Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  These latter words were spoken quietly but with such feeling that the major was taken aback even though the sentiment expressed was not unexpected. Perhaps the fact that he remained silent and did not interrupt her gave his sister courage to continue in the same calm vein. Even so, she could not look at him as she spoke, averting her gaze instead to a patch of carpet.

  ‘And … I might as well tell you, we … we are to be married.’

  ‘What!’ Her brother stared at her dumbfounded. It was far worse than he had thought. Events had evidently progressed at an alarming pace. He should have spoken before now, put a stop to things before they were permitted to escalate, but it was always something he dreaded, a weakness in him to deal with the unpleasantness of it all.

  Daphne did not flinch at the intensity of his gaze. With some satisfaction she noted that the shock of her words had had the effect of making her brother speechless and she took advantage of the ensuing silence.

  ‘My mind is quite made up, Linus.’ She gave him a look of such ferocity that the major felt himself draw back. ‘And there is nothing you can say, or do, to stop me. I won’t let you, not … not this time.’

  Major Spittlehouse realised it was too late to approach the matter cautiously and with tact, to wrap up what he had to say with pleasantries and niceties as he had intended. His best, and perhaps his only, course of action now was to go on the attack.

  ‘Daphne, do be reasonable. Think how it’ll look. Regardless of class, this Mayhew fellow must be twelve years your junior.’

  Daphne gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘It’s not as much as that,’ she said, though her cheeks had flushed crimson.

  Seeing that his words had hit home, her brother pursued his advantage.

  ‘I don’t mean to appear unkind, but have you asked yourself why he wants to marry you? Why doesn’t he take a wife of his own age?’

  ‘If our roles were reversed and I was the man and he the woman, why, no one would think anything of it,’ said Daphne, evading the question. ‘Why is it acceptable for a man to marry a much younger wife, but not the other way around?’ She did not wait for him to answer. ‘Anyway, Archie says I don’t look my age. He says I look younger than I am.’

  ‘Does he indeed?’ said Major Spittlehouse, giving his sister a cynical look. Privately he thought there was little truth to Archie Mayhew’s assertion. Of course, it was nigh on impossible to view one’s own sister objectively. However, he thought Daphne looked her age, and perhaps a little more; yes, she looked every bit her thirty-seven years. True, her figure was good, and she possessed a certain naivety that belied her years, an immaturity, if he were to be unkind, but her face was lined.

  ‘Oh, what does it matter what you think?’ cried Daphne. ‘Archie doesn’t need to ask your permission for my hand. You are only my brother, Linus, not my father.’ She paused and added petulantly; ‘Though you act as if you were.’

  Major Spittlehouse flinched. He had always considered his own position to be a difficult one. He neither commanded the respect of a parent nor, being some twenty years his sister’s senior, did the role of sibling sit easily upon his shoulders. Instead, he felt he occupied a grey area that resided somewhat uncomfortably on the very threshold between parent and sibling.

  ‘Does he know about our parents’ legacy?’ the major asked abruptly.

  ‘What? Well … no, it’s not something we’ve discussed.’ The colour had gone from his sister’s cheeks and some of the fight within her. ‘He loves me, Linus; the money doesn’t matter to him one bit.’ But to her brother’s ears, she sounded less certain, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him.

  ‘Well, that is very fortunate,’ said her brother. ‘Because I may as well tell you now, Daphne, that if you marry that man, you will not receive a penny of our parents’ estate. Let him keep you, if he’s willing.’

  ‘Linus … please.’

  There was a pleading note in his sister’s voice now. She had slumped, all but defeated into the chair that she had so recently vacated, a shadow of her former animated self. In spite of himself, her brother was moved by her obvious distress, but he did not soften. He reminded himself that it bore little resemblance to the previous occasion. The curate had been a good man; he’d had no objection to him marrying Daphne in principle. If only the situation had been simple. He’d felt wretched at the time doing what he’d done. Worse than that, he had seen himself as the orchestrator of his sister’s present unhappiness.

