The Scent of Murder (2 page)

‘And you believe that, Tristram?’ Dody asked.

‘Of course not,’ he snorted. ‘But you have to agree it makes for interesting study.’

Florence shivered and increased the pace of the pony. ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’

Dody smiled. Her sister’s reaction came as no surprise; Florence shared none of her own scientific rationalism. What
had
been a surprise, though, was Florence’s apparent interest in the young man who was, at this moment, riding in the back of the cart, clutching a basket of old bones. Since the poet, Florence had sworn off men, declaring they were nothing but a distraction from her life’s cause, which was the fight for voting rights for women. Before meeting Tristram she had even gone so far as to echo the man-hating Christabel Pankhurst’s adage that men were little more than carriers of venereal disease. How the leopard had changed her spots! What was it about Tristram, Dody wondered, that had swayed Florence into giving love a second chance?

Dody had yet to form an opinion, good or bad, of Tristram Slater. He seemed pleasant and well mannered, as one would expect a wealthy young man of his class to be — albeit his hair was possibly an inch too long at the front, his suits slightly too flamboyant and his deep voice a touch on the loud side. Everything about him seemed just one degree above the mean — even his nose was a fraction larger than most Roman varieties, and his dark-brown eyes burned a bit too brightly whenever he addressed Florence.

His knowledge of archaeology and history was impressive, though, and the vigour with which he pursued his amateur calling bordered on obsession. In that personality trait he and Florence had much in common. They had met during his political campaign, and although his interest in Labour Party politics had quickly waned when he failed at the hustings, he remained an avid supporter of the militant suffragettes and their (in Dody’s opinion) hare-brained schemes. He gave the impression of being a young man still searching for himself: one with too much time and too much money, who became easily bored. Dody hoped, for Florence’s sake, she was reading him incorrectly.

They came to a fork in the path. Tristram tapped Florence on the shoulder, indicating they should veer left and take that route back to Fitzgibbon Hall.

‘No point having an ice house far from one’s domicile,’ he said. ‘The river is close by too. You can’t see it from here, but we’re travelling parallel to it. The river itself is too fast to ice, but it has some gentle tributaries that freeze well. I used to skate on them.’

Dody attempted to peer through the undergrowth but saw no sign of the river. A dull drone came from somewhere nearby, but it could have been the sound of a distant train as much as a body of rushing water.

After travelling for about a quarter of a mile Tristram asked Florence to stop and jumped from the cart. ‘The ice house is somewhere around here, I’m sure of it, though I expect it’s overgrown now. It hasn’t been used for ice since Uncle Desmond had the mechanical refrigerators installed — horrible leaky things. They still hang game here, though, so look out for a foot trail in the wood.’

Florence spotted it: a rough path bordered by brambles and bracken that led to a large dome covered with vegetation and ringed by scraggly saplings. On first glance it seemed nothing more than a naturally formed bank.

‘You should see this place in spring,’ Tristram said, collecting the basket from the cart. ‘A glorious mist of bluebells, and violets the colour of Florence’s eyes.’

Oh Lord, Dody thought, this is no time to start waxing romantic. She moved to the front entrance of the ice house, took off her gloves and ran her fingers down one side of the moss-felted stone arch. The door was made of thick oak with iron reinforcing. Tristram tugged on the circular handle, needing two hands to heave the door open, and they found themselves in a tunnel about six feet high and nine feet long, ending at another heavy door.

‘Double-doored to improve insulation,’ Tristram said, placing the basket on the tunnel’s brick-paved floor. ‘We don’t need to go into the dome itself. The bones will be safe enough in the passage.’

Dody looked around the tunnel of bricks and thought of the pictures of igloos she’d seen in
The National Geographic Magazine
. ‘This passage won’t be light enough to work in, even in daylight with the front door wide open. Is there any source of natural light in the dome itself?’ she asked.

‘There’s a trapdoor in the dome’s roof through which ice used to be delivered after being cut from the rivulets, but it’s so overgrown I doubt we could open it.’

‘Then surely there is an outbuilding nearer the house I could use: a stable, perhaps?’ Dody asked.

‘I’m afraid Aunt Airlie would have a fit if she knew the bones were anywhere near the house. She’s very sensitive to this kind of thing, just like our Florence.’

