A Pretty Deceit Page 7

  Regardless, I was not going to waste the day seated by her bedside when there were other things I could do to ease her mind. That is, if she truly wanted it eased and this wasn’t all a colossal bid for attention. If that was the case, I would rather she’d simply invited us to visit.

  The housekeeper allowed me to use her parlor bursting with pillows and samplers embroidered with improving verses to speak with the two other maids remaining on the staff. These girls had been closest to the missing maid, Minnie Spanswick, and I hoped they might share with me everything they knew or suspected. Though it took a bit of coaxing, the butler’s supposition proved correct. They were eager to talk to me. But interestingly, they disagreed on what Minnie’s fate had been.

  “Minnie wanted to be an actress,” the apple-cheeked maid named Agnes stated with disapproval. “She was forever yammering on and on. Hardly ever shut her gob about it.”

  Her slighter friend with chocolate-brown tresses frowned.

  “Don’t pretend it isn’t true, Opal. How many times did you and I have to redo her sloppy work just so Mr. Miles wouldn’t dock us all?”

  Opal’s expression seemed to acknowledge the truth of this.

  Agnes crossed her arms over her chest. “Seems obvious she simply up and went to London. She’d been saving her blunt for just such a scamper.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe that officer she met from the airfield offered to help her.” Her lips curled derisively. “For a price.”

  Opal seemed less certain of this, shifting back and forth on her heels.

  “You look like you might think differently?” I asked carefully, curious what she thought, but not wanting to offend Agnes, lest she refuse to say more.

  Agnes glowered at her friend, but under my steady gaze, Opal arched her chin. “No, I don’t think she scampered. Not without telling us that’s what she meant to do.”

  “Then what happened?” I pressed.

  “Well, it’s true. She was steppin’ out with a flyboy.” She bit her lip, casting a look at Agnes out of the corner of her eye. “Used to meet him at the edge of the estate, where it borders the airfield.”

  A righteous gleam lit Agnes’s eyes, as if this confirmed her suspicions about Minnie and her virtue.

  “She . . . she asked me to come with her once, but I had to finish dustin’ Sir Reginald’s room and she wouldn’t wait for me. So I followed after her when I finished.”

  Agnes planted her hands on her hips. “Opal!”

  The petite maid scowled. “Oh, stuff it, Agnes. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t even make it to the edge of the estate.” Her indignation swiftly faded. “Because that’s when . . .” She swallowed. “When I saw the ghost.”

  So this was the origin of the tale Mr. Plank had alluded to.

  “You told us you saw it when you were out for a walk,” Agnes accused.

  “I was out for a walk,” Opal insisted. “I just didn’t tell you where I was going.”

  “This ghost,” I queried, trying to keep my skepticism out of my tone. “Where exactly did you see it? What did it look like?”

  “In the west park, near the river.” Her eyes were wide in her pale face. “I didn’t get a good look at it, but it was tall and wore some sort of long gray robe.”

  “Why do you think it was a ghost?”

  “Because no one around here wears clothes like that. And its eyes.” She shivered. “They . . . they were like two black holes.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m not even sure it had eyes.”

  I struggled to maintain my patience with her. A ghost, indeed. And one without eyes. I wondered where on earth she’d dreamed up such a being. Given the fact her current employer was blind, it wasn’t difficult to guess.

  “And you think this ghost has something to do with Minnie’s disappearance?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She glanced at Agnes as if for support. “The ghost must have done something to her.”

  But Agnes just shook her head. “That’s nonsense. Minnie ran off to London. You told me yourself her parents believe the same thing.”

  Opal flushed. “Aye, but you know Minnie never got along with her stepmother. So she was certain to think the worst of her.”

  “For good reason.”

  The two young women glared at each other, clearly never going to share the same opinion of their errant fellow maid.

  “Has anyone heard from her since she left?” I interjected before they could dissolve into outright squabbling.

