She nodded. ‘Thank you, Flissy. It is true. I am itching to write after our tour.’
‘You see, Mr Hart, I must use the table in my room. But I am a fast writer, and I shall join you in half an hour. You shall hardly know I was away.’
I smiled as innocently as I could, and he inclined his head, but he did not look pleased.
With the notion that Mr Hart might come and fetch me if I was a minute later than half an hour, I knew I had little time in which to act. As soon as everyone had disappeared into the parlour, I did an about-turn and flew silently down the stairs and along the hallway to the kitchen.
Maurice was startled, but not overly surprised to see me, thanks to my forewarning of offering him assistance. He was in the middle of preparing a tray of food.
‘Is that for Mr Hart Sr’s luncheon?’ I enquired.
‘It is indeed.’Oh, so he does exist, I thought, a pulse of excitement running through me.
‘Might I take that up for you? You must be busy down here.’
‘If you do not mind, that would be helpful. Thank you.’ He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, looking harassed. ‘The assistant cook is due to arrive shortly, and I need to be here to show them what to do.’
‘It is no trouble! If you would kindly give me directions to his apartment,’ I said, lifting the wooden tray up and down experimentally to see how heavy it was. It held a platewith a cheese sandwich, an unpeeled boiled egg, an apple, and some biscuits. So it was not overly laden. I noted that Mr Hart Sr also did not like cucumbers.
‘Yes, of course. If you go down the hallway that leads to the back entrance, there is an oak doorway about halfway along. Through it is a stairwell that leads up to the main turret. It is a bit dim, but there are arrow slits in the walls that provide some light. Mr Hart’s room is the first door on the left. He does not like to be disturbed ... So leave the tray outside the door, knock twice, and he will collect it when he is ready.’
I gulped. It all sounded strange and spooky indeed, especially after Mr Smith-Withers telling us about Royden Hart’s ghost flitting about the place. Maurice obviously had nerves of steel to live here, and I wondered if I should offer to stay in the kitchen and greet the cook while he took the tray. But this could be the only chance I had to solve the mystery of Mr Hart’s father (and of course, I was going to have to disobey instructions and go into his room to do so).
With a resolute breath, I hefted the tray and went off down the hallway to find the oak door.
The castle was not built for traversing a tray of food up a stairwell. Lord knew how Maurice did this. I was having a lot of trouble both keeping my balance and stopping the food from sliding off, especially the apple and the egg—theykept rolling around on the tray alarmingly. A blast of wind whistled through an arrow slit and wrapped around my neck like icy fingers. I almost flung the lunch into the air and made a run for it.
Emerging out of the stairwell at last, I peered tentatively down a gloomy stone-walled hallway with ancient threadbare carpet.Do not think of Royden Hart!I told myself firmly. But if ever there was a time for his ghost to appear, this was it! Fear was causing my limbs to seize up, but time was also ticking by, so I gave myself a set of stern instructions to force my feet to move.
It is the first door on the left. You will knock and open the door and greet his father. Do not be afraid.
This seemed to work, and upon following these dutifully, I found myself in a sparsely furnished room. A man with unkempt grey hair and a patchy beard was sitting by the window, reading a book. His grizzled appearance made him look old, but in truth, he could not have been more than fifty. He was dressed in simple trousers, a grubby white shirt, and a leather jerkin.
‘Good day,’ I said to him, nervously clutching the tray.
‘Good day,’ he replied gruffly, then looked closer at me with suspicious eyes. ‘Who in heaven’s name are you? Where is Maurice?’
‘I am one of your guests, Mr Hart. My name is MrsFelicity Fitzroy, and I am assisting Maurice by bringing your luncheon,’ I said, indicating the tray with my chin.
‘One of my guests?’ he repeated, sounding amazed.
‘Yes, my niece and my friend are here with your son and his friend Mr Smith-Withers.’
‘Humph, the lawyer,’ said Mr Hart and beckoned me to bring the tray to his table, which I did. He immediately took a bite out of the sandwich and began peeling the boiled egg. ‘Yes, I knewhewas here. I did not know Harry was too—he neglected to mention that,’ he mumbled through his mouthful.
‘Harry? Oh no, we are here with youryoungestson, Dorian,’ I corrected.
‘Dorian?’ he echoed. ‘No, no, he is my eldest.’
I took a step backwards, wondering why he was saying that. How strange.
‘Has he not come to see you?’ I ventured. ‘We arrived yesterday in the early evening.’
He stared at his plate and shook his head once sharply.
‘How very bad of him,’ I said, quite forgetting myself.
Mr Hart’s expression turned stony, and he lifted his eyes to gaze at me, then looked at the half-peeled egg in his hand. ‘Yes, very bad,’ he said slowly and tightened his hand until I heard the shell crack. ‘Bad egg,’ he mumbled, and much to my dismay, he kept repeating it over and over. ‘Bad egg, bad egg, bad egg ...’
