Death at Bishop's Keep Page 20

  Kate stirred. She was just concluding that there was nothing to be gained from sitting in the dark, mulling over questions that had no answers, when she heard the noise. It was only a tiny click, and she might not have heard it at all if her ears had not been attuned to utter silence. She twisted around in the chair, startled. Behind her, in the dimness, she saw one of the French doors begin to swing open. Someone was entering the library!

  Quick as thought, Kate reached for the poker. With a wild yell, she leaped out of the chair, brandishing the poker, and dashed for the door. On the dark terrace outside, she heard the scramble of feet, a clatter, and a muffled oath as the intruder knocked over a flowerpot, and the sound of running footsteps on gravel. A moment later, there was the thud of a horse’s hooves galloping down the lane. The intruder had made good his escape.

  “Wha’s happ‘nin’?” came a sleepy voice from the direction of the servants’ wing. A casement window flew open and Mudd, in his nightshirt, put out his head. “What’s goin’ on out there?” he demanded. “What’s all th’ noise?”

  Kate stood in the doorway, shoeless, the poker still in her hand. Now that the danger was over, she could feel herself shaking. “A thief tried to break in, Mr. Mudd,” she replied, trying to steady her voice. Mudd’s head disappeared.

  Kate went back into the library and, with shaking hands, lighted a candle at a dying coal on the hearth. She stepped out onto the terrace again, sheltering its flame with her hand. There was nothing, of course. The intruder had gotten completely away.

  Then her eye fell on something lying on the clipped grass, beside the tumbled flowerpot. She picked it up and turned it in her hands.

  The intruder might have escaped, but he had left his brown felt hat behind.

  34

  “Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.”

  —RUDYARD KIPLING “A Smugglers’s Song”

  Kate was outside early the next morning. The rain had stopped well before dawn and the morning was a cheerful one, mild and bright, promising a fine day. With Aunt Sabrina and Mudd, Kate made a tour of the shrubbery, trying to identify the intruder’s route of escape. But if he had left footprints or his horse any hoofprints, they had been obscured by the heavy rain that fell shortly after midnight. Mudd sent Pocket to notify the constable about the attempted break-in, and Kate and Aunt Sabrina returned to the library.

  “So the only clue to the intruder’s identity is the brown felt hat,” Kate said, turning it over in her hands.

  “Hardly a clue, I should think,” Aunt Sabrina said. “It looks as if it came out of a dustbin.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Kate said slowly. She would have to tell Aunt Sabrina about the man who had visited the kitchen the day before. Jenny Blyly’s young man, Tom Potter. He must have been the intruder, and he was clearly up to no good. And there was the matter of the altercation between Aunt Jaggers and Mrs. Pratt. Aunt Sabrina would have to know about that, as well.

  But perhaps not at this very moment. Aunt Sabrina did not look well. Her eyes were smudged, her voice strained. Her costume this morning was a navy blue dress fitted far more conservatively than her usual loose gowns, and she wore a gold watch clipped to a brooch on her lapel. Her gray hair was arranged in a tidy knot at the back of her neck. Her appearance was more severe than it had been since Kate’s arrival, and her mouth was set, as if she had come to some conclusion that she did not relish.

  “Tramping about the shrubbery so early has made me rather hungry,” Aunt Sabrina said. “Shall we have some breakfast?” She paused a moment, and then added, as if in afterthought, “We shall not be working this morning, Kathryn.”

  Kate looked at her aunt in surprise. “No?”

  “No.” Aunt Sabrina’s tone was flat. “I have determined to set the history aside for the moment. When I am ready to resume work, I shall tell you.”

  “But I have already begun to translate Fräulein Sprengel’s letters,” Kate objected gently. She frowned, remembering the questions and reservations about the letters that had arisen in her mind the afternoon before. But that seemed so long ago, and of much less consequence than the events that had occurred since. There was really no point in mentioning her concerns, especially if they were not going forward with the history.

  Aunt Sabrina’s face had darkened. “Ah, yes, the letters. Please collect them for me, and the cipher document and its transcription, and any copies you may have made of either.” Aunt Sabrina’s voice was firm and authoritative, and her manner invited neither remark nor rebuttal.

