A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One

by Caroline Dunford

  As he opened the door, he threw over his shoulder, ‘Do not forget to clean my bath, Euphemia. I want it to sparkle.’

  Unfortunately, as I yet had no idea where such cleaning stuffs were stored, I was unable to do more than dust it. Being a man, I doubt he noticed the difference.

  Chapter Six

  Gentlemen

  I had spent far too long talking to Mr Bertram. I could only hope the family would take their time over dinner. I literally ran from room to room dusting lightly and unfortunately not being able to make the most of my opportunity to understand a little more about the Staplefords.

  I do not mean I intended to riffle through the bedchambers as Mr Bertram had accused me of, but now I had the sanction of one of the family to investigate I felt he would not object if I took the time to “notice” things. However, this would have to wait for another day.

  I had barely escaped onto the servants’ staircase when I heard the sound of female voices heading upstairs. I surmised they were retreating to the upstairs drawing room, but I thought it more than likely that various family members would also choose to return to their rooms for this or that. Already I had an impression of the family as a secretive lot, who preferred to do much of their own fetching and carrying of personal items. It was a condition I was hardly going to contest, but at the same time it strengthened my feeling that this was not a happy house and that it was full of secrets. Really, if it wasn’t for the raw and rather biological explicit aspects of murder I would have been finding the whole experience rather exciting, rather like an exceptionally good after-dinner puzzle. However, lugging a freshly dead body along a corridor had rather put a damper on the whole business for me.

  I presented myself to Mrs Wilson downstairs with a feeling of accomplishment. In return she introduced me to the mending room, where I sat late into the night darning sheets. Fortunately, as my mother had thought it essential that a young woman of breeding be capable of extremely neat hand-stitching and had at almost every opportunity sought to ensure my embroidery progressed, I found the luxury of the comparatively large stitching used in darning both slightly decadent and liberating. It was certainly easy, if lengthy, work.

  By the time the female staff were expected to retire I had made significant progress. Mrs Wilson hardly knew whether to be pleased at the work achieved or dismayed at the abilities of her most despised member of staff.

  I conjectured that she would have her revenge. I was not wrong. The next morning I rose early with the rest of the staff and set about laying the fires. Naturally, I expected my first family duty of the day would be to take Miss Richenda a hot cup of tea in my capacity as temporary lady’s maid. Accordingly, I presented myself to Mrs Deighton in good time to collect her morning tray.

  The good cook seemed unable to look me in the eye. ‘Oh well, dearie, I don’t know. I think Merry will be taking that up this morning.’

  I smiled sunnily. The last thing I wanted to do was to step on anyone’s toes in the strange internal hierarchy of the servants’ hall. ‘Not to worry, Mrs D,’ I said in what I hoped was a suitably anything-I-can-do-to-help voice. ‘I haven’t seen Mrs Wilson, but I’m sure she’ll have things for me to do.’

  ‘She’ll be with the Mistress,’ explained the cook. ‘Getting her orders for the day. Not that they won’t change at least seven times before lunch. Our good Lady Stapleford likes to keep the servants on their toes.’

  I smiled encouragingly hoping she would say more and feeling rather like one of those grinning clowns at the travelling festivals. I could only hope my attempt at sunny charm did not look as idiotic as it felt. It seemed to be working.

  The cook sighed. ‘Not like our first Lady Stapleford. Mrs Stapleford, of course, she was first. The master got his title for helping the nation in the wars.’

  ‘Did Lord Stapleford serve in the first Boer war?’ I asked trying to keep the amazement out of my voice.

