The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1)

by Florrie Boleyn

  Harriet was studying the effect of the new white ribbons while her sister talked and was ready with her answer. “I think you look charmingly, Effie, the white ribbons are just the thing against the blue and with your lace collar, and I will tell you what would add the finishing touch…” She pulled open the second drawer of her dressing table and took out from towards the back a largish box which she opened to reveal the delicate leaves and petals of several sprays of artificial flowers. There was one, she remembered… “Ah, here it is, Effie,” and she held out a small spray of lily of the valley.

  “Oh!” said Effie in delight, I remember this spray, you used to wear it on your straw with the green ribbons. How pretty it was, and how pretty you used to look in it!”

  Harriet smiled fondly at her sister. The straw had been through several reincarnations with various colours of ribbon, but had long since gone the way of all flesh, which - as the churchmen tell us - is as grass, or indeed straw; and with it, long ago, had gone any prettiness she might have possessed as a young girl. But the lily of the valley had survived - the green phase of the bonnet not having lasted very long since green was, when all was said and done, rather a trying colour and not really suited to her complexion as the natural colour in her cheeks faded with age. Harriet looked at dear Effie’s face; how well her sister still looked, despite the years; really, she had quite a pretty colour in her cheeks…”Effie!” she cried, “are you wearing rouge?”

  Effie paled - but not enough.

  “Oh Harry, do you think it wrong? Mrs. Packard suggested I try it…it was when I bought the ribbons, and she and Miss Packard both agreed that it looked…for Mrs. Packard - so kind - insisted that I should try it out before I…she showed me the effect in a little hand mirror, and I must say that I…but I would not for the world wear it if you think, Harry dear…”

  “No, no, I beg your pardon, Effie, I should not have sounded so shocked - it was merely surprise, my dearest, for I really had no idea…” Harriet pulled herself together. “It looks extremely natural and the effect is charming, quite charming,” she said firmly.

  Becky banged the front door to, and followed the Miss Fotheringays along the street. They walked slowly up the hill, Miss Effie stopping from time to time to look in a window, although Becky was fairly sure that what Miss Effie was looking at was not the contents of the window, but her own reflection in the the glass.

  By the time they arrived at the old flint church, there was quite a little crowd gathered - indeed several persons had overtaken the ambling Miss Fotheringays, and most had nodded and smiled, the gentlemen doffing their hats. Mrs. and Miss Packard had been most attentive; Miss Packard even going so far as to raise her hands in silent admiration of the effect of the white ribbons.

  They all passed under the white lilac and Becky slid into a pew at the back of the church, while the Miss Fotheringays continued up the aisle to settle themselves in their usual place near - but not too near - the front, and with a good view of the elevated lectern from which Dr. Ravilious would deliver his weekly exhortation for the good behaviour of his flock. A sonorous bell-wether, was Dr. Ravilious, and one proud of his highly polished profundities and mellifluous delivery - but that was for later. At the moment, with the flock gathering and mingling, and baa-ing in whispers to each other as folk always do under the influence of ecclesiastical architecture, the main occupation was to see and be seen; counting those present and noting, more importantly, those missing from the fold. In particular, of course, observing closely anyone new and unknown. There was one this week - a rather impressive ram, one might say, with a slightly less impressive companion. The whisper quickly ran round the church that this gentleman with a noble forehead and curved nose - quite a Suffolk in aspect, but without the black face of course - was the detective sent down to investigate the death of Millie Budge, with attendant sergeant. Harriet contented herself with one piercing look and then stared at the binding of her bible, now overlaid with the image of what she had seen, but Miss Effie looked several times at the men, although she did her best to cloak her particular interest with a more generally-acceptable evaluation of the hats of the ladies of the congregation. There was none, she satisfied herself, prettier than her own - although that observation soon led to the fear that the white ribbons were, after all, too showy. Such is generally the dilemma of those who wish to shine in the matter of dress: how to approach the limit of charm and novelty without overstepping it into the despised realm of the gaudy and meretricious. This is particularly a problem in a small, provincial township where the ladies all know that London fashions have moved on, but where they dare not follow too quickly for fear of being condemned as fast.

