The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  Dismissed from work, he had got through the first week by doing odd jobs around the house for his mother and the weekend passed as usual, but when the second Monday came around, he didn’t think he could stomach another whole week at home. His brothers wouldn’t let up their teasing for a second, and the pitying looks of his parents were almost worse.

  Thankfully, each week he paid his mother money towards the housekeeping and saved the rest in the bank, bar a pound or two to see him through for the odd beer. All the change went in a jar and there was enough in there for a third-class return train ticket to Shipton, as well as a night or two at a local inn. Once he’d realised this, he’d left the house before he could change his mind.

  Now, having walked on the road with nothing but his own thoughts for company, he worried whether his hasty plan had been such a good one. He didn’t even know for sure that Louisa would be there – they might have gone to London, or Paris, or wherever toffs might go, and she would have had to go with them.

  Nor was he absolutely certain that she would be pleased to see him. Her last letter had been, as usual, friendly but distant. Guy was definite about how he felt – he wanted to take her in his arms, pull her into his chest and protect her from any storm. But whether she would so much as want to share an umbrella in the rain … well, he would try to find out now.

  As he came up to the gate, hope rose in his heart as he saw smoke curling from the chimneys. They must be at home. He had a note in his pocket to leave for her if she was out or busy. On the driveway, Guy saw the handsome oak tree and decided against knocking on the front door but looked instead to see if there was any kind of back entrance where he might find a servant to pass along the note.

  A stone wall, high and handsome, lined the limits of the house’s grounds and Guy noticed a door in the wall, in a bend close to the building, the wood painted the same colour as the stone – an unobtrusive place one might exit the garden and into the road, he thought. He’d leave that way too; he hadn’t enjoyed walking into the drive, a place more suited and used to the sweeping entrance of a smart motorcar, he was sure. His dusty shoes and thin brown suit were shabby, and as he was wondering again if this was a bad idea and he should turn around, he saw a young girl in a dress and apron, a cap on her head. She was carrying an empty laundry basket in one hand and raised the other in greeting.

  ‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Can I help you?’

  Her smile was friendly and Guy felt encouraged. He quick-stepped towards her, definitely at the back of the house now, with herbs growing in huge pots grouped together, the scented leaves tumbling up and over the earthenware. He caught rosemary and it stuck in his throat, sending up a sudden memory of his mother as she served up roast lamb one Easter, a rare treat before the war, when all her sons were alive and around one table.

  ‘Hello,’ he said as he got nearer, not wishing to shout out. ‘I was wondering if I might leave a note for Miss Louisa Cannon?’

  Ada – for Ada it was, as he would later discover – gave a broad grin. ‘Miss Louisa, eh?’

  Guy stood stock-still, his bag dropped at his feet, the note in both hands. He looked at her stupidly. ‘Er, yes. Is she here? May I give you the note?’

  ‘You may as well see her yourself,’ said Ada, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Come along – you look in need of a cup of tea. Mrs Stobie’ll fetch you one up in the kitchen.’

  When Louisa was summoned into the kitchen from the linen cupboard – where she’d been folding and re-folding the children’s bedsheets and blankets, a task she’d taken to repeating daily, just to get some time to herself, away from Nanny Blor’s good-hearted but increasingly frustrated enquiries as to whether she was ‘quite herself’ – she found, sitting at the scrubbed pine table, Guy Sullivan. This was not what she had expected, and Ada, mischievously, had not given her fair warning. She took a sharp breath as he stood and found herself rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do or say. Mrs Stobie pretended to busy herself at the stove, brushing the pastry top of a pie with beaten egg. Ada looked on, unabashed. She gave Louisa a small shove in the back.

  ‘Say hello to the poor chap. Look at ‘im – he’s been walking for days to see you.’

  ‘Not quite days, Miss Cannon,’ said Guy, who sensed he needed to take charge of the situation. ‘I just got the train up. It’s a nice day for a walk. Anyway,’ he continued, as Louisa looked at him – was that pleasure in her face? Or anger? – ‘I didn’t mean to disturb; I just wanted to leave you a note. Let you know I was staying nearby.’

