A Death in the Pavilion (2 page)

Chapter Three
A Charming Gentleman

That very evening I had cause to rethink my speculations. Unexpectedly Muller arrived back from town. The pff-futt of his motor cut through the late afternoon as I sat with Richenda as she did her best to embroider a cushion. I can only say it was fortunate that the thread she was using was red.

He entered the sitting room not half an hour after we had heard his arrival. He was neatly dressed and his hair impeccably combed. Any smuts from the road had been totally removed, but he had not yet changed for dinner.

He came across the room, his hands out-stretched towards Richenda. ‘My dear Richenda, are you well? I left the city as soon as I heard.’

I raised a puzzled eyebrow. My mother might have been known to make waves in social circles in her youth, but it seemed unlikely that even she could have upset the workings of the city. Besides, she would have considered even knowing about such matters far too vulgar.

Richenda happily took his hands. Muller was not prone to displays of such affection. I wondered if he would regret his impulsiveness when he found his palms and cuffs covered with pinpricks of blood. Richenda really was an extraordinarily bad needlewoman. Worse than myself, and my mother would tell you that is no mean feat.

Muller held the embrace and searched her eyes. ‘You are being so brave,’ he said. Richenda inflated before my gaze with pride. However, I could see she had no idea what he was talking about, but was simply basking in the moment.

‘Mr Muller,’ I interrupted, shocking the gentleman into realising he had been holding her hands too long. He dropped them at once and turned to face me. Richenda did an excellent impression of a basilisk at me.

‘My dear Miss St John, at your post by our dear friend’s side,’ he said. ‘I did not see you sitting in that corner, but I should have known you would be on hand at this difficult time.’

‘Mr Muller, I fear you have the advantage of us. Neither Richenda nor I know to what you are referring?’

Mr Muller started, somewhat over-dramatically I felt, and said, ‘It is possible I have beaten him here? I drove like the wind, but I was sure he would reach here before me.’

I began to feel that I had stumbled into a melodramatic gothic novel, but Richenda appeared to be enjoying the experience. She clasped her hands to her chest and asked in a quivering tone, ‘Who is coming, Mr Muller?’

It was at this tender moment I became sure that Muller and Richenda had set their sights on each other. Richenda’s betrothed was not long dead, but they had not made it to the altar, so a period of mourning was not set in societal stone. Muller I had suspected of eyeing Richenda’s shares in the Stapleford bank, but she wasn’t high society, or even that attractive if I am painfully honest, and while he was not more than ten years older than her he was not only foreign but no one could have denied his hair was thinning.

I need not tell you having a bald husband, unless he is of the highest standing, is something of a social faux pas in this age of moustaches and side whiskers.

The two of them appeared to be still locked in their tableaux. Both had forgotten it was almost time to dress for dinner. ‘Who is coming?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

Muller used the urgency of his news to again clasp Richenda’s hands through he turned to respond to me. ‘Richard Stapleford has sent his agent to bring Richenda home.’

Thoughts of a rough man in tweed with a cosh passed through my head. ‘What agent?’ asked Richenda.

‘He has hired a new factotum to help him manage his estates now he has bought up the Bellfield property. A London man.’

‘Then he is probably lost down some country lane,’ I suggested. ‘Your estate, Mr Muller, is not the easiest to find and I doubt a man with a London accent would get much help from the local people.’

Muller beamed. ‘What an excellent thought, Miss St John. Why I believe we can relax and dress for dinner. Richenda need have no fear that she will be compelled to do or go anywhere she does not wish while I am here.’

The look Richenda gave him would have made Little Joe lose his luncheon on the spot. I fled before my appetite could be completely eroded.

I am not totally hard-hearted and I certainly do not wish Richenda ill, but should she marry Muller I would again be in a vulnerable position. I had to continue to earn a wage to support my mother and brother or my mother would indeed have to marry the canon regardless of his lack of ambition.

As the master of the house had returned, dinner became enlarged by a course. Mrs Muller preferred soup, fish, and a cheese plate when her son was away, but Richenda’s moanings about feeling faint had ensured we received soup, fish, and a proper dessert. This evening included a meat course. As Muller carved the roasted joint Richenda appeared to be in seventh heaven, but whether this was due to the extra course or her budding swain was hard to tell.

