The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  At this point, Mrs Rusbridger put down her tray, picked up a wooden spoon, and banged it on the table. "This 'ere is a respectable establishment. Lady Blackwood would 'ave it no other way. And that includes gossip and speculation. Such things are unladylike, and you should know better!"

  The women were in their element and resented having their pleasure cut short.

  "Mrs Rusbridger, we are just discussing the known facts," interjected the long-faced woman with the little sour mouth. "Not a word of gossip has passed any of our lips."

  Mrs Rusbridger folded her thick arms. She shook her round face from side to side. Her saucers for eyes settled on me. "Now if you want to knows what happened yesterday, why don't you asks the person what discovered the body. She is sitting right here, all quiet eating her porridge."

  Everyone's eyes turned in my direction. Mrs Rusbridger's shone the brightest. "Tell us what happened, love." She pulled out a seat and sat down. "Not that we are being nosy."

  Oh bother!

  I put down my spoon. The truth was I wanted to put the events of yesterday into the past. I wanted to forget about what I'd seen. I wanted to forget about the niggling sense of disquiet I felt about the death of Antoinette Sandoe and the disappearance of her mother.

  I wanted nothing more to do with Bagington Hall. But with all eyes on me, there was no chance of that.

  I said, "There is so little to tell; it is hardly worth the words."

  The long-faced woman with the little sour mouth said, "That's what we all hoped, isn't it, ladies?"

  "Yes," they cried as one.

  The woman continued, "Start at the very beginning. Take your time, and don't leave anything out. That way, we can stop the spread of disreputable rumours."

  When I'd finished and answered the many questions, Mrs Rusbridger stood up and hurried to the kitchen. She came back a few moments later and said, "Miss Darling is a wonderful young lady. She has given me a little kitten rescued from Bagington Hall." She held up Swiftee.

  "Nice little fellow, isn't he?" said the tall, elegant woman with full eyebrows.

  Mrs Rusbridger grinned. "And you'll never guess what he did last night." She didn’t wait for an answer. "He caught a mouse!"

  Chapter 27

  I wasn't even hurrying.

  A weak sun shone between soaring banks of pale-white clouds. A blackbird cackled its alarm. I'd just stepped out of Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house, walked along the gravel path, and rounded a corner onto the lane.

  I turned to gaze in the direction of the blackbird chirp, and without warning, a black dog bounded along the lane. It scurried towards me like a horse on the gallop. With quick foot movements I sidestepped the animal, and that was when Hilda Ogbern, pushing a cart of vegetables, chasing after the dog, flew out from behind a hedge, and it wasn't possible to adjust my feet in time.

  The cart clattered into my legs, tipping me over. The vegetables scattered in every direction.

  "Hullo, luv. Sorry about that," Hilda said as she reached out a hand to pull me to my feet. For a short dumpling of a woman, she had strong arms. "That new puppy will be the death of me. Dobbin, wait!"

  The dog sat.

  "Puppy! Why, he is huge," I said.

  Hilda placed a hand on her hip. "That animal takes off like a greyhound, and there ain't a drop of pedigree in his bones." Her roguish face and bright, eager eyes glanced at me. "Miss Maggie Darling, ain't it?"

  Working together, we righted the cart and repacked the vegetables. All the while, Hilda Ogbern talked with enthusiasm about nothing in particular—the warm weather, the state of the railways, training the puppy. "And Vicar Humberstone encourages me to let Dobbin run free."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "The vicar likes to leave 'im titbits in the graveyard. Claims Dobbin scares away the rats. Attract them more like!"

  I could see by the eager gleam in her eyes there was news she was bursting to share, and it didn’t involve the vicar, rats, or Dobbin's wayward nature.

  At last, when everything was in order, Hilda said, "I'm on my way to Mrs Rusbridger's. Are you staying there?"

  "For the moment," I replied. "It is a wonderful boarding house and very affordable. I'll stay for another week, at least."

  Hilda rested her hands on the handle of the cart. "Me and Mrs Rusbridger are old friends, tell each other the news so we can keep up to date."

  So that was it. There was something new on the Cromer gossip grapevine, and it didn't take a genius to work out what. I said, "Do you have news about Bagington Hall?"

