not snubbing Martin too badly. Yes, Jenny, what is it?”
Leaving Gwen to deal with whatever was making the young maid twist the corner of her apron in nervous fingers, Daisy slipped away. She went on into the billiard room, which had a door to the outside and was less likely than the dining and drawing rooms to be overrun by hordes of servants with brooms and dusters.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke. Though smoking rooms weren’t necessary these days, now that everyone smoked all over the place, Jack and Sir Harold probably lit up while playing billiards.
At least, she hoped they didn’t indulge while handling the firearms racked on the walls alongside the billiard cues. A landowner’s daughter, she recognized a couple of rook rifles and half a dozen double-barrelled shotguns of different bores. Less conventional was a glass-fronted case of pistols. There were antique duelling and horse pistols, family heirlooms from the days of highwaymen and duels, but also modern, efficient-looking automatics like the one her brother had worn as an army officer. Apparently, the family’s fascination with fireworks extended to firearms.
The scarred, stained table would be for cleaning and oiling the guns and filling cartridges and such chores. The nearby cabinet must hold ammunition, Daisy assumed. It was as a policeman’s wife, not a landowner’s daughter, that she noted with disapproval the key left in the lock.
5
F rom the billiard room, French doors led out onto the paved terrace. Before she opened one, Daisy buttoned up the jacket of her warm tweed costume and put on the gloves she had brought in a pocket. Nonetheless, she recoiled as the icy air reached for her. The sunshine was misleading.
A couple of shabby, nondescript mackintoshes hung on hooks near the door. Deciding they were the sort that don’t belong to anyone in particular, she donned one. She eyed the adjacent tweed caps and mufflers, rejected the former and chose one of the latter, striped in navy and white. With that over her head and wound around her neck, she ventured out.
The flags of the terrace were still frosted. The sun wouldn’t reach this west side of the house for some time. Daisy trod with care as she crossed to the steps. Pausing at the top, she realized what a splendid view the guests on the terrace would have of the firework display.
What did they do the years when it rained? She must remember to ask.
Holding the stone rail, she descended to the second terrace, laid out in flower beds with lots of roses. At this time of year the bushes were bare and straggly, though here and there a bloom flaunted, de fying the frosts. The third terrace had a gazebo at the north end and a lily pond at the south.
The next terrace was the last, where Sir Harold, Jack, and Miller were erecting a complicated metal framework and a sort of wooden gibbet, “for the Catherine wheels,” as Sir Harold later explained. Reggie and Adrian were taking rockets from a big wooden crate and carefully inserting the sticks into bottles. No messing about under Grandfather’s stern eye.
Actually, the baronet was in a cracking good temper and greeted Daisy effusively. “What ho, Mrs. Fletcher!” he shouted as she came down the last steps. “We’re going to have a ripsnorter of a set piece tonight. ‘ Ripsnorter’— that the right term, Jack?”
“That’s it, sir. Morning, Mrs. Fletcher. As you see, we big boys get to play with big Meccano.”
The struts they were bolting together did look rather like giant pieces of Meccano. Miller stopped tightening a nut to wave to Daisy with an adjustable spanner. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” Even he looked cheerful.
“Useful fellow,” Sir Harold confided in a low voice, “when it comes to this sort of thing. Once I’d explained the effect I’m going for, he got the layout worked out in half the time it usually takes me. Quarter!” he added with a burst of generosity. “And drew up a neat little plan,
Leaving Gwen to deal with whatever was making the young maid twist the corner of her apron in nervous fingers, Daisy slipped away. She went on into the billiard room, which had a door to the outside and was less likely than the dining and drawing rooms to be overrun by hordes of servants with brooms and dusters.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke. Though smoking rooms weren’t necessary these days, now that everyone smoked all over the place, Jack and Sir Harold probably lit up while playing billiards.
At least, she hoped they didn’t indulge while handling the firearms racked on the walls alongside the billiard cues. A landowner’s daughter, she recognized a couple of rook rifles and half a dozen double-barrelled shotguns of different bores. Less conventional was a glass-fronted case of pistols. There were antique duelling and horse pistols, family heirlooms from the days of highwaymen and duels, but also modern, efficient-looking automatics like the one her brother had worn as an army officer. Apparently, the family’s fascination with fireworks extended to firearms.
The scarred, stained table would be for cleaning and oiling the guns and filling cartridges and such chores. The nearby cabinet must hold ammunition, Daisy assumed. It was as a policeman’s wife, not a landowner’s daughter, that she noted with disapproval the key left in the lock.
5
F rom the billiard room, French doors led out onto the paved terrace. Before she opened one, Daisy buttoned up the jacket of her warm tweed costume and put on the gloves she had brought in a pocket. Nonetheless, she recoiled as the icy air reached for her. The sunshine was misleading.
A couple of shabby, nondescript mackintoshes hung on hooks near the door. Deciding they were the sort that don’t belong to anyone in particular, she donned one. She eyed the adjacent tweed caps and mufflers, rejected the former and chose one of the latter, striped in navy and white. With that over her head and wound around her neck, she ventured out.
The flags of the terrace were still frosted. The sun wouldn’t reach this west side of the house for some time. Daisy trod with care as she crossed to the steps. Pausing at the top, she realized what a splendid view the guests on the terrace would have of the firework display.
What did they do the years when it rained? She must remember to ask.
Holding the stone rail, she descended to the second terrace, laid out in flower beds with lots of roses. At this time of year the bushes were bare and straggly, though here and there a bloom flaunted, de fying the frosts. The third terrace had a gazebo at the north end and a lily pond at the south.
The next terrace was the last, where Sir Harold, Jack, and Miller were erecting a complicated metal framework and a sort of wooden gibbet, “for the Catherine wheels,” as Sir Harold later explained. Reggie and Adrian were taking rockets from a big wooden crate and carefully inserting the sticks into bottles. No messing about under Grandfather’s stern eye.
Actually, the baronet was in a cracking good temper and greeted Daisy effusively. “What ho, Mrs. Fletcher!” he shouted as she came down the last steps. “We’re going to have a ripsnorter of a set piece tonight. ‘ Ripsnorter’— that the right term, Jack?”
“That’s it, sir. Morning, Mrs. Fletcher. As you see, we big boys get to play with big Meccano.”
The struts they were bolting together did look rather like giant pieces of Meccano. Miller stopped tightening a nut to wave to Daisy with an adjustable spanner. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” Even he looked cheerful.
“Useful fellow,” Sir Harold confided in a low voice, “when it comes to this sort of thing. Once I’d explained the effect I’m going for, he got the layout worked out in half the time it usually takes me. Quarter!” he added with a burst of generosity. “And drew up a neat little plan,
Similar Books
