Sing Witch, Sing Death Read online

"I would scarcely need to employ a housekeeper if I am to be troubled with this nonsense," she said to Pamela, "and you may tell Mrs. Helston so."

  What Hetty was to do in the future, if she would not attend to running Tremaire, Pamela could not guess. At present the countess was very much occupied in looking through catalogs of furnishings and examining cloth samples sent from Plymouth, Bristol, and even London.

  St. Just had agreed to refurnishing part of the house. The hall, his suite of rooms, and Pamela's bedchamber were not to be touched. For the rest of the house Hetty had a free hand, subject to George's and Pamela's corrective taste. But Pamela soon found herself de trop in these discussions, and since she had perfect reliance on George's knowledge of such matters, she was happy to leave the affair completely in his hands.

  Pamela herself picked up the reins of the household. She could not repeat to Mrs. Helston what Hetty had said. That would merely set the housekeeper against her to no purpose. Mrs. Helston was an employee of long standing and could not be summarily discharged.

  Hetty really knew this, for she had had a furious battle with St. Just over Sarah, whom she disliked intensely. What Hetty did not seem to understand was that offending the upper servants would merely result in disrupting the staff to the discomfort of everyone involved. Pamela told Mrs. Helston, therefore, that Lady St. Just was unaccustomed to running a household—which was true—and that she did not like to interfere for fear of making trouble—which was not.

  Then what am I to do, my lady?" the woman had asked stolidly. "There are things I can't do on my own responsibility."

  That this remark was merely a sign of resentment, Pamela knew. Mrs. Helston fully intended to run the house in her own way, but she expected verbal appreciation for her efforts and approval of her plans.

  This was Mrs. Helston's due, and Pamela promptly said she would undertake to obtain decisions from Lady St. Just if Mrs. Helston would bring the problems to her. This fiction lasted about a week. At the end of that time, she and Mrs. Helston were working together so smoothly that neither felt it necessary to pretend the decisions Pamela made came from Hetty.

  Of St. Just, Pamela saw almost nothing. He was generally out of the house before she came down, and he rarely returned before dinnertime. At table he was abstracted and curt, his mind plainly on things unrelated to the company in which he found himself.

  When George and Hetty remonstrated with him, he snarled, and both soon found it more comfortable to ignore the silent figure at the head of the table. After dinner he either rode out again or retired to his own rooms. Precisely what he was doing, no one seemed to know, although George seemed certain it had to do with the estate.

  "Mad about the place, you know," he remarked when Hetty complained bitterly that if Vyvyan would join them they could play whist. "Probably riding all over it examining every blade of grass to be certain it's growing just where it was when he left. Got some notion about making the place pay better, too. Swears there's tin and copper on his land. Might be. Owns miles of that useless ridge stuff. Good thing if he found it. Very profitable stuff, tin."

  "Well, really," Hetty exclaimed, "that is the silliest thing I have heard yet. Vyvyan does not need money. He has all of mine, and since my brother died he could buy the whole county if he wanted to."

  George's rather protuberant eyes regarded Hetty thoughtfully. "True enough, but better not to speak of it, m'dear. Bad ton to talk of money at all. Besides, Vyvyan's a plaguey proud devil. Don't like to owe anyone anything."

  "I don't care," said Hetty, flushing. "It is only my money that has permitted him to keep this God-forsaken desert of a place. He might show a little consideration for me, under the circumstances."

  "Perhaps that is just what he is trying to do, Hetty," Pamela suggested. "I am sure he does not like to think that Tremaire is a drain upon your fortune. If he could make the estate pay for itself, his conscience would be less troubled. Anyway, there is no sense in teasing ourselves over his freaks of behavior. We cannot make four for whist, but if George would not mind, we could play at loo."

  "Delighted. Very good practice for you too, Hetty. Ladies all play loo in town. Lose a lot of money at it, some of them."

  * * * *

  As the weather grew warmer, Hetty began to drive out on pleasant afternoons. She would take no part in the housekeeping, and condemned English servants roundly, but apparently she delighted in at least one aspect of country life. Being the great lady of the estate and village appealed to her. She visited both the town and the cottages on the estate and enjoyed the condescension with which she was able to treat these people.

