Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (29 page)

‘That's an understandable fear, but he's been here long enough to have proved harmless, poor soul. If you don't mind my asking, how did you know of him?'

The young woman removed the feather toque and tossed it on to the settle in front of the fireplace. It was a gesture in keeping with her appearance, as was the brittle edge in her voice when responding. ‘Oh, I heard someone talking about the hermit on the bus I took from the train.' She moved casually over to the table where Florence had placed the tray and glanced at it. ‘Good of you to bring this in. I suppose you're the housekeeper young Mr Ginger Nob mentioned as if God had blessed him with his personal archangel. No offence intended.'

Florence smiled. ‘None taken.' It was evident the girl was, very sensibly, getting into the part of herself – or one created for taking on Regina Stodmarsh. A good-natured girl displaying a hint of diffidence would find herself dispatched into the night before getting out two sentences. ‘I'm Florence Norris and I've been here long enough that nothing surprises me unduly, Miss Jones.'

‘I wasn't going to explain myself to you.' A haughtily raised plucked eyebrow followed by a look of abject misery that could surely not have been improvised unless she was a professional actress. ‘I'm sorry!'

‘Don't be, my dear, I'm always far from my best when tired and hungry, to say nothing of being uncertain what the next hour or so holds in store.' Florence drew her towards the chair next to the table with the tray on it and watched her sit down. ‘Lord Stodmarsh asked me to reassure you that you will have more than an hour to yourself as the family is presently at dinner. He thought you would be glad of the extra time to unwind after your journey.'

‘You are one of the nicest people.' It was said sleepily, weariness having taken hold. ‘I knew you would be, of course …' the brown eyes blinked open, ‘… from how your devoted young gentleman spoke about you. He seems quite a love,' said in a return of the flippant tone.

‘I've known him since he was a small boy, Miss Jones.'

‘Apple of his parents' eyes?'

‘Both killed in a motor accident when he was very young.'

‘I can sympathize, knowing what it is to be orphaned.'

‘I'm sorry. A loss unfathomable to most of us, and we often do not appreciate what we have. It helped with Ned … Lord Stodmarsh, that he was brought up in the family home with grandparents who loved him dearly.'

‘Lucky for him, but maybe,' an attempted laugh, ‘I'm about to make up for what I missed out on since my dad died. Slim chance, wouldn't you say?'

‘I'll pull this table in front of you.' Florence suited action to words. ‘Those are roast beef sandwiches; there's horseradish and mustard in those little pots if you wish it, and a slice of veal and ham pie – Cook makes it herself – a Scotch egg and some cheese and biscuits.'

‘Fit for a queen. You wouldn't tell me, would you, what's she like? If she's mellowed over the years? Your Lord Stodmarsh made it plain he loathes her, but he would, wouldn't he? It can't be easy seeing another woman in your grandmother's place.'

‘I'll be back in five minutes with a pot of tea.' Florence had no intention of saying any more, but found she didn't wish to leave it at that. Heretofore only Ned had profoundly tugged at her maternal heartstrings, but this stranger – this dubious girl – did so, to a lesser degree to be sure, but undeniably. ‘What I am willing to state, Miss Jones, is that I'm of the opinion that you have it within you to stand up to a marching army if what is important to you depended on it.' She was out of the room – allowing no time for a response.

On passing the closed dining room door Florence wondered how well Ned was doing in restraining his anticipation, possibly taking the form of roguish amusement, of what was to come. At least it would keep his mind off his entanglement with Lamorna Blake. His announcement as to how things stood had come as no surprise. It had seemed inevitable to her for weeks that his infatuation would bring on a proposal. She had also expected from what she knew of Miss Blake that she would accept, not only because of Ned's undeniable charm, but for the pleasure of distressing her parents, who would abhor the connection, despite Lady Blake's desire to be included among those visiting an establishment boasting an ornamental hermit. And it was clear from Ned's alarm at Lamorna's demanding a London flat that he was already disenchanted. It was all a storm in a teacup, because with the money tied up as it was, the marriage couldn't possibly come off, unless his Grandmother Tressler offered to step in, which Florence thought highly unlikely. Ned would be remorseful, hiding his relief, and Miss Blake would be entitled to bring down the curtain after a display of hysterics that would do credit to Sarah Bernhard. Her thoughts returned to Sylvia Jones and how long she had been preparing for her appearance on stage at Mullings.

