A Pretty Deceit Read online

  But I was surprised she hadn’t suspected it. Or perhaps she did, and instead had chosen to ignore the likelihood of such an unpleasantness and instead blame our flyboys. If so, it angered me that she’d carried this blind pigheadedness so far as to share her accusations with me and Sidney, and push for us to do something about them. It also explained why she was so adamant I not share the matter with Reg. Perhaps he was already aware of what his father had done. Or if not, more likely to recognize the truth and its harsh reality than his mother.

  Of course, the forgeries weren’t the only items of interest.

  “What of the thefts?”

  His bushy eyebrows furrowed the barest bit. “Those are more concerning.”

  “Then I take it they occurred after they were removed from storage.”

  “Yes. Or in some cases, they weren’t stored at all, but taken to London with Sir James and Lady Popham.”

  “And these items are more portable?”

  He nodded. “A small vase or figurine. A box of old coins. A gold letter opener. A calling card case fashioned from ivory.”

  “When did these items start disappearing?”

  “About six months ago. Not long after we returned to Littlemote.”

  I hated to think it, but I couldn’t help but question whether my aunt was behind these “thefts.” After all, she’d already contacted an appraiser to evaluate her paintings and larger pieces of art, presumably intending to sell them until she discovered many of them were forgeries. What if she’d begun with the smaller objects that were missing?

  But then, why mention them at all? She could have just as easily said nothing about them and I would have been none the wiser. Why cast aspersions when she could pretend they’d never existed?

  There was one other possibility that had occurred to me. “What of this maid who vanished two weeks ago? What was her name?”

  “Minnie Spanswick.”

  “Could she have anything to do with it?”

  He lowered his head, frowning at the rug at his feet. “I admit, when she didn’t turn up I deliberated over the same thing. She did begin working here a short time before the thefts began. But so did much of the staff.” His eyes narrowed in contemplation. “In all honesty, she wasn’t well-suited to life as a servant. Oh, she was a hard worker and well-liked among the rest of the staff. But she wasn’t . . . content, if you understand what I mean.”

  I nodded, grasping that he meant she wasn’t satisfied with such a lot in life, but few young women were nowadays. The war had given them a taste of freedom, many of them having taken up jobs at the munition factories, the land army taking care of the agricultural work, with the “whacks”—the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAACs), and other various positions. I could hardly fault them their desire for something more, for even though I was from a higher social class, my aspirations had also been heightened by the war.

  “And she had a rather excessive fondness for those lowbrow film periodicals she was always reading in her spare time,” Miles added with a sniff.

  “You mean like Photoplay and Motion Picture News?”

  “Yes, and others. She was a cinema enthusiast. Visited the one in Hungerford whenever she had a day or afternoon off.”

  Considering the fact that many household servants received a day off every other week and an afternoon off in the week between, while many Londoners visited the cinema two or three times a week, this did not seem particularly obsessive. After all, what else was there for a young woman to do in a country village?

  I gripped the edge of the desk, recalling what my aunt had told me. “Lady Popham said her family lived in the village. That they hadn’t been concerned by her disappearance.”

  “I didn’t speak with them myself, but that’s what I’ve been given to understand. You might speak with the other maids. Naturally, they were more in her confidence than I, and they might be persuaded to be more forthcoming with a lady of your reputation.”

  I stifled a smile, recognizing by the tautness at the edge of his voice that he didn’t precisely approve of this reputation, though he strove to hide it. But it wasn’t my fault all the society papers stalked me and Sidney, printing our photographs and exploits about London. We tried to avoid it when we could.

  Regardless, his suggestion that I speak to the other maids was a sound one. They were more likely to confide in me, and the timing of this Minnie Spanswick’s departure was suspicious. It wasn’t proof of any wrongdoing. Far from it. But it merited further scrutiny.

  “Will that be all?” Miles asked, recalling me to the fact that he still had many things to attend to today besides answering my queries.

