Murder at Mullings Page 16

  His godson, Jim, had broken things off with his young lady after facing up to the fact that it could be years before he earned enough from his paintings to provide for her in marriage. It wasn’t right to keep her dangling, missing out on meeting a man who had no reason to delay proposing to her. His parents, Sally and Arthur, made the big mistake of telling him they were over the moon that he’d come to his senses. A girl of that sort – with a silly name and a platinum streak in her hair – wasn’t the daughter-in-law for them. That she was the one for Jim didn’t come into it. He admitted in a letter to George that he’d slammed out of their house and didn’t know when he’d want to see them again, if ever – harsh words that told George the lad must be head-over-heels in love with the girl and heartbroken at feeling morally compelled to give her up.

  Alf Thatcher’s voice broke through the burble of overlapping conversations that evening at the Dog and Whistle. ‘Well, Birdie,’ he said, having elbowed his way up to the bar, ‘if this isn’t a right turn-up for the book, His Lordship marrying again, I don’t know what is. Nobody’s business but his own, of course.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound that way from in here.’ George refilled Alf’s glass with another half-pint. ‘Can’t expect anything else, of course, human nature being what it is, but what I say is – no good speculating on the whys and wherefores; best just to wish him and his intended well and leave it at that.’

  Alf eyed him sharply. ‘It doesn’t go down well, does it, all this stuff about getting himself caught on the rebound?’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ George’s return look was appreciative, ‘becoming a widower doesn’t mean a man’s senses have got to fall out of his ears, or that there’s always a desperate woman out to bag him.’

  ‘I know, I know, Birdie, never thought that about you an’ Florence; all I said was I didn’t like the way it turned out for you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What bothers me with His Lordship is his health going downhill this past year. When you don’t feel fit, it’s not so easy to think clear, is it now?’

  George had to give him that. ‘That doesn’t mean his intended isn’t a wonderful woman.’

  ‘That’s what me and Doris had been telling ourselves, till the vicar’s housekeeper said something puzzling to her when they ran into each other doing the shopping this afternoon. She said Mr Pimcrisp turned white as a sheet when she broke the news to him at around eleven this morning. She’d taken him in a cup of tea as she always does at that time and his hand shook so bad he knocked the cup off his desk.’

  George smiled. ‘I don’t see much odd in that. It’s typical of the narrow-minded old geezer, I’d say, to think anyone marrying at over seventy should be ashamed of themselves – another sign of unclean living taking over mankind worse than ever.’

  ‘That’s what Doris thought, till the housekeeper said it was when she told the vicar the name of the wife-to-be and that she comes from Northumberland that he turned from disapproving to queer. She couldn’t figure out why at first, then it dawned on her. Mr Pimcrisp’s second or third cousin – whatever it is – Lord Asprey, also lives in Northumberland, and the two of them keep in touch by writing to each other once a month. The vicar’s one worldly vanity, she told Doris, is being on fairly close terms with His Lordship. Not that we don’t know that already from him dropping the name like pennies in the poorbox when he’s bin in here with Lord Stodmarsh. It could be, she thought, that the two families – Lord Asprey’s and the lady’s in question – live quite close to each other and he’d heard something against her that he passed on to the vicar in one of his letters.’ Alf stopped talking when other customers shifted up alongside him wanting refills. George saw to these, either briskly or leisurely depending on whether the customer wanted to chat or not. Then he waited for the tide to draw them back into the sea of general conversation, before picking up the threads of what the vicar’s housekeeper had said to Alf’s Doris.

  George shook his balding head. ‘A fat lot that means! According to Pimcrisp’s strict bookkeeping, not getting out of bed till noon would be the deadly sin of sloth. And not going to church regular would be as bad as burning down every cathedral in England.’

  ‘I know, I know, as do Doris, but she said that didn’t stop a shiver go down her spine for fear His Lordship could be making a terrible mistake. When a man’s good through and through, like he is, he don’t always see what others do in a person.’

