Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (16 page)

‘One of the things I've always admired about you,' said Florence bracingly, ‘is that attitude.' Annie sat up a little straighter. ‘But in this case your situation was different from the rest of us and that's because of the bad fright you had last night while preparing Lady Stodmarsh's hot milk. Something about a mouse, Mrs McDonald told me, though she couldn't get all you were saying because her ears weren't feeling right.'

‘It weren't her fault. It were me. I'd bin struck of a heap, being terrified of them like I am, and couldn't put two words together that wasn't all of a jumble.'

‘Did you see a mouse?'

‘No, but when someone comes in and says … but again, I don't want to make no excuses …'

‘Especially if that someone was a member of the family.'

‘I didn't mean to let that slip to Mrs McDonald.' Annie twisted the hanky.

‘Of course not. What was your immediate reaction on hearing the word mouse?'

‘I screamed.'

‘And then?'

‘I turned to look.'

‘As anyone would have done. I think the best way to put the incident behind you is to tell me the whole story.'

‘But I don't want to sound like it was done intentional to scare me.'

‘No one would think that.' Florence flinched inwardly at being deceitful. She also wondered if Annie's concern on this point suggested the unwelcome thought that she had been scared on purpose. That she suffered from her nerves did not make her incapable of thought or observation.

At the end of half an hour Florence had not only the name she had expected, but enough other information to make sense of what Mrs McDonald had gleaned, or misunderstood, from what Annie had managed to get out last night. After explaining about Miss Johnson, she took the considerably calmer girl up to sit with her, on the promise she would be relieved from this duty for her midday meal, and for briefer breaks when requested.

Later that morning, Florence managed to snare fifteen minutes to go up to her bedroom and write down, as precisely as she could remember, what Lady Stodmarsh had said to her last night. She then hid the folded sheet of paper in her handkerchief sachet.

The Dog and Whistle was packed that evening with villagers, desirous of a congregating point to talk about Lady Stodmarsh's death. The mood was one of sadness and shock. Far more was voiced than drunk, so George was not kept all that busy. He wasn't surprised at not hearing back from Florence. It couldn't be expected, run off her feet as she'd have been. He'd hear from her in good time. No bother there. What did bother him was that he hadn't been able to give her his support. She was a strong woman, no question, but that didn't mean she couldn't do with an arm round her at such a time. What he needed was the sight of her dear face, but it didn't do to hope for that before the funeral. Still, it helped to see Alf and Doris, who had joined her husband at the pub that evening. It was good to be with friends who were fond of Florence.

For all the talk about Lady Stodmarsh's death coming as such a bolt out of the blue, it never crossed the minds of any present that murder had struck Dovecote Hatch for the first time in living memory. Not even those of the two maiden ladies residing at Green Gates who checked under their beds every night with pokers in hand to make sure a man with evil intent wasn't hiding there.

Hilda Stark was the only person aside from Florence who thought that Lady Stodmarsh had been murdered. But, whereas Florence had reasons, Hilda fastened on the notion for no reason other than the malicious glee of the notion. What a comeuppance it would be for them at Mullings, all these years after she'd been turfed out on her ear, if it could've been that way. And why not? There was always murders happening in the better families … too much time on their hands. Hilda had not darkened the doors of the Dog and Whistle since the set-to with George over Madge Bradley. Sitting in her grubby bedsitter, she gave a cackle, then burped. Her drinking had only increased since being caught on the hop when she'd been nanny to that wretched child. She poured herself another gin. Who should she choose to have done it?

All that gabble she'd heard today about poor Lord Stodmarsh and how he was bound to be broke to pieces, brought on another cackle. From what she'd seen, those as seemed to take the death of a spouse worst recovered quickest. Especially when there was a hopeful party standing by, hand stuck out for a wedding ring! Over the past few months, Hilda had worked her way round to blaming Madge Bradley for George Bird having eyed her like she was muck just for saying how sad it must've been for the woman getting ditched at the altar, and she had come to positively ferment with hate for a woman she didn't know.

