by Emma Jameson
She took that in. Perhaps Father Rummage’s earlier comment about the archdeacon had been less about art and more about his disinclination to listen.
“What drew you to the church in the first place?”
“Security.” He sighed. “And Mother. If she couldn’t have an MP in the family, she set her sights on a bishop.” He emitted that nervous laugh, which now sounded entirely appropriate: unhappy and counterfeit, like the man himself, at times.
“I imagine ministering to Barking isn’t all fêtes and awarding the prize for the biggest pumpkin,” she said. “I had the impression you’re expected to be at Lady Maggart’s beck and call. Which could have its advantages,” she added, striving to sound neutral, so as not to negatively influence his answer.
“Oh, it does. She’s been a great benefactress to St. Gwinnodock’s,” Father Rummage said. “Her work in the WI is unimpeachable.”
Juliet waited, but no additional praise followed. To keep from filling the silence, she studied the shafts of colored light that fell upon the lady chapel’s small altar.
“Of course….” Father Rummage began.
She stifled the urge to press him, which proved wise. After half a minute, the silence prodded him far more effectively than anything she might have said.
“Her fear of the supernatural is exhausting. Not to mention contagious. Even I feel watched in Fitchley Park, and I’ve never been the superstitious type,” he said. “I thought agreeing to lead her in prayer, in her bedroom, would ease her mind and put the matter to rest. Instead, it created all sorts of problems.”
Juliet decided if she was ever wanted to apply a gentle push, this was the moment. “I never repeat gossip, but it’s long been said Lady Maggart had an affair with that handsome gamekeeper, what’s-his-name, the one who was dismissed under a dark cloud. Were you not concerned that spending so much time with her, including in her bedroom, of all places, might expose you to the same speculation?”
“No,” Father Rummage said. “He was called Charlie. Did you ever see him? We’re cut from very different cloth. Her ladyship would never look at me.” He didn’t sound regretful. “Only one woman ever did, and she despises me now. I don’t know why. I expect I would have made a dreadful husband. When parishioners come to me for marital advice, I feel such a fraud. Poor Mrs. Archer. I wish she’d stuck with George Cotterill. His marriage is the model of amicability.”
Juliet nodded. She felt a little guilty, tacitly encouraging the man to discuss matters on which he ought to keep mum, but Helen’s freedom was at stake, and possibly her life. “Special Constable Gaston said Helen named you as an alibi, but you couldn’t confirm her claim.”
“No. She may have closed the restaurant and come to Barking with the expectation of seeking my counsel, but it never came to pass. I tried to be fair, and scrupulously honest, when I relayed the information to the constable, but I think he took it as a virtual confession.”
“Having known Helen all my life, I imagine she wished the plagues of Egypt on Bobby. She’s always said he deserved death, and if not that, an everlasting case of piles.”
He nodded. “I told the constable that in my opinion, she was merely expressing pain and frustration. He said my perception made no difference, only her words, and the precise meaning of those words.”
“Literalism, thy name is Gaston. What happened to Bobby was hideous. I don’t believe Helen committed such a terrible act, not for one moment. Nor do I believe she paid someone else to do it for her. I think our special constable would do better looking into Mr. Collins.”
Father Rummage squeaked as if she’d given him an especially hard pinch. “Jasper?”
“I realize you weren’t present for some of his strange behavior, but I assure you, he was as opaque as a man can be, when he wasn’t being openly hostile.”
“I’ve been a witness to his hostility for some time,” the rector said. “I’ll say this: he’d do anything for Fitchley Park, because he conflates the house’s image with his own. If he knows who killed Mr. Archer, and he thinks that news would bring scandal on his employers, he’ll move heaven and earth to conceal it. But I don’t think he’d kill someone. The act might adversely affect his hair.”
Juliet laughed. He beamed at her.
“You have a lovely laugh. Musical.”
“In a tête-à-tête you’re a very different man, Father Rummage. As for Fitchley Park’s housekeeper, I didn’t meet her, but I’ve heard about her. Poor thing. I wonder who has more control below stairs: her or the cook?”