  Dr. Ravilious’ sermon that Sunday was on the theme of Let he who is without guilt, cast the first stone. Not exactly a unusual topic, but it certainly caught the attentions of his auditors. Effie opened her eyes wide at Harriet and looked as if, in less hallowed surroundings, she would have burst into speech. Indeed, there were various mumblings on the edge of hearing going on all round the church, but - as Effie said to Harriet afterwards, what was one to make of it, truly? For whom was it intended? Was Dr. Ravilious intimating any one in particular? Had he a grudge against policemen? Or the local magistrate? Was he hinting that he could have spoken out against the murderer, did his cloth not prevent it, or was he seeking to protect himself from slander? Or simply condemning the gossip that was rife in the town over the death of poor Millie Budge?

  “You left out one possibility, Effie,” smiled Harriet.

  “What, Harry?”

  “Why, might not Dr. Ravilious be choosing to take the opposite approach to Mr. Myers?”

  “Of course!” cried Effie. “To be sure, Mr. Myers was extremely...and for no good reason - no obvious reason, anyway...and Dr. Ravilious is quite right about not casting stones, very teaching of him. If there is not another reason...although I am sure there must be.”

  Judging by the buzz at the end of Dr. Ravilious’ sermon, most of the congregation were like Effie - unable to decide what the Rector’s exact intention was. For no-one, of course, would be so foolish as to think that the sermon had no bearing on the murder - if murder it was, and certainly the presence of two policemen in the congregation gave credence to the awful - but fascinating - possibility.

  As for the policemen themselves, the - presumed - detective looked neither to the left nor the right, but the sergeant, a wiry little man, unabashedly stared round at the congregation. The two men got themselves out of church amongst the first, and then stood amid the gravestones watching the rest of the flock emerge into the Spring sunlight. The sergeant appeared to be pointing out various people to the detective; he had a little notebook to which he constantly referred. The Miss Fotheringays were able to observe all this while they ostensibly chatted to their friends before collecting Becky and making their way home.

  “Did you see the p’lice, M’ms?” asked Becky in a carrying whisper from behind them. Harriet only nodded, but Effie looked back.

  “Do you know for sure they are policemen, Becky?” she asked. Becky nodded vigorously, “Oh yes, M’m, I had it from Clara, she said that the sergeant, that’s the little one, M’m, was up and down the High Street yesterday going into all the shops and asking questions, and Clara got talking to him and he told her that his Chief was up at the Manor talking to their Lordships!”

  “I wonder what answers he got from Lady Weston and Gervais? And his Lordship, of course,” said Harriet.

  “I expect Peter the footman will know,” said Effie.

  “I expect he will!” said Harriet.

  “But how are we to find out?” Effie sounded quite anguished.

  “Something will turn up,” said Harriet confidently, “and of course, we are expecting to see Grace Albright today, she may have heard something.”

  * * *

  “It’s Grace, M’m,” said Becky, giving the girl a push over the threshold. There was not a great deal of ligh
t in the Miss Fotheringays’ sitting room, since it first had to fight its way through the geranium thicket, but somehow a questing beam managed to fall on the girl’s head, as she reluctantly sat in the chair that Harriet indicated, saying “Do sit down, Grace.” Grace herself would have instinctively preferred to stand, in an impulse of rebellion and independence - although that was where things got complicated of course, since in her world the servants stood as a sign of their lack of independence. So she sat.

  Effie wondered, looking at her, how it was that some people seemed to fall naturally into romantic attitudes; there were no uncomfortable angles to Grace Albright; despite her lowly status she had the natural elegance of a fairy-tale damsel. In distress, thought Effie, and look - even the sun chose to gild her russet hair.

  “Now, Grace,” said Harriet, “I will get straight to the point, as I know your time is limited, but after you have heard what I have to say you can choose either to stay and have a cup of tea with my sister and I, or you can…do whatever seems good to you.”

  “Thank you, M’m,” Grace began, but Harriet held up her hand for silence. Dear Harry was enjoying herself, thought Effie, and smiled encouragingly at the girl.

