The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘You can’t just march in and take over,’ said Hazel.

  ‘I can and I must,’ said Beaufort.

  Hazel met his scrutinising gaze. The smallest of smiles appeared at the corner of his mouth. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hazel, sir. Hazel Bagshaw.’

  ‘Bagshaw,’ he repeated. ‘You have lived your life in this house?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Whereas I have travelled the globe. I have cooked in the finest restaurants in the world. My art has been appreciated by the rich and the famous. Now, I am here in this …’ He looked around disdainfully. ‘This kitchen …’

  ‘Yes, but I have made a promise to take care of the cooking until Mrs Bagshaw returns.’

  ‘Who is this Mrs Bagshaw? Your mother?’

  ‘Yes. Well – yes. My adoptive mother. She’s the cook.’

  ‘Is she indeed? And where is this cook now that she would leave a kitchen in the ’ands of one so clearly inexperienced?’

  ‘She’s in prison for …’

  Hazel stumbled over her words. There had been so many revelations the previous year at Thornthwaite Manor that she was unsure how to explain the extremely complex reasons for Mrs Bagshaw’s imprisonment. Hazel was grateful when Beaufort said, ‘It is of no matter. She is not here. I am. You never know, you may even learn something, although you should know I work fast and I am no teacher.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I will allow you to observe and to ’elp me prepare food. I will show you that, with the correct amount of application, one can more than cook in a kitchen. You will learn how to create the impossible.’ He picked up a kitchen knife and ran it against a steel sharpener with such speed and precision that a spark flew off. ‘Now, one cannot launch a military campaign with blunt swords. Sharpen these knives, ’Azel Bagshaw. And the only two words I want to hear from you are Oui, chef. Do you understand?’

  Hazel hesitated. This man was overbearing and rude. And yet, there was something in his eyes that made her want to trust him. Hazel had enough experience of deceit to recognise that this man believed every word he spoke.

  ‘So?’ said Beaufort. ‘I do not ’ave all day. What do you say?’

  ‘Oui, chef,’ she responded.

  The Chandelier

  Hazel set three places at the table, then went to the Buxton Room to announce that dinner was ready. Beaufort waited until Lorelli, Ovid and Uncle Harry were seated before bringing in the three plates. The twins stared in astonishment at the dishes. The fish was cooked to crispy perfection and lay on a bed of spinach with almond flakes arranged to look like the white froth of the ocean. Wild mushrooms made the distant snow-topped mountains. The cucumber had been cut into tiny stars, with a tomato as the blood-red moon.

  ‘It looks wonderful, Beaufort,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘Who cares how dinner looks?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Cooking is the only complete art form,’ said Beaufort. ‘Food must appeal to all of our senses. First we consume with our eyes, then with our noses as we breathe in the aromas. The texture of food is vital as it touches our mouths. Then, finally, the taste.’

  ‘That’s only four of the senses,’ said Ovid churlishly.

  ‘You are right. The sounds are every bit as important. The crunches and crackles we ’ear as we eat is the purest music of all, for it comes from within us.’

  Ovid scowled at his sister, who was nodding in amazement. ‘It’s remarkable,’ she said. ‘It seems a shame to spoil the picture.’

  ‘Yes, a terrible shame.’ Ovid dragged his fork across his food and gathered a random selection of food into his mouth. ‘It could do with a little salt.’ He spoke with his mouth full.

  Uncle Harry glanced at the chef, worried about how he would take this.

  ‘Ovid, you’re being rude,’ scolded Lorelli.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Beaufort. ‘As with any art form, the consumer is the only true judge. We all have different requirements, and if this young man’s tastes desire more salt, then so be it.’ He picked up the large salt mill from the side of the room and carried it to Ovid’s end of the table.

  Ovid held out his hand, but Beaufort kept hold of it. ‘Please, allow me.’

  ‘I am quite capable of adding salt to my dinner,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Capable, yes,’ admitted Beaufort. ‘Being capable of kicking a ball does not make one a professional footballer. Being capable of singing in the shower does not qualify one to be an operatic soprano. Capable is not good enough in the search for perfection.’