  Louisa recovered herself. ‘Hello, Mr Sullivan,’ she said. ‘It’s very nice to see you. Forgive me, I … well, I wasn’t expecting it.’ She turned to Ada and gave her a meaningful look. ‘Thank you, Ada. Hadn’t you better be getting on?’

  Ada chuckled, tipped her friend a wink and went out of the kitchen. Mrs Stobie turned away from the stove and, wiping her hands on her apron, said she’d better be off, too. She had the week’s menu to plan before she met Lady Redesdale next morning. Mrs Windsor, she added, was on an errand in Burford and wasn’t expected back until teatime. In other words, the coast was clear.

  Louisa fetched herself a cup and sat down at the table, opposite Guy. The mild shock of his arrival had brought colour to her cheeks, and her hair, though neatly pinned up in a style that closely resembled a daring bob, had a few flyaway strands that softened the edges. Just looking at her made Guy’s fingers tap nervously and he hid his hands on his lap, beneath the table. His cap was laid beside the teapot and jug of milk that Mrs Stobie had put out.

  Louisa poured herself a cup of tea without saying a word until she had had her first sip, making him feel even more nervous. Her voice was softer than when the others had been around; it gave him hope if she had a tone just for him.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. Had Stephen been reported missing?

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.

  Balm was poured on her troubled waters. ‘That’s very nice,’ she said. ‘But it’s not the whole story, is it?’

  ‘I’ve been sacked from the force. I didn’t really know what else to do. I just knew that I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Sacked! Why?’

  ‘For conducting inquiries into the murder of Miss Florence Shore off my own bat.’

  ‘What inquiries?’ said Louisa. ‘The visit you made to Stuart Hobkirk?’

  ‘Not exactly. That is, someone has been to see him since we did. I don’t know who it was, though I’d like to find out. I admitted to seeing Mabel Rogers, too, so I didn’t help myself. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I hadn’t even discussed the case with her, though I did ask her about Roland Lucknor.’

  ‘Did you say that to them?’ Louisa went white. Those bank books … She should give them to Guy but the last thing she needed was the police investigating Roland more closely. Supposing they found out about Stephen, and her part in it?

  ‘No,’ said Guy, ‘I said I’d gone to see her out of sympathy, not as a policeman, which was sort of true. At any rate, she didn’t even respond to his name when I said it. It’s all over for me, Louisa. What shall I do?’

  Louisa looked at her untouched tea, grey and cold. She could hear the faint chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall striking three. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Look, you’d better go now.’

  ‘Is there an inn nearby? Somewhere I can stay for the night?’

  Louisa knew there was only one and if he asked anyone else, that’s where he would be sent: the Swan Inn. But Stephen had stayed there until his sudden disappearance and the place was still full of the story. Every other man in the village, it seemed, had money owed them by him and they were all in the bar escaping the wrath of their wives. A stranger was sure to get his ear bent by those keen to share their woes. And thanks to Ada’s man, Jonny, quite a few of them knew she was Stephen’s niece. Louisa had been staying inside the house as much as possible lately; when she went to the village a couple of days ago she had been accosted by one angry man
wanting to know where Stephen was. She didn’t want Guy to know about her past. If she was to have a future, then all her yesterdays had to stay there.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘if you stay nearby, there’ll be gossip about us. You’ve been here now and you’ll get spotted in the village. You don’t know what it’s like in the country. Everyone knows everyone’s business.’ This wasn’t quite as true as Londoners liked to believe but it would serve her purpose for now.

  ‘Must I go back tonight?’ said Guy, thinking of the long walk back the station.

  ‘Yes,’ said Louisa, her heart still beating fast.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Guy leaned towards her. ‘The truth is, Louisa …’ He paused, daring himself to go on. ‘The truth is, I’ll do anything you say, you know. Anything.’

