The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  Uncle Tristan pulled over to the verge and parked.

  "Maggie, come on; they are having a picnic. Let's grab a bite. I've had nothing but a crust of dry bread, a couple of carrots from the vegetable plot, and a cup of tea since morning."

  I said, "We are not guests. Do we even have time?"

  But Uncle Tristan took off, prancing in long strides towards the gathered crowd.

  As I hurried behind, I gazed at the gatehouse. In front of the iron gates, men on bicycles rode in a tight circle. They wore heavy black boots; shabby, grey, flannel trousers; patched jackets, with flat cloth caps—the unofficial uniform of farmhands.

  To one side on a soapbox, with a megaphone in hand, stood a stooped man with a sharp, angular face covered with side whiskers. I recognised him at once—George Edwards. At his side, puffing on a clay pipe, was young Frank Perry. Even through the grey-blue haze of smoke, I could sense tension to his form, like a coil about to explode.

  George turned in my direction, raised his cloth cap, then gave a little wave.

  I waved back.

  "Ay-up," began George, placing a megaphone to his lips. "This is an official union strike. There'll be no harvesting or farm work by union members today. Only exception is the Blackwood Estate, cos they treat their staff right."

  A cheer went up from the gathered crowd.

  "As for them in London, and the Minister of Agriculture. I say we'll not back down! Fair pay, fair work conditions, and we'll give you a fair day's work!"

  Another cheer went up from the crowd.

  "Now we 'ave plenty of food and drink. Eat and enjoy."

  This comment raised the most tremendous cheer. The men parked their bicycles and headed for the tables.

  I joined the line that served potato salad, roast chicken, bread, and pickles with a tankard of apple cider. I looked around for Uncle Tristan, but he was nowhere to be seen, so I sat at a table to eat on my own. The cider was strong and good. I drank it in several large gulps.

  "Miss Darling, fancy meeting you again today. Good on you grabbing a tankard of the local brew before they run out. It is potent stuff; take it easy."

  I glanced up to see the smiling face of Vicar Humberstone. In one hand, he held a large drumstick, in the other, a tankard of cider. Over his shoulder, he carried his bow and a quiver full of arrows.

  "Roast turkey," he said, waving the drumstick. "They rear them in Norfolk, you know: the Matthews Estate, over in Sharrington. They make a pretty penny selling the birds in London."

  I said, "Isn't that where they have the insane asylum?"

  Vicar Humberstone took a long drink. "Aye, that was a dreadful institution. It lingers over the village like a bad fog. The only good thing I can say about the place is that they kept it open until the last inmate died."

  Curious, I said, "When was it closed?"

  Vicar Humberstone glanced towards the stone wall. "It must be over twenty years by now."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. I was the vicar of Saint Mary's in Sharrington for ten of those years. That required me to work as the chaplain for the asylum." He took a gulp from his tankard. "I wrote a pamphlet on the history of the institution. The last patient was admitted in eighteen hundred and eighty-four. It only took men. When he died, they closed the place down."

  A truck trundled along the lane, its loud engine cutting into our conversation like an angry bear. Suddenly men were on their bicycles, a little circle of humanity forming a wall in front of Bagington Hall gates.

  The truck shuddered to a stop in front of the pickets. The engine purred.

  "Let 'em pass," bellowed George into the megaphone. "We are 'ere to protest peacefully. We'll not let violence touch our protest."

  The men drew back.

  As the gate swung open, the truck lurched forward. It was then I saw Frank Perry, clinging flat against the back doors.

  At the gatehouse, the truck stopped. The gatekeeper came out of his brick hut. He was a long, barrel-chested man; clean shaven; wearing an old hunting coat; a pair of shabby, brown, flannel trousers; and thick, black boots. He saw Frank and gave an angry shout.

  Frank jumped off the truck. The gatekeeper approached, his face purple with rage. They were a body length apart, eyes locked, bodies rigid. Frank crouched, reached into his pocket; there was a flash of silver. By now, men poured from the gatehouse. To my surprise, Uncle Tristan was amongst them, his eyes bright with excitement.

