Saturday Morning, September 18, 1937
Heatherwick
I awoke at eight, and as I yawned and stretched, contemplating getting up, I fingered the fabric of Simon’s blue flannel pajamas and thought of him. Though I didn’t like wearing pajamas as a rule, I liked wearing his. I liked being here with him, mysteries and curses notwithstanding, and I wished he were sharing this bed with me. With one last stretch and a yawn, I slipped out of the warm, soft bed and opened the drapes. The rain had stopped, but it was still gray, overcast, and gloomy outside. It was chilly inside, too, as the fire had gone out.
I thought briefly of ringing for Wigglesworth but then decided against it as I padded quickly to the bathroom. I washed my face and shaved, dressing in my brown wool slacks, wool socks, a white button-down shirt, red tie, and a cream-colored sweater, with my brown leather loafers. At just a few minutes past nine, I glanced at myself one more time in the mirror and then slipped out into the hall. Mrs. Devlin was just leaving my aunt’s room, having brought up her breakfast tray, I imagined. I wondered what had happened to Agatha.
“Good morning, Mrs. Devlin,” I said.
She turned suddenly, and I could tell I had startled her. “Oh, good morning, sir. I hope you slept well.”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Breakfast is in the morning room, sir, just through the dining room. It’s set up on the buffet.”
“Yes, I recall. I could use some black coffee and porridge.”
“Would you prefer I bring you up a tray, then, also?”
“Oh, no, no. I’ll go down presently and help myself.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll be in to make up your room shortly and lay a fresh fire for you for this evening.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. Was there anything else?”
“No, not really.”
Mrs. Devlin nodded politely. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mr. Barrington.” She started toward the door to the servant’s stairs.
“Is Lord Quimby up yet?” I said as an afterthought.
“Yes, sir,” she said, stopping in her tracks and looking back at me. “The Baron is an early riser. He took his breakfast at eight o’clock sharp and then went for his morning constitutional. He hasn’t returned yet.”
“Oh.” I climbed up the two steps into the long corridor that traversed the great hall below. On the wall opposite the windows was a portrait gallery, with dark oil paintings in heavy, ornate frames, filling the spaces from floor to ceiling and end to end. “Is this the Quimby family?” I said over my shoulder. Mrs. Devlin stepped closer and glanced up at me. “Most of them, sir, yes. It goes rather chronological. This first one there is Lord Sirus Quimby, painted in 1802.”
I looked into the dark, narrow eyes of old Sirus. “Severe-looking chap.”
“Yes, sir. But then, most folks looked stern in those days. Sitting for a portrait must have been rather dull and tedious.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
I walked slowly down the long hall, gazing at the many portraits as I went, and I noticed Mrs. Devlin had come up the steps and was following along.
“Why is this hall two steps up from the rest of the floor?” I said.
“It and the two bedrooms here, a guest room and Sir Simon’s, are above the great hall, which is taller than the rest of the ground floor, so this area is raised to accommodate that.”
“Oh, that makes sense. Who’s in this large painting here?” I said, stopping.
“That one is old Lord Clarence Quimby, Sir Lionel’s father, and that lady in the pink gown next to him is Sir Lionel’s mother, Lady Elsbeth.”
“Oh yes. There’s a painting of him above the fireplace in the study, too. Simon’s grandfather. I can see the family resemblance.” I moved a bit farther on and stopped in front of a portrait of a handsome young gentleman sporting a striped coat and white trousers, a dog gazing up at him. “Ah, and here is Simon, I bet. He hasn’t changed all that much. Was that his dog?”
“Yes, Mr. Barrington. That was done for his eighteenth birthday. He loved that pup. Buttons, his name was. Mr. Simon was heartbroken when he died.”
I looked carefully at the painting, the brown and white dog sitting faithfully at his feet, a red ball in his mouth. Simon looked so happy then, so carefree, just a boy and his dog. Never trust someone who doesn’t like dogs, my father always says, and I think he’s right. Next to Simon’s portrait was a slightly larger one, of an attractive, rather pale, red-haired man with bright blue eyes, dressed in a dark suit. A small but lovely dark-haired woman in an organdy dress stood by his side.