  “No,” Agnes replied scornfully. “But then, none o’ us expected to.”

  I studied Opal to discover if this was true. The manner in which she’d lapsed into a surly silence rather than defend her friend implied she agreed, however begrudgingly.

  I was inclined to believe Agnes had the right of it, especially since Minnie’s family also assumed she’d run off to London. For one, there was no evidence anything untoward had happened to her. For another, her possessions had been packed and removed, something I doubted a ghost—if such things even existed—would bother to do. Her love of the cinema and desire to be an actress seemed to be well-known, and she wouldn’t be the first girl to have been seduced by a man’s promises, false or otherwise.

  The question that remained was whether Minnie had helped herself to a few of my aunt’s trinkets to fund her new life. Short of tracking her down in London and retracing her every step, I doubted we would ever know the truth, and I was not about to invest the energy in such a pursuit. Not when there were much larger concerns to occupy my time.

  As for the idea that a ghost haunted the airfield and west park, and had abducted Minnie, well, I’d never heard anything more ridiculous. But I did find the fact that the Littlemote estate actually bordered the airfield to be interesting. I wondered whether any of these supposed sightings of spirits were actually airmen wandering onto the estate. After all, the flight suits and mechanic coveralls they wore would not look so very different from the long gray garment Opal had described seeing in the distance.

  If so, I was curious whether they had permission to do so. Not that I begrudged their enjoying the peace and beauty of the park, but perhaps if the staff was aware of the potential of their presence it might prevent such outlandish imaginings from taking hold. And relieve Mr. Green’s mind.

  I dressed early for dinner in a sage-green evening frock with a draped V neck and then wandered downstairs to the Elizabethan Room, where we’d gathered before dinner the previous evening. A chill had settled over the manor with the fall of night, and rain rapped against the windows. I was relieved to discover the fire in the room’s hearth was a roaring one, and I crossed eagerly toward it, spying my cousin seated in one of the leather wingback chairs, a book opened in his lap. His fingers appeared to dance over the page, and I realized he was reading Braille. Having learned my lesson the previous day, and knowing Reg was already aware of my presence from the tapping of my heels against the bare wood floor, I greeted him immediately.

  “Good evening, Reg.”

  He lifted his head, though he didn’t turn my way. “Hullo, Ver.”

  I paused to gaze over his shoulder. “What has you so engrossed?”

  He closed the book so that I could read the words on the cover printed above the Braille markings.

  “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.” I couldn’t help but arch my eyebrows at his reading selection. “I applaud your choice of Hugo, but I much prefer Les Misérables,” I declared, settling into the chair opposite him. “It’s a shade less . . . chastening.”

  “Yes, well, it’s the only book Mother said she could find on her last trip to London.”

  I felt a stab of guilt that I hadn’t even paused to consider this part of my cousin’s life. Aunt Ernestine possessed a number of wonderful qualities, but patience was not one of them. I imagined she’d visited one bookstore and purchased the first book in Braille that was presented to her.

  “Well, I shall send you a stack of them when I return to London,” I replied breezily, ho
ping to gloss over the matter before he could object. “So, is this what they taught you at that special rehabilitation hospital?”

  His lips curled into a sneer. “Well, it wasn’t as if they were going to teach a baronet how to chicken farm or make shoes.”

  “Can you type?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m cracking good at that.”

  “You needn’t be so derisive,” I said softly. “Simply tell me if I’ve overstepped.”

  His brow furrowed as if he intended to argue with me, but then he closed his eyes and heaved a weary sigh. “Sorry, Ver. I suppose I’ve gotten so used to being treated like a doddering imbecile that I’ve forgotten not everyone sees me that way.”

  “Surely that’s not true. I know your mother is a trifle . . . overprotective, but surely the staff wouldn’t dare be so disrespectful.”

  He made a noise at the back of his throat that fell somewhere between a grunt of agreement and a snort of disdain, a sound that was wholly noncommittal, before turning the subject. “You know you didn’t have to give in to Mother’s demands and remain here. You must have a dozen places you’d rather be.”

