A sinister revenge, p.6
A Sinister Revenge, page 6
“Of course, Miss Speedwell,” he said, instantly contrite as he led us away.
Waiting for us was a luxurious conveyance marked with the arms of the Templeton-Vanes. Merry handed me in and proceeded to give me a thorough tour of the village as we bowled along. A fair number of people were milling about and I wondered if it were market day although I saw no telltale stalls or bunting.
“No, they’ve come out to see Stoker,” Merry said, grinning, when I ventured the question.
Stoker had lapsed into silence and sat glowering in the corner of the carriage. Merryweather went on, pointing out the tiny street of shops and the various other landmarks and amenities. I recognised them from the map in the book I had unearthed in the Belvedere, but it was pleasant to have a guide, and I let Merryweather continue without interruption. “There is the village green with the duck pond, and the doctor’s house is Wren Cottage, that pretty little Georgian house with the dispensary attached. Most convenient for the villagers. Just there is the school, oh, the children are at the windows, waving.” He paused and raised a hand to them, smiling, as Stoker slunk further down in his seat.
Merry pointed. “And there on the other side of the pond is the church—my church, St. Frideswide the Lesser’s,” he added, should I be in any doubt on the matter. We rode swiftly along the main road as it swept in an arc around the walled churchyard and into a narrow, leafy lane that led away from the clustered cottages. The whole village could not have encompassed more than fifty houses, but it was snug and prosperous, neat as a pin with late roses rambling over the warm honeyed stone.
“You’ll notice there are no thatched roofs here,” Merryweather pointed out. “Father thought them unhygienic, so he had every last one stripped and replaced with slate.” The effect made the village only slightly less picturesque than it ought to have been.
“They are also a fire hazard,” I remarked. To my astonishment, Merry began to cough, a sort of choking wheeze that ended only when I slapped him forcefully upon the shoulder.
“Are you quite well?” I asked when he had recovered his breath.
“Perfectly,” he rasped.
I was content to let the matter rest, but Stoker’s expression was stern. “What have you done now?” he demanded of his brother.
“Stoker! What makes you think poor Merryweather has done something?”
“Experience,” he replied dryly. “Well, Merry?”
“I may,” his brother said in a small voice, “have burnt down the vicarage.”
“Good god,” Stoker said.
“Was anyone injured?” I enquired.
“Oh no, thank heaven,” Merry said fervently. “We were entirely blessed in that regard. My housekeeper, you see, had gone out. She went to have words with the fishmonger about the quality of his whitings. Putting him in his plaice, as it were.”
He paused for us to appreciate his joke, and since Stoker continued to glower, it seemed only kind to smile. Merry threw me a grateful look and carried on.
“Anyway, I was terribly hungry—I had been gardening, you see, and digging in the herbaceous border always builds up an appetite, I find. And Mrs. Nettlethorpe left only a single cutlet, a very small cutlet, and some vegetables for my luncheon. I remembered a pork pie in the larder and decided it would be just the thing if I warmed it through. So, I banked up the oven—”
“Merry, you didn’t,” Stoker said. “You know better.”
Merry hung his head.
“Why are you not permitted the use of the oven, Merryweather?” I enquired.
He raised mournful eyes to mine. “I am afraid I have had one or two accidents in the past,” he said.
“One or two!” Stoker interjected. “You very nearly burnt down the house when you were seven.”
“I thought you were the one who burnt down part of Cherboys,” I said to Stoker.
“Oh no. That was just Tiberius’ bed I set alight. Merry managed to bring down an entire wing.”
“I was playing castle siege with my tin soldiers and I needed a flaming ball of pitch for my trebuchet,” Merry protested.
Stoker turned to me. “He took a live coal from the fire in Father’s study up to his bedroom and launched it with his toy siege machine. It landed in the curtains and kindled a fire that took forty men the better part of six hours to extinguish. And,” he added with a repressive look to his brother, “it cost me my eyebrows.”
