Ти Кинси - Christmas at The Grange - A Lady Hardcastle Mystery (Kindle Single)

‘I think it sounds charming,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It feels like an ancient tradition even if it’s just an idea he had last Christmas.’

‘You’re right, m’dear, as always. No one complained. Apart from me. And who listens to me?’

In truth, everyone listened to Lady Farley-Stroud. No one was in any doubt about who controlled life at The Grange, and there were few in the area who would attempt to thwart her will on anything. It might have been Sir Hector’s idea, but we wouldn’t have been out there if Lady Farley-Stroud didn’t secretly approve.

I expected the villagers to arrive in dribs and drabs, straggling in over a period of perhaps half an hour. I was very wrong.

We’d just accepted our scotch-filled cups when I began to perceive a growing sound, coming from the direction of the road. As it grew, it formed a more coherent shape, and I soon realized it was the sound of a large group of people singing ‘God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen’ at the top of their lungs. By the time they reached the drive they were exhorting us to ‘Deck the Halls’ . It was a sight too ambitious for such a large group, with only the waving of the vicar’s walking stick to keep them in time, and the fa-la-las were a shambles.

It was a merry shambles, nevertheless, and they cheered as Sir Hector welcomed them and offered them each a glass of beer from a barrel set on a trestle stand beside the door.

Daisy soon found me.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said as she put her arm across my shoulder in a half-embrace. The other arm, of course, was attached to the hand that held her beer and was unavailable for hugging.

‘ Nadolig Llawen to you, too, fach ,’ I said.

She harrumphed, as she always did, at my use of Welsh. ‘And to you, as well, Lady H,’ she continued, raising her glass.

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How has 1909 treated you?’

‘A sight more exciting than usual,’ said Daisy, ‘thanks to you. We’ve had people collapsin’ into pies, séances, stolen trophies, a cart race down the big hill, a moving-picture show that played out in real life . . . and all of it because of you.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That makes me sound awful.’

‘Oh, no, m’lady,’ said Daisy quickly. ‘Not awful. Life was borin’ till you two showed up.’

‘Hmm,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure it’s not the sort of excitement that most people crave. But thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Daisy. ‘Are you on a case now? I bet you are. You’re always up to sommat.’

Lady Hardcastle smiled. ‘I can’t say, dear. But if we were, whom should we look out for?’

Daisy cast around the assembled villagers for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, slowly, ‘I reckon that Hilda Pantry must be up to sommat.’ She indicated the surly proprietor of the village grocery. ‘I don’t reckon you could be that miserable for that much of the time unless you had some great weight on your mind. Maybe she did her husband in, after all.’

‘Was there talk at the time?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘There’s always talk in a village like this,’ said Daisy. ‘But I reckon it was probably unfounded, really. Who else . . . The boys from the rugby club and the cricket club? They’re always up to sommat between ’em.’

I turned to Lady Hardcastle. ‘Some of them have jobs in Bristol,’ I said. ‘They might own a worsted suit.’

‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘But not a dress shoe. A junior clerk would wear practical boots, even if he could afford the cloth for a suit like that.’

Daisy looked puzzled, but was undeterred. ‘I reckon Sergeant Dobson must have a fiddle or two on the go,’ she said.

‘They do wear blue,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.

‘It’s too coarse,’ I said. ‘The thread was from a much finer fabric. And can you imagine Wallie Dobson doing anything quite that acrobatic?’

She laughed. ‘No, not at all.’

‘What are you two on about?’ asked Daisy.

‘Nothing for you to fret over,’ I said. ‘It’s a good turnout, isn’t it?’

‘Free food,’ said Daisy, knowingly. ‘Our ma’s married to a butcher so she never goes short of meat, but even she wouldn’t turn her nose up at some free grub.’

‘Who’s that lot over there with Mogg?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, pointing to the group huddling round the Farley-Strouds’ estate manager.

‘They’s the estate workers,’ said Daisy. ‘Mostly they lives in the cottages down towards Woodworthy so they don’t come over our way much.’

‘Aha,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I see.’ She turned to me. ‘Not a blue worsted suit among the lot of them.’

‘That would be a little too much to hope for,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we need look to the rude mechanicals anyway.’

‘ A Midsummer Night’s Dream ,’ said Daisy. ‘I knows that one, at least. Our ma wanted a bit of culture a few summers back so we saw it up at Berkeley Castle one evenin’ and sat on the grass.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘I was only little,’ said Daisy, ‘so I barely understood half of it. But the bloke in the ass’s head made I laugh.’

‘Bottom,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘He loved a bum joke, old Shakespeare,’ I said.

‘Yes, that’s right. Do you like Shakespeare, m’lady?’ asked Daisy.

‘Sometimes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I love the Christmas one. What’s that?’

‘ Twelfth Night ,’ I said.

‘That’s the chap.’

‘I’m glad you said that,’ said Daisy.

‘Why’s that, dear?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘We’s doin’ a scene from it in tonight’s show. I’m playin’ Viola.’

‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle, with evident delight. ‘I’d forgotten there would be entertainment. What sort of show is it?’

‘The vicar’s runnin’ it,’ said Daisy. ‘What did he call it? A revue, that’s it. Like the music hall only less smutty, our ma says.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

Jenkins appeared on the front steps and sounded the dinner gong.

‘Luncheon is served,’ he intoned, eliciting cheers from the assembled throng.

We hung back to let the stampede clear before joining everyone inside.

* * *

Whereas the family had eaten their meal the day before in the dining room, the villagers were directed to the ballroom. The huge space had once been the great hall of the original Tudor house and still bore many of the original features, including a minstrels’ gallery. In more recent times it had been the setting for some of the region’s more famous parties, but the Farley-Strouds seldom used it these days. To my knowledge, the last time it had seen anything of that nature was a party in celebration of their daughter Clarissa’s engagement, shortly after our own arrival in the village.

Today, it had been transformed by Mr Jenkins and his staff into the most Christmassy place it was possible to imagine. The area directly below the minstrels’ gallery had been curtained off, but the rest was magical. The walls were hung with evergreens – holly, yew, laurel and ivy – along with the ubiquitous ribbons and tinsel. There were candles everywhere.

The room was filled by three long tables, set with enough chairs for all the villagers and the household’s own servants. By the time we arrived, the family had already begun serving the food.

Lady Farley-Stroud caught sight of us lurking by the door and bustled over to us.

‘Come on, you two,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to muck in, I’m afraid. Aprons are over there.’

From the look of things, the family thought this a great lark. They were enthusiastically dishing up hearty helpings of food to the assembled throng and seemed to be having a whale of a time. I saw slightly less novelty in it, but I reasoned that it was the price I had to pay. If I were to be treated as ‘part of the family’ for Christmas lunch, I was going to have to be part of that same family on Boxing Day. I would serve the villagers their lunch with everyone else, no matter that it wasn’t so very far removed from my regular work.