Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  George pulled a pint of mild for a tottery old gent in a mustard-coloured cardigan with a cap the wrong way round on his head, and watched till he made it safely back to his seat. He then asked wistfully if there had ever been a minor scandal at Mullings since it had been built.

  Alf twinkled back at him. ‘Not one blinking, common or garden murder. No ghosts to lend that right touch of swank. Florence Norris, housekeeper at Mullings, told me that when she started work there at fourteen she was really hoping to be half frightened to death by seeing a shadowy presence standing by her bed at night.’ Alf looked thoughtfully at George. ‘I’ve a feeling you and Florence would take to each other. Lovely woman, she is, and on her own like yourself. Widowed in the war. A good bloke, was Robert Norris. His brother Tom will be along here one of these nights. The Norris family has worked Farn Deane for the Stodmarshes since no one remembers when. Shame is, Tom and Gracie don’t have any children to carry on after their day.’

  George said he’d met Tom Norris one night when he was out taking a walk.

  Alf returned to his former topic. ‘Of course, there’s some as thinks there’s a reason Mullings isn’t haunted.’ His expression soured. ‘I’ve heard tell the Blakes over at The Manor at Large Middlington have their little joke that none of the Stodmarsh forebears would have the spirit,’ leaning in with a tightening of the mouth, ‘to come back and haunt the place. And I suppose there’s a few in the village as agrees it’s a proper waste of the old ancestral, as they call it. Make that next one a pint instead of a half, Mr Bird. What I call lack of spirit is bunking off for safer pastures when diphtheria’s going round, or developing flat feet and weak eyesight when a war’s on. And different from some – like the Blakes and such – you won’t get that from the Stodmarshes. They prefer the quiet life to stirring the daily pot is all. They’ve had their sorrows, same as ordinary folks like me and you. There was the deaths of the older son Lionel and his wife – pretty, spirited young lady. They was killed in a motor car crash, leaving a little son, named Edward for his grandpa, but called Ned. He’s sixteen now, and it has to be him that’s helped his grandparents come to terms with their loss. That lad always kept everyone a-hopping.’ Alf chuckled. ‘A mind of his own, has young Ned; seems one day he decided he didn’t want Hilda Stark to be his Nanny no more, said he wanted his Florie to take care of him. You should see the look on Hilda’s face when Florence Norris or the Stodmarshes are mentioned.’

  Hilda Stark was a regular at the Dog and Whistle, but not present that evening. ‘Can’t be easy getting the push.’ George was ever a fair man.

  ‘Right enough, but could be there was more to it than got out. Whatever the case, I sometimes think the only reason she’s stayed on here in Dovecote Hatch is the hope of one day seeing them burned in oil. Make that another, Birdie.’

  George had quickly become ‘Birdie’ amongst his regulars. The Dog and Whistle, originally a seventeenth-century coaching inn, looked, save for the glossy, brass-trimmed Victorian bar, much as it would have done back then. The taproom had not been walled in half in order to offer a saloon and public bar. There was no need for such separation. The roughest bloke wouldn’t have belched without apology, let alone spat on the floor. They were a mingling lot hereabouts. Mr Shepherd, headmaster of Westerbey – which Ned Stodmarsh had attended until going to boarding school – was as like to be seen chatting with a farmhand or bricklayer as with Mr Craddock, the owner of the once general, now antiquarian bookstore. George, not being a boastful man, was unaware it was his hail-fellow-well-met personality that had quickly allowed the residents to forgive his being a foreigner to these parts.

  ‘Go on, pour one for yourself, lad,’ Alf proclaimed largely one evening within the first couple of weeks. ‘Can’t have you fading away before our eyes to below sixteen stone!’

  That brought surrounding chuckles. George enjoyed receiving his full measure of communal jests at his expense. These included winks and elbow jabbing whenever Hilda Stark settled at a table with her Guinness and every two minutes or so slid glances towards the bar – ones that in a woman not wearing a battered felt hat and fingerless gloves might have been considered coquettish. Before long bets were being made during Hilda’s rare absences that she’d get George to the altar afore Christmas. He was mischievously informed that several old blighters had only escaped her clutches by kicking the bucket in the nick of time.