Another gin went down smooth as silk at the idea of Miss Bradley laying her plan to snatch at the chance for second time lucky by grabbing Lord Stodmarsh on the rebound – no matter that he must be all of thirty years her senior. Hilda was now well on her way to half believing Lady Stodmarsh had been bumped off. How wickedly lovely. ‘Hee, hee!' She burped again as she pictured a ring-less hand stirring something that wasn't sugar into Lady Stodmarsh's bedtime cocoa … no, remember, it was hot milk with bicarb. It didn't have to be Madge Bradley, though that was preferable. It would be almost as good if it were His Lordship himself, or, even sweeter, the mad grandmother who'd so handily come on a visit. That'd knock wretched Master Ned down a ladder of pegs. Better yet if he'd done it; less fun if it was Mr or Mrs William, but any of them would do. Her thoughts hiccupped towards Florence. What would it do to that tattle-telling witch if the police should start asking awkward questions? Here, Hilda had her best cackle of the night. She hated Florence Norris even more than she did Madge Bradley.

A week passed, during which Florence wrote to Gracie Norris and George. Gracie came over from Farn Deane, as invited, and spent an hour with her on the Thursday, but Florence did not suggest a meeting with George. Beyond expressing her appreciation for his concern, she focused on the possibility of overnight guests in the days ahead. As it happened, there were none beyond Mrs Tressler, who had been a mine of helpfulness not only making telephone calls and setting menus, but also in taking over the care of Miss Johnson. The old lady was not doing at all well. After one of his visits to her, Doctor Chester told Florence he did not expect her to linger long. If either Mrs William or Miss Bradley evinced resentment of Mrs Tressler asserting herself, nothing was heard of it below stairs. As for Mr William, Ned informed Florence he had been almost scarily subdued. Ned seemed to have garnered strength from being alert to his grandfather's every mood.

Lillian Stodmarsh's funeral took place on the following Monday. The turnout would have surprised her modest sense of self. Even those from Dovecote Hatch who were barely ambulatory gathered to a tolling of bells in the rain-dripping churchyard with its ancient yews to witness the mistress of Mullings' coffin being lowered into the ground. Also present making an outing of it, thought Alf Thatcher sourly, there being some very pretty country thereabouts, were members of the Stafford-Reid and Blake families.

Sir Winthrop and Lady Blake were accompanied by their son, a young man who would have looked damply limp had the sky been bright blue and the sun beaming down. Their fourteen-year-old daughter Lamorna had remained at home with her governess. Not only was she deemed too young to witness life's grim culmination, it was unthinkable that she miss her lesson in deportment, a subject at which she excelled. Her ability to balance a book on her head whilst jumping a fence on her horse entirely negated the likelihood that she would ever learn to balance a check book. Where would be the need when she married into the nobility – an inevitability given her promise of astonishing beauty?

Enveloped in a happy daydream, Lady Blake barely glanced at His Lordship as Reverend Pimcrisp, in an irritatingly high-pitched voice, intoned that business of ashes to ashes, dust to dust and so on and so forth. Her husband was occupied smothering a yawn. Young Mr Gideon Blake was deep in contemplation of his next haircut … a little longer in front would perhaps be desirable. Then again, did he wish it to drape over his right eyebrow, thus lessening the ability to raise it to amusing effect? Or were witty eyebrows not really the thing these days?

To most others, including George Bird in the suit he'd worn to his Mabel's funeral, Lord Stodmarsh appeared every one of his seventy-odd years. He stood flanked by his son, daughter-in-law, young grandson and Madge Bradley. The staff, outfitted in black, stood to their rear. Grumidge's keen eyes noted they all behaved with propriety. Any weeping, even that from Annie Long, was restrained. Florence was proud of them. On the return to the house, ahead of the family, it must be all speed ahead in making ready refreshments for the bereaved and the condolers.

Florence clasped her black-gloved hands tighter when she noticed George eyeing her with concern. She was both comforted and further saddened, having made the decision not to seek the benefit of his kindness and steady common sense. She had become surer by the day that it would be wrong to burden him with her suspicions. Strangely enough, it hadn't once occurred to her, even in her most stressed moments, to wonder what Robert would have advised. The memory of his funeral, however, came piercingly back to her now. The same churchyard, of course, and a similar rainy day. She had withstood his death and gone on, albeit with a heavy heart; as she must do now.

