“Oh,” said Gustav, opening the door. “It’s you.”
“What a pleasure it is to see you again too, Gustav,” Agatha smiled. “Have you missed me?”
“Sir Charles is not at home.”
“Is that not at home to me, or not at home at all?”
“He is in London, staying at his club. He and some old friends are having a stag party.”
“Shame,” Agatha sighed. “I was hoping to have a word with him.”
“I think…” Gustav hesitated, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “I think you had better come in. We should talk.” He reached out, grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside, marching her briskly across the enormous expanse of the hall.
“Hey, what do you think you’re—”
“Shh!” Gustav hissed, raising a finger to his lips. “In here, quickly.”
He opened a door near the back of the hall, close to where Agatha recalled a large, bright, modern kitchen. The door led into a long, narrow room that was little more than a corridor. Wooden panelling, cupboards and worktops flanked a central gangway that opened out to a wider room where two Belfast sinks, with tall brass taps, stood below a frosted-glass window. There was a small kitchen table and two chairs. Gustav thrust her towards one.
“What the hell are you playing at?” Agatha demanded. “You can’t just drag me in here and—”
“Keep your voice down!” Gustav breathed. “The walls have ears in this house nowadays. This is the only place where it is even remotely safe for us to talk. If they knew you were here, the buggers would boot me out without a second thought.”
“What is this place?” Agatha asked, looking around her. “And who would boot you out? The Brown-Fields?”
“It’s the old butler’s pantry,” Gustav explained, lowering himself into the wooden chair opposite Agatha. She watched him settle and cross his legs. He moved, as he always had done, with the elegance of a dancer. He had the strength of an athlete, too. Agatha massaged the top of her arm where he had held her in a vice-like grip.
“Yes,” he said grimly, “the Brown-Fields would love to have an excuse to send me packing, so we must keep this brief. I will not offer you tea.”
“Gustav, what’s going on?” Agatha asked. “We have never exactly been the best of friends, but I don’t like to see you behaving like this. You’re not acting normal.”
“There is nothing normal about what’s going on in this house! We may never have been friends. We may never be friends, but I know there is one thing we both genuinely care about.”
“Charles.”
“Sir Charles. He is in London, as I said. So is that obnoxious little cow he is about to marry. She is partying with her friends and having a final dress fitting. ‘Miss Mary’ is what she has decreed I should call her. After the wedding, it is to be ‘Your Ladyship.’ Can you imagine? Who does the little bitch think she is?”
“I take it her parents are here? I know they’ve moved in.”
“They are using a suite of rooms in the east wing as their apartment. I have been instructed to refer to them as Mr. Darell and Mz Linda. Mz? I mean, what sort of a bloody title is that? Sounds like a bee farting. These people are scum—mongrels—no breeding whatsoever.”
“That’s rich coming from a humble servant with a Hungarian father and an English mother,” Agatha scoffed.
“You mean me?” Gustav frowned. He was notoriously secretive about his past. “Who told you my father was Hungarian?”
“Bill Wong.”
“The policeman? Well, he doesn’t know everything, does he? Anyway, this isn’t about me. This is about Sir Charles.”
“Oh bollocks!” Agatha groaned, then caught Gustav’s furious look. “Not you, Gustav—them. Darell and Linda. It’s Mary’s middle name, isn’t it? Half her father’s and half her mother’s—Darlinda.”
“Have you only just realised? Not much of a detective really, are you?” Gustav frowned, then returned swiftly to his subject. “They are destroying Sir Charles, Mrs. Raisin. That little bitch is constantly on his back. If she’s not nagging him about this outrageous wedding, she’s telling him how he should run the estate—and her father is always on hand to back her up. They never give him a moment’s peace. I don’t believe Sir Charles is actually in London celebrating his forthcoming marriage. I think he has gone there simply to get away from these dreadful people.”
“Maybe he won’t come back.”
“He will be back. He dare not do anything to jeopardise this farce of a wedding. They have a terrible hold over him.”
“So I believe,” Agatha agreed, “but he wouldn’t discuss it with me.”
“Nor me,” Gustav admitted, “and I pride myself on always having been his closest confidant.”
“Your advice hasn’t always been entirely welcome. You tried to poison my relationship with Charles more than once because you didn’t see me as a suitable lady of the manor. I hated you for that.”
“I neither expected nor required you ever to like me, Mrs. Raisin. My duty is to protect the best interests of Sir Charles Fraith.”
“Well that’s not been going too well over the past few months, has it? You’ve let the Brown-Fields start to rule the roost here at Barfield. How is his aunt taking it all?”
“Mrs. Tassy scarcely appears downstairs nowadays. She even takes her meals in her room. I fear this may be the end of her.”
Agatha was shocked. Charles’s aunt was a tall, willowy woman whose pale face and silver hair gave her the look of someone who had never been anything less than what was referred to in polite society as “a certain age.” Yet Agatha knew the old lady was as strong as a horse. She hated to think of the Brown-Fields clipping her wings when she was as much a part of Barfield House as the grand staircase or the portraits in the library.
“We have to stop these devils, Mrs. Raisin!” Gustav’s hands clenched into fists. “When I think of that hideous creature Sir Charles is about to marry, it makes me so angry. She struts around the house making notes about changes she will make. Oak panels to be ripped out. Furniture and rugs to be discarded. I could slap her stupid face!”
“There’s a lot to slap.”
“Without doubt. A chin like a sideboard.”
“With the bottom drawer open.”
“Honestly, I wake at night having dreamt about wringing her neck.” He made a strangling motion with his hands. “We must rid Sir Charles of these utter scumbags, but I am at a loss to know how.”
“Well, I doubt we can stop the wedding at this stage,” said Agatha, “but marriages don’t last forever.” She handed Gustav her business card. “Here’s my number. Keep in touch. Don’t do anything silly and go riding off on that motorbike of yours.”
“I won’t,” said Gustav, calming himself. His prized Harley-Davidson had been a gift from Charles. Agatha wanted to remind him that his years of devotion to the Fraith family were appreciated and had been rewarded. She needed to use that loyalty to stop him from doing anything rash. He had once run off to work briefly in Switzerland when Charles had become engaged to some poor girl of whom he did not approve. How he had managed to keep himself under control this time was a miracle.