A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One

by Caroline Dunford

  The doorbell rang sharply three times before it struck me there was no Rory to open it and I hurried to do the task myself. On the threshold stood a man of middle years in a distinguished brown suit with a generally mild and unprepossessing face that was only lent any distinction by a pair of extremely bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I am Mr Edward,’ he said in a strong, authoritarian voice. ‘I am here to investigate the murder.’

  He held up a little wallet with some insignia on it. It meant nothing to me.

  ‘I would like to see Lord Richard immediately.’

  ‘He is at breakfast, sir,’ I said. ‘I can show you to a room where you can wait. Would you like some refreshment? Perhaps coffee?’

  The eyebrows descended into a ferocious frown the like of which I have rarely seen. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Miss St John, the housekeeper.’

  ‘Well, Miss St John, I said I need to see the master of the house now and I meant now.’

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the stair behind me. ‘Hullo!’ called Mr Bertram. ‘I’m his brother. Can I be of assistance? Miss St John is quite correct – my brother left strict orders not to be disturbed at breakfast. He can be a bit of a bear in the morning.’

  ‘I am here, sir, to investigate a murder. I hope I can assume that, in any good Christian household, the subject of unlawful killing would take precedence over morning rolls.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Bertram. He reached my side and opened the door wider. I knew him well enough to know our visitor was disconcerting him. ‘You’re from?’

  Mr Edward thrust the little wallet at him. It may have been my imagination, but Mr Bertram went a little paler.

  ‘I understand the wrong cartridge was put in the man’s bag. Why did you have them on the premises?’ asked Mr Edward.

  My imagination does like to play tricks on me, but as Mr Edward stepped into the hall he seemed to grow larger and it smaller.

  ‘I couldn’t really say,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘No wait. At one point my sister was considering attending and she would have used a smaller gun.’

  ‘She shoots?’

  ‘Not awfully well,’ said Mr Bertram with an attempt at a laugh.

  ‘And she withdrew from the party? Why?’

  ‘I don’t think she ever fancied attending much,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘My brother wanted a hostess. Our housekeeper had broken her leg and was unable to attend.’

  Mr Edward looked me up and down. ‘A remarkable recovery?’ he asked.

  ‘He means Mrs Wilson, sir,’ I interposed.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She slipped on some stairs I had been cleaning,’ I said quickly. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘So you were promoted?’ said Mr Edward.

  ‘Temporarily, sir,’ I said stressing the first word.

  ‘Come in, sir. I’m sure my brother will be happy – well, not happy under the circumstances, but relieved to see you. Hopefully this will all turn out to be some terrible mistake.’

  ‘You don’t believe the butler did it?’

  ‘I can’t for the life of me see why he would. If this isn’t a dreadful accident – and I’m hoping to God it is – then it would have to be a politically motivated murder,’ said Mr Bertram to my astonishment.

  ‘It’s very interesting to hear you say so, sir,’ said Mr Edward. ‘Were you aware your butler is a member of the Communist Party?’

  Mr Bertram froze. ‘No, I was not,’ he said in a strained voice.

  ‘Your family has previously been the victim of a Bolshevik plot, have they not?’

  ‘The matter was never formally resolved,’ said Mr Bertram quietly. ‘If you could come this way.’

  The two men moved off leaving me by the open door. It was some few minutes before I could collect my wits and shut it. I wandered back to the kitchen in a daze. Could I have been wrong about Rory? There had to be another explanation.

  The kitchen was a hive of activity. The breakfast dishes had been sent down and, at my instruction, Jock was preparing a lunch that could be served both upstairs and outside, if the gentlemen decided to leave the house.

  Merry, her cap rather fetchingly askew, rushed over to me. ‘I can’t manage,’ she said. ‘I’ve done no dusting, the beds need done and now Jock tells me I have to wash the breakfast crockery. It’s not possible, Euphemia.’

  ‘Where’s Susan?’ I asked.

