Chapter One

1783The Morton Estate, Lichfield

Nightfall. Two muffled figures, full sacks slung over their shoulders, running hard, their

shadows flitting across tarnished silver grassland as they head for home after a good night’s

work. Little need to ask what that work may have been; they run with guilty speed, the moon

that served them before now pointing them out in their escape. There is some doubt however

at a certain point – should they have turned right, further back? A quick, whispered

consultation, and they choose instead to go on across the land towards the clumps of trees

huddled together in some form of copse. They enter unknown territory unwittingly, and roam

around in circles, getting caught on twigs and branches, and tripped up by roguish roots.

Their panic grows as they tumble deeper into the maze of trees, long left to grow wild, until

one gasps to the other ‘In the name of all the saints, what place is this you have brought us

to?’

The other shakes his head, and then both cry out as they feel the earth shift under their feet.

On and on they scramble, any direction, so long as it takes them out and away, well clear of

the cursed place, yet they only succeed in falling deeper into its trap.

‘Where is that wind coming from?’ asks one of them, as a stiff breeze comes through,

pushing branches about and thrusting yet more unwanted leaves and twigs into their faces.

They fall into a clearing of sorts, and almost with relief stand for a moment, clinging to each

other as they regain breath. The wind increases, and with it the sound of a distant roar. The

noise is added to minutes later by the full-throated roars emitted likewise by the two men,

struggling insanely to fight their way out of the thicket, their plunder by now abandoned,

satchel and trap thrown aside, only one thought now uppermost in their minds: that of

survival.

With one final heave, as if impatient to be freed of its intruders, the earth shifts once more

beneath their feet, and they find themselves hurled out on the other side, falling, rolling,

scrabbling and torn, down, down, down towards a brook. Cold water shocks them into lesser

hysteria, and as soon as they can stand, they take to their heels without another look back.

A small furry foot lies poking out from one of the bags left behind, a trophy from the night’s

hunting. All is quiet again. The wind has gone. Yet, there is a sigh, brushing through the

leaves.

***

A grand house. A grand family. No lack of coins in the pockets of their breeches. A grand

breed of horses in a grand set of stables. Altogether, a truly excellent family indeed. Sadly

diminished now, for there was only a single widowed gentleman left to squander away his

fortune, with one sole distant nephew as nearest heir to be named. Still, the widowed

gentleman was quite a jovial character, a very sociable sort of fellow, quite possibly capable

of marrying again and producing an heir. So genteel spinsters gazed on admiringly, and

genteel couples curiously, as he went on his way, hosting magnificent dinners, offering grand

spectacles in his gardens and joining in merrily at any social gathering for, as already

indicated, Sir Morton was a convivial animal.

His neighbours the Warrens, not quite so grand in the way of wealth and land, but

comfortable enough, were more modest, more retiring, but often to be seen at all the big

functions: a necessary pastime, as there were three unmarried daughters to be shown off as

opposed to the one unmarried son. A proud creature, the son, whose ideas about station were

quite elevated enough to make up for his parents’ and Sir Morton’s want of it.

~

1900Warren Hall, Lichfield

The child has been sleepwalking again.

An ancient repository of remedies is brought out and consulted. Housekeeper and lady of the

house hold conference and decide upon aniseed in her milk and herbs under the pillow.

A small figure in white comes downstairs in a natural enough manner, and moves towards the

main door in the entrance hall. The only unnatural aspect about her is the intensity of her

stare, that unseeing stare of the blind and the somnambulist. She is forestalled as she reaches

for the handle; her aunt has caught up with her and now guides the child back upstairs, taking

care not to waken her.

The house settles down again, and night passes into dawn: a distant cockerel sounds the

morning fanfare, the vixen calls her cubs and the badger returns to his den.

The child awakens with no recollection of anything but a night’s deep sleep, punctuated by

vivid, but rapidly forgotten, dreams that mirror her waking days in the great and magical land

to be found outdoors. Another such day in this green land stretches out before her and she can

think of nothing else but racing through the trees after mythical beasts and rainbow-coloured

birds.

~

1927London

Leaves, roots, flying colours, the red of a squirrel’s tail, a patch of blue sky, a piece of green

lawn, falling over each other in kaleidoscopic chaos, merging and separating, moving

seamlessly one into the other. Now came a rustling, a pattering, and finally a bird’s

squawking that softly exploded into the distant sound of a car horn. The pattering turned back

into the clopping of a well-worn charabanc, wending its cautious way through increasingly

motorized traffic, while the rustling had surely been caused by the maid opening the curtains.

Julia’s head slumped back into the pillow. The world outside, with its traffic, its noise and

bustle, its deadlines and publishers, could wait while she sought a few minutes more of her

comforting dream of forestland and empty skies.

Editors and deadlines, however, would not be put off. The rustling, it turned out, had not been

the sound of curtains moving discreetly along their brass rails, but the maid’s diplomatic

attempts at alerting Julia’s attention to the letter sitting primly in the toast rack. A little

reminder. Tea that afternoon with her editor. Just to see how she was getting along.

Her readers were clamouring for more, John Williams always claimed. And Petrel Books

was not a huge publishing house, so the more they could be churning out under the name of

Julia Frobisher-Warren, the healthier (and happier) everybody’s bank balance would be

looking.

‘It’s all going so well; we don’t want it to flicker out and die,’ he would point out earnestly.

‘I’ve seen it happen too often before, so I was wondering … perhaps for next Spring? And

what do you think of bringing in a bit of the old cloak and dagger – or at least, have Lady

Chalmers throttled by Chapter Four? It’s the only reservation people have had: not enough

corpses early enough, they say, not enough corpses.’

Julia gazed dully at the teapot, her mind gradually coming into focus, though still hovering

nervously around the edges of the note lying opened in her fingers and snatching hopefully at

the scraps of dream floating somewhere inside her head. These ephemera however deserted

her treacherously, finally chased away by rumblings in her stomach which demanded toast

and marmalade. As she munched her way to clarity, she mused over her present situation, as

she had done every morning for the last month or so. Yes, her books were bringing in enough

to pay for a miniscule flat on the edges of Bloomsbury, yes, she was beginning to feel the

pressures of very slightly increased public demand, and yes, she too felt that her work could

do with an injection of something to wake it up. She was not entirely convinced that the

solution to be injected was a simple increase in the number of dead bodies lying about, but if

it would keep him happy, then ... And there was the main problem, for it was also true that

she’d been stumped for a new plot a little longer than was really entirely comfortable. Her

editor had been truly inventive and quite generous in his attempts to encourage her creative

flow, but even he evidently felt that the time had come for ‘a chat over tea and biscuits’. She

had between now and the afternoon to invent a convincing storyline.

Chapter Two

1927London. A book shop.

The shop door jangled tentatively. Mr Pringle raised his eyebrows, persuading his spectacles

to inch up his forehead still further. That would be Jethroe with the latest delivery. Mr Pringle

nodded and hurried out nose-first from behind the Babel towers of books that made up his

merchandise.

Jethroe was standing by the book-laden table nearest the door, offering a hefty cardboard box.

‘Morning Mr Pringle sir, this is the first. Where shall I put it ?’

‘Morning Jethroe. Just under the table will do – how many today?’

‘Another four.’

‘Hmm. Same size?’

‘More or less.’

‘Well, well, unless I am inundated with a Second Deluge with regard to customers I dare say

I can deal with them; yes, put them all under there.’

Jethroe stared blankly at him.

The rest of the morning passed by in comparative tranquillity as he had foreseen, allowing

him to comb through the new arrivals at leisure, matching them to potential customers.

