A Death in the Family (7 page)

Miss Richenda tossed her head. The sudden movement made me stab my finger with a hairpin. ‘Sorry,’ she said, but I knew from her expression she didn’t care in the slightest.

‘Mr Richard was looking in the library too. He made a great deal of mess.’ I had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes narrow.

‘It is not your place to criticise my brother,’ she said sharply. ‘He might not be the best or the most careful businessman, but he is my twin.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realise, miss,’ I said. I did not feel I could directly ask about Mr Richard’s failings, but I needed to keep the conversation flowing. ‘You are not that alike. Although I suppose both you and Mr Richard are more akin to each other than to Mr Bertram.’

Miss Richenda nodded. ‘He’s dearest Step-Mama’s son. Papa’s second wife.’

‘Oh, I thought …’ I stopped, blushing.

‘Oh no,’ said Miss Richenda. ‘He married her quite young. My mother died when I was seven. Thrown from a horse. A society beauty, but with a background in trade. We’re all terribly middling despite what Dearest Step-Mama pretends. This huge house was all her idea.’

There was a tap at the door. Mrs Wilson entered. ‘Euphemia! You are needed. I’m sorry, Miss Richenda. This maid should not be here.’

Richenda gestured at the door. ‘We’re done. You can go.’

I followed Mrs Wilson out. ‘Seeing as you are up here, you can clean the upstairs bedrooms. Quickly now. It must be finished by the time dinner is over.’

What about mine? I thought, but had the sense not to say. The labours of a servant were giving me the most enormous appetite. I could only hope the generous Mrs Deighton would remember me. Mrs Wilson opened a small, well-concealed cupboard and thrust a dustpan, brush and duster into my hands.

‘Where do I start?’

Mrs Wilson made a sweeping gesture along the corridor. ‘All the bedrooms on this wing need dusting. Merry should have straightened the beds, but I am making it your responsibility to see that when the family return from dinner they find their rooms in perfect order.’

I swallowed, but nodded. My brief acquaintance with the Staplefords gave me little hope they were capable of picking up even a pin.

Mrs Wilson glided away, a dark, self-satisfied apparition. The kinder side of my nature wondered how any woman could have lacked to such a glacial degree, the warmth of human kindness – what had happened to her to make her the way she was? My other side – the one my mother had worked so hard to suppress – wanted to kick her down the stairs.

To put temptation out of range I chose a room at random and opened the door.

I walked into a bedroom resplendent with heavy, masculine furniture. All the pieces were made from dark stained wood with a twisted pole detail. The bed was a half tester with drapery in verdant green. Curtains of the same colour adorned two wide windows that overlooked the drive. To one side of the bed was a clothes stand with a man’s day clothes neatly hung upon it. I recognised the jacket at once as belonging to Mr Bertram. There were two high chests of drawers. Both shut. A dressing table with a hairbrush, small box and a bowl for change was perfectly arranged. A pair of chairs was placed with mirror symmetry at 45-degree angles either side of the bed. Nothing was out of order except the green counterpane which was in considerable disarray. The faint smell of musky, male cologne hung in the air.

It felt impolite to even look for dust in such an immaculate room. I left the dustpan and broom by the door and began to waft the feather duster. I wasn’t entirely sure of its purpose except as a means to move dust from one area to another. Was I meant to sweep it onto the floor and then capture it with the dustpan? It was hardly the kind of question I could ask. Any of the servants would know I was fraud at once whereas I was certain should I ever be on chatting terms with the family they would have no idea either.

I reasoned as long as I went through the motions I had seen all maids do that an acceptable outcome would occur. I set to with a will and quickly discovered that flicking the feather duster was actually quite enjoyable. In Miss Richenda’s room there was going to be a lot of work tidying and replacing items, but it was pleasurable to whisk around this near-perfect room removing a very few specks of dust and leaving it in totally immaculate order.

I felt I was quite getting into the swing of things when disaster struck. The top of the tester was quite out of my reach, but if I stood on tiptoe I was certain I could reach its sides. I managed to remove a loop of spider-web, but in doing so I dislodged a small dust kitten from farther up the bed. I stretched a tiny bit more and overreached myself.

