Dandy Gilver and the Proper Treatment of Bloodstains

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Mr Faulds,’ I said.

  ‘Means and opportunity,’ said Hardy.

  ‘And a motive?’ I asked. ‘Mr Faulds is one of the few who has not told tales of his master.’

  ‘And don’t you find that suspicious in itself? The others are incriminating themselves left, right and centre, bathed in innocence, and he’s the only one biting his tongue?’

  I could not decide whether this showed Hardy shaping up to the task of detecting or was merely an echo of his army days and his desire to have everyone in perfect line.

  ‘I haven’t actually got round them all yet, Superintendent,’ I said. ‘I’ve still to speak to two of the other men and I haven’t had a chance to hear anything from the kitchen staff either.’

  ‘Well, then I suggest, Mrs Gilver, that you – if you’ll forgive me – run along and make a start on it. Only send Mr Faulds up to me when you’ve finished with him, would you?’

  ‘Superintendent,’ I said, carefully, ‘if you’ll forgive me, should you really interrogate him all alone? I rather thought there had to be two of you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here to interrogate him,’ he said. ‘I’m just here to collect him. I’m taking him into the station for the interview.’

  I found Mr Faulds in his pantry, dressed in a long green baize apron and with sacking sleeves over his cuffs, the whole place reeking of Goddard’s powder and ammonia. An elaborate table centrepiece lay in several pieces in front of him.

  ‘Our sins will find us out, Miss Rossiter,’ he said in greeting. ‘Master never liked this, we never used it and so I never cleaned it but all the best’ll be laid out for the funeral so I’m taking my chance today and with luck mistress’ll be none the wiser.’

  ‘It’s pretty hideous,’ I said. ‘Indian?’

  ‘An elephant parade,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know . . . I always thought it looked quite something all set out down the middle of the table, joined together trunk to tail, all the howdahs full of bon-bons.’

  ‘Was it a wedding present?’ I said, thinking that it rivalled the worst of mine. (A gold – solid gold – pickle jar fashioned like some kind of goblin’s head. It was Indian too, from a rich aunt of Hugh’s who, apparently, hated him.)

  ‘No, it came down to him through the family,’ said Mr Faulds. ‘From when that branch of the Balfour family were out there. All right for some, eh?’ He looked around at his own surroundings with a half-mocking expression of disgust on his face but I, who had so recently seen Eldry and Millie’s dank little lair, could not commiserate with him over his comfortable pantry. It had a pile carpet on the floor – no grey hair and red tape edging for Mr Faulds – and papered walls, and was bright with ornaments and pictures of a quality which would not have disgraced Pip Balfour’s own bedroom (and had, I thought, probably started their life there before being passed on). What was even more surprising was the well-stocked little bookcase whose leather-bound volumes of Restoration dramatists, Romantic poets and the essayists of the Enlightenment hinted that Ernest Faulds, for all his music-hall days, was a man of some learning. A man, too, who liked his comforts: a door was half-open onto his bed-sitting room which rivalled anything I had ever heard about gentlemen’s clubs for the profusion of leather, oak and dark red velvet to be found there.

  ‘Come now, Mr Faulds,’ I said, ‘this all seems very commodious. I’ll bet you’ve stayed in theatrical digs that weren’t half as cosy.’

  ‘What I could tell you about theatrical digs would make a turn in itself,’ he agreed. ‘There was one landlady always took in from the Bradford Alhambra used to count the peas. I’m not joking or jesting, Fanny, she counted out the peas onto your plate. I tell you what, we never dared tell her the old joke about the mean landlady from Aberdeen in case it gave her ideas.’ I waited. ‘Chap complained about the bedbugs one time and she charged him extra for keeping pets in his room.’ I could not help laughing.

  ‘But seeing your rooms here,’ I said, ‘I’m asking myself if I’ve finally found the one person the late Mr Balfour was good to. I mean, that leather armchair is a real beauty.’

  ‘That’s mine and came with me from my mother’s when she passed away,’ said Mr Faulds, more soberly. I waited but he said no more, just went on polishing with his head down.

