Flowers Stained With Moonlight Page 4

  ‘But it’s lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s one of the loveliest houses I’ve ever seen!’ The sun glanced over its irregular stone surface, burnished by time and enlivened by wild flowers and grasses spilling out of the many nooks and crannies.

  ‘Lovely, but rotting slowly from within,’ she replied sadly. ‘The entire part of the roof over the west wing leaks, and that part of the house cannot be used. We have no gardener, and the garden is sadly neglected. Mr Huxtable and I occasionally work in it, but purely for the pleasure that a sunny garden can bring – we are no professionals! Snowdrops in January, crocuses in February, daffodils in March, wisteria in April, and then the roses – all these come by themselves, year after year, through no effort of ours other than a mild pruning. In my grandfather’s time, a bevy of servants, workers and gardeners kept the place in order; it is not a very large house, but it is extremely old and has a great deal of history. It has belonged to my family for many generations, and each one has added some dramatic event or another to its story.’

  ‘It is enchanting, just as it is,’ I told her. ‘It would be almost a pity for it to be kept neat and orderly.’

  ‘It would be a pity if the roof fell in entirely! And the day that will happen may not be so far away,’ she responded tartly. ‘But the rather small part of the house that we occupy is in good enough condition, fortunately. Please come inside. I shall introduce you to the servants, and take you around.’

  We entered the front door, bending our heads slightly to avoid the overhanging bunches of roses, and found ourselves in a cool hallway. A very elderly man stood there, greeting us with smooth politeness. Behind us, Peter had unhitched the horses and was leading them towards the rickety stables that could be seen at some little distance.

  ‘This is Mr Huxtable,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue with great formality. ‘Mr Huxtable, this is our new guest, Miss Duncan.’

  Mr Huxtable welcomed me with great, if slightly doddering, polish, and took my shawl and hat.

  ‘Miss Sylvia and Miss Wright are in the parlour. Luncheon will be served very shortly,’ he informed us, before disappearing through a swinging door at the end of the passage into some mysterious nether regions of the house which I immediately determined to investigate at the soonest opportunity.

  Apart from the swinging door, three other doors gave onto the hallway where we stood, one on the left and two on the right. Mrs Bryce-Fortescue opened the left-hand one first.

  ‘This is the only room in the west wing we continue to use,’ she said, beckoning me to look inside. ‘As it is on the ground floor, it is not really in danger from the roof. The chamber above it receives most of the water, and we have bricked and covered the floor very thickly and put in a great many buckets, to protect the ceiling here. It is rather a lot of work to keep the water from leaking through, but we cannot do without our library. The collection is the work of my father and my grandfather. Mr Huxtable keeps it in order. I do not know what I would do without him. He does not have much work to do as a butler, here, when I am so often alone, but I believe he enjoys pottering about the house and garden as a pastime.’

  I looked beyond her into a very spacious, high-ceilinged room, entirely lined with books on beautifully built shelves, elegantly carpeted, and furnished with burnished wooden desks with leather surfaces and writing lamps, and a few plump, deep leather armchairs. No fire burned in the vast fireplace, but the room was free of dust, and had a warmly loved and lived-in look. A long gallery or balcony ran around three sides of it, well above head level, and many more bookshelves stood upon it.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed. ‘One could stay here for years, just reading!’

  ‘No one could read all that,’ she smiled. ‘I have not read one tenth, probably not even one twentieth of it. But I love it just the same. I spent many hours here as a child. Now, let us go into the parlour and meet the girls.’

  She closed the door, and opened one of those on the right-hand side of the entrance hall. With a swish of skirts, two young ladies who were seated there rose to greet us. The parlour was a much less imposing room than the library, though very charming. The upholstery was much used and the original prints were almost invisibly pale. The large bay window looked out over the front walk up which we had come a few minutes before. All trace of the horses, the carriage and Peter had now disappeared. I had only time to observe so much before my hand was taken in a weak but nervous gesture by a small, very cool one, and I found myself facing a pretty young lady of near my own age.

