The Scent of Murder (9 page)

‘What’s for
our
supper?’ she asked, without needing to; she just wanted to delay her return as long as possible. The inmates would be dining on stale bread and cheese, as they did every night of the week. Lunch tended to be more varied: sometimes bacon and bread, and sometimes, at least since Lady Fitzgibbon had become a guardian, vegetable soup with small strings of meat in it. The food at the Hall was a luxury Edith could not have imagined until she had tasted it. She didn’t care how many birds she had to pluck in the cold for a slice of Mrs Plummer’s blackberry and apple cake. All she could do was pray that the doctor lady didn’t make too much of a fuss over her scratched head. Edie didn’t care, really, so long as she got away from this place, where a scratched head was the least of her worries.

Mr Clover’s face fell into its miserable look. ‘No supper for you yet. Matron wants to see you.’

Edith felt like she’d swallowed a cold stone. ‘Do you know why, Mr Clover?’

‘I won’t be ’avin’ pauper girls show me up,’ he said in a fair imitation of Matron’s voice.

‘’Cos of me nits?’

He nodded, then paused. Mr Clover’s thoughts, when he had them, were a long time coming. He pointed his finger at her. ‘Wait.’

When he at last shuffled back from the gatehouse, he was holding a newspaper. ‘In yer drawers, Edie. It’ll ’elp.’

Edie thanked him, but said nothing else. Luckily for Mr Clover, he’d never witnessed one of Matron’s beatings. If he had, he’d have known that one old newspaper wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

A fat raindrop burst across her cheek.

CHAPTER EIGHT

That afternoon, before visibility had completely faded, Dody found Lady Fitzgibbon alone in the walled rose garden. Earlier, Lady Fizgibbon had slipped away from her house guests, giving her apologies, saying she had an urgent domestic matter to attend to. Dody suspected that her hostess just needed some time alone and regretted having to intrude upon her thus. But given the delicate subject matter they needed to discuss, this was too good an opportunity to miss.

Lady Fitzgibbon was wrapping the bases of the rose bushes in sacking. She was well wrapped up herself in a misty-grey coat with matching hat and kid gloves. Spidery threads of hair had escaped from beneath her hat. A smudge of dirt on her cheek completed her air of vulnerability.

‘The gardeners never do this properly. They seem to think a simple mound of earth will suffice. I do this part myself to prove my point,’ she explained. ‘I’m sure the roses feel the cold just as much as we do ourselves — would you not agree, Doctor McCleland?’

Dody thought of the scullery maid’s chilblains. ‘Here, let me help,’ she said, taking a sack from the pile in the wheelbarrow, laying it on the damp grass and dropping to her knees upon it. The roses had been pruned to prickly stumps and it was a case of wrapping each bush’s base with the hessian and fastening it with string. Despite the trembling of her fingers as she tied the knots, the older woman carried out her task with speed and efficiency, Dody noted.

This was the first time she had chanced to be alone with her hostess. At first she had taken Lady Fitzgibbon to be a bit of a doormat, someone who willingly allowed herself to be stepped upon, but she was now beginning to discover there was an innate dignity about the woman and found herself enjoying her company.

Lady Fitzgibbon seemed to come alive when talking about her rose garden and kitchen herb patch, explaining how she tended to the plants personally whenever she could find the time. She spoke in a low, soft voice, making it a struggle for Dody to catch everything she said.

‘I expect your duties at the workhouse keep you busy,’ Dody ventured, at last broaching the topic that had driven her to seek out Her Ladyship.

‘Indeed they do — much to Sir Desmond’s chagrin.’ Lady Fitzgibbon smiled, giving the impression she was making light of something that might well be a serious matter. How this featherweight of a woman had found the strength to stand up to her overbearing husband and have him practically eating from her hand was a mystery Dody was unable to fathom.

‘Did you not require his support when you stood for election?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ This time Lady Fitzgibbon’s smile was different, as if she were amused by a secret thought. ‘Sir Desmond is
always
generous in his support of my projects. And he is guided by the wisdom of others, too.’

Others? Dody waited for more, but Her Ladyship refrained from divulging further details.

Instead, earnest once more, she said, ‘The Poor Laws are totally inadequate. I was shocked to discover the conditions in which the paupers were living under our own workhouse roof and have been fighting an uphill battle to improve them since I entered office. I cannot help feeling that true headway can only be made when women are given the vote. The men have made a hash of the Poor Laws and it is now our turn to have a crack at them.’

