Oy Yew (The Waifs of Duldred Trilogy Book 1) Page 18

  ‘I… er, please don’t move,’ said the Inspector, ‘I was hoping to speak to you all without worrying Master Jeopardine, and this is the only time when you’re all together. I’ll perch here and you can stay where you are.’

  Soon they were all sitting up, squinting at the spectacle of Miss Spindle, sitting on a box in her night robe and lace cap, intrigue on her face.

  ‘So, you’ve all heard the news of my betrothal?’ said Miss Spindle, flushed as a girl.

  ‘Yes, miss. We wish you well.’

  ‘Thank you. I can see you’re all wondering why I’m here. Inspecting has been my life. I can’t leave my post while there’s a mystery to be solved, for your sake and for Jeremi… Master Jeopardine’s. Also puzzles are a passion of mine. There’s something very pleasing about arranging all those odd-shaped pieces into a whole picture. I’ve come to you for the missing pieces. Is anyone following me yet?’

  ‘Is it about Owin, miss?’ asked Blinda.

  ‘Yes, Owin and others. Your master is not a suspicious type. I, on the other hand, have a nose for mischief. So, let me see, does anyone recall a waif called Stanly?’

  ‘I knew him,’ said Lucinda, ‘so did Alas.’

  ‘Do any of you know anything about his accident?’

  ‘We only know what Raymun told us,’ said Lucinda.

  ‘What did Raymun tell you?’

  ‘He said he was chopping wood when he heard a cry and a splash. He ran to the well, and looked in. It was the time of the long drought; the water was very low. He could just see the black water sloshing far, far down, and he could hear hollow coughing and dragging breaths. He let the bucket down quickly but the rope ran out before it even reached the water. So he ran to get help but by the time he got back with the gardener the water was all still and quiet.’

  Miss Spindle gulped. ‘That happened while I was caught up with a grief of my own,’ she looked tragically into the distance. ‘I wasn’t myself for a long while or I would have asked more questions. Was the body recovered?’

  ‘We don’t know, miss,’ said Lucinda. ‘We was kept away.’

  ‘Of course you were. Now, Owin, he was found by Alas, and quite naturally, this scared all of you, so you hatched your plan to bring it to my attention. In some ways your actions were misguided – it would have been far better to go to your master and put your trust in him, but I can’t regret what happened.’ She smiled coyly. ‘Lucinda, you are the only one to have known Owin. Can you tell me anything else about his disappearance?’

  ‘No, miss. We was told he’d growed too big for chimneys so Master sent him to the boat.’

  ‘And did that strike you as odd?’

  ‘Yes, miss. There’d been no measuring. We thought it odd but who could we tell?’

  ‘I do hope that you no longer feel that way. If there is anything, anything at all, which worries or upsets you, I want you to come to me. Do you understand?’ She looked at their uncertain faces.

  ‘Miss,’ said Alas. ‘It’s clear as day that Master is only marrying you to…’

  Oy gripped Alas’s arm. He shook his head and pressed his lips together.

  Miss Spindle looked strained. ‘You’d better go on.’

  ‘To make sure no one else gets there first,’ said Oy.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lucinda backed him up. ‘We know we shouldn’t but we’ve seen how he looks at you.’

  Miss Spindle’s smile gathered strength again. ‘What pets you are. You all look tired so I won’t keep you much longer. Reta – did anyone see the accident?’

  They muttered negatives.

  ‘Did any of you have the task of cleaning up afterwards?’

  ‘I did, miss,’ said Lizbuth.

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Nothing, miss, nothing at all. I only knows that I did it.’

  ‘Lizbuth,’ said Oy softly, ‘close your eyes. Now get the picture up, like we do with the stories.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll try.’ She closed her eyes and sat, legs crossed, slouch-shouldered, head back. ‘I’m wiping. Blood’s gone sticky, making streaks.’ Her eyes opened but they were rolled back so far that only the whites showed. ‘I got to rinse my cloths out, water goes pink and cloudy. I’m wiping. There’s something else under the blood; the floor’s slippery, greasy. I got to put more soap in. Pink in the bubbles, and the blood…,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Alright dear,’ Miss Spindle shook her shoulder, ‘come back.’ Lizbuth opened her eyes properly. ‘One more question. You’re sure that the floor was greasy?’

