Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (29 page)

*   *   *

She caught her train with minutes to spare. A little breathlessly she took out her Bradshaw to check at which time she would arrive at Cryer's Breech. To her horror, she found that she was on the Manchester express train, which was now clattering through the dreary outskirts of London and gathering speed. She would be in Market Wingley in twenty minutes and then there would be … she thumbed desperately to the next page … there would be a connection from Market Wingley to Cryer's Breech an hour and twenty minutes later via Little Buffenden. Her journey home had just stretched into nearly two hours. Now she would be hanging around in Market Wingley for an hour, what a waste of time. But being the resilient soul she that was, she thought perhaps it could be turned into a useful hour. She could walk to Harper's drapery, just ten minutes from the station, and spend some time looking at the new things they had for summer and pick up the black crepe for the servants' armbands for the funeral tomorrow. She relaxed and enjoyed the reckless sensation of traveling at high speed; someone had told her that the express could run nearly sixty miles in one hour.

She turned her mind to considering the business of Lucinda and her determination to rescue Violet in such a strangely unpredictable way. Try as she might she couldn't understand how Violet had been accosted by Teddy on the night of the ball in the garden. She had accepted that Violet had been out and about, because she now knew that it had been Violet on the backstairs. But what was the girl doing outside at that time? Of course she had been rather dense about Elsie's involvement with Horace Wobbley so perhaps she needed to address this issue a little more thoroughly. Had Violet had an assignation with someone? Remembering Stafford's advice to her, she instructed herself to think about the situation from a different angle entirely, and she was still deep in thought when the train pulled into Market Wingley.

*   *   *

Mrs. Jackson liked Market Wingley. It was a quiet, prosperous country town with a large open market square, empty today, and a hotel and ostlery on the south side. From the cobbled square pleasant streets radiated out into the town, with plenty of shops selling useful items. She never went to town on Wednesdays, when the streets were packed with farmers and their families up to town for market day. All the taverns and pubs were full of red-faced farmers drinking beer, and the teashops were crowded with their wives and daughters. But today the streets were quiet and it took Mrs. Jackson just a few minutes to walk to Harper's, which was in a narrow street that backed the market square.

The bell tinkled as Mrs. Jackson walked into the shop's deep and narrow interior. She looked down the tall mahogany and glass counter that ran down the right-hand-side of the shop, with display cases underneath presenting a fascinating array of numerous sundries: crochet hooks, darning needles, buttons, clasps, hooks and eyes, embroidery silks, and skeins of wool. Mrs. Jackson particularly liked the wall behind the counter with its rolled bolts of fabric on shelves. A captivating array of colored materials carefully graded in color and fabric from serviceable drab wool to crisp white linen, brightly printed cotton, and vibrant glossy silks, all exuding the particularly pleasant, stringent, sharp smell of formaldehyde used in the fabrics' dressings: the smell of newness. Pausing to admire a bolt of shot blue silk on display in the center of the room, Mrs. Jackson looked around for an assistant to help her with her simple purchase. She knew most of the people who worked in the shop, but they were busy measuring, cutting, and parceling materials for their customers. She was turning back to a display case of machine-made lace that was almost as good as the real thing, if you hadn't seen the real thing, which Mrs. Jackson had, when she noticed Mr. Wallace at the end of the shop. He had just finished serving a customer and was sliding a tray of black shoe buttons under the display top of the counter.

“Mr. Wallace, good afternoon.” Mrs. Jackson approached the counter.

“Good afternoon, madam. It's Mrs. Jackson from Iyntwood, isn't it? You must have come in about the crepe. It's all ready for you, if you will excuse me a moment.”

He returned with a neat stack of black crepe strips. “Not particularly heavy, Mrs. Jackson, but it's funny how parcels seem to get heavier the further you carry them. Far to go? Oh I see, to the station. Well, David will accompany you.”

Mrs. Jackson thanked him.

