Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery

by Dorothy Cannell

  It was back to their responsibilities for her and Grumidge. They encountered Doctor Chester in the hall on his way out of the house.

  ‘Good to catch the two of you,’ he spoke with his customary good-tempered briskness, ‘although I left word with Mrs McDonald that I’d given the old lady a sedative, which can be repeated every eight hours. She should sleep much of the time, but I do advise someone remaining with her. She’s a sensible girl, that Molly, but another would do. I don’t wish to bother Lord Stodmarsh further. Such a great loss – they were a devoted couple. Good day, if it can be called that.’ With that he headed out through the front door.

  ‘I think,’ Florence said to Grumidge as they headed back to the staff quarters, ‘that it would be best to let Molly return to her regular duties and for Annie Long to sit with Miss Johnson. Given that she’s such a nervy type in general, and as Mrs McDonald doesn’t think there’ll be much work out of her today, I believe that would be putting Annie to the best use.’

  ‘It’s your decision, of course, Mrs Norris, but what if she panics at some outcry from Miss Johnson, for instance, and upsets her still further?’

  ‘There is that possibility,’ Florence returned Grumidge’s keen-eyed look, ‘but I’ll check to make sure that Doctor Chester’s sedative appears to be working, and Miss Johnson is sleeping peacefully, when I take Annie up there. I’ll tell her that as soon as she sees a hint of waking she is to leave the room immediately and fetch me. She has her weakness, but she is an obedient girl. I’m prepared to count on her not letting us down.’

  ‘Then you have my support, not that you need it, on this. And as you say, Molly will be very much needed elsewhere.’

  It crossed Florence’s mind, even with everything else she had on it, that Mrs McDonald might not have been imagining things when she’d said there seemed to be a growing fondness between the butler and the head housemaid. She then thought about her other reason for wanting a private conversation with Annie Long.

  When the staff sat down to their breakfast, after the meal above stairs had been served, Florence as usual sat in the chair at the opposite end of the table from the one normally occupied by Grumidge. Today he had chosen to settle for tea and toast in his office. Mrs McDonald took his place, saying, ‘I’ll be more than glad of the extra roominess provided by having no one to right or left. Though if I haven’t lost a stone and a half within the last few hours it’s a wonder!’ Her sigh was followed by an inspection of the row of faces on either side of the table, which included, in addition to the maids, the young footman named Len, the chauffeur, and one of the under gardeners. ‘But there’s not a whit of good in fading away, is there, Mrs Norris?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Florence, noting that Annie was quivering, ‘we each need every ounce of strength we can muster.’

  Platters of sausages, bacon, fried bread and grilled tomatoes were being passed around. Despite the savoury wisps of steam, the only two to fill their plates were Len, who though a beanpole of six foot always tucked in well, and Jeanie, the other kitchen maid, who was not usually a big eater. Pretty and pert, she tended to enjoy bringing eyes her way, especially Len’s and those of the good-looking under gardener. ‘I know it’s terribly sad and all that about the mistress,’ she said, ‘but it’s not like any of us has lost our mum, is it? Yes, she was nice, but when it comes down to it, we work for the family; they’re not our nearest and dearest. Suit yourselves; I’m not walking around all bloomin’ day with a long face.’ To prove the point, Jeanie pinched a slice of fried bread from Len’s plate and followed this up with a wink.

  Molly shook her head.

  ‘That’s enough, Jeanie,’ said Florence mildly.

  ‘Not to be rude, Mrs Norris, but I don’t see why. In this day and age we’ve all the right to our opinions.’

  ‘Not in my kitchen, you don’t, Miss Cheeky!’ Mrs McDonald shot back.

  Emboldened by a grin from the under gardener, Jeanie tossed her head. ‘What us girls in service need to bring us out of the Dark Ages is unions looking out for us. Still, it won’t bother me none getting the sack; though it’d be cutting off noses before the funeral.’

  Florence chose to ignore her, rather than embolden her further. It would be better to take her aside later for an instructive chat. No point in wasting breath when Jeanie had the impetus of playing to an audience. Also, she might not be as callous as she sounded. People reacted differently to death, and putting on a mask of bravado would be typical of Jeanie, who hated being thought of as soft. What she always had in her favour was that, like Annie, she was a hard worker. Florence was pretty sure on looking down the table that Mrs McDonald had worked her thoughts round in the same direction as her own.

