TWO
A BLAST OF COLD air blew a flurry of freezing flakes into my face as I tugged open the heavy front door. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering, and squinted out at the winter world.
In the first bleak light of day, the landscape was a black-and-white photograph, the vast expanses of the snowy lawn broken only by the ink-black silhouettes of the stark, leafless chestnut trees that lined the avenue. Here and there on the lawns, white-capped bushes bent towards the earth, cringing under their heavy loads.
Because of the blowing snow, it was impossible to see as far as the Mulford Gates, but something out there was moving.
I wiped the condensation from my eyes and looked again.
Yes! A small spot of pale color—and then another—had appeared upon the landscape! In the lead was an immense pantechnicon, its scarlet color growing ever more vivid as it came growling towards me through the falling snow. Lumbering along in its wake like a procession of clockwork elephants was a string of lesser vans … two … three … four … five … no, six of them!
As the pantechnicon made its slow, stiff-jointed final turn into the forecourt, I could clearly make out the name on the side: Ilium Films, it said, in bold cream and yellow letters, painted as if in three dimensions. The lesser lorries were similarly marked, but still impressive as they pulled up in a herd around their leader.
The door of the pantechnicon swung open and a massive sandy-haired man climbed down. He was dressed in a bib overall, with a flat cap on his head and a red handkerchief wrapped round his neck.
As he crunched towards me through the snow, I was suddenly aware of Dogger at my side.
“S’truth,” the man said, wincing at the wind.
With a disbelieving shake of his head, he approached Dogger, sticking out a raw, meaty hand.
“McNulty,” he said. “Ilium Films. Transport Department. Jack-of-all-trades and master of ’em all.”
Dogger shook the huge hand but said nothing.
“Need to get this circus round back the house and out of the north wind. Fred’s generator cuts up something fierce when it gets too cold. Needs coddling, Fred’s generator does.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked suddenly, turning to me and crouching down. “Margaret Rose, I’ll bet. Yes, that’s it … Margaret Rose. You’re a Margaret Rose if I ever saw one.”
I had half a mind to march upstairs to my laboratory, fetch down a jar of cyanide, seize this boob’s nose, tilt his head back, pour the stuff down his throat, and hang the consequences.
Fortunately, good breeding kept me from doing so.
Margaret Rose, indeed!
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. McNulty,” I said, forcing a smile of amazement. “Margaret Rose is my name. However did you guess?”
“It’s the sixth sense I’m gifted with,” he said, with what looked like a practiced shrug. “Me Irish blood,” he added, putting on a bit of the old brogue, and giving me a saucy tip of his cloth cap as he stood up.
“Now, then,” he said, turning to Dogger, “their lordships and ladyships will be along at noon in their motorcars. They’ll be hungry as hounds after the drive down from London, so look sharp and see that you’ve got buckets of caviar laid on.”
Dogger’s face was a total blank.
“Here, I’m only joking, mate!” McNulty said, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to dig Dogger in the ribs.
“Joking, see? We travel with our own canteen.”
He gave a jerk of his thumb to indicate one of the vans that sat patiently waiting in the forecourt.
“Joking,” Dogger said. “I understand. If you’ll be so good as to remove your boots and follow me …”
As Dogger closed the door behind him, McNulty stopped and gaped at his surroundings. He seemed particularly in awe of the two grand staircases that led up to the first floor.
“S’truth!” he said. “Do people actually live like this?”
“So I am given to believe,” Dogger said. “This way, please.”
I tagged along as Dogger gave McNulty a whirlwind tour: dining room, firearms museum, Rose Room, Blue Room, morning room …
“The drawing room and the Colonel’s study are off limits,” Dogger said, “as has been previously agreed upon. I have affixed a small white circle to each of those doors as a reminder, so that there will be no breach of—their privacy.”
He had almost said “our privacy.” I was sure of it.
“I’ll pass the word,” McNulty said. “Should be no sweat. Our lot’s pretty clannish, as well.”
We made our way through to the east wing and into the portrait gallery. I was half expecting to find it as it had been in my dream: an icy, flooded wasteland. But the room remained as it had been since time immemorial: a long dim train shed of glowering ancestors who, with just a few exceptions (Countess Daisy, for instance, who was said to have greeted visitors to Buckshaw by turning handsprings on the roof in a Chinese silk smock) seemed to have subsided, one and all, into a collective and perpetual sulk that did not exactly gladden one’s heart.
“Use of the portrait gallery has been negotiated—” Dogger was saying.
“But none of yer ’obnail boots on the floor, mind!” a voice cut in. It was Mrs. Mullet.
Hands on hips, she gave McNulty her proprietary glare, then in a softer voice said:
“Beggin’ your pardon, Dogger, but the Colonel’s off now to London for ’is stamp meet. ’E wishes to see you about the tinned beef, an’ that, before ’e goes.”
“Tinned beef” was a code word meaning that Father needed to borrow money for train and taxi fare. I had discovered this by listening at the door of Father’s study. It was a fact I wished I didn’t know.