Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Read online

  ‘Is that Mr Dibley? Oh, Mrs Dibley! Would you be so kind as to fetch your husband to the phone – The Manse here. There seems to have been some sort of hitch with our order and, as I hope that this may be the first order of many, I should like a word with him with the utmost urgency. Thank you so much.’

  We shall not eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation, lest we are shocked by Mrs Ironmonger’s language. Suffice to say that the bread order was loaded and on its way within half an hour.

  Mr Connor, the greengrocer and fruiterer, could hardly believe his ears at the tirade that assaulted them when he answered the telephone. ‘Yes, Mrs Ironmonger.’ … ‘Yes, Mrs Ironmonger.’ … ‘Sorry, Mrs Ironmonger.’ … ‘It wasn’t a case of being dilatory or forgetful, I was …’ … ‘If I can get a word in, Mrs Ironm –’ … ‘Mrs Ironmonger, I insist that you listen. The exotic fruits have only just been delivered to me, and –’ … ‘I didn’t see the need to telephone, as that would only waste more time. As we speak, my assistant is loading the van for delivery, and your order will be with you as soon as is humanly poss –’ … ‘Yes, I realise it’s a substantial order, and will be a regular one. Should there be any delay in the future, I will not hesitate to phone you straightaway, so that you are apprised of the situation.’ …‘Thank you, Mrs Ironmonger. Good day to you!’

  ‘Who does that bloody woman think she is? The Queen of England?’ shouted the beleaguered tradesman, driven to fury by the way he had been spoken to. ‘If I didn’t have a living to earn, I’d give her her bloody exotic fruits, and they’d have a bloody hard job getting them out again if I shoved them where I’d like to!’

  Hurling the telephone into his display of bananas, Mr Connor treated himself to a marathon swearing session, making squeezing, choking movements with his hands, imagining the housekeeper’s scrawny throat between them, peppering his swear words with ‘the bloody foul-mouthed bitch – I’m going to kill her’.

  If he had but known it, there were two other tradesmen feeling exactly the same as he did, and with similar thoughts about what to do with their diverse produce, these variously involving a very long French stick and a string of sausages.

  Beatrix Ironmonger – courtesy title Mrs, as no one really knew her marital status, and she had no intentions of enlightening them – smiled as she finished her third and last phone call. The thrust and parry of her verbal tussles had put her in fine fettle for the day, and she felt ready for anything now. Perhaps she’d go down to the kitchen and see if she couldn’t tease Chef into a bit of a tizzy: but first, a nice cup of tea, she decided. He always jumped in such a guilty fashion when he heard the tinkle of the keys and accoutrements that accompanied her wherever she went – unless she used a hand to still them! Then, she could make him jump out of his skin.

  III

  There was no need for her input, however, as he was managing very nicely on his own. The chef, Antoine de la Robe, gave a Gallic shrug of such immensity that Dwayne Mortte, the sous chef, thought he was going to turn himself inside out.

  Chef was a large man with a shiny bald head, with just a tiny white arrowhead of carefully shaped and gelled hair sticking up from the centre of his upper forehead. A mirroring arrowhead hung from his chin, making it look as if he were wearing directions. His eyebrows were black, furry caterpillars, and his build, on the generous side, hinting at his profession. His arrogance was beyond belief, but whether this was just part of his character, or the resulting artistic temperament for one of his culinary talents, it was difficult to decide.

  ‘The deliveries will be here in a minute, Chef. No point in getting all bent out of shape, is there?’ soothed Dwayne.

  ‘What are you tocking about, ziss bendink? I don’t bend nussing, you silly boy,’ shouted Antoine, still unwinding his head from deep between his shoulders.

  ‘Forget it. Surely there’s something else we can get on with while we’re waiting. Why don’t we start on the soup?’

  The chef’s voice rose to an ever higher pitch of indignation. ‘Ze soup? Ze soup? You theenk we start on ze soup?’ By now he was shouting at the top of his voice.

