“I hope you found it worthwhile,” I said. Rose had the marmalade oranges firmly in hand, freeing me for one of my favourite tasks of the season. To the side of the worktable sat the enormous earthenware crock Aunt Hermia used for making her special seasonal potpourri. Whether Father was in a mood to celebrate the season or not, I wanted the fragrance of the traditional potpourri we always mixed to scent the air.
“I did. I wanted out of it, you know. I didn’t go on the game because I was born to it. My mother was not a whore and it was not the life for me.”
I said nothing but lifted off the lid of the crock and inspected the contents. Some weeks before Aunt Hermia would have packed it with layers of dried rose petals and lavender. The flowers would be covered with salt and brandy and pressed with a weighted plate to sit quietly, fermenting away. After a fortnight, the result was a moist cake of sorts.
“What’s that then?” Rose asked, coming away from her oranges to peer into the crock.
“It is potpourri, a very old Elizabethan recipe,” I told her. “It makes a heavenly scent, but because it is moist it does not look very inviting. When it is finished it will go into those enormous jars on the hearth in the great hall.” I showed her how to crumble the cake into bits in her fingers. She sniffed at her hands and closed her eyes.
“That’s lovely, that is.”
“It will be lovelier still,” I promised. I went to the neatly organised shelves and began to take down large glass bottles of spices. “You were telling me about your family.”
At this prompting she returned to her story and her marmalade oranges. “We were poor, you see. And I had brothers and sisters, seven of them, all older, working in the worst sorts of factories. They won’t make old bones because they haven’t good food or fresh air. And I wanted better for myself. So I thought lying on my back would be a way to make easy money.”
I took great handfuls of dried orange peel and scattered them over the mixture in the crock. “Somehow I doubt it is ever really easy money.”
She gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Right you are, my lady. I don’t know who I hated more—them or me. The worst of it wasn’t the doing. You’d think it was, but you’d be wrong. The worst of it was the way they looked right through me, as if I wasn’t there. As if I were less than human.”
Next I flung in orrisroot, scattering the powder over the damp, crumbling flowers.
“But I kept at it because the money was alright. I worked at a bawdy house for a while and that was a good time for me. There was a fellow at the door to cosh the men who got rough or didn’t pay. Trouble was he liked to knock us about, too. And I wouldn’t stand for it. So I was chucked out, back into the streets with my one good dress and my hat with velvet roses.”
I held up a large dried rose and she laughed again. “Bigger, my lady. These roses were the size of a plate! The prettiest pink velvet you ever did see. I wanted it because of my name. Silly, I reckon now. But that hat made me feel like a proper lady on my worst days.”
I broke several cinnamon sticks into Aunt Hermia’s favourite mortar, grinding them to powder with a pestle.
“And then the troubles came last year. We were afraid even to walk out after dark, and how were we supposed to make any money if we cowered inside?”
I thought of the terrible months that Jack the Ripper had stalked the district of Whitechapel, of the terror he had inflicted and how unspeakable it must have been to go abroad in the night knowing such a monster lurked in the shadowy streets.
“I nearly starved, I did. But I forced myself to go out and find work—until the last, the one he…well, I’m sure you know what he did to her.” I did. The newspapers had related the story of her mutilations in lurid detail. Rose went on, dreamily. “She had the room next to mine. It might have been me, but I was out that night. I had gone out in my second best hat. I never heard a word about it until the next morning. And I never went back. Not even to get my beautiful hat with the pink velvet roses. I was that afraid. Instead I walked straight into Lady Hermia’s refuge and applied to be reformed.”
“How did you come to be here?” The powdered cinnamon went into the mixture, and I grated fresh nutmeg on top, finishing with a flourish of fresh gingerroot.
Rose started to shrug then caught herself, clearly remembering her training that a maid ought to be respectful at all times—training Morag forgot often enough. “I haven’t found a place that suits me yet. I know I ought to make up my mind to be quiet and grateful, but the truth is, my lady, I want to have a sympathy with the people I must live with. I know I’ve been badly spoilt, but there it is. I want to work for folk who are worth serving, and I don’t mind saying that there are plenty who are not. I would do the foulest job and count myself happy if I liked the family.”
Her mouth had a stubborn cast, and I liked her in spite of it. She was every bit as bossy as my own maid, Morag, and I had no doubt she would make someone a fine maid. But then I recalled Aunt Hermia’s misplaced ring and the anxious look she had thrown at Rose, and I wondered.
I gave the potpourri a last stir, staring regretfully into the crock. “It needs a last baptism of brandy to bring it all together,” I told her. “I wonder if Hoots left any when he went off to refight Waterloo.”
Just then William appeared, fairly bounding through the doorway.
“Rose, I just wondered—” He broke off sharply upon seeing me. “My lady! I beg your pardon. I did not know you were here.”
“I’m sure,” I said mildly. Rose looked cool and remote as a duchess as she gave a lazy stir to the chopped oranges.
“William, if you’ve a minute, would you please ask Mr. Aquinas for the brandy for Lady Julia to finish the potpourri now Mr. Hoots has given up the keys?” she enquired.
