Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘Or he could come back looking and feeling much improved.’ Florence smiled, though she had her own misgivings. This thinking, however, turned to optimism when what was intended as a fortnight in Weymouth stretched into a month. The reason, when it was revealed, would rock Mullings, above and below stairs, like a gale-force wind. Mrs McDonald would have to renounce all claims to have been gifted with second sight, because lie she couldn’t, that she’d seen this coming.

  On the evening of his return to Mullings, Lord Stodmarsh did not immediately announce his news, since he knew it would likely destroy his family’s appetite for dinner. In preparing for the announcement, his primary concern was for Ned. The dear boy would brace up, but the thought of causing him pain deeply troubled Lord Stodmarsh. William, he knew, would be sufficiently furious to burst a blood vessel. Gertrude would do her utmost to calm him and be congratulatory, whilst leaving to conjecture what lay beneath her controlled expression. Madge would be in the uncomfortable situation of knowing her response was immaterial to any but himself.

  Nine o’clock. They were all now gathered in the drawing room, seated around one of two elegant fireplaces – unlighted due to the warmth of the early October evening. For all its splendid size and classic architecture, it was (as Florence had always thought) an essentially liveable room, divided front from rear by a wide archway, hung with the same ivory and green damask silk as both sets of curtains. Upholstery fabrics, Persian carpets and the patterned silk wall covering had all muted through the years to restful hues. A room that had aged as gracefully as a woman with the right bone structure and a serene disposition. Lillian … she and the room had epitomized each other. Tonight he might have been in an unknown setting.

  Lord Stodmarsh looked at the expectant faces turned towards him and made his announcement: he had become engaged. The woman in question, called Regina Stapleton, had been staying at the same hotel as him. The other occupants of the room, seated in sofas and armchairs, shifted position and exchanged looks as if poked at by unravelled springs. The golden Labrador, Rouser, stirred from his nap and abandoned his basket to trot hesitantly here and there, as if wondering what contribution he could make to the conversation. Madge was the first to offer congratulations in her melodious voice. If she were stunned it did not show through her warm smile. She gave no hint that she might be wondering what this might mean to her future at Mullings. Ned gripped the arms of his chair and squeezed out something incomprehensible. Another attempt faired little better. His Lordship wordlessly conveyed his understanding.

  There followed a long and intensely awkward silence – finally broken by William. His face blew out like a red balloon, clashing with hair faded over time from rust to yellow. His barrel chest heaved. ‘Blast it all, Father,’ he ejaculated, ‘you’ve gone and lost your bloody marbles!’

  His wife, every finger-waved gray hair in place, intervened stoically. ‘It is a blessing, William, that Father is still able to get out of bed in the mornings after the year he’s had; I see no call to be peevish that he wishes to get …’

  She was rewarded with a snarl. ‘Spare us your indelicacies, Gertrude!’

  Her voice raised not a notch in response. ‘I was going to say get on with his life, nothing outré in that, my dear.’

  ‘He’s not supposed to have one without Mother! The very idea is sacrilegious!’ The outraged roar should have sent every ornament and candlestick in the room flying.

  ‘But William,’ Madge attempted bravely, ‘surely dear Lillian would not have wished Cousin Edward to mourn forever?’ She was silenced by an upflung hand.

  ‘No one needs your opinion! If this is your idea of a joke, Father, I’m not chortling!’ His mouth contorted like a gasping fish. ‘Where’s that fool Grumidge with the brandy?’

  Ned strove to control his features. It would be too infantile, at seventeen and a half, to race off like a little kid in search of Florie. She would be there when this part was over. She was always there. He drew a shaky breath. There was no flinching from what she would tell him – that he should manfully support his grandfather’s opportunity for renewed happiness. That for many being widowed was an incredibly lonely business. Just the imagined sound of her voice helped to steady Ned. Grandfather wasn’t doing anything wrong. And it wasn’t as if Grandmother had died last week.

  ‘I wish you both happiness, sir.’ He sounded very nearly cheerful, and the shine in his green eyes could have been taken for happiness.

