Cavendon Hall Part 16

Charles nodded. "Wilson, Felicity's lady's maid, is a very good first-aid person. Miles, do me a favor, and go down to the kitchen. Ask Wilson to please come up and look at Hugo's hand. I think she will have the right salve and a bandage."

"Right away, Papa."

"You'll be fine in a couple of days," Charles murmured. "They're only surface burns. However, you were lucky."

Hugo merely nodded. After a moment, he said, "I can't fathom how that fire started ... that hay wasn't merely smoldering, it was really burning ... like a great bonfire. You don't think it was arson, do you?"

For a moment Charles was startled, and he sat up straighter, stared at Hugo. "It hadn't crossed my mind. Why do you bring it up?"

"I thought of it when I was changing in my room. You see, Charles, I burnt my fingers on the metal latch, which was hot from the fire. The latch on the stall door wouldn't open, and when I looked closer I saw a piece of wood wedged behind the latch. I had to take off my shoe and use it as a hammer, to get the wood out. Only then could I open the stall door."

Charles gazed at him. A worried expression had now settled on his face. His brows drew together in a frown, and he shook his head. "Now why would anybody do that? A latch doesn't have to be so tightly shut. The horse isn't going to leave the stall. And you of all people should know that only too well. You grew up in the yard of your father's stud in Middleham."

"That's why I wondered about the wedge. Which then led me to the thought of arson. Do you think you ought to call the police?"

"Perhaps I'd better, if only because of the insurance. Anyway, a fire must be reported."

Twenty-eight.

Inspector Michael Armitage of the West Riding Police and his sidekick, Sergeant Tim Pollard, were standing in the stable yard with the Earl of Mowbray, surveying the stall where the fire had started.

"I wasn't the first on the scene, Inspector," Charles explained. "It was my cousin, Hugo Stanton. He was the one who saw the flames from his bedroom window, and he literally banged on my door, shouted fire,' and ran straight out here. Ah, here he is now."

When Hugo came to a standstill next to Charles and the policemen, Charles introduced the three men to each other, and said to Hugo, "I was just explaining that you were the first on the scene."

"That's right," Hugo agreed. "This particular stall was on fire, or rather, I should say a large bale of hay was burning furiously. Fortunately, the stall was empty. But there was a horse in the adjoining stall."

"And so you released the horse before doing anything else, am I right about that, Mr. Stanton?"

"You are, Inspector. Greensleeves, the horse in this stall..." He moved toward the second stall, indicated it, and continued. "... the horse had been spooked, she was up on her hind legs, frightened out of her wits."

He told the inspector how he'd discovered a piece of wood wedged behind the latch, and had knocked it out with his shoe. "I didn't quite understand that, why it was there, since a horse isn't going to move out of a stall, even if the door is open. I grew up in a professional yard, my father's, and naturally I was puzzled. I suddenly wondered if the fire had been caused by arson. Perhaps someone with a grudge against the family? A person who had purposely trapped that horse."

"I see what you mean. Tell me, Mr. Stanton, did you smell anything when you arrived, petrol perhaps? Anything like that?"

"No, nothing. Just the stench of burning hay. Do you agree with me that it might have been arson, Inspector?"

"In one sense I do, because I can't quite fathom how hay would burst into flames of its own accord. Someone might have been out here in the stables, of course, having a smoke, and thrown the match away. Carelessly. But then I don't think a smoldering match would start that kind of huge fire." He turned to the earl, and said, "From what you told me earlier, it was a big blaze before you got here, Lord Mowbray."

"Almost out of hand, and the second stall had already caught fire when I arrived with Walter Swann, my valet, and my sons. They tackled the fire with extinguishers and the water pumps, and when the butler and the footmen came we were able to control it."

"No strangers seen on the property, Lord Mowbray?"

Charles shook his head. "Not the kind you mean, Inspector. However, we gave a supper dance last night, and we did have a number of guests. Approximately fifty friends. Naturally they came here in chauffeur-driven cars."

"So, in a way, there were strangers on the estate. The chauffeurs," Inspector Armitage a.s.serted.

"That's correct," Charles replied. "But I seriously doubt that one of them came into the stable block and started a fire."

"Where were the motorcars parked, m'lord?" Sergeant Pollard asked politely.

"Mostly at the front of the house, and down the front drive. However, there were fewer cars than you might think. You see, our fifty guests were mostly made up of married couples, and some brought their daughters. So there were a number of people in most of the motorcars."

"I understand, m'lord," Pollard answered.

Charles and Hugo walked around the yard with the two policemen, answering any questions they asked. But it was soon obvious that the professionals were at a dead end, just as Charles and Hugo had been earlier that morning. Quite simply there were no real clues which could point to arson. How the fire had started was a mystery, as it had been right from the beginning.

Hugo was sitting on the terrace, reading The Times, when suddenly Daphne was standing there next to him, as if she had walked up to him in silken slippers, so quietly had she arrived.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, Hugo," she said in her soft, light voice.

