A Death in the Family (5 page)
Read A Death in the Family Online
Authors: Caroline Dunford
Mrs Wilson opened what I took to be a cupboard door and thrust me through. ‘You’ll be awakened at dawn for chores before breakfast.’ She closed the door behind me.
The cupboard was dark, but it had a window and, as my eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight, I realised this was my room. I quickly discovered the ceiling was not of uniform height by the unfortunate method of testing it with my head. I sat down heavily on the single bed, marvelling how such a modern house, with every obvious modern convenience, had yet made no more provision for its servants than these small coombed attic rooms. However, I had had a long, shocking, adventurous and, if I am honest, quite terrifying day. I slipped out of my outer dress and climbed under the all-too-thin covers. My mother would have been appalled, but even if Mrs Wilson had had the kindness to send up my things to the room, I was not going to hunt for them in the darkness and risk a further, and potentially more serious, concussion.
My poor bed was beginning to feed back some little warmth into my bones when I became aware of the sound of sobbing. It says something for my tiredness of mind that it first occurred to me that Mrs Wilson was harpy enough to give me the one haunted room in the house. ‘Quiet, please,’ I murmured. ‘You’re wasting your time. I don’t believe in ghosts.’ I shoved my head under the covers, emerging a moment later to add, ‘And my father was a vicar, so I know.’
The sobbing continued unabated.
Sighing, I sat up carefully and tried to get its direction. As far as I could tell, it was coming from somewhere to the right of my room. I got up, wrapping a cover around me for warmth as much as decency and opened my door. I needn’t have worried as it was pitch black in the corridor. I felt my way along. I was sleepy enough not to consider the wisdom of my action fully and opened the first door I came across, trusting there would be no men on this side of the attic. It was a linen closet. I discovered this by walking into some shelves and having their contents fall down on my head. After this I was more cautious. I listened at the next door and thought I heard the faint sound of sobbing. I knocked softly. ‘Is there anyone there?’ I enquired, feeling like a second-rate medium.
‘Is that you, Euphemia?’ came Merry’s voice from within. ‘Wait a minute.’
There was the sound of footsteps and then a bolt being drawn back. The door opened, and standing with a lit candlestick in her hand, was a tear-stained Merry. ‘You lost?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m next door.’
Merry attempted to wipe away the tears with the back of her free hand. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a right bad day.’
‘You could say that.’
‘I did,’ replied Merry puzzled.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘The murder and everything.’
‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’
Merry, probably realising I was not going to go away, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into her room. Her fingernails nipped. These people certainly had a nasty habit of hauling each other around by body parts. Or perhaps it was fate somehow paying me back for what I had done to Georgie and his leg.
‘Get in here. We’ll both lose our places if the Wilson catches us.’
Merry’s room was not unlike I imagined my own dark little cupboard to be. It was cheerier, but then the candlelight helped a lot. I could see a couple of postcards tucked under her washstand. On one I could see a bit of the Eiffel Tower. Merry caught the direction of my gaze and backed into the stand pushing the postcards under with the tips of her fingers. I thought I understood. ‘You were fond of George Lafayette, weren’t you?’
Merry looked at me defiantly for a moment. Then bit her lip and nodded, bowing her head. She was a very pretty girl with the right amount of spark to appeal to a young man about town. Inwardly I rained down curses on the dead man’s head.
‘Are you in trouble, Merry?’
Her chin flew up. ‘Of course, I’m not. What do you take me for? I’m not that kind of a girl. Me and Mr Georgie were friends, like.’
My disbelief must have shown on my face.
‘And why not? You’re as bad as Mr Holdsworth! Miss Richenda’s got her odd beliefs. Mr Georgie said he personally ’ad no difficulty with my station. He said I was smart as a whip and twice as pretty as any society girl he’d ever known. What’s wrong with that?’
It crossed my mind that though Merry was obviously country-born she might not have had the advantage of being brought up alongside farms and thus be as familiar as I with the more detestable urges of the male animal. She honestly might not know what was wrong with that. ‘What did you and Mr Georgie do?’
‘We talked. He was fascinated by what we did below stairs. He said how I was taken for granted.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Merry?’
‘Nothing! I swear.’
