Enter Pale Death(85)
STYLES WAS ALREADY up and about and ready for his day when Joe tracked him down to the kitchen. The butler’s scholarly features and patrician bearing seemed out of place and out of time in what Joe saw to be a thoroughly modern working space. No sign here of Jacobean open hearths, rotating spits and water pumps; the light, high-ceilinged room was equipped with the latest in kitchen equipment laid out against sleek uncluttered surfaces. Joe spotted an American refrigerator, a Scandinavian cooking range and a French coffee grinder of café proportions, a symphony of cream, black and gold. The only concession to Suffolk heritage was the large central table of scrubbed and limed oak.
Styles was evidently disappointed to have to tell Joe that the feast of sausages, bacon and kidneys he could expect for breakfast were not served until seven thirty as this was not a hunting morning. There could, however, be coffee and tea and toast available in minutes in the east parlour if he wished. The footman was not on duty, nor yet Mrs. Bolton, but he, Styles, could oblige. He explained as he bustled about putting toast on the Aga cooker and deftly selecting cutlery that the housekeeper who was on late duty on Saturdays normally lay abed until eight on a Sunday, rising in time to go to church service at ten. This was her weekly—and her sole—indulgence, Styles confided with a lightening of the expression that in anyone else might have been called an affectionate twinkle.
“Then I’ll probably see Mrs. Bolton later in church,” Joe said. “Tell me, Styles, is or has Mrs. Bolton ever been—a married lady?”
“Sadly, there is no Mr. Bolton, sir. The title is the usual complimentary form of address for a lady in her position. Matrimony’s loss has been our gain.”
Joe located the coffee grinder, a model he understood, and set himself, without asking, to measure out beans into the funnel and turn the handle. “Aga toast and coffee! Wonderful! Join me in the parlour, won’t you, Styles? I shan’t expect anything more substantial until I return from my hike around the estate,” he announced, trying to look hale and hearty and ready for anything. “Hard to sleep through these wonderful early mornings. The birds around here wouldn’t allow it anyway,” he commented. “Sure I heard a nightingale last evening.”
“You are not mistaken, sir. We are favoured by their presence in the nettle patches beyond the moat to the north in the direction of the Dower House. Lady Cecily so enjoys their music she refuses to allow a clearance of their favoured habitat. If you have sharp eyes, you may well note a yellow-hammer or two in the woods, perhaps even a woodpecker. And the dance of the dragonflies over the moat is matchless.”
“Excellent. I shall be on the front row of the stalls! Now I have you for a moment by yourself, Styles—a question or two. Just an eliciting of facts, you understand, carried out in privacy. But we’ll wait until we’re settled in the parlour.” He nodded politely to two large ladies who glowered at him suspiciously as they helped each other to tie on aprons over their grey morning frocks. “I wouldn’t want to put the kitchen staff off their stroke. After that, we can both get on with our day.”
Styles smiled, put his head receptively on one side and picked up his tray. “The pot of honey on the dresser, sir? Would you be so kind? It’s off the estate. ‘Melsett,’ you understand … I suspect this part of Suffolk has been known for its honey since time immemorial …”
A good butler could sail through any adverse conditions, making polite conversation the while. Even an annoyingly early-rising guest who bossily insisted on breakfasting with him was taken in his unhurried stride.
“I’LL TELL YOU straight, Styles—I’m about to pay an early morning call on Mr. Goodfellow, your resident jester. Or Virbio, King of the Grove, as he calls himself. Tell me where I shall find him.”
“If that’s your fancy, sir, I recommend you step carefully. He will, as is his custom, be sleeping off the effects of an evening at the Sorrel Horse or some similar hostelry. You would be wise to establish that he is alone. It is not unknown for him—against the master’s wishes I needn’t say—to take a companion back with him for the night. A female companion. Occasionally loose ladies make the trip out from Ipswich on the omnibus.” Styles sniffed his disapproval. “He’s made his home in the so-called Temple to Diana. Our guests may expect to catch a glimpse of him flashing through the trees in costume should their rambles take them in the direction of the ancient woodland later in the day.”
“Is that the sort of thing that goes down well with Sir James’s guests?” Joe asked, not quite managing to iron the distaste from his question. He should have realised that no criticism of the house and its guests would be tolerated by the butler.