Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (4 page)

‘It was Annie what found her lying on the kitchen floor,' explained the sturdily built, rosy-cheeked girl who had been doing the propelling. ‘She'd gone down because she kept waking up, worrying she hadn't put the scrubbing brush in the right bucket and there she was,' cocking an eye to the closed door, ‘lying on the floor.'

Annie had wiped away her tears but continued to snuffle. ‘It give me such a turn, Mrs Norris. I come over right queer. I thought she was dead. Then I heard the snoring and I run up to fetch Molly and Violet. We was struggling to get her upright when Mr Grumidge come in.' Annie's voice trailed off. Florence thought vaguely that there wouldn't be much work got out of her that day. Molly, who had spoken previously, picked up the thread.

‘He'd heard the running up and down stairs and wanted to see what was going on. He picked her up, talked soft but firm till he got her moving – like sleepwalking, it was – told us to get her into bed and then wake you and ask if you'd go down to him.'

Molly was a girl destined to become head housemaid. The silent Violet struggled to suppress a yawn and Annie hiccupped. Florence thanked them, asked them not to talk about any of this to other members of the staff and sent them back to their beds.

She found Mr Grumidge, dressed and alert as if the working day were well begun – in the kitchen, where she had expected him to be. At this hour propriety forbade a conference in either the butler's or housekeeper's room. He was a neatly built man, probably a few years older than herself, with a grave manner suited to his position but none of the pomposity prevalent in his species. His pale hair and complexion served to heighten the keenness of his eyes. Florence both respected and liked him, and believed he felt the same about her; making for a harmonious relationship.

‘I apologize for asking you to come down, Mrs Norris, but I thought it right to inform you immediately of this regrettable incident.' His composure was as it would have been on learning of any other household infraction.

‘That's perfectly all right, Mr Grumidge.' The kitchen, with its scrubbed stone sinks, old cupboards and vast deal table, gave off a peaceful sense of having seen and heard anything and everything many times over, and had survived to witness modern cook stoves. Florence relaxed for the first time in over an hour. ‘I had been sitting with Master Ned.'

She followed quickly with her account of events, including ordering Nanny to go to the kitchen and heat herself a milky drink. ‘I'm sorry to say she was very belligerent. Fortunately, Master Ned seemed not to have noticed the state she was in – having wakened terrified from a bad dream.'

‘Poor child.'

‘He did say that Nanny has been treating him unkindly – increasingly so, it sounded – of late.' Florence did not elaborate; doing so would have violated what Ned had said to her in confidence. Mr Grumidge did not press her; there was a heightening of that keenness in his eyes.

‘A possible contribution to his nightmare. He cannot have informed Lord or Lady Stodmarsh of her treatment or she would have been dismissed. Our English code of not carrying tales may be good for the character, Mrs Norris, but it does not always serve the practicalities well.'

‘I could not agree more.' Florence clasped her hands, recalling the feel of Ned's small one. ‘I'm sure that but for his distressed state Master Ned would have thought it unmanly to tell me what had been happening. If only suspicions that she was inclined to the bottle had been aroused! But I never heard a whisper.'

‘Nor I, Mrs Norris.'

‘I'd prefer to believe this a one-time lapse, but sadly – for Nanny's own sake as well as the family's – I can't. Master Ned's account of her behaviour suggests that she has been increasingly unable to control her emotions.'

Mr Grumidge nodded. ‘There is, however, no point in blaming ourselves or other members of the staff for failing to recognize there was a problem. Perhaps we might have done had she been with Master Ned during the mornings. But with his spending the hours between nine and twelve-thirty taking lessons from the retired schoolmistress, she will have been free to return to her bed after seeing him up, dressed and breakfasted. Also, secret drinkers must of necessity become adept at allaying suspicions. I have sometimes thought that women may be more prone to secrecy because society allows men so much more latitude when it comes to libation.'

‘She may have started slowly, Mr Grumidge. Indeed, I have to believe that she wasn't anywhere close to getting out of her depth when she came here, or the family that recommended her to Lady Stodmarsh would not have done so.'

