Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  George Bird could have done with two extra pairs of hands at the Dog and Whistle on the evening after word spread. The regulars were more than ready for any good news from Mullings. The taproom, though packed to the elbows, was less smoky than usual because few were inclined to stop talking or listening long enough to fish in their pockets for pipes or cigarettes. There was much back and forthing over the odds of Lady Stodmarsh allowing Fritch to move in after the wedding.

  Pulling yet another pint, George counted his blessings. It being winter when visitors were rare, he didn’t have to waste time fobbing off questions from strangers about the ornamental hermit. George was pleased for Fritch. Who would have thought events would turn out so well for such a timid bloke? Things hadn’t started well for him here – applying for a teaching job he didn’t get and having to make do with one at Craddock’s, which couldn’t pay half as much.

  George thought back to the letter Jim had written about his former grammar school teacher moving to the area and asking him to do what he could to befriend Fritch. He hadn’t been successful in doing so – the man’s painful shyness had prevented that – but all’s well that ends well. It was nice for him and Miss Bradley, who deserved a second chance at love after going through the pain and humiliation she had suffered. George’s mind lingered on Jim between every drink served and the accompanying chats. The lad still hadn’t achieved the degree of success he’d hoped for with his paintings, but his financial situation had recently been relieved somewhat. He’d been offered bed and board by an elderly lady he’d got to know from her coming into the restaurant where he worked. It was no surprise that she’d taken to Jim in a big way, him being such a kindly, pleasant lad. He’d refused the offer at first – didn’t like the idea of scrounging off anyone, did Jim – but she’d persuaded him she wanted the security of having a man living in the house. This he could see, especially when she mentioned having a nephew always turning up and scrounging for money. This was very different from Jim, who’d never once hinted to George he could do with a spot of cash or accepted help from his parents. It was a right shame their attitude towards their son had remained frosty since the tiff about the girl he’d been seeing, when they’d branded her an arty, immoral piece, without even having met her. That was the trouble with people making their offspring their entire world as Sally and Arthur had done – they felt they were owed equal turn-about down the road.

  As still happened with George, Florence slipped into mind. He remembered telling her about Jim’s romance, then in its early stage, on the drive back from her mother’s. This led him to wondering if Miss Bradley’s engagement to Cyril Fritch had been a day brightener for her at Mullings, which from many accounts was now a stressful place to work with Regina Stodmarsh ruling the roost.

  Alf appeared at the bar. ‘Give a ten-bob note I would, Birdie, to know how Hilda Stark’s swallowing news of the engagement, her having had it in for Miss Bradley for no reason but kicking someone who’s already down.’

  ‘The woman could’ve turned a new leaf; she hasn’t been around here in years,’ said George. ‘It doesn’t do to hold grudges.’

  Alf chuckled. ‘Know what your trouble is, Birdie? You can’t think ill of anyone for above five minutes. You need to take something for it.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the engaged couple.’

  ‘Happiest news coming out of Mullings in a long while,’ agreed George wholeheartedly.

  ‘I bet Fritch can breathe better after being strangled all his life by his mother’s steel apron strings. My Doris sat next to the woman on the bus once and said she’d rather have been at the dentist’s; nothing but bragging about the holidays she takes and the necessity of buying new clothes for every one of them. Then clapping on about having to live on a small income because of her son’s lack of ambition.’

  ‘Some mothers! Selfish, greedy old goat, that one,’ struck in Tom Norris, now standing beside Alf, empty beer glass in hand. ‘I don’t see how she can afford all that gallivanting. Fritch couldn’t have been making much a week when he was only working at the bookshop, and like as not it’s been a case of catching up since he started doing the bookkeeping for the estate.’

  George refilled his glass. ‘Could be his mother has means of her own, Tom. You never know what people have socked away.’ He was back to thinking about Jim. He’d written that the elderly lady, who’d kindly taken him in, had told him that, though no one would have guessed it from her shabby old house in a run-down road, she was very comfortably off. She’d gladly have helped out her nephew if she hadn’t sized him up way back as having a shifty, possibly criminal bent.

  ‘Whatever happens to his money, it doesn’t seem like he spends it on himself.’ Tom spoke through a foam moustache. ‘Never seen him in anything but that suit he wore when he first got here.’

