The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

  No Prestige in Obscurity

  All the servants had rooms in the northwestern quarter of the manor, except Tom Paine who had a cottage in the grounds. With Mrs Bagshaw in prison and Alfred Crutcher dead, the servants’ quarters were very quiet, so Nurse Griddle was surprised to find the bathroom door locked. She rattled the handle to make sure it wasn’t jammed.

  ‘’Ello?’ cried a voice from within. ‘There is someone in ’ere.’

  ‘Who is that?’ responded Nurse Griddle.

  ‘My name is Beaufort Nouveau,’ he replied. ‘I am the chef.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Marshall’s cook.’ Nurse Griddle could tell from his voice what kind of man he was. Arrogant, idiotic and overconfident. Everything she hated in a man. ‘May I ask what you are doing here, Mr Nouveau?’

  ‘I do not think that is any of your business, but if you must know I am maintaining the integrity of my moustache.’

  ‘I did not mean what are you doing in the bathroom. I am enquiring why you are here at Thornthwaite Manor,’ she said. ‘Surely a world-renowned chef such as yourself should be working in a restaurant. There is no prestige in obscurity.’

  ‘I ’ave ’ad prestige,’ said Beaufort. ‘I have wowed food critics around the world with my creations, but it is time for me to be my own man. In the end, a restaurant chef is a wage slave and no better than a lowly dishwasher. Mr Marshall is ’elping me realise my goal.’

  ‘Well, while you are staying here, may I suggest you use the bathroom at the far end of the corridor? It is nearer your own quarters.’

  ‘If it means I can be left alone to my personal grooming, I certainly will. Good day, madame.’

  ‘Good day.’ Nurse Griddle swivelled on a heel and stormed off to use the other bathroom. She did not like Uncle Harry or his arrogant chef. She didn’t know what the twins were thinking, inviting them to stay. It worried her profoundly.

  Nurse Griddle was not accustomed to change. She had avoided it whenever possible, but ever since the great fire life at Thornthwaite Manor had felt worryingly different. She didn’t like it at all. The twins’ truce meant she had far fewer injuries to keep her occupied. Their decision to attend Shelley Valley Secondary School meant she no longer had lessons to plan. Nurse Griddle had found herself with increasingly more time on her hands.

  After availing herself of an alternative bathroom, she went to the library, pulled out a book and sat down to read. She was a quick reader and had got as far as chapter three when she realised she had read the book before. She closed it and gazed out of the window. A large unmarked white van was turning around. Nurse Griddle replaced the book and made her way to the entrance. She opened the front door but the van was driving away.

  ‘Hello!’ she called out.

  The van did not stop.

  She didn’t know why she was so jittery today. It was not uncommon for drivers to take the turning that led to the manor by mistake. She listened to the van’s engine drive away. She envied the driver’s ability to turn around and leave so easily. Nurse Griddle had made one decision when she was much younger that had led her down the path to Thornthwaite Manor. She had spent the rest of her life living with the consequences of that decision. Sometimes she wished she could turn things around so easily.

  An Invitation

  Uncle Harry wanted to take a longer walk around the cemetery, so Lorelli and Ovid returned to the car to wait for him. Ovid was still alarmingly cheerful. Lorelli caught him humming, but it wasn’t one of the dirges he liked to play on the harpsichord. It was a disturbingly light, happy tune.

  ‘So?’ she said. ‘Why is he putting us in his will?’

  ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth. Have you thought about that?’

  ‘There’s definitely something up with you today,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I just think we should give him a chance.’ Ovid grinned. ‘We’re not exactly swimming in relatives.’

  When they reached Uncle Harry’s car Lorelli spotted Felicia sitting on a wall, wearing a red bonnet and a poufy dress. Seeing them, she hopped off the wall and ran over to throw her arms around Lorelli.

  ‘Lori-chicken!’ she squawked. ‘I knew it would be you. I saw the car go past the shop and I said to myself, that’s Uncle Harry’s car. It’s such a wonderful-looking thing. Doesn’t it just scream glamour and wealth?’