  The expeditions were made in a pretty little pony cart drawn by a surefooted white mule. The equipage had been made for the same Lady St. Just whose room Hetty had approved. The mule was her own idea. Pamela was appalled and George revolted, but Hetty had her own way.

  She had driven a mule on the islands, she said, and understood their temperament. Horses were too nervous for her. She had, in fact, purchased the mule herself and had brought back with it a young man from the village to be her groom and care specifically for the animal.

  Pamela had been concerned, fearing resentment among the already established stable hands, but George told her there would be no trouble.

  "Wouldn't mention it to Vyvyan, though." George laughed. "Joke on him. Bigger joke on Hetty. Shouldn't wonder if it worked out for the best."

  "Of course I shan't say anything to St. Just. It is Hetty's affair, but—"

  "Oh, no harm in it, since the boy was willing. He's a son of one of the People. Funny thing him being willing to take the place. Probably want to keep an eye on Vyvyan. Silly thing."

  "What do you mean, he's a son of one of the people? And if anyone wants to 'keep an eye' on St. Just, shouldn't he know?"

  George shrugged. "People—with a big P—are the witches. Leave them alone—better that way. Lot of bad feeling here once. M'grandmother got an odd disease—wasted away. M'grandfather got the notion that his wife had been hexed. Believed that then. Set out to clean up the covens. Couldn't, of course. Hanged one old devil, though. She cursed the family. Odd sort of curse, too. Eldest son would never inherit until the earl married a witch. Damned funny thing. The eldest son drowned, and m'uncle—Vyvyan's father—inherited. Damned funny thing."

  "But…but did not St. Just's father and his two elder brothers drown also?" Pamela asked, horrified in spite of the common sense that told her these things were the merest coincidence and that drowning was scarcely an uncommon fate for people who lived on the coast and had sailing for an amusement. But four in one family!

  "Said it was a damned funny thing," George remarked, his eyes more fishlike than ever as they stared past Pamela into the distance.

  "Part of a witch's power is to bring on storms—is it not?"

  "The locals believe it. Reason no one can touch the covens. Make their living at fishing, a lot of them—and they're wreckers too, y'know. None of 'em would dare cross a witch. When the fleets go out, they hex good weather. When a fat merchantman sails by, they sing up a storm."

  "What!"

  "Bad coast—all rocks. Ship founders, locals go out, pick up what they can. Know the rocks, you see. Caves for storage too. Who's to say where the stuff came from a couple of months later?"

  "But the crew…the passengers!"

  "Oh, they don't kill 'em. This coast ain't as bad as some others. Not enough wrecks really to make murder profitable. Pick up the passengers for the 'reward.' More like ransom, but it's legal."

  "George!" Pamela exclaimed. "Can nothing be done?"

  "Done about what—the weather?"

  Pamela flushed slightly. It was hard to tell what George thought, since his voice held only its usual cool indifference and his expression its habitual placidity. In fact, she did not believe that a witch could sing a storm, and, indeed, nothing could be done about the weather or the coastline.

  As long as the local fishermen did not actively cause wrecks by
moving warning beacons—and she devoutly hoped this was so, although she feared to ask—they could not be blamed for making what profit they could out of wrecks. Certainly if they rescued the crews and passengers, it was better for them to act than to remain ashore.

  "You did not answer my other question," Pamela said, changing the subject. "If Hetty's groom is spying on St. Just, should he not know of it? And why should he be spied upon?"

  "Not sure, of course. Don't deal with the People m'self. Imagine they want to know whether he blames them for what happened. Fond of his father, y'know. Quarreled over the West Indies business, but… Fond of his half-brothers, too. Got along well. Damned funny thing. Freak storm. Late earl didn't like sailing either. Got a distaste for it when his brother drowned. Odd all around."

  "But then… Does he blame them, George?"

