The Knoll House mastiffs knew us by now and, although they always bounded up to greet us when we went into the grounds, they would only bark when we returned from the outside world. All the same, the fewer chances we took, the better. I had made arrangements to deal with them. ‘I’ve been as thorough as I can,’ I said reassuringly to Brockley as we unloaded the cart. ‘I think – I hope – it will all go smoothly.’
Eddie helped us carry our various boxes and hampers and the two wine kegs up to my room before leaving to drive the cart back to Hawkswood. Mrs Hamble and two of the maidservants saw us and glanced at our burdens with mild interest, but no one asked any questions. Dale helped us with the unpacking but there was no sign of Sybil. ‘Where is she?’ I asked Dale. ‘With the twins? Are they really still creating parterre patterns?’
‘They’re getting quite excited about their parterre embroidery,’ said Dale. ‘I believe Mistress Jester has pointed out that in making it they can practise all their stitches and the couching you have been teaching them, ma’am. They have started the actual embroidery and are working on it now. But Mistress Jester isn’t with them. Mrs Hamble fetched her. Master Frost wanted to see her about something.’
Suddenly worried, I went out of the room and made for the back stairs, which had a window overlooking the gardens. There they were, Sybil and Master Frost, walking on the lawn, apparently deep in talk. As I watched, I saw that Sybil was shaking her head and pointing to the house as if saying she wanted to come indoors. Then she glanced up and saw my face at the window. I waved, and Sybil at once and decisively said goodbye to Frost and walked purposefully towards the house. I withdrew from the window and went back to our room. A moment later, Sybil joined us.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked her.
‘Master Frost was offering his hand and heart. Again,’ said Sybil shortly.
‘No!’ said Dale. ‘I mean … was he really? But surely you didn’t …?’
‘No, I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.’ Sybil, visibly upset, burst out: ‘I wish we didn’t have to stay here!’ and then, obscurely, added: ‘I wish so many things were different!’ She stared round at the various objects we had brought from Hawkswood. ‘Whatever is all this?’
‘I’m wondering that, as well,’ said Dale.
Brockley and I explained our plan, and the reasons for bringing some of the things that were now scattered about the room. The two kegs respectively contained a warm red Mediterranean vintage, and a thinner white wine from Germany. We had also brought a large set of earthenware goblets; a flask of pale green-tinged liquid mixed for us by Gladys, created mainly from the juice of a certain species of poppy; and two small lamb joints. John Hawthorn, the Hawkswood cook, had mourned aloud when I demanded these from his stores, and positively howled when I said I was going to feed them to the Knoll House mastiffs. ‘They’re beautiful joints,’ he protested. ‘Much too good for dogs!’
‘All these goblets!’ said Dale wonderingly, as I set them out on the small table at my side of the bed. ‘Aren’t they from Hawkswood?’
‘I can’t very well rifle the Knoll House cupboards,’ I said. ‘And in any case, here in Knoll House I’ve seen no nice brown earthenware cups. They’re mostly silver. Master Frost really does love silver! And pewter’s no better for our purposes. So I’ve brought some brown earthenware goblets from home.’
‘But why do you want brown goblets?’ Dale wanted to know.
‘Because they’ll conceal what we put in them,’ I said.
Back at Hawkswood, when the potion was ready, I had conferred with Brockley and Gladys about my plans. Brockley had immediately thought of a snag. ‘It’s highly likely,’ he said, ‘that the servants we are trying to drug will invite whoever brings the wine to take a drink with them. I think I would. That could make things very tricky. We can’t just put the drug into the pitcher.’
‘We could fill the goblets beforehand and bring them in on a tray,’ I said. ‘It would mean preparing special goblets for us, without any potion in them – and we must make sure we know which ones they are.’ I paused and thought for a moment. ‘I’d better take the wine to the women, while you, Brockley, serve the men in the attic. We had better keep the rule of the house, about the men and women never entering each other’s sleeping quarters – except for Susie and the master, of course.’ Gladys emitted a wicked cackle and Brockley gave his rare, expressive, grin. ‘I imagine,’ I said, ‘that Sybil won’t want to deliver the women’s wine, and Dale probably won’t, either.’
‘Madam, I wouldn’t allow Fran to take part,’ Brockley told me. He was frowning. Then he said: ‘Filling the goblets in advance won’t be a problem with the women servants, they’re on the same floor as us. But I would have to carry a tray of filled cups up to the attic, up those twisty, awkward stairs, and some of the wine would spill. I don’t see how it can be done.’
