Down the Garden Path (12 page)

Hand on the sitting room door, I hesitated. Not completely cut off. The telephone! However quaintly old world they might be, the Tramwells must have a phone. I had not seen one in the sitting room or parlour, so it should be out here—and surely if I were quick and quiet I could call Harry. I lifted cardigans and hats off tables and chairs, looked behind vases, peered behind curtains, searched under tables and inside small chests. All to no avail. I was close to concluding that the Tramwells had not succumbed after all when I heard a strange burping sound.

Cloisters
was
possessed of a phone, and it was ringing. From somewhere in this hall. Where hadn’t I looked? Burp-burp. Hurry. And suddenly I knew. The cupboard under the stairs! Crouching down, I opened a small wooden door, reached into darkness and pulled out what might have been one of Minerva’s buried bones. A long curly tail was attached and I knew all was well. Lifting the bone to my ear I spoke into the mouthpiece in a breathy rush, success making me giddy. “Tramwell Ancestral Home.”

A responsive giggle. “Oh, you funny thing!” The voice sounded like a child, I could not tell which sex, but the next words were jarringly those of an adult. “But, please! Spare me any more gush, Chantilly, is it?” I opened my mouth but the voice gurgled on like a playful but chilly little brook. “I’m taking Mumsie out in a teensy bit to get her fitted for a new coat. Oh, that it might be a strait jacket! Will you be a pet and tell them tomorrow evening, that’s important—Wednesday—not Thursday this week. But still at the usual time. Dinner naturally. I’ve bagged some plump juicy pigeons so we should have a simply mouth-watering time. And do tell them, will you, girl, not to wear black again. It does cast such a pall. Hold on a minute”—pause and then—”all right, Mumsie, I’m coming, yes, Mumsie, I am talking to a lady. I haven’t asked her to marry me yet, but I will. Promise.” Another pause while a lot of muttering went on. I was wondering whether to say something when the caller whispered down the line, “Remember—tomorrow, Wednesday,” in that squishy baby voice.

With the receiver dangling from my hand, I forgot all about phoning Harry. The Tramwells had some strange friends. Pigeons for dinner! Everyday fare in the Regency era, but ... I crept out from the cupboard. The phone message was not sufficiently urgent to warrant my interrupting the Tramwells in their private discourse with Mr. Deasley.

I would sit on one of the sofas in the sitting room and think about Harry ... no, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. I might get too clear a picture of him and the woman with the sultry eyes. Much better to search the bookshelves for something on the Tramwells of Warwickshire. Unfortunately, all I discovered were novels I had already read and the same inspirational volumes sent to Dad at Christmas by people who thought that kind of thing light reading for a vicar on rainy afternoons. Anything documenting the history of the Tramwells must be in the library where the sisters were entertaining Mr. Deasley.

Plodding about the room, I inspected ornaments and peered at pictures on the walls. Having grown up in a shabby old house where little money was to be found for refurbishing I recognized many little dodges that made up thrift. And I wasn’t much surprised that people in the Tramwell condition—all those Welsh dressers in the kitchen stuffed with silver and crystal, Minerva dining out of an Oriental bowl—should resort to them. Dad had an elderly and immensely rich cousin who sent us an obviously reused Christmas card each year.

I set down a brass bell and walked in a slow circle around the edge of the carpet. Mum would have liked this room. She had also been ingenious at putting cast-off items to unconventional use. In one corner sat a rose-patterned chamber pot blooming with trailing ivy. On one of the bookshelves an iron boot jack did duty as a book end. On the open bureau shelf lay a torch and a mother-of-pearl handled fish knife. Pretty and perfect for slitting open envelopes.

Continuing my prowl I noticed something else. Many objects in the room came from the Far East. Those brasses ... that silk screen brilliant with jewel coloured peacocks, blocking any draught between the fireplace and ... I looked down at the hearth and saw that the fire dogs were a mottled sickly-green pair of dragons breathing open-jawed resentment at having their backs burdened with pokers and shovels. Stuffed alligators upstairs, dragons down. What a fey, mischievous house this was! Turning back to look at the wall hangings I found several hand-inked maps with the signature Sinclair Tramwell in their right-hand corners. Sinclair ... ? Of course! And I smiled smugly. The knife in the back at his daughter’s coming-out ball might have been a bit far-fetched, but I had been right about the man being a colourful personality. Commander of one of the King’s vessels or, better still, a pirate? An exquisitely embroidered Indian shawl placed sensibly under glass hung over a black lacquered, gilt-inlaid chest. Were both souvenirs of Sinclair’s travels? The idea that this man’s blood flowed in my veins was decidedly intriguing.

