The Dead Queen's Garden (7 page)

‘That’s called Stinking Iris,’ explained Oz Granville, interrupting with a snort of laughter. ‘If you crush the leaves and stems it stinks.’

Charlotte raised a sardonic eyebrow and allowed him to hand her a leaf which she obediently crushed, though declining, with a laugh, to hold it to her nose, until his pleading gaze made her change her mind. ‘Another name for it is Roast Beef Plant,’ he informed her as she wrinkled her nose at the smell. ‘Mama likes it for the bright colours.’

‘Oh dear, with such an unpleasant smell, you would expect it be poisonous.’ Charlotte was surprised to see a frown eclipse her hostess’s earlier amusement at her idle remark.

‘I believe the roots should be avoided,’ was the careless answer. ‘I prefer not to dwell on that aspect of my plants, however. The beauty of the berries is sufficient for my pleasure though the flower itself is quite lovely, in varying shades of a brownish-purple and yellow.’ Her enthusiasm was engaging as she eagerly drew Charlotte along the path to admire first this favourite, and then another.

‘Osbert is quite correct,’ she admitted with another of those doting smiles, ‘when he says I am particularly fond of the brightly coloured berries. A garden in winter can be so bleak, after all, but with careful planting, I believe I have overcome that disadvantage.’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture. ‘You see, Mrs Richmond? Small black berries on the ivy that clothes the ruins; scarlet berries on the honeysuckle along the vine walk; purplish red ones there on the St John’s Wort. There are colours everywhere, as you so observantly remarked when you entered the garden.’

‘Indeed there are.’ Charlotte found herself being disarmed by the other woman’s enthusiasm. There was a glow in her dark eyes that spoke of a passion and eagerness about her ‘treasure’, that showed an appealing side to the woman Charlotte had thought dull at first meeting. She turned eagerly to her hostess. ‘My stepfather told me of a knot garden at his … his childhood home, but I gathered it was much more formal than this one.’

‘Knot gardens were a later development in the art of gardening,’ Lady Granville informed her and was soon well away on the history of planting, not noticing her guest’s far-away expression as she looked back down the years. During an unusual period of peace and stability Molly Glover had decided to plant a garden, and she had been nettled by Will’s amused criticism of their efforts.

‘What do you know about gardens, anyway?’
Molly had snapped in a rare moment of annoyance with her adored husband. Suddenly sobering, Will had stared at the straggling plants and answered wistfully,
‘My mother loved gardening and it was her great pride that she brought back the gardens to life, particularly the knot garden, after my grandfather died and my father….’
Had he been going to say, ‘When my father inherited?’ Charlotte wondered, with a sigh and a shrug of her shoulders. No point in speculating about her irresistible but
unreliable stepfather’s family. Hints, carelessly dropped and hastily brushed aside, had given her the distinct impression that Will’s family were well-connected and wealthy, but then … she sighed again. Will had been a consummate actor, so it could all have been one of his games.

The garden was not large and because of the high brick wall surrounding it there was a feeling of tranquillity and silence, although it was not, in truth, very far from the bustle of the stables. When Charlotte found herself at the crossroads of two paths, the intersection marked by a sundial, she turned to survey the various segments of the garden. At the far end stood the ruin, stark and dramatically wreathed in ivy, with a spiral staircase, its artistically ruined windows open to the air in some places, and leading, she assumed, to the crenellated tower at the top. She was amused by the bravely-fluttering pennant, a surprising piece of whimsy on the part of her stately hostess.

‘Does the tower date back to the abbey that you understood to be here in Queen Eleanor’s time?’ she asked with interest. ‘It certainly looks very ancient, with those gaping holes in the walls.’

Lady Granville looked delighted but shook her head. ‘That is what you are supposed to believe,’ she said. ‘In fact, the tower was erected around the turn of the century, some years after the house was built by my late father-in-law, the first Lord Granville. He was the only son of a wealthy mill owner from Lancashire, but the climate there never suited his wife, who came from the south. She claimed that the north was too prone to damp, I believe. He had turned gentleman and made sure of a title,’ her ladyship’s mouth primmed in evident disapproval of such a proceeding, ‘so he stuck a pin in an atlas and determined to build a house to suit himself, wherever the pin landed. Sadly, his lady did not live to enjoy her new home, or the new tower, and expired shortly after she moved here when my husband was a child. However, my father-in-law lived to a great age and added many improvements and
embellishments
to the place.’

