Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (23 page)

‘Nothing more to it?' Miss Milligan woofed at him. ‘Wonderful little pedigree! Best in the show, in these parts. Hook a lead on to her while you can, is my advice, young man.'

‘Thank you,' Ned returned coldly. He decided not to stay on for a chat with the regulars; they'd understand his need to escape the woman.

Florence hadn't needed to be told that Ned had succumbed to the heaven and hell of first love. It was written all over him from the first time Lamorna Blake had put in an appearance at Mullings, along with several other young people from society families. All of them, along with their parents, had never been within a mile of the place before, but Regina Stodmarsh had determined to put Mullings prominently on the map. Ned's casual mention that he was thinking about taking up riding had confirmed Florence's opinion that it was a serious case with him. He'd never before shown any interest in the sport, whilst Miss Blake was known as an excellent horsewoman, in addition to her enthusiasm for tennis, which Ned already shared. Florence wasn't sure whether to smile or worry. She thought the age of twenty was much too young for him to form a lasting relationship; but such bedazzlements so often blew over.

As for Miss Bradley's engagement to Mr Fritch, her thoughts were jumbled. Recognizing that it was going to happen had startled her. She couldn't believe it a love match, though on reflection it made sense as a convenient move for both of them. From what she saw of him, Mr Fritch seemed a decent man, but given his extreme shyness, none could have appeared more the confirmed bachelor. She hoped he would not come to rue his walk along the bridal path. Mrs McDonald had told her rumour had it his mother was going about telling anyone she could trap into listening how she'd never got over his abandoning her without a word of forewarning. Whether or not this was her entire thinking, Florence thought questionable. Being able to boast of her connection to Mullings should have some appeal for a woman who liked to crow. One thing was certain: she would never be given anything but the most sneering reception at Mullings by Lady Stodmarsh. Florence caught herself as she often did when thinking negatively about the lady of the house. What mattered above all was that no attempt on her life had been made, and it had come to seem increasingly unlikely given the passage of time. Florence's thoughts echoed with what Ned had said to her, as well as to George at the Dog and Whistle – Regina Stodmarsh seemed destined to live to be a hundred.

Mrs Fritch did indeed have mixed feelings about her son's engagement. It was shocking to have behaved in such a sneaky way, letting his own mother be caught on the hop along with all her acquaintances. So undutiful not to have asked her permission before broaching the subject to Miss Bradley – just what she could have expected from his father! The muddle-headedness of this did not occur to her. But following much righteous fuming, she began to see the advantages. Financially the union would be a godsend. From now on it would be Italy or the South of France for her holidays, instead of the British Isles. Whether Miss Bradley had funds of her own didn't matter overly. It was all around her at Mullings. Surely if Cyril had, since the move to Dovecote Hatch, managed at times to pull money out of thin air to do right by his mother, he should easily be able to persuade a wife into wangling sufficient out of her family for such a worthy end. The only rub for Mrs Fritch in the gratifying picture of herself as a guest at Mullings was her always liking to consider herself as the most cultivated person at any gathering.

She was seated on a bus one day when a frowsy elderly woman in an old black coat and battered hat sat down beside her, then turned for a stare.

‘Aren't you Mrs Fritch, mother of him that's got himself caught up with that Miss Bradley?' It was asked in the despising tone of voice that appealed to Mrs Fritch's mood of resenting Cyril's defection, regardless of benefits.

‘Yes,' she said with what she hoped was the right amount of frigidity. The woman's statement would be unpardonable if it were not so interesting.

‘Asking for trouble, he is, and I'd watch my back too if I were you.'

Mrs Fritch feigned suitable alarm. ‘What do you know against her?'

‘Nothing for gospel,' the woman lowered her voice enticingly, ‘but she struck me from the start as a dark horse. Lots of them in the village feel sorry for her because of getting left standing at the altar before coming here, but none of them questioned why the man got cold feet all of a sudden.'

Mrs Fritch pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘I hadn't thought he could have his own side of the story.'

‘Just like everyone else – just took it as fact he was a cad and her a true Christian martyr. As for the Stodmarshes …'

‘Yes?' This was getting better.

