Down the Garden Path (31 page)

Reopening it, I retraced to the line where I had stopped. “A deep appreciation of art and ancient dynasties ...” Wouldn’t he and Angus have got on splendidly together, ambling through The Heritage discussing the early Ming dynasty? I must have been half asleep, because I was seeing double. Angus dying in the walk and Minerva at her Chinese bowl. The book fell from my hands as I sat up slowly.
That was it!
Hadn’t Harry said it was odd, Angus referring to Minnie by name? And to think I had stood minutes ago gabbing to that spoiled dog about her Chinese bowl! Angus had not agonizingly struggled to say “The dog’s got the weapon,” or “The dog’s chasing my assailant.” What he was trying to tell me was:
The dog’s bowl is Ming!

Unable to sit still, I climbed off the bed and sat on the swing. The gliding motion helped me think. Angus’s expertise was his destruction. His impulsive, impassioned enthusiasm. He had confided in someone about his discovery—no, suspicion—for if Angus had been certain, he would have told the Tramwells at once. He must have said he would go back to London and confer with other specialists in the field; then, if the news was good, return to Flaxby Meade. And the person in whom he had confided must have nodded, smiled, said how nice for the Tramwells, whilst secretly thinking,
How nice for me if I can prevent you opening your mouth.

The most promising candidate for the role of confidant was Mr. Deasley. He dealt in antiques and to have such a prize as this fall into his lap ... but in his favour was the fact that he was highly trusted by the sisters. They were apparently in the habit of selling to him, so he would have had little difficulty in wheedling that bowl out of them, or, better still, could have swapped it for something similar. Or, easier yet, walked off with it under his arm along with the silver teapot. I thought again about Angus’s missing watch.... A pity about Mr. Deasley. He had his alibi of sorts ... but Primrose could have fallen asleep. No—the risk of her waking and finding him gone would have been more dangerous than no alibi at all.

Who else might Angus have spoken to before catching the London train? Chantal had been leaving the house as I went in, but I would have heard the sound of the Tramwell hearse if she had taken off after Mr. Deasley and Angus— meaning the only way she could have caught up with them would have been by thumbing a lift from a passing motorist and doing the same on the return trip. Could she have made it back in time to serve lunch? I supposed it was possible. I had spent a good deal of time poking around upstairs. But Angus wasn’t a fool. He would have thought it extremely strange, her appearing beside him on the platform. How could she have explained that? Let me tell your fortune, sir?

The watch. It would have been silver. All Angus’s watches were silver. Whoever had taken it had either craved it or been afraid of it. Butler ... If Chantal could have followed Mr. Deasley’s car, he could have done the same. But again, how could he have explained his reason for pursuing Angus? That left Maude and the Grundys. I forced myself to imagine Maude pedalling up to the station as Angus entered, and ... no. My imagination simply wasn’t good enough to make me believe she would care two hoots whether that bowl was Ming, or one of Woolworth’s seconds. Unless ... revenge for past wrongs? Her father had not got on with old Mr. Tramwell. The swing travelled upwards and my mind went with it to the Grundys. Mother and son. Godfrey ... Angus would despise him—feel greater anger towards him than the Tramwells. What if Angus had telephoned or met him, and said, “You can wave goodbye to your card-sharp operation? Those two elderly ladies have been sitting, or rather tripping, over a gold mine.” Admittedly, Cheynwind oozed all the trappings of wealth, but for all I knew it was up to its roof in second mortgages.

Forget Ethelreda Grundy. She might be as loopy as a wire spring but Godfrey was a far better candidate. He had displayed the same kind of cunning in luring card players to Cloisters that had been used to lure Angus to Abbots Walk. Patience, Chantal had said, and anyone living with Ethelreda Grundy would have learned a great deal about patience.

My headache was quite gone. If I were right about the Chinese bowl, Hyacinth and Primrose would have had every reason to bless the day Angus entered their lives rather than viewing him with anger or fear. Relief surged as I scraped my feet along the floor, then ... down to earth in a grinding halt. They were only in the clear if he had dropped some hint of his suspicion. And I felt strongly that he had not, because, although Hyacinth had seemed very much as usual after Angus’s visit, Primrose had grown increasingly distracted. More than distracted ... troubled.