  ‘Not here,’ rumbled Jock. I gave him a look I had learnt from my mother. ‘Aye, I know, lass. After you giving her another chance and all. I thought when I talked to her we’d got it all straightened. I never …’

  ‘I’m going out,’ I announced. ‘Jock, use different dishes for lunch. Merry, get the bedrooms straightened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  I left against a general wave of protest. What else could I do? No one was going to believe my suspicions concerning Susan unless I had some evidence. I exited the back door and made my way down the estate. There was a general air of dilapidation. The rough track was replete with weeds. I passed by one small cottage that was obviously uninhabited. Moss grew over the front step. The windows were no more than black eyes and the roof sagged alarmingly in the centre. As I moved farther away from the house I saw more and more deserted cottages. Some of them were, like the first, in a poor state, but a few were smarter and looked as if no more than a broom and a will were needed to put them straight. Yet all were empty.

  Finally, at what now seemed a considerable distance from the house, I heard the sound of children laughing. I rounded a bend in the track and saw a scattering of cottages ahead. Smoke puffed from their chimneys and washing hung on the lines. I spotted a goat tethered on one side and, as I approached, a small, half-clad child ran screaming, but happy, past me.

  As I drew nearer I saw these cottages too were in sore need of repair. There was also something of a smell. I knew only that Susan lived on the estate, so when the next merry urchin scurried past I called a question after it and flashed a bright penny. The penny was grabbed eagerly by one very dirty hand, while the other pointed at the second cottage on the right.

  I had barely reached the front door before Susan came hurrying out. She attempted to pull the door shut behind her, but the wood had warped in the rain and I could clearly see that the cottage was fuller than its builders had intended. Before the door closed with a scrape and a bang, I glimpsed an older woman, dressed in black, scoop up the two merry urchins and push them farther inside.

  ‘What is yous doing here?’

  ‘You were meant to turn up for work this morning. We are very short-handed.’

  ‘I thought after what had happened you wouldn’t be wanting me back.’

  I frowned. Was this a confession? ‘So far I believe the incident is being treated as a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Terrible tragedy? Me stealing a bit of meat and bread for me bairns?’

  ‘I am speaking of Mr Smith.’

  The girl regarded me with her mouth shut firm in a stubborn line.

  ‘You do know what happened at the shoot?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ Susan said crossing her arms in barricade before her. ‘Mother and I and the bairns keeps ourselves to ourselves. Old Tom and his wife let us have the upstairs. It’s too hard for them to get up there any more. No one’s said they shouldn’t. It’s their let.’ Her eyes sparkled with challenge.

  ‘Oh, children,’ I said, ignoring her aggressiveness. ‘Do you also call them wains? I’m afraid I’m not at all familiar with Scottish words. Is that who you were speaking of the other day?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘I have a little brother – Joe. He’s many years my junior and always up to the most outrageous pranks. How old are yours?’

  Susan’s face softened slightly. ‘Jimmy and Mhari, they’re twins like, four.’

  I smiled. ‘I believe I’ve met them. The countryside is a great place for children to play.’

  Susan’s face hardened. ‘
Aye, maybe for them that has enough to eat. What do you want, Miss St John? What’s happened now? What am I meant to have done this time?’

  ‘Mr Smith has been killed at the shoot. The full circumstances are unclear.’

  Susan sat down suddenly on the doorstep. ‘Killed? I’m sorry. Did he have a family?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I hope not.’ Susan stood up again. ‘So you’ll be needing me back?’

  ‘I never asked you to leave.’

  ‘But Jock said …’

  ‘Jock should have said that incident could not be repeated. Lord Richard is a very different master to your last, by all accounts.’

  ‘Aye, you can say that.’

  ‘So you’ll come back with me.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mother,’ she said and pushed open the door. ‘I am grateful,’ she threw over her shoulder and disappeared swiftly inside.

  Not many moments later she reappeared, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. We began the long walk back in silence. As we approached the empty cottages I asked, ‘What happened here?’