  “Just one more question. Lady Popham told me she’s started sleeping in another room because the door of her bedchamber keeps sticking and even locking. She said the man-of-all-work suggested the cause is swelling wood from water damage. Is that correct?”

  “I believe that’s the crux of the matter. It’s unfortunate. I know Lady Popham dislikes this alteration to her circumstances exceedingly.”

  I imagined this was the old retainer’s polite way of saying that my aunt had been testy, out of sorts, and generally difficult to deal with. She was nothing if not enamored with her position as the wife of a baronet, and all the trappings therein. Being forced to give up her sumptuous bedchamber must have been a sore point.

  Though, if I were being fair, I had to admit I might also be testy if I’d been forced to vacate the surroundings I most found comforting for an indefinite period of time. During the war, I’d been forced to sleep in places as lowly as barns, and dusty hiding spaces in attics and cellars, and on one rather memorable occasion beneath the abandoned hulk of a splintered cart with two cracked wheels. However, no matter how mean and uncomfortable my circumstances, I’d always known I had the sanctuary of my Berkeley Square flat to return to.

  Not that a guest bedchamber in a manor such as Littlemote House was in any way comparable to a bed of squelching, muddy ground and the chill night air of Flanders, but war had a way of testing your limits and making the things you would never have believed possible seem practicable.

  “What do you know of this Mr. Green?” I asked. “Is he qualified to be making such judgments?”

  “Mr. Green grew up in Hungerford, and he worked here as a gardener before the war. He was called up when conscription began, and served quite honorably, though he’d no great desire to soldier. He was pushing forty when the war began, with a large family to support. It’s a blessing for them he returned. So many did not.”

  We both fell silent for a moment, acknowledging that fact.

  When he spoke again, he surprised me by admitting, “As to his being qualified, he would be the first to tell you he’s not. That’s why he urged Lady Popham to hire an expert to assess the damage, but in the meantime, to ensure her own safety, she should vacate the rooms before some accident occurred. He was quite conscientious in his duty.”

  “It sounds like it,” I agreed, mulling over this discovery. It certainly cast a favorable light on this Mr. Green. “Has Lady Popham taken his advice and contacted an expert?”

  The butler’s voice was solemn. “She has not.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Miles.”

  “Of course.” He bowed and exited the study, leaving me much to think about.

  I crossed to the window, staring down over the neglected and overgrown west garden. Yet more evidence of my aunt’s reduced staff. Before the war, there had been a dozen or more gardeners and groundsmen, not to mention carpenters, gamekeepers, river keepers, woodsmen, farmhands, and other various members of the estate staff charged with upkeep. How many of those positions were currently filled? As her man-of-all-work, how much was Mr. Green responsible for?

  There was one person, I knew, who would know the answers to these questions and more. He was also just as likely to have a bottle of his scrumpy set aside to warm him on a day like today.

  Heavy gray clouds had been threatening rain all mornin
g, and not trusting they would withhold their bounty until I returned to the house, I dashed upstairs to don my dowdy mackintosh before exiting the manor through the east door. The packed earth of the estate yard was riddled with grooves and divots, and in desperate need of maintenance. It forced me to mind where I stepped, lest I twist my ankle.

  The stables were warm when I slipped inside, and smelled of fresh hay and oats. A single gray mare stood in the nearest stall, her head bowed with age—the last of the nearly two dozen fine horses that had once filled the boxes. Though there was hardly a stable left to manage, I knew the old stablemaster, Mr. Plank, well enough to understand he would never abandon his post until all the horses were gone. And perhaps not even then.

  In truth, he should have been pensioned off ages ago. My uncle had attempted it once, but Mr. Plank had only laughed and continued about his work, heedless of anything his employer said. I expected he would keep doing so until the day he dropped dead.

  As such, I strongly suspected he’d gone on working here even when the estate was under the control of the Royal Flying Corps and then the RAF. In a match between the cantankerous Wiltshire man and military bureaucracy, I would wager on the stablemaster every time. They might have told him not to return, but when faced with his stubborn persistence, I imagined they’d eventually given in, recognizing him for the harmless codger he was. Particularly if he’d shared his stash of scrumpy with their lot.

