Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (13 page)

‘Beastly,' agreed Ned. ‘My gripe against Cousin Madge, as you know, Florie, is she tries so gratingly hard to please – as opposed to taking living here for granted. And it certainly wasn't a case of her having pressed for the invitation by pleading her piteous state after being left at the altar. The idea was Grandmother's, fully supported by Grandfather, and they both seem entirely comfortable with the idea of her remaining on here as long as she chooses.'

‘How did Miss Bradley take your uncle's remark?' Mrs McDonald removed the need for Florence to ask this question.

‘I couldn't decide if she's blessed with the thickest of skins or was brought wretchedly low, because she still didn't look up from her knitting. But, if it eases your kind heart, Florie, no tears dropped on the inevitable navy blue. It was Granny who stepped into the breach, temporarily taking some of the wind out of his sails. I told you she's game, Florie. Before Grandmother and Grandfather could utter their reproaches, which would only have fuelled his ire, she turned to face Uncle William, gave him the broadest smile, and asked whether he was hinting ever so gently that she, being no blood relation, was barred from the dinner table and should instead partake of her meal in her room? The ensuing protests from around the room, including one from Aunt Gertrude, successfully deflected unwanted attention from Cousin Madge.'

‘Good for Mrs Tressler!' Mrs McDonald responded heartily. ‘I've always thought her an example to one and all for how to conduct theirselves after being dealt more grief than anyone should have to contend with in this life, even though the vicar makes out suffering's a special treat God only hands out to the deserving.'

‘Puts Uncle William on the primrose path, doesn't it? Unfortunately he didn't grab the chance to shut up. In punishment for her lack of support, he rounded on Aunt Gertrude, bellowing that she might as well be a piece of furniture – an unwanted one at that. Worse, he spouted off a list of what he claimed were her grievances against the family. I never felt sorrier for the old girl in my life. For a moment she just sat there, like an overstuffed bolster, then she looked him full in the face and told him everyone had heard enough out of him for one evening. It's hard to credit, given her usual capacity to absorb his tirades unmoved, but the hatred in her eyes spoke volumes. I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd surged off her chair and throttled him.'

‘Dearie me!' Mrs McDonald had noticed that the dawn light was seeping through the oblong windows and the work day beckoned, but she wasn't about to shoo the young master out of her kitchen on this worst of mornings, particularly when what he had to say held her in thrall. Besides, she thought virtuously, it was helping take their minds off the tragedy, and it wasn't like Mrs Norris wasn't listening just as intently. It was she who asked what happened next.

‘Grandfather went over and placed a hand on Aunt Gertrude's shoulder, saying very kindly that her happiness and William's too mattered a great deal to him and Grandmother and, if she wished to be a mistress of her own home, arrangements could be made for the two of them to set up residence elsewhere, with no resultant hard feelings. That well and truly rocked Uncle William on his high horse. He was blustering about being taken all wrong, and if he'd sounded out of sorts it was because he'd mislaid his favourite pipe, when Grumidge came in to announce dinner was served.'

‘That being the end of the matter, I hope.' Mrs McDonald wasn't often given to untruths, but she managed this one with the aplomb of a woman who could organize a seven-course meal and have sent it up for a duke and duchess to dine upon (not that such had recently graced Mullings).

‘Pretty much,' Ned gave up on a half-eaten slice of toast. ‘Conversation shifted into the normal between the time we sat down at the dining table and the soup was served. And very good it was too, Mrs McDonald. Cousin Madge was particularly complimentary as to the taste and texture, at unnecessary length, if you won't mind my saying so, then veering into her passion for soups in general – apart from turtle, which she regretted to say she had always despised.'

‘That soup
was
turtle!' Few things fired Mrs McDonald up more rapidly than insults to her cooking. Her face appeared ready to come to the boil along with the kettle she had set back on the cooker.

‘I know,' Ned soothed, ‘but she didn't. Cousin Madge can be very trying, but she's not malicious.'

Florence wondered about that in the midst of her other thoughts. Miss Bradley had certainly been provoked that night, and setting William Stodmarsh off again, to his detriment, might have seemed a sweet revenge. If so, it seemed she had failed.

