Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘He wrote to say he’d met himself a nice girl.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’

  George chuckled. ‘From the letter I just got from Sally and Arthur, I picture them down on their knees praying it isn’t. Proper fusspots, the pair of them! They said she went by one of those silly, affected names that hoity-toity misses go in for these days, said they couldn’t even be bothered to remember exactly what it was, but something like Fudge or …’ George concentrated on turning a corner.

  ‘Nougat?’ Florence suggested, laughing.

  ‘Possibly. And that wasn’t the worst of her. She had a platinum streak in the front of her hair, claimed it was natural and came from being delivered by forceps, but Sally and Arthur didn’t buy that for a minute. They’re good-natured people as a rule, none better, but when it comes to what they think best for their one and only they can go all unreasonable.’

  ‘What has Jim told you about her?’

  ‘Not all that much, what funnily enough tends to make me think he is serious. Remember when I fell for Mabel, wanted to keep her to m’self, so to speak.’

  ‘I know that feeling.’

  ‘He did say as he got to know her because she’d sometimes come into the restaurant where he works, that she’s an orphan and works in a bookshop in the same area so you and she might get on. What worries me is if Sally and Arthur keep going up against the girl, it’ll cause a real rift with Jim.’

  ‘Yes, that would be a dreadful pity.’

  ‘I’ve just never understood people getting their knife into somebody for no good reason – not seeing the terrible harm it does to themselves as well. And another thing, I don’t like being put in the middle. Sally and Arthur both know I never care to hear against people I know, let alone Jim.’

  Florence couldn’t remember George previously sounding off on something so material to him. What also struck her was that he could have been speaking for her. She felt a shift forward in their relationship, something beyond the affection she felt for him. It couldn’t be love, of course. She’d known instantly on meeting Robert the true nature of her feelings for him, and anyway, this was quite different, but whatever it was brought a lovely sense of peace. All unease faded away.

  ‘You’re a good man, George. No wonder Ada and Bill took to you like a long-lost relative.’

  ‘The feeling was mutual, like I said.’ He eyed her hopefully. ‘They did mention how they hoped next time we’d come to their house.’

  She smiled back. ‘We could pick Mother up and take her with us, if you’d be all right with that.’

  ‘’Course I would. Make it a little outing for her.’

  ‘We’ll have to be persistent. It’s hard to get her to budge from her own four walls, but I think with your help it can be done.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ The look on his large, kind face warmed her all the way through.

  They continued to speak of various things and then sat contentedly quiet until they reached Dovecote Village. When they arrived at the footpath into the Mullings woods, George said he was sorry to have the afternoon end. Despite the early part of the visit, Florence agreed wholeheartedly. He did not offer to take her up to the door; they had agreed at the start that this method was better. Neither minded everyone knowing about their friendship, but for Florence it was important to keep her private life separate from her job. Lord and Lady Stodmarsh would have been pleased for George to pick her up on the premises. What was avoided was unnecessary scrutiny from any member of staff who happened to be looking out of the window, when she was getting into or out of the car.

  They parted on an agreement to plan another outing over the telephone. It took fifteen to twenty minutes for Florence to reach the back lawn of Mullings, but it was a pleasant walk. The leaves on the trees were not so much beginning to turn as to be thinking about it. No suggestion yet of copper, amber or flame, but a general dimming of the summer green, as if it had been worn too long and washed too often. And there was in the air that hint of smokiness, the tang of the earth that Florence always associated with autumn.

  On entering the house and having removed her outer clothing, she went to the butler’s pantry and found Mr Grumidge, occupied on routine tasks. He informed her how the day had gone. It had been uneventful. She then went into the kitchen to have a word with Mrs McDonald about purchase requirements for the coming week, but found the place empty. This was not unusual for six o’clock on a Sunday evening. Since the staff deserved a break from their usual working habits on the Sabbath, it was customary for the family to have their main meal at midday and partake of a cold collation at eight. Afternoon tea had already been served, and it was too early to start the minimal tasks needed to assemble the food that would be taken up and placed on the sideboard. Mrs McDonald didn’t often abandon her kitchen to put her feet up elsewhere – she liked having it to herself with everyone else cleared out – but she had admitted to having a bit of a cold that morning.