‘They're not the pillars of salt they make out to be,' the woman lowered her voice further to raspy whisper, ‘and I should know, having been nanny to the boy till he was around seven. I could tell from the start he wasn't right in the head, I could. It comes down from his maternal grandmother, who's been in and out of the loony bin. As for the rest, I wouldn't trust a one of them farther than you can kick a piano. Stab you in the back soon as look at you.'

‘Oh, my poor Cyril!' Mrs Fritch pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘He's been doing the bookkeeping at Mullings for insultingly low wages, so perhaps I shouldn't be all that surprised by what you're saying …'

‘Here's my stop coming up. Best keep all this to your chest, particularly with your son, unless you have sufficient influence to persuade him to break the engagement – not all mothers do.' The woman got up and started towards the front of the bus. Mrs Fritch heard a chuckle but did not connect it with her recent companion.

She wouldn't give one word of warning to Cyril. Wanted to make his own decisions, did he? Well, he'd just have to live with the results, however badly they turned out. The woman had looked a drinker. So what! That didn't make her blind and deaf. What mattered was that Mrs Fritch would have it up her sleeve, and it would enable her to look down her nose on the Stodmarshes if they tried coming all superior over her. Never had she enjoyed a short bus ride more.

Winter merged into spring. One fine Tuesday in early May, George left the Dog and Whistle at around nine in the morning to walk along to the newsagent's three doors down to buy a paper. The weather being fine, he took it over to a bench on the green and sat down to enjoy a leisurely read. Miss Milligan, coming from the opposite side of the green with two of her dogs walking to heel, saw him crumple over.

‘What to make of that, chaps?' she asked the boxers. ‘Odd time of day for a nap!' On nearing the bench she bayed: ‘Rousie! Rousie!' Taking this as an order, Hercules and Harold shifted sideways and plunged forward on their leads. ‘Sit!' she bellowed, to instant effect, and to the consternation of Constable Trout pedaling down the road. Attempting to look as though he was intentionally getting off his bike instead of being bumped from it, he came over to investigate.

‘What's to do?' he inquired portentiously.

‘George Bird.'

‘Can see that for meself without need for spectacles, Miss Milligan. No mistaking a man of his size for anyone else, even with his head down. I expect he's fainted, is all.'

‘That's your sex for you! Don't need the excuse of wearing tight corsets! I expect he did the silly and skipped breakfast.'

Constable Trout did not approve of the word ‘sex' in any context. He got the party on the bench, as referred to afterwards in his daily notebook, sitting upright and held him in place. George stirred, but neither opened his eyes nor attempted to speak. Mr Smith, the newsagent, came out of his shop, crossed the road, and stepped on to the green.

‘What's to do, Constable?' he called out.

‘It's George Bird. Passed out, he has, but I think he's beginning to come round. Hope it isn't a heart attack.'

George was now mumbling about being all right and wanting to get back to the Dog and Whistle. Some colour had returned to his face. ‘Where's my newspaper?' He fumbled a hand across the bench.

‘In your lap, old boy,' said Miss Milligan.

Mr Smith handed it to her. ‘We'll give it back to you, Birdie, when we get you home. First thing's to get you perpendicular.'

The two men heaved him up and each took hold of an arm in manoeuvring him back to the Dog and Whistle. Miss Milligan followed with the newspaper, which she handed over at the door, saying she wouldn't come in because of the dogs. George tried to dissuade Constable Trout and Mr Smith from doing so either.

‘I'm feeling back to normal – no need to waste more of your time. Been feeling a little under the weather for the past couple of days, that's all.' It was no good. They insisted on at least seeing him into a chair. Constable Trout was all for fetching Doctor Chester, but George was adamant that he didn't need him. Five minutes later they reluctantly departed, each having urged him to go back to bed. He had never before been so anxious to have the place to himself.

A couple of hours later, Sir Winthrop and Lady Blake were seated in their library at The Manor, Large Middlington, utterly unprepared for a conversation with their daughter Lamorna that would turn the bright spring morning into darkest winter night. The library, with its walls of unread leather volumes, deep leather chairs, and ponderous oils of hunting scenes, could have been switched with one from any comparable country house without anyone being the wiser. Even the liver-and-white spaniel positioned just so on the Turkish carpet would be interchangeable, having been chosen to blend in perfectly with carpet and fabrics.