  ‘Here’s to you, Birdie!’ Alf chortled. ‘Best ask Gracie Norris at Farn Deane to make the cake. She’s a dab hand at marzipan, is Gracie, as her Tom’ll tell you any day of the week and twice on Tuesdays.’

  Tactless, perhaps, given George’s recently widowed status, but he wasn’t one to easily take offence. As so often happened, he could hear Mabel’s voice in his ear. ‘Oh, let the old girl find something to perk herself up, keep her from dwelling on what she sees as past wrongs.’ So he joined in the jest. Yes, the patrons of the Dog and Whistle were a good lot. Life in Dovecote Hatch grew better all the time.

  His meeting Lord Stodmarsh was delayed because, on the day after his arrival, His Lordship had stepped off the footpath wending its way through his woods on to uneven ground which fell away into a ravine, and had sprained his ankle. The doctor was known to visit Mullings frequently to attend Lady Stodmarsh, so it had been a week or so before this news got out.

  ‘There’s a sign posting a warning if it’s the place I’m thinking of, but it seems it was a misty night. And mayhap the dog bounded off.’ Alf Thatcher shook his head sadly when putting George in the know. The path was strictly speaking a private one, but the Stodmarshes had a relaxed attitude about this, especially in spring at bluebell time. And Alf had been given permission to use it when making his newspaper deliveries to Mullings. ‘Another pint, Birdie, to toast the good man’s swift recovery. No doubt Vicar will be asking for prayers at Sunday service.’

  George was not a religious man, but he quite liked the hymn singing and was interested in getting a look at the Reverend Pimcrisp after hearing the description of him, so he decided to go to church that Sunday. On coming out afterwards he was introduced to Florence Norris by Mr Shepherd. Within a few minutes he understood why Alf and others thought so highly of her. She was, he thought, a restful sort of woman, pleasantly interested in what he had to say without being nosy.

  On Wednesday of the following week he met her coming out of Craddock’s Antiquarian Bookshop and decided during that conversation that she had a sense of humour, revealed by her admission to having hoped on first coming to Mullings that it had seen more than its fair share of the macabre. This made him feel less foolish about his own feelings in this regard and he enjoyed telling her so. It felt good to have a meeting of the minds with a woman for the first time since Mabel died. That she happened to be good-looking in a ladylike sort of way was unimportant, or so he told himself on returning to the Dog and Whistle. He’d never had what you’d call a friendship with a woman, one without any strings attached, for he and Mabel had married early. Now he found himself thinking it would be pleasant to get to know Florence Norris better, and perhaps take the occasional outing together.

  This train of thought might have been nipped in the bud if he’d heard what Mrs McDonald, the cook at Mullings (who claimed to have second sight), had to say on the subject. After seeing him talking with Florence outside the church, she had predicted, in the hearing of several members of the household staff, that she’d instantly been swept into a vision of a future romance. Then again, had George been aware that Mrs McDonald was no fey slip of a girl with a faraway look in her eyes, but a fifteen-stone woman who had as yet never foreseen anything with reliable accuracy other than that dinner guests would rave over her queen of puddings, he might have laughed.

  On an evening six weeks after taking over the Dog and Whistle, George stood behind the bar, unnecessarily shining up glasses with a white cloth and letting the conversation around him become a distant buzz. He’d received a letter by afternoon post from his godson which had
contained surprising news. Jim had decided not to take the job he’d been offered on leaving university the previous month as a junior museum guide, but was instead taking one as a waiter at a restaurant near Kings Cross, so as to give himself the chance to discover if his dream of eventually earning his living as an artist could be realized. His parents were understandably very upset. George could well believe it. To Sally and Arthur’s notions of respectability, artists were a slice of shiftless society without morals, filled with naked women and all of them drinking and smoking more than they should. They were, like many kindly people, very keen on the penalties of hellfire and brimstone for wickedness.

