Chapter 12 #2
As the carriage rolled on, they drew level with the gates to the drive; of similar design to the smaller gate and also in heavy wrought iron, the much wider gates stood ajar.
A gravel drive, clear of weeds and in reasonable state, led to the house; it ran along the front before curling around the far side of the blocklike building.
Penelope glanced up at the house, then sighed and leaned back as it passed once more out of view. “Three stories—there’s dormers above that parapet around the top of the first floor. So it’s of reasonable size, but not large—exactly what one would expect of a family of the Halsteads’ means.”
“So,” Violet said, “the house itself holds no surprises—the only questions are who is using it, and for what.”
Penelope nodded. “Let’s hope Mrs. Findlayson can shed some light on those points.”
It was early afternoon when they walked up the path to the vicarage front door.
At their request for an audience, Mrs. Findlayson came to the door; she proved to be a kindly-looking woman of generous girth, with curly white hair surrounding a soft-featured face from which aging blue eyes looked upon the world with a certain calm serenity.
Violet took the lead, making the introductions and explaining that she was calling on Lady Halstead’s behalf, having realized from Mrs. Findlayson’s recent letter that Mrs. Findlayson had known Lady Halstead well.
Mrs. Findlayson was delighted to receive them. She insisted they join her in the comfortably cheery parlor; once they were seated, she ordered tea, then turned to Violet. “And how is dear Lady Halstead?”
Violet broke the sad news as gently as she could.
Mrs. Findlayson grew sad, then sorrowful. “Oh, dear. Murdered, you say? How very dreadful, to be sure. Such evil there is in the world these days.”
The maid arrived with the tea tray and Penelope took charge, pouring a strong cup of tea and adding several lumps of sugar before handing it to Mrs. Findlayson.
The vicar’s wife accepted the cup and saucer in something of a daze.
Penelope and Griselda busied themselves pouring their cups and handing Violet hers.
Her gaze on Mrs. Findlayson’s face, Violet sipped, then murmured, “You knew her ladyship quite well, didn’t you?”
“Oh, indeed.” Her gaze unfocused, Mrs. Findlayson nodded.
“We both came to the village at much the same time, both as new brides. We grew quite close over those early years, when she and Hugo spent more of their time here, but then he was posted overseas again, and they left the children—there were just the two then, Mortimer and Cynthia—at The Laurels with their nurses and a housekeeper and staff.” Mrs. Findlayson pursed her lips in mild disapproval.
“Of course, Agatha didn’t wish to expose the youngsters to the dangers of life in all those dreadful foreign places Hugo used to have to go to, but over the years, I—well, all of us who knew them—did wonder if, after all, that decision was the right one. ”
Mrs. Findlayson looked at Violet and managed a weak smile.
“As you knew her, dear, you will agree that a gentler, kinder lady would be hard to find, and I always suspected Agatha intended to come home frequently to visit the children, but with Hugo always being sent so far away, and the ships taking so long to make the journey, well, they didn’t make it back, either of them, all that often. ”
Nodding to herself, Mrs. Findlayson went on, “Agatha returned to have Maurice, but then left soon after, when he was still just a babe in arms. William was born overseas—in India, I believe—but Agatha and Hugo brought him home, saw him settled in the nursery, and then they were off again.”
Frowning, Mrs. Findlayson shifted in her chair.
“I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, and heaven knew Agatha and I remained firm friends, but the way that poor mite howled for his mother—well, the whole village knew of it.
And he ran away, several times if memory serves, but the tutors always went after him and caught him and dragged him back.
” Lips thin, Mrs. Findlayson carefully set her cup back on its saucer.
“As in any friendship, there were some things Agatha did that I couldn’t approve of, and that was one.
” Drawing in a breath, she lifted her head and met Violet’s eyes, then glanced at Penelope and Griselda.
“Against that, however, both Agatha and Hugo were delightful people and so very wedded to their duty to this country that it was all but impossible to hold such transgressions against them.”
After a moment, Mrs. Findlayson smiled. “But I’m rambling on, and as both Hugo and Agatha are now dead, there’s no point dwelling on the past.”
