A Death in the Pavilion: A Euphemia Martins Mystery

by Caroline Dunford

  A DEATH IN THE PAVILION

  A Euphemia Martins Mystery

  CAROLINE DUNFORD

  Euphemia Martins, the estranged granddaughter of an Earl, entered service incognito with the Stapleford family to save her family from destitution and from that moment on she acquired the bothersome reputation of finding dead bodies.

  Now promoted to the role of paid companion to the deplorable Richenda Stapleford she is staying at the country estate of Hans Muller upon whom Richenda has matrimonial designs. Mere weeks after their arrival Richenda’s twin brother, Richard, dispatches a servant bearing news of shocking accusations concerning Muller.

  Euphemia finds herself unravelling an old murder with Richenda as her unlikely ally but delving into the past sets off a dangerous series of events in the present and it’s not long before Richenda, her step-brother Bertram and Euphemia find themselves in dire peril (again!).

  Could it be that Hans Muller is not the charming man he appears but capable of the most terrible crimes? As usual it is up to Euphemia to solve the mystery using her quick wits and her unswerving sense of justice.

  Also by Caroline Dunford

  in the

  Euphemia Martins Mysteries series

  A Death in the Family

  Death in the Highlands

  A Death in the Asylum

  A Death in the Wedding Party

  A Death in the Pavilion

  Short Stories

  by

  Caroline Dunford

  The Mistletoe Mystery

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  Relations

  ‘Thwock! Thwock!’

  Is there any sound more quintessentially British than the sound of leather on willow? The early autumn afternoons were beginning to get a slight chill, but it was refreshing and bracing. From my seat in the small pavilion I could see white-clothed figures running backwards and forewards across the small area of the pitch between the stumps. A distant cry floated to me on the wind; someone was out.

  A long time ago before all my adventures began my little brother, Joe, had attempted to explain the vagaries of cricket to me. Although my Latin is good and my Greek passable, thanks to the efforts of my father, who believed in one exploring one’s intelligence regardless of gender, I never did manage to get my head around cricket. As Joe explained the game, I remember thinking that it seemed more and more pointless and I didn’t want to think that. I enjoy watching the game. It brings back memories of when my father was alive and he used to umpire the parish match each summer. All conflict between the parishioners, and there was much, was put aside as they ran trailing their well-worn bats behind them. Mr Gregor, the exceedingly fat village grocer, would for once cheer on Mr Hainley the postman. All conflicts over which had the best beer, The Village Crown or The Empty Bottle, would be forgotten. It was a pure and peaceful time, punctuated by lemonade and thick-cut crusty sandwiches and cakes baked by the village women. Understanding the game would only have spoiled the moment.

  Today I was far from my village home and my father had gone to his rest some two years hence after an unfortunate encounter with some mutton and onions. A demise so plebeian, I was unsure if my mother, the estranged daughter of an earl, had yet forgiven him. The bishop had whipped the rectory out from beneath our feet when the coffin was barely in the ground and tipped us out on the brink of destitution. Only an unexpected successful application for a maid’s position at Stapleford Hall had saved me.

  In the next two years came murder, intrigue, proposals from men who believed me to be no more than the working maid I claimed to be, and much heartache. I have written journals of all these adventures and the curious reader can learn much from perusing them. But suffice it to say at this time I am now companion to my once adversary, Richenda Stapleford, whose fiancé the late ‘Baggy’ Tipton was found hanging on the eve of their wedding. It is believed he killed himself after committing murder. In reality he was more than likely killed by Richenda’s twin brother. Tipton was an unlovable soul. I suspect him of much. But all of this remains unproven. We live in an age when money and position trumps justice. In fact the first time I entered Stapleford Hall I encountered a murdered body, and shortly after the master of the house was also murdered. That time Bertram and I managed to get Richard arrested, but matters took their natural course and he became an MP.

  He had once again won out over Tipton’s death, but this time his sister had turned against him and just when it seemed Richard had made certain of my destitution, she rescued me and made me her companion. She did this not only to spite her brother, but because she needed a chaperone to take refuge at the estate of Hans Muller. Muller had been at the same school as Richard and Tipton. He has known the Stapleford’s a long time and is in some way connected with the prime rival bank to the Staplefords’ in the city. When we had met at the court I had initially mistaken him for his cousin Frederick, which was quite unfair; for while there is a family resemblance, Frederick is older and much, much stouter. At the time I merely thought he had been on a weight-reducing diet.

  Hans Muller has been nothing but kindness since we arrived and I have seen Richenda mellow under his influence. He is also a widower which lends almost as much attraction to him as the very lovely estate he had built in 1900. Now, eleven years on, the estate is in its prime. The gardens delightful, the special tower built for ladies’ afternoon tea splendid, the marble dairy a masterpiece of modernity, and the staff copious. The main house is respectably large without being brash, but has the requisite room for balls and banquets, which remain modestly (and very Britishly) shuttered at all times when not in use. The only handicap Muller suffers from, apart from his Christian name, which he never uses, is his mother. She is, to put it kindly, eccentric. His German father has had the decency to depart this mortal coil long before the current difficulties with Germany, but his mother remains an embarrassment. Unfortunately for Muller, he clearly loves his mother very much and thus cannot take a typical Stapleford way out of the situation and dispose of her.