  Florence was about to head for the housekeeper’s room to work on her accounts when Ned wandered into the kitchen. As always, her heart melted a little at the sight of him. No unbiased person would view him as a particularly good-looking sixteen-year-old, with that thin face, freckled skin, and red hair which tended to spike up rather than submit to convention and lie flat. Nor did he show promise of reaching anything above medium height. But Florence could not believe that anyone would fail to be charmed by the wiry build that exuded energy or the expressive mouth and green eyes.

  ‘Hello Florie,’ he chanted breezily. ‘I come in search of Mrs McDonald’s incomparable rock buns. How was your outing with Birdie? To tell the truth, I got to wondering, as the hours ticked by, if you’d be back.’

  ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

  The green eyes darkened. ‘Your maidenly capitulation to an imposingly large man’s sudden urging that you elope with him to Gretna Green.’

  ‘Really, Master Ned,’ she only called him this on the rare occasions he made her cross, ‘what could possibly put such a foolish notion into your head?’ She had located the necessary tin and handed him a rock bun.

  He took it with the look of one not ready to be bought off that easily. ‘Well, you can’t pretend you haven’t become quite pally with him recently, and from that it’s not much of a leap to falling in love.’

  ‘It would be for me,’ she answered, ‘and even if I had ideas in that direction …’

  Ned waved a dismissive hand. ‘You may sound convincing, Florie, but there’s something in your face that isn’t.’ He took a large bite out of the rock bun. He’d loved them from childhood on, much to Mrs McDonald’s glowing pride, but he wasn’t a little boy any longer, and that being the case, should not be allowed to get away with being provoking for his own amusement.

  ‘As I was saying, Master Ned, even if I had ideas in Mr Bird’s direction, he has only recently become a widower. He’s still mourning the death of his much beloved wife.’

  Ned held out his hand. ‘May I please have another rock bun, and do stop calling me that silly name. You have a bad habit, dear Florie, of trying to get at a fellow for no valid reason.’

  ‘Dear me, I must mend my ways.’ It was impossible not to smile.

  Towards the end of demolishing the second rock bun he mumbled, ‘I’ve nothing against Birdie. Everyone likes him. I like him. We have the jolliest chats when we meet in the village. More often than not he’ll dodge back to the Dog and Whistle to fetch me a ginger beer, free of charge, that I can drink on the way home. It’s just that being the self-centred beast I am, I’d just as soon you didn’t marry him or anyone until I’m at least thirty. You did promise when I was little that you’d stay at Mullings as long as I needed you. And the thing is,’ his fair skin flushed, ‘I do still need you here, Florie.’

  ‘Then we’re each getting what we want, Ned. So let’s hear no more about romantic escapades unsuited to a woman of my years.’

  ‘Quite right! I keep forgetting you’re approach
ing eighty, like poor Miss Johnson.’

  Agnes Johnson was the lady’s maid who had been with her mistress since Lady Stodmarsh’s marriage. Sadly she had now grown very frail. Florence had never forgotten how kind Miss Johnson had been to her when she first came to Mullings and now did all she could in response to Lady Stodmarsh’s request that these days go as easily as possible for the faithful old lady. At that moment Mrs McDonald came in, looking a little bleary-eyed from her nap but intent upon getting back into action.

  She shook her head. ‘After my rock buns again, young sir? Very flattering, I’m sure, but your place is above stairs, as you should know well enough, seeing as I’ve drummed it into your ears since you was level with my garters.’

  Ned grinned. ‘Such talk, Mrs McDonald, to an impressionable youth! I wonder what the Reverend Pimcrisp would say if I were to discuss the issue with him?’

