Malice in Miniature

by Jeanne M. Dams

  She gestured toward me in my corner, just a nod, but the man lowered his voice. I retrieved my book and studied the two of them over the top of it.

  He looked like a gardener. I would have bet he was Bob’s boss, probably doing odd jobs inside on a day like this. His checked shirt and worn corduroy pants and tanned face spoke of the earth and the sun; his huge hands were made for handling a spade. And not only his hands were huge. He was constructed on a large scale altogether, including his deep voice, which was rising again.

  “. . . won’t have it, I say! How can you—”

  Meg said something, briefly and very quietly, that shut him up completely. He shot a furious glance in my direction; I ducked down behind my book and heard the door slam.

  I stood, a little creakily—the chair was very hard— and walked across the room.

  “That, I gather, was a friend of yours,” I said.

  Meg glared at the door through which he had passed. “Friend, ha! He can be so—” She shook her head in angry frustration and took a deep breath. “Anyway, Claude’s left, thank God, so you can stop pretending to read that book, and leave.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded! Please don’t—”

  I laughed; I couldn’t help it. “My dear girl, I, too, suffer from the habit of speaking first and thinking second. It isn’t exclusively the province of the Irish, nor, I’m sorry to tell you, of the young. I know what you meant, and I was about to leave anyway. It’s almost four o’clock, and my husband is joining me here for tea. So I’ll scoot for the tearoom, if you can show me—”

  “But you can’t!” she said, dismay in her voice. “It isn’t open today! With the terrible weather, we—Mordie said I should put off the tearoom volunteers . . .”

  “Oh. Oh, dear. Well, then, I’d better go out and wait for Alan, so he won’t bother to come in.”

  I peered out the window. I could see, through the trees, a pond that was rapidly becoming a lake.

  “Yes, but it’s pouring, and—look, I’ve an idea.” She hesitated for a moment, then made up her mind. “Mrs. Hawes, the cook, does tea for the staff. Why don’t you and your husband join us? There’ll be plenty of food, if you don’t mind eating in the kitchen.”

  “Well—”

  “Please. I’d enjoy your company, and anyway, I do not want to have to deal with Mrs. Lathrop alone. I need to try to keep the right side of her, and with guests, she won’t be quite so . . .”

  That settled it. I hated to disappoint Meg, whom I was beginning to like a good deal, but tea and polite conversation in Mrs. Lathrop’s company—no thank you. I started to refuse the invitation, when somewhere in the distance I heard the shrill summons of an electric bell, and Meg brightened.

  “That’ll be your husband, I’m sure, and you wouldn’t want to push him out into the wet again, would you now?”

  She smiled, and those Irish eyes did it. She managed with a melting glance to convey that she would be devastated if I turned her down, and overjoyed if I accepted. I gave in. Alan would provide moral support, after all, and I might get in some useful conversation, even with the gorgon around. I went out to tell my long-suffering husband what was going on.

  “I don’t know what Sir Mordred is going to think of this arrangement,” I said in an undertone. Alan also looked dubious as Meg led us to the kitchen.

  It was a cavernous room in the semi-basement, the high windows admitting little light even on the best of days, one suspected. On a rainy November afternoon, the atmosphere was so shadowy I was sucked back into my horror movie fantasy. I half-expected to see great torches stuck up in iron brackets on the walls, or sconces with dripping, sputtering candles. They might, at that, have been an improvement on the electric lights, single bulbs dangling from the ceiling on long wires, their dim rays obscured by little paper shades in an unfortunate blue-green that turned the air the color of dirty water.

  We need not have worried about Sir Mordred’s opinion; he was not, it seemed, to be present. “Oh, no,” said Meg, her eyes raised expressively heavenward. “He takes his tea in his office. A bit lonely if you ask me, but he’s far too grand to mix in with the rest of us. No, with so few here today it’ll just be Mrs. Lathrop and us. And Richard, of course.” Her eyes dropped. “Do be careful; the floor is a trifle uneven I’m afraid.”