“You were warned not to go in,” Merry said, lapsing into a sulky tone.
“I wasn’t going to let Pomona burn!” Stoker returned fiercely.
“Pomona?” I asked.
“His dog,” Merry said. “He insisted on going back for her and playing the hero.”
“Well, I quite understand not wanting one’s dog to be immolated,” I said reasonably.
“It was stuffed,” Merry retorted.
“Mounted, damn your eyes,” Stoker roared. “And I never did get the stink of smoke out of her fur.”
“You mounted your pet?” I asked, only faintly disturbed.
“It was my first attempt at taxidermy,” Stoker muttered. “Father had an extensive natural history collection. I saw his specimens and I thought if I could—” He glanced at Merry and broke off. “Never mind. The point is, Merry is a walking calamity. And his misadventures are not limited to fires. As soon as Father had plumbing installed in the house, Merry flooded the entire nursery wing.”
“I had built a model of the Argo,” Merry explained with solemnity. “I wanted to see if it would float in Mamma’s bathtub.”
Stoker continued, numbering the mishaps upon his fingers. “He knocked over a particularly valuable vase—Chinese, Fourth Dynasty—and shattered it. He fell into the River Dear, which flows from the village, past Cherboys, and down to the sea. He was only saved from drowning because his trousers snagged upon a branch. Then there was Father’s horse, Tinchebray—”
“Enough,” I said, holding up a hand. “Youthful peccadilloes. If a child is energetic and inquisitive, accidents will happen.” I looked warmly at Merry. “I accidentally asphyxiated a kitten in a blancmange once. I managed to revive it, but only with great difficulty.”
“Then you understand,” he said in some relief.
“Quite. Now, since Stoker appears disinclined to play cicerone for me, why don’t you tell me about our surroundings?”
This Merry did with alacrity, pointing out that we were descending almost imperceptibly from the village proper towards the sea, passing wide swathes of fields, some dotted with wagons full of hay, others freshly furrowed and planted with winter wheat or barley. Lambs born in spring had been fattened and weaned and were grazing in pastures that gave way to orchards heavy with fruit. The scene was one of sleek prosperity, well managed and abundant. In the fields, farmers and hands paused in their work to watch the carriage pass, most tugging their forelocks as Stoker shrank further back into his seat.
“They seem happy to see you,” I remarked.
“Then they can wave,” he replied darkly. “The hold this family have on the area is positively feudal.”
Merry went on, pointing out the narrow rush of the River Dear as we crossed it via a small but handsome stone bridge. “From here, the river borders the estate,” he explained. The road we travelled sometimes paralleled the river and sometimes curved away, leaving small, pretty patches of dappled woods between. From the uplands of the rolling hills, down we moved towards the cliffs standing sentinel over the water beyond, and as we emerged from one particularly lovely little copse, the vista before us opened to reveal a broad sky, deep blue and tufted with cotton-wool clouds stretching to the horizon above a dark grey sea.
“Spectacular,” I breathed.
Merry smiled. “Grandfather had that last bit of wood planted in order to make the view more striking. The trees are so dark and then suddenly one is in the open, dazzled by the light.”
He nodded ahead to where a house sat perched near the top of the headland, its face set to the sea. “And that is Cherboys.”
He might have said, “And that is Heaven,” for the note of reverence in his voice would have been the same.
As we travelled ever nearer, the house loomed larger and more impressive. The sketches I had seen had failed to do it justice, for how could mere lines upon a page encompass the grandeur of Cherboys? From battlements to towers, from galleried pillars to lavish parapets, it embraced every possible embellishment. Not a single enhancement had been overlooked. Every bit of stone that could be sculpted or carved had fallen under the workman’s chisel. Every ornament, every turret, had been chosen with exacting specificity so that all fitted together in harmony. Remove one fluted stone facing, eliminate a single balustrade, and its perfection would be compromised. But it was a cold perfection, austere in its majesty, and I suppressed a shiver as we passed beneath its shadow.
