God Save the Queen! Page 8

  “Far more likely to be Mrs. Much,” Lady Gossinger countered. “She’s probably rearranging the tea trolley before she unloads it to carry the tea things downstairs.”

  “Won’t argue that with you, m’dear.” Sir Henry rubbed his knees, which were a little sore from the time spent kneeling in prayer that day. “And forget what I said about Tipp. I’ve possibly never been fair to him. Not the poor fellow’s fault one of his forebears, a maid here in the house, was suspected of stealing Queen Charlotte’s silver tea strainer.”

  Sir Henry noticed that his wife’s eyes had strayed toward the oak cupboard where the sherry was kept. He took the hint. Deciding he could also benefit from some liquid reinforcement, he poured a glass for each of them. “There you are, m’dear.” He handed her a glass. “Now what was I saying? Ah, yes! Talking about Tipp. When all’s said and done, he’s no worse than Cousin Sophie when it comes to listening at keyholes and hiding behind corners. Remember the night m’father was dying—”

  “All most interesting, Henry,” Lady Gossinger downed most of her cream sherry in a single swallow, “but let us get back to talking about poor Florie. I still say that she needs to start a new life. Seems to me, Henry, we owe her that small kindness.” Her Ladyship’s halo tilted somewhat tipsily over her left eye as she spoke these words, but she did not miss the fact that her husband was looking at her with a mingling of admiration and affection.

  “You’re right, m’dear, as always.” Sir Henry lifted his glass to her in salute. “We’ll let little Flora have the flat free for a year and a day. Reminds me of my ancestor, the roguish Sir Rowland. The one responsible for acquiring the silver collection and possibly for the disappearance of the tea strainer. Which would let Tipp’s ancestress off the hook. Sir Rowland was in the habit, so I understand, of granting free rent of one of his cottages for that length of time to any maidservant who took his particular fancy. Sounds good. But it’s also said he expected to be paid in other ways. But let’s hope that was before he married and put his nose to the grindstone. But enough of that, m’dear. Back to the present. As you say, sending little Flora up to Bethnal Green will give the poor child a chance to forget and ...”

  “And what, Henry?”

  “No need to upset yourself, Mabel.” Sir Henry glanced at his wife, raised the sherry glass to his lips, and took a desperate swallow. “Nothing cut-and-dried, you understand, but this idea of yours will allow me time in which to decide whether I’d be doing the right thing.”

  “About what, old bean?” Lady Gossinger had to raise her voice in order to make it heard over the sudden thumping of her heart.

  “Leaving Gossinger Hall to little Flora.” Sir Henry said the words very fast with his eyes shut. “Seems to me, after kneeling in prayer the better part of the day, to be a possible solution, now that my faithful Hutchins isn’t around to be the beneficiary.”

  “Someone had better start praying,” muttered Lady Gossinger as she picked up the sherry bottle in what could only be described as a menacing manner.

  Chapter Eight

  Mrs. Much stood outside the tower sitting room and silently offered Mr. Tipp her handkerchief, then wondered if she had done the right thing, because it was so heavily starched she was afraid he might use it to slit his wrists. Her heart, which after her husband’s death she had never given completely except to fitted carpets and colored toilet seats, ached for this elderly man who had so little meat on his bones that a vulture would have turned up its beak at the prospect of having him for elevenses.

  Poor man! And him doing his bit, coming up to help take down the tea things! But this was neither the time nor the place to stand having a discussion with Mr. Tipp on the really nasty things Sir Henry had said about him, before launching into that statement about leaving Gossinger Hall to Flora Hutchins. Mrs. Much, whilst naturally surprised by that piece of news, wasn’t particularly interested in any will that didn’t have her name in it. She set off down the stairs carrying a tray loaded with crockery while her maligned coworker followed behind with a bunch of cutlery in his hands, wearing the expression of one about to pay another visit to the cemetery.

  Only a few more days in this monstrosity of a house, Mrs. Much reminded herself as she crossed the flagstones toward the kitchen, then she would be starting in on her new job. Of course, it wouldn’t be like working for the late sainted Mrs. Frome, but then beggars can’t be choosers. And in all fairness it wasn’t to be expected that anyone, including Her Majesty the Queen, would be capable of upholding Mrs. Frome’s high standards.

