on her sleeve.
“My Mr. Nigel. I woke up to hear Val telling me he was home where he belongs, but when I sat up in bed she said I’d been dreaming and cried out in my sleep.”
“That’s what happened.” Her great-niece was suddenly at her side. “Aunt, you shouldn’t have come up here.”
“I’ve got a coat over my nightgown. I wouldn’t let Mr. Nigel see me not properly dressed.”
“I know; you look entirely presentable. But he isn’t here and you’ve interrupted the Hopkinses’ evening with their guests.” Val looked apologetically at Tom, but was it the sight of Ben looking at her intently that brought the lovely flush to her cheeks?
“Miss Pierce, Mr. Gallagher hasn’t come home,” Tom told the old lady, with a kindness that surprised me.
“He did pay a fleeting visit”-Ariel began, then checked herself-“to Istanbul, Mrs. Cake told me.”
“He never went there,” Nanny Pierce replied crossly. “He went to Constantinople, somewhere quite different. Oh, I am disappointed that I don’t get to make Mr. Nigel a welcome-home cup of cocoa.”
“Someday soon.” Val put an arm around her, to have it shoved away.
“No need to coddle me like I’m demented. I’m as sharp as I ever was. None of that forgetting names and faces for me.”
Madam LaGrange pushed up her sleeve to look at her watch. “I’d better go out to wait for my taxi. I booked it with the man who brought me here, for ten minutes from now. But he’s going to be early.”
“It must be marvelous to know things ahead of time.” Ben smiled at her. He had stopped looking at Val.
“Yes, there is that.” Madam glided into the hall with Tom following like a bridesmaid. After they left, Nanny sat down in the nearest chair and began reminiscing about her Mr. Nigel. Val looked embarrassed. Ben didn’t look any way at all. And Ariel asked me if I’d enjoyed her surprise.
“Betty did. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” Suddenly I couldn’t stand the constraint between Ben and myself a moment longer. Without bothering to excuse myself as Betty had done, I hurried into the hall. Deciding that wasn’t far enough away, I opened the front door and headed down the stone steps in time to see Madam LaGrange get into her taxi. It was still quite light.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Malloy popped up at my side and pointed a finger at the departing guest.
“Is your eyesight failing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you should recognize Madam LaGrange.”
“But that wasn’t her.”
“Are you sure?” We stood staring at each other.
“ ’Course I am. Madam LaGrange is a slip of a girl, not much taller than Ariel and no more than eighteen years old.”
“Then who was that woman?”
8
When I related to Mrs. Malloy what had transpired at the seance, one thing became clear: someone, for whatever dubious reason, wanted to confirm Betty’s belief that Mr. Gallagher had been murdered. The real Madam LaGrange might not have produced Nigel at all, let alone have him play so effectively on Betty’s emotions; therefore the switch. We agreed not to say anything to the Hopkinses for the time being. Better, Mrs. Malloy and I decided, to let the devious plot unfold.
Upon our return to the house, she immediately phoned the real Madam LaGrange and got her voice mail. Not thinking it wise to leave a message that might result in Madam’s phoning back and talking with one of the Hopkinses, Mrs. Malloy told me she would ring back the next morning.
She and I also talked about Miss Pierce: my visit to the Dower House and her arrival at Cragstone following the seance. Was there anything to Mrs. Malloy’s suggestion that Val might have had mercenary reasons for keeping in touch with the old lady over the years and then had jumped at the chance to move in with her? A practical move, Mrs. M had pointed out, if the old lady’s gratitude was demonstrated by making Val her sole heir: ousting the brother who had bunked off to Ireland or possibly Scotland, made an unfortunate marriage, and forgotten all about the great-aunt. But was there an inheritance worth bothering about? The fact that Lady Fiona had not taken up residence at the Dower House merely suggested an unwillingness to turn out an elderly person who might have nowhere else to go. It was far too big a leap to assume that a grateful Mr. Gallagher had persuaded his wife to gift the Dower House to his devoted former nanny.
I was proud of having introduced this caveat. It was good to know I had not succumbed to unkindness as a result of petty and completely unfounded jealousy toward the beautiful woman who had stood that afternoon with my husband in a tableau that excluded everyone else present, clinging to his hands, gazing deeply into his eyes. What else should be expected from two people who come unexpectedly upon each other after a long interval of time? Our vicar would be proud of me. His wife might go so far as to offer me the lead in her next play,
The rest of the evening was such that Ben and I were never alone until we came upstairs, at which time we were occupied with the necessary unpacking. I whisked into the bathroom, not to avoid conversation but because I like concentrated time with my teeth. It is a source of some pride to me that I have never had a cavity, something most women in their thirties cannot claim. Val must be about my age, I thought, as I hung up the dainty hand towel. Whether she looked younger might be in the eye of the one doing the beholding. The mirror informed me that I could shed a few years by unplaiting my hair and shaking it loose down my back. True, in the morning I’d look as though I had escaped from an attic, but so what? Then again, maybe what Ben needed at this time was a wife with whom he could converse without visible distraction. There had to be so much he was aching to tell me: what he had thought of the seance, how it felt to be reunited with Tom, his impression of Betty, and what he was planning for the tea tomorrow and the catering for Thursday.
I left my hair in its plait and smoothed the demure collar of my nightgown before leaving the bathroom and making my way to the four-poster bed where Ben awaited me under the covers.
“Sleepy, darling?” I asked, settling back against the comfy down pillows.
“Yes, but not too tired to talk.” His hand reached for mine but instantly let it go, as he lay in a straight line on his back, arms at his side, eyes on the ceiling.
I resisted the urge to rearrange him like a piece of furniture that needed to be set at an angle. Instead, I switched off my bedside lamp and watched him subside into shadow. Nice, I told myself: peaceful contentment at the end of a long day. No need to talk. Everything that had occurred since our arrival at Cragstone House could wait till morning to be discussed. Of course he must be tired, after the early start and the drive to Yorkshire.
“How was Mrs. Malloy’s reunion with her sister?” he asked, across the great divide that can happen in beds designed for families of six.
“Interesting.”
“In what way?” Ben inquired of the ceiling.
“We met Mr. Archibald Scrimshank. He looks like an Archibald. Melody had some pertinent things to say about him and his relationship with the Gallaghers.” I went on to explain, speaking faster as the feeling increased that he was only half listening. When I petered out, it was several moments before he answered. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
“Do the sisters resemble each other?”
So much for depicting Mr. Scrimshank as the pin-striped villain of the piece and exciting Ben’s interest in ways to prove him guilty of embezzlement and murder.
“Looking at Melody was like catching Mrs. Malloy on the hop without any makeup or hair dye. I felt I ought to apologize and back out the door, promising not to breathe a word to anyone that I’d seen her naked.”
Another silence, during which Ben compressed his arms even closer to his sides. I waited for one of us to start humming as the faux Madam LaGrange had done earlier. When that didn’t happen, I brought up the visit to the Dower House. Finally, in a giddy attempt at providing him with a clearer visual image of the scene, I mentioned