  ‘Now then, Alf,’ chided George, ‘I know how well thought of Lady Stodmarsh was, and more than well deserved, but we’ve all got to give the new one a fair chance. Happen to know her name?’ It was just something to say to weave his friend away from gloomy thoughts.

  ‘Not her married one, her being a widow. It didn’t stick with Doris if the housekeeper mentioned it, but the maiden one did, ’cos it put her in mind of them hats Scotchmen wear. You’ll know the ones …’

  ‘Tam-o’-shanters?’

  ‘That’s them! Give me a mo … ah, got it! Tamersham was the lady’s maiden name.’ Alf misread George’s expression. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything even to you, Birdie. I know how you feel about people passing round rumours and the harm it causes nine times out o’ ten. Haven’t forgotten how you went at Hilda Stark that time she talked spiteful about Miss Bradley.’

  ‘This isn’t the same,’ George reassured him, ‘you’ve got His Lordship’s interest at heart. She hates the lot of them up at Mullings and would gladly see them all hung, drawn and quartered. It was that name that surprised me. Florence’s mother was in service in Northumbria with a family whose name was Tamersham before she wed.’

  It was the first time in a long while that he’d brought up Florence’s name when speaking to Alf, let alone anyone else. Alf was hailed away by the postmistress, leaving George to his own thoughts. Coincidences happened all the time and this one didn’t seem sufficient to explain the prickle of superstitious discomfort he was feeling. Unless it came from remembering Florence’s mother’s fixed stare while talking about that strange business of the Tamershams’ ornamental hermit. Each to his own, of course, and it didn’t mean for a minute that His Lordship’s future wife was cut from the same cloth as her arrogant forebears. Still, he wished her maiden name was anything but Tamersham.

  At around the same time at Mullings, Mrs McDonald was renouncing all claims to be gifted with second sight. ‘I’m not saying I didn’t have it once upon a time, Mrs Norris. Must have fallen out of my shopping bag somewhere along the road, though, because I certainly didn’t see this coming.’ Privacy was ensured by their being in the housekeeper’s room; even so, Florence kept her voice low.

  ‘No one could have, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s required of us and the rest of the staff is to be pleased for His Lordship and ready ourselves to smooth the household path for the new Lady Stodmarsh.’

  ‘How do you think Master Ned’s handling the surprise of it all?’

  Florence smiled. ‘Gallantly.’

  Mrs McDonald’s thoughts shifted to the vicar. ‘I wonder if Mr Pimcrisp’s nose will be put out of joint that it won’t be him performing the ceremony?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so; it’s always the bride’s privilege to be married from her own church.’

  ‘’Course it is, but like we all know, vicar’s an odd duck, especially where women is concerned. Thinks their wants should be strictly rationed.’ Mrs McDonald hesitated before going on. ‘Speaking of him, and feel free to call me a gossip …’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Something Jeanie told me. As you know, her aunt’s housekeeper at the vicarage and the two of them met up for a chat in the village this afternoon, it being Jeanie’s half-day off. Well, we all know the girl can’t hold water. When she got back she told me something curious.’ Mrs McDonald proceeded to recount the story that had also been relayed to Doris Thatcher and passed on from Alf to George. ‘Strange, him reacting that way to the mention of Mrs Stapleton’s maiden name, don’t you think, Mrs Norris?’
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br />   ‘As you just said, he’s an odd duck,’ replied Florence. Her thoughts were, however, not as vague as her voice. Mr Pimcrisp’s cousinship to Lord Asprey had already figured in them. Wasn’t it quite likely the vicar had mentioned in a letter that His Lordship would be taking a holiday for his health’s sake in Weymouth and even mentioned dates he would be there and the name of the hotel? Here she drew in the reins. It was wrong, very wrong, to take this a step further and fabricate the possibility that Mrs Stapleton had got wind of His Lordship’s plans and decided he might be a man worth pursuing with an aim to matrimony. That she might have manipulated the situation after meeting him by chance was one thing, but this other … Florence closed the door firmly on such dark thinking. Her concentration must be on the hope that His Lordship would find contentment with his second wife, who’d turn out to be a lovely woman, eager to make Mullings a happier place. If only she need not bring with her the distraction of the ornamental hermit … Florence could not believe His Lordship would ever fully adjust to the idea of a solitary man being out there in the woods.

