Joan Smith Read online

  When she finished, I asked, “Does it look all right?”

  “Perfect, miss. Why are you at pains to look better than usual today? There’s no one belowstairs but Mr. Sinclair, and he won’t see a thing of all your style for them green glasses he wears.”

  “Is he wearing them again?”

  “He can’t see a thing without them. I heard him tell Lady Sinclair so, when first he came.”

  He was not wearing them when I joined him in the feather room a few moments later.

  “Very elegant. I approve,” he complimented me, looking at the new hairdo. “I got rid of Peter, but he is suspicious, to say the least, that I planned to be kissing his Valerie during his absence. He may come leaping out from behind the door at any moment. We better get busy,”

  “It’s in the main saloon.”

  “No, I meant we better steal our kiss while we have the privacy.”

  “You must be a good boy, Welland, or I’ll take my secret passage and go away,” I cautioned, wagging a finger at him.

  He grabbed it and placed a loud smacking kiss on it. “I waited till three at my window for you to come flying in. Gloria was not working last night, I take it?”

  “We heroines require our rest, like everyone else.”

  “You don’t deserve it. You robbed me of mine.”

  “Shall we go and see the panel, or do you have a few more of these ill-considered bits of nonsense to relieve yourself of?”

  “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”

  We went to the saloon. The passage, its entrance, length, and eventual debouchement in Auntie’s closet I have already described to you. It had not changed. “This is not it,” was Welland’s opinion, when we stood back in the saloon. “It’s got to be the feather room. There must be another passage there. I have been measuring the outer walls against the inner, by eye only, and believe there is room for one behind the east wall.”

  He was one of those impossible people who resort to reason and science to make discoveries. “I have checked that room where Mr. Franconi hid, but found nothing.”

  “We shall see. We know where to look now, and if not behind the wall, then he was up above the ceiling. That ghost did not dance across the room without human help.”

  “It was dark. I was wondering if he was not dressed up in feathers, like a rooster.”

  He did not dignify this suggestion with a denial, but only shook his head sadly to see so little sign of wits in me. We went to the feather room again.

  “What a gross of grouse have given their all to create this monstrosity,” he declared, looking about at the bizarre wall covering.

  “It is rather sweet. So original.” Actually it was hideous.

  “I sincerely hope it may be unique. I have never seen another like it, and I have been in a good many of the finer homes in the land. We have one wall done in alligator hide at Tanglewood that is usually considered the ugliest room in England. This gives it stiff competition.”

  “You live right in the same house with St. Regis, do you?”

  While I had been rearranging his future, it occurred to me he might have a separate establishment, something in the nature of a dower house.

  “Yes, a part of the family. A favorite relative of his lordship.”

  “So you mention, frequently. Well, there is obviously nothing here. No fireplace, no wood paneling, no door, except the one into the hallway.”

  “That one section there is bedizened with a few peacock feathers. I wonder why.”

  “For ornamentation. Pictures would look strange, hung on feathers, unless they were pictures of birds.”

  “Shall I pluck you a bonnet?” he offered, walking forward to examine the peacock feathers. “This is where the ghost popped out, remember?”

  “It must have been about there. My ladder was against the window, so I could not see the wall actually, but he came from that direction.”

  “There has got to be something here,” he said with total conviction. He began feeling the feathers, his two hands flat up against them, pushing lightly up and down. A feather became dislodged and fluttered to the floor.

  “Not so hard. You are destroying the decor.”

  “You could help, you know, instead of standing there smirking.”

  “I was taking the opportunity of admiring your shoulders, Welland.”

  “Oh, well in that case, don’t bother helping me. Go ahead and admire. Eat your heart out.”

  I went to help. “It is perfectly obvious there is no panel here. No break in the feathers at all. Smooth as a swallow’s back.”

  “When a swallow has folded his wings, it is hard to see just where the body stops and the wings begin. Feathers are a perfect means of concealment. I cannot think of any other reason to disfigure the room so. I’ll have them removed when I take over.”

