Dandy Gilver and the Proper Treatment of Bloodstains

by Catriona McPherson

  Lollie and Mrs Lambert-Leslie had gone to church with John driving them, Mrs Hepburn told me. She was in the kitchen, with Eldry in attendance, preparing a joint of meat and a rhubarb pie for luncheon. It was Phyllis’s free Sunday, I knew, but the rest of the household was in the servants’ hall. Harry – nothing to do, with his master dead and gone – sat in Miss Rossiter’s chair, hunched over the inevitable strike bulletin. Mattie was polishing the maidservants’ shoes on some old newspapers spread on the floor and Clara was over by the window, sewing in the best of the light. Millie, with a hot bottle at her feet and a cup of cocoa on the fender at her side, sat in her Auntie Kitty’s armchair, looking as though she had not stopped crying for a moment since the loss of her beloved Stanley the day before. Her nose was red and bulbous and her eyes were almost lost between purple lids, tears sparkling on their lashes even now. Did I only suspect that Mr Faulds, sitting opposite her, was gazing with something like remorse at her puckered brow and that he winced at each sob that was wrenched out of her?

  ‘Where on earth have you been, Miss Rossiter?’ Clara said with round eyes, as Alec and I entered the room. ‘I had to get mistress dressed for church myself and Aunt Goitre’s ready to string you up.’

  ‘Blooming cheek,’ said Alec, sitting himself down at the table and shrugging off his jacket. ‘It was Old Goitre herself that sent us off on a wild goose chase in the first place. You can’t be in two places at once, Miss Rossiter. And if you end up moving to Inverness with Mrs Balfour, you’ll need to take a firm hand with the old—’

  ‘What wild goose chase?’ said Mr Faulds. I busied myself with my gloves, hoping that Alec had an answer and was not expecting me to catch the lob and run away with it.

  ‘Flowers,’ Alec said. ‘Corsages for church for the two of them. And for one thing it’s Sunday and for another thing, there’s been no flowers delivered all week anyway.’

  ‘And they’d be blacklegged if you could get them,’ said Harry.

  ‘Exactly,’ Alec said.

  ‘With mourning?’ said Clara.

  ‘I know,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘That woman is stuck in the days of the old Queen. Whoever heard of mourning corsages these days?’

  ‘I never heard of them at all,’ said Clara who was looking very suspiciously between Alec and me. ‘And mistress never said a word about any— Hello?’ She turned and looked out of the window. ‘Mercy! There’s the police again,’ she said. ‘Coming to the area door this time.’

  ‘That was Stanley’s job,’ said Millie with a great wuthering breath in and a snort as she exhaled it. ‘Stanley always answered the area door.’

  Mr Faulds gave her a pained look and stood up.

  ‘I’ll get it myself,’ he said. Alec caught my eye. He must still think himself safe, if he were willing to answer the door to the policemen. Still, I was careful to watch that he did turn to the front outside the servants’ hall and not to the back to make an escape to the garden and away through the mews or over the wall. When the front door had opened and shut and the butler’s pantry door too, Alec dropped his act, and turned to me.

  ‘Get Mrs Hepburn and Eldry in here, Dan,’ he said. ‘We’ll be best all together.’

  ‘What?’ said Harry, but I was gone.

  I did not even have to speak to the cook and tweenie, but just laid a finger on my lips and then beckoned them to put down the rolling pin and larding needle and follow me, and it was not until the servants’ hall door was locked and we were all inside that I let my breath go.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Harry.

  ‘The police have come to arrest Mr Faulds,’ I said. ‘But as to what’s going on . . . I hardly know where to begin.’

  ‘Arrest him for what?’ said Mrs Hepburn.

  ‘Killing Mr Balfour,’ I said. ‘And Stanley and – I’m very sorry to have to tell you this but – Maggie and Miss Abbott too.’

  ‘Stanley didn’t leave me?’ Millie said.

  ‘No,’ I told her. ‘Stanley was murdered, because – I think – he couldn’t resist hinting to Mr Faulds about what he knew. What he saw when he was peeping in the back windows on the night Balfour died, hoping to see Miss Rossiter undressing.’

  ‘Why do you say “Miss Rossiter” as if she’s someone else?’ said Harry.

  ‘What did he see?’ said Mrs Hepburn.