Now, I knew she was lying. ‘Merry?’
‘Oh, all right, he kissed me once. But he apologised at once. Said he was right ashamed of himself, but that I was so sweet he couldn’t help himself. He said he thought of me like a little sister.’
‘He kisses his sister?’ I asked shocked.
‘No, he doesn’t have a sister. He meant I was like a sister to him. He sent me postcards from the world. Places he said he would have shown me if things were different. He said there was always hope and that maybe if we could prove our attachment was strong enough people would forget I was a servant.’
‘And how, exactly, were you to prove this?’
‘I don’t know. He died before he could tell me,’ Merry began to wail. I managed to take the candlestick from her before she tumbled onto the bed and gave herself up to despair. I knew it would be a long time before she could understand that fate had saved her from a most grim future. Rather than point this out, I petted her and stroked her arm, and talked a lot of nonsense about how he must have died at once without pain and how if he cared for her he wouldn’t want her to be unhappy. Finally, she stopped sobbing and slipped into slumber.
As it would have been dangerous to leave the sleeping Merry with a lit candle I took it with me. It would make finding my door much easier and would hopefully prevent any more bruises before I too could collapse into sleep.
By now I was dropping with exhaustion. I opened my door thinking of nothing but my bed. A chilly blast blew out my candle, but not before I saw that my room had been thoroughly ransacked.
‘Did you not think to alert the rest of the household, Euphemia?’
‘I thought there was little point,’ I said quietly. I was discovering how very imposing a large man in an immaculate butler suit could be. This was a very different Mr Holdsworth than the one who had let me step on his foot.
‘If seems to me, Miss St John,’ said the butler bringing into play a manly but sarcastic eyebrow raise that under different circumstances I might have found attractive, ‘that you did not engage your brain at all. Merry, I might forgive such foolishness, but you are cut from a different cloth.’
The backhanded compliment felt like a slap in the face.
‘Yes, Mr Holdsworth.’
Moments later I was literally upon the carpet in the library repeating my explanation to Sergeant Davies, who was in the process of inspecting the site where Richenda and I had dragged the body. A screen that had been placed around the bloodied site now stood forlornly off to one side of the large fireplace.
The sergeant was not in a good humour and was equally unimpressed by my silence. ‘Did you not think, miss, that the intruder might still have been in the house?’
‘We might all have been murdered in our bed,’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson, who had invited herself to this interview under the guise of being my chaperon. Whereas in reality, I could see in her needle-sharp eyes the keenest of desires to find any reason to remove me from my position.
‘I think that is unlikely, Mrs Wilson,’ responded Mr Holdsworth. ‘It is more likely that the family would have been relieved of their silver.’
I gave him a grateful smile.
‘Which would have been a most serious matter,’ added the butler, frowning upon me. I schooled my expression to a suitable contrition.
‘Perhaps she was in league with the burglar!’ cried Mrs Wilson. ‘Why else would she not report the intrusion?’
All eyes turned to me. Mr Bertram rose from a wing-backed chair which had previously concealed his presence and said, ‘That is a most serious charge, Mrs Wilson.’
‘I hate to admit,’ said Sergeant Davies, ‘but the head maid has a point.’
‘Housekeeper,’ hissed Mrs Wilson.
‘You had better explain yourself, miss,’ the policeman continued.
I had been prepared to defend the lie I was concealing, but to be accused of something of which I was totally innocent threw me onto my back foot. (An expression my father used and which I believe refers to pugilism. Although crude it is apt for my situation as I was about to fight for my life and situation. Fortunately with words rather than blows, as Little Joe informs me I am not capable of forming a passable fist.) I am ashamed to say I took refuge in the weakness of my sex and covered my face with my hands. I know nothing of play-acting, again contrary to popular vaudeville songs it is not the sort of thing vicars’ daughters are encouraged to pursue, but I think I achieved a few credible sobs.
‘How can you think such a thing, Mrs Wilson?’ I sobbed. ‘It was on receipt of your letter that I left my last situation to come and work with you! Without this I have nothing and my family is depending on me.’
‘Is it true, Mrs Wilson?’ asked Sergeant Davies. ‘Did you write to this young woman to appoint her?’
