Previously…

‘Hmm, well I’m orf to see that woman at the florist. I noticed a definite droopin’ in the delphiniums in church on Sunday. I will not accept substandard flowers. Good day.’

With that she turned around to leave and then stopped and looked back at us both.

‘You may both come to tea on Sunday. Dress informally, but not too informally.’ She turned again and left us. I could hear the sound of cats scrambling out of the way as she sailed over our horizon.

Abby looked at me and I looked at her and then we just burst out laughing.

And now the story continues…

Believe me or believe me not, things were a bit quiet for the next few days. Abby wouldn’t let me do much and I spent a lot of time contemplating my navel.

I had a steady stream of visitors who cheered me up somewhat and I was able to catch up on some of the gossip: for example, it turns out that there is a bit of a kafuffle going on concerning the public toilets behind the East Beach. The council wanted to close it due to the fact that they were unable to finance Bert Higginbottom. Bert had worked at the toilets, cleaning them and keeping the copper pipes bright and shiny, for the past thirty-five years. He was approaching retirement age and to be frank, he was cheap. But–and this was a big but–he had been told down at the Crab and Lobster one day by one of his cronies that he was earning below the minimum wage and had been for years. He approached Mr Toad–I kid you not–of the council amenities department, who told him that they were unwilling to pay more, and to take it or leave it.

It seemed to everyone like it was a bit of sharp practice by the council because Bert was working what they considered was part-time and therefore just below the threshold for the minimum wage to kick in. But old Bert liked his job and worked a lot of unpaid hours to keep everything spick, span and tidy. It was said that you could eat a pasty off the floor of his toilets and in fact, Cedric Entwhistle had in fact done it once for a bet and the fact that he lived to tell the tale was enough for the local residents to declare that there weren’t any cleaner toilets this side of Bodmin.

Lady Fairbairn had got wind of the council’s unreasonable behaviour and was evidently on the warpath. I dreaded what would happen and felt a teeny bit sorry for Mr Frog–I mean Toad.

Anyway, as I say, after a few days I was feeling much better. Dawn and I had spoken on the ’phone and she said that the move was now full steam ahead and they hoped to be moving in three or four weeks time. I really looked forward to having my family near me and was of course, counting the days until they were here.

Abby had allowed me go back to my studio for a couple of hours a day as she was getting fed up with me mooning around moaning about how bored I was. I managed to sort out the initial sketch of Lady F and her late hubby and was quite pleased with the preliminary results. I was kind of pleased that Lady F said that she wasn’t in a hurry. She knew that with oils, you have to be patient.

Katie said that enquiries were proceeding apace regarding the poison pen letter and that we should expect some results in the next week or so.

I spent some time just gazing out of a window on the scenes below. The beaches weren’t so crowded now that the children had started returning to school and one day I managed to persuade Abby to let me go on the beach and paddle a bit. She came with me, of course, and it was great just walking up and down with our feet at the water edge as the sea gently tickled our toes and our feet sank into the warm, wet sand.

On Saturday, we went into the town, using Dolly. I wasn’t allowed to drive my car and that was a bit off as I had only just got it back from Potty the mechanic. I promised Abby that I would add her to my policy, but I couldn’t find my insurance details so it would have to wait a while. I had been able to remove the bandage from my head and could at least put my hair in some semblance of shape. The lump on the back of my head was still there, but thankfully much reduced.

Anyway, Dolly got us there in more or less one piece, and after parking her, we went shopping for semi-formal dresses for our impending táªte á  táªte with Lady Fairbairn the next day.

After trying on various dresses, including long, short, glittery, filmy and others, we both decided on simple cotton frocks which were timeless and quite conservative. Both were A-line styled and were cap sleeved with an empire waist. The main difference between the two dresses was that mine was dark blue and Abby’s black. We both thought that it would be rather a hoot to look similar and wondered how much Lady F would sniff about it. Of course, now we had the dresses, we needed to shoes and handbags to match so another hour and a half was spent finding those absolutely necessary accessories.

