The Trouble with Harriet

by Dorothy Cannell

  I had to make myself think of something else. So I settled on Mr. Price’s gun. I hadn’t been serious when I suggested to Ben that we take it with us to Cliffside House. Neither of us would have known how to fire the thing without the instruction manual. I also suspected that we would have been the ones getting into big trouble for being caught in possession of a stolen weapon. The judge would be vexed that we hadn’t turned it into the police station after Aunt Lulu showed us what she lamentably viewed as sort of a door prize.

  Had the children been home, Ben or I would have immediately locked it away in a safe place while we were wondering how to turn it over to the authorities without landing Aunt Lulu in hot water. Now I couldn’t remember where in the drawing room the gun had ended up. If it had been left on the coffee table, it hadn’t been there this morning. I would have noticed a gun nestled between the marmalade pot and the toast rack. Our carelessness was really inexcusable; I got panicky thinking about Daddy’s present state of mind. I really didn’t think he would try to kill himself. But tragedies occur when people don’t take the time and trouble to assume the worst.

  I kept picturing the car accident as I drove alongside the wall enclosing the Old Abbey. And when I turned in at the gates and glanced toward the ruins of St. Ethelwort’s monastery, stark and secret in the gloom of the day, I thought about the wages of sin, so dear to Mrs. Blum’s heart. What a bitter irony that Harriet’s manner of death had so closely mimicked her feigned demise in Germany. Was it possible that driving this winding road above the coast had impaired her concentration because the similarity of settings had reminded her of the story she and Herr Voelkel had concocted for my father’s benefit? Or had she simply been driving too fast in her haste to get the urn, which the Hoppers would have collected as arranged but for Mr. Ambleforth’s unwitting intervention?

  And if she were hurrying, was that because she had a second appointment to keep, one in which she was to complete her business deal with a purchaser who did not allow moral or legal nitpicking to stand in the way of achieving a heart’s desire? Who was this villain lurking offstage? Had Mr. Price and his cohort hired her and the Voelkels to commit the robbery and then decided to cut out the middleman, or in this case, woman? Or was there some other shadowy figure standing in the wings? Someone every bit as wicked as Malicia Stillwaters in Murder Most Fowl?

  I continued on down the drive and was struck again by the beauty of the Georgian house, so pure in its lines, so mellowed by time that it seemed as much an act of God as the sky above. Parking the car close to the old stables that now served as the garage, I slipped the keys in my jacket pocket, climbed out, and found old Ned the gardener standing a few feet away with a bunch of bronze and yellow chrysanthemums in his hands.

  “Morning, missus!” He gave one of his funny little hops, and his face broke into more wrinkles as his mouth formed a smile.

  “You’ve brought her ladyship’s carriage back all of a piece, save that the horse is missing.” He cackled a laugh and beckoned to me with a gnarled finger. “Come along inside. I’m on my way to take these flowers to the chapel. It used to be that the lady of the house took care of filling a vase for the altar one or two days a week. But the present her ladyship would rather have me do it. And Miss Finchpeck can’t go there on account of the damp getting into her chest. She’ll have told you how the fog got into her lungs the night she were born and how it’s left her a poor dab of a creature.”

  Miss Finchpeck hadn’t put it exactly like that. But I nodded and told Ned I had only come to return the car. If Lady Grizwolde was busy, I would leave the keys with him along with an apology for not having returned it yesterday.

  “She ain’t busy. She’s come up poorly.”

  “Oh, dear!” I said, shivering as a gust of wind attempted to scalp me. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “It be her ankle.” Ned had the advantage of hopping about to keep warm. “She went and sprained it last night. I wasn’t there when it happened, not sleeping in at the house, but Cook says to me this morning, when she gives me my cup of cocoa, that Lady Grizwolde done it when she was trying to get Sir Casper upstairs after him having one of his spells. And Mr. Jarrow for some reason not being around to help her with him. Though he come along quick enough after her ladyship started hollering. Cook said she heard her yell out and went to see what was up. And it was Mr. Jarrow that got Sir Casper up to bed and Cook that helped her ladyship back down to the settee in the library.”

