Authors: Janet Laurence
‘But …’
‘First you send my niece’s personal maid into hysterics, and then you reduce little Sarah to tears. I cannot allow this sad household to be treated so shamefully.’
Her voice was implacable.
‘Mrs Trenchard, your niece, Miss Fentiman, has commissioned me to investigate how her brother-in-law met his death. In order to do this, I have to talk to everyone who was in this house at the time.’
‘The police have done that. Miss Fentiman believes there are questions to be asked concerning Joshua Peters’ life outside his home. That is where you should be investigating.’
And wasn’t that what his immediate thought had been when he’d found how little Everard Drummond had looked into the business life of the murdered man?
‘I have to be able to dismiss the members of the household from any involvement, Mrs Trenchard,’ he said, trying for a tone of respect mingled with authority.
The door opened and Sarah reappeared. ‘Please, mum, Cook says as how she must have words with you.’
There came a shout from the kitchen area, a long-drawn out ‘Saraaaaaaaah’.
‘Oh, mum, please come. Cook’s in a right state.’ She stood just inside the door, holding on to the handle, her face pleading.
Mrs Trenchard hesitated.
There came another yell from downstairs.
‘All right, Sarah, I’ll come and sort out whatever it is Cook needs.’ She looked at Jackman. ‘You will remain here until I return.
The moment she had swept out of the room, Jackman sat down with a sense of relief. For an instant he wished he was back in the police force with all its authority behind him.
Then he pulled again at the left-hand bottom drawer of the desk. Mrs Trenchard was unlikely to take long to sort out Cook. After that, he was next in line.
The drawer still stuck. He knelt down and gently manoeuvred it. Then slipped his hand over the back partition and found there was a catch. Pressing it down released the drawer. Jackman pulled it out to its fullest, revealing a hidden section.
The first thing he saw was a jar. He picked it up and looked at the fancy label:
Crème de Printemps.
He unscrewed the lid and revealed a gentle swirl of soft white cream. A sniff caught a delicate perfume that suggested a spring garden.
Thomas wondered if Joshua Peters used the secret compartment to hide presents he had bought for his wife. Or perhaps for another woman? He put the jar on the desk, examined the depths of the drawer and brought up a dirty-looking bundle of dark material. It was unexpectedly heavy and certainly didn’t smell of a spring garden.
Unwrapping the bundle carefully, knowing from its feel what he would find, he revealed a Webley Mk1 revolver, almost identical to the one supplied to the police force. Thomas had never had to fire his in the line of duty but constant practise had made him familiar with the weapon. The barrel was empty. He looked again in the drawer but couldn’t see any bullets or cleaning materials. Was Albert, the valet, responsible for looking after this as he did so many other matters in the Peters household?
Thomas heard the sound of Mrs Trenchard’s voice, hastily rewrapped the gun and returned it to the drawer. The jar of cream, though, he put in his pocket.
Ursula’s walk that morning to Mrs Bruton’s was not as pleasant as usual. The good weather had broken and she pulled her jacket close around her against a nasty wind that spat rain.
‘Time you got an umbrella,’ said Mrs Evercreech as she entered the kitchen and removed her wet hat.
‘And more practical headgear,’ Ursula said, inspecting the damp straw. ‘A beret, perhaps?’ she suggested, a vision of Rachel in her large, floppy version floating before her. ‘Is there a corner I can leave this to dry out?’
‘Put it in the scullery, dear. Don’t want to run the risk of cooking drips on it, do we? And better hang your jacket there too. Madam’s got a visitor for lunch today.’
‘One of her charitable ladies?’ Ursula slipped out of her damp outer garment, wondering if by any chance it would be Mrs Trenchard. If it was, maybe she could provide news of Alice.
‘It’s her son!’ said Enid unexpectedly.
‘Her son?’ It was the first Ursula had heard of any offspring of Mrs Bruton.
‘Now, you know that’s not right,’ Mrs Evercreech said, beating her mixture. ‘And get the tray ready for morning coffee, Enid. You know Madam likes it served as soon as Miss Grandison arrives.’
Cook placed her bowl to one side and reached for the coffee pot. ‘Mr Bruton is Madam’s stepson, visiting from Manchester.’
