I waved a hand in the direction of Colin Selwick, who stood several little groups of people away in the heavily Victorian drawing room of Donwell Abbey, eyes glazing over under the conversational onslaught of Joan Plowden-Plugge. He must have sensed he was being talked about, because his head turned in our direction, and he lifted his wineglass in an infinitesimal salute.
I looked hastily away.
The vicar, bless him, seemed not to notice. He was on his second drink (‘Hazard rations, my dear,’ he had informed me, as he went for the second), and over the past twenty minutes we had become great chums. Joan had pounced the moment I entered the room. ‘You’ll want to talk to the vicar,’ she announced with a tug on the arm, towing me in the direction of the drinks table. With me safely deposited, she had marched back off to the doorway to reclaim her spoil of war, i.e., Colin.
I didn’t mind terribly much. For one thing, there was a certain amusement in watching an ambushed Colin glance distractedly around the room for means of escape. For another, the vicar was the most delightfully un-vicarlike vicar I had ever met.
Admittedly, I hadn’t encountered a wide range, but anyone raised on a steady diet of British literature has a pretty good idea of what a village vicar is supposed to be like. I had expected someone spare and white-haired, with pale, veined hands, and a saintly aspect. The sort of vicar who putters through old village records, writes long treatises on the local flora and fauna, and spends his spare time in gentle labour in his garden, contemplating God’s purpose as revealed through His creation.
Instead, I found myself shaking hands with a rangy man in his late thirties, with a crooked nose and equally crooked smile. He had, he explained, played rugby for Durham University until a dodgy knee forced him to abandon sport. Nothing daunted, he had presented himself to a talent agency in the hopes of a career in film. Two commercials and several stints as an extra in costume dramas later (‘The Regency cravats were sheer hell, you know.’), he had given up acting, acquired an M.Phil, in History of Architecture at Cambridge, tried his hand at journalism, written for a gossip column, and taken up skydiving. It was that last, he informed me, which had led him to theology, since ‘There’s nothing like plummeting towards the ground to make a man reconsider his relationship with his Maker.’ His predecessor, he assured me, had served the parish since 1948, and been the very model of an aged village vicar. ‘They’re still getting used to me,’ he informed me with an unregenerate grin.
It took us most of his first gin and tonic – heavy on the gin, light on the tonic – to make our way through his life story. The preparation of the second provided a breathing space for me to ask what I really wanted to know: just what the story was with the Phantom Monk of Donwell Abbey.
Of course, I didn’t really think that Henrietta had seen a ghost flit into her brother’s house. Among other things, drawing on the immense supernatural knowledge gained by several informative evenings with History Channel specials on the subject (after all, if it’s the History Channel, it counts as career development), why would a ghost use the door? Shouldn’t it be able to drift through walls?
I sensed a human agency at work.
I sensed a human agency with an interest in Selwick Hall, the Purple Gentian, Miles, Henrietta, or all of the above. A human agency that worked for the French. Any spy who chose a name like the Black Tulip wouldn’t scruple at playing a bit of dress-up. What better costume than that of a phantom monk? The habit provided complete concealment, and if anyone spotted the dark figure drifting through the grounds, as Henrietta had, they would simply chalk it up to the unquiet spirit of the Phantom Monk, endlessly searching for his lost love.
On the way over to Donwell Abbey, I had compiled a mental list of questions. Topping the charts was how widely spread the local ghost story had been in 1803. Was it, for example, the sort of information that would have been available to a French operative based in London? One assumed friends of the Selwick family would have heard the ghost story, as well as anyone who came from that part of Sussex. The Marquise de Montval originally hailed from Yorkshire, which meant that if the story was an entirely local affair, she was out, as was Mme. Fiorila, the Italian opera singer.
Damn, I had no idea where Vaughn’s family seat was. I wondered if Colin’s library boasted a suitably antiquated copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage.
‘They tried the local ghost story on me when I took the parish,’ said the vicar confidentially, as we wandered away from the drinks table to let others partake, ‘but I must say, there have been little in the way of manifestations so far.’