  He picked up another glass to needlessly polish. Here he was with enough money saved up through the years to have helped the lad out financially, but that possibility was out. It would have been going over Sally and Arthur’s heads; and even if that wasn’t an issue, Jim would want to do this on his own. Independent from a little tyke, he was. ‘Soon as I learn to ride a big-boy bike, Uncle George, I’m going to get a paper route!’ He’d been three at the time, bless him. Perhaps it was because Jim had pictured him feeling helpless on reading the letter that he’d included the last paragraph. No, he’d have put it in anyway, thought George. That was Jim all over, wanting to help out where he could. He’d heard that his former grammar school maths teacher, who’d been pathetically inept at maintaining discipline, had finally been dismissed. A bundle of nerves from the sound of it, poor man. It was Jim’s belief that, after being mocked by the boys every day, he’d gone home to be nagged by his widowed mother, who had a mind to a champagne lifestyle on a beer income.

  ‘Here’s the interesting thing, George,’ Jim had written. ‘Word has it he’s applied for a job in at Westerbey, a junior boys’ school near your Dovecote Hatch. His name’s Cyril Fritch, and if he’s successful I’d appreciate your taking him under your kindly wing.’

  Now there was a coincidence for you. On the previous evening Mr Shepherd had been in the Dog and Whistle not looking at all himself. He’d confided to George over a rare whisky and soda (usually it was cider) that he’d had to turn down a Mr Fritch for the vacancy in the second form. Within five minutes of talking with him it had become clear that teaching was the last thing the poor chap was cut out to do. The seven-year-olds would have him for beans on toast before morning break. He’d had a better tale to tell this evening. A half-hour ago Mr Shepherd had smiled across the bar at George. He’d encountered Mr Fritch in the street moments before and learned that, following the unfortunate interview, he’d walked the three miles from where the school was situated between Large Middlington and Dovecote Hatch and gone into Craddock’s Antiquarian Bookshop. His hope had been to find a volume to lift his spirits, and after getting into conversation with its owner he had been offered the job of bookkeeper. He’d only be required to help serve the customers when necessary but, admitting now to being painfully shy, that hadn’t come as a disappointment. Now the only thing worrying the chap was breaking the news to his widowed mother that he was taking what she would consider a big step down in employment.

  Well, she’d just have to lump it, thought George now – as would Sally and Arthur when it came to their son’s choice of doing what he wanted for a living. Tomorrow he’d write back to Jim offering wholehearted encouragement, and also give him the good news about Mr Fritch. George wasn’t much of a reader when it came to books. It was a different matter with the newspaper – that he wouldn’t skip morning or evening if his life depended on it. But he’d go into Craddock’s as soon as word went round that Mr Fritch had started working there and make his acquaintance. It didn’t seem likely that the man would frequent the Dog and Whistle – not an overly sociable sort, from the sound of it, and it was unlikely his ma would allow it. You had to wonder why people who enjoyed themselves making life a misery for their nearest and dearest didn’t get bumped off more often.

  George shook his head. Maybe he’d pick up a detective story at Craddock’s as a way to meet Mr Fritch. He’d never been all that keen on scaring himself half to death, but like Mabel used to say, the stuff that went in the papers could give you a heart attack any day of the week. George’s hands stilled. Why was he thinking like this? Did it come from a deep-down fear that Jim might end up living in a rough part of London, with nasty types lurking around corners ready to pick the nearest pocket, if not worse? Bosh! he told himself roundly. Jim was no namby-pamby and could look after himself.

  Setting aside the polishing cloth, he pulled his thoughts back to the present to focus on Alf’s grumbling that his lumbago was back something wicked and the wife had gone on at such a pitch about it being a put-on job, so’s he could loll around all day, that he’d been fair driven to crawl out of the house for fear of coming down deaf as well. He’d just shifted to the additional grievance that poultices and heat rubs did bugger-all when the outer door opened and Lord Stodmarsh walked in.

  The men not already standing got to their feet to the accompaniment of a chorus of male and female voices greeting his arrival as if it made for a red-letter day. This might have been due to expectation of a round of free drinks, but George didn’t believe that was the case. There was an almost palpable feeling of affection flowing from all parts of the room that said otherwise. Even without the attention paid to this elderly man in country tweeds, George would have been in no doubt of his identity from His Lordship’s resemblance to the son.

