All Hallows Dead (Berdie Elliott Mysteries) Page 3

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  “Ladies, you’re welcome to take your leave. Gentlemen, would you like to join me for a night cap in the library?” Edward invited.

  Berdie silently gasped. This was what happened after a meal forty years ago, but in this day and age?

  Hugh leaned toward her. “If the women retire to another room, which is sure to happen, just hang on to Lillie. You’ll be fine.”

  Berdie sighed. “No cigars, mind. And let Edward know that you have an early start tomorrow.”

  Hugh stood. “Thank you, Edward.” He was tired but sincere.

  In a flash, all the males migrated into another space.

  “Well, that’s them,” Meg trumpeted and stood. “And we shall retire to the parlour and enjoy ourselves with simple pleasures, as well. After all, what’s good for the goose and all that.”

  “We’ll move to the small sitting room,” Wilhelmina reinterpreted for Lillie and Berdie, “just down the hall to engage in cultural pursuits.”

  With no Turner to force the pace, Berdie was able to navigate carefully, Lillie at hand, to the parlour.

  It was the size of the vicarage library, hardly a proper parlour, well except perhaps for the spacious Marthrad House. The room had two large windows, a comforting fireplace with a refurbished hearth, and two low sofas. A few chairs were sprinkled throughout, each with its own little side table.

  When the women were seated, Meg snatched an imprinted box from the end table near her chair, flipped it open, and extended it forward to Berdie and Lillie. “Cigar, anyone?”

  Berdie worked to keep her consternation contained.

  “Please ignore my sister,” Wilhelmina declared.

  Meg took a tube of tobacco from the box and ran it beneath her nose. “The fellows are doing it, why shouldn’t we?”

  “Are they?” Berdie couldn’t hold her words back. “According to the Minister of Health, it leads to lung deterioration and possible death.”

  Wilhelmina frowned, but Meg laughed. “That was a rhetorical question, but I like your spirit, Berdie.”

  Berdie sat somewhat rigidly in her cushioned chair.

  “I’ve never had the offer of a cigar, before.” Lillie’s eyes lit. “Thank you. I’ll try one.”

  Berdie wondered if she may have suffered whiplash given the speed she turned her head to grimly stare at Lillie.

  Meg thrust the box in Lillie’s direction. “Never offered? Well then, I’ll assume you’re new at this.”

  Lillie nodded and took one of the offending items from its container.

  “Now, when you first light the thing, you need to take several quick but deep draws,” Meg instructed, and lifted a rather fancy cigarette lighter which she flicked into flame. Lillie put her lips on one end of the cigar, and Meg lit up the other end.

  “Lillie!” Berdie protested.

  As the two women set about their task, a light tap sounded at the door, and Phillip burst into the room.

  “Aunt Willy, your train,” he alerted.

  Wilhelmina glanced at the ticking clock on the hearth and back to her sister. “You’ve rescued me from a despicable sight, Pip.”

  “Have I?” He eyed Lillie and Meg. “I see what you mean. Mind the ash.” He chuckled. “Bags ready, Aunt Willy?”

  “I instructed Turner to put them in the front hall.” The elder sister rose. “Please excuse me,” she addressed Berdie. “I’m afraid, even if I needn’t leave for the rail station, I should have exempted myself from this exhibition anyway.”

  She glared at Lillie, who was taking in long draws of the cigar.

  Before Berdie could bid farewell, Wilhelmina scuttled out the door, Pip still chuckling as he walked behind her.

  Lillie let out a harsh cough and tried another long draw. She screwed her face and leaned forward, going into a coughing spasm, and placed the cigar in a well-sited ashtray. Her eyes began to water.

  “Perhaps we should get some air.” Meg toddled to the nearest window and yanked it open at the sash. “I rather think you’ve an aversion to the little blighters.”

  Berdie stood carefully and took Lillie by the arm as best she could and still hold steady. With firm grip, she lifted her gasping friend, then led her to the open window. “Honestly,” she whispered to Lillie who gasped, hacked, and gurgled.

