Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘It’s the man that should be dying of it.’ Such was George’s surge of dislike for Hilda Stark that he barely managed to keep his voice level. He didn’t often lose his temper, but when he did – look out!

  ‘He could’ve had his reasons …’ The smirk showed yellowed teeth.

  George stared at her coldly. To his mind there was a big difference between passing on a tale about people long dead and buried and gossiping about living ones. He withdrew his plate-sized hand out of reach of hers. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Stark, for not letting that piece of tattletale die in your throat.’ He’d almost inserted the word craggy – in fact, he wished he had.

  ‘And who’re you to talk to me like that? You great pile of suet!’ Her face contorted under the brim of her battered hat. ‘Not in this place five minutes and thinking yourself Lord God Almighty!’

  George was still breathing heavily as she stumped off, muttering venomously. Mr Shepherd was shaking his head, as was Stan the baker, and Miss Teaneck, the local seamstress, usually a meek little soul, was looking quite fierce. The street door slammed shut behind the dark-coated figure.

  ‘Take it easy, Birdie.’ Alf Thatcher was suddenly at the bar, leaning forward, gnome-faced. He dropped his voice. ‘The old girl’s always had a tongue on her. Several round here, me included, always thought there was more to Hilda being let go as nanny to Master Ned than was given out. Doesn’t overdo the booze in here, as I think you’ll agree, but her landlady let on to my missus that she’s no doubt from the state of her come morning that she’s at it all night long. But then, mayhap there’s some excuse for what blew out of Hilda’s gob just now. Could be she got wind about the others and me teasing you a while back about her having designs on dragging you to the altar, Birdie. It’s easy to call the kettle black but …’

  ‘It’s not the same at all,’ George protested. Even so, Alf’s viewpoint did give him pause when he remembered how he’d joined in the chuckles. Mabel would have said a joke’s never funny if the butt of it’s not laughing as hard as the rest.

  ‘I’m not saying Hilda in’t a spiteful old cow,’ conceded Alf. ‘One thing I do know for sure is she didn’t hear that story about Miss Bradley from any of the staff at Mullings. Florence Norris knows what she’s about with the maids – kind but firm – and Mr Grumidge the butler also knows his stuff. So my guess is it came from the Stafford-Reids or the Blakes. Move in a very small world, them sort of people do. And nasty oft times with it.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ George was working his way back to a better frame of mind.

  ‘Chin up, Birdie. This Miss Bradley couldn’t have come to a better place to make herself a new start, and having her cousin at Mullings may perk up Her Ladyship no end. So focus on the good, why don’t we?’

  ‘Right you are, Alf.’

  The next day George couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that something had changed, either in his perception of Dovecote Hatch or the place itself, but this passed. Unpleasant people like Hilda Stark were to be met everywhere. She stopped coming to the Dog and Whistle. Alf invited him to come and meet the wife, and his friendship with Florence Norris grew as they took occasional, companionable outings together. It was a good life, for all he continued to miss his Mabel. But years afterwards he was to wonder, while struggling with guilt, fear and sorrow, if his arrival in the village had not been the first tossed pebble stirring up ripples, resulting in a series of sea changes destined to thrust the Stodmarsh family out of centuries of tranquil shallows into uncharted and dangerous waters.

  THREE

  Florence would always have remembered that Sunday in early September of 1929, even had it not merged into a Monday made sorrowful at the time and dire in retrospect. It was also the day she went with George Bird to her childhood home so he could meet her mother for the first time.

  Since meeting George in late February she had increasingly come to value the hours she was free to spend time with him. Her first impression of George, on being introduced to him outside the church, had been of a warm-hearted man going out of his way to put a smile on the day. On further acquaintance she was drawn to his sense of humour, admired his kindness and enjoyed his interest in what was going on in the world, gleaned from conversations or newspapers. George read the daily and evening editions without fail, which she did not – sometimes not looking once at a paper during the week. That he rarely picked up anything in book form wasn’t a drawback for Florence. He’d mentioned early on that he relished a good story, real or imagined, and was soon encouraging her to tell him about the novel she was currently reading. Not only did he enjoy listening, but afterwards they would get into stimulating discussions about the plot and characters, and he’d instantly grasped what she’d meant when talking about style.

