Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Page 18

  If I did it would mean exposing Lady Anstruther and having her shipped back to the home or asylum or whatever it was. But maybe that would be the best thing for her—certainly if she had become too violent and a danger to others. Oh golly—I wished I could decide whether to send a cable to the embassy to see if they could get in touch with Sir Hubert. I wished Darcy would come home. I wished Zou Zou was still in London. She’d know what was best. She hadn’t said how long she planned to stay in Ireland and I supposed I could make a trunk call to Ireland, but it would be hard to explain over the telephone, and horribly expensive too.

  My thoughts went to that gardener and the man-traps. Did they really exist or was that his way of keeping us out of a part of the grounds where he didn’t want us to walk? And if the latter, what was it that he wanted to keep from us? I certainly couldn’t go back there today. He would be watching for me. And I wasn’t too keen to put my foot into a trap.

  Mummy was in remarkably good spirits after her nap. She knocked back a good deal of sherry before dinner and had two helpings of meat pie followed by poached peaches and ice cream and a good piece of Stilton. I suppose I shouldn’t have been amazed at how quickly she bounced back from adversity. After all, she had leaped with ease from one man to another all her life without a moment’s remorse. I, on the other hand, found it hard to eat and harder still to be bright and cheerful to her.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked in a rare moment of noticing anyone else’s feelings apart from her own. “You’re awfully glum tonight. Missing Darcy, I suppose.”

  I wanted to tell her but I couldn’t. I was conscious that little ears would probably be listening to everything we said. “That’s right,” I replied. “I am missing Darcy. But I’m awfully glad you are here. It was unnerving being in a house this size alone.”

  “I felt the same about Castle Rannoch, darling,” she said. “I couldn’t stand the place. I mean, tartan wallpaper in the loo? And the way the wind howled down those corridors? I thought I’d go mad.”

  I had to laugh at this. “Yes, it is pretty ghastly, isn’t it? But Binky actually likes living there.”

  “And Fig?”

  “Not so much, I suspect.”

  When I went up to bed I was careful to check the gas tap and to put that chair under my door handle. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized that too many things had happened to be a coincidence. Rogers had fallen down the stairs and been killed. Someone had tried to gas me. A man had disappeared. The remains of an umbrella were sticking out of a smoldering bonfire. And apart from Rogers’s death, everything seemed to hint at Lady Anstruther. In one of her moments of clarity had she bribed the servants to keep her hidden here? Had she instructed them to get rid of me so that she’d remain safely hidden from her son? And worst of all, had she killed Mr. Broadbent and made the gardeners dispose of the evidence?

  I decided I didn’t have enough proof to go to the police yet. It all sounded rather fanciful, especially an old aristocratic lady killing a financial adviser who had come to visit her. But I was determined to get to the bottom of it somehow. I made up my mind to go out early the next morning, before the gardeners were up and working, and I’d find out what they didn’t want me to see in that part of the estate. And as for the man-traps, I’d take a big stick and feel around in front of me as I walked, not taking any chances.

  * * *

  I WAS AWOKEN at first light by the dawn chorus. I got up and dressed, putting on my stoutest shoes and a pair of slacks; then I crept downstairs. I heard no sounds coming from the servants’ quarters. I selected a strong walking stick from the stand in the hall, then let myself out of the front door. If anyone was watching I wanted to give the impression of going for a morning walk—a perfectly acceptable thing for aristocrats to do. I strode out as if heading for the front of the estate; then, when I reached the first trees, I made directly for the wild forested area where we had been stopped yesterday. There was no sign that either gardener was up yet. Early morning sunlight slanted over the dewy grass. A rabbit bounded out of the long grass in front of me, making my heart do a little flip. I started to move cautiously through the bracken, tapping my stick ahead of me like a blind person. The ground rose gently but steadily ahead of me and through the trees I caught a glimpse of Mummy’s gazebo. Ivy now covered its white marble columns and draped over its roof. I decided to wait for Mummy before I went to explore it.