‘Well, yes,’ said my nemesis. ‘But only in reply to her letter. She responded to an advertisement we placed in the paper. She could have planned this from the very start. I always said she was no proper maid. I suspect in both senses, if you take my meaning.’
My head snapped up at the insult. Did the woman’s spite know no bounds? ‘Of course, it makes a great deal of sense that once my accomplice has murdered his victim I should stay on working at the house! Has it not occurred to any of you that this may be the way the assailant left? That it was a break-out rather than a break-in. That the intruder fled across the rooftops?’
I did indeed think it was possible the intruder had remained in the house, but I was concealing the timing of events. My conscience reproached me, but I knew I must keep things simple and divert suspicion away from myself. I also knew I was guilty of no terrible misdemeanour.
Mr Bertram strolled over to lean against the fireplace. I was left with the peculiar sensation that he repositioned himself not for warmth, but the better to regard myself. ‘You must admit that is a more interesting idea, sergeant,’ he said. His dark eyes surveyed me unblinkingly, but at least unlike the sergeant he wasn’t scowling at me.
‘So you are saying, miss, hows all these ideas occurred to you last night and yet you didn’t think to tell anyone?’
‘Yes. I mean, no,’ I stammered unsure of the morality of revealing Merry’s confession that had so distracted me. I compromised. ‘The maid near me, Merry, was most distressed by the events of the day in the house. I went to her to ask for assistance and ended up comforting her.’
‘Rubbish,’ snapped Mrs Wilson. ‘Why should Merry be distressed? The foolish nickname the staff have given her should be proof of her temperament. I say the girl was in league with a burglary that went wrong and ended in the death of poor Mr George.’
‘I would expect any of the staff to be distressed by the appalling events in the house,’ said Mr Bertram quietly but firmly. ‘Moreover Merry has been with us a long time and would naturally be disturbed by any death in the family. To say nothing of such a violent ending to poor Cousin George’s existence.’
‘Of course, sir. Any of the mature members of staff, but these silly girls–’
Sergeant Davies cut her off. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. If I might carry on with my examination. Now, miss, what gave you the idea the intruder and the murderer were the same?’
‘It seems somewhat beyond coincidence, sergeant, that the family – important though the Staplefords doubtless are – should be targeted by two villains on the same day. It is not as if the house is in the heart of the metropolis.’
Mr Bertram made an odd sound and covered his mouth with his hand. I thought I saw his moustache twitch.
‘Also when I and Miss Richenda discovered the body …’
‘Miss Richenda and I,’ hissed a scandalised Mrs Wilson.
I gave her a token nod. ‘When Miss Richenda and I discovered the body …’
‘I thought you discovered the body alone, miss.’
‘Well, yes, that’s true, but I ran immediately from the room. It was Miss Richenda, who persuaded me to return with her so we could identify the body.’
‘She will be blaming Miss Richenda next. You mark my words. The girl is a born liar,’ whispered Mrs Wilson to Mr Bertram. I was glad to see he turned his shoulders away from the poisonous crow of a woman. I attempted to ignore her.
‘So while I did find the body, it is more accurate to say I discovered it with Miss Richenda. When I fled from the passage I was quite overset and, to be frank, not at all sure what I had encountered. I had been travelling through a storm for the best part of the day. I was cold and tired and had had nothing to eat since breakfast. I think at the moment I ran I was hoping it was no more than a conjuring of my overwrought nerves. I am very sorry to be wrong.’
‘Why did you go to the library, miss?’
‘Mrs Wilson sent me. I had initially been interviewed by her earlier that evening in the library. After we left she remarked on the water damage I had left on the carpet and asked me to return to repair it.’
Sergeant Davies scribbled in his notebook. ‘I see, miss. And was Mrs Wilson out of your sight between your first encountering her and your return to the library.’
I hesitated. ‘It was all very confusing when I arrived and I was very tired and hungry. There was a great deal for me to take notice upon,’ I began maliciously. I had the gratification of seeing Mrs Wilson pale and begin to stammer incoherently. The sergeant held up his hand to her and I continued, ‘But no, sergeant. I believe I was constantly in the presence of Mrs Wilson until I was sent to the library. At that point she remained behind in the kitchen.’