Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (28 page)

‘Oh, no,' came the perky response, ‘no need for that kind of silly fuss; I'll come in with you.'

Ned eyed Grumidge kindly; the poor fellow was struggling manfully not to demean himself by looking aghast.

‘I think it would be preferable …'

In three leaps Ned bounded to within inches of them, clapped a hand on Grumidge's shoulder and announced grandly that the young lady could be left in his care.

‘Indeed, sir.' The butler bowed himself off, leaving the platinum blonde to eye Ned with amusement.

‘Very la-de-da, all this! Lovely wainscoting and furniture, proper ancestral I call it. Wish I had a camera.'

‘I'm sure one can be provided!' Ned responded in lordly fashion. He was completely at sea, but for some reason feeling quite jolly about it.

‘Oops! Can it be I'm addressing the master of the house?'

‘No,' Ned grinned back at her, ‘I'm the bootboy, up to my usual naughty tricks. Let's hear who you are, damsel washed in by the rain. Jones is a suspiciously common name; perhaps you should change it to Smith.'

‘What are you getting at, Ginger?'

‘I scent mischief afoot … that feeling in the thumbs, or maybe it's the toes.'

‘You're far too young to be so cynical.'

‘At twenty a person can have been through a lot.'

‘Now that sounds honest.' The brown eyes sparkled. ‘I've four years on you, but I'm still a sweet young innocent under this brave exterior, desperately hoping to find acceptance after ruthlessly being cast aside to live as an orphan in the storm but for the charity of those disposed to offer it.' The blonde interrupted this burst of poesy to clutch at Ned's arm. ‘Gosh, I could do with something to eat – a piece of bread and butter, anything. I shouldn't have had that gin and orange at the pub on an empty tummy. Nothing for breakfast; egg and chips for lunch, but that was eons ago.'

‘Feeling faint?' Ned took her by the shoulders. ‘Want to sit down?'

‘I don't know, maybe. It wouldn't do to pass out when bearding the dragon in her den, would it?'

‘Meaning Regina Stodmarsh, otherwise unfortunately known as my step-grandmother?'

‘No need to sound so sorry for yourself.' A wilting sigh. ‘Put yourself in my place.'

‘Which is?'

‘I'm her granddaughter; Sylvia Jones.'

‘But you can't be; you died at birth,' said Ned nonsensically. He almost added, ‘Don't you remember?'

‘T
hank you for breaking it to me that I'm the late lamented,' said the proclaimed Sylvia Jones wryly. Her thoughts seemed to buzz around her head rather than inside it. It was crucial not to be caught out. She needed to blot the girl called ‘Toffee' out of existence. The problem was the Jones part. If Hattie Fly should write to her cousin Florence and mention that her lodger, a young woman with the same surname, common though it was, had unexpectedly suddenly taken herself off for an indefinite period, suspicion might be aroused that she'd headed for Mullings. There hadn't, however, seemed any way round that problem. On the optimistic side, Hattie was a woman of routine who always took care of her correspondence on a Saturday, and hopefully by the time a letter arrived there would no longer be a Miss Jones staying at Mullings.

‘Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude,' said Ned, still holding on to her in case she crumpled, ‘but that's the story Regina has put about – that your mother died giving birth and you with her.'

‘The part about my mother is true. Her Christian name was also Sylvia and my father chose to call me after her. Later he wasn't so sure that was a good thing – too painful. He died when I was ten. I haven't fared badly in the meantime. I say, do you think you could …'

‘Get you something to eat? Of course. I'll take you to Florie; she'll fix you up and make you feel better. She always manages to turn mountains back into molehills.'

‘Who's Florie?'

‘Our housekeeper and my friend. Want me to carry you?'

‘Don't be absurd.'

Ned eyed her reprovingly. ‘No need to sound so crushing, it's bruising to a fellow's ego.' He led her into a sitting room across from the study where Grumidge would likely have taken her. It was sometimes occupied these days by Madge and Cyril Fritch in his non-working hours, but Ned doubted they would be using it this evening. If he guessed right, they would either spend their time together at the summer house or – if they had any sense – at his house, enjoying the absence of his mother. A pity she always returned from her jaunts. Make hay while the sun shone should be Cyril and Madge's motto; although it did boggle the mind to imagine the two of them conducting their courtship in any but the most decorous manner.