“Mrs. Grundy,” Father Rummage said. “She has grit. Inner beauty, if that doesn’t sound ridiculously condescending. She never raises her voice, and the staff respects her all the more. Whereas Crystal is all bark and no bite.”
“Crystal?”
“The cook. Mrs. Tippett.” He emitted that wretched heh-heh-heh that Juliet now recognized as a sign of deep unhappiness. “She calls me ‘the God-botherer.’”
“I expect many do. Preaching has never enjoyed universal popularity, as I’m sure you knew before undertaking your vocation. Some people flinch at the sight of the dog collar.”
“It’s not the dog collar. It’s my neck inside it.”
“Crystal and Jasper,” Juliet said, again nudging the rector obliquely. “Lovely names. Did the three of you grow up together?”
Father Rummage nodded. “Mother said they weren’t our sort. Conscious of the distinctions, as it were, was Mother. That only made us more devoted. Later, Jasper focused on polishing his self-presentation while Crystal and I….”
“Formed an attachment?” With the rector, a bolder phrase, like “walked out together” or “fell in love,” seemed indelicate.
“Yes. I asked her to marry me. Then I chose the church over photography and withdrew my offer.” He folded his arms.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
“Parental disapproval, perhaps?”
“No. I loved Crystal, and no one spoke against her directly. Only….” He sighed. “As a curate, I knew I would mix with a different circle. Religious scholars. Missionaries. Deacons, bishops, and their wives. Crystal would have been expected to play hostess to all of them. Any, er, tension between her and those various entities would have, well, reflected poorly on me, which would in turn have created misery for her. So you see, for her benefit, which was always paramount in my thoughts, so as not to place her in a situation for which life had not prepared her….” He stopped. “Bother. No. I can’t lie here, in sight of the altar. I loved her, Lady Juliet. But I was ashamed of her and certain her manner was too coarse for such refined company.”
There was nothing Juliet could say to that. Her heart went out to Mrs. Tippett, who she knew mostly by reputation as a woman whose tongue was as sharp as her knives. But she pitied Father Rummage, too, who had never married, though his situation had surely afforded ample opportunities to do so. In the two biggest decisions of his life, he’d chosen wrong both times, and probably no one had suffered more than he had.
“Crystal never forgave me. In her mother’s day, a man couldn’t withdraw an offer of marriage without being sued for breach of contract. It was such a stain on the lady’s honor, you see. All that has changed, but I think if she could have accused me in court, she would have. Certainly she never called me ‘Stephen’ again. I became the God-botherer. That pestering fly who circles, buzzing about theosophy and eschatology to people who fret about crops, wages, and keeping food on the table.”
“Surely that isn’t true.”
“I don’t know. I’ve grown into my responsibilities, but I can’t claim to have ever had a true calling. As for Crystal, she married an intemperate man who didn’t believe in sparing the rod. Not with children, and not with wives. Even after he died, his sons and daughters never returned to Cornwall. And neither did my Crystal, the girl with a warm laugh very much like yours.”
Tears stood in the rector’s eyes. Seeing them, Juliet decided it was time to go off
in search of an envelope to carry the crime scene photos in. Naturally, Mrs. Lobb produced one, and they spent a pleasant five minutes discussing the time of day. Juliet was pleased to see that, despite the opportunity to gossip about her fellow villagers, Mrs. Lobb loyally refrained. She was bright, witty, a touch outspoken, and determined to make herself useful, a vital mix of traits, particularly in uncertain times.
I really am in danger of making a friend, Juliet thought, surprised at herself. From Barking, of all places.
“Your temporary church secretary is marvelous,” she said to Father Rummage as she reentered St. Gwinnodock’s sanctuary. “Pleased to be here and excited to be part of the church’s mission, even if her part amounts to mostly paperwork.”
“I know. Very commendable.” The rector’s composure had returned, along with an aura of resignation. She saw it in his slumped shoulders, heard it in the false cheer he injected into the word commendable. Soon he’d be forcing that laugh again.
“I’d better be off to Fitchley Park. Thank you for allowing me to help in the darkroom, Father.”