  ‘Yes’m. I’ve cleaned enough floors to know different types of dirt.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. Would you know who is responsible for maintaining the ladder tower?’

  ‘Raymun oils it,’ said Gritty.

  ‘Hmm. What happens to your old schedules?’

  ‘We use them to light the fire,’ said Lucinda quickly. A pile of old schedules marked with charcoal alphabets and spellings lay on the shelf under the bells. Fortunately Miss Spindle did not look that way.

  ‘Shame. Well, I believe I’ve found some pieces of the puzzle at least. Thank you. I must hurry and return the keys to Raymun. He was quite reluctant to let me have them.’

  ‘Miss,’ said Alas. ‘I can tell you now who done it and save you all this bother. It was Master himself, first to save money, then…’

  ‘Alas,’ Miss Spindle interrupted. ‘I am aware of your suspicions, but they are quite ridiculous. I am a very, very good judge of character and any man who can cherish the tiniest bone of the tiniest creature is quite incapable of violence or malicious acts of any sort. I can see why you would jump to crude and obvious conclusions. You are uneducated, your brain is a partly formed thing, simple, like a baby’s. Mine is trained in analysis, honed on jigsaws. Leave this to me.’ Her candle ascended and disappeared, the log winked its last and went out.

  ‘She was never going to listen,’ said Lucinda. ‘It would mean killing her dream.’

  ‘Stars,’ said Lizbuth, sitting up. ‘How’d we get stars in here?’

  Henret giggled.

  ‘I done it for Henret,’ said Oy. ‘She’s afraid of the dark. I put glow-grub sheddings in the cracks.’

  Henret was not alone in hating the dark. Many of them turned to face the starry wall. It acted as a comforter.

  29 The Puzzle Room

  Miss Spindle was undecided. ‘Faded rose,’ she said. Miss Pleasy, the cloth merchant, held the rose tulle under Miss Spindle’s chin. ‘Or ecru?’ Miss Pleasy switched to the beige. ‘Or rose, or ecru, or rose?’ Miss Pleasy kept on switching and smiling. ‘Do all brides find it so difficult to decide?’ Miss Spindle asked.

  ‘Some know what they want, others need more guidance,’ said Miss Pleasy.

  ‘What do you think then?’ Miss Spindle asked for at least the seventh time.

  ‘I would say rose for your complexion.’

  ‘But you think the ecru more elegant. I would like to be seen as elegant.’

  ‘I thought the dove elegant.’

  ‘The dove, oh dear. Let’s try the dove once more.’

  Miss Pleasy tugged sourly at the dove, though she was smiling brightly as she lifted her face.

  ‘Rose or dove, or rose – or ecru?’

  ‘Perhaps if I left them with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you, but you do see how important it is. Fresh eyes is what we need.’ A floorboard creaked in the next room. ‘Who’s that?’ Miss Spindle called.

  ‘Only me, miss,’ said Oy. ‘Come to take the laundry.’

  ‘Come here, Oy, and tell me which of these colours you prefer. It’s for my wedding dress.’

  Oy entered shyly and stood just inside the door. ‘On you, miss, the rose I think, but…’

  ‘Yes, come closer and lift your head. Now be honest.’

  Oy pointed to a ripple of silk near the bottom of the pile. ‘That one. That would set you off proper.’

  ‘Pull it out, Miss Pleasy. Let me see. It is beautiful.�
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  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Miss Pleasy. ‘Not for the mature lady.’

  ‘Let’s try it anyway. Oy, take a corner.’

  Oy and Miss Pleasy drifted the cloth over Miss Spindle’s shoulders.

  ‘How wonderful it feels. Is that me?’ Miss Spindle marvelled at her image.

  ‘It is exquisite,’ said Miss Pleasy, ‘well worth the extra expense.’

  ‘Jeremiah says I’m not to think of that. Have it made up as we discussed.’

  ‘I’ll have to take on extra staff to work through the night. We’re not used to rush jobs like this.’

  ‘As I said, Miss Pleasy, do whatever it takes. You may go. Oy, as a reward, I want to show you something.’