  "Aye, that would be it. Don't suppose there is much I can tell you, seeing as you found the body." She peered into my eyes as if trying to read my mind. "But I know something you don't know, and I'll put a shilling on that."

  "Hilda, I'd take the bet, but I don't have a shilling to spare."

  Hilda laughed. Again, the blackbird cackled its alarm. We all turned towards the sound.

  "Dear me," Hilda muttered under her breath. "They say when the blackbird calls the alarm, they'll be a day of doom ahead."

  Growing up in Cromer, I'd heard that and other superstitious Victorian mumblings. As far as I could discern, there wasn't a shred of truth in any of them.

  "Oh, Hilda, that is nothing but an old wives' tale." I sneezed. "A modern woman like you should know better than repeating such nonsense."

  Hilda folded her arms. After a long moment of silence, she said, "Looks like you are coming down with something."

  I said, "I gave Mrs Rusbridger a new kitten. I'm allergic to cats."

  "And chicken feathers," Hilda said, recalling our conversation on the train. "Oh, how I suffered terrible from that too when I first moved to the country. Not any longer though."

  Now I was keen to hear how she'd overcome her allergies. I sneezed and said, "I'm all ears. Please tell me what you did. I'll do anything to get rid of this."

  Hilda wagged a finger in my face. "Miss Darling, I'd like to tell you how I fixed the sneezing problem, but it's an old wives' tale, so I shan't bother."

  "Now, listen, Hilda, you can't mention a cure and then snatch it away."

  Hilda said, "But a modern woman like me has no business spreading Victorian old wives' tales."

  I cleared my throat and said, "Point taken. Now are you going to tell me, or do I have to sneeze it out of you?"

  Hilda unfolded her arms. "Now listen good to this old wife and her tale. To fix the sneezes, take two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar with a glass of water and a squeeze of lemon juice. Mind you, take it three times a day, and you'll be as right as rain."

  The blackbird cackled another warning cry. We both looked in its direction. Dobbin's front paws stretched high on the trunk of an oak tree.

  "Down, Dobbin," yelled Hilda. The dog turned its head, seemed to get the message, and sat. Hilda placed a hand on my arm. "Now, Miss Darling, why don't you come with me back to the boarding house. That way I can tell you the news at the same time as Mrs Rusbridger."

  Chapter 28

  On the doorstep of the boarding house, Hilda tied up the puppy to her vegetable cart then pushed open the front door. I followed her inside.

  The guests had retired to their rooms, and Mrs Rusbridger was in the kitchen, arms deep in cold water washing dishes, pots, and pans.

  "Hullo, hullo!" said Hilda.

  Mrs Rusbridger's round face turned from the pots, the room still exuding the pungent flavours of breakfast. Not a word was exchanged for several seconds. Gradually, recognition came to her large, round eyes. She straightened up, wiped her hands on an old rag, and cleared her throat.

  "News of Bagington Hall?"

  "Aye," replied Hilda. "That would be about right."

  Mrs Rusbridger's eyes twitched like a bird eyeing a worm. "Get to it, woman. What is it?"

  "Better sit down, and I'll take the weight off me feet as well."

  Hilda took her time sitting down, clearly enjoying being at the centre
of attention.

  I followed her to a seat, keen to hear the news.

  Hilda began slow, like a comedian warming up the crowd. "Knows Mrs Garfield?"

  "Of course I knows Mrs Garfield," huffed Mrs Rusbridger. "The two of us went to school together, and she works for Dr Swensen. I've known the woman all my life. Now spit it out."

  "Aye, that's right, it must 'ave slipped my mind, what with the shock of the news." Hilda's words came out slow as if she was tasting every syllable. "Just got back from speaking with Mrs Garfield. Dr Swensen is at the bottle again."

  "What for, this time?"

  "On account of the Bagington Hall body."

  "What about the body?"

  "Belongs to Antoinette Sandoe."

  "Dear God," said Mrs Rusbridger, her voice barely a whisper. "That's what everyone thought. Poor lass. Better have a tot of brandy."

  Mrs Rusbridger hurried to an overhead cupboard, rustled around, and came back with three china cups and a half-empty bottle of brandy. She sloshed it liberally into each cup.

  Hilda took a long sip and said, "The funeral is tomorrow at eleven."

