“I don’t see a greenhouse,” I said.
“It be over round t’other side of the house.” Ned flagged a gnarled hand to our left. “Lady Grizwolde, that was Sir Casper’s mother, had it built. A very keen gardener, she was. Designed a lot of the beds, she did, and most of the arbors and rock pools was her doing. And, not surprising, some of it rubbed off on the son. Most mornings, before his health got so bad, he’d be out in that there greenhouse.”
“My esteemed fellow”—Daddy ballooned up to ferocious proportions— “I would not wish you to labor under the misapprehension that I do not delight in your discourse. I am, however, impelled to inform you that I wish to know how you plan to retrieve my daughter’s vehicle and its precious cargo.”
“I’m sure Ned was coming to that,” I said with a shake of my head that sent raindrops spraying right and left. Standing in the open garage doorway with the wind blowing our way, I had got quite wet. “He’ll take us to a telephone, and I’ll phone the vicarage. It’s a straight road there and no great distance, so with any luck Mr. Ambleforth will already have walked in the door.”
“And he can come right back for you.” Ned’s wizened face widened into the smile of a man who had just heard that the executioner was in bed with the flu.
“I think I’d rather it was Mrs. Ambleforth.”
“Likely you’re right.” He nodded at me before ducking out into the downpour.
“There isn’t an entrance to the house through the garage?” My father did not sound like a man who had cheerfully lived in grass huts and trotted across the burning desert on flea-ridden camels. But perhaps life in Frau Grundman’s well-run guest house has ruined him for life in the raw.
“If you come down here and around this corner, avoiding the drainpipe that’s come loose, we’ll be in the dry in two ticks.” Ned plowed forward like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, with Daddy and me sloshing along behind. I collided with a rain barrel, possibly the one from which Miss Finchpeck drew water to wash her hair. But before I could bend to rub my bruised shin, Ned had opened a door, and the three of us were stepping into a narrow whitewashed corridor with a green linoleum floor and an archway ahead. This led into a red-carpeted area with a flight of steps at one end, a dark trestle table against one wall, and several varnished doors bearing enameled signs. The one closest to me as I stood drip-drying read: Housekeeper. Ned passed this by and nipped nimbly over to another that stood ajar. But he stepped back just as he was about to go in and pressed a finger to his lips.
“Mr. Jarrow’s in there on the phone,” he whispered, guiding us all over to the wall, where we huddled like policemen about to pull our guns and burst in on a couple of bank robbers “Sometimes he can be nice as you please. And of another he can be as carpy as the dickens.”
“Who is he?” I turned my head to mouth back.
“Sir Casper’s secretary. And to be fair, he’s had his plate full this year. Just got back, he did, after being gone a month at least down in Colchester looking after his old sick Mum that’s got a nasty, grudging tongue in her head from what Cook tells me. So best to toss sonny boy a piece of raw meat before sticking a finger in his cage as of now is my thoughts. All for the quiet life, I am.”
Ned’s low voice faded away. And being at the front of our little group, I couldn’t resist the impulse to contort my neck until it felt as though it were being stretched to the snapping point in the hands of one of those people who twist balloons into animal shapes. Unfortunately, destiny hadn’t meant me for a swan. So I took the other approach, inching forward until I could stick my nose, which had never given me any difficulty, around the door frame.
What I saw was an office that was like most offices where people do a lot of dull, necessary work instead of sitting, with feet propped up, absorbing the smell of leather and the gloss of mahogany. There was a desk and a number of file cabinets, several wastepaper baskets, an electric typewriter sitting like a replaced wife across from a word processor, and of course a telephone. A slender man of medium height in a gray suit with a pale blue tie was standing with the receiver to his ear. What jumped out at you was his mustache, which was much too big for his narrow face; so much so that it looked as though it might have landed there by mistake after being dropped from a great height and he might be asked to return it at any given moment.
If he saw me peeking in on him, Mr. Jarrow took no notice. He continued talking into the receiver in the firm but mollifying voice so highly prized in a secretary.
