Malice in Miniature (9 page)

I had hoped, with Alan close to retirement, that the problem might not arise. Now it loomed, large and terrifying.

“In a word, yes.” I dumped out the dishwater and gently took the towel and still unwiped plate from Alan's hands.

“Oh, sorry. Look, I haven't definitely accepted the appointment, you know.” He ran a hand down the back of his neck. “If you truly would rather not—”

“Alan, I've never even seen the place. I'm certainly not going to say I won't go just because I'm scared stiff of the whole idea. And anyway, I don't want you to base your decision on my—my cowardice. You go ahead and go, and decide whether it's something you want to get into. Maybe next weekend I can visit There must be an inn or something within spitting distance.”

He grinned. “Yes, I'm sure we can find suitable accommodation somewhere, and a visit would be an excellent idea. I think you'll like the house when you see it. But you do understand that I don't require self-immolation from my bride. If you don't want to live there, I shan't take the post, and that's flat.”

“Yes, well, we'll see then.” But I went to bed determined not to let my feelings show again. I was not about to make his career decisions for him, and this was an important step. Anyway, it was a temporary position, and surely I could stand anything for a few months.

There was little fuss about Alan's departure. His years as a widower had taught him to fend for himself, so he packed neatly and methodically, arranged matters at the office to run without him for a little while, and had Police Constable Carter call for him very early Wednesday morning.

I had, of course, ignored his injunction not to see him off, but by the time I struggled out of bed and stumbled downstairs he had brewed his own coffee, boiled an egg, and made toast. I sat at the kitchen table feeling useless. Once we had commented that it looked like turning into a fine day for the run to Hampshire, there seemed little to say. Alan's mind was plainly on the days ahead, and it was something of a relief when he gathered up his luggage, gave me an absentminded kiss, and was gone.

“He didn't have to leave so early,” I said resentfully to Samantha, who sat in the kitchen, her blue Siamese eyes following my every move. “It's only sixty miles or so. Well, maybe eighty, the way your stupid English roads run. And there's no point in thinking, miss, that just because I'm up you're going to get an early breakfast. I'm headed back to bed.”

I closed the bedroom door to keep out the cats, who persist in thinking that the first sign of human activity, at no matter what hour of the morning, means food. It was only six, and pitch dark, and I had no intention of doing anything useful for hours.

But I couldn't sleep. It wasn't just the steady stream of high-pitched complaint from Sam, joined now and then by deeper wails from Emmy, my big British Blue, who also beat a tattoo on the door with well-practiced front paws. I'm used to ignoring feline impatience, and earplugs are a great boon. No, it was my own restlessness that kept me awake and tossing until the stars began to lose their brilliance and the eastern sky to take on a pearly luminescence. The cats had long since given up and gone back to sleep themselves, but I lay amidst rumpled bedclothes and worried.

Part of me hoped that Alan would find Bramshill unattractive, and would come home determined not to accept the job. He didn't, after all, enjoy administration all that much. He looked back nostalgically to the days when he was, as he put it, a real policeman, actively involved in solving crimes. This job would be pure administration, with not a crime in sight.

It would also, the other part of me argued, be a real plum, the capstone to a distinguished career, Alan's crowning achievement. He might even be knighted; it was not an unknown honor for absolutely brilliant policemen, and it would be well-deserved.

Good grief! Was I ready to be Lady Something-or-other? I didn't even know if an American could be! It certainly didn't sound very democratic, and could I ever learn to respond when someone addressed me that way, or would I look around to see who they were talking to?

That thought finally got me out of bed. If I had nothing better to do than worry about my hypothetical reaction to a hypothetical title, it was time I found something.

Dawn was well past when I sat down at the breakfast table with my third cup of coffee. I had fed the cats and myself (in that order), tidied up the kitchen, and was now wondering what to do for the rest of the day. It was not one of my days at the Cathedral Bookshop. The house was clean. The plumbers weren't due to show up to make estimates on the remaining work until next week—if they came then. Two previous appointments had been canceled, English plumbers being, unfortunately, not much different from the American variety.

