A Fatal Secret

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Mrs Roper’s eyes widened slightly at Trudy’s name, and Trudy fought back a flush, wishing – for about the millionth time in her life – that her parents had possessed a far less memorable surname. As it was, it gave every male colleague she ever met the perfect opportunity for unwanted teasing or fresh remarks.

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid, Dr Ryder, that Miss Emily is indisposed at the moment,’ she said firmly, thus dashing their hopes of an interview with the little girl that day. ‘But I will certainly consult with Mr de Lacey when I see him,’ she added reluctantly. ‘Good day.’ She managed to say the last two words with a semblance of conviviality that, nevertheless, totally bypassed her eyes, and the door was shut firmly in their faces.

Trudy wasn’t aware that she was holding her breath until she felt it leave her in a painful whoosh.

‘Well, she wasn’t very friendly, was she?’ Trudy said crossly, not sure whether to laugh or feel insulted.

‘No, she wasn’t,’ Clement agreed, his voice both mild and thoughtful. ‘Of course, she’s probably just feeling protective of the child. She’s only 10 years old and bound to be grieving still for the loss of her friend. The last thing she probably feels like doing is talking to strangers.’

‘Oh. Yes, I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’ Trudy agreed, a bit shame-faced now at her previous anger.

Clement, though, continued to stare at the door thoughtfully for several long seconds. He didn’t know that on the other side of the wooden barrier, Cordelia Roper was standing stock-still, listening for the sounds of their retreat. But he wouldn’t have been very surprised. In his opinion, the woman’s show of recalcitrance had far more to do with fear than innate bloody-mindedness. And he wondered exactly what it was that was worrying her.

*

Behind the door, Cordelia Roper’s sharp features remained pinched and white, but eventually she moved away from the front entrance, crossed over the black-and-white tiled floor and made her way back into the sunroom, where she’d been seeing to the flowers. Her hands, however, shook a little, as she carried on arranging the mixed daffodils, forsythia and tulips that she’d brought in from the gardens into three cut-glass vases.

Contrary to what she’d told her unwanted visitors, Mr de Lacey had in fact mentioned that someone from the coroner’s office might be calling to ask questions, and that she was to give them every courtesy. But she had not approved of this then, and she didn’t approve now, and she was determined to do the best she could to make sure that no harm was allowed to come to the de Lacey family name.

It was all very well for Mr de Lacey to be so cavalier when throwing the door open to all sorts, in this new modern way, but in her experience it just didn’t do. And it most certainly wouldn’t have been allowed had his mother still been alive.

Cordelia Roper snapped some twigs off a bunch of forsythia branches and jabbed them viciously into the vases. Mrs Vivienne de Lacey had been a proper lady, and she knew how things ought to be done. She also knew how dangerous it could be to let strangers poke their noses into places that didn’t concern them.

The housekeeper glanced through the window and paused, one orange-trumpeted jonquil in hand, as she watched the odd pair wander down the drive in the direction of the kitchen gardens. The older man was saying something to that young girl in a police uniform, and for a moment, Cordelia Roper felt her heart flutter.

It had been said in her family that her Scottish grandmother had ‘the sight’ and in that moment, she felt for the first time as if some of that dubious gift might actually run in her veins also. For as she watched the duo, she felt a distinct shiver of foreboding ripple up her spine. It was as if someone had just said aloud that the old man and pretty young woman were harbingers of disaster to come – disaster for the family, and, therefore, disaster for herself and her own comfortable world.

For a second, she couldn’t catch her breath, and she groped for a chair and sat down quickly.

She told herself she was being morbid and silly, and made a concerted effort to pull herself together. As she did so, she couldn’t help but glance up, as if she could see right through the ceiling and plaster, past the floor above that, and all the way up to the top of the house, where the nursery was located.

Soon, Emily would be allocated a bedroom of her own on the adult floor. But for now, the child slept in her single bed next to her younger brother’s rooms and the old schoolroom. And Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: what was the child thinking right now?

Emily was such a clever little thing, whose quiet manners and innocent smiles could often make you forget just how much it was that she actually heard and understood. Mature for her age though she may be, she was still only a little girl, and she had been so very fond of that farmer’s lad. And soon her grief would turn to anger. Cordelia Roper’s lips thinned. And who knew then what she might let slip if she was ever allowed to talk to outsiders unsupervised? For Cordelia had little doubt that Miss Emily’s sharp ears and sharp eyes missed very little. And too much knowledge was not good for anyone, let alone an unpredictable – and unprotected – child.