  With no clue as to what exactly he had done wrong, Dwayne pushed on bravely in the face of the birth of a first-class Gallic tantrum. ‘Why can’t we do the soup?’ he asked, not comprehending the consequences of his innocent question.

  ‘Where do I get ze legumes, idiot boy? Where do I get ze oignon, ze pomme de terre, ze carotte, ze celeri? Where I get zose from, hein? You tell Antoine, and ’e will start ze soup. Also, where I get ze bones for ze stock, and ze poulet for ze saveur? Tiens! I cannot do nossink wizzout zese sings.’

  By now, he was nearly apoplectic with rage, and was making little jumping movements, accompanied by punching movements with his fists to display his anger, not only at the lack of deliveries, but at Dwayne’s lack of comprehension about what was needed before he could commence making the soup.

  Luckily for Dwayne, he was not ‘quick’ enough to understand Antoine’s thick accent when the chef was having a conniption, and was, therefore, unmoved by the whole episode, reacting only when he heard the honk of a delivery van outside the kitchen door, standing cannily to one side as Antoine leapt to open it and hurl himself through it, already raining down abuse.

  Hearing only, ‘Espece de vache …’ and understanding that this would take some time, Dwayne swiftly closed the door and disappeared down a passage to seek another exit. He felt a fag break coming on, and thought that a bit of peace and quiet was his due, after the hysterics of the last few days. Chef wasn’t the easiest of people to work for, and he’d worked for some right arseholes in the past. Mr de la Robe, indubitably, took the proverbial biscuit.

  IV

  Jefferson Grammaticus was also discovering that his every wish could not be fulfilled, discussing, as he was, the water in the lily pond and the water in a smaller ornamental pond about two hundred metres away, and not being told what he wanted to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Grammaticus, but it don’t matter ’ow much you arsks me, I simply can’t get that there lily pond to feed t’other. It goes against nature, that does.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, man? All I’m asking is for you to connect the two with a pipe and let the one feed the other. Where’s the problem with that?’

  ‘Well, it might look as if there’s a slight slope to that there ornamental jobby with the benches and willow tree, but if you take the trouble to hexamine the ground, you’ll find that that’s an optical delusion.

  ‘I got one of those doo-hickeys with a bubble in it – what’s that called now? I misremember. Anyway, I’ll just grab it and you come along-a me, an’ I’ll show you why you can’t have your way on this one.’

  The two men walked, stopping every twenty metres or so to check the flatness of the ground, and, sure enough, the slope that appeared to fall from the smaller pond, actually rose, the false impression provided by the undulating surface of the surrounding lawns.

  ‘I don’t believe it, and this, on opening day. What the hell can we do about it, Henry?’

  Henry Buckle, head gardener and groundsman stropped his stubbly chin with the fingers and thumb of his right hand and stared off into the distance, lost in thought. ‘We’d ’ave to fit a pump,’ he offered at last. ‘That’s the only way water’s ever gonna run uphill, cos, as I said, that’s against nature, that is, Mr Grammaticus, sir.’

  ‘How soon can you get your hands on one? The price doesn’t matter: it’s time we’re short of, not funds.’

  ‘I could probably get one from Market Darley today if I went to collect it in the truck, but fittin’ it’s another matter. And where are you going to put it? You can’t just ’ave a pump sittin’ in the middle of the grass, can you? That doesn’t fit in with the image you described to me for this place.’

  ‘Oh, damn and blast it! There’s always got to be a fly in the ointment somewhere. Is there any way you can get some water into the little pond temporarily? Then we could arrange
to have the pump fitted when the opening weekend is over, and work out some way to disguise it then. We’re not taking any other bookings for next week, while we assess our performance to see if there are any services that can be improved; any little wrinkles to be ironed out – that sort of thing.’

  ‘I can shove a sheet of plastic in the bottom and fill it with the hose, if I start filling it now. Then we’ll have to do something as soon as the guests leave. And water don’t just flow by magic, yer know. It needs pipes, and a pipe is what you’re goin’ to ’ave to sink in the ground for that there pump, and a return one, if you want the water to circulate round and pour over yon thingy you’ve put in. What the hell is it?’