  “Good evening,” a male voice boomed cross the room from the doorway.

  Meg broke into a huge grin. “Davis, my love.” She abandoned the novice smoker to go wrap her arms around the gentleman, who was at least the girth of her, had a jolly round face, and like Hugh, wore a clerical collar.

  The man drank in his woman with absolutely besotted eyes. “I’ve so missed you.”

  “Me too.” Meg popped a kiss on his mouth.

  The man ran his hand down Meg’s back and placed a tender kiss beneath her ear on the neck, and another, and another.

  Berdie averted her eyes and heard Meg’s sigh. “My husband.” Meg seemed almost breathless.

  Get a room ran through Berdie’s mind whilst still holding Lillie’s elbow. Then she realized, this was their room, or house anyway. She fanned fresh air from the window in Lillie’s direction, and sent a swish or two toward Meg and her husband as well.

  “Well, I, we. Please excuse us. Your fellows are in the library at the north end,” she directed to Berdie.

  “Yes,” Berdie acknowledged without looking at the couple. “Please, don’t let us keep you from…”

  Before she finished her sentence, she heard movement, and the door shut with a bang.

  “Well.” Berdie helpfully patted Lillie’s back. “This place is certainly all go,” she quipped.

  Lillie gripped her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Berdie placed a nearby rubbish bin at Lillie’s feet, and plopped down on a handy chair. She shook her head and let out a generous laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Lillie moaned and took a seat nearest the window, dragging the bin alongside.

  “What an evening.” Berdie leaned forward. “I mean, apart from a lovely meal, Ms. Snappish is Edward’s sister, Meg the mutineer. The entire family hardly has a kind word for one another, and the males-only-in-the-library tradition appears well preserved.”

  Lillie held her stomach and frowned.

  "There’s starchy Aunt Willy and suddenly we’re party to these uninhibited star-crossed lovers. And who does Pip actually belong to?” Berdie stood. “We’re by ourselves in the Marthrad House parlour. We have no idea where, in this vast pile, Hugh and Loren are. Now, aside from the fact that you seem to be,” Berdie pointed to the dead cigar in the ash tray, “sixteen and on your first weekend away from home, pray, Lillie, which way’s North?”

  Lillie blinked. “What do you mean sixteen?”

  ****

  Berdie took another drink of her hot morning tea with the hope it would warm her against wet shoes and the rain that bucketed down outside.

  “Come now, Lillie, tuck in.”

  Lillie ran a finger on the edge of the plate that held toast and sighed.

  Berdie glanced at the gracious wrought iron clock that marked the time in the nearly full restaurant area of the Watergate Alehouse.

  It took a half hour’s search of Marthrad House last night to locate Hugh and Loren. And now, both men had already eaten breakfast and eagerly departed for their classes. Whereas, she and Lillie were just beginning their morning meal.

  “I won’t be able to eat creamed pheasant for years to come,” Lillie groused.

  “Well that’s not pheasant sitting on the plate in front of you. It’s hot buttered toast. That and tea will set you right.”

  Lillie wrinkled her nose.

  Fried sausages filled the pub with scents of early morning fare whilst several tables of patrons devoured their breakfasts. The crackles of frying eggs and pork rashers fell like tympanic rhythms on Berdie’s ears.

  However, after her foray into Cuban tobacco last night, Lillie was having none of it.

  “You’l
l feel better if you get something light on your stomach,” Berdie prodded.

  “Put a sock in it,” bounced cross the pub in a scratchy tone.

  “Well that’s a bit rude,” Berdie said and took a swallow of tea.

  Lillie furrowed her forehead and stared at Berdie. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Put a sock in it, ya’ daft bird,” whirled through the crowd, and several people laughed.

  Berdie turned to see a large bird, a grey parrot, atop a natural wood perch. It was placed near the window that looked out on the rain-soaked High Street.

  “Look, Lillie.” Berdie lifted her chin in the direction of the creature. “It’s got a bird’s eye view over there.”

