Page 79 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘Looking for your hat brush, Mr Crooks?’ said James. Crooks, on his knees searching yet again every crevice of the valets’ room, looked up with a face so creased by anxiety he resembled, James thought, one of those bulldogs.

James waggled the brush in his hand from side to side enticingly.

Crooks scrambled with difficulty to his feet. James darted forward and seized his elbow to steady him. ‘Here, here, don’t go damaging yourself. You’re not as young as you were.’

Crooks ignored his words, his hands snatching the air for his precious brush. ‘Where did you find it? I’ve looked everywhere for it,’ he cried.

‘It was on the shelf in the boot-room,’ James said, relinquishing it. ‘Right next to your special tin of boot-black.’

‘It couldn’t have been!’ Crooks wailed, taking possession and examining it tenderly for damage.

‘You must’ve got confused,’ James said kindly. ‘Mixed it up with one of your shoe brushes. It’s easily done.’

‘It is not! I’ve never done such a thing in my life! Besides, I looked in the boot-room this morning and it wasn’t there.’

James shrugged. ‘Well, that’s where I found it. You couldn’t have looked properly. I expect you’re upset about Mr Richard – we all are.’

‘I know perfectly well I didn’t leave this brush in there,’ Crooks said hotly. ‘Someone must have taken it.’

‘Now, who’d want to touch your old brush?’ James said jovially. He patted Crooks on the shoulder. ‘Reckon you’re getting too old for this game, Crooky.’ He strolled out.

Crooks’s anguished voice followed him: ‘Don’t call me that!’

Richard drifted up again, this time with a sense of long absence. He opened his eyes cautiously and found to his relief that his head did not hurt much, though a slight movement told him most of his body still did. The ceiling above him – not his ceiling at the Castle or at Aunt Caroline’s. The bed – certainly not one he remembered ever gracing. Without moving his head, he could just see to his right a window with voile curtains and heavy velvet drapes, and in front of it a dressing-table with a three-wing mirror and a plethora of bottles and boxes on it – a lady’s dressing-table. Oh, Lord, now what have I done? But he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember anything.

There was movement, a shape came into his vision, a hand wiped a cool, damp cloth over his face, not tenderly, but firmly and with skill. A nurse? Then a hand slid under his head to lift it slightly and a cup was put to his lips. He drank eagerly. His head was restored to the pillow, and he saw his grandmother standing by the bed.

‘Grandmère?’ he croaked. ‘Am I ill?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ she asked.

‘I … No. Was I drunk? I feel as if I was. But I’ve never been in this bed before.’ He tried to sit up, felt a lance of pain, and realised his left forearm was in a plaster cast and strapped immobile to his chest. ‘What’s happened to me?’

‘You were in a motor-car,’ Grandmère said. ‘You drove into a tree. You were lucky you did not kill yourself, or anyone else.’

‘I don’t remember a motor-car,’ he said. ‘Whose was it? How bad am I?’ She didn’t answer at once, and he went on peevishly, ‘Why so stern? Shouldn’t you be tender and loving when I’m hurt?’

‘You are a bad, foolish boy,’ she said, seating herself in the chair beside the bed. ‘The policeman said you were driving much too fast down Richmond Hill, endangering the lives of all around. You are to be charged with reckless driving, when you are well enough to go to court. A Tallant in court! You have brought disgrace on the family. And only by a miracle were those other young men not hurt, or anyone else. Think if you had struck a pedestrian – a child, perhaps.’

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Richmond? I remember something about Richmond.’ He screwed up his eyes, but it wouldn’t come. ‘What other young men?’

‘A Mr Keenswell and a Captain Bracegirdle,’ said Grandmère. ‘They were unharmed, but you might have killed them.’

Richard groaned. ‘I’m remembering now … something about an outing. To Richmond. They’d borrowed a car. But I don’t remember driving it. Or crashing.’

‘That will be the blow on the head,’ she said. ‘The concussion, the doctor calls it. He said you might not remember the accident.’

‘But I wasn’t drunk, I promise you,’ Richard said. ‘Something must have gone wrong with the motor-car. The brakes failed, or the steering.’

She looked grim. ‘The policeman on Richmond Hill said you were all laughing – “like hyenas” – as you passed him, and shouted something discourteous when he warned you to slow down.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Richard said. ‘I can’t defend myself, can I, when I don’t remember?’ he said sulkily. She raised an eyebrow, and he hurried on: ‘What’s wrong with my arm?’

‘You have broken your arm and your shoulder. Many bruises. A sprained foot. And the blow to the head, where you were flung out and hit the tree. Fortunately for you, the family living in the house across the road are decent people and took you in. Their gardener and his boy carried you up here and their daughter gave up her bedroom. They called in the doctor, and have been looking after you most kindly, since the doctor said you must not be moved until you regained consciousness. You owe them a great debt. We all do.’

‘I’ll be sure to thank them,’ he said. ‘But how come you’re here at my bedside? I’d have thought Mama or Aunt Caroline …’

‘They have been here. Giles, too. But they all have things to do, so I am taking a turn.’ She registered his puzzled expression, and said, ‘You have been unconscious for four days, stupid boy. Today is Thursday.’