  ‘Start stacking up brimstone. That’s his job and he doesn’t shirk it; no one can take that away from him.’ Mrs McDonald shooed Ned out of the kitchen. Florence took the list of the upcoming week’s provisions from her and settled down to her accounts in the housekeeper’s room. The following hours passed peacefully without any distracting thoughts intruding. On Sunday evenings, like the family, the servants helped themselves to a cold meal. Theirs was set out on the kitchen’s lengthy table, and they came and went as suited them best. At nine-thirty the two kitchen maids and one scullery maid, assisted by the junior footman, restored order to the kitchen for the morning. Florence did not take long over her repast. Whilst she was entirely competent with figures, dealing with them always required a degree of concentration which did not allow her to be as quick as she would have wished. As ten o’clock approached, she was close to finishing and looking forward to joining Mrs McDonald in the kitchen for a cup of tea and listening to that good woman’s cheerful mulling over of the shocking way the world was going these days. High on her list, way above the wicked price of tea, was the difficulty of getting gentlemen’s hair cream out of pillowcases. That neither Lord Stodmarsh nor Master Ned used one of the products did not alter her contention that they were a bane on society and that the Prime Minister should speak out against them. A moment later there was a knock on the door and Mr Grumidge entered.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs Norris, but His Lordship has just informed me that Lady Stodmarsh has a matter she wishes to discuss with you and would appreciate your attending her in her bedroom within the next half hour if possible.’

  ‘Of course.’ As Florence started to rise she heard what might have been described as a squeal or yelp from the kitchen region. It wouldn’t have been audible had not Mr Grumidge left the door open. ‘My guess is that was Annie Long,’ she said. Poor Annie, still a kitchen maid when she should have moved up long ago, still liable to be startled into panic by a dropped teaspoon, but a good, willing worker for all that.

  ‘I imagine so.’ Mr Grumidge had a soft spot for all timid creatures. ‘There’s no need for you to go up to Lady Stodmarsh before closing up your records for the night. It was made clear to me that you were not to hurry unnecessarily.’

  ‘Then I will make use of the next fifteen minutes.’

  It was a quarter past ten when Florence headed up the back stairs. Although it was unusual, she wasn’t disquietened by this late-night summons. She suspected that it must have something to do with Mrs Tressler’s intention of leaving first thing in the morning. Lady Stodmarsh did not rise early due to a propensity to sleepless nights, and she probably had some special requests. Florence received no response to her knock on the bedroom door, at least none she could hear, so she turned the knob and went in. Like the rest of the family’s living spaces, it was an elegant but essentially comfortable room, with handsome furniture and soft surrounding colours and fabrics. The bed was a graceful four-poster and in the subdued light from the rose-shaded lamps she could just make out Lady Stodmarsh’s face on the lace-edged pillow and her outline beneath the silk counterpane.

  Florence went to the bedside and looked down. On the table beside it was an empty cup – Lady Stodmarsh’s late-night cup of hot milk, with bicarbonate of soda to aid digestion, was Doctor Chester’s directive to help relax her for sleep. Tonight it must have taken effect sooner than expected; Lady Stodmarsh’s eyes were closed. Florence was moving to the door when Lady Stodmarsh’s drowsy voice made her turn around.

  ‘Please don’t go, Florie!’ The old name. It sounded affectionate and, somehow, trusted.

  ‘I’m right here.’

  Lady Stodmarsh reached out a hand to take Florence’s and clung to it. ‘You were the one person I knew I could confide in. You’ve always been so kind, so competent and practical. I’ve never before felt the need to,’ her voice was fading, ‘keep something from Edward.’

  ‘Is it about your health, madam?’

  Lady Stodmarsh’s eyes had been open, but now her lids were drifting shut. ‘No, not that. Something else. Don’t want to frighten Edward when … I could be … wrong, but,’ a word, a name that Florence couldn’t catch, ‘didn’t think so. Seen it too often … looking glass … other faces when …’

  ‘Seen what, Lady Stodmarsh?’ Florence leaned forward. The clasp on her hand had slackened and now left it free. It took several moments for a response to come and the eyes remained closed.

  ‘Sorry … must be the milk. Doesn’t usually send me off so quickly. Always … wish it would. A little more bicarb … than usual. It was seeing … looking … at the dog … that made me realize … hadn’t been mistaken.’

  ‘About what?’

  No answer.