‘Comfortable?'

‘Very,' said Toffee from the chintz-covered chair that matched the curtains. ‘It's lovely and cozy with the rain coming down outside. I feel I should be embroidering a tray cloth.'

Ned rumpled his hair. ‘And I feel I'm wandering in circles on a fog-shrouded moor. Have I introduced myself?'

‘You claimed to be the bootboy.'

‘So I did. A hankering for the good old days. We don't have one any more. I'm Ned Stodmarsh.'

‘I suppose that almost makes us related.'

‘Best not to think that way, silver top. I don't like most of my relations and, to be brutally frank, I loathe the woman you claim as your grandmother.'

‘Again, you put things so delicately.'

‘Back in two shakes then.' Ned nipped out, drawing the door to behind him, and went in search of Florence. He found her as anticipated at her desk in the housekeeper's room; her face in profile would have struck him as a little sad, had his mind not been elsewhere. He waved at her to remain seated.

‘Are my cheeks bulging? I feel as if they are with the news I bring! Prepare to be startled, dearest Florie!'

She turned towards him, eyes gentle, a smile on her lips. ‘You've asked Lamorna Blake to marry you.'

Ned blinked, realized he hadn't closed the door behind him and did so. ‘Oh, that! Yes, I have, been feeling beastly for not telling you about it. The thing is, I leaped before I thought and now find myself in the devil of a fix. She's insisting on a flat in London for weekends at least, to which she's entitled, of course. One as lovely as she shouldn't be expected to spend all her days and nights in the company of what's left of the family. Though the women aren't so bad these days, what with Madge getting engaged to Fritch and Aunt Gertrude involving herself in church activities – altar flowers and whatnot.'

‘She attended a meeting at the vicarage this evening,' said Florence. ‘Mr Grumidge mentioned a few minutes ago that to his knowledge she had not returned and dinner is due to be served within the quarter hour.'

Ned waved a hand. ‘No matter! She's been late back a few times recently and they've gone ahead without her. It's just another excuse for Regina to look down her nose and Uncle William to bluster. But forget Aunt Gertrude or Cousin Madge, who for that matter may still be out with Fritch; forget for the moment my engagement to Lamorna. Something momentous has occurred and there's about to be the ruckus of a lifetime. No, don't get up,' he said as Florence started to do so, ‘you need to hear the latest sitting down.'

‘Dear Ned, what are you on about?'

‘I didn't think Grumidge would have said anything; he'd leave it to me.'

‘Say anything about what?'

‘Guess who's just shown up with a suitcase?'

‘Your Grandmother Tressler? She's not due until tomorrow, but there's nothing to that. Her rooms are always kept ready for her.'

‘Not Granny. I'd be pleased for her to come early of course, but …'

‘Her arrival wouldn't put that look of unholy glee on your face.' Florence laughed, relieved at the interruption in worrying about George. ‘Ned, what has you so amused? I've never been any good at guessing games.'

‘Even if you were it wouldn't do you any good this time. It's too far-fetched! I'm not even sure she's telling the truth. She may be an imposter, although that would be equally interesting in itself. Anyway, I've left her in the small sitting room where Grandmother was fond of sitting in the morning. And I do think she's at least speaking the truth about being hungry, so if you can get Mrs McDonald to rustle something up it would be a worthy deed, whether or not she really is Regina's granddaughter.'

‘
Granddaughter?
'
Florence rewarded Ned with the right degree of astonishment. ‘There was another child?'

‘As opposed to the one that died at birth along with the mother?'

‘Oh, Ned, do take that grin off your face,' exclaimed Florence in rare exasperation with him. ‘Of course that's what I mean. A surviving twin, is that it?'

‘Now that would have been a clever thought for her to come up with if she's laying a con game, and from the looks of her – a tarted up platinum blonde – she fits the bill all right. But no, she says she's the one that supposedly didn't make it. Her father died when she was ten, I think she said. So here we are with questions begging – was Regina misinformed, or has she been lying through her teeth all these years rather than acknowledge a child born to her daughter?'

