A Death in the Family (15 page)

Miss Richenda nodded. ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘You had better come and work for me.’

The doorbell rang loud and insistent. I ignored it. Mr Holdsworth passed through the kitchen, his face creased in a frown and sweat upon his brow.

‘Mercy!’ cried Merry, ‘That must be the thousandth time that bell has rung this morning.’

‘I hope not,’ commented Mrs Deighton from among deep in her pots on the range. ‘I’m cooking for 30 not a thousand. The potatoes would never go round.’

Merry laughed gaily. I sat as quietly as I could and attempted to fade into the background. I carefully shaved the skin from yet another carrot and wondered why on earth I had imagined that Richenda’s generous impulse would be more than that. At Mrs Wilson’s suggestion that I might be of more use in the kitchen on the night of the big dinner Miss Richenda had handed me over without a backward glance.

Mrs Wilson came into the kitchen and, despite my best efforts, noticed me. ‘Ah, Euphemia. I have left you a little present in the scullery.’ I looked at her blank. Mrs Wilson clapped her hands. ‘Chop, chop! Cook needs this done as quickly as possible.’ She came over to my bowl. ‘Good gracious! Mrs Deighton, did you not keep an eye on this girl? These carrots really will not do. Merry, you’ll have to prepare another batch.’

Merry gave me a filthy look. ‘But I’m already doing the pastry, Mrs Wilson, and it’s not my job.’

‘Need I remind you, young woman, that tonight is the election dinner. By midnight tonight we should have a member in the family again.’

‘Member?’ queried Merry.

‘Member of parliament!’

‘There is no doubt Mr Richard will win?’ I asked.

Mrs Wilson’s beady black eyes homed in on me. ‘Of course not. Whatever your personal ideals, girl, this is a safe Unionist seat.’

Several retorts sprang to my tongue, but I pressed my lips tight shut. I doubted Mrs Wilson had ever bothered to form an opinion through thought, but had acquired what little veneer of understanding she had through contact with the family. Much like a vegetable will acquire mould.

‘I am going to my room for tea!’ said Mrs Wilson. Merry and Mrs Deighton exchanged a look I could not fathom. ‘Kindly clean out the old kitchen grate, Euphemia. Someone has burnt something in it.’

‘Isn’t that what grates are for?’ I muttered as Mrs Wilson paraded out of the room for all the world as if her skirts were made of peacock feathers rather than plain black silk.

‘That’s a right odd thing,’ commented Mrs Deighton. ‘I noticed it earlier a while ago, but with all the comings and goings on it quite slipped my mind. Brush is in the linen room, Euphemia.’

Confused I made for the room with the sheets where I’d been so recently imprisoned. Merry bustled up beside me. ‘Not there. That’s the still room.’ I must have looked completely bemused for she giggled almost in her old friendly manner. ‘Wilson calls the rooms after what they were first used for. Says it’s tradition.’

‘It’s confusing.’

‘Never mind. I shouldn’t think you’ll be around long enough to let it bother you,’ snapped Merry. ‘I hear how it’s Mr Bertram who you’re making up to now.’

‘It was always Mr Bertram,’ I protested. ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean the only rumours about me were about him. And they’re not true anyway.’

Merry shrugged. I sighed, picked up the brush and pan and took them over to the grate. Someone had indeed started a small fire in the centre. There was a small sooty mound among the gleaming metal. Clearly, since the arrival of the range, this grate had been nothing more than ornamental. How foolish to burn something here if you wanted to hide its presence. But then there didn’t need to be anything nefarious about this, did there? Except that …

There was a small curl of white among the darkness. I bent down and pulled a long scrap of paper from the soot. It was a single line from a letter. Written in a well-practised spidery hand were the words:
Lucy is carrying your child
. I rocked back on my heels. Who was Lucy? Mrs Deighton turned from her pots to the salt crock and, without thinking, I slipped the paper into my pocket. I brushed the grate quickly and emptied the soot into the waste area outside.

After the warmth of the kitchen entering the garden was like plunging into a frozen lake. The cold air pinched at my cheeks, but no clarity came with the chill. I darted back inside, returned the brush to its quarters and slipped into the scullery. There I peeled and chopped a truly enormous pile of onions. Tears streamed down my face, but I barely noticed them as my mind raced. Something told me this burnt letter was at the heart of everything that had happened. It had to be. One did not find mysterious, portentously worded scorched missives without them being vitally important. Surely fate was not cruel enough to make this unimportant? I finally had the key to everything and I didn’t understand. I needed to talk to someone, but who could I trust?