The message’s delivery may have lacked the theatrical rhetoric that the Pankhursts and Florence used to get their views across, but its impact was the same.

‘I believe Mrs Pankhurst started her public life as a workhouse guardian,’ Dody said.

‘She did. Since land ownership was abolished as a prerequisite for guardianship there has been, fortunately, a massive increase in the number of female guardians, and we are proving to be far better equipped for the task than the men ever were. You see, Doctor McCleland, when one is elected guardian, it is like being given a share of the control of an immense household containing many classes of inhabitant — not much different from the Hall here.’ She gestured to the hulking building behind her. ‘Old people, sick, insane, idiots, children, mothers, babies and men. It’s all a matter of organisation, and then letting the board-appointed officials get on with the day-to-day work.’

‘And what of the officials of the Uckfield workhouse? Did your board make the right choices there?’

Lady Fitzgibbon hesitated, and flicked a strand of hair from her cheek, leaving another dirty smudge in its place. ‘We have had our share of problems with some of the staff. A few have been at their posts for years, since long before my time on the board.’

Dody was aware of how difficult it was for workhouse officials to be relieved of their posts once instated. She waited for Lady Fitzgibbon to elaborate. When it appeared nothing more was forthcoming, she said, ‘No doubt you have discovered my sister’s feminist convictions.’

‘A charming girl. Unfortunately we have had so little time to chat. But my nephew seems very fond of her.’

Dody paused. She was not here to talk romance; she needed to get onto the subject of Edith. ‘I met your scullery maid today.’

Lady Fitzgibbon rocked back on her heels. ‘How extraordinary. Why on earth would you have had cause to meet Edith?’

‘My maid and Edith have been sharing a room. It was brought to my attention that …’ Dody hesitated, trying to find an adequate euphemism, ‘… that Edith has been suffering from a contagious condition of the scalp.’

‘And your concern?’

‘It became my concern when my maid became infected too.’

‘Oh, I see. Oh, dear. They must both be treated, in that case.’

‘They have been. I treated my maid with paraffin. Mrs Hutton treated Edith by shaving her hair off to the point of drawing blood.’

The brief look of shock on Her Ladyship’s face quickly changed to one of resignation. ‘Unfortunately that is how they treat scalp conditions in the workhouse. Mrs Hutton was only following the established procedure. As far as I can tell she has always been fair in her treatment of Edith. There is little I can do about it at the moment. I can only take small steps in trying to change the workhouse regime when the same practices have been ingrained for years.’

‘But your housekeeper was unduly rough. And she is part of your household, not the workhouse.’

‘It was no small victory for me last year to introduce one extra solid meat meal per week at the workhouse, contrary to Poor Law recommendations,’ Lady Fitzgibbon went on as if Dody had not spoken. ‘I’m afraid medical reforms are still a long way off, Doctor. Inmates are usually subjected to regular health and hygiene inspections, but our medical officer has been absent for an extended period and I expect standards have dropped. My apologies to you and your maid for the inconvenience this has caused. Mrs Hutton has been under a lot of pressure recently. I imagine she was in a hurry. I will talk to Edith myself and make sure she suffers no lasting effects.’

Dody grasped at the chance to do something useful during her stay at the Hall.

‘I would be happy, with your permission, to take on the medical officer’s duties for a few days and organise health checks for the workhouse inmates. I have more than enough time on my hands at the moment, and my sister does not require a chaperone twenty-four hours a day.’

‘Thank you, my dear. I will bear that in mind.’ Lady Fitzgibbon climbed stiffly to her feet and dusted her hands. Dody followed suit.

Her Ladyship gave a fey smile and pointed to a robin redbreast perched on a garden bench. ‘Poor little thing; let us hope he survives the winter. I must remember to put some seed and dripping out for him.’

Dody weighed up the pros and cons of continuing the conversation about workhouse conditions, specifically Edith’s, and decided it might be best to let the matter rest for the moment. If she interfered any more at this stage, she might cost Edith her job. The cold and dark were pressing in. It was time to go inside. They walked towards the house together.

‘My husband tells me you made an interesting discovery today: that Tristram’s bones are not as old as everyone hoped them to be.’ She paused. ‘I can’t bear the idea of someone suffering a lonely death on our land.’