Charlotte nodded her thanks for this explanation and gazed round the garden. ‘I believe I see your herb bed,’ she said slowly, pointing to a plot edged with rosemary. ‘And there are fruit trees
along the wall, but what is that small enclosure over there? It looks for all the world like a seat made of grass.’

‘Come and see.’ Oz Granville had tired of kicking stones at the wall of the ruin, stoutly ignoring his mother’s plaintive protests. ‘Mama copied the idea from some old picture or other.’ He stood back to allow Charlotte to see that the seats, arranged in a square with a gap for entry, were indeed covered in turf.

‘Just as they would have been in the thirteenth century,’ Lady Granville told her, clearly pleased with Charlotte’s delighted comments. Suddenly her good humour vanished and she whisked her skirts aside. ‘Oh, that wretched animal. Osbert, shoo that cat away at once, if you please.’

A rangy-looking ginger cat sidled up to Oz and was greeting him with delight. Charlotte surprised a guilty look on the boy’s face as he tried to do his mother’s bidding.

‘Don’t touch it,’ the lady almost shrieked, all the while keeping well away from the animal. ‘Filthy creature, you will catch fleas from it. I shall have the gardener drown it.’

‘No, you mustn’t,’ cried the boy. ‘It belongs to the children at the lodge. Please give me the key to the other gate, Mama. I’ll get rid of it this minute.’

He ran down the garden, followed happily by the cat, and thrust it through the gate at the far end. Charlotte was surprised to see him hesitate as he looked outside, but all she could discern in the gloom was the castle drive, which looped round the garden wall at that point. Lady Granville was still glowering but regained her usual composure by the time Oz rejoined them.

‘I was telling you about the ruins, was I not?’ she turned to her guest. ‘When I married I took great delight in furnishing the house in an appropriate style. My husband’s father had lost heart when his wife died, so the furniture was of no great interest or value. I spent many years travelling round the country, visiting abbeys and priories, some in ruins and others which had been converted to houses, so that I might discover the correct tables, beds and chairs, and so forth.’

She pursed her lips, looking a little wistful, Charlotte thought, and went on, ‘I became, if you like, a connoisseur of abbeys, I
visited so many. I went to Fountains in Yorkshire, Gracedieu in Oxfordshire, Cleeve in Somerset, Walsingham….’ There was an awkward little pause, then she said, again, softly, ‘Yes, Walsingham.’ As Charlotte looked at her, enquiry in her glance, she straightened up and nodded. ‘Now, I must not keep you out in the cold,’ she said, with a gracious smile. ‘Osbert has a delicate chest so let us take a final turn about the garden and then we will go indoors for tea.’

Charlotte thought it was as well that Oz Granville’s devoted mother could not see the scowl that briefly disfigured her son’s face, but she made no remark and followed in the lady’s wake. She was very glad of her warm clothes; the onset of twilight brought a freezing wind, though her hostess seemed impervious to the temperature.

Lady Granville led them to the vine tunnel and the trellises that supported more ivy, and drew attention to a hawthorn hedge, and another formed by the prickly shoots of sweetbriar. Where the land sloped gently away from the house, there was a stream that ran along the outer edge of the garden on the east side, bisected by a small, calm pool with a stone seat carefully positioned for contemplation. When the stream reached the ancient yew tree in the corner, it was culverted and ran, so Oz told her, down into the moat. He also told her that his mother believed the yew to be at least a thousand years old and Charlotte stared in astonishment and awe at the gnarled and twisted branches with their few withered red berries.

The names of the plants enchanted the young woman from the far side of the world. Rosa gallica, which Lady Granville informed her, was a red rose, emblem of Queen Eleanor, and which later became the rose of Lancaster; beside it grew Rosa alba, famed as the white rose of York. Seeing her interest, Lady Granville tossed some more names at her, at random: Rampion and Purslane, for use in salads; Herb Robert and Mouse-ear for medicinal use.

She broke off from her catalogue of planting, to cast a further anxious glance at the darkening sky and at her son and soon, with a brief apology, she hustled Charlotte and Oz back into the house to where tea awaited them in her sitting room.