  Mrs Deighton laughed. ‘Lord love you ducks. The master is many things, but he’s no solider. No, me dear. Something to do with finance and his bank helping out the government, I think. All I knows is he told me a grateful nation was repaying its debt in kind and how did I fancy working for a baronet?’ The cook stopped and gazed thoughtfully into the past. ‘The party we had. They all came. All the leaders of finance and industry and Mrs Stapleford – the new Lady Stapleford looked lovely. We were in the London house then. It was so hot we threw open the long windows. They danced till dawn. I always said it was the mist rising up from the river that did it.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Brought on that chill what killed her. Fiery-tempered woman, my first mistress, but heart of gold. Worked for half a dozen charities, both before and after the barony was given. There was some as said she was aiming for it, but they had it all wrong. Heart of gold that woman had. Oh, she had a temper like any fire-headed beauty, but she was a kind woman. Not been anyone in the family like her since.’

  A slightly smouldering smell rose up from the kitchen. ‘Lord love a duck! What is I doing chatting, young miss. That’s the master’s eggs all spoiled. Away with you, girl! Mrs Wilson will be down in a moment and if you’ve not found work she’ll find it for you.’

  I nodded, wondering what on earth I was meant to do. Dusting? Again?

  ‘Scoot!’ added the cook. ‘Aggie’s unwell today.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said confused. ‘I hope it is not something serious.’

  ‘If you don’t get out of here it’s liable to be serious for you,’ said Mrs Deighton darkly.

  I understood her comment approximately five minutes later. I was backing out of the kitchen desperately racking my brains for something useful to do that would also allow me to uncover more clues, when I collided with Mrs Wilson.

  ‘Ah, Euphemia!’ Her facial expression was curious. I wondered if perhaps a pin had been left in the lining of her austere black dress.

  ‘Are you well, Mrs Wilson?’ I asked politely.

  The expression stretched and it occurred to me that this could possibly be how Mrs Wilson looked when she attempted to smile. Her next words robbed me of any doubt.

  ‘How kind of you to ask. Indeed I am very well. Unlike poor Aggie. I’m afraid I will need to ask you to help with her duties.’

  ‘But she is the scullery maid,’ I protested weakly. It had taken me less than a day to understand that the position of scullery maid was of less significance than the kitchen cat. Moreover the cat was never asked to take out the night soil.

  ‘Indeed. I am glad to see you are picking up the structure of the household so quickly. Fortunately for you, my girl, her mother can’t afford to lose the income and she’s sent her youngest son, Johnny, to cover many of her duties.’

  Mrs Deighton coughed loudly. The cough sounded rather like “trouble”, but I may have been mistaken as the cook continued to stir the eggs and did not turn round.

  Mrs Wilson paused for a moment staring hard at the cook’s back. ‘Johnny will naturally be doing most of his work with the male staff.’

  ‘Male staff?’ I interrupted curiously. ‘I thought there was only Mr Holdsworth.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ gasped Mrs Wilson. ‘How on earth could we manage such a large house with so few staff?’

  I had been wondering this myself, but I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘We have drivers, gardeners, boot boys, valets and, on special occasions, footmen.’

  I longed to ask where the footmen were stored in between special occasions.

  ‘However, you will not be meeting any of them. Unless there is a party of note, when you might – only might – see a footman in the kitchen. I keep my girls well away from the male household. The master did not have separate male and female servant stairs built for nothing!’

  Mrs Wilson misread the alarm in my eyes as I realised my list of suspects was growing by the moment. ‘So if you have any thoughts of finding yourself a husband here I will remind you that Lord Stapleford will not allow any of that to g
o on under his roof! This is a respectable household.’

  So many retorts sprang to my mind, but I continued to keep my tongue behind my teeth.

  ‘This morning, Euphemia, I need you to go down to the kitchen garden and collect cabbages and broad beans.’

  I nodded.

  ‘If you can manage that,’ added Mrs Wilson on a note of contempt and glided off, her long black skirts trailing behind her.

  ‘You do know what a cabbage looks like, don’t you?’ asked Mrs Deighton.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. She handed me a large basket with a large knife in the bottom and pointed me at the garden door. I was picking my way down the muddy path to the side garden when I realised what that had all been about and broke out laughing. Mrs Wilson did not believe I was a maid. She clearly was still holding to her darling idea that I was an immoral female with nefarious tendencies. She did not expect me to be able to spot a cabbage in its raw form. This was a test. Possibly my mother when she had first married my father would have been flummoxed to uncover a cabbage in its raw form, but any member of a poor vicar’s family knew about growing garden vegetables.