‘There’s stupid, you are,’ said Gladys rudely. ‘It’ll be dark, and you’ll be serving by candlelight. Got eyes like cats, have they, these Knoll House folk? What you want is dark goblets, and we’ve got brown earthenware ones here. Take them along empty except for a spoonful of my poppy juice in the bottom of each. That’s all you need. It’s got no colour to speak of – you’d hardly see it in broad daylight, let alone by candlelight! All the goblets’ll look as if they’re empty. But yours would really be empty and you’d best take care you drink from the right one. It takes about half of the hour to take effect. There’ll be time to drink with the servants and get away before they even start yawning.’
Now, in my room at Knoll House, I explained all this.
‘How many people do we need to give the potion to?’ I asked.
Brockley looked at Dale, who said: ‘There are three maids, not counting Susie. The youngest one, Mary, always works in the kitchen. The other two, Bessie and Cath, help there but also clean and make beds, and such. Cath, the oldest one, is called the linen maid and she supervises the wash and does repairs. They all share the dormitory. Susie sleeps on the floor below, of course.’
‘And the men?’
‘There are six who sleep in the attic,’ said Brockley. ‘The cook and his second and a junior cook, that’s three – the spitboy sleeps in the kitchen. Then there’s Barney Vaughan, who attends Master Frost, and two others. They do heavy jobs, like carrying buckets of water, fetching kegs up from the cellar and bringing in fuel. They also help serve at meals (you’ve seen them). That’s the six. There are three grooms but they don’t come into this, as they sleep over the stables. And the porter and his lad don’t come into it either, as they have a room in the gatehouse. But we’ll need a goblet for the spitboy. He’s bound to know about the wine being given to the other kitchen servants, and will very likely complain if he’s left out. So he’d better have a good night’s sleep like all the rest, even though we’re going to avoid going near the kitchen.’
I counted on my fingers. ‘Three maids and seven men who need wine. Ten, and then you and me. We need a dozen goblets.’
‘You’re taking such a chance!’ said Sybil. ‘I do think …’
‘That I have lost my wits,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘I agree,’ said Brockley with emphasis. ‘The coincidence will be noticed. That the night we give treats of wine to the servants is the night when they all sleep amazingly well and the chest disappears. Someone will smell a rat. Someone will smell a whole colony of rats!’
‘Firstly,’ I said, ‘it may be quite a long time before Master Frost realizes that the chest has gone. Secondly, if and when he does realize, he may not connect it with any particular night. And I doubt if he will want to raise a hue and cry. After all, if he stole the chest in the first place …’
‘But why did he steal it?’ Dale burst out. ‘It doesn’t make sense! Not since him and that Master Stagg are supposed to be friends. And if they are friends, then why are they pretending they’re not? There’s something wrong – something very, very wrong! Someone’s been lying to you, ma’am. I keep on thinking that, over and over.’
‘Yes, Dale, I think so too!’ Sybil declared.
‘By taking this decisive step,’ I suggested, ‘maybe we’ll find out what it is that’s wrong. We’ve all felt from the beginning that something’s amiss. This may be our opportunity to get it out into the open – to unlock the mystery at last.’
Brockley, Dale and Sybil all looked at each other.
‘Wild geese!’ said Brockley, once again, and the others nodded. Their expressions suggested that they regarded me as suffering from some incurable disease.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You think I’m out of my wits. Perhaps I am. But will you do your part?’
‘I feel,’ said Brockley, ‘that as your loyal servants, madam, we should all refuse to undertake this, and in your best interests should lock you in your room until you come to your senses!’
‘Do that,’ I said calmly, ‘and when I have released myself with the help of my picklocks, I will dismiss all of you. Unpaid.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Brockley candidly, and then sighed. ‘I suppose we shall do as you wish. As always.’
It was a pattern that I knew so well. At heart, Brockley was as enamoured of wild geese as I still was in spite of the years, even though I was no longer the passionate young girl who had eloped with my cousin’s betrothed by climbing out of a window and sliding down the slope of a lower roof into his arms. My lovely daughter Meg had come of that first union with Gerald Blanchard and I had never regretted it. And my wild streak had served me well both then and on other occasions too – it had led me into acquiring two fine houses and also led me into marriage with my dear Hugh.
Besides, there really was a mystery here that needed explaining, and my scheme might achieve that. Perhaps I had been right to give in to Eleanor’s tears, after all.
