Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery (6 page)

The men not already standing got to their feet to the accompaniment of a chorus of male and female voices greeting his arrival as if it made for a red-letter day. This might have been due to expectation of a round of free drinks, but George didn't believe that was the case. There was an almost palpable feeling of affection flowing from all parts of the room that said otherwise. Even without the attention paid to this elderly man in country tweeds, George would have been in no doubt of his identity from His Lordship's resemblance to the son.

George had spotted Mr William Stodmarsh on a couple of occasions coming off the Mullings footpath into Sixpenny Lane, where the Dog and Whistle stood on the corner facing the village green. On each of these occasions Mr Stodmarsh had been bareheaded, but his gruffly mumbled, barely pausing, acknowledgement of George's presence on the pavement, suggested he might not have exerted himself to raise his hat had he worn one. As Lord Stodmarsh now stood chatting in a pleasantly modulated voice with those closest to the door, the mark of the true gentleman was apparent in his lack of pretension and kindly, attentive interest. He could be described as bulky in build rather than decidedly stout, as was the case with Mr William. Both men had a walrus moustache and gray eyes under bushy brows. Had the son inherited the curmudgeonly personality of his paternal grandfather, as described by Alf Thatcher? In George's book that didn't make for much of an excuse, but it could be that he'd judged the younger man too hastily. Mabel always used to tick him off when she thought him too quick to write someone off as not his cup of tea.

Well, there was no chance of George not taking to William Stodmarsh's father now they were about to meet. After working his way up to the bar, His Lordship introduced himself, extended his hand in a firm shake and apologized for not having been in sooner to offer his welcome to the village.

‘Settling well, I hope?'

‘Very nicely, sir. It's a big change moving to the country from the outskirts of London, but I'm glad I made the leap.' George felt himself relax under that kindly gaze. ‘The folks I've met have been more than decent.'

‘So I've always thought, but good to hear.' His Lordship's smile had the effect of a fire in the hearth. ‘I feel blessed to have been born and bred here, but I suppose most people think that way about their home turf. I've heard you come from Bexleyheath – wasn't that Dick Turpin territory? As a boy I loved reading about the famous highwayman and his devotion to Black Bess.'

George's joviality expanded along with the rest of his mammoth self. ‘You've got it, sir! Shooters Hill coming into Welling – that's the town before Bexleyheath – is named for Turpin, so I've heard. It's funny some of the people we take pride in.'

‘I imagine it's because most of us have more in common with the sinners than the saints.' The walrus moustache quivered with rueful amusement.

George beamed back. ‘That has to be it.' He inquired about the injured ankle and was assured that it had been more a nuisance than painful. ‘Now, what can I do you for, Lord Stodmarsh? Whatever it is comes on the house.'

‘If I may I'll accept your kind offer another time, Mr Bird. Tonight I'm buying, whatever you like for yourself and a round for the house. I'll take a small brandy and soda.'

While George was pouring the requested tipple into a gratifyingly sparkling glass, His Lordship mentioned that a cousin of his wife would be coming to Mullings the following week for an extended visit. ‘We're both very fond of her. Indeed, we both hope she will make her home with us henceforth.'

Two anticipated newcomers to Dovecote Hatch, the lady guest and Cyril Fritch – talk about making George feel like an old timer! ‘Well, Mabel,' he said to the empty pillow beside his after getting into bed, ‘I've no doubt in my mind you'd have spotted Lord Stodmarsh for a good sort, just like I did. And another thing before I nod off, old girl, one day Arthur and Sally will admit to being wrong about it being a bad idea for Jim to set up as an artist. Mark my words, the lad will make a name for himself and I'll be reading about him in the papers.'

A few weeks after meeting Lord Stodmarsh for the first time, George found himself speaking up on behalf of the newly resident cousin. He did so in response to a heated whisper from Hilda Stark. As usual, she was wearing her battered hat, fingerless gloves and a pinny under her ancient dark coat.