‘I can’t imagine that a ghost would last long in this house,’ I commented, looking around at the heavy dark woodwork and clusters of little tables crammed with silver-framed photographs. ‘He’d probably be afraid of bumping into something.’
The vicar chuckled. ‘Or he’s run off in aesthetic distress.’
I grinned. ‘Do you think he’s tried to engineer an exchange with another ghost? Can’t you just see the want ads? Phantom Monk, 550 years old, seeks draughty castle for hauntings, howlings, and long country walks.’
‘Why be so old-fashioned?’ asked the vicar, with a swig of his drink. ‘What d’you say we propose a special edition of Changing Rooms for the spirit world?’
‘I love it!’ I sputtered into my largely untouched glass of wine. We waxed more than a little silly plotting out the first two episodes. There’s nothing like having the Hound of the Baskervilles redesign the House of Usher – after the fall, of course.
Colin’s head turned, seeking the source of the hilarity. I gave a little wave.
‘Should we go rescue your bloke, d’you think?’ asked the vicar, swirling the dregs of his gin and tonic.
‘He’s not my bloke,’ I replied quickly. I glanced back at Colin and Joan; Joan was glowering at me again. ‘Although that does seem to be the general misapprehension around here.’
‘Hmm,’ said the vicar.
I started to put my hands on my hips, and remembered just in time that that was not the brightest thing to do while holding a glass of wine.
‘Nothing like that!’ I protested. ‘I’m just using his archives.’
‘Ah,’ commented the vicar, ‘so that’s what they’re calling it now.’
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Just don’t. Are you coming with me on this rescue mission, or do I have to go over the top alone?’
‘I’ll be along’ – the vicar rattled his ice cubes and beamed beatifically – ‘just as soon as I top up my drink.’
I looked reproachfully at him. ‘Whatever happened to that crusading spirit?’
‘Go with God, dear child,’ he said in sepulchral tones, making me laugh as I headed off on the Colin Rescue Expedition.
Joan looked less than thrilled to see me back so soon; I suppose she had been hoping the vicar would keep me safely by the drinks table.
She made the best of a bad situation by giving my borrowed cocktail dress a condescending once-over. It was a wrap dress of the sort that had been popular a couple of years before, with black, green, and white blocks of colour overlapping in a vaguely geometrical pattern. I hadn’t felt quite so bad borrowing something that had been left behind as clearly out-of-date; not to mention the main joy of wrap dresses – they aren’t quite one-size-fits-all, but it was certainly better than trying to wiggle into one of Serena’s old sheath dresses, which clearly came from a scarily skinny phase as well as from an era of higher hems. They would have been too tight, too short, or both. Pammy would certainly have approved, which was more than enough reason for not wearing them.
‘What a charming frock,’ Joan commented, with a disdainful smirk. ‘I had one like that, too – two years ago.’
‘It’s on loan from Serena’s closet,’ I explained innocently. ‘She has excellent taste, don’t you think?’
It was almost too much fun watching Joan squirm. Taking pity, I said, ‘You have a lovely home.’
I regretted my charitable impul
se almost immediately, as Joan embarked on a long monologue about country pursuits clearly designed to make me feel like an ignorant outsider. What it did accomplish was making me wish I hadn’t resolved to be alcoholically abstinent this evening; Thursday night’s revelry (or, more accurately, Friday morning’s hangover) had been enough to make me swear off overindulgence forever. Half an hour of Joan, however, would have sent Carrie Nation fleeing for the bottle.
‘Do you ride?’ Joan asked, in the tone of one who expects – indeed, hopes – the answer will be negative.
I had ridden, actually, years and years ago, in the grips of the inevitable ‘I want a pony’ phase that attacks eight-year-old girls as inevitably as the chicken pox. One bout of lice had cured me of the riding bug, combined with the realization that I wouldn’t be allowed to ride bareheaded through the fields, leaping over things like in National Velvet.
I saw no reason to go into this with Joan. Among other things, I had the sneaking suspicion that any admission of equestrian ability would prompt her to arrange for us all to go riding – I had no intention of falling into that trap, and finding myself falling, quite literally, into a ditch somewhere. I like my collarbone where it is, thank you very much.