‘Next time you come to tea,’ Oz told his guest, ‘You must climb up to the battlements of the ruin. It’s a splendid place to play at being besieged.’

Charlotte smiled assent. ‘The battlements are really accessible then?’ she asked Lady Granville. ‘I supposed them to be mere make-believe.’

‘Oh no,’ Oz hastened to assure her before his mother could respond. ‘There’s a spiral staircase with arrow slits, and down at the foot of the tower Mama has a small room that is built into the wall.’

‘I like to keep my gardening tools at hand,’ Lady Granville nodded to Charlotte. ‘The head gardener would prefer me not to work in the garden myself, but I find planting and weeding a soothing occupation.’

Conversation became general but Charlotte felt she had given satisfaction by the sincerity of her reaction to the garden and when even Oz had mopped the crumbs from his mouth with his napkin, Charlotte ventured a suggestion.

‘I wonder, Lady Granville,’ she said with some diffidence, ‘If you would agree to something my brother-in-law has asked me to propose?’

Her hostess, still apparently under the softening influence of a guest whose interests chimed with her own, expressed mild curiosity, so Charlotte continued.

‘Barnard wondered whether your son would enjoy a day out with him,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is the day when he will be visiting all his tenants, his Christmas visit, you understand, and it occurred to him that as your lands march with those of the Manor, it would be an opportunity for your son to re-acquaint himself with some of the people. Barnard would take the greatest care of – of Osbert,’ (she cast a brief glance of apology towards the boy, at the use of the hated name). ‘And he is of the opinion that the farmers would be delighted to see him.’

Charlotte could see that Lady Granville was in two minds about the proposal.

‘How kind of Mr Richmond,’ she said slowly. ‘Now we are to spend more time in Hampshire, it is in Osbert’s interest to become
known to the lower orders. It has to be tomorrow, does it? There is no chance that Mr Richmond might postpone the visits till after Christmas?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Charlotte; she looked demure and stretched out her foot to give Oz a surreptitious kick under cover of the table, as he had his mouth open to protest. He subsided at once with a grunt, looking at her in surprise, but quickly took her hint and remained silent. ‘Christmas Eve is the customary day and my brother-in-law is a stickler for tradition.’

‘Quite rightly so,’ the lady appeared to be giving in with a good grace. ‘Very well, Mrs Richmond, Osbert shall accept this kind invitation. My only regret is that his father and I must be elsewhere, as we are spending the day with the Bishop.’

Charlotte congratulated herself that her expression combined, very skilfully, pleasure at the treat Osbert’s presence would bestow upon Barnard, together with regret that the Manor should be deprived of the presence of Osbert’s parents. In fact, she had
overheard
Lord Granville the day before, discussing the impending visit with the vicar.

She rose to take her farewell and at a moment when her hostess’s attention was distracted, Charlotte managed to whisper in the boy’s ear. ‘Not a word,’ she hissed. ‘But Barnard tells me there will be ratting in the barn tomorrow, and I think you’ll enjoy it. Try to smuggle some old clothes with you.’

Shaking her head at him as his face lit up in eager anticipation, Charlotte was at the entrance to the Great Hall when in scurried Lady Granville’s companion, all aflame and aflutter with excitement.

‘Oh, my lady,’ she gasped, fanning herself with a gloved hand, as Lady Granville stared at her in well-bred distaste. ‘Oh my lady! Such news, such terrible news. I am this moment come from Winchester, where if you recall, you said I might use the governess cart, and I have heard such distressing tidings.’

‘Well?’ Lady Granville’s voice held no encouragement. ‘You had better enlighten us, Cole. What has happened that is so dreadful?’

Unabashed, Miss Cole, whose ungainly loops of pepper and salt hair dangled beneath her unbecoming bonnet, caught her breath
and disburdened herself of her news. ‘It seems that one of the ladies who was at the christening yesterday – one of two sisters who were visitors to Winchester – was taken violently ill yesterday shortly after leaving Finchbourne, and now, after all remedies have failed, it is announced that she has
died!
’

C
HARLOTTE’S
SHOCKED
GASP
echoed the sharply indrawn breath taken by Lady Granville as they stared in dismay at the companion. She, in turn, was gazing eagerly at her mistress, awaiting the lady’s reception of this news. Miss Cole’s mouth drooped once more as neither Charlotte nor her hostess spoke, so the companion rushed into further rattling speech.