  We were shown to a large round oak table, covered in the kind of plush cloth I thought had gone out of fashion at the end of the last century. Its color, somewhere between moss and mud, fit nicely into the prevailing decorating scheme. I stole a glance at Alan, who shrugged eloquent shoulders behind Meg’s back and held out a straight, hard chair for me.

  “They’re more comfortable than they look,” Meg said in an undertone. “Wicker seats, and unless you’re unlucky enough to land one of the frayed ones, not too bad. And,” she went on in a suddenly louder voice, “I’m sure Mrs. Hawes is giving us something marvelous to eat.”

  The lady in question clumped to the table as Meg finished speaking, a huge tray in her muscular arms. The sound she made as she put it down just escaped being a grunt.

  “Not what I’d have done if anybody had bothered to tell me we were having guests,” she said, frowning portentously.

  The tray was laden with sandwiches, scones, and a large fruit cake from which a few slices had been invitingly cut. We hastened to voice appreciation, and Meg attempted to placate. “But you’ve given us a feast, as usual, Mrs. Hawes.”

  She sniffed. “And far more than is needed, as nobody bothered to tell me most of the staff wasn’t here today, neither.” In heavy silence she brought another tray, with a teapot and its satellites, as well as large bowls of strawberry jam and clotted cream.

  “I did mention something to Mrs. Lathrop,” Meg whispered, “but—”

  Mrs. Lathrop chose that moment to make her entrance. The murky atmosphere did nothing to flatter her; nor did what was obviously a full-blown snit. Pushing the kitchen door open so hard it slammed against the wall, she approached the table, lips pressed together, breath coming in heavy gusts.

  “I seem,” she said glacially, “to be intruding. I was under the impression that this was staff tea, but I gather it is a party.”

  Alan stood courteously; I tried to smile. Meg, however, straightened up and met the steely glare with lifted chin and a glare of her own. The Irish was coming to the top.

  “These are my guests, Mrs. Lathrop,” she said, the edge in her voice daring the housekeeper to speak. “Sit down and let me pour you some tea and introduce Mr. and Mrs.—Martin, I believe it is? This is Mrs. Lathrop, Sir Mordred’s housekeeper.”

  “We’ve met,” I said sweetly. I would have gone on to correct Alan’s name, but he stepped on my foot and said, “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Lathrop. Thank you for letting us share this excellent tea.” He extended his hand, smiling blandly. Mrs. Lathrop hesitated, then half-surrendered to his charm.

  “Hmmph,” she replied graciously, plopping down in her chair with an audible creak of corsets. “A better tea than you’d have got at that tearoom, I will say that for Mrs. Hawes. And free as well.” She clamped her excellent teeth down on a ham sandwich.

  I met Alan’s eye and then looked quickly away before we both disgraced ourselves.

  The food was delicious, but the atmosphere was not conducive to enjoying it. I’d downed one sandwich and was reaching for a scone when several more people came into the kitchen. Most of them headed for the other table, where Mrs. Hawes presided. One of the young women was the one who had opened the door to me; the other two, who looked like teenagers, I assumed were maids. But the last one in the door was the giant in checked shirt and old cords who strode to our table and sat down without a word to anyone.

  Meg looked at him the way she might have greeted a cockroach in her scone, but her manners were excellent, even when her heritage was showing. “Richard,” she said, widening her mouth in a splendid imitation of a smile, “I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Marti
n. This is Richard Adam, our gardener.”

  He glowered at both of us, nodded curtly, and helped himself to several sandwiches, which he proceeded to devour in silence.

  I cleared my throat. The sound echoed in the vast room. “Who is the young woman over there in the red sweater?” I asked brightly. “She opened the door for me, but I never caught her name.”

  “That’s Susan—Susan Eggers,” answered Meg. “She’s a university student, one of our best guides. She lives in Little Denholm, so she’d left for work this morning before I could ring her and tell her not to come in. Mordie was annoyed, but agreed she could help me with the computer project. I’ve had her running about all day checking accession cards against the collection.” She laughed, without much amusement. “It helps—somewhat—with the problem we were discussing earlier.”