  ‘Well, speaking of coming into things,’ I said, ‘I haven’t just missed a bonus day, have I?’

  ‘Bonus day? What’s one of them?’

  I was surprised that he did not know, for they interest servants enormously and they were a regular part of life in every house I had lived in.

  ‘Master’s birthday or mistress’s, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Or the anniversary of the wedding. Birth of sons too, most usually. All the staff get a divi.’

  ‘Now, why would you think that?’ said Faulds, eyeing me closely. Before I had thought of a way to allude to Phyllis’s windfall, though, he went on: ‘Easy to see you didn’t have time to get acquainted with Philip Balfour Esquire.’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you’re not the exception that proves the rule then? With master.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘He was a fair old puzzle. Nice as ninepence one minute and then he would just turn. And a trial to a pretty girl, Miss Rossiter, as you’ll no doubt have been hearing. I felt for them all, most acutely. Kitty and me both. But what can you do? When the mantel of privilege clothes a man from head to toe, who’s going to listen to you complaining?’

  ‘You sound as though you’ve been reading Harry’s bulletin,’ I said and Faulds shook his head, sucking his teeth in a show of sorrow.

  ‘Harry’s a young hot-head. Thinks he needs to change the whole world just to rise in it. He’d be better looking to his talents for his fortune and letting the world go its way.’

  ‘That’s rather caustic,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Harry would say he was interested in fairness for all and not just a leg-up for himself.’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ said Faulds, even more witheringly, making me laugh. We were so cosy I even went as far as to say:

  ‘But as to one’s talents, and to rising in the world, aren’t you rather neglecting both, giving up the stage for butlering?’

  I had gone too far. Faulds’s smile snapped away as though it had never been.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about me, Miss Rossiter,’ he said.

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ I said, blushing.

  ‘Granted,’ he said, with a faint inclination of his head. ‘Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to get on.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Faulds,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t. I’ve enjoyed this little chat but I was, in fact, sent to fetch you. Superintendent Hardy wants you.’

  ‘Well he might,’ said the butler, ‘but he’s not going to get me, Miss Rossiter.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said, and quoted him. ‘The innocent have nothing to fear from the truth.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Faulds. ‘No matter what Harry’s bulletin has to say.’ And with that he began to unroll his cuffs and prepare himself for the interview.

  In the kitchen, Mrs Hepburn too had pronounced it time to begin preparations for the funeral tea to come; she had two enormous pans bubbling on the hotplate of the range and was just plopping into one of them a ham of such girth that one could not imagine how she would ever carve it. From the scullery came sounds of vigorous scrubbing and Millie’s voice raised in song.

  ‘Oh, Fanny!’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘There’s a relief. One less thing to worry me anyway. I’m just crossing my fingers and doing these hams now and if the funeral’s held up well then they’ll spoil but how I’m supposed to get a ham cooked with no kitchener to cook them on is something they’ve won’t tell me.’

  ‘No kitchener?’ I echoed, looking at the great hulk of the Eagle which was pulsing with heat as usual.

  ‘Not after today,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘A hundredweight of coal! I ask you! This beastie can burn that up every other day. So I’m switching it off and we’ll have to make do with thon useless contraption.�
�� She pulled her chin down and nodded to the far corner where a neat little electric stove sat proudly. It had been covered with a dustsheet up until now and its gleaming blue-grey sides and sparkling white enamel doors suggested that it had never seen active service before today.

  ‘Mistress insisted we had one,’ she said, turning her back on it and nestling up to the front fender of her beloved range. ‘Nasty scootery wee thing – it looks like something that belongs in a lavatory, Fanny, not a kitchen. Not if you ask me. But it’ll boil a pan just the same when all’s said and done, so there we are.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘But what did you mean just then, Mrs Hepburn, by a relief?’

  She blinked at me for a moment or two before answering.