He flushed deeply. “I will.”
“Thank you, William,” she said, inclining her head graciously.
He turned, tripping over the step as he fled. I said nothing, and neither did Rose. She merely peered into her bowl of oranges. “I think they look quite tasty, don’t you, my lady?”
Together we finished preparing the marmalade and potpourri, and on impulse I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket. I scooped a handful of the damply fragrant concoction into it and tied up the ends with a bit of ribbon.
“There, now you have something to give you good cheer during the season.”
She took it, turning over the little bundle with wide eyes.
“You’ve made me a present.”
“A trifle, you needn’t worry. I do not want the handkerchief back.”
She held on to the sachet so tightly I feared it would be crushed.
“I do like pretty things.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With Peace on earth, good-will to men!
“Christmas Bells” Traditional English Carol
“Good God, why didn’t you warn me?” Plum demanded. He had arrived just before dinner, his greatcoat spangled with frost, and after a stilted meal, searched me out writing letters at a cramped little table in the billiards room while Brisbane lined up a shot. Plum poured himself a stiffener and flopped into one of the capacious leather armchairs. “Christmas here is always like day one on the Tower of Babel. But the place is almost empty and it is a misery. What the devil is wrong with Father besides hating Brisbane?”
My husband coolly sank the billiard ball and moved to his next target.
“Father does not hate Brisbane,” I corrected sharply. “What a stupid thing to say. He’s merely upset over what happened at the end of the last investigation.”
“Pointless of him to blame Brisbane,” Plum pointed out reasonably. “That was just bad luck.”
I looked at him, my throat feeling rather tight. Plum and I had always had a somewhat thorny relationship. For Plum to offer his loyalty when my actions had caused bodily injury to us both was more than I had looked for. “A case could be made for it being my fault,” I said, my voice halting. “Rather nice of you not to see it that way.”
“Not at all, darling sister. Of course, I do hope the experience has cured you of your curiosity regarding gunpowder. I mean, the explosion itself was not the primary cause of my injury, but it certainly did not aid matters. I honestly cannot imagine a more stupid, ninny-headed—” The moment of fraternal camaraderie had clearly passed.
“Yes, thank you, Plum. That will do.”
“I say, there’s no need to get testy.”
“I am not being testy, you great pillock—”
“If the two of you are going to quarrel, you could at least fetch me a whisky first,” Brisbane put in before sinking another shot.
I rose and poured a glass for him and another for myself. Plum could shift for himself. He looked rather longingly at my glass as I settled back into my chair.
“So, what does it all mean? Father’s in a state, ghosts walking abroad in the night…seems rather familiar, doesn’t it?” Brisbane flicked me a look across the green baize of the table, his eyes warm in the lamplight. We were both thinking of his first visit to the Abbey. We had unmasked a murderer and had one or two rather breathlessly interesting interludes that led directly to my following him to Yorkshire the following spring.5 That was where our relationship had found its proper footing, but I would always remember the snowbound days at the Abbey as among the most infuriating and exciting of my life.
“I think the new sighting of a ghost is a curious thing,” I began.
Plum waved an airy hand. “Some daft maidservant got at the cooking sherry and is seeing things that do not exist,” Plum said decidedly. “There is no mystery here save the source of Father’s foul mood.”
“He is a March,” Brisbane returned as lined up his last shot. “You may as well ask why the sun rises in the west.”
“The sun rises in the east,” I corrected.
“Precisely.” He drew back his arm and punched the end of his stick into the ball, driving it home. He did not look up as he sighted his next shot. “I can feel you thinking, Julia. What is it?”
“Aunt Hermia’s favourite trinket is missing—the little coral ring she wears most days.”
“And what besides?”
“There is a new stillroom maid, Rose, arrived from Aunt Hermia’s refuge in London.”
Brisbane straightened and chalked his cue. “And what besides?”
“Is that not enough?”
“Not to formulate a theory. You know better than that.”
“I do,” I said, nibbling at my lip. “I just wonder.”
Plum snorted. “Men have been hanged on the strength of someone wondering.”
I sighed. “You must admit, it makes a neat pattern. And do not tell me the similarities have not struck you as well.”
“Similarities?” Brisbane’s voice was deliberately neutral.
“You know what I mean. It is too similar to events that transpired the last time we were here. Ghosts prowling the Abbey, missing jewels, new faces.”
He put aside the cue and leaned against the table, crossing one muscular leg over the other. “And you want to investigate.”
“I want us to investigate,” I corrected. “For my own peace of mind.”
Plum rose. “I am to bed. You are clearly working up to something, and I mean to have a proper rest over the holiday, not create mysteries where there are none.”
He took himself off to his rooms with a salute while Brisbane regarded me thoughtfully.
He ruffled his hair with one broad hand. “Occam would count you a poor pupil,” he said, his eyes bright.
“’The simplest explanation is the likeliest,’” I parroted. “And the simplest explanation in this case is that a jewel thief has undertaken to employ the same methods as our previous villain.”