  ‘Thank you, my boy.’ Lord Stodmarsh looked at him with deep affection coupled with concern. His eyes then went to the chair that had been Lillian’s; its short seat and straight back had made it easier for her to rise from. Had he not gone to Weymouth, he might now be conversing with her in his mind and heart, letting other conversations flow over him; but what was done was done.

  ‘Smarmy pipsqueak!’ William tore at his moustache as if wishful of throwing it at Ned. ‘Confound it all, Father! You must know that this winter romance of yours has come down like an avalanche.’

  ‘Let’s say a surprise, dear.’ Gertrude did not flinch under yet another glare. It had been apparent to all but her husband that since her mother-in-law’s death, any fear of him was gone. Beneath what she saw as socially required behaviour, her indifference was complete. ‘If I have failed to congratulate you, Father, I do so now.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  The door opened and Grumidge entered with a decanter and glasses on a silver tray, which he deposited on a table between a pair of facing sofas. Upon his departure Lord Stodmarsh picked up the discourse. ‘I understand this decision of mine will take a good deal of adjustment. My intended wife is a longtime widow, of similar age to myself. Her family, the Tamershams, have a place in Northumbria, to which she returned after her husband’s death. Be assured that my feelings for her do not detract in any way from the love I bore my beloved lifetime companion.’

  William snorted.

  Lord Stodmarsh continued evenly, ‘It is, however, my hope that Regina will be welcomed warmly into this household. The wedding will take place one month from now at her home church in the village of Larchmont Field, with only closest family members invited. My wish is for the four of you to be present, but should any, or all, decide not to attend I will understand.’

  ‘Blast it all, I’ll have to think that over.’ Despite his still-fiery face, William seemed to have calmed sufficiently to consider the pros and cons of what he was up against. He shot a demanding glance from under his bushy eyebrows at his wife.

  She drew upon what she considered her one wifely requirement, which was to make them less odious as a couple. ‘Of course William and I will be there, Father. This has to be about you and your wife-to-be. We wish you both many years of contentment. Don’t we, my dear?’

  William poured himself a sizeable brandy before muttering agreement. Then his temper again got the better of him. ‘Regina! What a confounded silly name! Why not call her Queen Victoria and be done with it! I’ll have you know, Father, this woman of yours had better not come queening it here if she knows what’s good for her! Let her once tell me to rein in my temper and she’ll regret it.’

  ‘Now why would she do that, dear?’ Gertrude inquired.

  Ned addressed Lord Stodmarsh. ‘I’ll admit it took me a moment, Grandfather, but I’m all for it. Truly I am. Any chance of my being best man?’

  Lord Stodmarsh’s eyes moistened. ‘Thank you, my boy, but that has to depend on whether William wishes …’

  William’s face flamed up again. ‘By all means let him do the honors. I always knew where I stood with Mother and you, Father. Bottom step of the ladder.’

  ‘I’m very sorry you feel that way. It’s untrue.’

  William plowed a secondary path. ‘Beats me why you should feel the need for female companionship when you’ve got Madge here, always ready and eager to play chess with you of an evening, or discuss some dull old book, without all the other rigmarole involved.’

  Ned, seeing
Madge’s colour rise, gave her a sympathetic look and his uncle a withering one. She picked up her knitting, the back of a navy-blue cardigan, which she’d placed on a table next to her chair on coming into the drawing room, and eyed it carefully as if for a faulty stitch. Ned felt even more uncomfortable. ‘How about a toast for the bride and groom?’ he suggested and was relieved when she looked up and marshalled a smile.

  Half an hour later the family dispersed for bed, leaving His Lordship uncertain whether or not the evening had gone as well as could be expected. He slept to dream neither of his late wife nor his bride-to-be, but of an ancient male personage with long, unkempt locks and beard, in a coarse robe and clutching a Bible in hands with nails grown into talons as he meandered through the woodlands at Mullings.

