Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘That’s very kind, Mrs Tressler,’ said Florence.

  ‘Very kind,’ echoed Mrs McDonald, although it did take some restraint on her part not to look at the clock, which even death could not stop. She’d just have to hurry the girls along at twice their usual speed, although what use Annie would be at her dithering worst, God himself couldn’t guess.

  A smile touched Mrs Tressler’s mouth. ‘I’m sure you both wonder what possible use I can be to you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Florence responded.

  ‘As it happens, I’ve always been of a domestic nature. My late husband was astonished when I once told him that my ideal of contentment would be living in a cottage and doing my housekeeping; he blanched and said he hoped if he was included in this arrangement we would at least have a woman come in and do the rough a couple of times a week.’

  ‘Well fancy that!’ Mrs McDonald chuckled. Was she assuming, wondered Florence, this was a joke, aimed at lifting the pall of grief?

  Mrs Tressler’s smile lingered. ‘My husband proclaimed not to be amused. The rascal took to his bed for two days. In his defence he had simultaneously come down with a cold and had several novels by one of his favourite authors to hand. That being as it may, what I’m offering is to pitch in, hopefully without getting underfoot. For instance, I could assist the maids in preparing rooms for overnight guests attending the funeral.’

  Florence considered this offer before expressing appreciation, adding that she would get back to Mrs Tressler when more was known as to the numbers that would need to be accommodated.

  Mrs Tressler nodded. ‘Lord and Lady Stodmarsh both being only children with no living aunts or uncles or many other relatives, it seems unlikely there will be an influx of overnighters, but one never knows. When it comes to funerals, people one never thought one knew can descend out of nowhere – morbid curiosity, however unexceptional the death may be.’

  Was there something behind this observation? A subtle probing for a visible reaction? Florence hoped it wasn’t apparent she’d stiffened. ‘You’re entirely right, Mrs Tressler,’ she said, ‘it is always advisable to prepare for any unexpected eventuality.’

  ‘Meanwhile, let us start with today, which is of paramount importance. What can I do, however small?’

  ‘There’s the menus for luncheon and dinner to be decided,’ put forth Mrs McDonald, tears beading her eyes as the full impact of Mullings without its mistress overwhelmed her anew. ‘Lady Stodmarsh always discussed with me on a Monday morning what she’d like served for the week, though most often she’d take up my suggestions, with only a special request here and there. So easy she was, bless her soul! I’d be more than grateful, Mrs Tressler, if you’d be so good as to have a talk with Mrs William Stodmarsh about her wishes, so’s I won’t have to trouble her. One of the maids can bring me down her instructions.’

  ‘Gertrude has returned to bed with a bad headache,’ said Mrs Tressler. ‘So very understandable. It seemed to me inevitable someone would. I don’t think she will object to my advising that you proceed on your own, keeping meals as simple as possible and allowing for flexibility on when they are served. I’ve frequently observed that in times of trouble people either can’t face eating at all, or feel the need to do so at irregular times.’

  Mrs Tressler broke off as Miss Bradley entered the kitchen with the little golden Labrador in tow on a lead. He was unusually subdued. Did he sense something seriously amiss, or had he decided to mend his ways? Something in the atmosphere had changed in an instant. In response, Florence experienced a numbing calm that would remain with her most of the day. These two women, she thought – much as if observing people standing at a bus stop – were not comfortable with each other. Their eyes barely met and no other exchange was made before Mrs Tressler excused herself on the grounds that what she had come for had been accomplished, and left the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Miss Bradley’s face puckered, ‘I hope she didn’t rush away on my account, for fear of breaking down again if I mentioned dear Lillian’s name, I mean.’