“Is this Sir Lionel and his wife?”
“It is,” Mrs. Devlin said. “Sir Lionel and Lady Anne, the Baroness. Lady Anne was the former Anne Arbuthnot, of the Arbuthnots, a most noble family, sir.”
“How interesting,” I said, though the surname was meaningless to me.
“That painting was done just after they were married. Lady Charlotte looks like her, don’t you think, sir, like her mother, Lady Anne?” She pointed just a bit farther down to a large painting of a young girl in an ornate gilt frame. I was mesmerized by it, for the girl looked so melancholy, yet so strikingly beautiful. Her expression was strange, though, not a smile, but not a frown, either. “That’s Lady Charlotte, sir. Simon’s sister, God rest her soul.”
I moved closer to it. “She was a pretty girl indeed.” I looked back and forth between her portrait and the one of her parents. “She did take after her mother, yet she had her father’s blue eyes, I think.”
“Yes, she got the best of the both of them. Still, poor Lady Charlotte. She was troubled. She struggled, you know, mentally. She was a bit simple, if you understand, sir.”
“Simon mentioned that. How sad.”
“It wasn’t enough to be put away, sir, but she was forever childlike in many ways. The late Lord Quimby, Simon’s father, had that portrait of her painted for her twentieth birthday. Just two years or so before she died.”
I stepped closer and realized part of Lady Charlotte’s odd expression was caused by a cut in the canvas that ran across the lower part of her face. It had been repaired, but not expertly enough. “What happened here?”
Mrs. Devlin clucked her tongue and shook her head, looking at me. “Isn’t that awful, sir? Someone slashed it with a knife not long after it was hung here. Lord Quimby, Simon’s father, was quite upset, naturally. He tried to have it repaired, but obviously you can still see it.”
“Yes, it gives her a rather peculiar look. Who did it? How did it happen?”
“We don’t know for certain, but some say that Sir Simon had something to do with it. Things started happening when he came home from university. It was almost like putting the cat amongst the pigeons, you know.”
“Did Charlotte and Simon get along generally?”
“Oh, I suppose so, sir, but he always seemed to be jealous of Miss Charlotte.” Mrs. Devlin looked away from me and back at the painting. “My, she loved that dress she was wearing. Pale green silk with a pink ribbon around the waist. It was her favorite. Funny…”
“What?”
“It wasn’t amongst her things after she died. I packed everything up myself, and it was all put up in the attic. It didn’t even cross my mind at the time, I was so upset. But I was looking at this picture a few months later, and I remembered that dress was missing. She wore it the night her father died, and I don’t recall her wearing it since. I can’t imagine what’s happened to it.”
“Maybe you just overlooked it in your state of mind at the time.”
“I thought that, too, at first, sir. But I went up to the attic and looked through all those boxes and trunks I’d packed, and sure enough, it was missing.”
“Curious. Maybe it brought back those awful memories of the night her father was killed, so she discarded it before she died.”
“Queer, it is. If she wanted to get rid of it, she would have given it to me to dispose of. I mentioned it to Sir Simon, but he said I must have been mistaken about it being missing.”
“Possible, I suppose.”
“Possible but not likely.” Mrs. Devlin glanced up and down the hallway, and then lowered her voice, looking at me. “Her death was listed as an accident, but Sir Simon claims it was suicide, you know. At least he did at first.”
“I’d heard, yes. How terribly awful.”
“But she didn’t leave a note, and Sir Simon supposedly found her still alive, but just barely. He claims she uttered something about hiding a letter somewhere here in the house, but it’s never been found.”
“What do you think really happened?”
“Me, sir? Oh, not my place, not my place to say, sir.”
“Clearly you don’t think it was an accident or suicide.”
“Well…no, sir, I don’t. I will say that. No more than I think Sir Lionel’s death was from a random burglar who’d been living in the garden shed. Not likely.”
“So who do you think was responsible for Sir Lionel’s death?” I said, bristling a bit. “Perhaps Mr. Wittenham?”
She nodded, looking thoughtful. “Aye, it could have been him, I suppose. There are those who think so, I’ll admit, and he was here with his wife that night, staying in the room you’re in.”