Our
Florence?

Dody sighed softly. If she put up too much of a fuss and postponed her investigations until a suitable place was found, she might be forced to join the hunt.

‘I suppose with the door open and lanterns on the walls I might be able to make do,’ she conceded.

‘Splendid,’ Tristram said, helping the women back into the cart. He joined them on the bench seat next to Florence, and this time Dody took the reins, giving the young couple the chance to sit close together.

It was almost dark by the time they glimpsed the lights of Fitzgibbon Hall. Modest as far as country estates went, the Hall consisted of twenty-three rooms and three staircases, and sat in two hundred and fifty acres of its own deer park and woods. In daylight it was a monstrosity of grey stone, twisted chimneys and faux Gothic towers, but at dusk, with its leering gargoyles hidden, it looked almost welcoming. Ancient monkey puzzle trees lined the wide carriageway, their scale-like foliage clattering in the chill breeze. The dry leaves of deciduous trees scuttled alongside the clopping pony. Exhausted by their labours, Dody’s companions fell silent.

Suddenly the pony shied. A black shape bounded in front of the cart and disappeared into the shadows. Dody caught her breath and touched her sister’s knee. ‘Good Lord, did you see that?’

No answer; Florence and Tristram were both asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Neither sister could bear the idea of tea with the steadily arriving trickle of Saturday-to-Monday guests and begged Tristram to send their apologies to Lady Fitzgibbon. They were both cold and desperate for a comforting bath. For Dody, especially, changing into the required gown for tea and then only a few hours later changing once more into a dinner gown was an unnecessary and impractical chore. She had been too long in the workforce to waste time on such trifles. Even Florence, who usually liked nothing better than the feel of a silky teagown against her skin, confided that she needed time alone to prepare for the ordeal of dinner.

Dody had not mentioned the startling appearance of the black dog to Florence. That she herself had been momentarily frightened was unusual. The only things Dody feared tended to be of this world and walked on two legs. Goodness knew how Florence would react to such a tale — she would probably insist on sharing a bed as she had as a small child.

Their bedrooms were joined by a shared bathroom, making it easier for Annie, their maid, to attend to their needs. In their London household, Annie was both parlour maid and Florence’s lady’s maid. Dody, who favoured practical, tailored clothing, and who usually styled her hair in a simple chignon, did not often require her services. She would need Annie tonight, though, if she wanted to avoid the indignity of her pompadour unravelling into the soup.

Dody sat in her silk kimono, reading at her dressing table while she waited for her turn in the bath. The sounds of Florence’s splashing reached her as Annie grunted and slid a heavy portmanteau from beneath the bed.

‘I think it’s time I unpacked this, don’t you, Miss Dody?’

Dody propelled herself around on the dressing-table stool. ‘No, Annie, leave it, please. It contains medical equipment that is not to be disturbed.’ If Annie were to discover what was in the suitcase, she would probably resign on the spot.

‘If you say so, miss, but it isn’t proper for a lady’s maid not to know everything in her mistress’s bags.’

‘No, I’m sure it’s not,’ Dody said, returning to her book. The maid’s curiosity would be the death of her one day.

With a medley of theatrical sighs, Annie laid Dody’s second-best gown on the bed — her best gown was saved only for Pike.

Dody marked her place in the book and closed it. ‘Annie, what on earth is the matter? You sound as if you are laying out a suit of armour.’ Though perhaps armour
would
be the appropriate attire for the dinner ahead, she thought gloomily.

‘Nothing, I’m sure, Miss Dody,’ the maid replied.

Surely Annie was not still annoyed about the portmanteau? Dody paused to examine the young woman, hair awry, lace cap askew. ‘You’re not enjoying it much here, are you?’

Annie sniffed. ‘To be honest, Miss Dody, I’d rather be back in London.’

‘Are the staff not treating you kindly?’

‘They’re not treating me at all. I may as well not exist. I’m not a proper lady’s maid, see; if you and Miss Florence were proper ladies, you’d have a maid each — that’s what’s being whispered in the servants’ hall.’

‘If we had taken to heart everything that has been said about us, Annie, we’d have been driven mad years ago. Frankly, I am relieved not to be considered a proper lady.’

