Chapter Two #2
He inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘See, now I know most of you know each other, but I don’t think you’ve all met Lady Hardcastle and Miss Armstrong ’cept on the boat.
And I also know how skittish you Brits are about asking each other anything more than your names and how you’re finding the weather. ’
‘Not bad for the time of year,’ said Bridgewater through a mouthful of food.
Dotty tutted.
‘I’d never ask anyone their name,’ said Patience Sidwell-Plant. ‘One has to be introduced.’
JB smiled indulgently. ‘Actually you’re right – you can’t even ask that, can you?
And you’d rather die than ask anything more personal.
Can’t ask an Englishman what he does for a living, for instance – that would never do.
You’re dying to know, but you just can’t bear to ask.
So let this Yank take all the embarrassment on your behalf and make some introductions for you. ’
He gestured towards Lady Hardcastle.
‘To my left here, we have Emily, Lady Hardcastle. Scientist, musician, photographer, artist – if she’d been born five hundred years ago she’d have been one of the leading lights of the Renaissance.’
‘If I’d been born five hundred years ago, JB dear, I’d have been hanged as a witch. The good folk of fifteenth-century Europe weren’t wildly enthusiastic about the idea of women actually doing things.’
‘The good folk of twentieth-century Europe aren’t a great deal more excited,’ said Clarice.
‘Well, in that case, I’m glad we got you and not them,’ said JB. ‘Wouldn’t want to see you hanged.’
‘Or burned at the stake,’ said Bridgewater. ‘Can’t bear a burnt steak.’
I braced myself for a Hardcastle lecture, but it was Clarice who spoke up once more. ‘We only burned heretics in England, Gran – witches were hanged.’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Bridgewater, ‘but I couldn’t resist the steak pun. Can’t let facts get in the way of a good joke, what?’
‘If you make just one good joke over the course of the weekend, Gran darling, I’ll eat my violin.’
Bridgewater laughed. ‘Give me a few moments, my dear – there’s probably something in there about old catgut in your catty old guts. I’ll get there eventually.’
‘I’ll not hold my breath. But I love you for trying.’
Bridgewater laughed again. Clearly this was how the two of them talked to each other. Either that or Bridgewater was impervious to criticism. To be honest, it was too early to tell.
JB waited indulgently for them to finish before adding, ‘And now, Emily is famous throughout the land as a solver of mysteries. An amateur gumshoe.’
‘A wellington?’ said Dotty.
‘Don’t be daft, Dots,’ said Bridgewater. ‘She’s a sleuth. A detective.’
‘I know that – I’ve read about her in the newspapers – but JB said she was a gumboot.’
Lady Hardcastle picked up a slice of toast. ‘I do own a pair of wellingtons, if that’s any help. It can get quite muddy in Gloucestershire.’
JB pressed on. ‘Next to you, Lady Hardcastle, is Edgar Everett, a celebrated piano accompanist in his own right, but now perhaps better known as the husband and manager of one of England’s finest violinists.’
Edgar smiled. ‘And proud to be so.’
‘For the rest of you,’ continued JB, ‘next to Everett is Miss Florence Armstrong, who works with Lady Hardcastle.’
‘So you’re a gumboot, too, what?’ said Bridgewater.
‘I’ve been called worse,’ I said. Part of me wanted to tell them I worked for Lady Hardcastle, not with her, and that I was actually her lady’s maid, but these days I wondered how true that was.
I also knew from tedious experience that that particular revelation usually just caused embarrassment anyway, so for now I was happy to be a gumboot.
‘Next to Miss Armstrong,’ said JB, ‘is George Wilson. He’s a dealer in antiquities, among his other talents.’
‘My very modest talents,’ said Wilson. ‘I dabble in this and that.’
‘Don’t put yourself down, my boy. Wilson here found many of the knick-knacks and objets in my collection, some of them very rare.
And he’s just managed to track down a little something I’ve been after for quite a while.
Should be a terrific addition to the display in the long gallery – something to intrigue the visitors. ’
Wilson smiled.
‘Granville Bridgewater at the other end of the table is my English attorney – “solicitor”, I should say. Can’t quite get used to that. Back home a solicitor is the guy who comes to your door trying to sell you something you don’t need.’
‘Can’t say that’s entirely different from my own line of work,’ said Bridgewater. ‘Not sure anyone actually needs my services.’
‘I’d be lost without you,’ said JB. ‘Bridgewater handles all my English legal matters.’
