Page 61 of One More Christmas at the Castle
I carried on up the stairs, thinking that Henry and I were, as usual on our assignments, quickly falling into a routine.
I could see a pattern forming in our relationships with our employer, too. My exchanges with her while delivering her breakfast appeared to be the extent of mine and I suspected that anything more I needed to know would be relayed via Henry, who seemed more in favour.
That suited me fine. I’ve always preferred keeping in the background when I can, whereas Henry is much more socially adept and good with people.
This morning I found Mrs Powys sitting up in bed reading a novel with a very retro cover, of the vintage murder mystery type, which she laid down when I wished her good morning and placed the tray over her knees.
‘There is a scattering of snow, Mrs Powys, but Henry said the roads were clear.’
‘Good – I need to go out later this morning, though I’ll be back for lunch.’
She paused, contemplating her tray and presumably finding no fault with it, for she added instead, ‘I must speak to Henry about the Christmas decorations, which are stored in one of the attics, though they don’t go up until late next week. The evergreen garlands, too … and the gifts for the guests. I’m recording an early session with Xan after breakfast and then I’ll ring for Henry to come to the library after that.’
‘I’ll let him know,’ I said.
On my way back, I looked into the morning room andfound Lucy there, eating toast and marmalade. She said dear, kind Henry had brought her a pot of tea and how nice it was not to have to worry about going out into the snow this morning.
I left her to it and went along the passage to the kitchen, where I was met by the delicious smell of bacon.
Henry was trying to persuade Xan to try the strange pink tea in his glass pot, where a drowned Ophelia of a hibiscus flower floated.
‘I don’t really think it goes with bacon,’ Xan objected dubiously. ‘Maybe I’ll stick to coffee. Shall I make you one too, Dido?’
Plum, who had looked up at my entrance, a long bacon rind dangling from one corner of his mouth, swallowed it in a gulp and came to greet me, tail flapping as if it had a separate life of its own.
‘Please,’ I said, sitting down as Henry fetched a plate and set it in front of me.
‘I only just managed to stop Xan eating yours too,’ he said, and I saw Xan grin.
‘I suspect it was the other way round. I popped in just now to see if Lucy was OK, and she said dear, kind Henry had made her tea with his own fair hands.’
‘I did and you’d have thought I’d brought her the Elixir of Life,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what she does with herself when she isn’t in the village with her friend Daphne,’ Xan said. ‘She’s not called on to be any kind of companion to Sabine, who seems to like her space better than her presence. I feel quite sorry for her.’
‘Oh, I think she’s happy enough left to her own devices,’ Henry said cheerfully. ‘I’ve found two large empty chocolate boxes in her bedroom wastepaper basket already, when makingher bed and tidying up. And there’s stacks of steamy historical novels in her room, too. The covers are all very similar – pictures of muscular men – though I’m sure the one on top of the pile yesterday had too many ribs.’
‘Each to their own form of escapism,’ I said, then told him that Mrs Powys wanted to see him in the library after she’d recorded another session with Xan.
‘There was something about telling you where the decorations were stored – though I don’t know why she couldn’t tell me that – but mainly I think she wants your input on what Christmas gifts to get for her guests.’
Henry fished out a battered sheet of paper from his tunic pocket and unfolded it.
‘Luckily, I’ve been thinking about that and made a copy of the guest list. Xan helped me get a rough idea of everyone’s ages.’
He read out: ‘Lucy, of course, who is around fifty …’
‘I think she’s always been around fifty,’ Xan put in dispassionately. ‘I’ve only occasionally met her in the past, but she looked much the same as she does now. It was a surprise when Sabine told me she’d been her boss’s mistress for years.’
‘Really? Perhaps she was quite cute when she was younger,’ I said charitably. ‘Go on, Henry – I take it you’ve added Xan?’
‘Yes, he’s thirty-seven, the poor old thing.’
‘Well aged, like a good wine,’ Xan said.
Henry ignored this. ‘Mrs Powys always buys her friend Nancy a bottle of Penhaligon’s Bluebell perfume, I know that. There’s Lucy’s brother, Nigel, who is a year or two older than she is; Mr and Mrs Melling, who are sixty-ish; and their son, Dominic, who’s in his early thirties …’
His finger moved down the list. ‘Oh, yes, there’s the solicitor, Mr Makepeace, too – I think he’s ancient. And his granddaughter, Mrs Martin, who’s probably about our age.’