“Hm? Oh, yes, of course,” he said, rising at last. “Thank you for listening to me. No doubt I said things I shouldn’t. I don’t know why. This year—the war, Mr. Lobb being called up, now the murder. It’s dredged up questions I thought I’d put to rest.” Fixing a smile on his face, he emitted that desperate little heh-heh-heh. “May I beg your discretion?”
“Naturally. I wonder—may I ask a question of a religious nature?”
He looked surprised. “Please.”
“Do deathbed conversions count?”
“What?”
“Deathbed conversions,” she repeated. “When someone spends their life doing the wrong thing, choosing the wrong path over and over. Then at the very end they repudiate it all, choosing the path they should have taken at the outset. Is such a thing possible?”
“I believe so, if the conversion is sincere,” Father Rummage said. “To wholeheartedly reject what is wrong and unequivocally embrace what is right always counts, even when the hour is late.”
“I’m glad to hear it. St. Gwinnodock’s is a treasure,” Juliet said. “Should you ever depart to pursue your photography, your successor here is sure to be overjoyed. And Mrs. Tippett may even call you Stephen again, if she believes your conversion sincere.”
Below Stairs
As Ben followed Mrs. Grundy through the green baize door and into the servants’ domain, the housekeeper asked over her shoulder, “Would you like tea, Dr. Bones? Or would you prefer to sit down and question me without a sham ritual beforehand?”
He smiled at the term “sham ritual.” If Mrs. Grundy and Lady Juliet hadn’t met, perhaps they should.
“‘Question’ is too strong a term. This is an interview. And tea would be marvelous, thank you.”
“Her ladyship said to take you to the kitchen, but I detected a certain amount of, let us say, whimsy in her words.” Withdrawing a key from her pocket, she steered him to the room across from Mr. Collins’s.
“Come through to my sitting room, if you please,” she said, leading him to a wingback chair across from a worn sofa. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back directly with tea.” Ben tried to thank her, but the housekeeper turned swiftly on her heel, leaving him talking to empty air.
Her avoidance of engagement was understandable. Paget’s disease was typically mild, and usually afflicted older folks, many of whom mistook their symptoms for arthritis. Even when Paget’s affected the skull, as it often did, the remolding of the bone tended to be subtle. Mrs. Grundy had been unlucky enough to develop the disease early in life and as severely as he’d ever seen, outside of a medical textbook. Given the tendency of human beings to mock, bully, and shun those who looked different, she was remarkably fortunate to have found any employment, much less a position of authority in a baron’s ancestral home.
While she was gone, he couldn’t resist a quick look around. Unlike the Spartan surroundings Mr. Collins apparently favored, Mrs. Grundy’s living space revealed a bit about its occupant. Two pieces of highly detailed embroidery hung on the wall; a third lay atop her sewing basket, half-finished. On the coffee table was a stack of the cinema magazine Picturegoer, which featured glowing profiles of stars like Polly Ward and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Ben wasn’t surprised when he found nothing out of the ordinary, much less a gigantic blood stain.
“Here we are, Dr. Bones,” Mrs. Grundy said, returning with a tray bearing tea, cucumber sandwiches, and a slice of cake. She served him with smooth efficiency, eyes directed to her task. When finished, she seated herself, folded her hands in her lap, and lowered her chin as she had in the photo, as if shielding him from the necessity of looking directly at her face.
“Won’t you join me?” he asked.
“I’d prefer to resume my afternoon routine as soon as possible. Is the tea to your liking?”
“Very much so.” He had to restrain himself from asking about her disease. Though he considered his motives benign—to see if he could help and to increase his clinical knowledge—the fact was, she was under no obligation to satisfy his curiosity about that aspect of her life. Best to crack on with his questions.
“How long have you been at Fitchley Park, Mrs. Grundy?”
“I was born here. My father, Edmund Grundy, was butler to old Lord Maggart. My mother, Sarah, was housekeeper before me. Because my parents were reliable employees, and because the old baron had a kind heart, I was educated alongside the Maggart children until I was twelve. Then I joined the staff as undermaid, in the days when it took an army to maintain a house this size, and I’ve been employed at Fitchley Park ever since.”
