Chapter 12 #3
“Oh, it would be well over a year now . . . perhaps fifteen months?” Mrs. Findlayson narrowed her eyes.
“Yes, that’s right. They’d been there for several months before Harvest Service.
As no one from the house had yet attended at the church, my husband called a week before the service to formally invite them and urge them to join us, and, of course, by then everyone was wondering who was living there. ”
“And who is?” Penelope’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses.
But Mrs. Findlayson shook her head. “The only people we’ve ever set eyes on are the odd manservant who answers the door and the pair who work in the kitchen.
A man and a woman, but they’re rather surly and keep entirely to themselves.
Not so much as a nod if one passes them in the lane.
Indeed, we never see them out and about except when they head down to Romford in their cart to bring in supplies for one of their evening entertainments. ”
“Entertainments?” Penelope’s eyes widened.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “That was what prompted me to write to Agatha, because, really, these odd events have been going on for long enough. Every month, or thereabouts, carriages—all black and with curtains drawn—come rolling up and turn in at The Laurels. Eight or more carriages, every month, but they always arrive very late, usually after ten o’clock at night.
” Mrs. Findlayson primmed her lips, then opened them and confided, “Even the lads who’ve climbed the nearby trees to look over the walls say they’ve not been able to see anything of the goings-on inside the house, because even though the whole ground floor looks to be well lit on those evenings, the curtains are all drawn tight. ”
“How long do the carriages stay?” Griselda asked.
“Only two hours or so—we usually hear them roll past again about twelve or just after.”
Penelope frowned, then asked, “And when the carriages leave, all their curtains are drawn?”
Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “Every single time, every carriage. So, you see, we have no idea who is living in that house and holding these odd events, and we also have no idea who is attending, much less what’s going on in the house on those evenings.”
Violet leaned forward. “You said these events happen monthly? On a specific date?”
“No, not exactly. It’s roughly every month, but we never know the exact date—not until we see the two staff head out in their cart for Romford.”
“When was the last entertainment at The Laurels?” Penelope asked. “Or, more pertinently, when do you anticipate the next event will be?”
“I can’t remember the date of the last, but the next event will be tonight.” Mrs. Findlayson met Penelope’s eyes. “My gardener saw the pair from the house head off to Romford this morning.”
They’d thanked Mrs. Findlayson, promised her that they would convey all she’d told them to those dealing with the Halsteads’ affairs, then hurried back to Penelope’s carriage, where they’d piled in as Penelope had directed Phelps to drive back to The Laurels.
Now the three of them stood just outside the overgrown front gate and, using the dense ivy as a screen, peered through the leaves at the house.
“Curtains are still open on the second floor,” Penelope said, “but all the ground-floor rooms have curtains fully drawn.”
Violet glanced at the trees in what appeared to be a dense wood growing along the side wall of the garden. “Even from high in those trees, no one could see into the first-floor rooms.”
“Hmm, no.” Penelope humphed. “No sense sending Conner into the wood to see what he can spy.” After considering the house for a moment more, she said, “So what do we do? We’re here, the house is here.
If Mrs. Findlayson’s information is correct, if we go to the door and knock, we’ll either meet this odd manservant or . . . there’ll be no one at home.”
Griselda snorted. “And if there’s no one at home, you’ll want to look around, and possibly find your way inside—”
“Which might give us some clue as to what these peculiar entertainments are all about.” Penelope nodded. “Exactly.”
Violet drew back to stare at her.
Feeling her gaze, Penelope turned her head and met it.
Violet read the determination in her new employer’s face . . . then she blinked, and nodded. “What an excellent idea.”
Penelope grinned. “I knew you’d fit in with our little band.”
Griselda was still studying the house. “There’s no movement visible at all, either upstairs or down.
” She glanced at Penelope and Violet. “I can’t see any point in going back to London without at least knocking on the door and seeing what more we can learn.
” She focused on Penelope. “So how are we going to do this?”
Penelope thought for only a moment, then turned back to where the carriage stood a little way along the lane. “We do it in style. It’s the only sensible way.”
They climbed back into the carriage, and, following Penelope’s directions, Phelps drove up to the gate.
Conner jumped down and pushed the gates wide, then swung up behind as Phelps sent the fashionable carriage sweeping through and up and around the drive, eventually slowing his team to halt the carriage before the two steps leading up to the porch before the front door.
Penelope waited for both Conner and James, the footman, who, in keeping with her promise to Barnaby, she’d had join their company for the day, to descend to the gravel.
Conner went to the horses’ heads while James, at his most regal, paused, then opened the door, let down the steps, and, terribly formally, handed her down.
Head tilted high, Penelope descended, hoping very much that someone was watching to appreciate their performance.
Violet followed to stand just behind her, then Griselda joined them, taking up position beside Violet.
Penelope nodded to James, and, in formation, they ascended the steps, James in the lead.
