I'll See You in Paris (6 page)

“What do these paragraphs tell us?” he asked. “An old man claimed to see her, once a year, on Christmas. Odd date, given the duchess hated the holiday. And the author?” He snorted. “Well, here's a piece of advice, something you should've learned at primary school. Don't believe everything you read.”

“That's the damned truth,” she grumbled. “So the woman at the Grange. She was crazy? Demented? Violent? All of the above?”

“All, some, or none of the above,” Gus said. “Depending on who you'd ask. Walking around naked and wielding firearms does not typically lead to a reputation for sanity. On the other hand, some thought it was a ruse, that she pretended to be crazy in order to keep people away.”

“Like with the angry geese.”

“Yes. Or the powerful weed killer she used to spray ‘fuck you' in her front lawn.”

“Not for nothing, but this woman, if she was ‘the duchess.'” Annie rolled her eyes and held up air quotes.

“Let's call her Mrs. Spencer. She would've preferred it.”

“Works for me. Well, this Mrs. Spencer was a real piece of work. Maybe even, how do I put this elegantly?”

“A bit of a bitch?” he said with a wink. “You're going to have to get that blushing under control if you plan to sit around pubs with the likes of me. But you are correct. Mrs. Spencer and the duchess were both described using a host of unflattering terms, such as sociopathic, ruinous, and out for blood. Of course Pru, our American assistant, knew none of this.”

“You have to feel for the old broad,” Annie said. “The woman was alone for decades. That'd make anyone nutty. Why'd the family wait so long to hire someone?”

“Mrs. Spencer didn't want anyone else to live at the Grange. Her niece Edith tried to intervene dozens of times over the years, a promise to her mother that she'd look after Auntie. But just as the old woman shooed away priests with gunshots and cold water, she used decidedly less pleasant tactics with people not of the cloth.”

“‘Fuck you' in the lawn,” Annie guessed.

“Precisely. Bows and poisoned arrows, too. Unfortunately, over time, Mrs. Spencer's behavior grew more erratic. Perhaps she was becoming increasingly senile, or suffering from lack of attention. Whatever the case, third-party complaints about her increased. Phone calls were placed overseas. The family could no longer ignore the situation.”

“Something had to be done,” Annie said. “Still. It's pretty remarkable that she was living independently at ninety-plus years.”

“If she truly was independent,” Gus said. “Because of course there was Tom.”

“Tom? Who the heck is Tom?” She opened the book and flicked through some pages. “I don't see any Tom in here. I thought she lived alone?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Tomasz was a displaced Polish man. He'd been with Mrs. Spencer since 1951 or so the story went. A handyman, she claimed. The only loyal man in her entire wretched life.”

“So what happened to him?”

“No one knew. Was he alive? Dead? Had he even existed in the first place? Because though townspeople had heard his name, took for granted rumors of his existence, no one reported seeing him after 1955, though he'd lived at the Grange some twenty years by the time Pru showed up.”

“Did anyone recall meeting him? Ever?”

“A few people,” Gus said with a shrug. “In the early fifties. After that, nothing, although Mrs. Spencer referred to him often. To would-be visitors she'd screech ‘Watch out! Tom will get you!' Or ‘Don't go near the barn! Tom is in there!' Tom was almost always ‘in the barn.' A queer place for the handyman of a falling-down estate.”

“Why didn't anyone check?” she asked. “Sneak a look?”

Gus tossed his head back and laughed, deep and low and from his gut. She felt her face redden and burn.

“It seems a simple enough solution,” she sniffed. “I don't know why you find it so hilarious.”

“Sure. Simple enough if you don't mind a bullet to the arse.”

“But it's a big property, right? Why wouldn't someone prowl around? See what was up?”

“A brilliant idea. That is, aside from the aforementioned bullets, the barbed wire, a herd of wild boars, a few poisoned spears, as well as about a dozen other hazards. Other than that, a winning plot!”

“I get it, the estate was impenetrable.”

“Mostly. Plus everyone was anxious about what state he'd be in, this Tom, in the barn for twenty years or more.”

“What did they imagine?” she asked. “A dead body? A live, withered one chained to a wall?”