The dust kitten fell on my head and I fell onto the bed sneezing violently.

My impact with the counterpane was hard and painful enough that I didn’t even fuss about the mess in my hair. Instead I rolled over onto my side groaning. The bed was once again soft. There was something hard under the cover. I paused for a moment to collect myself and became aware of a subtle but distinct male scent coming from the bed. Instead of feeling repelled as a girl of my breeding should have done, I confess I rather liked it. The total impropriety of my response brought me to my senses and I sat up, blushing vividly.

My hand touched the hard surface under the covers. I was here to make the bed, so surely …? I threw back the counterpane and uncovered a book. The cover was bound in blue leather. Stencilled on the front was the title
The Complete Architectural Drawings of Stapleford House
.

I was kneeling on the rumpled bed, staring down in horror at my discovery, when the bedroom door opened and Mr Bertram entered.

‘What the hell are you doing in my bed?’ demanded Mr Bertram, his face suffused with colour.

‘I am not in your bed,’ I retorted hotly. ‘I am on it. And pray, what are you doing with the missing book?’ I attempted to brandish the tome at him, but it was too heavy. I had to content myself with waggling the hard cover in a way I intended to be forceful and menacing. It was not entirely successful.

‘Leave my chambers at once!’

‘It is hardly “chambers”. There is only one room!’

Mr Bertram walked across to the bed. ‘There is an en-suite,’ he said icily. ‘One I assume you were sent to clean rather than riffling through my possessions.’

‘I am not riffling!’ I protested. I scrambled to the edge of the bed. Mr Bertram was very close, but at least I was no longer among the sheets. ‘Do not change the subject. You should not have this.’

‘How dare you tell me what I can or cannot do, wench!’

‘I am not a wench,’ I screeched. ‘If you do not immediately tell me why this book is hidden in your room I shall scream the place down.’

‘Euphemia, that is enough.’

‘I will.’

We stood facing each other, eyes locked. I had to look up, but I am sure my intent showed in my eyes because Mr Bertram suddenly gave a huge sigh and seemed to shrink a little. I was conscious of a pang of sympathy. ‘You are the most extraordinary maid I have ever met,’ he said, backing towards one of the chairs and sitting on it. I was about to reply with a blistering retort about so-called gentlemen who sit in the presence of a lady when I remembered my situation. So instead I drew myself up to my full height and said, ‘I may be only a maid, but I am a female. Would it be unreasonable of me to expect you to offer me a seat before we talk?’

He waved his hand at the other chair. ‘Are we going to talk?’

I sighed and walked round the bed to fetch the other chair. He made no move to help me. I lugged it over. ‘I do hope you generally treat ladies better than this.’

‘I am not in the habit of entertaining ladies in my bedchamber.’

I flushed.

‘I repeat my question: are we going to talk?’ he said. This time his moustache was not quivering. It was quite still. His forehead was wrinkled in an unbecoming frown.

I plonked my chair into place and sat down. ‘You shouldn’t frown like that,’ I said directly. ‘Your hair will recede early.’

Mr Bertram put his hand up involuntarily to check his hairline. I suspected from the neatness of the room he was a somewhat vain man. I had what I wanted; I had him off-guard. I continued. ‘I think considering what I have just found concealed in your room we need to discuss the matter.’

‘What? Are you going to blackmail me?’

I almost shot out of my chair. ‘Of course not,’ I spat. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘I’m not entirely sure what you are. I am fast coming to the conclusion you are no serving maid.’

‘I think I had already told you that a change in circumstances had led me to seek a position in service,’ I responded with as much dignity as I could muster.

Mr Bertram grunted. My disgust must have shown for he said, ‘If you choose to hire yourself as a maid you will have to become used to men treating you like a servant. I should take this opportunity to warn you that any other male member of the household finding a pretty servant in …’ I gave him a furious glare and he corrected himself. ‘…
on
his bed would have been unlikely to have behaved with the restraint I have shown.’

I quailed inwardly, but I also noted he referred positively to my appearance. ‘I was led to understand this was a gentleman’s household.’