Although the death of little Eddie Proctor had shocked and distressed her to the core, Cordelia was far more worried about Emily. And she was determined to watch over her, no matter what the squire said.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_62f45c7d-488e-5fbc-986c-28a8ffcf1393)

Unaware of the housekeeper’s angst, Trudy and Clement made their way through a sudden spell of welcome sunshine towards a tall, mellowing red-brick wall that Clement guessed might provide the shelter for the kitchen gardens.

Passing through a small archway, upon which climbed a splendid clematis that was just beginning to leaf, he caught sight, off to the left, of the square walls and grey-slated roof of a smaller house. It looked very much like a miniature replica of the Hall itself, and catching sight of it too, Trudy frowned at it thoughtfully.

Seeing her notice it, Clement smiled. ‘The dower house, no doubt,’ he said.

Trudy frowned. ‘What’s a dower house?’

‘In the old days, the lord of the manor’s wife ruled the household,’ Clement explained. ‘But when their eldest son married, the new lady of the manor and the mother-in-law didn’t always hit it off. So it became a tradition, when the old lord of the manor died, that his widow – or dowager – would move out into an establishment of her own. Usually, like the case here’ – he nodded towards the house – ‘into a smaller version of the big house itself. She’d take her own staff and maids and what have you with her, and still have a home of her own where she could continue to rule the roost, leaving her daughter-in-law – the new lady of the manor – in possession of the main residence.’

‘Oh,’ Trudy said. Then couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’ll bet that wasn’t always done with much grace,’ she muttered, making her friend laugh.

‘I don’t suppose it was,’ Clement agreed.

They stepped through into the high-walled kitchen garden and looked around with pleasure. It reminded Trudy a bit of her dad’s allotment, only on a much larger and more ornamental scale.

A tall, rather shambling man, with longish brown hair and a weather-beaten face was slowly and carefully training some pear tree saplings to grow along a south-facing wall. He glanced at them with vague curiosity as they stepped through the arch, but it was an older man, almost certainly the head gardener, who approached them first.

He’d been checking under some old galvanised tin tubs to see how the forced rhubarb was getting on, and now he rubbed his hands against the thighs of his not particularly clean trousers as he welcomed them. He had a shock of thick white hair and thick white bushy eyebrows over pale-blue eyes, and was already acquiring a tan, even so early in the season. It had the effect of making the crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes appear whiter than they should.

‘Hello, sir, er… madam,’ he said, clearly not sure how to address either one of them. ‘Was you wantin’ someone from the house?’ Clearly strangers in the gardens were not a common occurrence.

‘Not really,’ Clement said, introducing himself and his companion. ‘We’re here because Mr Martin de Lacey has asked us to look into the circumstances surrounding Eddie Proctor’s accident.’

Instantly, the old man’s face fell. ‘Ar, that was a bad business, that was. Mr de Lacey is getting workmen in to fill up the old well.’

Clement nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s a good thing. With the boy’s father continuing to work here and all. Do you know Mr Proctor well, Mr… er…?’

‘Oh, Cricklade sir, Leonard Cricklade. I’m the head gardener here. But that old well came under the jurisdiction, strictly speaking, of the estate manager…’

Clement held his hands up quickly. ‘Oh, we’re not here to apportion blame, or cast any stones, Mr Cricklade. I was the coroner at the boy’s inquest, and I’m satisfied that the organisers of the event made it clear that the children were to stay within these walls.’ As he spoke, he glanced around at the large, walled-in garden with pleasure. ‘I’ve now talked to several of the children who were here that morning, and none of them were aware that Eddie had wandered off.’

‘No doubt he’d still be alive now if he’d stayed put,’ the old man agreed heavily, and joined Clement in glancing around at his domain.

Among the compost heaps, bean poles, various sheds and rows of well-tended vegetables and odd flowerbeds the coroner could well see that any amount of small eggs could have been hidden in this haven.

‘Did you notice the boy leave the garden that morning? And if you did, was he with anyone?’ Trudy asked hopefully, but the old man quickly shook his head.

‘No, weren’t working that day, see, seeing as it was Easter Sunday and all. Me and the missus were in chapel. Methodists, see. We had gone into Oxford.’

‘Of course,’ Trudy murmured. ‘So it was only the organisers of the hunt who were here. None of the family came to watch, for instance?’ she probed delicately.

‘Don’t think so. Well, Miss Emily and Master George would have been here, like, searching for the eggs along with the rest of the village kiddies. But none of the adults from up at the Hall, I shouldn’t think. Mr de Lacey, he don’t mind doing his bit for the village – letting the fete committee have run of the lower paddock and such. But he’s not much of a one for interferin’ like. He says he’d only get under people’s feet.’

Clement hid a smile. He could well understand why Martin de Lacey would prefer to avoid bucolic village festivities in favour of a drink at his club.

