“Why do you ask, your ladyship?” That scone might have been made from a marvelous recipe, but it left the taste of ashes in my mouth.
“They have that look of belonging together. The similar coloring.”
“I see what you mean.” So much for Mrs. Malloy’s belief that like didn’t respond to like, but having retreated to pour herself a cup of tea she didn’t get to state her case.
“One remembers what it is like to be desperately, one might say foolishly, in love.” Lady Fiona gazed reflectively at a standing potted plant.
“Actually,” I heard myself say, as if from a vast distance, “Ben is my husband and the woman standing with him and Miss Pierce is the great-niece. The one staying at the Dower House.”
“Is she?” Her ladyship drifted a look at Val. “Yes, I seem to place her now. She was an extremely pretty child when she and her brother spent that summer at Cragstone. Never having had children of my own, I had concerns. But they were no trouble. I only remember Nanny Pierce mentioning one upset. She would have thought it unconscionable to withhold such information. A betrayal of her duty to Nigel.”
“I see.”
“It involved the boy’s locating the priest hole in the west wing and refusing to tell his sister how to open the panel. Nanny said Nigel would never have behaved in such a way. She assured him neither child would go near that secret room again, which relieved him greatly. He didn’t at all like the idea of them getting shut in and being unable to find the release catch in the dark.”
“What a horrible thought.” I held on to it, while not looking at Ben and Val. I also focused on the rhythmic spatter of water landing on my head. Betty had talked about a leak from the bathroom above. Lady Fiona showed no sign of noticing that it was beginning to rain indoors. “According to family legend a priest did get trapped in that priest hole during Tudor times. Or would it have been Jacobean? Sadly, he wasn’t brought out until it was too late; he had suffocated. But perhaps that was a blessing. They did have that nasty tendency to hang, draw, and quarter people in those days.” Lady Fiona sipped her tea. “How long have you and your husband been married, Elsie?”
“Nearly nine years.” It was now sprinkling quite heavily over our sofa, but the rest of the room remained under clear skies.
Our conversation caught Mr. Tribble’s attention, sending him off on a tangent. “Did I marry you, Lady Fiona?” He might have leaned too far forward if Ben hadn’t darted forward to reposition him.
“I do tend to be somewhat absentminded,” responded her ladyship serenely, “but I think I would have remembered had you ever been my husband.”
“What Mr. Tribble means is did he perform the wedding service,” said Mr. Hardcastle, with his nice smile. “No, Simeon, you didn’t. I was a guest at Lady Fiona’s marriage to Nigel Gallagher. It was Howard Miles, not you, who officiated.”
“I could have sworn-” A few drops of water landed on Mr. Tribble’s head.
“No, you wouldn’t.” His friend laughed heartily. “Swearwords are not in your vocabulary. Or mine, although I sometimes come close when I drop a stitch in my knitting-I trust I may count on your discretion not to spread word of my new hobby around in clerical circles. I happen to find it relaxing when I’m thinking through an upcoming sermon. And I’m not the only man in these parts to have taken it up. There’s the Barclay’s Bank manager, the village school headmaster, Police Sergeant Walters, and-”
“I still feel sure”-Mr. Tribble continued to peer at Lady Fiona-“it would have been, now let me think… what year was it? Never mind! It will come back to me. These things always do.”
Other conversations flowed around me. Tom talked to Mr. Scrimshank, Betty said something to Nanny Pierce, and Val joined in, while her eyes followed Ben’s every movement. Mrs. Malloy continued handing out replenishments of sandwiches, cakes, and scones. Still no Ariel!
Lady Fiona left the sofa, saying she must talk to Nanny Pierce about taking her to lunch on Wednesday. Feeling abandoned, I stared into my teacup. There was something floating in it. Something shaped like a leaf. But not a tea leaf; it was too big and too white! It could only be… I looked up at the ceiling, to behold an extremely well-endowed Zeus now absent a very necessary part of his cloud cover.
