Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (34 page)

Ned laughed. ‘Your hidden depths are amazing. Granny the acute observer! Yes, I think there'll be a happy outcome. What would you like to do this afternoon after settling in?'

‘Either read or do my needlepoint. Perhaps Miss Jones will come down after a little while and we can converse while you are out continuing your search for Rouser.'

‘Are you sure you won't feel I'm abandoning you?'

‘Go!'

Mrs Tressler spent an hour taking a bath and then dressing in clothing that had been unpacked for her by Molly. She returned to the drawing room and rang for tea. Florence brought it in to her.

‘It is good to have you back at Mullings, Mrs Tressler.'

‘And to see you again, Mrs Norris. Please do sit down.'

Florence thanked her before doing so.

Mrs Tressler expressed the hope that all was well with her and spoke generally for a few moments before bringing up the subject of Ned. ‘Knowing how close a bond there is between the two of you, I'm sure you've been concerned about this tangle he got into with Miss Blake. I'm sure she's an exceptional young lady, but quite unsuited to his personality and interests.'

‘My feeling, Mrs Tressler.'

The older woman smiled. ‘Then I'm happy to be able to put your mind at rest.' She explained what had transpired at The Manor, and after a little more conversation Florence returned to the kitchen for her own cup of tea with Mrs McDonald. She meant to ask her if she had seen Sylvia Jones on her return from taking out the hermit's meal and perhaps going on into the village. She was slightly surprised that Miss Jones had not sought her out again, as she had seemed eager to converse. But Mrs McDonald forestalled her.

‘Better sit down for this one, Mrs Norris!' The effect was that Florence froze in place.

‘What's happened? A third catastrophe?'

‘Well, I don't think it can be put in those terms, but the butcher's been round with a worrisome piece of gossip. It seems his Aunt Nellie heard from someone that sometimes goes to the Dog and Whistle – wouldn't say who, not a regular, mind – that he saw a stranger come in a couple of days back and go up to the bar and talk all confidential like to George Bird.'

‘What of it?' Florence's heart was beating unreasonably fast.

‘Whoever it was said he could've spotted the bloke as police a mile off. Not the sort in uniform, you understand, but one of what's called the plain-clothes sort.'

Florence sat down. ‘What ever would the police want with George?'

‘That's what I said, but I'm more than a little bothered, Mrs Norris. That sort of rumour could be bad for a decent man's business.'

‘I don't think it would have any effect on the regulars, or at least most of them, who think the world of George. I'm sure any of them catching wind of the story would tell him what was going round and he'd explain about the man, if there was anything to his putting in an appearance … such as his being an old acquaintance wanting to borrow five pounds. That would account for the secretive air, wouldn't it?'

‘'Course it would,' Mrs McDonald passed her a cup of tea, ‘but I can't help thinking about Mr Bird, coming over queer on the green that morning. It seemed like he was under the weather, but what if it was worry did it?'

Florence stared at her.

‘All I can come up with is something to do with the pub. Oh, don't get me wrong, Mrs Norris, I don't mean him acting illegal … more like finding there was to be a change in the licensing rules, or whatnot, that'd make it hard for him to keep going. What if that weren't a policeman but a …'

‘A brewery official,' Florence concluded for her. ‘You may have the right of it there, Mrs McDonald. It's useless to speculate, however.'

She could focus on little else for the rest of the day while going about her duties. She could not dismiss the thought that George's collapse might well have been brought on by worry, even a sudden shock. Of course the cause might have nothing to do with the pub … perhaps someone he was fond of had been taken desperately ill, or was in some other kind of trouble. The person who instantly came to mind was his godson, Jim. That young man meant as much to him as Ned did to her. She'd heard, through the way things get about in a village, that his courtship had ended. She remembered vividly that last afternoon with George and his speaking about Jim's parents objecting to his girl for many reasons – one being her name, which to their minds was silly. George had thought it was along the lines of … ‘Fudge'. Yes, that's what he'd said. What if Jim had gone into a depression because of the break with her, or with some other young lady, or because he had not succeeded as an artist? What if …

The questions could have continued going around in her head until she was dizzy, had she not pulled herself together. Even so, there remained an oppressiveness to the day, not fully accounted for by the darkening skies or the massing of thick, furred clouds and rumbles of thunder which failed to bring the refreshment of rain.