  “I have spoken to Elwin,” said Harriet, “and he tells me that he was never with Millie Budge…”

  “But Peter heard him,” burst in Grace, “he heard him tell Lady Weston that he was walking out with Millie!”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows.“While lying is naturally frowned upon by all honourable people,” she said, “there are sometimes occasions when to tell a lie would be regarded as a higher form of honour, and that is how I regard it in this case. It was, strictly speaking, wrong of Elwin to lie to his employer, but for myself I would not give two pins for a man who would not lie to protect the lady he loved from malicious gossip and - quite probably - the loss of her place.”

  Grace’s mouth fell slightly open (which, Effie noted, only served to show the regularity of her teeth and did not make her look at all foolish). “The lady he loved…?” she managed.

  “You, Grace,” replied Harriet. “It was you that Elwin was with when some ill-natured person saw him and felt it their business to report the matter to someone in authority.” she frowned. “By the way,” she said, almost to herself, “I wonder who it was who meddled in such an officious manner?” Effie nodded eagerly, it could be very interesting to find out who wished harm to Elwin, and why.

  “Me?” said Grace, all the fight gone out of her, leaving her momentarily limp. “Me?” she repeated.

  “Precisely,” said Harriet. “Of course, I cannot but feel that it was rather hard on Millie Budge that Elwin should have picked on her name to blacken, but he assures me that it was a good choice in the circumstances.”

  “In the circumstances?” repeated Grace slowly. She wasn’t really listening, and certainly had very little interest in hearing Miss Fotheringay explain what those circumstances were; it was just something to say while her mind assimilated the overwhelming truth that Elwy had not been playing her false, that he had been trying to protect her; that he had truly loved her while she had…had cast him off. That he had gone all this while, in hiding, in danger of his life and she had done nothing to help, to encourage, to tell him how much she loved him, to…” she rose slowly from her chair. “I think, if you don’t mind, Miss Fotheringay Ma’am, if you don’t need me…I mean, if there’s nothing else you want…”

  “No, that was all Grace - but Grace, there is one thing.” Grace paused in her tentative move towards the door. “The footman, Peter; can you tell me how he spends his time after chapel?” Grace looked blankly at Harriet. Harriet tried again. “I understand that the Manor servants are allowed a little time after chapel - or church - before they are expected back for their duties. Can you tell me how Peter the footman spends his time?”

  “Oh Peter don’t go to chapel,” said Grace. “Sorry, M’m, that was what confused me; that and being a bit shook up, of course.”

  “Oh that is a shame.” Harriet was rather vexed; how were they to get hold of Peter?

  “No,” said Grace, willing now to be as helpful possible, “Peter don’t go to chapel nor church. He prob’ly says he does to Mr. Masters, the butler, but really he slips down to the Bull for a beer or two and a natter with the town lads.”

  Harriet looked much more cheerful. “The Bull!” she cried, “splendid! Then,” she turned to her sister, “that would seem to be something that dear Mr. Benjamin could help us with.” An idea struck her and she looked at Grace with a new enthusiasm. “My dear,” she said, “I think you could well do both of us a favour and return to the Manor by a different route - far more picturesque, I think you will find. I suggest you walk down to the bridge and then turn left along the riverbank. That way you can stop in at Mr. Benjamin’s pottery and give him a message for me before you continue through Prickett’s Wood and up into the Manor grounds. Will you do that for me?”

  “Certainly, Ma’am,” said Grace politely. All she really wanted at the moment was to be alone to think about Elwy and where he could possibly be and how to get in touch with him; a walk along the riverbank was as good a place to think as any other and she wasn’t due back for an hour or more.”

  “Excellent!” said Harriet, “so would you please tell Mr. Benjamin that Miss Fotheringay would be most grateful if he would step along to The Bull…”

  “For his usual pint, and one to follow,” said Effie eagerly.

  “And,” continued Harriet, “if Peter should chance to be there, then Mr. Benjamin might find him an interesting companion.” She looked at her sister. “I think that will be enough of a hint for Mr. Benjamin, don’t you, Effie?”

  “Oh yes, dear, such an intelligent man,” nodded Effie.

  Grace nodded. “Yes, M’m, I’ll tell him that, and - oh thank you Ma’am, Miss Fotheringay, I’m right grateful for the trouble you’ve took...”