"No, no, not at all," he answered, putting the paper down, pus.h.i.+ng himself to his feet.

"I just wanted to thank you again for saving Greensleeves. Father gave her to me, and I love her," Daphne explained, and then glanced at his bandaged left hand. "Does it hurt very much?"

He shook his head. "No, just a few burned fingers, nothing too bad. They'll be healed in a couple of days, according to Dr. Shawcross. Please, sit down for a moment, won't you?"

Smiling at him, she did so, settled back in the chair next to his. "I am in your debt. If ever you need anything, you must let me know."

I need you. Marry me. Be my wife ... Those were the sudden thoughts running through his head, but he did not turn them into words. Instead he said, "There is one thing I would like you to help me with, Daphne."

She leaned forward slightly, and said swiftly, "Please, tell me what it is. Of course I'll help you, Hugo."

The scent of her freshly washed golden hair, the hint of roses emanating from her skin, the very closeness of her, made him feel weak. If he had to stand up at this moment, he knew he wouldn't be able to. He was also unable to speak. He simply stared into her deep blue eyes, smiling at her, and feeling dizzy, almost light-headed.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "It's you, Daphne. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever set eyes on." A small smile flickered on his mouth, and lifting his hands in a helpless gesture, he said in a jocular manner, "I am your devoted slave and always will be."

His joking tone and his exaggerated words made her laugh out loud, and she exclaimed, "Oh don't be silly, Hugo! I'm just another girl, and there are several of us in this house."

Leaning toward her, wanting to breathe in the intoxicating scent of her yet again, he said, "I'll tell you a secret ... it's Dulcie who's really enslaved me."

This comment made her laugh even more, and then she murmured, "You haven't told me what you want me to help you with."

"Ah yes, that's perfectly true." Adopting a more serious tone, he explained, "Last night Aunt Gwendolyn told me there is a house I should see nearby, that I should go there this afternoon. And I was wondering if you would accompany me? I think a second pair of eyes is always necessary, and most helpful, especially when looking at bricks and mortar. Don't you agree?"

"I do indeed, and I will certainly come with you. What is it called?"

"Whernside House, and it was the home of Lady Muschamp, widow of a local politician and member of Parliament. She died, a few months ago. Her daughter told Aunt Gwendolyn she would sell to me, if I wanted it."

Daphne had a beatific expression on her face when she said, "I have only been there twice, but it is one of the most beautiful houses in Yorks.h.i.+re. Not too far away from Cavendon, about twenty minutes in the motorcar. Have you checked that Gregg can take you there this afternoon?"

"I have indeed. I also mentioned it to your father, and he told me he will be here all day. Because of the fire, and other matters he has to attend to. What time shall we plan to go there, Daphne?"

"Immediately after lunch, I think. I know you're going to fall in love with it, Hugo."

I'm already in love. With you. Forever, he thought, but did not utter a word. He was filled with longing for her, wanted to hold her to him, keep her close, keep her safe. Make her his. Stop it, he told himself sternly. Get ahold of yourself. And he did.

They sat on the terrace chatting about casual things, totally at ease with each other. And at one moment, Daphne couldn't help thinking what a truly lovely man he was. And most engaging.

Twenty-nine.

Downstairs in the kitchen, there was an edginess in the air: raw nerves, free-floating temperament, tiredness, and concern. Cook was well aware of this, and understood. The fire had upset everyone, and most of the staff had been up half the night, as she had herself. What an end to the gorgeous supper dance.

The mystery of how the fire had started was worrying, and she had already heard whispers and bits of gossipy talk about arson.

Now who would want to purposely set fire to the stable block and put those beautiful animals at risk? Only a maniac. Or somebody who harbored hatred for the family.

The latter did not seem possible to her. The earl was a fine man, a good employer, loyal to his workers. And he was honest, straightforward, and compa.s.sionate, felt responsible for everyone who worked on the estate, and those who lived in the villages of Little Skell, Mowbray, and High Clough. There wasn't a better man alive, in her opinion, and Hanson and Mrs. Thwaites agreed with her, as did Olive Wilson, the countess's maid.

They were the longtime employees, understood that Cavendon was a superior place to be in service. The family behaved impeccably, and never gave the staff problems. Tempers and tantrums were unheard of, unless little Dulcie was carrying on.

It was Mrs. Thwaites who squashed the idea that arson was involved, because she said there was no one alive who could possibly hold a grudge against Lord Mowbray.

They had gone along with her, put the matter to one side. But there were mutterings amongst the maids and the footmen. Although Nell Jackson had noticed that Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane were quiet on the subject, had attended to their duties efficiently, and in silence.

Cook knew Malcolm Smith was a troublemaker, a bit of a rabble-rouser, and that he had influence over Mary Ince and Elsie Roland, who seemed to think he was a matinee idol who had stepped off the London stage and into their midst, just to entertain them.

