British Manor Murder (16 page)

Chapter Fifteen

A
fter she'd finished her bowl of Weetabix, Lucy went in search of Sue, figuring she was probably in the long gallery with Perry, making last minute adjustments to the hat show. As she expected, she found them oohing and ahhing over Camilla's feather fascinator.

“Such a smart choice for an older woman,” Sue was saying as Perry fussed over the delicate assemblage of feathers. “Flowers would have looked silly and much too young.”

“She could have gotten away with an orchid or two,” said Perry, “but I agree with you. This was much more sophisticated.” He set the hat on the stand awaiting it, which had an enlarged wedding photo of Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall. “Camilla is a very sophisticated lady. Did you know her great-grandmother was Mrs. Keppel, who had a famous long-term affair with Edward VII? She was really a sort of official mistress . . . in the French style. His wife Queen Alexandra even invited her to be present at his death bed.”

“I'm afraid I'm too much of a New England puritan to approve of such goings-on,” said Lucy, joining them.

“Well, things have certainly become tamer for us nobs, now that we have to work for a living,” said Perry, stepping back to admire the fascinator.

“Is it really true that the Edwardians were into wife swapping in a big way?” asked Sue. “I've heard there were little name plates on the guest room doors so adulterous couples could pair up at house parties.”

“It's true,” said Perry. “Those little brass card holders are still on the doors in the main wing. The day-trippers love them.”

“I guess Lady Wickham, old as she is, wasn't around to flirt with Edward VII,” said Lucy.

“No, but she was around in the swinging sixties, and there was quite a revival of naughtiness then,” said Perry, with a knowing nod. “We have photographs of house parties she attended. There was a lot of nudity, lots of drugs and booze. Rock stars, too. Aunt was quite a looker and rumor has it she had a fling with the Mad Boy.”

“The Mad Boy?” asked Sue, eyebrows raised.

“Robert Heber-Percy, but everyone called him the Mad Boy. He was famously bisexual.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Came from a fine old family.”

“Do you suppose they might have discovered the secret room then? During one of those house parties?” asked Lucy.

“Perhaps playing Sardines,” suggested Perry with a smile. “You'd have to ask Aunt, but I wouldn't advise it. She doesn't like to be reminded of her youthful indiscretions, now that she's become such a self-righteous old thing.”

“I guess it's not so unusual for people to become more conservative as they get older,” said Sue. “Our friend Rachel majored in psychology and she'd have a term for it, I'm sure.”

“Damned annoying, that's what I call it,” said Perry. “Now, what do you think about the bishop's miter? Should we have it front on to show the embroidery or backwards so people can see the little dangly bits?”

Sue took a long look at the display, examining it this way and that, a process that Lucy found somewhat irritating. “Perhaps a mirror?” Sue finally suggested.

“That way we can have our cake and eat it too!” exclaimed Perry, making a note on his ever-present clipboard.

Lucy decided that she would have to amuse herself since she really didn't share Perry and Sue's passion for millinery. “I'll see you guys at lunch?” she asked by way of a farewell.

“Mmm, yes,” murmured Sue, tweaking a silk flower on a hat that had belonged to the Queen Mother.

Lucy was feeling rather sorry for herself as she left the long gallery and made her way along a dimly lighted corridor she hoped led back to the wing reserved for family and guests; she really didn't know what to do with herself. It was no wonder those Edwardians got up to so much mischief, she decided, concluding that there really wasn't much to do in these grand country houses, after all. She would have liked to take a walk in the garden, but a glance out a leaded casement window revealed a steady drizzle had begun to fall. Perhaps she could snag a book from the library and have a little chat with Willoughby, she thought, taking a turn down another long corridor she suspected might lead to the library.

She hadn't gone far when a door opened and out popped Harrison, carrying a rather heavy tray holding the extensive collection of crockery that had contained Lady Wickham's substantial breakfast. As she drew closer, she realized the lady's maid was crying and tears were running down her withered old cheeks.