Florence's entrance into the kitchen went unnoticed by Mrs McDonald, who had Annie Long and Jeanie Barnes dodging in circles in response to a flood of instructions. ‘Did either of you think to give that hollandaise for the poached salmon another whisk? And what about the lamb gravy? Don't tell me one of you's added more salt? Oh, for heaven's sakes! If I could grow another pair of arms, I'd tell the pair of you to take off and join the circus.'

‘Now that's an idea,' responded Jeanie cheekily on her way to the stove, ‘fancy myself on a trapeze, I do!'

‘Oh, not me.' Annie froze in her tracks. ‘When I hear the mattress springs going once in a while in Mum and Dad's room and know they're bouncing about like a couple of kids having a pillow fight, I worry something awful that one of them will fall off the bed and hurt themselves bad.'

Mrs McDonald glared Jeanie into silence before giving Annie the once-over. ‘Remind me how old you are?'

‘Twenty-six.'

‘Well, takes all kinds.' Mrs McDonald shook her head and spotted Florence. ‘Would you say so, Mrs Norris?'

‘Yes, and the better for it. Annie's a good girl and we all know it.'

‘And what am I? Day-old bread?' Jeanie jerked angrily.

‘You're appreciated too,' said Florence, wishing despite the truth of this that the girl wasn't so often on the defensive, not only because it heightened stress, but because Regina Stodmarsh had her ear to the ground when it came to the servants and she was a woman who blatantly took pleasure in dismissing them given the least provocation. Her reaction to her personal maid trying on one of her fur coats was typical. Lillian Stodmarsh would have been amused, touched. How long ago that era now seemed.

She had to remember what was sound and solid and remained, and this of course included Mrs McDonald, who told Annie and Jeanie to go into the passageway and await the descent of the two footmen with the dishes and cutlery from the soup course. Tonight it had been celery and apple, following on from tomato aspic; next to go up would be the poached salmon accompanied by the hollandaise sauce. As a fifteen-minute interlude was customary at this period of the meal, Mrs McDonald had time to draw breath and prod Florence for information about the mystery guest. She had little hope of having her curiosity satisfied. It wasn't in her nature, however, not to make the attempt. It went without saying that Mr Grumidge's lips had been and would remain sealed. But, like she'd always said, the blanker his expression – as had been the case when he returned after answering the front doorbell – the more you knew there was something on his mind.

It didn't work with Mrs Norris to try and get in by the side door. Best to come out with it straight and see what that gave. ‘Come on, give us a hint who you took that tray of food up to. Not that I'd begrudge it to a beggar, but him or her would have come round the back, and if it was an acquaintance of the family they'd've been requested to return at a more convenient time, or invited in to dine.' Mrs McDonald paused to stare at Florence's back as she went about filling the kettle. ‘Oh, my lord!' She clapped a hand to her massive chest. ‘So that's it! I've seen this at the pictures! A woman stumbles in through a stranger's door at the height of a wicked storm, cries out that her child is coming and there's a rush round to boil water. Saucepan upon saucepan of it! I never knew what for, but then I've never given birth. Here, let me give you a hand.'

‘To make a pot of tea for someone – I'll keep it at that – who as I was leaving was about to partake of the meal I just took up.'

‘Drat!' Mrs McDonald pounded a weighty fist into an outsized palm. ‘I'd forgotten about that. Again, I don't know for a fact, but I can't imagine a woman in the throes of labour thinking I must tuck into a little something before getting on with this business.'

‘Never mind,' said Florence, spooning tea leaves into the pot, ‘but what I will tell you is, this is the calm before the storm.' Inevitably her thoughts switched to Ned and whether he was relishing the prospect of Regina Stodmarsh being shown to have lied about her granddaughter's death or if he was caught up in anxiety for the one who was about to confront her.