‘If you remember, my lady, I had been invited to spend the day with my acquaintance in the town, the one whose husband has an upholstery business there. We were partaking of a dainty and most excellent tea.’ she paused, fondly reminiscent, before continuing, ‘when suddenly, her good husband (a most respectable man, and quite the gentleman, I do assure you) burst into the room, with a hurried apology for the intrusion, and said, was it true that I had been a guest at the christening yesterday, for the young heir to Finchbourne Manor? Naturally I corrected him, explaining that my presence there was not in the character of a guest, but that I was, of course, in attendance upon your ladyship. He was most genteel in his apology for being the bearer of distressing news and he then went on to tell us the sad tidings that he had heard from one of his apprentices, just moments before.’

As she gabbled her news, Miss Cole stripped off her gloves and fanned herself with them, the plump face glistening and avidly pink with excitement and a kind of pleasure, her small eyes turning from Charlotte to Lady Granville. ‘The apprentice has a sister, apparently, who is one of the maids at the lodging where the unfortunate lady passed to her maker.’

‘Which of the sisters was it that died, Cole?’ Lady Granville’s manner was abrupt as she asked the question although to
Charlotte, she appeared, not surprisingly, to be a trifle pale and abstracted, and clearly shocked. ‘And did your acquaintance inform you of the cause of this untimely death?’

Not one whit daunted by her mistress’s dismissive reception of her news, Miss Cole hurried to reply, ‘I gather it was the younger sister, my lady, a sweetly pretty young creature, with fair hair and such a dainty pink gown, married to a medical gentleman from London, I believe.’ She shook her head in sad contemplation of such a premature end but Charlotte was aware of an undercurrent of almost gleeful excitement. ‘I have no information as to what caused her sad demise.’

At that moment Lord Granville entered the room, only to stare in astonishment at the excited companion. ‘What’s this, what’s this? Found another body, Cole? Hey?’

Ignoring his wife’s expression of distaste at his ill-timed jest, Lord Granville listened in growing horror to the tale of woe. ‘I heard tell that the grieving widower, together with the other young lady, is to set off to London this very evening,’ Miss Cole told them. ‘And who can blame them if they never return after such a tragedy.’

Lord Granville looked very shocked but at her last comment he looked thoughtful. He frowned, then nodded, and gave the companion a kindly pat on her shoulder, as he said, ‘Well, well, that is probably all for the best,’ before turning away to leave the room once more.

Charlotte dragged herself out of the horrified silence that had affected her. ‘I must go home at once,’ she turned to Lady Granville with an apology. ‘Lily and Barnard will be beside themselves with anxiety and grief at this dreadful occurrence, so close upon the lady’s visit to Finchbourne. I must see if I can be of any help to them.’ She shook the hand that was held out to her and pressed her thanks upon Lady Granville. ‘I have so much enjoyed my visit this afternoon, ma’am,’ she told her warmly. ‘I do admire your skill and vision so much. I’m so sorry to leave on a sad note, but…’ she
hesitated
, and a glimpse of a fair head poking round the door encouraged her, ‘I do trust you will still allow your son to visit the Manor tomorrow? Even in the midst of tragedy, I am quite certain that Barnard will not deviate from tradition, so he will collect
Master Granville at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m sure my brother-in-law will look after him well.’

Her hostess nodded then gave a distracted frown. ‘Now what did I…. Ah, I recall now, this shocking intelligence has made my wits go begging, but yes, I have caused the gardener to place two bouquets of hothouse flowers in your carriage, Mrs Richmond. A slight token of esteem for Lady Frampton and Mrs Barnard Richmond, in the hope that we may renew our friendship in the not too distant future,’ she gave a satisfied nod as Charlotte offered suitable delight and gratitude, and added, ‘and naturally I have had a posy prepared for you, my dear. That, however, is composed of some of my own favourite hyacinths. I fancy you are at one with me in preferring them and my gardener brings them on especially for me.’

Alone in the brougham, Charlotte heaved a troubled sigh and lifted her elegant little posy of white hyacinths to her nose, savouring the delicious scent. It had been a pleasant interlude, strolling round the unusual, jewel-bright little garden, lit by the pale winter sun, with the hitherto unbending Lady Granville suddenly transformed into a human being. What of this news though, that one of the previous day’s guests at the manor had died? Hard upon the heels too, of the death of Lady Granville’s maid.