“Yes and yes.”

“I assume Pru didn't know about him. Or any of the other threats.”

“No, she did not,” Gus said. “It's why Edith Junior settled on the diaphanous young American. She'd tried to hire a half-dozen staid British-governess types but they all sussed out the situation and declined the post. The family was lucky, really. Pru had no experience but was the exact right person for the job.”

 

Eight

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

NOVEMBER 1972

“Hello, Mrs. Spencer,” the attach
é
said. “This is your new companion, Miss Valentine.”

“Valentine. What a name.”

“Perchance you might put on a shirt. Display a little polish.”

“What the hell do I need with polish at my age, Reginald?” The old woman slipped the revolver into an ankle holster and hitched up her trousers. “Or a companion for that matter?”

“My name is Murray. As I've told you countless times.”

“Hello there, I'm…”

Pru went to shake Mrs. Spencer's hand but the woman yanked all appendages out of reach, contorting her face as if Pru might be riddled with disease.

“Your manners are immaculate, Mrs. Spencer. It's always so nice to be reminded.”

The attach
é
, named Murray as it turned out, sighed and placed his briefcase on the hall table atop a pile of clipped-out newspaper articles. There were more articles spread across the floor—hundreds, thousands perhaps. As wind gusted through the broken windows, the papers fluttered like leaves.

“Regarding your new companion, m'dear,” Murray said. “There've been myriad complaints from the locals plus a well-placed call from the head of the county. Everyone's concerned about your welfare. Plus no one's keen on witnessing accidental gun deployments.”

“There's nothing accidental about my shot.”

Pru would've snickered if she hadn't been so stupefied by the woman and her house.

“So I need to be ‘dealt with,' you're telling me,” Mrs. Spencer said.

“Precisely. As such, your options are admission to the local sanitarium or the company of a lovely young woman with impeccable references. Ergo, our Miss Valentine.”

Pru flashed him a look, eyebrows punched up into her hairline.

Impeccable references? Admittedly, she dropped some big names during the interview, but as far as she understood, no references were verified. If the aunt had checked, it's unlikely Pru would've gotten the job.

“She knows the Kellogg family,” Murray went on. “Are you familiar with the dry goods people?”

The woman, this Mrs. Spencer, removed her straw hat and dropped it on Murray's briefcase. She shook out her hair, which was fine, translucent, and hung halfway down her back.

“The dry goods people,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Is that right?”

Her eyes were an arresting and startling shade of blue, like glaciers. When they met gazes, Pru felt a sting of cold across her chest. How would she ever get warm in a place like that?

“That's them,” Pru said, her mouth dry.

Was it possible that Charlie's family had uttered a single nice comment about her, or even a neutral one? She couldn't picture them recommending her. Then again, they probably just wanted Pru out of the country.

She'd done nothing wrong per se but what kind of woman couldn't keep her man at home? They were Berkeley students, for Christ's sake. University of hippies and draft dodgers, a school filled with nonpatriots. At the very least, she could've gotten “accidentally” knocked up and guilted their golden boy into remaining stateside.

“The Kellogg family adores our Miss Valentine,” Murray said, and lightly tapped Pru on the shoulder. “Go on. Tell her.”

“I, uh, have known them for about two years—”

“Save your breath,” Mrs. Spencer said. “As if I give a shit about the Kelloggs. Come. Follow me. The both of you.”

Pru gave a muted smile as they made their way deeper into the home. Who gave a shit, indeed. Well, she gave one. But she didn't want to.

The Grange was imposing from the outside, not due to size but because it carried a palpable moodiness, as though it produced its own dark weather. But once inside, the home grew more foreboding and expansive with every step. As Pru moved along, the ceilings rose above her, walls jumped out of her grasp.

“Try to keep up!” Mrs. Spencer bellowed.

The woman quickened her pace, just for fun, just so Pru and Murray would have to jog.

“Crap!” Pru yelped as she tripped over a hole in the parquet floor. She leaped to avoid falling into a second one. “What the hell?”

“Excuse her language,” Murray said. “Americans. You know.”

