“Cool,” Poppy said, reading the labels. “Jet Lag, excellent, Sleeplessness, useful, Calendula oil—so very you, Sweet Marjoram Tincture, and Heart’s Ease. Tell me about that one.” She held up the bottle.
“Yeah, that’s for indigestion, I think,” Sorrel said. “She didn’t give me instructions. Patience has a way of anticipating need, so I suspect I’m going to eat green peppers at some point.”
“Riiich.” Poppy laughed. “Now why didn’t she give you some truth serum? That would be useful with just about everyone here.” She slipped the bottle into her pocket. “Shall we leave this in the kitchen for easy access? Andrew won’t do the cooking every night and if Dad has his way, he’ll make paella and we’ll all need it.”
Sorrel wasn’t paying attention because she found Graham’s letter along with her seeds. She handed it to Poppy, who read it with much hooting and huffing.
“So like Dad to dole out just the bits he needed to suck you in. If we’re to unravel all this mystery on our own, we’d better get going.”
“We, who?” Sorrel asked. “This is my assignment, and you’ve got school. Besides, your parents hired me. I answer to them.”
“If you wait for my father to give you what you need to build this garden, to really know the stakes, you’ll never break ground,” Poppy said. “Now me, I’ve explored every inch of this old place, and I am desperate for an adventure. Let me help you. We’ll be like the Secret Seven!”
“More like the Terrible Twos,” Sorrel said.
“Come on, then,” Poppy said. “Might as well put my art history study to work. Let’s grab some wine and start with Lord and Lady Kirkwood’s last portrait.”
THE KITCHEN IN Kirkwood Hall was an efficient, homey amalgam of ancient and modern. The flagstone floors were scattered with worn Moroccan rugs, a professional, pull-down faucet on a spring topped the wide apron sink, and the huge range had two ovens and a grill as well as its own faucet for pasta pots. There were three refrigerators, one glass-fronted and filled with wine and other drinks. White dishes, mugs, and bowls marched along a stainless steel shelf that was mounted over a low Gustavian buffet, pale gray and blue and waxed. Pitchers of roses much fresher than those in Stella’s office clustered on the heavy white oak table in the center of the room, and a sponged blue bowl was filled with Comice pears.
Andrew walked out of the larder holding a basket. He was wearing jeans and boots and a rough linen apron that reached below his knees, like some kind of manly pastoral forager. Wags followed, a soggy rawhide chew in her mouth.
“You look guilty,” he said to Poppy.
“Oh, not yet, Uncle, but soon!” Poppy said and reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine and into the buffet for glasses. She grabbed a bag of potato chips while Andrew turned in circles trying to follow her.
“What’s up?” he asked. “You know I don’t trust you, especially when you have a new partner in crime.”
“Wait,” Sorrel said. “I am thoroughly blameless in all this. I’m just tagging along to be polite.”
“Liar.” Poppy laughed. “Sorrel and I are on the hunt for clues to the Kirkwood curse.”
“There is no curse, Poppy,” Andrew said without humor. He set down the basket, which was filled with tender young herbs, basil, coriander and flat-leaf parsley.
“That’s what they’d like us to believe,” Poppy said. “Murder and mayhem lurk beneath the crumpets, mark my words.”
“Stop it,” Andrew said rather more sharply than was necessary. “This house and this family have been terrifically generous to me, and I won’t have you playing at things you can’t understand at the expense of the peace and pleasure my sister has built here.” He pushed past them without another word.
“WHAT AN OLD fart,” Poppy said. “I’ll leave him a glass of this excellent wine to soften his hard heart.” She poured a glass for Andrew. “Hey, what if Heart’s Ease is for affairs of the heart, you know, to ease?” she asked Sorrel.
“Not likely,” Sorrel said. “Patience never gives a remedy that isn’t needed.”
Poppy tipped two drops of Heart’s Ease into the glass with one eye on Sorrel. She was her father’s daughter after all, clever, canny, and a bit secretive. She put her provisions into the basket and hefted it over her arm. “Come on then, I’ll try to explain Uncle Broken-hearted on the way.”
Sorrel followed Poppy back up the stairs.
“Andrew doesn’t seem to like me very much, or maybe he doesn’t like anyone,” Sorrel said as soon as they were away.
“Pfft,” Poppy said. “He doesn’t like himself most of all. But Andrew wasn’t always like this, and I devoutly hope his poor outlook isn’t permanent.”
She came to a door at the opposite end of the wide second-floor landing.
“This leads to the public wing,” Poppy said. “My grandfather was the one who turned parts of Kirkwood Hall into a museum, an attraction, really to raise money to keep restoring the estate and because he believed in sharing history. The house used to be open every year from April through October. Lately, though, Dad keeps it to strawberry and rose season and the solstice, a hayride or three and then the farm shop stays open through Christmas.”
“That’s what Gabe meant when he said there were too many Americans around,” Sorrel said.
“Yup, crawling with tourists, garden clubs, school trips,” Poppy said. “This wing is restored as it was in the seventeen hundreds, only cleaner and better lit. Sophia and I used to plant Rupert’s little green army men all around. We thought it was a riot to see someone point and whisper about ‘artifacts.’”
The door swung open into a shadowy hall, the mirror to the one the family lived on. More portraits, beautifully lit, hung on the walls, and the long runner was deep red and bordered with woven lions rampant, a nod to the long-ago Queen Anne.
Poppy moved with purpose to a velvet bench halfway down the hall. At its center was an embroidered unicorn wreathed in a golden collar and trailing a chain. There was a cord across the seat, which she removed with a flick of her wrist. Sorrel hesitated in front of the bench.
“Go on,” Poppy said. “Sit down. It’s what it’s made for after all.”
“But it’s so old, what if we break it?”
“Repro, silly,” Poppy said and patted the seat beside her. “Some Kirkwood or other sold off a bunch of the good stuff between the wars.”
Sorrel sat and held the basket while Poppy opened the wine and the potato chip bag.
“Food of the Gods,” Poppy said around a mouthful of chips. “Prawn cocktail crisps, like crack in a bag, only saltier.”
Sorrel had to agree. The chip was, at first, screamingly fake, lip-chappingly salty and covered in a thoroughly unconvincing shrimp-y pink dust. But as it fizzed on her tongue, she found herself reaching for another.
“Wine,” Poppy said and handed her a glass.