The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries

by Daphne Coleridge

  It was one of the last days that Eleanor was ever to leave the confines of Claresby Manor, but she did not know that at the time. The spring of another year had come and she was sitting on a bench beneath the large yew tree in the grounds of Claresby. On the ground beneath her feet were needles from the tree. She knew now that Flossie was with child. The servants whispered and she heard them. The love Geoffrey had for Flossie could not be consummated by marriage but was to be sealed by the birth of a child. Of course the illegitimate child could never be recognised, but its very existence would be an insult to Eleanor and a degradation to the family. Eleanor knew that she could not allow this to happen. It fell to her to save her husband from this disgrace – and she knew just how to accomplish this task.

  Laura awoke, a cold sweat on her brow. She knew what Eleanor had planned – what she herself had planned! Looking down, she saw her hands were shaking from the strength of the borrowed emotion which she had felt. But was what she had experienced just her own imaginings based on the diary entries which she had read, or were they memories which had been somehow played out in her dreams? Laura could hear the sounds of Rupert playing the piano downstairs. He had not had the opportunity to learn to play as a child and had taken up the instrument as an adult just the previous year. His natural talent was obvious; his playing improved in leaps and bounds and right from the start he played simple tunes with real musicality. Now he was exploring a prelude by Chopin with both caution and style. Feeling a little unsteady on her feet, Laura descended the grand staircase and entered the music room. On seeing her, Rupert stopped playing and came over to her. Laura almost collapsed into his arms.

  “You look as pale as a ghost!” he exclaimed. “Come and sit down and tell me what has happened?”

  Laura sat down and accepted the small brandy which Rupert poured from a decanter and handed to her. Hesitantly, Laura told him about her dream.

  “Firstly,” said Rupert, after listening carefully, “you are not under any circumstances to sleep in that room again! For whatever reason, the room seems to have a bad effect on you. Secondly, I will find out all about Geoffrey Mortimer: whether he really did have a wife called Eleanor and if there was a girl called Flossie at Claresby and all about the younger man in the portrait. Obviously we must get to the bottom of this story to put your mind at rest. I will do a little research; but in the meantime you must put the matter from your mind. I’m going in to the library and will pick you out some light reading and I will play you some of my favourite tunes – but no more sleeping in the dowager’s room – is that understood?”

  Laura nodded her head, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders. She did feel that Eleanor’s story had to be told, but what better person to investigate it than Rupert? She tucked her feet comfortably under her as Rupert disappeared, returning with a small selection of light fiction and settling himself back at the piano with a music book open in front of him.

  Laura spent the final week of her pregnancy padding around the house, reading, and playing chess with Rupert in the evenings. She had successfully put her dreams out of her mind, although she was aware of Rupert spending time in the library, which held a wealth of untouched documentation relating to Claresby Manor and the Mortimer family. He also disappeared into the attic once or twice and even went down to visit the vicar, Veronica Dahl. It was impossible for Laura to tell if he was achieving anything, but he seemed to be happy and occupied, which was always a good sign. The baby’s “due date” arrived – although Keith had warned them that no baby arrived on cue and it was quite possible that Laura and Rupert might have to wait a week or more longer to meet their offspring. Apart from the lethargy which had overtaken her, Laura was in good health and there was every indication that the baby was doing well too. Nonetheless, it was with a sense of anticlimax and irritation that Laura reached the end of the day with no sign that labour was about to begin. Rupert had set out the chess pieces after they had eaten, as had become their custom. The set depicted characters from the film version of Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings”, and Laura had given it to Rupert as a present on his birthday. Once the pieces were in place, however, Laura sat back with a dissatisfied sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Rupert, but I just can’t get my brain around a game of chess this evening.”

  “We could watch a film,” suggested Rupert.

  Laura shook her head, “There’s nothing I fancy.”

  “Do you want to read?”

  Again Laura shook her head. “No – I just don’t think I can settle to anything.”

  Rupert seemed to think for a moment and then he said, “I could tell you all about Eleanor Mortimer if you like?”

  Suddenly Laura perked up. “Have you found out everything; what happened to Flossie, and if there was a child?”

  “Yes; but it took all my detective skills. Your ancestor, Geoffrey Mortimer, did everything he could to erase the memory of his wife from the face of the earth. Happily, there was a record of their marriage and her death at Claresby church, so I knew that he did have a wife called Eleanor and that she died the same year as he adopted his nephew, Bevis – being childless himself. And he never remarried. Flossie herself - Florence was her proper name, by the way – is buried at Claresby church with a very nice gravestone which just has her name and a word I make out as “Beloved” beneath it.”

  “Oh, I must go and look at that,” said Laura.

  “It’s in the south-eastern corner, by the big yew tree,” Rupert added. “But I can find no marked grave for Eleanor and she is not mentioned in the family vault.”

  “What did she do so wrong, apart from failing to provide Geoffrey with an heir?”

