Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Page 20

  “I was at school with Maria, and I was one of her bridesmaids,” I said.

  “And the Romanian prince? The one there was talk of you marrying?”

  “Siegfried? Good heavens. There was no way I was going to invite him,” I exclaimed. “He was beyond awful. No, Darcy and I decided we would only invite people we actually liked.”

  “And where is Darcy now? Not down in the country with you, I should hope?” Fig said.

  “No, he’s off on some assignment. But my mother is with me at Eynsleigh. Max’s father has just died so they’ve had to postpone their wedding plans. Naturally she’s rather upset.”

  “I shouldn’t think your mother would stay upset for too long.” Fig gave a malicious smirk. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”

  “Oh, that’s not nice, Fig,” Binky said. “I like Georgie’s mum. She’s a good sort. She was kind to me when she was at Castle Rannoch.”

  “Thank you, Binky,” I said. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I really should be going. I’m meeting Mummy at six at Victoria.”

  “So all is going well at your new home, is it? Everything running smoothly?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”

  I managed to keep up that bright face until I was safely out of the house.

  * * *

  MUMMY ARRIVED AT Victoria with only minutes to spare, a porter following her with arms full of packages.

  “I decided I didn’t have enough clothes suitable for mourning,” she said. “I was going to give it up but I decided that I do look rather stunning in black veils. And I also wanted to make sure I enjoyed that bank account in case Max decides to close it.”

  We were loaded into a first-class compartment and off we went. Mummy was quite chatty, having recovered, as Fig had predicted, from her latest tragedy.

  “I wonder if Max would buy me a little flat in London, near the park,” she said. “He does owe me something for breaking my heart. Or maybe in Paris.”

  “You don’t speak French,” I reminded her.

  “I manage perfectly well with my dress designers,” she said. “And you have to admit Paris is more civilized.”

  “I think you are jumping the gun, aren’t you? I mean, Max might decide he can’t live without you once he’s taken care of his mother. And if you don’t marry and continue to live in sin—well, it’s not the first time you’ve done that, is it?”

  Two elderly ladies, typical village spinsters, overheard some of this, even though I spoke in a low voice. I saw their eyebrows go up and they leaned as far forward as they dared, determined not to miss anything.

  “I don’t even know if I want to marry him now,” Mummy said. “I mean, it is tiresome living in Germany and not understanding most of what is going on around me.” She sighed. “We’ll just have to see. In the meantime I can help my darling daughter plan for her wedding! Have we got the catering taken care of?”

  “The reception is being held at Rannoch House and Cook is going to supervise.”

  “You’re not going to have the reception there, are you? What’s wrong with the Dorchester or Claridge’s?”

  “Money, for one. And also I think it’s nice to hold the reception at the family home.”

  “But your poisonous sister-in-law will limit everyone to one glass of champagne and one smoked salmon sandwich each!”

  I grinned. “I’ll get Zou Zou involved. She’ll make sure there is enough champagne. And I want to keep it simple. A few nibbles, a few toasts, we cut the cake and off we go.”

  “You go where?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The queen has offered us Balmoral.”

  “Good God! If any place would put a dampener on your sex life it would be Balmoral. You’d be haunted by your great-grandmother saying she wasn’t amused every time you wanted to take your clothes off.”

  I laughed. “I’m hoping Darcy has other ideas. Actually I’m hoping Darcy comes back soon because I really want . . .” I broke off. All day I had managed to keep my worries at bay. Now, as Haywards Heath came closer, they flooded back into my brain.

  “Of course you really want!” Mummy said, giving me a nudge and a giggle, completely misinterpreting what I had been about to say. “I don’t know how long I care bear to go without sex myself.”

  This time the two elderly ladies looked well and truly shocked.

  As the train slowed for the station Mummy grabbed my hand. “I’ve just had an awful thought,” she said. “I was all set to marry Max and his mother died. Your grandfather was all set to marry Mrs. Huggins and she died. Good God, Georgie! I hope we’re not cursed as a family. I hope someone’s not going to die and prevent your wedding.”

