Withering Heights

9

A back door to the main house opened and Betty stuck out her head. “Hello there. Tom and I just got back from church.”

“Good sermon?” Ben asked.

“I couldn’t concentrate. Tom said he felt wonky in the middle of it and went out to sit on a bench.”

“Is he feeling better?” I inquired of her back, as we went inside.

“Who knows? He’s been out of sorts ever since you arrived.” Betty made up for this tactless observation by saying the magic words. “I’ll get coffee and biscuits, if you like. I really was fairly domesticated, before there no longer seemed any point. Or would we do better having an early lunch, as we’ll be having the tea at three? Anyway, come into the kitchen and we’ll sort it out.”

We found Tom slumped in a chair at the table and Ariel staring moodily into space. The wall clock showed that it was almost noon, so we agreed on lunch, which I offered to get, but Ben said he would handle it and there was no need for the rest of us to clear out because he worked well with an audience.

“I’ll applaud like mad if you hit Dad over the head with a frying pan,” said Little Miss Sunshine. “Okay”-holding up her hands-“I just meant he needs waking up.”

“Sorry.” Tom got to his feet and asked Ben, without looking at him, whether he required help finding things.

“No, thanks, I’ve learned my way around.”

“Up early this morning, weren’t you? Hope it wasn’t because you didn’t sleep well.”

“Never better. I wanted to get organized for the tea. All that’s left on that score is to make Miss Pierce’s scones that Mrs. Cake recommends so highly.” Ben was cracking eggs into a bowl. “Mushroom omelets agreeable to everyone?”

“Aren’t we all having the loveliest time?” said Ariel, getting in his way. “Smile, Betty! You look almost as sour as Dad. Didn’t church agree with you either?”

“Will you ever learn to zip your mouth? It wasn’t church, it was bumping into Frances Edmonds afterward and being forced to invite her to tea this afternoon. I thought I had put her off yesterday, by saying we’d have her and Stan on their own next Sunday. But this morning she kept pressing, saying she was dying to meet Lady Fiona, and finally she came out with it.”

“Out with what?” I asked, because nobody else did.

“That I didn’t want my old friends around my posh new ones. That I’ve turned into a raging snob and forgotten that until a few months ago, I lived in a small semi-detached and stood on my feet all day long hairdressing and went home at night to bang plates of baked beans on toast on the table and call it dinner.”

I hadn’t known she was a hairdresser. It explained why Tom thought she could have done something about Ariel’s greasy locks and why the little minx was so intent on not letting her. One more small rebellion for mankind.

“All that pent-up jealousy! It came pouring out of Frances’s mouth. How she and Stan have played the lottery faithfully ever since it started, and we’d bought one bloody ticket and won the jackpot. And how if we’d been any kind of friends, we’d at the very least have paid off their mortgage and bought them a new car, and if we’d been really decent we would have insisted on giving them half of what we won.”

“Oh, God!” Tom paced around the table. “I did say to you, Betty, that that’s what we should do. They’d have split with us. We’ve known them for years. They’ve been like family: Christmas and birthdays celebrated together. And with my mother gone, neither you nor I have any relations we’re close to.”

That put Ben and me in our place. Fortunately, it didn’t have any impact on his ability to slice mushrooms at lightning speed. I managed my discomfort by getting down plates and setting out cutlery.

“And I told you, Tom,” snapped Betty, “that we need to take our time deciding what we should do for other people. We’ve both heard the horror stories of what can happen when even the postman thinks he’s entitled to his cut.”

“I understand exercising caution, but not when it comes to the Edmondses. They’re the salt of the earth.”

“So Frances steals things!” Ariel gave one of her irritating giggles.

“Not from us.” Betty, looking suddenly deflated, sank down on the chair Tom had previously occupied. “Not once. Never! At other times, with other people, she can’t seem to help herself. It’s Frances’s particular quirk. We all have them.” She seemed pathetically small in the oversized green suit. Even her red hair looked too big. “Stop panicking, Tom. I got Frances calmed down by saying that of course she was welcome at the tea. I’d been concerned she’d find the rest of the company boring.”