  Louisa smiled at him but said nothing. She liked Guy but it couldn’t happen. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry I can’t see you out but I’d better get back up to the nursery; they’ll be wondering where I am. I’ll write to you as soon as I can.’

  Guy stood and before she could do anything, he had moved around to her side of the table. She leaned slightly back and he put a hand up, a signal to let her know not to be alarmed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye. Will you at least shake my hand?’

  She laughed a little at this – his manner was so unassuming, she knew she could never be afraid of him. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Guy.’ They shook hands, a little self-consciously. ‘I’ll write.’

  When Mrs Stobie came back into the kitchen a minute or two later, all she could see were the cups and teapot placed neatly by the sink and empty chairs at the table, a feeling of absence in the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  In November, it would be Nancy’s eighteenth birthday and her mother had promised her a ball in the library. Louisa knew that Nancy felt adult life approaching at last and was impatient for it to start. In the meantime, there was much to be done for the planning: the list of guests, the dresses, the flowers … In just a few steps in a single night, Nancy would walk from the schoolroom to the ballroom and her childhood would be over. It was not so much a party, Nancy had said, as it was an initiation rite. If she could have added African drums and smoke signals, she’d have done it. A quartet and a log fire would have to do.

  All of this was exciting, and Louisa was happy for her, but for one thing: Nancy had told Louisa that she intended to ask Roland to the dance, and she was sure her mother would approve.

  After a sleepless night, Louisa told Nanny Blor that she needed to speak to Lady Redesdale about something, and asked permission to go down and see her after breakfast.

  ‘Of course, ducks,’ said Nanny Blor, ‘but it sounds a bit serious. Is it something I should be worrying about?’

  Louisa shook her head and said no, she didn’t think so, it was just something she needed to run by Her Ladyship; it wouldn’t take long.

  At 9 a.m., in her best plain frock and having given her shoes an extra polish, her hair as neatly in place as she could manage, Louisa went down the stairs to the morning room, the place Lady Redesdale went to after breakfast to write her letters. An early autumn sunshine lit the pale furniture beautifully, and Lady Redesdale’s head was already bent to her daily task at her bureau, her pen flying rapidly across the thick cream paper, the Mitford crest embossed at the top.

  When so little seemed to happen at Asthall Manor, nobody could quite guess at what Lady Redesdale’s endless letters contained. She was not a particularly keen gardener so it seemed unlikely she was swapping helpful tips on how to prune petunias with one of her sisters-in-law. The children were never any real cause for concern and her husband stuck rigidly to a routine that prompted little news, unless she was to disclose his tallies at shoots. Nancy speculated that her mother was lost in a fantasy, which was relayed to distant friends and relatives, writing about make-believe balls and parties attended by the Prince of Wales, with her daughters courted by European princes. This seemed to her the only possibility when ‘our lives here are so dull there is nothing to say about any of it’.

  Louisa thought Lady Redesdale was more caught up in her children, in fact, than any of them recognised. There were many and frequent diktats on their reading, the food in the nursery, the number of inches each window should be opened by to allow for continuous fresh air in all weathers, and so on. Not to mention that she taught all of them their lessons in their early years. Louisa suspected that Lady Redesdale was not so much uninterested as easily distracted from engaging with her children.

  Standing just inside the doorway, Louisa coughed and Lady Redesdale looked up. If she was bemused to see the nursery maid in the morning room without the children, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Yes, Louisa?’ she said, as usual still holding her pen, ready to resume her writing in a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, my lady,’ said Louisa timidly. ‘It’s just that …’

  ‘Come a little nearer, I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Louisa stepped forwards but kept her distance, as if she was by the lion’s cage at the zoo. ‘I just needed to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lady Redesdale looked impatient but she put her pen down and her hands in her lap. ‘What is it?’

  She was about to break her promise to Roland but she was afraid of him now. If he was banished from Asthall, she’d be safe. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I know what I’m about to say will seem rather insolent, so please believe me that I say it only because I have yours and Lord Redesdale’s best interests at heart.’