  Farther off through the trees I spotted another building. At first I thought it was a garden shed, but as I went closer I saw it was built of gray stone with a pointed roof. The little chapel Mummy had told me about. I was going to explore that when I noticed that the bracken to my left had been trampled down. I followed the path that had been made through the undergrowth and came to a small clearing. And put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a little gasp. The turf had been dug up recently. There was a mound of bare earth.

  It looked horribly like a grave. In fact I couldn’t think of anything else it could be but a grave. Nobody would have come miles into thick woodland to dig up earth to plant anything. The only reason for it was that something (or somebody) was buried here. Of course then I wished I had brought a trowel or shovel with me. I really didn’t want to dig it up, but I knew that I had to. The stick I had carried had a stout rubber tip to it, thus was useless for digging purposes. I looked around until I found a log with the bark peeling off in places. I removed a section of bark and decided it might work well enough as a tool. I wasn’t planning to dig up the whole thing. Just enough so that I knew the truth . . .

  I squatted down and started to dig up the earth carefully, a little at a time. Something was buried there. I could feel the bark pushing up against something solid. I wasn’t at all keen to go on. I’ve seen dead bodies before, but I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed the experience. I scraped away earth bit by bit and then stared in disbelief. I was looking at white hair. Now I really was flummoxed. Who might have had white hair? The man I had seen was bald. My heart was racing so violently that I found it hard to make my hands obey me, terrified of what I might see next. I cleared away a little more soil and realized that it wasn’t white hair at all. It was white fur. I was looking at the remains of an animal paw. Now I felt rather stupid. Someone’s pet had died, some time ago, judging by the lack of flesh attached to the bone. Nothing sinister at all.

  I pushed the loose earth back into place and patted it down. It wasn’t exactly perfect but if it looked as if the grave had been disturbed, people would assume it was a fox or a badger. Then I stood up, staring down at the grave. It was too small to have been used to bury a human. I should have seen that. I had been letting my imagination run away with me. Since I was in the area I wondered whether I should see if there were any other graves. But if I’d wanted to bury a murder victim, I would have taken care to cover the evidence, not leave it raw and open for all to see.

  I had not come upon a single trap as I walked there, and I was inclined to believe that the gardener had wanted to scare us off. So there was something here . . . maybe as harmless as an illicit still, wine stolen from the master’s cellar, but something. I peered through the trees in the direction of the chapel. Should I take a look at that? I hesitated. If I were going to hide a body, then I’d leave it on the forest floor, covered in bracken and fallen branches, not put it in a chapel where anyone could come upon it. But it was so close now that I had to make sure.

  I moved with extreme caution. The foliage was even thicker here. Ivy twined around trees and threatened to snare my ankles as I walked. I tapped ahead with my stick and came upon the remnants of a flagstone path leading to the chapel. I followed it and came to a clearing with the chapel in front of me. It was indeed tiny. Like a child’s version of a church, built in rough gray stone with a steeply angled roof. The door was scarcely taller than me. I opened it with some difficulty, as the latch was very old and rusty, and stepped inside. It smelled damp and musty, the way old churches do, but this one also added the lingering scent of ancient incense. And it was very dark. There was a small window above the altar but a big tree grew right behind it, blocking out most of the light. I held the door open so that I could see inside. It took only a brief look to tell me that there was nothing hidden—in fact nowhere to hide anything. There were four pews—enough seating for about eight people at the most—candlesticks and a crucifix on the altar at the back, statues of the Blessed Virgin and a saint I couldn’t identify in the corners. And that was it. Smooth, unadorned walls with niches for long-ago candles. A flagstone floor. I closed the door quietly behind me and started to walk away.