“Does that include Ellie and Ben?” asked Ariel, through another giggle.

“Don’t be silly! Why have you still not washed your hair? The real reason I didn’t want them today is I’m afraid they’ll start telling their dirty jokes, and I can’t see that being our two vicars’ cups of tea.”

“Why does that matter if we’re in that disgusting room, with all those naked people on the ceiling?” All merriment had left Ariel’s face. She was back to her most disgruntled self.

“She’s speaking of the conservatory,” Tom said, catching my eye. “I don’t understand either. It’s like being in the Sistine Chapel.”

“Mrs. Cake says it was Lady Fiona’s favorite place to sit,” Betty responded.

“Then she’s disgusting,” blared Ariel.

“Her grandfather had that ceiling painted by a famous artist.” Betty pressed a hand to her brow. “When she married Mr. Gallagher, he thought it needed a little cloud cover, so she had that done. It’s a terrible shame there’ve been leaks from the bathroom above; we’ll need to get a plumber in to take a look, although Mrs. Cake thinks the damage may have been caused by one or the other of the Gallaghers allowing the bath to overflow.”

Betty stood up at the moment Mrs. Malloy came though the door to announce that her poem had ended up being twelve verses long. Did we all want to hear it from start to finish? Fortunately we were spared the solemn responsibility required of critics. Ben said that if there could be an exodus to the dining room he would bring in the food.

Lunch was, as expected, delicious. In addition to the omelets and my desired hubble-bubble, we had tomato basil soup and a spinach salad, followed by a luscious lemon souffle. Would tea that afternoon be an anticlimax? I offered to help with the washing up, but Betty insisted on taking that job. Ariel was given final marching orders to go and wash her hair. Mrs. Malloy, having put on her nylon and lace pinny, asked where she would find the paper doilies. Ben handed them to her. Tom wandered away like Mr. Gallagher’s ghost returning to the place where his body had been buried. I found myself remembering my unease in the west wing, as I crossed the hall to go upstairs and encountered Mavis coming down them with the bucket and mop.

“Hello,” I said, feeling a complete sloth. “Do you get to go home now and enjoy what’s left of Sunday with your family?”

She didn’t return my smile. “My husband’s a locksmith; he gets called out a lot on weekends. It’s always the time when people get stuck out of their houses and cars.” She didn’t add silly fools, but her expression made it clear.

“They must be relieved when he gets there. Are there any doors he can’t open?”

“Not Ed.” She thawed minimally. “I tell him he must have been a safecracker in a former life, or else it was in this one and he didn’t tell me. But no need to bother about any of that around here. You can walk in for the looking. I hope Ed”-her face closed down as she shifted the bucket from one hand to the other-“I hope my husband isn’t home wanting his dinner. Anyway, I’m ready to leave.” She came down the last of the stairs and brushed past me without answering my good-bye, and I went up to my room.

It was my intention to lie down on the bed for five minutes and think over the morning. But I fell almost instantly asleep and woke to find Ben bending over me, rubbing my shoulder and telling me it was gone two o’clock. Whereupon I staggered up, felt my way into the bathroom with my eyes half closed, and proceeded to splash my face with cold water. By the time I had pulled on a more afternoon sort of dress and redone my makeup and hair, he was gone. Would it be like this all week, I asked my face in the mirror, each of us playing musical rooms so we were rarely alone for any space of time? Was that how we both wanted it for the time being, while we each had other claims on our attention?

In the gallery I met up with Mrs. Malloy, looking resplendent as always, but I focused on the white lace-trimmed pinny.

“You don’t plan on wearing that at tea, I hope?” I said.

“ ’Course I do.”