The dining room at Mullings was furnished in accordance with the rest of house's timeless grace. Richly dark wood, serenely patterned wallpaper, carpet and curtains. All taken for granted and thus unnoted by Ned. At that moment he was reflecting with deplorable cheerfulness that he couldn't be faulted for failing to telephone Lamorna as intended. He'd heard its distant ring a couple of times in the past fifteen minutes, knew in his bones that it was her on the other end of the line and taken a last swallow from his glass of hock. Lamorna would survive a bout of petulance unaided, but Sylvia Jones might require picking up in pieces from the floor. His mind shifted with the fluidity of the young to the rest of the meal. He hoped for roast lamb. Mrs MacDonald, knowing his partiality for it, had coyly hinted that morning that it might be on the menu. For once it didn't irk him that Regina occupied what had been his grandmother's chair at the dining room table. Tonight she was elegant in sapphire-blue, which complemented the silver hair, blue eyes, and patrician features, but did nothing to counteract the impression of chiselled marble.
Queen of Mullings! Enjoy it! The judgement seat is at hand!
So far she had contributed little to the conversation, other than to comment negatively on the soup and request William to apply his napkin to his moustache if she were not to be taken mortally ill by the disgusting sight of it.

‘Wish that was all it'd take to put you in your coffin,' he'd groused into his soup bowl. Regina's response was the thinning of thin red lips into a disdainful smile. These little exchanges were to her the champagne of life, the sparkling, bubbling lift that energized and kept her looking younger than her age.

Ned directed a thought his uncle's way. Poor blighter! He'd gone the way of all blown-up balloons: the air had finally seeped out of him. His raucous outbursts had become less frequent over the past couple of years. One reason, perhaps, was that the victim of choice, his wife, was gone from the house a good deal these days – her pleasure in attending to the altar flowers having extended to other church matters. Also he'd gained a considerable amount of weight, limiting much of the huffing and puffing of yore to the business of catching his breath. An ageing, overly stout fellow reduced to an emotional shadow of his former self. It came to Ned at that moment, perhaps because the arrival of Sylvia Jones had subconsciously nudged at his own notions of family, that despite William's never having paid him much account and having a disagreeable impact on those around him, the man was his grandparents' son and his father's brother, and such ties mattered.

Watching Regina finger the pearls she always wore, Ned revelled in a vision of her choking herself with them on being presented with Sylvia Jones.

Madge's voice brought him back to the moment. It was typical of her to fill in silences, searching out any piece of verbal flotsam and poking it downstream in the hope of reeling in a response that would get everyone chatting, but this did not appear to be her present aim. She was clearly upset and Ned realized belatedly that she was addressing him. ‘Poor Cyril. It really is too mean of whoever stole his bike.'

‘It certainly is,' Ned replied.

‘Of course it's not new, but that's not the point, is it?'

‘I should say not!'

‘And coming on top of finding out Mr Craddock's intention to sell the bookshop, you'll understand how depressed he's feeling.'

Regina cut in, voice icy, eyes mirthful. ‘I hope, Madge, this plaintive tale is not a hint that I buy him another.'

‘Of course not.' Madge flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment, Ned could not gauge, but the impact of colour against her dark hair and eyes resulted in a prettiness that made it more understandable to him why Cyril Fritch wished to marry her. ‘I have the money in my Post Office account.'

‘For a bookshop?' Gertrude asked, out of what Ned assumed to be Christian politeness. She had little interest in Madge and none in Cyril.

‘For a new bike, but Cyril is fond of the one he has!' A sob caught at the words. ‘He dislikes change.'

‘Then one can only assume,' Regina's voice had never been more sneering, ‘that you held him at gunpoint until you got a marriage proposal out of him.'

‘That's a filthy thing to say!' Ned shot up in his chair. Vile woman! He couldn't wait to feed her to Sylvia Jones.

‘I'm merely supplying an answer to what has puzzled so many. Not Lady Blake, however – such a clear-sighted woman on occasion. She's in no doubt, Madge, that you did that sad little excuse for a man the honour of begging his hand in marriage. By the way, Ned, speaking of wedding bells, I've invited your betrothed along with her parents and brother to tea tomorrow. I trust you appreciate my thoughtfulness in making this gesture …' Her gaze shifted away from him as Madge, head ducked, fled the room. ‘Oh, dear! Did I say something to wound her?'