The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  As I stood there blinking, I realised the entire door was painted over in the grey colour of the corridor. This included the small metallic doorknob and the wood around the doorpost. I guessed it was a sealed doorway to an unused part of Bagington Hall.

  "Crafty little kitty."

  I stooped down to pick up Swiftee.

  He vanished as my hand closed about him.

  Startled, I straightened up. "What on earth!"

  It wasn’t until I stared hard at the space that I saw a small irregular hole in the bottom wooden panel where the thick wood had rotted away. Swiftee was on the other side of the door.

  Quickly, I glanced at the door handle then both ways along the corridor. I gave it a tug. It shifted a fraction. I tugged harder and pulled, with a grunt. It was solid and heavy. Again, I pulled. The door screeched open, shuddering and groaning as if in protest.

  A waft of putrid, warm air rushed out. A narrow staircase went up at a steep angle. At the top, I could make out the dim glow of daylight. Swiftee sat on the fifth step.

  "Come here, Swiftee."

  He regarded me with curiosity but didn’t move.

  With care, I edged towards him. The first step, the second step, the third step.

  Swiftee didn’t move.

  With one arm balanced against the rough brick wall, I stepped onto the fourth step, stooped down, and picked him up. To his credit, the kitten didn’t protest.

  Thud.

  All went dark.

  For a brief, dreadful second I stood there in the pitch black, dazed and confused. Then I cried, "The door!"

  But my cries were fruitless. It had swung shut!

  The sunlight shining from the top of the stairs was enough for me to see. With Swiftee under my right arm, I edged towards the door, sneezed, tugged the handle, and pushed.

  Crack.

  To my horror, the handle came off in my hand.

  "Oh bother!"

  My throat went dry and began to contract, and I knew it wasn't only due to Swiftee. The solid door was shut tight—I was trapped.

  With my left hand, I felt around for the steel pin. If I could twist it, the door would open. But I'm not left handed, so I fumbled and pushed the pin farther away.

  "I should have used my right hand!"

  I turned, placed Swiftee on the step, and returned to the door.

  The kitten scampered up the stairs.

  "Swiftee, come back!"

  I stood there, paralysed with indecision. Follow the kitten or get out of here?

  I turned back to the door. I had to get it open, then I'd get the kitten.

  Anxiously, I poked around for the steel pin. After several feverish moments, there was a sharp metallic thud in the corridor. The handle on the other side had fallen off.

  "Oh bother, bother, bother! This is your fault, Swiftee."

  A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I felt as if I'd entered a tomb. My tomb.

  Visions of my desiccated corpse with a kitten in my arms flashed through my mind. Now I was dangerously close to panic but knew I must control my thinking if I wanted to get out quickly.

  What was the worst thing that could happen?

  I thought of the unidentified sounds familiar to old houses, of spectres floating down the staircase, and of giant rats with sharp fangs for teeth. All these thoughts swirled around like a dry wind whipping up ashes into a blazing fire of dread.

  "Don't be silly, Maggie," I said, trying to get a grip on my fears. "After all, the biggest rat you've ever seen was in London—Mr Pritchard!"

  That made me laugh. There was nothing to worry about. Uncle Tristan would come looking for me as would Withers. But a doubt came creeping slowly into my mind. Why would Uncle Tristan or Withers look here? After all, I'd barely noticed the entrance myself.

  "I have to open that door and get out of here with Swiftee."

  Now, with panic brewing, I tried to feel around the doorpost for a crack large enough to get some leverage. When that didn’t work, I pounded on the heavy door, yelled, and kicked the wood.

  But no one came running.

  On the edge of blind panic, I threw my weight against the solid wood, then again and again.

  The door held.

  I shouted, hating the fear in my voice, hating myself for being angry with a little kitten—a three-legged waif whose life lay in my hands.

  Fatigued, I slumped against the solid wood. As I gasped in the rotten air, Dolly Trimmings' remarks flitted into my mind. "Rooms in Bagington Hall always 'ave two stairways. Those for the ladies and gentlemen and those for the servants."

  With my mind oddly clarified by the apple cider, I climbed the stairs into the dim glow of daylight.

  Chapter 20

  This can't be right. Swiftee and his curiosity. Oh bother!

  I stared in bewildered disbelief. I'd hoped the stairs led to a large room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a beautiful part of the grounds of Bagington Hall.

  Or perhaps a smaller place, bedecked in regal furniture with a soft carpet and heavily patterned wallpaper, abundantly decorated with the sweeping curves of exotic birds or vegetation. After all, it was clearly a servants' staircase, and hadn't Dolly said there were separate stairs for the ladies and gentlemen?

  But the space was tiny, with tall brick walls on all four sides and a large skylight from which a blazing sun shone illuminating rays. Instantly, it reminded me of Uncle Tristan's office—a storage loft, but a miniature version and without the stench of curing hides.