  ‘Oh!’ she said at last, ‘Yes, only that Eldry said that policeman had made a beeline for you and I was worried he’d put two and two together and come up with the only new face in the household to pin the blame to.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘none of that. I daresay if it had been the usual kind of thing – trinkets missing, cash mislaid – the new girl would be for it, but murder? Murder’s too serious for . . . casual suspicion.’ Mrs Hepburn nodded. ‘I heard one time,’ I said, inching my way towards the question of Phyllis again, ‘of a maid – sly little minx – who took to helping herself when a new girl had started, knowing who’d get the blame.’

  ‘Lord!’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘There’s twisty for you, eh? You’d have to be wicked to the core to think of such a thing.’

  ‘Have you ever been in a house with a light-fingered maid, Kitty?’ I asked her, trying out the name for the first time. I was pleased to see that she did not bristle.

  ‘Never,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘I’m glad to say. Or if I have she’s been too clever to get caught at it. You certainly don’t need to worry about that kind of thing here. And don’t be feeling down in the mouth about mistress’s funny turn either,’ she went on. ‘She didn’t mean any slight to you, only natural she wants some old familiars round her. Clara’s up there now to let Phyllis get the dining room swept out at last, seeing it’d lain two nights and a day as it was.’

  Mrs Hepburn was hopping from shelf to table to stove, dropping various leaves and little seeds into the ham pot, and would have looked like a witch at her cauldron, but for the pink dress and sparkling white apron.

  ‘I’m not at all offended,’ I said. ‘It is understandable and I’m sure she’ll be herself again in time.’

  Mrs Hepburn wiped the tip of her nose with the back of her hand and looked at me.

  ‘She’ll get the chance to be herself for the first time in years,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen her go from a girl to a ghost and I’m looking forward to seeing the woman.’ She nodded very firmly and turned back to the range before continuing. ‘And I’m looking forward to feeding her too, Fanny, and not have him always finding fault and deciding he can’t take one day what he ate without a murmur the day before. And not having my good food come back all cut about and wasted so we couldn’t even get the finishing of it up. One time, you know, he poured water into the soup and sent it back saying it was cold, then another time he put a mouse – a dead mouse – into a goose I had roasted and called me up to the dining room to show me and tell me what he thought about my kitchen and my “high jinx” or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘Hygiene?’ I guessed.

  ‘And I asked him,’ said Mrs Hepburn, ignoring me, ‘I said, Mr Balfour, I said, how do you suppose that goose got roasted and the poor wee mouse stayed cold, sir? And he had no answer for that. But you’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you, Fanny?’

  ‘Not tell the superintendent, you mean?’

  ‘Well, not tell the girls, really,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Because . . . well, it was a lovely goose and the wee mouse was only in the cavity and I thought as long as I carved the meat off and threw the carcass away. It wasn’t as if I went making stock with it.’ Then Mrs Hepburn winked and gave a huge laugh which shook her all over like a good bowl of jellied broth.

  ‘Your face, Fan!’ she said. ‘I’m just having fun with you. I put the whole thing out to the pig bin and scrubbed the plate with soda near until the pattern come off. And you can tell that Mr Hardy whatever you like.’

  ‘Not that it would matter now anyway,’ I said. It was time to tell her. ‘Because he told me that the doctor says it was a man who did it. He could tell from the body that a woman couldn’t have.’

  ‘A man?’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘What man?’ Once again as I had seen her do before she took her collar and shook it as though trying to fan away a sudden flush. ‘Dear goodness, they never think there was some devil in creeping around! We could all of us have been killed in our beds. Does mistress know?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said, ‘but actually – this is going to come as a nasty shock, Mrs Hepburn, but actually, Mr Hardy suspects Mr Faulds.’

  Mrs Hepburn let go of her collar and patted it smooth, frowning.

  ‘Of what?’ she said. ‘Does he think Ernest didn’t lock up properly? Are they blaming him for somebody getting in?’ I hesitated and saw her face fall. ‘No, never!’ she said. ‘Ernest? He couldn’t have. He didn’t – he couldn’t have.’

  ‘That’s very loyal of you, Mrs Hepburn,’ I said. ‘Even I think it seems most unlikely and after the length of time you’ve known—’

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand me,’ she said. ‘I know he didn’t. No one could know surer than me.’