“You don’t work for Tom and Betty. Admittedly, you’ve agreed to help out, as Ben has done, but to all intents and purposes he’s a guest and so are you.”

“No need to get on your high horse for me, Mrs. H! I know where you and me stand, but it strikes me I’ll get to do a lot more eavesdropping going around the room with a tray than sitting down next to one person.”

“You could be right, although I doubt you’ll get to hear Mr. Scrimshank confide to Lady Fiona that he’s embezzled her money and capped it off by murdering her husband when he became suspicious. That’s not exactly cucumber-sandwich conversation.”

“Well, there’s no telling what little nuggets I’ll pick up. By the way, have you been helping yourself to my toffees?”

“I haven’t been inside your bedroom.”

“Somebody has. The bed looked as though it had been bounced on, and that bag of toffees is half gone. Ariel, I suppose. And her talking about Frances Edmonds being a kleptomaniac. The child needs a good old-fashioned spanking. Still,” she mused soulfully, “like the poet says, a sweet’s a sweet for all that!” Concerned that this was a precursor to her asking if I’d like to hear her “Ode to Melody” in its entirety, I said we should get downstairs. To which she replied she’d take another scoot back to her room to make sure her eyebrows were on straight.

The long case clock was striking three as I reached the hall and came face-to-face with Lady Fiona. Having seen her portrait, there was no mistaking her. She had aged, as is said, gracefully. I explained who I was, and she said I could call her Fiona if I wished. She was very much the way I had imagined she would be at her present stage of life: tall and thin, with good bones, fine eyes, and a vague, drifting way of moving. I sensed that even when talking or listening, she would always be somewhat removed from the scene.

“The little girl opened the door for me and then vanished, saying she had to wash her hair before Mrs. Hopkins chopped off her head and it didn’t matter anymore. Family life is different today, isn’t it? In Nanny Pierce’s opinion, our parents had the sense to keep out of the way until they could make some useful contribution.”

“She said something like that to me yesterday.”

“I really must do something for her, take her out to luncheon this Wednesday; yes, I will mention it to her. I suppose she’ll be here?” Before I could answer she glided down the hall. “Really, I have neglected her sadly in recent months, but I hear she has some young woman living with her now at the Dower House.”

“Her great-niece.”

“I seem to remember there was one-and, I think, a brother. Didn’t turn out well. Gambled or drank to excess. Went to live in Ireland-or am I thinking of another family? The Bledstowes, from Cambridge… yes, I think now it was they. They had a dog that could play the piano.” She was now looking through the open drawing-room door.

“Will we be having tea in here?”

“In the conservatory. Betty thought you would like that.”

“Who? Oh, yes, that will be the new maid. The people who bought Cragstone came into money from an aunt in New Zealand, I believe it was. They’ll be able to take on plenty of help. I do hope they kept Mavis on. She hasn’t had an easy time. I seem to remember she grew up in an orphanage and had to sort rags in order to buy stockings.”

Before she could say that maybe she was thinking of a book she had read-I was pretty sure I knew the one-she drifted on down the hall and I entered the conservatory behind her. There was no one else there as yet, so we had our choice of sofas and chairs.

“I miss Cragstone,” she said. “Particularly this room.”

It was attractive, with its abundance of plants on stands and tables. The glass walls provided a sweeping panorama of the grounds, but I was preoccupied with adjusting my nose to the smell of earth and mold, which is not one of my particular favorites. Then I looked up at the ceiling. It was indeed something to behold. A celestial nudist colony! Patriarchal males, all of whom looked as though they were named Zeus, disported themselves on cloud sofas. Women with crimped gold tresses and rounded bellies cavorted in streams of sunlight. The Sistine Chapel it wasn’t. Religious, no; ribald, yes. What it had been like before Mr. Gallagher’s request for more cloud cover I did not care to imagine. My heart went out to the cherubs, who looked more shocked than soulful. For the first time since meeting her I found myself in complete agreement with Ariel. That ceiling needed a speedy coat of whitewash.