  “Oh witty. See how hard I’m laughing.”

  “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a parrot in a pub.”

  “As long as it keeps its distance and doesn’t smoke cigars, it can entertain all it wants.”

  “Really?” Berdie was glad to hear the return of her friend’s sparkling wit. “It’s from tropical climes, surely, but I see no Havanas at hand.”

  Lillie finally grinned. “Speaking of seeing, guess who was strolling the road by our inn just after one o’clock last night?”

  “You were up?”

  “My stomach had its own idea about when I would finally get to sleep.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. So, who did you see?”

  “I was at the window when I spotted the lovebirds, Meg and her man, walking hand in hand. They seemed to be coming from the abbey ruins.”

  “Really?”

  “My window was open, and I heard them chatting with one another. Just light patter with lots of little kisses sprinkled in.”

  “Did you tell them there was a room available at the inn?”

  “I think they’re delightful.”

  Berdie tapped a finger on the table. “Strolls at that time of night seem a bit odd to me.”

  “Well, I think it’s very romantic.”

  Berdie smirked.

  Lillie poked at her toast. “Why haven’t you ordered any food yet, Berdie? Last night’s secondary smoke?”

  “Hardly. I’m just not eating until you’ve finished. I’m looking forward to my fry up, but I don’t want it to put you off your toast.”

  “The sight of runny eggs would definitely put me off eating altogether.”

  “Then eat your toast, because I’m hungry.”

  Lillie took a slice in hand. It was thick cut, lavished with some kind of herbed butter, and grilled, not toasted. She bit a little corner off and raised her brows. “Um. This is artisan bread. And such a tasty mix of herbs.” She took another bite.

  Yes. Berdie looked toward the fellow who seemed to be the man in charge. He stood behind a dark wooden counter. “I’ll be right back,” she offered Lillie.

  Berdie’s comfortable clothing included casual shoes, wholly unlike those she wore last night. They clip clopped on the pub’s red and black tiled floor. A small fire in the hearth gave certain charm to the place as she wove her way through the heavy dark wood tables. Smoky beams and white washed walls seemed to whisper of monks and patrons long past sharing stone ground bread, ales, and hearty conversation.

  “You look like someone ready for breakfast,” the fellow in charge greeted. His white shoulder length hair seemed to beg for a matching beard. He could be Father Christmas. Rosy cheeks, bulging with hospitality, and a general sense of welcome made you feel he may have a bag of gifts hidden somewhere that would hold a surprise just for you.

  “You’re right, a full English with tomatoes, mushrooms, and hot buttered toast, if I may.” Berdie smiled at the man.

  “I’ve got some fine venison sausage from the Cavendish estate heard.”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  “And your friend?” He nodded toward Lillie.

  “Just the toast will do her, thanks.”

  Berdie became aware of someone behind her.

  “If we keep meeting like this, tongues will wag,” he hailed.

  “Well, good morning, Edward.”

  He seemed a bit rushed as he addressed Father Christmas. “Your special toast and strong black coffee, Gus. And make it take away.”

  “You’ve got it, Mr. Cavendish.”

  “And put my friends’ meals,” he pointed to Berdie and the seated Lillie, “on my slate as well.”

  Gus smiled. “Right, guv.” He dashed in the direction of a swinging door and the sizzle of food preparation behind it.

  “I should have thought your cook makes a lovely breakfast,” Berdie addressed Edward.

  “True, when he’s there. Cooks do have days off.”

  “After last night’s banquet, it seems only right. Want to join Lillie and me at our table?”

  “Just a quick stop.”

  Berdie wound her way through the tables again, this time Edward with her.

  “You seem in a bit of a rush,” she observed.

  “Got an urgent business call this morning. Must dash down to London.”

  “You certainly have a full plate, between your estate and city business.”

  “Several full plates,” he quipped, “although it was never supposed to be that way.” Edward paused at the warm hearth, rubbing his hands together near the fire.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My oldest brother, James, was the one chosen by my late parents to operate the estate. And that he did, until ten years ago when he died in a riding accident. Managing the family business then fell to me.”

