British Manor Murder Page 5

  “Nonsense,” said Poppy, passing the salad bowl. “I’d never do that.”

  “You couldn’t, even if you wanted to,” said Gerald, busying himself opening the second bottle of wine. “He’s the earl. The place belongs to him.”

  “Not exactly,” said Perry, arranging the merest dab of stew on the last plate and passing it to Flora. “The corporation actually owns the trust. Poppy and I are officers, as are your children, Gerald.”

  “Fat lot of good it’s ever going to do them,” muttered Gerald, topping off his glass before sending the bottle around the table for everyone to serve themselves. Only Sue and Desi added more wine to their glasses.

  “It’s the family birthright,” said Poppy. “It’s a privilege and a responsibility. Lord knows, I’ve done my best to make them aware of their heritage.” She paused. “Has everyone got salad?”

  “I for one am very glad to be such a lucky boy,” said Desi, accepting the bowl that his mother passed to him. “It’s good to know I’ve got a job waiting for me when my legs give out.”

  “Can’t be soon enough for me,” grumbled Gerald.

  “Oh, Dad,” moaned Flora, “you’re such a cliché. Ballet is tough. Desi works hard. I bet he’s in better shape than those rugby players you admire so much.”

  Gerald set down his stemmed glass with a thud. “Rugby is a man’s sport,” he declared. “Ballet is for prissies.”

  Lucy and Sue shared a glance; it was a terribly embarrassing situation.

  “Why do you have to be such a Neanderthal, Dad?” demanded Flora, who had leapt to her feet, leaving the food on her plate untouched.

  “It’s okay, Flo. He’s just teasing,” said Desi, tugging her hand. “Sit back down and eat some lunch.”

  Flora sat back down and even picked up her fork, using it to push the food around on her plate.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Sue tactfully broke it by changing the subject. “How’s the hat show going?” she asked, turning to Perry. “Is everything ready?”

  “Almost,” said Perry. “We’re setting it up in the long gallery, and I’m pairing the hats with paintings and other artifacts from the house.”

  “That’s a clever idea,” said Lucy.

  “Perhaps a bit too clever,” admitted Perry with a rueful grin. “Sometimes I think I may have overreached. It’s quite a lot of work.”

  “Whenever he takes something, we have to put up a notice, explaining its absence, or find something similar to put in its place,” said Poppy. “It would be easier if things were properly catalogued. We’ve hired a curator, Winifred Wynn, but she’s only about halfway through.”

  “Things are always so much more complicated than you expect,” said Lucy.

  “Damned nuisance, these English Heritage chaps,” muttered Gerald, causing Desi to suppress a smile.

  “Did you know the general fell?” Poppy was not so much asking as explaining the arrival of Harold Quimby, the driver who’d met Lucy and Sue at the bus station. He was standing outside the French door and Poppy waved him in.

  “When did this happen?” asked Desi.

  “Just this morning. The old fellow came down with a big crash,” said Perry.

  “What’s the news?” asked Poppy. “Harold, you know everyone here, right?”

  “Indeed I do,” he answered with a nod to Sue and Lucy. “I hope you ladies are enjoying your stay?”

  “Very much. Thank you,” said Lucy.

  “How are the chicks?” asked Sue. “Are they settling in?”

  “I presume so,” said Harold. “I was only delivering them to the farm.”

  “Harold is our facilities manager. He’s responsible for maintaining this old pile,” said Poppy. “Have you had a chance to investigate the general’s accident?”

  Harold pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table. “I have and I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Have you eaten?” asked Perry with a nod at the stew.

  “I have, thanks,” replied Harold. “There’s no easy way to say this. We’ve got dry rot. The general fell because the wall gave way. There’s nothing but powder behind that paneling.”

  Poppy’s face had gone white and she was wringing her hands. Perry was biting his bottom lip. Gerald poured himself some more wine, and Flora dropped her fork with a clatter.

  Desi was the only one who spoke. “Can you give us an estimate of the cost?”

