The inspector, a small neat man in a discreet woollen suit and carefully combed short beard, regarded me from small brown eyes. I shifted uncomfortably. It was not that I found his manner exactly threatening, but I had the sense of a keen brain working behind a perfect mask. Also, while I was not guilty of murder I was guilty of deception and duplicity does not fit well with a lifelong career as a vicar’s daughter.
‘Well, girl, what do you know of politics?’
‘I cannot say I think of it often, sir. It has little to do with me.’
The inspector smiled thinly. ‘Would all women felt that way.’
I bridled and suppressed an urge to confess a sudden conversion to the suffragette movement.
‘You have no knowledge of the Bolshevik philosophy?’
‘Very little.’
‘But some?’ Mr Richard pounced like a cat on a mouse. Fortunately, it was only a verbal pounce.
‘Only what I have seen in the papers, sir.’
‘Lord Stapleford,’ began the inspector.
‘What?’
‘It is a hereditary title, is it not? You’re a “Lord” now – I have that right?’
Mr Richard sat down heavily on a chair and rubbed his head with one large hand. ‘Yes. Yes. Feels strange to hear it. Makes the poor old Pater’s death more real.’
‘I am sorry, sir. I was going to explain that I think it is unlikely that a girl of a build such as your servant here could have overpowered Lord Stapleford.’
‘Then she is an accomplice!’
‘If you will permit me, sir, I have been making some inquiries of my own.’ He raised his voice. ‘Constable, send him in!’
The door opened and the man who had trodden on Siegfried’s tail came in. My heart sank.
‘Could you confirm this young woman was the one you saw in the snug of the Red Lion?’
The man glowered at me. ‘It was.’
‘When was this?’ asked the inspector.
‘Be about four of the clock, I reckon.’
‘You see, Lord Stapleford, unless this girl can fly it would be impossible for her to be your father’s assailant.’
‘She could still be an accomplice. I know there is something wrong about her. Doubtless her partner in crime has fled. Probably halfway back to Russia by now. She was the one who gave him the knowledge he needed of the house. That’s how these damn Bolsheviks work. Infiltration.’
‘Was she with someone?’
‘Aye,’ answered the man. My heart stopped as I waited to see what he said next. ‘But I didnae see his face. It were too dark. I only saw her ’cos I trod on her great lump of–’
‘You were very rude and threatening,’ I jumped in before he could reveal the presence of a large white wolfhound of which I doubted there were many in the neighbourhood. ‘It is my belief you were intoxicated and were not seeing straight!’
‘Why, you little bitch …’
‘That’s enough!’ commanded the police inspector.
‘But she’s taking my good name!’ protested the large man.
‘You should have thought of that before you chose to enter a tavern in the afternoon. Go now before I start asking questions.’
The man threw me an evil look and left muttering. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘There’s no need for you to be looking so smug, missy,’ said the inspector. ‘I advise you now to tell the whole truth and reveal the name of your companion.’
My position was an impossible one. ‘I prefer not to say.’
‘Young lady, I warn you, keeping important information from the police is a jail-able offence. What was the name of your companion?’
He fairly shouted the last few words at me and I think it was this above all else that decided me not to say. I had no idea if Mr Bertram would even own to our association and, if he denied it … well, things would only get worse. I kept my lips together and cast my eyes down. The inspector walked over to the door and yanked it open. ‘Get that housekeeper in here.’
I sat silently hoping for a rescue that never came. How could it be I had no one to take me away from all this?
Mrs Wilson swept into the room. Her eyes alighted on me and her lips curled. ‘How can I be of service, sirs?’ Her voice was demure and soft, but I could see the triumph implicit in every inch of her frame.
‘What can you tell me of the character of this woman?’ asked the inspector.
‘I am afraid, sir, the fault is mine. I was prevailed upon to engage her services for a fortnight trial period without references.’
‘Without references? Is that not unusual?’