“Let me take that,” said Lucy, reaching for the tray. “Why don't you sit down for a moment,” she urged, indicating one of the chairs that lined he corridor. “I'm sure I have a tissue in my pocket.”

“No need,” said Harrison with a heroic sniff. She was hanging on to the tray for dear life.

“You've had a terrible loss,” said Lucy, her voice gentle. “There's no shame in grieving.”

“I must get on,” insisted Harrison.

“But Cyril was your son. Even if you weren't very close, that's how it is with sons.” Lucy continued, thinking of her own Toby. “They make their own lives, of course, but we mothers still love them and they love us. Isn't that right?”

“I wouldn't know, madam,” said Harrison, formal as ever. “And now if you don't mind, m'lady is waiting for a fresh pot of tea.”

“Of course,” said Lucy, stepping aside and letting the maid pass. She watched as the elderly servant made her way down the long hall, bearing the massive mahogany tray. Her back was ramrod straight. Strange, Lucy thought.

Realizing that Harrison was going to the kitchen, she decided to follow her. Unlike herself, Harrison knew her way around the manor.

“I hope you don't mind my following you,” Lucy said, eager to explain her behavior. “It's just I'm always getting lost.”

“Suit yourself,” said Harrison, marching along.

It was quite a hike to the kitchen, and rather awkward, too, since Harrison did not indulge in small talk. Lucy respected her silence, finally concluding that it wasn't all that unreasonable. Harrison was obviously grieving, even if she didn't want to admit it. But Lucy suspected that silence and keeping her thoughts to herself was a form of self-defense for a servant like Harrison. When you were at another's beck and call, without even a home of your own, your only truly private space was your mind. It was no wonder Harrison didn't want to share her personal thoughts in idle chatter.

The kitchen was empty when they arrived, and Harrison got busy loading her ladyship's used breakfast crockery into the dishwasher. Then she set about making a fresh pot of tea, which Lucy hadn't realized was quite such a complicated process involving her ladyship's special loose tea leaves and much rinsing of the china pot with hot water until it was deemed to be the correct temperature. When she'd gone, Lucy fixed herself a mug of tea, using one of the tea bags everybody else used.

Cradling the warm mug in her hands, she settled herself in a huge, rather tattered wing chair arranged with its back to the room, and gazed out the French doors, admiring the sodden lilacs that hung heavily on their stems amid the shiny wet leaves. She was thinking that when she finished her tea she would borrow a pair of Wellies and brave the weather to continue her exploration of the garden, which she expected would be equally beautiful in the refreshing rain.

She was just finishing the last of her tea when Desi and Flora came in and was about to make her presence known when Flora spoke. “Desi, something weird's going on.”

Intrigued, Lucy decided to indulge in a bit of eavesdropping.

“Besides a dead body in a secret chamber?” asked Desi. Flora chuckled. “This isn't quite on that scale, but it's been bothering me.”

“Go on,” said Desi.

“Well, it's that little statue of Saint Roch and his dog, I just love the way the dog's ear is bent,” she began.

“The ceramic one in the library? Is that the one you mean?”

“Yes. That's where it's always been, but it's not there now.”

“It's probably been sent for a repair,” said Desi. “Check with Winifred. She'd know.”

“I did and she said it wasn't sent out or moved.”

“Well, then ask Willoughby. The library is his domain, after all. He'd know.”

“I don't like to ask. It might make him uncomfortable.” She paused. “He might think I'm accusing him of breaking it and hiding it or perhaps even stealing it or—”

“Why would he think that?”

“I don't know. Maybe because I sort of think he might do something like that. I don't quite trust him.”

“Why ever not?” asked Desi.

Lucy leaned forward, the better to hear Flora's answer. Unfortunately, that movement dislodged a needlework pillow, which fell to the floor with a thump.

Realizing she'd been discovered, she got to her feet and yawned. “Goodness,” she declared, “I must have dozed off.”

“It's the weather,” said Desi. “Gray days like this make me quite sleepy. Nothing to do but curl up with a good book that I can pretend to read while I doze.”