In fact it was Mrs Muller who appeared the most out of sorts. Normally she was delighted to see her son home.

‘Are you sure you have not left things undone, Liebling?’ she asked over the tomato and pepper soup.

‘Nothing urgent is demanding my attention,’ her son assured her.

‘I am sure you always said that this time of year was most demanding with people away from the city in hotter climes.’ That Mrs Muller was now speaking in the most correct English did not escape my attention.

Muller smiled. ‘It is true that sometimes deals can be achieved while other competitors are sunning themselves, but I have some excellent staff who will take care of my interests.’

Dover sole, accompanied by asparagus spears, and the tiniest potatoes appeared next. No one mentioned the order of the courses. The footman had barely deboned my fish before Mrs Muller suddenly said, ‘I think family should be together, do you not, Miss St John?’

The eye on my fish looked up at me pityingly. ‘I rather think it depends on the family,’ I said awkwardly. ‘For example, no one could doubt that you and your son live most happily together, but for some mothers and their adult children it is not so easy.’

‘My mother is the easiest woman to live with,’ said Muller. ‘She only wants my happiness and success. She has quite spoilt me for other women.’

‘Not, I would hope,’ said his mother, ‘for the right Lady.’ There was considerable emphasis on the last word.

‘Of course,’ said Richenda, ‘your mother would want nothing but the best for you. She would want you to marry the woman you loved.’ And she cast him such a glowing look I wondered if she had any idea how transparent she was being.

Muller merely smiled and turned his attention to his fish. Richenda and Philomena Muller sized each other up across the table. I concentrated on my plate.

I did my best to appear totally ignorant of the battles that were being waged with what the participants charmingly believed was subtlety over the courses. My head was buzzing with ideas. Mrs Muller had been the most doting of hostesses towards Richenda and myself until tonight. Could it be that she had not foreseen her son might become enamoured of his guest? Before tonight I could have sworn she would have had no objection to Richenda becoming her daughter-in-law. I knew her to be an intelligent woman and despite what his loyal servants might aspire towards, I had been certain she knew how high he could aim for a bride and that Richenda with her shares and comparative youth was no bad bargain. But tonight the first time the pair had effectively acknowledged the possibility of a future together she had taken grave offence.

And why was Muller moving towards a declaration now? I felt he had given Richenda refuge partly to annoy Richard and also because I think he had suspected more than most what Richard was capable of doing.

No doubt something was indeed happening in the city and Richenda’s shares had become important. Richard’s decision to send an agent showed an unusual amount of sense. Richenda would have had no qualms about sending her twin brother packing, but even she knew an agent would be a source of information about what was happening back at Stapleford Hall, an estate the three siblings all held an inordinate affection for despite its continued series of murderous calamities. Muller, of course, also wanted to question the agent. Though he would be seeking business information. I remained conflicted as to whether he aimed to be Richenda’s saviour or was merely capitalising on the opportunity. A man so charming must have many secrets to hide.

Mrs Muller stood signalling it was time for the ladies to retire. ‘Mother, please don’t go,’ said Muller.

‘But we should do things properly, Hans. You are a country gentleman now.’

Muller’s eyebrows shot up momentarily. The estate had been under his command for ten years. ‘I would very much like to you stay, Mother, as I have a project to suggest. Besides I do not care enough for port to drink it alone.’

Mrs Muller hesitated. If she defied her son it would be the first time I had seen it. Muller got up and held out her chair for her. She sat.

‘I have been thinking,’ he said, ‘that it is time for us to revive the autumn ball.’

Richenda’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how very exciting,’ she said. ‘You have a ballroom here, do you not?’

Of course she knew he did. The first time he had headed up to town and Mrs Muller had taken her afternoon rest, Richenda had taken the opportunity to explore the state rooms and look under all the dust covers.

‘It is only three years,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘People may feel it is inappropriate.’

Muller bowed his head. Then looked at Richenda. ‘It was the day after our autumn ball, three years ago, that my late wife died. I stopped the tradition to honour her.’

‘Of course,’ said Richenda, ‘I quite understand.’ One of her hands clenched her glass stem so tightly I feared for it. ‘But …’ she said and let the word hang in the air.