  ‘I don’t strive for perfection in dinner,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Ah, but I do, and as author of this meal I cannot allow you to make your own additions.’

  ‘“Author of the meal”,’ scoffed Ovid. Then he sighed and said, ‘Oh, very well, please show how me to add salt in a perfect way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Beaufort turned the salt mill on its side, listening to the movement of the salt crystals as a safe-breaker might listen to the mechanism of a dial. When he had it at precisely the right angle, he gave it a couple of turns, then spun it round so that the salt was whipped up into the air, creating a small cloud. With lightning speed, he slammed the salt mill down and clapped his hands so that the cloud dispersed and the salt came down like fine rain on Ovid’s food. The whole thing was done with such precision that only one grain of salt fell outside of the plate. Beaufort took a serviette from his top pocket and removed it. Ovid watched the whole performance open-mouthed.

  ‘Would anyone else care for salt?’ asked the chef.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Then we will take our leave. Come, ’Azel, we must prepare the sweet.’

  ‘Oui, chef.’ Hazel and Beaufort left the room.

  ‘You take him everywhere with you, do you?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Sadly no. He is only with me for a few more days. He is, you see, an artiste.’ Uncle Harry adopted a ridiculous French accent. ‘And an artiste cannot only play to an audience of one. He must spread his wings if ’e is to fly.’

  Lorelli tittered.

  Above them, the chandelier tinkled.

  ‘The wind’s picking up,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘I feel no breeze,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Lorelli.

  Having grown up in a household more given to murder attempts than most, the Thornthwaite twins were well attuned to imminent danger. They both jumped up from their seats and leapt back as the huge chandelier came crashing down onto the table. They covered their eyes and ducked as several tons of glass shattered.

  Once the last shard had settled, the twins looked at Uncle Harry, who had also stepped back to avoid being crushed by the chandelier.

  ‘What on earth …?’ he began.

  Ovid flung open the door to find a large man with a face as rough and textured as a rocky mountain and a yellow hard hat that kept his long hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Dragos,’ said Ovid.

  ‘I heard crash,’ he responded. ‘You have problem with ceiling fitting, yes? I will take a look.’

  The Builder

  Dragos Vãduva arrived at Thornthwaite Manor two weeks after the great fire. As with all visitors, Tom Paine had vetted him first and then introduced him to the twins. He informed them that Dragos was a builder from Romania, interested in winning the contract to rebuild the manor.

  As soon as he saw the twins, Dragos fell down on his knees and wept. A veritable oak tree of a man, this had been quite a sight.

  ‘I am apologising to you,’ said Dragos. ‘But this old lady cries out in pain and I weep for her. I must nurse her back to health. You must allow me to do this.’

  ‘What old lady?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘He’s talking about Thornthwaite Manor,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dragos. ‘Your home has been badly abused. She can only be repaired with love.’

  ‘Are you really a builder?’ asked Ovid.

&n
bsp; ‘A builder?’ Dragos stood up and pounded his chest proudly. ‘No. I am doctor. I am nurse.’

  ‘We have a nurse,’ said Ovid.

  ‘You misunderstand me. I do not work with flesh and blood. I am doctor of brick and mortar. Of concrete and timber. I will return the old lady to her former self. I will only work with materials used in the original construction. She does not need facelift. She is beautiful in her age. This is only way to keep the history in her heart.’ He clenched his fist and thumped his heart again.

  ‘Dragos has a good reputation and a low rate,’ said Tom. ‘Nurse Griddle and I are in favour of employing him.’

  ‘What if we don’t want it repaired?’ said Lorelli. ‘This place has been the cause of so much tragedy over the years, maybe we should put it out of its misery.’

  ‘You should not speak of the old lady in such a disrespectful way,’ said Dragos.

  ‘This house is in no fit state to live in,’ said Tom quietly.

  ‘Tom is right,’ said Ovid. ‘We can’t live like this.’

  ‘Nurse Griddle and I would like him to begin work immediately,’ said Tom.