Presumably inured to its impact, Lady Fiona sat down on a sofa and asked how I liked England and if I found it cold after living abroad so long. “How is your aunt in Jamaica doing, Mrs. Honeywood?”

I was about to remind her my name was Haskell, and say I didn’t have any aunts, when Mrs. Malloy came into the conservatory with a plate of dainty sandwiches. I got up to make the introductions. Mrs. M, who has an intense aversion to mold, pressed a handkerchief over her face, which made her look like a bank robber waiting for the bank to open.

“And what of your cousin’s little boy?” Lady Fiona asked me. “The one who accidentally swallowed his goldfish and insisted on having his stomach pumped, so it could be taken out alive. You do believe it to have been an accident?” She took a sandwich from the silver tray Mrs. M proffered. “Such a worry for his parents if he did it on purpose.”

While I was avoiding Mrs. Malloy’s eyes, Betty and Tom came into the room with Mr. Scrimshank, whose looks had not improved since yesterday. If anything, he looked even more like someone who has been brought back to life after being badly embalmed. When I went over to him, he gave no sign of remembering who I was. And even when Mrs. M removed her mask and asked if he’d like cucumber or cheese and tomato, the doggy brown eyes in his white face looked none the wiser.

“We were at your office yesterday, to see me sister, Melody,” she told him, “and you was nice enough to point out we’d come in the wrong door.”

“Ah!” Light had dawned. “Miss Tabby. Yes, yes! She was late getting those letters on my desk. Never happened before in nearly forty years. I do hope she’s not cracking up. I’ve wondered about that possibility recently, ever since I heard she’d taken up knitting. These enthusiasms can take a terrible hold on a woman of her advanced age.”

Mrs. Malloy raised her eyebrows at me in both outrage and inquiry. Luckily for him, Mr. Scrimshank left us without another word to sit beside Lady Fiona.

“Ah, Fiona!” He intoned the name through his nose. “Any further word from Nigel?”

“None. It was a relief to hear that he rang you that once, Archibald. It set my mind at ease that nothing untoward had happened to him. Preferable perhaps if he had got in touch with me instead, but I understand his reasoning. He would have worried that Miss Pierce would get on the line and keep talking, making it seem it would be forever before he could get back to exploring the Amazon or wherever he is. Devoted as he has always been to Nanny, Nigel has intimated that there have been occasions when he found her constant fussing over him irksome. He didn’t mind so much while he was still in his forties, but… I say no more. It will please him on his return to find her settled in the Dower House. I acted in accordance with what I knew would be his wishes. Somebody was just telling me”-she looked vaguely around the room-“that Nanny has some friend or relation living with her. I hope it works out until the time she finally hangs up her butterfly net, to use Nigel’s phrase.”

The expression did seem preferable to kick the bucket. But before I could murmur this opinion to Mrs. Malloy, who was setting out more trays of perfectly presented sandwiches, delectable-looking iced fancies, and fruit tartlets and currant scones, our eyes were drawn to the door where Frances Edmonds cowered against her husband’s shoulder.

“Oh, whatever’s wrong with her now?” Betty brushed past Tom to draw the peeping twosome back into the hall. Remembering that someone, possibly me, needed to start handing round cups and saucers, I moved to the buffet table, where if I strained my ears sufficiently I could hear voices and hiccuping sobs.

“For goodness’ sake, Frances! Why would I think to mention Mr. Scrimshank would be here? It was Lady Fiona you were so keen to see. How could I know he sacked you for not cleaning behind the radiators and you never want to see him again? Stan, get her to stop crying. Oh, come on, both of you, let’s go into the kitchen so you can both have a cup of tea before slipping out the back door, if that’s what you want to do. I wonder what’s been keeping Ben from joining us in the conservatory?” Betty’s voice faded away, along with the dwindling footsteps.