I saw Mrs Wilson shoot a fleeting glance in the new Lord Stapleford’s direction. I was not sure if the inspector noticed. After a moment’s hesitation, she said simply, ‘We are quite remote in the country, sir, and few young girls – unless they are born local – are interested in working here. They prefer to be in London.’
‘So you have no knowledge of this young woman’s character?’
‘Only what I have observed, inspector, and that is not to the good.’
‘Explain yourself,’ said the inspector. ‘I want detail, not conjecture.’
‘It appears she did indeed gain the coin from the late Lord Stapleford, but I could not say how it was acquired.’
‘Wilson!’ barked Mr Richard. ‘The man is not yet in his grave.’
A faint pink flitted under the bone-white skin. ‘I meant only, sir, that this young woman was clearly intent on ingratiating herself with her betters.’
‘Is that not a proper thing for a servant to do?’ asked the inspector. ‘Or are you suggesting something more?’
‘In my experience a maidservant is eager to please her betters, but she is also keen to remain unobserved. In fact she should display a difference and an awareness of her station that would cause any actual interaction with her master to be an overwhelming ordeal she would prefer to avoid. In Euphemia’s case she appears to court the attention of her betters. I had information from our butler, Mr Holdsworth, that she was even seen to accost Mr Richard in the scullery room!’
‘One might wonder what Mr Richard was doing in the scullery room,’ I murmured under my breath.
‘What you are saying, Mrs Wilson, is this young woman displays no understanding of her place. Would you go as far as to say she shows contempt for our class structure?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Wilson vehemently. ‘I would say so, sir.’
The inspector rounded on me. ‘It appears then I must revise my initial impression of you, young woman. Are you a Bolshevik?’
‘No, of course not,’ I could not keep the scorn out of my voice.
‘Or a Marxist?’
‘She’s hardly going to admit it, is she, inspector?’ said Lord Richard.
‘You’d be surprised what criminals will admit under the stern eye of the law, sir.’
‘I had nothing to do with Lord Stapleford’s death and I have no interest in politics,’ I announced loudly.
‘We’ll see if a night in jail changes your mind,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable, in here!’
‘What!’ I cried, jumping to my feet. ‘You can’t throw me in jail. I haven’t done anything.’
‘You have refused to answer police questions. That’s enough for me! Constable, I say!’
The door opened. For a moment I considered diving out of the window, but it was closed and we were on the first floor. Besides, I would have to get past the gauntlet of Wilson and Lord Richard. I thought about screaming, but beyond resulting in my own exhausting and sore throat I could not see what it could achieve. I was trapped.
Mr Bertram entered making straight for his brother. ‘Richard,’ he appealed, ignoring everyone else in the room. ‘Is it true? Has Papa been found dead?’
Lord Richard came forward and placed a hand on his half-brother’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid so, Bertie. Looks like the same bloke that did for Cousin Georgie came back for the Pater.’
Mr Bertram look
ed at him with blank, empty eyes. He shook off his brother’s arm. ‘But that makes no sense.’
‘I know it’s a shock, old boy, but we think it’s a Bolshevik plot. Two good men of the party practically on the eve of the election.’
Mr Bertram shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Dickie. Why here? Why us?’
‘Ask her, sir!’ spat Mrs Wilson. ‘Ask the little Bolshie yourself.’
‘What?’ asked Mr Bertram dazed. He seemed to finally realise the room was full of people. He addressed the inspector. ‘What do they mean? What do you know?’
The inspector coughed. ‘It has been suggested, sir, that this young woman might have political leanings.’
Mr Bertram blinked. The inspector placed a finger under his collar and pulled as if it had suddenly become too tight. ‘Are you mad, man?’ asked Mr Bertram.
‘There is some circumstantial evidence against her, sir. These Bolshies, they’re – excusing your pardon, Mrs Wilson – damned clever. A night in the jail will loosen her tongue.’
‘How many have you met?’ asked Mr Bertram.
