Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Page B

fireplace sat up and joined Minerva under the table in devouring an unpleasant blob of pressed pink meat out of a Chinese porcelain bowl. We had a smaller one in the same silkworm pattern in our front room cabinet, and The Heritage owned a magnificent version presently on loan to the Art Institute in Chicago. Minerva snarled at the cat and it skimmed across the room to leap up a step-ladder standing beside one of the dressers.
    “Sure an’ away ‘tis a dog’s life, Minnie,” I sighed. She bared her teeth in a grunt, showing no memory of our night together. Turncoat. Amnesia must be contagious. That feeling grew when Butler, entering by a side door opening off a flight of narrow stairs, evinced no sign of embarrassment at having even jokingly made a pass at a guest of the family.
    “Good morning, miss.” Slight inclination of the head. “May I h’assume you are here to advise how you wish your h’eggs prepared?” (Butler had that tendency of the reformed “H” dropper to add them occasionally in inappropriate places.) “The ladies like theirs lightly boiled.” He gave no indication of noticing that Minnie had taken hold of one of his trouser legs and was worrying it fiercely. “On h’egg days, we always send in extra toast so they can cut it into soldiers—for dipping.”
    I was about to exclaim “That’s exactly how I like my eggs!” when I caught myself and said, “Sounds lovely, Butler.”
    He bowed again. “Very good, miss. If you care to h’adjourn to the breakfast parlour you should find the ladies already down.”
    He was easing me out of the kitchen, and resentment surged. Fergy was queen at our house so it wasn’t his august manner that bothered me but the feeling that below it lay contempt. Why? What had the Tramwells told him about my reasons for being here? I watched Minerva amble off to sit, belching, by the fireplace. If only Chantal would come in. I stalled for a little extra time.
    “I do hope I am not making a great deal of extra work for you, this is such a vast house to keep up, if I can be of help in any way—some dusting or ...”
    “You’re a guest, miss.”
    “But I wouldn’t mind, really. I like”—a slight stumble, I was about to say I liked old houses—”I like this house. It’s almost like a person.”
    “Yes, miss.” Butler’s voice had mellowed a fraction.
    “Really a very beautiful house.”
    “And a great many clocks, sixty-five until the ladies parted with one recently.”
    Now he had almost a glow about him and, puzzled, I could only say, “No excuse for anyone to ever be late, then.”
    “Certainly not, miss, so I won’t keep you.” Impassively he held open the kitchen door. “I’m very partial to clocks. They have always been rather a speciality of mine. My father ‘ad—had—a similar enthusiasm for cigarette cases and my mother—she worked on the trains—took up lighters as a hobby.”
    “A lot more interesting than stamps” was all I could think to say before Butler bowed again and I found myself out in the hall. I still hadn’t met Chantal, and I still hadn’t asked Butler what he had been doing on the second-floor landing last night. Checking for burglars, perhaps?
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Chapter 5
    One clock chimed and another one boomed and I headed hurriedly in the direction of the little old ladies. The parlour was the room in which we had eaten dinner last night. It was considerably smaller than the sitting room but with similar French windows opening on to the same view, a wide terrace set out with clay pots of wallflowers and scattered with a few deck chairs.  Beyond was a large garden reached by moss-grained steps. The lawn was shaved to a soft green plush and the flower beds were cut into a wide circle of crescents glowing with every shape and   colour   of rose   from   deepest   pink   to   apricot,   pale yellow, and champagne. Dad would love this place.
    Dear Dad. For one whole second I thought I saw him, sitting at the