Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘So I did. A hankering for the good old days. We don’t have one any more. I’m Ned Stodmarsh.’

  ‘I suppose that almost makes us related.’

  ‘Best not to think that way, silver top. I don’t like most of my relations and, to be brutally frank, I loathe the woman you claim as your grandmother.’

  ‘Again, you put things so delicately.’

  ‘Back in two shakes then.’ Ned nipped out, drawing the door to behind him, and went in search of Florence. He found her as anticipated at her desk in the housekeeper’s room; her face in profile would have struck him as a little sad, had his mind not been elsewhere. He waved at her to remain seated.

  ‘Are my cheeks bulging? I feel as if they are with the news I bring! Prepare to be startled, dearest Florie!’

  She turned towards him, eyes gentle, a smile on her lips. ‘You’ve asked Lamorna Blake to marry you.’

  Ned blinked, realized he hadn’t closed the door behind him and did so. ‘Oh, that! Yes, I have, been feeling beastly for not telling you about it. The thing is, I leaped before I thought and now find myself in the devil of a fix. She’s insisting on a flat in London for weekends at least, to which she’s entitled, of course. One as lovely as she shouldn’t be expected to spend all her days and nights in the company of what’s left of the family. Though the women aren’t so bad these days, what with Madge getting engaged to Fritch and Aunt Gertrude involving herself in church activities – altar flowers and whatnot.’

  ‘She attended a meeting at the vicarage this evening,’ said Florence. ‘Mr Grumidge mentioned a few minutes ago that to his knowledge she had not returned and dinner is due to be served within the quarter hour.’

  Ned waved a hand. ‘No matter! She’s been late back a few times recently and they’ve gone ahead without her. It’s just another excuse for Regina to look down her nose and Uncle William to bluster. But forget Aunt Gertrude or Cousin Madge, who for that matter may still be out with Fritch; forget for the moment my engagement to Lamorna. Something momentous has occurred and there’s about to be the ruckus of a lifetime. No, don’t get up,’ he said as Florence started to do so, ‘you need to hear the latest sitting down.’

  ‘Dear Ned, what are you on about?’

  ‘I didn’t think Grumidge would have said anything; he’d leave it to me.’

  ‘Say anything about what?’

  ‘Guess who’s just shown up with a suitcase?’

  ‘Your Grandmother Tressler? She’s not due until tomorrow, but there’s nothing to that. Her rooms are always kept ready for her.’

  ‘Not Granny. I’d be pleased for her to come early of course, but …’

  ‘Her arrival wouldn’t put that look of unholy glee on your face.’ Florence laughed, relieved at the interruption in worrying about George. ‘Ned, what has you so amused? I’ve never been any good at guessing games.’

  ‘Even if you were it wouldn’t do you any good this time. It’s too far-fetched! I’m not even sure she’s telling the truth. She may be an imposter, although that would be equally interesting in itself. Anyway, I’ve left her in the small sitting room where Grandmother was fond of sitting in the morning. And I do think she’s at least speaking the truth about being hungry, so if you can get Mrs McDonald to rustle something up it would be a worthy deed, whether or not she really is Regina’s granddaughter.’

  ‘Granddaughter?’ Florence rewarded Ned with the right degree of astonishment. ‘There was another child?’

  ‘As opposed to the one that died at birth along with the mother?’

  ‘Oh, Ned, do take that grin off your face,’ exclaimed Florence in rare exasperation with him. ‘Of course that’s what I mean. A surviving twin, is that it?’

  ‘Now that would have been a clever thought for her to come up with if she’s laying a con game, and from the looks of her – a tarted up platinum blonde – she fits the bill all right. But no, she says she’s the one that supposedly didn’t make it. Her father died when she was ten, I think she said. So here we are with questions begging – was Regina misinformed, or has she been lying through her teeth all these years rather than acknowledge a child born to her daughter?’

  Blocking any more fascinating conjecture, Florence stood up, looked at her watch and then squarely at Ned. ‘Lord Stodmarsh, I require your instructions on the course of action to be taken forthwith.’

  ‘Who … what?’ Ned gaped at her. ‘Excuse me, Florie, while I reposition my jaw. It just dropped six inches.’

  ‘It’s time for you to think as the Master of Mullings. No matter that Lady Stodmarsh may control the purse strings; when it comes to capital this is your house.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel that way.’