“Certainly it could have been him, if not a burglar. Mr. Wittenham had a motive.”
“Again, not my place to say, sir, but he wasn’t the only one with a motive. Sir Simon was in the house both times, but Mr. Wittenham was only here the night Sir Lionel died. Sir Simon and his father didn’t get along, not at all. Frequent arguments, you know. They didn’t think we could hear, but we hear most everything.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Oh, not that we mean to, sir. But when the two of them got to fighting, their voices got quite loud.”
“I see. So they quarreled regularly? What about?”
“All sorts of things, sir. They butted heads regularly, like an old goat fighting the young one. Lady Charlotte heard those arguments, too. They frightened her. She’d sometimes go up to the attic to the old playroom and hide. I think she knew what happened the night Sir Lionel died, but she was too afraid to say anything.”
“The official verdict was that Sir Lionel was killed by a random burglar. Why do you think otherwise? Is it because of the bloody handkerchief?”
Her eyes got wide. “Oh dear, yes, that’s another thing. You heard about that, did you?”
“The assistant station manager, Mr. Babcock, mentioned it.”
“It’s true, sir, about the handkerchief, I mean. I found it on the floor of Sir Lionel’s room the next day, almost under the bed. I knew it was Sir Simon’s because of his monogram. The handkerchief had Sir Lionel’s blood on it, I’m sure. He was stabbed, you know, but the actual murder weapon was never found.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. How do you know it was Sir Lionel’s blood?” I said.
“It was a lot of blood. Where else would it have come from?”
“What did you do with the handkerchief?”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I didn’t right know what to do. I wanted to be loyal to the family, sir, but I felt I should do the right thing by Sir Lionel, so finally I showed it to the inspector constable, I did, and he presented it at the inquiry. Sir Simon said he didn’t know how his handkerchief ended up on the floor of his father’s room, but he figured he must have dropped it earlier in the day and the burglar picked it up after killing his father, used it, and then dropped it again.”
“Maybe he did,” I said.
“Oh, not bloody likely, I should think. But still the inspector seemed to believe it. Of course, he and Sir Simon are friends, you know. Can you imagine, sir, Lady Charlotte living in this house with her brother, knowing he killed their father? I’m not saying he did, of course, not my place, but if he did, it must have been awful for her. And perhaps the two of them argued about it. He realized she knew the truth, and he felt he had no choice—”
“So, you’re saying he killed his sister, too.”
“Oh, it’s too awful to think about, sir. And certainly not my place to say.”
“Certainly not, and yet you do. If you really think Simon is a murderer, why do you stay here? Surely he’s not keeping you against your will. Why don’t you go somewhere else?” I said, most annoyed.
Mrs. Devlin looked horrified, perhaps realizing at last that she’d said too much. “Oh, no, sir. I’ve worked here over thirty-five years, I’m nearly sixty. I couldn’t just start over somewhere else, where would I go? There’s no jobs to be had anywhere nowadays, you know, what with the Depression and all. I like it here, and Sir Simon is like my own son, he is. I used to change his nappy, I used to give him his baths and put him to bed. I raised him from a baby on, me and Mrs. Strobel, the old nanny. I raised him and Lady Charlotte both. I didn’t mean to imply Sir Simon killed them, I was just supposing, you see? Just saying that if that’s what happened, but of course I don’t really think so, oh no. Sir Simon is a good man, a good employer, and he pays better than most. He’s not even home very often, he travels so much, and when he is here, he doesn’t ask much of us.”
“In other words, you’re paid well to do little. I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave.”
“I’m an old woman, sir. Where would I go?”
“I can think of a few places,” I said. “I understand Wigglesworth’s niece used to work here.”
“Yes, Mr. Barrington, she did. Clara her name was, a pretty girl.”
“But she didn’t stay long, only three or four months.”
“That’s right, thereabouts. I couldn’t say why she was discharged, though there was a rumor…”
“That she was in the family way.”
Mrs. Devlin looked embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Oh dear, in my day young ladies didn’t let themselves get into situations like that.”