  "I'll be there to pay my respects," said Mrs Rusbridger, her eyes now the size of dinner plates.

  "But that's not the end of it." Hilda's voice cackled like the alarm call of a blackbird. "Mrs Garfield says Dr Swensen found a big ole long-handled dagger sticking out of her chest. It had the letters XOT scratched in the handle. Antoinette Sandoe was murdered!"

  Chapter 29

  "Command to the grave"—Vicar Humberstone raised his eyes to the heavens and then turned to the gathered crowd—"the body of your servant, Antoinette Sandoe."

  Lady Herriman stood side by side with Sir Richard Sandoe who, stiff and pale, held the coffin cord tight with both hands. Behind them were a gaggle of Bagington Hall workers and villagers.

  It seemed the entire village had turned out. I'd only been in town a few days, but already I could pick out a few faces. Dolly Trimmings stood next to Withers, who wore a black suit with a silk top hat that shone with the polish of a well-kept boot. His white-gloved hands and thin sword cane gave him the look of a Victorian gentleman. Hilda Ogbern and Mrs Rusbridger stood a little way back from the main crowd, their heads close as if exchanging confidential information.

  I recognised Boots and the gatekeeper amongst a group of flat-capped men. Mrs Mullins had an arm over the shoulder of her niece, Rose. And tall, broad-shouldered Sergeant Pender watched with hooded eyes along with a group of constables, a little way behind Chief Inspector Little.

  I stood near the back of the crowd with Uncle Tristan's arm about my shoulder. Memories of Mother's funeral flooded my mind. The sun shone brightly on that day. It had cast long shadows on the dreary headstones. Today, that same sun shone in a cloudless sky. I felt like I was in a dreadful dream with everything moving in slow motion as if I had suddenly been tossed into a thick syrup.

  Uncle Tristan whispered, "Maggie, promise me you'll go easy on yourself. Don't let the memories of your mother's send-off stir you up. If you break down and cry, I'll be rolling on the ground bawling too. And neither of us want that."

  Trust Uncle Tristan to say just the right thing to make me smile. "Promise," I said, wiping moisture from my eye. "I'll only allow a teardrop or two."

  Vicar Humberstone glanced towards the church clock as if wishing the whole dreadful thing was over. "Antoinette was a very special young lady. She had a particular interest in languages and local history. I read with great anticipation her musings on the location of Albina's Hoard printed in the parish magazine." He let out an apologetic sigh and with hands raised said, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

  Lady Herriman stepped forward, lifted her black veil with one hand, and wiped her dim eyes with a silk handkerchief. In a high, tremulous tone, she said, "Poor Antoinette! How I have missed our evening Bible readings, your singing, and our chats about your future. Your mother loved you. If only she hadn't married a scoundrel who poisoned her mind."

  The vicar moved towards Lady Herriman, thought better of it, and stopped.

  "It wasn't your fault, Antoinette. You know that, don't you," cried Lady Herriman to the open grave as she pulled the veil back over her face. "That man masquerading as your father ought to be horsewhipped!"

  Dolly Trimmings placed an arm around Lady Herriman's trembling shoulder. "This way, madam," Dolly whispered. "Let's sit in the motorcar a while and rest."

  Lady Herriman shook free of her grip. "I'm not some feeble, old woman! No, I've stared death in the face and won." She lifted the veil, eyes blazing at Sir Sandoe. "At least now Antoinette can rest in peace for eternity."

  "This way, madam," Dolly repeated. She took a gentle grip on Lady Herriman's arm and led her away from the open grave.

  Vicar Humberstone coughed, adjusted his ceremonial robe. His head tilted skyward, eyelids dropped as if in private prayer, but his eyes followed Lady Herriman until she disappeared behind a stone monument. "Sir Sandoe, please."

  Sir Richard Sandoe responded with a bleak smile, his hands opening. The cord dropped. It hit the top of the coffin with a thud.

  Uncle squeezed me tight against his shoulder.

  I wiped tears from my eyes.

  Vicar Humberstone turned, and with solemn steps strode away from the grave towards the church entrance.

  Sir Sandoe remained very still for a moment, staring into the grave. With a slow movement, he reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a hip flask, and took a long hard swig. Then he turned and walked away.