  In this instance however, he experienced no such qualms of conscience. For, in his opinion, Archie Mayhew was a thoroughly worthless young man; a wastrel, that was the word that sprung readily to mind. He’d make his sister’s life a misery, given half a chance, the major was quite certain of it. Mayhew was just the sort of fellow to become bored with her, if he were not bored of her already. Without the lure of wealth to attract him, Daphne would soon lose her appeal. And Mayhew was the type to run through her inheritance. Then where would Daphne be? Mayhew wouldn’t be the faithful kind. There would be other women, a whole string of them, Major Spittlehouse knew, if he was not mistaken in his judge of the man’s character … No, he would be acting in his sister’s best interests by not providing her with a generous allowance, if only she knew it. He had only to say the word to Archie Mayhew, tell him there would be no money forthcoming upon the marriage. That would put a stop to all this nonsense. Yes, that’s what he would do.

  Having arrived in his mind at the likelihood of a satisfactory outcome to a matter that had been troubling him for a while, Major Spittlehouse was keen to put the conversation behind him and lighten the atmosphere in the study.

  ‘I say, Daphne, have you heard the news? Lord and Lady Belvedere have returned from their honeymoon. I believe they went to Paris. We should call on them in a day or two.’ Major Spittlehouse went over to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘I want to discuss the arrangements for Guy Fawkes’ Night. I –’

  ‘Oh, what do I care if the earl has returned from his honeymoon? It has little to do with me.’

  ‘Daphne, don’t –’ began her brother.

  ‘He’s a lucky man, the Earl of Belvedere,’ said his sister. ‘Fortunately for him, he could choose his bride. He didn’t have an older brother determined to deny him his inheritance.’ The note of bitterness in her voice was not lost on the major.

  ‘My dear –’

  ‘I must say I am rather surprised at your enthusiasm to see them,’ continued Daphne, now with an artificial sweetness to her voice. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d have approved of the new countess. She used to be a shop girl, or hadn’t you heard?’ A malicious gleam came into her eye. ‘And an amateur detective, I believe. If you listen to village gossip, as I’m obliged to do, she’s supposed to have been involved in solving ever so many murders. Not your type of woman at all, I’d have thought, Linus.’

  ‘Whom Lord Belvedere chooses, or does not choose, to marry is his business not mine,’ Major Spittlehouse said stuffily, though in actual fact it was news to him that the new countess had something of a reputation for being a sleuth.

  ‘But it’s your business whom I choose to marry?’ cried Daphne. ‘Oh, Linus, please be reasonable.’ She was leaning forward now, trying to grab his arm, her eyes bright with unshed, angry tears. ‘You hate this as much as I do, all this … fighting and being at odds with one another, I know you do. Wouldn’t you much rather I wasn’t here, that you had Green Gables to yourself? Why, have you never thought about marrying? You could, you know, if I were gone and you were free of me.’

  ‘I am perfectly happy –’

  ‘But you’re not. Neither of us is. I live in this house with you because I have nowhere else to go and you …’ she hesitated a moment to gesture towards him, ‘why, you feel you have a responsibility towards me because you are my brother and you promised our parents that you would look after me. Oh, if only they hadn’t made that stupid will …’ She faltered and stared imploringly at her brother. Th
e face that greeted her appeared unmoved. ‘Please, Linus. I want a family of my own, a husband and children. Oh, I know you think it ridiculous, but women do have children at my age and older. Why, look at Mrs –’

  ‘Daphne, if you marry Archie Mayhew I can promise you that you will not receive a penny of our parents’ money. Now, let that be an end to it. If you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.’ He picked up his fountain pen and removed the cap.

  ‘I’ll contest their will!’ cried Daphne.

  ‘Will you indeed?’ said Major Spittlehouse, looking up sharply. ‘I suppose he suggested that?’

  ‘If you mean Archie, no he didn’t,’ Daphne cried defiantly. ‘I told you, he knows nothing about our parents’ legacy.’

