A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘Visiting hours are not for another 75 minutes,’ she said in a commanding voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rory. ‘We’ve travelled from London to see a patient. It’s an urgent matter.’

  ‘I don’t care where you are from, hospital rules apply.’

  ‘Excuse me, matron,’ I said, ‘but I believe the patient we are visiting may be under different rules. Her name is Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Are you with the police?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘but we are helping with enquiries.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the matron. ‘It will be up to the police sergeant. Follow me, please.’

  She set off at a smart pace, her shoes clacking loudly on the polished floor. Rory and I followed her down a series of corridors until we reached a door with a very bored-looking police officer sitting on a chair outside.

  ‘Visitors for Mrs Wilson,’ said the matron tersely. Then she turned on her heel and left us with the startled sergeant.

  ‘I’m Euphemia St John and this is Rory McLeod, we work at Stapleford Hall. We’ve come down from London to see Mrs Wilson. It’s very important.’

  The sergeant began to shake his head. ‘She’s not said a word. Not even to identify her attacker.’

  ‘Has she lost the power of speech?’ I asked.

  ‘Doctors don’t reckon so,’ said the sergeant. ‘But she’s silent as the grave.’

  ‘Ask her if she wants to see us,’ urged Rory. ‘Tell her we know about Sophy.’

  ‘This could make all the difference,’ I said.

  ‘And if she does want to see us,’ said Rory, ‘you could away and get yourself a cup of coffee. You look like you’ve been here all night.’

  ‘And when you come back we could have broken your case. The inspector would be pleased, wouldn’t he?’

  The sergeant looked from one of us to the other. ‘I must be mad. Wait here.’ The policeman disappeared into the room.

  ‘That was clever,’ I said.

  Rory smiled wryly. The sergeant returned quickly. ‘She’ll see you. She went right pale when I mentioned this Sophy. You’ll have to make a full report after you’ve seen her. And not too long or that ruddy matron will have my guts for garters.’

  Mrs Wilson’s room was one of those strange hospital chambers that are smallish and square, but with very high ceilings. The walls were painted a colour lost somewhere between a dull grey and green. The simple ironwork bed seemed very small in the centre of the room. Mrs Wilson lay among the sheets, her face almost as pale as the bleached cotton. She had always been thin, but her arms now clearly showed the outline of the bones that lay beneath. Purple bruises flowered on her forearms and a thick yellow bandage was wrapped around her head. Her dark eyes sparked with hostility. Her lips were faint lines and when she spoke her voice was low and rough.

  ‘What do you want?’

  There was one chair in the room, a simple wooden affair. Rory pulled it up to the bed for me and stood behind. ‘We need to talk to you about what’s happening,’ I said.

  ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

  I thought of appealing to her sense of justice, of telling her of Beatrice’s death, of our suspicions of patricide and corruption, but I sensed that all would mean little to her. ‘You had a child, didn’t you?’

  Mrs Wilson turned her face away from me.

  ‘She was born at six months,’ I continued. ‘She was the illegitimate son of the late Lord Stapleford.’

  Still she said nothing, but I saw her shoulders shake. There was nothing for it but to open up the wound at once.

  ‘You were told she died at birth,’ I said levelly, ‘but she didn’t.’

  Mrs Wilson turned to face me. Her face was a mask of rage. ‘You lie!’

  I shook my head. ‘I wish I did. I think he meant to be kind. The doctor, Dr Simpson, didn’t think she would live, but she did. She was never – quite right.’

  ‘Deformed?’ said Mrs Wilson with horror.

  ‘No. Simple. Trusting. Affectionate.’

  ‘The people who looked after her as a child spoke of her very highly,’ broke in Rory.

  ‘Where was this?’ The rage in her voice was gone and instead her voice was that of a confused old woman.

  ‘In a children’s institution in the country. It’s a lovely place.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Is she there now?’ Hope was written clearly across her face.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Of course, she’d be grown now,’ whispered Mrs Wilson to herself. ‘Where did they send her?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said quietly.