  ‘Perhaps now is the time to decide that it should, if you’ll pardon me speaking out of place, sir?’ She could not hold back a laugh at his expression. ‘You’re faced with a convergence of events. Mr Grumidge is due in less than five minutes to announce dinner is served. An immediate announcement of the young lady’s presence will prevent her having a meal on her own before being thrust into what, as you predict, is bound to be an unpleasant scene. It is unlikely that the family, including Lady Stodmarsh, will be able to enjoy a morsel of what is placed before them. But delaying matters until the return to the drawing room for coffee is not a decision to be made by me or Mr Grumidge. It has to be yours – if indeed that is your wish.’

  Ned drew himself up to his full five foot eight and a fraction. ‘I know your methods of old, Florie. I’ve been feeling a complete worm over Lamorna and you’re giving me this chance to square my shoulders and march forth filled with noble resolve to protect a girl who may be a rotten little widget – although I have to admit to taking to her – from being torn limb from limb when in a weakened state by THAT WOMAN! Gosh! What wouldn’t I give to know how she managed to get Grandfather to marry her! Alas, she’ll never tell, and gentleman that he was, he took that secret to the grave!’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Florence. She had long ago accurately worked out how that game had been played and won – gain the sympathy of an unhappy and unworldly man in failing health removed from his usual element, and manoeuvre him into believing he had implied more than intended and must choose between dashing hopes he had raised or marrying her. Lord Stodmarsh being who he was, the outcome could be serenely anticipated. ‘As you’ve said, there’s going to be a ruckus. Is it to be immediate, or briefly delayed?’

  ‘Delayed. I’ll bounce along and join the clan for dinner and you get a meal to our visitor. Then, after we re-gather in the drawing room, send Grumidge along to inform Regina that a young lady has arrived wishing to speak with her. She’ll inquire as to identity and he’ll tell her. How’s that?’

  ‘Clear and concise.’

  Ned saluted, then turned as he was halfway out the door. ‘This could be hoots of fun, that beastly woman finally getting some kind of comeuppance, being the one to jig on red-hot coals instead of watching others do it for her amusement. The trouble is the girl – there’s something about Sylvia Jones that got to me.’

  Florence understood what he meant when she entered the chintz-furbished sitting room fifteen minutes later. The scrimped artificial silk dress, patterned in black and gold, the cheap high heels and feather toque, looked best suited to a seedy restaurant in an unlighted alley; nothing appealing there. But within a moment Florence was making a more thoughtful appraisal. The girl, seemingly oblivious to no longer being alone, was standing sideways staring out into the rain-shrouded grounds, her profile thoughtful; and when she looked round her eyes were sad. They were brown eyes – toffee coloured, thickly lashed, complimentary to her warm complexion and utterly incongruous. They belonged in the face of a young woman who wasn’t overly bothered about how she looked. Of course there were answers to that incongruity: an impulse for a new look that would change all else, a desire to shock one’s elders, or to please a young man who had his heart set on a blonde dressed in tawdry fashion.

  Florence r
eminded herself as she set down the loaded tray that the situation was sufficiently intriguing without her crocheting trimmings for it. Before she could introduce herself as the housekeeper, the young woman spoke with a lightness that didn’t ring true, understandably so in the circumstances. She could hardly be expecting a grandmother’s delighted welcome to be shortly forthcoming.

  ‘Those woods out there may be a picnicker’s delight on a sunny day, but passing them along the way on such a dreary night they struck me as horribly forbidding.’ Her hands clamping her arms, she shivered, somewhat theatrically, Florence thought. ‘I heard there was a path through them, but you wouldn’t catch me taking it on a bet, especially with that creepy old hermit straight out of the Middle Ages creeping amongst the trees, ready to pounce up from behind and cosh you over the head with a relic clawed out of the catacombs.’

  ‘That’s an understandable fear, but he’s been here long enough to have proved harmless, poor soul. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know of him?’

  The young woman removed the feather toque and tossed it on to the settle in front of the fireplace. It was a gesture in keeping with her appearance, as was the brittle edge in her voice when responding. ‘Oh, I heard someone talking about the hermit on the bus I took from the train.’ She moved casually over to the table where Florence had placed the tray and glanced at it. ‘Good of you to bring this in. I suppose you’re the housekeeper young Mr Ginger Nob mentioned as if God had blessed him with his personal archangel. No offence intended.’