That pretty, silken young woman, with her laughter and the mocking tilt of her head as she surveyed her fellow guests, to have died so suddenly! The afternoon’s diversion was driven from her mind, but wait…. Charlotte had a sudden memory of the pompous Dr Chant trying to stop his wife from drinking so much of the wassail brew, only for the young lady to laugh and make some comment about her condition. Perhaps that was it; some
unforeseen
complication of early pregnancy.

It was an obvious and plausible explanation, but why, Charlotte wondered, did she feel such a weight of unease? There could be no connection between Lady Granville’s maid, Maria Dunster’s, unfortunate killing by the reported burly man and the sad death of a guest of the manor. It was a coincidence, nothing more. Still, she racked her brains to try to discover what it was that was making
her feel so unsettled, so uncomfortable. What had occurred at yesterday’s celebration to set her mind racing thus?

She directed the coachman to take her back to Rowan Lodge by way of the Manor, so that she could check on Lily’s reaction to the news. Shock and sadness were inevitable, Charlotte thought, but knowing Lily, she believed that the young woman would also be entertaining a lively fear regarding the possible social stigma pertaining to a sudden death following so close upon a party at Finchbourne. I think I’d better make sure Lily isn’t making poor Barnard’s life a misery, Charlotte decided, though he’ll surely be feeling that this reflects upon the hospitality of the house too.

‘Char, thank God.’ That was Barnard, his broad face a little less ruddy of hue than was usual, his manner a little less bluff and hearty. ‘You will have heard the news? Good girl, I knew I could rely on you to come to our aid. Lily is in the drawing-room. Here, follow me and let me pour you a glass of sherry; we all need a drop of something to strengthen our nerves.’

Even in the midst of her distress, Lily could not fail to be gratified by the flowers Lady Granville had sent her and she sat playing with them in her lap after Charlotte had greeted her with a kiss of sympathy and a brief explanation of the bouquet’s provenance.

‘Have you any information on the cause of this sudden dreadful illness?’ Charlotte sat down beside Lily and sipped thoughtfully at the sherry Barnard handed her. ‘I assume her husband was at her side? Miss Nightingale told me that Dr Chant is most highly thought of in the Capital, so every precaution must surely have been taken. Poor young lady, she can have been no more than twenty-five or six, at the most, do you not think?’

‘It was a sudden attack of biliousness,’ Lily’s spirits had revived sufficiently to allow her to join in the conversation. ‘I received a short note not an hour ago from Miss Armstrong, the elder sister as I’m sure you will recall. She apologised for importuning upon me but she wondered if she might beg a bed from tomorrow, for a night or two. She has no other acquaintance in Winchester, apart from the Dean’s wife and she could hardly impose on a cathedral dignitary at Christmas.’

Charlotte was startled. ‘But Lady Granville’s woman said that
Miss Armstrong and Dr Chant were returning to London this evening?’

‘Oh, no,’ Lily was adamant. ‘She is quite mistaken; how
do
these rumours get around? Our kitchen maid brought home that, and several other tales, when she returned after her half-day in Winchester. I have the letter here, from Miss Armstrong, who states that Dr Chant informs her that his wife’s body will be interred in Winchester at the earliest opportunity, and that he will be glad if she would vacate the rooms which his wife engaged last week, when the sisters arrived in Hampshire for a short holiday together. The rooms are wanted and tomorrow is the final day of their week for I believe they planned to return to London then.’

Lily looked sharply at Charlotte, her plump, inquisitive little face shorn of its usual artifice. ‘I understand the rent for the rooms would be beyond Miss Armstrong’s means, in any case. I also gained the impression that there is no love-lost between husband and sister and that this little vacation was arranged without the doctor’s knowledge, still less his permission.’ She pouted, ‘Unfortunately, I did not have occasion to discover just why they don’t get on.’ She drew her fine, dark brows together, then continued, ‘Dr Chant was not residing in the same house and Miss Armstrong says that her sister’s sickness increased until she herself became alarmed and sent for a local doctor, but it was too late and the poor young lady’s final breaths were taken sometime in the small hours.’