‘I can’t take part,’ said Sybil. ‘I hope you don’t mean to ask me, Ursula. I can’t bring myself to do it, and you shouldn’t! You really shouldn’t! Nor should you, Brockley.’
‘If we don’t help her,’ said Brockley, ‘madam is quite capable of undertaking the whole thing herself! Though how she would carry that heavy chest down those attic stairs on her own …’
‘I wouldn’t find it easy,’ I said, ‘but I would manage it somehow. If need be, alone.’
‘I would do it wrong, anyway, I know I would!’ Dale looked as frightened as though I had already handed her one end of a heavy chest or a trayload of soporific goblets.
‘I have already told Mistress Stannard that I wouldn’t let you try,’ said Brockley. ‘You’re my wife and I won’t have you caught up in this.’
Sybil said: ‘I can’t understand anything about this! Why should Master Frost steal from a friend? Why should they pretend they hardly know each other? I know I’m repeating what’s already been said, but …’
‘We’re going in circles.’ I cut her short. ‘And haven’t I said that perhaps by taking firm action we may find out what’s at the back of it? Anyway, it’s all arranged. Stagg will be there tonight, waiting outside the side gate. He’ll be there from two o’clock onwards. It’s settled.’
‘If only it could be done during the day,’ said Dale. ‘Then there’d be no need for potions and tiptoeing about in the dark.’
‘There are always people about,’ Brockley said. ‘Even when the attic is empty, people come and go. Look how Lambert suddenly appeared when we were looking for the chest! And early this morning I saw Mrs Hamble coming down the attic stairs, carrying a hamper. I daresay she’d been up to see what else still needs to be unpacked. No, we had better wait until nightfall.’
The timing had to be right. We had to choose a moment when the servants would have retired to their dormitory but were not likely to be already asleep.
After supper, Brockley remarked that it might be as well to prime the pump and slipped off to the kitchen to whisper to its staff that by order of Mistress Stannard, who realized that she and her companions must be causing extra work, a goblet of wine would be served to each of them before they went to sleep, and would they let the rest of the indoor servants know.
‘I told them that my mistress thought that you would like wine as a gift, as you are not allowed to have it as a rule, but a single goblet each wouldn’t do anyone any harm. I said I would take one to the kitchen for the spitboy and that you, madam, would yourself take a tray to the women servants, while I served the men.’
In my room, later, we set out the trays; red wine for the men, white wine for the women. ‘Most of the women would prefer the lighter wine, I should think,’ said Brockley. We took great care over positioning the goblets on the trays. ‘I think,’ Brockley continued, ‘that it would look best, madam, if we say straightaway that we wish to drink with our … guests. And we should then pour for them, as gracious hosts – we should just do it without discussing who is going to pour. But we must be very, very careful to pour our own wine into completely empty goblets and be sure we know which ones they are.’
‘You need a tiny mark,’ said Dale. ‘Something no one would notice but you.’ She looked at the trays. ‘Look, some of them are old and have little chips in the rim. And here’s one on Roger’s tray with a little chip off its foot as well. Put that one nearest to you, Roger. Like this.’ She moved the goblet with care. ‘And ma’am, here’s one with two chips on the rim, close to each other. That can be your marked one.’
‘Thank you, Dale,’ I said.
Brockley had moved to the window and was looking out at the sky. ‘It’s starting to rain,’ he said. ‘It may be a very dark night. Madam, you have only to walk across a passageway with your tray for the women servants, but I shall have to carry mine up those attic stairs in order to serve the men and can’t manage without light. I need a lantern but I shall have my hands full with the tray, so will need someone to light my way. Not you, Fran. I have said so from the start. Not even on madam’s orders.’
He turned and gave me a challenging look but I shook my head. ‘You are within your rights, Brockley, and I certainly shan’t try to insist.’ In fact, I never had any intention of letting Dale take an active part in the night’s adventure. She was too nervous, and I had visions of her stumbling on the attic stairs, letting her lantern slip from fingers sweaty with fright and setting fire to the house, or else bumping into Brockley and sending the tray down a flight of stairs with an almighty clatter and an overpowering smell of wine … No, it wouldn’t do.
‘Mistress Jester …’ Brockley essayed.
‘No,’ said Sybil. ‘I am not taking part in this, in any way at all. I think the whole idea is madness. And in any case, I can hardly believe that Master Frost would do anything so … so cheap as to steal a bride’s dowry chest, least of all when her uncle, who is giving it to her, is his friend. I have talked with him – or he with me, rather – and I can’t believe that he is that sort of man. There is something very, very wrong here. I am sorry, Brockley, but I will not light your way; and, Ursula, please don’t ask me to change my mind, because I shan’t. I can’t.’