  ‘So she is dead.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you enjoying tormenting me?’ Her eyes moved to Rory. ‘I could believe that of her, but you? There’s nothing between us.’

  ‘We need your help,’ said Rory.

  ‘We don’t believe she died any more naturally than her father,’ I said.

  ‘You mean she was murdered?’ gasped Mrs Wilson. ‘When?’

  ‘We don’t know, but we think quite recently,’ said Rory.

  ‘She was alive. All this time.’ Mrs Wilson’s eyes focused into the distance. ‘Is that what he meant? That he didn’t know about her?’

  ‘Who didn’t know?’ Rory asked.

  Mrs Wilson reached forward and clutched my hand in a vice-like grip. ‘Do you think it was her at the séance?’

  ‘I think it was Beatrice Wilton pushing the glass,’ I said.

  ‘No. No. It must have been her. You believe, don’t you?’ She appealed to Rory.

  ‘I don’t know, but perhaps,’ said Rory. ‘My grandmother had the sight and stranger things.’

  ‘We think Richard Stapleford is involved,’ I cut in. ‘We think he killed or had his half-sister killed for the same reason he murdered his father. For his inheritance.’

  ‘But she had no claim on the family,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘When I was pregnant Lord Stapleford told me she would be provided for – and you say that he did that. That he saw she was looked after?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said gently. ‘She had the best care.’

  ‘Was it expensive? Was that it? Could he no longer pay the bills? I can’t believe that. He was always a mean boy, but …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘He may have been afraid of the scandal now he is in parliament,’ I said.

  ‘What did you mean he didn’t know?’ asked Rory. ‘Did you mean that before the séance he didn’t know about her at all? That his father never told him?’

  Mrs Wilson screwed up her eyes and took several deep breaths. Then she opened them and raised her head with obvious effort. Her voice when she spoke was firm and clear. ‘You don’t know what happened, do you? You’re sticking your oars in stirring up muck and seeing what floats to the surface. If you had anything on Richard Stapleford you’d have taken it to the police by now. Or you’d have blackmailed him yourself. You’ve got a lot of ideas, but no proof. Well, I have proof. I have proof of lots of things. Why do you think the last Lord Stapleford kept me on? I know more about that family than anyone. I’ve kept my notes down the years. Bided my time. You want it? You want all I’ve got?’ Spittle clung to her lips. She was raving like a madwoman, so I made the only answer I could.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You can have it. You can have it all if you find out what happened to my Sophy. I don’t want stories. I want facts. If Richard Stapleford killed her then he must hang for it.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Confessing the Truth to Bertram

  Mrs Wilson refused to say another word to us. No plea could elicit a determination of whether she had recognised her attacker. Her lost child was now all her concern. She had set out her terms for aiding us and we were forced to accept them.

  Rory and I spoke little on the return journey to London. We were both tired and we had to rush for our train. As I sat in the carriage feeling the jolt of wheels against the track and lis
tening to the sound of the chuffing engine the enormity of what we had done began to strike home. We had stolen our employer’s vehicle, though it was now returned, and we had taken a day’s absence without leave. And what did we have to show for it? The attack on Mrs Wilson was very real, but everything else was surmise and conjecture. I knew from bitter experience how Mr Bertram reacted to such. I stole a look at Rory’s profile. His face was grimly set.

  ‘Regrets?’ I asked, the words scraping harshly in my throat.

  His face softened slightly. ‘Nay, lass. We did what we had to. What will come will come.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, well, I couldnae let you do it alone now, could I?’

  The joint burdens of guilt and responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders and by the time we reached London I felt their weight so badly I feared I would not be able to stand upright.

  When we arrived back at the hotel it was past tea time, but before the dinner hour. The train journey had left me smutty and dirty as steam travel will and I did not feel equal to meeting Mr Bertram in my dishevelled state. I suggested to Rory that we left a message at the reception that we had returned and would await his convenience, with a suggestion that we would be happy to see him after dinner.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rory. ‘He’s bound to be angry. But if he’s angry and hungry then we have no chance of getting him to hear us out.’