  “She murdered Flossie,” said Rupert, bluntly. “I don’t know how – that’s the one thing I couldn’t discover; but I did finally unearth a mention of the facts in a letter that Geoffrey left for Bevis. Apparently Bevis had been told along with everyone else that he had been adopted – all official documents still say he was a nephew – but Geoffrey wanted him to know that he was really his natural son after his death. He even names Florence as being Bevis’s mother and describes the grave: Geoffrey writes that Florence was killed by “That Witch”! I’ll show you the letter if you like – it’s in my desk now. He doesn’t mention Eleanor by name, but he does try to explain to his son why the death of his mother was hushed up for the sake of family honour.”

  “I suppose Geoffrey just didn’t want a scandal – but what did he do with Eleanor?”

  “He locked her up in her room and she was never seen again: she probably got off quite lightly. Geoffrey didn’t know how she killed Flossie and suspected witchcraft. Gentlefolk would probably have been beheaded for a crime like murder – if it could be proved. But even if Eleanor had been merely suspected of witchcraft she would have very likely been put to death. Tens of thousands of people were executed for being witches in the seventeenth century. I think Geoffrey just dealt with things in his own way. He obviously didn’t trust his wife even after locking her up, because it wasn’t until after her death in 1694 that he brought Bevis to Claresby – he was eight by then.”

  “And Bevis knew that Flossie was his mother?”

  “Geoffrey’s letter told him so. He didn’t say that Eleanor killed Flossie in so many words, but I think that we can deduce that it was her from Geoffrey’s actions – I can’t think who else the “Witch” would be.”

  Laura was quiet and thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t think it was witchcraft – at least we wouldn’t see it that way. And I think I know how Flossie was killed. Do we know which year she died?”

  “1686 – the year that Bevis was born; that is in the parish records, but not on her gravestone.”

  “Well,” began Laura hesitantly, “when I dreamed about being Eleanor she was sitting under a yew tree and remembering what she had heard about how women could get rid of an unwanted child. Of course for her the unwanted child was the baby that Flossie was carrying. Anyway, yew is poiso
nous, and a tea made from yew was used to help women lose an unwanted baby. On the other hand, Flossie didn’t lose the baby, but she did die, so there may have been something else at work.”

  “Interesting,” mused Rupert. “Yew is certainly toxic, but I didn’t know that it was used to induce an abortion. There is taxine in the needles from the tree and if you used them to make up a tea or some other potion you could certainly kill. Maybe Eleanor somehow gave Flossie a drink in the hope of aborting the baby and it killed her?”

  “But then surely the baby would have died too? Perhaps she arranged for a bottle with the poisoned substance in it to be left for Flossie and she didn’t drink it until after the baby was born. Do we know anything about how Flossie died?”

  Rupert shook his head. “I’m still looking, of course: there are missing pieces to the puzzle and we already seem to be relying on your dreams to supply some parts. If Flossie did drink something poisoned by yew she would probably have hallucinated and fallen into a coma – death would be fairly swift.”

  “I’d like to see the letter that Geoffrey wrote sometime,” said Laura.

  “I could fetch it for you now,” offered Rupert.

  “Maybe not this moment,” said Laura, with a little smile. “I’ve been having a few contractions in the last hour: nothing very strong yet, but they are noticeable. I think maybe we should go to bed and get some sleep whilst we can.”

  Laura sat up in her hospital bed looking exhausted but happy. Rupert – who had driven her to the hospital at four in the morning – had spent the following hours pacing corridors and occasionally checking up on his wife, who seemed to prefer to manage the matter of childbirth without too much involvement from him. Now the task was complete, however, he had finally been summoned and entered the room feeling bulky and awkward and somehow unnecessary. Laura’s smile, however, made him realise that he was not only necessary but an integral part of this miracle. The small bundle of shawls with the wrinkled face was central to the miracle of creation and Rupert stared at the tiny creature with wonderment.

  “You have a daughter,” said Laura, her face beatific.

  “She is beautiful,” whispered Rupert with awed sincerity, but for once ignoring the visual evidence in front of his nose – for although his daughter would indeed prove to be a beauty, the newborn face gave no indication of this fact to anyone other than the parents. “What shall we call her: she doesn’t look like a Humphrey now I come to meet her face to face.”

  “She certainly isn’t a Humphrey,” acknowledged Laura. “I do have two names in mind, but only if you agree.”

  “Tell me?” said Rupert, stretching out a large index finger to cautiously touch the soft skin of his infant.

  “I thought Florence Eleanor,” said Laura.

  “Florence Eleanor,” repeated Rupert, perfectly aware of why these two names were uppermost in his wife’s mind. “Yes, they are pretty names, and both in your family: perhaps a way to quieten our ghost too. Yes, I think the name is very nice: Florence Eleanor Latimer. Do you like the name, little one?”

  But Florence Eleanor Latimer was sleeping peacefully and did not heed her father.

