Aunt Dimity and the Duke (9 page)

10

All I need now are work gloves, Emma thought as she stepped into Madama’s kitchen garden. It was late morning, the mist had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly overhead. Squinting skyward, Emma reminded herself that a sunhat might not be a bad idea, either. She was about to add a pair of wellies to her mental shopping list when she stopped midway down the rows of radishes, to gape at Bantry.

The old man had lurched out of a shadowy doorway a few yards away, brandishing a stalk of celery and growling ferociously. A bit of rag bound a pair of carrots to his head, like horns, with the greens trailing behind in a verdant, ragged mane. Emma took one look at Penford Hall’s head gardener and burst out laughing.

Bantry’s growling ceased as he stood up. Grinning good-naturedly, he untied his makeshift headband, put one carrot in the bib pocket of his canvas apron, and offered the other to Emma, who accepted it gratefully.

“Just havin’ a bit o’ fun with the kiddies,” he said. “Tryin’ to, anyway. Not really their cup o’ tea, I don’t think.”

“Don’t they like vegetable monsters?” Emma asked.

“Oh, I dunno.” Bantry glanced over his shoulder. “Master Peter tries, but it shouldn’t be so much of an effort, now, should it? And Lady Nell, she’s just gone half the time.” He touched the side of his head. “Up there. Talkin’ half to that bear o’ hers and half to herself. Never know what she’s goin’ to say next, that one.” Bantry eyed Emma’s new attire shrewdly. “So you’re startin’ in today, are you? Well, and why not? Constable Trevoy’s been up from the village to take his snaps. He says it’s clear enough what happened, and it’s not as though the young lady’s passed on.” He turned as the sound of whispering came through the veil of vines on the birdcage arbor. “All right, you two,” he called, “come on out. Miss Emma needs our help in the chapel garden.”

Emma touched the old man’s arm and shook her head. “I don’t think Derek would approve of the children going in there so soon after the accident,” she said.

“May be you’re right,” Bantry acknowledged equably, “but you could fill a barn with what Mr. Derek don’t know about young ‘uns.” He bit into his celery stalk and chewed for a moment before adding decisively, “Won’t do ’em a bit o’ harm to go in there. Best for ’em to face it fair and square, or the bogeyman’ll move in and they won’t want to face it at all.”

Peter and Nell were waiting expectantly on the steps of the wrought-iron arbor. Nell and Bertie had exchanged sailor outfits for matching cherry-red sweaters and scaled-down bib overalls. Peter still wore his white polo shirt, but had traded his short pants for a pair of neatly creased khaki trousers. Bantry beckoned to them to follow as he and Emma crossed the banquet hall, and the four of them entered the grassy corridor together.

An unanticipated flutter of dread ran through Emma as they drew closer to the green door, and the children, who’d been talking quietly as they walked, fell silent. Bantry must have sensed their rising unease because, when they reached the door, he turned to address the children. Bending down, his hands braced upon his knees, he said, “You both know about Miss Susannah bumping her head this morning, right? Well, now, I’m not goin’ to lie to you. There might very well be a splash o’ blood or two where she fell, but there’s no need—”

“Like when the lions tore the Christians limb from limb,” Nell put in with a knowing nod. “Or when Lancelot stabbed the Black Knight to the heart.”

“Or when Professor Moriarty smashed on the rocks at the Reichenbach Falls,” Peter added thoughtfully, but Nell objected that the water had probably washed that blood away, so it didn’t really count.

“What about when Duncan Robards knocked his tooth out at football?” Peter proposed. “He was bleeding all over the place.”

Bantry gave Emma a sidelong look and stood upright, muttering, “Don’t know why I bother....”

Bantry pulled the green door open, and for a moment they stood together, peering down at the grassy space at the bottom of the stairs. The oilcloth had been removed and a pair of stout planks had been placed on the stairs—a ramp for the wheeled stretcher, Emma thought. But the main focus of her attention, the damp grass near the tool-filled wheelbarrow, where Susannah’s battered head had lain, had been obliterated by the passage of many feet.

Nell turned a reproachful eye on Bantry. “No blood,” she said, somewhat testily.

“Wait,” said Peter. He leaned forward slightly, then ran down the planks to point triumphantly at a dark stain on the handle of the grub hoe.