  It was Annie who spoke now, barely above a whisper. ‘Lady Stodmarsh wasn’t really old. My great-gran lived to be ninety-three.’

  ‘Boastful, aren’t we?’ Jeanie giggled maliciously.

  ‘Just talking kindly, which doesn’t come easy for some,’ returned Molly.

  Jeanie looked expectantly at Len. ‘It would only be boastful,’ he said with blatantly assumed meekness, ‘if Annie was to say that her great-gran reached her grand old age without an ache or pain in her life, and if she hadn’t copped it when cycling up a mountain racing for England she’d still be with us.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not get silly! At least give her corns,’ Jeanie chirped back.

  Annie’s eyes blurred and her voice cracked. ‘She did have ’em. She suffered something cruel with her feet.’

  ‘Just goes to show, death can strike from head to toe.’ Before the under gardener had finished smirking, Florence rose from her chair and walked around the table to help Annie out of hers.

  ‘Would you like me to lead the rest in prayer while you’re gone?’ Mrs McDonald asked solemnly. ‘’Cos I daren’t think what the vicar would be thinking if he was here to hear such catty talk. Though I’m sure we can count on him arriving to comfort the bereaved before the day’s out.’

  This was one thing of which Florence had no doubts. The Reverend Pimcrisp, an occasional guest at Mullings, had always appeared to hold Lord and Lady Stodmarsh in less dubious regard than he did his other parishioners. She did not think this was accounted for by their position in Dovecote Hatch. Even so, given his lugubrious view that ninety-nine out of a hundred were destined for the pit because of some slip-up noted and underlined by a heavenly scribe, Mr Pimcrisp would inevitably sprinkle some pessimism as to Lady Stodmarsh’s chances along with his crumbs of solace.

  In the housekeeper’s room, Florence drew out a chair for Annie and settled her in it before turning the one at the desk around to face her and sitting down herself. From her pocket she produced an unused handkerchief. ‘Wipe your eyes, dear, and take some slow, deep breaths.’

  Annie did as bidden. She made a pathetic picture with her anaemic face blotched and her lank hair escaping from its pins, but the quivering lessened after a couple of minutes and the sobs reduced to the occasional sniff. Florence felt fairly secure in proceeding.

  ‘It’s perfectly understandable you should break down, Annie, what with the bad news and Jeanie being so unkind just now. I promise to deal with her.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t go after her, Mrs Norris.’ Annie clutched the damp hanky in her lap with thin, reddened hands. ‘She didn’t mean no harm, ’tis just her way, and I wouldn’t want no falling out. Sometimes I wish I’d a bit of her spunk. Can’t blame her and the others – ’cept Molly, she’s different – for thinking me weak as water. ’Tis me own fault. ’Tisn’t like I’m the only one got a shock this morning.’

  ‘One of the things I’ve always admired about you,’ said Florence bracingly, ‘is that attitude.’ Annie sat up a little straighter. ‘But in this case your situation was different from the rest of us and that’s because of the bad fright you had last night while preparing Lady Stodmarsh’s hot milk. Something about a mouse, Mrs McDonald told me, though she couldn’t get all you were saying because her ears weren’t feeli
ng right.’

  ‘It weren’t her fault. It were me. I’d bin struck of a heap, being terrified of them like I am, and couldn’t put two words together that wasn’t all of a jumble.’

  ‘Did you see a mouse?’

  ‘No, but when someone comes in and says … but again, I don’t want to make no excuses …’

  ‘Especially if that someone was a member of the family.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to let that slip to Mrs McDonald.’ Annie twisted the hanky.

  ‘Of course not. What was your immediate reaction on hearing the word mouse?’

  ‘I screamed.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I turned to look.’

  ‘As anyone would have done. I think the best way to put the incident behind you is to tell me the whole story.’

  ‘But I don’t want to sound like it was done intentional to scare me.’

  ‘No one would think that.’ Florence flinched inwardly at being deceitful. She also wondered if Annie’s concern on this point suggested the unwelcome thought that she had been scared on purpose. That she suffered from her nerves did not make her incapable of thought or observation.

