Winnie’s day was busy from breakfast until late at night, for there was always something to do in a house with five adults and two lively boys in it. Theirs was not the sort of grand establishment where the ladies sat about on chaises longues with embroidery frames all day, while servants glided about in silent efficiency. The kitchen lurched from one crisis to the next, the linen cupboard was in a perpetual state of near disaster, and Mrs Penfold and Mrs Mann, the housekeeper and cook, had maintained a state of mutual hostility for as long as anyone could remember.
Lady Strong escaped from the battlefield into her beloved garden as often as she could, capable of forgetting time altogether while there was a trowel in her hand. Thus the management of the house, in so far as such a thing was possible, had fallen to Winnie since she had first let down her skirts and put up her hair. Order was as natural to her as breathing, and although the servants still affectionately disregarded her instructions more often than not, remembering her as thegrubby child she had once been, she kept the household accounts and the still room, her particular domain, in pristine order.
Before breakfast, however, her time was her own, and she often went out for a walk, to clear her head in preparation for the day to come, mulling over all the tasks to be accomplished and arranging them into the most efficient order. Today, there was no mulling, for her day was already planned. After breakfast, she would go to Corland and continue organising Mr Nicholson’s long life into neat bundles, bound with string and labelled appropriately. Her thoughts this morning were bent in an entirely different direction, her feet speeding eagerly along the path through Mama’s flowerbeds and then into the woods that fringed their modest estate. Deep in the trees, she came to her favourite place in all the world, the clearing where stood the ancient oak tree. High in its branches sat the old tree house, and beneath the sturdiest limb hung two swings.
He was there! Walter lolled on one swing, idly pushing himself back and forth with one foot. He looked up at her, smiling, and her heart was lost all over again. If only she could be indifferent to him, to see him as nothing more than her old childhood friend. It was so difficult to pretend she cared nothing for him, to express only pleasure at his betrothal to Bea Franklyn. Sometimes, when they did not meet for some time, the intensity faded a little and she could pretend to herself that she was putting him behind her. But then she would see him again, just as handsome and smart and carelessly affectionate towards her, and her heart would explode into tiny pieces all over again.
“Well, Mouse, there you are! Late as usual… or am I early?”
“We are both early, I think,” she said, taking the other swing. “I have not heard the church clock yet.”
“I must have walked faster than I thought,” he said. “Anger, I suppose. I am still in a rage with Bea.”
“Walter, you should not talk to me about Miss Franklyn.”
“No, no, not abouther, but about what she is proposing. She wants us to marry at Marshfields, if you please, with a ball beforehand and a special licence and a bishop and all the duke’s family looking on, no doubt. What is this obsession with special licences, Mouse? I remember all that fuss with Izzy, insisting on marrying in the chapel at Corland, and even Josie talked about it, although good sense prevailed in the end.Youwould not want all that to-do, would you?”
“Oh no. The banns and Mr Dewar at St Timothy’s would do for me.” But her spirits sank a little. Would she ever marry? Not Walter, for she could hardly expect such good fortune, but someone… a kind gentleman who would provide her with her own little house and a cluster of children to dote on. How wonderful that would be!
“Exactly, and for me, too. Drag a couple of yokels out of the tap room to act as witnesses, and there you are — all done.”
She shook her head at him. “Surely you would want your family about you on such an important occasion?”
“Well… I suppose so,” he conceded graciously. “But women make such afussabout things. Even Josie got into a spin about it, and there were the most enormous number of parties and dinners to celebrate the thing. And now Olivia is going the same way, determined to be married in her first season, and has the whole thing planned out. And as for Bea — I cannot understand her at all, Winnie. She is a mystery to me. If only she were as sensible as you, eh? You are so quick-witted and rational, and if you were ever to marry, you would be just as sensible about that. You would never come up with crazy ideas, like this business of marrying at Marshfields. But that is Bea in a nutshell — always some new scheme to drive a man demented.”
Winnie had to bite her tongue to stop herself from crying out,‘Then why are you marrying her?’
He sighed, and went on without waiting for her to say anything. “I suppose she will have her way in the end. She always does!” He chuckled. “It saves me the bother of thinking about it, and it is her wedding, after all, so it might as well be what she wants. Anything to keep her happy. But even if it should be at Marshfields, I should want a decent interval to mourn poor Mr Nicholson. You would want to mourn an uncle, would you not?”
“Oh yes! I am very fond of all my aunts and uncles.”
“I was not exactly fond of Nicholson, but I am very fond indeed of Aunt Alice, and I should not like to do anything that would be disrespectful at such a time. What do you think would be an appropriate mourning period for an uncle by marriage?”
“Your mother would be the best adviser, Walter.”
“I shall ask her, of course, but what doyouthink? Three months? Six? Longer?”
“My own opinion would be at least three, since he lived at Corland with you, but you must be guided by your mama.”
“Three months.At leastthree months,” he said happily. “Yes, that is my opinion exactly.”
***
“We seem to be atpoint non plus,”Michael said gloomily. “No one has seen or heard anything useful, and we cannot even find out where the wretched axe came from. If it was within the castle, no one admits to knowing where. All we have learnt is that anyone could have walked into the basement, for the door nearest the stables was never bolted and the bolts on the garden door were broken. Supposedly both doors were locked, but the keys were readily available, and the lock is easily picked. Neate did it in no time at all. There is also the scullery window with the broken latch. Thedogs would deter a stranger, but barely stir for anyone known to them. So none of that helps.”
“Was there nothing in his letters that raised concern?” Sandy said. “No hint of blackmail? No deep, dark secret?”
“Nothing that might cause anyone to kill the fellow,” Michael said with a sigh, passing round a decanter of sherry to the five investigators assembled in the old nursery. “James, is there nothing rumoured below stairs?”
James Neate shrugged. “He is described as a bit of a flirt, but flirting is hardly a murdering affair.”
“No, or half the men in England would be dead by now,” Michael said. “And in Scotland, too, if Sandy is typical of his race, but that, too, has brought us nothing of interest. One would think that kitchen maids would tattle more freely when exposed to so much Caledonian charm. And Luce, surely you and Miss Peach between you could have managed to eavesdrop to better effect. The earl’s skin complaints and Mr Eustace’s preference for silk sheets are not exactly pertinent to our enquiries.”
“Oh, but sointeresting, Captain,” Miss Peach said, beaming. “Silk sheets! Imagine the expense! And I discovered that whole business with the mutton bones.”
The former governess was a nondescript sort of woman, but Michael had to admit she was enthusiastic. A little too enthusiastic, perhaps.
“Peachy, we are not concerned with kitchen thievery,” Luce said. “We did our best, Michael, but as we expected, the whole castle has closed ranks against us. They look us straight in the eye and tell us that Mr Nicholson was a blameless chaplain who was devoted to his wife, had no vices and no one can think of a reason why he might have been murdered. I have to say, their shock seems genuine to me.”