I was free, in fact. I could do anything I wanted. I could take the train up to London and do some shopping, or call my friends the Andersons, Americans who have lived for years in a lovely Georgian house in Belgravia. They would probably be available for lunch or tea or the theater or something. Or there were always the museums. I love museums, and London has dozens and dozens of them, including many small ones I've longed to see but somehow never had time to visit.

Or, the thought insinuated itself between sips of coffee, there was always the museum on my very doorstep, or not far from it. I'd said I wanted to buy a dollhouse; why not seize the day? I was still far from satisfied about the Bob Finch incident; if the opportunity arose for a few leading questions . . .

And I certainly needed something to take my mind off Alan and Bramshill.

After a look at the bus schedules, and some stern conversation with myself, I decided to drive to Brocklesby Hall. My lack of mobility, with a perfectly good car at my disposal, was nothing short of ridiculous. I knew the way, it wasn't far, the weather was gorgeous, and no woman of sound mind and body who'd been driving for nearly fifty years had any business being intimidated by little things like roundabouts and the wrong side of the road.

Besides
, whispered a little voice at the back of my mind, which I tried to ignore,
if you have the car you can get away quickly
.

Nonsense, of course. But there
was
something about that house . . .

I put on an entirely proper hat, a sedate blue felt with just one restrained feather, and arrived on the dot of ten o'clock. I had to wait to be admitted. Two school groups, just arrived, were being unloaded from buses, along with harried teachers and helpers. Crowds of children milled around the front door, wriggling and chattering like a cageful of monkeys. I hoped there were enough guides to deal with them today; I cringed at the thought of what unsupervised children could do to the delicate displays.

But the museum had evidently been forewarned. When I finally got inside, the children had been organized into several small groups, each in the charge of one adult from the school and one neatly blue-blazered guide. They were listening quietly while a fiftyish woman in tweeds explained procedures and rules. I stood listening and admiring. She was a real pro. Without once raising her pleasant voice or uttering threats, she made it clear that this was going to be an interesting experience, but also that any child who made a nuisance of itself in any way would deeply regret it. The groups then dispersed in different directions, still quiet and orderly.

“Remarkable,” I said to the young woman selling tickets, someone I hadn't seen before. “They were acting like fugitives from a zoo, outside.”

“Yes, Mrs. Butler is brilliant with the children.”

I frowned. “I was here a week or so ago and didn't meet her. Does she just work part-time?”

“Oh, no, she's the new director of education. She's only been here two days, actually, but she's made a great difference already. The school groups are
much
easier to cope with! Now, did you want to tour the museum? There will be children everywhere, I'm afraid, but—”

I made an instant decision. “No, actually I came to use the library. Last time I came Sir Mordred gave me permission; I've become interested in miniatures and want to learn more about them. Mrs. Cunningham knows me.”

“Oh, well, that's all right then. Can you find the library?”

“Yes, I can get lost in this place in five minutes, but I think I can manage to make it across the great hall.”

“Do you know, I've been working here for six months and I still can't find my way about? I don't like the house anyway; it's creepy. But the dolls' houses are marvelous.”

She opened the door into the great hall, smiled at me, and went back to her post. Well, at least I wasn't the only one to find endless corridors and leering cupids a little frightening.

Voices, presumably of children or guides, could be heard faintly, coming from various directions as I stood in the great hall. They echoed oddly off the hard surfaces and became a sort of clanging buzz, from everywhere and nowhere, resounding in my head. I wondered if the house had the usual quota of ghosts. True, it was on the young side for that sort of thing, but if there were ever a house designed to inspire macabre legends, it was this one.

I shook my head to dislodge the nonsense, and opened the library door.