  Florence had experienced such dreams in the past, but would never have thought anyone else in the household would have cause for such images to invade their sleeping state. She, Grumidge and Mrs McDonald had sensed strongly upon his return that something of a changing sort had happened to His Lordship whilst he was in Weymouth, but were utterly in the dark as to what it might be. Even before Ned had left the drawing room, he had mastered his instinctive need to pour out his heart to his Florie. It was his grandfather’s right to inform her and the rest of the staff that he was soon to remarry. To precede him would be betrayal. The dear old chap deserved better. Ned had gone upstairs feeling the mantle of adulthood settle around his shoulders. Oh, he’d cast it off frequently in the future – he’d be bound to. He had sufficient self-awareness to know he could be wilful and selfish at the drop of a hat, and there was little chance of that changing completely, but at least he had himself in check for now.

  At seven the following morning His Lordship left the house by way of his study door for his customary early amble. He was grateful to have Rouser – Lillian’s precious last gift – at his side as he stepped down from the terrace. The air was crisp under a pearl-gray sky, but he did not feel its invigorating benefit. To his right the end of the front drive merged into a flagged courtyard between the house and the former stables, converted some twenty years earlier into a garage. To his left lay the wood with its path providing access to and from the village. The unsettling dream still lingered.

  Within a few yards of the terrace were twin sunken rose gardens with central fountains and statuary. Beyond these the expanse of velvet lawn was graced by several groupings of majestic oaks. With Rouser at his heels, Lord Stodmarsh made his way towards the summer house. Built of locally quarried stone, with an abundance of windows and French doors, it stood twenty yards from the ornamental lake now mirroring the pearl of the sky and the reflected tresses of weeping willows. To Lord Stodmarsh, there had always seemed to be a piercing poignancy to their leaning – as if what they sought to perceive, moment by moment, day after day, was some remnant of youthful freshness not ravaged by time and its inevitable sorrows. On the other side of the lake was a deep stretch of thicket, above which could be seen the top of a wall of the same faded rose brick as the house.

  He stood, hesitating, at the entrance to the summer house. This had been Lillian’s favourite retreat on summer days, from her arrival at Mullings as a bride until the walk down to it had become too laborious. Many a time he had joined her while she read or embroidered, seating himself across from her, the better to absorb her serenity, the lovely stillness that sometimes had made him wish he were a poet. Now his hand reached for the doorknob, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it. Instead he seated himself on a stone bench facing the lake. Rouser lay at his feet. How much closer the distant past seemed than his stay in Weymouth.

  On the evening of his arrival at the hotel he had noticed an elegant, silver-haired woman in wine-coloured silk and pearls seated at a table across from him in the dining room. She too was alone, and had also chosen the turtle soup, followed by lamb cutlets. Her aura was one of indifference to her surroundings; dining alone had to be more awkward for women than men. She had his sympathy. Already he was regretting acceding to Doctor Chester’s urging that he take a holiday.

  The woman did not join the majority of the other guests – including himself – in the sitting room where coffee and liqueurs were served afterwards, nor did she appear at breakfast the next morning. She had not, however, departed the hotel. Upon returning from a walk that very much lacked Rouser, he went into the conservatory to find her seated with an unopened book on her lap. There being no one else present, he felt it encumbent upon him to ask if he might take the chair angled towards hers. In repose her narrow face with the aquiline nose looked stern – even hard, but she acquiesced with a softening of the eyes and mouth. Within moments of introducing themselves they were conversing.

  ‘I noticed you in the dining room last night,’ said Regina Stapleton forthrightly, ‘and I thought, there is a man who rarely takes a walk without a dog at his heels.’

  ‘Did you, indeed?’

  ‘A retriever, or …’ her dark brown eyes looked into his, ‘… probably more a Labrador.’

  He was intrigued. ‘You are clearly gifted with omniscience. I have always had labs; my present one is a fine fellow named Rouser.’

  The book she had with her was Shakespeare and they agreed in preferring the comedies. His Lordship mentioned that he had played Prospero in a production of The Tempest he’d put on for the entertainment of family and friends at his home when a young man.

  ‘Very amateurish,’ he confessed.