  Suddenly I was aware of a silence and watchfulness in the forest. The skin at the back of my neck prickled. I was being observed, I was sure of it. I was conscious of how far I had come into the woods. If the gardeners saw me, after they had expressly warned me about traps, they would know I suspected them. And if something was indeed going on at Eynsleigh, I might find myself taking a tumble down the stairs like poor old Mr. Rogers. Or someone might take the opportunity to finish me off here. If I was set upon now, nobody would see. If I screamed, nobody would hear. I cursed my impetuous desire to find out the truth. I looked around, not even sure which way led back to safety. I had just located a path of trampled bracken and started to follow it back to the outside world when something leaped out, right in front of me. I think I screamed. It took a long moment to realize that it had been a deer, as terrified to see me as I was it. I heard it crashing off through the undergrowth. So there were still deer in the park, I thought. Nobody had mentioned it. Perhaps they didn’t even know. Or perhaps they were doing a nice little trade in venison.

  I saw bright sunlight and open lawns ahead of me and plunged toward them, coming out of the forest almost at a gallop. It was only when I was walking back across the lawns that I realized—the animal that was buried in that grave had been there for quite a while. And yet the bracken had been trampled down into a path recently.

  Chapter 24

  TUESDAY, JULY 2

  EYNSLEIGH

  Oh dear. I really sense that something is horribly wrong, but I have no evidence, apart from a burned umbrella. I wish I had someone to talk this over with.

  There was still no sign of any activity as I let myself into the house and returned my stick to its place. I crept back to my room, removed my slightly muddy shoes and changed into a more suitable skirt and blouse. One of the advantages of not having a proper lady’s maid was that nobody would notice the mud on my shoes. I waited for a more respectable hour to go down to breakfast. Mummy wasn’t yet up so I sat alone, eating smoked haddock and trying to make sense of things. Should I contact that police inspector and tell him that I hadn’t seen the man leave (although it was quite possible he had done so while I was not paying attention), that I had seen the spokes of a burned umbrella and that somebody had recently made trails through the forest, trampling down bracken? It all seemed too little to go on. I would be seen as a fanciful young lady who was wasting police time.

  But apart from going through that forest again, beating down the bracken inch by inch, I didn’t see how I could make any progress. Then another awful thought struck me. That bonfire . . . Maybe it wasn’t just an umbrella that had burned there. Maybe it was also a body. I wasn’t sure about this: could a bonfire of leaves and clippings be hot enough to burn up a body? And then my next thought was: did I dare to go sift through the remains of the fire to see if I could locate pieces of bone?

  Crikey, I thought. That really was playing with fire in more senses than one. If I was seen to do that, then whoever was responsible would know.

  I was shaken out of my broodings by the arrival of my mother, looking fresh and fashionable in wide navy blue slacks and a white shirt trimmed with navy braid. I noticed she had already discarded her heavy mourning garb but wisely kept quiet about it.

  “Hello, Mummy.” I managed to give her a bright smile. “Did you sleep well?”

  The tragic demeanor returned. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” She sighed. “I was just realizing that I have all these new and lovely outfits for my trousseau and now I’ll never need them. What a pity you aren’t petite and slim like me, darling. I could have given them to you. Now I don’t know what to do with them: they were all made to measure so I can’t return them. There aren’t too many people in the world with my kind of figure at forty.”

  Since I was now twenty-four and she had been well over twenty when she had me, I disputed forty, but again I just smiled.

  “Maybe you can give them to Mrs. Simpson,” I said. “She may be needing a trousseau and she is about your size.”

  “That woman? She is most definitely not my size or shape. She is completely flat-chested, for one thing. No boobs to speak of. Besides, she is so jealous of me that she’d rather run around naked than wear anything of mine.” She gave me a wicked grin; then she frowned. “You don’t really believe that the prince will marry her, do you?”

  “That’s what she thinks,” I said. “Everyone at the palace keeps hoping he’ll shape up and do the right thing, but she has a tremendous hold over him.”

  “What a disaster that would be. Wallis the queen-in-waiting. They’d never let her be queen, would they?”