  Even the seasons seem to be kinder here. Though the leaves are beginning to change, the exotic flower known as Angel’s Trumpet still flowers and curls around the pavilion. The paint is beginning to crack on the wood and the resident gardener will be seriously neglecting his duty if this is not seen to before the cold weather sets in. The pavilion is also beset with cobwebs and spiders; while this holds no fear for someone who has had a little brother like Joe, I do wonder why the maids do not clean it. The view over the cricket ground and out towards the south lawn induces a feeling of calm and relaxation such as I have not known for the past two years. It is a lovely spot, so it confuses me why I am the only one who takes advantage of it. Even the cricketers themselves do not use it, but prefer to bring a picnic to the side of the pitch for their refreshment. Still, on the positive side, it means that when I sit here, reflecting on both the past and my uncertain future, no one disturbs me. Until today.

  ‘Miss! Miss!’ Lucy, one of the housemaids erupts onto the pavilion floor. She is breathless and her cap is askew. Her pretty young face is flushed pink and cur
ly tendrils of blonde hair are escaping their pins. She is normally the neatest and most precise of the maids. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked, starting to my feet. ‘Is Miss Richenda ill?’

  I confess the tone of worry in my voice is as much for my own position as for Richenda. It is hard to love an employer who once locked you in a cupboard.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ panted Lucy.

  I frowned. ‘I would have thought it was quite likely I would be out watching the cricket.’

  ‘I’ve been all over the gardens,’ replied Lucy, sounding a little stung. ‘It never occurred to me you would be here.’

  ‘In the cricket pavilion? Watching the cricket?’

  ‘No one comes here,’ said Lucy. ‘Not after what happened to the Mistress.’

  ‘What –’ I began, but Lucy was not to be interrupted this time.

  ‘Miss Richenda wants you now in the morning room. She is entertaining a Lady.’ The last word was said with an undoubted capital L. Muller may be a successful banker and he may be fortunate enough to mix with them in society, but as yet he has been unable to bring many home. Obviously the household was in a fluster over this arrival. My curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Lead on,’ I said to Lucy. ‘But at a reasonable pace. I do not wish to arrive flushed.’

  ‘Miss Richenda has been asking for you this past half hour!’

  I gave Lucy the look I had learned when I had taken over from Mrs Wilson in my short-lived tenure as housekeeper at Stapleford Hall, and she capitulated. ‘This way, Miss,’ she said and set off at a more moderate pace. I could see her fingers flexing with frustration. Richenda had been among them barely a month, but the staff, if not Muller, already knew her temper.

  But when Lucy finally opened the door to the morning room I was faced with a Richenda who was almost purring.

  She rose as I entered (in itself remarkable), a warm smile of greeting on her face. I knew her well enough to notice this smile did not reach her eyes. ‘My dear Euphemia,’ she cried. ‘Such a delight. The daughter of the Earl of ----- has come to morning coffee!’

  And with that she introduced me to a lady, who having been obscured by the opening door, only now came into view.

  My mother.

  Chapter Two

  Social Niceties

  To give her credit my mother responded impeccably. She did of course know I was in service and even that I was using a false name. However, she had every reason to believe that I was miles away serving as a housekeeper at Stapleford Hall. Considering the turmoils of my recent times I had decided it was best to be an infrequent correspondent.

  ‘Euphemia,’ said my mother coming forward and giving her hand, ‘what a lovely name. I have a daughter of that name, but I am sad to say she has turned out a little wild.’

  ‘A fault I am sure you will correct,’ said Richenda with a simper,’ she must be very young and breeding will out.’

  ‘You would think so,’ said my mother, looking me directly in the eye.

  ‘How charming to meet you,’ I said. ‘I did not know Mr Muller had such distinguished neighbours. Is it too much to hope your daughter will also be joining us?’

  My mother, no matter how strict, is not without humour and I saw a distinct twinkle in her eye. ‘We are very close,’ she said. Then turning to Richenda she said, ‘It is almost as if she is with me right now.’

  I felt this was taking things too close to the wind and interrupted. ‘Are you a resident of this parish?’ The last I had heard she had been living some considerable distance away in a rented cottage, earning extra money by giving piano lessons. I felt for her pupils.

  ‘I am visiting an old friend of my husband’s. The local vicar, Mr Chorley. I have brought my young son with me. His Greek has finally overtaken mine and I must ready him for school shortly.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Not that he agrees. Given the chance he would run wild.’ She eyed me carefully. ‘In fact, I believe the gardener is currently showing him the grounds.’

  I breathed an inward sigh of relief. I was indeed lucky that Joe and his love of cricket had not brought him to my side. He too knew of my subterfuge, but the reliability of a young boy who would swap his mother’s best teapot for an excellent conker is not something in which one wishes to place one’s safety.