In a sudden rush I remembered the priest hole. I moved over to the fireplace, running my hand down the brick on the far right-hand side of the mantel. Thoughts of the Tramwells’ imminent return would not deter me; I was bored, and who knew what secret family documents I might find below? I pushed, pulled, and rubbed, felt a nub of cement, thought of Harry’s bedfellow’s nose and gave a vicious pull. Then a yank and a twist. An anguished vibrating groan and the stone door swung slowly outward.

I listened. No one was coming down the hall. If I took a very quick peek, bearing in mind that the chance might not come again ... I was about to enter the black void and hunt for a light switch when I remembered Butler emerging with his candle. Mmm ... nasty palpitating things, candles. I had had enough of them last night. What I needed was a torch. Fetching it from the bureau shelf I pressed it alight and with a half-glance over my shoulder stepped heroically into the black hole.

Careful! Mustn’t become overconfident. Cripes! I had almost closed the door behind me. That would have been fun, Tessa. With that faulty catch I might have been stuck in the nether regions for a long, long time. Okay—mustn’t overdo the Gothic bit. If I did get stuck my voice would carry through the wall. Someone would come, wouldn’t he?

I left the door agape, for my blood pressure. Hopefully, anyone glancing casually into the room would never notice. This was fun. I loved the heavy dank smell that settled about me, and the chill. A few firm strides forward brought me to a flight of stone steps leading down into nothingness.

Built today, that staircase would never have met nit-picking safety code regulations. It lacked a rail. All I could do was hug the brick wall to my right as I felt my way down. The torch wasn’t much help, throwing out only an inch or two of furtive shadow. Wise Butler. A candle would have been better. Wise and resourceful, for how he had whiled away an afternoon down here I could not imagine. Must be part mole. The smell—damp and earthy with a hint of underground habitation—intensified. I was, I sensed, about halfway down. Thank you, God. Murky shapes were beginning to take form below me. Another dozen steps and I recognized some of the shapes as two upturned wooden cartons and rows of bottles on shelves. I reached the bottom and the floor was flagstone like the kitchen, only dustier and many degrees colder.

On one of the cartons was a cluster of candles stuck in bottles, a large box of matches lying beside them. Igniting a cheery little blaze I warmed my hands for about ten seconds before snapping to my senses. Mustn’t linger. And really, when I looked around the small dim chamber, I wasn’t greatly impressed; no heavy coil of chains lying snake-like in a corner. No rack. No thumb-screws. No stack of family papers marked
Top Secret
that I could see. Huge disappointment. My lurid imagination had confused dissident’s refuge with dungeon.

I should have known when the sisters discussed the priest hole as though it were a vacuum cleaner with a faulty switch that its present function was sadly prosaic. At some time, after priestly heads stopped rolling down Tower Hill, someone had converted this place into a booze cellar. Most of the wine racks were now empty, but I did spy about thirty bottles in an odd assortment of sizes and shapes. Picking up one, I dusted it off (Butler must have missed it) fully expecting to find a French label. What I read was hand-inscribed—Parsnip: 1963. Another lifted at random—Rhubarb: 1971. I found only three bottles of venerable old port. Being an “after the ladies leave the gentlemen to their cigars” beverage, maybe the sisters had given Daddy’s supply away to the heir so he could acquire a touch of the gout in preparation for his impending change in circumstances. Coming to the sisters’ stock of brandy I was sure he would not be overwhelmed by that portion of his inheritance. Only a few had French labels.

What could have kept Butler down here so long or brought him back to the sitting room covered with grime? The bleary yellow beam of the torch pricked into the gloom of distant corners, settled on a group of small wooden kegs, then went wavering along the wall below the sitting room fireplace; nothing there but a towering expanse of brick and a gigantic tattered cobweb that hung wispily down from the ceiling. My arm brushed along the wall, snagging on something. I let out a yelp of pain, and the torch slipped out of my hand. Either I had pressed the switch or the wretched thing died in the fall, for I was immediately adrift in shadow. Blast! But I was still curious. Reaching up, I felt a metal tip like a nail or picture hook. Nerves brought on a feeble giggle. Had someone once tried to liven up this place with artwork?

