Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (20 page)

He invited Florence to sit down. ‘Grumidge has given you the news, Mrs Norris?'

‘Yes, Lord Stodmarsh.' She expressed her best wishes for his future happiness with no visible sign of the concern that made her glad to be sitting down.

Some of the foreboding Lord Stodmarsh had experienced since wakening ebbed away as he thanked her. They talked for several minutes about the obvious – that change was always unsettling initially, but he had every confidence she and Grumidge would ease the understandable anxieties of the staff, and, he concluded, ‘ensure that my wife will be given a reception deserving of,' here he paused, due to a catch in his throat, ‘of the new mistress of Mullings.'

‘Have no worry, sir. Lady Stodmarsh will be accorded the warmest and most respectful of welcomes, and any alterations to the running of the house that she requests will be immediately instigated and adhered to without question.' Florence felt a twist of pain as she spoke. Added to the trepidation already assailing her, she had a strong sense that something had propelled him into this marriage that had little, if anything, to do with love.

‘As I told Grumidge, no one amongst the staff need fear dismissal in a clean sweep.'

‘That will relieve minds, sir.' Hands folded on her lap, Florence waited for His Lordship to continue. She could see he was bracing himself to tell her something he had not imparted to Grumidge. Discomfort was visible in his eyes. The urge to ease the words from him, as she would have done with Ned, must necessarily be stifled; doing so caused her insides to tighten.

Lord Stodmarsh reached for his pipe and studied it, as if hoping it might prove helpful, then laid it back down. Rarely, if ever, did he actually smoke it, but Florence thought it probable he was sorely tempted to do so at this moment. When he finally spoke he did so with awkward abruptness. ‘Mrs Stapleton's maiden name was Tamersham.' His gaze met hers expectantly.

‘I see.' This was indeed information to be assimilated. ‘My mother's employers were Sir Peregrine and Lady Tamersham.'

‘Mrs Stapleton's parents.'

Florence felt the finger of fate moving down her spine. ‘Grumidge said your future wife was from a Northumberland family, but I didn't consider the possibility of it being the one my mother worked for. There are other, notable titled members of society in that part of the country – the Reverend Pimcrisp's cousin, Lord Asprey, for instance. The Tamershams – especially Her Ladyship – were very kind to my mother.'

‘Yes, I remember your telling me so. I have very much enjoyed our conversations, unrelated to household affairs, over the years, Mrs Norris. And I know how much my wife valued your ones with her.' His Lordship shifted the inkwell on his desk. His discomfort appeared to increase sharply on drawing out his next utterance. ‘I found your mother's tale of the family's idiosyncratic tradition intriguing and thought-provoking. Mrs Stapleton's brother, and only sibling, Sir Rupert Stapleton, recently informed her of changes he wishes to make to the estate, one of which distressed her deeply. It was in regard to ridding the property of the ornamental hermit. Never a practice she had favoured, but the idea of turning the old man out upon the world after being so long withdrawn would, she believed, be devastating for him.'

‘Yes, it would seem very likely he'd have difficulty readapting.' Florence could not be unaware of what was coming. Everything within His Lordship's make-up must recoil from the demeaning, even sacrilegious usage of one's fellow man, by arrogant members of the upper class for the titillation of inane vanity. The result in this case bringing matters to a sorry pass for the equivalent of a cast-off trinket. ‘Could Sir Rupert not have waited until …?'

Lord Stodmarsh answered her uncompleted thought. ‘Mrs Stapleton begged her brother to allow the man to live out his days on the estate, but he refused, saying he was doing more than sufficient in providing him with a small pension.'

‘May I assume, sir, he is to come here?'

‘Mrs Stapleton felt impelled to make the request and I could not refuse.'

‘Of course not,' Florence smiled in hope of cheering him, ‘you are far too compassionate to deny the poor man the chance to continue living as he has done. His arrival will cause a stir in the village, but hopefully it will be of the nine days' wonder sort.'