  George had spotted Mr William Stodmarsh on a couple of occasions coming off the Mullings footpath into Sixpenny Lane, where the Dog and Whistle stood on the corner facing the village green. On each of these occasions Mr Stodmarsh had been bareheaded, but his gruffly mumbled, barely pausing, acknowledgement of George’s presence on the pavement, suggested he might not have exerted himself to raise his hat had he worn one. As Lord Stodmarsh now stood chatting in a pleasantly modulated voice with those closest to the door, the mark of the true gentleman was apparent in his lack of pretension and kindly, attentive interest. He could be described as bulky in build rather than decidedly stout, as was the case with Mr William. Both men had a walrus moustache and gray eyes under bushy brows. Had the son inherited the curmudgeonly personality of his paternal grandfather, as described by Alf Thatcher? In George’s book that didn’t make for much of an excuse, but it could be that he’d judged the younger man too hastily. Mabel always used to tick him off when she thought him too quick to write someone off as not his cup of tea.

  Well, there was no chance of George not taking to William Stodmarsh’s father now they were about to meet. After working his way up to the bar, His Lordship introduced himself, extended his hand in a firm shake and apologized for not having been in sooner to offer his welcome to the village.

  ‘Settling well, I hope?’

  ‘Very nicely, sir. It’s a big change moving to the country from the outskirts of London, but I’m glad I made the leap.’ George felt himself relax under that kindly gaze. ‘The folks I’ve met have been more than decent.’

  ‘So I’ve always thought, but good to hear.’ His Lordship’s smile had the effect of a fire in the hearth. ‘I feel blessed to have been born and bred here, but I suppose most people think that way about their home turf. I’ve heard you come from Bexleyheath – wasn’t that Dick Turpin territory? As a boy I loved reading about the famous highwayman and his devotion to Black Bess.’

  George’s joviality expanded along with the rest of his mammoth self. ‘You’ve got it, sir! Shooters Hill coming into Welling – that’s the town before Bexleyheath – is named for Turpin, so I’ve heard. It’s funny some of the people we take pride in.’

  ‘I imagine it’s because most of us have more in common with the sinners than the saints.’ The walrus moustache quivered with rueful amusement.

  George beamed back. ‘That has to be it.’ He inquired about the injured ankle and was assured that it had been more a nuisance than painful. ‘Now, what can I do you for, Lord Stodmarsh? Whatever it is comes on the house.’

/>   ‘If I may I’ll accept your kind offer another time, Mr Bird. Tonight I’m buying, whatever you like for yourself and a round for the house. I’ll take a small brandy and soda.’

  While George was pouring the requested tipple into a gratifyingly sparkling glass, His Lordship mentioned that a cousin of his wife would be coming to Mullings the following week for an extended visit. ‘We’re both very fond of her. Indeed, we both hope she will make her home with us henceforth.’

  Two anticipated newcomers to Dovecote Hatch, the lady guest and Cyril Fritch – talk about making George feel like an old timer! ‘Well, Mabel,’ he said to the empty pillow beside his after getting into bed, ‘I’ve no doubt in my mind you’d have spotted Lord Stodmarsh for a good sort, just like I did. And another thing before I nod off, old girl, one day Arthur and Sally will admit to being wrong about it being a bad idea for Jim to set up as an artist. Mark my words, the lad will make a name for himself and I’ll be reading about him in the papers.’

  A few weeks after meeting Lord Stodmarsh for the first time, George found himself speaking up on behalf of the newly resident cousin. He did so in response to a heated whisper from Hilda Stark. As usual, she was wearing her battered hat, fingerless gloves and a pinny under her ancient dark coat.

  ‘Have I got a juicy tidbit for you, Mr Bird?’ There was an unpleasant gleam in her beady black eyes as she stretched her neck across the bar; even more unsettling was the malice bubbling up in spittle around her mouth. ‘At long last,’ she clawed for his hand, ‘there’s a story worth telling about them up at Mullings. A little bird’s tweeted in my ear that the woman they’ve got staying at Mullings, a Miss Madge Bradley, was left standing at the altar when the bridegroom didn’t show up. Talk about being made a laughing stock! You’d have thought she’d have done herself in if she had an ounce of pride. Wouldn’t have taken me three minutes to climb the church tower and jump. Instead this one crawls to Dovecote Hatch to wallow in her shame at Mullings!’