I Am the Only Running Footman by Martha Grimes

girl was named Divinity, and she sat pale and righteous by the fireplace on a hard chair; the youngest was Pearl, who kept herself on display on a giltwood fauteuil. Melrose wondered if the mother had meant to put a price on one head and a wimpel on the other. Pearl fingered a very long and very costly strand of them, and Divinity offered a limp hand and a lopsided smile probably meant to suggest that this little gathering was beneath her heavenly office.
    It was unfortunate that Lucinda, a good-natured and honest girl, had got her father’s long face and mournful eyes. And her dress was hardly flattering to her, though it might have been to her father’s business; it was an ugly shade of gherkin green that, in the firelight, reflected up and deepened her sallow complexion.
    Said Sybil to Melrose, “We did so want our neighbors, the Winslows, to come. But they couldn’t make it. We try to dowhat we can to help.” Sybil sighed and took an intricately decorated canapé from an Art Nouveau tray.
    Before Melrose could ask why their neighbor was in need of help, St. John St. Clair said, “It would be nice if she were nearer.” He passed a critical eye over the canapés and selected two, which he put on his small plate. “— or if someone were nearer. I don’t know why we need all of this land.” He sighed.
    â€œGood heavens, Sinjin, you’re the one who wanted to buy here. You’re the one who wanted land, you said.”
    â€œGood land, yes,” said St. Clair.
    â€œWhat do you mean? It’s perfectly good land.” Sybil offered Melrose a grating little laugh as if assuring him their land was as good as anybody’s.
    â€œWe can’t grow anything properly. Peters is always telling me that nothing will grow in this soil.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. We’ve a perfectly beautiful garden. Marion was remarking on it just the other day —”
    â€œIt is the Winslow garden that is perfectly beautiful, my dear. Not ours. And of course poor Marion would say that, she is the soul of kindness. Her floribunda would win ribbons. All we can grow is creepers because they seem to withstand mildew and black spot very well, of which we have an ample supply.” He said this with a sort of resignation that bespoke long acquaintance with the vicissitudes of blight and black spot. Then he bit into his cucumber sandwich, frowned at it, and with a sad head-shake returned it to his plate.
    â€œOh, Lord! Both of you,” said Pearl, adjusting a little pillow behind her back. “I doubt Mr. Plant wants to hear about our garden and land!” Which sounded more sensible than he expected Pearl to be until she added, “I’m sure Mr. Plant has gardens of his own.”
    â€œI’m sure he has, too, and better,” said St. John, rather sadly. “Can’t I freshen your drink, Mr. Plant —?”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œâ€” although I doubt very much you care for more gin. It’s really not up to standard. The whiskey might be better. A little.” He raised the whiskey decanter.
    â€œThe gin seems fine, thanks.”
    St. Clair raised a curious eyebrow. “Really? Well . . .” With some doubt he went about refilling the glasses as he continued talking about gardens here and there. “Of course your gardens in Northants would be considerably finer than ours —”
    Melrose laughed. “Now there you are absolutely wrong, Mr. St. Clair. Sussex is the place for gardens. Always has been.”
    Handing Melrose his glass and reseating himself he said, “Oh, yes indeed. Certain parts of Sussex. But here in Somers Abbas the wet just drowns everything in its path.” He tasted his fresh drink and frowned.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous, Sinjin. And let’s stop all this talk about gardens —”
    â€œHeavens, yes,” said Divinity, as if the word had come down from