Halting before the door, Penelope raised her head, and nodded to James.
James pulled the chain dangling to one side of the front door. Deep inside the house, they heard a bell clang.
Seconds ticked past.
His hand still on the chain, James arched a brow at Penelope. She was about to nod when she caught the tramp of feet on carpet. With her eyes, she signaled James to take up his correct position to her right. He did, to the sound of bolts being drawn.
Several—and from the sound of them, rather heavy—bolts.
The door swung soundlessly inward, and a man—thin, only a few inches taller than Penelope, who definitely didn’t qualify as tall—looked out at them, the expression on his distinctly weasel-like features declaring he was supremely bored. “Whatever you’ve come to suggest, we’re not interested.”
His accent suggested he’d spent much of his youth in the London slums, but although there were telltale broken veins decorating his face and nose, he did not appear to be inebriated at that moment. Regardless, he would never qualify as a butler, nor even a respectable manservant.
Penelope looked down her nose at him, something her breeding allowed her to accomplish despite her lack of inches. “I beg your pardon?”
Her tone, that of a daughter of the nobility addressing an abject serf, made the man blink, and rethink his approach. “Ah . . . what would you be wanting, miss—” His gaze took in Violet, Griselda, James, and the men and the carriage behind them, and he amended, “ma’am?”
Penelope waited with quite awful patience until he brought his gaze back to her face. “I wish to speak with your master. Please conduct us to the drawing room and inform him we are here.”
The man frowned. “And you would be?”
Penelope’s brows rose. “A lady from London—that is all you need to know.”
She went to sweep forward, but the man, eyes widening, leapt to swing the front door half closed.
Penelope halted, then drew in a breath, clearly outraged.
Before she could wither him, the man hurriedly said, “My master—he’s very particular-like. Doesn’t let just anyone inside. Worth my job, it’d be, to let you in.” His eyes flicked to James and the other men. He swallowed. “If you’ll give me your name, I could see if he’ll make an exception for you.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Who is this man you call your master? If he’s the man I think he is . . . well, clearly he can’t be, for he would never hire such an ill-informed manservant. So, sirrah, his name if you please. If he is who he should be, I will give you my name to take to him.”
Violet had to admit that was a masterstroke, but, sadly, it didn’t get them anywhere.
Edging the door even further closed, the man shook his head. “Only people the master knows come here. You don’t even know who he is.”
“I know who the owners of this house are,” Penelope declared. “And I seriously doubt they’re your supposed master. Does this man even exist?”
“He exists, all right, and there’s nothing havey-cavey about us being here. We rent the place, all right and proper.”
“No, you don’t,” Penelope stated. “I’m acquainted with the Halsteads, the owners of this house, and they know nothing about your tenancy.”
That piece of information rocked the man; he pulled back for an instant, then, jaw clenching, growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this—you’re trespassing! And I don’t have to answer to trespassers!”
With that, he slammed the door shut.
Immediately, they heard the bolts rammed home.
Penelope stared at the door. “Well!” She swung around and, leading the way, marched back down the two shallow steps and headed across the gravel to the waiting coach.
Griselda and Violet had fallen in behind. They were halfway across the stretch of gravel when Griselda murmured, “Don’t turn around and look, but there’s a girl at the first-floor window at the far end—I think she’s trying to attract our attention.”
“Indeed?” Penelope tossed her head as if flinging the comment over her shoulder. As she faced forward again, pausing before the carriage steps to sweep up her skirts and take James’s hand to steady her, she said, “Yes—I saw.”
Violet followed Penelope into the carriage; sinking onto the seat, she looked for the girl, but from where she was, the light reflected off the window. “Damn!” she muttered. “I can’t see past the glass.”
Penelope looked across the carriage at Griselda, who met her gaze. James shut the door, then the carriage dipped as he and Conner climbed up.
With a sharp crack of Phelps’s whip, the carriage started rolling, slowly turning, gravel crunching loudly under the wheels.
Penelope ducked her head and peered up at the house again, then sat back. Again she met Griselda’s now very serious and sober gaze. Penelope waited until the carriage rolled out of the gates and was bowling freely down the lane before nodding. “Yes, I saw—the poor thing looked quite desperate.”
“Indeed,” Griselda rather grimly said. “And I just realized something else. All the windows had bars—not just the downstairs windows but the first-floor windows as well.”
Penelope stilled. “We’re so used to seeing bars on windows in Mayfair that we don’t register them anymore.”
“But,” Violet said, her expression turning as grim as Griselda’s, “why would they have bars on windows in the country?”
“And even more to the point,” Penelope said, “why does one have bars on windows on an upper floor?”
The three women exchanged glances, then Penelope stood and pushed up the trap in the ceiling. “Phelps?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Back to London with all speed—don’t spare the horses.” Penelope exchanged another look with Griselda and Violet. “We need to alert the Inspector and your master that there’s something very wrong going on up here.”