The Winter Garden Mystery Page 3

“Your brother died in the War, didn’t he?” Bobbie asked gruffly, retreating into the bathroom again.

  “Yes, and Father in the ’flu epidemic. My cousin inherited the title and Fairacres. To do him justice, he and Geraldine would gladly give me a home, but they are both fearfully stuffy. Or I could go and live with my sister Violet and her husband, who are dears, and be a useful aunt. I prefer independence, even if it’s a bit of a struggle.”

  Bobbie reappeared, clad this time in pink flannel combinations, her damp hair sticking out in all directions like a haycock. Though large, she was not at all fat. In fact, many a weedy man might have envied her muscular frame. She made Daisy feel fragile and feminine.

  “I’m most frightfully glad you came.” As she spoke, she pulled on a crêpe-de-Chine petticoat over her more prosaic undies. “I know Sebastian is, too. I could tell he liked you, because he was actually talking. The poor lamb is usually desperately shy with girls.”

  The gorgeous Sebastian must have been warned against feminine wiles by his mother so often that he was gun-shy, Daisy guessed. “I expect your brother is much pursued,” she said tactfully.

  “He’s pretty stunning, isn’t he? I wish I had half his looks.” Bobbie stuck her head into the folds of a ghastly olive green silk dress, heavily beaded, and wriggled until it fell into place. It hung on her like a sack. “I expect he would be chased if Mummy ever let him go anywhere.”

  “I gather he goes to the Riviera.”

  “In leading-strings. I think she feels she has to take him out and air him every now and then in case people think he’s feeble-minded or something. He’d be as bored there as here if it wasn’t for the swimming. He swims like a fish. And there’s some sort of Roman ruins she lets him potter about.”

  “Mr. Parslow is interested in Roman ruins?” Daisy asked, startled.

  “Well, when he was a schoolboy, he got frightfully enthusiastic about a bit of Roman mosaic that was found in one of Daddy’s best hayfields. Mummy insisted on letting him dig up the whole field and he found a couple of coins, though I sometimes wonder if she didn’t buy them and plant them for him. They were in awfully good condition.”

  “Would she do something like that?”

  “Oh yes, anything to keep him happy—except letting him go,” Bobbie said bitterly. “Anyway, he never found much else, but he never lost interest. Then Ben came to work for Daddy and got Bastie keen on the Greeks.”

  “Mr. Goodman really is a Greek scholar, then.”

  “First at Oxford, and he’d be a don if the War hadn’t come along and upset things. Of course, he’s keener on books and philosophy and all that rot, but he’s terribly sweet about humouring Bastie and teaching him about pots and stuff. Mummy bought him a frightfully ancient and expensive amphi-something—amphora?—but he says it’s not the same as digging it up yourself.”

  “I suppose it’s impossible to earn a living as an archaeologist,” Daisy mused. “The people who go into it all seem to be rich to start with, like Lord Carnarvon, who dug up King Tutankhamun’s tomb last year.”

  “Oh, Sebastian has a goodish pile. Enough to live on, anyway. He inherited from an aunt, like you—she didn’t leave me a bean, worse luck.”

  “And he hasn’t buzzed off to Greece?” In her astonishment, Daisy forgot tact.

  Bobbie flushed. “You can’t blame him for not standing up to Mummy,” she said defensively. “Wait till you meet her and you’ll understand.”

  3

  “So you’re Maud Dalrymple’s daughter.” Lady Valeria’s tone did not suggest she found any cause to congratulate the Dowager Viscountess on her offspring.

  Under the critical gaze, Daisy wished she had put on her grey frock with its high neckline and left off her lipstick and face-powder. She wasn’t sure the basilisk stare did not penetrate straight through to the frivolous artificial silk cami-knickers she had donned in place of her practical combies.

  At least she should have made sure someone else had come down before joining Lady Valeria in the drawing room.

  She was a professional woman, not a dependent, she reminded herself sternly, taking a seat on one of the fringed, tasselled, an-timacassared Victorian chairs. She had no reason to wither beneath that withering eye. No mere imperious presence swathed in imperial purple could cow her unless she allowed it to. Even a voice horribly reminiscent of her headmistress’s was insufficient to reduce Daisy to an erring schoolgirl.