Ursula tidied her hair, feeling for where strands had escaped from the knot she kept it drawn back in at the nape of her neck, simple and neat, except the heavy hair constantly needed the replacement of pins. ‘How nice for her,’ she said neutrally.
Enid’s long face grimaced. ‘Madam’s always in a right temper after he’s been.’
‘Don’t you go speaking like that, you should know better, girl.’ But the reprimand sounded almost automatic and Enid rolled her eyes at Ursula in a resigned way as she placed a silver tray on the kitchen table.
‘Wish it was that count fellow. She couldn’t have been nicer after he’d been yesterday. Gave me such a pretty blouse, hardly worn it was. Miss Huckle was in a right strop; reckon she’d had her eye on it for herself.’
‘Stop your gossiping and sort out the cups.’ Cook started cracking eggs and separating yolks from whites.
‘A count?’
‘Foreign he was. Ever so charming. Smiled at me as I handed him his hat.’ Enid stood with a cup in either hand for a moment.
‘Well it isn’t him as is coming. So get on, do. I got the anchovy sauce to make for this spinach soufflé, and you better make sure everything upstairs is in apple-pie order.’
‘Done that. More than my life’s worth if there’s a speck of dust when Mr Bruton is coming.’ Enid placed the coffee cups gently on their saucers.
Ursula gave her a smile and nodded at Cook as she left the kitchen. She met Mrs Bruton coming down to the hall arrayed in a sober grey suit, her white silk blouse trimmed with a minute amount of lace, her only jewellery a pair of stud gold earrings. She looked distrait.
‘Ah, Miss Grandison, I need you to sort through some business papers. Mr Bruton’s son is to have luncheon with me today and will ask to see them.’ She led the way into the back room where Ursula worked. It had a large, breakfront bookcase with glass doors above and commodious cupboards below. So far in her employment, Ursula had not been made acquainted with their contents. Mrs Bruton extracted a small key from a pocket in her skirt and opened the one nearest the window. Ursula could just see that various box files lay on two shelves.
‘Ring the bell and ask Enid to serve our coffee in here.’ Mrs Bruton took out files, inspecting contents, putting some back, then laying two on Ursula’s desk. The spines identified one as
Trust Fund Portfolio
and the other as
Properties
.
Once the coffee had been served, she opened the first, swivelling it so it faced Ursula. ‘I have to have meticulous order, Arthur will bear nothing less. My man of business sends in documents, notes of transactions, and I have been slipping them in; I cannot bring myself to do any sorting. But now that I have dear Miss Grandison, it is not necessary for me to do so, is it?’
She looked up with the nearest Ursula had seen to a look of entreaty.
Ursula took out all the documents, placed them on the desk and found herself giving a small pat of encouragement to Mrs Bruton’s hand. ‘It will not take long.’
Mrs Bruton sank into a chair and rested her head in her hand. ‘I can trust you, can I not, Miss Grandison?’
Ursula assured her she was the soul of discretion. She rapidly sifted through the papers. Most of them concerned the buying and selling of stocks and bonds and only needed putting into date order. ‘Would you wish me to pull out the assessments of the Trust’s financial position and sort them into a separate pile?’
Mrs Bruton’s expression brightened. ‘That would be admirable. Then Arthur can see immediately that everything is being properly handled.’
Ursula soon had two piles of papers all neatly assembled in chronological order. ‘Shall I return them to the box file, Mrs Bruton?’
‘Oh, you are such a treasure, Miss Grandison; that would be perfect.’
‘Shall I do the same with the other file?’ Ursula found an index card she could use to separate the two piles of papers as she returned them to their home.
Mrs Bruton put her hand on the box marked ‘Properties’. She seemed reluctant to have it opened. ‘This is a little different, Miss Grandison. This is not part of the Trust Fund.’
Ursula tried to look interested but discreet.
Mrs Bruton started to speak, back tracked, started again, stumbled over several phrases, made more attempts. She seemed to have trouble in explaining how she had managed to acquire a portfolio of houses in a number of areas around London.
‘Not in the most fashionable places, you understand? But where there is a market for reliable rentals. While I was in mourning for my dear Edward, I did not have much else to spend my income on.’
‘It sounds an eminently sensible investment, Mrs Bruton. And now you have an income from the properties as well as from the Trust Fund.’