When the last onion was chopped I braved the garden again to throw the peelings onto the compost pile. As I came back in I made a decision. I placed my bucket by the door and stole up the servants’ stairs into the house.

I tried the library first, but it was empty. Reluctantly, and knowing this would not enhance my reputation if I was caught, I made my way towards Mr Bertram’s bedchamber. I knocked softly on the door, and not wishing to be observed in the corridor, slipped inside at once. The room was empty. The bed pristine and unslept in. Gone were the trinkets from the dressing table. With a sinking heart I realised that Mr Bertram must still be in London.

I was making my way dejectedly down the servants’ stairs when Merry bounded up to meet me. ‘There you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know why he thinks you can help, but Mr Holdsworth is asking for you. You’re to come at once.’

I nodded and followed her down.

‘Don’t you want to know why Mr Holdsworth wants yer?’ asked Merry.

‘I expect he’ll tell me,’ I said distractedly.

‘You are a strange fish,’ Merry said without rancour. ‘Most maids would be terrified that they were going to be sacked.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m sure Mrs Wilson would never delegate that pleasure to someone else.’

‘It’s more likely to be her out on her ear,’ said Merry darkly. ‘It was all very well when Lord Stapleford was alive – the old Lord Stapleford. He had a soft spot for the old cow, but I don’t see Mr Richard cutting her any slack.’

‘Lord Stapleford had a soft spot for Mrs Wilson?’

‘Yeah, there’s always been whispers that they ’ad a past – if you know what I means. Never could quite bring myself to believe it. Though I don’t suppose she was born a dried-up old prune.’

I shook my head trying to gather my thoughts. ‘What has Mrs Wilson done? Why does she need to be cut slack?’

‘She’s gone for a cup of tea. And you know what that means.’

I stopped a step behind Merry and looked down on her. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘A cup of tea,’ said Merry stressing each word unnecessary. She sighed. ‘She’s gone on the bottle.’

‘She’s a drunkard?’ I gasped.

‘On and off. Always been a bit of a problem for her. Normally she makes sure it doesn’t get in the way of the running of the house, but what with the old master getting killed she’s gone off her ’ead a bit, if you asks me.’

‘Did she ever have any children?’

Merry laughed out loud. ‘Gor, you do ask some stupid things. Course not. I reckon how she’s never, you know.’

‘But I thought you said Lord Stapleford and her …’

‘I never said any such thing,’ snapped Merry. ‘I said how he had feelings for her. That ain’t the same thing as …as … You need to get your mind out of the gutter, missy! Now, move it. Mr Holdsworth doesn’t like being kept waiting.’

I found Mr Holdsworth in the butler’s pantry. He was standing over a small table that had obviously been brought in specially as it made the room quite overcrowded. It was strewn with small cards. The butler was wearing a very worried expression and mopping his brow frequently with his handkerchief. His expression lightened as I came into the room. ‘Euphemia! Wonderful! Now, this is a long shot, but do you by any chance have any knowledge of dining etiquette? Particularly who should be seated by whom?’

‘A little,’ I said nervously.

‘Good! Good! Come in then. I thought my knowledge of such matters was adequate, but this is such a large event. Which members of the nobility does an arch deacon take precedence over precisely?’

‘Shouldn’t Lady Stapleford be doing this?’

‘Mrs Wilson normally does the seating plan.’

‘Ah,’ I said, looking the butler square in the eye.

Holdsworth dropped his gaze. ‘You haven’t been here long, Euphemia. Things aren’t as black and white as you imagine.’

‘You’re shielding her.’

‘Yes. Now, can you help or not?’

I admit I was strongly tempted to turn round, trot up the stairs and deliver Mrs Wilson up to her Mistress on one of the silver platters she had me polish late into the night.

There are disadvantages, many disadvantages, to being raised in a vicarage. The indoctrination of the notion of Christian charity is a combination of the two.

I sat down next to the butler. ‘You’ve almost got that right, but these two need swapping.’

Mr Holdsworth sighed a sigh that came up from the depth of his boots. ‘But that leaves the Wirthington brothers next to each other and they haven’t spoken in years.’

‘Rank must override personal considerations,’ I spoke with my mother’s authority. ‘But we will see what we can do. Tell me about these people and we will attempt to contrive a peaceful seating arrangement.’

