Chapter Three
There was no snow by morning. What we did have, starting in the deepest hours of the night, was thrashing rain and torrential winds that rattled the windows.
Branches thumped and scraped the glass. Sleep was quite impossible.
By two in the morning, hearing Robert in the hallway, George got out of bed and accompanied him to the barn to ensure it was still intact and the animals were protected.
I alternated between dozing and restlessly wishing I could until he returned, carrying a lantern from the barn, which illuminated the concern on his face.
“The gasworks must be damaged,” he said, placing the lantern on the floor and lighting the paraffin lamp on the bedside table. “None of the lights downstairs are working, so don’t attempt to turn them on.” Hadley Grange, like many large homes in the country, had gas piping only on the main floor.
I gave up on the idea of sleep and pulled on my robe. “Is Fiona about?”
“She’s in the kitchen, making sure all those gas valves are closed and the staff are safe. Someone will be up soon to rekindle the fires on this floor. I’m heading back out with Robert. I just wanted you to know about the gas.”
“I’ll check on the children, then,” I said, coming around the bed. “Do you need a lamp to find your way downstairs?”
“I have one in the hallway.”
I picked up the lamp George had left and followed him out of the room.
“Be careful out there,” I warned as he headed down the stairs.
Aunt Hetty’s room was just around the corner.
I tapped quietly on her door. I couldn’t believe it possible she was still sleeping, but you never knew.
A low voice bid me to enter, and I opened the door.
“Come join the party, Frances,” Hetty said from her bed.
“Party?” I raised the lamp to better see her and found both Lissette and Christine in their robes, seated on the bed beside Hetty. It looked as though no one would sleep tonight. “I assume the storm woke you?”
“Are we calling this a storm?” Christine asked. “The English have so many terms for water falling from the sky that it’s difficult to know what they actually deem to be rain.”
Hetty chuckled. “This isn’t rain. It’s only mizzle.”
“A shower,” Christine returned with a grin.
“Heavy dew!” Lissette chimed in.
“Water falls from the sky with great frequency here,” I said, breaking into their banter.
“And yes, the British have a name for every type of rain. If you are here long enough, you, too, will become familiar with all its forms. This is most certainly a storm.” I paused as I considered. “Maybe a gale.”
The alternate term sent the three of them into peals of laughter, contagious enough that after a few seconds I joined them.
“A tree came through Christine’s window,” Lissette said, bringing the merriment to a dead stop.
While I gasped, Christine gave her sister a scowl. “It was not that dramatic. Something hit the window and broke the glass,” she explained. “We assume it was a tree branch. I couldn’t get the shutter closed, so I came here to get Aunt Hetty to help and found Lissette already here.”
Lissette shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Is the shutter closed now?” I asked Christine.
She nodded. “Since we were all awake, we just stayed here talking.”
I told them George and Robert were out checking on the animals and I was about to go up and check on the children.
“They are probably awake and working on their book,” Lissette said.
“Do you mean the Christmas story the governess had them writing?” I asked.
Christine and Lissette shared a glance, and Hetty chuckled. “I think the only association with Christmas is the time of year the story takes place,” she said.
“It’s called ‘A Christmas Murder,’” Lissette said. “It is a detective story.”
My mouth hung open while I groped for words. After a second or two, I found them. “Of all the stories they could write about Christmas, why would they choose a detective story? And murder?” I gave them a close look. “Are you certain of this?”
“Rose read the beginning to us on the train,” Christine said. “There’s no question. It’s loosely based on Mr. Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, but in their story, Scrooge is murdered and the ghosts help the detectives find the murderer.”
Lissette gave her a sly look. “I think one of the ghosts did it.”
My sweet, innocent child was writing about murder? My head reeled at the thought. “How does she even know that such a crime exists?”
My question was somewhat rhetorical, but it was met with three incredulous stares. Lissette spoke first. “I assume she knows about it from what you and Cousin George do.”
George and I did indeed investigate crimes, mostly murders. “But how would Rose know what we do?”
Hetty gave me a sympathetic look, took the lantern from my hand, and placed it on the bedside table.
Then she drew me to a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Frances, she lives in the same house with you. Do you honestly think she never heard about the footman who was murdered in the garden? Or that your brother, her own uncle, once was arrested for murder? Or Miss Teskey—”
“Rose was in France when Miss Teskey was murdered,” I said, quick to defend myself.