‘Let me see now, Military Memoires of the Crimean, 2nd edition, that will do for the Major; a

very fine edition of Pope, in excellent condition – this I must keep for the Society, the

Secretary’s due in later today I think …and another copy of Gibbons; now, who asked me for

that again …hullo, what’s this? What on earth …’

Mr Pringle gazed at the offending object at the bottom of the box. Stained, faded cover,

broken spine, gilt so barely visible on the page edges as to add insult to injury, and …he

opened the cover gingerly … yes, traces of foxing … not up to the usual Pringle Standard,

not even up to his Fair Minus. How on earth had it ended up in with the others? Puzzled, and

not a little put out, he turned to the frontispiece:

Recollections of one G.Oddman, an Agent(retired), 'Dealing of diverse strange and

mysterious circumstances wherein might be found foul deeds and tragick dramas, as

well as the more satiric comedies...taking place in the precincts of Lichfield, as

narrated to a Gentleman of Discernment.

How very curious, thought Mr Pringle. Lichfield … he considered the volume. Had it been

requested specially? He checked his list. No, no requests for any specific titles, but it might

well be just the thing for one of his more literary customers with a taste for the obscure. The

fact it was set in Lichfield might well be of interest, considering her family connections. He

could not help feeling a touch of pride at the thought of a recognised crime-novelist being a

regular patron of his bookshop. Miss Frobisher-Warren was also one of his more interesting

customers in terms of the titles she sometimes requested: Lang’s Historical Mysteries, or

Pammel’s Manual of Poisonous Plants …

He flicked on, to see whether anything else in the book might appeal to her. The author

followed the precepts of his time, combining narrative with dialogue and, after a brief

introduction, there was the usual description of various families of the time, with names that

were doubtless invented to mask identity. He stopped turning the pages at random and began

reading …

Mrs Rawnsley: … and how were the Worldlys dressed?

Mrs Glass: Why, in shoes, and clothes and wigs, Mrs Rawnsley - how else should they

be dressed?

Mrs Rawnsley: But the Worldlys, Mrs Glass, are such grand people, and I like to hear

about the latest fashions.

Mrs Glass: Such grand people as they have become, refusing to bow to some, and

ignoring others altogether. Fine Mrs Worldly barely spoke two words throughout the

entire game, and then only to her husband.

Mrs Rawnsley: Well, they were sat at the same table, you told me, and it is not

positively forbidden to converse with one’s husband in public, even though it may be

considered unfashionable; besides, I have heard she is shy and retiring.

Mrs Glass: I was sat opposite her all evening. I think she might venture some

conversation with one of her own sex. It is their notions of grandeur as have got them

above themselves.

Mrs Rawnsley: Well, then, what did you wear, as you have not a mind to tell me about

the others?

Mrs Glass: Oh I shall not weary you with what I wore: it is of no consequence I am

sure.

Mrs Rawnsley: Was it the powder-blue gown with cream lace?

Mrs Glass: It was, Mrs Rawnsley, which I consider good enough for Sir Mildew and

his kind.

Mrs Rawnsley: Especially as he has complimented you upon it on previous occasions.

Mrs Glass: Which is not why I wore it, mind, Mrs Rawnsley.

Mrs Rawnsley: I would never say it was, Mrs Glass. But it does become you, even so.

Mrs Glass: It is a modest colour, I always think. A pity Mrs Worldly cannot wear it.

Although yellow is even less suitable for her, to my mind.

Mrs Rawnsley: Ah!

Mrs Glass: Yes, Mrs Rawnsley?

Mrs Rawnsley: Nothing, Mrs Glass. A slight dryness in the throat.

Mrs Glass: More tea, Mrs Rawnsley? No, yellow does not go with her complexion. And

with fawn bows and ribbons – a particularly ugly colour, and more appropriate to her

daughters, besides.

Mrs Rawnsley: How fares Miss Charlotte?

Mrs Glass: That young woman will come to grief, Mrs Rawnsley, before she grows a

day older. Girls who flaunt red about their person generally do.

Mrs Rawnsley:(quietly)The red roses on the white gown ...

Mrs Glass: Your pardon, Mrs Rawnsley?

Mrs Rawnsley: One must admit how fine she has grown.

Mrs Glass: Must one?

Mrs Rawnsley: I have heard people say all three Worldly girls will surely marry early.

Mrs Glass: Which is not to say they will marry well.

Mrs Rawnsley: How many tables were you altogether then?

Mrs Glass: Three, all in all. I sat with the Worldlys and Sir Mildew, then the Worldly

girls sat with Sir Mildew’s nephew, which I felt to be ill judged, while at the fourth

table –

Mrs Rawnsley: Young Mr Worldly is at home, at present, is he not?

Mrs Glass: Yes, and as above himself as the rest of them. He sat with young Mr Wrece,

Mr Spode, and another gentleman whose name I did not catch; I think he is some

Italian nobleman …Gerontio or some such …

Mrs Rawnsley: Was it not very dull for you, though? With Mrs Worldly not speaking,

and only two men –

Mrs Glass (with great dignity) I can play cards very well without conversation, which

only serves to distract players from their hands; in any case, Sir Mildew is a most

dutiful host, and was good enough to continue conversing with me between the rounds.

Mrs Rawnsley: Ah!

Mrs Glass: More tea, Mrs Rawnsley?

Mr Pringle chuckled; the two women might have been his maiden aunts; ‘Gossip has

hardly changed with time,’ he murmured, as he glanced over the next page, ‘I wonder

who the Wordlys were … Perhaps Miss Warren will recognise the name …’

Three

1927

London‘A country murder? In a big old mansion, plenty of house-guests and servants? Better set it

before the War, then.  How many bodies? Four? Five? Have you the odd family ghost you

could throw in for good measure?’

Julia mentally heaved a sigh of relief. The ‘talk over tea’ was progressing better than she had

expected, with her editor lapping up the storyline she had cobbled together at the last minute.

She had set it in her aunt’s house on an impulse, reasoning to herself that she would at least

have an excuse to retreat there, on the pretext of research and peace and quiet. She found she

had an increasing desire to return, in fact. The mild excitement of earning enough to live on

the edge of a crowded metropolis was beginning to pall; the traffic and endless round of

theatres and clubs held little attraction for her after all, whereas one more cocktail party with

the effete and affected of the literary elite might result in her committing violence.

As if reading her mind, Mr Williams leaned forward confidentially to say: ‘Do you remember

that last do at Ashton’s? Miss Vane was there too.’

‘Yes, I do remember.’ Julia had found Harriet Vane somewhat intimidating. As for that beau

of hers, thrashing out articles on free love and anarchy – yet always with his hair brilliantined

in a singularly unappealing fashion. Somehow brilliantine and speeches on a new world order

did not quite go together, at least not for Julia.

‘Well, she’s written an essay, lamenting the dearth of good crime fiction, and suggests the

crime novelists get together to form a club of sorts; she intends to start a magazine or such-

like. Ashton is right behind her, they’ve managed to rope old Chesterton in, and Ashton was

wondering if you might be able to contribute?’ Ashton was Chief Editor at Petrel Books and

held frequent gatherings at his home in Kensington for writers and editors alike. His

influence was such that one did not refuse his requests lightly.

‘Sounds perfectly terrifying. What do they want from me? Not another essay, I hope.’

‘I think it might be more interesting than that – why don’t I arrange a get-together, see what

is in the air, so to speak? It’s quite true, after all – hardly a soul out there to write mysteries –

even Mrs Christie’s Big Four only received very mixed reviews … so it’s up to us to make a

difference, eh?’