“No excusing necessary. I'm pleased Edith Junior would dare hire someone possessing even the slightest hint of moxie.”

Pru felt grateful for the compliment as “moxie” was not a word usually ascribed to her. Maybe this wasn't the worst possible situation after all.

“And speaking of manners,” Mrs. Spencer rambled on. “You could've provided some warning that you were bringing a nonresident alien to live in my house. That's some how-do-you-do. Perhaps she's a thief. Or a murderess.”

“You're the one with a handgun, Mrs. Spencer.”

“I don't know why my niece pays you a single red cent. Honestly, Ferguson.”

“Murray. The name's Murray.”

“Hold on,” Pru said, her voice hoarse from lack of use, not to mention the clouds of dust swirling in the air. “You didn't know I was coming?”

“Lord no.” Mrs. Spencer sniggered. “You're unknown to me before today, which is probably for the best. Had I recognized Perry from the road I would've shot you both on sight.”

“Thank heavens for lucky breaks, then,” Murray said.

Pru turned to him. “Mrs. Spencer didn't know about me? You didn't tell her?”

“Believe me, we tried.” He exhaled loudly. “Mrs. Spencer, Edith rang you umpteen times. You were fully aware of the situation but chose not to listen, per usual.”

They stepped into the kitchen and for Pru almost onto some chickens. She blinked. The place was a scene. Trash. Broken furniture. Upended appliances. Enough animals to start a petting zoo.

Pru would soon come to learn that nothing in the room was used for its intended purpose. The stove provided the home's heat, the multiple refrigerators were for storage, and the furniture sheltered Mrs. Spencer's crop of amorous spaniels. These dogs were the reason for the holes in the floor, too. Mrs. Spencer cut them so the pups could clump together beneath the floorboards, burrowing like small woodland creatures.

“I don't know why Edith thinks I need assistance,” Mrs. Spencer said as chickens clacked by her feet. “As if she knows what I need at all. The woman's exactly like her mother, who'd just as soon see me dead as properly looked after.”

“Edith cares about you,” Murray insisted. “She's loved you for a lifetime and only wants to ensure you're healthy and happy. Also, the entire population of Banbury is terrified.”

“That's hardly my problem. They're silly. And bored.”

“People are moving out of Chacombe because of you,” Murray said. “Local estate agents are in a frenzy. You are single-handedly depressing home prices.”

“I think declining property values have more to do with the floating pound than an old lady in the countryside. Though I s'pose I can't expect the village rubes to comprehend basic economics. Anyhow, I don't much care what they say. They've been wagging tongues about me for decades. Not an ounce of it is true.”

“The gossip about the revolver,” Murray said and pointed to her ankle holster. “Seems reasonably accurate.”

“As if that isn't their favorite thing about me! The Shooting Duchess!” Mrs. Spencer lit a cigarette, a Woodbine. “What a story for them to tell.” She looked at Pru. “Lest you believe the townsfolk sane, they think I'm the long-lost Duchess of Marlborough.”

“A duchess?” Pru said, trying not to smile. “Really?”

“A load of horseshit.” Mrs. Spencer blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder and into Murray's face. “What would a duchess be doing in this derelict hamlet, I ask you? Especially a duchess of that caliber. The ol' D of M was the most beautiful creature to ever exist. The press called her ‘the embodiment of sunshine.'”

“A bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?” Murray asked.

“I'm merely repeating conventional wisdom,” Mrs. Spencer said with a little shrug. “So, based on the not-so-trustworthy accounts of a bunch of hayseeds, you've brought some pretty young thing to look after me?”

“I have.”

“And what if I reject this proposition?”

“Regrettably, that's not an option,” Murray said. “If you wish to continue living in your home, Miss Valentine is your choice. Otherwise I have a bed reserved for you in the O'Connell Ward at St. Andrew's Hospital.”

“St. Andrew's!”

“You see? Miss Valentine is not such a bad alternative.”

Stomach lurching, Pru considered how she might be a suitable replacement for a mental institution. It was funny how quickly a perfectly decent option could morph into a horrifically bad idea. When was the next flight to Boston? she wondered.