  “Ruinous,” moaned Poppy. “We’ll have to hire experts to investigate and then we’ll have to do the repairs, and that’s just the wall. We also have to find an art expert to evaluate the damage to the painting.”

  “Don’t forget the frame,” said Flora, speaking in a quiet voice.

  “She’s absolutely right,” said Harold. “The frame is every bit as important as the picture. Maybe even more so.”

  “Good to know she’s learning something at university,” grumbled Gerald. “Something besides texting and taking drugs.”

  “Right, Dad,” said Flora, adding an eye roll. “You forgot bonking. That’s what I do the most.”

  “Enough,” said Poppy. “We need to focus on the current crisis. Harold, do you have any idea what this will cost?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m getting estimates. We should probably go with Titmarsh and Fox. They’ve done work here before and they’re familiar with the property. As for the painting, I consulted with Winifred and she’s got a call in to the National Gallery.”

  “Lord help us,” said Poppy, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Well, you know how it is,” said Harold. “There’s never just a little dry rot.”

  “And how did it get this far?” demanded Gerald in an accusatory tone. “You’re supposed to be on top of these things.”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ll be on to the roofers about this,” said Harold in a somber tone as the phone began ringing. “They didn’t report any problems when they did that section a few years ago. We may be able to get some satisfaction from them or their insurance company.”

  “Very good then,” said Gerald, nodding and humphing.

  “I’ll get it,” said Desi, leaving the table and crossing the room to answer the phone.

  “I told you,” said Poppy with a resigned smile. “The general has cursed us and it’s just beginning.”

  “Oh, you don’t believe in that old tale,” protested Gerald.

  “Trouble always comes in threes,” offered Flora, who was studying a piece of carrot she’d speared on her fork.

  “It won’t bite.” Desi had finished the call and was returning to the table, where he sat down heavily.

  “More bad news?” asked Perry.

  “Afraid so,” Desi replied with a sigh. “That was Aunt Millicent. She’s coming for the hat show.”

  “Bugger,” said Perry. “And when will the old bat arrive?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Double bugger,” said Perry.

  Chapter Five

  “Don’t mind Perry,” said Poppy with a smile. “He’s actually quite fond of Aunt Millicent.”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” protested Perry. “But this must all be horribly boring for you,” he said, addressing Lucy and Sue. “Never fear, I have arranged for our resident historian, Maurice Willoughby, to give you a tour of the manor.” He checked his watch. “He should be in the library about now, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Fine with me,” said Sue. “Lead on.”

  Once again Lucy found herself following Perry through the subterranean passage and then climbing up yet another narrow, twisty staircase until they emerged into a spacious, carpeted hallway where a set of open double doors revealed an enormous library.

  “Ah, you must be the Americans,” said the only occupant, looking up from a rather cluttered desk.

  “Let me introduce Maurice Willoughby,” said Perry. “These are my friends Sue Finch and Lucy Stone.”

  Maurice quickly rose and came around the desk, wh
ere he clasped Lucy’s and Sue’s hands in turn with his rather pudgy, rather damp one. He had the soft, bottom-heavy build of a man who spent too much time sitting, and the doughy complexion that came from being indoors. His straight, black hair was slicked down and his smile revealed a mouth full of extremely crooked teeth.

  “I’m terribly pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said quickly in a dismissive tone as he sidled up to Perry. “If you have a moment, m’lord.” He picked up an aged piece of parchment bedecked with wax seals and stained, crumpled red ribbons. “I have found some interesting information about the third earl.”

  “Later, I think, Maurice,” said Perry, scratching his chin. “I was hoping you’d give the ladies a tour of the old pile. Poppy and I have all this dry rot business to deal with and, well, when you get right down to it, you know far more about the place than I ever will.”

  “Of course, m’lord,” Maurice replied, clearly disappointed. “Your wish is my command,” he added with a little giggle.

  “Maurice, as you well know, there’s no need for all this m’lord nonsense. Just call me Perry, okay?”

  “Sorry. It’s just these surroundings,” said Maurice, waving his hand at the beautifully appointed room.