  Two gravediggers set to work with their shovels.

  Uncle Tristan's arm slipped from my shoulder.

  The crowd turned away. As they broke up into small groups, I watched Chief Inspector Little approach Sir Sandoe. There was deference in his step, a slight stoop to his shoulders as if he were in the presence of royalty. Sir Sandoe extended his hand. The two men shook.

  The chief inspector muttered something into Sir Sandoe's ear. I was too far away to hear the words, but Sir Sandoe seemed to visibly relax as if relieved of some great tension, and I thought I saw a flicker of a smile on his long, narrow bovine face.

  Chapter 30

  "This is a terrible business," said Boots. He rocked back and forth from foot to foot, his small eyes occasionally gazing at the gravediggers. "I mean, Lady Sandoe goes missing; Tommy Crabapple loses his feet, and now this!"

  I stood under the shade of a large oak tree with a small group of Bagington Hall workers and Uncle Tristan. A squirrel hopped from branch to branch casting nervous glances at the humans below. The soft sound of the shovels against dirt and strained grunts of the gravediggers carried in the still air.

  "It’s the devil's work," uttered the gatekeeper. "There be no doubt about it."

  Uncle Tristan waved his arms about, palms out. "Man, what are you talking about? All this devil talk is ridiculous."

  "Aye, that’s what Miss Antoinette used to say," muttered the gatekeeper. "But look at her now. The curse will be on you next if you don't mind your words."

  We gazed at the grave. The diggers worked fast, shovelling soft soil into the cavernous hole where the remains of Antoinette lay in a sealed casket. At that moment, as we all stood in silence and watched, there seemed to be a profound truth in the gatekeeper's words.

  "It’s the devil's work; make no bones about it," again muttered the gatekeeper.

  This was too much for Uncle Tristan. He folded his arms and said, "Nonsense! Now let's not be having any of that talk. What happened to Miss Antoinette was an act of wickedness—"

  "Isn't that but another name for the devil?" interrupted the gatekeeper.

  Uncle Tristan ignored his interjection and continued, "But what on earth has it to do with the disappearance of Lady Sandoe or the accident of Tommy Crabapple?"

  "They are related as night is to day," said the gatekeeper, his voice as low as the gentle breeze. "Who is the master of Bagington Hall?"

  "And Sir Sandoe runs the place like th
e devil himself," added Boots.

  "With a temper to match," said the gatekeeper.

  "Come now," said Uncle Tristan. "Sir Sandoe would never raise a hand against anyone."

  "Then you ain't been the object of his temper," replied the gatehouse keeper, "cos if you were, you'd know better. The man is like a lunatic let loose from the asylum when he's angry."

  "Vicious temper and as cunning as a fox," added Boots. "Why else would he spread a rumour about Miss Antoinette running off to America when he knows it ain't true? What other rumours has he started? That don't sound like no gentleman to me."

  But Uncle Tristan would not back down. I feared the prospect of gold may have warped his mind. He said, "In my dealings, he has been nothing but a gentleman."

  I remembered my first meeting with Sir Sandoe on the train to Cromer and felt differently. Yes, he'd served his country, and he was part of the landed gentry, but the quality of his opinions did not differ from those die-hard Victorian men I'd met in the pie-and-mash shop. Take away the title, the money, and what remained? A bigoted little man who was afraid of the changing times.

  Uncle Tristan said, "Sir Sandoe has been gracious to me. There are certain opportunities for which he has aided my progress. Take, for example, my staffing agency. It was his idea." He puffed up his chest and gave his cape a swirl. "Do you seriously believe Sir Sandoe knew his own daughter lay rotting in that disused room?"

  "Miss Antoinette was not his flesh and blood," said Boots.

  "And it's his house, he should 'ave known," added the gatekeeper.

  "And what justice does he get?" said Boots. "I tell you, it ain't right."

  "Careful what you say," said Uncle Tristan. "If it were not for Sir Sandoe, you’d be unemployed. I know it upsets you, but today is about Miss Antoinette Sandoe. Can we respect that?"

  The men fell into an uneasy quiet.

  The sound of the shovels was suddenly very different. No longer a hollow clang but a solid thud. We turned to watch the gravediggers toss on the final sods of earth.