‘Usually the bus,’ I replied cheerfully.
Joan looked at me uncomprehendingly. ‘What an unusual name.’
It was my turn to look uncomprehending. Was there a crucial piece of British slang I had missed?
‘That is what they’re usually called.’
Next to me, Colin started making little gurgling noises.
Joan seized the opportunity to pound him on the back. ‘Quite,’ sputtered Colin, ‘all right. Don’t’ – sputter, choke – ‘mind me.’
Joan was all solicitude. ‘We must get you some water,’ she gushed, employing her patented towing technique. Whatever athletic activities she engaged in, they had developed some very strong arm muscles; she had Colin off to the other side of the room before he could regain his breath.
I found myself standing entirely alone in a roomful of strangers.
‘Lovely to see you, too,’ I muttered under my breath.
A girl with long, wavy hair who had been standing about a foot away, observing, crossed the distance with a friendly smile. ‘Hello.’
A human! Addressing me! I could have hugged her. There’s nothing more demoralising than standing alone at a party – unless it’s tagging along after someone who palpably doesn’t want you there. I’d be damned if I was going to trail along after Joan and Colin to the drinks table. If he wanted to extricate himself, he could bloody well do it himself.
He didn’t seem to be trying all that hard.
Following my gaze, my new companion said, ‘Don’t mind Joan. She’s been out of sorts ever since Colin chucked her.’
‘Was it recent?’ I tried not to sound too interested.
‘About twenty years ago – Joan was eight at the time, and she’s been impossible to live with since.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Sally, Joan’s sister.’
‘Oh,’ I said guiltily.
‘And you,’ continued Sally, eyes gleaming with mischief, ‘must be Eloise.’
‘How did you know?’
Sally ticked off the points on her fingers. ‘Let’s see. American, red hair, with Colin.’
‘Not exactly with Colin,’ I pointed out with some asperity. I had always found the gossipy insularity of Jane Austen novels – where everything made the rounds of the neighbouring gentry within five minutes – utterly charming, but I was beginning to reconsider. Why did everyone in the room – in the entire county of Sussex, for all I knew – assume I was going out with Colin? All right, I was staying at his house, but it was a sad, sad day when one couldn’t even have a houseguest of the opposite gender without imputations of improper behaviour.
I really had been living in the Regency too long. Next I’d be going on about needing a chaperone or being compromised.
‘You are staying with him…’
‘I really am just here for the archives,’ I said, half-apologetically.
Maybe I should put up a billboard. Although, really, they were all imagining such lovely prurient things that it seemed almost a shame to disappoint them. Perhaps I should hint at wild orgies. In the library. With manuscripts.
I decided it was time to change the subject.
‘Have you lived at Donwell Abbey long?’
‘Since I was five.’ Sally grinned at the surprise on my face. ‘You mustn’t let Joan know I’ve told. She likes to pretend we’re to the manor born.’
‘Here since the Conquest, you mean?’
As I remembered that afternoon’s discussion with Colin, my cheeks turned an unexpected pink – damn these fair complexions! I light up like Rudolph’s nose at the least provocation – but, fortunately for me, Sally must have put the flush down to the wine, since she went on without reference to the damning blush. And why should she? Why would anyone blush about the Conquest? Why in the hell was I blushing about the Conquest?
There are times when I make no sense even to me.
‘Exactly. My father,’ Sally added conspiratorially, ‘is actually a rather successful solicitor.’
‘Does that count as being In Trade?’ I asked, warming to the Austenish theme.
‘Don’t let Joan hear you say that! She’ll snap your head off. She works so very hard to be horses and hounds.’ From the tone of Sally’s voice, and the trendy nature of her attire (more Warehouse than Jaeger), I gathered it was not an aspiration Joan’s little sister shared.
‘Who lived here before?’ I asked, glancing around the dark living room, with its age-spotted photographs and claustrophobic cluster of antiques.
‘The Donwells of Donwell Abbey. Who else? The portraits came with the house,’ Sally added.