  The walls were lined with wooden shelves holding hundreds, perhaps thousands of gilded, leather-bound volumes. A dozen large blue and white Chinese vases were lined up on top of the bookcases. Persian carpets covered the floor, numerous sofas and chairs were arranged in various comfortable groupings, and the ceiling boasted complicated plaster work that imitated twisting vines. The windows were made of old, wavy glass held in place by lead strips and set into stone casements. A peek outside revealed the moat below, the manicured lawns of the estate park, and the rolling countryside beyond.

  “It’s all so fabulously feudal, it can go to a fellow’s head. Especially if that fellow went to a bricks and mortar university as I did.” Maurice grinned.

  Perry laughed. “Well, I can’t say that Oxford did much for me,” he admitted. “I didn’t make it past my first term. And I may be the lord of the manor but we know who’s really in charge, don’t we? I better not keep Poppy waiting. . . so I trust I’m leaving my friends in good hands?”

  “Absolutely,” promised Maurice with a nod that shook the loose skin beneath his chin. “I think we’ll start with the hall. This way, ladies.” He indicated the double doors with a little bow and a flourish.

  Once in the corridor, he led them past a couple portraits of ancestors and then popped open a concealed jib door. “I’m afraid we’ll have to deal with the madding crowd, the marauding masses, the hoi polloi,” he said, indicating a narrow staircase, “but this will give us a bit of an advantage.”

  Lucy and Sue followed him down the twists and turns of the staircase, eventually emerging in the huge hall filled with visitors. Behind ropes, they were confined to a walkway of heavy-duty industrial carpet. The damaged portrait of the general was propped against one wall and the area was cordoned off with yellow caution tape.

  “Rather like a crime scene,” observed Lucy.

  “I’m afraid this poor ancestor took a tumble,” explained a guide, a pleasantly plump woman wearing an official green blazer with the Moreton Manor emblem embroidered in gold thread on the breast pocket.

  “Not an ancestor at all,” said Maurice, correcting her in a rather sharp tone as he unsnapped a segment of rope, allowing Lucy and Sue to join the throng of visitors gathered on the trail of carpet. “The victim of this rather unfortunate accident is General Horatio Hoare, a friend of the third earl, and you”—he paused to check the guide’s name tag—“Marjorie, ought to know that. I suggest you review your Facts and Fancies of Moreton Manor this evening.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Willoughby, I will certainly do that,” said Marjorie, clearly embarrassed by the scolding which took place in front of numerous visitors. “I do hope the curse is just an old wives’ tale,” she added in an effort to regain some credibility.

  “The only curse I know of,” said Maurice, giving her a baleful glance, “is the unemployment that befalls unprepared guides.”

  Lucy decided it was time to stop Maurice’s bullying and tossed the poor woman a lifeline. “The curse is real enough. The earl mentioned it himself this morning, when they discovered the painting had fallen. It’s supposed to keep the manor safe as long as it’s on the wall. The last time it came down a countess had a fatal accident.”

  This declaration caused a little buzz among the visitors, who were clearly impressed by this bit of inside information.

  Maurice, however, reacted defensively. “Well, as it happens,” he said, puffing himself up, “there are various viewpoints on that particular incident. Shall we continue?”

  “Yes, please,” said Sue. “Can you tell us who painted the ceiling?”

  “Ah, yes. The ceiling was commissioned by the fifth earl after his grand tour of the continent, which was of course the custom of the time. Young gentlemen were expected to travel abroad to attain the refinement expected of the aristocracy. He hired an Italian by the name of Giardino, not well known, but I think we can agree he did a fine job.”

  Lucy and Sue, as well as the gathered visitors, gazed upward at the cavorting gods and goddesses perched on their sturdy clouds.

  “Amazing,” said one woman.

  “Moving along,” said Maurice, “I believe the next room is the salon, the manor’s main reception room.”

  Lucy and Sue marched along, following him through one enormous room after another, all filled with tapestries and paintings and elaborately carved furniture.