  She had, thought Florence, a pleasant, melodious voice. Men, with the exception of Ned, might find it particularly attractive. With her dark hair and eyes, coupled with a fine complexion, she could have made so much more of herself. Did Ned believe she’d determinedly played the dowd at Mullings, the better to ingratiate herself? Was that at the root of his dislike? Ned’s image brought on an icy trickle of fear. His having taken up Lady Stodmarsh’s milk was bound to put him at the top of the suspect list in some minds if she were to talk of murder. Florence, who enjoyed detective novels along with her other reading, could hear an official voice stating:

  About that conversation you had with young Mr Stodmarsh on returning from your outing – you acknowledge that he wasn’t his usual chipper self and that he expressed concern about your friendship with the pub keeper. Not happy about the idea of it leading to marriage, thus causing you to leave Mullings, was he? We’ve heard from the cook and others how devoted he’s been to you – to the point of dependency, it could be said – but were his grandmother to die suddenly you’d have found it hard to leave him; especially if he played his cards right, and lads at that age have all kinds of them up their sleeves. You do see where this is leading us, Mrs Norris? The opportunity arises and he jumps at it …’

  Florence could not have missed much of what had been said between Miss Bradley and Mrs McDonald whilst her mind was elsewhere. The topic remained the same. Not surprisingly so, if Ned had not exaggerated Miss Bradley’s long-windedness.

  ‘Now don’t you keep worrying about interrupting,’ Mrs McDonald remained in full bolstering mode. ‘I’m not stretching a ha’pence of truth about Mrs Tressler being on the instant of leaving when you came in.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering how she’ll hold up. She’s not a young woman and she may have been bravely holding it in all week that she has the toothache. I’ve thought so a couple of times, just a little giveaway now and then – you know how nagging pain can alter one’s features, and there’s that appointment with her dentist for today that she’ll now have to cancel. The strain has already taken its toll on Mrs William, prostrated with a migraine. I do hope she has something stronger than aspirin to take for it. If not, I have some tablets that might help, a calmative prescribed for me when I had my … upset. I think I may once have mentioned having them to her when she looked at the end of her tether for one reason or another.’ As a euphemism for Mr William this did well enough, but Florence sensed Mrs McDonald, however supportive of Miss Bradley she might be, was beginning to wish on her a sudden attack of laryngitis if she didn’t at long last state why she had come to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, dearie me, Miss Bradley!’ the cook burst out.

  ‘What is it we can do for you?’ Florence added in her most encouraging manner.

  ‘Oh, yes! That! I have been going on, haven’t I? A fault of mine, I know. And this morning there’s the shock.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Miss Bradley looked down. ‘It’s about the puppy. Will you kindly find something for him to eat?’

  Grumidge’s bracing voice, along with burbled responses from the recipients of his instructions, could now be heard from the passageway that housed the butler’s pantry at one end and the scullery at the other. Time became increasingly of the essence.

  ‘Why didn’t I realize straight off that’s what brought you here?’ Mrs McDonald shook her head at her own dimwittedness. Just then the bundle of golden Lab began to sniff around the floor in a distinctly obvious way. ‘Of course I’ll fill up a bowl for him; there’s some nice cold lamb I could chop up and mix with gravy, but, not to be impertinent, I hope, first things first. If you’ll give me his lead, Miss Bradley, I’ll get him outside before he has an accident.’

  ‘Thank you. I do hate being a nuisance.’

  There had been movement in the passageway which ceased when Miss Bradley spoke. Florence would have preferred to have taken the dog out herself,
to have drawn in the outdoor air, but Mrs McDonald was also in need of its reviving benefits. Once back it wouldn’t take her a moment to provide the puppy with a meal and water.

  ‘I truly try never to overstep, Mrs Norris,’ said Miss Bradley when she and Florence were alone. ‘The difficulty is the thin line between that and helping. Or don’t you agree?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Florence gave no sign of feeling rushed, despite knowing Grumidge would wish to discuss how they should best manage the situation, and other members of the staff were being kept waiting. Mrs Longbrow had drilled into her that futile impatience was not only a waste of time but often prolonged delay. It had also seeped in on Florence that allowing her thoughts to wander would do her no good, particularly at a moment such as this. In detective novels, the sleuth, professional or amateur, mentally zeroed in on even the most trivial of comments. There was always the possibility of a slip of the tongue by the killer, or of a telling incongruency brought to light by someone else. Even bystanders on the periphery of the murder could be invaluable. Again she thought of Annie Long.