  Florence knew it was no use attempting to rouse Lady Stodmarsh. She was asleep; from her breathing, already deeply so. Florence picked up the empty cup. There was a white residue which suggested there had been a lot of bicarb. She wondered on leaving the bedroom if she should inquire if His Lordship would see her, but instantly abandoned this idea. Lady Stodmarsh had stressed that she did not want her husband to know what was worrying her. Florence consoled herself that if whatever it was still lingered in Lady Stodmarsh’s mind in the morning and she felt a continued need to talk to her, she would arrange to do so. There was an added feeling of reassurance in knowing that His Lordship always looked in on his wife before retiring to his own bedroom, which it was his custom to do at eleven.

  Despite this sensible way of viewing the matter, Florence went down to the kitchen to have her nightly cup of tea with Mrs McDonald in an unsettled frame of mind. That good lady had the kettle boiling as she entered.

  ‘Well, there you are, Mrs Norris, and ready for a sit-down without having to do your sums,’ she said. ‘I hope you wasn’t startled when Annie let out that squeal.’

  ‘I heard it. What was that about?’

  ‘Hard to make head nor tail of it, the state she was in. I’d been having a chat with Molly in the china closet and didn’t charge off straight away to find out what was going on.’ Mrs McDonald warmed the pot, then spooned in tea leaves and filled it from the steaming kettle. ‘Has it ever run through your mind, Mrs Norris, that there might be a little something between Molly and Mr Grumidge?’

  ‘No, I can’t say it has.’ Molly was the sensible, robust girl Florence had suggested to the Stodmarshes as the ideal person to be Ned’s maid, amongst her other duties, when Nanny Stark left. She was now chief housemaid.

  ‘Well, I have to admit I’ve got it into my wee noggin that there’s a fondness on both sides – nothing improper, of course – but I was rather hoping Molly would confide in me this evening. Maybe she would’ve done if Annie hadn’t let out that squeal. I suppose it took five minutes to find out what it was this time.’

  ‘And?’ Florence took the teapot, now dressed in its knitted cozy, and set it on the stand on the table.

  ‘Like I said, I couldn’t get a tenth of it with all that blubbering and my ears being a bit blocked from this little cold I’ve got. It was utter gibberish mostly. The gist of it seemed to be that while she w
as heating the milk to take up to Lady Stodmarsh she saw a mouse. Well, at any rate, something about a mouse. If it had been Jeanie I’d’ve told her to stop her bellyaching and pull herself together. Of course, that one’s tough as nails. Wouldn’t turn a hair if a lion marched in and demanded his dinner – meaning her. Our Annie’s always been a different story.’

  ‘Poor girl! She truly does have a terror of mice.’ Florence sympathized, not liking them herself. This likely explained Lady Stodmarsh’s mentioning that there had been a little too much bicarbonate of soda in the milk. Annie’s hand would have been shaking uncontrollably when spooning it in. ‘But she must be given credit, Mrs McDonald, for taking the milk up anyway.’

  ‘She said something about that, too, that I didn’t bother to unravel. I sent her straight off to bed, without saying what I thought – that it should be a pleasure for her, or for Jeanie, taking on this little extra job now that poor Miss Johnson isn’t up to it.’

  Jeanie was the other kitchen maid. Though she was not by any means a nervous Nellie, Florence had a higher opinion of Annie. Both were diligent workers, but if ever Jeanie had a mishap she was always filled with excuses to the point of lying. If she dropped a plate it was because someone had nudged her, if the soup tureen was in the wrong place it was because Annie had told her to put it there. Florence’s mind returned to what bothered her more – the brief conversation with Lady Stodmarsh. Brief, but disturbing. She was relieved that after finishing only one cup of tea, Mrs McDonald looked more than ready for bed. They parted in the corridor of the female staff’s sleeping quarters and Florence went into her room, expecting to lie wide awake for hours.

  After taking her evening wash and brushing out her hair she got into bed and almost instantly fell asleep. Her slumber was, however, restless and she bolted upright, startled awake, when it was still dark. The end of a dream, fading with each second, had dislodged the reason for her unease that week and it slotted neatly, with only a couple of loose threads, into what Lady Stodmarsh had struggled to tell her last night. Shivering, she was about to lie down and pull the bedclothes close, when the door opened. The ceiling light switched on and Molly, the ever solid head housemaid, came into the room. Florence’s heart hammered. It was obvious from the look on that usually rosy face that something was terribly wrong.