By the time we had finished, I was totally shattered and fell asleep as soon as Dolly took us out of the multi story car park.

When we got home to Abby’s cottage, she helped me get in and up to bed. It was strange that I had felt great while we were shopping and after the excitement had worn off, I was totally washed out. Abby said that she should phone Lady F and tell her that I wasn’t well enough to go the next day, but I wanted to show how strong I was and that I wasn’t like her maid–‘a gel all weak and without substance.’

Luckily, the next morning, I felt much better and my batteries were recharged after having a good night’s sleep. We spent the morning pottering about and not doing too much. I think that Abby was still worried about me and that was a bit silly, as I felt as right as nine pence.

And so it came to pass that it was time to go and visit the Lady Fairbairn. We had put on our nice gels’ posh frocks, coiffeured our hair as best we could, put on a minimum of makeup, in keeping with our position as upright members of society and left the cottage in the sure knowledge that we would pass muster.

Dolly, bless her, managed to get us to The Big House with the minimum of fuss, only stopping twice on the way for a breather.

As we meandered up the drive, my eyes went over to the extensive lawns. I could not but notice that there were several mounds of earth, dotted about and could see that Lady F had yet to tame the wild and rampant moles.

As we chugged up to the imposing front door, Jenkins opened it and came down to great us. ‘Ladies, would you follow me?’ he said, a slight smile playing on his lips.

We followed him and shortly were being ushered into the drawing room. Lady F was sitting by the open window, a shotgun by the side of her and her opera glasses in her hand. It was only the whites of her knuckles and how hard she was gripping the glasses that indicated the deep emotion she must have been feeling for the impudent desecration of her immaculate lawns. Fifi was lying in front of the huge unlit fireplace. Apart from the occasional twitch of leg and tail, she could have been stuffed.

‘Ah, there you are, gels.’

She looked us up and down and then nodded with satisfaction. We were acceptable. I did wonder if she might want to inspect our necks and finger nails, but we were at least spared that horror.

‘Please sit down wherever you wish. Jenkins, sherry, I think.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

‘…But I don’t.’ My words died on my lips, as she had picked up her shotgun and with one easy, well practiced movement; she brought it to her shoulder and let off a double barrel full out of the window.

Jenkins did not bat an eyelid. Butlers were, after all, made of stern stuff. But Abby and I dived for cover. From my vantage point below the sofa, I could see that Fifi hadn’t moved. She was either deaf or dead.

‘Blast and damn it, the soddin’ rat’s got away. Jenkins, I must get the sight recalibrated, how can a gel expect to get a kill if the damn sight’s orf?’

‘Yes, m’lady,’ he said, bowing his head slightly in a perfect Jeeves-like deference.

Abby and I were standing–bravely–behind a high backed sofa at this time and Lady F looked across at us.

‘What are yer standin’ there for? Come an’ sit down.’

As she had put the gun down and shut the window, we felt it safe to emerge and sit down opposite her. She was wearing a rather severe long dress. I think that it was a sort of red velvet, no doubt used to hide all the blood stains but perhaps I am getting into flights of fancy here. Fifi still hadn’t budged and after assuring myself that I could just about detect her breathing, I assumed that she was used to her mistress’s rather strange and eccentric ways.

Jenkins glided across to Lady F and gave her a glass of sherry and then did the same to us. I didn’t like sherry much, but felt obliged to take a sip.

Lady F downed hers in one and Jenkins refilled her glass.

I took another sip and then, being a bit nervous I drank the lot down.

‘Samantha,’ hissed Abby, ‘remember your head.’

‘Sorry.’ I said, feeling immediately lightheaded.

‘What’s that?’ said Lady Fairbairn eyeing me.

‘Erm, sorry m’lady. I’m not very good with drink.’

