Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  He gave Sylvia Jones a mischievous look, intended to lighten her mood, and, intentionally mimicking the mode of speech of his erstwhile father-to-be, Sir Winthrop Blake, exclaimed, ‘Upon my soul! Can we fasten on Miss Hendrick as a suspect? May she not have crept over at dead of night, broken into the house by way of the open study door to exact revenge upon Regina for the slights voiced against Aunt Gertrude and herself at dinner the night before last?’

  Miss Jones didn’t appear to absorb a word.

  Madge gabbled into the void, her hands twisting into a cat’s cradle. ‘Wicked indeed, to suggest they harboured unnatural feelings for each other. I’ve never believed such women exist; the idea has to come from the same archaic outlook that led to people being persecuted as witches.’

  ‘There I must disagree with you,’ said Mrs Tressler evenly.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Madge was now turning her fingers into sailors’ knots. ‘My knowledge of history is not all it should be …’

  ‘Neither is mine. But we have two lovely ladies living together in my village that I’ve no doubt share the bond of which we speak. There are those who may disapprove, but I’m not amongst them. If you will forgive my saying so, Ned,’ Mrs Tressler looked up at him, ‘your aunt could only be described as harbouring unnatural feelings were she in love with her husband, but happily that is not the case.’ She turned back to Madge. ‘I think it says a lot about you, Miss Bradley, that you should give any thought to what Regina said to anyone other than yourself at dinner that evening. Ned told me it was a brutal attack.’

  ‘So hurtful, accusing me of foisting myself on Cyril.’

  ‘I’m sure you did nothing of the kind,’ Miss Jones murmured drearily.

  ‘You’d have thought I got a proposal out of him at knife-point. Oh, dear! What a stupid thing to say.’ A flush crept up Madge’s throat, accentuating her bleached face.

  ‘Not at all,’ responded Mrs Tressler. ‘We should all be frank, especially when being interviewed by the police. I intend to tell the inspector I was surprised Regina didn’t throw it in my face that on two occasions I had to be locked up in a lunatic asylum. I shall also divulge something else that may cause him to believe I am subject to relapses.’

  ‘Are you going to tell us what that is?’ Sylvia Jones looked and sounded a little stronger.

  ‘No, my dear.’

  Madge was unknotting her fingers. ‘I must telephone Cyril before the dreadful news reaches him. May I use the one in the study, Ned?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Always so tremendously kind!’

  ‘Are you going to ask him to come here? I’m sure you could use his support.’ Voices carried down from the upper hallway, Doctor Chester’s amongst them.

  ‘Oh, yes, but I mustn’t be selfish. It would be too hard on his nerves. If the police wish to speak with him they can do so at his house. I shall be quite firm with them about that.’

  Footsteps could be heard on the stairs within moments of Madge’s departure. It was neither Doctor Chester nor Constable Trout who entered the drawing room, but Gertrude Stodmarsh. ‘William has suffered a stroke,’ she announced without visible consternation. Sylvia Jones joined Mrs Tressler and Ned in their exclamations of shock and concern. ‘It happened when I told him Regina had been murdered. He sat up in bed, pointed a finger at me and opened his mouth. All that came out was dribble before he slumped sideways. I have to think he believed I was confessing. Whether he was aghast or pleasurably shocked that for once in my useless life I’d done something worthwhile, I’ll have to wait to find out until he recovers. Doctor Chester is not optimistic. He is going to have him taken to the cottage hospital.’

  ‘Why on earth would Uncle leap to such a conclusion?’ Ned went to help her into a chair.

  Gertrude declined to sit. ‘That is easily answered. William accused me of killing his mother after she died.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not in the usual sense of murder, but to him it amounted to the same thing. He insisted I had gone up to her bedroom to tell her I wanted a separation and to ask if she would speak with my father-in-law about helping me out financially. I had intended to do so and he knew it, but I found her asleep and did not attempt to waken her.’