  “Where did you say you’ll be working next?” Mr. Tipp tried hard to look interested.

  “I don’t think I did say.” Mrs. Much pushed open the kitchen door with her elbow without causing the heavily laden tray to do one wobble. “It’s not that I’m a secretive woman by nature, but after this last experience I’ve decided you never know what you’ll find when you get to a new place, so I’m only cautiously optimistic about going to work at Buckingham Palace.”

  Mr. Tipp’s dropped jaw said all Mrs. Much needed to hear.

  “It’s another of these old places,” she conceded, “but I hear from my cousin who works there—the one what put in a good word for me—that it’s been kept up lovely. I’m to start out as a chambermaid in the real sense of the word; I’ll be working in the bathrooms.... You don’t suppose, Mr. Tipp, that there’s a garderobe at Buckingham Palace, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t think so; there’s not many places in England as can compete with the wonders of Gossinger Hall.”

  “You’ve eased my mind. Set yourself down, Mr. Tipp, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,” Mrs. Much offered kindly. There was no one but them in the kitchen. But someone had thoughtfully put away the remains of the funeral feast and done the washing up.

  “Looks like that policeman took them all into custody,” said Mr. Tipp—referring to Mr. and Mrs. Warren, Flora, Mr. Vivian Gossinger, and Miss Sophie Doffit.

  “Oh, surely not, the police car wasn’t big enough.” Mrs. Much took the cutlery away from him before he could do himself an injury, as was a risk given his depressed state of mind, and wondered whether it would be wise to make some physical overture. She had held Mr. Frome’s hand after his wife died and the poor man had ended up sobbing in her arms like a two-year-old and saying he was afraid to sleep alone. She couldn’t picture Prince Philip sobbing in her arms, but one never knew.

  “I was just making a joke.” Mr. Tipp sat hunched at the kitchen table. “About the police, I mean.”

  “Well, I think it’s nothing short of marvelous,” said Mrs. Much, “that you’re up to seeing the funny side of anything after getting an earful of Sir Henry holding forth. A real man, that’s what you are, my friend, and don’t never let anyone tell you different.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.” Mr. Tipp proved himself a worthy recipient of the handsome compliment bestowed upon him by taking a manful sip of tea heavily flavored with bleach from another pot cleaning. “Between you and me,” he continued through pursed lips, “it did knock me back some, hearing Sir Henry talk about leaving Gossinger Hall to Flora.”

  “And I can’t say as I blame you.” Mrs. Much sat down across from him with her own cup of tea. “But what I really had mind to, Mr. Tipp, was the spiteful things he said about you.” She debated whether to repeat them—word for word, by way of refreshing his memory—but decided to eat a piece of gingerbread instead.

  “Oh, I didn’t take none of that to heart,” replied Mr. Tipp. “It’s always said listeners never hear nothing good about themselves, and if I hadn’t come up to the tower to help you down with the tea things I’d not have heard Sir Henry talking about me. So I brought it on myself, there’s no saying different.”

  “You were just being kind.” Mrs. Much was moved to hand him a fat piece of gingerbread.

  Mr. Tipp kept his head down as he sat twisting his fingers that were already whittled down to the bone. “Sir Henry’s always treated me fair and kind
. Never no reason for me to complain. He’s missing Hutchins, that’s what has him saying things he don’t mean. And it could be that he’s ... what you could call worried.”

  “Because of losing Hutchins and then me giving in my notice?” Mrs. Much inched her chair closer to the table. “Well, I can see that’s upsetting. Not to be the big-I-am, and strictly between you and me, Mr. Tipp, but I won’t be easy to replace. There’s not many as would climb up on ladders and take down all those dirty old paintings where you can’t see the faces, because they look like they’ve been dipped in the fish-and-chip pan, and then give them a good scrubbing with steel wool.”

  “You’re one in a million, no question.” Mr. Tipp took another sip of tea, which may have been the cause of his strained expression. “I’m certain sure Sir Henry and her Ladyship won’t know how to manage without you. And it’s not like they don’t have troubles enough already. Sometimes, mostly of an evening, I get to wondering if Sir Henry’s worried that it wasn’t any accident what happened to Hutchins.”

  “Why, whatever makes you say that?” In leaning eagerly forward Mrs. Much stuck an elbow in her piece of gingerbread and had to get up and wash off her arm.