  At the end of half an hour Florence had not only the name she had expected, but enough other information to make sense of what Mrs McDonald had gleaned, or misunderstood, from what Annie had managed to get out last night. After explaining about Miss Johnson, she took the considerably calmer girl up to sit with her, on the promise she would be relieved from this duty for her midday meal, and for briefer breaks when requested.

  Later that morning, Florence managed to snare fifteen minutes to go up to her bedroom and write down, as precisely as she could remember, what Lady Stodmarsh had said to her last night. She then hid the folded sheet of paper in her handkerchief sachet.

  The Dog and Whistle was packed that evening with villagers, desirous of a congregating point to talk about Lady Stodmarsh’s death. The mood was one of sadness and shock. Far more was voiced than drunk, so George was not kept all that busy. He wasn’t surprised at not hearing back from Florence. It couldn’t be expected, run off her feet as she’d have been. He’d hear from her in good time. No bother there. What did bother him was that he hadn’t been able to give her his support. She was a strong woman, no question, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do with an arm round her at such a time. What he needed was the sight of her dear face, but it didn’t do to hope for that before the funeral. Still, it helped to see Alf and Doris, who had joined her husband at the pub that evening. It was good to be with friends who were fond of Florence.

  For all the talk about Lady Stodmarsh’s death coming as such a bolt out of the blue, it never crossed the minds of any present that murder had struck Dovecote Hatch for the first time in living memory. Not even those of the two maiden ladies residing at Green Gates who checked under their beds every night with pokers in hand to make sure a man with evil intent wasn’t hiding there.

  Hilda Stark was the only person aside from Florence who thought that Lady Stodmarsh had been murdered. But, whereas Florence had reasons, Hilda fastened on the notion for no reason other than the malicious glee of the notion. What a comeuppance it would be for them at Mullings, all these years after she’d been turfed out on her ear, if it could’ve been that way. And why not? There was always murders happening in the better families … too much time on their hands. Hilda had not darkened the doors of the Dog and Whistle since the set-to with George over Madge Bradley. Sitting in her grubby bedsitter, she gave a cackle, then burped. Her drinking had only increased since being caught on the hop when she’d been nanny to that wretched child. She poured herself another gin. Who should she choose to have done it?

  All that gabble she’d heard today about poor Lord Stodmarsh and how he was bound to be broke to pieces, brought on another cackle. From what she’d seen, those as seemed to take the death of a spouse worst recovered quickest. Especially when there was a hopeful party standing by, hand stuck out for a wedding ring! Over the past few months, Hilda had worked her way round to blaming Madge Bradley for George Bird having eyed her like she was muck just for saying how sad it must’ve been for the woman getting ditched at the altar, and she had come to positively ferment with hate for a woman she didn’t know.

  Another gin went down smooth as silk at the idea of Miss Bradley laying her plan to snatch at the chance for second time lucky by grabbing Lord Stodmarsh on the rebound – no matter that he must be all of thirty years her senior. Hilda was now well on her way to half believing Lady Stodmarsh had been bumped off. How wickedly lovely. ‘Hee, hee!’ She burped again as she pictured a ring-less hand stirring something that wasn’t sugar into Lady Stodmarsh’s bedtime cocoa … no, remember, it was hot milk with bicarb. It didn’t have to be Madge Bradley, though that was preferable. It would be almost as good if it were His Lordship himself, or, even sweeter, the mad grandmother who’d so handily come on a visit. That’d knock wretched Master Ned down a ladder of pegs. Better yet if he’d done it; less fun if it was Mr or Mrs William, but any of them would do. Her thoughts hiccupped towards Florence. What would it do to that tattle-telling witch if the police should start asking awkward questions? Here, Hilda had her best cackle of the night. She hated Florence Norris even more than she did Madge Bradley.