  She had spoken in a low tone, but Mrs. Lathrop caught the last remark. She chewed industriously and swallowed before taking a deep breath that visibly lifted her imposing bosom. “If,” she said ponderously, “you are once again referring to Sir Mordred’s lovely work, I wonder if it’s quite appropriate for an employee to pass judgment on her employer’s habits.” She took a healthy swig of tea. “Of course, as a mere employee myself, perhaps it is not my place to judge.”

  Really, conversation was hard going in this crowd! I cast about for something to keep the ball rolling, and hit on the two maids, eating their food in subdued fashion under the eagle eye of Mrs. Hawes at the other table.

  “Are the two girls your only help in the house, Mrs. Lathrop? Aside from Mrs. Hawes, I mean? This seems a very large house to run with so few . . .” I ran down. Mrs. Lathrop’s gray gimlet eyes were regarding me bleakly.

  “The young persons to whom you refer are indeed the sole indoor staff whom I supervise, madam,” she replied. “I do not, of course, know what sort of household you are accustomed to in America,”—she made it sound like a third-world country—“but in the household of a gentleman like Sir Mordred a housekeeper does not do the dusting herself. I’m sure you will excuse me.” She picked up several scones, dropped them into her pocket, and stalked off, once more banging the kitchen door against the wall. It swung creakily for several seconds after she left, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Goodness,” I finally said when I was sure she wasn’t coming back. “It’s a wonder the door has survived. What set her off, Meg? Was it calling the maids ‘girls’? I didn’t mean anything demeaning, it’s just that they’re so young. Or is a small staff somehow a reflection on her status—”

  “No, no,” Meg said, her shoulders beginning to shake. “No, it was your calling them ‘help.’ It implied that she, Mrs. Lathrop, actually did some of the work herself, whereas—”

  She succumbed to a fit of silent laughter, finally blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. She looked furtively at the other table and almost collapsed again.

  “Look how scandalized Mrs. Hawes is! She’ll tell Mrs. Lathrop I laughed at her, and then the Lathrop may really get me sacked. At the very least, she’ll make sure life won’t be worth living around here for quite a while.”

  “And when was it ever?” growled the gardener. He pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and followed Mrs. Lathrop out the door.

  5

  Well, what did you think of all that?” I demanded as Alan and I made our way back up the long Brocklesby Hall drive.

  He was silent for a moment, frowning as he eased the car up the muddy, rutted lane. “I’ve not changed my opinion of the house,” he said at last. “Quite definitely nightmare material. And—there are undercurrents, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Tidal waves, I’d call them. Not being given to English understatement.” I told him about Claude, and Meg’s fear of him. “It would be a help to know why,” I said, glancing meaningfully at his profile. “She implied he’d been in trouble—I assume with the police. I wouldn’t mind knowing where he was yesterday, either.”

  Alan nodded. “I could find out, probably, at least about his record. What else struck you?”

  “Well, the household is an odd sort of setup, don’t you think? Sir Mordred must be a real tightwad to run the place on such a mingy little staff.”

  “I suspect he spends every penny on that collection of his.”

  “Oh, yes, Meg said as much, come to think of it. You know, Alan, I’d forgotten how passionate collectors can be, and how single-minded. It’s almost frightening. I’m sure he loves his miniatures more than anything else—or anyone.”

  “Mrs. Lathrop thinks so, too,” said Alan, nosing the car out past the huge clumps of dripping rhododendrons and craning his head both ways before turning onto the main road.

  “Mrs. Lathrop! What d’you mean?”

  “Didn’t you notice? If there does not beat beneath that ample bosom the throbbing pulse of unrequited love, my years of training in observation have been in vain.”

  “Goodness! What have you been reading, Barbara Cartland? You could just be right, though, even if your prose has turned somewhat purple. I thought that little outburst of hers was just a demonstration of authority, but it makes more sense your way. And it could be one reason why she’s so hateful to Meg—who represents, to Mrs. Lathrop, the collection, the rival for Sir Mordred’s affections.”

  Alan smiled indulgently at my piece of two-bit psychology and slowed down for an especially large and threatening puddle that stretched across the narrow road.