  Having made an uncharacteristically sketchy job of doing so she returned to the table and plied Mr. Tipp with more tea.

  “Well, if you do remember the day of the accident—"

  “Who could forget it!”

  “What I’m meaning to say ...” Lowering his voice, Mr. Tipp looked anxiously around the room as if afraid someone might be hiding in the pantry with an ear to the door. “Do you remember me telling you that afternoon as how I heard Lady Gossinger and Miss Doffit talking about Sir Henry changing his will?”

  “It’s coming back to me.” Mrs. Much nodded her head.

  “Perhaps I oughtn’t be repeating any of this.” Mr. Tipp’s lips twitched and he stared down at his slice of gingerbread as if afraid it would leap up and bite him.

  “I think you need to get anything that’s bothering you off your chest,” came the encouraging advice. “Trust me, you poor little man, I’ll never breathe a word to a living soul.”

  “It was like this,” Mr. Tipp slid down low in his chair, “her Ladyship was mortal upset because Sir Henry had just broken the news as how he was about to change his will and leave Gossinger Hall to Hutchins.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “So you do see . . .”

  “Yes, of course I do!” Mrs. Much almost added that she wasn’t a pea-brain, but bit her lip in time. “You think that wicked woman upstairs, with her put-on voice and jumped-up airs, murdered Mr. Hutchins before Sir Henry had time to see his solicitor and sign on the dotted line.”

  “I’m not saying her Ladyship did anything ... anything at all.” Mr. Tipp looked more like a rattling bag of bones than ever as he shifted in his seat. “I’m only thinking that Sir Henry could be wondering and getting himself all worried. The doctor didn’t raise a question, did he? Said there’d have to be an inquest—that’s my understanding; but from the sound of it, no one seems to be expecting a fishy sort of verdict.”

  “I supposed most people was thinking along the same lines as myself,” said Mrs. Much, “that Mr. Hutchins had gone up to check on the garderobe, as he was always doing to make sure it wasn’t getting in a worse state of repair—though why it mattered don’t ask me. And then he came over faint, as who wouldn’t in such a nasty unhygienic place, and perhaps bent down to clear his head, only it didn’t do any good and he pitched headfirst into that hellhole of a toilet.”

  “It could have happened that way.” Mr. Tipp tried valiantly to sound as if he believed it. “It’s not like Hutchins was locked in, was it? Now I do say as how that would have been suspicious. But the door was open, how wide I don’t rightly know, but enough to make Mr. Vivian Gossinger notice, because it was always a strict rule about the garderobe being kept locked. Only Hutchins and Sir Henry had keys to it, leastways as far as I know.”

  “Let’s have another cup of tea while we chew this over,” suggested Mrs. Much.

  “I’ll make it—” Mr. Tipp started to rise.

  “No, you stay put.” This was said with great firmness. “I’ll not have you straining yourself lifting that great heavy kettle that by my guess has been around since the Iron Age.”

  “I’m stronger than what I looks.”

  “The wiry sort often are,” Mrs. Much agreed, fearing she had hurt the poor little man’s feelings. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you’d done some boxing in your time.”

  “No,” Mr. Tipp shook his head, “my ma and pa wouldn’t have allowed none of that, being as they was Chapel people.”

  “Oh, yes, my uncle was one of those. They’re always very keen on sin,” said Mrs. Much knowledgeably as she returned to the table with the fresh pot of tea and began doing the honors. “But even someone more middle-of-the-road like myself, Mr. Tipp, thinks murdering someone over a will isn’t the way to earn your crown in heaven. Now you know,” she handed over his cup and saucer, “I’ve never much taken to Lady Gossinger; but to give the devil her due that’s a sight different from thinking she’d finish off Mr. Hutchins.”

  “Could be it wasn’t her.” Mr. Tipp stared into his cup as if hoping a floating tea leaf or two would provide some answers.

  “Talk about turning the tables,” Mrs. Much sat down, looking thoroughly confused, “haven’t you been telling me her Ladyship’s the one with the motive? And you don’t have to read detective stories to know there’s always got to be one of those. But hold on a minute,” she exclaimed, apparently picking through the bones of a new idea. “Seems to me there is one other person what mightn’t have been jumping for joy on account of Sir Henry deciding to leave the ancestral home outside the Family. And that’s Mr. Vivian Gossinger.”