  ‘It’s a small waterfall. I must have been out of my mind – not thinking straight – and I just had this vision of the two pools, and a small cascade of water at the far end of the lily pond, where it could be seen from the island. The sound of falling water is so relaxing, I suppose I got a bit carried away. Oh, bum, Buckle! I’m an arse! And I don’t want you agreeing with that, either. Get off and see what you can do, and see if you can think of any way to disguise the pump – a clump of well-grown shrubs round it – something you can get from the garden centre without too much trouble should do the job. Now, be off with you, Buckle, before I can spot any other balls-ups I’ve made.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Grammaticus, sir.’ Buckle doffed his hat in an ironic execution of the outmoded fashion of bidding good day to a member of the gentry, and strolled away, his bandy legs swinging like the bottom half of John Wayne in search of a horse.

  Halfway across the lawn he turned, and called out to Jefferson Grammaticus, ‘Spirit level – that be the bugger! Friggin’ spirit level!’

  V

  Jocelyn and Jerome had made a wise choice in opting to be the modern-day equivalent of those Georgian prestige members of staff – tall, black footmen. Even in their everyday clothes, they made a striking impression, with the darkness of their skin, the broadness of their shoulders, and their impressive height. The fact that there were two of them made them an even more arresting sight.

  At the moment, they were in their respective rooms, each trying on one set of their new footman’s uniforms. From the top down, these consisted of white wigs (not powdered with arsenic these days, fortunately), turquoise jackets with a discreet amount of silver frogging, navy blue knee breeches, white shirt, white hose, and black patent leather shoes with polished steel buckles. With the addition of white gloves to complete the outfits, they considered they would be a real vision of loveliness.

  Jocelyn was the first dressed and, after a narcissistic gaze of admiration in his pier glass, he wandered through into Jerome’s room, to see how his twin was getting on. Fine, as it turned out, as he was just adjusting his wig, and repeating recent history from the adjoining room, by glancing, with admiration, at the reflection in his own cheval mirror.

  ‘Yo, Bro!’ Jocelyn greeted his brother, walking with mincing little steps across the room. ‘Don’t we just look the bizz?’ he enquired, and Jerome turned to face him. There followed a moment when they used each other as mirrors, their grins wide, at the sight presented to each of them. ‘Ain’t we just peachie, Massa?’ asked Jerome. ‘I ain’t so sure this freedom business was such a good thing if you could look this good.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Footmen weren’t slaves; they were honest-to-God servants, just like all the other staff.’

  ‘I know, but you get my drift.’

  ‘I sure do,’ replied Jocelyn twisting round so that Jerome could admire the view from the back, an action that drew a wolf whistle of appreciation. ‘Now you turn round for me. Oh, man, that’s beautiful. Do a little walk and a twirl for me,’ he requested, sighing as he viewed the vision of sartorial elegance in movement. ‘My turn now, so that you can see too,’ he stated, and began to walk sedately round the bedroom, a haughty expression on his face.

  ‘I think this could turn out to be a lot of fun, you know,’ he said, reverting to his normal public school-educated accountant’s voice.

  ‘And, as part-owners,’ replied Jerome, also in his everyday voice, ‘if there’s anything too onerous, we can pass it on to one of the other staff. I assume that if this weekend is a success, we can assess staffing levels for full running, and decide whether we need anyone else on board. I’m of the opinion we’re going to need a few more.’

  ‘Me too.’ Jocelyn was before the cheval glass again, examining his appearance with a self-satisfied expression. ‘I know Jefferson wants real fires in the winter months, and cleaning those grates out, humping coal all day long, or even logs – they’re heavy enough – then just getting the whole thing alight in the first place, that’s a dirty role we have no one to fulfil at the moment. Me? I ain’t doin’ it.’

  ‘Me neither. Then there’s all the heavy cleaning,’ suggested his brother, getting into the swing of the subject. ‘Chastity can’t manage all that on her own. She’s got all the rooms to do on a daily basis, so she’s not going to have the time to dust skirting boards and wainscoting, polish mirrors and silver and brass, and scrub the floors, not to mention all the wood that’ll need waxing. And there ain’t no way one little old man from Carsfold’s gonna be able to cope with the sheer physical labour of keeping the grounds in immaculate order.’