  ‘So why are you asking us at all if you’ve already decided?’ asked Lorelli.

  Dragos replied: ‘I will do nothing without your consent. You are rightful heirs. Family must come first.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Yes, I think it would be good to get the place back to its former glory,’ said Ovid.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Dragos. ‘If I can stay on site I can work with more speed. I have located a suitable room in the south wing.’

  Dragos started the next day. He worked long hours and would often begin one task while in the middle of another. A trip to fill his bucket with water would result in a major plumbing job. While he was solving that, he would discover a damp problem and end up knocking down the entire wall. Everything was rebuilt exactly as it had been. His attention to detail was remarkable. Without a single photograph for reference, he was able to restore rooms to their previous selves. When Ovid asked how he knew what things had looked like, Dragos responded: ‘The old lady whispers to me. I only have to listen.’

  A Surprise in the Study

  Dragos picked up a piece of broken glass from the chandelier and held it up to the light. ‘The old lady’s teardrops.’

  ‘Teardrops?’ Uncle Harry brushed bits of rubble off his shoulders. ‘Someone could have been killed.’

  Dragos turned to address the twins. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Harry Marshall,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘I’m their only living relative.’

  ‘How is this possible?’ asked Dragos.

  ‘I’m their mother’s brother,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘And you?’

  ‘I am man responsible for nursing the old lady back to health.’

  ‘Dragos is our builder,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Your apparent uncle turns up, then this happens. This is not good,’ said Dragos.

  Uncle Harry squared up to the broad-shouldered builder. ‘If I were you, I’d be more concerned about the fact that a poor fitting just cost your employers an irreplaceable nineteenth-century Russian cut-glass chandelier.’

  Dragos locked eyes with Uncle Harry. ‘It was secure when I checked last week.’

  ‘If you’re suggesting I had something to do with this, maybe I should give my lawyers a call,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Dragos?’ asked Ovid.

  Dragos shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. I will now check the other fittings in case. Safety must come first. Now you can go elsewhere. Somewhere safe. Perhaps Silas’s Study. There is no chandelier there.’

  Ovid, Lorelli and Uncle Harry did as they were told and made their way to the study.

  ‘All the rooms have such interesting names,’ said Uncle Harry as he followed the twins down the burnt-out corridor.

  ‘Lord Silas was our grandfather.’ Lorelli opened the door and flicked the light switch.

  As the bulb flickered on, two girls sprang up from behind the old desk and cried, ‘Surprise!’

  Had either Ovid or Lorelli been holding anything small, sharp and throwable, the girls would have been silenced in a second. Thankfully, neither of them was armed and the girls went unharmed.

  ‘Happy birthday, Lori-chicken!’ chirruped Felicia Crick, a pretty girl wearing a yellow party dress with a matching hairband in her straight blonde hair.

  ‘It’s Ovid’s birthday too,’ said Millicent Hartwell, whose hair was a muddier shade of blonde and who wore a plain black skirt and top.

  Uncle Harry smiled. ‘How lovely. These are your friends, are they?’

  ‘Felicia and Millicent go to our school,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you both. I’m the twins’ uncle.’

  ‘You’re Harry Marshall,’ said Felicia. ‘You’re the thirty-seventh richest man in the country.’

  ‘Just slipped down to thirty-eighth actually,’ he said.

  Felicia giggled, clapped, then allowed her face to fall into a pretend scowl. ‘You never told us you were related to Harry Marshall, Lori-chicken.’

  ‘We didn’t know ourselves,’ said Lorelli. ‘How have you heard of him?’

  ‘Felicia cuts out the rich lists from newspapers and sticks them on her wall.’ Millicent’s pale grey eyes flickered to Ovid, then fell away again.

  ‘It’s just so glamorous!’ cried Felicia. ‘Now. Presents!’ She handed Lorelli a large gift-wrapped box with a purple bow. ‘Careful. It’s rather precious and delicate. Just like you.’

  Lorelli placed the box on the table and removed the wrapping, methodically checking for trigger wires or any suspicious ticking.