“But it’s right that you remember them, and comforting that your memories are so fond, at least of them.
” Violet paused, then said, “I’m tangentially involved with the sorting out of Lady Halstead’s estate, and, as you might imagine, there’s been considerable argument between her children as to the disposition of the assets.
I wonder”—Violet met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes—“whether you could give me your opinion of them—the children? You must be one of the few who know all four well enough to comment on their characters, and it might help sort things out.”
Mrs. Findlayson’s expression, until then soft and gentle, hardened.
She hesitated, clearly weighing the words that had come to her tongue, but then she looked at Violet and nodded.
“Agatha’s dead—murdered—and for all I know it was by one of them.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t put it past any of them.
A more viperous brood would be hard to find—although I have to admit their stinging and biting was always directed at each other. All within the family, so to speak.”
She paused, then went on, “William, for all his troubles, is the best of the lot of them. Followed by Maurice, although I wouldn’t trust him with anything of value.
Lacks morals in general, that one. But as for the elder two, Mortimer and Cynthia, if they weren’t Agatha and Hugo’s children, I wouldn’t give them the time of day—not unless they’ve improved significantly since last I saw them.
Cynthia is a self-absorbed harpy, and Mortimer .
. . well, my husband once described him as a colorless egotist with no ambition beyond himself. ”
“They—Cynthia and Mortimer—seem very competitive with regard to each other,” Violet observed.
Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was always a feature of life at The Laurels—the battles between those two. Over the years, my husband and I had countless consultations with the various nannies and governesses, and even some of the more concerned tutors. Many were driven to seek advice.” Mrs. Findlayson frowned, patently sifting through her memories.
Eventually, she said, “It was such a strange thing, to have children vying to be the most sanctimonious, the most priggish, the most conservative, the most religiously observant. It was almost impossible to upbraid them, you see? How can you punish a child for adhering to the rules too well? For taking those rules to extremes—and then further? And more, their actions, their behaviors, were never sincere—their apparent goodness was ever a product of ambition. For all their outward perfections, those two caused more gray hairs than Maurice, William, and all the other children in the village put together, all of whose transgressions were entirely normal and understandable. Everyone knew how to cope with the others, including the younger two Halsteads, even though they took matters to the other extreme, but the older two Halsteads were all but beyond our ken.”
When Mrs. Findlayson fell silent, Violet was tempted to prompt, but then the vicar’s wife stirred and said, “My husband once observed that what drove those two might initially have been a battle for parental approval—to be the best, better than the others in their parents’ eyes, and recognized as such, and thus winning their private war, but with their parents never there, it became a battle with no end.
That affected Mortimer more than the others—he was the oldest, and naturally expected to be the acknowledged leader, but Cynthia, for one, never accorded him that status, and the other two followed her lead, at least in that. ”
Mrs. Findlayson paused to sip from her cup, then, lowering it, concluded, “Mortimer lived here, at The Laurels, until he was in his early twenties, and by then he’d become the sort of man who is never satisfied with what he achieves but instead always wants to be more.
” Mrs. Findlayson shrugged. “For all I know, Cynthia might be the same—that wouldn’t surprise me.
As for the other two, I daresay they will have continued down the roads they’d started well along before they left here—and neither of those roads will serve them well. ”
Another silence fell while Violet, Penelope, and Griselda digested that, aligning the information with all they had themselves observed, then Violet set down her cup and saucer. “Thank you.” She met Mrs. Findlayson’s eyes and smiled. “Your insights might, indeed, be of some help.”
“I’m glad to do whatever I can,” Mrs. Findlayson said, “especially if it will help catch Agatha’s murderer.”
“As to that”—Penelope shifted forward, drawing Mrs. Findlayson’s attention—“you wrote in your last letter to Lady Halstead that you and others in the village had observed unusual activity at The Laurels. Although there’s no reason to imagine it’s related to Lady Halstead’s murder, it did seem unexpected. ”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Findlayson arched her brows. “We were all quite surprised when the new people moved in.”
“When was that?” Penelope asked.