  The gatekeeper's men surrounded Frank then advanced. There was a brief struggle. Frank twisted and turned then collapsed to the floor. The men dragged him like a sack of potatoes back through the gates, dumping him at the feet of George Edwards.

  Now everyone was watching. A crowd of people gathered around, keeping a distance from the gatekeeper and his men.

  "Any more of that nonsense, and I'll 'ave the police out here," said the gatekeeper, waving a fist at Frank.

  "Do that," growled Frank. "Call 'em." He clambered to his feet and sprung towards the gatekeeper. But he was a big man and effortlessly deflected Frank's advance.

  George raised his hands, palms out. "Frank, we'll 'ave none of that nonsense. We are 'ere to peaceable protest."

  "Don't look like that to me," replied the gatekeeper. "I'll 'ave to 'ave the police out now for sure."

  At that moment, a shadow flickered in the corner of my eye. I turned away from the scuffle to see a figure in black scaling the stone wall—Vicar Humberstone. He took a quick darting glance towards the crowd, his eyes shining with savage pleasure.

  Chapter 14

  "A rather unfortunate blemish on a rather splendid picnic." Uncle pulled the motorcar to a stop by the carriage house at the side of the main building and let out a drunken laugh. "Imagine running out of the local brew just as things were getting going. Damn disgrace."

  There was a heavy sweet odour of cider about him. I'd downed a full tankard myself. It had been a while since I'd tasted farm-brewed, fermented apples, and I knew by the buzz in my head, I must build up my tolerance to their alcoholic content.

  I said, "It's Frank Perry I feel sorry for. They hauled him about like a sack of coal. What was he doing riding on the back of the truck?"

  Uncle Tristan seemed to sober for a moment. "Maggie, local feelings are running high. Pay and work conditions and all of that. Ah, here is Boots."

  A weedy, undersized young man, about nineteen, with a round head and a long, pale, swanlike neck hurried from the building. His eyes were tiny slits in a pasty-white face.

  "How is you, Mr Harbottle; enjoying the fine weather?"

  "Indeed I am," replied Uncle, giving Boots the keys. "And I have my niece with me today, just a slip of a lass barely out of childhood." He touched his forelock in that overly dramatic way of his. "I present you, the young Miss Maggie Darling."

  I could have kicked Uncle but smiled sweetly as the world swayed around. A tankard of cider was a little too much, and with the afternoon sun, I felt a little dizzy. "Nice to meet you, Boots," I said then gave a little giggle.

  "That's it," Uncle Tristan whispered. "But save it until you meet Her Ladyship."

  Boots scratched his head. "Aye, delighted to meet you, Miss Darling. Just left school, you say?"

  "Fresh as a blackbird's morning song," said Uncle Tristan. "And down from London last Sunday."

  "Uncle, please!"

  But there was no stopping the man once he got going.

  "No doubt our Maggie will have the young men of Norfolk flinging themselves at her like wild bees at the first flower of spring." He paused, stared the young man directly in the eyes, and asked, "Are you walking out with a lady, Boots?"

  The man's long neck flushed; his narrow eyes grew wide. "Well… er… yes… I shall propose this very weekend, sir."

  Uncle waved his hands in mock frustration and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, Maggie, that's one less flower in the pot."

  I would have protested, but the cider swirled around my head and now soured my stomach. I be
lched like I was back in the pie-and-mash shop. My face flushed. "Rather a heavy lunch."

  Uncle grinned. "Now, Boots, call up to the house. Her Ladyship is expecting Miss Darling. I shall remain here with you"—he winked at Boots—"in the relative safety of the carriage house."

  "Aye, that is a wise decision." Boots turned to look at me. "I hear Her Ladyship is in one of her… well, she's a little like a mother hen, if you know what I mean."

  "Pecking everything in sight," added Uncle Tristan.

  Boots nodded. "Aye, that would be about right." He pointed to a large metal contraption. "And now Sir Sandoe 'as bought an envelope rack that Lady Herriman leaves me notes in to run about and deliver. You'd think I was the postman." With a grunt, he disappeared into the carriage house.