  ‘I am Sylvia Granger,’ she was saying, and I observed her with great care. She was a pale, eggshell delicate creature with an air of almost painful fragility that was quite touching. Her ash blonde hair was drawn back into a soft, loose round mass on her neck. She was, of course, entirely dressed in mourning, but her dress was not fashionably tight about the waist; its supple fabric and soft, unconstraining lines would delight that contemporary arbiter elegantiarum Oscar Wilde.

  ‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘Your mother has told me so much about you.’ The phrase was awkward, but then, so was the situation. I knew that I was supposed to be a daughter of friends of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, but this morsel of information was far from sufficient to teach me how to play my part – some elements of character were needed! I quickly decided to play, as much as possible, the part of myself: a poor, hard-working, but enterprising young lady, delighted to be invited to an elegant and friendly house. Not so far from the truth.

  ‘Did she?’ responded Sylvia slowly, with a hint of annoyance in her tone. I smiled blandly and engagingly, in order to convey the impression that Mrs Bryce-Fortescue had made only the most banal remarks. Which also was not so far from the truth.

  ‘This is my friend Camilla Wright,’ said Sylvia, turning to her friend who was coming up to join us. She was quite different from Sylvia; rather taller, a handsome girl, with thick black waves of hair combed back and gathered into a large firm knot held with a net. She stretched out her hand and shook mine rather firmly, then suddenly smiled.

  ‘I’m very glad to meet you,’ she said simply. ‘It’s a lovely place. We walk a great deal; I hope you will join us sometimes for a ramble.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed!’ I chimed in girlishly, feeling rather foolish, and wondering if she, too, were not playing a role. I hoped she didn’t mean to keep me at a distance, and that I should eventually manage to get to know her better, as I thought she could be a precious source of information.

  Our small talk was a little strained, as I simply could not feel free in the presence of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and was furthermore a little nervous about making some awkward slip. It was a relief when luncheon was finally announced, and we entered the dining room next to the parlour.

  The luncheon was served by Mr Huxtable, together with a rather gaunt person called Sarah. The table was long and the four of us were necessarily rather far apart, which made conversation even more difficult than before. The others seemed used to it; their remarks were all tranquilly banal, and mostly concerned the food. The meal was spare and the ingredients simple: a chop and green beans followed by a fruit pudding, the whole of it, however, beautifully prepared. After it was finished and cleared away, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue sent Mr Huxtable to fetch the cook, for she wished to introduce her to me. We spoke only for a brief moment, standing at the swinging door leading into the servants’ quarters, but Mrs Firmin was so friendly and plump, so frankly pleased to have another guest to feed, and so openly and simply eager to discuss the fascinating subject of cooking, that I found myself sighing with the sheer relief of being acquainted with such a person after the social strain I had just endured!

  ‘Do you like spotted dick, dearie?’ she was saying pleasantly. ‘Lovely – we’ll have that tonight, then, after the roast. Just let me know if there’s any special thing you’d favour.’

  Mr Huxtable, Sarah and Mrs Firmin comprise the entire staff of the household. It seems a small one, yet when I reflect that Mrs Bryc
e-Fortescue lives most of the time quite alone, I suppose that after all it is probably more than sufficient.

  After the culinary conversation, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue showed me upstairs to my room, the farthest of a line of three small chambers next to each other on the left-hand side of the narrow passageway lying directly over the large one below.

  ‘My room is there, and the bathroom is beyond,’ she said, gesturing towards the closed doors on the right-hand side of the passage before opening the one leading into the room in which she had placed me. It was a neat little square, with a window looking out over the gardens at the back of the house.