Julia did her best to respond with conviction and enthusiasm. She managed to divert the

conversation:’ And what of Miss Vane’s latest?’

‘Haven’t read it. Haven’t even heard much about it – which makes me wonder whether she

might not be taking refuge in this magazine idea. We all know what the Muse does to writers

at times, don’t we?’ Julia felt a quiet pinching at the stomach, a reminder of her own

fallibility. Had he in fact swallowed whole her excuse for a plot? She tried not to think about

that.

I can at least say you are interested in knowing more?’ Williams looked almost pleadingly at

her. Julia dutifully undertook to write something and made her exit gratefully. If only she

could escape London now with equal ease.

She was about to cross the street when she felt a friendly pat on her shoulder; somebody in

the same sort of anonymous cloche hat and long straight coat as she was wearing.

‘Hello, May,’ she said, still in chirpy frame of mind from her meeting. ‘They’ve let you out

for half an hour, then?’

May chuckled. ‘Oh it’s not that bad. Listen, why don’t we catch up - are you free for tea at

Lyons’?’

The teahouse was a little full, but they managed to squeeze in between the crowded, clinking,

murmuring tables, and caught up with each other’s news while they waited to be served. May

was sympathetic about the editor’s meeting, even if she had little experience of the process.

She was a dispenser and avid reader of crime fiction. Julia often had recourse to her when a

visit to the Poison Section in the Library proved too far.

‘So, are you brimming with ideas?’

‘In a sort of a way, I think I am. But it’s not awfully clear yet – I need more material. Sounds

dull, I know. But I have been feeling a trifle dull recently.’

‘You are looking a trifle peaky – sounds to me like going to the country would do you good.’

Tea arrived and talk turned to reminiscence: ‘Do you remember that business about Mrs

Clyssum’s necklace? I was just reminded of it the other day at Gracie’s; she had one just like

it, very convincing. Why did she do it, really?’

‘Panic. She’d pawned the originals, remember.’

‘I do. but even so… poor thing. Still, it was fun, working it out, and I am glad we stopped the

maid losing her job.’

‘That must have been the first time we actually put our heads together. Wonder what they’ve

got up to since then …’

They had met at a house party, where a case of petty pilfering within the household had

caused them to apply their wits – successfully, as it turned out – and they had become close

friends.  When not engaged in deciphering motive and means, they often exchanged

occasionally biting comments on the latest detective novel.

‘What have you been reading lately?’ Julia asked. May pulled a wry face and rummaged in

her bag, producing a slim volume depicting on its cover a man peering out from under the lid

of a wooden crate or box, with another man’s shadow falling across it. Emblazoned across

the top half of the cover was the title ‘The Red House Mystery.’

‘I read it ages ago. Think I enjoyed it more the first time round. Wish you’d hurry up and get

your next one finished; I’m running out of favourite authors.’

‘We were just talking about that; apparently Miss Vane considers it a distinctly uninspiring

time for crime fiction in general.’

‘I’m not surprised. Even Mrs Christie’s last one fell a bit flat.’

‘Yes, my editor mentioned her too. I wonder if there is some contagious detective’ flu going

around, which reduces the creative flow to pulp. I certainly think I have been infected.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.  Definitely in need of a change of scene, I should say.  We both

could do with something to wake us up a bit. Wish we had another mystery of our own to

work out, like the Clyssums business.’

Julia looked at her. ‘So do I. Easier than writing the wretched things. We could set up an

agency: Warren and Downe - Domestic Panic and Hysteria our speciality.’

‘Yes – likewise, Purloined Pearls and Pawnbrokers.’

‘Purses and Pusillanimity.’

‘Peripatetic Parrots and Peevish Pomeraniels.’

The flow of irreverent banter was briefly interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with laden

tray.

They both tried to pick up where they had left off, but somehow today their usual flow of

conversation slowed to a halt. Julia briefly allowed herself to be swamped by the voices from

the surrounding tables instead – and soon wished she hadn’t:

‘I thought those emeralds were paste, I still do. As for her taste in art ...’

‘More Art Nasty than Art Nouveau! Mind you, I suspect they would be worth something at

auction…’

‘Did you read about her niece in the Tatler? Hardly surprising though, the poor girl must have

been only too glad to escape, even if it was with the son of a greengrocer.’

‘A very wealthy greengrocer. It’s all money, after all…’

Julia enjoyed May’s company, and gossip did often supply a lot of material. But, stuck in the

middle of the crowded room with its jarring sounds and cheap chatter, she now felt the

tawdriness of smoky, grimy London.

There were gladioli in Aunt Izzy’s garden, they would be coming into bloom soon: she could

picture the late afternoon sun falling across them, turning them a soft apricot gold, and she

wanted to be transported back to it at that moment, that very second. She was pulled back

from her brief reverie by a squawk from May.

‘Look at the time! I must dash – now don’t forget, I want to know the minute you have

decided who the villain is, and if there is poison involved … well, you know where I am !’

There was a hurried dispute over the bill, which Julia insisted on paying, then May scuttled

off, leaving Julia on the pavement outside with promises of another get-together before long.

The brilliant blue sky prompted her to return home by tram. She climbed to the upper deck

just so she could sit away from crowds and enjoy the trees lining the avenue. She craned her

neck up and gazed at the leafy branches, and for a moment imagined herself back at home.

Finally all those little scraps of dreams that had been hiding away all day returned tenfold to

delight her, butterfly-like, with colours and warmth – the walks, the glades, the running hare

and cheeky sparrow, the slow-witted blackbirds, sunning themselves in the middle of the

lanes; all the whirling memories of the past crowded into her mind and she decided she had

stayed away too long. What had seemed a pretext now became necessity. London was stifling

her with its relentless gaiety, misery and recklessness.

A deep sleep that night restored her even further, to the point where she lifted the cover of her

typewriter with actual enthusiasm, something she had not done in weeks.

She spent a good part of the day jotting down further ideas in her notebook. By the evening,

she felt she had devised something more to her liking. A crime novel with a difference. Some

mystery from the past, waiting centuries to be resolved. So long as there were plenty of dead

bodies in the meantime – possibly even the odd family ghost thrown in for good measure, as

her editor had suggested. There might be. There surely must be. Several hundred odd years of

unbroken family history could hardly pass by without something being left behind: old letters

folded up inside books, diaries hidden away in old writing desks. Aunt Izzy would know. She

would write and ask. She hesitated, looking at her telephone. It might be quicker to call, but

that depended on what Aunt Izzy happened to be doing at the time. A letter besides would

allow pause for thought.

Julia picked up her pen.

Four

1783

The George Inn, Lichfield.

Thud, thud, thud, creak, groan, clatter, thud, thud, thud, creak, clank.

‘Mind your backs, sirs, mind your backs –’

‘Some fresh linen – ’

‘Mutton chops, and a quart of ale – ’

‘… this way, sir, mind the step –’

Towards midday, yet another coach trundled its way into the yard of the George Inn. Potboys ran out, the horn sounded, horses whinnied and whickered and the swaying, sweltering coach disgorged its quarrelsome, weary, hungry and clamorous passengers who fought to scramble off their vehicle and make their way straight to the inn, there to demand succour in the shape of chambers and mutton. Dry and dusty and filled to the brim with the milk of human venom, irritation and intolerance, they struggled into the parlour.