  The mare lifted her head as I approached her stall, sidling over to press her muzzle to my proffered hand as I crooned to her. “There’s a good girl. You poor dear. It must be lonely with only that crotchety old fellow for company.”

  “Who ye callin’ crotchety?” Mr. Plank demanded behind me in his gravelly voice.

  I leaned closer to the horse to hide my smile, rubbing my hands up and down her neck. The stablemaster was as predictable as ever. Concealing my amusement, I turned to watch as he hobbled closer, his legs bowed and even thinner than I remembered. His scraggly brows lowered in a fierce scowl, but I knew better than to be intimidated.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re as meek as a lamb?” I challenged.

  “O’ course, I am.”

  I arched a single eyebrow in skepticism.

  His lips curled into an impish smile, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “An’ twice as bandy-legged.” At this, he made a shuffling hop to the side, one that was far sprightlier than I’d imagined him capable of.

  I couldn’t help but grin at his antics. “It’s good to see you haven’t changed, Mr. Plank.” My voice softened as I glanced down the row of empty stalls. “Even when so much else has.”

  “Aye, well, it’d take more than a few rowdy airmen to overset me.” He scanned my features through narrowed eyes. “But I know you’re not here to talk about an old gaffer like me. Best come with me.”

  I followed him into the harness room, which also doubled as a sort of office or lounge. He offered me the single chair—I knew better than to decline the hospitality, lest he be affronted—and then poured me a glass from the bottle of cloudy, golden scrumpy perched on the table.

  “Did you remain here through the war, then?” I remarked, accepting the drink from him.

  “Aye,” he replied, turning to pour himself a glass as I sipped the dry, fermented apple cider. Experience had taught me it was best to drink it slowly. Many an unsuspecting visitor had found themselves scrooched on this West Country beverage.

  “Someone ’ad to care for the horses. That nincompoop the major brought with ’im certainly didn’t know what ’e was about. Now, Miss Townsend . . .” he declared as he sank down on a battered old trunk. “But I ’spose it’s Mrs. Kent, now, isn’t it?” He arched his eyebrows not so much in question, but as if to say his memory wasn’t faulty. “What can I do for ye?”

  “You’ve heard about the troubles up at the house?”

  “I don’t concern myself much wi’ what goes on inside. But aye, I heard about the jumble those lads left the place in.” He snorted. “T’would be difficult not to, what with that hole in the gazebo in the garden, and how her ladyship’s been carryin’ on about it night and day.” Mr. Plank had never cowed to his employers, saying whatever he thought about them, and I supposed it was too late now to expect that to change.

  “What of the forgeries and thefts?” I asked, curious whether he could confirm anything the butler had told me.

  “I heard about those, too. Not that I know anythin’ about ’em. When they were smuggled out o’ here, must’ve been by a motorcar.” He wrinkled his nose, expressing his well-known aversion to the vehicles. “An’ I got nothin’ to do wi’ those.”

  I took another drink of the scrumpy to mask my chuckle, able to guess what Mr. Plank would think of Sidney’s prized Pierce-Arrow. “What are the other servants saying? I imagine they have their own ideas.”

  “Aye,” he confirmed, scratching the scraggly beard on his chin as he nodded. “Not that I listen much to ’em, mind. But ’tis hard to ignore the maids when they’re shriekin’ and carryin’ on.”

  I lowered my drink in surprise. “Shrieking?”

  “Aye. One o’ ’em swears she saw a ghost.”

  I sat blinking at him, struggling to accept this assertion, or connect it to anything I’d yet learned.

  Mr. Plank’s face split into a wide grin. “Don’t know about that yet, I see. Aye, there are some ’at say that airfield”—he dipped his head in its general direction—“be constructed on an ancient burial ground. That they plowed through an ancient barrow and disturbed whatever souls were restin’ there.”