  ‘Lord Stodmarsh has seen to all the little fellow’s needs since he came,’ said Miss Bradley, startling Florence from her reverie, ‘but at such a time as this he might forget, along with a good many other daily doings, as is also likely of his grandson, so I thought I could take this small thing on; it would at least be something.’

  ‘I think that very kind.’

  ‘I do appreciate that coming from you, Mrs Norris.’ The fine dark eyes brightened. ‘Lady Stodmarsh often mentioned how thoughtful you are. Looking after the puppy for as long as needed will be as much for her as for Lord Stodmarsh. As you know, she gave it to him. The final gift between husband and wife. Oh, dear! I mustn’t start weeping.’

  ‘There has been a good deal of that and will be more,’ said Florence gently.

  ‘So far I’ve held off, other than some private tears. The last thing needed by those closer to her than I is for me to be in floods.’

  ‘That takes admirable restraint.’ It did indeed.

  ‘She was so good to me in my time of need and beyond, as has been Lord Stodmarsh – undeservedly so, because I was never the best correspondent.’ A spill of tears threatened. ‘I remember there was a year when I forgot to send them a Christmas card. As a vicar’s daughter I was brought up never to neglect the smallest gesture of goodwill. Others might rightfully have taken umbrage. Dearest Lillian! It’s so desperately hard not to speak of her every other minute. I do know it doesn’t help.’

  ‘But so understandable,’ said Florence.

  ‘One of my failings is a tendency to prattle on, even when all is well.’ She then proceeded to do so. ‘If she had not stepped in when she did, after of course talking the matter over with Lord Stodmarsh and his generously agreeing to open their home to me, I don’t know what would have become of me. You may well have heard, Mrs Norris, that I was left in very straitened circumstances. My dear father had no private means, nor did my late mother, and although we lived circumspectly on his remuneration there was little to put by …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Molly had come into the kitchen and was clearly anxious for a word. Behind her came Mrs McDonald and the puppy, enabling Florence to excuse herself to Miss Bradley and go with Molly into the passageway.

  ‘You said to let you know, Mrs Norris, as soon as Miss Johnson woke up, and she just opened her eyes. I plumped up her pillows and told her I’d fetch her up a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Molly, please make it strong with lots of sugar. And bring a hot water bottle.’ Florence glanced towards Grumidge, who was standing in the doorway of the butler’s pantry where she imagined he had the rest of the indoor staff congregated. He came towards her, sombre but composed as always.

  ‘Breaking the news to Miss Johnson will be difficult for you and deeply painful for her to hear, so do not feel rushed, Mrs Norris. If His Lordship requests an interview with us whilst you are with her, I will send word to you.’

  Florence nodded. ‘Miss Bradley came for the puppy to be fed and Mrs McDonald will be seeing to that now.’

  On her way up the stairs she heard Grumidge speaking with encouraging warmth to Molly. Florence was ashamed of having set Miss Johnson aside in her mind during the last half hour or so, but even so, her mind darted back to Mrs Tressler and Miss Bradley. They had both had solid reasons for coming into the kitchen, but had there been alternative motives in play? The desire to confide, or size up the moods of herself and Mrs McDonald?

  The old lady’s bedroom was midway along the hallway, two down from Lady Stodmarsh’s room, beyond which was the one occupied by His Lordship. Florence opened Miss Johnson’s door to see her lying listlessly under the bedclothes, only the meagre iron-gray hair providing any suggestion of colour to her pallid countenance. The ensuing conversation was every bit as distressing as Florence had feared. Miss Johnson did not break down, she was far too weak for that, but her face contorted and she started to shiver and then tremble. Florence sat on the edge of the bed, placed a hand on the two twitching ones, and continued to speak soothingly until Molly appeared with tea and the hot water bottle.

  ‘Would you mind staying on with her for a while?’ she whispered to the girl. ‘I’m going to telephone Doctor Chester. Perhaps he’ll give her something.’