  The enormous dining table was set with forty places for a formal dinner, complete with a massive silver centerpiece depicting Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar. Maurice took great pleasure in demonstrating how the cannons on the silver battleships could actually be fired to produce a gentle popping sound and a puff of smoke. The conservatory they’d viewed from outside was filled with lush tropical foliage plants and gorgeous blooming orchids. The morning room, which Maurice explained was traditionally the bailiwick of the countess, contained charming French furniture upholstered with pale blue silk brocade. Continuing up the stairs, they passed through several richly appointed guest rooms and then came to the earl’s and countess’s bedrooms located on either side of a roomy hallway.

  “Absolutely gorgeous,” observed Sue, glancing at the huge four-poster bed with crewel hangings. Set on a raised platform, it dominated the countess’s chamber. “I could get used to this,” she added, glancing at the vanity table covered with a froth of lace that occupied the space in front of the bay window.

  The earl’s bedroom was even grander. Red brocade covered the walls and an enormous dressing stand encrusted with gilt and crystal fittings stood nearby. His bed was larger, the platform higher, the paintings more numerous.

  “Hey, Perce, we could do with something like this, couldn’t we? Plenty of room for a bit of slap and tickle,” exclaimed one woman.

  Perce winked at his companion. “We could even invite the neighbors in.”

  “Ooh, for shame, Perce,” chided the woman, growing a bit flushed.

  Hearing this exchange, Lucy gave Sue an amused smile, but her thoughts were rather different. She was thinking of her bedroom at home, where a handmade quilt she’d picked up at an estate sale covered the bed and the dresser tops were always filled with clutter—change and keys, photos and bits of jewelry, appointment cards—that they were too busy or too lazy to put away properly. And she thought of the cozy kitchen that was the center of Perry and Poppy’s life. “I wonder if Perry and Poppy mind giving up all this grandeur for what seems to be a rather simple lifestyle,” she wondered aloud.

  “If you ask me,” replied Maurice with a bit of a Cockney accent creeping into his tone, “they’re just doing what their kind have always done, and that is taking advantage of those less fortunate. This place was built on the labor of mill workers and miners and tenant farmers and now they charge those same fol
k ten pounds a head to come and see what they did with all the money they sweated out of their grandparents. They’ve still got ’em coming and going, working up a bit of an appetite after touring the house, so they buy lunch or a cream tea in the café. And nobody goes home without a tea towel or a souvenir magnet.”

  “I disagree,” said Sue. “I think most people come because they want to imagine being the lord and lady, if only for an hour or two.”

  “But what did they do with themselves all day, when they had all those servants to do everything for them?” asked Lucy. “It must have been a rather empty life, all for show. They didn’t even bring up their own children. I’d rather do things for myself. I take satisfaction in cooking supper and digging the garden, I even enjoyed changing the kids’ diapers.”

  “Different strokes for different folks,” said Sue.

  Maurice delivered them to the exit, which he was quick to point out conveniently led to the café and gift shop, as well as the garden.

  “Thank you so much for the tour,” said Sue. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “Me, too,” added Lucy. “Can we visit the garden, too?”

  “Absolutely,” said Maurice. “Don’t miss the maze.’

  “I bet it’s amazing,” said Lucy, getting a groan from Sue.

  He pointed the way and they parted, Maurice presumably returning to his work in the library and Lucy and Sue heading down the brick path to the walled garden.

  Lucy gasped as they stepped through the gateway and discovered the wealth of blooms in the garden. Neat beds of flowering bulbs were defined by boxwood borders and filled with rows of bedding plants including petunias and geraniums as well as alliums and tulips. Arbors covered with climbing vines promised a profusion of roses in a few weeks, green shoots in the perennial borders were harbingers of the blooms to come. The two friends wandered along the winding paths, exclaiming over the rare forms and colors, and the sheer magnitude of the plantings.

  “You know,” admitted Lucy, “I buy ten of these and ten of those. Sometimes the packages—like alliums—contain only three or four bulbs. Look at all these. It’s mind boggling.”