  ‘This other door leads into the chamber over the library,’ she told me, indicating a closed door on the opposite side of the room from the one we entered by, with a little dressing table in front of it. ‘It is bolted shut, for we no longer enter that room. Not only is there a real danger of tiles or parts of beams falling from the roof into the room, as has already happened several times, but the floor has been inundated with water so deeply and so often that we fear it is quite rotten in parts, under the bricks, and we are afraid it may break open over the library. This room used to be Sylvia’s old schoolroom, but we have fitted it out with a bed since then. Camilla is next to you, in the room that was once used by Sylvia’s governess, and she herself is in her own bedroom beyond. We have no problems with floors or ceilings in these little rooms; they and the roof above them were strengthened and rebuilt just two years ago.’

  ‘It must be a great job to have the roof mended,’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes, it is a difficult job, for the rotten beams must be carefully removed and replaced and the roof tiles also. It was … it was thanks to the generosity of my son-in-law that I could have it done. He offered to have some of the most urgent work on the house done for me when he married Sylvia, and I – I accepted his offer.’

  ‘That was very kind of him,’ I said innocently, although Mr Granger’s gift sounded suspiciously like what is known as a bride-price in certain primitive societies. Mrs Bryce-Fortescue did not answer, and I began to have a feeling that Mr Granger was not a simple character. I determined that my first step would be to spare no efforts to find out everything I could about the kind of man he was, and decided that my first source of information should be the coachman Peter. I asked if it would be all right for Peter to take me to the post office tomorrow.

  ‘Oh, there is no need for that,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue a little annoyingly, although she meant well, of course. ‘Just leave your letters on the hall table; he takes them to the post office himself each day. Now, about this afternoon. I have sent the girls out for a walk until teatime, which we take in the parlour at four o’clock. In principle, that is also when the police inspector is supposed to arrive, and if he arrives unexpectedly early, as he frequently does, Sylvia will not be in. I shall leave you now, if you wish, until four, for I am sure that you wish to repose and refresh yourself. Please ring if you need anything and Sarah will come.’

  She left me, and I waited until her footsteps died away in the corridor and I heard the click of a door closing. I waited eagerly, with pounding heart, and as soon as I believed I could not possibly be observed, I stepped silently to the second door of the bedroom, shifted the little table in front of it to one side, and tried to slide the bolt back, for something told me that the large chamber behind my bedroom might be a useful vantage point for many observations. The bolt, however, was firmly stuck. At first I was afraid to push as hard as I could, for fear of making a loud noise, but soon I was pulling and pushing at the knob till my fingers were red, alas with a complete lack of success. I sat down on the iron bedstead, upon which a lovely old spread embroidered with faded flowers covered over something unexpectedly soft and plump, which turned out upon examination to be a snugly agreeable feather eiderdown. Resting my hands, I proceeded to reflect.

  After several more attempts, including one with a pen which I broke, I decided that only a few drops of oil could have the slightest chance of success with a bolt which had obviously not been opened in a long time. I considered ringing for Sarah, but I was embarrassed, and even more, worried, at the idea that she might ask me what the oil was needed for, or even offer to do herself whatever I needed doing. Finally, I made up my mind to sneak silently and tensely down to the nether regions and try to slip into the kitchen and ask kind Mrs Firmin for an oily rag, with the excuse of some lock or other of mine. I was afraid that it would all be absurd and unseemly and most suspicious and unrealistic, so I descended the staircase very quietly, still not really certain whether or not I really meant to put my plan into action.

  Can you imagine – as I reached the bottom of the stairs, who should I see but Sarah, busily engaged in cleaning the front door! She had shined the brass knob and waxed the panels, and was now polishing them vigorously. On the ground next to her lay a whole panoply of cleaning substances and utensils. My eyes were instantly attracted by a tiny flask.

  My dear Dora, I need not go into details on the subject of the daring robbery which I then perpetrated, for there is not much to tell! I stood silently, wondering how I could manage to get a closer look, when Sarah rose creakingly to her feet and disappeared through the swinging door. It was but the work of a moment for me to dart forward and confirm that the tiny flask indeed contained oil. I dared not carry it off altogether, nor borrow one of her rags, lest she note its disappearance, so (I am ashamed to confess) I soaked a tiny region of the hem of my petticoat and rushed back upstairs, where I immediately lifted the oily spot and began to rub and massage the bolt with it, so that the stain soon became black instead of yellowish.