‘Well, I haven’t exactly met any, sir,’ said the inspector, his accent slipping under pressure. ‘But I’ve been briefed. All the force has. Serious times and all that. I can’t say more.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr Bertram. ‘I’ve never heard such arrant nonsense. It’s my father who is dead. If anyone has cause to look for the guilty it is I, but throwing blame left and right will not help bring this killer to justice!’
‘She wouldn’t answer my questions, sir. You heard her, Lord Stapleford. She wouldn’t.’
Mr Bertram blanched at the use of his father’s title towards his brother. Mr Richard clapped a brotherly hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s true, Bertie. I know the girl is something of a prodigy for you, but she was seen consorting with some suspicious character in the Red Lion this afternoon and she won’t give his name.’
‘Is that all!’ said Mr Bertram, shaking off the hand impatiently. ‘There’s a perfectly obvious explanation …’
His eyes met mine and he hesitated.
‘And that would be, sir?’ asked the inspector.
Mr Bertram took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from mine. ‘I am sure your brother has told you of the suspicions we had when she arrived at the house.’
‘Suspicions?’ cried the inspector.
Mr Bertram waved his hand dismissively. ‘Nothing political. A young woman, obviously educated above her station without visible means and,’ he lowered his voice and leaned in towards the inspector, but I could still hear him add, ‘and not unattractive.’
‘You mean?’ asked the inspector and I was sure he had little more idea than I did what Mr Bertram meant.
‘Come now, inspector. We’re both men of the world. I am sure I do not need to spell this out. I will only say that to such a woman a local tavern must have been a great temptation.’
I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but I was certain if I did I would not be pleased. But then whatever he was suggesting he was my only ally. I had the sense to keep my tongue between my teeth. I had no desire to discover the comforts of the local jail.
‘I see,’ said the inspector slowly. ‘You mean?’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘I have an idea, but no I do not want to trespass on your territory.’
‘I like to consider myself an open-minded man, sir,’ said the inspector. He remained neat and composed. There was no more collar tugging, but I thought I saw something resembling panic behind his eyes. Here was a man very much in awe of his betters. If only he knew what kind of people were before him!
‘My sister, Richenda, has had some success with young women.’
‘Sir?’
‘She runs or is an advocate for a centre in the city. She has, I believe, already taken a liking to Euphemia. Perhaps if the girl came to trust her she might be prepared to be more open with you.’
The inspector bridled. ‘Indeed, sir! This young miss is required by law to answer my questions.’
‘And I am sure she would if you had not been so austere, inspector. You must know that women in her position are notoriously wary of the law of which you are such a formidable specimen.’
I choked on a giggle and tried to look contrite. Mr Bertram flicked me a glance. ‘You see how discomposed your presence makes her? I have no doubt she has no direct involvement in this situation. For all her pretty words she is a woman and her intellect naturally limited.’
A retort flashed to my mind, but Mr Bertram caught my eye and I kept my mouth shut.
‘Well, I don’t know, sir. It is most irregular.’
‘C’mon, Bertie, let the man do his job! A night in the jail will do the girl no harm.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ piped up Mrs Wilson, ‘it is the only possible course of sensible action.’
Unexpectedly the inspector took offence. ‘Is it indeed, ma’am? I’ll ask you not to trouble yourself to do my job, Mrs Wilson. If you’ve no objection I think I’d like to go along with Mr Stapleford’s plan?’
Lord Richard shrugged. ‘As you wish. I would not want to interfere in a judicial process.’ He gave Mr Bertram a cool look. ‘What is your plan, Bertie?’
Mr Bertram did not flinch. ‘I suggest she is given into my sister’s custody in the function of lady’s maid. Richenda is currently without one and this girl’s background makes her suitably knowledgeable about such fripperies. It may be that my sister is able to gain her confidence and glean information from her such as she may not even know she has.’
‘As she may not even know she has, sir?’ enquired the baffled policeman.
‘Exactly, inspector.’
‘Well …’
‘What harm could it do and it might help a lot,’ said Mr Bertram mysteriously.