  Before anything else could be said, the doorbell rang, heralding the awaited detective inspector. They sat in tense silence until Grumidge ushered the policeman into the drawing room and introduced him as Inspector LeCrane. If LeCrane was impressed by the size and elegance of the room, he gave no such indication. He was tall, with a narrow face dominated by a long, beaky nose, which would have done the suggested species of bird proud. Ned put him in his mid- to late-forties. No visible gray in his dark hair. Madge returned from the study. He eyed her as she came in, and then swept the other four with a glance. Ned was standing, wishing he was just a couple of inches taller. What was the correct form in greeting an inspector? Should he shake hands, or might doing so be taken for an attempt to curry favour? He decided to risk it, upon introducing himself.

  ‘Ned Stodmarsh, sir.’

  ‘Inspector will do, Lord Stodmarsh.’ The voice was cultured, suggestive of a public school education, the tone conversational. ‘Will the remainder of you kindly identify yourself as to names and your relationship to Regina Stodmarsh?’ Even as Mrs Tressler and Madge Bradley did as requested, his gaze strayed to Sylvia Jones. Ned hoped this was merely a sign that he admired blondes. The girl was making a brave attempt at not showing alarm. In fact, Inspector LeCrane did not submit her to a particularly penetrating stare when it came to her turn. Indeed, his expression became benign.

  ‘And you are Miss …?’

  ‘Sylvia Jones. Regina Stodmarsh was my maternal grandmother.’

  ‘My sympathy. This is a bad business, but, based on information we have on hand, I’m optimistic we’ll be able to get to the bottom of it quickly.’

  ‘What information?’ Gertrude Stodmarsh asked. It had been the question on four other pairs of lips. Mrs Tressler leaned forward in her chair, Sylvia Jones back in hers, Madge Bradley sat rigid and Ned stood looking intrigued.

  ‘I’m not prepared to say. Could queer things for us if it got back to the wrong quarter. This isn’t to say that someone living under this roof isn’t either the murderer or an accessory. I’m leaning towards the latter, but I’ve gone down the wrong track before and may be doing so again. I brought with me my sergeant and two constables collected from other villages on our way here. Sergeant Wright is upstairs talking to Constable Trout and the doctor. So I’m not going to linger overly with you. When I go up Sergeant Wright will come down, ask you some questions and then explain how we intend to proceed with our inquiries.’ Inspector LeCrane looked to Gertrude Stodmarsh, who visibly had something to say.

  ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘I’m Gertrude Stodmarsh, Mr Ned Stodmarsh’s aunt by marriage. My husband William has suffered a stroke. It happened when I told him Regina had been murdered. Doctor Chester has sent for an ambulance to take him to the cottage hospital; it should be here any moment and I wish to accompany him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear of his condition.’

  ‘We are not and never have been a devoted couple, but duty must. Surely you could send one of the constables if you think it necessary to put me under watch.’

  Inspector LeCrane would have made a perfect butler; nothing could be gained from his voice or facial expression. ‘They are both needed here, Mrs Stodmarsh. One will be stationed at the foot of the front staircase, the other at the base of the back ones; the reason being that nobody will be permitted to return to their bedrooms until they have been searched, by Sergeant Wright and Constable Trout. As for your situation, Mrs Stodmarsh, I see no difficulty in allowing you to go to the hospital with your husband and remain with him as long as you wish. You can be interviewed there. I request that everyone else remain in the house. The grounds are also off limits. I regret the inconvenience, but it is as it must be. An attempt to flee would help rather than hurt
the investigation. Only a guilty person would attempt to flee.’

  ‘I’m not of a build suited to fleeing, Inspector,’ Gertrude interjected. ‘The best I could manage would be a trot, and I couldn’t keep that up above thirty seconds.’

  Inspector LeCrane’s mouth inched upward at this stolid reply.

  ‘Am I allowed to telephone a friend to let her know what has happened? I had intended to do so, but my husband’s condition intervened.’

  ‘Regrettably, Mrs Stodmarsh, I have to stipulate that no one use the phone, I’m sure you will all understand we cannot risk a message being conveyed to a confederate.’