  “I am sorry, and I hope Lady Grizwolde’s ankle mends quickly.” I held out the car keys. “I’d better let you have these, Ned, and not disturb her.”

  “Could be she’d be glad of seeing a fresh face, being stuck lying with her foot on a cushion. Miss Finchpeck’s not what you could call jolly company at the best of times. Not that there’s nowt wrong with that. She’s a lady born and bred, and it do sometimes takes them that way. All that there history of their ancestors having their heads chopped off and set up on spikes for the riffraff to laugh at. And I did hear tell from Cook as Miss Finchpeck offered to sit with Lady Grizwolde and prompt her with her lines for the church play. Not that there’s no real need for that, her ladyship being a proper actress before she married Sir Casper. And anyhow, it don’t make much difference now, do it? Not when she can’t get off the sofa, let alone walk up on stage. Leastways, not for the dress rehearsal tomorrow evening.” Ned gave another of his amiable cackles, while I wondered how Mrs. Malloy would react to this news.

  “The play won’t be the same.” I tried to hold down my hair.

  “You can tell I’m well up on it.” Ned did another of his hops. “My granddaughter Sarah, as works up at the house, is thick as thieves with the vicar’s niece. And you wouldn’t think it likely, given they’re different as they come. Ruth’s one of them lassies that’s got to be shown how to have fun, while my Sarah’s always up for a mite of mischief. The tricks she pulled when she were a kiddy, and still does from the sound of it! It’s a wonder I’ve a hair left on my head. But I shouldn’t be keeping you out in the wind, missus, talking your ear off. Come along up to the house. Even if you can’t see her ladyship, Cook can fix you a hot drink.”

  I was about to refuse but remembered I needed to phone for a taxi. A cup of tea or coffee would be welcome while I waited. We walked around to the entrance we had used the day before, the one that took us along the corridor past Mr. Jarrow’s office to a half-flight of steps that I now discovered led into the kitchen. Here a red-faced woman in a white overall was slapping out pastry for rolling—Mrs. Johnson, the superb cook whose quiche I hadn’t sampled yesterday because Lady Grizwolde had been so eager to curtail my visit after Sir Casper put in his capering appearance. When told what I needed, she offered to ring up the taxi company for me but warned there could be a half-hour wait.

  “They’re always busy, but they do show up, which is more than you can say for some of the other ones. Why don’t you go along with Ned, Mrs. Haskell, and take a look at the chapel. We’re the only house in these parts that has one. The Grange doesn’t, and neither does Pomeroy Hall. And then, when you’re done, you can come back here for a cuppa.”

  I thanked her, said I would be delighted to return and have a cup of tea with her if she could spare the time to join me, and followed Ned through a green baize door and along a passage that opened onto the main hall. We were approaching the lovely room where Daddy and I had been installed for our visit with her ladyship, and I remembered how its ambience had changed so unpleasantly after Sir Casper came hobbling in and gleefully talked about redecorating the master bedroom. My pace slowed, and I heard Timothia Finchpeck’s voice coming from behind the door, which wasn’t quite closed. I was startled not only by what I heard but by the hard clarity of her voice; yesterday I’d had to strain to hear her downtrodden governess whispers.

  “You’re a murderer. Don’t try to deny it. I followed you and saw what happened. I thought you were going to meet him, but I was wrong about that. Don’t worry, I�
��m not going to tell; it’s enough that you know that I know.”

  Ned chuckled in my ear. “That do be Miss Finchpeck.”

  I could only stand like a zombie.

  “Her must be reciting lines from the play. Could be she’s making pretend she’ll have to take over for her ladyship.”

  “Someone else is understudying the part of Malicia Still-waters,” I whispered. If Ned had not been there, I might have inched the door open a crack and looked in to see who, if anyone, was in that room with Timothia Finchpeck. My heart was still knocking as if desperately trying to get my undivided attention when he veered to our left under the hanging staircase and we were in another passageway that branched off in two directions. He took the right fork and a moment later was opening an arched oak door.

  The chapel was tiny, with three blackened oak pews on either side of a narrow aisle leading to the altar. It was exquisite; its stone carvings, stained-glass windows, and ornate pulpit reminded me of a cathedral the size of a doll’s house. It had a typical old-church, musty smell, but for me that only added to its charm.