  I scowled. There were barrows—Neolithic and Bronze Age burial mounds—dotted all over the Wiltshire countryside, the largest and most famous being West Kennet Long Barrow, a short distance to the west of here. Many of the smaller barrows had never been excavated and were barely notated, so I supposed the plowing over of one was possible. But that did not mean that something superstitious need follow. “Are you trying to tell me it’s haunted?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His dark eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, enjoying the tale. “But that airfield has seen a number o’ crashes, and there are some that say it’s the work o’ the spirits.”

  I thought it more likely the fault of the foggy conditions in this part of the country, and the fact that RAF Froxfield also served as a training base. Inexperienced pilots plus misty weather seemed a recipe for mishaps.

  “Has anyone else seen this . . . ghost?” I asked skeptically.

  Mr. Plank sat back, suddenly sobering. “Not that’ll admit to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His gaze dipped to the floor; his brow furrowed with some troubling thought. For a moment he seemed to debate with himself whether to answer, and when he did, it was in a low, unsettling voice. “Mr. Green—he’s our odd-job man. He refuses to do any work in the west garden or beyond once the light begins to fade. Says it plays tricks with him.” His eyes lifted as if to gauge whether I understood what he was trying to say without putting it into so many words. “He served in the war, ye know. With great distinction.”

  I thought of the other veterans I’d met, men like my husband, who struggled to leave the war behind. Men who sometimes saw shades of their fallen comrades when the man walking toward them on the pavement or standing in front of them in the queue resembled them, or when the angle of the sunlight was just right and their eyes were tired from yet another night spent tossing and turning from bad dreams. Had Mr. Green seen things in the west garden? Had he feared it was his mind playing tricks on him—conjuring the friends and fellow soldiers he’d lost?

  I nodded solemnly. “I can’t help but notice how reduced the number of staff is. This Mr. Green. How much is he responsible for?”

  Mr. Plank inhaled a deep breath. “A fair bit. There’s one gardener still helps out however ’e can, but he’s as old as I am, and his back’s as crooked as a lightning bolt from spendin’ his life bent over
with his hands in the dirt.”

  “Then the rest of the staff is gone?”

  “Aye, either lost to the war, pensioned off, or moved on to other posts.”

  I allowed that sobering discovery to sink in before pressing my chief concern. “What do you think of Mr. Green?”

  He leaned back, scratching his chin again. “Well, ’e was in the war, ye know?”

  I nodded, for we’d already established this.

  “And ’e came back a changed man, that’s for sure. Quiet, resigned, mostly keeps to himself. Can’t blame ’im for that. But ’e works hard. His jobs are never endin’.” He tipped his head to the side. “Though I suspect that’s part o’ the appeal. I gather his home life isn’t so peaceful.”

  What exactly he meant by this, I didn’t have the chance to ask, for his eyes clouded with distrust.

  “Why are ye askin’?”

  I took one last sip of the scrumpy before setting it aside. “He gave my aunt some advice on something up at the house, and I suppose I just wanted to gauge his credibility.”

  “Aye, ’bout the wood rot.” He harrumphed. “Told her ladyship to bring in an expert. It’s no’ his fault she hasn’t.”

  “Yes, I understand that.” I sighed. “But you understand what my aunt is like.”

  He harrumphed again, probably a nobler course than voicing whatever words were curdling his tongue into a grimace. He downed the rest of his glass before offering me a bit of advice. “Before ye go takin’ her ladyship’s word for anythin’, ye should try talkin’ to her maid. Miss Musselwhite knows what’s what, and what’s merely her ladyship’s haughty imaginings.”

  “Then she sounds like the person I should speak to next.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Unfortunately, corralling Miss Musselwhite proved easier said than done. My aunt seemed to have constant need of her, particularly on a day like today, when she declared her nerves to be frazzled, her constitution unsettled by the previous day’s revelations. Whether her health was actually poor or this was merely meant to elicit my sympathy, I didn’t know, but when I visited as a child I remembered my aunt had forever been taking to her bed whenever anyone did something to overset her.