  “Auntie mentioned Troy Fenners might be your reward for catering to St. Regis. I daresay he is sick to death of having you underfoot, pulling your forelock and saying, “Yessir,” but I think in deference to Aunt Loo, you might refrain from mentioning your plans for the place. She is not quite at death’s door yet.”

  “I am always at pains to conceal our rapacity from her. And about your use of the word parasite, Miss Ford, I might just remind you I work for St. Regis. I am not quite a barnacle growing on the man.”

  “Did I hit a nerve, Welland? What position is it you fill that he chooses your whole life for you?—home, bride, occupation. The lot.”

  “Private secretary.”

  “Puppet is more like it.”

  I am delighted to be able to relate it was I, and not Welland, who found the secret passageway. At least I was swift to grab the success for my own, though I am not positive whether he did not notice his wall coming out before I noticed mine was going in. The way it worked was on a sort of ball-bearing thing stuck into the frame around a wide door that had no knob, no hinges, but pivoted in the central part, one side swinging out, while the other went into the secret panel. I hope I am making this understandable. I am sure there is a technical term for it, but I don’t know what it may be.

  There was a large frame built into the wall, and the door set into it, pivoting on ball bearings, one at the top, one at the bottom allowing the panel to revolve. It doesn’t really matter. The pertinent point is we had found the panel, and behind it we found a lantern, and length of fine rope. The ghost of Uncle Edward had been removed, but I was as sure he had been here as I was sure Mr. Franconi had been pulling the strings.

  “What did I tell you?” Sinclair crowed, as though he were the one who had found it. “There must be some hooks in the wall on the other side of the room. Those strings were hooked through metal eyes, like a pulley clothesline, you know. Black rope, you will notice, to be invisible during our candle-lit séance. Very neat. I wonder how he held the lantern up. Must have been hooked on to the top rope somehow. Does this passage go anywhere, I wonder?”

  It was the length of the room, and about a yard wide. That was it. It was not painted green, not painted at all. “Priest’s hole maybe,” Sinclair thought. “I wonder how the Franconis discovered it. They may have got a look at Sir Edward’s portrait in the gallery easily enough. Mr. Franconi roams freely during the séances, but your aunt did not even know this was here. She never mentioned it, did she?”

  “No, she doesn’t know about it.”

  “Funny. Somebody in the place does. An old family retainer might know. Did you get around to looking at the family records yet?”

  “I haven’t had time. Aunt Loo works in the scriptorium all morning.”

  “Do it this afternoon, as early as you can.”

  “I am not your servant. Don’t order me around as though I were.”

  “Are you not interested in cleaning up this mess?”

  “Of course I am, but I’m not taking orders from you. One would hardly guess you are accustomed to taking commands yourself, you give them so freely.”

  “Pretty please and thank you, my
dear Miss Ford, if it is convenient for you at some future time, and completely at your leisure, will you be so kind as to cast an eye over the family records, and see if you can find anyone from Blaxhall, or thereabouts, in Suffolk.”

  “Possibly, if I find time.” I was tired with his pretending to be in charge of everything when I was the one who found the passage.

  “Do you know, I think there’s a trapdoor in the ceiling of this passage?” he said suddenly. During his playful request for help, you see, he had not even bothered to look at me, in my new hairdo, but was craning his neck back to look above him. “Get a candle. It’s too dark to see.”

  “Get it yourself, at your leisure, when and if you feel like it, my dear Mr. Sinclair,” I suggested. Then I nipped smartly out of the passage and pushed the panel closed on him. I leaned against the wall, which had quite the opposite result from what I intended. It sent me sailing inward, while the other side opened up, instead of barring Sinclair within.

  “Thank you. You are extremely helpful,” he said, with a curt bow, before he turned to go out the door in search of a light.

  “There is one on the table, stupid,” I was happy to remind him.

  His nostrils were beginning to dilate by the time he got back with the candle and tinderbox, both from the séance table. He lit the taper and held it up above his head to try to decide whether it was a trapdoor he looked at. “Can’t tell. It looks like it. I’ll lift you up.”

  “I’ll lift you up. I’m bigger.”

