A Death in the Wedding Party
Read A Death in the Wedding Party Online
Authors: Caroline Dunford
A DEATH IN THE
WEDDING PARTY
A Euphemia Martins Mystery
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2013
ISBN 9781783750399
Copyright © Caroline Dunford 2013
The right of Caroline Dunford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
Chapter One
A Proposal
‘Yes! Oh yes, my darling!’
The golden sunset streamed through the open door, casting long shadows across the black-and-white squared hallway floor. It touched the head of the ecstatic woman, crowning her with fire and showing her complexion in the best possible colour. Discreet shadows hid all sign of blemishes in this perfect moment.
The man wore a dark suit; a charming figure of mystery and promise. A faint aroma of the flowerbeds permeated Stapleford Hall. Really, the setting could not have been more romantic for a proposal. The man arose from one knee as the lady launched herself at him. Unfortunately the delighted young lady was the slightly larger of the two. They collapsed in an undignified heap.
I moved quietly behind a column, but not so far I could not still peek my face around the side and watch the drama, or rather the tangle of arms and legs, unfolding. Lady Richenda Stapleford, only daughter of the house, would be livid if she knew I had witnessed her fall.
‘Dash it, Richenda! You might let a man get the ground underneath himself before you charge like a bull at a gate.’
‘Oh Tippy, darling. I’m so sorry. I’m just a teensy-weensy bit over excited.’
‘I should bally say. There was I expecting your butler to open the door and dash me if you don’t open the bally thing yourself and then demand, yes demand, what I have to say to you.’
‘But you rang and said you had something urgent to say to me.’
‘Yes, but I was hoping to say it in the drawing room or even the library. Somewhere a man could conduct himself with a little decency and decorum. And not,’ he turned round to look out the open door,’ with half the county gawping at me. Honestly, Rich, it doesn’t do. Doesn’t do at all!’
‘Oh, Tippy, you don’t mean to say you don’t mean it?’
Baggy Tipton disentangled himself, got to his feet and smoothed down his already slick hair. One greasy strand flopped disobediently over his best feature, his electric blue eyes. He did not look happy. Lady Richenda Stapleford also got to her feet – floundered might be a more accurate description. Her swain did not offer a hand, and the quantity of fabric a dress fit to be proposed in had demanded was excessive even by her own unique standards.
Her long red hair scattered hairpins pitter-pat across the tiled floor. She was breathing heavily from the situation and her exertions. In fact, considering her unfortunate propensity to look like a horse, one could almost say she was snorting; her wide nostrils flaring. I was sure it was far from the scene either of them had envisaged. Was this engagement about to end as soon as it had started? My sole interest in the outcome, other than comical purposes, was to know whether I might soon be deprived of Richenda. Since I had tried, unsuccessfully, to have her elder brother committed for the murder of their father, and that time she had locked me in a cupboard, we had not been the best of house companions.
Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a small movement. Across from me, also partially hidden behind a pillar was the butler, Rory McLeod, who had obviously been on his way to answer the door before Lady Richenda pre-empted him. I caught his eye willing him to share a smile with me at this farcical scene, but the face turned towards me was cold as stone.
But then I suppose when you have told a man you would rather remain in service as a housekeeper to a suspected murderer than marry him, it is unlikely he will share a joke with you, or even, to be fair, share the time of day.
The life of a servant is a life spent being invisible, coming in halfway through conversations and events and ignoring them. We must leave our betters to their own business. Even when our betters are murderers, thieves, liars and dealers in weapons of destruction. Or that is what Rory would say in his lovely Scotch burr. Of course I could remind him of the time that his ‘betters’ had accused him of murder and been all ready to lynch him if it hadn’t been for my interference.
1
I could further avow the black-heartedness of a family where the eldest son had killed his father
2
, except Rory had not been present for that episode and the only other person who knew undoubtedly of his guilt was his younger brother, Bertram. Bertram had also asked me to marry him, despite the all too recent loss of his previous love,
3
and again I had declined, preferring instead to work for his – not to mince words – evil half-brother. Not surprisingly, he wasn’t on speaking terms with me either.
From the above you will have gathered I am not a very good servant. I stick my nose in where it should not be. I question, I observe and I act on my intuition much to everyone’s disgust. Lord Stapleford promoted me to the position of housekeeper, I am sure, to keep an eye on me. He would rather have me here than stirring up trouble now I have contacts with the OS, part of our British Intelligence service, than loose to cause real trouble. Though I suppose to be honest it is more accurate to say the OS have used me. Sir Richard Stapleford is a man of means with his own bank, his armaments business and now he is a rising star in the House of Commons. The intelligence services seem to share my view he is generally an all-round bad egg, but apparently it is not easy to clap up a peer of the realm, who is also an MP. It is also not easy to walk away from an entanglement with this man’s life and in so doing retain your own. For example, much as I have been enjoying the nuptial farce in the hallway, I am almost certain it is the seemingly harmless joker, Baggy Tipton, who killed my predecessor, Mrs Wilson. Heavens, you are no doubt thinking, this girl should run far, far away. She must be an complete idiot to stay. Believe me, there are days when I would agree with you.