Ned came into the housekeeper's room before going up to bed that night at ten, and Florence filled him in about what the rest of the family had been up to. His aunt had only just returned; Lady Stodmarsh was not yet back; Miss Jones had been overly animated at dinner as if endeavouring to put on a brave front; Madge Bradley had quacked gamely on as was her wont about irrelevances; and his uncle had nodded off over the cheese and biscuits.

‘If my grandmother weren't one to take things in her stride, Florie, she'd think it all very odd.' He stood looking drawn and heavy-eyed; he had risen at five that morning. ‘I have to say, I feel there's a blight on the house.'

‘Oh, dear,' said Florence, producing a rueful smile, ‘you sound like Mrs McDonald and her forebodings. You may feel much restored after a good sleep.' Had she been forthright she would have confessed to her feeling that a net had spread itself around Mullings and was being drawn tighter by the minute into a knot that even the nimblest fingers would have difficulty unravelling.

‘Perhaps I'm just on edge, Florie. I'm leaving the door to the study open in case Rouser returns.'

She promised to advise Grumidge, whose final task of the day was making sure all windows and doors were secured, to leave that one alone.

‘I don't care about burglars, so long as Rouser can make it inside. Goodnight, Florie.' Ned trailed his way despondently upstairs.

The following morning he was to hope desperately that there
had
been a break-in. Regina had been stabbed to death in her bedroom, and if her killer were not a stranger then he, or she, had to be an occupant of Mullings.

T
he bloodstained body was discovered at seven in the morning by Molly when she was taking up Mrs William's usual cup of tea. She noticed that Lady Stodmarsh's bedroom door was open and looked in. Molly made no outcry, but with her usual good sense sought out Grumidge, who followed her back upstairs to observe the scene from the doorway. He located Ned, broke the news and awaited further instructions.

The first requirement was obvious – to telephone Doctor Chester and Constable Trout. This done, Ned told Grumidge to speak with Florence, and subsequently inform the rest of the staff. While Grumidge attended to these instructions Ned awakened his grandmother, explained the situation and asked her to rouse the family and Miss Jones.

Mrs Tressler, although her countenance evidenced shock, did not indulge in exclamations. Within ten minutes Doctor Chester and Constable Trout arrived and were escorted upstairs by Ned.

Ned left them to get on with their work and joined the others, except for William Stodmarsh, whom his wife said could not be roused from sleep, in the drawing room. They all appeared to be in a state of disbelief, moving woodenly to seat themselves and stare blankly ahead, but as Ned spoke of the blood on the front of Regina's nightgown that suggested she had been stabbed in the chest, their faces came to life. Miss Jones's grew fear-stricken, Madge Bradley's tearily bewildered and Gertrude Stodmarsh's ponderous from brow to jowls. She was the first to speak.

‘There's no getting around it; we'll all be under suspicion. Each of us heartily disliked her, with the possible exception of you, Mrs Tressler, but, forgive my saying so, her removal eases life enormously for your grandson. For one thing he is now free to marry Lamorna Blake. I am not saying this to frighten you, or Ned, merely to suggest you both prepare yourselves for extra grilling.'

‘You're right, Aunt,' Ned remained standing, ‘I am the likeliest of all to have killed her. I may even have been overheard by one of you when I was on the telephone the other day expressing a wish to do so. As it happens, my grandmother was present yesterday at The Manor when Lamorna and I agreed not to marry, but that could go against me. The police may decide it was a put-up job to shed my motive.'

‘Surely not.' Madge clutched at her throat. ‘Everyone knows how sweet-natured you are. The entire village would swear to it. How can we question that the villain was a burglar who entered by manipulating a door lock or breaking a window and that Regina awakened while he was robbing her bedroom?'

Ned passed a hand over his brow. ‘There would have been no need for a forced entry. I left the study door open for Rouser in case he came back, but that does not alter the need for us to prepare ourselves for questioning. Trout said a county inspector is already on his way and should be here in the next half hour.'