“Now you take that look of your face, Mrs. H,” whispered Mrs. Malloy, “like you’re sure he’s in the pantry canoodling with that Val. Miss Pierce felt a bit faint after the walk up here and he had her sit down in the kitchen and found her a glass of brandy. They’ll all be in soon. I wonder what’s keeping them two vicars?”

Right on cue, in they came. The one who had to be Mr. Hardcastle was handsomely middle-aged, with kind eyes and a pleasant smile. Clutching at his arm, and also wearing a clerical collar, was a frail little man with wispy white hair and a face that had shriveled to the point of being all nose. With luck, his infirmities would prevent him from ever looking at the ceiling.

“Mr. Hardcastle.” Tom roused himself out of whatever doleful thoughts had been claiming him to hasten across the room.

“No formality, please; call me Jim.” It was a nice voice, hinting at humor and the ability to pour the right amount of oil on troubled waters.

“Let me help you get your friend-”

“Simeon Tribble,” piped up a reedy but cheerful voice.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” responded Tom, moving with more speed than usual to help the ancient gentleman to a chair. While this was being accomplished with a great deal of tottering and some false lowerings, Betty returned without the Edmondses and took over the general introductions. As she was finishing up, it became necessary to start again. Val, Miss Pierce, and Ben had entered the room.

Mr. Scrimshank left Lady Fiona to direct his attention to a feathery fern in a container the size of a dustbin, so I again sat down beside her.

“I understand that you are related to a family of the same name in Chichester, Mrs. Honeywood,” she said.

Taking the easiest course, I invited her to call me by my first name.

“Ellie? I had thought you were Edith. Then you’re the one with an aunt in Gibraltar, not Jamaica.”

“That’s right.” I let my mind stray. Val was wearing rose pink and looked even lovelier than yesterday. Blackberry curls, creamy skin, those deep blue eyes, she was a rare flower, worthy of Kew Gardens, let alone this conservatory. What a picture she made, standing with her hand on Ben’s arm, smiling up at him. Would it be described in books, I wondered with a numbed detachment, as a tremulous smile? I could hear what she was saying; she was thanking him for being kind and giving her great-aunt the brandy and waiting to make sure she was feeling better. All very prosaic, but I saw Tom looking at them in stark surprise, before turning to ask Betty if she knew where Ariel was to be found.

“No idea,” Betty said, before asking Mr. Tribble how he was enjoying his stay at the vicarage.

“Very much,” he replied in his trembly voice. He poked inside his clerical collar, perhaps in hope of finding that a fifty-pence piece had dropped in when the collection plate was passed. “Jim’s father and I were great friends. He brought me here once when I was a young man.”

“Nice for you to have the chance to come back.” Mrs. Malloy, standing with a plate of sandwiches, eyed him with concern. “Maybe you should sit back on that chair. Looks to me like you’re about to fall off.”

Mr. Hardcastle prevented this by making the necessary adjustment. I wished Mr. Tribble had a seat belt. Interestingly, the old man did not appear nervous. Maybe he had jumped out of airplanes as a lad and still enjoyed living dangerously. He certainly displayed a spirit of adventure by holding his own cup and saucer while peering with interest at Lady Fiona, who was now asking if I painted in oils, as my mother had done, or preferred watercolors, as did the aunt in Gibraltar.

“Mrs. H does lovely with both.” Mrs. Malloy gamely got aboard the ship bound for nowhere, enabling me to bite into a scone.

“The Chichester Honeywoods collect sculptures.” Lady Fiona accepted a refill of her teacup from Betty, who then went to attend to Mr. Scrimshank, apparently not having seen him empty his cup into a flowerpot. “Are those two young people recently married?” Her ladyship gestured with her teaspoon. The good-looking dark-haired couple. Standing next to Nanny Pierce.”

“Why do you ask, your ladyship?” That scone might have been made from a marvelous recipe, but it left the taste of ashes in my mouth.

“They have that look of belonging together. The similar coloring.”