  ‘We don’t know for sure,’ said Alec, but I interrupted him; I had worked it out.

  ‘He saw you, my dear lady, going to bed on your own in your own room,’ I replied. ‘And he knew that Mr Faulds was lying when he said you were in his room with him.’

  ‘But I – I was,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘I’m sure I was. I remember it cl— no, not clearly, but I remember it.’

  ‘You remember it, but not clearly,’ I repeated. ‘And remembering it puzzles you, doesn’t it? It’s not like other memories. Like your memory, Mattie, of the nights you spent in the front hall and why you were scared there when you were never scared in here at the piano. And like Phyllis’s memory of why she was put on warning, which is very hazy indeed.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Alec. ‘I’ve just realised something, Dandy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Clara said. ‘And why does he keep calling you that?’

  ‘When Mr Faulds was on the music halls,’ I told them, ‘he did a hypnotism act. Do you know what that means? He has brainwashed you all. He made you believe that Pip Balfour was some kind of monster, cutting out pockets and interfering with girls and putting dead mice in geese – but none of it’s true. He planted all those horrid ideas – he tried it on me last night – and almost worse than that, he planted the idea that you shouldn’t tell, that you should be ashamed and secretive and guilty. So you all thought you all had motives and suspected one another and you all hated master so much you were willing to ignore them. But hear me and believe me – not a scrap of it was true.’

  Clara gasped.

  ‘None of it?’ she said. ‘Not what I thought either?’

  ‘It didn’t happen,’ I told her. ‘Nothing happened. Not a thing.’ Clara put her sewing down and hid her face in her hands.

  ‘And I’ve just thought of something that confirms it,’ Alec said. ‘Phyllis is Mr Faulds’s favourite, isn’t she? And she’s the only one of the girls he didn’t force to believe that Balfour had had his way with her. He gave Phyllis a pretty harmless little memory compared to the others.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ said Harry. ‘Who are you?’

  I wondered how on earth to explain it all, thinking it would take an hour at least, but Alec showed me I was wrong.

  ‘Private detectives,’ he said. There was a stunned silence and then Clara broke it at last.

  ‘I knew you were a hopeless maid.’

  ‘Phyllis was Mr Faulds’s favourite,’ I repeated slowly. ‘Yes, of course, Alec. She hinted that she knew something and Faulds gave her – well, you know what – to keep her quiet.’

  ‘But then when Stanley started making insinuations?’ said Alec.

  I nodded. ‘It was a very different matter. Mr Faulds had no time for Stanley and he saw his chance to get rid of the problem and shift the blame.’

  ‘How could Stanley have been so st—’ Clara bit off the word, with a glance at Millie. ‘So reckless? Hinting away to someone he thought was a murderer.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ I said. ‘Perhaps blaming Stanley and killing him was part of the plan right from the start. We’ll never know.’

  ‘Stanley’s a kind of hero, then,’ said Millie, raising her chin for the first time and gazing at me.

  ‘Well, a martyr anyway,’ I said and Millie nodded dreamily, quite happy to settle for that.

  ‘And Ernest Faulds is a villain,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘And all those nights that seemed like dreams . . . were dreams?’

  ‘They were, Mrs Hepburn,’ I said.

  ‘But here’s the question, Fanny – or whatever your name—’

  ‘Fanny will do,’ I said, smil
ing.

  ‘Why did he do it?’ she said. ‘If master wasn’t all those nasty ways he made us think, why would Ernest kill him?’

  ‘For money,’ I said. ‘Ernest Faulds isn’t his real name. His real name is George Pollard. He’s master’s cousin.’

  ‘But hang on,’ said Harry. ‘Isn’t the will just so much faddle?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Alec said. ‘He must have been brainwashed into writing it. But probably Pollard – Faulds – was going to wait until the house was broken up and then find Mrs Balfour and do away with her. And do you know what, Dandy?’ He turned to me. ‘That way, when the two years had gone by, the wife would be dead and the question of whether she was a real wife or a bidey-in would be moot and then Pollard would turn up at the last minute and no one would connect him with Ernest Faulds the butler.’

  ‘A bidey-in?’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘Mistress?’

  ‘I think you’re right, Alec,’ I said. ‘He would only have had to get Lollie on her own and start mesmerising her and she could have gone the same way as Stanley. It’s not as though anyone would have been surprised at her suicide after everything that’s happened to her.’

  ‘That policeman better watch himself then,’ Clara said.

  ‘What?’ I said. Alec had swung round to face her.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ said Clara, gesturing out of the window. ‘That’s who’s in with him now.’

  I was out of my seat.

  ‘Just Hardy?’ I shouted, fumbling with the lock. ‘Why in God’s name did he come alone?’

  ‘Oh hell, Dandy,’ Alec said as the lock released and the door swung open. ‘He didn’t believe you. He probably couldn’t get men at short notice, not easily anyway, and he didn’t see why he should try.’

  Faulds’s door was locked but Harry, with one mighty kick, splintered it open and there was Mr Hardy, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, fast asleep, with his chin sunk on his chest.

  ‘Hardy!’ Alec said, taking the superintendent by the shoulders and shaking him. ‘Wake up. Where is he?’

  I galloped into the bedroom, banged opened the wardrobe, tested the window, wrenched the covers aside to look under the bed and then streaked back to the pantry again. Superintendent Hardy was looking around himself blearily, rubbing his face.

  ‘Wha—?’ he said, but his eyes were already beginning to roll up again.

  ‘Take him into the bedroom and lie him down, Alec,’ I said. ‘Then ring for a doctor. He might be drugged.’

  Alec nodded and began hoisting the superintendent to his feet.

  For a second, Harry and I stood staring at one another, then he said:

  ‘Garden door.’ He wheeled around and sped out of the room. ‘He can’t have got far,’ he shouted back to me as he ran along the passageway. ‘I’ll catch him.’

  I started to follow and then stopped. I looked at the door Harry had kicked open, its lock hanging loose on the splintered board. It had swung wide and was lying back against the wall, across the corner. I put out my hand and pulled it towards me.

  ‘Watch my face, Fanny,’ said Mr Faulds, ‘and listen to what I say. You’ll understand if you listen. You’ll understand I only wanted what was mine. Only what was mine. Just listen and I’ll tell you. Just listen to my voice, Fanny. Just look at my face and listen to me.’

  ‘Yes, but you see, the thing is,’ I said, ‘my name isn’t Fanny any more than yours is Ernest Faulds. So really I’m surprised you managed to hypnotise me at all.’

  He took a step forward then and, without thinking, I shoved the door hard and heard the thud and crack as it hit him.

  Postscript

  Two days later, I was sitting in Lollie’s boudoir once more, in a rather wonderful raw silk coat and skirt in the palest imaginable amethyst (which was overdressing a little, but I had to make up for Miss Rossiter’s serge somehow and, as Grant had assured me, amethyst is purple and purple is mourning). Bunty was fast asleep over my feet and I could feel hairs unattaching themselves from her skin and attaching themselves instead to the nap of my pony skin town shoes. Great Aunt Gertrude was still there, with a black mantilla arrangement secured to her head behind the white fan of hair. This had puzzled me at first. Why should her mourning have deepened? Her manner to Lollie offered a clue: it was solicitous and even approaching thoughtful, with her natural flights of opinionated interference frequently choked off and replaced by beatific smiles. I gathered that a bereaved niece who might make a free companion for her aunt and a bereaved niece who was now rich enough to buy and sell her aunt ten times and not notice the outlay required two very different kinds of auntly sympathy.

  ‘Poor, poor Pip,’ said Lollie, with a glance at the table nearest her, where a large photograph of Pip Balfour had been placed, with a red rose in a silver bud-vase at its side.

  ‘It’s absolutely shocking,’ said Mrs Lambert-Leslie, sleeves, earrings and chins all a-waggle. But Lollie, I noticed, was less shocked now than she had been in the dreadful week between Pip’s death and Faulds’s – Pollard’s – capture. I could understand that, in a way: the wrenching away from her of her beloved husband by a man who was greedy and evil and no concern of hers was orders of magnitude more easy to bear than the wrenching away by Pip’s own madness and cruelty, with his death only the final horrid chapter. Pip was restored to her heart and could be mourned there.

