Free Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell

surviving sister, Violet, lives in America and will never return. Once colonized they can never readjust to our plumbing.”
    A delicious quiver of excitement trickled down my spine. “What charming—perfumey—names you all have.” (Violet. Devon violet paper!)
    “How very dear of you! Yes, our mother adored flowers. And how fortunate we were all girls. There were four of us, you know. Lily was the one who died.”
    The trickle turned to ice. Which was stupid: Lily could have been six months or eighty when she passed away. I opened my mouth to say, “I’m sorry, was she ...” but Primrose was twittering on. A rise of stone appeared beyond a clustering of elm.
    “Not a word to Hyacinth, but I will tell you, primroses were always Mother’s absolute favourite flower. Here we are—a few more yards, and do be careful of those two steps at the gate. Down the garden path we go. Cloisters, you notice, has only a modest front lawn these days. People just don’t go in for the lodge keeper at the gates anymore.”
    She may have rambled on. I wasn’t listening. The lawn did look as though it had been cut from too skimpy a piece of green cloth, but the house was positively splendid. It actually belonged in one of those Regency novels and I fell instantly, madly, passionately in love with it. Built of Cotswold stone, somewhere between Jersey cream and warm custard, its gabled roof had faded to a pigeon grey, blushed with the faintest hint of rose. Ivy traced the walls in a delicate mesh of twine and leaves. A stone trelliswork decorated the pinnacles, and an arched jade and lavender stained-glass window flamed above the triple-arched portico.
    The door should have been opened by a superbly aloof butler, but Primrose let us in herself. We were in a vast hall, and my eyes lit on a topsy-turvy grouping of Wellington boots in one corner, a plate of dog biscuits tucked under a table, and a stack of hot water bottles sitting on a chair. The fantasy faded, but this was even better. Real people lived in this unreal house. No everyday clutter could disperse the antiquity wafting in the air. Ancestors in gloomy oils scowled down upon us from the wainscotted walls. Angus Hunt would have scowled back at them. But would the first Tessa be among them? The Reverend Snapper had said the family had moved into this house when she was a young woman.
    We were standing at the foot of a magnificent dark-oak staircase, which owed its rich mellow sheen more to age than to Johnson’s lavender wax. Fergy would have said that the place looked like it hadn’t smelled a polishing cloth since World War I. She would also have taken exception to the way the faded Persian rug lay sprawled unevenly across the floor, but she would have termed the general air of shabbiness “proper classy.” To Fergy, anyone reduced to buying furniture hadn’t come from much.
    “Home Sweet Home,” chirped Primrose. On her last word a nearly invisible door in the oak panelling sprang open, releasing the ugliest, most rabid-looking canine (of bulldog extraction) I have ever seen. With one fell, ear-splitting swoop it came yelping and slithering across the floor, juicy fat tongue lolling, yellow eyes bulging in what I desperately hoped was a near-sighted glare. No such luck. It was making directly for my legs. Would he—she—bury the bones under the sofa? Terror had me dodging behind Primrose’s back, clutching her breathlessly and whispering “nice doggie” over her shoulder. Incredible! The creature fell back and lay spread-eagled, flattened, pretending to be dead. The peculiar angle of the Persian rug was now explained.
    “Good girl! Sweetie baby,” purred Miss Tramwell, beaming down fondly at the canine monstrosity. “Minerva dearest, sit up and offer our guest a paw. That’s the way.”
    I timorously accepted Minerva’s overture, trying to ignore the hungry look in those yellow eyes as she sniffed my hand.
    “Now, Minnie, this is Miss ...” murmured Primrose.