  The blank eyes focused on her. "Known Vyvyan all my life. Never understood him. Like his mother. Cornish—queer. Locals said she was one of the People, y'know. Said she bewitched m'uncle or that he married her to break the curse. Doubt it m'self. Damn fine woman. Lot like you, come to think of it—not in looks, but big and graceful…. Except her eyes were like Vyvyan's—green as glass, clear."

  "What happened to her, George?"

  His face closed. "Ask Vyvyan."

  It was only later that Pamela realized she had never had an answer to why it was wise to keep the identity of Hetty's groom from St. Just. She worried at the idea for several days and finally decided to hold her tongue. It was very unlikely that Hetty knew—or if she were told, would care—about the groom's association with the coven. She had indicated her contempt of witchcraft clearly enough.

  In addition, Pamela was reasonably certain that St. Just harbored no ill intentions toward the People. In the discussion they had had at the inn he had seemed on the favorable side of neutral. In that case, Hetty's groom could learn nothing that would harm St. Just.

  There was a last consideration, which clinched Pamela's decision. The tension between Hetty and her husband was not easing. If St. Just were told, decided he did not want a spy on the estate, and dismissed the groom, Hetty would have still another cause to feel ill-used.

  A few days later it was Pamela's turn to feel ill-used, or at least irritable. The morning had poured rain, so that she was deprived of her customary exercise. George had left the day before to visit friends in Penzance, and his absence had made Hetty extremely fractious. Now, here was Mrs. Helston with an involved tale of woe.

  One of the gardeners—a married man—had made one of the maids pregnant. The man, Mrs. Helston said furiously, should be dismissed. He was insolent and a poor workman. And what was she to do with the maid? The girl was a foundling. To dismiss her would mean the workhouse or starvation. To keep her would set a bad example for the other maids. If such transgressions were not punished, there would be a flood of such incidents.

  "Oh, dear," Pamela sighed, acutely aware of the powerlessness of her position. It was one thing to approve menus and agree to Mrs. Helston's minor disciplinary actions. To dismiss servants who were not her own was another matter.

  "Are you certain that the man is guilty?" Pamela asked after a brief silence.

  "Oh, he admits it, bold as brass, my lady. Lays the blame on the girl, saying she's a hussy and he just took what was freely offered."

  In spirit Pamela groaned even more dismally. She could see the signs. Mrs. Helston would stand up for her subordinate; the head gardener would stand up for his subordinate. Neither of them actually cared for the rights or wrongs of the situation.

  Had they been her servants, she would have had them all up before her and thrashed the matter out. It was the only way to bring Mrs. Helston and the head gardener to agree and save years of resentment, backbiting, and cross-accusations. Unfortunately, to do that, one also had to administer the punishment at once. To delay meant time for the upper servants to reconsider, think of new arguments, and begin all over.

  "Very well, Mrs. Helston. I will take the matter up with Lady St. Just."

  Pamela rose and shook the creases from her Indian muslin dress, thinking that Hetty was the oddest mixture and as unpredictable as a child. It would be just like her to decide to handle this affair herself and make a mull of it. St. Just really should deal with it, since the outside servants were not Hetty's responsibility; but St. Just—as usual—was out, and the longer action was delayed, the more firmly set Mrs. Helston and the gardener would become in their opinions.

  Pamela opened the door to the morning room, and had she been less disciplined, would have burst into tears of frustration. Hetty was not immersed in her catalogs and swatches. She was sitting and tapping her fingers on the small table by her chair to show her impatience and need of company.

  "Where have you been, Pam? I declare, you take longer over breakfast than anyone I know."

  "I've been speaking with Mrs. Helston, Hetty. She is having trouble with one of the maids."

  "That woman is incompetent. Why, at home our housekeeper handled five times the number of servants with less fuss."

  "Perhaps, but they were slaves, and those methods cannot be used on our people," Pamela said coldly.

  "More's the pity. Really, Pam, you worry more about offending the servants than about offending me."

  That was probably meant to be a warning. Pamela, enraged still further, felt like saying that the servants were more necessary to her comfort, but she took a grip on her temper and recounted the situation.

  "Will you speak to them, Hetty, or give me leave to dismiss one or both as I see fit after finding out the truth?"