  “You are not bigger than I am.”

  “I’m taller.”

  “We are the same height when you are wearing high heels. I don’t see why ladies wear such uncomfortable things.”

  “Come, hop on my shoulders, Welland. I can bear the weight.” I certainly had no intention of letting him bear mine. The occasional time does crop up when I could wish I were a trifle smaller. This was one of them.

  “I’ll get a chair,” he said, after mentally weighing me, and deciding he was not eager to embarrass himself by failing to get me off the floor, or worse, dropping me.

  Even with a chair, he could scarcely reach the area suspected of being a door. He poked at it, and decided it was only a crack in the wooden planks. He was careful to take the chair back to the table himself, instead of asking me to do it.

  “So we know the Franconis are a pair of frauds; we know how they do it, but we really still do not know that they are the ones getting large sums from Lady Sinclair. It may be only the guinea a sitting they are making. That’s all I pay them. They have not even hinted for more. They don’t live in a high style either—no carriage, nothing of that sort. This may be a total irrelevance to the major mystery going forth here.”

  “Will you be going to Suffolk to see what you can discover anyway?”

  “Not till my reluctant assistant gets her nose into the scriptorium.”

  “You don’t have an assistant, Welland. You have an equal partner.”

  “It is time for the sherries,” he decreed, brushing the dust from his hands and jacket.

  “I’ll try to examine the records this afternoon, if I can find a chance.”

  “My sweet idiot partner, I shall make a chance for you this afternoon. I shall beguile your aunt to come out for a drive, to allow you the opportunity.”

  “I don’t expect she’ll go with you. She does not care much for you.”

  “We shall see. I can usually persuade a lady to do as I wish. Not all of them are so headstrong as some parties, who shall be nameless.”

  “Hill is coming for lunch. She may go out with him,” I mentioned, for I really had grave doubts that Auntie would prove biddable to his persuasions.

  “Excellent. I too shall accept an invitation to lunch, if it is offered. Thank you, Miss Ford. I would be delighted to take my mutton with you. I do hope it is not actually mutton. Better tell someone I am staying. At your leisure of course,” he added quickly.

  “I believe I hear Pierre lumbering toward us,” I cautioned, as slow footfalls were heard in the hallway beyond.

  “No exit. We’re caught.”

  “I don’t mind. He is coming to seem less annoying lately. I wonder what can account for it.”

  “Simple bad taste on your part,” he opined as he strolled from the room, leaving me standing alone, trying to think of a setdown.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We were all—Aunt Loo, Dr. Hill, Pierre and I—subjected to a disgusting display of servility over luncheon. My aunt was the butt of it. I expect it is the manner in which Mr. Sinclair butters up his patron when he is at Tanglewood. Aunt Loo was praised for everything from her latest wisp of a chiffon tent to her mutton. At least it was mutton, which gave me some satisfaction. Initially, Aunt Loo’s brows rose in astonishment at the compliments, but as we progressed to the dessert, astonishment ascended to pleasure, and eventually to girlish titters, tinged with coyness. Before coffee was poured, she had accepted to drive out with Welland. He cocked a triumphant brow at me and relayed a tacit command to get to the scriptorium.

  “I ought not to take you away from your work,” Loo mentioned, but in no resolute manner.

  “My work nears completion. In such weather as this, no man with blood in his veins can stay cooped up all day.”

  “I also have got bloods in the veins,” Pierre said, with an adoring smile in my direction.

  “Hot blood,” Welland warned.

  “I must wash my hair this afternoon,” I said quickly, grasping at the first excuse that offered.

  After a few glowers and as many comments that the hairs did not look soiled, Pierre eventually decided he would drive into the village, where he would doubtlessly annoy every chaperone on the streets with his marked ogling of their charges.

  “Would you mind dropping in at the bank for me, Peter?” Welland asked. “I have got a draft from St. Regis that I am eager to cash.”

  “I do not go to the bank,” was Pierre’s sulky reply. There were not likely to be any young ladies in that establishment of course.

