Down the Garden Path (36 page)

It wasn’t there, but I was no longer falling. Someone held me prisoner. A voice, low and shuddering, said, “Tessa, you could have broken your neck.”

“Harry!” I clung to him. “He’s coming ... after me.” I tried to pry loose, to point upwards in the direction of my pursuer, but I was too late. A blurred blackness descended on Harry’s head ... and then with a grunt he toppled over, to lie in a sprawled heap before sliding slowly down the remaining stairs.

“Cripes,” came Bertie’s gasp and I looked up to see Maude still holding the poker aloft.

* * * *

Harry came round in under ten minutes, accepted Maude’s apologies in gallant spirit, and explained that on leaving the house he had set the front door catch so he could return when everyone was in bed. If Minnie had not come charging up to announce his arrival, all would have been well. And if Maude had not decided to waken Bertie and follow me I would not have pelted down the stairs.

But everyone had meant everything for the best, and the lesson learned was that excessive caution was more likely to be our undoing than anything else. I could see that Harry had a headache, but he insisted that the blow had been a glancing one and that he would feel fine in the morning. Part of me yearned to plump up the pillows on the sofa where he lay and adjust the cold compress on his forehead, but most of me was afraid to get too close to him.

Maude, Bertie, and I returned to the nursery and climbed into our little beds. Hunching the eiderdown up to my neck I hoped that the boy would fall asleep quickly so Maude and I could continue where we had left off. I wanted to know Violet ... but I found that I was the one sinking into sleep. My last rational thought was that I still hadn’t found out what Bertie had wanted to tell me. Monks came flying at me on gigantic bat wings, and I was running past a drainpipe that gushed water onto a sodden pile of clothes that grew into Godfrey. He was reading an illuminated manuscript marked:
Rare Priceless First Edition.
“That’s my pretty boy.” Mrs. Grundy came riding into view, dressed as a witch on a gigantic test tube. “All dressed up for his wedding, and doesn’t Tessa look lovely?” Untrue. The Miss Haversham-type bride posing as me looked more ready for the coffin than the altar. Strike that thought! But it was too late. Mr. Deasley had his hands around my throat and a man wearing a name card saying Arthur Wilkinson—Violet’s husband—was informing me that if I wanted cremation I would have to find myself another undertaker, but he would be delighted to tell Vi that he had met me.

At that I awoke, and for a moment I hoped that Angus’s death was a nightmare, too. The view from the window did nothing to lift my spirits. The rain had slackened but it still trickled sullenly down the panes and the sky was a dirty grey. Looking across at the other two beds I saw that they were neatly made and that Bertie’s pyjamas lay folded on top of the pillow. Reaching for my watch, I discovered that it was past eight o’clock. I was about to slither out of bed when a knock came at the door and the sisters entered. They were both fully dressed, Hyacinth in a purple-and-yellow paisley dress and Primrose in a navy skirt and faded blue twin set.

“We have to talk to you.” They spoke in unison, voices lowered for fear, I guessed, that the walls might have ears, or that Mr. Deasley might be listening in the apple tree. Swiftly crossing the room, Primrose drew the curtains tight, and then sat down beside Hyacinth on the bed closest to me.

“Maude has left on a case and Harry—willful lad sneaking back here—has taken Bertie back home with him. The boy wanted to see the horses, and ...” Hyacinth paused.

“I’m surprised that Maude would let Bertie go with him,” I said. “After all, she doesn’t know Harry.” I drew the eiderdown around my shoulders to try to get warm.

“True, dear; but she knew his grandfather. He used to come and visit at Cloisters quite often. A wonderful, rakish old gentleman, and Harry takes after him. Not a bit like his father, thank heavens—no one in Flaxby Meade could stand him. A nasty combination of conceit and simpering bashfulness. The only good thing I can say about him is that he was genuinely fond of Cloisters.”

“Really!” I hugged the eiderdown closer.

“But never mind him. Maude knows Bertie will be all right with Harry. Primrose and I have not slept all night.” From the black rings under all four eyes, I believed Hyacinth. The earrings moved slowly this morning.

“We have come up with an idea, but have said nothing to Harry or Maude.” Primrose smoothed down the neatly darned sleeves of her cardigan. “The dear boy would think what we propose is dangerous, and perhaps it is, but Hyacinth and I feel a moral obligation to get Mr. Deasley.”