“That’s a lot of murders,” Lissette muttered.
“And it’s only the beginning,” Hetty said to her before returning her attention to me.
“Of course you keep Rose out of harm’s way, but servants talk, neighbors talk, and sometime these things even make the newspapers.
A curious, intelligent girl like Rose was bound to find out what her parents were up to. ”
Of course she would. How could I have failed to realize that? “But I wonder if she ought to know. Should George and I have been more careful?”
“You aren’t doing anything wrong.” Hetty’s tone was firm, and the girls were quick to second her.
“The two of you seek justice for those who can’t do so themselves.
You set a fine example for Rose, but it wouldn’t go amiss to be more open with her about it, so she doesn’t have to become a detective herself to learn about this part of your life. ”
“She clearly knows,” Christine added. “You and George are the detectives in the story.”
“Truly?” Heavens, the little dear did know what we did.
“We’re all in there,” Lissette added. “Along with some members of Grace’s family—disguised by false names, of course.”
Hetty laughed. “There is even an Aunt Betty and her beau, William.”
I snorted, then burst out laughing. “I cannot wait to read this masterpiece.”
“We must hope that Oscar Wilde got it wrong in this case,” Hetty said.
“Why?” Christine asked. “What did he say?”
“‘Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.’” She wiggled her brows at me. “We certainly don’t want you and George to turn up a real body this Christmas.”
To my great surprise, the children were in bed and sound asleep when I checked on them. The storm blew itself out overnight, and with the dawn, the clouds dissolved, leaving a damp mist hanging in the air.
Donning tall gum boots and macintoshes, we were able to go outside and survey the wreckage.
With the exception of Christine’s window, the manor house had survived the storm.
The barn didn’t fare as well, losing a large section of roof.
The oven stack on the gasworks had fallen victim to a downed tree.
Fortunately, the temperatures remained warmer than usual for this time of year, and as long as we kept all the gas fixtures turned off, we were safe to light fires in the hearths.
“Now, if the home farm and the tenants held up as well,” Robert said, “I shall consider us all very lucky.”
Unfortunately, that was not to be the case.
The tenants’ cottages were not a long walk from the manor house.
They followed one after the other on a tree-lined lane in a picturesque setting.
Sadly, the trees were the problem. The first eight cottages had suffered no damage.
The ninth had some roof damage on one side.
But the tenth had essentially been smashed by an uprooted tree.
The family, a youngish man and woman with three small children, stood outside.
Robert uttered an oath upon viewing the mess. “Ho, Bayless!” he called, approaching the family as we followed behind him. “Is everyone unharmed?”
Mr. Bayless turned and pulled off his hat. “Aye, we’re orrite, Sir Robert, though it was a close thing.”
Robert shook the man’s hand and tipped his hat to Mrs. Bayless, who gave him a nervous smile and spoke up. “A lucky thing the storm kept us awake. We were all at the table, by the stove, when that great tree came crashing down.”
“What a terrifying sight,” Fiona said.
“It was at that, my lady.” Mrs. Bayless emphatically bobbed her head. “We all sat there for a moment, frozen like. We couldn’t believe our eyes. Then the little one started howling and brought us to our senses. We all scampered out before the whole thing came down on our heads.”
They were indeed lucky. The tree had broken through the roof at the front of the cottage, taking down nearly a third of it.
The kitchen, where the family had been, and the sitting room both had exterior doors, so they had still been able to get out.
Had they been in bed, sleeping, it was likely none of them would have been here to tell the tale. I shivered at the thought.
By now the other tenants had gathered around to discuss the removal of the tree with Robert. George and I stayed a step back, behind Fiona. Robert had everything in hand and had no need of our opinions.
“We should have the equipment you need at the home farm. Talk to Mr. Spencer,” he said, referring to the estate manager. “I’ll pay the usual wage for the extra work. Then we’ll find out if it’s possible to salvage the cottage.”
Fiona placed a hand on his arm. “But they need somewhere to stay in the meantime.”
Robert dipped his head to speak to her quietly. “I wonder if the coachman can be persuaded to take a room in the manor and let the Bayless family use his apartments.”