Free Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Page B

being an only dog you have never learned to share. I will ring for Butler and have him bring us another cup.” She did so, but repeated jangling of the bell rope failed to bring the sound of hurrying footsteps. A shame, because a butler named Butler was something I very much wanted to see. Primrose went to fetch another cup.
    Picking up a Royal Doulton cup and setting it in a Woolworth’s saucer, Hyacinth poured a tepid trickle from the silver spout. “You must take some refreshment,” she insisted, “and then we can talk about your situation. Do you take milk and sugar?”
    I opened my mouth, then closed it. Hyacinth’s lips, orange to match her dress, lifted into a half-smile. “Forgive me. How about milk no sugar?”
    I would rather drink poison than sugar in my tea. “Thank you,” I sighed as Primrose came back through the door.
    “Odd,” she said. “Butler is nowhere to be found, and this is Chantal’s day off.” She turned to me. “Our maid—of gypsy blood and a wonderful worker, when she’s here. Takes two days off every week; but they do hate to be cooped up, don’t they? And Nurse Krumpet did warn us that being too strict with the girl might be a mistake; possibly even dangerous. By the way, Hyacinth, Nurse’s boy Bertie was in the walk, and I sent him to fetch her.”
    “Splendid!” approved her sister. “Fortunate that boys are such a ubiquitous breed. A pity the same cannot be said of Butler; ah! I hear him.” Hyacinth’s dangling earrings bobbed against her long neck like Egyptian mummies. I was looking at the door until I noticed that she and her sister were gazing at the fireplace.
    The next moment I was half rising from my seat, spilling tea in a sickening warm slither down my legs. A huge, right-hand section of the fireplace was caving in on us. Hyacinth handed me a serviette to wipe myself dry as Primrose stood up.
    “Most irritating,” she said. “Hyacinth, that catch has stuck again. We should have had someone in to fix it, but working on priest holes is another lost art. Excuse me, my dear.” She moved in front of me and, reaching forward, pressed a stone in the lurching cliff. Slowly it creaked outward, displaying a murky cavity within. “All right, Butler, I have released the spring. You may come out.”
    A flicker of golden light and that classic figure of upper-crust British life emerged, candle held aloft. At the moment he bore a striking resemblance to another musical comedy breed, the chimney sweep, but his aplomb was magnificent. Blowing out the candle, he set it down on a pie-crust table.
    “Pardon me, mesdames, it would seem I have rather lost track of time. Tut! And you having to serve your own tea! With a guest and all! May I be permitted to make up for my shocking lapse by fetching you fresh tea and a plate of your favourite fish-paste sandwiches?”
    Hyacinth winced as his grimy hands shot forward to pick up the tray. “Do not touch a thing! What can have occupied you so long in the priest hole?”
    “It had come to me, madame, in the pursuit of my domestic round, that your late govenor’s—that is, your h’esteemed parent’s—bottles of brandy might benefit from a dab with the duster.”
    Hyacinth sniffed, apparently unimpressed by her hireling’s zest for work. “I trust you have not been polishing them off in more ways than one.”
    Butler’s expression became, if possible, more imperious and inscrutable under reprimand. So far he had not accorded me more than a cursory glance, but I got the oddest feeling that if faced with a thirty-second quiz, he could have named my shoe size, the date I had my ears pierced, where I spent my last summer holiday, and the name of my perfume.
    “Will the young person be remaining for the h’evening repast, mesdames?” he enquired. “Tonight, being Monday, it should be baked beans on toast, but for something a little more festive I could top that off with a poached h’egg. Chantal did inform me she will not be