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‘Arrangement?’ said George.
‘I’m afraid it would mean extra work for my staff. And that would mean higher payments. Just to keep things in order. Not that there will be anything quesh–questesh–Pardon, questionable anywhere.’
A genteel blackmail, that was what this amounted to. George supposed he ought to have seen it coming. Was he prepared to submit to it? He remembered Maud’s happiness–possibly even her life–was at stake, and thought he was. And, said an unpleasant little voice inside his mind, your own happiness? Isn’t that at stake, as well? Isn’t your pleasant comfortable life at Toft House at stake, as well? Toft House and the Rosen money, that you worked so hard to get? He said, ‘I’m sure we can find an amicable agreement, Mrs Prout.’
‘Freda, please. After all, we are friends. And–oh no, I really mustn’t have any more sherry, my word, you’ll be getting me tiddly. Well, perhaps just half a glass.’
‘You do understand,’ said George, refilling her glass and wishing he could stir in poison, ‘you do understand, Freda, that everything I’m doing is entirely for Maud’s sake.’
‘Oh quite. Cheer-ho again, George.’
The news of Thomasina Forrester’s death, and that of her cousin Simon, rocked Amberwood’s little community to its roots.
Dreadful, said people, gathering outside St Michael’s Church after Reverend Skandry had announced the tragedy from the pulpit. The most shocking thing. Trapped inside Twygrist’s kiln room, seemingly, and unable to make anyone hear their cries for help. Oh dear, it did not bear thinking about. The mill had been closed down years ago, of course–that had been after George Lincoln gave up his work as manager–and the place had never really been made safe.
And what would happen to Quire House? If there were any other Forrester relatives, nobody in Amberwood had ever heard of them. It was possible they would turn up at the funeral, people did turn up at funerals: long-lost cousins and aunts whom no one had ever heard of. Anyway, whoever turned up or did not turn up, it would be quite an occasion. Reverend Skandry would give those two poor souls a good send-off, they could all be sure of that. Mrs Minching was going to put on a cold lunch up at Quire and everyone was invited to attend.
It was known that George Lincoln was very distressed by the news–he was looking quite ill, the poor man. This was hardly surprising, though, what with him actually having found poor Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon, and what with him having worked for the Forrester family for a good many years. And then Miss Thomasina had recently been taking one of her kindly interests in Maud Lincoln. This last was said without any conscious undercurrent; most people were sorry for George, poor old George, and genuinely concerned to learn that Maud had been unwell, and was presently recuperating with some family somewhere. Ah well, the best place for her, under the circumstances.
Bryony Sullivan went to the double funeral, although it had been difficult to get her duties changed to do so. A new patient had just been brought into the private section who seemed to be taking up a good deal of the Prout’s time, which meant the general running of the main wards fell to the nurses. Poor little Dora Scullion was sent scuttling hither and yon like a demented rabbit, doing the work of three people–and probably getting less wages than one. Bryony would have preferred to stay and help Scullion and the nurses, but this was not a funeral that could be avoided.
‘We’re living on Thomasina Forrester’s land,’ said Bryony’s father. ‘And although neither of us cared for her much, attending the old girl’s funeral is something we should do. There are decencies to be observed.’
He was so seldom bothered about the decencies, that Bryony was quite surprised when he said this. She was even more surprised when he eschewed his usual shabby clothes and donned one of the few good outfits he still possessed.
‘I can still shine myself up when the occasion requires it,’ he said, coming down the stairs of Charity Cottage, and Bryony smiled, because if it was rare for him to bother about the decencies, it was even rarer for him to display any vanity.
A rather desultory wake was held at Quire House after the service. Mrs Minching had provided a buffet and sherry, confiding to Bryony as she handed round the food, that she would never get over the way Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon had died.
‘What is the world coming to, Miss Bryony, tell me that?’
‘It’s so sad,’ said Bryony.
‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, lowering her voice, ‘that there’s more to those two deaths than is being told. Accident, that’s what they’re saying, but to my mind, that’s all so much eyewash, Miss Bryony, beg pardon for being so forward.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s my belief,’ said Mrs Minching, ‘that Maud Lincoln knows more than she should about what happened. Out for all she could get, that one, and very odd behaviour at times. And since she’s gone off to be ill somewhere, I’ve found some very puzzling things in my household books.’
‘What do you mean, puzzling?’
‘What they call discrepancies, Miss Bryony.’ The word was pronounced with care. ‘Invoices and delivery notes for things never delivered to Quire, but not a one of them in my pantry inventory, and you can’t argue against that, can you?’
Byrony supposed you could not, and did not say that at Charity Cottage food was bought as it was needed, and put in the meat safe or onto the cold slab, according to what it might be. The state of the larder was largely reliant on the state of the finances, although the larder’s deficiencies were frequently augmented by Bryony’s father. In the Irish house hospitality had been so casual but so lavish, that no one had ever seemed to mind if two people turned up for a meal or twenty. No one would have bothered about pantry invoices or discrepancies either, because it would not have occurred to anyone that such things needed to be written down.