‘Have I got a juicy tidbit for you, Mr Bird?' There was an unpleasant gleam in her beady black eyes as she stretched her neck across the bar; even more unsettling was the malice bubbling up in spittle around her mouth. ‘At long last,' she clawed for his hand, ‘there's a story worth telling about them up at Mullings. A little bird's tweeted in my ear that the woman they've got staying at Mullings, a Miss Madge Bradley, was left standing at the altar when the bridegroom didn't show up. Talk about being made a laughing stock! You'd have thought she'd have done herself in if she had an ounce of pride. Wouldn't have taken me three minutes to climb the church tower and jump. Instead this one crawls to Dovecote Hatch to wallow in her shame at Mullings!'

‘It's the man that should be dying of it.' Such was George's surge of dislike for Hilda Stark that he barely managed to keep his voice level. He didn't often lose his temper, but when he did – look out!

‘He could've had his reasons …' The smirk showed yellowed teeth.

George stared at her coldly. To his mind there was a big difference between passing on a tale about people long dead and buried and gossiping about living ones. He withdrew his plate-sized hand out of reach of hers. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Stark, for not letting that piece of tattletale die in your throat.' He'd almost inserted the word craggy – in fact, he wished he had.

‘And who're you to talk to me like that? You great pile of suet!' Her face contorted under the brim of her battered hat. ‘Not in this place five minutes and thinking yourself Lord God Almighty!'

George was still breathing heavily as she stumped off, muttering venomously. Mr Shepherd was shaking his head, as was Stan the baker, and Miss Teaneck, the local seamstress, usually a meek little soul, was looking quite fierce. The street door slammed shut behind the dark-coated figure.

‘Take it easy, Birdie.' Alf Thatcher was suddenly at the bar, leaning forward, gnome-faced. He dropped his voice. ‘The old girl's always had a tongue on her. Several round here, me included, always thought there was more to Hilda being let go as nanny to Master Ned than was given out. Doesn't overdo the booze in here, as I think you'll agree, but her landlady let on to my missus that she's no doubt from the state of her come morning that she's at it all night long. But then, mayhap there's some excuse for what blew out of Hilda's gob just now. Could be she got wind about the others and me teasing you a while back about her having designs on dragging you to the altar, Birdie. It's easy to call the kettle black but …'

‘It's not the same at all,' George protested. Even so, Alf's viewpoint did give him pause when he remembered how he'd joined in the chuckles. Mabel would have said a joke's never funny if the butt of it's not laughing as hard as the rest.

‘I'm not saying Hilda in't a spiteful old cow,' conceded Alf. ‘One thing I do know for sure is she didn't hear that story about Miss Bradley from any of the staff at Mullings. Florence Norris knows what she's about with the maids – kind but firm – and Mr Grumidge the butler also knows his stuff. So my guess is it came from the Stafford-Reids or the Blakes. Move in a very small world, them sort of people do. And nasty oft times with it.'

‘I suppose so.' George was working his way back to a better frame of mind.

‘Chin up, Birdie. This Miss Bradley couldn't have come to a better place to make herself a new start, and having her cousin at Mullings may perk up Her Ladyship no end. So focus on the good, why don't we?'

‘Right you are, Alf.'

The next day George couldn't quite rid himself of the feeling that something had changed, either in his perception of Dovecote Hatch or the place itself, but this passed. Unpleasant people like Hilda Stark were to be met everywhere. She stopped coming to the Dog and Whistle. Alf invited him to come and meet the wife, and his friendship with Florence Norris grew as they took occasional, companionable outings together. It was a good life, for all he continued to miss his Mabel. But years afterwards he was to wonder, while struggling with guilt, fear and sorrow, if his arrival in the village had not been the first tossed pebble stirring up ripples, resulting in a series of sea changes destined to thrust the Stodmarsh family out of centuries of tranquil shallows into uncharted and dangerous waters.

F
lorence would always have remembered that Sunday in early September of 1929, even had it not merged into a Monday made sorrowful at the time and dire in retrospect. It was also the day she went with George Bird to her childhood home so he could meet her mother for the first time.