  ‘I must say, though,’ Lollie went on, ‘that the Balfour ancestor who just whipped all his money out of the Cornish tin mines and the Nottingham coal mines and left his relations – his own family, Dandy! – to make their own way from scratch again . . . Well, if it had been him who had been punished instead of my darling Pip I should have said he deserved whatever befell him.’

  ‘Nonsen—’ began Great Aunt Gertrude and then coughed. ‘I mean to say, I don’t think I would go that far, Lollie my dear, but your generosity of spirit, unflagging, most admirable, dear me, yes.’

  ‘And I feel the responsibility,’ said Lollie.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Not for anything exactly,’ Lollie said. ‘Just the responsibility of so much money. All that money. When Mr Ettrick came back to see me yesterday and told me the figure . . . in cold hard pounds sterling . . .’

  Great Aunt Gertrude was as still as a statue, quite breathless, waiting.

  ‘And especially at a time like this when one only has to look out of one’s window to see the most wretched plights that tattered humanity could endure . . .’

  I turned my eyes to the window onto Heriot Row and the railings of Queen Street Gardens, thinking that tattered humanity did not make a habit of enduring its wretched plights just there. Great Aunt Gertrude was breathing again – in fact, almost panting.

  ‘One must be prudent, dear,’ she said. ‘One cannot let one’s tender heart lead one to . . .’

  Give away any of that lovely loot to anyone but Great Aunt Gertrude, I guessed to be the end of the sentence.

  ‘It’s poor Stanley’s family, you see,’ said Lollie.

  ‘My dear Walburga,’ said Great Aunt Gertrude, ‘no one in the world could lay that at your door. You needn’t let it trouble you for one second, truly.’

  ‘I needn’t,’ said Lollie. ‘But I shall. Maggie’s parents and Miss Abbott’s sister too – Mrs Light. She’s terribly distraught and I think a cruise would be the thing for her.’

  Her aunt, soothed by the inexpensive sound of this, smiled fondly. Then Lollie dropped the bomb.

  ‘And I was wondering,’ she said, ‘about buying a mine. A coal mine. They don’t have any other kinds around here. And I could probably get one on quite reasonable terms just now.’

  ‘I shouldn’t doubt it,’ I said. I did not trust myself to look at Great Aunt Gertrude, from whom gurgling sounds could be heard. Bunty lifted her head and gave the old lady an enquiring glance before going to sleep again. ‘But do be careful, Lollie, won’t you? Take advice, dear.’

  ‘I shall,’ she said, ‘but I’m determined to carry on the
Balfour tradition and going against the tide of popular thinking is very much the Balfour way. It’s something I should like to pass on to my children, if I marry again, even though, of course, they won’t actually be Balfours, but perhaps if I had a son I could give him Balfour as his Christian name, if his father didn’t mind too much of course, and then Pip will carry on, in a way.’

  She seemed to be skipping ahead rather lightly for a woman whose husband was not yet in the ground, but she was twenty-five and rich with reddish curls and blue eyes and so I supposed that husband number two would not, indeed, be very long in arriving and might easily agree to all manner of things.

  ‘Now, Lollie dear,’ I said, shoving Bunty off my feet and giving my shoes an ineffectual rub with my hanky, ‘if you will excuse me, I really do want to pay a visit downstairs.’

  I had only been away two nights, but stepping through the door under the stairs opposite the dining room and descending those stone steps onto the flagstones felt like something from a half-forgotten dream.

  There they all were, what was left of them anyway: Mrs Hepburn and Eldry in their pink dresses with their aprons on, Clara and Phyllis in black with lace caps for serving the tea, and Mattie in a waistcoat and striped trousers.

  ‘You look very smart,’ I said, smiling at him.

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘Not that I should speak to you that way now, madam, I don’t suppose. But you’re Fanny Rossiter to me for all time and you’ve only yourself to blame so you can lump it. And you were a lovely girl to have around and that kind and brave so I’m sorry I spoke that way.’

  ‘I’ve got to answer the door now, miss,’ said Mattie. ‘I’m the only man left in the house now. If you think that John’s the chauffeur and he’s outside really.’

  ‘Where’s Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘Sacked,’ Eldry said, sounding mournful. ‘Or at least let go. He wouldn’t take on the footman’s duties so there was nothing else for it.’

  ‘Well, my goodness,’ I said. ‘There are going to be a perfect stream of interviews, aren’t there?’