  I wished she hadn’t said that, because the same thought had crossed my mind as we had stood with my grandfather waiting for Mrs. Huggins’s body to be removed. Now that was one more thing to worry about. I was living in a house of unexplained threats. Darcy was away probably doing something dangerous. Please keep him safe, I prayed silently.

  We alighted at Haywards Heath and Mummy decided on a taxi rather than wait for Plunkett to drive out to fetch us. No servants appeared to greet us as we entered the foyer. The house was eerily silent.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with your servants,” Mummy said. “Anyone could just walk in here and burgle the place.”

  “There’s not much worth taking, is there?” I asked.

  “Those family portraits in the long gallery. But they are rather big to tuck under one’s shirt.” She looked around her. “I wonder where Hubert has stowed the good stuff.”

  As she talked I had spotted a letter, addressed to me, bearing an impressive coat of arms, lying on the hall table.

  “It’s from the Earl of Malmsbury,” I said excitedly. “Now maybe we’ll know more.”

  “About what?” Mummy asked, always disinterested in things that were happening to other people. “Shall we ring for sherry and cheese straws? I’m famished.”

  She went off to locate the nearest bell. I opened the envelope.

  Dear Lady Georgiana:

  With regard to your query about Charles Plunkett. He was a good and faithful retainer who served my mother loyally for many years. When she died last year we were sorry to let him go.

  Yours faithfully,

  Malmsbury

  Chapter 27

  TUESDAY, JULY 2

  EYNSLEIGH, SUSSEX

  I am really confused about Plunkett. Fig said that old Lady Malmsbury was eccentric. Perhaps he deliberately seeks out eccentric elderly ladies and is able to manipulate their finances or pocket some of their jewelry, which is why he was so hostile when I arrived to spoil things.

  I heard Mummy ordering sherry and Queenie’s reply, “Bob’s yer uncle.” She’d never make it in a proper stately home, I thought. She was quite incapable of learning how to behave toward members of the upper class. Or perhaps she simply thought that she was as good as any of us and thus could address us as equals. Who knew what went on in her head? At least she was pleasant and willing, and she did bake the most divine cheese straws!

  But as for Plunkett, he was only just civil to me. Quite unlike butlers I had known. And yet apparently elderly ladies adored him. I wondered if he’d even had a hand in helping Lady Anstruther escape from her old people’s home or clinic or whatever it was, so that he could look after her here and get his hands on her money. In which case he would have had every reason to get rid of Mr. Broadbent, who might have come because he was concerned about her finances. But I still needed some kind of proof before I went to the police.

  I looked down at the letter I still held in my hands. The thing that bothered me was that the earl described Plunkett as a faithful retainer. That implied someone who had been with the family for many years. Plunkett was not old. He was fifty at the most, probably in his forties. Yet one more thing that didn’t make sense. Was this man maybe not Charles Plunkett at all, but had somehow stolen Plunkett’s letter of reference? In which case, where was the real Plunkett now?

  I looked around me. The house still appeared deserted, apart from Queenie, who had gone back to the kitchen. I went through to Mummy, who was piling her packages on a chair in the foyer. “I’ve told Queenie to carry those up to my room after she’s delivered the sherry and cheese straws and ask Claudette to put them away.”

  “You are trusting,” I said, unable to resist a smile. “You know Queenie. She’s likely to fall and sit on your hat box.”

  “Nonsense. I think she’s doing splendidly here. I must say her cooking is remarkably good. And if she has disasters in the kitchen where we can’t see them, then nobody is the wiser.”

  “Will you do something for me?” I asked. “If Plunkett appears, will you keep him talking for a few minutes?”