‘What about those in the dower house?’ Trudy asked. ‘Are there any de Laceys currently living there now? Might they have seen anything do you suppose?’

‘Mr Oliver de Lacey and his mother live there. Have done many years since. No, they wouldn’t have been present. Mr Oliver is a bachelor still, and so a’course don’t have no kiddies of his own. His mother is a widow – she was married to Mr Clive, the younger brother of Mr Martin de Lacey’s father. I think she was probably in town anyway. She prefers to spend holidays and such in London with friends and her own family.’

‘Oh I see,’ Trudy said. Well, so much for any potential witnesses within the de Lacey family.

‘We will be talking to the members of the WI and the other organisers involved in the Easter egg hunt soon,’ Clement said smoothly. ‘But can you think of anyone else who might have been here at the time? Maybe one of your gardener’s boys for instance,’ Clement said, nodding towards the man expertly training the pear trees. Although he was nearing his forties, no doubt the head gardener thought of him as one of his ‘boys’.

‘Who? Lallie? Oh no, sir. None of the lads were working. They had time off because of the holiday see, like me. Mr de Lacey is good like that. Besides, Lallie doesn’t like fuss and rumpus. He’s a bit simple-like, sir,’ he confessed, lowering his voice a little, lest the man hear them. ‘Had a bad war, see. Doesn’t like loud noises and lots of people. Mind you, he’s fond of young’uns sir, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, he wouldn’t,’ he added anxiously, lest the coroner get the wrong idea.

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Clement reassured him mildly. ‘I suppose he knew the boy though?’

‘O yerse, sir, we all did, sir, and right fond of him we were too,’ the head gardener said sadly. ‘Being such a particular friend of Miss Emily and all, he was always about, the two of ’em running wild. Mind you, they didn’t do no damage. We often saw them about the place, playing hide-and-seek and cops and robbers and whatnot. And helping themselves to the fruit and all, when they come into season,’ he added, with a wry smile. ‘Young Eddie was rather fond of the golden raspberries, as I recall. I used to pretend to try and catch ’em out, but always made enough noise so they heard me coming and took off, gigglin’ like.’ Suddenly his face fell as he realised that he wouldn’t have to do that ever again.

‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Cricklade,’ Clement said quickly, before the old man could dwell on it. Then, as a seeming afterthought, he added, ‘The family’s housekeeper…?’

‘Mrs Roper, sir?’

‘Yes. She seems rather, er, protective of the family?’ He offered the opening gambit gingerly. In his opinion, servants either liked to gossip about each other, or shut up like clams. But he was betting that the housekeeper’s prickly personality and obvious sense of entitlement hadn’t won her any favour with the rest of the staff.

The old man grinned wryly. ‘Oh yes, sir, she be that. Of course, her and the old Lady, Mrs Vivienne – Mr de Lacey’s mother – were like this,’ he said, holding up his hands and entwining two fingers together. ‘So you can understand it, I ’spect.’

‘Oh I see. It sounds as if she’s been here some years?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Not that she’s a villager, mind. Born and raised in Brighton she was,’ the old man said, shaking his head and making the seaside town sound as if it were on a level standing with Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘But she met a lad from the village here when he was billeted near Hove during the war, and he married her and brought her back here to live. The old lady took a shine to her and so she went into service like. At first, it was supposed to be just while her Wilf was off fighting. But he didn’t come back from the war, o’course, like a lot of our brave lads didn’t, and so she sort of took to devoting herself to her mistress, like, as the ladies sometimes do. Yerse, real devoted to Mrs Vivienne, she was.’

Clement nodded. Yes, that explained quite a lot.

‘Well, we shall probably see you around from time to time, Mr Cricklade. If, in the meantime, you can think of anything you think we should know, just say so,’ Clement adjured him heartily.

The old man, however, looked slightly puzzled at this. ‘Like what, sir?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Well. Did Eddie ever look worried or scared that you can recall? Did he ever confide in you about anything that troubled him? Did anything you saw him doing strike you as odd? Did you ever see him talking to strangers?’

‘Oh right you are, sir. But I can tell you now, there was nothing like that. He was just a happy, normal little kiddie. And as for strangers…’ The old man shrugged graphically. ‘Round here, everyone knows everyone, if you see what I mean, sir. And like as not, everyone knows everyone’s business before you even know it yourself.’

Clement, who’d also grown up in a small village, did.

‘Mind you,’ the old man said, then hesitated when both Trudy and Clement looked at him keenly.

‘Yes?’ Clement urged.

‘Well, it might mean nothing, sir,’ the old man began, clearly reluctant to start what he’d finished. He began to shuffle his feet and looked uncomfortable, glancing up at the big house, then away again.

‘It’s all right, the squire has given us carte blanche to ask anything we want,’ Clement said.