“Good idea,” said Lucy, eager to make her escape, “but I think I'll get some fresh air.” She excused herself and left hurriedly.

* * *

As she had planned, Lucy spent the morning in the garden, tramping along the paths in a pair of borrowed Wellies. As she'd expected, the rainfall had refreshed all the plants and the lawn was a vibrant emerald green. The leaves on the shrubs glistened with damp, and the various hues of the flowers had deepened. She especially admired the little pools of pink and magenta fallen petals beneath some flowering trees. She even climbed the hill to the folly to admire the view.

When she'd finally had enough, she returned to the great room where Poppy was arranging sandwiches on a large platter, which she set on the big scrubbed pine table with a thump. She sat down, a glum expression on her face. Perry and Sue were already sitting at the table, Desi and Flora were adding various condiments, and Gerald was helping himself to a bowl of soup from the pot on the stove.

“It's mulligatawny soup,” said Poppy with a huge sigh.

“That will please Aunt no end,” said Perry.

“When is the old girl leaving?” asked Gerald, seating himself beside his wife.

“No time soon, I'm afraid,” said Poppy. “She announced this morning that her boiler has given up the ghost and has to be replaced. She says she's making arrangements to have it fixed but, according to her, it's practically impossible to find knowledgeable workmen these days.”

“Workmen who'll work for ten shillings a week, you mean,” said Gerald. “And who know how to fix an old coal burner that was the latest technology in 1910.”

“Exactly,” agreed Perry, pausing to take a bite of pickle. “Her place at Hazelton is practically falling down, and I suspect she's short of cash to keep it up.”

“Nonsense,” said Poppy. “The old bird is just cheap.”

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” said Desi, sitting down with a steaming bowl of soup. “If she fixed the place up, she could rent it and make a fortune.”

“Rent Fairleigh? She'd never consider it,” exclaimed Poppy.

“Just as well,” said Flora. “If she rented it, we'd be stuck with her permanently—and horrible Harrison, too.”

“Well,” said Poppy with another big sigh, “it looks like they're going to be here for the foreseeable future, so we'll just have to make the best of it.”

“You mean the worst of it,” said Perry with a mischievous grin.

After lunch, Lucy and Sue agreed that it would be best if they cleared out for the afternoon and gave their hosts, amiable as they'd been, some time to themselves.

“Poor Poppy's been a rock,” said Sue as they headed down the drive in the borrowed Ford, “but she's got an awful lot to deal with. There's the murder and the police investigation, Aunt Millicent who looks like she's going to be a permanent guest, which means she's also got to deal with Harrison, and on top of all that, there's the hat show.”

“Don't forget the painting of the General and the dry rot,” added Lucy.

“And people think it's easy being a lady with a big manor,” said Sue. “So where shall we go? Any ideas?”

“I wouldn't mind checking out some antique shops,” said Lucy. “I saw one mentioned in a magazine that's supposed to be around here. It's called The Jugged Hare.”

“Do you know where it is?” asked Sue.

“I do. It's on Tinker's Lane—”

“Easy to remember,” said Sue with a laugh.

“In a town called Riverdale, which is also easy for me to remember because my grandparents lived in that section of the Bronx.”

“Well, it seems fated to be,” said Sue. “Put it in the GPS.”

Riverdale, it turned out, was actually some distance from the manor, but they had the entire afternoon to fill and enjoyed the drive along winding country roads, past green fields dotted with sheep, quaint thatched farmhouses, and through picturesque little towns.

Reaching Hazelton, Lucy had a sudden brain wave. “I think Lady Wickham's place is in Hazelton. What's it called? Fairmore?”

“Fairleigh,” said Sue, pulling off to the side of the road and reaching for a map. She opened it and the two put their heads together, tracing their route. “Here it is,” declared Sue with a stab of her finger. “And you're right. Fairleigh is just a bit farther along this road.”

“Shall we check it out?” suggested Lucy.