  “Yes, Aunt,” Kate said obediently, and began to gather the documents into a neat stack. She handed it to Aunt Sabrina.

  “Is this all?”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Aunt Sabrina took them. “Thank you,” she said. “Please follow me.” Without a word, she went from the room, with Kate a half step behind, wondering at the determined set of the other woman’s shoulders. What had happened during Aunt Sabrina’s absence yesterday to change her so decidedly? Where had she gone? Whom had she seen? What had she learned?

  In her bedroom, Aunt Sabrina took a framed oil from the wall. Where the painting had hung was a small safe, which Aunt Sabrina opened with a key she took from the top drawer of a delicate Queen Anne desk.

  “The documents are to remain here until they are asked for by the vicar,” Aunt Sabrina said. She put them into the safe, and secured it with the key. She looked directly at Kate. “Were I to answer your questions about the letters, my dear, I would have to lie.” She turned away with a firmness that absolutely concluded the matter.

  But there was something else Kate needed to say, and she could not delay any longer. She cleared her throat. “Aunt Sabrina,” she said, “something happened in the kitchen yesterday evening that I feel you should know about.”

  Aunt Sabrina replaced the painting on the wall. “Do not tell me,” she said gravely, “that my sister has been at the servants again.”

  “I am afraid so,” Kate said.

  Aunt Sabrina was resigned. “What happened?”

  “Aunt Jaggers struck Harriet. Mrs. Pratt came to her defense and dumped a half bucket of water on Aunt Jaggers.” Kate hesitated, and then added, “Aunt Jaggers fired her.”

  Aunt Sabrina’s mouth tightened. “Bernice discharged Cook!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What can she have been thinking of!”

  Kate smiled a little. “I don’t believe she was thinking at all. Perhaps by now she has cooled. At any rate, Mrs. Pratt stood her ground. She is awaiting your decision about her future employment.”

  “I will speak to Cook,” Aunt Sabrina said with taut anger. There were spots of color high on her cheeks, and her nostrils were flared. “And then to Bernice. If I had not already decided to put an end to her threats and petty cruelties, this would be the last straw.”

  Kate stared, surprised at her aunt’s anger. If she were reacting to her sister’s treatment of Harriet and Cook, surely her response was exaggerated. But Kate already suspected that there was something else between them, some bitter secret Aunt Jaggers had been holding over Aunt Sabrina like a dagger. It looked as if Aunt Sabrina had decided to take matters into her own hands. What was she going to do? Was she willing to risk the disclosure of the secret information that Aunt Jaggers seemed to hold?

  Aunt Sabrina turned. “I find I have lost my appetite for breakfast,” she said, “but I wish to speak with the servants. Would you mind, Kathryn, accompanying me belowstairs?”

  “Of course not,” Kate said. “There is something else, though.” She hesitated, wondering whether she should tell Aunt Sabrina about Tom Potter. But perhaps it would be well to speak with Mrs. Pratt first. She made up her mind. “There is something else, though,” she repeated. “It’s a small thing, but I’m afraid it must be dealt with this morning. During my visit to Marsden Manor on the day before yesterday, I invited the Marsdens—Eleanor, Patsy, and Bradford—and Sir Charles to luncheon here today. I meant to speak to you about it yesterday,
but an occasion did not present itself. Today does not seem the best time for a social call. When Pocket returns from the village, may I send him with a note, postponing the luncheon?”

  “No.” Aunt Sabrina’s voice was firm. “I am glad that you have invited your friends. Come. We will do our business with the servants, and then speak to Cook about the luncheon. She is a competent cook, but a plain cook, and she will need our assistance with the menu.”

  35

  “We never knows wot’s hidden in each other’s hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we’d need keep the shutters up, some on us, I do assure you!”

  —CHARLES DICKENS Martin Chuzzlewit

  Mrs. Pratt was presiding over the last moments of the staff breakfast when Miss Ardleigh and the young miss came into the servants’ hall. Seeing them, she stood up. The rest of the servants hastily followed suit, pushing back their chairs, their faces carefully bland, only their eyes registering surprise. Miss Ardleigh had never appeared in the servants’ hall in their time there, and even Mrs. Pratt had difficulty recalling when she had last been belowstairs. Certainly not since the advent of Jaggers.