How horribly ironic if one of them ... No, I wouldn’t think along those lines. I was still prepared to face up to the truth—whatever it might be. I would ferret it out. But the sisters had taken me into their home. I had grown fond of them, I had adopted them. Impulsive? Not especially. Mum and Dad had made up their minds about taking me on in under five seconds. The Tramwells weren’t the only gamblers. Mum and Dad were gamblers, too, of a different kind—and I was their daughter.

I slid off the swing. It was time to look at the Chinese bowl and confirm my belief that it was the focus of someone’s greed. The house, dimly shadowed, was very still as I went down to the kitchen, to be confronted by Chantal coming in through the back door.

“Had a pleasant afternoon?” I asked with genuine goodwill. But for her having gone out and my starting dinner ... blast! Minnie was sitting guard over the bowl. My hand inched forward in a fake pat and shot backwards. Glib thoughts of risking all for the cause were all very fine, but I wasn’t prepared to risk three of my favourite fingers. I was saved—not by the bell but the cat. It appeared from under the table, hissed, and Minnie was off after it.

As I staggered up from my knees clutching my prize, Chantal slipped off her black cardigan and laid it over the back of a chair. Idly I tossed undevoured scraps in the rubbish bin and tilted the bowl over.

“Thank you for getting dinner started,” she said.

“What have you been doing?” I asked automatically. The bottom of the bowl was stamped “Hong Kong.” My brilliant theory blown to dust. Up close, this bowl wasn’t as fine a sample of Oriental ware as the one in our china cabinet at home. The Tramwells were not as unobservant or Minnie as privileged as I had dreamt. And, if I had been thinking straight, I would have realized it was highly unlikely Angus had ever entered the kitchen or any room other than the sitting room. Oh, it was such a shame! If the bowl had been Ming, it would not only have helped solve Angus’s murder but would have solved all the Tramwells’ monetary problems.

Chantal was checking on the roast. “I stopped at the village school to talk to the headmaster, so he could warn the children to be careful walking to and from school. And I asked him if any of the boys was named Fred. I didn’t think it was likely, as it is so old-fashioned, but I wanted to be sure.”

“But I thought you understood that Bertie’s friend is imaginary,” I said. She must have spent her time doing something other than visit the school if she had only just returned.

A funny, persistent buzzing sound came from the hall. I had left the kitchen door open, but if the house had not been so silent I doubt that we would have realized the phone was ringing. Chantal dropped her oven cloth and brushed past me. “Butler, that has to be Butler.” They’re friends, I thought. Not just fellow employees.

Better perform some useful work, like basting the roast. I had just closed the oven door when Chantal returned.

“Was that Butler on the phone?”

She shook her head. “Godfrey Grundy for you. He wants you to go over to Cheynwind, to discuss something of the utmost importance. Probably nothing more than whether he should wear a black or purple bunny-wool jumper as a sign of mourning, but you would still be crackers to go.”

“You’re the one being silly. Come off it! If our boy Goldilocks wanted to murder me, wouldn’t he have devised a way of meeting me secretly? The fly in the ointment is that, as Harry has the car, I will have to walk.”

“Tessa, I wish you wouldn’t go.” She followed me to the back door. “I’m not only worried about Godfrey harming you;  it’s  growing dark, and if you should meet anyone along the way—”

“Cross my heart, Grandma.” I touched her arm briefly. “I won’t talk to anyone I ... know.”

“At least take the bicycle from the garden shed. It’s a modified penny-farthing but not difficult to ride.”

“Sorry. I’ve vowed never to ride a bike again as long as I live.”

As it happened I met no one on my half-hour walk to Cheynwind, and I wasn’t nervous. I found that I felt better away from Cloisters. I must have needed fresh air. The evening was softly purple and the scent of approaching autumn in the air was rich and tangy—like fresh gingerbread. I was ready for crisp golden days, snuggling with a book by the fire. Whose fire? I knew the house in Devon could be my home for as long as I wished—but what if Dad and Vera’s sister were romantically interested in each other? Weren’t they entitled to some time alone together? How foolish I had been to think that life would go on in the old pattern forever.

If Dad married this Ruth, Harry and I would be bound to meet at family get-togethers, he with his dark and lovely wife, me ... but it was all right. I had forgotten that I was going to become a nun.

