Page 11 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

The nearest one, in the pink dress of a kitchen-maid, turned to her, and Dory recognised her. Ida, wasn’t that her name? ‘It’s Mrs Oxlea,’ she said. ‘She’s shut herself in her room and won’t come out.’

‘Drunk again,’ said one of the housemaids.

‘She’s not drunk,’ Ida said angrily. ‘Don’t you go spreading lies, Doris Clavering. She’s very upset. Crying fit to bust.’

‘What about?’ Dory asked.

‘His lordship, of course,’ said Ida.

Dory thought it was good that someone was weeping for his lordship. ‘Why don’t you just leave her alone?’ she asked.

‘Because they’ll be back any minute,’ Ida said.

‘There’s the meal, you see,’ Doris elucidated. ‘They’ll all expect to be eating and drinking and nothing’s been done.’

A wave of chattering broke out as everyone gave their own version of the situation, but it ceased abruptly as James appeared, thrusting his way through them imperiously. ‘What’s all this? You sound like a yard full of hens!’ When the situation was explained to him, he took Ida by her shoulder in a grip Dory could see must hurt. Ida was the senior kitchen-maid, and in a few sharp questions he had found out what needed to be done. Dory didn’t like him, but could only admire. The food was all ready in the kitchen – a cold buffet, apart from the soup. He despatched Ida and Brigid to heat it up, and sent everyone else to carry things upstairs, delegating William to supervise down here while he took the third footman, Cyril, with him upstairs to see it was all laid out suitably on the buffet. ‘And hurry it up!’ he goaded them, as effectively as a touch of the whip. Finding Dory just behind him he grabbed her – yes, that grip did hurt! – and said, ‘Go and find Mr Moss, tell him he should be here. They’ll be here any minute and they’ll want something to drink. Come and tell me when you’ve found him – I’ll need you for messages.’

‘What about Mrs Oxlea?’

His lip curled. ‘We don’t need her. Leave her to stew. Look lively, girl!’

She found Mr Moss in the butler’s room. He was sitting in a collapsed way in his armchair, with a glass of wine in his hand, which he was holding up in front of a candle flame. He didn’t look surprised to see her when she came in. He seemed, she thought, slightly dazed – or slightly foxed. ‘It was his favourite claret, the Talbot,’ he said lugubriously, swirling the wine in the glass. ‘Her ladyship didn’t know. Wanted me to serve a Margaux. Said our guests wouldn’t know any different. But he’d know. He wasn’t fond of the Margaux. Said it was too soft. And it’s his funeral – it should be his choice. I told her, “it’s what he’d want, my lady,” I said.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dory said soothingly, ‘and what a good thing he has you to look out for him. But they’ll be back any minute, Mr Moss, and won’t the bottles have to be opened and ready for them?’

‘They’re open and breathing,’ he said. ‘D’you think I don’t know what’s what?’ He looked up at her blearily. ‘Who are you?’

‘The sewing-maid, Mr Moss. Dory. Only Mrs Oxlea’s not well, and nothing was ready, and James said you ought to be out there. He’s getting things taken up, but—’

Moss heaved himself to his feet, his face contracting with either alarm or annoyance, possibly both. He swayed, and then was steady. If he was drunk, Dory thought, he could handle it. ‘It’s not his job to order things, or send me messages. You go and tell him that! I shall take control, and I shall have everything ready and waiting when they arrive. The very idea! His lordship would turn in his grave if he thought I needed a footman to tell me my duty!’

He went on muttering, but he was on the move, and in the right direction, so she ran the other way and up the back stairs to find James. He was directing activities, like a conductor with a large orchestra, and the cold feast was taking shape on the long white-clothed table at the end of the great hall. He received her message impassively, hardly seeming to see her. ‘Run down and find William, tell him to help Mr Moss bring up the bottles to the anteroom. And find Mrs Webster and tell her we’ll need bowls for the soup, and napkins. She’ll know which ones. Run!’

Dory ran, and found Mrs Webster in the china room loading housemaids’ trays with bowls. She received James’s message with a quick frown, but only said, ‘The bowls are coming, as you see. And Rose is getting the napkins. He takes too much on himself,’ she added, almost under her breath. She seemed to register Dory for the first time. ‘Run to the nap-closet and help Rose.’

Dory obeyed, thinking that if James hadn’t taken too much on himself, there might have been an unpleasantness. She didn’t like him, but she liked him more when he was too busy to look at her in that undressing way, or make sly remarks.

Funeral baked meats. The words arrived unbidden in Giles’s head, and he thought what an odd idea it was. Was it the Irish who laid out a feast on the chest of the corpse and summoned the sin-eater to consume the food and the departed’s sins with it? He had eaten nothing all day, but the idea of food sickened him. A buffet had been laid out, of cold meats, rolls and cakes, such fruit as could be mustered in mid-winter, and wine and port to drink. Giles thought, after the cold graveside, many would have preferred hot tea. Then a wheeled trolley made its appearance, with a great tureen of steaming soup on it, and he tipped a mental hat to the cook, or whoever had thought of it.

Moss appeared at his elbow. ‘Mr Moresby is here, my lord, in the library.’

‘Moresby?’

‘Of Moresby, Tuke and Moresby, my lord, solicitors.’

‘Oh,’ said Giles. ‘The reading of the will.’

‘Mr Moresby specifically requested to speak to you first, my lord, alone. As a matter of urgency.’

‘Very well, I’ll come.’

Moss made his stately way out (he seemed more stately than ever today, almost as if he wasn’t sure of his footing) and Giles followed him, trying to do it unobtrusively. The two dogs got up and attached themselves to his shadow, and he heard their nails clicking on the marble floor. It was a comforting noise, like a clock ticking in the background.

The footmen, James and William, presiding at the buffet table, followed him with their eyes, and James slewed his lips sideways at William and muttered, without moving them, ‘That’s trouble!’

Moresby was a handsome man in his forties, with black hair going grey all over, like a badger, and a bushy moustache. His eyes were blue and intelligent and his gaze was direct, a little assessing. Giles liked the look of him, and offered his hand, and Moresby shook it with an air of faint surprise, as though he had not expected to be received so affably.

‘Moresby, Tuke and Moresby,’ Giles said. ‘Which Moresby are you?’