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

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’d happily tell you more, but it’s a surprise.’ I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper to emphasize my point. ‘She might overhear.’

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

I turned back inside and picked up an envelope from the table beside the door. ‘And a merry Christmas to you, too,’ I said as I handed it to him.

The coins inside the envelope jingled slightly as he took it, and he smiled as he tucked it into the pocket of his tunic.

‘Much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ he said. He touched the peak of his cap in salute as he turned and retreated down the garden path.

I struggled inside with the unwieldy box just as Lady Hardcastle emerged from her study.

‘Oh, I say, what have we got here?’ she asked excitedly.

‘Never you mind,’ I said, and immediately cursed myself for not saying it was something for the kitchen.

She gave an exaggerated wink. ‘Sufficient unto Christmas Day are the presents thereof, eh?’ she said.

‘Something like that,’ I said, resignedly. ‘No peeking, though.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She leaned back slightly as she appraised the package. ‘It’s big, though, isn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve misjudged my present to you now.’

‘A certain amount of gift-related anxiety is part and parcel of the Christmas holiday,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to be the provider of perturbation for once. The boot is usually on the other foot.’

‘Is it boots?’ she said.

‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Sea?’ she said. ‘A model steamboat?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘With all due deference and respect, my lady, shut your potato trap and get out of the way. I’ve got work to do.’

She stepped nimbly aside and I carried the package through to the kitchen.

* * *

At seven o’clock that evening, Lady Hardcastle and I were dressed and ready for the commencement of seasonal festivities at The Grange. I was, for only the third time since it had been bought for me as a birthday gift, wearing my ‘new’ green gown. With its richly embroidered bodice and the glittering beads and sequins on the sheer silk that fell over the skirt, I wondered if I might look altogether too much like a Christmas tree.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lady Hardcastle when I voiced my concern. ‘You look wonderful. And Christmas trees are much taller.’

‘You’re such a comfort, my lady,’ I said. ‘So as long as I refrain from standing on chairs and stay away from stepladders, I shall be fine?’

‘I think that’s good advice for any lady, but yes – don’t look too tall or small children will begin searching you for presents.’

I was prevented from replying by the ringing of the doorbell. Bert, the Farley-Strouds’ chauffeur, had arrived to pick us up.

We were admitted to The Grange without fuss or ceremony. Lady Farley-Stroud greeted us warmly and led us through to the library, where we found Sir Hector in his favourite place: beside the drinks cabinet.

‘Good evening, m’dears. What’ll you have?’ he said. ‘Blasted relations are all still up in their rooms, but that shouldn’t stop the rest of us from enjoying a livener.’

‘What’s in the big bowl?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘Wassail punch, m’dear. Made from Old Joe Whatsit’s best cider. And some baked apples, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Oh, and a lemon. Even with Joe’s strongest scrumpy it seemed a bit on the tame side, so there might be a glug or two of Calvados in there.’ He winked. ‘Picked it up in Normandy a few summers ago.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ she said. ‘And the jug?’

‘Mulled wine,’ he said, proudly. ‘Much the same, really, but without the apples and with claret instead of cider. It seemed to suffer the same timidity, so I pepped this one up with cognac.’

‘I’ve always been fond of mulled wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a glass of that, please.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said, and set about pouring the warm, spicy wine from the cut-crystal jug. ‘Trick is to empty the jug before it gets cold.’ He winked again and turned to me. ‘And what about you, m’dear – can I tempt you?’

‘I’ll try the punch, please, Sir Hector,’ I said. ‘When in Rome . . .’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ he said. ‘Excellent choice. Strong tradition of cider-making out here in the West.’ He ladled a healthy serving into a crystal punch cup.

‘Your very good health,’ he said, raising his own glass.

‘Merry Christmas,’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.

We were helping ourselves to mince pies when there was a commotion at the door.

‘. . . but Mama said I could have it,’ said a small girl’s voice.

‘And Great-Aunt Gertrude said you were a dung beetle,’ said another. ‘So I should have it.’

‘I said nothing of the sort, young Patience,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, the great-aunt in question. ‘What are you two fighting over?’

‘It’s a Collider-Spoke,’ said the younger girl earnestly as she held up a small, bright red tube. ‘And it’s mine . Mama said so.’

‘Did your mother say that Constance can play with it?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud to the older girl.

‘Well . . .’ she began, stalling for time while she came up with a convincing story. ‘She did . . . but . . . Constance is a dung beetle.’

‘Oh, do stop that,’ said a weary voice from the door. ‘We’ve allowed you to come down with the grown-ups as a special Christmas treat, but if you’re going to be beastly you can just about jolly well go back up to bed.’

‘Sorry, Mama,’ the girls chimed together. They made a great show of going demurely to a corner of the library, where they quietly resumed hostilities.

‘Come and meet our neighbours, Henrietta, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud to the owner of the weary voice.

A small, pretty woman in her mid-twenties trailed behind the lady of the house and made her way across the room. Her face looked as weary as her voice sounded, but she was elegantly dressed in a cream-coloured gown and she carried herself with confidence.

‘Emily,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, ‘allow me to introduce my . . . niece-in-law? That doesn’t sound right. This is Henrietta, my sister’s younger son’s wife. Henrietta, this is Emily, Lady Hardcastle, my dear friend and our local sleuth.’

The two women shook hands.

‘How exciting,’ said the younger woman. ‘We’ve heard so much about you. Please call me Hattie – everyone does.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Hattie,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘And this is Florence Armstrong,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

Hattie shook my hand with equal vigour. ‘The doughty lady’s maid and bodyguard,’ she said. ‘We’ve read so much about you as well. It seems strange to think that Aunt Gertrude knows someone so famous. Our family only appears in the announcements in the newspapers. “Beaufort. On the third of October, 1909, to Henrietta (née Bentley) and Cornelius, a daughter Prudence.” That sort of thing. But you two always make a splash with your sleuthing and fisticuffs. Gosh.’

I stifled a laugh but Lady Hardcastle didn’t bother. She chuckled merrily. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite the notoriety our own mothers would have wished for us, but it does mean we’re invited to dinner more often these days.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Hattie.

‘Dear Cornelius can’t be with us this evening, I’m afraid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘He’s been detained in London on important business. He works in banking, you know.’

Lady Hardcastle frowned inquisitively.

‘My husband,’ Hattie clarified. ‘Father of the two squabbling hellions over yonder and, apparently, someone without whom the bank simply cannot function.’ She sighed.