  “Oh, it was my idea.”

  His face registered genuine surprise. “It was?”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t really want to tag along on Sidney’s errand in Cornwall.” This was an exaggeration, but easier stated than explaining why it was better if I didn’t go. “And you know I can’t resist a good mystery.”

  He grimaced ruefully. “My backside remembers.”

  This startled a laugh out of me for I hadn’t been thinking of the time I’d decided to uncover who’d stolen the last of Uncle James’s vintage Madeira wine, only to land Reg in a heap of trouble when he was proved to be the culprit. He’d received a rather sound thrashing.

  His grimace softened into a genuine smile—clearly having enjoyed making me laugh—and it transformed his face from something hard and bitter into the handsome, good-natured young man I’d known before the war had beaten him down and stolen his vision. It was a welcome, but sobering sight. A reminder of everything we’d lost, and the other things we’d willingly given up because of it.

  Even though Reg couldn’t see me, I found I couldn’t look into his face as I spoke again with forced lightness. “Besides, I’ve been avoiding some things for too long simply because they’re painful.” I traced my finger over the fabric at the edge of the chair. “And I suppose it’s time I stop.”

  Silence fell between us, broken by the crackling of the fire in the hearth, and then the crinkle of Reg’s clothes as he shifted to set the book in his lap on the table beside him.

  “Mother said you hadn’t been back to Brock House since ’15. Since . . .” He didn’t need to complete that sentence, for we both knew what had happened in July 1915. My brother Rob had died.

  It was true. I’d been avoiding my parents’ home—the place of so many memories that could not easily be shut away. And not just of my brother, though his loss was the chief splinter in my chest now that I knew Sidney was alive, but also the other boys of Upper Wensleydale. Boys I had known since I began toddling around the nursey, many of whom had not returned. And yet, the war had ended almost a year ago. I couldn’t stay away forever.

  “Quite.” I inhaled a deep breath, determined not to let us devolve into morose ponderings. “Well, enough of that. I have a question for you.” Marking the wariness that hunched his shoulders, I added in a low voice, “One that your mother doesn’t wish me to.”

  His expression turned inquisitive, just as I’d known it would. “Really? And what is that?”

  I looked toward the door, trusting the room was large enough that my voice would not carry to someone standing outside. “You know about the forgeries, don’t you? The ones she’s so determined you not hear about. You’ve known about them for some time.”

  His mouth curled upward at one corner in cynicism. “As I said, doddering imbecile. She forgets my hearing is remarkably keen.”

  I clasped my hands in my lap, tilting my head. “Your mother seems determined to blame the airmen for them.”

  Reg’s mouth drooped.

  “In fact, I believe she means for Sidney to intervene on her behalf to have the matter investigated.”

  His head dropped back against the chair as he lifted his face to stare sightlessly up toward the paper and plaster chandelier overhead. “Mother!” he cursed under his breath.

  “But you already know who is responsible, don’t you? And it’s not the airmen.”

  He scowled and then relented. “No, it’s not the airmen. Father ran into some financial trouble a few years before the war. So, he sold some of the estate’s more precious artwork and sculptures, and replaced them with forgeries. Not that he told me, mind you,” he remarked bitterly. “I wasn’t his heir then. And I doubt he would have even told Thomas had he not been required to get his heir’s written permission since the art was part of the entailment.”

  “Then how did you find out?”

  “By paying attention,” he muttered dryly. “Father wasn’t exactly stealthy about it. I guessed what he was about, and when I asked Thomas he confirmed it.”

  “Did your mother know?”

  “I’m sure Father didn’t tell her, but she must know the truth. She can’t be that willfully blind.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “Are you certain about that?”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line as he seemed to give this some consideration. “Yes! I know she discovered some of the gems in her jewelry are fake. I heard her say so. So she must at least suspect the truth about the rest.”