A wool-merchant from the North; a dowager on her way East; a family visiting relatives; a parson from a neighbouring county; a gentleman of uncertain title and several others of mixed and dubious origins, who had sat on the box. All as much at ease with one another as any group of travellers locked up in a conveyance for a good part of a day and a half must be. ‘Madam,’ says the wool-merchant ‘if you had put your confounded luggage on the roof instead of the rack, you might have saved many of our heads a good deal of anxiety and discomfort and - and - lumpiness.’ ‘Sir,’ replies the dowager, ‘if I were a fool, I had done so, to leave it to be snatched out of my possession by any vagrant wayfarer –’ ‘On the roof of a coach in actual motion, the opportunities of any vagrant wayfarer of snatching as heavy a piece of equipage as you thought fit to place there are minute, if not to say preposterous –’ ‘If any gentleman on the coach had really the heart of a gentleman, he would have offered to place the luggage for me where he thought best.’ ‘Madam, I would not presume to do so – respecting your choice in the matter, I would leave it exactly where the coachman offered to set it in the first place, on the roof –’

At which point, the mother of the family, feeling her husband somehow slighted by the dowager’s comments, joins in the fray, which enlarges and continues until even the potboys are obliged to give an opinion on the matter, after which the travellers’ chambers are variously sought out as places of refuge. And this only a part of what was going on at the inn, for preparations were in progress for a ball, with floors to be swept, and brass to be polished.

The gentleman of uncertain title escaped the general confusion by making his way to the landlord before the others had managed to adjust themselves sufficiently, and by slipping a coin or two across the counter, at once secured for himself one of the more comfortable chambers overlooking the street. His air was a practised one, and, calling for some ale and a pork pie, he settled himself in a corner to observe his recent travelling companions accommodate themselves. His attention was first attracted by the family, which was already known to him under the name of Brenham, and which next settled itself after him in the main parlour to await refreshment. As the Brenhams had already conversed with the young gentleman on the coach, this exercise was now continued, with enquiries as to his plans for the near future, to which he replied that he had none, but thought he might stay awhile in Lichfield, on a visit. The Brenhams, already previously impressed by his address and apparent good breeding (in the case of their daughter, especially so), took care to be acquainted with his name.

‘Orville, ma’am; late of the Guards,’ he replies.

‘Orville…’ wonders Mrs Brenham.

‘Is that Orville of West Hampshire?’ asks Mr Brenham.

Orville: No, sir, the Orvilles of Staffordshire.

Mr Brenham: Relations here?

Orville: In a manner of speaking, sir.

Mr Brenham: Late of the Guards, eh? Officer, were you?

Orville: Under General Burlington, sir.

It is at this point that a young man enters the parlour precipitately and hurls himself at Mr Brenham.

‘Uncle!’ says the young man.

‘Nephew!’ says the older one, and makes haste to introduce the company.

Edward Crewe, nephew, son of Mr Crewe, man of standing, Officer Orville late of the Guards, at your service sir, Officer Orville is made very welcome, honoured, sir, honoured, must take refreshment with the family, staying in the area – why not stay with the family? And the Brenhams, ever energetic in their likes and dislikes, generally adopt officer Orville as their own and make quite the hero of him. Word has it there is to be a ball at the inn; Edward is applied to for further information - yes, it is quite true, and fairly soon – the preparations are already in progress, as can be observed.

Arrangements are then made for the Brenhams' baggage to be sent on and the officer is cordially invited to dine the next evening with the whole company at the Crewes’ house.

Thus, with as little effort as a few well-placed words, officer Orville slips into the social circles of the local gentry as a duck into water.

Five

…

“Mrs Rawnsley: Did you mention the Spodes were there?

Mrs Glass: Only the vicar, as Mrs Spode was away.

Mrs Rawnsley: She has been absent on other occasions, I believe.

Mrs Glass: That now puts me in mind of a rather singular incident. Sir Mildew

mentioned his not having seen the lady in church the previous two Sundays, and the

vicar then said she had gone to stay with a relative in Fradley.

Mrs Rawnsley: I never knew she had family there.

Mrs Glass: Nor did I. Then young Mr Worldly pipes up, and recalls stopping over at

Armitage on his way home from ‘Varsity, and swears he saw a lady very like Mrs

Spode, in walk and manner of dress, stepping across the town square on the arm of an

unknown gentleman, after which Mr Spode grows very heated, and asks whether the

young man is not trying to put a slur on a lady’s honour. Then young Mr Wrece joins

in, even more heated, and as good as challenges young Mr Worldly outright – though

why he should want to involve himself, I cannot imagine (stirs tea vehemently).”

‘Intrigue too, I see,’ commented Mr Pringle, curiosity piqued, ‘something of a scandal

in the brewing, I have no doubt. Bless me, that doorbell must have something wrong

with it – that’s the second time it’s jangled and nobody there…’

Having peered out of the window to assure himself of the fact, he continued to read:

…

“Mrs Rawnsley: He always seems a very upright, honest sort of young man to me.

Mrs Glass: That may be: I would not presume to judge; in any case, just as all seemed

set to burst out, Sir Mildew and the Italian gentleman intervened, and we finished the

game almost amicably … and Sir Mildew was so good as to hand me into the carriage

himself.

Mrs Rawnsley: I find it very shocking.

Mrs Glass: I can assure you, Mrs Rawnsley, that had any of the other ladies been

unaccompanied, he would have done as much for them - he is the very soul of

propriety.

Mrs Rawnsley: What are you talking about, Mrs Glass?

Mrs Glass: What are you talking about, Mrs Rawnsley?

Mrs Rawnsley: Why, young Mr Worldly. To be so very definite, and on such a delicate

matter –

Mrs Glass: I do not know that I am so much surprised myself. A close creature always,

ever since Mr Spode brought her from wherever he found her; I always suspected he

would rue the day. With such a young woman, of such mysterious background; well,

one never knows … (taps teaspoon knowingly against cup).

Mrs Rawnsley: Your Fanny would have made such a proper matron for the place. How

is she, by the bye?

Mrs Glass: Perfectly well; I do not think she ever gave him a second thought, such a

plain man he was; no, the thought was all mine … but he would not have done: my

Fanny needs a more lively and elegant companion to suit her ways …

Mrs Rawnsley: Doubtless she will find such a one at the next ball, Mrs Glass.

Mrs Glass: More tea, Mrs Rawnsley?”

A customer came into the shop very definitely this time; Mr Pringle placed the book on his

desk with a note to himself to peruse further once he had another spare moment.

Six

1927

London‘… really I suppose I am hoping to be inspired by some incident from the past to get me started; my editor has been scratching at the door, and is already enthusiastic about my paltry offering for a plot. Now that I have sat down and thought about it a little more, I feel that bringing in the past could be the thing; some action or dire deed which has left the present with a mystery as yet unresolved. So you see, Aunt Izzy, how desperate I must be getting, trawling the depths of our family history: but I feel certain we must have something kicking around the house that would do; anything you can find in the meantime before I come up for the summer would be such a help …’

Julia stared down at her latest effort at writing to Aunt Iz and considered crumpling it up.

The letter was proving more difficult than the last ten pages of manuscript that she had been bashing out. Five false starts, two pots of tea and several interruptions had caused the enterprise to last most of the afternoon, with only half a letter to show for it. She swallowed another mouthful of lukewarm tea and made a face.

There would be bluebells coming out now, while the lilac would be waning. Soft colours. She liked soft colours. In Aunt Izzy’s own particular part of the garden there were peonies. Julia wanted very much to be there to see the peonies, with their wanton blousiness. She wanted to be able to take in the scent of the huge tea roses that grew close to the library windows, or to walk across a field, cross a small stone bridge and gaze down at the bubbling water beneath, or wander along a lane and pick an illicit apple … ‘Admit it,’ she told herself, ‘your real reason for writing this book is to bolster your excuse for writing it at home in the country, instead of sticking it out in the metropolis. You’re running away.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and I am not ashamed to own it. I am not a city girl, and never was. I coped with it at first because it was the thing to do, the way to go about becoming a writer and getting noticed in publishing; at least, I think it was.’