Sobriety returned with a rush. I couldn’t find the torch and I was too far from the aura of candlelight for it to aid me in my search. Time was against me, too. Any moment the Tramwells might notice the gaping door and, disgusted with my snooping ways, decide to toss me out of the house. I had been very foolish, and nothing was gained. Stumbling, I made my way to the candles. I would use one of them for the return trip. A pair of absent-minded old ladies would not find anything ominous about a misplaced torch. I blew out all but one candle and, holding this aloft, made my way slowly up those steps.

The return voyage wasn’t fun. What was that noise above? What if one or both sisters had a wacky sense of humour and were to screech out “Boo” just as I neared the top? The very thought almost made me trip. My palms began sweating and the candle felt like a stick of melting butter. I squeezed it hard. What if I dropped it? Hurry, hurry! I could not cup the flame to keep it safe as my left hand was fully occupied in feeling the way up the wall; one small slip and ... my breath whistled out in a gust and the candle promptly went out.

I wanted my mother. And I did not mean the fabulous, fascinating woman of my imagining, but the Mum who had sat with me through thunderstorms and come in with the broom to beat out the witches who had moved in behind my wardrobe. My hand was sliding wetly off the wall. Calm down. Think happy thoughts. Think how Harry would miss me if I died. Or would he marry that naked creature under the sheets? Oh no! I drew a deep steadying breath. Those two were not getting rid of me this easily. All I had to do was pretend I was climbing a rope at school. Claw my way up an inch at a time. Surely I must be getting close now. My foot felt for another step and I came close to fainting. I was back in the little alcove.

Success could not have tasted sweeter to Sir Edmund Hillary. Only seconds more, and I would be pushing open the hidden door. Please God, let the sitting room still be empty and ...
please let the door still be open!
Why couldn’t I find the crack of light? My hands beat frantically against the walls like a bird trapped in a chimney. But it was no use. The door—and I knew I had found it by its wooden back—was shut as tight as the corner shop on early closing.

I pushed, shoved, and jostled while telling myself fiercely that the wind had done this. It had howled in through that gap in the French windows, whipped around the silk screen, and slammed the door shut. The members of this household knew about the faulty catch. They would not close the priest hole without first checking to see if someone were down there. Not unless one of them was secretly bonkers and incurably evil.

Being discovered in a ridiculously unflattering situation was now the least of my problems. When rescued I would tell the Tramwells that my twentieth-century highwayman had come leaping at me through the window and, remembering the priest hole, I had fled to safety, drawing the door shut before he could follow. My first scream wasn’t much more than a squeak, so I could hardly believe my luck when I heard a faint grinding noise and slowly—painfully slowly—the door moved outward as if my rescuer were not quite sure he, or she, was doing the right thing in letting me out.

He looked like a ghost. And yet he—not your heroine—was the one who looked ready to pop out of his skin. I had also never heard of a short, freckle-faced ghost wearing knee-length check trousers, purple socks bunched around the ankles, and an orange jersey.

Those freckles stood out fiercely on his pudgy cheeks, his round brown eyes reminding me of one of Harry’s horses about to bolt. Poor little nipper. A glance around the room showed me we were alone, and my gratitude towards him was boundless. He had saved me not only from imprisonment but from disgrace with the Tramwells. Pushing the priest hole door firmly shut behind me, I took a deep breath of relief and tried to think what I could bestow on him in reward.

“You’re Bertie, aren’t you?” I said.

Eyes widening, his lips crept into a joyful smile. Seems I had given him his reward.

“Cor, miss! Fancy you remembering. And you so sick an’ all yesterday! Wait till I tell Fred!” The pudgy fists burrowed into the pockets of his trousers. Bertie grew two inches before my eyes.

“Fred?”

“Me mate. We was playing ball an’—an’ it sort of rolled into the garden. Couldn’t find it nowhere when ...”

“Maybe the gardener got snotty and took it?”

“Gardener, miss? There ain’t no gardener. Aunt Maude’s always saying the old girls is wonderful, keeping the lawn an’ flowers an’ stuff up theirselves.”