Mr Bertram shook his head. ‘You have no idea of what it means to be a gentleman in these changing times.’ I opened my mouth to speak. He raised his hand commandingly to silence me and continued. ‘And you have certainly no idea of what being in service is liable to require of you.’ He pulled his brows close and leant forward. His eyes travelled from my toes to my head. I felt myself flinching under his gaze. ‘This is an unsuitable occupation for you.’

‘So you have said at wearisome length. But what you have not done, sir, is explain the presence of this book.’

Mr Bertram sat back in his seat. ‘You are akin to a terrier with a rat,’ he said smiling slightly.

‘Thank you for the flattering comparison,’ I responded. ‘I assure you I am a most assiduous hunter.’

He did laugh at that. ‘My God, to be threatened by a maid in my own house! I take it you think I murdered dear Cousin George?’

I considered this idea briefly. I can honestly say it had not occurred to me. I began to realise what a dangerous position I might have put myself in. ‘No,’ I said carefully, ‘I do not think that. However, I do think you had a reason for removing the book. I also would not have described you as overwhelmed by grief. I surmise you know something about this incident you are unwilling to share with the police.’

Mr Bertram clapped twice. ‘Bravo! You surmise correctly.’

‘Don’t mock me,’ I snapped. I recovered quickly and added, ‘Please, sir.’

‘What is your interest in all this?’

‘It has been variously suggested that I may have some personal involvement with the recent tragedy.’

‘You want to clear your name?’

‘I’m certainly keen not to be dismissed without references.’

‘So you would not claim you had an innate passion for justice?’

‘I have never had cause to consider it,’ I responded honestly. ‘Though I naturally would not want to see a criminal go unpunished.’

‘Naturally.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I cannot say I am used to having an honest staff. In my experience servants do not tend to mourn the passing of their masters and are more likely to avail themselves of his boots on his demise than weep with grief.’

‘Then they must have had to endure some very poor masters.’

Mr Bertram bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘There is merit in what you say. However, while the lower classes may distrust the upper, the upper – or in my case the upper-middle – tend to be wary of the police.’

‘Scandal,’ I conjectured.

‘Yes, that. An unwillingness to have one’s affairs paraded for the amusement of the common lot. But also perhaps also a distrust of a police service that is comprised of men, who will not ever be able to afford to live as we – my family – do.’

‘You think Sergeant Davies is not an honest man?’

Mr Bertram shrugged. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Now you tell me who you are shielding.’

We locked eyes once more. Then to my surprise, he conceded. ‘Lord knows I have no one else to address my suspicions towards. I shall of course deny this conversation took place if you are ever foolish enough to mention it to another.’

‘Of course,’ I responded. ‘You are a gentleman.’

He coloured but whipped back, ‘And you are a servant.’

‘We approach the situation from different sides, but I suspect not entirely different moral stances.’

‘Madam, you accuse me of having morals?’

‘Do not joke, sir. I acquit you of dishonesty and accuse you of a desire to protect. Who are you shielding?’

‘My half-sister, Richenda. My family are an odd lot, but I like her the best of them all.’

‘And your like of her would make her murdering of your cousin acceptable? I see now why you and the police force are unlikely to agree.’

‘You don’t understand. I do not know that Richenda did this – and if she has I would not approve of her actions – but there are mitigating circumstances. You would not understand.’

‘You mean the man was a cad?’

‘I see my cousin’s epitaph is already being written by rumour. An epitaph is …’

‘I know what it is,’ I interrupted. ‘So your cousin was close to Miss Richenda?’

He pursed his lips. ‘Let us just say I have always thought it was not only politics that caused Richenda to flee the house as soon as she was able.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Until recently Cousin George lived here.’

‘Ah, I do understand.’

‘I rather hope you don’t,’ said Mr Bertram unexpectedly.

‘But she arrived after the murder.’

‘The perfect alibi.’

‘If you count it being physically impossible for her to have committed the atrocity, yes. I would call that the ultimate alibi. I believe it is also technically known as innocence.’

‘But did she arrive afterwards?’ asked Mr Bertram. He got up and went over the rumpled bed and threw back the untidy sheets. I tensed myself ready to run, but all he did was uncover and open the book. ‘Look here.’