‘But,’ continued Muller for her, ‘No man – or woman – is expected to mourn for ever. However exceptional their spouse.’

Mrs Muller muttered something about Queen Victoria and we all pretended not to hear.

‘I met my wife in autumn, but seven years earlier in a previous autumn I laid the foundations of this estate. It is my intention to hold the ball to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the house. I will not be making it, this year, a – er – London society ball. That would seem distasteful, but I should like to invite the local gentry and some of my oldest friends. Then later when we have let it known our doors are open once more perhaps we will tackle a bigger event.’

A war of expressions raged across Mrs Muller’s face. The thought of London society eventually returning to the house and presumably the advent of eligible young ladies for her liebling was temptingly delicious.

‘I thought perhaps while Richenda was here she could help you with all the details, Mama. Take much of the work from you.’ He turned to face Richenda. ‘If it is not impudent to ask?’

‘Oh, I would love to do it,’ said Richenda eagerly. ‘Euphemia has acted as my brother’s secretary before and could do some little tasks.’

I knew this to mean she would expect me to do everything for her.

‘Ah, yes indeed, Miss St John,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘It would be an honour to work with you.’ I could only stare at her. Words failed me completely. Until now she had largely ignored me. Richenda bristled at the slight and Muller gazed into the middle distance studiously ignoring the chaos he had wrought among us women.

It was perhaps fortunate for all of us that at this time the butler appeared and sidled up to Muller to whisper in his ear.

Muller sighed. ‘It appears your brother’s man, Gilbert Barker, has indeed arrived,’ he said. ‘He is asking to speak with Miss St John.’

Chapter Four
No Dead Bodies

Three pairs of eyes looked at me with varying levels of suspicion. Muller nodded slightly and I rose. Richenda began to protest as I exited the room. On the short walk to meet this stranger, I can put it no other way than to say a dark prescience began to overtake me to the extent that I would not have been surprised to find him stretched out on the fine Persian rug with his throat cut. Later, when I came to know Gilbert Barker, I would think it was a very great shame this did not happen.

The ubiquitous Lucy showed me to the library. She left me at the door. My fingertips trembled against the cold metal of the door handle. I gave myself a mental shake. I told myself that this was only words. People were behaving oddly tonight, but considering how volatile the Staplefords had been over the years this situation should not be rattling me as much as it was. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Mr Gilbert Barker stood there very much alive. He was tall and thin with short, curly ginger hair. He wore a suit of the best cut but it sat uneasily on him. An unflattering five o’clock shadow framed a thin, pinched face set with dark eyes. His age could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five. He had what can only be described as a lived-in face.

‘Euphemia,’ he said and gestured to a seat. ‘I had the maid bring a decanter and glasses. I think we are both going to need some whisky.’

‘I do not believe we have been introduced, sir.’

‘Oh, no need to call me sir, Euphemia. After all you don’t exactly work for Sir Richard any more. Barker will do.’

‘And Miss St John will do for me,’ I replied making no move towards the indicated seat. Barker walked across and sat down in one of the seats. He poured two glasses of whisky, one much larger than the other, which he placed in front of himself. ‘Do at least close the door behind you, Euphemia. There is a draft.’

‘I will happily do so from the other side,’ I said, turning to go.

‘Miss St John, you have secrets. Ones I think you do not care to share.’

I pushed the door hard closed behind me, took my seat, and demanded, ‘What secrets?’

Barker shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but obviously ones you don’t want shared with your current employer. I shall have to ask Stapleford to fill me in. And make no doubt he will. I am his right hand.’

Internally I let out a great sigh of relief. He knew nothing. But since I was here I might as well get the interview over and done with. ‘What do you want?’ I asked.

Barker pushed the smaller glass towards me. I pushed it back. He picked it up and poured it into his own glass. ‘I hate waste,’ he said.

I did not repeat my question, but waited. Obviously a little of Fitzroy had rubbed off on me. However, while I had never had any doubts that the spy Fitzroy would shoot me if he had to – with I hoped a soupçon of regret, I had never felt that physical violence hovered about him as it did with Barker.