  The muscles in Major Spittlehouse’s face relaxed visibly. Indeed, he almost looked composed. Daphne had made her scene and shortly it would all be over. He had weathered her bitter recriminations. His sister had alternated between being indignant and pleading with him, though thankfully this time there had been no tears. And he had remained resolutely steadfast. Really, it had not been too bad at all. Of course it was all very regrettable but …

  ‘I think you’re hiding something, Linus.’ Belatedly he realised that all the while his sister had been watching him, and now her words cut through his thoughts as effectively as any knife. He started, and the colour went from his face. His sister smiled. ‘So I am right? I thought I was. Well, Linus dear, I promise you that two can play your game.’ She rose and placed her hands on his desk, leaning forward as if she intended to pounce. ‘I am going to find out what you’re hiding, Linus.’

  The fountain pen slipped from the major’s hand and fell to the floor, ink staining the carpet in the process. In his new fragile state, it reminded Major Spittlehouse of blood.

  Chapter Two

  ‘They’re at it again,’ said Masters, coming into the basement kitchen as his wife was putting the finishing touches to an apple pie. ‘I say, Mollie, I hope you’re making one of those for us too. It’ll go down a treat, so it will, with a nice bit of custard.’

  ‘Will it now?’ said his wife, wiping her floury hands on her apron and giving him one of her looks. ‘Boiled apple dumplings is what I had in mind for the likes of you and me.’ She saw the look of disappointment on her husband’s face and her heart softened. ‘That’s not to say I won’t change my mind if you don’t go and get under my feet. Worse than a child you are wanting your puddings. And don’t you go picking at things when my back’s turned neither. Half a fruitcake there was left yesterday, and not a sign of it today.’

  ‘I knew when I married you, Mollie Brenning, that I was marrying an angel in the kitchen. There’s many a man who’d give his right arm to have a wife like you with your light touch with pastry. Fair melts in your mouth, so it does.’

  With that, Masters gave her a quick peck on her cheek, pounced on a slice of apple and danced around the room in something of a mischievous fashion, almost as if he expected his wife to give chase and come charging after him, a wooden spoon raised in her hand.

  ‘You’re a cheeky one and no mistake, Jack Masters!’ said his wife, a smile appearing rather grudgingly on her face. She put the back of her hand to her mouth to obscure the fact that she was doing her best not to laugh. ‘Now out of my kitchen or there’ll be no dinner for the major, and certainly none for you and me.’

  ‘Did you not hear what I said, Mol?’ persisted her husband, making no attempt to leave the room, though some of the frivolity had left his manner and his voice took on a more serious tone. ‘At it like hammer and tongs they were just now in the study. Not that I hadn’t been expecting it, because I had. What with Miss Daphne carrying on with that young man of hers that’s young enough to be her son!’

  ‘There you go, Jack, exaggerating like there’s no tomorrow and making things sound much worse than they are,’ reprimanded Mrs Masters. ‘I’ll grant you there’s a little difference in their ages –’

  ‘A little –’ protested her husband, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘As I said,’ his wife said firmly, ‘he’s a sight younger than her, but not as much as all that.’

  ‘He’s after her money, you mark my words if he ain’t.’ Masters paused to tap the side of his nose in a sly fashion. ‘And that’s what the major thinks and all. He’ll not stand for it to have his sister made a fool of, even if it is her own doing. He’ll put a stop to it no matter how much she shrieks and weeps.’

  ‘Poor lamb,’ said Mrs Masters, whose sympathy lay firmly with Daphne. ‘She may be approaching middle age, but her heart’s as young as a girl’s.’

  ‘Aye, she’s never grown up, if you ask me,’ agreed her husband. ‘Behaves like a silly young girl of twenty. Of course, she was the baby of the family and, from what the major’s let slip, her mother fair doted on her something rotten. Indulged as anything she was as a child and that don’t do any good to anyone’s character. And the poor major, who didn’t ask to have a sister who’s more like his daughter, well, he tries to do his best by her.’

  ‘I might have known you’d side with him,’ retorted Mrs Masters. ‘It’s Miss Daphne who I feel sorry for. It’s no life for her keeping house for her brother. She needs a husband and a home of her own instead of having to live off her brother’s charity. And why their parents didn’t leave the poor girl some money in her own right instead of letting her brother inherit everything, and hold the purse strings so tight that the poor girl can hardly sneeze without his permission, I’ll never know. It don’t seem right him having a say over who she can marry and whether she’ll get a dowry or not.’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s more to it than that,’ said Masters. He turned away from her slightly to add a rather mysterious aside: ‘There’s a reason why the major watches her every step. She’s not to be trusted.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ inquired his wife.