  The days passed and it seemed no time at all before Lord Stodmarsh left with his family for Northumbria and returned after less than a week with his wife at his side. The ornamental hermit arrived some hours later, accompanied by Lady Stodmarsh’s lady’s maid in a car driven by the chauffeur. He was conducted by Lord Stodmarsh to the shed that was to be his new home near the great tree that Stodmarsh boys had climbed for at least a century. Regina Stodmarsh did not accompany them, saying she was too fatigued by the journey to do so. Florence, whilst thinking this a thin excuse, composedly took her up to the bedroom formerly belonging to Lillian Stodmarsh and expressed the wish to be entirely at her service.

  ‘I hope we’ll be able to deal together, Mrs Norris.’ The black eyes took in every inch of Florence from top to toe. ‘It will be preferable if things can go on as before, but I will not tolerate any member of the staff showing me the smallest lack of respect.’

  ‘Quite rightly, madam.’

  ‘I understand from Lord Stodmarsh that your mother was once in service to my family.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘And you heard from her about our tradition of ornamental hermits. Do you have any views on the subject? Does it strike you as unpalatable?’

  ‘If I did,’ replied Florence, ‘I would not allow it to permeate the attitudes of other members of the staff.’

  ‘Have you selected someone to take him his meals?’ Lady Stodmarsh fingered her long string of dainty pearls.

  ‘Yes, Jeanie, one of the kitchen maids. The other one, Annie, is far too timid to venture anywhere near the edge of the woods, but has many excellent qualities.’

  ‘I’ll make my own assessments, Mrs Norris, but I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.’ Regina Stodmarsh’s mouth thinned into a smile. ‘The flowers in here are very welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. Mrs William usually does the cutting and arranging, but with her away, Molly, the head housemaid, saw to them.’

  ‘And very prettily – maybe she should take on that task in future.’

  ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, Mrs William enjoys doing them.’

  ‘We’ll see. That’s all for the moment, Mrs Norris.’

  Florence headed downstairs with the thought tugging at her mind that Regina Stodmarsh was exactly the sort of woman to be murdered in books by one of half a dozen people with adequate motives. But that didn’t mean another murder was destined under this roof. It would be too risky, she reminded herself, for a healthy-looking woman – and Lady Stodmarsh was that – to die shortly after arriving at Mullings. Her family might insist on a post-mortem. And Hilda Stark was bound to send another anonymous letter, possibly to the police this time. Not that the killer knew about the first one, but even so, wouldn’t a sense of self-preservation come into play? She could only pray so.

  To Florence’s immense relief, the advent of the ornamental hermit turned out, as she had predicted, to be no more than a nine days’ wonder for Dovecote Hatch, and Regina Stodmarsh did nothing immediately to disrupt life at Mullings. The only employee dismissed was the lady’s maid she had brought with her; this because Her Ladyship had returned sooner than expected from a drive in the country and on going up to her bedroom caught the girl parading in front of the full-length mirror in her fur coat. A replacement was found and nothing said below stairs. Nor did Lady Stodmarsh attempt any lavish entertaining. Mr Pimcrisp was invited to dinner a couple of times and on both occasions declined with an acceptable excuse. Ned confided in Florence that whilst he had loathed the woman on sight, and received the distinct impression her relations were not overly fond of her, he had to admit she appeared the devoted wife, intent on putting her husband’s needs above her own.