  I found the cabbage patch and set about hacking away with a will. It was most enjoyable. Cabbages do bear a remarkable resemblance to some heads and have about as much sense in them as some people I could mention.

  No one had told me how many to collect. I stopped after five. The basket was getting very full and very heavy. I wandered off in search of the broad bean frame. The kitchen garden was large. Different areas were segregated by neat box hedges. I rounded one corner and was assailed by the fine smells of rosemary and thyme. A really very lovely herb garden was growing there. This garden had been laid out in concentric circles with pretty little seats scattered here and there. I spotted lavender pots. Doubtless, this was an area the ladies of the house sometimes visited.

  I was standing admiring the view and wondering where exactly I would find beans, when a boy of about 12 in clothing so muddy it defied description came into view closely followed by a youngish man in a rough brown suit. I stepped back out of view behind the hedge. ‘Come on, Jimmy me lad,’ said the man in a wheedling voice. ‘I’ve got a bright, shiny penny here for you if you can tell me what I need to know.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I don’t know nofink!’ protested the boy, who clearly needed an operation for his adenoids. ‘I don’t have nofink to do with the master.’

  ‘But you knows people that do. A clever lad like you, Jimmy. Bet you’re the pet of the staff. A little word here. A little word there. Mr Martin the driver seems a very chatty bloke. Lovely motor he’s got. You interested in motors, Jimmy?’

  ‘Of course I’m interested in motors!’ piped up Jimmy.

  ‘Well then, it wouldn’t be a big hardship to go talking to Mr Martin about the runs he’s been on in the car recently, would it?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You’ve got a lot to learn about how the world works, lad. You do this little favour for me and I’ll give you a bright new penny.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why yous can’t ask him yourself.’

  At this point I revealed my presence. ‘That is quite correct, Jimmy,’ I said in my best vicar’s daughter voice. ‘Run along now and leave this man to me.’

  Jimmy threw me a look that said he thought I had but recently escaped from the mad house. However, he was obviously not overly enamoured of the penny-man either and took the opportunity to, I believe the term is, leg it.

  ‘As for you, sir. I shall not enquire of you your business. Anyone who propositions a child for information is hardly likely to be working for one of our more respectable periodicals.’

  To give the man credit he did remove his pork pie hat at the sight of me, but his tone was not respectful. ‘Respectable! Respectable! I like that coming from you!’

  ‘Sir, you know nothing about me!’ Goodness, could he be a relative of Mrs Wilson? ‘I need you to leave now. I have beans to collect.’

  He approached me pointing a finger in my direction and ignoring my vegetable dilemma. ‘I’d like to know how you equate respectable with the death and destruction your family has caused.’ He gestured at my basket. ‘How do you eat? How do you swallow that knowing your family fortune is coined from the blood of others?’

  I moved backwards as far as I could until the hedge pressed against me. He kept coming and I confess I was frightened. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ I blurted out. ‘My father might have been responsible for sending a number of men and women to their final rest, but he was no murderer!’

  ‘Ha! So you admit it!’ cried the man. ‘But it’s not your father I am interested in, but his son.’

  It dawned on me then that he had mistaken me for one of the Staplefords. This lent me strength. ‘Leave this garden at once or I shall summon the police!’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ The man sneered showing nasty yellow teeth.

  ‘I shall scream,’ I replied with dignity. ‘There is still a sergeant at the house.’

  The man’s face contorted in anger. He shoved his hat upon his head. ‘Don’t you think I will let this matter rest, ma’am. You can’t stifle the press no matter who you are. The country don’t want the likes of him in power. You mark my words. Not when they know the truth.’