Brisbane rolled his eyes. “First, the culprit would have to ensure that the household was at sixes and sevens due to an ailment, which they could not possibly have introduced by nefarious means, in order to gain entrée to the household. That means that they would have to have access to the household to gain access to the household, if you follow me.”
“I do,” I returned, a trifle acidly. “Your point?”
“My point is this would entail tremendous effort and the method is completely wrong. Even if someone could manage to sicken several members of the household, the means would be something that induced gastric distress, not something as vague and ungovernable as a simple cold. A tainted dish, poisoned drink—those are the methods one would use, and the easiest means of adulterating food and drink is with an agent that would cause excessive vomiting or—”
I held up a hand. “No more detail. I beg you.”
“Very well, but you take my meaning. There are a thousand possible substances which may cause such troubles, but I can think of none that would induce a cold. The beginning of your hypothesis is in tatters, my dear.”
“What of the rest?” I demanded.
He shrugged one wide shoulder. “That the ghost is a person in disguise? Occam’s Razor would suggest otherwise.”
I stared at him, goggle-eyed. “You believe Occam’s Razor would suggest an actual ghost?”
“No, I believe it would indicate Plum is correct. The maid was intoxicated or half-asleep and imagined the whole thing.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Oh, that is just like a man! To credit something inexplicable to the feeble mind of an hysterical woman.”
He gave me a slow smile. “I think I have proven amply that I, at least, do not believe your sex to be the weaker. On the contrary, my dear, your kind has brought kingdoms to ruin and heroes to their knees. I would not dare to underestimate you.”
“And yet,” I muttered.
“And yet, I will point out any flaw in your logic because you are capable of better,” he returned rather more sternly. “You’ve a fine mind when you aren’t haring off in one direction or other.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “I still say there is something strange afoot in the Abbey.”
“You have not considered the most damning argument against your pet theory,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Pray, what is that?”
“If a thief has gone to the trouble of sickening half the staff and masquerading as a ghost, why on earth would his or her first target be a simple coral ring of no value save the sentimental?”
I had no reply, and he knew it. He returned to his game, smiling a small, triumphant smile. Of course he was correct. No reasonable thief would go to such lengths and take such risk without just reward.
But the next morning, when a flawless emerald ring disappeared, it was an entirely different matter altogether.
CHAPTER SIX
Born a king on Bethlehem plain,
Gold I bring, to crown him again—
King for ever, ceasing never,
Over us all to reign.
“We Three Kings” Traditional English Carol
“Good God, what happened in here? Has Kent attacked at last? I never trust a Kentishman.” Plum appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room smelling of shaving soap and tying his cravat.
“It was the animals,” Aunt Hermia said faintly. “They got a trifle out of hand.”
“It looks as if someone staged a steeplechase in the middle of the table,” Plum returned, which was very nearly the truth. Nin, the Siamese, had been very well-behaved where the dormouse was concerned. But Christopher Sly and Peter Simple, being country cats, had taken an entirely different appr
oach. It was their custom to take a morning constitutional around the Abbey to inspect the property and the breakfast room was always included, with the tasty promise of a grilled kipper to share. Unfortunately, they had appeared just as the dormouse had crept down my arm to taste a sliver of toast I had put out for it. As one, Simple and Sly pounced upon the table, startling the dormouse who immediately fled over and around the breakfast things before escaping into the sugar bowl. The cats, furious at being thwarted, stood on the table, tails lashing as they yowled their rage, which in turn attracted Crab, Father’s mastiff, and Brisbane’s lurcher, Rook. They set to baying as Brisbane snatched up the sugar bowl and held it out of reach of the cats. Nin, ever an opportunist, launched herself lightly onto the table to lick the butter and admire herself in the reflection of the flatware. Father, who had been working in his study, appeared just then, demanding to know who was being murdered in the breakfast room. It took a group effort to disentangle the cats and remove a shame-faced Crab by the collar, and it was more than a quarter of an hour before the various animals were hauled away and we settled back into something vaguely resembling order.
Father had just poured himself a cup of tea to take into the study when Mary, the senior parlourmaid, appeared, her face ashen.
“It’s gone!” she cried, her voice hoarse with emotion. “The emerald ring you left upon your desk, my lord—it has gone!”
Aquinas was hard upon her heels. “I am afraid it is quite true, my lord. The ring is gone.”
Father’s face was inscrutable. He stared at them both a long moment, his expression utterly blank. Then he turned slowly to find the rest of us watching him closely. “Perhaps you had better tell us what you mean,” he said, his voice tight.
Mary clutched at her skirts. “The ring, my lord. I saw it in its little leather box upon the desk where you left it when you came in here to see what the noise was. You will remember I was late today with the dusting because of the junior maid being down with a cold. I was just finishing the study when you rose and left quite hurriedly. I thought I would dust your desk quickly before you returned. I know how you hate to be disturbed,” she added, her eyes wide. She swallowed hard. “The box was open and I saw that the ring was a valuable thing. I did not like to be responsible for it, so I went to fetch Mr. Aquinas to take charge of it and lock it in the safe in the butler’s pantry. But by the time we returned to the study, it was gone. Only the box was left, empty!”
A Mysterious Season Page 3