The old man nodded. He might not have understood the fancy French-sounding words, but he got the gist of it all right. He sighed heavily.

‘Ar, well… See, sir, it’s on account of something sort of odd the boy said to me once.’

‘When was this exactly?’ Clement asked sharply.

‘Oh, a week or so before Easter, I reckon it must have been. I caught him tearing across the kitchen garden, almost trampling some strawberry plants. Told him to keep off. There was no harm in him, sir, but he could run a bit wild and be careless like, like all kiddies when they’re playing “chase” and such.’

‘I’m sure he was a good lad,’ Clement said, trying to keep a check on his impatience. ‘But what was it he said that made you worry?’

‘Well, not to say I worried, as such,’ the gardener said cautiously. ‘I just didn’t understand what he meant, sir. He asked me if all grown-ups were rich.’

Clement blinked. ‘Well, that sounds pretty normal to me. I suppose to most children, grown-ups always seem to have more money than they do!’

‘Yes, sir, that’s more or less what I told him, an’ all.’ The old man grinned. ‘But then he looked up at me, all serious like, and said something like, “Yes, but are they usually mad when you find out?” Well, sir, that sort of stumped me a bit,’ the old gardener admitted.

‘So what did you say?’ Clement asked, intrigued.

‘I asked him if someone was mad at him, and he shrugged, and said he thought they might be.’

‘Did he say who?’

‘No, sir, he didn’t. At that point, young Miss Emily, who he was playing chase with, ran up and “tagged” him and the pair went haring off. ’Course, at the time, I just forgot about it.’ The old man scratched his nose and looked uneasily at the coroner. ‘But now… well, it just makes me wonder a bit, what he could have meant, like.’

Clement nodded. He could well see how it might. A young boy hints that he’s got on the wrong side of somebody, and a week later, he’s found dead at the bottom of a well. He would wonder a bit too.

‘Well, I’m sure you have nothing to reproach yourself for, Mr Cricklade,’ he said heartily. ‘Children often say things that don’t amount to much.’

‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ the old man said, feeling at least better for having got things off his chest.

They took their leave of the old man, who set off to check his new potatoes for black fly, and Trudy looked at the coroner sharply.

‘Do you really think the poor lad had made an enemy of somebody?’ she asked.

‘It certainly sounds possible,’ Clement agreed. ‘But whether or not anybody will actually admit to having had cross words with him is another matter.’

‘It’s beginning to feel more and more as if the accident might not have been such an accident after all, doesn’t it?’ she mused tentatively.

Clement nodded. ‘It does, rather, doesn’t it?’ he agreed gravely.

‘Something tells me this investigation is going to be difficult though,’ she said dryly.

Clement paused to light his pipe, took a few puffs, and then shrugged. ‘Well, so what if it is? It’s nice to be out and about in the springtime, isn’t it, instead of cooped up in our respective offices.’

A blackbird, busy finding nesting material, chose that moment to burst into song, and with a smile, Trudy had to agree with him. Anything that got her out from under the watchful, disapproving eye of DI Jennings was all right in her book.

‘So, where next?’ she asked more cheerfully.

Clement nodded towards the roof of the dower house. ‘Well, why not call in at the dower house and see if anybody there was more observant than our Mr Cricklade?’

Chapter 10 (#ulink_2b6f955a-d6cd-582f-b4da-9c862c29c0da)

At the dower house they were again out of luck. Neither of the residents, it seemed, were at home.

This time, at Trudy’s suggestion, they had gone around to the back and to the kitchen entrance, which meant that a maid admitted them to the house. She appeared to be a village girl born and bred, still feeling happy to have her first job with ‘the family’.

Perhaps her relative inexperience led her to rashly inviting them into the kitchen, where the cook – a middle-aged, comfortably padded woman – looked on them with less enthusiasm.

But the coroner soon had her eating out of his hand, and within a few minutes, both he and Trudy were seated at the cook’s well-scrubbed kitchen table, eating wonderful, still slightly warm scones with home-made plum jam, and sipping from large mugs of tea.

Mrs Jones, the cook, had nothing but sympathy for the Proctors.

‘That poor little lad,’ she said, seeming pleased that her jam was going down well with her handsome, silver-haired visitor. ‘To think of him falling down that well. It don’t bear thinking about.’ She shuddered theatrically, and gave a mournful sigh. ‘Poor Miss Emily was distraught, I heard Mr Oliver say the other day. And I don’t wonder at it.’

‘I don’t suppose you saw anything odd that morning, Mrs Jones, did you?’ Trudy asked, surreptitiously licking her sticky fingers and hoping that nobody else had noticed. Was it only her who couldn’t seem to eat jam and scones without making a mess of it?