But my father, the Reverend Joshua Martins, handicapped me with a strict sense of right and wrong, a passion for justice and, much to my mother’s lament, the ability to use my intellect. Sadly, however, he did not leave us provided for and when he expired most suddenly in his dish of mutton and onions, mother, myself and my little brother Joe, found ourselves on the brink of destitution. Once more my mother appealed to my grandfather, who is an Earl, and once again he ignored her. My mother had married far below her station and for love. Reality and poverty had destroyed that illusion. Now, mother is partially supported by my wage and also teaches piano in a small village. It is enough for us to hope we may be able to save to send little Joe to school when he is ten. Little Joe is not keen on this idea at all, but both mother and I are determined to give him the chance to have some small part of the life his grandfather has denied him.
Of course, no one at Stapleford Hall has the faintest idea that I outrank all of them, and my mother has no idea that my dearest friend is Merry, the senior maid. If this all seems topsy-turvy to you, then I ask you to take a look around yourself. The world is in chaos. It is 1911. We have had the hottest summer on record. The heat appears to have entered the brains of my fellow countrymen. There has been the most terrible civil unrest. A Latvian crime gang held a shoot-out in our capital city! The Liverpool transport workers clashed with police in what shall for ever be known as Bloody Sunday. The only glimpse of joy through the riots has been the June coronation of King George V and Queen Mary. Though I have to say Queen Mary looks most formidable. If anyone could get this nation into shape I imagine she could. The less said about her husband’s partying lifestyle, the better.
4
There is much more I could tell you, but you now have the gist of things: I am of the wrong station for my position; I have mortally offended the two most important men in my life; my employer is an evil man who gets away with evil deeds and I am a vicar’s daughter, who still hopes to find incontrovertible evidence of the misdemeanours of her employer. The late housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, said she had papers that would reveal all. Part of the reason I took the position was to find them. I have not been successful. Nothing is right in the world.
The heavy steps of Lord Stapleford interrupted my revelries. I judged it was more than time for me to slip back below stairs. Rory, I noted, had already disappeared in a breath of butler-ish decorum.
Downstairs Mrs Deighton was preparing dinner.
‘Tell me they’re all set to sit down,’ said the harassed cook, ‘only one more minute and these pigeon breasts will turn to dust.’
I gave Mrs Deighton a look. ‘Ooooh, no, Euphemia,’ she cried, sinking down on a stool and throwing her apron over her head. ‘What have they done now?’
When the cook notices more than her dinner you know a household has really gone to seed. ‘It is a happy occasion,’ I said calmly. ‘It would appear that Lady Richenda has accepted the hand of the honourable Mr Tipton in marriage.’
Merry, who had been good naturedly helping out our new scullery maid, went into whoops of laughter. The butler entered the kitchen.
‘I see no reason for mirth,’ said Rory, ‘beyond some lamentably soft carrots, Mrs Deighton.’
‘Oh, Mr McLeod, I’ve been waiting ages for them to call for dinner. You did tell them it was served?’
‘As per Miss St John’s instructions I announced dinner at 7.30 p.m. sharp. However, it seems Lady Richenda has an engagement.’
This starchy pronouncement set Merry off once more. ‘En-engagement,’ she wailed, clutching her sides.’
‘I fail to see the amusement,’ said Rory, fixing me with his remarkable green eyes. Eyes that in the past had looked at me filled with laughter and with tenderness, now resembled the cool harshness of a perfect emerald. ‘Can it be that Miss St John has taken it upon herself to announce a serious development in the fortunes of the family before being informed of said development by the head of the household?’
‘Oh Rory,’ said Merry, with the cheerful informality of a long standing servant, ‘don’t be so stuff …’ She trailed off. The look he was giving her could have turned milk. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McLeod,’ she said and bobbed a small curtsy. Mrs Deighton looked from Rory to myself and sighed. ‘Nothing is right in this house,’ she said sadly.
‘I must disagree,’ said Rory, ‘I believe that with the exception of the carrots all is in tolerable order. Merry, you will assist me at table tonight. Change your apron.’
This I could not allow. ‘Mr McLeod need I remind you it my duty along with yourself and first footman to oversee dinner.’
‘I have orders that differ,’ he said calmly, ‘from the master.’ He stressed the last word just enough to make me wince. ‘Merry, hurry up and set an extra place. Mr Tipton will be joining us tonight.’ He turned to me. ‘I believe he will also be staying the night, so I require you to make ready a suitable bedroom, Miss St John.’
And with that, he turned and stalked out of the room. Mrs Deighton began to load the dumb waiter, muttering under her breath.
‘Lord, Euphemia, what did you do to Rory to make him such a starched-up horror?’ asked Merry.
I had thought to spare the feelings of both men by never mentioning their proposals to anyone else. My device had not been successful. I knew I should tell Merry off for addressing me so informally, but my heart wasn’t it. Instead I gave a little shrug – a gesture my mother would have whipped me for using – and went to find little Daisy, another of our maids, to make ready the green bedroom.