“That’s a lovely portrait of her in the gallery.” I sat warming my hands on my teacup, the brew being too stewed for my taste. Mrs. Cake didn’t seem to mind.
“That was painted long before my time here.”
“Ariel says that, prior to her marriage, Lady Fiona was very much in love with someone else.”
“It’ll be me that told her that. Like I said, my mouth can get going nonstop, but it wasn’t a secret. Mrs. Johnson’s sister told me about it, and so did several other people. From the sound of things he was very good- looking, quite like a film star, but her father thought him a bounder. Probably that was a good part of the attraction for a gently brought up young lady. Anyway, her parents put an end to it, threatened to cut her off with a shilling if she married the fellow.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
“No.” Mrs. Cake was still looking anxious. “But I’m sure her ladyship and Mr. Gallagher have some idea.”
“Both of them?” I said in surprise.
“He was Mr. Gallagher’s cousin. That’s how her ladyship met him, at a house party that was intended to bring her and Mr. Gallagher together, or so the story goes.”
I assimilated this piece of information. “Mrs. Cake, have you heard any rumors that Lady Fiona and this young man may have been secretly married?”
“Not a tweet.” She looked bewildered, then anxious again. “Oh, Mrs. Haskell, now I can’t get the idea out of my head that Mr. Scrimshank was here that night and”-a sob caught in her throat-“did something awful to Mr. Gallagher. But I can’t see the police doing anything just because I’ve got a bad feeling, not if there isn’t more to go on.”
“That’s the problem.” I turned over an idea. “Mrs. Cake, is Mavis as fond of her ladyship as you are?”
“Every bit. Between you and me, we’ve both said we can’t wait for her to have a place of her own so we can go back to taking care of her. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have the glimmering of an idea, but I’d like to talk with Mrs. Malloy before saying anything more.”
As it happened, that was the end of my chat with Mrs. Cake. Betty poked her head around the door to ask if I’d seen Ariel. I told her I hadn’t but, seeing she was worried, offered to help look for the child. Once out in the hall, Betty stood twisting her hands.
“Silly of me to get nervous,” she said, “but you saw her reaction to Mr. Tribble’s death, and she still didn’t seem right at breakfast. Tom asked if she’d like to go for a walk, but she wouldn’t so he left on his own. Here am I as usual with all the responsibility and none of the perks. What if she’s run away again?”
“How long have you been looking for her?”
“At least an hour. I’d thought to take her out to buy something for her to wear at the garden party on Thursday. A little shopping trip and lunch, to help cheer her up.”
“You’ll have looked in all the obvious places?”
“I’ve gone through the house and searched the grounds. If only Tom would get back. I don’t want to phone the police without talking to him.” Betty raked her hands through her red hair, which as usual had a humanizing effect, although in this case it didn’t seem necessary. She looked more real than I had yet seen her. Her eyes did not look like glass when misted with tears.
“Have you gone through to the west wing?” I asked her.
“What?”
“She took me up there yesterday. It’s worth a try.”
“Come with me,” she said. “I always find it creepy at the best of times.”
I thought of Lady Fiona’s account of the priest who had been walled up behind the wainscoting. Had emanations from that ancient tragedy affected my mood during my former visit? Or did Nanny Pierce’s presence still loom beyond the bedroom where she had kept her shrine to Mr. Gallagher’s boyhood? Had she left his toys in place as a reminder to him and to her ladyship that she might have been ousted to the Dower House but there was no removing her influence, either past or future?
We passed through what I thought of as the ballroom and entered Nanny’s personal domain. All was as I remembered, neat and organized, apart from a slightly rumpled bed and a small blue and gold object placed in the middle.
Betty picked it up and held it out to me. “What can this be doing up here?”
Not Frances Edmonds, I thought. Surely she would have taken the snuffbox from the Chinese chest home with her if she had bothered to steal it. I shook my head, hesitant to suggest the most likely scenario, which seemed confirmed when Betty opened the lid and drew out a twist of toffee papers.
“I suppose it must have been Ariel; there’s no one else, but I still have trouble believing it. Whatever that girl’s faults, she’s not sneaky: too much the other way round, with her in-your-face rudeness. And she’s not one to want someone else blamed for what she gets up to. She had to know that if I’d realized the snuffbox was missing, I’d have thought Frances had taken it to get back at me for not helping her and Stan out after we came into the money. No, I just can’t-”
“It wasn’t me, Betty.” Ariel came around the door. “I saw it when I came up here and have been trying to figure it out myself. I was going to bring it back down with me, but I wasn’t ready. I wanted more time to think. This is always where I come when I want to be alone.”
“Now that I know,” Betty said tartly, “I won’t panic the next time I can’t find you. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through this past hour, searching every nook and cranny, afraid something was terribly wrong and your dad and I would never find you?”
“Nice to know you care.” It was a familiar pert reply, but Ariel brushed at her eyes and her voice trembled.
It was time for me to slip away. I went down the back stairs, as Ariel and I had done on the previous occasion, and entered the passageway connecting the two parts of the house. I was about to go out into the garden when I heard Ben’s voice.
“I can’t go on like this,” he said. “I’ve never kept Ellie in the dark about anything, so with or without your agreement, Valeria, I’m going to tell her what’s been going on here.”
“And what would that be?” I said, coming out into the open.
11
Ben took a step toward me, but Val laid a hand on his arm. “Please,” she begged, “let me tell her.” Women shouldn’t plead, I thought, from someplace off in the distance, not unless they are incredibly lovely and nothing they do can reduce them. And Val was at her most beautiful at that moment, with the blue of the sky in her eyes and her black hair as glossy as a raven’s wing in the sunlight. I felt all color seep out of me, as Ben nodded and, after looking at me intently, turned on his heel and went into the house.
“So what do you have to tell me?” I asked the woman of the hour, as if this were an entirely casual conversation, with nothing dependent on it other than whether we should stand or sit while it took place. She would have looked good anywhere, in her rose-colored skirt and pale pink top. Would it be rude to nip upstairs and change into something better suited to the moment when my life fell apart?
“Why don’t we get comfortable?” She pointed to a couple of garden chairs under the draped fringe of a willow tree, and we settled ourselves facing each other. It was lovely and warm, so there was no need to hug my arms or battle to repress a shiver. The sky seen through the green canopy showed no sign of raining, as conservatory ceilings sometimes do. There were no heavenly bodies clad only in laurel wreaths on display, no clouds to flake off and drop into our teacups. But I thought determinedly of Mr. Tribble and how cold he must be now. It would be appropriate to send flowers, but should the card be signed from Ben as well as myself? Suddenly I would have given anything for a plate of chocolate biscuits to float my way or to be wearing red. I look horrible in red, but it is a brave, defiant color. All I could do was put a wobbly smile on my face and say, “I’m all ears, Val.”
“You’re going to think me a deceiving wretch.”
“Whatever makes you think that?” Sarcasm was wasted on her.