“There is no need to tell you how very sad we were to hear the news of Mr. Mallory's … terrible accident,” said in a low voice, his eyes downcast. “Everyone here offers the family our sincerest condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wallace, and how…” She looked down at his nimble hands as they made a tidy portable package of brown paper tied with string, and a loop for carrying. There was no sign of a bandage on his injured wrist. “I heard about your unfortunate accident and I'm pleased to see that your wrist is on the mend.” He looked up at her, a little surprised perhaps that she had noticed.

“Doing very nicely, thank you, Mrs. Jackson. It was nothing at all, really, just a silly rick. Hurt like the dickens at the time, of course. Thank you for asking. I was so disappointed not to be able to play at the ball. I heard it all went off very well.” He finished with his parcel and called to the errand boy to accompany her back to the station.

It was a mystifying little moment, but one that didn't cause Mrs. Jackson a second thought. She was far more preoccupied with how she would find the words to explain to Lady Montfort the reason why Violet had had to run away from the house.

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

Clementine was up very early the morning after Teddy Mallory's funeral. Careful not to appear too eagerly enthusiastic, the Talbots and their house guests all assembled after breakfast in groups in the hall and on the drive, the women exchanging last cries of regret at having ever to leave at all. Gertrude, particularly, wanted to reassure Clementine that indeed she was grateful for their friendship and for Clementine's loyalty and kindness. She drew her friend away from the throng of departure.

“Going to the Desboroughs' ball next Friday in town?” Gertrude asked her friend as they said goodbye.

“Oh no, Gertrude, I don't think we will; so much to take care of here. But please say hello to Evelyn for me.”

“I will, if we go. Hugo is in bate, and I am playing it by ear right now. I feel so drained, I just want to sleep for a week.”

“Rest and take some time.”

“Yes, all very well for you to say, but I end up being so terribly bored. Well, my dear Clemmy, kindest of friends, thank you—it was undoubtedly memorable.” They laughed self-consciously and Clementine knew she would not see Gertrude for a few weeks. There was a lot they both had to erase from the memories of the last week.

“Gertrude, please take care,” she said as her friend turned and walked toward her waiting husband and the motorcar.

“Don't you ever worry about me … too much, Clemmy,” said Gertrude.

Standing next to her husband by the front door, Clementine spent the next hour saying fond goodbyes to their guests as if nothing untoward had occurred during their stay.

“Goodbye, and thank you,” she said to the Ambroses. “See you at the Waterfords'.”

“Goodbye, it was delightful,” the Ambroses called out, leaping happily into their motorcar; with so much luggage, they had brought the Lanchester just for that.

“Goodbye, Sir Wilfred and dear Olive, goodbye. Yes of course, if you have left anything at all we will send it on … no problem at all.”

*   *   *

Downstairs, Mrs. Jackson watched Mable Thwaite, who was leaning up against the scullery door, shouting instructions to Mary and alternatively calling out to Iris in the pantry. Strategically placed as she was, there was no need for her to move an inch, so as she issued her commands she barely turned her head in either direction. Mrs. Jackson gritted her teeth. Mrs. Thwaite would be needed in the kitchen to supervise luncheon in a moment, she thought, as she tried to give instructions to Agnes, Dick, Elsie, and two women from the village who had come up to help put the house back to order for the next few days. She turned in irritation to ask Mrs. Thwaite to lower her voice, then decided not to. Mrs. Thwaite had news and it was important that she was the first to relay it. As Mrs. Jackson had learned the hard way, it was important to keep abreast of belowstairs gossip.

“Did you hear about Northcombe House? Didn't think you had. They had a burglary there on the night of our ball. Yes, thought that would catch your interest. Saw Mrs. Cumberbunch at the church for the funeral and she told me everything; all the Staunton family jewels, which were worth a packet—gone just like that. They weren't even aware they had been burgled until the maid went to put the jewels Lady Staunton had worn to our ball back in the silver safe the next day, and it was wiped clean. Not one of the servants saw or heard a thing. Their butler is practically a geriatric so that would explain it. Course, they are covered by Lloyd's of London, but you can't replace tradition and history, can you?”