  “Pity I had not known. I was there this morning,” Dr. Hill said. “How much is your draft for, Mr. Sinclair? Perhaps I can oblige you.”

  “Only five pounds. It would save Lady Sinclair and me the bother of trotting into the village before our drive, if you could.”

  “I can manage five,” Hill said.

  When Loo went to prepare herself for the outing, I followed her upstairs. “Rather sweet of Mr. Sinclair to offer to drive me out,” she said, still smiling. “I never cared for the young fellow above half, but I know he is reporting to St. Regis, and I must be nice to him. He could be a helpful friend.”

  I had not come to twit her about her change of heart. I got right down to it. “Are you worried he will tell St. Regis about your selling off the family heirlooms, Auntie? You have known all along what I saw in his room that night was the jewels you sold.”

  I half hoped she would deny it. “I felt it must be the case,” she admitted. “He will have told St. Regis. No question of that. What I hope to do is explain to him why I did it.”

  “I trust you will think of some other explanation than giving the money to Papa.”

  “Oh, dear, he told you! I was hoping he would not.”

  “He told me. What I am curious to discover is what you did do with it.”

  “Money just dribbles away, Valerie. If you ever had any real quantity of it, you would realize how it happens. Edward left debts to be paid off. There are the servants’ salaries, food, the house to maintain, the barn St. Regis made me repair.”

  “There is ten thousand from which to cover those ordinary expenses. Papa manages a larger family on a tenth of that sum.”

  “To be sure, he was always a clever manager, but the tenants don’t always pay their rents, you must know. I don’t always get ten thousand. Do you think this blue bonnet, Valerie, or the black?”

  “I think you are evading the issue.”

  “Yes, my dear, I am, for it is really n
ot your business, is it?”

  There was obviously no decent reply to her question. I hoped Welland would have better luck than I. He had sweet-talked her into the drive; anything was possible.

  Welland was just stuffing the money into his wallet when we came downstairs. Dr. Hill took his leave, Pierre tried one more time to discourage me from washing my hair, then he too left, and I finally got into the scriptorium. It took several minutes to find that portion of the cupboards where old accounts were kept. I flipped through them quickly, my eyes alert for the single word “Suffolk.” It was a thoroughly dull afternoon’s work I can tell you. How had I let him stick me with this job, while he jauntered down the pretty country lanes behind a pair of high steppers? My aunt had no recognizable manner of keeping accounts. There was a bootbox full of loose bills, none of them bearing the address looked for. I dug deeper, drawing out hard-covered account books from the days of Sir Edward, but still the magical word did not occur. It was in a metal box at the back of the cupboard that I made the discovery, and really I did not see it as being particularly helpful.

  What I refer to is the fact that Sir Edward’s first wife, Alice Sedgely, came from Suffolk, not far from Blaxhall. Little Glenham was the name of the village. The last box held personal papers, letters from her father and her father’s solicitors arranging the marriage settlement, even the marriage certificate, but nothing seemed of particular significance. His wife had been dead for two decades. I read the letters without any feeling of guilt or shame. The two main characters were dead, which made their story seem more like history or fiction than prying on my part. The first Lady Sinclair had brought a few servants with her, providing some hope for a contemporary representative of Suffolk in the house, but the names were not familiar. I knew the servants’ names from Pinny, an incurable chatterer. Alice had brought her own woman, a dresser cum companion, and a maid to help in the kitchen, but this had been nearly thirty years ago. The names were no longer heard at Troy Fenners.

  I could make nothing of it, but decided to let Welland peruse the contents, to which end I would smuggle them out of Auntie’s scriptorium. In passing, I took a look at her story, spread in an awful jumble on her desk. Gloria was just saddling up her mount at the end of chapter seventeen. The first sentence of chapter eighteen revealed that she was off on her mad gallop down the turnpike road. Before the sun set, or at least before Loo took up pen again, she would want details about how it felt to fly over a six-foot house, mounted on horseback. I could tell her the very anticipation of it sent my heart to wild beating, but this would not be enough to satisfy her. Maybe I could pretend I had done it.