“I see what you mean.” So much for Mrs. Malloy’s belief that like didn’t respond to like, but having retreated to pour herself a cup of tea she didn’t get to state her case.

“One remembers what it is like to be desperately, one might say foolishly, in love.” Lady Fiona gazed reflectively at a standing potted plant.

“Actually,” I heard myself say, as if from a vast distance, “Ben is my husband and the woman standing with him and Miss Pierce is the great-niece. The one staying at the Dower House.”

“Is she?” Her ladyship drifted a look at Val. “Yes, I seem to place her now. She was an extremely pretty child when she and her brother spent that summer at Cragstone. Never having had children of my own, I had concerns. But they were no trouble. I only remember Nanny Pierce mentioning one upset. She would have thought it unconscionable to withhold such information. A betrayal of her duty to Nigel.”

“I see.”

“It involved the boy’s locating the priest hole in the west wing and refusing to tell his sister how to open the panel. Nanny said Nigel would never have behaved in such a way. She assured him neither child would go near that secret room again, which relieved him greatly. He didn’t at all like the idea of them getting shut in and being unable to find the release catch in the dark.”

“What a horrible thought.” I held on to it, while not looking at Ben and Val. I also focused on the rhythmic spatter of water landing on my head. Betty had talked about a leak from the bathroom above. Lady Fiona showed no sign of noticing that it was beginning to rain indoors. “According to family legend a priest did get trapped in that priest hole during Tudor times. Or would it have been Jacobean? Sadly, he wasn’t brought out until it was too late; he had suffocated. But perhaps that was a blessing. They did have that nasty tendency to hang, draw, and quarter people in those days.” Lady Fiona sipped her tea. “How long have you and your husband been married, Elsie?”

“Nearly nine years.” It was now sprinkling quite heavily over our sofa, but the rest of the room remained under clear skies.

Our conversation caught Mr. Tribble’s attention, sending him off on a tangent. “Did I marry you, Lady Fiona?” He might have leaned too far forward if Ben hadn’t darted forward to reposition him.

“I do tend to be somewhat absentminded,” responded her ladyship serenely, “but I think I would have remembered had you ever been my husband.”

“What Mr. Tribble means is did he perform the wedding service,” said Mr. Hardcastle, with his nice smile. “No, Simeon, you didn’t. I was a guest at Lady Fiona’s marriage to Nigel Gallagher. It was Howard Miles, not you, who officiated.”

“I could have sworn-” A few drops of water landed on Mr. Tribble’s head.

“No, you wouldn’t.” His friend laughed heartily. “Swearwords are not in your vocabulary. Or mine, although I sometimes come close when I drop a stitch in my knitting-I trust I may count on your discretion not to spread word of my new hobby around in clerical circles. I happen to find it relaxing when I’m thinking through an upcoming sermon. And I’m not the only man in these parts to have taken it up. There’s the Barclay’s Bank manager, the village school headmaster, Police Sergeant Walters, and-”

“I still feel sure”-Mr. Tribble continued to peer at Lady Fiona-“it would have been, now let me think… what year was it? Never mind! It will come back to me. These things always do.”

Other conversations flowed around me. Tom talked to Mr. Scrimshank, Betty said something to Nanny Pierce, and Val joined in, while her eyes followed Ben’s every movement. Mrs. Malloy continued handing out replenishments of sandwiches, cakes, and scones. Still no Ariel!

Lady Fiona left the sofa, saying she must talk to Nanny Pierce about taking her to lunch on Wednesday. Feeling abandoned, I stared into my teacup. There was something floating in it. Something shaped like a leaf. But not a tea leaf; it was too big and too white! It could only be… I looked up at the ceiling, to behold an extremely well-endowed Zeus now absent a very necessary part of his cloud cover.

Finally, others noticed it was raining.

Betty yanked at Tom’s arm. “Ariel must have left the water running after washing her hair. Run and turn it off! Ben, will you go with him and help mop up?”

