Styles was evidently disappointed to have to tell Joe that the feast of sausages, bacon and kidneys he could expect for breakfast were not served until seven thirty as this was not a hunting morning. There could, however, be coffee and tea and toast available in minutes in the east parlour if he wished. The footman was not on duty, nor yet Mrs. Bolton, but he, Styles, could oblige. He explained as he bustled about putting toast on the Aga cooker and deftly selecting cutlery that the housekeeper who was on late duty on Saturdays normally lay abed until eight on a Sunday, rising in time to go to church service at ten. This was her weekly—and her sole—indulgence, Styles confided with a lightening of the expression that in anyone else might have been called an affectionate twinkle.
“Then I’ll probably see Mrs. Bolton later in church,” Joe said. “Tell me, Styles, is or has Mrs. Bolton ever been—a married lady?”
“Sadly, there is no Mr. Bolton, sir. The title is the usual complimentary form of address for a lady in her position. Matrimony’s loss has been our gain.”
Joe located the coffee grinder, a model he understood, and set himself, without asking, to measure out beans into the funnel and turn the handle. “Aga toast and coffee! Wonderful! Join me in the parlour, won’t you, Styles? I shan’t expect anything more substantial until I return from my hike around the estate,” he announced, trying to look hale and hearty and ready for anything. “Hard to sleep through these wonderful early mornings. The birds around here wouldn’t allow it anyway,” he commented. “Sure I heard a nightingale last evening.”
“You are not mistaken, sir. We are favoured by their presence in the nettle patches beyond the moat to the north in the direction of the Dower House. Lady Cecily so enjoys their music she refuses to allow a clearance of their favoured habitat. If you have sharp eyes, you may well note a yellow-hammer or two in the woods, perhaps even a woodpecker. And the dance of the dragonflies over the moat is matchless.”
“Excellent. I shall be on the front row of the stalls! Now I have you for a moment by yourself, Styles—a question or two. Just an eliciting of facts, you understand, carried out in privacy. But we’ll wait until we’re settled in the parlour.” He nodded politely to two large ladies who glowered at him suspiciously as they helped each other to tie on aprons over their grey morning frocks. “I wouldn’t want to put the kitchen staff off their stroke. After that, we can both get on with our day.”
Styles smiled, put his head receptively on one side and picked up his tray. “The pot of honey on the dresser, sir? Would you be so kind? It’s off the estate. ‘Melsett,’ you understand … I suspect this part of Suffolk has been known for its honey since time immemorial …”
A good butler could sail through any adverse conditions, making polite conversation the while. Even an annoyingly early-rising guest who bossily insisted on breakfasting with him was taken in his unhurried stride.
“I’LL TELL YOU straight, Styles—I’m about to pay an early morning call on Mr. Goodfellow, your resident jester. Or Virbio, King of the Grove, as he calls himself. Tell me where I shall find him.”
“If that’s your fancy, sir, I recommend you step carefully. He will, as is his custom, be sleeping off the effects of an evening at the Sorrel Horse or some similar hostelry. You would be wise to establish that he is alone. It is not unknown for him—against the master’s wishes I needn’t say—to take a companion back with him for the night. A female companion. Occasionally loose ladies make the trip out from Ipswich on the omnibus.” Styles sniffed his disapproval. “He’s made his home in the so-called Temple to Diana. Our guests may expect to catch a glimpse of him flashing through the trees in costume should their rambles take them in the direction of the ancient woodland later in the day.”
“Is that the sort of thing that goes down well with Sir James’s guests?” Joe asked, not quite managing to iron the distaste from his question. He should have realised that no criticism of the house and its guests would be tolerated by the butler.
“In a state of unbuttoned ease, some visitors, especially those of a metropolitan background, are inspired to respond to the spirit of bucolic joviality and collude in fostering what they understand very well to be a medieval—possibly older—tradition. Those with a deeper education and a love of literature are pleased to combine it—as did our national bard—with an appreciation of the classical embellishments on display.”
Joe was beginning to wish he hadn’t asked.
“I’m familiar with the shrine to Jove’s daughter, chaste and fair, Goddess of the Triple Ways,” he said, feeling a riposte in style was necessary to uphold the reputation of the Yard in the butler’s eyes.
“Then you will be aware of the alleged divine powers which attract a following among the female guests?”
“The goddess has an ancient reputation for intervening in certain female conditions. She has the power to aid fertility and ease the pains of childbirth.”
“Always a fruitful topic for conjecture and risqué remarks among the gentlemen! Supplications from some of our more credulous lady guests are frequently made. Votive offerings are left at the foot of her statue and pleas for divine intervention in their medical conditions are made.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said, guiltily aware that he had himself fallen into the temptation of popping a token and a wish into the Maiden’s hand. “It’s not a parlour game! Have they any idea who might be reading their secrets? What might be made of them by an unscrupulous … um … high priest?”
Styles smiled and tilted his head to one side, indicating polite disagreement. “There have been no complaints. Indeed, sir, several lady guests have reported themselves highly satisfied with the outcome of their approaches to the goddess.” The twinkle was unmistakable as he confided, “Sir James has stood godfather to one or two infants bearing the middle name of Melsett or Diana in light-hearted acknowledgement of the intercession.”
“Crikey! No Virbios in the line-up I hope?” Joe spluttered into his coffee and watched as the humour faded in the butler’s eyes. Struck by the same unvoiceable thought, they both looked aside and Joe returned to the safer question of the temple architecture. “The temple building is not of white marble as one might expect but something more modern and comfortable I think. It looked to me more like an Alpine chalet than a Greek temple. Steep roof and curlicues.”
“Mr. Goodfellow is known to enjoy his creature comforts, sir, and his quarters have been much admired. I believe the design and the fittings originated in a Scandinavian country. Norway perhaps. That is certainly where the pinewood came from. It sits well and discreetly in its surroundings. That was the opinion of Sir Edwin when he last visited.”
“Can you tell me when his employment began on the estate?”
“Indeed. Sir Sidney, it was, who took him on. Goodfellow had served in some menial capacity in the British Army in South Africa in a regiment where Sir Sidney was an officer.”
“The Seventeenth Lancers?”
“That’s correct. Prince George, Duke of Cambridge’s Own. A very smart company they were. There has been a soldier in most of the generations of the Truelove family. The old master played a bold part in the South African war against the Boers but bought himself out immediately afterwards, not wishing to go on with them to India which was to be the regiment’s next posting. He had a young wife and a family here in Suffolk by then and there was much to be done on the estate. Some five years later—1905, would that have been?—Mr. Goodfellow turned up at the Hall, seeking work. A man down on his luck would be sure of a favourable reception from Sir Sidney and a man who had fought alongside was welcomed with generosity. He was given a part time post out in the woods, where he claimed he was happiest. He declares that the noise and fury of war—along with the bullet wound he claims to have picked up—rendered him unfit for a normal occupation among his fellow men or their close society.”