  And yet she was still prepared to blame the airmen.

  This fact did not endear my aunt to me. From the look on his face, neither did it please her son.

  “What of the smaller portable items that have gone missing?” I asked.

  “Which items?”

  “When I asked Miles, he mentioned things like a vase, figurines, a box of old coins, and an ivory calling card case.”

  His fingers tapped the arm of his chair in agitation. “Yes, I did know about a few of those things. Mother asked me about the coins and I heard her complaining about a Dresden shepherdess. But I didn’t know there were others.”

  “Miles also mentioned that they started going missing after the airmen departed and the family resumed habitation of Littlemote.”

  “So Mother can’t pass the blame onto the flyboys for those.”

  “No.” I hesitated to voice my next question even though he obviously held no illusions about his mother’s rectitude. “But do you think she might have had anything to do with them? Could she have sold them and then lied about it to save face?”

  His brow lowered as he mulled over this possibility, but then he shook his head rather forcefully. “No, I don’t. Simply because of the fact that she was so upset when she discovered the coins and the figurine were missing. She even went so far as to accuse me of having done something with the coins when much of the time she treats me like I’m incapable of even crossing a room.”

  “What type of coins were they?”

  “Just ones that have been found about the estate in centuries past, by the family or the gardeners. Thomas and I dug one out of the riverbank when we were boys.” The corners of his mouth briefly lifted in a small smile at the happy memory. “Father dropped it in the box with the others that he kept on a shelf in his study.” He tilted his head. “As I recall, another coin was found just last year, and I imagine it was tossed in with all the rest. There are at least a few Roman and Anglo-Saxon coins among the lot—scuffed and worn from time—so I imagine they’re worth something to the right buyer.”

  I turned the matter over in my mind, wondering if there might be a way we could trace the coins in reverse by finding those right buyers.

  “What about the door to my mother’s bedchamber?” he interjected. “Have you uncovered anything there?”

  I explained what I’d learned about the possible water damage and Mr. Green
’s suggestion they hire an expert to assess the problem.

  “And yet Mother hasn’t done so?”

  I started to shake my head, but then realized he couldn’t see me. “No. I’m not sure . . .” I broke off, deciding to rephrase the matter. “The repairs could be quite dear.”

  “No need to tiptoe around the matter with me, Ver. I know my pockets are practically to let.” His good humor at the situation abruptly faded. “Mother might like to pretend that decades of mismanagement hasn’t left us in a bit of a pickle, but I refuse to harbor any illusions. After spending three years in the trenches, I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime,” he added wryly.

  I smiled tightly in commiseration and opened my mouth to ask him what he intended to do about it, when Aunt Ernestine chose that moment to finally make her appearance.

  “Here you are,” she announced as if she’d had to search the entire house for us rather than finding us exactly where we were supposed to be. She eyed our cozy tête-à-tête before the fire with misgiving. “Well, my, aren’t we both punctual. I apologize for my lateness, but my nerves, you know.”

  Given the fact she’d been indisposed the entire day, I’d wondered if she might bow out of dinner. Instead, it appeared she’d chosen to play the martyr-card. Indeed, all evening she never missed a chance to remind us of her overtaxed nerves, even as in the same breath she assured me that, as hostess, she couldn’t leave me to fend for myself my entire visit. Never mind the fact that Reg and I had been rubbing along just fine without her. I felt it more likely she didn’t wish to leave us alone for too long, lest I share something she didn’t wish me to. Too late for that.

  Given Reg’s antagonistic behavior toward his mother, I half expected him to demand answers to the revelations I’d made at dinner, but he held his tongue. Obviously, he knew her well, and had probably already guessed she’d forbidden me to speak of it. Given that, I was grateful for his discretion. But seeing the look on his face as I excused myself for the evening, I would not have wagered on his willingness to hold his tongue for longer than it would take for me to pass out of earshot.