“I shall certainly convey to Sir Casper that the business entailed unforeseen complications which lead you to believe you should be more handsomely compensated for your job performance. That way he will have time to consider his response before your meeting with him. Which is scheduled for ... Yes, that is correct, this evening at...” Mr. Jarrow looked down at the calendar on his desk. Because my father chose that moment to tread heavily down on my heel, requiring me to bite my lips off to refrain from screaming, the next thing I heard was the telephone being replaced. And before I could lead the march into the office, a door that was partially blocked from view by two filing cabinets opened, and Lady Grizwolde moved to confront the secretary at his desk.
“I was on the other line,” she informed him.
“If you choose to eavesdrop in your own house, your ladyship,” he responded with slightly more expression in his voice, “that is entirely your prerogative.”
“Indeed. I am, after all, closely concerned in the matter.”
‘‘Pivotal, one might say.”
The lady of the manor and the hireling. She, a woman of elegance and beauty with dark eyes and smooth black-satin hair. He, a man who wouldn’t have merited a second glance but for that ridiculous mustache. But it was she who moved restlessly around the desk, her rust skirt the only spot of color in an otherwise drab room.
“Perhaps you and I can come to some arrangement, John?” She paused to pick up a pencil and twirl it between her long fingers. “I’ve already tried to put a spoke in the wheel this morning and even for a few moments thought I might be able to take direct action. Blame my horoscope; it said my luck was out. But surely you must have some understanding of how I feel....”
“You didn’t have to marry him.” Jarrow was rearranging papers on his desk.
“At the time, he seemed the ideal candidate. You of all people should know how I am and what I require in a husband.”
“You got the wealth and a title to boot.”
“All that and a bedroom of my own when the exceedingly long honeymoon was over.”
“And you expect me to have pity?”
The rain beat upon the window high on the rear wall, making for a dreary accompaniment to the scene being played out before my spying eyes and those of my father, who was leaning over my shoulder with increasing heaviness. Another moment and we would have gone sprawling down in the doorway.
But before we could show family solidarity by disgracing ourselves equally, Ned popped around from behind us, hacking out a disgusting cough into an even more disgusting handkerchief. Having announced to her ladyship and Mr. Jarrow that they were not destined to continue enjoying their tête-à-tête, he stuffed the rag back into his trouser pocket and scooted into the office, plucking at a tuft of his hair as he went.
“Morning, your ladyship.” He turned one of his little hops into a bow.
“Actually, it’s afternoon,” interjected the secretary, glancing up at a round wall clock.
“So it be, Mr. Jarrow, so it be! And I’ll not be taking up more’n a few minutes of your valued time; nor her ladyship’s, neither. We just come along—me and this pair of folks,” he explained, beckoning Daddy and me into the room, “to ask if you’d be so good as to let them use the phone. There was a mishap, you see. The vicar that’s so dotty about Old Worty drove off in their car.”
“Oh, so that explains it,” said Lady Grizwolde.
“Explains what, your ladyship?” Ned stood scratching his head.
“
Why they’re still here.”
“Aye, that do be the point.”
“It’s really like something out of a bad play,” I murmured.
“Oh, please don’t say that to Mrs. Ambleforth or she’ll write in a new scene. And I’m really not up to learning any more lines.” Lady Grizwolde gave a laugh that contained absolutely no merriment and held out the phone to me. “You do know the vicarage number?”
I nodded and dialed, but without luck. After listening to a prolonged series of rings, I hung up and announced the obvious: “No answer.”
“Most annoying.” Mr. Jarrow sounded efficiently regretful.
“It’s a great deal more than that, sir.” Daddy commanded center stage with an operatic fire in his eyes and a stride suggestive of a billowing cloak and a rapier about to be drawn in a sizzle of steel. “It is an occurrence fraught with the most anguishing of possibilities, the most excruciating of regrets....” He broke off just as his voice swelled to such a volume that I expected him to burst into an aria—completely in Italian, with no stinting of notes held till his face turned blue. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he inquired of Mr. Jarrow.