  A week passed, during which Florence wrote to Gracie Norris and George. Gracie came over from Farn Deane, as invited, and spent an hour with her on the Thursday, but Florence did not suggest a meeting with George. Beyond expressing her appreciation for his concern, she focused on the possibility of overnight guests in the days ahead. As it happened, there were none beyond Mrs Tressler, who had been a mine of helpfulness not only making telephone calls and setting menus, but also in taking over the care of Miss Johnson. The old lady was not doing at all well. After one of his visits to her, Doctor Chester told Florence he did not expect her to linger long. If either Mrs William or Miss Bradley evinced resentment of Mrs Tressler asserting herself, nothing was heard of it below stairs. As for Mr William, Ned informed Florence he had been almost scarily subdued. Ned seemed to have garnered strength from being alert to his grandfather’s every mood.

  Lillian Stodmarsh’s funeral took place on the following Monday. The turnout would have surprised her modest sense of self. Even those from Dovecote Hatch who were barely ambulatory gathered to a tolling of bells in the rain-dripping churchyard with its ancient yews to witness the mistress of Mullings’ coffin being lowered into the ground. Also present making an outing of it, thought Alf Thatcher sourly, there being some very pretty country thereabouts, were members of the Stafford-Reid and Blake families.

  Sir Winthrop and Lady Blake were accompanied by their son, a young man who would have looked damply limp had the sky been bright blue and the sun beaming down. Their fourteen-year-old daughter Lamorna had remained at home with her governess. Not only was she deemed too young to witness life’s grim culmination, it was unthinkable that she miss her lesson in deportment, a subject at which she excelled. Her ability to balance a book on her head whilst jumping a fence on her horse entirely negated the likelihood that she would ever learn to balance a check book. Where would be the need when she married into the nobility – an inevitability given her promise of astonishing beauty?

  Enveloped in a happy daydream, Lady Blake barely glanced at His Lordship as Reverend Pimcrisp, in an irritatingly high-pitched voice, intoned that business of ashes to ashes, dust to dust and so on and so forth. Her husband was occupied smothering a yawn. Young Mr Gideon Blake was deep in contemplation of his next haircut … a little longer in front would perhaps be desirable. Then again, did he wish it to drape over his right eyebrow, thus lessening the ability to raise it to amusing effect? Or were witty eyebrows not really the thing these days?

  To most others, including George Bird in the suit he’d worn to his Mabel’s funeral, Lord Stodmarsh appeared every one of his seventy-odd years. He stood flanked by his son, daughter-in-law, young grandson and Madge Bradley. The staff, outfitted in
black, stood to their rear. Grumidge’s keen eyes noted they all behaved with propriety. Any weeping, even that from Annie Long, was restrained. Florence was proud of them. On the return to the house, ahead of the family, it must be all speed ahead in making ready refreshments for the bereaved and the condolers.

  Florence clasped her black-gloved hands tighter when she noticed George eyeing her with concern. She was both comforted and further saddened, having made the decision not to seek the benefit of his kindness and steady common sense. She had become surer by the day that it would be wrong to burden him with her suspicions. Strangely enough, it hadn’t once occurred to her, even in her most stressed moments, to wonder what Robert would have advised. The memory of his funeral, however, came piercingly back to her now. The same churchyard, of course, and a similar rainy day. She had withstood his death and gone on, albeit with a heavy heart; as she must do now.

  There had been times over the past week when she had allowed herself to wonder if Lady Stodmarsh, driven by anxiety, might not have intentionally taken an overdose. Doctor Chester had checked her supply of tablets and found none unaccounted for, but that did not discount the possibility that she’d been able to lay her hands on others. Lady Stodmarsh had been a religious woman and as such would have believed taking her own life was a grievous sin, for which there could be no repentance. But, might not even the strongest of us reach a breaking point after years of physical suffering? And Lady Stodmarsh had been so very troubled that night – the hours when problems so often loom their largest.

  Standing under a dripping elm, Florence looked from under her hat at a face that was probably as well concealed as her own, if only by the veil of rain. Then she looked at George, for what seemed like forever, although it was really just a sideways glance. She felt a distance opening up between them, and said a mental goodbye. Now that she had decided that it would be unfair to share her burden of suspicion with him, there could be no future for them – either of friendship or building towards a life together. In becoming surer than ever that the death of the woman she had liked and deeply admired wasn’t from either natural causes or suicide, she had locked herself into a loneliness she never could have imagined in the depths of her grief for Robert.