“I can assure you, young ladies have been getting themselves into situations like that for thousands of years, Mrs. Devlin. And it takes two, you know.”
“I suppose that’s true. But still, she seemed to be a nice girl.”
“I’ve no doubt. So, she left abruptly?”
“Without so much as a goodbye. The last time I saw her was just after Sir Lionel’s death. She came back and was in the kitchen yard, talking to her uncle Henry, Mr. Wigglesworth. He gave her an envelope, and she left.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“Oh, I don’t know, for sure, sir. Mr. Wigglesworth never said. I don’t think he even knows I saw them out there talking. But I suspect it was money to pay for a doctor for the, you know, the baby, though Lord knows where he would have gotten any spare pounds.”
“Something he’d saved up, perhaps. Sir Simon mentioned tension between his father and Wigglesworth. Were you aware of that?”
“Oh, I don’t know much about that, sir. I do know ol’ Mr. Wigglesworth didn’t care much for Sir Lionel, but he wouldn’t talk about it, with me or anyone that I know of.”
“Did he always feel that way about Sir Lionel?”
Mrs. Devlin looked thoughtful. “Well, no, I don’t think so. It started when there was the problem with the Gypsy girl, you know, and it got worse after his niece was let go.”
“Interesting. So, this playroom up in the attic you mentioned, Mrs. Devlin. Simon mentioned it, too.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. The children used to use it. It was quite gay up there once upon a time. And as I said, Lady Charlotte used to hide up there even as a young lady. I think she felt safe.”
“May I see it?”
“The playroom, sir?”
“Yes, and the rest of the attic. I find these big old country houses fascinating.”
She looked doubtful. “Oh, I don’t know if Lord Quimby would approve, sir. The female servant rooms are all up there, along with the storage and trunk rooms, a couple of guest rooms, and the playroom, as I said.”
“I don’t think Mr. Simon would mind my having a look,” I said, neglecting to mention that I’d already asked him and had been told no. “And I really have no interest in the female servant rooms, just the playroom.”
“But he’s funny about certain parts of the house, sir. Ever since I questioned him about Lady Charlotte’s missing dress, he’s kept that storeroom locked, and only he has the key. The playroom isn’t locked, but I don’t think he’d like anyone nosing about.”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, Mrs. Devlin. Show me the way, will you? Besides, Sir Simon is still out on his walk, as you said. He’ll never know, and I’ll keep your thoughts and opinions about what you think happened to his father and his sister to myself.”
She fidgeted with the collar on her dress and said “Oh dear” again a time or two under her breath, but then she nodded. “Yes, sir, just this way, then. I suppose maybe he wouldn’t mind, but we’ll have to be quick.” We went back down the hall, around the corner, and past the main staircase to a door that led to a narrow staircase going up. “This is the attic stairs, sir, used by the family and guests. There’s a spiral staircase just back there for the servants that goes from the basement all the way to the top.”
We climbed up to the attic, her in the lead, the stairs creaking and groaning under our weight. “Watch your head up here, sir.”
“Right, thanks,” I said, as we reached the top, arriving under the eaves.
“The playroom is just here, Mr. Barrington. The family guest rooms are toward the front.”
“Where does that go?” I said, gesturing at a door farther down a narrow hall.
“To the trunk and storage rooms. Beyond that are the female staff quarters. The male servants are housed in the basement, near the kitchen.”
“You said the playroom is here?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked troubled and fidgeted with the collar of her dress once more, but finally she opened a door just to our left, cringing as it squeaked rather loudly. “This is it, Mr. Barrington. The playroom,” she said, turning on an overhead light.
It was under the right rear gable of the house, above Aunt Verbina’s room, I imagined. It was quite spacious, filled with toy trains, a puppet theater, chests of clothes and costumes, musical instruments, balls, hoops, and child-sized furniture. The walls had been painted with circus animals and tents, the wide plank wood floor covered in multicolored rag rugs. The three narrow, arched windows overlooking the back garden had faded red, green, and yellow curtains covering them. I walked around the room slowly, the floor creaking every once in a while beneath my feet, and kicking up dust from the rag rugs.
“I’m surprised they’ve kept all this,” I said between sneezes.
