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

‘And find a confectioner’s,’ she called. ‘Lots of delicious sugary things for the little ones.’

There had been a blissful few moments just after she had accepted the invitation when I believed I was going to have an easy and relaxed Christmas. It never pays to get one’s hopes up.

* * *

Lady Hardcastle’s vintner in Bristol treated me to the expected amount of teeth-sucking and we shall have to see what we can do -ing when I telephoned him. It seemed very important to him to make it plain just how much I was putting him out, and how much of an effort would be required to supply so much booze at such short notice. Of course, this was followed by the equally expected reassurances that he would move Heaven and Earth to make sure that one of his most valued customers was taken care of. I imagined him chuckling to himself and dancing a merry little dance as he contemplated this unexpected boost to his profits. Perhaps there would be an even more luxurious Christmas for himself, Mrs Vintner and all the little Vintners.

Fred Spratt, the village butcher, made no such fuss. He was as affable and helpful as ever, and assured me that the extra meat would be delivered to The Grange in plenty of time. Mrs Spratt wished me a merry Christmas while their daughter, my good friend Daisy, asked whether she’d see me at The Grange.

‘I shall be there,’ I said. ‘With Christmas bells on.’

‘You comin’ up on Boxin’ Day with the rest of the village?’ she asked.

‘We are. And we’re having Christmas lunch with the family, too.’

‘What, even you?’

‘Even, as you say, me.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t mean no insult,’ she said. ‘But you knows what I means. They don’t usually have servants to dinner.’

‘When I was a girl,’ interrupted Mrs Spratt, ‘I used to wonder whether they might have servants for dinner. I was terrified of the people in the big house near where I grew up. I was sure they must be terrible monsters who ate their servants.’

‘Ma!’ protested Daisy. ‘That’s disgustin’.’

‘What is, dear?’

‘Talkin’ about eatin’ people.’

‘Really? What do you think goes in your dad’s pork pies?’

‘Ma!’ said Daisy again.

‘As far as I know,’ I said, ‘I’m not on the menu. And I’ve been asked to wear a – what did she say? – a “comely frock”. My guess is that I’m expected at table.’

‘And none deserves it more than you, m’dear,’ said Mrs Spratt. ‘You and your mistress has been a breath of fresh air to this village, not to mention how many ne’er-do-wells you’ve brought to justice between you. You put on your best frock and go to that dinner. You can be our representative at the top table.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Spratt,’ I said. ‘I shall scoff and quaff on behalf of all the village.’

‘You do that, my girl. And if you gets a chance, drink some champagne for me.’

‘You’re a lover of champagne?’ I asked.

‘A’n’t never had none,’ she said. ‘But I’ve always fancied a drop. It always seemed like the height of luxury to me.’

‘Then I shall toast you if I get a chance,’ I said.

She smiled warmly.

By this time, Mr Spratt had finished his calculations and he showed me the bloodstained scrap of paper he’d been working on.

‘Would that be acceptable?’ he asked.

I looked at the numbers. ‘It seems a fair price to me,’ I said. ‘Send the bill over as soon as you can and I’ll make sure you get paid in plenty of time for Christmas.’

We exchanged farewells and another round of ‘Merry Christmas’ before I made my way home again in the chill December air.

I found Lady Hardcastle in her study, catching up with some correspondence. I assured her that both meat and drink were well in hand, and then lingered at the door.

‘Did you want something, dear?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Mrs Spratt brought me down with a bit of a bump just now, that’s all. She said she’d never drunk champagne. And I thought of all the times I’ve drunk it – on missions all over Europe, at Codrington Hall, even just here in the evening because we fancied it. I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that you invited me to be part of your madcap world all those years ago.’

‘The pleasure has been entirely mine, Flo, dear,’ she said. ‘I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere were it not for you. Or living here on my own, lonely and batty, surrounded by parakeets.’

‘Parakeets?’ I said.

‘I would have turned to them for company.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Well, I just wanted you to know that I don’t take my privileged life for granted.’

‘I never imagined for a moment that you do,’ she said. ‘But you’ve given me an idea. Do you think The Grange could make do with just five cases of fizz?’

‘I should imagine they could make do without any at all if they had to.’

‘Splendid. In that case – oh, I say, it’s all about cases, isn’t it? – in that case we shall hold one back and give a bottle each to the village shopkeepers who have kept us so splendidly supplied with essentials throughout the year.’

‘What a good idea,’ I said. ‘What about Edna and Miss Jones?’

‘I’ve bought them each a pair of those lovely kid gloves we saw in that little shop in Bristol. I thought that would combine elegance and practicality in one useful gift. But I see no reason why we can’t treat them to a bottle of chammy each as well.’

‘And me?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she said.

I left her to her letter writing and went upstairs to see what sort of a state my best frock was in.

* * *

On the day before Christmas Eve, Edna and I made an unfashionably early start and decorated the house with the requisite quantity of ribbon, tinsel, and garlands of assorted evergreens. Lady Hardcastle wasn’t fond of Christmas trees, but we managed to persuade her to let us put one up in the hall. Once we had decorated it with yet more tinsel, and glass baubles and candles, then set a glittering star on the top, even Lady Miseryguts had to concede that it gave the house an air of festive jollity.

I had placed the orders for her Christmas presents shortly after her birthday at the beginning of November. The first part had arrived promptly and was safely hidden in the attic. As the weeks dragged by, and Christmas drew ever closer, I had begun to despair of the second part arriving in time. But when I telephoned to try to establish whether I needed to think of something else, I was assured that the item had been made to my exact specifications and was awaiting final finishing. It would, they said, be dispatched in good time. They offered to gift-wrap it as a way of thanking me for my patience.

It was with some relief that I answered the door on Christmas Eve morning to find the postman struggling with a cumbersome package addressed to ‘Miss Florence Armstrong, Littleton Lane, Littleton Cotterell, Glos’.

‘There you goes, miss,’ said the postman as he handed it over. ‘I must say, me heart sank to me boots when I saw it at the sortin’ office. “How am I goin’ to carry that as well as all me letters?” I says. But they just laughed. “Pick ’e up,” they says. “Mind you don’t strain yourself.” So I braces meself and puts all me strength into it. I fell flat on me backside, didn’t I? It don’t weigh nothin’ at all. You been buyin’ empty boxes?’

‘It’s a special package of London Fog,’ I said. ‘I bought it for Lady Hardcastle to remind her of home.’

He looked at me for a second before his face split into a grin. ‘You had me goin’ for a moment there,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I i’n’t fishin’. We takes the privacy of the public very seriously at the Post Office. None o’ my business what you bought. I just thought it were funny it was so big but weighed so little, that’s all.’