  Ned stood beside me, the chrysanthemums bunched in his hands. “Did I tell you afore, missus”—his voice echoed with every syllable— “as how the stone for these here walls was dug up from what’s left of old Worty’s monastery?”

  I nodded, although I couldn’t remember whether or not he had.

  “You take a look around while I takes out the old flowers and put these fresh ones in the vase on the altar. That’s been done since Sir Casper’s mother’s time, although ...” He shook his head and went nipping up the aisle, leaving me to look up at the biblical figures reclining at their ease on banks of clouds as if at some heavenly banquet. I then wandered up and down the sides of the chapel, stopping to admire a carved angel here and a gargoyle there until Ned called out to me.

  “Would you like to come see where he used to be, missus?”

  “Where who was?”

  “Old Worty.”

  Completely bewildered, I mounted the stone step and joined him in front of the altar. “You mean this is where he would have stood? But surely this area didn’t come complete from his monastery.”

  “I’m talking about a real piece of him. There’s a word for it, and if I scratch me head for a minute, it’ll come to me.” He suited action to words. “I’ve got it now, missus. A relic, that’s what it’s called. A holy relic. It was kept in a space in there,” he said, tapping at a rectangle of stone. “For centuries, it do be said. And old Worty made a promise to that lady of the house, right back in Elizabethan times, that so long as he was left be, there’d always be an heir for the Old Abbey. But Sir Casper’s mother didn’t pay the old legend no heed. She was reared up Catholic—they’re big on relics—and it so happened she come from the very town that was old Worty’s birthplace. A funny sort of name, but so they mostly are in foreign parts.” He stood scratching his head.

  “Was it Loetzinn?” I felt as though the stone floor was about to drop out from under me.

  “Aye, that do sound right. And Sir Casper’s mother, Lady Grizwolde that was, her do be bound and determined that the relic go to the church that’s said to be built over the place where old Worty’s family’s home once stood. And she talked her husband round to letting her have her way. But not till after she’d give him an heir. Maybe Sir Walter thought the old story was just that—a story. But when it came time for Sir Casper to do his duty by the Grizwoldes, he didn’t have no luck in filling up the nursery. When his first wife passed on, I guess he could have told hisself, it was just one of them things. Lots of couples ain’t blessed with children, but men of his age can still pull something out of the old bag of tricks. So he looks around for a young wife. But it don’t happen for them. No nappies flapping on the line. Sir Casper, he’s looking at the end of the Grizwoldes. When he passes on, the house goes to Miss Finchpeck. After her it’ll be strangers at the Old Abbey.” Ned picked up the bunch of dead flowers he had laid beside the vase now containing the chrysanthemums. “There’s another part to old Worty’s legend.” He cleared his throat. “It’s said as how there was miracles for men past doing the job, if you do be getting my meaning, missus. And I think Sir Casper, he’s been hoping for one of them miracles.”

  I stood looking at the chrysanthemums. No wonder Mrs. Johnson, the cook, had said the Old Abbey was at sixes and sevens. All sorts of emotions had to be steaming up the atmosphere. Sir Casper would be distraught that having hired Harriet in hope that by appeasing St. Ethelwort his virility would be restored, things had gone fatally awry. Assuming she didn’t keep her appointment that last night to complete the transaction, he must have feared the worst when informed that a car had gone off the cliff almost outside his gates. How could he hope the urn had survived the crash? And what of her ladyship? I remembered how eager she had been, surprisingly so for a woman of her almost pathological calm, that I bring my father with me for her meeting. And how she had steered him toward talking about his time in Germany.

  I also recalled how she had left the room supposedly to look for the magazine that Miss Finchpeck had failed to find after he mentioned that the urn was in the car. I saw in my mind’s eye her returning to the room, her complexion dewy and that additional shine to her satin smooth hair. Had she gone out into the rain to get the urn Daddy had told her he had left in the car? Had she been intent on ensuring it never reached her husband, who was already showing renewed sprightliness at the prospect of being able to fully function once again? What had been her feelings upon discovering that Mr. Ambleforth had gone off in our car? Had she married Sir Casper instead of an equally rich younger man in the hope that at his age he would not long be capable of the overtures that her cold nature found repugnant? Did she in her own way love Mr. Jarrow? Was he hostile toward her because she had rejected him for a life of married celibacy? Had he perhaps been the one to introduce her to Sir Casper? And had he taken a twisted, malicious pleasure in watching his employer’s lewd pursuit of her yesterday?