  "Speak to them? About their sordid… Certainly not! I told you before that if Mrs. Helston could not do her work, she must be replaced with someone who can."

  At least the worst had not happened, Pamela thought. Hetty had not decided to stick her finger in the pie.

  "Be reasonable," Pamela suggested, still hoping to get authority to deal with the situation herself. "Mrs. Helston has no power to dismiss the gardener's man, and if he lied to the girl and seduced her, to dismiss the maid would not solve the problem. In a month or two another maid would be pregnant. Naturally, Mrs. Helston places the blame on the man, but the gardener seems to think it was the girl's fault. This must be settled by outside authority, or there will be a feud between the inner and outer servants—and that will make us uncomfortable."

  "I cannot see how it could. By the by, I saw a very likely girl in the village the other day, and she is coming here to be my maid. I will not have that loathsome creature Sarah pressing and mending my gowns. Will you be a sweet love and teach the girl to do my hair? Dear Pam, you have been so kind, letting me make use of you in ways that are not fitting, but I cannot take advantage of you forever."

  "A raw girl from the town, Hetty? But—"

  "Oh, no. She has been in service before, but she was looking out for a mistress who would not remain fixed in this wilderness."

  "Of course I will teach her," Pamela said slowly.

  It would be a relief to be free of the personal services she had performed for Hetty, although Pamela had not minded much, because Hetty was always very pleasant and grateful. There was also nothing unusual in a new mistress adding to the staff of a household. Still, there was something odd here. If the girl had been in service, how had Hetty seen her or made her an offer? If she was at home in the village, why was she there? One did not look for a new place in even a large village like St. Just if one's aim was the one Hetty stated.

  "How did you find this girl, Hetty? Are you sure—"

  "Quite sure. I have seen her, and I like her. I…I heard about her family from Alice, and on one of my drives, I inquired," Hetty said with heightened color.

  That might be true, although Pamela knew that Hetty and her sister-in-law did not get along well. "But was she dismissed from her place? Has she any other recommendation?"

  "Are you my friend or my jailer, Pamela? Am I to have no one around me but old women who hate me?"
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  "Hetty! I was only concerned that the girl might steal your jewels, or…"

  The countess cocked her head, and her pale eyes gleamed. "Oh, she won't do that. This is not London, with a market for such things."

  Pamela's lips parted to say that there must be takers for unaccountable property in the neighborhood because of the wrecking activities, but she realized that Hetty probably did not know about that. It would be foolish in the extreme to tell her and give her another reason to dislike the locality.

  In any case, it was unlikely that a local girl would steal jewelry or cause any other major trouble. Even if she could get away, her family would bear the brunt of her misdeeds, and those people were closely knit in their family groups. It occurred to Pamela that Hetty had not told her who the girl was, but after the turn the conversation had taken, she was not going to ask. Anyway, she had issued her warning. Whatever happened with Hetty's responsibility.

  "You must do as you like, of course, Hetty. About the other matter, Mrs. Helston was very upset. Would you mind if I mentioned it to St. Just?"

  Hetty began to laugh. "If you can get speech of him," she chortled. "It is just the sort of thing to hold his interest. Really, Pam, you are as bad as he. All you seem to think of is servants and the estate. One would think you had some personal interest in Tremaire."

  "I like a well-run house," Pamela said stiffly.

  She had a momentary fear that Hetty thought there was something more than friendship between St. Just and herself, then dismissed the idea. They had scarcely exchanged a dozen words a day, and his manner was no more or less civil to Pamela than to his wife.

  "Don't let us quarrel, Pam," Hetty said, putting out her hand. "See, all these new journals have come. Do help me pick some pretty gowns. George says there are some very fashionable assemblies at Plymouth and that Torquay is becoming quite favored as a seaside resort. Perhaps we will go there for a few weeks."

  The state of the roads and Hetty's difficulty in traveling, not to mention St. Just's probable reluctance to tear himself away from his estate, raised questions in Pamela's mind, but she did not voice them. She carried the journals to the sofa and sat down beside Hetty.