  ‘Abstemious fellow,’ interposed Derwent Shepherd, who’d regretfully been unable to offer Cyril Fritch the teaching post at Westerbey for which he’d interviewed him. His long face, flattened hair and dedication to gray cardigans instantly brought blackboard chalk and desk inkwells to mind. ‘Couldn’t be happier for him and Miss Bradley.’

  ‘Pity, though – her getting stuck with Mrs Fritch for a mother-in-law.’ Alf was on his second half-pint.

  ‘Can’t see her going down well at Mullings. She’ll only have to walk in decked out like mutton dressed up as lamb,’ Tom shook his head as if dodging the image, ‘then start in about her gadding off on one holiday after the next and Lady Stodmarsh’ll make mincemeat of her.’

  ‘I’m itching to know how she’s taking the engagement,’ said Alf.

  ‘Who, Lady Stodmarsh?’ asked Derwent Shepherd.

  ‘Well, her too, but I meant Mrs Fritch. Will she be gnashing her teeth, even after taking them out at night, now that her son’s finally flown the coop, or will she be tickled pink at the leg-up in society?’

  ‘You have to be fair,’ said George. ‘It could be said he should have more backbone instead of letting her get away with keeping him under her thumb so long.’

  ‘Easily said, if you haven’t had your confidence stepped on a dozen times a day from childhood on,’ answered Derwent Shepherd with his ready sympathy for the strugglers of this world.

  George had to inwardly agree. If Cyril Fritch couldn’t stand up to a classroom of schoolboys it was hardly likely he’d be a match for a ruthlessly controlling woman. ‘Well,’ he raised his own glass, ‘let’s drink to a happier future for the fellow. Anything going around as to when the wedding’ll be?’

  Tom offered what he knew. ‘Got it from Master Ned – he won’t have me call him Mr Stodmarsh – that it looks like to be a longish engagement, seeing his step-grandmother’s made it clear she won’t be offering him a roof over his head along with Miss Bradley when they marry.’

  A Miss Milligan, with a face remarkably similar to those of the boxer dogs she bred and showed, paused in passing to interject her barking voice. ‘Heard Fritch couldn’t afford to buy her a ring, gave her the one that’d belonged to one of his grandmothers. It only has a diddly stone, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’ Alf almost got jabbed in the eyes by the cigar Miss Milligan was brandishing. ‘I’ve got wind of something else that could put a crimp in things. Old Craddock is thinking of selling the bookshop – he’s still on the fence about it, but if he does and the new owner decides not to keep on the old staff, Fritch will be out of that job. Whoops! He told me that in confidence.’

  Alf cupped an ear. ‘Can’t never hear a word when it’s noisy in here.’

  A mirthful woof came from Miss Milligan before she disappeared out of sight.

  ‘There have to be changes,’ said Tom, ‘but nothing’s been near the same since His Lordship died.’

  Alf stared into the beer he’d forgotten he was holding. ‘At least he’s where he wanted to be, reunited with his lifetime love. Dear lady that she was. And he was ready, no doubt of that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You could tell at a glance he knew he’d
gone and made the mistake of his life marrying again. Enough said.’

  A silence followed, to be broken by Derwent Shepherd. ‘I hear young Ned is still taking a keen interest in Farn Deane?’ This was received with a big smile from Tom.

  ‘He tells me I couldn’t keep him away with a pickaxe! You’d think farming was in his blood – that he was born to work the soil, mend fences, milk cows and shear sheep.’

  ‘Is he interested in the business side?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe, apart from the bookkeeping. I tell you, it’s a big relief to me and Gracie. With us not having children we’d worried what would happen to Farn Deane when we’re gone. Oh, it wouldn’t be hard for the Stodmarshes to find another tenant farmer, but who’d ever love the old place like we’ve done, the Norrises’ roots being so deep after all the generations living and working there? But now there’s Master Ned.’ He paused. ‘Of course, as Gracie keeps reminding me, it could be partly him wanting to get away from Mullings every chance he gets, what with all the lunches, bridge parties, dinners and overnight guests going on there these days.’

  ‘Wasn’t never the Stodmarshes’ way.’ Alf shook his head glumly.

  ‘Master Ned has to still be grieving his grandparents.’ George wiped up a beer splatter. ‘Bad enough being an orphan without losing them too.’

