Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (26 page)

“It was Mr. Barclay, he was already there. We got into chatting with him, told him all about our plans for our shop. He said we should stick at it, that it was a good idea.” This was said with some spirit. “Such a nice gentleman, I thought he was. He said he would never tell on us, and I trusted him.” Mrs. Jackson noticed that Elsie didn't think much of Oscar's promise.

Mrs. Jackson laughed. She laughed with genuine pleasure, a full-throated, delighted laugh.

“Mr. Barclay didn't say a word, Elsie, you silly girl. Not a peep. He kept your promise. The reason I know what you were up to is because I can see through brick walls. Now here is what we are going to do.”

She sent Dick off on his bicycle with a note for Mr. Stevens, the butler, at the dower house, asking if Horace would come over to Iyntwood to help Dick load up the red couches that had been on loan from the hall for the ballroom for those who could not or would not dance.

There was a tap on her door and Horace put his head in. He was looking particularly red-faced and anxious, having ridden over on Dick's bicycle as fast as he could. His face dropped when he saw Elsie, who was still sniveling into her hankie. Mrs. Jackson quickly filled him in and watched him relax. He was onboard, as long as his Elsie didn't get the chop, thought Mrs. Jackson.

“No one in the house or at the dower house will know about your meeting with Elsie, and anyway you have no choice in the matter. You have to be accurate and truthful with Chief Inspector Ewan, otherwise Mr. Barclay will be compromised. Come on, Horace, pull yourself together. Just tell him the truth. Then you can have a nice cup of tea with Elsie in the servants' hall. If you are stepping out together then stop skulking around. It makes you look untrustworthy. Just be straightforward and stick to the facts when you talk to the chief inspector. Oh, and by the way, you need to help Dick with the couches in the ballroom before you go.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Jackson, Horace, and Elsie came out of the morning room after a brief talk with Chief Inspector Ewan. Mrs. Jackson did not like the man; he had behaved quite unpleasantly when Elsie had told him that she and Horace had been with Mr. Oscar in the orchid house.

“That won't do at all, Mrs. Jackson,” he had said. “I know the family has a feudal hold over all their servants, but this is too much. I have had to put up with this sort of collusion from the moment I stepped through the front door. Why didn't you come forward earlier?” He shot Horace an ugly look. “Looks to me like you have been properly squared away. Who put you up to it?”

She was impressed with Horace's dignity. “I had no idea that we were withholding important evidence from you, sir,” he said. “I have not been interviewed by any policeman since Mr. Mallory's death and Elsie here was just scared stiff of speaking to you alone.” Mrs. Jackson smiled at his implication of police bullying. She noticed that Ewan's sergeant was already thumbing through his copy of Bradshaw.

“There is the half-past-four express leaving from Market Wingley station, sir, which will get you into Marylebone at just after five o'clock,” she said to the sergeant. “If you wish to catch that one, his lordship's chauffeur will drive you to the station.”

As the two men left the house in Lord Montfort's chauffeur-driven Daimler, Mrs. Jackson stood in the drive. She saw Ewan's face looking suspiciously at her from under the brim of his hat as the motorcar drove slowly up the drive. She was quite enjoying herself and turned back to the house with a light step, to find Oscar Barclay and let him know that he was in the clear and could expect to hear nothing more from the chief inspector.

 

Chapter Twenty-four

“Lord Squareforth has done his bit for the Lambert-Lamberts,” Lord Montfort announced to his wife as she awoke from a deep sleep, to find him perched on the edge of her bed, sipping a cup of tea and eating toast and marmalade from her breakfast tray. She moved a crystal vase of sweet peas to one side and took her teacup from his hand.

“Where is she now?” she asked, trying to clear her head and deal with her husband's teeming energy as a result of an early-morning ride and interesting news to impart.

“Lucinda spent all yesterday and last night in Holloway Prison.” Lord Montfort's eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth came down, an expression she recognized that meant he wished to express regretful behavior. “She is now recovering at Clevellan Square, all charges dropped.”

“All charges?”