“Not that I am aware of, Mr....?”
“Simons. Morley Simons.”
“I regret neither the name nor your appearance are familiar to me.”
“You weren’t perchance in Germany recently?”
“Not unless I was sleepwalking.” The mustache weighed down Mr. Jarrow’s attempt at a perfunctory smile. “I do have a cousin who resembles me closely. And he does travel quite a bit. It would make for rather a coincidence if you had run into him. However, these things do happen, I suppose.”
While Daddy stood with furrowed brow and I was about to suggest that we ring for a taxi, Sir Casper came through the door. He had the two walking sticks with him. Instead of leaning on them, as we had seen him do earlier, he had them tucked under his armpits. Although it couldn’t be said that he was entirely steady on his pins—indeed he progressed more sideways than forwards—his steps had an elongated prance to them that made him look rather like an aged ballet dancer attempting to relive a performance in Swan Lake. Had a couple of glasses of red wine got the blood flowing through his veins? Or had his doctor paid him a visit and broken the happy news that, all evidence to the contrary, he wasn’t dead yet?
“Phyllis, my darling.” His eyes watered with delight in his yellow face as he made for her with increasing, if haphazard, speed. “I have been looking all over the house for you.” A lilt had been added to his quavering voice. “On such a glorious day we should be outside smelling the roses.”
“It is raining, Casper.” Lady Grizwolde pointed out without looking at him or anyone else.
“All the better for the sort of romp I have in mind!” He wagged a stick and cackled a roguish laugh. “First we can play hide-and-seek among the trees, and when I catch you, we can dry each other off in the greenhouse.”
“You mustn’t miss your nap, Casper.”
“No forty winks for me today, Phyllis!”
“I believe what her ladyship is suggesting,” Mr. Jarrow interposed in a softly persuasive voice, “is that you should reserve your strength, for it would be a pity to do yourself an injury just when you have the promise of a full return to vitality.”
“But where is the harm in feeling frisky?” Spoken like an elderly spoiled brat who’s nanny had always given him everything he wanted.
“You are understandably buoyed up, sir, by the realization that the medicine you require is shortly to be made available to you.” The secretary looked down, but not before I glimpsed the malicious glance he gave her ladyship. “But you may damage your chances of a recovery if you mistake a psychological lift for the real miracle.”
I can’t say anything about Daddy’s reaction to standing in on this conversation or describe Ned’s demeanor, for I had kept them out of my line of vision, but I was certainly feeling off-kilter, even before Sir Casper wobbled up against me.
“Perhaps you are right, Jarrow,” he bleated from my arms. “I must endeavor to be patient. It will make the rewards all the sweeter, my Phyllis.”
He went suddenly, horribly limp. My knees sagged as I backed up against the desk. Help was slow in coming. My father, Ned, Lady Grizwolde, and Mr. Jarrow all stood fixed in place, as if wondering what was the proper etiquette in a situation such as this. Who was the appropriate person to step forward? Did it depend on whether Sir Casper was living or dead? I was getting ready to drop him when he let out a snore that shook him awake, and finally Mr. Jarrow took custody of him.
In the ensuing reshuffling of our positions I found myself on the other side of the desk staring blankly at a daily calendar. It was the notebook kind with the date and the day of the week on the top of the two pages spread open. There were a number of entries recorded in neat black handwriting, but nothing as my eyes skimmed the lines on any of the black lines about an appointment for this evening between Sir Casper and the caller. And yet when speaking on the phone, Mr. Jarrow had looked down at the calendar and spoken as if he saw one noted there. I looked more closely and spotted a tiny jotting on the topmost outer corner of the page. I had to squint to make it out: R. to be D. 9. Or it could have been a 7.
