and Betty should buy it.”
“Where in Yorkshire?” Mrs. Malloy was ready to handle the interrogation with all the aplomb of a chief superintendent from Scotland Yard, while I sat back like the green young sergeant, eager to learn how the great man did things.
“Milton Moor. It’s about twenty miles from Haworth, if you know where that is and why it’s famous.” Ariel licked her cocoa mustache.
“Yes, we do know.” I’d decided against playing the silent sidekick.
“Why, if that isn’t something!” Mrs. Malloy evinced delighted amazement. “Milton Moor’s the little town where me sister lives. I couldn’t remember the name when Mrs. H and me was talking earlier.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” Ariel gave Tobias a nudge when he attempted a nibble at the biscuit she was holding. Disliking selfishness, he got off her lap.
“Melody Tabby. She’s secretary to an accountant.”
“Has to be Mr. Scrimshank. He’s the only one in Milton Moor, it’s that small a place. He handled things when Dad and Betty bought Withering Heights.” Ariel returned my stare. “That’s what I call it, because an icy chill went down my spine the first time I saw it. Not that anyone listened to me. Its real name is Cragstone House. Mr. Scrimshank is a friend of Lady Fiona, as well as being her lawyer.”
“Who’s Lady Fiona?” I asked.
“Cragstone’s previous owner. And according to Betty, now the first thrill of living in a mansion has worn off, a coldblooded killer.”
Mrs. Malloy lost another purple roller as she jerked forward in her chair. “Who’s the victim?”
“Nigel Gallagher. Her ladyship’s husband. He’s just an ordinary mister; she was born to the title. The house and grounds had been in her family for generations. I suppose that could have made him feel a bit inferior. Anyway, Betty thinks he’s buried somewhere on the grounds and one day he’ll get dug up with the new potatoes.”
“What put that jolly thought in her head?” Mrs. Malloy’s ears were practically flapping.
“Mr. Gallagher disappeared about eighteen months ago. The police didn’t make a thing of it, because it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off without warning for extended periods on expeditions to foreign parts, as Mrs. Cake puts it. She says the man was always an odd duck, but better a man that likes a bit of travel than one that sits on his bum all the time finding fault with what’s on the telly.”
“Who’s Mrs. Cake?” It seemed expedient to get a grip on the mounting cast of characters.
“The cook.”
“Got the name for the job,” quipped Mrs. Malloy.
“Mrs. Cake’s a very nice lady who doesn’t deserve having jokes made about her. She was with the Gallaghers for years. They’re quite old, fifty or sixty at least.” Ariel took no notice of Mrs. M’s wince. “And she—Mrs. Cake—stayed on at Withering . . . Cragstone to work for us. She’s the only really normal person there, which is why I think her falling down the stairs the other night and spraining her ankle is the worst thing that’s happened so far.”
“What else has been going on?” I noticed Tobias looking out of the window and wondered if he heard Ben’s car.
“When we first moved in, it was small things that could be explained away. Pictures that fell off walls. Lights turning onor off by themselves. Finding the front door wide open in the morning.”
“Like you say”—Mrs. Malloy repositioned a roller—“those sorts of occurrences do happen. And nasty as it must have been for Mrs. Cake, who I’m sure is a lovely person, people do fall downstairs without some evil force being responsible.”
Ariel eyed her mulishly. “It was her behavior afterward that was unnerving. At first she said she woke up in the middle of the night to hear someone moving about and got up to check out who it was. Not finding anyone and thinking they might have left by the back entrance, she was heading down to the kitchen when she
“Where in Yorkshire?” Mrs. Malloy was ready to handle the interrogation with all the aplomb of a chief superintendent from Scotland Yard, while I sat back like the green young sergeant, eager to learn how the great man did things.
“Milton Moor. It’s about twenty miles from Haworth, if you know where that is and why it’s famous.” Ariel licked her cocoa mustache.
“Yes, we do know.” I’d decided against playing the silent sidekick.
“Why, if that isn’t something!” Mrs. Malloy evinced delighted amazement. “Milton Moor’s the little town where me sister lives. I couldn’t remember the name when Mrs. H and me was talking earlier.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” Ariel gave Tobias a nudge when he attempted a nibble at the biscuit she was holding. Disliking selfishness, he got off her lap.
“Melody Tabby. She’s secretary to an accountant.”
“Has to be Mr. Scrimshank. He’s the only one in Milton Moor, it’s that small a place. He handled things when Dad and Betty bought Withering Heights.” Ariel returned my stare. “That’s what I call it, because an icy chill went down my spine the first time I saw it. Not that anyone listened to me. Its real name is Cragstone House. Mr. Scrimshank is a friend of Lady Fiona, as well as being her lawyer.”
“Who’s Lady Fiona?” I asked.
“Cragstone’s previous owner. And according to Betty, now the first thrill of living in a mansion has worn off, a coldblooded killer.”
Mrs. Malloy lost another purple roller as she jerked forward in her chair. “Who’s the victim?”
“Nigel Gallagher. Her ladyship’s husband. He’s just an ordinary mister; she was born to the title. The house and grounds had been in her family for generations. I suppose that could have made him feel a bit inferior. Anyway, Betty thinks he’s buried somewhere on the grounds and one day he’ll get dug up with the new potatoes.”
“What put that jolly thought in her head?” Mrs. Malloy’s ears were practically flapping.
“Mr. Gallagher disappeared about eighteen months ago. The police didn’t make a thing of it, because it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off without warning for extended periods on expeditions to foreign parts, as Mrs. Cake puts it. She says the man was always an odd duck, but better a man that likes a bit of travel than one that sits on his bum all the time finding fault with what’s on the telly.”
“Who’s Mrs. Cake?” It seemed expedient to get a grip on the mounting cast of characters.
“The cook.”
“Got the name for the job,” quipped Mrs. Malloy.
“Mrs. Cake’s a very nice lady who doesn’t deserve having jokes made about her. She was with the Gallaghers for years. They’re quite old, fifty or sixty at least.” Ariel took no notice of Mrs. M’s wince. “And she—Mrs. Cake—stayed on at Withering . . . Cragstone to work for us. She’s the only really normal person there, which is why I think her falling down the stairs the other night and spraining her ankle is the worst thing that’s happened so far.”
“What else has been going on?” I noticed Tobias looking out of the window and wondered if he heard Ben’s car.
“When we first moved in, it was small things that could be explained away. Pictures that fell off walls. Lights turning onor off by themselves. Finding the front door wide open in the morning.”
“Like you say”—Mrs. Malloy repositioned a roller—“those sorts of occurrences do happen. And nasty as it must have been for Mrs. Cake, who I’m sure is a lovely person, people do fall downstairs without some evil force being responsible.”
Ariel eyed her mulishly. “It was her behavior afterward that was unnerving. At first she said she woke up in the middle of the night to hear someone moving about and got up to check out who it was. Not finding anyone and thinking they might have left by the back entrance, she was heading down to the kitchen when she
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