  Madge, said Ned, was keeping a low profile, frequently leaving the drawing room after evening coffee to go and talk with Cyril Fritch in the room he occupied doing the bookkeeping. She meticulously left the door open when doing so and sometimes in walking past it Ned heard laughter from within – hers rather more often than Fritch’s, but then he doubted the man had ever got in the habit of cheeriness, given the life he’d led with his carping, spendthrift mother. As for Uncle William, he seemed, according to Ned, to be holding his fire better than usual. Nothing, he added, was to be gained from trying to assess Aunt Gertrude’s feelings towards her new mother-in-law. But he did think her recent announcement that she had attended a meeting of the Ladies’ Church Guild and agreed to head the Altar Flowers Committee, suggested a need to escape Mullings for several hours at a time each week. No opinion of Lady Stodmarsh was voiced below stairs, even between Florence and Mrs McDonald; it was as though a seal had been placed on all lips, not by Grumidge, but by a warning hand. It was a telling silence.

  Death did come to Mullings the following spring, but it was not Regina Stodmarsh it came to claim by fair means or foul. It arrived for His Lordship. There was no question of any but natural causes this time. Doctor Chester had suspected leukemia before the trip to Weymouth. Increasingly His Lordship’s walking stick had become a necessity instead of an accoutrement, and he had come to spend much of his time in bed. Mullings was plunged once more into mourning.

  When it came to the reading of the will, the prevailing atmosphere of grief and sorrow did not prevent fireworks from Mr William. The family had assembled to hear its contents from His Lordship’s long-time solicitor, Mr Seymour Cleerly. Ned, when a child, had never heard the name without grinning. The widow responded sanguinely to Mr Cleerly’s dry recitation of the terms. As well she might! William seethed, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. Regina Stodmarsh was granted all control of interest from the estate until Ned reached the age of twenty-seven and the capital passed to him, at which time all other legatees would receive their individual bequests. However, if Regina predeceased Ned reaching his twenty-seventh birthday, then their inheritances would be released after her death.

  ‘Monstrous! Talk about a slap in the face for me, his only living son!’ Mr William bellowed. ‘I’m to become this woman’s pensioner? Damned if I don’t take this to court! Knew my father had gone round the bloody bend when he married her! My sainted mother will be turning in her grave!’

  ‘I do hope not, dear. So bad for the digestion, one would think,’ responded his wife, ‘and no bicarbonate of soda within reach.’

  ‘Fool!’

  Madge Bradley blenched at the roar; her face had paled in the last few minutes. ‘It’s understandable she was dismayed,’ Ned said to Florence later. ‘It can’t be pleasant knowing she’ll have to kowtow to Step-grandmother for as long as she’s allowed to remain here. She could be booted out tomorrow. She’ll get a nice sum when the time comes, but it wouldn’t have occurred to Grandfather that she might not be welcome after his death.’

  Mr Cleerly departed as soon as possible, stopping at the Dog and Whistle for a stiff brandy before catching a train back to London.

  Within a couple of months R
egina Stodmarsh had made arrangements to have the old horse paddock converted to a tennis court. This start made, she proceeded to put Mullings on the county’s social map, with weekend parties that included the Blakes, Stafford-Reids and Palfretts. Far from shunning such invitations, they fell over themselves to attend. Ned raged inwardly at such inclusions. Hadn’t all of them spurned the Stodmarshes for centuries? That, however, was before he, against conscience, fell breathlessly, blindly, as only the very young can, in love with the incredibly beautiful Lamorna Blake.

  EIGHT

  The prospect of a wedding is not invariably greeted with foreboding. A year and a half later, shortly after New Year in 1932, Dovecote Hatch was taken mildly by surprise, although generally pleasantly so, when Miss Madge Bradley’s engagement to Cyril Fritch was announced in both The Times and the county newspaper. It might have been seen as an unlikely coupling in some circles, given the difference in their social positions: she a gentlewoman residing in spacious comfort at Mullings; he responsible for the bookkeeping at Craddock’s Antiquarian Bookshop as well as the Stodmarsh estate a few evenings a week. Regina Stodmarsh had not countenanced Ned’s request that he be employed full-time. Mr Fritch lived with his widowed mother in a modest house in Tweed Lane around the corner from the Dog and Whistle, and although not creating much notice previously, he had been viewed sympathetically because of her dominating ways.