  Mudd spoke. “If ye’ve come about the constable, mum, Pocket’s already bin and back agin.”

  “I have not, but thank you, Mudd,” Miss Ardleigh said. Mrs. Pratt saw her glance at the plates of toast and egg and bit of boiled, streaky bacon. Harriet and Nettie were particularly partial to the bacon, which they did not often have. It was Mrs. Pratt’s effort to make poor amends for Jagger’s ill-treatment. “Have we interrupted your meal?”

  “No, mum,” Mrs. Pratt lied. She held her face emotionless, but inside she was angrily resentful. Couldn’t they even sit down to a meal—plain and parsimonious as it was—without being intruded upon? A lengthy interruption would mean cold food and poor spirits for the rest of the morning. The work was hard enough without that. “D’ye wish to speak to—”

  “To all of you, actually,” Miss Ardleigh replied evenly. “I have come to apologize, both on my own behalf and that of my sister.”

  Apologize? Mrs. Pratt stared. Mudd was stunned into speechlessness. Amelia and Pocket were gaping like codfish and Harriet made a small sound, almost a whimper. Nettie wrung her hands. Clearly, it was up to Mrs. Pratt to reply.

  “Apology ain’t necess’ry, mum,” she said, looking back at Miss Ardleigh with narrowed eyes. Apologize? What mistress ever apologized to a servant? It wasn’t in the nature of things.

  “I fear that it is necessary,” Miss Ardleigh said, “even though my words are embarrassing to me and perhaps to you. I find that I must resume management of the household. It is clear to me now, and should have been before this, that my sister is ill-suited to the task of mistress. For yielding up my responsibilities without considering the possible consequences for all of us, I apologize. For her abuse of your rights, I most sincerely apologize.”

  “Oh, mum!” Harriet burst out passionately, and then bit her lip with a sideways glance at Cook. Mrs. Pratt gave the girl a cold stare, but it was Miss Ardleigh she was angry with. Did she think that by sweeping in here like the Queen herself and dosing them with a spoonful of sweet talk, she could change what had happened—not just last evening, but last spring, when Jenny was turned out? Did she think she could win them over, could erase the memory of those terrible hurts with an easy smile or two? Well, there was more in Mrs. Pratt’s heart and mind than Miss Ardleigh knew, if that’s what she thought!

  “From now on,” Miss Ardleigh said, “you are to take your direction from me.” She looked around at the cheerless room, the cold stone floor, the fireplace absent of fire. “We will begin by restoring the furnishings to this room. Where were they taken?”

  “To ... to the attic, mum,” Mrs. Pratt said, blinking.

  “Good,” Miss Ardleigh replied. “Please have them returned, and the carpet, and see if another chair or two can be found.” She shivered. “And unblock the fireplace. It is far too cold in this room to comfortably enjoy your leisure hours here.”

  Mrs. Pratt allowed herself a small flare of triumph at the thought of the return of the sofa, while Harriet and Nettie seemed nearly overwhelmed at the prospect of a restored fire and a carpet. Pocket shifted his feet, grinning.

  Miss Ardleigh continued. “Cook, my sister clearly exceeded her authority yesterday when she requested your notice. I do hope you will consent to remain with us.”

  Mrs. Pratt swallowed. The situation, which had boggled the brain to start with, was becoming curiouser and curiouser.

  “That is settled, then,” Aunt Sabrina said. She smiled. “You and I will meet this morning to discuss meals, pantry stores, and so forth, and you will acquaint me with any new procedures you have instituted for managing the kitchen. Mudd, you will please inform me about the current state of household accounts, the distribution of responsibilities among the upstairs help, and the state of the grounds.”

  Mrs. Pratt saw Mudd’s eyebrows shoot up and he opened his mouth to speak. But she gave him the slightest shake of her head, and he closed his mouth again.