There had been times over the past week when she had allowed herself to wonder if Lady Stodmarsh, driven by anxiety, might not have intentionally taken an overdose. Doctor Chester had checked her supply of tablets and found none unaccounted for, but that did not discount the possibility that she'd been able to lay her hands on others. Lady Stodmarsh had been a religious woman and as such would have believed taking her own life was a grievous sin, for which there could be no repentance. But, might not even the strongest of us reach a breaking point after years of physical suffering? And Lady Stodmarsh had been so very troubled that night – the hours when problems so often loom their largest.

Standing under a dripping elm, Florence looked from under her hat at a face that was probably as well concealed as her own, if only by the veil of rain. Then she looked at George, for what seemed like forever, although it was really just a sideways glance. She felt a distance opening up between them, and said a mental goodbye. Now that she had decided that it would be unfair to share her burden of suspicion with him, there could be no future for them – either of friendship or building towards a life together. In becoming surer than ever that the death of the woman she had liked and deeply admired wasn't from either natural causes or suicide, she had locked herself into a loneliness she never could have imagined in the depths of her grief for Robert.

Two days after the funeral she received the anonymous letter.

F
lorence happened to be in the kitchen when Alf Thatcher handed in the early morning post. ‘One for you,' he said.

‘Thanks, Alf,' she said, taking the batch.

‘Looks like it come from a child. No return address; little 'uns always forget that. Anyways, right there on top.'

Florence automatically looked down. The cautiously printed pencil lettering on the envelope did not suggest a child's writing to her. She instantly guessed, with sickening trepidation, what was contained within.

‘You all right?' Alf asked. ‘Me and Doris has been worried about you. As for Birdie, he can't stay still five minutes, always shifting bottles around or buffing up glasses that's already got a shine on them you can see yourself in.'

‘I'm doing very well, just extremely busy.'

‘You must be, but any time you fancy a break, you and Birdie come round for a meal.' When she didn't respond immediately, he turned a little uncomfortable. ‘Think about it anyways.'

‘I will.'

‘Best be off then.'

‘Say hello to Doris for me.'

‘Will do.' He hesitated, as if about to say something else, before making for the door.

Florence was dimly aware that he was hurt, but her focus was elsewhere. She handed all but the letter addressed to her to Grumidge when she came across him in the passageway, and then sped into the housekeeper's room. On ripping open the envelope, she discovered she was right. On the coarse piece of lined notepaper, ripped unevenly from a pad, written with the same exaggerated care, were the words: ‘WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT?'

Unsigned, of course. Sinking down into her desk chair, she waited for her heartbeat to slow and her breathing to even out. To her mind there was no question who had sent it. Hilda Stark. She didn't think about being fair or the wrongness of prejudging the woman. Lady Stodmarsh had said long ago when Hilda was dismissed as Ned's nanny that the family had made an enemy for life. Who else in Dovecote Hatch bore a grudge against the family, sufficient to stoop this low? When occasionally passing Hilda on the village street in the years since she'd departed Mullings, Florence had felt an emanation of hatred, reaffirming her view that Lady Stodmarsh had hit the nail on the head. The opportunity for revenge might have taken a long time coming, but bitterness, when constantly stirred in the pot, made for the nastiest of brews.

Florence did not think Hilda Stark had been spurred to write those words because she really believed Lady Stodmarsh had been murdered. A polluted mind will wend itself down the darkest of roads without resorting to fact. It seemed far likelier Hilda had acted out of sheer malice upon the impetus of Lady Stodmarsh's sudden death. That, however, was really neither here nor there when it came to Florence's deciding what she should do, if anything, about the letter – if it could be called such.

Had it been delivered before the funeral, she was pretty sure she'd have felt compelled to take it to the police, which in Dovecote Hatch was Constable Trout, who currently spent much of his time helping old ladies across the road whether they wanted to go or not. The letter's impact was diabolically increased by the timing of its arrival. Florence felt sick picturing Hilda snickering to herself about this piece of cleverness. Turning the letter over to the authorities now could lead to an order to exhume the body. Regardless of whether or not anything substantive was found during the post-mortem, this would be an unspeakable ordeal for Lord Stodmarsh and Ned, as well as seriously unpleasant for all innocent parties concerned. There would be the initial scandal, followed inevitably in some quarters by murmurings of no smoke without fire. Evil, even from a twisted mind, can be exceedingly clever. It was not the first time in the last week and a half that Florence had faced that fact.