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “Just a little snooping,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  I crept to the door leading down to the kitchen and servants’ part of the house, pushed it open and listened. I could hear nothing, but I hesitated to go down to the butler’s sitting room. He might well be taking a snooze in an armchair. But I could check out his bedroom. I went up the main staircase at the back of the west wing, then along the hall and through the door in the wall that led to the servants’ staircase. This stair was steep and uncarpeted and I had a moment’s compassion for poor little maids who over centuries had had to carry jugs of hot water or scuttles of coal up these every day. And this was the stair where Rogers presumably fell to his death. I could understand how an elderly man, doddery on his feet, had lost his footing. But there was a good banister on one side he could have grabbed on to. I thought it more probable that someone had crept up behind him and given him a shove. What didn’t quite make sense was that he was planning to retire. He had already contacted the agency and presumably they had recommended Plunkett. But Plunkett wasn’t already in the house at that time. Then who?

  Now my suspicious mind mulled this over. What if Rogers knew the real Charles Plunkett and this one was an imposter? Butlers did sometimes know one another. And Rogers had recommended him to take over because he was a good butler of the old school. Then he fell down the stairs, something happened to Plunkett and this man came to assume the role. It seemed possible. I reached the top-floor landing, where the servants’ bedrooms were situated. When I peeked into the first one I was struck by how bleak and spartan servants’ bedrooms were. A narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a couple of hooks on the wall for an overcoat and hat. Almost nothing personal, nothing to brighten up the room. This one had to belong to a woman because there were dainty slippers beside the bed. I worked my way along the hall. I could tell Queenie’s instantly because it was already messy, with her awful overcoat hung on the peg.

  Then, at the end was the biggest room. Obviously Plunkett’s. I looked around, then entered. This room was not spartan. He had a big, comfortable bed, a satin eiderdown, lace-edged pillows, a rug on the floor, velvet curtains at the window. All pilfered from down below, I thought. I went over to the chest of drawers. There was a mirror over it and on top of it a polished wood box containing a set of silver-handled brushes, such as one is given for a twenty-first birthday. And on it were initials: EP. So not Charles Plunkett but maybe a relative? I started to go through the drawers, but they didn’t seem to contain any papers. Anything of a sensitive nature would probably be in his desk in his office down below. I’d have to find a way to occupy him while I snooped in there. I was just about to leave the room when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I looked around desperately. Should I hide behind the door? Behind the curtains? I realized I had left the door slightly ajar. That would give me away. I closed it as quietly as I could. Then I decided to take no chances and dived under the bed. Just in time, it would seem. I heard the footsteps coming along the hall; then the handle turned and someone entered this room.

  I held my breath as feet crossed the floor. All I could see was the lower portions of brown trouser legs and beneath them a pair of brown suede shoes with crepe soles. The man moved swiftly and silently, opened a drawer, closed it again and then retreated, closing the door quietly behind him. I lay, not daring to move, for quite a while. Who wore brown suede shoes, I wondered? Certainly not Plunkett or McShea, who wore polished black shoes with their uniforms. Had I noticed Fernando’s feet? But then his shoes didn’t have crepe soles. I remembered hearing the tap of his footsteps as he approached me. One of the gardeners, perhaps? But suede shoes with crepe soles were quite a luxury and the gardener who had run toward us yelling had definitely been wearing big boots. Besides, a gardener would never be allowed inside the house, and most definitely not up to the servants’ bedrooms. Unless . . . Unless something funny was going on.

  I had led a sheltered life and it had been a shock to me to find that people crept between bedrooms at night, that men had liaisons with other men. Was Plunkett like that? Was this a secret lover leaving him a note? My first thought was excitement that I now had something to hold over him. I hadn’t yet had to resort to blackmail, but one never knew. . . . I hauled myself out from under the bed, brushing off copious amounts of dust. Really, the housekeeping at Eynsleigh left much to be desired! Then I crept across to that chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. The note had been tucked between folded pairs of underpants. I took it out. It read:

  Put forward. Boat Thurs now. Watch what you say. New maid is sharper than she looks.