  ‘What a horrible word!’ Madge gasped. ‘Oh, dear! I do see the sound thinking, but I never thought … I do hope it won’t go against me that I phoned Cyril … Cyril Fritch, my fiancé, to let him know what had happened, so he wouldn’t hear it from someone else, and reassure him that I’m holding up well, which isn’t quite the truth, but I did not want him to feel he had to rush over. He has very sensitive nerves.’

  ‘Nothing to be done about that. Anyone else? Good.’ He turned to Ned. ‘May I impose on you, Lord Stodmarsh, to notify your staff of that prohibition and explain to them the reason they may not leave the lower levels. Also advise them to prepare themselves for being summoned for questioning.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Ned had been hoping for an early chance to speak with Florence. His concern for her chafed at him.

  The inspector requested Gertrude to go with him and they were heard mounting the stairs. Within moments there came a murmuring of voices, which included Doctor Chester’s and possibly one of the constables.

  ‘Interesting – his assertion that he has an outsider in mind for the crime – one who may have a cohort at Mullings. If so, that would seem to rule out a tramp,’ said Mrs Tressler.

  ‘He could have added that last part, Grandma,’ suggested Ned, ‘to make sure we all toe the line in following instructions.’

  ‘But how comforting for it to be a stranger!’ Madge clasped her hands to her chest – a less complicated gesture than her intricate knotting of them.

  ‘I don’t see why!’ Sylvia Jones sounded on the verge of hysteria as she leaped to her feet. ‘And I don’t believe it! Someone in this room is the killer and I can’t bear to be cooped up in this room with any of you any longer!’

  ‘You don’t need to be, child,’ Mrs Tressler went over to her. ‘The inspector did not restrict our movements on this floor.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. I think I’ll go to the sitting room where I waited the other evening to find out whether Regina would see me or not. I don’t mind if you come with me.’ The platinum hair was at odds with her look of vulnerability.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll be glad to do so.’

  Ned went with them down the hall and left them at the sitting-room door. He was about to continue towards the back stairs when he heard familiar barking from behind the study door. On opening it he received a rapturous greeting from Rouser, tail wagging a mile a minute, to which he responded with equal joy. The day brightened enormously. It didn’t matter where the dog had been. He was back. ‘Come along, old fellow,’ Ned patted his side, ‘let’s get you some breakfast.’ Rouser woofed approval.

  At the base of the back stairs stood the constable assigned to guard them against access to the floors above. Ned had noted the man’s colleague on duty by the front staircase. They had his sympathy; he couldn’t imagine anything more tiresome than standing still for ten minutes, let alone facing the prospect of doing so for hours. He was expressing this solicitous view when Grumidge appeared in the passageway. After bending to pat the dog and congratulating Ned on its return, the butler offered the information that he’d left the study door to the terrace open so the police would find it in the same state as during the night.

  ‘I trust I did right, sir.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ned glanced at the constable, who nodded agreement. Whether or not he had the authority to do so would be between him and the higher-ups. Ned passed along Inspector LeCrane’s instructions to Grumidge, and then asked where he would find Mrs Norris.

  ‘In the kitchen, sir, with Mrs McDonald.’

  ‘How is everyone else holding up?’

  ‘Seemingly well, except for Annie. I fear she will fall further apart at the thought of being questioned. Mrs Norris would have sent her up to sit with Jeanie, who is still resting her injured ankle, had the constable permitted.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ rejoined the man.

  ‘Commendable.’ Ned clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘But we can’t leave a young woman to starve, can we? Someone has to take up her breakfast.’

  ‘There you have me, Lord Stodmarsh,’ the face under the helmet lengthened, ‘puts me in a right quandary, that does.’

  ‘Don’t let it get you down. I’ll explain it to the inspector or his sergeant.’

  The constable nodded. Probably the only physical exercise he would get for a while.

  ‘What about breakfast for yourself and the family, sir?’ Grumidge inquired.