  ‘Two people can come up the bar and tell you the very same yarn and somehow it comes out different.’

  There was also George’s devotion to his godson, which Florence fully appreciated, given how dear Ned Stodmarsh was to her heart. Not that she could talk of him as freely as George did of Jim – the different nature of the relationships prevented it. Then, most important of all in forging a bond between them, was their having both been blessed with such happy marriages. Florence had discovered she could talk more about Robert with George than anyone else. He was as interested in hearing about her late husband and their life as he was in talking about his Mabel. There was comfort and enjoyment in that sharing. Florence had found that, within a year or so after her widowhood, most people, including Robert’s brother Tom, tended to shy away from mentioning his name.

  It was the ordinary that remained so dear, bringing out such confidences as: ‘Robert was always losing his pipe. Those were the only times he’d stand looking helpless. I used to say he must think I’d started smoking it on the sly, before pointing to it sticking out of his pocket!’

  ‘I know just what you mean!’ George’s smile would take over his whole face. ‘When Mabel couldn’t find her best white tablecloth she’d give me that accusing look, like I’d hung it out the window as a peace sign, in case the Russian army should come riding up.’

  By mid-August Florence had accompanied George on several occasions for a midday Sunday meal at the home of Alf Thatcher and his wife. Doris Thatcher was a mettlesome little woman who seemed to get great pleasure out of ordering her husband around. If he was seated he had to get up and fetch something; if he was on his two feet he was looming. A considerable feat for a man of five foot three, Florence would think with amusement. It was clear to her that Doris’s bossing was done for show and that it tickled Alf to pretend that he was henpecked.

  ‘Gives me a right sounding excuse for spending evenings at the Dog and Whistle,’ he murmured to Florence. ‘The other one is the woman next door, always popping in for a natter, and there’s no shoving her off afore ten. Too soft-hearted, is Doris, though she tries not to show it, and I’m blowed if at my time of life I’ll take up crocheting so’s not to feel left out while the two of them click away.’

  At first, Doris had been a little intimidated at having the housekeeper of Mullings in her home, but she soon got over that when Florence admired her skill with the crochet needle and asked if she would teach her. It was clear that the Thatchers were very fond of George.

  ‘A real lamb of a man for all he’s so big,’ said Doris on the Sunday before the start of September. Florence was wrapped in a borrowed pinny while Doris washed up and she dried. ‘Thought about taking him to see your mum and the rest of the family?’

  ‘I have, but …’

  ‘You’re bothered they’ll get the wrong idea – that there’s more between you than just being good friends? Which it’s plain to me isn’t in neither of your heads.’ Doris did not pause for a response. At times her conversations sped along like a train intent on not running out of steam before reaching the station. ‘And very sensible too, if you asks me.’ She handed Florence a washed plate. ‘I’ve a sister what was widowed and couldn�
�t smile at the bus conductor when paying her fare, let alone help a blind man across the street, without someone thinking she’s on the lookout. She got so fed up with that nonsense she married to put an end to it.’

  ‘How did it work out?’

  ‘Biggest mistake of her life. Miserable old bugger from the start, he was, and now she’s pushing him up and down the high street in a bath chair with never a kind word. Not that you’d have any fear of that sort of life with George, well or poorly.’ Doris wiped off the sink and draining board. ‘But it wouldn’t do, would it? Not with both your hearts having long ago been given away for keeps.’