  Susan shrugged. ‘All I know is your Lord Richard had the pensioners removed from their homes.’

  ‘Pensioners?’

  ‘Widows, old folks, all those who’d had, or who’d been, folk working the estate. He let the main workers keep their cottages, but all the others were cleared out. Old Tom only kept his because Donal, who’s taken over as gamekeeper, made out how he was vital to his job. Said he was an expert on culling.’

  ‘I can see how that might appeal,’ I muttered under my breath.

  We walked on in silence. The sky began to drizzle. Susan pushed her shawl up over her head. The dark clouds above the house did nothing to dampen my imagination. As I stepped through the back door I sensed the tension and expectation in the air. I asked Susan to go to the scullery immediately and begin washing the dishes. I had told her nothing of Rory’s incarceration, not merely because I did not wish to dwell on the matter, but because my hopes were high, now that the mysterious Mr Edward had arrived, that Rory would already be released.

  I found Jock clattering pans in the kitchen. ‘I’ve brought Susan back with me,’ I said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Do you know if anything has transpired while I was away?’

  ‘Has anything transpired?’ asked Jock turning to face me and putting his hands on his hips. ‘Has anything transpired, the wee lassie asks me! If you count Rory McLeod being formally charged with murder and tae be moved tomorrow to London, I would say a wee bit has transpired, aye. He wanted you to speak for him. It’s too late now.’

  ‘There’s nothing I could have said,’ I protested. ‘You must be mistaken. The case against him is flimsy in the extreme.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. All I know is I’ve been told to ensure I have everything in order for a shooting luncheon tomorrow for the gentlemen are going back out once the butler is sent away.’

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ I cried. I ran from the room with no thought in my head but to find Mr Bertram.

  As my luck would have it he was alone in the library. ‘You cannot let this happen,’ I said rushing into the room and startling him into dropping ash on his newspaper. ‘Rory is no killer.’

  ‘Euphemia! Really! You cannot behave like this.’

  ‘A man’s life is at stake!’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, come in and shut the door before anyone else hears you.’

  I did so and stood nervously twisting my hands together.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Would you like a small sherry?’

  I managed to nod my head. It was such an extraordinary gesture on his behalf that I could not speak. He poured me what was indeed an extremely small sherry and held it out to me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I sipped daintily at the liquid. The fire that spread across my tongue was most welcome for I was still a trifle damp from the outside. However, as the liquor hit my stomach it reminded me in all the commotion that I had eaten no breakfast of my own. Mr Bertram pulled his chair opposite mine and sat down.

  ‘Euphemia, I know you have imagined a fondness for Rory McLeod …’

  I choked slightly. ‘I hardly know him.’

  ‘It is quite in character for one such as him to be adept at wheedling his way into the affections of the weaker sex.’

  I set my glass down on a small table. ‘Such a one? Weaker sex? When have I ever seemed weak to you?’

  This brought a smile to his lips. ‘I am well aware you are an extraordinary servant, Euphemia. I believe, once we have passed through this period of unpleasantness, you will find the situation of housekeeper far more suited to your talents than the lowly station of maid.’

  ‘But he’s innocent!’

  ‘How can you possibly know?’

  ‘There’s no evidence.’

  Mr Bertram began to tick the points off on his fingers. ‘For no good reason, he left his position as loader to Mr Smith …’

  ‘That was my fault.’

  ‘I am sure that is what he wanted you to think. He even tried to call you to his defence. Is there anything you could have said that proved his innocence?’ Mr Bertram regarded me with what I felt sure he thought was a kindly smile. I thought he looked infernally smug and my fingers itched to slap him.

  ‘No,’ I admitted, ‘but you have said nothing to prove his guilt.’

  Mr Bertram abandoned his point checking and sat back in his chair. He gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s more complicated than you imagine, Euphemia. I’ve known Smithy since I was his fag at school.’ He must have seen my bemusement. ‘It’s an old-fashioned system, where a new boy must run and fetch for an older.’