  “I mean to take a little more, too,” said Harriet, “so off you go now, and don’t worry any more.”

  “No M’m, Yes M’m,” said Grace, willing, if not totally coherent.

  Grace stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked downstream over the wall. It was not so deep at this point; there were streamers of green waving in the flow, and the flicker of fish as they turned, catching the light. If she were to cast herself over, she would, she thought, probably float all the way out to sea…and then where? Loose on the ocean, drifting, like poor Elwy might be drifting at this moment, although Elwy would doubtless be wandering inland; he belonged to the land not the sea; to the old woods and forests. Perhaps he was even now on his way back to the forest he came from; he might be there already. Grace had very little idea of geography or distances. She had made the great journey of her life when she left her parents’ cottage in a small hamlet and travelled the twelve miles to the Manor by carrier’s cart.

  Sighing, she turned away from the bridge and walked down to the south bank, taking the left-hand path toward Mr. Benjamin’s place and then on, on to life at the Manor with no dream left to lighten the days of drudgery.

  It was strange; while she had her disillusion, her hatred of Elwy to fire her up, life had been bitter, but bearable. Now that she knew he had in truth loved her and had only tried to protect her, now the absence of him took all the heart out of her. It seemed, she thought, that the heart needed something to keep it beating - love or hate, maybe it didn’t matter much. But take both away and what was left? Just an empty space and no energy to fill it. For a moment she wished she didn’t have to take Miss Fotheringay’s message to Mr. Benjamin and could just go back the quick and easy way; it seemed like her legs just didn’t want to move.

  However as she walked along the river path, she became less insensible of her surroundings. Even the most despondent mood must be lightened by sunshine glinting on river ripples, by the ridiculous quack of ducks; by movements in the reeds that told of fast-beating lives lived out unseen by human eyes. Gr
ace tugged at the ribbons that held her bonnet and pulled it off her head. That felt better. She scratched at her scalp with the fingers of both hands and then rubbed her face; it felt like she was shedding a layer of old, dead skin. There was a clump of yellow irises growing in the distance. She would walk that far, she said to herself, and then sit down by the patch of gold and - just pause for a while. Just let the sun warm her head, maybe even let her hair down and doze for ten minutes or so. Take a brief ten minutes out of the day for herself alone.

  The grass was short by the river’s edge, although what sort of animal cropped it, Grace had no idea. Ducks, maybe? Or geese? She sat down carefully on the springy turf, mindful that there must be no grass stains on her print dress. It was her own dress, her Sunday dress; not one provided by the housekeeper at the Manor, but the one she had worn when she arrived there on that first day. It was a bit short, and she’d had to let out the seams once - her mother had made them generous so that the dress would 'last her' for a fair few years, but she’d mostly grown up, not out, so it would do her for a while yet. Her thoughts wandered on as she sat, gradually relaxing in the sunshine, by the side of the river, but then she heard the sound of the town clock striking. Just the one stroke, so probably half past one, time to go or she’d be in for it; if she hurried, she might just catch the remains of luncheon before the cook had it all stored away in the pantry.

  Grace pulled her hair pins out of her pocket and tried to pin her hair up by feel, which wasn’t so easy. Perhaps she could see her reflection in the river? Sometime, somewhere, she had heard about a young man who had looked in a river and fallen in love with his reflection; Greek, she thought he had been. Grace kneeled at the bank and peered into the water. Stupid! What you saw in the river wasn’t your own reflection, it was the reflection of things on the opposite bank - couldn’t trust those old Greeks for anything! Although, perhaps if she leaned over the bank as if she were going to drink, she rather thought the Greek man had been going to drink, but that meant leaning quite a long way over the edge…Yes, there she was, her face oddly wavy like in the mirrors at the Fair, but there she was. Grace put out one slender arm and splashed at her face, making it disappear in coruscations of light as the sun caught at the ripple edges. Gradually the water smoothed out and there she was again. Again she reached out and made the water dance, and again it gradually cleared and there she was…and there above her was…”Elwy!” she breathed, held absolutely still in shock. She couldn’t think - her mind was stunned, but tears sprang to her eyes. Her hand was still out-reached to the water, frozen in that moment of stillness. “Elwy,” she whispered again.