  Molly nodded.

  On her return to the back stairs, Florence halted on hearing Mr William’s voice coming from his wife’s bedroom. Compared to his frequent roar, it was not much above a growl, but was so charged with rage as to make it audible to someone with less keen hearing than Florence. She knew she should have crept on, but she couldn’t … didn’t. The words were too startling.

  ‘So are you happy at last, having killed my mother?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later, when I don’t have a headache.’ That was Mrs William, whose deep voice possessed carrying power without needing to be raised. No hint of outrage, merely a matter-of-fact statement.

  ‘Headache! I wish to hell I’d given it to you!’

  ‘You did, dear.’

  ‘I meant with a sledge hammer, you blasted fool! I knew what you were about the moment you followed her upstairs.’

  ‘You’re right, William. And please don’t work yourself up further when I say it makes a change. I did want a confidential chat with your mother. I thought the moment right for it, but I was wrong. She was clearly preoccupied. Therefore, all I did was apologize for the evening having gone so badly, then left.’

  ‘So you say! I still have it you killed her!’

  ‘As you wish, dear. I don’t understand, not having much of a brain – as you’ve told me often enough – why you should object if I did. You were never particularly fond of her. I’ve sometimes thought the only tears you would shed if not only she but your father and Ned were put underground would be crocodile ones.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Mr William was heard to splutter.

  His wife’s response came soothingly. ‘Had you been born the older son you might have been quite good-tempered.’

  ‘Don’t pretend with only me here, Gertrude, you’ve always wanted to be mistress of this house.’

  ‘Only since Madge Bradley has been here. She annoys me, as she does Ned, with her endless desire to please. Or, as I see it, her usurping ways. Had I any say she’d have been gone.’

  ‘Hang it, I should have left you at the altar!’

  ‘Yes, William. We have never been happy, but now I must continue to resign myself.’

  Florence dragged herself away from the bedroom door. She wondered about that now as she sped silently forward. Had Gertrude Stodmarsh used it in relation to her mother-in-law’s death? If so, why had that in any way altered matters? As she headed down the back stairs, Mr William’s accusation still rang in Florence’s ears. Surely he hadn’t meant it literally about her killing his mother; it had to be that the shock of some … revelation, perhaps, had done so. Or was that wishful thinking, because
it did not fit with the mosaic Florence had pieced together?

  The following hour passed rapidly with not a moment to spare for introspection. She told Grumidge how she had found Miss Johnson. He agreed with her that the doctor should be fetched and saw no reason to bother His Lordship, or any other member of the family, by consulting with him beforehand, as Master Ned had instructed that seeing to her wellbeing was important to him. Doctor Chester arrived five minutes before Lord Stodmarsh requested Florence and Grumidge join him in his book-lined study.

  ‘My wife held you both in the highest estimation.’ His eyes lingered fractionally on Florence’s face.

  ‘We, along with all the other members of the staff, could not have hoped for a finer mistress.’ It was Grumidge’s voice that cracked. Florence wanted to say, ‘I loved her.’ Bereft of other words, she nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’ His Lordship’s purpose in summoning them was to iterate that he relied with the utmost confidence on their keeping the house running as smoothly as possible. He would inform them of any alterations in the daily routine and their involvement in the funeral arrangements. Florence was just mentioning that Doctor Chester was with Miss Johnson in hope of easing her through the shock, when Ned entered the study.

  ‘Jolly good, Florie.’ He aimed an approving look at her. ‘I told you, didn’t I, Grandfather, she would see to Johnson’s care.’

  ‘So you did and it’s much appreciated, Mrs Norris. Please let me know what Chester has to say.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘My wife and she were devoted to each other.’ His Lordship attempted a smile. ‘Lady Stodmarsh frequently said Johnson would have slain dragons for her.’

  Alas, thought Florence, she hadn’t been around, not actively so, when protection was most necessary. Would it have made a difference? Would she have perceived the need to do battle in time?