  “Again that’s what she thinks. But I don’t see how he can marry her. Twice divorced and he’ll be the head of the Church of England, which doesn’t allow divorce?”

  “Anyway, she’s not getting my clothes,” said my ever-practical mother.

  She had just ordered a couple of poached eggs to go with her smoked haddock when we heard the front doorbell jangle. Post at last, I thought, fighting the desire to jump up and see. Maybe even something from Darcy.

  Plunkett appeared with a slim brown envelope. “A telegram for you, my lady,” he said.

  Telegram? No good news came in telegrams. My heart was thudding. Someone had died. Binky had died. Darcy had died. My hands were trembling as I tried to open it.

  “Allow me, my lady,” Plunkett said and slit it open with a knife.

  “What is it? Read it out loud,” Mummy said.

  I read: ROMFORD HOSPITAL. NOT LOOKING GOOD. GRANDDAD. We both jumped up.

  “The motorcar immediately, Plunkett,” I said. “My grandfather is in hospital.” I looked at Mummy. “Are you coming too?”

  “Of course. He’s my father, isn’t he? Of course I’m coming.”

  She ran upstairs to get her purse and give her nose a last-minute powder. Mummy wouldn’t ever dream of going anywhere, even to her father in hospital, without looking her best. I was feeling so sick I couldn’t even think straight. I knew Granddad’s health had been failing, but the thought of him dying was more than I could bear. He had been my own rock through several turbulent years, the one person who loved me and supported me.

  The Bentley was brought round to the front door. “Would you like me to drive you to the station, my lady?” Plunkett asked.

  It was such an unexpectedly kind gesture that it brought tears to my eyes.

  “Yes, thank you, Plunkett,” I said. “I had thought of driving up to town, but . . .”

  “The train is much quicker,” he said. “If you catch the express from Brighton.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “The express from Brighton. Much quicker.” I could hear myself babbling, needing to talk rather than letting my thoughts run riot.

  But Mummy had gone horribly quiet. We sat in silence all the way to the station. We sat opposite each other in a first-class compartment as the train sped toward London.

  We both stared out of the window, watching green countryside flash past and then the first suburbs, then grimy back gardens, rows of houses, smoke pouring from the chimneys of the newly constructed Battersea Power Station on the south bank of the Thames. We hurried through the crowds at Victoria Station.

  “Should we take a taxi, do you think?” Mummy asked.

  “It’s miles. It would cost a fortune,” I said. “Besides, the tube must be quicker than navigating all those narrow streets in the city.”

  “The tube. How quaint,” Mummy said. “Well, if we must, we must.”

  Any other time I would have laughed. It always amused me when she behaved as if she had always been a duchess when she had been born into a row house, two up and two down, on the eastern fringes of London—a fact she had now conveniently forgotten.

  “This way,” I said. I took her hand and led her down the steps to the Underground.

  The carriage was half-empty, it being now the middle of the day, and I noticed my mother getting a lot of stares. I supposed beautiful women wearing Parisian fashion weren’t seen too often speeding toward Romford! It was only after we came up into daylight on the other side of the docklands that Mummy spoke.

  “I was a terrible daughter to him,” she said. “I kept away when I should have visited. Every time I was in London I told myself I was too busy. But in truth I didn’t want my public to see me going to a poky little house like his.”

  “It’s a very nice little house,” I said. “And you bought it for him. You should be pleased about that. It was very nice of you.”

  “I bought off my duty with my money,” she said. “But you were such a good granddaughter and went to visit him all the time. I’m glad about that.”

  “He may pull through,” I said. “He’s a tough old fellow.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He always was a tough old fellow.”

  Then we reverted to silence until the train pulled into Romford Station. It was a short taxi ride to the hospital.

  I held out the telegram to the nurse who was manning the admittance desk. “I received this from my grandfather this morning. I don’t know if he sent it or it was sent on his behalf. Do you know where I can find him?”