  Moments later, a tall, dapper man, with a hairline moustache and an army haircut, strode towards us. If it were not for the white gloves and uniform, which seemed to comprise almost entirely of highly polished brass buttons, I would have taken him for the lord of the manor.

  "That's Tom Withers, the head butler—devil of a temper," whispered Uncle Tristan. "The man runs this place with the harsh whip of a circus ringmaster. Here, take these papers, and remember to eat humble pie with Her Ladyship."

  "Anything else?"

  "Don't get too close; try to stick to the dark corners."

  Uncle Tristan turned, and with a slight sway, strode towards the carriage house.

  "Miss Darling?" Withers bowed as he spoke, but his sharp eyes never left my face.

  "Indeed," I said, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on my breath.

  His nose twitched. "I'm Withers, the head butler. Lady Herriman will see you shortly." He hesitated then said, "You are the young niece of Mr Tristan Harbottle?"

  "That's me." I smiled but already felt Uncle's plan was unravelling.

  "From London?"

  "Yes."

  "To help with his staffing business?"

  "That is so."

  Withers pointed his nose to the sky and sniffed. "I shall have to speak with the outside lads about the consumption of alcohol during work hours. It is rather unbecoming, don't you think?"

  I swayed, let lose another belch, and mumbled, "Indeed it is."

  Chapter 15

  "This way, madam."

  Withers made a sharp turn and strode away. I followed him along a gravel path that ran alongside the main house. We turned left at the end onto a narrow dirt trail.

  I said, "Is this the way to the servants' quarters?"

  "Yes, madam. Today, we shall use the tradesmen's entrance, as this is a business, rather than a social visit."

  We walked for several minutes, and I wondered just how much farther when Withers stopped, reached out a hand, and pulled on a latch which I'd have missed. A door swung open, and we entered a dim hallway.

  White tiles lined the floor. A faded, dingy, grey paint covered the walls. The smell of food cooking mingled with the sharp clank of metallic pots and mumbled voices from unseen rooms.

  As we continued to walk, I realised I knew little about Lady Herriman. I wanted to discover more about the woman ahead of our meeting. Withers would know everything. But how to get him to talk?

  When I worked in the pie-and-mash shop, a friendly smile and simple questions often opened a floodgate. I used that knowledge now to open tight-lipped Withers.

  "Wonderful weather we are having."

  "Yes, madam."

  "Did you see the union protestors?"

  "Certainly, madam."

  "How many staff do you employ here, Withers?"

  "I couldn’t say, madam."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "One doesn’t like to count the years, madam."

  My attempts crashed on the barren rocks of his curt responses.

  I tried again.

  "Do you like it here?"

  "To serve is my only purpose in life, madam."

  I was getting nowhere, so I went for the direct question. "What is Her Ladyship like?"

  Withers stopped, turned, gave me a withering look, and said, "Lady Herriman is a lady, madam."

  I gave up after that and followed him meekly along the hallway and up a narrow staircase, at the end of which we turned right into a scullery.

  It was a small room with large windows which looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a brick wall. There was a row of bells above a large iron sink, shelves filled with glass bottles and clay jars. Several flat irons hung on wall brackets. Three ironing boards leaned against another wall. To one side was a wooden kitchen table, with a half-eaten crust of bread, cheese, and the remains of a meat pie. On another long, low table rested a pile of freshly ironed, starched linens. Underneath, I saw a small black-and-white kitten. It watched us enter and scratched. The poor thing only had three legs.

  Withers stopped, and his body visibly stiffened. For a moment, he seemed to forget my presence, and I watched with fascination as his eyes turned black, lower lip purpled, and thick blue veins bulged at the sides of his neck. Then he spoke, his voice a cold whisper. "What is the meaning of this wasted food?"

  There was no answer from the empty room.

  Withers stomped to the kitchen table, swiped the plate and its contents onto the floor. As the clatter echoed around the scullery, an older woman came hurrying. Behind her was a young girl, no older than twelve, with her eyes wide open.

  The older woman said, "Sorry, Master Withers, we was just 'avin a break. Me niece, young Rose, is new, and she needed a—"

  "To the devil with your excuses, Mrs Mullins, and to the devil with your niece Rose."