“Let me see.” Nell shouldered her way between Bantry and Emma and joined Peter beside the wheelbarrow. Brother and sister bent low over the. stain, discussing it with an almost clinical detachment.

“She must’ve whacked her head on the hoe when she fell,” Peter reasoned, and Nell nodded.

“That’s as may be,” Bantry said, walking briskly down the planks, “but
we’ll
be whackin’ weeds with it.” He picked up the grub hoe and the scythe and carried them over to the chapel.

“What are you doing, Mr. Bantry?” asked Peter.

“Movin’ the tools into the chapel,” Bantry explained. “Remember the rain we had last night? Might come back again tonight, and as we’ll be needin’ the barrow, and as I don’t want my tools to get rusty, I’m goin’ to put ’em inside where it’s dry.”

“But Dad won’t want the chapel cluttered u
^p
,” Peter objected.

Bantry shifted the load in his arms and looked curiously at Peter’s worried face. “Don’t your father look after his tools?” he asked. “That’s all I’m doin’, son. Your father won’t begrudge us a bit o’ roof. Now, you come over here and see that it’s all stacked tidy.”

“It’s all right, Peter,” said Nell. “Bertie says that Papa won’t mind.”

Peter glanced at his sister and seemed to relax a bit as he strode over to lend Bantry a hand. When the barrow was empty, Bantry looked up at Emma and asked, “Where do you want us to begin?”

The rest of the morning passed quickly. Bantry and Peter stripped dead vines from the walls, Emma turned the soil in the raised beds, and Nell trotted to and fro, carrying armloads of debris to the wheelbarrow, while Bertie sat on an upturned bucket, supervising.

Bantry and Emma took turns wheeling the barrow up the ramp and tipping its contents in a windswept, rocky meadow outside the east wall of the castle. A broad path cut through the meadow, a bright-green ribbon of moss running through the gorse bushes and clumps of tamarisk, and beyond the path the land fell away abruptly, dropping nearly two hundred feet to the foaming waves below.

“The cliff path,” Emma said. She turned to Bantry. “Isn’t that where Peter was this morning?”

“Aye,” said Bantry, “but Master Peter knows not to go beyond the path. And Lady Nell’s not allowed outside the castle walls on her own.”

Emma nodded absently, listening as Peter called to Nell to bring him the pruning shears. Only fifty yards separated the cliff path from the east wall of the chapel garden. If Susannah had cried out, Peter almost certainly would have heard her. She must have fallen silently, Emma thought with a shudder, and quickly thrust the matter from her mind.

It was nearing one o’clock when a heavyset man with a bristly red mustache appeared in the doorway of the chapel garden. Emma recognized him as one of the men she’d seen eating breakfast in the kitchen. Like the others, he had a radio clipped to his belt, but at the moment he was also burdened with a large wicker hamper.

“Mr. Bantry, sir,” he called respectfully, coming down the stairs, “Madama thought you might be wanting a bite to eat.”

“Madama was right, Tom,” said Bantry. He stepped down from the low retaining wall and walked over to take charge of the hamper. “Everything peaceful?”

“So far,” the man said. He nodded pleasantly to Emma and the children before leaving.

Emma stuck her pitchfork in the ground, Peter tossed a last handful of dead vines in the wheelbarrow, and Nell went to fetch Bertie before joining them on the stairs. Once Bantry had handed plates and glasses around, he set out a jug of cider, a bunch of grapes, a round of cheese, a long loaf of crusty bread, a covered bowl filled with rosemary chicken, and a dozen strawberry tarts topped with shredded coconut.

“God bless Madama,” Bantry said reverently, and Emma murmured a heartfelt “Amen,” smiling when Nell’s hand darted toward the tarts. Bantry clucked his tongue and the hand hesitated, then picked up the bunch of grapes instead.

“Who was that man?” Emma asked, opening the cider. “The man who brought the hamper.”

“Tom Trevoy,” Peter informed her. “He’s the chief constable in Penford Harbor.”

“He’s the
only
constable in Penford Harbor,” Nell added.

“Trevoy?” said Emma. “I think I met a relative of his. She runs a guest house where I stayed, near Exeter.”

“That’ll be Tom’s Aunt Mavis,” Bantry confirmed.

“Why’s Tom wearing that thing in his ear?” Nell asked.