  “You know my mother, Lady Valeria?” she asked politely.

  “She and I were presented in the same year, though we lost touch long ago. In those days young ladies were properly brought up. Emancipation! We did not know the word. I am shocked that Maud should permit her daughter to seek employment.”

  “Mother does not control my actions.”

  “Well, she ought to. Still, Maud never did have any backbone.”

  Daisy held on to her temper with an effort. Her mother might be a querulous grumbler with a permanent sense of grievance, but it was not for Lady Valeria to criticize her.

  “Mother is quite well,” she said through gritted teeth, “considering her circumstances. I shall tell her you enquired after her. I must thank you for inviting me to write about Occles Hall.” There, let her stick that in her pipe and smoke it. “Both the house and the village are charming.”

  Smugness chased censure from Lady Valeria’s heavy, high-coloured features. “Everything was in a shocking state when I married Sir Reginald, but I flatter myself you will seldom find another estate so perfectly restored and maintained.”

  Revenge was irresistible. “Except for the smithy.”

  Lady Valeria scowled. “You will not write about the smithy,” she commanded harshly.

  “No, it’s not the sort of thing Town and Country subscribers want to read about,” said Daisy with regret. “I’m sure I’ll find heaps to say without it.”

  “I have ordered Sir Reginald’s secretary to give you every assistance. I suppose it will not take you more than a day, two at most, to gather material for your article. Naturally you may ring Mr. Goodman up on the telephone after you return to town, should you have any further questions.”

  Neatly dished, Daisy had to admit. She had been jolly well and truly given the raspberry. On the other hand, she had abso-bally-lutely no desire to accept Lady Valeria’s reluctant hospitality any longer than she needed.

  She smiled at her hostess and murmured, “Too kind.”

  Lady Valeria looked disconcerted. Honours even, thought Daisy, and awaited the next thrust with interest.

  She was rescued from the fray, at least temporarily, by the arrival of a small, chubby gentleman in an old-fashioned crimson velvet smoking-jacket.

  “Oh, there you are, Reggie,” said Lady Valeria. “Why on earth aren’t you wearing a dinner-jacket?”

  Sir Reginald looked down at himself in vague surprise. “Your pardon, my dear. I was thinking about clover and quite forgot we have a guest.” He smiled at Daisy. “Won’t you … .”

  “What do I pay your valet for?” thundered his wife.

  “He has a bad cold,” said the baronet placidly. “I sent him back to bed this morning and told him to stay there until he feels better. Won’t you? …”

  “I have told you before, Reginald, that nothing good ever came of cosseting the servants.”

  “I’m sure you are right, my dear, but I didn’t want to catch his cold and perhaps give it to young Goodman. Now, won’t you introduce me to our guest?”

  “Miss Dalrymple, my husband, Sir Reginald. Miss Dalrymple is a magazine writer.”

  “Welcome to Occles Hall, Miss Dalrymple. May I pour you a glass of sherry?” His eyes, as blue as Sebastian’s, twinkled mischievously. “I’m afraid we haven’t got the ingredients for these American cocktails you modern young ladies favour.”

  “Thank you, Sir Reginald, I shall be perfectly happy with sherry.”

  “I should hope so,” snorted Lady Valeria, not quite sotto voce.

  He poured thr
ee glasses of sherry. As he handed Daisy hers, he said, “You are Edward Dalrymple’s daughter? I regret to say I didn’t know your father well, but he once gave me some sound advice about Holsteins. Very sound. A sad loss to agriculture. You were at school with Bobbie, were you not?”

  “Yes, but she’s two years older and frightfully good at games. I’m a hopeless duffer so I was utterly in awe of her.”

  “Ah, but I gather the positions are reversed now that you are an independent woman, earning your own way by your pen. I am delighted that you have chosen Occles Hall to write about. May I hope you will spare a sentence or two for my dairy?”

  “What piffle, Reggie. Miss Dalrymple’s article will be about the Hall and the village.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of leaving out the dairy, Sir Reginald. I consider it a patriotic duty to support British agriculture. You will be kind enough to show me around yourself, won’t you?”