  I took a deep breath. It was enough. I was gratified to see him beat a hasty retreat across the garden. The beans transpired to be around the next corner, so I was able to fill my basket to the brim and return to the house feeling accomplished. Though I must admit the newspaper man’s conversation, no matter how many times I replayed it in my mind, left me with a considerable number of questions. Regretfully, due to my lapse in commenting on my father’s existence, not to mention his propensity to bury the dead, I felt I could not mention the conversation to another in case they tracked down this man and inadvertently exposed my origins.

  I entered the kitchen triumphantly bearing my full basket proudly before me. The cook was frantically whipping up something in a bowl. As I came in she stopped, held up the whisk and looked in dismay as a thin line of liquid dribbled from it. I had no idea what she was making, but even I with my limited culinary skills could tell it was not going well. She noticed me and annoyance suffused her face.

  ‘Where have you been, Euphemia!’ cried Mrs Deighton. ‘I need those beans now! Take ’em through the scullery and, while you’re at it, scrub those cabbages. I hope you got four. You never bothered to ask before you flounced off.’

  I nodded. I had got four, more than four, but I didn’t think now was the time to be pedantic.

  ‘Good. Waste not, want not. That’s what I always say.’ Mrs Deighton indicated the scullery with a nod of her head.

  It was a dingy little room with only a small window set high up in the wall. There were three bars across it. The scullery had a large, low sink with a cold water pump attached and a big wooden draining board. It managed to have both the most modern of conveniences and the most miserable of ambiences.

  I dumped my basket down angrily on the side. I knew, as my father had taught me, that all people were created equal in God’s eyes. ‘All men,’ I muttered savagely pulling the outer leaves off a poor cabbage. I was aware that even in this house, even between the ranks, there was some camaraderie between the men, but the women, like the poor scullery maid, were all lowly creatures bent on seducing the men and secluded for their own protection against their immoral tendencies.

  ‘Ha!’ I cried dumping the shorn cabbage in the sink. I thought of Merry’s tear-stained face and her belief in good old Cousin Georgie. Good old Cousin George who might well have taken advantage of Richenda if Bertram’s suspicions were correct. This house was a seething morass of – of wrongs! Worse than even I suspected if there was any sense behind that newspaper man’s incomprehensible accusations.

  ‘Careful there, my pretty, I prefer my vegetables unbruised.’

&nb
sp; I whirled round to see Mr Richard walking calmly towards me. He hesitated as he peered through the half-light.

  ‘Why, you’re not little Aggie! I didn’t think she was the spirited sort. Not with the vegetables anyway. You’re Euphemia, aren’t you?’

  I did not entirely understand his tone, but involuntarily I edged back against the draining board. I reached behind me into the basket, feeling for the knife.

  ‘So then, I think it is time we got better acquainted,’ said Mr Richard in a horrid slimy kind of voice.

  My fingers, still somewhat cold from my gathering in the garden, fumbled in the basket. Where was the knife? My numb fingertips scraped along something long and hard. I grasped it quickly. I pulled it out and shouted, ‘Sir, I am not that kind of a maid!’ and flourished a string of beans in his face. I had been so sure it had been the knife.

  Mr Richard roared with laughter. ‘Oh yes, I really must get to know you, Euphemia.’

  I was trapped. Between me and the first son of the household was only a string of beans and even by this light I could see they weren’t very good beans.

  ‘I’ll scream,’ I said, falling back on my favourite defence.

  He was too close now. I could smell his cologne. He leaned in; there was liquor on his breath. ‘Do you think anyone will hear? Do you think anyone will care, Euphemia?’

  ‘Sir,’ announced a sonorous voice from the doorway, ‘I have found a bottle of the ’87. I think your father would infinitely prefer it if you decanted it yourself.’

  Mr Richard swung round. ‘I doubt that, Holdsworth, but I will.’ He whispered in my ear. ‘Foiled this time I retire from the lists, little maiden, but I shall return.’

  Mr Richard walked out of the room quite calmly as if nothing had happened at all. I turned and leant over the sink fighting the urge to be sick. ‘Thank you, Mr Holdsworth,’ I gasped.