  “What of your sisters?”

  “Wilhelmina is the first born, but my father had some archaic views of inheritance and management. He believed you must have an M and R in front of your name to operate an estate effectively.”

  “Old school.” No surprise there.

  “To the bone.” Edward finished warming his hands.

  Berdie again walked toward the table, Edward with her. “Wilhelmina and I don’t always see eye to eye, but she covers for me quite adequately when I have to be away to tend to other things.”

  “And the others?”

  “Meg dabbles her little finger in estate affairs if and when it pleases her. And Pip, well he’s just Pip.”

  “And what does that mean exactly, Pip’s Pip?”

  “He’s more interested in gentleman’s pursuits and entertaining young ladies than any kind of real work.”

  Berdie had to chuckle. “I must admit, Edward, he did give me that impression.”

  They arrived at the table where Lillie had launched into her second piece of toast.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cavendish. Joining us?” Lillie greeted.

  “Please, call me Edward, and yes, just for a moment.” He sat down and tapped his fingers on the table.

  “Edward has business in London,” Berdie informed.

  “What a busy man you are.” Lillie took a sip of tea.

  “I have a reliable foreman here at the estate, which is helpful. Been here for years. Jack Slade is nearly as quick and efficient as his wife.”

  “His wife?” Berdie asked.

  “Turner. Carol Slade uses her maiden name for service. Keeps things from getting confused.”

  “He must be lightning,” Lillie said, “judging by the way Turner races from place to place.”

  “Jack Slade gets things done. Good outdoor management skills. Although, my primary project right now is refurbishment of the church. I’ve called in a team from Alnwick to do that.”

  “Really? That’s a ways away.” Berdie drew her tea cup to her lips and paused. “What about employing locals? Isn’t that a part of estate tradition and responsibility?” She drank in the warm liquid.

  “Now there’s a story,” Edward retorted.

  “We’re all ears, and I don’t see your breakfast coming yet.” Berdie cocked her head.

  Edward sighed and relaxed against the back of his chair. “Years ago, my brother, James, wanted to open St. Baldred’s to the public as a wedding and events venue to suppo
rt the estate. It had previously been the parish church but fell into disrepair. As part of our property, his intent was to start doing the building up by way of a refurbishing project on the crumbling church bell tower. When James died, I took up the torch. The work was going fine, but stopped suddenly after one of the workers took a fall from a ladder and died.”

  “That’s not pleasant,” Lillie piped.

  “But sadly, accidents do happen.” Berdie was matter-of-fact.

  “If only it was as simple as that.”

  Berdie felt a pang of curiosity. “You can’t say such things and stop, Edward.” She put her cup down. “Why isn’t it that simple?”

  “The lead workman was known to be fond of his pints. Dennison was certainly well known here at the Watergate. He had been in drink the day he met his fate.” Edward pursed his lips. “But his young assistant, Tony, who found him lying on the church floor, barely alive, says that Dennison’s dying words had something to do with a ghost. The ghost of Trustyn was in the church, he said, and was somehow tied to his death or something to that effect.” Edward shook his head. “The old fool had too many pints and fell from his wretched ladder. No ghost needed. Still, the mud stuck.”

  “Trustyn?” Berdie asked.

  “Local legend has it that a monk, Brother Trustyn, was sent here on a courtly errand but, for whatever reason, went missing. Some say he was killed; some say martyred. Wagging tongues have kept the story alive for centuries throughout this part of the country. Now, anything that goes amiss is somehow related to the ghostly Brother Trustyn.”

  “And the locals believe all this?” Lillie pushed her empty plate aside.

  “Most won’t admit to it, but it’s surprising how many local workmen are unavailable when the need for refurbishing work at St. Baldred’s arises.”

  “Sad how such groundless fear can take people.” Berdie lifted her cup and swirled the tea. “If this Trustyn really existed and was on a courtly errand, wouldn’t there be some kind of written record to that effect?”