“Well, the worst ones. She's been bound over to keep the peace, so she had better be a good little girl from now on.”

Clementine pushed the tea tray away. This all sounded very unsatisfactory somehow. She did not approve of Lucinda's behavior; it was unutterably selfish. But she didn't approve of women being brutalized in prison because the government was still too stupid to give women the vote. She felt tetchy and irritable.

“Poor Harriet and Gilbert, what a mess,” she said in what she hoped was a neutral tone of voice, because she didn't want to start an argument with her husband about women's suffrage this early in the morning.

“Yes, it is. Harriet is coping admirably of course, but Gilbert is devastated.” Lord Montfort got up and walked over to the window, his face disapproving. “Christina wants Teddy's funeral for the day after tomorrow, early in the morning at about eleven.”

There were more things to organize before this terrible week was over, thought Clementine, and she swung her legs out from under the covers and got out of bed. “I'd better have a word with Jackson about our helping out with the funeral arrangements at the church. The least we can do is organize the flowers.” She rang for Pettigrew.

*   *   *

Mrs. Jackson had already heard about the funeral plans from Mable Thwaite and had walked over to the kitchen garden to look over flowers with Mr. Thrower. She had hoped that Stafford would be around, but he was nowhere in sight, and Mrs. Jackson decided to loop around the back of the orchard and return to the house by way of the new sunken garden. It had been a while since she had visited the now transformed old chalk-and flint-excavation and the morning air was sweet and warm, perfect for a walk.

When she arrived at the lip of the old quarry she found herself gazing down into a lush new world. Tips of young trees planted last autumn in the garden's terraces, to disguise the sloping sides of the pit, were doing their best to soften the edges of the quarry's scarred edges. Its rim was planted with gold, orange, and white azaleas now at the peak of their bloom, which scented the air and provided a softened edge to what had been a craggy crater two years ago. Within this ruffle of bright green growth, steps led down to planted, tiered terraces and pathways, through shrubs and small herbaceous garden plantings, gradually descending to the floor of the original excavation, nearly forty feet below.

Mrs. Jackson, standing at the top of the steps, felt as if she were looking down into a mountain valley in miniature, and she found the prospect entrancing. She walked down the first flight of steps to the path and paused to look around. At each terraced level the path took her around the interior wall of the old pit before it dropped down again and took her back the way she had come on a level below. Each turn was concealed by an outcrop of large boulders, a grove of trees, or the flinty wall of the pit itself. From northeast to southwest, a small stream traversed the garden, guided so that its course ran at a slower, more meandering pace; it dropped in a fall of water to form a pool, overwhelming it and continuing on until it reached the floor of the garden. Because the plantings were still immature, she could easily see there were two other flights of steps descending to other paths from the rim. As the plants grew, the pathways would become concealed and secret. All she heard in the quiet of the morning was the call of birds, the drowsy hum of bees, and the breeze ruffling the leaves of the treetops near the rim.

When she arrived at the bottom, she experienced a brief moment of disappointment. Stafford didn't appear to be here, and there was no sound of work being done in the garden. In fact it appeared to be quite empty. She came down the last few steps, followed the path around, and found him under the shade of a stand of newly planted birch saplings. He looked up at her approach and tipped his hat in greeting.

“It looks wonderful, Mr. Stafford, the early spring really helped it along.” She stood beside him under the trees, feeling a little awkward. Stafford gestured for her to take a seat on an old bench in the sun. As she sat down she noticed that his lunch basket and a jug of cider were parked underneath it. This was probably where he sat for his noonday meal, she thought.

“Now then, Mrs. Jackson, just look up from that spot,” Stafford said, gesturing upward, and Mrs. Jackson lifted her eyes.

The whole garden looked like an irregular oval bowl with cliffs on three sides. She allowed her gaze to travel the lush walls of the garden and then she pivoted on the bench to take in the view from its base as level ground flowed out to meet an undulating sweep of parkland down to the river's edge several hundred feet distant. Mrs. Jackson raised her face to the sun and inhaled the scent of new green leaves, pollen, flowers, and the rich earth, which smelled like plum cake. She heard the stream as it chattered along its stony bed. No wonder Stafford was so at ease when he was at work—he had created this extraordinary world. She turned to look at him. He was following her gaze with his arms folded, trying to look critical of his creation; he succeeded only in coming off as rather smug. She laughed.