‘I can do the Welsh ones, too, if you like.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind. But not Scotland, right?’
‘No, not Scotland.’
‘Like crossing a state border. Same as I have to have a New York lawyer and a Pennsylvania lawyer.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘Sure. So then we come to the other side of the table and Clarice Everett. I sold her short a little while ago when I said she was one of England’s finest violinists – I would say she’s the finest solo violinist in Europe.’
Clarice smiled. ‘You’re very kind to say so, JB.’ Deftly holding a slice of toast in one hand, she discreetly slid her finger across her plate until she located her slice of terrine and then used the knife in her other hand to spread a little on her bread.
‘I call ’em as I see ’em, darling Clarice. Next to Mrs Everett is my accountant and business manager, Robert Sidwell-Plant.’
‘And I can do that anywhere in the world,’ said Sidwell-Plant. ‘One doesn’t need special qualifications to count things and examine ledgers.’
‘Still takes a special mind, though, Bobby. Don’t do yourself down. Mrs Dorothy Bridgewater is next. She has the misfortune to be married to Gran—’
‘Oh, don’t say it like that, JB,’ said Dotty. ‘I’m very lucky to be married to him.’
‘No,’ said Bridgewater. ‘Sounds fair enough to me. I think you’re an absolute saint for putting up with me.’
‘Well,’ said JB, ‘saint or not, Dorothy is also something of a horticultural expert. She’s helping me design the gardens here on Guardians Rock.’
‘We’ll make a little Eden off the Devonshire coast,’ said Dotty, proudly.
JB beamed. ‘I hope so. And last but not least, we have Patience Sidwell-Plant. Now, Patience has been working with my architect, Henry Lovelace, and is the one responsible for all the decor here in the fort, so she’s the one you have to congratulate for the fantastic way the place looks.’
‘Marvellous job, m’dear,’ said Bridgewater. ‘And where is Lovelace? I thought he was coming this weekend.’
‘Couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Had to go up to Northamptonshire to fix some problems on another project. But that’s it – that’s all of us.’
‘What about you, JB?’ said Bridgewater. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘I’m just some Yankee with more money than sense. And I judge from the delicious aroma coming from the dumb waiter that I’m saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of our main course.’
Crawford appeared again and cleared the now-empty terrine platter and our plates to a sideboard before unloading the dumb waiter once more.
The delicious aroma that JB had mentioned had been growing steadily stronger throughout the fort since before we sat down to eat and was coming from the bouillabaisse Crawford placed on the table in its rustic French marmite.
Once more he fussed about, this time with bowls and spoons, before loading the dumb waiter with the dirty crockery and then disappearing.
The fish stew looked and smelled wonderful and I knew that, whatever else happened over the course of the weekend, we wouldn’t go hungry.
After dinner we retired to the library once more, where JB plied us with cognac and port.
Dotty and Patience were chatting, and from the snatches of conversation I could hear, they were discussing their respective plans for the next phase of the fort’s redevelopment.
Sidwell-Plant was trying to impress Clarice with his knowledge of the classical repertoire, while Bridgewater told a long-winded joke to an obviously bored Everett.
Crawford was on hand to dispense cheese and crackers, and JB brought Mrs Crawford in so that we could all congratulate her on the magnificent meal. She stayed and talked to Dotty and Patience while JB brought Wilson over to join Lady Hardcastle and me.
‘So, how do you like my new place?’ asked JB. ‘I’m trying to gauge reactions. The Bridgewaters and the Sidwell-Plants have all been involved in the conversion in one way or another, but you three and the Everetts are seeing it for the first time.’
‘Well, I for one,’ I said, ‘think it’s wonderful. I’d be reluctant to go home to the mainland if I’d booked a stay here.’
‘Oh, thank you. We worked hard on it. Lovelace and his builders did a terrific job, then the ladies over there came in to turn the Tudor fortress into a palace.’
‘I agree with Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s a devil to get to, but it’s well worth the trip.’
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it,’ said JB.
‘All our provisions have to come over from the mainland a couple times a week. That old pirate Tommy Vickerman brings the mail and supplies on his ratty old fishing boat and he’ll be making the trip more often when the place is up and running.
I’m staying here for a spell while we organize a few things, so I’m relying on him to keep me fed. ’
‘When’s he next due?’ asked Wilson.
‘Not till Tuesday for provisions – we’ve got enough to last us until after you’ve all gone home. But that won’t be the next time he comes.’
‘No?’