‘Euphemia, return to the linen room. There are some sheets that need mending,’ commanded Mrs Wilson. ‘The gentlemen can more properly discuss your fate without you present.’ She turned to the inspector. ‘If your man would care to take a dish of tea in the kitchen he can keep an eye on her and ensure she does not run.’
‘A very good idea, Mrs Wilson. I almost envy the man.’
‘I’ll escort her down and arrange for refreshments to be sent up, inspector.’
She hustled me out of the room. I had no doubt she would quickly return and argue against me. I would have to trust Mr Bertram. When we reached the linen room she opened the door and fairly pushed me inside. I stumbled forward. The door slammed behind me and, to my utter amazement, I heard the sound of a key in the lock turning.
To my shame my immediate reaction was to bang loudly on the door and shout. No one came to my rescue and although later I thought I could discern the sounds of movement within the kitchen, not even the kind Mrs Deighton, it appeared, was prepared to release me from my prison. The room was ill lit and smelled of damp. I was overcome by the uncharitable thought that I hoped every single fresh bed ever made up in this house would always be uncomfortably moist.
The devil may make work for idle hands, but industry stills the demons within. By the time I was released I had repaired six sheets and re-sewn one that had the appearance of being repaired by someone limited by ham-fisted trotters instead of fingers.
It was Merry who freed me. If she had found me on the base of her shoe she could not have looked more disdainful. ‘To think I was taken in by the likes of you,’ she spat. ‘You lording it over me when I was breaking my heart over Mr Georgie.’
She turned her back and walked off. I emerged blinking in the corridor. ‘Merry!’ I called after her. ‘Merry!’
There were good reasons for everyone to be in the kitchen, but it felt like they were waiting for me. Mr Holdsworth was frowning over the silver. Mrs Deighton was stirring a pot vigorously enough to splatter her apron and muttering to herself. Merry was setting out the dishes for serving in a manner I can only describe as aggressive and Mrs Wilson stood, obelisk like, in the corne
r, smugly surveying the scene.
‘I don’t understand,’ I blurted out.
‘What’s there to understand?’ demanded Merry smashing down an earthenware dish hard on the well-scrubbed wooden table. ‘You’re to wait on Miss Richenda. Maybe she’ll take you when she leaves. She’s experience of your sort. Good riddance. That’s what I say.’
‘My sort?’ I said blankly.
Mr Holdsworth paused in his polishing. ‘Mrs Wilson was kind enough to furnish us with the explanation Mr Bertram gave of your actions.’
‘Really,’ I said in what I hoped were freezing accents. ‘Would you care to explain it to me, Mrs Wilson? I confess I did not quite follow that part of the conversation.’
Mrs Wilson sneered at me. It was her usual expression, but she managed to deepen it for me. ‘Oh, I think you understood all too well. I think you can put two and two together if I inform you Miss Richenda supports a charity that runs a shelter for fallen women.’
‘What!’ I shrieked.
‘And you going on about Mr Georgie’s dishonourable intentions,’ added Merry.
‘Oh be quiet, Merry. A leopard does not change its spots,’ snapped Mrs Wilson.
‘Am I to understand that Mr Bertram has let it be known to staff and family that I am a fallen woman?’ For once I took no pains to modify my accent. I must have made an impression, because even Mrs Wilson seemed somewhat taken aback.
‘Do you dispute it?’ she enquired icily.
‘I most certainly do,’ I cried. ‘And I will not stay a moment longer in this house.’
I did not wait to see what effect my declaration had, but flung out of the room with as much dignity as the granddaughter of an earl wearing a maid’s uniform can muster.
I found the inspector in the upstairs hall. He was standing by the fire staring down into an open notebook in his hand. ‘Am I a suspect?’ I demanded.
He looked up in surprise. ‘Everyone is a suspect.’ I am sure he almost added “ma’am”. I was, after all, still very cross and at my most impressive.
‘If I furnish you with my direction, do you have any legal objection to my quitting this dreadful house?’
A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One Page 10