“It is quite beautiful, Mr. Stafford, quite, quite wonderful.”

“Just give it three years and it will begin to look like something.” His self-satisfaction was evident and Mrs. Jackson was struck again with how straightforward Stafford was. She had never heard him be insincere for the sake of convention, and he had a disarming way of speaking his mind.

But he was never unkind, she thought, because he was a thoughtful man, aware of what others might feel. It was a nice change after the servants' hall.

“I would like to ask you something, Mr. Stafford,” she said, taking his example and coming straight at it. “This last week has been…” She paused and he finished for her.

“… A real strain, I can tell just by looking at you. I'm so sorry, it was a terrible thing to have happened.”

“Yes, it really was a terrible thing,” she said, and found herself telling him about Lucinda, about Violet's running off, about Oscar's tangle with the police, all of which he knew of course, gossip being what it was. But he heard her out without interruption or impatience. Most of all, she told him how troubled she was about Violet.

“I think I knew there was something upsetting her, but I was so busy, I put off dealing with her homesickness. If I'd taken the time perhaps I could have done something to help.” She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, uncustomary gestures from one who was usually so still. “Now it's too late.”

“What did you want to ask me?” he said, but in such a kindly way that Mrs. Jackson knew his question was from real concern and that he would do his best to help her. He picked up his rake and began to lightly work the surface of the earth under the trees.

“What makes a young village girl of fifteen leave her home and run off from the only place she has known all her life?” she asked. “I can't fathom it.”

“Iyntwood is her home?” he asked, putting aside his garden rake and walking out from the shade of the grove of young trees.

“No, of course not, but the village is, her father lives here.”

“But Iyntwood is not the village. How long had she been up at the house? Two months is it? The only newcomer to the staff in how many years?”

Mrs. Jackson felt herself stiffen a little. He made it sound as though coming to work at the house had been a hardship to overcome, not the great opportunity it was for a village girl. Stafford smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. “Must have been a tough go,” he went on, “adapting to the strange ways and rules of the great house, and learning new skills at the same time. Perhaps you forget how it is, because it's been
your
home for quite a few years, and you are the housekeeper. How did your life in service begin?”

Mrs. Jackson flushed and looked away from his direct gaze. Her beginnings in service had been unhappy ones. She had come from a parish orphanage, left there when she was seven, when times were a lot tougher than they were now. She would never be able to forget the five years she had spent living on the charity of the parish. It had been cruel and calculatedly demeaning, but she had learned to endure it. Then she had gone into domestic service when she was twelve. She was certainly not going to discuss her lowly beginnings with Stafford.

He came over and sat next to her on the bench and took off his hat; she could see his face from the corner of her eye. It was a nice face with strong, even features and a firm mouth, and his eyes were clear and bright as they regarded her with intelligent humor. She relaxed as he continued.

“We often think others have it easier than we did, but it's rarely true. Instead of asking yourself the questions everyone else is asking: Did she run off with someone? Had she stolen something? Was she in the usual trouble? All the questions asked when young girls go missing. Oh aye, I have a good idea what they might be, Mrs. Jackson.” Stafford ran his hand through his dark hair and thought for a moment. “Ask yourself, what did you know about that young girl that would help you understand the
reason
for her going?”

Mrs. Jackson thought that Violet had been rather a shy girl, a little timid when she had first come to work in the house, but she had adapted well, and the other servants liked her. She learned quickly, worked deftly and quietly, and even as Mrs. Thwaite reluctantly admitted there was no side to her, no impudence or pertness. She had done her best to fit in. Mrs. Jackson told Stafford all this, and he listened staring down between his knees and twirling his hat slowly between his hands. He got up and walked over to several shallow rectangular baskets, stacked like trays on the ground. He bent down and lifted off the top one.