Finally, others noticed it was raining.
Betty yanked at Tom’s arm. “Ariel must have left the water running after washing her hair. Run and turn it off! Ben, will you go with him and help mop up?”
“Of course.”
“And I’ll go and look for Ariel, if you like,” said Mrs. Malloy.
Out the three of them went, and Val, whose hair of course was curling even more beautifully in the damp, adjusted her great-aunt’s cardigan and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Tribble, as more drops landed on his head, “I’m afraid we came without our umbrellas, Jim.”
“Oh, I expect it’s only a summer shower,” Mr. Hardcastle reassured him gamely. “No need for us to race for cover, Mrs. Hopkins. I’m sure it will pass over very quickly.”
“We could go into the drawing room.” Betty stood, twisting her hands.
“Not on my account, dear lady.” Mr. Tribble made the understandable mistake of looking up at the ceiling. Instantly, it became apparent that whatever else might be failing, his eyesight was not. If ever a man goggled, he did. “Oh, my!” His voice creaked. “Whatever next!”
The answer was a significant piece of cloud landing in his teacup. Betty hurriedly produced a new one for him and then looked distractedly around for the milk jug and teapot.
“I wonder if he might prefer a glass of brandy.” Lady Fiona lifted a decanter from a table.
“Indeed, that would be welcome!” Mr. Tribble held out his cup. “Just pour it in here, no need to trouble yourself fetching a glass. Yes, right to the middle.” Her ladyship had wafted to his side. “That will do very nicely. Thank you.”
“My dear Simeon,” Mr. Hardcastle protested. “I think that may be too much.”
“No, no. I would say the amount is exactly right. Or maybe”-peeking up at Lady Fiona-“you would kindly pour in just an inch or two more… Perfect, thank you.” He smiled up at her. “May I say you have changed remarkably little over the years. It is now coming back to me. It wasn’t a big wedding, just the two of you… and both so young. Ah, well! Time marches on! Is anyone else going to indulge?”
“Perhaps a very small cup,” said Mrs. Malloy, who had returned to the room with Ariel. Whatever the resulting problems, the girl had finally washed her hair.
“I didn’t even go into that bathroom,” she muttered to Betty. “I used the kitchen sink. Whoever left the water running, it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the spirit who visited last night.”
“Yes!” Betty’s face glowed. “The poor dar-man has such limited means of letting me know he’s counting on me to act when the moment is right.”
Ariel sat down beside me. “Maybe,” she whispered, “Nanny Pierce went upstairs to fill the bath for her precious Nigel and then forgot about it. Or acted out of clear-headed malice.”
Had the old lady left the conservatory? I didn’t remember. I’d been preoccupied. Could Ariel be lying through her teeth about not having caused the deluge?
Mr. Tribble raised his cup. “To everyone’s good health, mine included.”
Lady Fiona came up to me after returning the decanter to the table. “I do hope he’s not the sort to drink and drive.”
“I’m sure it will be Mr. Hardcastle behind the wheel,” I said.
“That does relieve my mind, Mrs. Honeywood… Elsie. Neither Nigel nor I ever learned to drive. Nanny would have worried too much in his case. She was ill for a week when he got his first tricycle.”
And how old would he have been at that time, fifty? I was looking at Betty, thinking how pretty she was with that dreamy smile on her face. What would she think of the living Nigel Gallagher, were he to show up? I retained some hope that he would do so.
“In the end his tricycle had to be given away to a needy child. But he did enjoy operating the vacuum cleaner; he loved the sound of the motor and pressing the pedal to make it stop. I imagine it was one of those man things.” Her ladyship paused to stare across the room. “Oh, dear, Mr. Tribble has dropped his teacup and is falling off his chair.”
Mr. Hardcastle bent over the crumpled figure. The rest of us, apart from Mr. Scrimshank, who remained rooted near his fern, went over to help. It was Mrs. Malloy who got there first. “He hasn’t just fallen off his chair!” Her eyes
