Sheer Folly (7 page)

 

Daisy's call
came through quite quickly. Barker summoned her before the men rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. He led the way across the front hall.

“The master said to use the apparatus in his den, madam,” he said, opening a door.

“Thank you, Barker.” Pritchard's den, at a glance, resembled any country gentleman's private retreat. Somewhat to her disappointment, she saw no obvious reminders of plumbing, historical or modern, just a large leather-topped desk, leather-covered chairs by the fireplace, several bookcases. She promised herself a quick look at the books after her call. It wasn't nosiness, she assured herself, just her usual inability to resist satisfying her curiosity about people. Reading a few titles wasn't snooping.

She sat down at the desk.

“If madam would be so kind as to hang up the receiver when the call is finished . . .”

“Of course,” said Daisy, surprised.

“I beg madam's pardon for mentioning the matter, but the fact is, one of our present guests never does so.”

“Lord Rydal? It would be just like him!”

“Far be it from me to contradict madam. Will that be all, madam?”

“Yes, thank you, Barker.” Daisy picked up the phone. “Alec? Darling, we arrived safely.”

“So I gather.”

“You do sound grumpy. Bad day at work?”

“So-so. I got home early enough to play with the twins, for once. It would have been nice if you'd been there, too. Mrs. Gilpin was at her most difficult.”

“She always is when I'm away.”

“What's more, I'm going to have the weekend free, barring trouble, and you're off in the wilds of Wiltshire.”

“Do come down, darling. Mr. Pritchard's invited you, without my saying a word on the subject. He's rather a nice little man.” Daisy remembered the creepy feeling and added, “I think.”

“You think? What does that mean?”

“I don't know exactly. I can't explain, not on the phone. It's nothing really.”

“I'm coming down, as soon as I can get away.” Alec's tone said,
I'm a policeman, don't argue with me
.

“Oh, good!”

“Ring me every evening till I arrive. Not before Saturday afternoon, I'm afraid. And if I find you're making a mystery just to get me to come—”

“Darling, I wouldn't! Oh, by the way, the invitation is for Gerald as well. Could you ring him, and if he can manage it, you could drive down together.”

“I can't see squeezing him into the Austin.”

“Why not? If you can fit Tom Tring in, you can fit Gerald.”

“I was thinking more of his dignity than his size.”

“Gerald's not that fussy! But let him drive.”

“Then the Bincombes would have two cars there, and we'd have none.”

“That's all right. I'll go back to town in luxury in Gerald's Daimler, and you can have the grand adventure of being driven by Lucy.”

“Not on your life! I'm too fond of mine. I'll ring him and we'll work it out one way or—”

“Caller, your three minutes are up. Do you want another three minutes?”

“No, thanks,” Alec said. “Don't forget to ring tomorrow, love.”

“I won't. 'Night, darling. Give the babies a kiss from Mama.”

She wasn't sure how much of that he'd heard before they were cut off, but the babies were young enough not to notice if they didn't get a proxy kiss from Mama. In fact, they'd long since be in bed and asleep anyway. She missed them already.

Hanging up, she took extra care to make sure the receiver was securely in its hook. She didn't want the butler thinking she was as careless as Rhino of other people's convenience.

Beside the desk was a deep cabinet that appeared to hold wide but shallow drawers. Blueprints, Daisy guessed vaguely. She wasn't absolutely sure what a blueprint was, but something to do with technical designs, she thought. Resisting the temptation to peek, which really would be prying, she turned to the nearest bookcase.

The titles left her not much the wiser. There were books on hydraulics, hydrology, metallurgy, geology, and a couple more 'ologies she'd never heard of. Her school had not considered it necessary, or indeed advisable, for young ladies to study the sciences. Ceramics wasn't much more comprehensible, and how could anyone find enough to say about coal-gas to write a whole book on the subject? But others included pottery, porcelain, earthenware, and tile-making. Bathtubs and lavatories and wash-basins, sewer pipes and drainage tiles, Daisy assumed. As a landowner's daughter she had at least heard of these last. At Fairacres, the watermeadows by the Severn had flooded every winter and the drain tiles were constantly in need of upkeep.