That explained her manner of speaking, which resembled that of the upper classes. The chief difference being, the true upper crust cultivated a jovial, aggressively chummy style. Ben considered it a sort of manufactured commonality, made up of slang, catch phrases, and a superficial friendliness that both charmed and repelled. Mrs. Grundy had been brought up to speak the King’s English but not to use upper class shibboleths, like calling her father “pater” or expressing thanks with phrases like, “Awfully good of you, old bean.”
“And your husband is….” He trailed off so she could confirm that her title, “Mrs.,” was a courtesy bestowed on unmarried female servants of rank, but she did not. Instead, she lifted her chin, looking him in the eye for the first time.
“There are only two possible answers to that question, Dr. Bones. Either my husband is called Grundy because I plucked him from the branches of my own family tree. Or that I have no husband, only the pretense of one.”
“You don’t suffer fools gladly, do you, Mrs. Grundy?”
“Not gladly. But I do suffer them with regularity, for which I’m paid, thank goodness.”
Smiling, he thought, She absolutely must meet Lady Juliet.
“I wish you’d been available yesterday,” he said truthfully. “There was an abundance of foolishness, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt, and very little sense to be found. But I understand the discovery of Mr. Archer’s body shocked you greatly.”
“Yes.”
She seemed completely unemotional now, he noted. “How was it discovered?”
“One of my girls found it. Kitty. She missed breakfast and was late to her duties. At some point she crept downstairs, probably to beg a morsel from Betsy in the kitchen. She noticed the open door, looked inside, and screamed. Betsy dashed up to find me while Mr. Collins took charge of the matter.”
“What time was that?” he asked, draining his teacup.
“Quarter past nine.”
“I don’t pretend to know much about the management of a house like this, but I imagine the workday starts before dawn, at least for Mrs. Tippett. Why did it take three or four hours for someone to find a corpse so close to the kitchen?”
“I wouldn’t know. I was overseeing the turning of mattresses upstairs.”
“The odor would’ve been offensive. Blood and bowel
s.”
“I no longer possess a sense of smell, Doctor. Compression of the olfactory nerve, according to Dr. Egan. He wanted me to see a specialist in London, but I declined. They could have done nothing for me. Except photograph my face, document my symptoms, and publish papers on the topic of osteitis deformans to enhance their own reputations.”
“And educate young doctors like me, who have little experience with severe cases. However, in your shoes, I don’t think I’d want to be paraded through the Royal College of Physicians.”
“It’s not as if there’s any preventative,” Mrs. Grundy said as Ben refilled his teacup. “Dr. Egan was delighted by my case, positively gleeful, and told me everything he knew. Even hauled out a dusty old book and read to me from it. He said I should be grateful it didn’t cripple me, or take my hearing, or my sight.” She gave Ben a distorted smile. “So much to be grateful for.”
“If I may ask—at what age did your condition develop?”
“Seventeen,” she said matter-of-factly, but Ben could almost feel the bitterness behind her calm gaze, like waves crashing against a seawall. “I used to be pretty enough. Father Rummage took a picture of me and gave me the print. For years, I held onto it, as if it proved something. Then one day, I turned a corner, and burned it.
“Dr. Egan assured me I wasn’t alone,” she went on. “He mentioned a certain gallery containing a portrait of medical interest called The Ugly Duchess. It depicts a noblewoman with the same condition, or so he believed.”
Ben, who’d seen it, nodded.
“I suppose if I ever go to London, I can visit the gallery and commune with that portrait. Reminding myself how lucky I am not to be alone.”
“I suspect Dr. Egan meant well,” Ben said. “But if his, er, excessive enthusiasm for the disease, without regard for how that disease affects you, engendered a distrust of physicians, I wouldn’t blame you. Still, I’d be happy to make inquiries with my London mentors. Perhaps there’s a new therapy….”
“That’s kind of you.” She sounded cautious but not openly suspicious. Maybe she would call on him and let him investigate on her behalf, if he didn’t spoil things by pressing too hard.