Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (32 page)

Jeanie winced as pain shot up her leg. ‘But it wasn't! That's what's so unfair.'

‘Wasn't what, my girl?'

‘An accident.' Jeanie sucked in a breath. ‘I was pushed. On purpose.'

‘Go on with you!' Mrs McDonald experienced a qualm under her dismissive tone. ‘Either you're imagining things, or you're making excuses like you're all too prone to do.'

‘No, I'm not!' Jeanie blinked away a tear. ‘All right, I tell fibs, Mum was always calling me a confounded little liar. Better that than the wallop of her hand! But I'm not making this up. Someone came up behind me at the top of the stairs and gave me a hard shove in the back.'

Florence, who had been in the study with Ned listening to his frustration and distress at still not having found Rouser, had been standing in the passage doorway for the last minute or so. A chill went through her, but the moment called for focus on Jeanie's injured ankle. After a brief conversation with Mrs McDonald, she decided upon not sending for Doctor Chester until Mr Grumidge had taken a look at the injury. He had performed first aid in the war and would know a sprain from a break.

Forty-five minutes later, after reassurances from Grumidge that a soothing poultice and an elevation of the foot were all the treatment that was needed, Jeanie was in her bed being offered lemonade and sympathy from Molly.

‘I don't know why I believe her about being pushed,' said Mrs McDonald. ‘I shouldn't, with her not always knowing one end of the truth from the other, but somehow I do. Question is, why would anyone do such a thing? And if it was just a matter of bumping up against her on accident, why not go to help when she fell? There's always squabbles amongst the staff; wouldn't be natural if there weren't. Jeanie can be snippy, we've both had to take her to task for it, although I'd say she's been much better this past year – but spite to the point of injuring somebody, that's something different.'

‘I agree,' Florence restrained herself from pacing. ‘We may be alarming ourselves unduly, but I think we are right to worry to the point of being more on the watch than usual.'

‘For what?'

‘Anything, however small, that strikes a wrong chord.'

‘There's something getting at you that you're not saying.' The eyes that met Florence's were shrewd under the heavy eyebrows. ‘I know you well enough after all these years to be sure of that, Mrs Norris, and I'd say it's weighing on you like a boulder.'

Florence fought back the urge to confide, remembering another created diversion from years back. Someone coming into this kitchen and exclaiming the word
mouse,
scaring Annie into screaming hysterically – her attention removed from the hot milk she had been about to take up to Lillian Stodmarsh. Florence still did not believe she had died from natural causes that night. At times her conviction as to the identity of the murderer wavered, from a questioning of her own judgement, but never for long. What she had never doubted was that the killer remained at Mullings. It was something she had learned to live with to the point of numbness, allowing her to focus only on what needed to be addressed at a particular moment when coming into contact with that person. Her fervent hope was that the killer would decide it was too risky to strike again – would savour success, and not take out the noose a second time and try it on for size. Why decide now that it was time to raise the curtain on act two? A sickening possibility gripped Florence: could the entrance of a scapegoat be the trigger? When Mrs McDonald spoke, Florence feared she would faint – something she had never done, even when receiving word that Robert had been killed in battle. She dragged forward a chair and sat down.

‘From what you say,' said Mrs McDonald, ‘Miss Jones seems a nice enough girl, and one that's had as hard a time as shouldn't, but we don't know any more about her than what she has to say for herself. Could be she's every bit as nasty natured as her grandmother. Let's not forget how Regina Stapleton pulled the wool over His Lordship's eyes, turning him sweet, even managing to keep up the act – not showing her true colours till after his death, when much of the money was tied up in her favour. I know you've spent time with Miss Jones,' Mrs McDonald acknowledged, ‘but like they say, blood's thicker than water.'

Florence wasn't sure about the last bit, but it would have been counterproductive to raise the question that the girl might only be pretending to be Sylvia Jones, having heard the story of the girl who had eloped with the groom and the evil mother.

‘Maybe,' Mrs McDonald persisted in response to her silence, ‘she gets enjoyment out of such tricks – sneaking off in the middle of the night with a kind young man's dog or pushing people down staircases. People that have had things tough sometimes resent them that's had it easy. Or,' she amended, ‘in Jeanie's case – easier.'