  Miss Ardleigh regarded him curiously for a moment. When he said nothing, she looked around the table, her eyes resting on each one in turn. “In the meantime,” she said, “I hope that each of you will accept my thanks for your patience and forbearance. Our household can only run smoothly if we all do our proper parts. I will do mine, I assure you.”

  That was too much for Amelia. “Bless ye, mum,” she said fervently.

  Mrs. Pratt cleared her throat sternly, and Amelia had the grace to blush. She always was a forward chit, giving herself airs, putting herself above her station. But even Nettie looked as if she were ready to dance, and Pocket’s grin fair split his face. Mrs. Pratt supposed that the younger ones couldn’t be blamed for being bamboozled. She herself had heard similar promises before, although not to the extent of returning the fire and the sofa. After the sad business with Jenny, Miss Ardleigh had personally promised that she would rein Jaggers in. But nothing had come of it then, and Mrs. Pratt wasn’t going to hold her breath until something came of it now. Anyway, Mrs. Pratt reminded herself murderously, it was Jaggers who should be here apologizing, not the mistress.

  Miss Ardleigh smiled. “That will be all, then,” she said. “We will have guests for luncheon, Cook—an additional four, I believe. Please see me”—she unclipped her watch and consulted it—“in the library an hour from now, with suggestions for the menu.” Gathering up her skirts, she swept from the room, her niece behind.

  The other servants finished the cold breakfast and left to be about their work, chattering about the prospect of increased daily rations and the exciting prospect—although Miss Ardleigh had not mentioned it—of being released from compulsory prayers. Only Mrs. Pratt and Mudd were left, staring at one another from opposite ends of the table. There was a long silence.

  “She’ll have t’ be told about the accounts,” Mudd said. He shook his head with a dark look. “She’s not goin’ t’ be ’appy. An’ Jaggers is like t’ be furious.”

  “Let her be,” Mrs. Pratt said, bleakly smug. “Let her get wot’s comin’ to her for diddlin’. Little enough, a’ter what she’s done.” Mrs. Pratt and Mudd had suspected for some months that Jaggers was manipulating the household accounts, but it was only in the last few days that Mudd had confirmed their suspicions through some adroit backward checking. “I figger she knows we know ‘bout th’ accounts, anyway,” she added, draining her coffee. “That’s why she come on so sharp yesterday, threat’nin’ to sack me. Left to herself, Mudd, ye’d be nex’ t’ go a’ter me.”

  “What do yer suppose ‘as come o’er the mistress, takin’ things into ‘er own ’ands?” Mudd asked. Reflectively, he ate the last crust of toast. “D’ye think there’ll be jam on th’ table, an’ beer, now that she’s runnin’ th’ manor agin?”

  “Dunno,” Mrs. Pratt said blackly, “an’ don’t care. A bit o’ jam won’t heal what’s hurt.” She banged her cup on the saucer. She could not help
herself. Un-Christian as it was, a poisonous rage, bitter as bile, rose inside her when she thought about Jaggers.

  Mudd was thoughtful. “Not t’ put too fine a point on’t, Mrs. P., but ain’t it time t’ turn the other cheek?”

  “Jam and fire don’t go far wi‘me,” Mrs. Pratt said, from the depths of her wounded spirit. “Who knows wot’s hidden in Miss Ardleigh’s heart? She didn’t raise a hand to help poor Jenny, nor e’en offered to help her find a place, which she culd’ve done.”

  Mudd stood up. “Well, I fer one,” he announced, “am ready t’ let bygones be bygones.”

  Mrs. Pratt glared at him. “Fine fer ye, Mudd. But fer me, Miss Ardleigh is guilty as Jaggers. Both of ‘em deserves wotev’r they git. I only hope it kin be me wot dishes it out.”

  36

  “We must leave the family’s skeletons to rattle in the dusty dark.”

  —ANONYMOUS “A Mother’s Plot,” 1887

  Kate never knew exactly what went on between Aunt Jaggers and Aunt Sabrina in the library that morning. When Aunt Sabrina dismissed her, she went first to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Pratt, who was sweeping the floor with an amazing energy.

  “Don’t know, ’m sure,” she said snappishly, when Kate had asked her about the brown felt hat.