Since meeting George in late February she had increasingly come to value the hours she was free to spend time with him. Her first impression of George, on being introduced to him outside the church, had been of a warm-hearted man going out of his way to put a smile on the day. On further acquaintance she was drawn to his sense of humour, admired his kindness and enjoyed his interest in what was going on in the world, gleaned from conversations or newspapers. George read the daily and evening editions without fail, which she did not – sometimes not looking once at a paper during the week. That he rarely picked up anything in book form wasn't a drawback for Florence. He'd mentioned early on that he relished a good story, real or imagined, and was soon encouraging her to tell him about the novel she was currently reading. Not only did he enjoy listening, but afterwards they would get into stimulating discussions about the plot and characters, and he'd instantly grasped what she'd meant when talking about style.

‘Two people can come up the bar and tell you the very same yarn and somehow it comes out different.'

There was also George's devotion to his godson, which Florence fully appreciated, given how dear Ned Stodmarsh was to her heart. Not that she could talk of him as freely as George did of Jim – the different nature of the relationships prevented it. Then, most important of all in forging a bond between them, was their having both been blessed with such happy marriages. Florence had discovered she could talk more about Robert with George than anyone else. He was as interested in hearing about her late husband and their life as he was in talking about his Mabel. There was comfort and enjoyment in that sharing. Florence had found that, within a year or so after her widowhood, most people, including Robert's brother Tom, tended to shy away from mentioning his name.

It was the ordinary that remained so dear, bringing out such confidences as: ‘Robert was always losing his pipe. Those were the only times he'd stand looking helpless. I used to say he must think I'd started smoking it on the sly, before pointing to it sticking out of his pocket!'

‘I know just what you mean!' George's smile would take over his whole face. ‘When Mabel couldn't find her best white tablecloth she'd give me that accusing look, like I'd hung it out the window as a peace sign, in case the Russian army should come riding up.'

By mid-August Florence had accompanied George on several occasions for a midday Sunday meal at the home of Alf Thatcher and his wife. Doris Thatcher was a mettlesome little woman who seemed to get great pleasure out of ordering her husband around. If he was seated he had to get up and fetch something; if he was on his two feet he was looming. A considerable feat for a man of five foot three, Florence would think with amusement. It was clear to her that Doris's bossing was done for show and that it tickled Alf to pretend that he was henpecked.

‘Gives me a right sounding excuse for spending evenings at the Dog and Whistle,' he murmured to Florence. ‘The other one is the woman next door, always popping in for a natter, and there's no shoving her off afore ten. Too soft-hearted, is Doris, though she tries not to show it, and I'm blowed if at my time of life I'll take up crocheting so's not to feel left out while the two of them click away.'

At first, Doris had been a little intimidated at having the housekeeper of Mullings in her home, but she soon got over that when Florence admired her skill with the crochet needle and asked if she would teach her. It was clear that the Thatchers were very fond of George.

‘A real lamb of a man for all he's so big,' said Doris on the Sunday before the start of September. Florence was wrapped in a borrowed pinny while Doris washed up and she dried. ‘Thought about taking him to see your mum and the rest of the family?'

‘I have, but …'

‘You're bothered they'll get the wrong idea – that there's more between you than just being good friends? Which it's plain to me isn't in neither of your heads.' Doris did not pause for a response. At times her conversations sped along like a train intent on not running out of steam before reaching the station. ‘And very sensible too, if you asks me.' She handed Florence a washed plate. ‘I've a sister what was widowed and couldn't smile at the bus conductor when paying her fare, let alone help a blind man across the street, without someone thinking she's on the lookout. She got so fed up with that nonsense she married to put an end to it.'

‘How did it work out?'

‘Biggest mistake of her life. Miserable old bugger from the start, he was, and now she's pushing him up and down the high street in a bath chair with never a kind word. Not that you'd have any fear of that sort of life with George, well or poorly.' Doris wiped off the sink and draining board. ‘But it wouldn't do, would it? Not with both your hearts having long ago been given away for keeps.'