Florence stopped herself in time from saying that perhaps that was what someone wanted them to think. Now her head was no longer swimming, she got to her feet, smoothed out her skirt, and smiled wryly. ‘I hope we're not dramatizing the situation. There really isn't anything we can do except, as we said, be on the alert for further mischief.'

‘Right you are!' Mrs McDonald heaved herself into action with an enormous mixing bowl and giant spoon, ‘The good Lord knows I don't want to make judgements on anyone.'

‘I wasn't being critical,' said Florence, ‘but we can't stick our heads in the sands either. I'm going outside for some fresh air, to try and clear away the cobwebs.' Once outside she wandered into the kitchen garden and sat on a tree trunk against the drystone wall. The sky remained shadowy with cloud and there was little sun. She realized she was being forced to think deeply for the first time in a long while about Lillian Stodmarsh's death and her own subsequent behaviour. Was the lack of tangible proof a good enough excuse for not taking her suspicions to the police? She could have given the
anonymous
note
from Hilda Stark to Constable Trout and let the situation play out as it would. Hadn't she allowed her devotion to the Stodmarsh family, the desire to protect Ned from suspicion that could have ruined his life, to govern her conscience? Was devotion the right word, or was
obsession
a better fit? Was she as unbalanced in this regard as her mother was about the Tamershams and their ornamental hermit? She thought of George Bird and how she had allowed him go out of her life rather than trust him as a confidant. No wonder he no longer wished to have anything to do with her.

She pondered over the current situation in relation to the past. Was she so swept away by her powers of deduction that she saw menace without justification in happenings that were not unusual – a dog gone missing and a kitchen maid taking a tumble down a staircase? Someone had undoubtedly let Rouser out during the night, but why leap to the conclusion that it had been done on purpose out of spite, or for some other, as yet unfathomable, reason? Jeanie claimed she was pushed down the stairs, but she was not always truthful and this time her job was at stake. What benefit could these two incidents provide a possible instigator?

Florence sighed. She could worry away at coming up with an answer until her head spun and not get an inkling of an idea. A somewhat reassuring thought slid into her mind. Maybe the murderer had no desire to kill again, even having been presented with a potential scapegoat in Sylvia Jones. Hatred and resentment might have faded to be replaced by apathy – a sluggish need to leave well enough alone.

Florence heard voices as she stepped into the courtyard after leaving the kitchen garden, and she saw Ned and Sylvia Jones crossing the lawn towards her. Rouser was not with them.

‘Is he back?' Ned called out as they drew near.

‘Afraid not, unless he came round the front and was let in during the last ten minutes while I've been out here.'

‘Even if he hasn't, you can't lose hope.' Miss Jones laid a hand on his arm, her platinum hair close in colour to the silvery clouds overhead. ‘Call me foolish, but I truly believe we can will happy endings.'

‘That's the spirit!' Ned's smile could not mask his quivering lips. He went over to Florence and put an arm round her. ‘Don't look so sad, Florie, I'm supposed to be a grown-up capable of dealing with the knocks of life,' he murmured against her cheek. ‘Sylvia,' he added in a louder voice, stepping away from her to look at the girl, ‘was kind enough to walk over with me to Farn Deane so I could find out from Tom or Gracie if Rouser had been seen around there this morning. But no luck.' Again his mouth quivered but he forced himself on. ‘They're great people, don't you think, Sylvia?'

‘Yes, but there's no need for gratitude that I went with you. I was glad to get out of the house.' Her brown eyes brought Florence into what she was saying. ‘Breakfast wasn't too bad. Mr William Stodmarsh didn't show any interest in me whatsoever. His wife asked why in the world I would want to get in touch with, let alone meet, my grandmother, and Miss Bradley merely said she hoped I liked the marmalade and that she always found spreading it on her toast soothing.'

‘Needless to say,' interpolated Ned, ‘Regina did not grace us with her presence.'