‘Very sad, very sad.’ That was Barnard, interrupting Charlotte who had her mouth open to speak. ‘But Char, what if the poor lady died as a result of something she ate here? At young Algy’s
christening
party?’ He pulled out a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, looking more like a doleful prize bullock than ever. ‘I doubt I should ever recover from the mortification,’ he announced, his voice tailing away in a doom-laden rumble.

‘Dear Barnard,’ Charlotte rose and spoke forcefully, giving him a reassuring squeeze to his beefy, muscled arm. ‘Stop this fretting at once. Now, sit down, take another glass of sherry and listen to me. Good,’ she nodded approval as the large, anxious creature obeyed her. ‘First of all, I have not been ill and neither has Grandmama. Have you, Lily? Or Barnard? Of course you have not. Have you
heard that anyone else has been taken ill after yesterday’s party? There you are then.’

She smiled at him and went on, ‘If there had been something amiss with any of the dishes you served yesterday, you would certainly have been inundated with messages about other guests also suffering. You know what Dr Perry is like; had he been called to attend any bedsides, he’d have been up here, hot foot, to demand a list of recipes and ingredients from Cook.’

She was glad to observe that the force of her argument had struck both Barnard and his wife, so that a degree of their distress was alleviated. ‘You see? Besides, I overheard a brief exchange between Dr Chant and his unfortunate wife that will, I suspect, provide some explanation.’ She hastily sketched out the scene she had observed, ending with, ‘It seemed clear to me at the time that the lady was hinting that she was with child. Sadly, it seems only too likely that her death must have resulted from some irregularity in her condition.’

After dinner, Charlotte and Lady Frampton spent a comfortable evening alone at Rowan Lodge, in the cream-panelled dining hall that was their favourite place for relaxing and gossiping. The old lady, who found the stairs difficult these days, used the former dining-room as a bedchamber, while Charlotte slept in lonely state upstairs with a further room set aside there for her own pursuits. The large downstairs drawing-room served for their few formal gatherings.

‘Well, I never,’ exclaimed the old lady, when Charlotte had told her the sorry tale of young Mrs Chant’s tragic end. ‘The poor young thing, I recollect thinking what a pretty creature she was, to be sure, all dressed in pink.’ She ruminated for a while then remembered something else, ‘Mind you, Char,’ she said, with a minatory nod. ‘You say nobody else was taken ill, but what about Captain Penbury, eh? ’e collapsed, didn’t ’e?’

Charlotte looked aghast. ‘Oh, Gran,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d completely forgotten about that. For heaven’s sake don’t remind Lily or Barnard.’ Her brow puckered as she recalled the occasion. ‘But the captain wasn’t bilious though. It can’t have been anything
he ate for he wasn’t ill at all, really. I think it was just a sharp attack of indigestion, although it did look like a heart attack at the time.’

‘So it was,’ nodded Lady Frampton. ‘Indigestion, I mean. Silly old fool, he tells everyone he meets about that old musket ball in ’is belly, and I’ve ’ad to shut my ears time and again when ’e drones on and on about his bloomin’ innards. What the devil did ’e think ’e was up to, stuffing himself with all that rich pastry, eh?’ She gave a complacent nod as she bragged, ‘My ’usband used to tell me, “’arriet, it’s a pleasure to see you eat.” It takes a stout constitution like what I’ve got to eat rich and ’earty, so it does.’

An odd memory struck Charlotte. ‘Didn’t Lady Granville complain that the captain had snatched a mince pie away from young Oz?’ She pictured the scene and nodded. ‘Yes, she did. She said nothing to the captain, but certainly she moaned about it to me, not that Oz gave two pins. He simply used the uproar at the captain’s collapse, to pile his plate high with sugar plums, and make his escape.’

Lady Frampton made a face. ‘That woman will make a milksop out of the boy, sure as eggs is eggs,’ she grunted. ‘As nice and sparky a lad as any you could wish to meet, but no, what must she decide but that he’s delicate. Delicate my eye! She’ll drive ’im demented one of these days, the way she ’overs over ’im, poor lad. Still, it’s not to be wondered at; all those hopes come to nothing and then at last, this precious boy arriving safe and sound. Well over forty, I believe, before she found ’erself in the family way, at what must ’ave been ’er last chance.