“God bless you, sir. Sentimental, perhaps, but most likely just forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, you know.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s probably been twenty years since Sir Simon played up here, though as I said, Lady Charlotte still came here often up until the day she died a year ago.”
“To do what?”
“Hide away from the world, maybe. She was a sad child, an unhappy young lady, as I said before.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I think she was born sad, sir. Goodness knows Sir Lionel doted on her, so it wasn’t for lack of attention, but she always seemed wistful and afraid of life. Perhaps it’s because she never knew her mother, or felt guilty because of her mother dying right after her birth.”
“Perhaps. Well, I can see how revisiting a room like this, full of happy memories, would be a good place to escape to, then.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Mr. Barrington.”
I marveled at a little wooden pirate ship in the corner, battered and bruised, just big enough for two or three children to sit on the deck. Next to it, a boy’s blue and yellow cap hung from the yellowed tusk of a massive dingy gray elephant, with one eye missing. I wondered if the cap belonged to Simon. There was a little playhouse, too, with a small door and curtained windows that opened and shut. It was probably five feet tall, and about five by eight feet, with window boxes filled with silk flowers, a porch light that turned off and on, and even a little mailbox beside the front door. The inside of the house was filled with child-sized furniture, rugs, and dishes.
“Isn’t that something?” the housekeeper said. “The lights even work, and at one time it had running water from a hose, but it leaked, so Sir Lionel had it disconnected.”
“It’s certainly something any little girl would love,” I said. On the far wall of the playroom stood a little wooden spindled baby crib, and a shelf behind it held four dolls, three female and one male, dressed in finery from at least twenty years ago. As I got closer, I noticed all three of the girl dolls had been disfigured. One was completely beheaded, another had her hair chopped off, and the third had her face burned beyond recognition.
I shuddered and turned to look at Mrs. Devlin. “This doesn’t look like typical child’s play. What happened?”
She clucked her tongue again and pursed her lips. “I think it was Sir Simon again, Mr. Barrington, if you don’t mind my saying so. Notice the boy doll is untouched. Lady Charlotte loved those dolls, so he did it to torment her, would be my guess.” I tried to picture Simon playing up here as a little boy, wearing that blue and yellow cap, running around in knee britches and bare feet, tormenting his little sister.
“I don’t have any siblings, but I understand older brothers often torment the younger ones. It’s what children do,” I said.
“That may be, sir, but like you said before, that is more than normal child’s play. It’s not right, what he did to those dolls.” She picked up one of them and examined it, shaking her head before putting it back on the shelf. “Frightening, really.”
Both of us heard the creaking and groaning of the stairs just then, and we jumped in unison.
Mrs. Devlin looked panicked. “That may be Lord Quimby back from his walk. He can’t find you here, sir, hide. There, behind the puppet theater.”
I felt foolish yet terrified at the same time, the sight of those disfigured dolls still fresh in my mind as I crouched down behind the puppet theater just as the door from the hall squeaked open.
“Mrs. Devlin,” I heard Simon say.
“Oh, my lord! You gave me a fright.”
“I heard footsteps up here, and I thought I heard voices. What are you doing? Why are you here?”
“I thought I heard a mouse.”
“That must have been a noisy mouse. Who were you talking to?”
“I heard scratching and squeaking, you see, as I was coming up to go to my room. I came in here to investigate. I was just muttering to myself.”
“I see.” He didn’t sound convinced. I heard his footsteps as he began walking about, stopping every now and again. “Any sign of it?”
“Any sign of what?” Daft old woman.
“The mouse, of course. Any droppings? Anything chewed?”
“Oh, no, no sir, not that I can see, but this is the time of year they find their way indoors, you know.”
He sighed audibly. “Yes, that’s true. Better check the guest rooms and the rest of the attic. Be discreet. I don’t want word of mice getting out to our guests.”
“I understand.”
“I suppose we should get another cat or two just to be safe. It’s been a couple of years since old Mittens died.”
“Cats are good luck for a house, they say.”
“Well, we could certainly use that. Ask about in the village and the local farms and see if there are any kittens, though it may be the wrong season. Have them let you know.”