  I folded it and slipped it back into the drawer. What could it mean? Boat Thursday? Was Thursday Plunkett’s day off? Was he planning a tryst on the river or a boat ride at Brighton? And what had to be kept from the new maid, presumably referring to Queenie? Whoever it was had taken a big risk creeping into the house in broad daylight. I hurried down the stairs and into Mummy’s bedroom. The sun was setting, the trees along the driveway casting long shadows. But it was still light enough to see anyone leaving the house. I watched for a long while but saw nothing. Was the intruder maybe hiding out in one of the unused rooms, waiting to slip away after dark? Or was it possible it was one of the gardeners?

  As I went to join Mummy in the drawing room I passed Joanie carrying a load of folded linen up the stairs. “Has anyone just gone out of the house, Joanie?” I asked. “I’m sure I heard the front door close.”

  “Not that I know of, my lady,” Joanie replied in that tone that implied she couldn’t care less. “But then I’ve just come from the laundry room, where you can’t hear anything.”

  I waited until she had gone up the stairs and then let myself out of the front door. I walked around the house but saw no sign of anyone. The Bentley was parked outside the garage. As I passed it I smelled that hot-oil smell. I went closer and I realized that the motor was still warm. Someone had used it recently. Would the motor be as warm as that if Plunkett had merely driven it out of the garage, ready for us? I wondered. Or had someone taken it for a joyride and that was why there was a distinct absence of servants when we came back from London? I sighed. I was tired of suspecting the worst. I wanted a house that ran smoothly and happily. I went back to join Mummy.

  Plunkett appeared almost immediately. He seemed rather breathless. “I’m sorry, my lady. I did not realize you had returned home.”

  “Ah, there you are, Plunkett,” I said in a pleasant voice. “We wondered where you’d got to when we arrived home and nobody was there to greet us.”

  “I apologize, my lady,” he said. “I was down in the pantry, polishing silver. I thought it was about time you had proper candlesticks out on the table again, now that Her Grace is living here. And we expected you to telephone from the station to send for the Bentley.”

  “We took a taxicab,” I said. “It seemed simpler.”

  “Was it indeed bad news, my lady?” he asked. “Your grandfather’s health?”

  “Is perfectly fine, thank you, Plunkett,” I said. “It was his bride-to-be who unfortunately had a heart attack and died. So naturally he is most upset and I’ve asked him to come and stay here to recuperate.”

  “My condolences, my lady,” he said. “When will the gentleman be arriving?”

  “I’m not sure. He has a funeral to plan first. But I should like a bedroom to be made ready for him.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Do go and find out what has happened to my sherry and cheese straws, Plunkett,” Mummy said. “I’m positively famished. And tell Cook that we’d like dinner in half an hour.”

  Heaven forbid that we put her father’s well-being before food!

  Chapter 28

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 3

  EYNSLEIGH, SUSSEX

  I’m so happy that Granddad will be coming soon. He’ll know what to do. Maybe I’m worrying over nothing. The police will have located Mr. Broadbent and all will be well. But not quite . . . there is still the matter of Charles Plunkett and my intuition that something is definitely not right at this house.

  The night passed without incident. Mummy and I breakfasted together. She seemed to be more cheerful by the minute. “I’m glad that your grandfather is coming here. It will be just like old times, won’t it? The family all together.” She popped a piece of toast, laden with Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, into her mouth. “The food is much nicer here than in Germany,” she said. “All that stodge and cream. So bad for the waist and the complexion, but then the Germans like their women plump, don’t they?”

  “You are beginning to sound relieved that you are not marrying Max,” I said.

  “Oh no. Not at all. I adore Max. I’m just not wild about living in Germany.” That wistful look came over her face again. “Shall we go and see if the gardeners have done what you asked and removed those awful traps? I would rather like to revisit that little gazebo. Those were such happy times. . . .”