‘I’ll light your way, Brockley,’ I said. ‘We’ll take your tray up first. I’ll leave you there and come down to see to the women servants.’
When the moment came, I nearly lost my nerve and almost called the whole venture off, but Brockley now seemed calmly assured about it. He had let Dale help by pouring the potion into the goblets and positioning our undrugged cups in exactly the right way. A goblet had been set aside for the spitboy, and we had drugged the lamb joints for the dogs.
‘I’ll deal with those and the spitboy first,’ said Brockley.
The expedition went smoothly. Brockley disappeared down the back stairs, with the spitboy’s drink in one hand and the lamb joints slung over his shoulder in a bag. In a very short time he was back, looking pleased with himself. ‘The spitboy,’ he said, ‘will have to enjoy his treat all on his own, poor lad. But he doesn’t seem to mind. And the dogs gobbled their meat as though they’d never had a square meal before. It was easy. Now, which tray is for the attic?’
‘This one,’ Dale said, pointing. ‘The one with red wine in the jug. And that’s your goblet.’ She touched the chipped one where it stood, just a little apart from the others. ‘Don’t make any mistake!’ she implored him.
‘Trust me,’ said Brockley.
Again, it was easy. We went up the awkward twisty attic stairs very slowly, with Brockley in front carrying the tray, while I walked just behind him holding the lantern up so that it would light his way. He had a second lantern on the tray, unlit, to use on his way down. I saw him safely into the menservants’ quarters, and then withdrew and went back to my room alone.
Now it was my turn. Dale handed me my tray. ‘Four goblets arranged two by two,’ she said. ‘Yours is this chipped one just a tiny bit out of line. I’ve put the potion in the others.’
‘Thank you, Dale,’ I said, and picked up the tray and made off with it, without giving myself a chance to think about it any more.
I had no stairs to worry about. It was only a few steps across the passageway to the door of the women’s dormitory. Balancing my tray with caution, I tapped on the door and it was opened at once by a middle-aged woman I recalled seeing about the house with armfuls of sheets and towels. This was obviously Cath. She smiled and stepped back to let me through.
I found myself in a long chamber with a row of three pallets along the far wall. Against the opposite wall there were clothes presses, and at the far end of the room a long table with ewers and basins on it. A number of candles stood about, flickering because the room was somewhat draughty. All to the good, I thought. Mary and Bessie were sitting on their pallets, looking expectant. Wine really was a treat for them.
I set the tray down on the table with my own goblet nearest to me and said: ‘Good evening to you all. I know that having guests in the house means extra work and thought a drink of good wine would be a graceful thank-you. As well as, and not of course replacing, your gratuities when we leave! This is a light white wine that I hope you’ll all like. May I share it and drink with you? I’ve brought a spare goblet.’
There were murmurs of ‘Yes, of course, ma’am, madam …’ Cath did seem doubtful about the propriety of all this, but young Mary smiled at me sweetly and Bessie, who had bold brown eyes and a knowing grin, said: ‘Shame we couldn’t have a proper party with the lads from upstairs!’ Which caused Cath to bark: ‘And shame on you, Bess, for saying such a thing! The master’d never allow that sort of behaviour, and well Mistress Stannard knows it.’
‘He’s not so prim himself,’ Bessie said unrepentantly. ‘Ask our Susie! Well, she’s missing this, though I daresay she gets her share elsewhere.’
‘Stop it!’ said Cath sharply. ‘I’m sorry, madam. Bess here is too sprightly for her own good. May I pour?’
‘One is only young once,’ I said, smiling. ‘But allow me to serve you. I am your hostess this evening, after all.’
Yet again, it was easy. I poured their wine and handed the goblets round. I filled my own innocent goblet, took a seat on the end of Cath’s pallet, and drank and giggled with my guests-cum-victims. Then I said ‘Goodnight and God bless!’, gathered up the goblets and piled them on the tray, and took my leave. As I went out, I noticed that Mary was already settling back into her pallet and Bessie’s eyes seemed drowsy.
As I crossed the passage, Brockley appeared from the far end of it, having just come down the stairs from the attic.
‘All well?’ I asked him softly. ‘No one seemed suspicious?’
‘No one. I handed the drinks round to our unwary friends and all went as smoothly as cream. Too easy by far. Let us hope things go on that way.’