Mrs Bruton leant towards Ursula. ‘The trouble, my dear Miss Grandison, is that Arthur may not consider the properties to be mine.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they were bought with monies produced by the fund.’
‘Were those monies not supposed to go to you, for spending how you thought best?’
Mrs Bruton fiddled with a cuff. ‘It is something to do with the wording of the Trust. Something about “necessary expenditure”. Arthur tried to explain once. It was just after Edward had passed over and I could not concentrate. Now, every time he sees me, he wants to know how the income is spent.’
‘You haven’t told him about the properties?’
Mrs Bruton shook her head. ‘I tell myself it is none of his business. But now he considers it is time he looked at all the accounts. He is a Trustee, you see.’
Ursula thought for a moment. She felt in a difficult position. She had no knowledge of how these things worked in England. ‘Do you have an attorney of your own, Mrs Bruton?’
‘A lawyer you mean? Oh, Arthur would think it disloyal; he is a solicitor, you see.’
Ursula did see. ‘I would think it sensible, Madam, for you to consult someone. You would not have to tell your stepson you were doing so, would you?’
Mrs Bruton’s lips pursed and she sighed. ‘Miss Grandison, what a support you are! And maybe, do you think, I might not have to show Arthur the property file?’
‘Oh, I know so little about these matters,’ Ursula said. ‘But …’ she thought rapidly. ‘But maybe if you showed him the Trust Portfolio and then waited to see if he asked for more details of your expenditure? There are all the household accounts he could be shown.’
‘You have done such a splendid job sorting those out, Miss Grandison, and they are all quite clear. And my expenditure has risen considerably lately.’
‘And maybe you could have some of your dressmaker’s accounts to hand?’
‘And explain that they are not complete? And, of course, that I spent a considerable time during my mourning period travelling on the continent?’ Mrs Bruton appeared to have cheered up. ‘And I will, of course, explain that it is not an unwarrantable extravagance to employ you, Miss Grandison. That you do not work for me full time, so to speak.’ She broke off and seemed to consider the matter for a moment.
Ursula hoped that she was not going to say that she needed to cut down on her secretary’s time. She was barely surviving on her current pay.
Instead, Mrs Bruton said, ‘The count was here the other day. We shared a bottle of champagne and I congratulated him on the efficacy of the creams we were supplied with.’
Ursula agreed that her skin had certainly seemed much clearer and smoother since applying the treatments.
‘He said that they are having such a success, so many recommendations, so many clients, that the administration of the accounts was sliding out of control. So I suggested, I hope you do not mind, Miss Grandison, that you might like to help on your free days with that side of things. You would, of course, be paid,’ she added hastily. ‘Now, do not say anything on that for the moment but perhaps you might consider it?’ She looked hopeful.
‘It was very kind of you to recommend me, Mrs Bruton. Did the count seem to think it might be a good idea?’
Her employer rose. ‘He did indeed. I said that if you thought it might answer for you as well as for him, you would contact him. Now, I shall go and sit quietly and prepare my mind for dealing with my stepson. When I ring the bell, perhaps you will be kind enough to bring in the Trust Fund file? That will give me the opportunity to introduce you.’
Ursula watched Mrs Bruton leave the room. There were sides to her employer she had not guessed at.
Once she had sorted out the property file, her respect for the woman had risen. It represented a not inconsiderable sum of money, both in capital and income.
It was some time later that the buzzer sounded in the study.
Ursula picked up the Trust Fund file and went through to the drawing room.
Arthur Bruton did not think it necessary to rise when a secretary came into the room. He had a neat beard and moustache and a heavy nose. His eyes were dark brown but without warmth. A heavy gold watch chain stretched across a broad chest clad in a brown waistcoat beneath a brown suit. A black cravat was fastened with a diamond stick pin.
When Ursula was introduced, he merely gave a curt nod.
‘I have been telling dear Arthur about my forays into charitable works, Miss Grandison.’ Mrs Bruton fluttered her hands. ‘He has advised me not to become involved with the campaign for women’s suffrage.’
Mr Bruton’s stolid face frowned, his thin mouth almost disappearing: ‘We have the infuriating Mrs Pankhurst in Manchester making the lives of the Town Council miserable, insisting that women should be allowed to use the hall she has founded in memory of her husband.’