She looked briefly at the telephone but banished the thought once more. She could not even phrase her thoughts on paper, and the thought of picking up the receiver sent inspiration scurrying even further into the cobweb-ridden corners of her mind. She sighed and returned to the letter.

She even began to doubt that there would be anything useful to dredge up from the past; the Warrens had never been notable in anything much, simply carrying out the normal duties of most other families in their modest way, and generally keeping their house in order. Dinners, village fêtes, charity balls, harvests and blights came and went with the coming and going of the seasons, continuing even through the War (at a diminished level). Times had not been over-kind to them, and the tightening of purse strings had begun already long before the sound of cannon on distant fields.

A little much needed injection of cash had come with the Frobishers, who married into the family in the 1880’s on condition of maintaining both family names. Julia had relieved herself of the Frobisher part, wishing to stick to plain old Julia Warren for her pen name, in spite of her editor’s protests that she hang onto both: ‘It helps sell, it really does, elevated amateur sleuths are very much in fashion now, you’d be surprised, ...’ and so on and so forth. She had stuck to her guns however, and Frobisher was duly banished from her book covers. Now she wondered if they had been any more interesting than the Warrens in their past. One of them she believed to have been a great traveller, but apart from a few dried out husks of coconuts made into goblets, little remained even of this ancestor’s exploits.

She could certainly recall nothing from childhood; no skeletons in cupboards, real or otherwise, no gossip or mystery surrounding the odd ancestor. Perhaps as children they had simply not been listening. Not even any good old ghost stories around the fireplace of a winter evening, or in the servants’ hall; only those cobbled together from well-thumbed anthologies in the library. The usual phantom dog barking … she scrabbled at her memory again, furiously. There had been something in the neighbourhood ... but it faded again.

No, the Warrens had been a quiet family. Anything Aunt Iz managed to pull out of old cupboards would surely be filled with endless accounts of gruel in winter, what to do about the scullery maid, and cook’s tooth being pulled by the local blacksmith.

Julia let out another sigh and picked up her pen again.

Seven

1927

London, Mr Pringle’s Bookshop

Mr Pringle was in something of a quandary; two of his best customers were vying for the same set of volumes and neither was standing down – after something resembling an auction, he had a brainwave and managed to quieten the one with another edition in near mind condition and considered himself a small hero of the hour; well deserving of some entertainment after work. Which he duly sought out in the Book he was keeping for Miss Warren; something in its contents quite fascinated him. There was one character who put him in mind of Barry Lyndon, and Thackeray being one of his preferred authors, he read on to see if there were further similarities.

So far, the character in question, one Vellior, ex-officer of a prestigious regiment, had managed to inveigle himself to the good will and elegant circles of Lichfield Society to such a degree that he was soon frequenting the salons of such as Mrs Rawnsley and Mrs Glass …

Mrs Rawnsley: Well, Mrs Glass, you are certainly well-connected.

Mrs Glass: Not by worldly intention, Mrs Rawnsley, I can assure you, no, I think nothing of befriending anyone, whether merchant or nobleman, provided he be honest and decent in manner.

Mrs Rawnsley: The same which could not be said for many another, Mrs Glass. There are few who can rely solely on Providence to supply them with only honest and decent people, who can be so recognised on first acquaintance.

Mrs Glass: I would not presume to say, Mrs Rawnsley.

Mrs Rawnsley: Well, I wish I had your good fortune, Mrs Glass.

Mrs Glass: How so, Mrs Rawnsley?

Mrs Rawnsley: Why, to be so often in the company of such fine people, and to have them visit you in your own home.

Mrs Glass: Why, Mrs Rawnsley, I have my social obligations, like any other who accepts invitations which other people are gracious enough to offer; besides, I do not see why madam Seward alone should be permitted to hold salons.

Mrs Rawnsley: Do you think she has musicians play at her salons?

Mrs Glass: I imagine she does; I do not know, I’m sure.

Mrs Rawnsley: Such colours! Such a mixture of gentry – I thought the Wreces very gentlemanly.

Mrs Glass: Mr Wrece, I am pleased to say, is as much a nobleman in conduct as Sir Mildew; his brother-in-law is a little more lively, but agreeable enough.

Mrs Rawnsley: And very informative, Mrs Glass; all the family was very well-disposed, I found. But the young gentleman who came in with them; I did not hear his name very clearly.

Mrs Glass: Did not you, Mrs Rawnsley? Why, that was Officer Vellior, although from his address I would imagine there to be a title of sorts as well.

Mrs Rawnsley: Could not you tell outright what manner of man he was?

Mrs Glass: All I can say at this stage, is that he seems to be of a very equable nature, and that both Wreces and Brenhams seem very taken with him.

Mrs Rawnsley: Ah. I was glad to see your Fanny looking so well; and so talkative with young Mr Wrece.

Mrs Glass: I think I have better hopes for her than young Mr Wrece, Mrs Glass. However, a young lady these days needs to be able to converse with all manner of people, that she may broaden her mind more.

Mrs Rawnsley: It is the fashion, Mrs Glass. The Grand-Haughtys now, they employed all manner of tutors for their children; there is even talk of sending their son on the Tour.

Mrs Glass (darkly): Not entirely in the name of education Mrs Rawnsley, I fear.

Mrs Rawnsley: Oh?

Mrs Glass: No, Mrs Rawnsley.

* * *

Eight

1783

On the other side of the Morton Estate lived the Granvilles, not nearly as grand even as the Warrens, but holding their own as having seen better times. Their son Edward sought the hand of the Warrens’ eldest daughter Charlotte. Now here was a predicament; firstly, in the way of money, (for he had not much of it), secondly, in the way of the lady’s proud brother, who regarded the Granvilles as beneath his notice and constantly, whenever down from University, attempted to make trouble, or impede communication between the two interested parties wherever possible. A feud began between the two men, later erupting into short, sharp frays in various places – the bookseller’s, the tailor’s, the church, outside the inn …

In fact, it was no secret that the feud between the families of Warren and Granville had reached epic proportions, and that indeed the only way of keeping blood from being shed, would be to remove either one or both of the sons of the said families from the scene of Lichfield. Most of Lichfield society was aware of the situation.

One such instance as witnessed at the bookseller’s:

Robert Warren: Sir, you pushed me.

Thomas Granville: Sir, I did not.

Robert Warren: I say you did, and knocked my hat askew.

Thomas Granville: I have no interest in your hat.

Robert Warren: (to the bookseller) Sir, I am come to make a serious purchase, and this gentleman insults me –

Thomas Granville: I do no such thing. This gentleman has grabbed hold of my coat –

Robert Warren: This gentleman knocked my hat off –

Bookseller: Please, gentlemen both, make your purchases and cease making a scene, or I must call upon the constables …

Another scene outside the Cathedral, after service:

Robert Warren: Sir, you were observed looking at my sister during the service.

Thomas Granville: (flushing) There is no law to forbid glancing at other persons’ appearances.

Robert Warren: There is in my book, sir, and I require that you desist.

Thomas Granville: I cannot help but see people who happen to sit directly in front of me.

Robert Warren: You were looking at her throughout the whole of the service. Without interruption. I warn you, sir, against doing so again.

Thomas Granville: I call bluff to your warning, sir. And I shall look at you, or any one of your sisters or parents, as often as I choose. Though in your case sir, it may be without favour.’