  Florence smiled. ‘None taken.’ It was evident the girl was, very sensibly, getting into the part of herself – or one created for taking on Regina Stodmarsh. A good-natured girl displaying a hint of diffidence would find herself dispatched into the night before getting out two sentences. ‘I’m Florence Norris and I’ve been here long enough that nothing surprises me unduly, Miss Jones.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to explain myself to you.’ A haughtily raised plucked eyebrow followed by a look of abject misery that could surely not have been improvised unless she was a professional actress. ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘Don’t be, my dear, I’m always far from my best when tired and hungry, to say nothing of being uncertain what the next hour or so holds in store.’ Florence drew her towards the chair next to the table with the tray on it and watched her sit down. ‘Lord Stodmarsh asked me to reassure you that you will have more than an hour to yourself as the family is presently at dinner. He thought you would be glad of the extra time to unwind after your journey.’

  ‘You are one of the nicest people.’ It was said sleepily, weariness having taken hold. ‘I knew you would be, of course …’ the brown eyes blinked open, ‘… from how your devoted young gentleman spoke about you. He seems quite a love,’ said in a return of the flippant tone.

  ‘I’ve known him since he was a small boy, Miss Jones.’

  ‘Apple of his parents’ eyes?’

  ‘Both killed in a motor accident when he was very young.’

  ‘I can sympathize, knowing what it is to be orphaned.’

  ‘I’m sorry. A loss unfathomable to most of us, and we often do not appreciate what we have. It helped with Ned … Lord Stodmarsh, that he was brought up in the family home with grandparents who loved him dearly.’

  ‘Lucky for him, but maybe,’ an attempted laugh, ‘I’m about to make up for what I missed out on since my dad died. Slim chance, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ll pull this table in front of you.’ Florence suited action to words. ‘Those are roast beef sandwiches; there’s horseradish and mustard in those little pots if you wish it, and a slice of veal and ham pie – Cook makes it herself – a Scotch egg and some cheese and biscuits.’

  ‘Fit for a queen. You wouldn’t tell me, would you, what’s she like? If she’s mellowed over the years? Your Lord Stodmarsh made it plain he loathes her, but he would, wouldn’t he? It can’t be easy seeing another woman in your grandmother’s place.’

  ‘I’ll be back in five minutes with a pot of tea.’ Florence had no intention of saying any more, but found she didn’t wish to leave it at that. Heretofore only Ned had profoundly tugged at her maternal heartstrings, but this stranger – this dubious girl – did so, to a lesser degree to be sure, but undeniably. ‘What I am willing to state, Miss Jones, is that I’m of the opinion that you have it within you to stand up to a marching army if what is important to you depended on it.’ She was out of the room – allowing no time for a response.

  On passing the closed dining room door Florence wondered how well Ned was doing in restraining his anticipation, possibly taking the form of roguish amusement, of what was to come. At least it would keep his mind off his entanglement with Lamorna Blake. His announcement as to how things stood had come as no surprise. It had seemed inevitable to her for weeks that his infatuation would bring on a proposal. She had also expected from what she knew of Miss Blake that she would accept, not only because of Ned’s undeniable charm, but for the pleasure of distressing her parents, who would abhor the connection, despite Lady Blake’s desire to be included among those visiting an establishment boasting an ornamental hermit. And it was clear from Ned’s alarm at Lamorna’s demanding a London flat that he was already disenchanted. It was all a storm in a teacup, because with the money tied up as it was, the marriage couldn’t possibly come off, unless his Grandmother Tressler offered to step in, which Florence thought highly unlikely. Ned would be remorseful, hiding his relief, and Miss Blake would be entitled to bring down the curtain after a display of hysterics that would do credit to Sarah Bernhard. Her thoughts returned to Sylvia Jones and how long she had been preparing for her appearance on stage at Mullings.

  Florence’s entrance into the kitchen went unnoticed by Mrs McDonald, who had Annie Long and Jeanie Barnes dodging in circles in response to a flood of instructions. ‘Did either of you think to give that hollandaise for the poached salmon another whisk? And what about the lamb gravy? Don’t tell me one of you’s added more salt? Oh, for heaven’s sakes! If I could grow another pair of arms, I’d tell the pair of you to take off and join the circus.’

  ‘Now that’s an idea,’ responded Jeanie cheekily on her way to the stove, ‘fancy myself on a trapeze, I do!’