  ‘Because . . . you did?’ I breathed.

  Mrs Hepburn stared at me and made a kind of choking noise that might have been a gasp of laughter.

  ‘Lord, no! God love you, Fanny, what an imagination! No, not that bad.’ Now she really did laugh, albeit in a flustered way. ‘Bad enough, mind,’ she said, and with a glance into the scullery, she went on in a low voice, ‘I know he didn’t do it because I was with him. All night – and he never left the room.’

  ‘Y-you were . . . ahem . . . I see,’ I said. ‘Gosh, yes, I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘I can see in your face you don’t. I don’t myself, come to that. A cook has to be above reproach, looking after all these young girls like I am, and you’d think I’d know better.’

  ‘Well, I must congratulate you on your discretion at least, Mrs Hepburn,’ I said. ‘Both of you. I should never have guessed, and I don’t think the youngsters know.’

  ‘It’s not discretion,’ said the cook. ‘And there’s nothing much for them to know. We don’t have an understanding as such. Not an engagement, anyway. Oh, we get on well enough and he’s a nice enough man and a lot less snooty than some butlers I’ve known, even if his training isn’t all it might be, but that’s all. Except that a few times, at night, I suppose you’d say our natures have just . . . got the better of us. And then in the morning it’s back to normal and almost like nothing happened at all.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said, trying not to smile, for really the thought of the ruddy-cheeked and hefty-shouldered Mrs Hepburn being transported to some netherworld where passion reigned and then returning at dawn to start the breakfasts was highly distracting. ‘Well, it’s very fortunate, Kitty.’ I had no hesitation in employing her Christian name now. ‘Mr Hardy has taken him to the police station but with such an alibi he’ll be out again in no time.’

  Mrs Hepburn dropped down into a chair with her hands covering her mouth. When she took them away her lips were trembling.

  ‘They’ve taken him?’ she breathed.

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry. When he tells them you were with him, they’ll soon—’

  ‘I know him,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘He’ll not save himself. He’s too much of the gentleman to save himself.’ She clapped her hands on her knees, rose from her seat and started to untie her apron. ‘I’d better get down there,’ she said. ‘Millie! Come through here and keep an eye on the pots. Auntie’s just popping out. Bring your trotters with you if you’ve finished cleaning them and you can get them split in here on the table.’ Millie appeared
at the scullery door. Her apron was splattered with blood and soaked with water so that some of the red stains had paled to pink, and I found myself taking a step backwards at the sight of her.

  ‘Where are you going, Auntie Kitty?’ she said.

  ‘Just running a wee message for Mr Faulds,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘You know what you’re doing now, don’t you?’

  With that she was off. I caught sight of her flying along the passageway to the front area door a moment later with her hat jammed on tight but her coat still open and streaming behind her.

  ‘Auntie Kitty’s in a right hurry,’ Millie said. She was ferrying a large colander full of pigs’ feet to the kitchen table, dripping watery spots of blood on the floor all around her. She tipped them out and they rolled onto the table, one coming to rest against a sugar dredger.

  ‘I’ll just tidy up a bit,’ I said, hastily moving the dredger, a leather-covered grocer’s book and a pile of clean cloths to one of the sideboards.

  ‘Is mistress feeling better today?’ said Millie. ‘She was all upset yesterday, wasn’t she?’ With great concentration she set a small saw against one of the feet just where skin met horn and began scraping it back and forward. Her tongue was peeping out and her eyes were squeezed half-shut with concentration. When the saw dropped through and hit the table underneath, she dropped it and winced. ‘I should have put a tablet down,’ she said, examining the scar on the scrubbed boards. ‘Auntie Kitty’s told me half a dozen times.’ Then she turned to the stove and dropped the sawn-off trotter into one of the pots bubbling there. ‘Oh!’ she said, looking into the water. ‘What’s that in there? I thought it was stock.’

  ‘It’s a ham,’ I told her and she grinned.

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ she said. ‘That was lucky.’