Mrs. Jackson listened to exclamations and a babble of excited chatter from maids and footmen alike; it was a joy to hear bad news that didn't feature Iyntwood. The strain of the last week was beginning to lift, she thought. There were no more policemen asking nosy questions and insinuating violent and improbable behavior. Visiting servants had mercifully gone, and one could actually move around the servants' hall without having to say “pardon” all the time. There was an atmosphere of holiday in the air.

As Mrs. Jackson started once again on her instructions to her group, Mr. Hollyoak came into the servants' dining room. He was drawn up to his full height and was patently upset and offended.

“Well, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, his face quite red with annoyance. “Horrid, nasty little animal! If you could see the state of Lady Booth's room, dog hair everywhere. Behind the sofa … yes, Mrs. Jackson, behind the sofa, are dog droppings; must have gone there this morning. It's like having a pig in the house.”

Did Hollyoak mean the pug or Lady Booth? Agnes obviously thought so, because she bent over in a fit of giggles.

“Agnes, stop it at once.” Mr. Hollyoak had had enough. His voice, sharp with irritation, cut across the servants' hall, and Mrs. Jackson hastily went over to the maid as Agnes gulped down tearful laughter. “The events of the last week have had a disgraceful impact on the discipline in this house.”

“Yes, indeed they have Mr. Hollyoak.” Mrs. Jackson took Agnes by the shoulder and steered her away. “Pull yourself together, Agnes. Now go up to the room and clean behind the sofa; open the windows and spread baking soda on the carpet. Later this evening, dust it up and wash the area with a
very
dilute solution of vinegar and warm water. Agnes? Agnes? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jackson, I am on my way now … baking soda and later diluted vinegar water…” Agnes stuffed her apron in her mouth to stop herself from another bout of hilarity.

Mrs. Jackson turned back to Mr. Hollyoak. He was still fuming.

“What is it about some guests, Mrs. Jackson? I mean, letting a dog go in the house!”

Mrs. Jackson listened with sympathy; she could tell Mr. Hollyoak was exhausted. How old was he now, fifty-eight or fifty-nine? This week had been hard on all of them, but it had taken its toll on her old comrade. She closed her ledger, tucked it under her arm, and walked behind the butler toward his pantry.

“Time for a sit-down and a nice cup of tea, Mr. Hollyoak. Everyone is working to your directions, perhaps you can take a little time? I'll get Elsie to bring in a tray to you. Been a long week, and considering everything that's been thrown at us, I think everyone has stood up very well. Training will out, as you so often have said.”

Hollyoak turned at his pantry door as he said, “Yes indeed, Mrs. Jackson, they have done a sterling job, every one of them. I am especially pleased with young Dick. You know something? He was completely in step with me on the night of the ball, I didn't have to ask twice, he pulled out all the stops … anticipating every single thing.” Remembering Dick's sterling performance helped him return to his stately manner. He nodded to her, knowing she would understand the importance of proper training. A disciplined and trained army was how Baden-Powell had triumphed at Mafeking; it was why the empire continued to prosper. Training, discipline, and pride in the work one did. Mrs. Jackson had heard it a hundred times. But Hollyoak was proudly remembering Dick's victory on the night of the ball, which in some way reflected his own dedicated service in the Boer War.

“Yes, he's a bright lad, Mr. Hollyoak, and shows promise. Worth the extra effort to bring him on, don't you think?” she said, hoping to circumvent Mafeking.

“Oh yes, I think so. Of course he needs to learn the importance of punctuality. Almost perfect performance throughout that night, but went missing towards the end. Couldn't find him anywhere, but I kept
that
to myself, what with all this nosiness going on in the house.”

“Oh really, Mr. Hollyoak, went missing when?”

“Must have been right at the end, just before four o'clock. One moment he was in waiting on the terrace, the next moment he had vanished, reappeared about twenty minutes later of course. Have to have a little word with him about that…” He sat down at his desk and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Well, he'd been at it for eighteen hours at that time; perhaps he needed a little break,” she said, knowing that he would understand the need to get off your feet at the end of a long day. But no, she had miscalculated Hollyoak's belief in discipline, order, and obedience—they were precepts to die by.

“I give the little breaks in this house, Mrs. Jackson,” he reminded her.