Читать книгу Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 57

On Monday afternoon, Mr Noak arrived from Cheltenham in a hired chaise. Carswall made much of him – in truth, I believe he was becoming bored in the country and welcomed the stimulus of company; he was not a man who took easily to life in a retired situation.

With Mr Noak came Salutation Harmwell; and on the same day Mrs Kerridge appeared in a new gown. Perhaps, Miss Carswall murmured to me, the two circumstances were not entirely unconnected.

The following morning, Charlie came to me after breakfast, begging that the start of our morning lessons might be deferred.

“Mrs Kerridge has an errand at the ice-house, sir, and says Edgar and I may come as well. And you too, if you wish. I am sure the Romans and the Greeks had ice-houses, so it would be most instructive. May we, sir? It would not take above twenty minutes.”

I knew the expedition would take at least forty minutes, perhaps an hour, but the morning was fine and the prospect of a walk was tempting. So the three of us met Mrs Kerridge in the side hall. We found Harmwell in attendance, carrying the basket and a lantern.

“Mr Harmwell is most interested in the construction of ice-houses and wishes to inspect ours,” Mrs Kerridge explained. “And if he comes it will save me having to find a gardener. Besides, they speak so strangely in these parts I can scarce understand a word they say.”

Harmwell’s presence solved a minor mystery: why Mrs Kerridge, a lady’s maid who was fully aware of the dignity of her position, had volunteered to run an errand for the cook. The boys and I took the lead, while the other two followed more slowly, deep in conversation. We turned left at the obelisk and took the path leading to the western side of the lake. After the shell grotto we climbed the gentle slope to the defile in which the ice-house lay. The boys ran ahead and rattled the handle of the door.

“We must frighten the ghosts!” Edgar cried, and Charlie echoed him: “Frighten the ghosts!”

Mrs Kerridge drew out a large key and inserted it in the door. Mr Harmwell crouched to light the lantern. The two leaves of the door opened outwards on squealing hinges. The boys tried to plunge into the darkness beyond like terriers down a rabbit hole. Mrs Kerridge put out an arm to bar them.

“Please, dear Mrs Kerridge, let us go first,” Charlie said. “Edgar and I have a most particular reason for wanting it.”

“You will wait and do as you’re bid,” I said. “Or else you will go straight back to your lessons.”

Mrs Kerridge sniffed the air. “It stinks like a charnel house.”

“It is indeed very bad,” Harmwell agreed. “Though few ice-houses smell sweet at this time of year.”

“They say the drain is blocked.”

“So the melt-water cannot escape?” He glanced over his shoulder at the lie of the land. “It drains down into the lake, I suppose, so the outlet may be frozen.”

“No, sir, they believe that the drain itself is blocked higher up.”

“Can they not clean it out?”

“They cannot reach it without digging.” Mrs Kerridge waved her hand at the boulders and fallen trees that cluttered the slopes of the defile. “The storms in October caused much damage in the park, and not all of it has been made good again.”

Harmwell had the lantern alight now. At Mrs Kerridge’s request, he led the way down the narrow passageway that burrowed into the side of the hill. After five or six feet, we came to another door, with two leaves made of thick deal planks and edged with leather to provide an airtight seal. Beyond, there was another length of passage, ending in a great mass of barley straw.

The smell grew worse. Harmwell and I pulled aside the insulating straw, slimy with decay, and pushed it into the alcoves on either side of the passage. There at last was another two-leaved door, this one set at a slight angle to the perpendicular. It required another key to open it.

“I’m told there’s a hook for the lantern inside,” Mrs Kerridge said. “On the left.”

Harmwell pulled back the leaves. Covering my nose and mouth with a handkerchief, I edged forward so that I could look over his shoulder. Illuminated in the lantern’s fitful yellow light was a dome which at its highest point was perhaps a foot above the ceiling of the corridor. As a whole the chamber resembled the interior of a gigantic egg, with its broader end at the top. It comprised a vault and a well, both faced with dressed stone glistening with moisture. A variety of bundles hung from hooks in the side of the dome. I crouched and looked down into the well itself. Some six or seven feet below was a dark mass of ice, water, straw. I made out at least a score of packages lying half submerged.