It will come as no surprise therefore, to find yet another, similar scene enacted outside the inn, where officer Orville was lodged. That gentleman was seated at a window downstairs, taking some refreshment prior to his now habitual social calls, and so had ample opportunity to observe the two young men advance from opposite ends of the street and refuse to give way to each other. Officer Orville observed with interest that the two were evidently known to one another, and gathered from sundry comments of the landlord and various other inmates of the inn both their names and situations. This information he immediately stored away for future reference, and continued with his pie.

Across the street, another audience could be found in the tailor’s (likewise the milliner’s, the baker’s, the butcher’s and the wine-merchant’s) - the tailor’s being distinguished however by having a customer from the same social circles as the two contestants without: the Italian gentleman of Mrs Glass’s acquaintance from card-playing at Sir Morton’s. He was there to claim a suit in green he had commissioned. Rumour had it he was Italian because of his name ‘Egroni’, which none could recognise as being other than foreign, although in conversation it was hard to tell whence he came as he spoke well and without any discernible accent.

The tailor, unconcerned as to origins or accents, continued to ply his customer with discreet questions as to the relations of the two houses of Granville and Warren, while the two representatives outside grew increasingly vehement and heated in their protestations.

Tailor: Always found Mr Granville a fine sort of gentleman, would not you agree, sir?

Egroni: I hardly know the gentleman in question, but I have heard him to be so, very much so.

Tailor: The Warrens, however, one must say they are quite high around here – would not do for any of us tradesmen to offend any one member of the family, or our custom would close, sir, close immediately.

Egroni: Really? Should not we call a constable?

Tailor: It looks ugly now sir, does it not; think it might come to blows, sir?

Egroni: I would prefer to halt the business before it does. Is there sometimes a constable in the area?

Tailor: He is often seen walking this street and can usually be found in the George Inn, as he is friendly with the landlord, and the two take elder wine together. Which is a good enough wine for summer, but a bit chilling in the winter, do not you find, sir?

Egroni: Should one not call him?

Tailor: Call whom, sir? The constable? It is not the first occasion, you see, sir, and I believe he would leave them to it this time. The Warrens being so well-respected, and the Granvilles so popular, it might fall ill with him to reprimand either of them.

The quarrel at this point dissipated, as a coach arrived at the inn, obliging the warring factions to move aside to let the vehicle pass; young Granville to the side where the inn stood; young Warren to standing outside the tailor’s, at which point Egroni lost no time in joining him and opening a dialogue with him, to prevent the dispute from recurring.

The tailor looked down at the table before him, blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was quite certain someone had been there not a minute before, but for the life of him, he could not recollect who.

Nine

Mr Pringle twitched slightly, then snoozed on, revisiting a recurrent dream of a largish

gentleman in broad-brimmed hat and billowing coat, running heavily through long grass,

brandishing a butterfly net. Each time in the dream he would lumber across grassland, in

apparent pursuit of lepidoptera, then he would turn – and Mr Pringle’s hapless gaze would

turn likewise to a clump of trees in the near distance.

Mr Pringle didn’t care for those trees. They stood dark and menacing against a heavy, laden

sky, and boded ill to his sleeping mind. The man with the butterfly net had some purpose in

mind, but Mr Pringle never discovered what, for the moment the man turned, the feeling of

dread, of some impeding discomfort or horror, would sweep over Mr Pringle in such waves

that he awoke each time in a cold sweat without being able to work out why. He sat up, in

near darkness, wide-awake, slumber now effectively banished, and groped about for the light

and his glasses. Reading as ever was his remedy for broken sleep. The book lying nearest was

the one he had put aside for Miss Warren – he found it held an uncommon attraction for him.

He gazed once again at the half-title page and read on:

“Sir Puffball's estates lay a little outside of Lichfield, and encompassed several acres of fine

farming land, some gardens, a conservatory, an orangery, a lodge, and the manor itself, said

to be the grandest in the county – although in want of a little maintenance – and, naturally, Sir

Puffball and his family, which consisted of a second wife and three married daughters.

In spite of the company (or because of it) offered by servants, progeny and their spouses, Sir

Puffball would get it into his head that he wanted more, and of a varied sort; therefore cards

would be sent out to the Prumfits and Dashdews of Chorley, and the Sparlingtons and

Fevershams of Gentleshaw, and the Grimsbys and Dafferdowns of Armitage (not to mention

the Whackfronts of Longdon and Upper Longdon), urgently requesting their attendance at a

dinner and performance to be held at Puffball Manor, on the -th of August etc.,etc. To which

the Prumfits and Dashdews of Chorley, and the Sparlingtons and Fevershams of

Gentleshaws, and the Grimsbys and Dafferdowns of Armitage (not to mention the

Whackfronts of Longdon and Upper Longdon) would respond eagerly, confirming their due

attendance at said dinner and performance.

Whether or not the Prumfits of Chorley were on good terms with the Fevershams of

Gentleshaw, or whether the Grimsbys were on speaking terms with the Whackfronts of

Longdon and Upper Longdon, was entirely immaterial; Sir Puffball would think nothing of

this, and seat whole armies of opposites next each other at table to fight out their differences

in muted syllables and death-throwing glances. The Grand-Haughtys and the Worldlys sat

well apart from one another for most of the evening – though this by chance – and busied

themselves with their immediate neighbours, without however preventing the younger

members from exchanging many looks open to as many interpretations.

Sir Puffball moved from battlefield to battlefield in high spirits, commending this,

recognising that, introducing the Prumfits to the Fevershams, who had already met,

quarrelled and ignored each other on numerous occasions, and forcing the acquaintance of the

Grimsbys onto the Whackfronts, who were on the brink of a duel; while his wife, Lady

Puffball of thin and angular distinction stood directly to the right of the main entrance to the

hall, arrayed in purple and white finery, to greet the newcomers as they came in. Mr Short,

Mr Tall, Mr Round, Mr Even Rounder, Lady Thin, Lord Even-Thinner, Sir Withered and

Lady Ancient, passed Lady Puffball in turn, to receive her greetings, which consisted mainly

of exclamations and expletives.

`Sir Trouser-Pockets,' announced the footman belligerently.

‘Oh,’ exclaimed Lady Puffball.

‘ Lord and Lady ROTUNDITY!’ thundered the footman, still belligerent.

‘Ah,’ exhaled Lady Puffball.

‘Mr and Mrs LUCRATIVE!!’ bellowed the footman, in apparent ecstasy of wrath, moving

aside to wipe his brow.

‘Aha,’ breathed lady Puffball.

‘Sir MILdew, Mr GEOffrey MILdew and OFFicer VELLIOR,’ roared the footman, as in a

last defiant battle cry.

‘Huuuuh,’ whispered Lady Puffball, raising her hands slightly in possible apprehension of

ensuing attack.

The attention of the Worldlys was immediately attracted by sound of a new name, the

Worldly girls especially so at the sound of the title ‘officer’, and discreet moves were made to

reach the other side of the room. The way was blocked however by a knot of people which

had formed around some novel arrival in the form of a traveller or suchlike, and by the time

the Worldlys had disengaged themselves and set off in the direction of their prey, dinner had

been announced, and a general crowd again overtook the storm-tossed family, bearing it up

until the hapless members were cast on a long, wide table, and left to reassemble their

thoughts amidst the candlesticks and carving knives.

The knot of people meanwhile, broke up into two's and three's, and the centre of its attraction,

a Mr Geroni, whom most people took to be an Italian nobleman with a remarkable ability for

speaking English, was placed at that end of the table nearest to Lady Puffball, and continued

to entertain the immediate company around him with tales of his adventures in various wild

places. Mr and Mrs Grand-Haughty formed a part of this audience, and by the end of the

meal were delighted with their new acquaintance, and determined to have more to do with

him. Their son Thomas sat at the other end, in a position to hear as much about officer Vellior

as Miss Mary, and perhaps more than he wished to.