  ‘I could see him alone,’ I said.

  Rory shook his head. ‘This is going to take both of us. It’s not every day you tell a man he has an illegitimate sister.’

  ‘A dead illegitimate sister,’ I corrected. ‘I only hope he believes us.’

  One of the luxuries of staying in a hotel, no matter how small a room you have been given, is hot water on command. After I had soaked my weary body in its warmth I realised how very hungry I was. I rang up reception and asked them to send me up an omelette and salad. I asked if there was any message for me and was told not.

  I had almost finished an omelette light and fluffy enough to have been worthy of Mrs Deighton when my door opened without a knock. Mr Bertram stood in the doorway, a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hand. I half-rose, but he waved me back to my seat. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Euphemia. You obviously no longer work for me, so I have brought you a glass of wine to toast your new endeavours. Am I to wish you and Mr McLeod joy?’

  I saw at once that this was not the first bottle he had opened this evening. ‘No, there is nothing of that nature,’ I said carefully. ‘I do indeed hope to remain in your employ. I have matters of great importance to tell you. I am sorry I could not take you into my confidence before, but you were heavily engaged with poor Miss Wilton’s funeral observations.’

  Mr Bertram sat down opposite me. Although my room was more than adequate, having a small table and two chairs as well as the usual bedroom furniture, it suddenly seemed rather cramped. He placed the glasses down and poured wine sloppily from the open bottle into both. ‘Where did a maid learn to talk like you?’ he asked. ‘Richard thinks you’re a high-class courtesan who is exploring a new career option. I think he remains hopeful you will forsake your godly ways and return to your true nature. But I think you remain virginal. Am I right?’

  ‘Good God, Mr Bertram! You cannot ask me questions like that!’

  ‘Why?’ said Bertram. He leaned over the table and I could see his eyes glittering from drink. ‘Why can’t I ask you indecent questions? You, who see fit to steal my automobile and run around the country with my brother’s servants in a manner any man of good conscience would find immoral.’

  ‘We borrowed the vehicle,’ I said, ‘but I have done nothing of an immoral nature. I swear.’ I pushed to the back of my mind how much I had enjoyed Rory’s grasp on my hand. In the scheme of things I had to impart to Mr Bertram alone it seemed a small and distant thing.

  ‘I always listen to you, don’t I?’ Mr Bertram said. ‘Before you arrived on our doorstep my family was happy. My father was alive. Cousin George was alive. Our friends had never witnessed murder under our hospitality. My brother and sister and I were all companionable. My mother spoke to me. You know, Euphemia, since her retreat to Brighton my mother no longer communicates with me? She has expressed the opinion that I have fallen into low company that is leading me astray. She means you.’

  ‘I am going to ring for some coffee,’ I said as evenly as I could. I was furious, but I knew better than to give Mr Bertram the fight he was so clearly seeking. ‘I have much to tell you and it would be better if you were sober.’

  ‘I can hardly wait to hear it,’ said Bertram lounging back in his chair. ‘Your tales are worthy of a novel.’

  ‘Oh, come,’ I said with a flare of temper. ‘They are never that bad.’

  ‘Are you going to summon Rory McLeod to your rescue?’

  I hesitated. I did dearly want Rory here to help me explain the situation, but I feared his presence would only inflame matters. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I think we must first settle matters between us.’

  ‘So what is going on this time, Euphemia?’

  ‘I shall wait until you have drunk your coffee,’ I said icily.

  And I did. Though he gibed me with words and comments I do not now even care to remember. My father was never a heavy drinker although he had spoken to me of the evils of taking too much wine. He used to say it put an unhappy man at odds with himself and turned his malice outwards to destroy innocent targets. I clung to this memory rather than listen to the deluge of vile comments Mr Bertram uttered. I saw beyond his distress to a man who not only felt out of his depth, but was also grieving heavily for a woman who had died while in his care. If my position was uncomfortable his was doubly so.