  “But really, Alan, what an unlikely romance! I’m not at all sure he’s interested in women, for one thing, and when I saw the two of them together, he acted scared half to death of her.” I started to giggle. “Oh, Alan, if you’d seen him! He’s about half her size. The picture of them in a tender embrace—his arms wouldn’t go around her, and his nose would end up somewhere near her—” I collapsed in helpless giggles.

  “At any rate,” I said when I could speak again, “if la belle Lathrop cherishes a secret infatuation for the lord of the manor, she’s wasting her time being jealous of Meg, who’s in love with the gardener.”

  “That’s one I didn’t notice.”

  “Aha! You didn’t have the advantage I did, though—you didn’t see them quarreling together. But that involvement aside, Meg made it discreetly obvious that she has very little use for Sir Mordred. She’s conscientious about her job, and he’s absentminded, always forgetting to tell her about new acquisitions. He also offends her ideas about proper curatorial practice by actually fixing houses that need fixing, and replacing furniture that’s disappeared.

  “By the way, apropos of nothing, why didn’t you want them to know who you are?”

  “Obeying your implicit commands, my dear. As you said, people dry up in front of a policeman.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. Well, but they didn’t exactly stream with information for me, either. I got a sort of basic picture of the peculiar inhabitants of Brocklesby Hall, but I didn’t learn a thing about ‘The Case of the Missing Miniatures.’”

  I settled comfortably into telling Alan all about it. One of the very nicest things about a good marriage is having someone to tell all about it, whatever “it” is.

  “Sir M. took me around the museum himself, and I admit I did find it intriguing. The only dollhouses I’ve ever seen have been rather crude, just toys for children. I’d never realized they could be so detailed, with such fine workmanship. Some of the room settings are so perfect you forget you’re seeing something small. They need a thimble or something in a corner to remind you of the scale.

  “Anyway, I’ve got half a notion to buy a dollhouse and start furnishing it. It might be fun. Do you suppose one of your granddaughters would like such a thing as a Christmas present?”

  I thought I was being subtle, but Alan grinned at me. “Michelle is the youngest, as you know perfectly well. She’s thirteen, and interested only in horses and dogs, according to Beth’s latest bulletin. Boys will be entering the field any day now, but dolls’ houses—no. You’re looking for an excu
se to go back to the Hall.”

  “Well—they must have a shop, all museums do, and poking around would give me a chance to ask a few more questions. I honestly think I’d enjoy the project, though. I can probably buy a house there, but I’ll have to try to make most of the furniture and stuff myself, because he—Sir M.—said it’s terribly expensive. Almost a thousand pounds for the best pieces. A thousand pounds, Alan—and for modem work!”

  Alan whistled.

  “And listen to this. The tea set Bob was accused of stealing is historical—owned by Marie Antoinette, no less— and it’s apparently worth a lot, although Sir M. wouldn’t tell me how much.”

  “Did he mention the tea set, or did you?”

  “He did, more or less in passing. We were talking about the value of the collection, and he brought it up just as I was trying to think of a way to work it into the conversation. Difficult, since I wasn’t supposed to know about it. Anyway, I tried to get him to talk about the supposed theft, but all he would say was that it was a misunderstanding. No details.”

  “What about the other pieces he claims have been stolen?”

  “He did just allude to them, but in general, nothing specific.” I frowned, trying to remember. “I was about to pursue it, as I recall, when the gorgon appeared on the scene, and then nasty Claude, and I forgot about it. But I honestly don’t see how it could be done, stealing, I mean, and incidentally, neither does Meg. All the houses and room settings and so on are—sort of fenced in, with glass or plastic, and there are alarms. I expect the alarms could be defeated somehow—they always can, if a thief knows enough about technology—but surely nobody would bother to do all that and then take one tea set, or whatever, no matter how valuable the piece might be. They’d clean out the whole shebang, or just steal house and all.”

  “Hmmm. Then it either had to be done from the workrooms, or—you didn’t see them, did you?”

  “No, Sir Mordred offered, but that was something else that got sidetracked. Come to think of it, that offer was an odd thing, from a security standpoint. I’m a total stranger.”