The carriage rolled over the gravelled sweep of the drive, coming to a halt in front of the grand front doors. They were open, and down the wide flight of steps stood a battery of servants, each spotlessly attired and standing stiffly at attention. A pair of footmen, bewigged and bestockinged, wore the livery of the Templeton-Vanes, dark blue edged in silver. The maids wore dresses of the same shade of blue with crisp white aprons and enormous mobcaps to cover their hair.
“Christ,” Stoker muttered. “Was this really necessary?”
“Tiberius’ orders,” Merry said by way of apology. “He knew you wouldn’t like it, but they are all very excited you’ve come home.”
“No doubt Tiberius is hiding behind the door, watching it all and laughing up his sleeve,” Stoker said darkly.
“Hardly,” Merry replied. “He is squirrelled away in his office. Something about estate business.” He paused and looked at his elder brother anxiously. “Of course you may stay in the carriage as long as you like, but it is nearly teatime. Perhaps we ought to think about getting out?”
Stoker said nothing, but I sensed the tautness of his nerves. A homecoming after a long absence is often a difficult thing, and Stoker’s travails had been dramatic and painful. Infamous gossip had been published in the London newspapers—untrue gossip, I might add, and all at the behest of his former wife, whose depravity is exceeded only by her malice. Stoker had never said, but I suspected one reason for his avoidance of his boyhood home was the fear that the rumours had spread even so far as the wilds of the Devonian coast. He had often enough found judgment in the eyes of those he had counted friends. He had no wish to receive it from those he had once held dear. He had been seduced by Tiberius’ offer of the Megalosaurus, but I knew him well enough to understand that returning to Cherboys, the site of so much of his boyhood unhappiness, would feel like a reckoning.
Merry handed me out of the carriage and I stepped aside to wait for Stoker. For one long moment I thought he would not appear, but at last he emerged, ducking his head as he descended. He drew a deep breath as his foot touched the gravel and straightened, raising his chin in defiance.
Suddenly, a diminutive figure in grey and white detached itself from the others. She was plump and wore long, full skirts of an old-fashioned design. A cap of snow-white lace perched atop hair of the same colour. She stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed over her chest as she regarded Stoker, scrutinising him slowly from scuffed booted toe to tumbled hair. Without saying a word, she pursed her lips and turned on her heel, tapping smartly as she walked into the house.
“Oh no,” Stoker murmured, his face going pale.
“I ought to have warned you. She is rather angry,” Merry whispered, looking quite sorry for his brother.
“Who is that?” I asked. Stoker did not reply. He merely mounted the steps, slowly, with the tragic and dignified air of a French aristocrat mounting the tumbril on his way to the guillotine.
“Courage, man,” Merry called to his back. Stoker squared his shoulders and followed the tiny woman into the house. The other members of staff stood looking after him with expressions of mingled fear and amusement.
I turned to Merry. “Why does Stoker look as though he were preparing to face a firing squad?”
Merry’s expression was sober. “It is far worse than a firing squad, Miss Speedwell. Far worse indeed.” He paused and gave a grim nod towards the house. “That is Nanny.”
CHAPTER
8
Merry guided me up the steps past the bobbing and curtseying staff and into a grand entrance hall that seemed to go on for miles. The floor was black-and-white marble, austere in its glossy perfection. The walls were dotted here and there with alcoves, each fitted with a plinth to hold a statue from antiquity. Various gods and goddesses watched eyelessly as we passed, footsteps ringing upon the marble. It was formal and impressively large, designed for one purpose: to display enough wealth and power to strike terror into the heart of the casual visitor.
But the décor was not the only thing to terrify. Stoker stood in the center of the hall, head bowed as his nanny heaped scorn upon him in a thick Scottish accent.