  Lady Valeria turned as purple as her frock and choked on a sip of sherry.

  Bobbie and Ben Goodman came in together. Lady Valeria glanced with obvious dissatisfaction from her daughter to Daisy and back. Daisy was sorry she had worn the rose charmeuse, which made Bobbie’s olive sack look drabber and less becoming than ever.

  On the other hand, she was glad to see that Mr. Goodman dined with the family. She wouldn’t be the only outsider among the Parslows, and besides, from what she had seen of him, she liked him.

  “Mr. Goodman!” Lady Valeria summoned the secretary to her side and started complaining about some letter he had written for her earlier.

  Bobbie joined Daisy and Sir Reginald. She kissed her father with obvious affection, then turned to Daisy. “Did Mummy rag you terribly?”

  “Oh no,” Daisy nobly lied, racking her brain for something good to report. “Apparently she and my mother made their curtsies to Queen Victoria the same year. It was kind of her to arrange for Mr. Goodman to tell me the history of Occles Hall, and she even suggested I should telephone him if I have more questions after I go back to town.”

  “I hope you will stay until all your questions are answered,” said Sir Reginald with quiet firmness. “Bobbie, Miss Dalrymple has kindly promised to squeeze a few words about the dairy into her article.”

  “Good-oh!”

  They chatted for a few minutes about Daisy’s writing, until the butler, Moody, came in.

  He looked around the room and his dismal expression became downright lugubrious. “Dinner is ready, my lady,” he announced.

  “Mr. Sebastian is not down yet,” said Lady Valeria sharply. “We shall wait.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Sebastian breezed in five minutes later. Daisy caught her breath at the sight of him in evening clothes. In the hours since she last saw him, she had managed to persuade herself he could not possibly be as handsome as she remembered, but he was.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mater,” he said. “Thomkins couldn’t find the cuff-links I wanted.”

  “My dear boy,” Lady Valeria’s voice was a mixture of indulgence and exasperation, “if you will insist on not sacking the fellow despite his carelessness … .”

  “Oh, Thomkins suits me well enough. Sorry to keep you from your soup, Miss Dalrymple.” When he smiled at Daisy, it was easy to see why his mother doted on him—and feared to turn him loose among the ladies.

  Moody reappeared, walking as if his feet hurt. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

  Dinner was served by the butler and a parlourmaid; since the War only the grandest houses had footmen. Daisy recognized the girl who had brought the tea earlier, a plump brunette who moved awkwardly, with frequent whispered directions from Moody. Every dish she handed around seemed about to slip from her nervous grasp, but all went well until the end of the main course. Then Lady Valeria snapped at her for removing the plates from the wrong side.

  The plate she had just collected crashed to the floor, knife and fork flying. With a wail of despair, she ran from the room.

  “Really,” said Lady Valeria angrily, “if she’s still incapable of doing the job properly after three weeks, she will have to go. Moody, I can’t imagine why you and Twitchell find it impossible to hire and train an adequate parlourmaid. You will have to do better than that.”

  “Yes, my lady,” gloomed Moody. “Very well, my lady.”

  Dessert was consumed in fraught silence, except by Daisy and Sir Reginald, who struggled to carry on a conversation about cheese. At least she was able to congratulate him sincerely on the Cheshire cheese that closed the meal.

  Lady Valeria rose to lead the ladies out. “The vicar and Mrs. Lake will be joining us in the drawing room,” she announced, adding in a tone of surprised displeasure, “He was not at home when I called at the vicarage to reprimand him about his sermon. All equal in the sight of God indeed! Anarchist piffle.”

  “Bolshie piffle, Mater,” Sebastian drawled. “The Anarchists are passé—in fact, quite exploded.”

  Daisy, Sir Reginald, and Ben Goodman laughed. Bobbie looked so puzzled Daisy wondered whether she’d ever heard of Bolsheviks or Anarchists.

  “Very clever, Sebastian,” his mother said with a thin smile. “Don’t linger over the port, now, Reggie.”

  “No, Valeria,” murmured the baronet.