Hyacinth looked at me. “The rogue wanted me to believe the worst concerning his night with my sister. He wanted to set us at each other’s throat. But what he did
not
bargain for was the depth of our affection and what he
will
not bargain for is that we are capable of a ruthlessness equal to his own.”

A finger strayed nervously to my mouth.

“I suppose it is un-Christian, but I rather think I will enjoy myself.” Primrose’s face flushed and the shadows under her eyes became less apparent. “We have been playing the same parts for so many years now—dithery old ladies—that a stretch in range will be a real challenge. And in such a good cause, too.”

What was she talking about? I nibbled a fingernail while she explained. “We are going to take a leaf out of Godfrey’s book. Blackmail. We—or rather you, dear Tessa—are going to lure Mr. Deasley to Cloisters. But don’t worry, once he is in Hyacinth’s and my clutches you will not even appear on the scene. We will take him down to the priest hole, where he cannot leave until we permit. He has always been eager to see our little hideaway. Dear me, yes, we will get him inside easily enough. Then! We tell him we have the evidence. We won’t have to say what evidence, because a guilty man ...”

I shook my head, causing the eiderdown to slip. “You’re wrong. He will ask to see the evidence, and I think you should tell him that Godfrey gave me a sealed letter last night when I went to Cheynwind. It was to be opened in the event of his sudden death and ... but never mind about that. Why do you want
me
to be the one to lure Mr. Deasley here?”

“Oh, my dear! Isn’t that quite apparent?” Primrose shook her head in faint disappointment at my obtuseness. “What we need is to throw him off balance. Playing upon his vanity and his lust for a pretty face and figure may give us the advantage. And then, too, you worked for Mr. Hunt at that art gallery. He may suspect your educated eye of spotting what he’s after. Ah yes—I see you understand. What we ask is that you write Mr. Deasley a flowery epistle on pretty writing paper, heavily laced with all the gushing ecstasies of a young girl in the throes of her first passion for an older man of the world. You will beg him to come over this afternoon while Hyacinth and I are shopping for wreaths, because you want to show him something of interest you have discovered at Cloisters. Dear Tessa, it will be quite easy; all you have to do is sound extremely silly and eager to show off for him.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” said Hyacinth. “With your charming talent for romancing you will do splendidly—and when the old dog comes trotting over, you can remain in this room and safely leave everything to Primrose and me.”

“While you two tackle a man we believe has killed twice?” I protested. “I may be a bit thick first thing in the morning, but I am beginning to grasp why you didn’t mention your brainstorm to Harry.”

“My dear.” Hyacinth squared her thin shoulders. “We are old; if something should go wrong, Primrose and I have led full lives.”

Beaming bravely, Primrose patted my hand. “If you could—supposing the very worst—see that Harry gives us a good send-off.... Neither of us having experienced the thrill of a wedding, we have always promised ourselves rather splashy funerals.” She sighed sentimentally. “Now, if you are willing, we will go downstairs and eat a nourishing breakfast. We’ll need all the energy we can muster. You can write that note and we will have Butler deliver it. No pouting, dear, please! Butler is also to be excluded from the final confrontation. We will tell him to go up to London, immediately after seeing Mr. Deasley, and see if he can discover with whom Mr. Hunt spoke after leaving Flaxby Meade, and if he discussed his mysterious find at Cloisters.”

“And what of Chantal?” I felt the old jealousy rising.

“When Primrose, Mr. Deasley, and I enter the priest hole,” said Hyacinth, “Chantal will station herself by the fireplace. If all goes well and he disintegrates in response to our threats to keep silent regarding the evidence only for the price of a cosy little life annuity, I will rap on the chimney wall. These old houses echo splendidly. When Chantal hears those raps, she will immediately telephone the police.”

Typical. Chantal gets the plum role. “But two watchdogs are much better than one,” I insisted.

Hyacinth compressed her orange lips. “Harry would be extremely angry if we involved you in any danger. When Prim and I first talked about taking you to the card games we were concerned that he would not be pleased.”

Huh! Flinging one end of the eiderdown over my shoulder I flounced across the room. If they were afraid of Harry, I was not. And why did they think he would have no qualms about Chantal? They weren’t worried about Mr. Deasley escaping from the priest hole and rampaging through the house—they were worried about my botching the grand plan. I’d show all of them! The sisters couldn’t force me to stay in my room like a difficult child.

