Julia James - Diamonds are for Deception

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Now, shall we have some music?’

‘That would be nice,’ Charlotte agreed.

‘What kind do you prefer?’

‘I like most classical music, including some grand opera. And I’m fond of comic opera, especially Gilbert and Sullivan…’

‘How delightfully old-fashioned,’ he teased. ‘But do go on.’

‘I like some jazz, some middle-of-the-road, some pop tunes—especially the older ones.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘It seems we share very similar tastes. One of which we can perhaps indulge later this evening.’

She gave him an uncertain glance, and he explained, ‘As luck will have it, there’s a Gilbert and Sullivan charity concert tonight at the Oulton village hall. The newly formed local Amateur Operatic Society are singing a selection of songs from HMS Pinafore, The Mikado, The Gondoliers et cetera, and, as a patron, I was sent a couple of tickets. I had intended to give them to Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper, but if you’re agreeable it might be fun to go.’

‘I’d love to.’ It would pass the evening, and there’d be no danger of being left alone with him.

He flicked open one of the car’s compartments to show a collection of CDs. ‘So what’s it to be?’

‘Gershwin?’ she suggested.

A few seconds later the car was filled with the haunting strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.

The weekend weather had been forecast as unsettled, with a front working its way through that would bring heavy rain and gale-force winds. But at the moment, as Simon had remarked, it was a beautiful day. The blue sky was cloudless and sunshine poured down, lighting up the autumn foliage and ricocheting from the gleaming bonnet of the car.

With a little sigh, Charlotte settled back to listen to the music and enjoy the drive as much as possible.

The CD had come to an end, and after her late night she was half dozing, when Simon’s voice penetrated the pleasant haze.

‘This is the village of Old Leasham we’re just going through. It’s a sleepy little place now, but in the past it was an important staging post, as you can tell by The Post-Horn, which is an old coaching inn.’

‘I gather Farringdon Hall is fairly close?’ Charlotte remarked.

‘The main entrance is about a mile further on, while the Hall itself lies midway between Old Leasham to the south, and Oulton to the north. This is the boundary wall just coming up.’

Beyond the last cluster of white cottages a high wall built of old lichen-covered stone came into view. With an ornate tower on the corner, it formed a right angle, running left along Farringdon Lane, a narrow tree-lined track that bordered the estate, and straight on along the main road.

When they reached the imposing entrance, Charlotte saw it was guarded by two ferocious-looking lions on plinths, one each side of the tall black and gold wrought-iron gates.

A security camera perched on top of a metal pole scanned them, and a moment later the gates slid aside. As they drove through, a uniformed man appeared from the gatehouse.

Sliding down the car window, Simon enquired, ‘What is it, Jenkins?’

‘May I enquire how Sir Nigel is?’

‘In good spirits, still.’

‘Mrs Jenkins has made some of the special crab-apple jelly Sir Nigel is so partial to. Would it be in order to send a pot up?’

‘Of course. I’ll take it now if you like.’

Beaming, Jenkins disappeared to return almost immediately with a small muslin-covered basket.

Putting it carefully on the back seat, Simon said, ‘I’m sure Grandfather will thoroughly enjoy it. Please thank Mrs Jenkins.’

‘That I will, sir.’

As they drove away, he gave them a smart salute.

For a mile or so the road wound through rolling, lightly wooded parkland, on fire with the reds and golds and copper tints of autumn. Finally the colourful drifts of fern and bracken gave way to cultivated gardens surrounded by thick yew hedges cut into fantastic shapes.

They came to the Hall itself through an archway of yew, and, though Charlotte had known more or less what to expect, the first sight of it brought a gasp of sheer pleasure.

Calling it delightful had been no exaggeration, she thought. Built of mellow stone, it was both graceful and symmetrical, with a short wing at either end and a central door.

Its mullioned windows were uniform, apart from one wide, three-tiered expanse that rose roof height, and must be, she guessed, the window of the Great Chamber.

Bringing the car to a halt on the gravel, Simon sat without speaking, watching her entranced face.

When she finally turned to him with shining eyes, he queried, ‘Do I gather you like the old place?’

‘It’s lovely,’ she answered simply.

Having helped her out and retrieved her case and the carton of books, as well as the crab-apple jelly, he said, ‘It isn’t all that big. Apart from the attics and the servants’ quarters, there are only nine bedrooms. After you’ve met Grandfather and had lunch, I’ll show you round.’

As they approached the heavy, black-studded oak door it opened, and a plump, elderly woman with a kind face and grey curly hair appeared to lead them into a beautifully panelled hall.

Simon made the introduction. ‘Charlotte, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper… Ann, Miss Christie.’

‘How do you do?’ Charlotte murmured.

Returning her friendly smile, the housekeeper said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Christie. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you—’

‘As Cook’s ill,’ Simon broke in, ‘if you want to get on with lunch, I’ll take Miss Christie up. Which room have you given her?’

‘Sir Nigel suggested the Bluebell Room.’

‘Very well. What time is lunch? If possible I’d like to see Grandfather first.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Mrs Reynolds gave her opinion briskly. ‘If necessary I’ll hold the meal back. In all the years I’ve been at the Hall I’ve never known Sir Nigel to be so impatient.’

‘In that case, we’d better not keep him waiting any longer than we can help… If you can put this in the pantry?’ He handed her the crab-apple jelly.

Carrying Charlotte’s case and the books, he escorted her up the main staircase, elaborately carved in oak, and turned right along the landing.

Opening the second door on the left, he ushered her into a cosy room simply furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a cushioned armchair.

The wallpaper was patterned with a woodland scene of bluebells and green leaves, while the carpet, pleasantly faded by time, picked up the colours.

A small black fireplace was screened by a tall pitcher of cream and pink gladioli, and the casement windows were partly open, the balmy air wafting in the scent of thyme and late roses.

Putting her case on the padded window-seat, Simon remarked, ‘I’m pleased to say that some years ago a central-heating system was installed and en suite bathrooms were added to most of the bedrooms…’

Opening a door papered to blend in with the walls, he revealed a well-appointed bathroom. ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone to freshen up?’

Feeling curiously nervous about meeting Sir Nigel, and unwilling to delay matters, she said, ‘I’m ready now, if you are.’

HE LED the way down a wide corridor with panelled walls and oak floorboards and tapped at the door of what was obviously the master bedroom.

It was opened at once by an elderly nurse in a neat blue uniform, who slipped out to join them in the corridor.

‘I’ve been trying to get Sir Nigel to have a sleep,’ she told them in a hushed voice. ‘He’s in a great deal of pain this morning, but he’s refused to have his injection until he’s seen you, on the grounds that it makes him muddle-headed.’