Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (11 page)

‘You're right, there's no getting round that. Probably I wouldn't be thinking that way if Master Ned had taken to her, but I know from talking to him that he hasn't. But, like we said, lads his age can take it into their heads to be awkward just for the sake of it.'

Alf looked thoughtful. ‘It's understandable, I suppose, for him to be leery of any newcomer as might want to keep in with his uncle and aunt, as well as his grandparents. The lad makes no secret of not being over fond of Mr and Mrs William. An' why should he be? They don't never seem to have put themselves out none to help make up, by way of affection, for his parents being dead.'

‘That's just what Tom and I think; though it can't be said Master Ned moans on about them. He makes more of a joke of it – says he'd sooner the vicar took him under his wing than they did. You get the point, Alf, seeing as Mr Pimcrisp only warms up when he's talking about fire and brimstone.'

‘It comes from Mr William always being jealous of his brother, I've always thought, and with a temper like he's got, it don't seem likely his wife'd stand up to him by making a fuss of Master Ned. Still,' Alf always tried to be fair, ‘it can't be easy being the younger son of one of the big families, knowing from early on your brother's going to inherit the old ancestral. Then when Mr Lionel and his wife got killed, he must've thought how he'd've bin in clover if it wasn't for the little tyke left behind. Put a grudge under his other armpit to match the first, that would.'

‘I hadn't thought along those lines,' conceded Gracie. ‘I tend to think of men that bluster and bully as not having all that much going on in their heads. But would Mrs William hold the same grudge against Master Ned?'

‘She's a deep one, is what Doris thinks. She comes from a little place named Warley in Essex, and we knows a couple that's lived there forever. Well, they say that Gertrude Miller, as she was then, was an only child brung up by a widowed older mother as should have stayed an old maid. The sort that warns a daughter the night before her wedding that she'll have disgustin' stuff to put up with in the bedroom and to hang on to her prayer book till it's over. That sort of thing can warp a woman's mind when it comes to the male o' the species – even a boy as young as Master Ned was when he was orphaned.' Alf became aware that if he'd been more himself this wasn't a conversation he would be having with any woman but Doris. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope you won't take what I've said as too off colour, Gracie.'

‘Go on with you, Alf! I was a farmer's daughter before I married Tom. You can't grow up on the land, especially around horses, without knowing what's what. That said, even my mother – sensible woman that she was – warned me that the best of husbands was given to making excessive demands.' Gracie laughed. ‘From the looks of Mrs William, she probably wouldn't have known what she was born for when she married, and would've taken that to mean being forced to play bridge, whether she wanted to or not. Then again, appearances can be deceiving, and she could be the sort that would have given anything for a handsome lad to come riding up on a white horse.'

‘Somehow I doubt that,' said Alf. ‘From what our friends from Warley say, she didn't come from a lot of money and was verging on thirty when she was introduced by mutual acquaintances to Mr William.'

‘Well,' said Gracie flatly, ‘that surly disposition of his was likely to have sent other ladies running.' She brought the conversation back to the immediate situation at Mullings. ‘I wonder how the two of them are taking Lady Stodmarsh's death? Even an old grouse like Mr William must've been fond of his own mother, but I wonder if Mrs William won't find comfort in the idea of becoming lady of the house until Master Ned marries, and that'll be way in the future. However it goes, I can't see neither of them being much comfort to His Lordship.' Gracie's kind eyes blurred with tears. ‘He'll never get over losing his wife, he won't. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't outlive her by long; it happens that way often enough with devoted older couples.'

‘It goes without saying,' Alf sighed. ‘Love of his life, she was, and well deserved. It puts me to shame when I think o' the times I goes on about my lumbago, and that dear lady so uncomplaining, crippled up like she were, God rest her soul.'

Gracie echoed this appeal to the Almighty. ‘It's a good thing Master Ned's other granny is in the house for him. She won't be leaving now till after the funeral, and probably some time beyond. An interesting thing I've found with women that has done battle with their nerves in the past, they can be the ones that come through in a crisis. You stay put, Alf, while I go and write that note for Florence.'