  The questions kept racing through my head. Could it be that Sir Casper had sent Mr. Jarrow to Schonbrunn to keep an eye on Harriet to make sure she was acting in accordance with instructions and would deliver the genuine article? And what of Timothia Finchpeck? Was she rejoicing today that there would be no miracle heir to deny her the opportunity to one day rule as mistress of the Old Abbey?

  The chill from the stone floor crept into my feet and all the way up my legs. I knew, as surely as if I had the evidence in my hands, that Ned and I hadn’t overheard her speaking Malicia Stillwater’s lines. Miss Finchpeck believed there had been no car accident outside the Old Abbey gates last night. Someone had deliberately sent it off the cliff. Someone who now had a sprained ankle to show for her trouble. From the sound of it Miss Finchpeck had been a witness and was now empowered by her knowledge to turn the tables and make Lady Grizwolde toe the line.

  “I do be inclined to ramble on about the family, but the Old Abbey’s been my life, missus, since I could barely toddle.” Ned turned with the dead flowers in his hand to descend the altar steps, and before we were halfway down the narrow aisle, Mrs. Johnson poked in her head to say my taxi was at the front door.

  It was as though I had been informed that a spaceship was waiting to transport me to Mars. I continued to feel disoriented on the drive home. As I crossed the moat bridge to the courtyard, Mrs. Malloy was coming down the steps in her fake leopard coat carrying the bag that held her cleaning supplies and today almost certainly the script for Murder Most Fowl.

  “I’m off home,” she said with a compression of her butterfly lips. “I just heard from Mrs. Potter that Lady Grizwolde’s broke her ankle or at least sprained it bad. And I need to commune with me own things—in particular one of me china poodles that understands me like no one else does—if I’ve a hope of getting through the rest of today and tomorrow morning. Then, if I can make it through the dress rehearsal tomorrow, I can tell meself I’ve only got to walk into the lion’s den thre
e more times. Doctor was here to see Mr. Simons, and when I had a word, he said there was pills I could take to calm me nerves but they’d make me sleepy. So what the bloody hell good was that? Oh, and by the way”—she didn’t appear to notice my silence, probably because she rarely let me get in three words straight— “he said he didn’t think there was much wrong with your dad, but he had Mr. H. take him down to outpatients at St. Mary’s just to be on the safe side. Your hubby said not to worry if they’re gone hours because there’s always a wait. Freddy and his mum are down at the cottage, so you’ll have the place to yourself except for Frau Grumble.”

  “Grundman,” I automatically corrected, but she was already off down the drive, and I went into the hall to find Ursel standing there as if she had been waiting for me.

  “I need very much for to talk to you.” She looked genuinely unhappy.

  “Is it about your supporting my father in his decision to take Harriet’s ‘remains’ to the Hoppers?” I stood peeling off my jacket and then tossed it along with my handbag on the trestle table.

  “That, yes, but first there is more.”

  “Why don’t we go and sit down?” I said, and without waiting for a response, led the way into the drawing room. Once there, I waited for her to take her seat on the sofa facing the windows before settling myself somewhat rigidly on the one across from her. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick more loudly than usual, as if impatient for one of us to begin talking.

  “All of what I tell you last night is true.” Ursel met my eyes squarely. “That I wish to see that Herr Simons is all right and everything about my visit to the house on Glatzerstrasse. But there is something I do not tell you. I have make a promise to my sister Hilde that I will not speak of it. She is not so sure in her head that Herr Simons is the good man I tell her he is. She thinks he may be Harriet’s partner of crime. I say it is not so, but she tells me: ‘Ursel, you are not thinking clear. You are in love with this man. It was the same when your Heiko was alive; you do not see that he drinks too much the schnapps.’ ”