“That’s a radio,” Peter explained. “It’s so he can talk with the other men. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bantry?”

“Aye,” Bantry said shortly. “Now, who wants a nice bit o’ cheese?”

Emma finished pouring the cider, then put the jug down and leaned back to survey the results of the morning’s work. Clearing away the dead growth had given her a better idea of the chapel garden’s basic shape and structure. There were more weeds to pull, more vines to remove, but her next step would be to the drafting table, to make some preliminary sketches. When the meal drew to a close, she declared a half-holiday.

“You’ve earned it,” she said, plucking twigs from Nell’s curls. “You’re hard workers and I want you both to know that I really appreciate all your help.”

“No one works harder than Peter,” Nell informed her. “At home, when Papa’s away, Peter—”

“Would you like me and Nell to take the hamper back, Mr. Bantry?” Peter interrupted, getting to his feet.

“Miss Emma and I’ll see to that,” Bantry said. “Run along and play, now, the both of you.”

“But I wanted to tell Emma—” Nell began.

“Here, Nell, have the last tart,” said Peter, thrusting it toward her as he hustled her up the steps. “You heard Mr. Bantry. We’re supposed to play now.”

Bantry waited until the children were out of earshot, then shook his head. “ ‘We’re supposed to play, now,’ ” he mimicked gruffly. “Lad acts like it were an order.” Piling dishes into the hamper, he went on. “Has a bee in his bonnet about keepin’ busy, that one. Left him alone in my pottin’ shed for five minutes last week, and when I came back, he’d swept the floor.”

Emma nodded. “Nanny Cole seems to be having the same problem,” she said. “She was reading the riot act to him about it this morning.”

“Somethin’s frettin’ at him.” Bantry looked thoughtfully at the closed door and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t know what it is, but somethin’s got him all wound up. Here, pass me that glass, will you?”

Emma shook the last drops of cider from her glass. “Maybe he’s not used to having men patrol the house he’s living in,” she suggested. She caught Bantry’s eye as she passed the empty glass to him. “That’s what Newland and Chief Constable Trevoy and those other men are doing, isn’t it?”

Bantry didn’t answer until the hamper had been repacked and the lid closed. Then he leaned back on his elbows, his eyes on the chapel door. “I expect Tom’s auntie told you what happened here a few years ago.”

Emma nodded. “She said there’d been some trouble with the press after that rock singer drowned. Kate Cole seems to think it might happen again. Do you?”

“Miss Susannah’s what they call a celebrity, isn’t she?” Bantry retorted. “And what with that old business and all, I reckon the vultures’ll take an interest, right enough.” His kindly gray eyes turned to slate. “We’re not about to go through that again.”

“How can you stop it?”

“Our Kate’ll stop it, all right,” Bantry said grimly. “Pride of Penford Harbor, is our Kate. She’s a solicitor, you know.”

Emma looked away, to conceal her surprise. Housekeeper, lawyer—Kate seemed to be yet another multitalented member of the Penford Hall staff. From what she’d said about managing the press conference in Plymouth, she seemed to be Grayson’s public-relations officer as well. “How bad was it when Lex died?”

“Bad enough.” Bantry leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, his elbows on his knees, toying with a decapitated dandelion. “Don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said slowly. “We’re decent folk. We believe in a free press, same as other decent folk, but those fellers printed nothin’ but lies. Village had just got back on its feet again, but them vultures tried to turn it inside out.” He shook his head. “Caught ’em in the schoolyard, worryin’ the children, for goodness’ sake.”

“But why were they so persistent?” Emma asked. “What were they after?”

“Proof,” Bantry said, tossing the dandelion into the wheelbarrow. “The bastards were looking for proof that His Grace murdered that bloke.”

“Nothin’ like a good murder for sellin’ papers.”

Bantry’s words returned to Emma as she sat at the drafting table. Several hours had passed since she’d returned to her room, but the bitterness in Bantry’s voice remained fresh in her mind. Clearly, it had been a galling experience for him to see his fair-haired boy mauled by a sensation-seeking press. Emma thought she could understand the old man’s outrage, and she felt sorry for Grayson as well—it couldn’t be easy, having celebrities keel over on your doorstep once every five years. Yet she, too, was curious to know what had led Lex Rex to his watery grave.