And tell me he did. Mr Holdsworth, for all he knew little of seating plans, knew the ins and outs of all the guests down to some extremely intimate details. Although to give him credit he alluded rather than putting me to the blush. It took us half an hour.

‘I am deeply impressed, Euphemia. This is a most happy outcome.’

‘I’m not sure it is precisely happy,’ I answered, ‘but it both satisfies the properties and seems least likely to lead to conflict.’

‘Where did you learn all this?’

‘From my mother.’

‘Your mother? Who are you?’

I sat back in my chair. My eyes were burning from staring at the tiny copperplate script on the place cards. ‘I don’t suppose it matters now. I doubt I will be employed here tomorrow.’

‘You have done me a great favour, Euphemia. If tonight does not go well then all our jobs are in jeopardy. All the staff will be grateful to you.’

I snorted in a manner that would have made my mother faint. ‘I think the staff generally have a very low opinion of me.’

‘I never thought the worse of you.’ This was so kindly said I could feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. ‘I’m the granddaughter of an earl,’ I blurted out. ‘He disinherited my mother when she married beneath her. My father was a vicar.’

‘So you are a mixture of propriety and nobility,’ said Mr Holdsworth. ‘And a credit, if I may make so bold, to both your parents. I take it that financial circumstances have driven you into service when your father died.’

‘I have a little brother.’

‘If you will forgive me saying so the cruelty of your grandfather has obviously not descended down the generations.’

I felt a tell-tale blush wash over me. Since father died no one had spoken to me at length and so kindly. It was very tempting to lean my head on Mr Holdsworth’s shoulder and shed a few maidenly tears. But having admitted to being an earl’s granddaughter I could hardly weep over a butler.

‘Families can be very cruel,’ said Mr Holdsworth. ‘My niece …’

What he was to say next was lost as a commotion broke above us. Angry male voices sparred loudly. I could not make out the words, but I heard Mr Bertram’s voice.

‘Mr Holdsworth, I have to go. I must see Mr Bertram.’

The butler’s eyes widened in alarm. He held out a hand to me. ‘Euphemia,’ he began, but he reached into empty air. I was already running from the room.

‘The business! Damn the business! Shipping guns to Africa to slaughter natives! You call that trade?’

‘Morality, little half-brother! It’s doesn’t suit you. You can’t fool me. If you were this bothered you would have left the house long ago.’

‘I stayed for father!’

‘Balderdash. You couldn’t stand the man! None of us could. Not even the Mater.’

I flew up the stairs, but slowed as I reached the top. Could I really break in on the brothers’ argument? I fully intended to leave once the murder had been solved. I no longer considered myself a servant. If I am honest I thought of myself as an agent of Mr Bertram’s, but I was under no illusions that he would agree with me. And I had no doubt whatsoever that to Mr Richard I was no more than an irritating and insignificant maid. What worried me was exactly how irritating I might be to him and what he might do about it. The last thing I wanted to do was attract his attention, but I knew what I had was important. I moved slowly up the stairs. If I stood at the edge of the hall I would hopefully attract the right brother’s protection.

The quarrel reached a white-hot level, or in Mr Richard’s case a sort of suffused purple. ‘Damn you, man. You dare preach morality to me when you’re keeping that little whore in my house and expecting me to pay for her.’ He flung an accusatory finger in my direction. So much for staying out of sight. I stepped into Mr Bertram’s direct eyeline.

‘Excuse me,’ I began. ‘I really need to talk …’

‘Get back to the kitchen, wench,’ bellowed Mr Richard.

‘Euphemia,’ cried Mr Bertram in an exasperated manner. ‘Now is not the time.’

‘But …’

Both men turned their full attention on me and, in a sudden show of accord, shouted, ‘Go!’

I confess I was not proof against such ill nature. I picked up my skirts and fled down the stairs. Above me the argument raged on and, to my shame, my name was frequently mentioned. At the bottom of the stairs I almost ran into Mr Holdsworth.

‘Perhaps now would be a good time for you to post that letter. It might be wise to let things settle a little.’

I did not need persuading. Stopping for no longer than to collect my coat and the missive, within minutes I was walking down the drive. The air was sharp and fresh. Around me the quietude of nature cast its spell on my soul. My pulse slowed and my breathing became more even. My colour returned to normal. I could feel a weight lifted from my shoulders. I had the ridiculous feeling that should I jump into the air I would not come down for some time. Outside Stapleford Hall I was as light as a feather.