  ‘Now, is that the same screaming as when one’s bedroom is on fire, I wonder?’ Ovid sniggered.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Felicia.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a joke except it’s not funny,’ explained Lorelli.

  ‘Whereas having your bedroom set on fire by a glass statue of you is hilarious,’ said Ovid.

  Felicia gasped. ‘What fire? Lori-chicken, what’s he talking about?’

  ‘It was just an accident,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Oh, how awful, and it’s my fault.’ Felicia held her hand up to her mouth in shock. ‘I should have known, and to think it was me who insisted on putting it where I knew the sun would come up. What must you think of me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lorelli. ‘I know it was an accident. Ovid’s just got a twisted a sense of humour.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m terribly twisted,’ said Ovid. ‘So what’s for her next birthday? Poisoned banana cake? Deadly lip gloss? An exploding jewellery box?’

  Felicia peered at him closely. ‘You are a very strange boy,’ she said.

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Oh, but the thought of ever hurting you,’ said Felicia. ‘It would be like hurting myself.’

  ‘Two for the price of one,’ said Ovid. ‘Sounds fun.’

  ‘Ovid, stop it.’ Lorelli was getting annoyed. ‘Felicia, why don’t you come for that sleepover tonight?’

  ‘Tonight? Oh, yes. How wonderful.’ Felicia clapped her hands together excitedly. ‘We can go riding on your horses, toast marshmallows and tell each other our secrets.’

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing,’ said Lorelli uncertainly.

  Ovid gave his sister a knowing look. ‘All of your secrets?’

  She scowled at him, then said to Felicia: ‘We can take you now if you like.’

  ‘Oh, Lori-chicken,’ chirruped Felicia. ‘That would be heaven in a basket, but I have to pack and prepare. I’ll have my mother drop me round this afternoon. It will be so much more thrilling than hanging around this dead-end village.’

  The Alteration of the Will

  Bernard Farthing, the twins’ lawyer, was a large man, uncomfortable with the amount of space he took up in most circumstances. Standing in the grand hallway of Thornthwaite Manor, under Nurse Griddle’s scrutinising gaze, he was melting like a slug in salt. ‘Mr Farthing. What brings you here?’ she asked.

  ‘I received a call from a Mr Harry Marshall? He said he had some business regarding a will.’

  ‘I see. And, tell me, has your son Adam joined you?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure he’s ready to come back here yet.’

  ‘Last time he was here, his lies and deceit caused a great deal of mischief,’ said Nurse Griddle.

  Mr Farthing coughed self-consciously. ‘That is in the past. I would rather we didn’t dredge up such unpleasantness again. My son is seeing a specialist about his problem. Doctor Mingus has an excellent track record. She says she is making good progress renewing his relationship with the truth.’

  ‘Does that mean he has stopped lying?’ asked Nurse Griddle bluntly.

  Mr Farthing cleared his throat. ‘He’s certainly getting a lot better.’

  The sound of tyres on gravel and slamming car doors preceded the arrival of Ovid, Lorelli and Uncle Harry.

  ‘I will leave you to your business then,’ said Nurse Griddle, returning to the library.

  Lorelli was the first through the door, but Ovid and Uncle Harry were close behind. ‘Mr Farthing?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I called him,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘I wanted to show you how serious I am, so I contacted your lawyer to mak
e the alteration to my will.’

  ‘That was quick work,’ said Ovid.

  ‘I do work quickly,’ replied Uncle Harry. ‘Procrastination is for the unambitious. Time-wasting is a waste of time.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ said Mr Farthing. He went to shake hands with Uncle Harry but his elbow knocked a plant pot on a porcelain plinth. Lorelli steadied it.

  ‘And you,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Now, to business. I have asked you here to help me make Ovid and Lorelli the sole beneficiaries of my wealth and assets. My property, yachts, jets, cars, helicopters, island and vast amounts of money. All of it, in the eventuality of my death, is to be split between them equally.’