  ‘Too much for any young ’un to have to handle.’

  ‘He seems to be dealing with it, Alf,’ replied Tom.

  ‘I wasn’t surprised when he decided against going up to university,’ said Derwent. ‘It’s good to know he’s found his niche. And maths never being his strong point, he made a wise decision in hiring Fritch to handle the records.’

  Miss Milligan was heading towards the bar again with that glint in her eye that warned she was about to enthuse about one of her boxer bitches being due to whelp and how thrilling it always was, unless something went wrong. She would list all the possibilities in minute, gory detail.

  ‘Time to scarper!’ Alf set down his glass. ‘See you, Birdie!’ Tom and Derwent Shepherd followed him out into the cold night.

  Five minutes later the door opened and in came Ned Stodmarsh, stamping his feet, either to get the circulation going or to be rid of the dirt. The room had been thinning out for the past half hour, providing a straight line to the bar. He didn’t drop by the Dog and Whistle often, but the regulars always hailed him with enthusiasm, to which he never failed to respond cheerfully.

  ‘Join you in a moment,’ he called over to the remaining cluster of villagers before greeting George. ‘Busy night, Birdie?’

  ‘Couldn’t but be, sir, what with news of the engagement up at Mullings.’

  ‘Suppose not,’ Ned grinned. ‘It’s not the romance of the century, but we have to be glad for Madge. She has to have been living on tenterhooks since Grandfather died, afraid that Regina will send her packing if she opens her mouth the wrong way. Not that I think she would – she gets too much fun out of playing cat and mouse. It’s her favourite occupation, with the rest of us too. She can’t toss us out, but if there’s a way to make Uncle William, Aunt Gertrude and myself chew nails she’ll find it.’

  ‘Is that so? What’ll you be having, sir?’

  ‘Half of cider. I tried beer, wanting to prove myself the manly sort, but I don’t much care for it.’ Ned stood musing as George drew up a glass and shifted it towards him. ‘I’m betting she’ll live to a hundred for the sheer spite of it. She’s already stopped Aunt Gertrude doing the flowers, knowing how much she enjoyed that one responsibility.’ Another grin. ‘I shouldn’t be talking out of school. Florie wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said George again.

  ‘Florie’s the one person I don’t like to let down these days, but she’s always known I’m no saint and she could only do so much to prepare me to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps.’

  ‘Done a fine job of it too, sir.’

  ‘Her level best, certainly.’

  ‘How is Mrs Norris?’ George could not resist asking.

  Ned eyed him awkwardly. ‘As ever, the complete brick. If she and Grumidge didn’t keep the house running on oiled wheels they’d have been gone, along with the half-dozen of lady’s maids Regina’s had during her reign at Mullings.’ He stood musing. ‘I think Florie was the only one who saw this engagement between Madge and Fritch coming. I like the chap, but couldn’t have imagined him getting up the courage to pop the question. Have to believe it was the other way round and Madge did him the honour.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, sir.’

  ‘I do wish you’d stop sirring me.’ Ned’s fair, freckled skin flushed. ‘I’d much prefer “Ned”.’ He hurried on before George could answer. ‘Look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say for a long time – to offer an apology.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ George caught himself before adding the ‘sir’.

  ‘Making Florence feel she should, for my whiny sake, end her friendship with you. I’d got the idea, you see, that you’d want to marry her.’

  George smoothed a hand over his bald spot. ‘It takes two in agreement for a walk down the aisle.’

  ‘Well, if you couldn’t see how fond of you she’d grown, I could, and I didn’t like the possibility of her leaving Mullings one bit. I let her know it when she got back from that outing you both took to her mother’s, reminded her how she’d promised when I was little to remain as long as I needed her.’ Ned looked a good way upward from his five-foot-seven to meet George’s eyes squarely. ‘It was a beastly trick to pull, but Florie had always been my backbone and I wasn’t ready to grow one of my own.’

  ‘It’s good of you to tell me.’ This would take some digesting. Was it enough to answer the question he’d asked himself so often? George wasn’t so sure.

  Ned thought he’d better change the subject. ‘How’s your godson getting along?’

  George told him that a recent customer at the restaurant where Jim was a waiter had been impressed by a couple of framed watercolours on its dining room wall. He’d asked Jim for the artist’s name, and on being told they were his work, had offered to show them to an acquaintance, who in turn agreed to host an exhibition if Jim could come up with a collection of equal merit within the next nine months.