  She had abandoned her cooking and was staring at her husband with renewed interest. Over the years their conversations had often followed similar lines, so often in fact that many of the topics they discussed were well worn, and the views of each so well known to the other as to make it almost unnecessary for them to give voice to their opinions. Never before, however, had Masters hinted that there might be a reason for why Daphne had been made so dependent upon her brother’s benevolence, that there might be more to the business than first met the eye. Well, Mrs Masters was having none of it. It didn’t do to have secrets between husband and wife. She was going to get to the bottom of it and no mistake. She put her hands on her ample hips and looked encouragingly at her husband, who had now turned to face her looking rather guilty for letting slip something that he had withheld from her during their years of marriage. No, he hadn’t let it slip, she decided, he had just not intended her to hear the few whispered words that he had uttered to himself. Well, he should have known better. Prided herself on her hearing, she did. See looked up at him expectantly and then, when that did not work, she moved to the door to prevent his departure.

  ‘You’ll tell me what you mean by that, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll tell you no such thing,’ retorted her husband. He had returned to his playful fashion, though now it seemed a trifle false and strained. ‘Now, out of my way, woman. The major, he’ll want a whisky after doing battle with his sister. Always does. Hallo?’ He paused as his eye caught sight of an envelope on the mantelpiece propped up somewhat carelessly against a candlestick. ‘Where did this come from?’ He picked it up and studied it. ‘Addressed to the major and hand delivered by the look of it.’ He turned to look at his wife inquiringly.

  ‘Oh. I’m glad you spotted that, Jack. I had fair forgotten it, what with all this baking. Found it in the passage, I did. Someone must have pushed it under the door that leads out into the garden, though why they used that door and not the front one, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Aye, it strikes me as a little odd,’ agreed her husband. ‘It’s something you’d expect of a tradesman come to de
liver his bill, but then it’d be addressed to you or me, Mol, not to the major.’ He looked at the envelope with more interest. ‘An educated hand, I’d say. Though, can’t say I recognise the handwriting. Not from one of the major’s acquaintances in the village. I don’t suppose you saw anyone, Mol?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. You know as well as I do that the kitchen window doesn’t look out on to that bit of garden. The envelope, it just appeared. I went out into the passage to go to the scullery and there it was. It might have lain there for half an hour or so.’ She paused to glare at her husband. ‘If you didn’t spend all your time upstairs while I’m down here slaving away up to my elbows in flour, you might have spotted it yourself.’

  Masters, however, was paying little heed to what his wife was saying. Instead, he was staring at the envelope intently. It could almost be thought that he fancied his eyes might penetrate the paper and catch a glimpse of one or two of the words written on the sheet inside. With the envelope still in his hand, he crossed to the door and wandered into the passage. His wife had quite understandably supposed that he had returned upstairs to deliver the letter, but a moment or two later he returned, the envelope still clutched unopened in his hand.

  ‘You know, Mol, it’s a funny old business about this letter. I’ve just been out into the garden and something odd has just struck me.’

  ‘Oh, and what was that?’

  ‘Well, if you were minded to leave the major a letter and didn’t want to be seen doing so, then it makes sense to push the letter under the door into the passage rather than push it through the letterbox on the front door. You’d be sure to be seen by someone if you did that. But the door leading off from the passage, it faces the garden gate leading out in to the lane. Anyone could run down the lane, steal through the garden gate, post the letter and slip back again without being seen. It would be the work of a few minutes.’

  ‘More likely as not the writer happened to be out on a walk, passed the garden gate, and decided on the spur of the moment like to deliver the letter by the back door,’ retorted his wife. ‘You see mystery and intrigue where there’s none, Jack Masters. You’ll be saying next that it’s an anonymous letter, one of those poison pen things that you hear about.’