“He climbed on and I haven’t been able to get him to budge.” She aimed a fierce look at me through glasses that were way too big for her face.
“I’ll take him,” I offered.
“He can stay if he goes on behaving himself. When he’s still, he’s like a hot-water bottle. And I think he’s picked up on the fact that I don’t put up with any nonsense. Who’s this?” She pointed a finger at Mrs. Malloy.
“Got a mouth, haven’t you?” Mrs. Malloy operates on the theory that children won’t get the upper hand if you don’t let them get taller than you, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that her ridiculous heels keep getting higher.
Having enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair in the room, she patted the purple crown of rollers and smiled complacently down at her feet.
“I know someone who wears stupid shoes like those.” The cocoa mustache Ariel now wore did nothing to diminish her hauteur. I pitied Tom and Betty, being stuck with the job of preventing her from alienating entire populations at a time. Would they offer Ben and me a substantial bribe to keep her?
“Ariel,” I said firmly, “I need to phone your parents.”
“Betty’s not-”
“Never mind that.”
“Can’t it wait until I’ve told you everything?” She swallowed a mouthful of chocolate cake.
“Has either of them been mistreating you?”
“They won’t let me have a TV in my room.”
“That doesn’t count. Give me the phone number.”
“There’s no need. I’m not the usual fussed-over child. They won’t check up on me at my friend’s house. They’re not that sort. Maybe if I had a real mother it would be different.”
Impervious to this tugging at the heartstrings, Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “I’ll make the call if you like, Mrs. H; that way it can be kept short and simple. The child’s here safe and sound, and you’ll ring them when you’ve got her story. Give me your phone number, young lady.”
I was grateful for this intervention; it seemed to be in the cards that Tom or Betty would blame me for this escapade, either because I had sent those parcels of books or because I happened to be living and breathing somewhere in England. Ariel mumbled her number, and before she had finished glowering at me, Mrs. Malloy returned to report she had met with incoherence from Betty, in the midst of which the phone had been handed to Tom, who’d added a couple of snorts to the dialogue.
“I expect they’ll have a row deciding what to do with me.” Ariel smirked. “Why have you only got one eyebrow?” she demanded of Mrs. Malloy.
“Because I was in the middle of taking off me makeup when your arrival brung me downstairs.”
“I thought it might be the first sign of some horrible pestilence.”
Mrs. Malloy resumed her seat with a thump sufficient to send a purple roller flying off her head. “Enough chitchat, Miss Rude Face. What brings you here?”
“To talk to Ellie.” Ariel tossed back her sandy plaits. “Last night in bed it came to me she’s the ideal person to help me sort out what’s been going on.”
“And what’s that?” Displaying interest, I leaned forward in my chair.
“Finding myself living in a gothic novel. It all started when Dad won the lottery six months ago and Betty insisted on moving to Yorkshire. Their friends-Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds; I can’t stand them-had gone there to live, and they raved about this grand house not far from them, with parts that date back to Elizabethan times. They thought Dad 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 on or 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 tripped over something left on the stairs. But the next morning she acted really nervous and said he’d woken from a bad dream and had been imagining things. I heard her talking to Betty, and it was clear she wasn’t herself.”
“A sprained ankle’s no fun,” I pointed out.
“I know that. And Mrs. Cake hates having to sit in her chair with her foot up, unable to do more than shell peas and watch Betty let the saucepans boil over. But I’m telling you, there was more to it.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I think someone was moving around that night up in the part of the west wing where the indoor servants slept in the days when there were lots of them. Now there’s just Mrs. Cake, in the room closest to the stairs leading down to the kitchen.” Ariel adjusted her specs. Only the wind and rain attempted to interrupt her. “I think it was a real live person up there, the one who wants us out of Withering… Cragstone. Betty thinks it was Mr. Gallagher’s ghost and Mrs. Cake was afraid to say so in case it made her sound loopy, but the next morning decided it might make more of an uproar if it was thought there had been an intruder.”