  ‘Oh, not me.’ Annie froze in her tracks. ‘When I hear the mattress springs going once in a while in Mum and Dad’s room and know they’re bouncing about like a couple of kids having a pillow fight, I worry something awful that one of them will fall off the bed and hurt themselves bad.’

  Mrs McDonald glared Jeanie into silence before giving Annie the once-over. ‘Remind me how old you are?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Well, takes all kinds.’ Mrs McDonald shook her head and spotted Florence. ‘Would you say so, Mrs Norris?’

  ‘Yes, and the better for it. Annie’s a good girl and we all know it.’

  ‘And what am I? Day-old bread?’ Jeanie jerked angrily.

  ‘You’re appreciated too,’ said Florence, wishing despite the truth of this that the girl wasn’t so often on the defensive, not only because it heightened stress, but because Regina Stodmarsh had her ear to the ground when it came to the servants and she was a woman who blatantly took pleasure in dismissing them given the least provocation. Her reaction to her personal maid trying on one of her fur coats was typical. Lillian Stodmarsh would have been amused, touched. How long ago that era now seemed.

  She had to remember what was sound and solid and remained, and this of course included Mrs McDonald, who told Annie and Jeanie to go into the passageway and await the descent of the two footmen with the dishes and cutlery from the soup course. Tonight it had been celery and apple, following on from tomato aspic; next to go up would be the poached salmon accompanied by the hollandaise sauce. As a fifteen-minute interlude was customary at this period of the meal, Mrs McDonald had time to draw breath and prod Florence for information about the mystery guest. She had little hope of having her curiosity satisfied. It wasn’t in her nature, ho
wever, not to make the attempt. It went without saying that Mr Grumidge’s lips had been and would remain sealed. But, like she’d always said, the blanker his expression – as had been the case when he returned after answering the front doorbell – the more you knew there was something on his mind.

  It didn’t work with Mrs Norris to try and get in by the side door. Best to come out with it straight and see what that gave. ‘Come on, give us a hint who you took that tray of food up to. Not that I’d begrudge it to a beggar, but him or her would have come round the back, and if it was an acquaintance of the family they’d’ve been requested to return at a more convenient time, or invited in to dine.’ Mrs McDonald paused to stare at Florence’s back as she went about filling the kettle. ‘Oh, my lord!’ She clapped a hand to her massive chest. ‘So that’s it! I’ve seen this at the pictures! A woman stumbles in through a stranger’s door at the height of a wicked storm, cries out that her child is coming and there’s a rush round to boil water. Saucepan upon saucepan of it! I never knew what for, but then I’ve never given birth. Here, let me give you a hand.’

  ‘To make a pot of tea for someone – I’ll keep it at that – who as I was leaving was about to partake of the meal I just took up.’

  ‘Drat!’ Mrs McDonald pounded a weighty fist into an outsized palm. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Again, I don’t know for a fact, but I can’t imagine a woman in the throes of labour thinking I must tuck into a little something before getting on with this business.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Florence, spooning tea leaves into the pot, ‘but what I will tell you is, this is the calm before the storm.’ Inevitably her thoughts switched to Ned and whether he was relishing the prospect of Regina Stodmarsh being shown to have lied about her granddaughter’s death or if he was caught up in anxiety for the one who was about to confront her.

  The dining room at Mullings was furnished in accordance with the rest of house’s timeless grace. Richly dark wood, serenely patterned wallpaper, carpet and curtains. All taken for granted and thus unnoted by Ned. At that moment he was reflecting with deplorable cheerfulness that he couldn’t be faulted for failing to telephone Lamorna as intended. He’d heard its distant ring a couple of times in the past fifteen minutes, knew in his bones that it was her on the other end of the line and taken a last swallow from his glass of hock. Lamorna would survive a bout of petulance unaided, but Sylvia Jones might require picking up in pieces from the floor. His mind shifted with the fluidity of the young to the rest of the meal. He hoped for roast lamb. Mrs MacDonald, knowing his partiality for it, had coyly hinted that morning that it might be on the menu. For once it didn’t irk him that Regina occupied what had been his grandmother’s chair at the dining room table. Tonight she was elegant in sapphire-blue, which complemented the silver hair, blue eyes, and patrician features, but did nothing to counteract the impression of chiselled marble. Queen of Mullings! Enjoy it! The judgement seat is at hand! So far she had contributed little to the conversation, other than to comment negatively on the soup and request William to apply his napkin to his moustache if she were not to be taken mortally ill by the disgusting sight of it.