Mrs Worldly, seated between Sir Withered and Lady Ancient, with her retiring disposition,

had little to do save absorb the dry and whispery comments dropped on either side of her; Mr

Worldly, between Sir Trouser-Pockets and Sir Mortified, with his disinclination to converse

widely, had merely to keep the peace between two fierce men each of whom believed the

other to be constantly trying to slight him.

Miss Charlotte Worldly, of red roses and white silk renown, found herself between Mrs

Lucrative and Lady Rotundity, and had trouble enough finding space for her elbows to

manoeuvre without the added exertion of talking. Miss Henrietta was little better placed

between Mr Critical and Lady Acrimonious, and opposite Sir Intolerance, who all decided to

attack her for her dress, her ribbons, and her complexion until the only respite she expected

was a termination of the meal and escape to the theatre hall.

Miss Mary was fortunate, being seated within hearing distance of Sir Mildew, Officer Vellior

and Sir Puffball, and therefore able to pick out various items of interest and import, such as

the single status of the officer, his plans to stay in the area for some time to come, and his

actual place of residence – the George Inn, which, though not as grand as a mansion, still held

in the Miss Worldlys' eyes a certain attraction, containing as it did a magnificent ballroom on

the first floor. These items she did her best to communicate after dinner to her sisters in

between the actors' lines, further confusing the action and plot of the play.

An earlier ancestor having taken an interest in the performing arts, a small theatre had been

made out of one of the larger chambers, with a stage of medium proportions, and a few

modest changing rooms at one end, and chairs and tables set out over the rest of the area to

allow guests to eat, drink and snore in comfort for the duration of the entertainment. People

could sit more or less as they pleased, which meant a great many sat in circles and conversed

volubly throughout the performance. The Misses Worldly spent a good hour examining the

information Miss Mary had been able to glean.

Robert Worldly, seated a little behind, only heard a part of the conversation, as his attention

was taken up with observing every move on young Mr Grand-Haughty's part. Between the

first and second scene, in fact, Miss Charlotte could have been observed to draw a

handkerchief from her sleeve. Four lines later Master Grand-Haughty had brought out a

similar item. Half a scene later, Miss Charlotte dropped the cambric on the floor. Master

Robert obligingly retrieved it, glaring at his sister as he did so. Ten lines later Master Grand-

Haughty had dropped his handkerchief. Miss Charlotte did likewise again. Master Robert,

glancing sharply from one party to the other, retrieved the item once more, this time keeping

it. Between the end of the first act and commencement of the second, he moved his seat so as

to entirely block Miss Charlotte's view from Master Grand-Haughty's. His father lay snoring

in a comfortable armchair a little distance away and Master Worldly, no doubt feeling that his

parent was missing a great performance, essayed to kick at his chair. Failing, he stretched his

leg out a little further to try again, and lost his place altogether, rolling out of the chair onto

the floor, and upturning the furniture in the process, to the amusement of his sisters and the

mild irritation of other spectators who were trying to chat among themselves nearby.

Comparative peace prevailed until the end of the play, when half the audience (the half that

paid a fraction of attention) applauded, and the other half slept or gossiped on. Sir Puffball

made a speech of thanks to the players, and ordered refreshments to be served, after which

some of the carriages arrived. Those belonging to the Worldlys and the Grand-Haughtys

being the first, these two families were therefore in the embarrassing situation of leaving at

the same time. Master Worldly's state of mind by this time being no less inflamed, the

situation was worsened by his subsequent behaviour outside.

The carriages were positioned close together near the stairway leading up to the manor doors,

and the steps had been let down. The two families were being saluted by Sir Puffball when

Miss Charlotte, turning to descend, slipped and missed her footing. Master Grand-Haughty

lost no time in moving to assist her, forestalling all other members of the company, and

guided her safely to the carriage to hand her in. Master Worldly, before anyone could stop

him, had reached the vehicle by this time, pulled the other off, and dealt him a push which

sent him forward onto the ground. Miss Charlotte shrieked, Mrs Worldly looked round

startled, Sir Mildew, Mr Worldly and the Grand-Haughtys ran to the young man's assistance,

and demanded immediate explanations of Master Worldly. The latter stood his ground, and

declared that Mr Thomas Grand-Haughty had offered an insult which he would brook no

longer; Mr Thomas stood ground also, and declared he offered insult to no one but Mr

Robert; Mr Robert demanded satisfaction, Miss Charlotte began to weep, her sisters became

hysterical, and it took all of their elders’ best efforts to prevent the matter going any further.

A figure ventured out at this point, apparently to take his leave of Sir Puffball, but seeing the

confusion he waited to one side. The others becoming aware of his presence fell quiet from

embarrassment, and the gentleman descended the stairs to join them. They recognised in him

the traveller, Geroni, who had entertained them at dinner. Seeing the ladies gathered together,

he begged to take his leave of them likewise, and calmly desired to be allowed to hand them

into their carriages, for fear of their taking a summer chill. Taken with his manner, or

something, the ladies mutely obliged, while Mr Worldly turned on his son and demanded

what the devil fuss there was to make about one man handing a lady into a carriage? Master

Worldly was briefly abashed and made no answer, but threw a look at his former victim

which was returned in kind, and got into the vehicle. Both Worldlys and Grand-Haughtys

inquired as to whether Mr Geroni required transport, to which he replied no, as he preferred

to walk. Whereupon he made his way at some speed down the carriageway, whereafter he

turned away in an opposite direction and the occupants of both carriages lost sight of him in

the gathering dusk.

* * *

After inclement weather of several days, confining all but the hardiest to their libraries and

their card tables where conversation became increasingly irritable for want of fresh air and

fresh company, the return of fair weather was warmly welcomed, and before the end of a

week Sir Mildew had declared his intention of arranging a pique-nique, for he was as

generous as he was incautious and liked to see young people about him. It was also not long

after the dinner at Sir Puffball's and he was not about to be outdone by that gentleman's

hospitality. Hence boxes were taken out and packed with straw, the orchard was ransacked,

the ice-house visited, the kitchen kept busy with pastries, pies and syllabubs, while cards

were sent round.

‘A pique-nique!’ boomed Sir Puffball

‘Ahhhhh,’ gasped Lady Puffball.

‘A whut?’ inquired Lady Ancient, lifting her ear trumpet.

‘A PIQUE-NIQUE!’ roared Sir Withered, his vocal chords reaching barely above a croak.

‘A pique-nique – ah yes, pique-niques … – now I remember one on the river when I was a

gel. Boatman drank all the punch and over-turned the boat and we had to swim ashore – heh-

heh – my mother was in such a rage at the state of our dresses ...’

‘I shall say we are pleased to accept, then?’

‘Eh – whut?’

‘I SAID – oh, devil take it – WE SHALL ACCEPT, THEN, LADY ANCIENT?’

‘Take a step ? I am sure we shall, for he has a great estate–’

‘NO, MILADY, I SAY – THE PIQUE-NIQUE!’

‘Eh? Whut? Yes of course we shall accept – no need to shout, you know, I am not so very

deaf yet.’

***

Ten

1783 ‘A pique-nique,’ murmured Mr Warren, somewhat dubiously; but Mrs Warren, with sudden

unusual liveliness, would not be gainsaid – a pique-nique was just what they all needed, her

girls were turning positively pale with inactivity. Other considerations that bore weight

concerned the estates of Sir Morton and the eligibility of his nephew, but these the good lady

kept discreetly to herself for the time being.