Blocking any more fascinating conjecture, Florence stood up, looked at her watch and then squarely at Ned. ‘Lord Stodmarsh, I require your instructions on the course of action to be taken forthwith.'

‘Who … what?' Ned gaped at her. ‘Excuse me, Florie, while I reposition my jaw. It just dropped six inches.'

‘It's time for you to think as the Master of Mullings. No matter that Lady Stodmarsh may control the purse strings; when it comes to capital this is your house.'

‘It doesn't feel that way.'

‘Perhaps now is the time to decide that it should, if you'll pardon me speaking out of place, sir?' She could not hold back a laugh at his expression. ‘You're faced with a convergence of events. Mr Grumidge is due in less than five minutes to announce dinner is served. An immediate announcement of the young lady's presence will prevent her having a meal on her own before being thrust into what, as you predict, is bound to be an unpleasant scene. It is unlikely that the family, including Lady Stodmarsh, will be able to enjoy a morsel of what is placed before them. But delaying matters until the return to the drawing room for coffee is not a decision to be made by me or Mr Grumidge. It has to be yours – if indeed that is your wish.'

Ned drew himself up to his full five foot eight and a fraction. ‘I know your methods of old, Florie. I've been feeling a complete worm over Lamorna and you're giving me this chance to square my shoulders and march forth filled with noble resolve to protect a girl who may be a rotten little widget – although I have to admit to taking to her – from being torn limb from limb when in a weakened state by THAT WOMAN! Gosh! What wouldn't I give to know how she managed to get Grandfather to marry her! Alas, she'll never tell, and gentleman that he was, he took that secret to the grave!'

‘That's as maybe,' said Florence. She had long ago accurately worked out how that game had been played and won – gain the sympathy of an unhappy and unworldly man in failing health removed from his usual element, and manoeuvre him into believing he had implied more than intended and must choose between dashing hopes he had raised or marrying her. Lord Stodmarsh being who he was, the outcome could be serenely anticipated. ‘As you've said, there's going to be a ruckus. Is it to be immediate, or briefly delayed?'

‘Delayed. I'll bounce along and join the clan for dinner and you get a meal to our visitor. Then, after we re-gather in the drawing room, send Grumidge along to inform Regina that a young lady has arrived wishing to speak with her. She'll inquire as to identity and he'll tell her. How's that?'

‘Clear and concise.'

Ned saluted, then turned as he was halfway out the door. ‘This could be hoots of fun, that beastly woman finally getting some kind of comeuppance, being the one to jig on red-hot coals instead of watching others do it for her amusement. The trouble is the girl – there's something about Sylvia Jones that got to me.'

Florence understood what he meant when she entered the chintz-furbished sitting room fifteen minutes later. The scrimped artificial silk dress, patterned in black and gold, the cheap high heels and feather toque, looked best suited to a seedy restaurant in an unlighted alley; nothing appealing there. But within a moment Florence was making a more thoughtful appraisal. The girl, seemingly oblivious to no longer being alone, was standing sideways staring out into the rain-shrouded grounds, her profile thoughtful; and when she looked round her eyes were sad. They were brown eyes – toffee coloured, thickly lashed, complimentary to her warm complexion and utterly incongruous. They belonged in the face of a young woman who wasn't overly bothered about how she looked. Of course there were answers to that incongruity: an impulse for a new look that would change all else, a desire to shock one's elders, or to please a young man who had his heart set on a blonde dressed in tawdry fashion.

Florence reminded herself as she set down the loaded tray that the situation was sufficiently intriguing without her crocheting trimmings for it. Before she could introduce herself as the housekeeper, the young woman spoke with a lightness that didn't ring true, understandably so in the circumstances. She could hardly be expecting a grandmother's delighted welcome to be shortly forthcoming.

‘Those woods out there may be a picnicker's delight on a sunny day, but passing them along the way on such a dreary night they struck me as horribly forbidding.' Her hands clamping her arms, she shivered, somewhat theatrically, Florence thought. ‘I heard there was a path through them, but you wouldn't catch me taking it on a bet, especially with that creepy old hermit straight out of the Middle Ages creeping amongst the trees, ready to pounce up from behind and cosh you over the head with a relic clawed out of the catacombs.'