‘And I have to share a room in the attic — a bed, what’s more — with a scullery maid in training from the workhouse.’ Annie scratched her head, knocking her lace cap to the floor.

Dody understood how offensive such an arrangement would be to Annie. The hierarchy of the servants was as rigid, if not more so, as that of those they served. ‘I’ll speak to the housekeeper about it, if you like,’ she said.

The maid scooped her cap up off the floor, then bobbed to view the dressing-table mirror and re-pinned it. ‘Won’t do much good, miss. I’ve already tried speaking to Mrs Hutton and she says what with the house guests and all, they’re a few servants’ beds short and I’ll just have to lump it.’

Dody was surprised to hear that Annie had mustered the courage to approach the intimidating, black-clad housekeeper, though it pleased her that the maid was learning to stick up for her rights. Still, when in Rome …

‘You should have left it to me, Annie,’ she said.

‘Yes, miss. I suppose I’ll get the bed to myself when Edith goes back to the workhouse. Normally she’s only here a few days a week.’ Annie scratched her head again.

Dody frowned. ‘Itchy head?’ she asked as she reached into her Gladstone bag for her magnifying glass. ‘Here, let me look.’ She took hold of the girl’s hand and pulled her towards the electric lamp on the dressing table.

Annie attempted to struggle free. ‘No, miss, it’s all right, really!’

‘No, it’s not all right, and I think you know that as well as I do.’

The maid’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I looked myself. I’m clean. I wouldn’t come near you and Miss Florence if—’

‘This is something you cannot help. We understand that. Now, please stay still and let me examine your hair.’

Dody insisted they exchange places: Annie perched on the dressing-table stool, Dody standing over her and peering through the magnifying glass at her hair. Dody found several clusters of pediculosis eggs, like grains of sand, clinging to the shafts of hair around the girl’s temporal region. ‘As I thought,’ Dody said, putting down the magnifying glass. ‘This needs immediate treatment.’

‘But what will the other servants say?’ Annie said desperately. ‘What do I tell Mrs Hutton? I’ll be a laughing stock.’

Dody fully understood Annie’s shame, illogical though it was. Now she would be regarded as even more inferior by the Hall staff, many of whom, like Annie, would have come from impoverished backgrounds and also experienced the shame of head lice. By entering domestic service, they would have hoped to leave all that behind them. ‘You would have caught them from the workhouse girl. I’ll have to speak to Mrs Hutton about it.’

‘Oh, no, miss. Edith’s a sweet little thing, really. She might lose her job because of it.’

‘Well, let’s worry about you first. I’ll ask Mrs Hutton to tell the other servants that you have been taken ill and that you will be sleeping on my bedroom floor. I will treat your hair and you will remain in here until the treatment is complete.’

‘And Edith?’

‘Someone will have to have a word with the workhouse authorities. The inmates will have to be inspected and, if necessary, treated.’

Dody left Annie softly weeping at the dressing table and moved into the bathroom to report the situation to Florence. Tired of waiting for Annie’s assistance, Florence was wrapping herself in a fluffy dressing gown. She took the news with barely a shudder and allowed Dody to inspect her dark locks. After being told what to look for, she did the same for Dody and they pronounced themselves clean.

The footman was sent for and asked to procure a tin of paraffin. When that had been delivered, Dody ordered Annie into the bath, saturated her hair with the evil-smelling liquid and wrapped her head in a bandage.

‘Keep that on for twelve hours and don’t go near any open flames,’ Dody instructed.

While Dody was attending to Annie, Florence had summoned Mrs Hutton and explained the situation.

The middle-aged housekeeper’s simple black satin belt was weighed down by a chatelaine of keys and button hooks, indicating her lofty status in the household, and providing an incongruous jingling accompaniment to her grave, measured footsteps. Dody vacated the bathroom to find an expression of scorn on the tall, imperious woman’s face.

‘We would appreciate it if our maid’s problem could be kept from the other staff, please, Mrs Hutton,’ she said.

Annie did not seem to be the cause of the housekeeper’s concern. ‘I can’t afford to send Edith back just yet. There is far too much work to be done. I will have to treat her myself.’

‘Very well, here you are,’ Dody said, handing the housekeeper the paraffin.