By mid-morning Dovecote Hatch was in formal mourning. Curtains were drawn, black ties and armbands were spotted up and down the high street, and Craddock's Antiquarian Bookshop was one of several establishments to hang ‘Closed' signs behind the glass in their doors.

George Bird, as both Alf and Gracie had known would be the case, had been stunned and deeply grieved. He immediately felt an urge to telephone Florence and tell her how sorry he was, but he was fully aware of how occupied she would be with all that must be going on at Mullings, and he wasn't about to add the interruption of being called to the telephone, when he could do as Alf suggested and write his condolences, asking her to get in touch when she had the time and felt up to it. After Alf left, he went behind the bar – not to pour himself a drink, but to wipe its spotless surface – back and forth, forth and back. It had come to him that what he really wanted was to be with Florence right this minute, and wrap his arms around her.

Something had changed for him on that drive home from visiting her family yesterday. He hadn't thought right then that it was love; but last night, on getting ready for bed, he'd heard Mabel's voice clear – and pleased – in his head. ‘Go on, my old dear, own up! It's going that way and you and me both know it. Truth is, I'm tickled pink. Do you think I want you mooning over me forever? I haven't liked to rub it in, but I'm having a rare old time up here. Like you've found out moving to Dovecote Hatch, give a new place a chance and you can be walking on clouds. In your case, love, that's in a manner of speaking, but you get the idea – what's good for the goose is good for the gander.' He'd smiled before drifting off to sleep. That there could be no smiles this morning didn't alter a thing. If he'd had his wish he'd have been with Florence right now, trying to comfort her as best he could.

It had flashed through Florence's mind on being told by Molly of Lady Stodmarsh's death several hours previously that she'd have welcomed the warmth of his arms around her. She had turned cold when Molly had entered her bedroom well before daybreak. It was impossible not to know instantly that Lady Stodmarsh was dead. That in itself was devastating, but the realization that had tugged at Florence on wakening – that her uneasiness of the past week and her beloved employer's agitated distress were linked – made her feel she would never be warm again. The belief, amounting to certainty, that Lady Stodmarsh had not died from heart failure but had been murdered, held her in its frigid grip. What had come together out of her subconscious was the merging of two incidents – one relating to visiting her mother, the other involving the puppy.

The memory of being in the hall at Mullings to witness Grumidge bearing the tea tray towards the drawing room and becoming entangled with the puppy had always been clear, as had her reason for being there. Miss Bradley had asked earlier if she could save her a trip to the village shop by providing her with a reel of navy cotton, in order to finish the dress she was making. Florence had come downstairs after taking the required item up to Miss Bradley's room in time to provide assistance to Grumidge, by way of opening the drawing room door for him. It was what had followed that had finally resurfaced.

Standing in that opening, Florence had caught a brief view of the entire family seated within. Something glimpsed in the eyes of one of the assembled people must have tugged at her mind for a fraction of a moment. It was gone too quickly for her to keep a grasp on it – driven back into hiding, perhaps, by the entrance of Grumidge. Or, wondered Florence now, had she blocked it from her conscious mind because it was too chilling to be accepted? What she had been left with in the following days was that sense of something just out of reach that warned of trouble. It wasn't until yesterday, when she had stood with the tea tray in her hands at the open door of her mother's sitting room door and observed her sitting utterly still, with those unnaturally blank eyes, that Florence had felt the beginning of reclaiming what had frustrated her by its elusiveness. Now it was as though what had been a blurred image had developed into a photograph.