  Mr Farthing anxiously rummaged through his pockets to find a pen, but when he did it slipped through his fingers. He tried to catch it and somehow managed to fling it across the hall.

  ‘Perhaps we should find a room to sit down and go through the details,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Ovid, shall we find a suitable room?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Mr Farthing and Lorelli followed Ovid and Uncle Harry down a corridor. Mr Farthing spoke quietly to Lorelli. ‘I believe you maintain a correspondence with my son.’

  Lorelli checked Ovid was not listening before whispering, ‘I reply to his letters, yes.’

  ‘And his letters, do they … I mean, are they wholly … you know. How does he seem to you?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, they are truthful,’ said Lorelli. ‘He said he was seeing a new specialist.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor Mingus. Her techniques seem to be working.’

  ‘Whose techniques seem to be working?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Mr Farthing was telling me about a book on chess techniques,’ lied Lorelli.

  ‘Oh really? What’s it called?’

  ‘I, er … I forget the title,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘It’s going to take more than a book for you to claw back our current game,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Talking of games, how about this room?’ said Uncle Harry.

  They all went into the games room and Mr Farthing sat down at the table. Ovid, Lorelli and Uncle Harry remained standing. Mr Farthing opened his briefcase and pulled out a fountain pen and a pad of paper. ‘So, Mr Marshall, do you have any other family?’

  ‘None,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘No children?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘Also sadly not.’

  ‘Ex-wife?’

  ‘Less sadly not. No, mine has been an isolated existence, but I hope to change all that now.’

  ‘If that is the case then it shouldn’t be too complicated,’ said Mr Farthing. ‘I can draw up a draft version of the will, naming Ovid and Lorelli as beneficiaries of your estate, then bring it back for you to sign next week.’

  ‘Or tomorrow,’ said Uncle Harry, placing a firm hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. ‘I pay extra for speed.’

  ‘Tomorrow should be possible,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘Good. I never waste time in matters of business. I see no reason why I should do so in matters of the heart.’

  The Fortune of Family

  Hazel was the only member of the household to ever visit Mrs Bagshaw. She knew the others had their reasons for staying away, but she did sometimes wish they would show more interest.

  ‘Back home then?’ said Old Tom as she climbed into the passenger seat of his rusty old car.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Hazel.

  Tom put the car into reverse, then navigated his way out of the car park.

  ‘She’s started growing turnips,’ said Hazel.

  Tom kept his eyes fixed on the road and both hands rigidly clutching the steering wheel. ‘Turnips,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And she’s knitting a scarf.’

  ‘Surprised they allow knitting needles in prisons …’

  ‘It’s a low-security prison.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  Tom continued to drive in silence until Hazel spoke again. ‘Why do you never ask after her?’

  Tom considered the question before answering. ‘I suppose it’s the same reason that I’ve never watered the crocuses on the south slopes. You see, that’s the lovely thing about crocuses. They open up whether you water them or not, so what’s the point in watering them?’

  It was a typical Tom response. Hazel had once asked him if he cared more about plants than people. He had responded, ‘Not more. I’d say I care about the same for the people and plants in my life.’

  When they finally reached the manor, Tom dropped her off outside the kitchen before parking the car in the garage. She went straight to the kitchen, where Beaufort was busy crushing a piece of ginger with a large knife.

  ‘Where ’ave you been? I ’ad to de-stone my own olives this morning.’

  ‘I told you, I was visiting Mrs Bagshaw.’

  ‘The one in prison. Yes, you did tell me. ’Ow was it? It cannot be easy for you seeing ’er like that.’

  Hazel was unsure how to respond. None of the others had ever asked her about her feelings before. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Then you will next be needed in one hour’s time. Until then, your time is your own.’

  ‘If you please, chef, I’d like to observe,’ said Hazel.

  He squinted at her, then returned his attention to the ginger. ‘You may remain on two conditions. One, you do not ask me silly questions. Two, you do not get under foot.’

  ‘Oui, chef.’