Barker took a sip of his whisky. He gave me a thin smile. ‘I can say one thing for this German, he knows his whisky. But then foreigners are often more accurate on these things than real gentlemen. It’s all to do with keeping up the pretence, isn’t it, Euphemia?’

It hovered on my tongue to tell him that he should know. Clothes do not maketh the man and all that, but I refused to allow myself to be baited and sat quietly with my hands folded in my lap.

‘If Sir Richard had not briefed me fully on you and your services to the family,’ said Barker, ‘I might take you for the insipid companion of moderate intelligence that you are pretending to be, but we both know that is far from the truth.’

Words, I told myself, it is merely words. ‘Your empty threats aren’t even fully formed,’ I said.

Barker gave a crack of laughter. ‘Oh, we haven’t got to the threats yet. I am here to open up communications between Sir Richard and his beloved sister once more. Sir Richard is mindful that she has no claim on the Mullers and that her prolonged residence here is beginning to cause talk. And we both know how dangerous talk can be, don’t we Euphemia? Why it can even land innocent men in jail.’

‘I don’t believe Sir Richard was ever tried, so technically we cannot say if he was guilty.’ I paused. ‘Or not,’ I added.

Barker’s eyes narrowed. I knew I was over-stepping the mark, but much as I have disliked Richenda in the past I felt a rather surprising desire to protect her from her brother. One’s training as a vicar’s daughter is always inescapable.

‘I see you believe in straight talking,’ said Barker, ‘so do I. It makes things much easier. You and I Euphemia are not unlike. We both work for difficult masters and we both make our way in the world determined by the success of these masters. Richenda has little social status. The suspicious death of her father, compounded with her age, her fondness for the suffragettes and fallen women and not least her undeniable facial similarity to a horse all stand against her. Now she is again linked with death as her almost husband kills himself, embarrassing his relations and proving himself to be of unsavoury character. All she has is some money and a few shares in the family bank. Nothing else stands in her favour. I believe you know all too well her unappealing character. Shut you in a wardrobe, didn’t she?’

‘At the time she believed she had to do so to support her twin,’ I said with more forgiveness than I had ever felt before.

Barker jumped on this. ‘And this time her twin wants to stand by her. Sir Richard is becoming more prominent in parliament, his business is progressing and he may soon be entering into a very successful engagement. He can rescue his sister from her downward spiral into obscurity and possibly even attempt to find her a husband in a year or two when her social disgrace has abated.’

‘Social disgrace!’ I cried, jumping to my feet, ‘I’d like to see you say that to her face! Richenda has done nothing wrong except give her heart unwisely.’

‘I have no intention of saying it to her face,’ said Barker. ‘That is why I am talking to you. You need to get Richenda to see that it is in her best interests to return home.’

‘But I don’t see that it is,’ I said coldly. ‘I have known Sir Richard for a little time now and, if we are speaking plainly, I have never seen him do anything for his sister’s sake or for any other sake than his own.’ I remained standing. Barker lounged back at this ease. His entire attitude was an insult, but still I stayed. I knew a threat was coming and it would be real whether or not I chose to hear it.

‘Euphemia, such a display of affection for someone who would not grieve for a moment if you fell and broke your neck! She really isn’t worth your defence. Her brother wants her back. Advise her of this. Persuade her of the advantages of this. Get her out of the house of this ruddy German and back where she belongs.’

‘Where she belongs or where her shares belong?’

Barker shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter to you. What matters is if you stand against Sir Richard on this you will find him a formidable enemy.’

‘You overestimate my influence on Richenda,’ I said flatly.

‘For your sake, let us hope I do not,’ said Barker and he rose. ‘Sir Richard will be paying his compliments in person shortly. Ensure his sister receives him well. Or it will go badly for both of you.’

‘An empty threat?’

Barker jammed his hat back on his head. ‘Oh, you know only too well what Sir Richard is capable of doing should he not get his own way.’ Despite my intention to stand up to this jumped-up little man a shiver ran down my spine. This was as close to a death threat as he could have uttered.

He made his way to the door, brushing past me rudely. He stood with his hand on the door handle for a moment as if deciding whether or not to speak. Then he turned back towards me one last time. ‘Besides, you do know Muller murdered his first wife, don’t you?’