the house’s large and well-stocked kitchen, until Tilly had taken a hand, told her what she might and might not use, and encouraged her to try the simple recipes she passed on in order to supplement their otherwise meagre and uninspired diet.
It was a maxim of the duke’s that a little money, wisely spent, could make a lot of difference and bring benefits all around, and Eleanor marvelled at the change her few pounds had bought and expressed herself delighted, then suggested that they go through to the kitchen and take a seat as there was something she needed to discuss.
They crossed the hall with its black and white marble-tiled floor, passed the magnificent staircase, and went through the green baize door at the end.
The kitchen was warm. Young Georgie looked up from his seat on a low stool as they entered and held up a toy car that he had been running back and forth by his feet.
“Car. Gonda.”
Eleanor burst out laughing and knelt beside him. “That’s right, Georgie.” She took the hand still holding the wooden toy and moved it across the floor. “Lagonda. Vroom.”
“Vwoom,” the boy echoed. She ruffled his hair before rising and taking a seat at the kitchen table, motioning for the others to join her.
“Joe found that for him in a second-hand shop. Georgie loves it and won’t be parted from it. He even takes it to bed with him.”
Eleanor heard a sniff from the other end of the table and wondered if Tilly thought her mistress would like to do the same with the real Lagonda.
“I’m really pleased to see that you and the boys have settled in here so well, but I have a favour to ask.”
She relayed the gist of the duke’s telephone call while Mrs Minshull chewed at her lip.
“I don’t mind helping Miss Tilly at all. It will be a pleasure, but will the duke want us out of here?” She pulled young Georgie off his stool and hugged him to her side. The boy whimpered and leant against her thigh, bottom lip quivering.
“Good heavens, no!”
“But, if his lordship insists...”
“It’s His Grace.” Eleanor said, absently, her mind on other things.
“Eh?”
“What? Oh! Father’s a duke, so you refer to him as His Grace.” She shook her head and brought her attention back to the woman in front of her. “I don’t suppose it really matters as long as you’re respectful. Anyway, he won’t insist that you leave.” She softened her tone, hoping that and her words would take some of the fear from Mrs Minshull’s eyes. “My father will not make you homeless. We aren’t about to put you on the streets. With any luck, I’m hoping to persuade him to add a little bit more to the salary I pay you. Why not? It’s his house, after all and you are the caretaker here.”
She smiled at the woman, pleased to see the tense hands relax and relief replace the fear in her eyes.
“Oh, right, my lady. Thank you.”
“I doubt that they will stay much more than a month at the most. The duke is not fond of spending time in the capital, and although Mother enjoys a change of scene, she’ll want to return home before too long. Then they’ll pack everything up again, and leave you in peace.”
Mrs Minshull lowered her gaze. “I’ll be happy to be of service while they are here,” she murmured.
“Good. Well, now that’s sorted, I can leave the pair of you to it, but I’d like to see Joe before I go.”
Eleanor pushed back her chair and got to her feet, only to sit down again when Mrs Minshull declared, “Joe’s not here, and he’s given up his job selling papers.”
Chapter 7
Terror gripped Eleanor’s chest just as it had done to Mrs Minshull’s earlier. Her heart pounded, the blood sang in her ears. She gripped the table, palms clammy with sweat and stared at the caretaker.
“Where is he?” she asked when she could bring herself to speak. “Has he been all right?”
The caretaker immediately understood Eleanor’s meaning, and smiled in her turn. “Oh, he’s been fine, thank you, your ladyship. He’s a tough old bird is our Joe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, or imply nothing. He’s just out in the garden.”
Tilly reached the door before Eleanor. She wrenched it open and shot outside, as anxious as her mistress to see the boy with her own eyes, and be sure of his well-being.
Beyond the small slabbed yard outside the back door lay two squares of kitchen garden, one on either side of a central path. Joe was standing in the middle of one of these squares, drawing a furrow with the edge of a hoe. Eleanor was amazed to see a row of beansticks behind him. It was too early in the year for there to be anything growing, but presumably he had already sown his seeds.
“Hello, Joe.” Tilly walked up the garden path towards him. “My, you have been busy.”
He looked up and grinned at the visitors. Where once his face had been streaked black with newsprint, a smear of soil now decorated his forehead. He brushed it away with his sleeve.
“Hello, my lady, Mi
ss Tilly. Just planting a few beans and getting the ground ready for some salads later. My mum’s powerful fond of radishes.”
Eleanor joined her maid. “She tells me that you’ve left your job at the Daily Banner.”
Joe looked at his feet. They were encased in a pair of stout boots at least two sizes too big for him. “Yeah, that’s right, my lady. Mum didn’t want me to carry on with selling newspapers, and I didn’t like to leave them alone. Your house is safe enough now that them spies is gone, but I gotta take care of me mum and Georgie. Besides, it’s a long way to Fleet Street from here.”
Eleanor nodded her agreement. It had been on her mind to ask Joe for his help with her current case, but given what had happened the last time she had done so — when he’d been left, bound and gagged, in a garage at the rear of the property by a nest of spies using the empty house as their meeting place —she was not going to put him at risk again.
“We ain’t never ’ad no garden before.” His eyes shone.
“So, how do you know what to do?” Tilly asked.
“I got a book about it. There’s a library just round the corner here” — he waved a hand to his right — “I can recommend it to you, and I borrowed a book and read all about it.”
He sounded very pleased with himself and Eleanor looked at her gloves to hide a smile at his choice of words and growing self-confidence.
“Joe, do the letters RRO mean anything to you?” she asked.
He scratched at his head with a soil-encrusted finger. “Can’t say that they do, my lady.”
“You’ve not seen it anywhere, like on a crest, for example?”
The boy wrinkled his brow as though unsure what a crest was. “Do you mean like that drawing of a bloke with a flag on the top of every copy of the Daily Banner?”
“Yes, similar. Unfortunately, I don’t know what the letters stand for.”
“Could be Rolls Royce Ortomobiles, my lady.”
“That would be RRA.” Tilly told him.
“Oh.” Joe shrugged. “Anyways, they have a woman, or an angel on the front of all their cars. I saw it when Sir David used to drive down Fleet Street.”