I was mightily tempted to telephone Harry; not because I needed to hear his voice, you must understand, but because I felt this might be one of those rare times requiring masculine intervention. Should I have done so; much terror might have been spared us. But all I could see were the sisters’ trusting faces. And I could not deceive them as Harry had deceived me. I knew too well the bitterness of betrayal after having conceived the perfect plan.

In the parlour I sipped coffee and penned my literary gem to Mr. Deasley on pale pink paper garlanded with embossed flowers.

“My dear Mr. Deasley, or may I please call you Clyde? I have discovered something of great interest here at Cloisters and, having worked for Mr. Hunt ...” The pen nib bit into the paper and I had to force myself to continue.... “I wonder if—but perhaps it would be best if I explain when I see you. Could you please come here at noon today? The Tramwells will be out, also the servants, so we will be quite alone.”

Primrose peered over my shoulder as I wrote the last line. “A pity—it has a nice ring—but upon reflection I think ‘Yours devotedly’ might be a shade too much. Best keep it simple—your signature followed by an agitated scrawl.”

Duly summoned to perform his errand, Butler looked mildly pleased at the prospect of a bit of spying in London. “Anything I can do to be of service, mesdames, to h’insure a certain gentleman being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure is most gratifying.” He bowed his way out of the room.

“I’m afraid Butler would never care for any gentleman who called upon us.” Primrose preened a little. “I don’t think he believes there’s a man alive who is good enough for either of us.”

“And he’s right,” said Hyacinth. “Tessa, perhaps you would enjoy arranging some flowers for the sitting room. I have some cut on the hall table.”

The rain had stopped and the day was developing a gentle golden haze. It was hard to believe, looking out onto that glorious vista of smooth lawns, variegated pastel flower beds, and the cool darkness of the woods, that anything unpleasant could touch this place. The scent of roses drifted through the room and a bird fluttered singing up from the sundial.

“Nature, how lovely it is and yet so cruel.” Primrose came in and sat opposite me, a darning bag placed carefully on her lap.

“My dear, you look tired,” Hyacinth cooed. “You know, Prim, I think we could all benefit from some of your splendid herbal tea—the one you concocted from last summer’s wild flowers. You remember—such a delicious brew it made.”

Her sister nodded. “You must mean the one Minnie enjoys so much.”

“Where is Minnie? I haven’t seen her this morning.” I asked.

“Out of harm’s way.” Primrose stood up. “Harry took her with him and, although I was a little hurt that she went so readily ... well, never mind that. Always rambling, that’s me. I do believe I have a packet down in the priest hole. Tessa, kindly ring for Chantal and ask her to heat some water. We won’t need a teapot as the petals should be steeped directly in the cup. Hyacinth, do you remember exactly where I left those packets?”

“Next to the bottled plums; they’re on that old tea tray along with the dried figs.”

Primrose was back in minutes with a brown paper packet. Chantal had answered the bell and she returned carrying a loaded tray. Sunlight highlighted the beautiful planes of her face as she bent over the coffee table. Had she also been tempted to telephone Harry—to warn him of the Tramwells’ plan? She was moving Primrose’s chair forward so the elderly lady could more comfortably reach the water jug.

My reaction to the tea Hyacinth handed me was not entirely favourable. Dabbed on the wrists it might have been all right, but who wants to drink perfume? I took another pursed-lips swallow and another. A man would have to be a fool not to want Chantal. Beautiful, clever, complex ... Why hadn’t Harry telephoned us? The flowery brew began to grow on me. Hyacinth and Primrose should stop tinkling with their spoons and drink up. It was rather nice, really, once it went down. Warming and sort of floaty. Another swallow and I set down my cup and watched it topple sideways onto the saucer. My hand moved languorously to my mouth to suppress a yawn. Very relaxing, that tea. If I didn’t stand up I would fall asleep.

“You look tired, Tessa,” murmured someone, Chantal, I think, but the figure was rather blurred. As I struggled up I saw with surprise that Hyacinth and Primrose had merged into a two-headed monster, swaying in place. Blinking, I pried them apart, the effort exhausting me. My limbs suddenly felt so heavy. What was wrong with me? A nasty struggling suspicion. Something ... knock-out powder in the tea. But it couldn’t be, they wouldn’t. Why, they were even opposed to aspirin! Now I was fully upright I did feel better, hardly acrobatic but at least marginally alert.