  My mind boggled at the thought of Mr Bertram fetching and carrying. ‘Be his servant?’

  ‘If you like, though it’s not put in those terms. Anyway, it’s not a nice thing to do. It’s a rite of passage experience. The kind of thing that’s meant to teach you your place.’

  ‘Did Lord Richard do it too?’ I asked fascinated.

  ‘I presume so,’ said Mr Bertram shortly. ‘It’s not to the point.’

  I forgot myself so far as to snort.

  ‘But Smithy,’ continued Mr Bertram, ‘was different. An absolute English gentleman. He couldn’t have been kinder to me if we had been brothers.’ He stopped. ‘Actually he was a damn sight kinder. But the point is, he was a very decent fellow, perhaps the more so because he wasn’t through-and-through English. His mother came from good stock, but his father was Korean. Something big in Korea back then, but he’d always carry the mark of not being quite British. It seemed to make him determined to be better at being British than the rest of us – and he was.’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your friend,’ I said.

  ‘So am I.’

  We were both silent for a moment.

  ‘Smith?’

  Mr Bertram smiled. ‘That was his father changing his name to fit in. Just like the ridiculous names they gave him.’

  ‘His mother didn’t have a say in it?’

  ‘Apparently she adored his father. She must have, to marry him in the first place.’

  ‘Poor woman. Are there other children?’

  ‘A younger brother and sister.’

  ‘It’s all very sad, but even more unlikely a Scottish grocer’s son would have a death wish against a half-Korean British gentleman. Surely their paths would never have crossed until today?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘But he’s a communist, Euphemia, and the Japan-Korea Treaty of 1907 has never looked more shaky. It’s a communist plot.’

  ‘Communist assassins!’ I said. ‘You really believe that, after what happened with your own father? It’s a line, Bertram, a line. It’s what they say when they want people to look the other way. Only this time there’s a scapegoat – Rory.’

  ‘No, Euphemia, you’re wrong. I know last time it was just something that was said to close down the case, but the communist threat is real. The w
orld is preparing for a war, the like of which no one has ever imagined. You don’t understand the politics of the situation.’

  ‘I might not understand politics, but I know Rory McLeod is no assassin,’ I said.

  ‘You’re letting your heart rule your reason.’

  ‘I am not!’

  At this point we had both risen to our feet, pulsating with anger. Our bodies were in close enough proximity that I could feel the heat radiating from Mr Bertram. Our faces were inches from each other. Our eyes locked. My heart, generally a most reliable organ, turned over in my breast. Mr Bertram leaned slightly towards me. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he said, ‘Euphemia …’

  ‘Bertram …’

  The door behind us opened and we sprang guiltily apart. ‘What ho!’ said Baggy Tipton with a leer.

  I took the only course open to me and fled from the room. As my readers will understand, my thoughts were in turmoil for the rest of the day and barely worth recording. Suffice it to say, my fallible mind played over and over the final scene with Mr Bertram although it dared go no further than the actualities that occurred. My reaction to the situation was unnerving. I was more than aware that I had called Mr Bertram by his Christian name now on several occasions. Of course, had I been present in his house as myself, Euphemia Martins, not only a vicar’s daughter but also the granddaughter of an earl – if my grandfather ever took it upon himself to acknowledge me or my brother – he might have considered himself fortunate to be on such terms with me. If my grandfather ever accepted my mother back into the family then I would be openly his social superior. As matters stood within my family our social standing was, to put it mildly, confused. While I worked under a false identity as a maid – or housekeeper – I had no excuse whatsoever to address a gentleman of the house by his first name. I could only suppose that I had done so because, of all of them, Bertram had recognised something in me. He did not treat me as an equal and yet he did not treat me as a servant. At least I, knowing what I really was, understood the confusion this had engendered between us. Bertram, on the other hand, had no such advantage and I could only come to one conclusion over his extraordinary behaviour. He was jealous of Rory.