  Mrs Mullins placed her hands on her hips. "Now, Master Withers, I—"

  "Shut up, you hag!"

  Withers strode over to the linen table. His shoulders trembled with barely concealed rage. The shudder rolled along his back. When it reached his legs, he raised his right foot and kicked the table with brute force. It toppled over, scattering the clothes on the floor.

  The kitten screeched.

  Withers swung a foot at the poor, unfortunate creature, missed, and in a blind fury stomped and kicked the linens with his polished shoes.

  When the anger subsided, he ran a finger over his hairline moustache and said, "This lot needs rewashing, starching, and ironing. And that cat needs poisoning."

  Mrs Mullins, face red, wiped her hands on her apron. "Withers, you oaf! Little Rose stood 'ere all day sorting, sprinkling, folding, and ironing that lot. And Swiftee is only a kitten; he ain't done no wrong."

  "Shall I see to it, Mrs Mullins," began Withers in a soft voice, "that today is your last?"

  "But I'm a widow; this job is all I've got." Mrs Mullins lowered her head. "Sorry, sir, I spoke out of turn. Rose, gather up those linens and get to rewashing 'em."

  Rose's teeth chattered; her eyes had dark ugly lines under them. She shambled, stooped, and gathered up the items. Then she turned to Withers, her eyes wide and pleading. "But Swiftee is a lovely kitten. We play together. Can we let him be, please?"

  "Rose," snarled Withers, "you are to see to it that blasted cat gets a good dose of rat poison. Leave the filthy beast's body outside of my quarters. And don't you go running to Sir Sandoe with complaints. He has given me a free hand with you servants. What I say is the law. Now, both of you, go!"

  Mrs Mullins and Rose left. Withers turned, and half jumped when he saw me. In an instant, the purple colour drained from his face. A moment later, his back straightened, and he'd regained his composure.

  With a dignified white-gloved hand, he reached out and tugged a long cord that hung from the ceiling. I thought I heard the tinkle of a distant bell, although that might have been my imagination, the cider, or both.

  Withers pulled a silver pendant from his jacket pocket, let it swing back and forth for a moment. "Memories are just a jumble of recollections. And you recall nothing at all."

  "Pardon?"

  "Beautiful, isn't it. Watch the pendant."

  "No!" I snapped
. "Have you lost your mind?"

  He jerked the pendent into his pocket, stared full into my eyes with barely concealed fury, and said, "Miss Darling, I'm sure in London you've seen your fair share of petty thievery. We've experienced it here. A wooden display case of five irreplaceable Victorian hunting knives went missing a few years back. Her Ladyship was most displeased."

  Annoyed at the man's shenanigans and the implication of his words, I said, "And what has that to do with me?"

  Withers' lips curved into a smirk. "One can never be too careful who one invites into a great house like this. I shall wait with you until Miss Trimmings appears. She is a trusted and reliable member of staff."

  Chapter 16

  I'd expected a small scrawny woman in a black maid's dress, a white half apron of ruffled lace, and a matching headpiece.

  Dolly Trimmings wore none of that. A silver star pattern shimmered on her black silk gown. Gold bracelets jangled around her wrists, and a string of pearls hung about her thick neck.

  Miss Trimmings took my hands in her plump grip. She was a large overweight woman about my age, with eyes that twitched like a bird and the wide mouth of a hippopotamus. And she was panting like a greyhound.

  "Is that you, Miss Darling? Oh Gawd, yes, yes, it is you!"

  She threw her arms about me. The woman had the grip of a bear. There was a strong whiff of plum wine about her person.

  When we separated, Miss Trimmings glanced me up and down. "Ain't be waiting long, 'ave ya?"

  I was still trying to make sense of her warm welcome. It was as if we were old friends, but I've never before set eyes on the woman.

  "Oh, no, not long at all," I said, watching Withers leave. "We just arrived."

  "Good, let us sit at the table for a short moment while I catches me breath. Rooms in Bagington Hall always 'ave two stairways. Those for the ladies and gentlemen and those for the servants." Dolly took in a large gulp of air. "My, look at all that linen. Mrs Mullins is behind today."