So there was the answer to one question. Were the Donwells the sorts of people who would harbour a French spy? In 1803, Selwick Hall would have been at least six or seven hours from London by coach – much faster if one posted down by curricle, but still not the sort of drive one wanted to undertake twice in one day – so the Black Tulip would presumably be staying somewhere in the area, either at an inn or with neighbours. Unless…no, none of Richard and Amy’s other houseguests had arrived, which removed the possibility that one of the other spies in training was, in fact, the Black Tulip. Besides, why would a legitimate houseguest bother to deck himself out as the Phantom Monk, when he could just pretend to have taken a wrong turn on the way to the convenience, everyone’s favourite age-old excuse. Had there been houseguests at Donwell Abbey on the first weekend of June 1803?
Unfortunately, while much nicer than her sister, Sally didn’t seem the sort to know. Joan most likely would – or would, at least, know where to look – but…did historical fervour extend that far?
Probably. If it came down to it. With any luck, a bit more rooting about in Colin’s archives would remove the need to resort to Joan.
I would, I admitted to myself, be very disappointed if Henrietta never discovered the identity of the Black Tulip. It would be a nice little twist to my dissertation – I could add a chapter on ‘The Dark Mirror: French Counterparts to English Spies’ – but mostly, I just wanted to know, because if I didn’t it would nag at me, like the question of what happened to the poor little Dauphin, or who killed the Princes in the Tower.
I decided to give Sally a shot, anyway. ‘Are there any old stories attached to the house?’
Sally shook her head. ‘You would have to ask Joan,’ she said apologetically.
‘Ask Joan what?’
I started, spilling some of my wine, as Colin materialised at my elbow.
Fortunately, it was white wine. And no one noticed. At least, I hoped they didn’t. My muddled brain was too busy processing Colin’s sudden reappearance. One minute I was talking to Sally; the next, there he was, floating in the air above me like the Cheshire cat. I had to turn and tilt my head to look up at him; he stood next to me, but a little behind
, so that if I leant back, just the slightest bit, my back would fit very comfortably against his side.
I stood straight enough to satisfy the most exacting headmistress, and took a little step to the side, which had the added benefit of putting me right over the spilt wine patch.
‘I was just asking Sally if there are any old stories about Donwell Abbey,’ I said brightly.
‘Are you planning to go root about in someone else’s archives?’ teased Colin. ‘Should I be jealous?’
Maybe I had been better off with him slightly behind me. The force of that smile, faced full on, was dazzling. Stop it! I told myself sternly. He was just relieved to have escaped from Joan. That did not count as flirting with me. At least, not in any way that meant anything.
He was, however, wearing a very pleasing aftershave.
‘He doesn’t even have any ghosts,’ I said to Sally dismissively.
‘Shall we swap?’ suggested Sally to Colin.
‘You take Eloise, I get the ghost? No, thanks.’
‘The ghost eats less,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s quieter.’
‘But can it do the washing up?’ asked Colin.
‘You’d have to ask it,’ said Sally solemnly. ‘Have you taken Eloise down to the cloisters yet?’
Colin sent Sally a sardonic look. ‘And leave the party?’
‘Your fault for saying yes,’ scolded Sally.
‘There are some consolations,’ countered Colin.
‘Cloisters?’ I piped in.
Colin groaned. ‘It’s like dangling a bone before a dog.’
‘I resent that,’ I said without heat.
‘Would you prefer a carrot in front of a mule?’
‘Even worse.’ I turned to Sally. ‘So there are still bits of the old abbey?’
‘Would you like to see?’ suggested Sally. She glanced at Colin. ‘You don’t mind?’
Colin raised an eyebrow, looking like James Bond about to demand his martini shaken, not stirred. No one could look that debonair without working at it. ‘Why not?’
Giggling like naughty schoolchildren (at least Sally and I were giggling), we snuck out of the drawing room. Joan was in the midst of a group of people who all seemed to be talking and drinking with evident enjoyment, and didn’t see us go. She was smiling in a genuine way that reduced her teeth from Red Riding Hood’s wolf to somewhere near normal size, and the thought struck me that when not defending her territory, she probably wasn’t half-bad.