Hearing a small mewling sound, Cook now turned away from the stove, where she was boiling pots of leeks and potatoes for a vichyssoise soup, and spotted Polly standing near the pantry door, weeping.

Hurrying over to the little kitchen maid, she looked down at her and said in a kindly tone, "Whatever is it, Polly? What's upset yer?"

"It's Malcolm. He says t'house is goin' ter burn ter cinders next. When we be asleep. Is it?"

"No, it's not. Malcolm's daft. Wait 'til I see him, he'll soon know wot's wot around here. Come on, sit down, and I'll get yer a gla.s.s of lemonade."

Several moments later the footman came into the kitchen carrying several silver trays, which he placed at the end of the long kitchen table. He was turning to leave, when Cook said, "A word, Malcolm, if yer don't mind."

He swung to face her, muttered in a surly voice, "I do mind. Hanson's on me back. He needs me upstairs. I don't have time to mess around here."

Nell Jackson moved across the kitchen floor at great speed, stood looking up at the footman, her face set in grim lines. "Listen ter me, my lad. And that's all yer are, just a lad. So drop the airs and graces. If yer don't stop scaring Polly, I'll have yer guts for garters. Worse, I'll tell Hanson, then he'll really be on yer back. Then you'll know what trouble is. Leave the little one alone, or yer'll be sorry, my lad."

"Who the h.e.l.l do yer think yer are?" Malcolm growled in an angry voice, his face suddenly flus.h.i.+ng. "Yer just a cook. I'll do what I want, when I want to do it."

"You certainly will not. Not here. This bit of Cavendon Hall is my domain, and I run it. I make the rules. Don't ever think otherwise. Go on, do what yer have ter do, but leave the little la.s.s alone in future. Understand?"

Still bright red in the face, the footman left, ignoring Elsie and Mary, who were coming down the stairs. They were giggling when they walked into the kitchen, but immediately sobered when they saw the stern look on Cook's face.

Cook paid no attention to them. Instead, she went over to her small desk, picked up the menu the countess had made yesterday for today's lunch. First course, vichyssoise cold soup. Second course, cold poached salmon with mayonnaise and potato salad, and for dessert, a summer pudding made of red fruits with clotted cream. She nodded to herself. It was a lovely lunch for a warm day. Good choices.

Upstairs in the dining room, Gordon Lane glanced up and down. When he saw that he and Peggy were alone, he hurried over to her. "What sort of questions did Inspector Armitage ask you, Peg?"

"He was mostly interested in trespa.s.sers on the property, any strangers loitering. I told him I hadn't seen anybody."

"You didn't mention the woods then? The night we heard someone rattling around. You know, the Peeping Tom, you called him."

"I didn't. We'd decided to keep quiet about that. You remember, don't you? We'd have been in trouble with Hanson if he'd known we'd been out that night, and we'd still be in trouble if word got about."

Gordon nodded. "I know, it's against the rules of the house. Anyway, the inspector asked me the same thing. Arson. That's what they've been thinking. The bobbies, I mean."

"The bobbies might be right, Gordon. I grew up on a farm, and I've never seen a bale of hay catch fire unless a match has been put to it."

She stopped abruptly when she saw Hanson hurrying into the butler's pantry, just outside the dining room. Immediately she picked up some service plates, started to place them around the table.

Gordon took his soft, white cloth and began to polish a crystal wine gla.s.s.

After Hanson had uncorked a bottle of good white wine, a Pouilly-Fuisse, to let it breathe, he walked into the dining room. "Thank you, Lane, and you too, Swift. You've both carried out your duties in a most appropriate manner. Anyway, no trespa.s.sers have been seen, according to the inspector, so we must a.s.sume the fire was an accident."

Peggy was silent, wondering if he was correct.

Gordon said in a quiet voice, "You know something, Mr. Hanson, one of the chauffeurs might have gone to the stable yard for a smoke. It was a long night. Maybe a smoker was gagging for a cig, had one, then threw the tab end away when it was still alight." Gordon shrugged. "You never know what people can do. Careless, that they are."

Hanson ignored these words. He went over to the table, surveyed it with an eagle eye, then nodded in approval. "Nine for lunch, Lane, so you and Smith will have to be on your toes."

"Yes, sir," Gordon answered, glad that he was in the butler's good books at the moment.

Walter Swann was putting order in one of the earl's wardrobes in the dressing room when Olive Wilson poked her head around the door.

Walter smiled the moment he saw her laughing green eyes, bright auburn hair, and cheeky grin.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

Walter nodded. He liked Olive. They had always worked well together and she was reliable and diligent. Furthermore, she didn't have one bad bone in her body.

"I need to be filled in," Olive explained, slipping into the room.

"What do you mean?" Walter asked, a brow lifting.

"I'm curious ... what's been happening while I've been in London?"