  ‘Goodness. How intriguing. Do go on.’

  ‘It’s about Mr Lucknor. I know Miss Nancy wants to invite him to her dance but I think it’s very important that she doesn’t. In fact, I don’t think he should come here again at all.’

  ‘That’s quite something for you to say. Why ever not?’

  ‘I believe that His Lordship may be giving him money for reasons that are … not quite right.’

  ‘I don’t quite think I can be hearing this correctly. Are you presuming to tell me that the business my husband is conducting is something you don’t agree with?’ Fury had passed its palm over Lady Redesdale’s face.

  Louisa stammered but she knew she had to press on. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. I know it’s not for me to say—’

  ‘You’re certainly right about that!’

  ‘But I don’t think Mr Lucknor is quite what he seems. I think if he comes back here, he could be a danger to you.’

  ‘Is this something we should tell the police about?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘Because it’s not serious enough or because you don’t actually have any real reason for these things you are saying?’

  Louisa hesitated. None of this was coming out right but how to explain it without telling her about Stephen and the blood on his collar? Or that she had gone into his room in the night and heard him call out a murdered nurse’s name, one he’d denied knowing? That she couldn’t believe that any business proposition he put to Lord Redesdale could be honest, when he had a bank book belonging to somebody else?

  Lady Redesdale knew exactly how to read Louisa’s silence. ‘I cannot have a nursery maid interfering in my husband’s business. I’m sure you understand.’ Lady Redesdale spoke calmly. ‘You are dismissed from your position as of today. I will give you a reference and the rest of the month’s wages, but that is all. Hooper can take you to the station this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m to be dismissed, my lady?’ said Louisa, floored by this reaction.

  ‘Yes.’ She exhaled impatiently. ‘It’s very disappointing but when servants interfere in the matters of their masters, they reveal their ambitions to be above their station and that’s no good for anyone. Please go now.’ She bent her head again and picked up her pen. There were to be no last words, no chance of a reprieve.

  Louisa said no more and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTY<
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  Upstairs in the nursery, news of Louisa’s imminent departure caused a great hue and cry. Nanny Blor sat in her armchair like a bag of flour, watching Louisa as she gathered together the few mementoes she had acquired in her time there, not quite two years yet. There were shells from St Leonards-on-Sea and a stick of rock that she had bought, intending to give her mother, but it had seemed too silly when they’d got back so she’d held on to it. Two or three more tiny shells from the beach at Dieppe, and a metre or so of mint-green velvet ribbon that Nancy had bought her in London.

  Out of her wages Louisa had bought two cotton dresses, a jacket and a new pair of boots, but she still had her old green felt coat and brown cloche hat. There was little else besides, and it was the sight of her whole life being packed into a cloth bag that made her want to cry more than anything. She had convinced herself that she was building a new life here but it had turned out to be as collapsible as a soufflé.

  Pamela and Diana were weeping quietly but Louisa guessed this was more in despair at the tension than at her departure. They were used to changes of servants and governesses, and had long learned not to become too attached, apart from Nanny Blor, of course, but she was different, she was practically family. Tom was at school and the babies, Decca and Debo, were too young to understand what was going on. Unity scowled alone in a corner of the nursery, though whether at Louisa’s going or because today was a day for scowling, one couldn’t be sure.

  Nancy, however, was stalking around the nursery in a rage, tears streaming down her face. Nobody seemed able to give her a satisfactory answer as to why Louisa was going and she didn’t believe her nursery maid and her friend – yes, her friend, her only friend in the house – when she tried to protest that she wanted to go. Why was it happening so suddenly? Her mother, of course, was completely impassive in the face of Nancy’s pleading, telling her to go upstairs and wash her face. Farve was oblivious to all the drama, out all hours now it was the shooting season. Her parents were so thoughtless, she continued, it was weeks until her eighteenth birthday ball and who could take her to London now to find a dress? (Not, thought Louisa, that her mother had promised her a London dressmaker.)