‘Uncle William said only that he was particularly fond of turtle soup, although he didn't mind brown Windsor, which Cousin Madge thought it was. All in all he conducted himself better than usual and the atmosphere continued to lighten, but Aunt Gertrude didn't get back to her usual placid self – she kept plucking at the arm of her chair after we'd returned to the drawing room. Within five minutes, Grandmother announced she didn't wish for coffee and would retire for the night – nothing unusual in that. It was Aunt Gertrude who provided the surprise, by saying there was something she would like to talk to Grandmother about, so would it be alright if she went up with her.'

‘And did she?' Florence was careful to make the enquiry casual.

‘Oh, yes.' Resentment flowed from Ned. ‘It isn't … wasn't,' choked breath, ‘in Grandmother to refuse; even though it should have been apparent to the man in the moon she was done up. Whatever Aunt Gertrude had to say to her – whether an apology for Uncle William's intolerable behaviour or a denial of what he'd said about her grievances – could have waited till today.' He drew a shaky breath. ‘It wasn't as if she could have guessed that for Grandmother there would be no tomorrow.'

Silence hung for a long moment, to be broken by Mrs McDonald. ‘Even me, with my second sight, never felt a shiver of warning. I suppose when it's a case of too close to home, the mind blocks out the messaging.'

Ned, who was not the only one to have never put any credence in her psychic abilities, did not have to repress a twinkle. ‘No one on God's earth could have foreseen …'

Oh, my dearest boy
, thought Florence drearily,
someone did know. Either that or I'm losing my grip on reality.

Ned shifted restlessly in his chair before getting up, thanking Mrs McDonald for the breakfast and saying he must not delay longer in joining his grandfather. He turned on the point of leaving. ‘Do something for me, Florie – be sure the news is broken gently to Johnson. She's spent most of her adult life as Grandmother's lady's maid, absolutely devoted, and she's bound to be devastated. They were friends.'

‘I know. I'll send Molly up to sit with her till she wakes, which probably won't be for a while as she is grown so frail, and then have Molly fetch me to her.'

‘Whatever would I do without you?' With that Ned was gone.

Florence had a flash of memory, of Agnes Johnson's kindness to her as a fourteen-year-old arriving at Mullings. Hard on its heels was the thought that a year ago, Miss Johnson would have prepared and taken in Lady Stodmarsh's night-time hot milk. Instead it had been Ned, and if something had been added to it, beyond the bicarbonate of soda, and an investigation was instigated, he could find himself in a hazardous situation. If not the milk in the cup, how else had the drug been administered? Florence had never before desired to be a fool; now she desperately wished to discover she was one. What a relief it would be to accept that the melodramatic fantasies of her girlhood had returned with a vengeance, leaving her gratefully laughing at her folly.

T
he kitchen which Florence had long ago come to regard as a familiar friend closed in on her like an alien forest, blocking out strength of mind or direction of purpose. Even the pale sunlight creeping in through the window could not pinpoint a pathway upon which to venture back to normality. Mrs McDonald's voice might as well have been coming from the wireless reporting on some event occurring in darkest Africa.

‘Of course, Master Ned was right in saying he's always chatted when he comes in here looking for something tasty to eat, but he's never confided in me the way he does with you, Mrs Norris. So to hear him tell about Mrs William and last evening's carry-on shook me up good and proper. I'd go so far as to say you could've knocked me down with a feather,' she paused, ‘if I wasn't the weight I am, that is.'

‘It is very troubling.' This was undeniable, but what, if any, bearing did his behaviour have on Lady Stodmarsh not living to see another morning? With so much that needed to be done, Florence still sat as if welded to her chair.

Mrs McDonald's dutiful attempts in the past to believe that Mr William wasn't all that bad compared, say, to men like Henry VIII – who married women just so's they could chop their heads off – had received a major setback in the last half hour. She heaved a deep sigh. ‘We all forget ourselves at times, Mrs Norris, and get a bit snappish, but there are limits.'

‘I agree.' It was rehashing to no purpose. Unfortunately, Mrs McDonald couldn't be turned off with a button to allow for the possibility of restorative silence. It was unkind to wish to do so when the good woman meant so well and could have no suspicion that the words
Lady Stodmarsh murdered … I'm not wrong about that …
pulsed relentlessly through Florence's head.

‘Such language! All that swearing, in front of his own mother! It's bad enough that his wife and the others had to get an earful.'