“I will do that, Baron.”
“Good.” He looked about, taking it all in. I could just see him through a crack in the fold of the theater walls, and he looked lost in thought. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here. I mean, except for last year when I found Lady Charlotte, of course.” His expression was suddenly morose.
“Yes, milord. That was an awful night. I’ll never forget it.”
“I remember some good times, though, too, when we were young, playing with Charlotte, or playing by myself or even old Walter, back when we were just children.”
“Yes, sir, I remember that, too.”
“Time goes by. Look, there’s my old puppet theater, a little worse for wear. Remember the show Charlotte and I put on for father and the staff?”
“I do recall that. Your father got it for you and Lady Charlotte for Christmas and you two put on a show you wrote yourself.”
“That’s right. Oh, it was terrible.” I heard him laugh softly as the footsteps grew closer to me. I held my breath.
“I remember that, my lord. I thought it was quite entertaining. You were a creative lad, and so artistic. Always playing dress-up.”
“I suppose so. Long-ago times. It looks so small now, it all does. Charlotte and I both fit back there with room to spare, now I doubt I could fit by myself.”
The footsteps grew closer still, and I could feel my heart pounding. I also felt another sneeze coming on, and I scrunched my face up tight.
The sound of something falling stopped him in his tracks, but I couldn’t see what it was.
“Oh dear, one of the dolls fell off the shelf,” Mrs. Devlin said. “I must not have put it back properly.”
“What were you doing with it?”
“Oh, I was just uh, checking to see if a mouse had maybe climbed up there, you see.”
“Well, pick it up and put it back properly.”
“Yes, my lord. Oh, look at your old pirate ship, sir. Remember that time you rode it down the stairs and broke the mast?”
I heard Simon chuckle then as he turned to look at it. “Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Father was furious, but it was worth it.” He was moving away now. “I couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”
“Perhaps you might think about donating all this to charity, sir. I know some children would be so happy to have these things.”
The footsteps stopped again. “Donate? This was our childhood. The happy part of it, anyway. Somewhat happy. Sometimes happy. Memories.”
“Might be good to get the toys dusted off, my lord, put to good use again.”
His laugh this time wasn’t cheerful but more of a snort. “Father always said these toys would belong to our children someday. Some of them were his when he was a boy. That top over there, for one, the hoops, that old ball, and those marbles.”
“Memories, sir.”
“Yes, memories of him. This little rocking horse belonged to my mother, I’ll keep that. And the wooden cup and ball toss game was hers, too, so that can stay, though I never was very good at it. The rest box up and give away, then clean this room top to bottom. It’s filthy.”
“Yes, my lord, if you’re sure.”
“I guess it’s time,” Simon said. “If I ever have children of my own, they’ll get new things without so many memories attached. As for those dolls, I’ll put them in the storage room with Charlotte’s other things.”
“Very good, sir.”
“By the way, did Agatha bring Mrs. Partridge her breakfast tray?”
“Oh, Agatha was a bit under the weather this morning, my lord, so I took it up myself, sir, just a bit ago.”
“Fine. And Mr. Barrington? Has he been down to breakfast?”
“I don’t believe so, my lord, not yet.”
“It’s nearly ten, he must be sleeping in. Oh well, good for him. Keep the breakfast things out until he’s finished, no need to rush. I’ll be in my room until lunch. I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. May I bring you something?”
“No, I’ll be all right, Mrs. Devlin. Let me know if you see any signs of mice.” I heard his footsteps, then the hall door squeaked open and closed, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I climbed out from my hiding place.
Mrs. Devlin held a finger to her mouth indicating silence until she was sure Simon had gone down. She spoke then, softly, almost in a whisper.
“That was a fright. My poor heart is pounding,” she said.
“Mine, too. Lucky that doll fell off the shelf when it did, or he would have found me for sure.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Funny about that, though. I’m sure I set it back properly before. Perhaps it was the ghost of Miss Charlotte distracting Sir Simon from finding you. I feel her presence sometimes, you know.”
“I don’t put much stock in ghosts, Mrs. Devlin, but I’ll thank her anyway. Now I need to get down for breakfast,” I said with one last sneeze.