Sir Winthrop was reading the newspaper, skipping the pages featuring political commentary in conflict with his own inclinations. As usual he muttered a running commentary, to which his wife, as usual, paid no heed.

‘What's the world coming to with all the crime these days? Elderly woman stabbed to death whilst knitting near King's Cross. Thank God we don't go in for that sort of thing round here; it lets Britain down. Mark my words, Clarice, it could lead to our losing hold of the Empire. Never takes much for the French to gloat that we're no more civilized at heart than savages in the jungles. They're usually referring to our cooking. But damn it all, we don't have to hand them opportunities to have a go at us!'

Lady Blake was thinking about their son, Gideon, wondering why his focus had shifted from haircuts to growing a beard. This scene, which had replayed itself with minor variations for the past thirty years, was shattered to smithereens when their eighteen-year-old daughter, wearing the very latest vogue in tennis dresses, swept through the door and flung at them the defiant declaration that only the wickedest of the wicked would try to stopping her from marrying Ned Stodmarsh.

People who saw Lamorna Blake for the first time were prone to wonder if the wondrous blue of her eyes outshone the glory of her golden hair, or whether it was the other way round. Nor was hers a beauty that paled with familiarity. Even her parents were frequently struck anew by her loveliness, but this morning their focus was not on her looks but on her horrifying announcement.

She threw herself into a chair. ‘Ninnies! Don't just sit there with your mouths open! You know I've been seeing a lot of Ned ever since I got released from finishing school. At first he didn't seem to admire me at all, which has never happened with a boy before, and it was terribly exciting, but then he turned out to be so sweet. Felicity Giles is beside herself over him.'

Sir Winthrop recovered the power of speech ahead of his wife. ‘My dear child, you can't marry a man because another girl wants him!'

Lamorna closed her eyes, the exquisite little fans of dark lashes displayed to great advantage against her white-and-rose petal complexion. ‘God wouldn't be so cruel as to let that happen. And it isn't just tennis. He's proved his devotion by taking up riding to please me. Who could deny that such dedication deserves the ultimate reward?'

‘Are you saying he's proposed?'

‘Don't be simple, Daddy. Of course he has, or we wouldn't be talking about it, would we?'

‘When?'

‘Yesterday afternoon at the Stafford-Reids' picnic.'

‘And you said nothing last night?'

‘How could I? You'd gone to dinner and bridge with the Belchleys when I got home and weren't back when I went to bed.'

Sir Winthrop gazed helplessly at his wife. ‘Clarice?'

Her Ladyship kept a grip on her composure. ‘He should not have dreamed of approaching you until he had spoken with your father.'

Lamorna raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don't be so frightfully old-fashioned, Mummy. It isn't Daddy he wants to marry.'

‘I should hope not!' Sir Winthrop occasionally attempted a joking manner. Her Ladyship's look informed him she was in no mood for frivolity.

‘Anyway, Ned just blurted it out. I nearly tripped on a loose stone on the path when we were walking around. He put his arms round me to prevent my scraping a knee or worse and then said the sweetest thing in the loveliest husky voice about wanting to keep holding me for the rest of our lives. And I asked him to tell me exactly what he meant, and he said …'

Lady Blake stopped listening. Such a frightfully awkward situation in which to be put! Just a few years ago a refusal to listen to such foolishness would have been automatic, an alliance with the Stodmarshes – that family of most frightful bores – unthinkable, to be avoided like the Great Plague and the Fire of London combined. But that was before Mullings had become a place to which people would kill to be invited. They were all desperate to have the chance to tramp through its woods, in hope of catching one teensy glimpse of a tangle-haired, long-bearded figure in sackcloth slipping to or from his grotto.

‘We barely discussed the ring, if that makes you feel better about the proprieties, Mummy; only that I want it to be a sapphire to match my eyes, with a diamond on each side. There's so much less fun in getting engaged if ones friends aren't green with envy.'