‘And as I had no intention of bearding her again in her den, I was glad of the chance to get out of the house.' Miss Jones beamed at him as if she didn't have a care in the world. ‘Especially as the three other family members disappeared after leaving the table. And there's me worrying about disrupting the entire household, because of Granny's,' her lips curled around the name, ‘sins.'

‘I'm glad your fears have been put at rest,' said Florence, ‘and it's obvious Ned … Lord Stodmarsh is glad to have you here. If you'll please both excuse me, I should get back to the house. It has to be close on time for luncheon to be served.'

‘Lord, yes!' exclaimed Ned, looking at his watch. ‘Almost noon! I want to stop in at the police station and report Rouser's disappearance to Constable Trout before meeting Grandma Tressler at the station. Makes for a rushed wash and brush-up. Want to come in with me through the study door, Sylvia?'

‘If you don't mind, I'd like to accompany Mrs Norris so she can introduce me to the cook, who so kindly sent up nourishment for me last night.' This sounded reasonable to Ned.

‘Right-ho!' He made a dash for the veranda steps.

‘That's true,' said Miss Jones as they crossed the courtyard to the servants' entrance, ‘but I also feel the need for a chat with you, even if it's about this, that or nothing. You're one of the most restful people I've ever met. Do you ever lose your temper?'

They paused on flagstones facing the door leading to the realm below stairs. Florence considered the question. ‘Rarely. Displays of anger are trained out of those in service. Control is the byword, but that doesn't mean I'm no longer capable of anger … at least I hope not.'

‘On your own behalf?' Miss Jones sounded as if she really wanted to know.

Florence hesitated. ‘Sometimes … not often … perhaps not.' This sounded to her own ears like an admission of weakness. She saw that her world had narrowed through the years and there was no room in it for herself.

‘I understand.' Sylvia Jones took hold of her hand. ‘Look, the way I see it – to be angry on our own behalf we have to realize we're worth the fight. I've never had that sort of confidence – it's so much easier to go all out for someone else in need, to try and right wrongs done to others. That's partly … mostly … why I'm here, but I also have to prove I'm not one to throw away a chance of happiness for myself, if it's there – if not, I'll have found the strength to carry on independently.'

Florence, usually undemonstrative, kissed her on the cheek. ‘You've settled one thing for me, Miss Jones.'

‘What's that?'

‘That you haven't fabricated the story of being Regina Stodmarsh's granddaughter. I wasn't sure about that.'

They went though the passageway into the kitchen where they glimpsed the hovering footman. There was minimal hustle and bustle. A pan of sautéing sweetbreads was evident on the stove. Platters filled with tempting arrays of salads, lobster patties, and fruit were set out, waiting to be carried upstairs. As Mrs McDonald said often enough, ‘If a mother with three or four young 'uns clinging to her legs can get a meal on the table the minute her man walks through the door, I have no reason on God's earth for huffing and puffing before dishing up for a small number of people, and some of them out half the time.' Not that she'd go so far as to say she got paid for sitting on her bottom, but no one would hear her moan she had it hard! On this occasion, her colour was up and her bosom heaved with emotion. The source, Florence saw immediately, was Annie Long, looking more whey-faced than ever as she cringed, twitched and wrung her hands while backing away as if from a persecutor.

‘Please! Don't ask it of me no more,' she gabbled. ‘I can't do it; I'd be too afeared. What if he came at me with them long nails of his and clawed me to ribbons? What if he tried to interfere with me?'

‘Spare me!' Mrs McDonald begged the ceiling. ‘The poor man has to be eighty at least!'

Florence knew what was at issue, but waited to insert herself until appealed to by her friend and colleague. She saw that Sylvia Jones looked interested to the point of working up to a verbal contribution.

Annie carried on gabbling. ‘My mum says no man's to be trusted when it comes to that until he's boxed up and nailed down, and even then he'll try wiggling it through a crack in the wood.'

Mrs McDonald threw up her hands. ‘Tell me she hasn't taken leave of her senses, Mrs Norris? Could you have ever imagined such language coming out of our Annie's mouth? It's enough to make me become a Methodist!'