This was more than a lonely death. This was a lonely death due to murder, and the reason Dody had been anxious to talk to the police herself before the details were revealed to Tristram and his family. So far, she had told no one but Florence about the bullet hole in the skull, and she certainly had no intention of informing her hostess of it.

‘Are you aware of anyone in the village who has gone missing since you have lived here?’ Dody asked.

‘Off the top of my head, no.’ Lady Fitzgibbon stared off into the middle distance and added vaguely, ‘But I’ll see what I can find out.’

How on earth she thought she might go about it Dody could not begin to imagine. But if Lady Fitzgibbon cared for the local populace as much as she apparently did for the birds and her roses, there was, perhaps, some hope.

As they entered the front hallway, Dody noticed Lady Fitzgibbon’s eyes settle on a top hat sharing space on a table with a glorious vase of dried autumn blooms, papier-mâché apples and holly berries.

Her Ladyship drew a sharp breath. A daub of colour appeared on each of her pale cheeks. ‘Is that Mr Montague’s hat?’ she all but whispered to Mrs Hutton as the housekeeper helped her and Dody off with their damp coats.

‘Yes, M’Lady.’ Mrs Hutton’s colour was as heightened as that of her mistress. Extraordinary, thought Dody.

‘Is he here to see my husband?’

‘No, M’Lady. He requests an audience with you. He is waiting in the—’

Before the housekeeper had finished, the morning-room door opened and the gentleman in question stepped into the flagged hall. Dody had not had much to do with Mr Montague the previous evening at dinner — and had not particularly wanted to, for that matter — but she could not help noticing once again what a fine figure of a man he was for his age. Tall and upright, having not allowed himself to run to fat as Sir Desmond had, he had a commanding presence and a magnetism to his dark eyes that seemed to put Her Ladyship and her usually unflappable housekeeper in quite a fluster.

Did Lady Fitzgibbon have a soft spot for Mr Montague, Dody wondered, and was Mrs Hutton complicit in some kind of liaison between the two of them? Surely his infuriating manner at the dinner table, his treatment of Florence on the hunt and his generally boorish nature would not endear him to many right-thinking women. Then again, he and Lady Fitzgibbon were of the same hunting set, a set in which most of the men, bar Tristram, behaved in much the same fashion. Perhaps I’ve overestimated Lady Fitzgibbon, Dody thought, suddenly surprised at her own disappointment, as if Her Ladyship had personally let her down.

Mr Montague bowed to Lady Fitzgibbon and kissed her hand before bestowing the same honour on Dody.

‘I hope you don’t mind my turning up without an appointment, Lady Fitzgibbon,’ he said, ‘but some issues have been raised about your needlework school that I feel are best discussed between us, person to person, as it were — the condition of the chimney and grate, for example. Girls cannot be expected to sew when their fingers are half-frozen.’

Lady Fitzgibbon swallowed as if her mouth was dry. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Mrs Hutton, ask Alistair to bring the drinks tray into the morning room, please. Then you may join us, if you wish, Mrs Hutton. I know the needlework school is close to your own heart.’ She turned to Dody. ‘Doctor McCleland, if you will be so kind as to excuse us.’

‘Of course, My Lady. And thank you so much for allowing me to help you with your roses.’

Mr Montague bowed again. Dody was conscious of three pairs of eyes following her from the hall as she trod the wide staircase to her room.

Continuing to reflect on Lady Fitzgibbon’s disconcerting infatuation, Dody moved about, making her preparations for the next morning, sniffing at scent bottles and opening cupboard doors, running her fingers through her gowns and suits. She chose a practical tweed costume for her liaison with Pike, planning on spicing it up with some less than practical underthings. The direction her thoughts took as she fingered the satin and lace made her blush to the roots of her hair. Glimpsing her reddened face in the cupboard mirror, she laughed aloud. Stopped. Then looked again and frowned.

Dody knew exactly what her own high colour signified, but could the same truly be said of Lady Fitzgibbon? Had she read the woman wrongly? Perhaps the look Lady Fitzgibbon had given Mr Montague was not that of a woman with secret thoughts of a lover, after all. The startling red daubs on her cheeks signified suppressed emotion, yes, but what kind of emotion — passion, anger, fear, or was it embarrassment? Suddenly Dody was not so sure.