Lord Stodmarsh nodded. ‘I have utmost trust in the profound good nature of the locals, Mrs Norris, but word will inevitably spread well beyond Dovecote Hatch. How can such a personage inhabiting our grounds fail to attract attention from the curious and voyeuristic?'

‘I agree, Lord Stodmarsh.' In Florence's view, some shopkeepers wouldn't mind at all, and it would also be good for business at the Dog and Whistle, but in the main locals would object, albeit silently, to the invasion, and she was sure George would be with them – hang the benefits.

‘It seems to me, Mrs Norris, that a “No Trespassing”
sign posted where the woodland pathway enters the village would not deter the determinedly curious, making it necessary to encircle that area with a wall. That does not sit well with me. It has always been accepted that we not only permit but encourage those living in Dovecote Hatch to take walks in the woods whenever they so desire. And then there is Alf Thatcher, who uses the pathway as a short cut when delivering the post.'

The sigh that escaped His Lordship wrung Florence's heart. ‘What about a gate, sir, which could be unlocked with keys given to those of your – and the future Lady Stodmarsh's – choosing?'

‘Thank you, Mrs Norris. An idea well worth considering.' He rallied determinedly. ‘As to housing for the poor fellow, there is that hut used for storing fishing tackle close to where the stream broadens at the base of the big waterfall, and within a few yards of those two entwined trees that all the children – including Lionel and William, then Ned, and doubtless generations before them – have loved to climb. I will have the hut reconstructed and furnished to make as comfortable a dwelling for him as possible, with plenty of warm blankets and a stove for heat. Which of the maids to send out with his meal will, of course, be your decision. It should always be the same one, to provide constancy, especially important in this new environment.'

‘I'll make sure to select the right girl.'

‘May the newcomer find contentment here, Florie.' The old name slipped out unaware. ‘Will you please convey to Grumidge what is to occur? I wanted to talk with you first because of your understanding of the nature of ornamental hermits and how they wend into the Tamersham heritage.' His Lordship rose from his chair. ‘Thank you, Mrs Norris, for listening patiently.'

After leaving the study, Florence did not immediately seek out Grumidge but went into the housekeeper's room, closed the door softly behind her and sat down. She needed time alone. It had been obvious that Lord Stodmarsh was not happy about his forthcoming marriage, which strongly suggested he'd been manipulated into it, something that could only have been accomplished by a very wily woman – but if there had to be a new Lady Stodmarsh, wasn't it better that she should be one with all her wits about her? Florence stared unseeingly at her hands resting on the accounts book. Over the past few months she had begun to think she might have added two and two together and made six in regard to Lillian Stodmarsh's death, and sacrificed George in vain. She now prayed fervently that either this was the case, or that murder wouldn't strike at Mullings again.

A
t the Dog and Whistle that evening the regulars could talk of nothing other than Lord Stodmarsh returning from Weymouth as a newly engaged man. Once past the initial shock, George Bird's thoughts concentrated on Florence, as conversations buzzed around him. What would she make of His Lordship marrying again? Was she worrying that the new Lady Stodmarsh would insist on changes that would turn Mullings inside out?

Despite the passage of time since Florence had severed ties between them, a day rarely went by when George didn't think of her and hope she was getting along all right. He still had his little chats with his departed wife Mabel, but these didn't bring the comfort they once had; instead they brought home to him the depth of his loneliness. Far from a conceited man, he'd believed Florence had grown fond of him. So what had happened? Her explanation hadn't rung true. He could still picture her face; it had been etched with anxiety.

Had she guessed on the drive back from her mother's home that he'd come to love her and, not being able to reciprocate, decided the kindest thing possible was cutting off any hope of a shared future? If it wasn't that, was there something else wrong in her life, some trouble at Mullings that she felt obliged to keep strictly to herself, but feared might leak out if they continued seeing each other? Or had one of the Stodmarshes been headed for a breakdown, or someone turned nasty after Lady Stodmarsh's death because they didn't think they were getting their due from the will? It could be any of a dozen things. It didn't do to keep dwelling on questions without answers. By the end of the first week after he'd received the blow, he'd given himself a stern talking-to. A man of his height and girth standing around looking pitiful would make a joke of himself, and that would wear thin fast with the customers. He'd straightened his back and shined up his smile. It wasn't like he was the only one with heartache these days.