“—this many years without so much as a visit and hardly even a scrap of a postcard to say if you be alive or dead. When I think of the hours I spent cuddling you to my bosom and you fair screaming the house down with the colic. I can hardly hear now for the damage you did me, but would I consider it a loss? Nay, I would not, if only I had a word from you now and again—”
She was warming to her theme and heaven only knows how long she might have carried on had Stoker not interrupted her. I was tempted to suggest to Merry that we ring for tea—watching Stoker squirm is a thoroughly entertaining proposition and refreshments seemed in order—but Stoker clasped his nanny’s wagging finger in his large hand and brought it to his cheek.
“Dear Nanny,” he said gently, “there are no words sufficient to convey my regret that I have caused you a moment’s trouble. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
The little harridan slipped her hand from his and slapped his cheek—but lightly. “That is for giving me more grey hairs than the rest of the lot combined.” Then a smile warmed her withered apple face. “And this is for coming home at last, my wee Stokie.” She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him soundly on both cheeks before tucking his arm through hers. “Now, you must come to my cottage and have tea with me.”
He cast a glance backwards at me as she moved to drag him off. “Nanny, I must introduce you—”
She paused and gave him a quelling stare. “Do you mean to agitate me again, Stokie?” She pressed her free hand to her bombazine bosom. “Do you know that I have palpitations now? From all the worry,” she said meaningfully.
“Of course, Nanny,” he soothed, patting her hand. “We will have tea.”
He sent us a helpless look, but she grasped his hand and tugged him along relentlessly. She turned back just once to dart a look of triumph in my direction, and Merry regarded me anxiously. “I hope you are not offended, Miss Speedwell. Nanny can be a trifle possessive where her boys are concerned, particularly Stoker. She always had a soft spot for him.”
“Don’t you mean ‘wee Stokie’?” I asked with a grin. I put my own arm through his. “Never mind, Merryweather. I will have tea with you and we can get to know one another better.”
* * *
• • •
Merry played the tour guide, naming the various rooms we passed through—picture gallery, garden entry, library, morning room—until we came at last to the drawing room, a long, handsome chamber furnished in gold silk.
“I brought you the long way round,” he informed me, sketching a broad circle with his hands. “We have made a loop, clockwise, through the main public rooms, and if we passed through that door,” he said, pointing behind me, “we would find ourselves in the entrance hall once more. At least it makes a start to learning the house. Best to take it in stages,” he finished kindly.
Having seen the floor plan in the Pondlebury book, I knew he spoke wisdom. “It is a considerable property,” I said as he rang for tea.
“Oh, quite! You have seen less than a third of this floor and there are two more above with the attics atop that. Stoker always used to say that it needed Ariadne’s clew to find one’s way around.” A fleeting smile touched his lips, and I realised then what genuine affection he held for Stoker.
Before I could broach the subject, the tea appeared, hot and fragrant and served with such a vast assortment of cakes, sandwiches, and tarts that I began to fear for the state of my corset strings. When we had dusted the last of the crumbs from our fingers, Merry suggested a tour of the grounds after I had been shown to my room.
“Splendid idea!” I told him as I rose and smoothed the skirts of my travelling costume. “Trains are diabolically stuffy inventions and a bit of fresh air is just the thing to blow the cobwebs away.”
We returned to the entrance hall, where a trio of servants waited. I spotted a familiar figure and gave an exclamation of real pleasure. “Collins!” I said as I extended my hand. I had visited Vane House—Tiberius’ establishment in London—often enough to have become quite well acquainted with his butler. “How nice to see you again. How is your lumbago?”
Collins seemed startled at the proffer of my hand, but he shook it gravely. “Tormenting me day and night, but it is kind of you to ask, miss.”
“I have only recently read of a new treatment—a kind of baking apparatus to warm the limbs. I shall speak to Stoker and have him sort one out for you,” I promised.
“That is not necessary—” he began, looking thoroughly alarmed at the notion.
I smiled. “It most certainly is. I know how much Lord Templeton-Vane relies upon you, and how can you work or enjoy your leisure if you are suffering?”