The Miss Warrens were immediately all of a flutter as to what to wear: which ribbons with

which dresses, which bows with which hats. Their maids were soon rushing up and down

corridors, trailing lace and silks, only to be sent away again for more. The next question was,

who else had been invited? Spies were sent out on errands to the village to collect the salient

information: of especial interest was that not only did Sir Morton have a nephew, as yet

unmarried, but that Officer Orville (late of the Guards) might also be invited.

Miss Charlotte, with hardly a tremor, managed to inquire as to whether the Granvilles would

happen to be there? As of yet, there was no news. But then, she wondered, if they did come,

how would her brother behave? Other, far weightier considerations occupied her sisters: what

if it should rain?

The eagerly awaited day finally arrived; there were wails of consternation at the sight of

clouds in the distance, but by mid-morning the sun had done his duty and a fair day was

promised. The Warren girls hastened to their rooms to make their respective toilettes, closely

followed by their mother, while their father paced about downstairs.

There was still no word of the Granvilles, but it seemed there would be quite a gathering,

almost as grand as the dinner at Sir Bufflap’s. Word had it from their spies that Mr Orville

was seen much about Sir Morton’s place, and was quite a favourite; likewise that Mr

Geoffrey his nephew was less often to be seen in their company.

As their carriage bowled up the gravel, the number of conveyances already gathered indicated

a very grand gathering indeed. Ladies with their parasols and great sunhats struggled out of

their carriages, with or without the aid of their companions, and wandered around politely,

while waiting for the Excursion to Begin. Gentlemen greeted each other briefly, and

exchanged news on the latest cattle market in Lichfield, or the news from the City.

Servants brought out refreshments on giant silver trays.

At last all those invited were actually present and the Excursion Began. Carriages rocked

like boats on a rough sea as the portlier visitors clambered back on board, a bath-chair was

brought out and reverently laid in the carriage of Lord and Lady Witherspon, and finally

drivers flicked their whips and crowed out, and wheels ground away at the gravel.

It was the fashion then for the wealthy with land to decorate it with all manner of unfinished

buildings (often of exceptional ugliness), walks, lakes, statues, fountains and anything else

they could think of; or rather, that their architect could invent. Sir Morton was no exception

to this, and as a folly of no ordinary futility and invention had recently been completed on his

estate, a pique-nique offered the perfect opportunity to show off his latest caprice.

Sir Morton led his visitors across his land by a diversion laid out at the same time as the

new folly. This took a considerable time, as the host would insist on explaining at great

length, sparing no detail, every stage of the work involved. He would point out this or that

point of interest, accompanying his discourse with appropriate gestures, some of which were

so enthusiastic that, together with the motion of the carriage, Sir Morton was in peril of losing

his balance altogether, and indeed fell over on more than one occasion; fortunately there were

sufficient cushions in the seat behind him to prevent him doing himself any serious injury. He

would pick himself up, recover the thread of his discourse and continue, a cause of

considerable mirth to many of those following who were at such a distance behind that they

could hardly hear him talk.

What with the frequent stops and lengthy explanations it was a relief for the party to see the

folly at last on a small mound, half surrounded by a copse. Sir Morton had been struck with

remains of Roman temples he had seen on his travels and so a picturesque ruin had been put

together by craftsmen brought up especially from London. To complete the effect there was

even a small stream running near the foot of the mound.

The head steward and the footmen were already in situ, having left a good hour beforehand

to ensure tables and boxes were unpacked and laid out in splendid array: silver trays, some

laden with roast meats, others with oysters, lobsters and quails eggs, platters of fruit, huge

caskets of ice. The sight of so much food and drink was already adequate compensation for

the ride, and all were anxious to descend from their vehicles.

None more so than young master Granville, eager to assist Miss Charlotte from her parents'

carriage, but he was forestalled – and on this occasion, not even by her brother. Mr Orville

had managed somehow to reach the door and put the steps down in a trice, and was now

handing out the three sisters one by one.

So it was for the whole picnic –Thomas would attempt to offer some fruit to Miss Charlotte,

only to find Orville peeling a pear for her; Thomas would bring her some ice, but Orville

would be there before him, ladling cream into her dish, Orville managing all the time to

continue entertaining the company generally, enquiring after Lady Ancymon's health,

conversing easily with Mr Primfrut and Sir Blufflap before appearing once more at the sides

of the Warren sisters, plying his attention in such a way that each thought she was his

favourite.

Robert was all the while fully occupied with Lady Thrine's niece, visiting her aunt for the

summer and in possession of an independent fortune all of her own.

Orville established himself considerably in the eyes of the Warren family within the space of

an hour or so, neglecting neither Mr nor Mrs W. in his attentions. He had made a

considerable impression on them (Mrs Warren in particular) and was closing on an actual

invitation to visit them at one of their soirées, when Mr Warren looking past the younger

man's shoulder and commented:

‘Well, well, I see another of our more recent acquaintances has been able to join us after all.’

He at once moved to greet Mr Egroni, and thus quite turned the flow of conversation. Orville

could do little else but put a good face on it and appear charmed as the new arrival

approached, making his bow to Mrs Warren and inquiring after their health.

‘… indeed, the folly is a reconstruction of some antiquities I saw while in Italy, and as I

needed somewhere to put those statues I brought back with me, I put it to my architect to

invent ...’ Sir Morton was escorting Lady Ancymon in the bath-chair, and a trail of visitors

behind him, the ladies twirling their parasols.

After they had all duly viewed the Folly both inside and out, the ladies, in particular the

younger amongst them, began to look about them for some further entertainment and some

chose to wander towards the brook.

‘How fortunate Sir Morton was to find such a spot,’ commented one.

‘Quite – and so natural too,’ said another.

‘Natural? Why, not at all!’ intervened that gentleman, happening to overhear them. ‘To begin

with, the water I had to divert from a spring a good distance off. I had to ask for a diviner.’

‘A water diviner?’

‘Yes, indeed. Why, it took them the best part of a day!’

This at once put into the heads of several younger visitors a desire to see some dowsing done

on the spot; Sir Morton, not having had experience at first hand, was at a loss as to how,

when Egroni stepped forward to offer an experiment. This met with immediate enthusiasm

and the next hour or so was spent in seeking out the right kinds of twigs, learning how to hold

them (naturally the young gentlemen of the party wasted no opportunity in showing the girls

how to do it, under the guise of having understood the procedure entirely), and running about,

and in the case of the young ladies occasionally shrieking when at last a faint tugging of the

twigs could be felt.

By this time the clouds of the morning had returned with a vengeance, and as several guests

started to look to their carriages, the first few drops fell. There was little for it but to rush to

the Folly for cover. By great good fortune the original temple on which Sir Mildew had based

his folly had survived the ages with its roof still intact; thereby assuring his visitors of

protection from the elements. They were mostly gathered there when the storm broke.

The Warren girls pulled their shawls about them and stood near the doorway; Charlotte

suddenly took hold of Henrietta's arm and pointed out.

‘Look – is not that Mr Egroni? Surely he will be drenched?’

Indeed it was, and by this time the rain was falling heavily. The gentleman in question

seemed unaware of the fact, and could be observed standing near the brook, apparently deep

in thought. Although the storm passed over very quickly and the sun broke through almost

immediately after, the rain had been of such a nature as to make it impossible to escape a

thorough wetting. Yet when they re-joined him, Henrietta could not help observing that his

coat showed no sign of suffering inclement weather. He appeared quite unaffected, and

offered to help some of the ladies into their carriages.