Plumbing was a much more technical and scientific occupation than she had realised. And then there was the financial side of creating and running a large and successful business, successful enough to enable Mr. Pritchard to buy the estate from the impoverished Appsworth family. He must be a much cleverer man than he appeared on first acquaintance.

Daisy returned to the drawing room. During her absence, the men had gone in, but as she entered, the doctor said to his wife, “Time to go, Maud.”

“Yes, dear.” She went on talking to Lady Beaufort.

“Maud!”

“Coming, coming. So you see, Lady Beaufort, I had absolutely no choice. I told her there was no question . . .”

Giving his babbling wife a look more likely to kill than cure, the doctor sat down in a corner and brooded.

Mr. Pritchard saw Daisy come in and came over to her. “Call go through all right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Alec will be happy to come down on Saturday if he can get away—he can never be absolutely sure till the last moment, I'm afraid. And he's going to ring Lord Gerald to see if he's free.”

“Excellent, excellent. And the children, how are they getting along without you? Lady Beaufort mentioned that you have twins.”

Daisy warmed to him again. No one who enquired after her babies could really be creepy. “They have a very good and trustworthy nanny, or I wouldn't leave them.”

“Glenys and I always wanted children,” he said regretfully, “but it was not to be. Her nephew Owen is like a son to me. He'll have everything when I go, the house as well as the firm. But let's not think of such gloomy things. Have a liqueur to warm you and then I'll take you to the grotto. I recommend a Drambuie. Those Scots know a thing or two about keeping out the cold.”

Having accepted his offer, glass in hand, she looked for Sir Desmond, intending to reassure him about her lack of interest in writing about council house bathrooms. She wondered why he was so anxious about it. Was there some sort of shenanigans going on? Bribery and corruption, she thought vaguely, but she didn't know enough about any aspect of the subject to have a clue whether he was in a position to sign a contract in favour of Pritchard's, or anything of the kind. Perhaps Alec would be able to
enlighten her, though she wasn't at all sure she really wanted to be enlightened.

The Principal Deputy Secretary was talking to Julia and Rhino, so Daisy joined Lucy, who was chatting vivaciously with the Principal Deputy Secretary's Private Secretary.

“Daisy, did you meet Mr. Carlin?”

“Not properly. How do you do?”

“How do you do, Mrs. Fletcher.” Carlin was very young, scarcely down from Oxford, at a guess. His family must have influence for him to be a Private Secretary rather than a common or garden secretary or a mere clerk; not sufficient influence to get him into the more prestigious Foreign Office, however.

“I've told him Alec is a civil servant, too,” said Lucy, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She knew that was Daisy's usual evasive description. Most people equated bureaucrats with dullness so it generally served to head off further enquiries.

But to young Carlin, not yet jaded, the civil service that had recently swallowed his life without a hiccup was still a subject of absorbing interest. “Which office is Mr. Fletcher in?” he asked eagerly. “What's his line?”

“Oh, this and that.” Daisy gave a vague wave intended to signify that she'd never bothered to find out what Alec did every day. “Lucy, Mr. Pritchard has offered to show us the grotto tonight. You will come along with us, won't you, Mr. Carlin?”

“I say, of course! Only too delighted.”

“Darling, you can't be serious,” Lucy protested. “At this time of night? It's freezing cold outside, and I wouldn't be able to take any photos. You can write about the grotto by night if you want, but I'm not wasting plates and flash-powder when I can't even see what I'm photographing.”

“Mr. Pritchard has put in lighting. He says the effect is worth seeing so you're jolly well going to come and see it, photos or no. You won't be cold if you wear your motoring coat.”

Between them, Daisy and Mr. Pritchard rounded up most of the party for the expedition. Lady Ottaline wasn't keen, but
when she realised it was the older ladies—Lady Beaufort, Mrs. Howell, and the doctor's wife—who were staying behind, she obviously didn't want to be counted among them. Daisy noticed that it wasn't till Lady Ottaline committed herself that her husband agreed to go. However, as they all set out across the gardens behind the house, Sir Desmond offered the support of his arm not to his wife, but to Daisy.