  I waited until he had finished his third cup. By this time he had begun to frown. I hoped this was a sign that he realised how very badly he had behaved.

  ‘I am sorry about taking the automobile,’ I said. ‘I needed to visit an asylum in the country. Mr Edward had sent me the address as a place of interest although he did not say, or perhaps did not exactly know, why. He told me only that your father had been donating heavily to the place up until his death.’

  ‘I thought you had disregarded my order about Edward,’ said Bertram sulkily. ‘But why would my father do such a thing?’

  ‘It is a children’s asylum and the lady who works there told us she had had the care of your father’s niece, Sophy, until her removal to a London establishment.’

  ‘What niece? All my cousins are male.’

  ‘The asylum she was removed to was the one Miss Wilton wished to investigate.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I am hoping the police have returned Beatrice’s notebook to either you or her family.’

  ‘I’ve been given nothing,’ said Bertram. He mopped his head with his handkerchief. ‘I may be making a leap here, but are you suggesting that this Sophy might be my father’s child and that he placed her in an institution to hide her?’

  I shook my head. ‘She was what they call a “six months’ child”. Simple and affectionate, but unable to live in the real world.’

  ‘But her mother?’

  ‘Was Mrs Wilson, who until recently believed the girl had died at birth.’

  ‘Good God! That my father could have been such a fiend!’

  ‘It may be,’ I said gently, ‘that he mistakenly thought he was being kind letting her believe the child was gone.’

  ‘Are you sure, Euphemia, that you are right about this?’

  I noted for all the disagreements between us he did not consider that I might be lying or attempting to blackmail him. ‘It all fits neatly into place,’ I said. ‘I think Beatrice suspected Sophy’s existence and pushed the glass to see if she could get a reaction from Mrs Wilson. Of course, I can’t know this, but I hope her notes will confirm this.’

  ‘But however did she find out?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Mrs Wilson – that’s who we travelled to see
yesterday – does admit there was a child. She says she has a number of family papers that could resolve a number of mysteries we have touched upon and that she will give them up if we solve the mystery of what happened to Sophy.’

  ‘But you know what happened to her,’ said Bertram.

  ‘I’m very sorry to tell you,’ I said quietly, ‘but your half-sister died recently.’

  ‘How?’

  I shook my head helplessly.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Bertram. ‘You’re not about to tell me that Mrs Wilson’s attack, Miss Wilton’s death and Sophy’s death are all linked? You’re not going to tell me you suspect …?’

  ‘Murder,’ I supplied. ‘Yes, I’m rather afraid I am.’

  It was at this point that Bertram agreed to summon Rory and we went over all the details again and again. I cannot say that we progressed matters except that we finally got Mr Bertram to admit that there was serious cause for concern and that it needed investigating.

  ‘I can’t condone what you did,’ he said, ‘but I appreciate you were both acting in the best interests of the family.’ He fixed his attention on Rory. ‘Euphemia and I have suspected my elder brother of more than one nefarious act, but I cannot imagine him killing or arranging to have killed, as he would have to have done, his own half-sister.’

  ‘Is it more incredible than killing his own father?’ I asked.

  ‘There was never proof,’ said Bertram defensively.

  I dropped the point. Once, he had been certain of his brother’s guilt, but that was in the heat of grief and passion for justice. The passage of time had tempered this and he was, like most men, keener to seek an easy resolution.

  ‘You heard him arguing with Mrs Wilson on the evening of her attack,’ said Bertram. ‘Is it possible he didn’t know? That the revelation Beatrice unleashed caught him by surprise? My father died suddenly. Perhaps he had intended to tell us, or at least Richard, about Sophy, but never did.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Wilson thought he knew, but he didn’t?’ said Rory. ‘Mrs Wilson said as much.’