  ‘I’m sort of assuming that, once Jefferson gets a measure of just how much work is involved in providing the sort of service and surroundings he’s hoping for, he’ll realise that we must have more hands on deck.’

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t, it’s our place to point it out to him. Apart from the fact that we might be called upon to hump baskets of logs around – I mean, in this gear? – we don’t want the current crew trying to jump ship, now do we?’

  ‘Nope, but there’s plenty more where they came from, and they’re not going to break the bank, are they?’ On which cryptic comment, Jocelyn closed the conversation, and returned to his own room to change into something a little more practical for the intervening hours between now, and when the first guests arrived. He and his brother were both looking forward to their new role in life, seeing it as more of a game than a position of service, because of their financial stake in the venture.

  A voice followed him through the door. ‘And your hose are crooked,’ followed by a cackle of laughter. Jocelyn, knowing his brother’s sense of humour, didn’t know whether to examine his back or his front in the pier glass. A blush showed against his dark skin and he shut the adjoining door with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

  Chapter Three

  Friday 18th June – afternoon

  I

  In the entrance hall, the sound of raised voices carried from the first floor. ‘I can’t manage all these bedrooms on my own. It’s not just a case of running a vacuum cleaner and a duster over them, and straightening a duvet. There’re no fitted sheets, and it’s taking me an age just to get the bedding sorted in one room.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why I should help you. I’m supposed to be the housekeeper here. Chambermaid does the bedrooms.’

  ‘Have you seen how many sheets, blankets, and eiderdowns there are, not to mention pillows and cushions? It needs an army of chambermaids, not just me.’

  ‘I’ve said I’ll help you this once, but don’t expect it on a regular basis. You knew what was involved when you signed the contract.’

  ‘But this is the first time we’ll be open.’

  ‘Then you should consider yourself lucky. The work’ll be even harder when we have change-over days.’

  ‘No! It couldn’t be! I mean … how?’ Chastity’s voice now had a tinge of hysteria in it.

  ‘Because you’ll have to strip all the beds, and take all the bedding and towels to the laundry before you can even start making them up again. I’m not getting involved in this every time a room needs changing, I can tell you. I’ve got my own work to do, without doing yours as well.’

  ‘Well, how am I going to manage?’


  ‘Haven’t you done chambermaiding before?’ asked Beatrix Ironmonger, inadvertently inventing a new word, her dull blonde curls bobbing in her indignation, her chatelaine chain’s appendages chiming in sympathy.

  ‘No, I haven’t. I thought it would be easy, and now I just don’t know how I’m going to manage. I feel like a Victorian domestic servant.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you’ve been employed as, and you should have realised that when Grammaticus offered you the job. That man’s no pushover, and he wants his pound of flesh out of all of us. And don’t forget all the downstairs cleaning as well. I expect Chef’ll get his sous to keep the kitchen spotless, but you can’t bank on anything these days. Then there’re the log fires in the winter …’

  The sound of a wail of despair was accompanied by that of hurried footsteps along the first floor landing, and a deep voice intervened on Chastity’s woes. Jefferson Grammaticus had entered the scene, and was soon soothing her with soft promises of hired help from the nearby villages, assuring her that he couldn’t expect her to do more than was humanly possible (although, of course, he did).

  His reassurances were interrupted by the ting of the reception counter’s bell echoing round the entrance, and he abruptly wound up his soothing and bustled off to see what needed his attention now. He’d been run off his rather small feet already today, and it was only two o’clock. What would it be like when they were fully booked and up and running? He’d have to get his little black book out again and see what he could do, for it wasn’t as if paid help were expensive. He’d just have to choose wisely.

  II

  A woman stood at the counter, drumming the fingernails of her right hand on the counter top and looking around in admiration. They really had done a good job of bringing this old ruin back to life, she thought, as she waited somewhat impatiently to be attended to.