What Florence had seen in the eyes of one of those seated at Mullings had also been unnatural – with a difference. There had been nothing suggestive of a seriously disturbed mind where her mother was concerned. Those other eyes had glinted, however briefly, a malevolent, vicious hatred directed at Lady Stodmarsh as she sat with her husband while the puppy frisked around their feet. Last night Lady Stodmarsh had talked of the dog, making little sense at the time. In piecing scraps of phrases together and remembering those that had puzzled her most – such as the mention of the
looking glass
, Florence felt sure that someone with Lady Stodmarsh's welfare in mind had warned her to take steps to protect herself from possible harm. That this had happened yesterday seemed more than likely to have precipitated Lady Stodmarsh sending for her last night. Prior to being warned, had Lady Stodmarsh sensed that she had an enemy, someone without reason or restraint? And this someone was dear to her!

It didn't bear thinking about, but there was no escape from doing so. Florence knew that she must at some point decide what she could or should do. The thought of taking this matter to His Lordship in his grief-stricken state was insupportable. She would feel less caught in a trap if someone else voiced suspicions of their own regarding the death. She was concerned that even the person who had sought to put Lady Stodmarsh on her guard might well keep silent for solid reasons, including self-preservation. Should there be a police investigation and no confession forthcoming, every member of the household, from family to staff, would be scrutinized as to opportunity and motive. That was Florence's deepest fear – that the wrong person would be seen to fit both categories. People had been and would continue to be wrongfully convicted. It was this that might – against conscience – keep her silent.

She hoped to avoid coming upon the killer in the near future, but on such a day it would seem unavoidable that everyone under the Mullings roof would be passed or glimpsed at some stage. Ned was the first of the family to seek her out. He was waiting outside her bedroom when she emerged within moments of Molly's departure. Outwardly as calm as always – smoothly dressed, every hair in place – Florence was the picture of a housekeeper who never allowed emotion to deflect her from her duty. To Ned she was someone more. She was his Florie. His eyes dazed, he reached for her hand and clung to it as he had done years before after waking from his nightmare.

‘I never thought about Grandmother not being here one day. I know she hasn't been well for what seems like forever, but rheumatism isn't something like cancer that's almost certain to kill you, is it?'

Florence's voice cracked. ‘There, my love, hold on tight as you like. Have you spoken with the doctor?' Why hadn't she thought of doing so herself later in the day? A tremor passed through him to her.

‘I was with Grandfather when he talked to him, and he said her heart must have given out, even though she'd refused to take anything really strong for the pain. He'd reordered her prescription on Friday, and just to make perfectly sure of being on the solidest ground possible when signing the death certificate, he'd checked the bottle to make sure she hadn't taken more than she should by mistake, but the number of tablets gone was correct. Though if she had taken a few extra it wouldn't have mattered. The one good piece of news,' Ned's mouth twisted as he finally released her hand, ‘is that there won't have to be a post-mortem.'

‘Yes, I've heard that unpleasantness can usually be avoided, if a doctor's attended the patient recently.' So Lady Stodmarsh's own tablets were not the culprits, but there could be any number of bottles of drugs about the house prescribed at different times to different people. Florence thrust back the thought and forced a wavering smile for Ned. ‘How about coming down to the kitchen so Mrs McDonald can make you a cup of tea and maybe you could even manage some scrambled eggs and toast? Even if the usual breakfast hour is moved up today, you need something to sustain you until then.'

‘I don't know that I could get my mouth around anything for a week,' his green eyes were the darkest Florence had ever seen them, ‘although I suppose I should try. I won't be much use to Grandfather if I pass out from not eating.' As they were heading for the back staircase, Ned continued, ‘Another small comfort, Florie, is that I went up and talked to Grandmother last night after she'd gone to bed. I've always been closer with her than I have been with Granny.'

‘Tressler,' Florence inserted as a gentle prod when he paused.

‘Yes, but I know Grandmother had to be aware I enjoyed being with Grandfather more than I did with her.'

‘She'll have understood that you could engage with him in activities that were inacccesible to her. Also, don't discount those afternoons when you were a day pupil at Westerbey and would come home and read Jane Austen or Dickens to her. I was there, don't forget, sitting with both of you in the drawing room, and I saw the happiness in her face. Those were treasured hours you gave her.'