Unaware of the housekeeper’s angst, Trudy and Clement made their way through a sudden spell of welcome sunshine towards a tall, mellowing red-brick wall that Clement guessed might provide the shelter for the kitchen gardens.
Passing through a small archway, upon which climbed a splendid clematis that was just beginning to leaf, he caught sight, off to the left, of the square walls and grey-slated roof of a smaller house. It looked very much like a miniature replica of the Hall itself, and catching sight of it too, Trudy frowned at it thoughtfully.
Seeing her notice it, Clement smiled. ‘The dower house, no doubt,’ he said.
Trudy frowned. ‘What’s a dower house?’
‘In the old days, the lord of the manor’s wife ruled the household,’ Clement explained. ‘But when their eldest son married, the new lady of the manor and the mother-in-law didn’t always hit it off. So it became a tradition, when the old lord of the manor died, that his widow – or dowager – would move out into an establishment of her own. Usually, like the case here’ – he nodded towards the house – ‘into a smaller version of the big house itself. She’d take her own staff and maids and what have you with her, and still have a home of her own where she could continue to rule the roost, leaving her daughter-in-law – the new lady of the manor – in possession of the main residence.’
‘Oh,’ Trudy said. Then couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’ll bet that wasn’t always done with much grace,’ she muttered, making her friend laugh.
‘I don’t suppose it was,’ Clement agreed.
They stepped through into the high-walled kitchen garden and looked around with pleasure. It reminded Trudy a bit of her dad’s allotment, only on a much larger and more ornamental scale.
A tall, rather shambling man, with longish brown hair and a weather-beaten face was slowly and carefully training some pear tree saplings to grow along a south-facing wall. He glanced at them with vague curiosity as they stepped through the arch, but it was an older man, almost certainly the head gardener, who approached them first.
He’d been checking under some old galvanised tin tubs to see how the forced rhubarb was getting on, and now he rubbed his hands against the thighs of his not particularly clean trousers as he welcomed them. He had a shock of thick white hair and thick white bushy eyebrows over pale-blue eyes, and was already acquiring a tan, even so early in the season. It had the effect of making the crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes appear whiter than they should.
‘Hello, sir, er… madam,’ he said, clearly not sure how to address either one of them. ‘Was you wantin’ someone from the house?’ Clearly strangers in the gardens were not a common occurrence.
‘Not really,’ Clement said, introducing himself and his companion. ‘We’re here because Mr Martin de Lacey has asked us to look into the circumstances surrounding Eddie Proctor’s accident.’
Instantly, the old man’s face fell. ‘Ar, that was a bad business, that was. Mr de Lacey is getting workmen in to fill up the old well.’
Clement nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s a good thing. With the boy’s father continuing to work here and all. Do you know Mr Proctor well, Mr… er…?’
‘Oh, Cricklade sir, Leonard Cricklade. I’m the head gardener here. But that old well came under the jurisdiction, strictly speaking, of the estate manager…’
Clement held his hands up quickly. ‘Oh, we’re not here to apportion blame, or cast any stones, Mr Cricklade. I was the coroner at the boy’s inquest, and I’m satisfied that the organisers of the event made it clear that the children were to stay within these walls.’ As he spoke, he glanced around at the large, walled-in garden with pleasure. ‘I’ve now talked to several of the children who were here that morning, and none of them were aware that Eddie had wandered off.’
‘No doubt he’d still be alive now if he’d stayed put,’ the old man agreed heavily, and joined Clement in glancing around at his domain.
Among the compost heaps, bean poles, various sheds and rows of well-tended vegetables and odd flowerbeds the coroner could well see that any amount of small eggs could have been hidden in this haven.
‘Did you notice the boy leave the garden that morning? And if you did, was he with anyone?’ Trudy asked hopefully, but the old man quickly shook his head.
‘No, weren’t working that day, see, seeing as it was Easter Sunday and all. Me and the missus were in chapel. Methodists, see. We had gone into Oxford.’
‘Of course,’ Trudy murmured. ‘So it was only the organisers of the hunt who were here. None of the family came to watch, for instance?’ she probed delicately.
‘Don’t think so. Well, Miss Emily and Master George would have been here, like, searching for the eggs along with the rest of the village kiddies. But none of the adults from up at the Hall, I shouldn’t think. Mr de Lacey, he don’t mind doing his bit for the village – letting the fete committee have run of the lower paddock and such. But he’s not much of a one for interferin’ like. He says he’d only get under people’s feet.’
Clement hid a smile. He could well understand why Martin de Lacey would prefer to avoid bucolic village festivities in favour of a drink at his club.
‘What about those in the dower house?’ Trudy asked. ‘Are there any de Laceys currently living there now? Might they have seen anything do you suppose?’
‘Mr Oliver de Lacey and his mother live there. Have done many years since. No, they wouldn’t have been present. Mr Oliver is a bachelor still, and so a’course don’t have no kiddies of his own. His mother is a widow – she was married to Mr Clive, the younger brother of Mr Martin de Lacey’s father. I think she was probably in town anyway. She prefers to spend holidays and such in London with friends and her own family.’
‘Oh I see,’ Trudy said. Well, so much for any potential witnesses within the de Lacey family.
‘We will be talking to the members of the WI and the other organisers involved in the Easter egg hunt soon,’ Clement said smoothly. ‘But can you think of anyone else who might have been here at the time? Maybe one of your gardener’s boys for instance,’ Clement said, nodding towards the man expertly training the pear trees. Although he was nearing his forties, no doubt the head gardener thought of him as one of his ‘boys’.
‘Who? Lallie? Oh no, sir. None of the lads were working. They had time off because of the holiday see, like me. Mr de Lacey is good like that. Besides, Lallie doesn’t like fuss and rumpus. He’s a bit simple-like, sir,’ he confessed, lowering his voice a little, lest the man hear them. ‘Had a bad war, see. Doesn’t like loud noises and lots of people. Mind you, he’s fond of young’uns sir, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, he wouldn’t,’ he added anxiously, lest the coroner get the wrong idea.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Clement reassured him mildly. ‘I suppose he knew the boy though?’
‘O yerse, sir, we all did, sir, and right fond of him we were too,’ the head gardener said sadly. ‘Being such a particular friend of Miss Emily and all, he was always about, the two of ’em running wild. Mind you, they didn’t do no damage. We often saw them about the place, playing hide-and-seek and cops and robbers and whatnot. And helping themselves to the fruit and all, when they come into season,’ he added, with a wry smile. ‘Young Eddie was rather fond of the golden raspberries, as I recall. I used to pretend to try and catch ’em out, but always made enough noise so they heard me coming and took off, gigglin’ like.’ Suddenly his face fell as he realised that he wouldn’t have to do that ever again.
‘Well,