  ‘Good for him! You both must be chuffed.’

  ‘Hopeful, but can’t lose sight of disappointments in the past.’

  ‘Forget them.’ Before Ned could add anything to this, Miss Milligan surged up on him, cigar in hand. ‘Good to see you, young man. What’s this I’ve been hearing about you and the Blake girl getting cozy?’

  Ned scowled, as he frequently did when embarrassed. ‘We’ve been playing some tennis together, that’s all. She’s frightfully good and I’ve been keen since boarding school.’ That being so, he’d still been furious on principle when his step-grandmother had the court built. He knew she had done so in an attempt – beyond the ornamental hermit, whose presence he found distasteful – to lure visitors of the sort she wished to entertain, none of whom had been interested in hobnobbing at Mullings in the past. He’d been determined to loathe all who showed up, but that had been impossible when it came to Lamorna Blake. After an initial coldness he was lost. How could any red-blooded male not feel his soul soar in her presence? The agony was the unlikelihood of her preferring him over his rivals – including the Palfrett and Stafford-Reid lads, who were forever cluttering up Mullings when she was there.

  ‘Nothing more to it?’ Miss Milligan woofed at him. ‘Wonderful little pedigree! Best in the show, in these parts. Hook a lead on to her while you can, is my advice, young man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ned returned coldly. He decided not to stay on for a chat with the regulars; they’d understand his need to escape the woman.

  Florence hadn’t needed to be told that Ned had succumbed to the heaven and hell of first love. It was written all over him from the first time Lamorna Blake had put in an appearance at Mullings, along with several other yo
ung people from society families. All of them, along with their parents, had never been within a mile of the place before, but Regina Stodmarsh had determined to put Mullings prominently on the map. Ned’s casual mention that he was thinking about taking up riding had confirmed Florence’s opinion that it was a serious case with him. He’d never before shown any interest in the sport, whilst Miss Blake was known as an excellent horsewoman, in addition to her enthusiasm for tennis, which Ned already shared. Florence wasn’t sure whether to smile or worry. She thought the age of twenty was much too young for him to form a lasting relationship; but such bedazzlements so often blew over.

  As for Miss Bradley’s engagement to Mr Fritch, her thoughts were jumbled. Recognizing that it was going to happen had startled her. She couldn’t believe it a love match, though on reflection it made sense as a convenient move for both of them. From what she saw of him, Mr Fritch seemed a decent man, but given his extreme shyness, none could have appeared more the confirmed bachelor. She hoped he would not come to rue his walk along the bridal path. Mrs McDonald had told her rumour had it his mother was going about telling anyone she could trap into listening how she’d never got over his abandoning her without a word of forewarning. Whether or not this was her entire thinking, Florence thought questionable. Being able to boast of her connection to Mullings should have some appeal for a woman who liked to crow. One thing was certain: she would never be given anything but the most sneering reception at Mullings by Lady Stodmarsh. Florence caught herself as she often did when thinking negatively about the lady of the house. What mattered above all was that no attempt on her life had been made, and it had come to seem increasingly unlikely given the passage of time. Florence’s thoughts echoed with what Ned had said to her, as well as to George at the Dog and Whistle – Regina Stodmarsh seemed destined to live to be a hundred.

  Mrs Fritch did indeed have mixed feelings about her son’s engagement. It was shocking to have behaved in such a sneaky way, letting his own mother be caught on the hop along with all her acquaintances. So undutiful not to have asked her permission before broaching the subject to Miss Bradley – just what she could have expected from his father! The muddle-headedness of this did not occur to her. But following much righteous fuming, she began to see the advantages. Financially the union would be a godsend. From now on it would be Italy or the South of France for her holidays, instead of the British Isles. Whether Miss Bradley had funds of her own didn’t matter overly. It was all around her at Mullings. Surely if Cyril had, since the move to Dovecote Hatch, managed at times to pull money out of thin air to do right by his mother, he should easily be able to persuade a wife into wangling sufficient out of her family for such a worthy end. The only rub for Mrs Fritch in the gratifying picture of herself as a guest at Mullings was her always liking to consider herself as the most cultivated person at any gathering.