  ‘But what fun!’ Hers was a richly deep voice. ‘Do you attend the theatre much?’

  ‘Haven’t done in years. My wife’s severe rheumatism made travelling difficult for her, and since her death a year ago I haven’t had the inclination.’

  Regina not only commiserated, but encouraged him to speak of his loss, expressing understanding, having been widowed herself.

  ‘That, however, was a great many years ago. The grief never goes away, but one adjusts … eventually. For you the pain must still be a constant ache.’ Her voice soothed, invited, while her hands lay restfully on her lap.

  It was so much easier to talk about it with a stranger. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed to talk about Lillian without burdening those who also mourned her loss. Prior to parting they were on Christian name terms.

  ‘At our ages there is no reason to be formal,’ Regina said, her eyebrow arched.

  ‘I agree.’ He smiled.

  From that day on Lord Stodmarsh had spent much of his time in Weymouth with Regina, sharing a table during meals and doing some leisurely sightseeing. She was not a strong walker, and without his cane, neither was he these days. The hotel recommended a man willing to drive them where they wished to go. On Regina’s discovering that a local theatre was performing As You Like It, they attended a matinee performance and then decided on a day trip to London to see Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion.

  It wasn’t until the second week of their acquaintance that Regina Stapleton gave him an account of her personal history. She had previously told him only that she had returned to Cragstone, her family’s ancestral home in Northumbria, following her widowhood. He had wondered at what had seemed a studied reticence, but that was now explained. They were again seated in the conservatory; none of the other chairs was occupied. Her story unfolded in her forthright way once started. Having been left virtually penniless by a profligate husband – dead at thirty from influenza – and with a baby daughter to support, she had been grateful for her brother and sister-in-law’s generosity in offering to house them both.

  Regina fingered the long strand of perfectly matched pearls. Their dainty size had the jeune fille look of having been given to her as a young girl. ‘Unfortunately, Rupert, his wife and later their son, never let a chance slip of making us feel like a pair of burdensome dependents, whilst giving the impression to outsiders that we were one united family.’

  ‘That must have been highly distressing to endure.’ What a contrast, Lord Stodmarsh reflected, such behaviour was to Lillian’s in wa
rmly inviting and welcoming Madge Bradley, who had been at a low point in life, to Mullings.

  ‘It was harder on my daughter, Sylvia, than me. She was always a spirited girl and as the years passed she became rebellious as a result of being constantly criticized by her aunt.’ Regina Stapleton’s clasped hands tightened. ‘At seventeen she ran off with the groom. All my efforts to trace them failed. Several months later she wrote to say she was pregnant and begged to be allowed to return to Cragstone. My brother, at his wife’s urging, refused. I begged, to no avail. I sent money, but they had moved to other lodgings and the envelope was returned with its contents intact. The next news came from the former groom. She had died in childbirth, and the baby with her. It was, understandably, an embittered letter.’

  Being a sensitive man, Lord Stodmarsh had to clear his throat before answering. ‘I am most heartily sorry.’

  ‘It was nearly twenty-five years ago.’ Regina’s eyes met his steadily. ‘I have an annuity, sufficient to indulge myself in this holiday and other jollifications, but not nearly enough to enable me to set up my own household. His son, who inherited the estate, wishes me gone, but shrinks from the talk that would be occasioned by tossing me out on the world.’ She drew in a breath. ‘Forgive me, Edward, I must sound a querulous and exceedingly tiresome old woman.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, I appreciate your confiding in me.’ It was time for luncheon and he escorted her inside to what had become their table. The Dover sole was probably delicious, but His Lordship was unaware of what he ate. His ready compassion was deeply stirred by the story of Regina’s daughter, and her possibly avoidable death. His imagination presented him with a hovel and a half-witted old crone presiding over the birth. There was also Regina’s present situation to be deplored. It distressed him profoundly that she must return to a life of dependency at Cragstone. A sigh escaped him. There was not a thing he could do to help, except by endeavouring to make her time in Weymouth as enjoyable as possible. He would extend his own stay, until her return to Northumbria.