  Oy followed Miss Spindle to the old guests’ library. ‘This,’ she waved her arm around the room, ‘is my betrothal gift from your master. Puzzles, such puzzles.’ She opened a drawer in a tall cabinet. ‘Close your eyes. Put your hand in. Feel how the different pieces have different textures. This one can be done by touch alone.’ She opened another drawer. ‘These are infused with the scents of the flowers they depict.’ She sniffed a yellow piece. ‘Powdery polly. Delightful, isn’t it? But this, this is very special.’

  On a vast felt-covered table in the centre of the room was a chest enamelled with signs and symbols of some far country. Around it were spread thousands upon thousands of puzzle pieces.

  ‘This is a nigma, the most difficult jigsaw in the world,’ she said. ‘Thirty years in the making by Inison craftsmen. Only three are known to exist. None have been completed. The image is so subtle that it can’t be seen until the last piece is put in place. “You need never be bored because you are adored.”’ Miss Spindle giggled. ‘That’s what he said. I never thought I’d see one of these, let alone own one. If it takes my lifetime I will solve it.’

  Oy rested his chin on the edge of the table. His eyes were glassy. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he breathed.

  ‘Yes, in its way. Though there’s nothing to see as yet. Is there?’

  ‘The white piece, miss. Ain’t it lovely?’

  ‘But it’s all white – well, maybe greyish in parts.’

  ‘Can’t you see the blue white?’ said Oy, ‘like cloud when you know there’s sky behind it, and the yellow white, like low light on snow. Only one piece is pure.’

  ‘I really must change my spectacles,’ said Miss Spindle. ‘Show me some blue whites.’

  Oy walked around the table gathering pieces. ‘These are all near blues. They should fit, yes they fit.’

  Miss Spindle gasped.

  ‘See how the blue gets deeper now,’ Oy went on, ‘that’s because things take colour from each other.’

  ‘That’s the key!’ said Miss Spindle in high excitement. She fitted another piece to Oy’s island and shivered. ‘Perfect. So snug and the join is invisible.’

  Oy heard the bustle of Alas’s brushes in the chimney of the next room. It recalled him to more important matters. ‘Miss, the other puzzle that you was keen to solve.’

  ‘Oh, those others can wait,’ she waved her hand dismissively at the cabinet.

  ‘No, miss, I don’t mean jigsaws.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You came to see us, miss, about the accidents.’

  ‘Ah yes, I haven’t forgotten; once this is done I promise I will look into the chimney affair.’

  ‘Only trails get washed away, like snail slime in the rain, if you ain’t quick.’

  But Miss Spindle wasn’t listening any more.

  Over the next few days Miss Spindle was barely seen outside the Puzzle Room. Her trays were delivered and taken away with one absent bite taken, one negligent sip of tea. Her obsession was absolute, and in all that time she had forced only two pieces together and they were not a proper fit. The pile of the carpet all around the table was flattened through her shuffling and pacing and standing and staring. At last Oy came upon her slumped over the table her head resting on her arms, snoring faintly. Oy quickly rearranged the pieces in groups with all the outy bits pointing at the inny bits in an obvious and inviting way.

  Next morning, ‘Mammustah!’ the old gold-diggers cry of glee rang through the house. Jeopardine heard it as he left his study. Oy heard it as he carried laundry down the back stair. Both master and servant made for the source of the sound. Oy crouched in the Puzzle Room hatch. Jeopardine entered by the door.

  Miss Spindle had double sets of rings under her eyes and her pupils were large and dark. ‘Mammustah,’ she said, weakly this time, ‘it is done,’ and she fell into Jeopardine’s arms.

  When she had recovered she proudly showed him the finished nigma.

  ‘And that is it?’ Jeopardine frowned. ‘A mere week’s work? Only a genius could solve it they said. I have been misled, duped, fobbed off with a fake.’

  ‘Oh no. It is genuine. I’m sure of it. I don’t like to boast but genius works in unexpected ways. I had made no progress all day and fell asleep just here. When I awoke it seemed that all the pieces were ready to slot into place. My gifts have been loosed. Nothing is beyond me now.’

  ‘You look extremely tired,’ said Jeopardine. ‘I forbid you to do anything but sleep until the day of our wedding.’

  ‘Bring me your puzzles, bring me your mysteries…’ she raved.

  ‘Sleep,’ he said, pushing her out. ‘Now!’