  ‘Anyway,’ said my mother briskly, ‘this has been a most delightful morning, Lady Stapleford. I hope we may soon have the pleasure of your company at the rectory, if you will condescend to visit. Mr Chorley has bid me make myself at home. He is a bachelor and I believe somewhat relieved to have a lady in residence, who can manage his staff and his menus. He is the younger son of the Duke of -------, you know. He has been given the title of canon now, and his rectory is unusually large, but I believe the family is most disappointed he never made it to be a bishop.’

  Richenda’s eyes gleamed at being told such society gossip. In fact, any more and I was certain she would start to drool. The Staplefords are new money and their title only as old as her late father. All of them are desperate to move into High Society. Personally I cannot think of anything worse.

  ‘I believe Mr Muller’s late wife was the rector – I mean canon’s sister?’ asked Richenda, trying to join in the game.

  ‘I expect that was the previous incumbent of the post,’ answered my mother without batting an eyelid. ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Muller, but I understand he is foreign.’

  Richenda inhaled sharply, but maintained a calm facade. ‘I assure you, my lady, he is quite the English gentleman.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said my mother, ‘that must be so much more comfortable.’ Than what she didn’t say. ‘And now,’ continued my mother, ‘I must collect my son. I believe the last I saw him the gardener had taken him under his wing. Do give my regards to Mr Muller’s mother. I was sorry she was not well enough to join us.’ It was clear from my mother’s face this was a patent lie, but Richenda swallowed it with good grace.

  ‘If you will wait a moment, my lady, I will speak with the housekeeper and she can arrange to have your son brought to us.’

  My mother nodded graciously and sat once more. Richenda hurried out the door. ‘Goodness,’ said my mother, ‘they must have four hundred servants here if they have a dozen and she leaves the room to find one!’

  ‘Good morning, Mother,’ I said. ‘Did you know I was here?’ I bent over and dutifully pecked my mother on the cheek.

  ‘I had heard there was a Stapleford staying with the Mullers and as it seemed perfectly unsuitable I thought there was a good chance I would find you here.’

  One point to Mother.

  ‘And you are staying with an old friend of Father’s. A bachelor friend.’

  My mother nodded as she accepted the riposte. ‘I am not yet beyond marriageable age, Euphemia. It would answer many of our problems.’

  ‘To another vicar?’

  ‘A canon,’ corrected my mother, ‘but although this one is the son of a duke, he is a younger son, not only without money, but also without ambition. I fear it is not to be thought of.’

  ‘Mother, do you even care for him?’

  ‘I care for Little Joe and you,’ said my mother.

  ‘I would not have you wed a man you did not like for my sake and I doubt Joe would either,’ I said.

  My mother sighed. ‘It is not coming into question now. Personally I am unhappy at having a daughter in service. Very unhappy.’

  ‘No one knows of our connection.’

  ‘At least you are now a companion. Even if your employer is far below your own social station.’

  ‘Earlier this year I became engaged to the son of a greengrocer,’ I said.

  My mother went white. ‘Euphemia,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Sadly,’ I continued, ‘I have been so well brought up to a station I cannot inhabit that he jilted me as he felt he could never be good enough for me.’

  My mother’s breathing slowed and she patted herself on the chest. ‘A man of sense.�
�

  ‘A good man,’ I said bitterly. ‘A man my father would have liked.’

  ‘Even Bertram Stapleford would be better than that!’

  ‘I see you have been doing your research,’ I said. We were now eyeing each other with hostility tempered with inbred affection.

  ‘We must hope Little Joe doesn’t let your secret – how do these people say it – out of the bag?’ said my mother.

  ‘You didn’t warn him I might be here?’ I gasped in horror just as the door opened.

  My little brother bounced into the room. He was considerably less little than the last time I had seen him. It was clear he would in a very short space of time be towering over my mother’s petite 4’11’’ frame. His hair was curly as ever and his features still retained their childish (and completely misleading) cherubic nature. ‘Mater!’ he cried, ‘Do you know they found a body in the pavilion!’

  I felt the world darken around me. I barely suppressed a cry of ‘Oh no, not again,’ as I sank into an over-stuffed chair. My legs shook and my heart appeared to be attempting to break out of my ribs.

  Incredibly, Richenda, entering behind, tittered. ‘How do boys discover these things?’ she said with a conspiratorial smile at my mother.

  ‘A body of what or whom?’ said my mother, showing remarkable fortitude.

  ‘Mrs Muller,’ said Little Joe, who still had not noticed my presence. ‘The gardener told me.’

  ‘Oh he really shouldn’t have,’ said Richenda. ‘I do apologise.’

  ‘Mrs Muller?’ I said weakly.

  Richenda went off into a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, Euphemia, your face!’ Then she pulled herself together. She had undoubtedly caught sight of my mother’s face. ‘Of course, it is not a laughing matter, but what a misunderstanding. And it is so long ago.’

  ‘I take it we are discussing the late wife of Mr Muller, not his mother,’ said my mother.