I was jostled several paces to the right by Ned, who was struggling to help Mr. Jarrow. Sir Casper had come to like a drowning man hell-bent on dragging his rescuer and possibly a couple of passing liners underwater. My father had very sensibly stepped out of the way. Now he caught my eye, and I would have had to be a dolt not to have realized that he was desperate to get out of there and recover the urn. Luckily, Lady Grizwolde was every bit as eager to be rid of us. She reached into a drawer and withdrew several key rings. Selecting the one she wanted, she dropped it into my hand.
“Take my car—not the Rolls, the other one. And don’t worry about getting it back to us today. I know you are expecting visitors. Tomorrow will do just fine. No, I wouldn’t dream of letting you wait for a taxi,” she insisted, cutting off my protest. “Just go off and enjoy the rest of the day. And now if you will excuse me,” she added, having guided Daddy and me firmly out the door, “I really must help Ned and Mr. Jarrow with Casper.”
“Of course.” I had trouble putting the brakes on my feet after being given such an emotional, if not physical, shove out the door.
“And I hope you didn’t pay too much attention to his nonsense.” Her ladyship fiddled with the narrow gold belt encircling the waist of her black sweater and then let her hands fall limp at her sides. “It was the dementia talking. Sometimes it’s worse than others, and today has been one of his bad times. If he were anyone else, living in an ordinary house, he would have had to go into a home months ago. But luckily we have the facilities to keep him here.”
“It must be very difficult,” I murmured.
“Extremely sad,” Daddy agreed with only a tinge of impatience in his voice.
After which neither of us spoke a word until I was backing the Honda Prelude out of the garage. We hadn’t even made eye contact as we walked across the red-carpeted area into the narrow corridor leading outdoors. The rain had stopped, and the sky showed patches of blue among the clouds.
Turning the car around in the courtyard took several moments of intense concentration, for I had no wish to go back inside and report that I wrecked it before even reaching the drive. Somehow I didn’t think Lady Grizwolde was quite as keen on me as she had been before I witnessed her husband’s pathetic antics. And the world is filled with qualified interior designers, although possibly not in Chitterton Fells, where people tend to consider switching a picture from one side of the room to another a major renovation.
I drove at a snail’s pace toward the open gates and even when out on the cliff road proceeded with caution until I was well past the spot where we had almost come to grief earlier. Actually that was beginning to seem ages ago. My mind filled with images of Ben, who would have gone on with his life after an interlude of suitable sorro
w. I would walk into the house and discover that he had married the lawyer who had helped him have me declared legally dead. She wouldn’t be wearing my clothes; they would be too big for her and not sufficiently chic. But she would have taken over every other aspect of my life, including the children, who would have returned from staying with Grandpa and Grandma. They would have been gently informed that Mummy had gone away, but that if they didn’t whine for new toys and went to bed when they were told, they would get to see her again one day.
“Woe betide that vicar when I catch up with him, Giselle.” Daddy stuck his plummy voice right into the middle of my pathetic daydream. “If I were a less civilized man, I would spin him around by his dog collar and punch his miserable nose into the nearest wall. As it is, I shall give him a tongue-lashing he will never forget. Let him have harmed a blessed inch of that urn and I will ... will ...” Words failed him.
“I’m sure you will get Harriet back safe and sound.” I steered the car around a bend, avoiding the bristling hedgerows that jutted out in places like bearded-faced Peeping Toms, hoping I sounded more convinced than I felt. A man who was as absent-minded as Mr. Ambleforth might well not even notice the canvas bag on the front seat of the car he had mistaken for his bicycle. And, unsecured, it could fall on the floor, the lid could come off, and the contents spill all over the rubber mat.
“My dear Giselle.” Daddy spoke with what he undoubtedly considered rigid self-control. “It is my profound hope that you will drive to the vicarage at several miles above this paltry speed before going home. That way we can trap the fellow before he takes off for parts unknown, beard him in his den, and threaten him with a stern letter to be written to his bishop if he does not immediately produce the urn safe and sound.”
The Trouble with Harriet Page 13