‘I can't believe any of you have a tenth as much to worry about as I do.' Miss Jones's voice came out high and thin. ‘None of your resentments can equal mine. Lying dead is the woman who treated my mother with brutal inhumanity and denied my existence. Talk about burglary all you like, but when did one last occur at Mullings, if ever? I arrive and …' She buried her face in her hands.

Mrs Tressler surveyed her in the manner Florence had observed on earlier occasions of an unrufflable school mistress. ‘There's a first time for everything, including burglars, dear child.'

Sylvia's eyes grew wild and she vehemently shook her head. ‘I don't believe it was a … a vagrant! It has to have been someone from inside Mullings! It isn't fair to blame a stranger!'

‘Not fair?' Madge gripped her upper arms with her hands, ‘I'm afraid I don't understand such a statement. Not that I wish to criticize. We're all at sixes and sevens.'

‘To put it mildly!' Ned grinned sourly.

‘Oh, yes,' Madge continued, ‘but it is impossible to properly express the consternation, the sense of horror … the trepidation! Perhaps I am wearing rose-coloured glasses, but they have enabled me to deal with travails of the past. I cannot accept, I refuse to do so – or I would go mad – that any one of us is capable of murder, however trying we may have found Regina.'

‘I hated her,' said Sylvia Jones.

‘I hated William for years, until I learned the unpalatable truth. Eating too much of it brings on nothing but indigestion.' Gertrude Stodmarsh heaved her stout body off her chair. ‘I have found peace and contentment helping out with the flowers and other activities at the church in the last couple of years, and finally happiness in spending time with Miss Hendrick. Dear Henny! Always so uplifting!'

‘Miss Hendrick is the vicar's housekeeper,' Ned explained, for Sylvia's benefit. ‘Perhaps you should telephone her, Aunt, and encourage her to dissuade Mr Pimcrisp from tottering over here to brighten our darkness with visions of hell's fire. I can't say I'd blame him for not wishing her happy-ever-after, if only because of how she connived to entrap my grandfather. But the inevitable warnings about our being headed for the same fate if we don't abandon worldly pleasures, such as going for a paddle at the seaside or soaking up the sun in a deckchair, would be a bit thick.'

‘Naturally I wish to talk to Henny,' said his aunt. ‘Sharing my thoughts with her has become a necessity, but I'll wait to telephone until I have wakened William. Much as I would not regret his sleeping out the day, he has to be up and dressed before the inspector arrives.' Gertrude made for the drawing room door, then turned on reaching it. ‘I wonder if he will be from Scotland Yard. I know Henny will be pleased, even delighted, if that is the case. She is very keen on detective stories, always has one on the go.' Gertrude's gaze was focused elsewhere as she patted her gray hair, of which every strand was immoveable. She did not appear to have dressed in careless haste as Madge seemed to have done – even to the point of putting on the same frock she'd worn at dinner last evening. An edge of petticoat showed below the navy hem; Ned found this oddly touching.

He gave Sylvia Jones a mischievous look, intended to lighten her mood, and, intentionally mimicking the mode of speech of his erstwhile father-to-be, Sir Winthrop Blake, exclaimed, ‘Upon my soul! Can we fasten on Miss Hendrick as a suspect? May she not have crept over at dead of night, broken into the house by way of the open study door to exact revenge upon Regina for the slights voiced against Aunt Gertrude and herself at dinner the night before last?'

Miss Jones didn't appear to absorb a word.

Madge gabbled into the void, her hands twisting into a cat's cradle. ‘Wicked indeed, to suggest they harboured unnatural feelings for each other. I've never believed such women exist; the idea has to come from the same archaic outlook that led to people being persecuted as witches.'

‘There I must disagree with you,' said Mrs Tressler evenly.

‘Oh, dear!' Madge was now turning her fingers into sailors' knots. ‘My knowledge of history is not all it should be …'

‘Neither is mine. But we have two lovely ladies living together in my village that I've no doubt share the bond of which we speak. There are those who may disapprove, but I'm not amongst them. If you will forgive my saying so, Ned,' Mrs Tressler looked up at him, ‘your aunt could only be described as harbouring unnatural feelings were she in love with her husband, but happily that is not the case.' She turned back to Madge. ‘I think it says a lot about you, Miss Bradley, that you should give any thought to what Regina said to anyone other than yourself at dinner that evening. Ned told me it was a brutal attack.'