“Aye, the drain is blocked,” said Harmwell. “Nothing is so injurious to an ice-house as want of dryness. Ice will not melt in the hottest sun so soon as in a close, damp cellar.”

“Will they ever get rid of this foul smell?” I inquired.

His teeth flashed white in the gloom. “They should empty the chamber without delay. Then, in this weather I would leave the doors standing open to air the place. They should put down quicklime, too, for it absorbs moisture.”

“The master has a sudden fancy for venison,” Mrs Kerridge said. “That’s all we need. There should be a haunch in one of the sacks on the left. They are all labelled.”

“How long has it been there?” Harmwell asked.

“Two months or more, I believe.”

“Then I fear it will be rotting in this atmosphere, ma’am.”

“That is not our affair, Mr Harmwell. Let Cook be the judge, eh? Will those rungs bear your weight? Pray be careful.”

The black man edged into the chamber. Rungs for the feet and the hands had been set in the side of the dome, with a line of hooks above. He moved slowly across to the cluster of sacks and examined the labels at their necks, angling them so they caught the light, while Mrs Kerridge kept up a stream of admonition. At last he found the venison, unhooked the heavy sack and made his crab-like way back to us. He passed the sack to me. The stink was now overpowering. The boys retreated to the open air.

“Dear God,” I said, fighting an urge to vomit.

“What the master wants,” Mrs Kerridge muttered to Harmwell, “the master has.”

She pursed her lips and fell silent. Mr Carswall was not popular with his servants. He was harsh and autocratic by nature and, added to this, displayed a sort of petulance, a habit of making impracticable demands upon a whim, that was perhaps a symptom of his advancing age. The unexpected desire for venison was clearly an example of this. I wondered, however, whether there might be a deeper reason for Mrs Kerridge’s resentment towards him. Though Carswall paid her wages now, she had served Mrs Frant for many years. Perhaps Mrs Kerridge had acquired a knowledge of Mr Carswall’s intentions with respect to her mistress.

Despite the smell, Edgar wished to pursue his researches by scrambling round the interior of the ice-house. I refused to sanction this intrepid plan but I permitted the boys to help pile the straw back against the inner door. This activity made them wet and filthy, and thus was profoundly satisfying to them.

As we were walking to the house, I learned from the boys’ conversation that the subject of the monks’ treasure was still in their mind. Charlie made the not unreasonable point that the ice-house was such a modern structure that it could not have been used by the monks nearly three hundred years earlier. But Edgar replied with the ingenious suggestion that the ice-house had been built in that spot because there was already some sort of cavity, bringing forward in support of this theory the observation that the stone facing on the interior of the ice-house had looked very similar to the stones used in the ruins of the monks’ grange near the cottage. I had not the heart to point out to them that practically every building of any substance within a five- or ten-mile radius of Monkshill was constructed of the local sandstone, the colour of a faded claret stain, so this circumstance was not necessarily of any significance whatsoever when one came to date the construction.

The boys and I were walking at a smart pace. Harmwell and Mrs Kerridge, chaperoned by their rotting haunch of venison, lingered on the way. Glancing back as we approached the door to the kitchen gardens, I discovered that a bend in the path had put them out of sight.

A moment later, the house reared up in a great cliff of stone in front of us. We walked along the terrace towards the side door. I glanced at the window of the ladies’ sitting room. Someone was standing on the other side of the glass, as shadowy as a ghost. The outline convinced me it was a woman. It could not be Mrs Lee, because she had a disease of the spine which bent her over and caused her much pain. The shape vanished, withdrawing into the gloomy interior of the room.

Miss Carswall or Mrs Frant, I wondered: that was the question. Indeed, in those days that was always the question.