‘One would think not, but the Rutledges had a large number of children very close in age, making, I've gleaned, for a cheerful if somewhat chaotic household. This may have inclined them to be grateful to any nanny who had been willing to stay.'

‘What now, Mr Grumidge?'

‘I doubt she took a hard fall, more likely crumbled to the floor, but I believe telephoning the doctor is in order. An examination will prove me right or wrong on that and should also provide confirmation of her inebriated state. Such an action on my part will necessitate rousing the master, but hopefully the mistress will not need to be disturbed.'

‘A wise course of action. I think I should go back to the night nursery so Master Ned has someone with him should he be awakened by footsteps or voices from the adjoining bedroom.'

‘Excellent.' Those keen eyes appraised hers. ‘You must, however, be exhausted at this hour.'

Florence assured him she was not tired, but within moments of sitting down in the armchair across from Ned's bed, where he was sleeping peacefully, she felt herself beginning to doze. She must have dropped off for almost an hour, although it seemed only moments before she heard a tap at the door to the corridor. There stood a stocky, grizzled man, black bag in hand.

‘No head injury, Mrs Norris,' said Doctor Chester in his comfortable manner. ‘I'm on my way down to talk with His Lordship, which means that you can go to your bed, my dear, reassured that all will be dealt with as it should be. We both know he won't send her off without something to live on. I hope Miss Stark will agree to let me help her, but I doubt she will; they rarely do.'

Florence went gratefully to her bed. She woke at seven, an hour later than usual, feeling well rested. At ten Mr Grumidge informed her that Lord and Lady Stodmarsh requested her presence in the elegant but restful drawing room. They greeted her warmly and invited her to sit down on one of the cream- and gold-striped Regency sofas. After thanking her for all she had done on the previous night, they spoke of the future. Nanny had declined a pension in favour of a settlement and would not be replaced. Ned would be moved from the nursery down to his father's old room, where his daily needs could be handled by one of the maids. Florence suggested Molly – the sensible, sturdy girl who had propelled the barely awake woman up the stairs. Earlier that morning His Lordship had placed a telephone call to a Mr Shepherd, headmaster of Westerbey Junior Boys' School, halfway between Dovecote Hatch and Large Middlington, and had arranged for Ned to start there in a couple of weeks instead of at the start of the new term, as had previously been intended.

‘It sounds ideal.' Florence's smile lit up her face. ‘It will be good for Master Ned to be with other boys, and I'm sure he'll take to Molly – she's a very cheerful girl. Do please let me know if there is any way in which I can be of help.' She started to rise.

‘Oh, do stay a few moments longer if you can spare the time,' said Lady Stodmarsh in her light, musical voice. ‘My husband and I want you to know how important it is to us that you continue the close relationship you have begun to establish with Ned. He told us earlier this morning how he had confided in you in the small hours about what Nanny had told him regarding his other grandmother – so unkind. Certainly she had a couple of distressing episodes, but is now recovered. It says so much that he unburdened himself to you after keeping silent for too long.'

‘It had frightened him.'

‘Of course it did.' Lord Stodmarsh shook his head. ‘How could he not worry at the idea he might inherit a mental weakness? Your reassurances appear to have helped a good deal, Flor— Mrs Norris. That he trusts you completely, as we all do, is apparent. He is always at the heart of our thoughts and we greatly enjoy spending time with him, but …'

His wife gave him her sweet smile. ‘You, my dear, are as active as you ever were and can completely fulfill your role with him. Regrettably, I am unable to provide all that I would wish by way of activities to make for a happy childhood, and an orphaned boy needs a woman's daily touch to help soften the rough edges of life for him, if he is not to grow up with an empty place in his heart. Our daughter-in-law is kind, but admits neither she nor our son has a way with children. So, to come to the point!' Lady Stodmarsh looked hopefully at Florence. ‘In addition to your other qualities, you have the benefit of being of his mother's generation. We do hope our asking you to help nurture him is not an imposition?'

‘Of course not.' Florence had not felt such deep happiness since Robert's death. ‘Would it be all right if I took him with me to Farn Deane, when I go to see Tom and Gracie? It has been agreed that I shall have midday dinner with them one Sunday a month and remain through afternoon tea.'