‘I don’t understand you young gels these days. In my day you had to drink like a fish and be able to stand upright. It was expected. Noblesse oblige and all that rot.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Not your fault, of course. They just don’t teach gels the right things these days. You know that damn’ maid of mine, she only came into my bedroom this morning in gym-shoes–Gym-shoes, I ask you. I told her that she must wear the uniform, the whole uniform and nothin’ but the uniform, but would she listen? No, she thinks that she has a mind of her own. Dangerous thing that. Thinkin’ that she has a mind. I blame her education. Now if she had gone to a good school like Roedean, she would have been taught how to dress, but these comprehensive schools–a product of the loony Labour Government, no doubt–they teach her about equality, how to crack safes and be a bloody pain in the neck. Enough of that, how’s me paintin’ gettin' on?’

‘Fine, I have finished the preliminaries and should be able to get cracking early next week.’

‘And what about you, young lady?’ she asked, turning her attention on Abby, who had been doing her famed impersonation of a stuffed rabbit, saying nothing and just staring into space.

‘What? Oh sorry, Lady Fairbairn, did you say something?’

‘Yes, not deaf are you? I was goin’ to ask about yer pottery. Is the business thrivin’?’

‘Yes thanks. I have been busy lately.’

‘Good; might pop down meself soon. Want a new vase for the hall. Damn gel broke one last week. She’ll have to go––’

There was a discreet cough behind us and Lady F looked up.

‘Afternoon tea is served in the sunroom m’lady.’

We followed Lady Fairbairn as she sailed out of the room. Abby looked at me and winked. I was still feeling the effects of the sherry. I couldn’t believe that a single glass would make me feel squiffy and then remembered the pills I was still taking for my head and that I was supposed to keep clear of alcohol; so I vowed to touch nary another drop. My head was beginning to ache a bit though and I don’t think I had brought any co-proxamol with me.

The sunroom was pleasant, light and airy with windows that overlooked the village and down to the harbour. The high vantage point was a good place to see the comings and goings of the boats and ships and I could imagine that Lady F would probably spend some considerable time in here. Given the chance, I know I would.

We sat down to afternoon tea. It was a civilised affair, with tea, cakes and various tiny sandwiches containing either cucumber or smoked salmon. I assumed the maid was not allowed to serve us or had been buried in the garden or something–á  la Agatha Christie. After seeing to our needs, Jenkins bowed and floated out of the room.

Lady Fairbairn drank her tea and nibbled at the nibbles. It was quiet and pleasant and good to know that small talk was not expected while we consumed the comestibles–or should that be comested the consumables?

There was nothing wrong with our appetites as we steadily demolished the food. After the third cup of tea, everything had gone except for one rather large fresh cream-filled chocolate éclair. Both Abby and I eyed this and, frankly, lusted after it but being guests of Lady F we waited for her to ask if one of us would like it, perhaps…

‘Ah, last cake eh? Not want it gels? All right, I’ll finish it orf. Can’t abide waste.’

Without giving us time to reply, she picked it up with practiced ease and ate it with as much relish as a female praying mantis would when eating her hubby. I began to wonder about the fate of Sir Tremaine. We just sat there, watching her with fascination as the éclair did a disappearing at down her regal, pearl encased throat.

‘Well,’ said Lady F, ‘that was delicious.’

‘Thank you for the tea,’ said Abby.

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ I chipped in.

‘Think nothin’ of it. Like company sometimes. Fifi is good in her way, but not much good with conversin’. Jenkins, of course will only speak butlerish, the maid, of course is a non starter and and I get so bored with the local Women’s Institute crowd, always talking about bakin’, flower arrangin’ and crotchet.’

She stood up and went over to a table, picked something up and brought it over to me.

‘Got this in the post. Know anythin’ about it?’

She handed me a letter. It had Lady Fairbairn printed on the envelope and had been delivered by hand. My heart went cold when I saw it and my head started pounding.

‘Open it, then?’

With shaking hands, I opened the envelope and took out the single sheet. With a deep dread, I unfolded the sheet and read the contents.

Samantha Smart is an impostor. Do you really want someone like that living in the cove?

A well wisher.

Promptly, I was sick all over the highly polished parquet floor and my head started spinning. As everything went black, I could hear Abby screaming, ‘SAMANTHA!’

Please leave comments...thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.