The only person unaccounted for was the mysterious Mr. Armitage. He hadn't joined the others in the drawing room. Daisy resolved to interrogate Lucy about him. After sitting next to him at dinner, she surely must have learnt something about him.

The gravel path was well-lit by wrought-iron gas lampposts of an old-fashioned appearance though no doubt the workings had been refurbished to modern standards. The light was bright enough to be helpful without being garish. On either side of the path, the ghosts of trees, bushes, and hedges loomed ahead, to vanish behind as they passed.

“One might almost suppose oneself in Hyde Park,” said Sir Desmond derisively.

“It may not be according to Repton or Capability Brown,” Daisy retorted, “but the lights seem to me extremely sensible if one has an attraction in the gardens that is worth seeing at night and one doesn't want one's guests to break their necks.”

“I hope it actually is worth seeing at night.”

“You should have waited to hear from the rest of us before going to see it.”

He glanced back at those of the party following them—in front were Julia, young Carlin, and Pritchard. Daisy thought Sir Desmond frowned, but they were halfway between lamps and the light wasn't bright enough to be sure. All he said was, “I'd rather see for myself.”

She, too, looked back, turning slightly and using the movement as an excuse to let go his arm. She didn't need his assistance on the smooth path, and she was not altogether comfortable with
him. Lucy was a little way behind them. Like Daisy, she had changed into walking shoes. She was with Owen Howell and was being polite, as far as Daisy could tell.

At the rear came Lady Ottaline and Lord Rydal. She was clinging to his arm, tottering along on her high heels, which were most unsuitable for a night-time excursion in the garden, or any time, come to that. Daisy heard a giggle that certainly didn't come from Lucy. Odd, she thought, considering the looks they had exchanged on meeting earlier. And why hadn't Rhino stuck to Julia's side as usual?

Looking away from the lights, Daisy saw a glint of hoarfrost on the grass. The air was crisp. Above, the floor of heaven was “thick inlaid with patines of bright gold,” as Lorenzo put it with the aid of the Bard, millions of stars seldom seen in England's cloudy climate and never in the smoky skies of the metropolis. Ahead, against the backdrop of the Milky Way and its attendant swarms, swirls, and clusters, loomed a black hill, smoothly rounded, with a spinney at the summit looking ridiculously like a poodle's topknot.

The path started to ascend, with short flights of steps every now and then.

“Aren't you glad now to have the lamplight?” Daisy asked teasingly.

“One might certainly come quite a cropper without,” Sir Desmond admitted. “Especially on the way down.”

They crossed a wooden bridge over a gurgling brook. Daisy leant for a moment against the stout wooden rail, looking down at the ripples.

“I doubt that it's very deep,” said Sir Desmond, “but there, I concede, you have another good reason for the lights. I wouldn't want to take a dip in this weather. I'll have to give you best, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Give it to Mr. Pritchard,” Daisy suggested.

“Yes, I can see Pritchard is above all a practical man.”

“I wouldn't go so far. Rebuilding a ruined grotto is hardly a
practical act. If you ask me, it shows he has a distinctly romantic streak.”

“A romantic plumber! Dreadful thought.”

“It does rather boggle the mind,” Daisy agreed, laughing. “But there's really no reason even the most practical person shouldn't have his romantic moments.”

 

Beyond the
bridge the path followed the stream's meanders, rising higher and higher above the water. Ahead of Daisy and Sir Desmond, Pritchard, Julia, and Carlin passed a lamppost and disappeared round a limestone bluff.

“Oh!” Julia's exclamation rang out above a low, sonorous hum almost like the buzzing of a swarm of bees. “How marvellous!”

“I say, sir, splendid!”

“Do let's go in.”

“If you don't mind, Miss Beaufort, let's wait for the others,” Pritchard suggested.

“I can't think why you haven't showed it off to Mother and me before. We've been here nearly a week.”

“I was saving it till Mrs. Fletcher and Lady Gerald arrived.”

Daisy hurried forward to see the cause of all the enthusiasm. Her foot landed on something large, hard, and unstable, and her ankle gave way. Luckily Sir Desmond had kept pace with her. Her desperate clutch found his arm. “Ouch!”