I found myself turning in to the driveway at Cheynwind, and now the nerve endings throughout my body suddenly began to prickle. An all over case of pins and needles. I was mounting the massive front steps. What did Godfrey want with—from—me? I should have listened to Chantal. I dabbed a finger at the bell and retreated back down a step. If no one came immediately ... but then I might never know what Godfrey wanted to say to me. I marched back up the steps and punched the bell again. The sound of miniature church bells floated back to me, and at the same time I heard a window being raised above me and a dash of water landed on my hair.

“Tessa, I am so sorry,” exclaimed Mrs.  Grundy.  What was she doing? Watering the ivy? “Do excuse me. I was afraid that if I called out to catch your attention, Godfrey would hear. I’m his prisoner, you see.”

“Prisoner?” I would run for help—stop a passing car.

She chortled. “In a manner of speaking. The dear boy asked me to stay up in my room during your visit so he could get you quite alone. The best of luck, dear, and I do hope I haven’t dampened your spirits.” The window glided down.

The church bells kept tolling and Godfrey opened the door. It was now or never if I wanted to make a break for it but, chin raised, I stepped into the hall. The marble chill deadened the air as, responding to Godfrey’s chirrupping greeting, I followed him into the drawing room.

“I can’t stay long,” I informed his back. My fingers had got themselves tangled into such knots I doubted I would ever get them apart. “With all that has happened at Cloisters things are rather at sixes and sevens.”

“I’ll say!” Godfrey giggled nastily. “Murder and intrigue. The blushing Primrose baring her petals and letting that busy bee Deasley nuzzle her stamen. But do not fret, my sweet, I will not detain you long. Yours very truly has an appointment to keep e’re long.”

Frigidly I accepted a seat on the edge of one of the daffodil chairs and refused a glass of sherry.

“A girl who likes to keep her wits about her. Delicious.” Another giggle. Godfrey seated himself directly opposite, holding his rose-coloured glass delicately by its stem with thumb and index finger, the other fingers elevated—like fat white grubs. “Isn’t it exquisite to be alone? Mumsie desperately wanted to share this intimate moment—interfering bitch that she is.”

“Your mother appears utterly devoted to you.” Why hadn’t I taken a glass of sherry so I would have something to clutch?

“Passionately devoted. Especially,” he snickered, “in regard to my trust fund. Your kittenish naiveté enchants, but do you seriously suppose I would spend one hour under the same roof as that obese woman with her frumpy clothes if she weren’t the administrator of my money? That rat—my father—tied it all up until I reach his definition of the age of reason: fifty, or—and here is the only loophole—when I enter the blissful state of matrimony. But for my delightfully lucrative arrangement with the Tramwells, I would be a complete pauper.”

“A slight exaggeration, surely?” My eyes strayed around that treasury of a room.

“Girls are so dense.” Godfrey set his glass down in something perilously close to a slam. “I’m speaking of cash. Money in my pocket.” His voice siphoned out in a hissing gush. “Get this through your adorable little head. My mother—loathsome word—has not increased my ‘pocket money’ since I was ten years old. I still get a pound a week for sweets at the corner shop, like some snotty-nosed tradesman’s kid. Oh!” His fat hands caressed each other. “I could have killed her many times, but this is better!”

“My visit has been delightful,” I said, “but I do have to be going.” An absolute truth. I would head for the police station and inform Inspector Lewjack that Godfrey was a dangerous maniac. They would have to release Butler.

“Go? You cannot go. I won’t let you. Don’t you understand, my dim but exquisite Tessa, that you are the answer to all my problems? The only way for me to be free of Mumsie and savour the bliss of bunging her into a home is for me to marry.” He picked up a Dresden shepherdess and fondled her with his obscene white fingers. “And you, you, who outclass even this, are to be the lucky girl.”

“Thank you so much, but I am completely ineligible for the honour you are bestowing upon me.” If he touched me I would hit him with the poker . , . if I could reach it in time.

“How exciting; the girl is toying with me! Life with you will be constant titillation.” His frizzy hair glowed like a devilish halo in the lamp light. “Oh, and think how dreamy, Mumsie has not the teensiest suspicion that I plan to be rid of her at last. Ecstasy! She has been trying to marry me off for years. Proof to one and all that her Goddy is a real man! And a daughter-in-law to dominate! Actually, Mumsie was the one who fell for you first. Absolutely terrified she was when Angus Hunt visited Cloisters. She thought he had gone to propose.”