  By dint of patience, rubbing, twisting, forcing and pulling, I felt the bolt begin to yield, and after some quarter of an hour, I finally succeeded in loosening it completely. It slid very silently to one side, and I twisted the handle of the door and opened it.

  I stood looking into a large, strange space. There was an astonishing contrast between my neat room with its little bed, carefully waxed and polished floor and starched curtains, and this damp ruin with partially crumbling walls, in which pieces of rotting wood and broken bits fraternised with old abandoned furniture and diverse objects. The floor was thickly tiled with bricks, and most of it was also covered over with great sheets of heavy burlap material, but it was easy to see how the water had eaten away at the mortar. Pails and buckets stood here and there, probably under the places of the worst leaks, and various strings and strands of material had been attached to the ceiling to guide the falling water into them. Parts of the ceiling were actually fallen away, revealing the underside of the roof.

  I leant into the room and peered about, noticing that both Camilla’s and Sylvia’s rooms gave onto it as well as mine. Quite near the wall, the floor appeared to be in reasonably good condition, and I hesitantly and a little nervously took a few steps along it, passing the door leading into Camilla’s room and stopping at Sylvia’s. My feet made a little scraping noise, and looking about me, I chose a piece of thick material and shifted it quietly, making a path for myself just along the wall, so as to be sure that I would be able to move up and down there in complete silence. Then, feeling I had done enough, I scurried back to my room, darted inside, closed and bolted the door with a sigh of relief, shifted the table, and flinging myself into a chair, I drew pen and ink toward me and began to write this letter.

  Here I am just barely arrived, and already I am specifically ignoring the injunctions of my hostess, with the purpose of laying the grounds for an eavesdropping expedition! I feel quite ashamed, but quite adventurous. I only hope that no one is spying on me as I am spying on them, for this letter is not very discreet! I had better hide it with care, until tomorrow when it shall be taken to the post office by Peter’s ministrations.

  I leave you tenderly, my dear, and will write again very soon.

  Your loving

  Vanessa

  Maidstone Hall, Sunday, June 12th, 1892

  My dearest sister
,

  I must finish telling you the events of yesterday.

  We had barely gathered at tea, the girls with damp foreheads and muddy boots from their long tramp across the fields, when a loud ring came at the front door.

  ‘Oh, that will be the inspector already,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, with an impatient, worried look. ‘If not early, he is certainly punctual!’

  There was a moment of tension, and she glanced at me. As we heard the front door being opened by Mr Huxtable, I rose and, without haste, carrying in my hand the teacup which she had only just filled, I left the room.

  I should tell you that I had had a little talk with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue a few moments earlier, when she had knocked at my door to fetch me down to tea. And she had made a rather peculiar request.

  ‘As you know, the police intend to interrogate Sylvia yet again this afternoon,’ she told me. ‘It is the fourth time since Geo—since her hus—since my son-in-law was killed. I cannot think what they believe they can still have to learn from her, but I am afraid, very much afraid. They came specially and urgently to make this appointment, and as I cannot think what else it may mean, I very much fear that they may have some new evidence to try and use or turn against her. Now, I intend to insist on remaining with her during her interrogation. I will say that she is in fragile health, and I have instructed her to say the same. Yet I conceive that they will not allow me to do so, and I am desperately worried for Sylvia. She is such a little goose, that if they attempt to trap her into some contradiction, she will certainly fall for it straight away; she would be capable of incriminating herself out of pure foolishness, though I have of course told her again and again to stick quietly to the truth and offer nothing else. You know, of course, that she has an alibi for the time of the murder, for she was at home, and the housekeeper and maid have both stated that Sylvia did not leave the house, and could not have done so without being observed. But if I know anything about the police, they will try every possible way to pick holes in that statement, or frighten Sylvia into believing that they have done so. I simply must know what they say to her, otherwise how can we defend ourselves?’