  “Wouldn’t never have been him.” Mr. Tipp answered with unusual conviction. “Mr. Vivian’s never been overly fond of Gossinger.”

  “Then he’s got more sense than you’d ever guess from looking at him front or back.” Mrs. Much spooned sugar into her tea and stirred the pattern off the inside of her cup. “But that’s not the same as saying he’d be merry as a kitten with two tails and a dead mouse if his uncle upped and told him the house was being left to Hutchins. Don’t ask me why anyone would want to live here; there’s never been any accounting for bad taste. And who knows what Mr. Vivian—such a soppy name for a man—Gossinger is like when he thinks nobody’s watching. From what Mrs. Warren tells me, there’s bad blood in the family from way back.”

  “Sally Warren thinks there’s bad blood in her own husband on account of him forgetting more times than not to put those plastic liners in the dustbins,” said Mr. Tipp stoutly.

  “Well,” Mrs. Much glanced at the clock on the wall and decided she didn’t need to get back to work for another half hour, “if you don’t think it was Mr. Vivian Gossinger who did the dirty deed, who else could it have been, except her Ladyship? There’s no one else as stood to lose by that will. Unless,” Mrs. Much sipped her tea as she considered the matter, “Miss Doffit got the wind up her petticoats, thinking as how she could be out her bread and board if Mr. Hutchins took over. Between you and me, Mr. Tipp, I’ve a soft spot for the old lady, but there’s no denying she’s nuttier than a squirrel’s pantry. And awfully spry for someone closing on ninety years of age.”

  Mr. Tipp shook his head. He did not see Miss Sophie Doffit as a likely suspect. “I’ve been mulling it over in my head,” he said, “and I got to thinking that if it do be the case that Mr. Hutchins was murdered it could be that the will happened to come in handy for someone who wanted him out of the way for different reasons.”

  “I think I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Much. “If the police was to cotton on that what happened wasn’t any accident, they’d be bound to latch onto Lady Gossinger being the person with the number one motive. And if she managed to wiggle out of the net, there was always her nephew and that poor dotty old lady. Doesn’t bear think
ing about, does it? Not if it was someone else up to no good. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not convinced by a long shot Mr. Hutchins didn’t just fall in that toilet all on his own doing.” Mrs. Much gave another glance at the clock. “But I must hand it to you, Mr. Tipp, there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye. Seems to me you ought to set yourself up as the likes of one of those private detectives.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.” Mr. Tipp’s scraggly face creased into a smile. “Course, if I was ever to do anything like that, it could only be as a sideline, a sort of a hobby so to speak, seeing as how I wouldn’t never want to leave Gossinger.”

  “And here was me thinking I could be your girl Friday.” Mrs. Much turned pale in the middle of a chuckle. “The trouble is, Mr. Tipp, that even if someone did overhear Sir Henry talking about changing his will ... or what I suppose is more likely, somebody blabbed, that doesn’t leave a whole lot of other suspects. Just you and me, when it comes right down to it.”

  “There’s Sally Warren.”

  “So there is,” Mrs. Much stood up and began gathering together the tea things, “and if we’re playing detective and looking for a reason for her to want Mr. Hutchins out of the way it could be that he’d found out she’d been helping herself to money out of the tea shop till and was going to tell Sir Henry. Perhaps,” she tried unsuccessfully to sound charitable, “the poor soul found herself in a financial bind on account of her husband losing his old job at the market garden across the way, because the owner’s son had come to work for him and Mr. Warren had to start driving a taxi.”

  “I wasn’t accusing Sally,” said Mr. Tipp.

  “Then who?”

  “We have to do this fair.”

  “All right.” Mrs. Much stood doing a balancing act with the crockery. “You give me a couple of seconds to get this lot in the sink and I’ll play Mr. Sherlock Holmes and tell you why you could be the one, and then—turnabout being fair play—you have a go at coming up with a reason for me doing away with Mr. Hutchins.” Turning off the taps, she added a dollop of washing-up liquid. “There,” she said, arms up to the elbows in soapy water, “now I can concentrate, Mr. Tipp. Although why I’d be standing here with my back to you if I really thought you was a murderer I don’t know.”