  The Puzzle Room hatch opened and Oy went to stand by the nigma. His eyes rested on the picture. It showed a figure in pale robes with long coppery hair and violet eyes. The figure stood in the midst of flowers and trees. But it was no ordinary image. All this was suggested at the edge of vision. When you looked straight at a thing it disappeared. Except for the heart. Right in the middle of the picture was the pure white piece. It was the blazing heart of the figure. And the figure, he felt, was someone he knew.

  30 The Wedding

  Seven days remained till the wedding and it seemed there was no way to stop it. Then Alas caught the tail-end of an argument. He couldn’t tell what it was about. He only knew that Jeopardine had stormed out of the Tulip Room with Gwendalyn clutching his arm. He had shaken her off saying, ‘No more meddling.’ But Gertie dampened any hopes of a rift. She reported a later scene. She told how Gwendalyn had drenched the tulip chaise with tears; how Jeopardine had hurried to her side, called her his willow, his rake, his wiry one; how she had raised her eyes coyly and he had called her his thread, his ribbon, his downless peach. She had straightened her slipping hair and smiled a watery, sniffling smile. Then he had promised her a better nigma and she had promised not to meddle any more.

  It felt like one more exit was closed. Between them they had snatched a few minutes searching the archives for evidence of the old master’s cheating but had given it up as an impossible task. Escape was now their best option. Meanwhile, only a few days remained until the wedding and most of the extra work fell on the waifs.

  The curtain covering the hatch at the far end of the Gallery fluttered. Raymun, Gritty, Alas and Oy crawled out.

  ‘Our orders today is to spruce the ancestors,’ said Raymun. ‘All these paintings need to be cleaned. The vows will be made in here so all the dead can be present. They will be the most honoured guests according to Master. He’s not much bothered about the rest of the rabble – his word not mine – he’s had to invite.’

  The four of them faced outwards and turned slowly, dwarfed by the enormous portraits of Jeopardines past and present. Raymun flicked open a case of brushes. ‘These are the ones you want.’ He brushed the back of Gritty’s hand. ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Hardly more than being breathed on.’

  ‘That hair comes from unborn Glumaw goats. The softest place is in the fold behind the front leg. Use that one for brushing the paintings. This pot is gilt cleaner for frames. You know the different waxes to use on the wood frames. Gritty, you’re to do everything on the top two rows. He’ll be checking with a magnifying glass, so pay special attention to his ma and pa.’

 
‘Jep looks nothing like his old man,’ said Alas.

  All the male portraits were of broad, ruddy men with sparse, sandy hair. Gritty gazed up at another picture. Close up it looked like lumpy rivers of brown and black paint. She took a step back and read the plate underneath.

  ‘Syrah Jeopardine – his mother. This is where Jep gets his looks from.’

  The picture showed a woman seated under a tree. She had sleek black hair drawn back tightly, a dark dress, sallow face, hooked nose, sharp planes to the face and high cheek bones. On one leather-padded arm sat a splendid hawk. There were gold gleams among its feathers. Its eyes were mesmerising yellow saucers. The woman looked at it with adoration.

  ‘Obsessed with that hawk, she was,’ said Raymun. ‘I never could warm to it myself. That was Syrah’s favourite place to sit: in the Mammus Grove on the stone bench with Meregon perched on her shoulder. She kept a basket of carrion by her: mice, shrews, sparrers. She’d pass the bodies up to the hawk and it would sit there stripping the flesh, with its beak all bloody. Most hawks would swallow bones, fur and all. Meregon gagged on anything too coarse. It was very delicate how it stripped the bones and dropped the little skeletons down in the grass. Sometimes it would keep a skeleton by it, like a comforter, just as Afflish children have their favourite toys. I still find bones when I’m scything around that seat even today. I swear she thought more of that bird than she did of her own family. She saved every feather it ever shed and had them made into a cloak – wore it every day after the bird disappeared.’

  ‘What happened to it?’ said Alas.

  ‘It never came back and it was never found. She suspected mischief, said her Meregon would never leave her. When Syrah died Jep got rid of all the bird portraits except that one. Well I can’t stand here jawing, there’s too much to be done. How we’re ever going to be ready in time I don’t know.’ Raymun slipped out of the hatch. Alas remained staring up at the portrait. ‘You know, Jep’s got a hawk skeleton in his collection,’ he said, thoughtfully.