  The Reverend and Mrs. Lake were already waiting in the drawing room. They were very alike, both thin, spectacled, and anxious-looking. However, the look Mrs. Lake cast at Lady Valeria when her ladyship began to dress down her husband was one of loathing. And Daisy was surprised to overhear the vicar arguing his side of the question. The Lakes were not such meek rabbits as they appeared, then.

  Bobbie explained when the gentlemen came in and relieved them of the responsibility for entertaining Mrs. Lake. “They are absolutely dying to leave St. Dunstan’s, so Mr. Lake often preaches sermons he knows Mummy will disapprove of, hoping she’ll persuade the Bishop to replace him. It’ll work, too. We’ve never had a vicar for longer than two years since old Mr. Peascod, who practically asked permission to breathe.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if your parlourmaids last long, either.”

  “We’ve had three in two months,” Bobbie said with a grimace. “They’re promoted from housemaid and then reduced to the ranks again when Mummy gets fed up with their incompetence. There are two more housemaids to go, and then I suppose it’ll be the kitchen maid.”

  “But they don’t get the sack?”

  “Gosh, no. It’s far too difficult to find anyone willing to work in the house.”

  “Everyone seems to have trouble with servants since the War,” said Daisy, who could not afford a maid if she could find one. She and Lucy made do with a treasure of a woman who came in daily. “The girls are used to more freedom and higher wages than they can get in service.”

  “And jolly good for them, I say.”

  Moody shuffled in with coffee. Daisy accepted a cup but only drank half of it before making her excuses and retiring to bed. She was tired after the journey; more important, she had a lot of work to accomplish and, unless by some miracle Sir Reginald prevailed, she had only two days to do it in.

  Daisy was wakened in the morning by a flood of sunshine pouring in through the pink-check gingham curtains. In the rosy light, she couldn’t think for a moment where she was. Then remembrance returned. She bounced out of bed.

  The house faced east. This was the ideal time of day to photograph it, and for once the weather was cooperating. Any moment clouds might roll in. She flung on a pullover and skirt and her coat, grabbed camera and tripod, and set off.

  She only lost her way twice. The first time a housemaid bearing a coal-scuttle directed her. The second time, she found a door opening into a sort of cloister in the courtyard around which the house was built, so she went out that way. Hoping the sun would rise high enough later to allow photography within the courtyard, she hurried across to the tunnel under the east block and a moment later emerged, blinking, by the moat.

  Conditions were perfect. The Febru
ary sun rose far enough south to make for interesting shadows. The frosty air was diamond-clear and so still the water reflected every detail of the intricate black and white façade. Daisy shot a whole roll of film before deciding that the next important item on her agenda was breakfast.

  Bobbie and Ben Goodman, already in the breakfast-room, bade her a cheerful good morning.

  “Help yourself,” said Bobbie, waving at the sideboard. The Times lay beside her plate, unopened. “Isn’t it a simply spiffing day?”

  “Top-hole.” Investigating the covered dishes, Daisy avoided the eggs, on which she existed at home, and served herself with smoked haddock, hot rolls, and tea. “I’ve already been out taking pictures,” she said, sitting down at the table.

  “Good-oh. Do you play golf? I have to take Ranee to the smithy first, but I thought we might pop over to the links and bash a ball around a few holes later.”

  “I can’t,” said Daisy, glad of an excuse. “I must get to work. Your mother made it rather plain my welcome is limited to two days.”

  “Two days? Bosh! I don’t believe she meant it. Ben, what do you think?”

  “I think I had better not offer an opinion,” he replied with the smile that transformed his plain face. “I’m at your service any time, Miss Dalrymple.”

  “I’d like to see a bit of the gardens while it’s fine.”

  “Certainly, though there’s not much to see at this time of year, of course, except in the Winter Garden.”

  “There’s a winter garden? Spiffing.” She was about to ask him to explain how to find it, not wanting to drag him around at her side with his gammy leg, when Sebastian came in.

  He looked sleepy. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he sat down as his sister said in surprise, “You’re up early, Bastie.”

  “Beautiful day, and we have a beautiful guest.” He grinned at Daisy and her heart fluttered. “Do you ride, Miss Dalrymple? I’ll show you a bit of the countryside.”

  “Thank you, but … .”

  Bobbie interrupted, “Bastie, Daisy says Mummy told her she can only stay two days.”