  ‘I’m so pleased you understand.’ Florence surprised herself by kissing Doris Thatcher on the cheek. ‘And you’re right; I am concerned about my family, especially my mother, leaping to the wrong conclusion. She’s still a romantic. Even in older age she’s a romantic. It comes from her getting a glimpse of life’s brightness when she was in service before her marriage. Holding on to that memory got her through all the drabness and hardship that comes with bringing up a family on very little money in a house desperately in need of repair, with the landlord refusing to do anything about it. Then my father died, shortly after I started at Mullings. Years later, Robert wanted my mother to come and live with us when we got married – it was a case of the more the merrier at Farn Deane – but she wouldn’t. By then my sister Ada and her husband had two babies and my brother Fred’s wife was expecting.’

  ‘No need to tell me you’ve done all you can to help out.’ Doris set the saucepans on the cooker to air out.

  ‘Ada and Fred look out for her on a daily basis – they both live just around the corner from her – and that’s worth more than money. I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Doris. Tom’s wife Gracie and I get on very well, but I’ve gathered from things she’s said in the past that she doesn’t believe a man and a woman can be friends without hoping for more. You’ve made me realize that I’ve been unfair not to take George to see my mother, which I know he’d gladly do. If it makes her happy to think there’s something in the works, he won’t mind, and I shouldn’t either.’ Florence smiled. ‘I could take along one of Mrs McDonald’s steak and kidney pies.’

  ‘What just happen, if memory serves me right, to be a favourite with George,’ said Doris, looking around the orderly kitchen with satisfaction, ‘but if I was you I’d let your mum have a chance to fuss over the two of you, even if she has to buy one at the corner shop. Let her feel she’s still up to putting on a little show now and then.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Florence.

  She broached the subject of the outing to George after they’d left the Thatchers, and he was obviously pleased. She already knew that he regretted having few family members of his own, especially since losing Mabel, and Florence didn’t need to be told that what mattered to her had come to mean a lot to him.

  A couple of Sundays later, George met her early in the afternoon at the village end of the Mullings woodland path, then they drove the twelve miles to her mother’s home in George’s elderly car. They had decided on going early in the afternoon and staying for tea, rather than putting her mother to the business of preparing a cooked midday meal.

  Florence found herself surprisingly glad to be heading further away from Mullings. George’s substantial bulk gave her a feeling of security that had nothing to do with anticipation of her mother’s reception of him. They had reached that stage of their relationship where they could sit in companionable silence, and she was grateful that they did so now after conversing for the first few minutes. She had been unusually on edge for the past few days, for some nebulous reason that she couldn’t put her finger on.

  The tenor of life at Mullings during the week had been different from usual, in two ways that were apparent to all. One was the introduction to the household of a four-month-old puppy. His Lordship’s beloved old Labrador had died in the spring and he’d stated at the time that it would be a long time, if ever, before he could give his heart to another. Lady Stodmarsh had told Florence she was biding her time until the moment felt right to contact the breeder and ask him to select and deliver the perfect little successor. When the surprise was revealed, Lord Stodmarsh had been delighted as much with his wife’s thoughtfulness as with the adorable, but rambunctious bundle of fur. By the second day the newcomer was making his presence felt by bouncing out of nowhere and everywhere at the sound of approach, or padding up silently. Either way he quickly mastered the trick of getting under as many feet at one time as possible. On the Wednesday afternoon Mr Grumidge had been forced to sidestep the puppy to avoid tripping over it; even so, he’d almost dropped the tea tray that he was bearing down the hall to the drawing room. Florence had been in the hall to witness the incident having just come downstairs after taking a reel of navy-blue thread up to Miss Bradley’s room. Seeing that Mr Grumidge had not entirely regained his balance, she had opened the drawing-room door for him so he wouldn’t have to pause to set the tray down on the side table before doing so himself. They had laughed about it afterwards.

  ‘One more wobble on my part, Mrs Norris, might well have meant disaster. That china is irreplaceable!’

  The second difference from life as usual was that Ned’s maternal grandmother, Eugenie Tressler, had come to stay for the week; something she customarily did twice annually. Ned called her ‘Granny’, to distinguish her from Lady Stodmarsh, who was ‘Grandmother’. Never in the years since first meeting Mrs Tressler had Florence seen any indication that here was a woman who had on two occasions suffered a mental breakdown and might at any point, as Nanny Stark had so brutally suggested to Ned, need to be permanently confined. If anything, Mrs Tressler had the look of a capable schoolmistress. Any slight abstraction on this visit was understandable, given that she had made an appointment with her dentist on the day following her return home.

