Page 10 of Ghost in the Garden
“Yes?”
Damn my mother…“When you finish here, ask around the girls about a fence called Boggie. See if they know what he’s up to.”
“All right.”
Constance picked up the small, battered bag she had found in her attic, left the premises, and went in search of a hackney.
Half an hour later, she alighted at Westminster Abbey, where no one from the Lamberts’ house could see her traveling at such expense, and walked the rest of the way.
The front gates were not locked, though the back door was. She knocked, then turned to survey the garden. It was a decent-sized plot for this part of London, enough for a kitchen garden of herbs and vegetables and a prettier area beyond, with a well-kept lawn bordered by shrubs and roses, and climbing greenery around the three walls. There were a couple of fruit trees, and a small pond beneath a young willow, but nothing that stretched conveniently over any of the high walls to make it easy for someone to climb in that way. Or out.
As gardens went, it looked secure. When filled with thick mist, how easy would it be for a fanciful mind to conjure up ghostly shapes? Especially once someone else had seen them. Angela Lambert had not struck Constance as particularly fanciful, but then, she was very reserved…
The back door opened and a large young man stared at her.
“I’m Silver,” Constance said, “Mrs. Lambert’s maid, just engaged. I was told to report here this morning.”
“Right enough, you’re expected,” the man said, opening the door wide. “I’m Bert.”
Constance walked in, trying to combine the haughtiness of a lady’s maid—a very upper servant—with the normal nervous curiosity of taking up a new position.
A group of servants were gathered around a big table in the middle of the kitchen. A well-dressed, middle-aged man with granite-hard eyes sat at the head. He didn’t rise as Constance entered.
“This is Mr. Duggin,” Bert said. “Butler and guv’nor. Mrs. Feathers is the cook.”
“Hello, dearie—name’s Ida,” Mrs. Feathers said, pouring the contents of a flask into her tea.
“And these two are Marigold and Denise. You’ll meet Robin and Pat later—they’re out with his nibs.”
“With Mr. Lambert?” Constance asked.
“That’s what I said,” Bert replied, smirking. “Come on, I’d best take you up or she’ll be down here looking for you.”
Bert did not offer to carry her bag, though he took several not-very-surreptitious glances at Constance as they walked up to the main part of the house and crossed a decent-sized, wainscoted hall. Bert didn’t bother knocking, just walked in.
“Your new maid, ma’am. Says her name is Silver.” He grinned. “Goes pretty well with Goldie, doesn’t it?”
“Away you go, Bert. I’ll show Silver around upstairs. When she comes back down, you and Mrs. Feathers can show her where everything is down there. Close the door behind you.”
Bert obeyed. However informal his manner, there was nothing disrespectful in it. Not to his mistress, anyway.
“You found us without difficulty, then? Take off your coat and hat.”
Constance obeyed.
Angela Lambert sighed. “The dress will do, and there’s no reason why you should wear a cap, but you’re too damned pretty. Please try not to cause any fights in the kitchen.”
“I’ll keep ’em all at a safe distance,” Constance assured her, adopting an accent with traces of her old one, like a lowborn maid eager to prove she’d come up in the world.
Angela nodded. “You’ll do. This is my parlor,” she said. “If I’m not in the sitting room—which we’re to call the drawing room—I’m generally here.”
“Is this where you saw the ghost?” Constance asked, walking to the window.
Angela followed her. “Yes. You wouldn’t think it, would you? Not with the sun shining and everything clear and bright.”
“Fog changes everything. Where exactly in the garden did you see it?”
Angela pointed toward the apple tree. “There, and then it glided on across the garden.” She made sort of round, S-shaped gestures.