His godson, Jim, had broken things off with his young lady after facing up to the fact that it could be years before he earned enough from his paintings to provide for her in marriage. It wasn't right to keep her dangling, missing out on meeting a man who had no reason to delay proposing to her. His parents, Sally and Arthur, made the big mistake of telling him they were over the moon that he'd come to his senses. A girl of that sort – with a silly name and a platinum streak in her hair – wasn't the daughter-in-law for them. That she was the one for Jim didn't come into it. He admitted in a letter to George that he'd slammed out of their house and didn't know when he'd want to see them again, if ever – harsh words that told George the lad must be head-over-heels in love with the girl and heartbroken at feeling morally compelled to give her up.

Alf Thatcher's voice broke through the burble of overlapping conversations that evening at the Dog and Whistle. ‘Well, Birdie,' he said, having elbowed his way up to the bar, ‘if this isn't a right turn-up for the book, His Lordship marrying again, I don't know what is. Nobody's business but his own, of course.'

‘Doesn't sound that way from in here.' George refilled Alf's glass with another half-pint. ‘Can't expect anything else, of course, human nature being what it is, but what I say is – no good speculating on the whys and wherefores; best just to wish him and his intended well and leave it at that.'

Alf eyed him sharply. ‘It doesn't go down well, does it, all this stuff about getting himself caught on the rebound?'

‘You're right about that,' George's return look was appreciative, ‘becoming a widower doesn't mean a man's senses have got to fall out of his ears, or that there's always a desperate woman out to bag him.'

‘I know, I know, Birdie, never thought that about you an' Florence; all I said was I didn't like the way it turned out for you.' He lowered his voice. ‘What bothers me with His Lordship is his health going downhill this past year. When you don't feel fit, it's not so easy to think clear, is it now?'

George had to give him that. ‘That doesn't mean his intended isn't a wonderful woman.'

‘That's what me and Doris had been telling ourselves, till the vicar's housekeeper said something puzzling to her when they ran into each other doing the shopping this afternoon. She said Mr Pimcrisp turned white as a sheet when she broke the news to him at around eleven this morning. She'd taken him in a cup of tea as she always does at that time and his hand shook so bad he knocked the cup off his desk.'

George smiled. ‘I don't see much odd in that. It's typical of the narrow-minded old geezer, I'd say, to think anyone marrying at over seventy should be ashamed of themselves – another sign of unclean living taking over mankind worse than ever.'

‘That's what Doris thought, till the housekeeper said it was when she told the vicar the name of the wife-to-be and that she comes from Northumberland that he turned from disapproving to queer. She couldn't figure out why at first, then it dawned on her. Mr Pimcrisp's second or third cousin – whatever it is – Lord Asprey, also lives in Northumberland, and the two of them keep in touch by writing to each other once a month. The vicar's one worldly vanity, she told Doris, is being on fairly close terms with His Lordship. Not that we don't know that already from him dropping the name like pennies in the poorbox when he's bin in here with Lord Stodmarsh. It could be, she thought, that the two families – Lord Asprey's and the lady's in question – live quite close to each other and he'd heard something against her that he passed on to the vicar in one of his letters.' Alf stopped talking when other customers shifted up alongside him wanting refills. George saw to these, either briskly or leisurely depending on whether the customer wanted to chat or not. Then he waited for the tide to draw them back into the sea of general conversation, before picking up the threads of what the vicar's housekeeper had said to Alf's Doris.

George shook his balding head. ‘A fat lot that means! According to Pimcrisp's strict bookkeeping, not getting out of bed till noon would be the deadly sin of sloth. And not going to church regular would be as bad as burning down every cathedral in England.'

‘I know, I know, as do Doris, but she said that didn't stop a shiver go down her spine for fear His Lordship could be making a terrible mistake. When a man's good through and through, like he is, he don't always see what others do in a person.'