  ‘A-hem.’ Ovid coughed. Both of the Thornthwaite twins had gone out of their way to hide their childhood of attempted murders from the outside world. Fitting in at school was difficult enough without having others worrying that you were planning on killing them. Lorelli tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside was a glass figure of a girl. Swirling colours filled the statue, but the figurine was totally clear at its centre.

  ‘It’s you, Lori-chicken,’ squealed Felicia excitedly. ‘Mum and Dad made it specially in the workshop.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Did you say your parents made it?’

  ‘Felicia’s parents have a glassworks in Little Fledgling,’ said Lorelli. ‘Thank you, Felicia.’

  ‘I like the way it’s got no heart,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Actually it has a pure heart,’ replied Felicia pointedly. ‘Just like Lori-chicken. And don’t worry, Millicent has got something for you.’

  Millicent held up a small package. Ovid’s hand shook as he took it, listened to it and carefully unwrapped the brown paper to find a small white tortoise with green eyes painted on.

  ‘I made it myself,’ said Millicent. ‘It’s carved from bison femur bone. Sorry. Do you hate it?’

  ‘No,’ said Ovid quickly.

  ‘You’re welcome to hate it.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Did you say a bison femur bone?’ enquired Uncle Harry.

  ‘Millicent’s dad is a butcher,’ said Felicia.

  ‘It’s a Rare Meat Emporium,’ said Millicent. ‘Do you like it, Ovid?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’ He tried to sound convincingly grateful. It was not easy.

  ‘It reminds me of you,’ said Millicent.

  ‘Because of the eyes?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Because of the shell,’ replied Millicent.

  Gravity or Foul Play?

  Hazel had almost finished cleaning up the glass from the fallen chandelier when she caught her index finger on a sharp edge. She let out a small yelp, pulled her finger away and tasted the warm blood that sprang to the surface. She cursed herself for being so clumsy.

  Nurse Griddle stepped into the room, demonstrating her uncanny ability to appear whenever an injury had occurred. She opened up her large medical bag and tutted. ‘You really should be wearing
gloves.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Hazel put her hand behind her back. Her lifelong fear of the twins’ nanny had not diminished since the discovery that Nurse Griddle was her biological mother. If anything, it had made her more fearful since Hazel now had the added concern that she had inherited Nurse Griddle’s angular nose and pursed thin lips.

  ‘I will be the judge of what is something and what is nothing.’ Nurse Griddle took Hazel’s hand. She examined it, then foraged inside her medical bag and pulled out a pair of tweezers, some antiseptic and a plaster.

  ‘What happened to the chandelier?’

  ‘It fell.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Nurse Griddle. ‘The question is, was it gravity or foul play?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  ‘There is a piece of glass still inside the finger. Hold still now,’ she said. ‘This will hurt. But only momentarily.’

  Nurse Griddle extracted the piece of glass with the tweezers, then squeezed a dollop of cream on the fingertip and stuck a plaster over the cut. She released Hazel’s hand and looked at the plates of food on the table, each scene now decorated with broken glass. ‘This is a rather ostentatious meal.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Beaufort made it.’

  ‘Beaufort?’

  ‘He’s Mr Marshall’s personal chef.’

  ‘Who is Mr Marshall?’

  ‘Oh, please, call me Harry.’

  Nurse Griddle turned to find Uncle Harry standing in the doorway. He made a small bow and offered his hand. ‘Harry Marshall, the twins’ long-lost uncle, at your service. You must be Nurse Griddle.’

  She wrinkled her large nose and flared her nostrils. ‘Hazel,’ she said, maintaining eye contact but leaving Harry’s hand unshaken, ‘go and find some proper gloves so you can finish this job without incurring further injury.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Once Hazel was gone, Nurse Griddle spoke quietly but firmly. ‘Why now?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why come for them now?’

  ‘I have already explained to the twins how I tried to keep in touch. It seems their old butler kept me at arm’s length. Tom has been more reasonable. I remember him from their parents’ wedding but I do not remember you.’