I had expected the room on this sparkling day to be a little less dark and gloomy than the first time I had seen it, with a monsoon in progress. Perhaps it was, but only a little. The velvet draperies—I could see today that they were a dispirited brown—shut off most of the sunshine that wanted to penetrate, and something was blocking the bottom of one window. As before, dim electric lights were lit. I searched for Meg, hoping she was in one of her “up” moods, and finally saw her in a far corner, poring over some sort of large book with someone who looked, in the twilit atmosphere, to be male.

“Yes?” she said, looking in my direction and voicing the inquiry I'd long expected in this house. It didn't have the properly sinister inflection, though.

“It's Dorothy Martin,” I said, advancing. “Wouldn't you think Sir Mordred could afford some higher wattage lightbulbs?”

“Wouldn't you now?” she agreed, her eyes dancing as she came toward me. The male person followed her, clutching his book. “Mrs. Martin, this is John Thoreston, our accountant. He might be able to answer your question.” She was trying hard not to laugh.

“Oh, dear. How do you do?” I said, extending my hand and smiling ruefully. “Open mouth, insert foot. Didn't I say, Meg, that one never outgrows it? I hope I haven't offended you, Mr. Thoreston.”

“Er—not at all,” he muttered, looking very ill at ease, while Meg nearly choked on a giggle.

“Anyway, I'm sorry I interrupted, Meg. I just wanted to drop in and say hello. Please do go back to—whatever you were doing.”

I loaded my voice with inquiry. Meg didn't let me down.

“No, we had finished, actually. We were just cross-checking my accession records against the account books. Sir Mordred had asked some questions,” she went on. Her sniff spoke volumes about her opinion of Sir Mordred's meddling.

“I wouldn't have thought he'd have a clue. He doesn't strike me as the practical type.”

“I doubt he can read his bank statements, let alone a proper set of books,” said Meg with fine scorn. “And as far as I can tell, everything is in perfect order, which is one in the eye for him!”

“Er—quite,” said Mr. Thoreston, gulping. His prominent Adam's apple rose and fell. “Er—if you'll excuse me—” He clutched his ledger and fled.

“Not a very self-possessed young man,” I commented.

“A right twit,” said the curator crisply, shaking her head with impatience. “Not bad at his job, actually, but scared of his shadow. If he had good sense he'd find another post; he's paid half nothing. I hope he doesn't, though, for we'd be hard put to find anyone to take his place. Nobody likes being hovered over by a banty cock who doesn't know how many beans make five. Now then.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anything I can do for you, or are you just browsing?”

I grinned. “Not today. I really did just come in to see you. How's Jemima? Did she get over missing the fireworks?”

She grinned back. “We did a few sparklers and Roman candles at home, but they were a poor substitute for the real thing, I'm afraid. Of course, firecrackers—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Of course, they wouldn't have much appeal, would they? All they do is make a bang.” I watched her face. “Jemima is deaf, isn't she?”

The smile vanished with that disconcerting, lightning mood change of hers. She looked at me warily. “How did you know?”

“I was a teacher. There was a deaf child at my school for a little while, oh, a long time ago now, back when they were trying to ‘mainstream' children with some kinds of disabilities. His parents got him into a school for the deaf after a couple of months, and I believe he went on eventually to a Ph.D. in something or other, but I never forgot the sound of his cry, that atonal wail of someone who can't hear his own voice. He cried a lot, poor dear; he was only seven, and terribly frustrated.”

“Yes, so was Jemima till I found the school she's in now.” She hesitated. “Look, I don't mind you knowing, but I hope you won't talk about it. I don't want—there are some people I'd rather didn't know about her.”

“Claude, for example.”

“Definitely Claude,” she said. “It'd be one more thing he could hold over me. A threat to her—” Her expressive eyes darkened; she set her chin firmly and changed the subject. “And speaking of threats, do tell your lovely husband I'm grateful to him. I've been kicking myself for going off the other night without a word, but I was—”

“Don't worry about it. I would have been in hysterics, myself. Has that miserable excuse for a human being gone back to London yet?”