  ‘Granny’s pretty sure at least one tooth has to come out.’ Ned had grimaced on passing this information on to Florence. ‘She admits to not being all that keen on facing up to the pliers, and yet she intends to show up like a soldier and do her bit for the Empire.’ He’d added: ‘I know I don’t always treat her as well as I should, Florie. I could be less stingy about going to stay with her in the summer hols, but I do see she’s really quite a brick.’

  Admittedly, Florence’s encounters with his maternal grandmother were usually brief, but they always included a pleasant greeting or enquiry from Mrs Tressler, and either at the start or end of each visit she expressed appreciation for Florence’s kindness to her grandson. Ned had the Stodmarsh colouring, but it was from Mrs Tressler he had inherited his thin face and angular features, which somehow served them both well. ‘What’s the use of a face that’s beautiful or handsome, if it doesn’t have a stamp on it?’ Florence couldn’t remember if she’d read that, or thought it.

  She now became vaguely aware of the road slipping past the car windows in blurred glimpses that faded, half-formed. It was the same sort of feeling that had accompanied her attempts at figuring out the cause of her edginess. Surely it stretched things to call it unease. She had taken into account that neither the puppy’s arrival, nor Mrs Tressler’s visit, could be expected to occur, especially in conjunction, without a ripple.

  Lord and Lady Stodmarsh always welcomed Mrs Tressler with great warmth, but Florence had picked up that William Stodmarsh and his wife did not put on any marked show of enthusiasm. Though it was never mentioned, the entire Mullings staff would have needed to be deaf not to know that Mr William had a roaring temper and never exerted himself to be pleasant to anyone. A frequently overheard bellow was, ‘I want peace at any price!’ That the walls were left vibrating must not have struck him as an incongruity. The irritation of being forced to rise from his seat more often than usual in acknowledgement of an extra woman’s entrances and exits would this week have been exacerbated by the puppy’s exuberance.

  Mrs William Stodmarsh’s Christian name was Gertrude. She was a stout woman
of the well-corseted type who, it would seem, had come to terms with her husband’s truculence, or was perennially oblivious. Florence was never sure from the stolidity of her manner which alternative was more likely. Either way, she did not perceive Mrs William Stodmarsh doing more than was obligatory on Mrs Tressler’s behalf. Her one weekly outing, other than church, was to get her graying hair finger-waved. Her main daily task was arranging the household flowers – an activity for which she had an admirably artistic flair. Otherwise she did little to occupy her time.

  Then there was Miss Madge Bradley. Since coming to Mullings in the early part of the year, this cousin of Lady Stodmarsh – one of the second or once removed sort – had noticeably exerted herself to be congenial and helpful. In no way could it be said that she had projected an aura of gloom by dwelling on the distressing, pitifully humiliating, experience of being left standing at the altar, waiting for a bridegroom who never showed up. But what seemed to Florence so commendable about Miss Bradley’s subsequent attitude had been viewed with less enthusiasm by Ned.

  ‘I know you’ll think it beastly of me, Florie, but sometimes I’d like to tell her to put a sock in it – all that falling over backwards to please, I mean; it gets on a fellow’s nerves. So unnecessary! Admittedly Uncle William and Aunt Gertrude haven’t done their stuff, but it stands out a mile that’s just the way they are. She has to realize there’s no chance the grandparents will one day decide to toss her out in the cold after inviting her to stay here for as long as she chooses. Even though she’s not his relation, Grandfather has made it clear he has no objection to having her – offering to teach her to play chess and even sometimes inviting her to accompany him on his walks. If she’s a hair of sense she has to see that’s pretty big. Everyone knows he’s always preferred to go on his own with his dog.’