  Death of a Clarinettist

  “Ah, they are starting with the William Tell Overture,” commented Laura approvingly as she flicked through the programme for the concert at the New Millennium Hall in Maidstone that she and Rupert were on their way to attend. “Then Dvorak – oh, and a little sample of Kirsten Norman before the interval. She’s playing Debussy’s Petite Piéce for clarinet and piano; then the Weber to begin the second half. It should be a good concert – if you don’t doze off like you did in the Mozart last time!”

  “I wonder if the chap in the aviator hat will be there?” mused Rupert, his benign but ugly face a mask of concentration as he manoeuvred the Range Rover through the busy evening traffic.

  “He’s always there,” replied Laura. “I’m pretty sure that he lives in the underground car park; it is one of the cleanest I know – probably because the NMH is so new.”

  “I’m mildly surprised that they let him in,” said Rupert.

  “Presumably he pays like everyone else; and even if he doesn’t, you can tell that he enjoys the music – he taps his toes and waves his arms about.”

  “Last time he almost elbowed the lady next to him on the nose,” smiled Rupert reminiscently. He and Laura were regulars at the New Millennium Hall and recognised and looked out for the other regulars, including the vagrant with the aviator hat which he wore indoors and out whatever the weather.

  “We’ll try and meet Suzy behind the scenes during the interval and then have supper with her and Kirsten after the concert.” Laura closed the programme and pushed it into her handbag.

  “Are the two of them – um...an item?” asked Rupert, carefully.

  Laura cocked her head on one side thoughtfully, so that her auburn hair fell across one shoulder. “Hard to say: Kirsten is a bit of a diva and Suzy is always in attendance. As far as I remember, Kirsten had a boyfriend a few years back, but found that the relationship was too intense and got in the way of her music just as she was becoming really successful. So he had to go and Suzy took over as chief companion and general factotum.”

  “They came to our wedding as a couple, as far as I recall.”

  “I suppose so. Of course I asked Suzy as my cousin, and I think the invitation said something about including a partner. That was the first time I met Kirsten Norman, although I had a couple of her recordings and had heard her playing on the radio.”

  “I’ve never been a big fan of the clarinet,” commented Rupert. “In any case, I prefer a symphony.”

  “Well, you are getting the New World – even you can’t sleep though that. Anyway, I think you will like the Carl Maria Von Weber, even if it is a showcase for Kirsten’s clarinet playing.”

  Rupert swung the big car around and down into the underground car park of the New Millennium Hall, stopping at the barrier to take a ticket. Ten minutes later and the two of them were on their way up to the beautifully designed Art Nouveau bar and a glass of champagne apiece. As they sat exchanging the odd comment, they saw the vagrant whom they had spoken about make his way in and deposit a wheeled shopping basket – no doubt containing his worldly goods – in a discreet corner. The uniformed men who stood at the doors checking tickets and directing people aright, far from looking at the scruffy man with his bulging coat and hat pulled over his ears disapprovingly, seemed to smile in his direction indulgently. Laura watched him as he walked past her, fumbling in his pockets for goodness-knows-what. Beneath the hat was a face that showed small, unusually dark intelligent eyes and a pleasant mouth. Despite the ravages of outside living it was quite a young face; probably that of a man in his twenties – albeit one who had suffered in ways she could not imagine. He seemed to find what he was searching for and glanced distractedly about him without actually focusing on anything and moved onwards. Laura’s attention was withdrawn from him as Rupert nudged her gently in the ribs.

  “Mr and Mrs Posh look nervous tonight.” He indicated a well dressed couple at one of the glass tables, champagne glasses poised in front of them. Both were sitting bolt upright, staring straight ahead and only occasionally lifting their glasses to their lips as they sat in silence. This was another regular couple, named by Rupert for their expensive grooming and aloof bearing.

  “They do look more than usually uptight,” agreed Laura. “I wonder if they will sit in their usual places in the front row with us.” She looked beyond the couple and suddenly exclaimed. “Oh, look! There are Suzy and Kirsten.” She rose a little in her seat and waved at them. Suzy, a short plain girl with a snub nose and neat figure waved back and the two women made their way over. Kirsten, appropriately to the fact that she was performing a solo that night, was dressed in an emerald green satin evening dress with chiffon overlay. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but had a rather exotic look with slanted eyes, high cheek bones and a well sculpted mouth. Perhaps the re
ason she missed beauty was that her expression was rather tight and hard. She smiled, however, in a friendly way, and her face was momentarily softened.

  “Suzy told me you were coming to see my performance tonight, so I thought we’d come out and look for you. I’m going to sign some of my CDs after the concert, but I’ve got a few moments now.” The young musician cast her eyes around, quite aware of the stir that her presence was causing. For a moment she seemed to pause, looking at Mr and Mrs Posh; but they had just got up and turned to walk away.

  “I thought...” she began; but then shook her head. “I’m sorry – I thought I recognised someone, but probably they have just been at one of my concerts before. Where will you two be sitting tonight?”