  ‘I imagine we are at the mercy of the inspector’s schedule there as in so much else,’ replied Ned cheerfully, ‘although I shall risk being handcuffed for giving Rouser his without requesting permission.’ He stepped into the kitchen with the dog at his heels in time to hear Mrs McDonald say to Florence, ‘I don’t condone murder, but this one couldn’t have happened to a nastier person and I’m not about to shed any crocodile tears.’

  ‘No point in being hypocritical,’ agreed Ned. ‘I can’t work myself up to a tinge of regret. See who’s back where he belongs!’

  Both women exclaimed over Rouser. A sheen of tears showed in Florence’s eyes. ‘What a relief! I wonder how long it’s been since he’s eaten. He must have his bowl filled immediately.’

  While Mrs McDonald was thus occupied, Ned put an arm round Florence and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve some reasonably good news, Florie, dear. The inspector indicated there may be a quick arrest. Even more encouraging, he has something up his sleeve that suggests to him Regina was killed by someone outside the household. He seems to have a particular person in mind.’

  Florence took this in. ‘I wonder,’ she said slowly, ‘if he suspects the ornamental hermit?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that, but if so it might explain the inspector’s thinking that whoever it was may have had an accomplice at Mullings.’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs McDonald rejoined them, ‘that’s a fly in the ointment if ever there was one, Mr Ned. If it’s true I’ve got to think someone made use of a crazy old man to do the deed for him or her. And my betting, though I took to her fine, is on Miss Jones as the most likely person; though in my book that makes her the murderer and him the accomplice.’

  Florence disagreed. ‘I don’t believe it. I’m sorry, Ned. I think her arrival came in very handy as a pawn for a hand waiting for some time to make a move on the board.’

  ‘Whose hand?’ he asked, hollow voiced.

  ‘I’m unwilling to say. I could be wrong.’

  Ned’s mind whirled, but he knew he mustn’t press her. ‘Will you open up to the inspector?’

  ‘I must, though he’ll probably dismiss my reasoning as nonsense.’

  Mrs McDonald stared at her. ‘Well, I never! Put shivers down my spine, you do! Still, I have to say, if anyone has their eyes and ears open to what goes on here it’s you. So I wouldn’t be surprised if you have the right of it.’

  Ned endeavoured to console himself with the certainty that his grandma was in the clear. Anyone else would not be devastating to the point of abject misery. He remembered to tell Florence and Mrs McDonald about his uncle’s stroke, which he’d failed to communicate to Grumidge.

  Each voiced shocked distress.

  ‘As if this day couldn’t get worse!’ Mrs McDonald proclaimed.

  ‘How is Mrs William doing?’ The anxiety on Florence’s face increased.

  ‘She’s been granted permission to go with him in the ambulance. As
I told Grumidge, the rest of us will be restricted in our movements for the time being. Better get back to the gruelling. I’m sure the inspector will request a space to set up operations. If it suits him, which I’d think it should because there’s a telephone there, I’ll put the study at his disposal. I imagine I’ll be the first summoned for questioning.’ He shrugged expressively and left with Rouser at his heels.

  On returning to the drawing room Ned discovered his grandmother and Sylvia Jones there, presumably ordered back by Sergeant Wright, who turned out to be a thickset, muscular man, with the broken-nosed countenance of a boxer. Presently he was dashing a pencil across the page of a notebook with a ferocity that suggested he would have preferred to be wielding a gun, ready to order Mrs Tressler, Madge Bradley and Sylvia Jones to put their hands up if they so much as squirmed in their seats. He did not bother to rise. Clearly he wasn’t wearing kid gloves.

  ‘And you are?’ He glanced around at Ned who responded cheerfully.

  ‘Your host, Edward Stodmarsh. Ned to family and friends, which I gather is not likely to include you, Sergeant. Welcome to Mullings.’

  ‘Better for you, Lord Stodmarsh, if you don’t go throwing your upper-crust weight around. Save that for those that have to bow and scrape, which doesn’t include me and Inspector LeCrane. To us you’re just another subject for questioning. First name?’ As if he didn’t already know.