stretched away beneath their feet. A number of dusty statues on plinths stood desultorily about, while a massive, carved Jacobean oak staircase climbed wearily up to the house's upper floors, sagging slightly as if the effort was too much for it. Which, in some places, it evidently was. Jane spotted, beneath the treads nearest the hall floor, several piles of books that were evidently supporting the whole structure. She had no doubt that some of them were first editions, grabbed haphazardly from the Mullions library.
Adding to the atmosphere of weight and weariness were the Ancestors — Tally's name for the collection of heavily-
92
framed oil portraits whose subjects' red-tinged nostrils identified them as Venery forebears. Two loomed from each of three walls, and another four accompanied climbers of the staircase up to yet more portraits in the Long Gallery on the next floor. There was, in fact, scarcely anywhere one could go in Mullions without contemplating the snub-nosed, thin-lipped visage of a long-dead member of the family. The Venerys as a dynasty had cornered the market in bold, unsmiling poses centuries before the likes of Conal O'Shaughnessy had smouldered on to the scene.
Suddenly, a terrifyingly loud and utterly anguished scream from upstairs shattered the brooding silence of the hall. Bits of plaster started to drift down like snowflakes. Jane's hand leapt to her throat as she stumbled towards Tally in terror. It sounded as if someone was being disembowelled, dying in childbirth and being burnt at the stake simultaneously.
Tally, however, looked oddly calm. Bored, even. 'Mummy, doing her primal screaming,' she explained, rolling her eyes in exasperation. 'She does it every lunch-time. It helps expel the tensions of the morning, apparently. But it doesn't do much for the roof.'
As the frantic beating of her heart subsided, Jane raised her trembling vision to the painted ceiling far up in the gloom above. Painted in the Italian Renaissance style by a pupil of Verrio, the ceiling's once-writhing congregation of plump gods and goddesses was indeed looking distinctly patchy.
'Only this week, Triton lost his trident and both wheels of Phoebus's chariot peeled off,' sighed Tally. 'Nymphs and shepherds are coming away all the time. It's falling apart up there. You can barely walk across the floor without causing some disaster among the deities.'
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Jane shot a speculative glance at a wobbly-looking piece of the egg-and-dart moulding which seemed about to detach itself from the frieze which ran round the walls below the painting. One more shriek of Julias might easily result in its leaping for freedom.
'Primal screaming?' Jane struggled with the concept of the former steely lady of the manor bawling her head off. Almost as amazing was the fact that it was before Lunch. The Julia of old rarely stirred from bed before two.
'Yes, it's ghastly/ Tally said. 'The Ancestors are horrified,' she added, waving a long white hand in the direction of the portraits.
'They look it,' said Jane. And there did seem to be a certain, barely perceptible, alteration in their faces. Each painted eyeball, previously passive, now bulged slightly with what might have been horror, and each formerly straight, tight mouth had acquired a definite downward turn.
'Yes, the Ancestors are very shocked,' Tally said sadly. 'The ones in here are appalled enough, but the ones in the Long Gallery practically need counselling. They're nearer to the noise, you see. And it's not just the screaming that's upsetting them. Mummy's been round the whole of Mullions feng shui-ing it, and decided the chandelier in the drawing room was covered in bad chi.'
Jane stared. 'Still, I suppose Mrs Ormondroyd doesn't handle a duster like she used to,' she said.
Tally looked at her sternly. 'Really, Jane, this isn't all some huge joke, you know,' she said. 'Believe me, there's nothing funny about it.'
Jane determinedly turned down her irrepressibly curving
Adding to the atmosphere of weight and weariness were the Ancestors — Tally's name for the collection of heavily-
92
framed oil portraits whose subjects' red-tinged nostrils identified them as Venery forebears. Two loomed from each of three walls, and another four accompanied climbers of the staircase up to yet more portraits in the Long Gallery on the next floor. There was, in fact, scarcely anywhere one could go in Mullions without contemplating the snub-nosed, thin-lipped visage of a long-dead member of the family. The Venerys as a dynasty had cornered the market in bold, unsmiling poses centuries before the likes of Conal O'Shaughnessy had smouldered on to the scene.
Suddenly, a terrifyingly loud and utterly anguished scream from upstairs shattered the brooding silence of the hall. Bits of plaster started to drift down like snowflakes. Jane's hand leapt to her throat as she stumbled towards Tally in terror. It sounded as if someone was being disembowelled, dying in childbirth and being burnt at the stake simultaneously.
Tally, however, looked oddly calm. Bored, even. 'Mummy, doing her primal screaming,' she explained, rolling her eyes in exasperation. 'She does it every lunch-time. It helps expel the tensions of the morning, apparently. But it doesn't do much for the roof.'
As the frantic beating of her heart subsided, Jane raised her trembling vision to the painted ceiling far up in the gloom above. Painted in the Italian Renaissance style by a pupil of Verrio, the ceiling's once-writhing congregation of plump gods and goddesses was indeed looking distinctly patchy.
'Only this week, Triton lost his trident and both wheels of Phoebus's chariot peeled off,' sighed Tally. 'Nymphs and shepherds are coming away all the time. It's falling apart up there. You can barely walk across the floor without causing some disaster among the deities.'
93
Jane shot a speculative glance at a wobbly-looking piece of the egg-and-dart moulding which seemed about to detach itself from the frieze which ran round the walls below the painting. One more shriek of Julias might easily result in its leaping for freedom.
'Primal screaming?' Jane struggled with the concept of the former steely lady of the manor bawling her head off. Almost as amazing was the fact that it was before Lunch. The Julia of old rarely stirred from bed before two.
'Yes, it's ghastly/ Tally said. 'The Ancestors are horrified,' she added, waving a long white hand in the direction of the portraits.
'They look it,' said Jane. And there did seem to be a certain, barely perceptible, alteration in their faces. Each painted eyeball, previously passive, now bulged slightly with what might have been horror, and each formerly straight, tight mouth had acquired a definite downward turn.
'Yes, the Ancestors are very shocked,' Tally said sadly. 'The ones in here are appalled enough, but the ones in the Long Gallery practically need counselling. They're nearer to the noise, you see. And it's not just the screaming that's upsetting them. Mummy's been round the whole of Mullions feng shui-ing it, and decided the chandelier in the drawing room was covered in bad chi.'
Jane stared. 'Still, I suppose Mrs Ormondroyd doesn't handle a duster like she used to,' she said.
Tally looked at her sternly. 'Really, Jane, this isn't all some huge joke, you know,' she said. 'Believe me, there's nothing funny about it.'
Jane determinedly turned down her irrepressibly curving
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