A short, cheerful conversation followed. Knowing that this was His Lordship's day for going through the estate's accounts, Florence got to her feet and was about to excuse herself when Lady Stodmarsh spoke ruefully.

‘I should not allow a dark thought to intrude, but I suspect that we have made a lasting enemy in Nanny.'

‘An ill-wisher perhaps,' responded her husband with tender affection in his eyes, ‘but what possible harm can she do us?'

‘None, I suppose, unless her bitterness should one day align itself with some unforeseen circumstance.' Lady Stodmarsh shivered, and then smiled. ‘I cannot lay claim to being fey, as I understand Mrs McDonald does, and it is well documented that in all these hundreds of years nothing in the way of melodrama has ever touched Mullings. So silly, that feeling that a goose has just walked over my grave.'

T
o the majority of those living in Dovecote Hatch, the lack of a colourful tapestry woven into the lives of the Stodmarshes throughout the centuries was not held to be a disadvantage. But it did come as something of a let-down to George Bird when he took over the Dog and Whistle in January of 1929. He was at that time a widower, approaching fifty, childless but with a godson living in Bexleyheath, where he had himself been born and bred. The boy's name was Jim. Much to his parents' pride, he had passed the scholarship to Dartford Grammar School when he was eleven and was now at university reading art history. No surprise there. Even as a tot he could draw a treat, George remembered. He wrote to Jim regularly and met up with him as often as possible, knowing the lad to be genuinely fond of him. At his last pub George had taken some good-natured ribbing from old buffers who claimed to be able to recite Jim's letters by heart and said they couldn't understand why the lad wasn't up on a column along with Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square.

Bexleyheath had been good to George but the decision to move to Dovecote Hatch following Mabel's death had been a wise one. A change of scenery meant meeting new people; it took him out of himself – exactly what his late better half would have urged with a playful poke in the ribs. George didn't let the grieving widower show at the Dog and Whistle. He was a balding, ruddy-faced man of vast height, with a personality as expansive as his stomach, which portion of his anatomy spoke volumes for his belief in good, honest English grub.

He also thoroughly enjoyed a good yarn spun for his benefit and believed he in turn owed a contribution of the same sort to strangers coming to the Dog and Whistle. It was his belief, as it had been that of the young Florie Wilks, that the gentry inhabited a world that was more fiction than reality and thus infinitely more fascinating than the one reserved for the Joneses, Smiths and Browns. On first standing at the gates of Mullings and looking down the sweep of elm-lined drive to what could be made out of the house's serene splendour, he let out a whistle. Talk about fit for a lord! He could almost feel Mabel's clutch on his arm and hear her: ‘Whooh! Me and my party frock! Wouldn't you love to hear that house gab, George?'

Unfortunately, he discovered as Florie had done that the place offered up no worthy anecdotes to be handed out with a pint of bitter or a glass of Mother's Ruin. No whispers of a long-ago lord being switched at birth with a washerwoman's baby, no recently discovered priest's hole with a skeleton inside, no spending of the night by a male member of the royal family – spotted come morning creeping out of the mistress's bedchamber.

Alf Thatcher, postman for thirty-odd years, put it this way to George one evening while lighting his decrepit old pipe. It was early enough that only a few of the regulars had filtered in. ‘The other upper-crust families hereabouts made up their minds nigh on two hundred years ago that the Stodmarshes are country bumpkins not worth the knowing, and it'd be like breaking a blood oath to change their minds.' Alf reached for his pint of bitter. ‘Now, I'll admit the present lord's father did drone on about his prize-winning pigs over at Farn Deane, the home farm, but we've all got our ways. Our Lord Stodmarsh is as pleasant spoke and open-handed a gentleman as you could wish to meet. Never fails to ask how life's ticking along when he sees me.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Shame his son, Mr William Stodmarsh, don't take after him sufficient.'

George stood idle a moment, waiting in hopes of hearing that said personage had run off to South America with a chorus girl, or in some other way drastically blotted his copybook.