  Beaufort grunted, then got back to crushing the ginger. Watching him work was the single most exciting experience of Hazel’s life. She loved the way he glided from workspace to hob and back again with the elegance of a ballet dancer, the precision of a soldier and the flamboyant confidence of a matador. When Uncle Harry informed him that Felicia Crick would be joining them for dinner, Beaufort responded with an explosion of wildly gesticulated French before he calmed down and got on with it.

  As dinnertime neared, Beaufort sent Hazel to set the table and ensure the guests were in ‘the right frame of mind’ for dinner. Hazel was not entirely sure what this meant but she did as she was told unquestioningly. At eight o’clock they carried in four pies that looked like miniature gothic castles of pastry, complete with gargoyles and turrets. Hazel and Beaufort placed them on the table, then Beaufort took a small gravy jug and carefully poured the scalding-hot liquid into the tops of the towers so that it gushed out of the gargoyles’ mouths.

  Ovid, Lorelli and Uncle Harry stared in astonished admiration. Felicia clapped her hands and whooped.

  ‘It’s like magic,’ she said.

  ‘It’s quite a pie,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Pie,’ said Beaufort. ‘Such a tiny little word! Pie. From the Latin pica, meaning magpie. And just as the eponymous bird, a pie must gather found treasures to create something new. I call it my Divine Pie, named after the great poet Dante’s vision of hell. You see, there are nine levels to this pie.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Should we work down or up?’ asked Uncle Harry.

  ‘An artist cannot dictate how one should consume his art. Some want to travel down, plunging into the depths of each rich layer. Others prefer to find out what is at the bottom first.’

  ‘What about those who just want to mess everything up?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Ah, yes, the lovers of chaos,’ said Beaufort. ‘All are equal in the art of food. Now, please excuse ’Azel and myself. We must go prepare the dessert. Come ’Azel.’

  ‘Oui, chef.’

  Beaufort’s Divine Pie was so delicious it even silenced Felicia. No one spoke until the final mouthfuls had been swallowed.

  ‘That. Was. Amazing,’ said Felicia at last.

  ‘The man is a genius.’ Uncle Harry picked up a napkin to dab a droplet of gravy from his chin.

  ‘It wasn’t bad,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ agreed Lorelli.

  ‘Does Hazel never dine with yo
u?’ asked Uncle Harry.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Felicia. ‘Servants should be as useful and silent as the furniture. Isn’t that right, Lori-chicken?’

  ‘No. It’s not like that,’ said Lorelli. ‘But no. She eats …’ She realised she had no idea when or where Hazel ate.

  ‘It’s just as it should be,’ said Felicia. ‘Oh, to live like this, it’s an absolute dream.’

  ‘Oh yes, our life is so dreamy,’ said Ovid, rolling his eyes.

  Lorelli tried to ignore him. ‘I envy you, Felicia,’ she said. ‘You have parents.’

  ‘I’d rather have servants than parents any day,’ said Felicia. ‘Servants do what you tell them. Parents tell you what to do.’

  ‘Funnily enough, we were never given the choice,’ said Ovid.

  ‘So, Lorelli,’ said Uncle Harry in a blatant attempt to move the conversation on, ‘I take it Felicia will be sleeping in your room tonight.’

  ‘No,’ said Lorelli. ‘My room is still a little smoky. We’ll be in the Gruoch Suite in the west wing.’

  ‘The Gruoch Suite,’ repeated Felicia. ‘What a wonderful name.’

  ‘It was named after Lady Gruoch Thornthwaite,’ said Lorelli. ‘She lived here in the early nineteenth century.’

  ‘Was she the one with the older sister who was supposed to marry Lord Allegro?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘That’s right. Gwendoline,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Felicia.

  ‘The older sister died on the night of her engagement. The father offered Gruoch as a back-up.’

  ‘How romantic,’ said Felicia.

  ‘How is that romantic?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Marriages are always romantic,’ said Felicia defensively.

  ‘The sister died,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Everyone is dead in history,’ said Felicia. ‘What does it matter how it happened?’

  ‘History is all about the how,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Talking of which, I’d love to see that book you mentioned.’