‘Yes, very distressing.'
The motive, springing from a deranged mind … because only such a mentality could embrace the delusion that Lady Stodmarsh's death would bring about the desired result …

‘That sweet, gentlest of ladies, God rest her soul.' Sorrow mingled with outrage. ‘Not to mention his father! Only think how His Lordship must have felt trying to get matters back on an even keel short of grabbing Mr William by the scruff of the neck and shaking him till he rattled, which you know as well as I do, Mrs Norris, His Lordship would not do in a million years – him being cut from such different cloth. Never a finer man anywhere.' The commentary flowed on, while Florence continued to sit immobile.

Having cleared the table, Mrs McDonald bustled about the room, occupying herself with tasks necessary or not; her very thoughts seeming to clink louder than the shifting of saucepans and crockery. It was unlike her to ramble on without noticing a lack of responsiveness, beyond that of vaguely voiced agreement. How would she react if Florence were to confide in her about where her own thoughts were stuck? Would she think her the one with a deranged mind? Doing so was of course out of the question; the only possible disclosure at Mullings could be to His Lordship, but just supposing? Would Mrs McDonald be swayed on hearing of Lady Stodmarsh's distressed state last night? Florence's head cleared a little. Far more crucial was the question that only now presented itself. How would George respond to such a revelation and the resultant dilemmas facing her?

‘Of course, we had to know, while keeping our mouths shut, that Mr William's never been the easiest of gentlemen, but that nastiness to his wife, and her looking at him with hatred! I'd've said Mrs William wasn't the sort to be happy or unhappy to any marked degree. But like they say, “still waters run deep”.' Mrs McDonald shut the oven door on the loaves of bread she'd put in to bake. Flour from her apron and hands puffed into the air. ‘Still, that's beside the way. If he was my husband – presumption be blowed – I'd have given him one with the rolling pin. A good conk now and then could do most men a power of good …' Cupboard doors opened and closed.

George's response would be kindly. He'd be more than willing to listen – to hear Florence through as she explained why she couldn't accept that Lady Stodmarsh had died of natural causes. He wouldn't instantly latch on to disbelief. He would mull the matter over carefully, ask sensible questions, make pertinent observations
.

‘If my hair wasn't white already,' Mrs McDonald's voice again broke through like that of a broadcaster interrupting the programme in progress to make an important announcement, ‘it would've turned so on the spot listening to Master Ned confiding in us like he did. That one's a good lad, no doubt of that. Though I have to say, I don't think he's quite fair when it comes to being down on Miss Bradley for trying overly hard to please. Shows a grateful nature, is how I'd see it. It's a credit to her, not wilting away, after what she's been through so recently. Of course, youngsters tend to pick holes about silly things, even when they're fond of someone.'

‘He is at that age.'

Mrs McDonald sighed. ‘He'll grow up fast enough now, having to be His Lordship's support.'

‘Yes, he will.'

‘Which isn't to say he'll be ready to leave hold of your apron strings any time soon, Mrs Norris. You came along to save him, as he'll see it, when he was just a nipper being looked after by dreadful Nanny Stark. What with you being so kind and good with him ever since, it's no wonder he thinks the world of you.'

Florence did not hear more than two words of this. Despite still being seated at the table, she was back in the car with George yesterday, hearing him say what he thought about people who stuck their knife into others for no reason other than choosing to do so. Would he think she had fastened on a suspect particularly vulnerable to injustice? What evidence could she provide? None, beyond claiming to have seen a look in a pair of eyes that she had subsequently forgotten (until conveniently remembered) and that Lady Stodmarsh had been worried, frightened even, last night. But there came the sticking point. She had not talked of someone being out to kill her, let alone named the source of her anxieties. Also it could justifiably be concluded that her disjointed ramblings came from the confusion common to many when on the brink of sleep. Additionally Doctor Chester had voiced no concern as to the cause of death. Given all that, wasn't it still worth the risk of confiding in George? Wrong question. The one that counted was – did she have the right to do so? This was not the time to think of herself, but if she decided she must carry this burden alone until the truth was discovered, if ever, how adversely would that affect their possibly blossoming relationship? Keeping something so important secret from him would not only be overwhelmingly difficult but would make a mockery of closeness.