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

TWO

As always, no matter that we’d had a late night, I was up at robin’s chirp (I was reasonably certain it was a robin), with the range lit and the kettle on long before Lady Hardcastle stirred. She had given Edna and Miss Jones their champagne and presents before they left on Christmas Eve, to their great surprise and evident delight. She had reassured them once more that they could take both Christmas Day and Boxing Day off – with full pay – to spend with their families.

I knew that by the time we sat down to Christmas dinner at The Grange we’d be eating enough to make a blue whale complain of feeling stuffed. Lady Hardcastle had told me one evening over dinner that the blue whale eats over three and a half tons of krill every day, and I could well imagine being fed close to that quantity of beef and roast potatoes before we even got to the mountain of vegetables. There’d be Christmas pudding as well. And mince pies.

With that in mind, I decided that a light breakfast was in order. Dear Miss Jones had bought some duck eggs, so I soft-boiled four of them and prepared a few rounds of toast which I cut into fingers, the easier to dunk them into the soft yolks. The addition of a coffee pot, cups, saucers, plates, cutlery and a salt cellar made the tray somewhat heavy and awkward. I had to set it down on the table on the landing in order that I could knock on the bedroom door.

‘Merry Christmas, tiny servant,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I heaved the bounteously burdened tray onto the bed.

‘And a very merry Christmas to you, too,’ I said. ‘I bring dippy egg.’

‘Dippy duck eggs from the looks of them. Join me.’

‘I thought it best that we stick to the minimum necessary to sustain life and revive the spirits,’ I said as I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We’ll need all the room we can spare for the feast.’

‘Good thinking,’ she said. ‘Christmas lunch always promises to burst the bellies of even the most gluttonous among us.’

‘Is St Nicholas the patron saint of taxidermists?’ I asked.

‘Children, mostly,’ she said. ‘And brewers. And merchants. Fishermen, too, I believe. There are loads more on his docket – he’s quite a busy chap . . . Oh, and prostitutes.’

‘He sounds like the ideal saint to have with you on a night on the town.’

‘If you can get St Lorenzo to come with you – he takes care of cooks – and St Genesius for the actors and dancers, you’d be very well-looked-after.’

‘I’ll put them on the guest list,’ I said.

‘Talking of being looked after,’ she said as she finished another spoonful of egg, ‘I have something for you.’

She leaned over and took two ribbon-bound boxes from her nightstand.

‘Are we exchanging gifts now?’ I asked.

‘I know we usually wait until after lunch, but we’ll be at Gertie’s.’

I took the first box and gave it an investigatory shake. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll get yours in a moment.’

I pulled the bow and the ribbon fell away, allowing me to lift the lid. Inside was a miniature replica of the motor car I had so very nearly raced in at Lord Riddlethorpe’s home in the summer.

‘Fishy told me he had commissioned a model of his motor car to commemorate his first win, and I asked if he could get them to make one for you as well,’ she said.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Thank you so very much. Can we put it on the mantel in the drawing room? It will be nice to have a memento of our adventures. And a reminder that I still haven’t driven a racing car.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘Open the other one. Go on. I had that made specially, too.’

The second box was somewhat flatter than the first, but no less heavy. Its silk ribbon came away just as easily. Inside, I found a knife.

‘It’s another scale replica,’ she said.

And it was. My father, whose real name was Joe Armstrong, had made his living as a circus knife-thrower called The Great Coltello. His knives had been ‘retired’ when he died – it was the tradition among his circus troupe that an act’s props and costumes would be respectfully put away when the performer passed on – and I had sometimes said that I would have loved to have had one of his throwing knives. In truth, his skill was such that he could throw any knife, but for the climax of his act he would stand my mother in front of a target and throw a matched set of decorated knives at her. The blades were elongated diamond shapes, and the handles were painted purple with a pattern of stars picked out in yellow. They would trace the outline of her body on the board, landing a fraction of an inch from her skin though he never once cut her. There, in the Christmas box, was a smaller version of one of those knives. The blade was of polished steel rather than the dull metal of the originals, and the purple handle was enamelled and set with tiny gemstones where the real thing had been painted, but it was definitely my father’s knife. I confess I shed at least one tear.

‘Oh,’ I said, still a little bit overcome. ‘That’s absolutely perfect. Thank you.’

She beamed. ‘I managed to track down one of your father’s former colleagues,’ she said. ‘From the circus. He drew me a sketch and I sent it to a cutler in Sheffield. He made the knife itself and then a jeweller in London enamelled the handle, set the stones and gave it that beautiful shine.’

I picked it up. ‘It feels an almost-perfect weight for its size,’ I said.

‘Yes, the cutler fellow was quite taken with the design. He said it should throw very well.’

I flipped it in my hand, caught it by the handle, and then flicked it towards the bedroom door where it stuck with a satisfying thud.

‘He’s right,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘I had thought we might keep it on display,’ she said. ‘It’s a reminder of your father, of course, but I thought it fitted with the racing car theme, as well, after your fruit-knife-flinging exploits at Codrington Hall.’

I fetched the knife from the door and set it back in its box.

‘But by all means use it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should get you a sheath for it so you can carry it about your person.’

‘It’s funny you should say that,’ I said. ‘Wait there.’

I returned a few moments later with three boxes of my own.

‘You must open the largest first,’ I said as I plopped it onto the bed beside her. ‘Then the smallest, and then the heaviest.’

‘I can guess what this is,’ she said as she attacked the ribbon on the large box. ‘Hat boxes seldom contain anything other than . . .’ She lifted a large, dark blue hat from the box. The broad brim curled upwards on one side and the crown was decorated with a wide silk ribbon tied in an extravagant bow.

‘Well, isn’t that just the most perfect thing,’ she said, delightedly. ‘And just my colour.’

‘I thought so,’ I said. ‘Explore further.’

She frowned in puzzlement but obediently examined the hat in more detail.

‘Oh, I say,’ she said when she discovered its secret. ‘How wonderful. My daydream made flesh. Or made leather, felt and ribbon, at any rate. You’re quite the best friend a lady could have.’

The ribbon, which was glued to the crown of the hat to hold its decorative folds in place, was not a single piece. The ‘join’ fell near the back and marked the edge of a concealed flap, behind which was a small compartment.

‘How utterly wonderful,’ she said. ‘I bet I can guess what the other boxes contain now.’

As instructed, she first opened the smaller one, which contained a tiny, twin-barrelled Model 95 derringer pistol made by the Remington Arms Company of America. The heavy box held fifty .41-calibre Rimfire cartridges.