“Of course.”

“And I’ll go and look for Ariel, if you like,” said Mrs. Malloy.

Out the three of them went, and Val, whose hair of course was curling even more beautifully in the damp, adjusted her great-aunt’s cardigan and put an arm around her shoulders.

“Dear me,” said Mr. Tribble, as more drops landed on his head, “I’m afraid we came without our umbrellas, Jim.”

“Oh, I expect it’s only a summer shower,” Mr. Hardcastle reassured him gamely. “No need for us to race for cover, Mrs. Hopkins. I’m sure it will pass over very quickly.”

“We could go into the drawing room.” Betty stood, twisting her hands.

“Not on my account, dear lady.” Mr. Tribble made the understandable mistake of looking up at the ceiling. Instantly, it became apparent that whatever else might be failing, his eyesight was not. If ever a man goggled, he did. “Oh, my!” His voice creaked. “Whatever next!”

The answer was a significant piece of cloud landing in his teacup. Betty hurriedly produced a new one for him and then looked distractedly around for the milk jug and teapot.

“I wonder if he might prefer a glass of brandy.” Lady Fiona lifted a decanter from a table.

“Indeed, that would be welcome!” Mr. Tribble held out his cup. “Just pour it in here, no need to trouble yourself fetching a glass. Yes, right to the middle.” Her ladyship had wafted to his side. “That will do very nicely. Thank you.”

“My dear Simeon,” Mr. Hardcastle protested. “I think that may be too much.”

“No, no. I would say the amount is exactly right. Or maybe”-peeking up at Lady Fiona-“you would kindly pour in just an inch or two more… Perfect, thank you.” He smiled up at her. “May I say you have changed remarkably little over the years. It is now coming back to me. It wasn’t a big wedding, just the two of you… and both so young. Ah, well! Time marches on! Is anyone else going to indulge?”

“Perhaps a very small cup,” said Mrs. Malloy, who had returned to the room with Ariel. Whatever the resulting problems, the girl had finally washed her hair.

“I didn’t even go into that bathroom,” she muttered to Betty. “I used the kitchen sink. Whoever left the water running, it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the spirit who visited last night.”

“Yes!” Betty’s face glowed. “The poor dar-man has such limited means of letting me know he’s counting on me to act when the moment is right.”

Ariel sat down beside me. “Maybe,” she whispered, “Nanny Pierce went upstairs to fill the bath for her precious Nigel and then forgot about it. Or acted out of clear-headed malice.”

Had the old lady left the conservatory? I didn’t remember. I’d been preoccupied. Could Ariel be lying through her teeth about not having caused the deluge?

Mr. Tribble raised his cup. “To everyone’s good health, mine included.”

Lady Fiona came up to me after returning the decanter to the table. “I do hope he’s not the sort to drink and drive.”

“I’m sure it will be Mr. Hardcastle behind the wheel,” I said.

“That does relieve my mind, Mrs. Honeywood… Elsie. Neither Nigel nor I ever learned to drive. Nanny would have worried too much in his case. She was ill for a week when he got his first tricycle.”

And how old would he have been at that time, fifty? I was looking at Betty, thinking how pretty she was with that dreamy smile on her face. What would she think of the living Nigel Gallagher, were he to show up? I retained some hope that he would do so.

“In the end his tricycle had to be given away to a needy child. But he did enjoy operating the vacuum cleaner; he loved the sound of the motor and pressing the pedal to make it stop. I imagine it was one of those man things.” Her ladyship paused to stare across the room. “Oh, dear, Mr. Tribble has dropped his teacup and is falling off his chair.”

Mr. Hardcastle bent over the crumpled figure. The rest of us, apart from Mr. Scrimshank, who remained rooted near his fern, went over to help. It was Mrs. Malloy who got there first. “He hasn’t just fallen off his chair!” Her eyes met mine. “He’s dropped off the twig!”