  I stepped into the room. The rough wooden floorboards shuddered and squeaked. It was like walking into the past. There was an old escritoire used long ago as a writing desk. A small dust-ridden oak case rested with its glass lid open, the contents long gone. There was a lopsided Louis Quinze settee, a tall gold-rimmed mirror clouded with age, a dried-up washstand, and other relics of a bygone era.

  And in the middle of the room was a great iron bed, piled with dust-ridden sheets.

  Everything was old or decrepit or useless, even the writing desk. For several moments, I stared at the dusty item. It was tall, like a mini wardrobe, made of oak and mahogany. I'd seen scores of them at auction in London, but because of their size and bulk they had fallen from favour.

  I suppose it was the writing surface that caught my attention. It was extended out as if its last user was in the middle of composing a letter. But the inkwell had long since dried up, the paper turned to dust. Maybe it once belonged to Lady Herriman or perhaps her father?

  The groan of the floorboards interrupted my thoughts. I glanced down at the bare wooden slats and exposed nails. Were they even sound?

  With care, I took another step towards the iron bed. It was ancient: brown, chipped paint with gold, Victorian swirls on both the footrest and headrest. How long since it was last used?

  I tilted my head back to gaze up through the skylight, half expecting to see something other than blue. But the sky was all there was to see.

  "Swiftee!"

  Something scurried by my feet. I spun around and looked down.

  Swiftee crouched low at the footrest, stone still as if watching a mouse. I stooped down to pick him up. He scampered into my arms without a fuss.

  "I think we must leave the same way we got in," I mumbled. "Through that big, ugly wooden door. Are you with me?"

  And then it happened. The sun dipped behind a cloud casting the room into a gloomy haze. The room went cold. A voice called out.

  "Hello!"

  I jumped, staggered back, falling onto the bed. A plume of dust darkened the room. Swiftee wriggled free from my arms. As I tugged on the sheets to stand up, I couldn’t believe what I saw peeping out from the top of the bed.

  For several seconds, I gaped with more surprise than when I watched George Edwards eating a cobnut on the train to Cromer. Then I struggled to my feet, found my knees too weak to support me, and fell back onto the bed.

  Another plume of dust filled the air.

  I roll
ed to the hard floor, felt my stomach lurch, and clapped my hands to my mouth as cold seeped through my bones. Because what I saw was the blackened head of a woman.

  Chapter 21

  Frantic, I struggled to my knees.

  Again, came the voice. "Hello!"

  In my terrified state, the words seemed to drift up from the bed. But that couldn’t be!

  More words echoed around the room. "Good heavens."

  I twisted towards the door.

  "Hello! Good heavens." It was Mrs Mullins, her face flushed with the effort of climbing the stairs. "I heard a pounding from the corridor and had a devil of a job opening the door. This is the old chambermaid's quarters, not used in years. What are you doing in here?"

  On my trembling feet, I pointed with a quivering hand to the bed.

  Mrs Mullins' eyes widened. She tipped her head back and let loose a shriek more terrifying than my discovery.

  Then she fainted.

  Within five minutes, household staff filled the room. It was standing room only as eager eyes and fingers pointed at the desiccated body on the bed. Word soon spread to the ground staff. Boots was the first to arrive, his long swan-like neck at full stretch, eyes enormous. Not until Withers came did a semblance of order take hold.

  "Everyone out, except Miss Darling and Mrs Mullins," Withers boomed.

  But the crowd were too excited to take much notice at first.

  "I'll see to it that today is your last day at Bagington Hall," he screeched.

  There was a general murmur of discontent which grew loudest from those waiting their turn near the bottom of the steps. It seemed everyone wanted to see the gruesome exhibit.

  Withers let loose his ferocious temper. "Be off with you. Get out!"

  Eventually, grudgingly, they drifted away.

  "Out, now!" boomed Withers at Boots who lingered as if savouring the last drop of a fine wine.

  "Aye, sir. Thought I wanted to work inside where it is all comfortable on a cold winter's day. Right next to the fire, that's what I dreamed of. But no thank you. I prefers the chill winds of me carriage house."

  By this time, Mrs Mullins had revived, a kind household member having brought a large bottle of plum wine and a glass to calm her nerves. The bottle lay half empty. "Master Withers," she slurred. "I knows who it is. I knows whose body is a lying there on that bed all blacked and dried like a summer prune."

  "The police will be here in a short while," replied Withers. "We will have none of your rumour or speculation."

  "But I knows," protested Mrs Mullins, emboldened by the plum wine, "ain't you or anyone else going to keep me quiet."

  Withers glared at the woman. "Shut up, you hag!"

  I suspected he was more furious at her defiance than anything else. I said, "Please tell us what you know, Mrs Mullins."

  Withers turned his glare on me. "Sir Sandoe will hear of this whole incident shortly. We don't want to spread any silly rumours until the police have had a chance to look over the facts, do we?"

  Mrs Mullins muttered, "It don't matter. It don't matter. We'll be seeking work when the truth is told. All that glitters ain't gold."

  I said, "Speak up, woman. Don't let the pompous fool bully you. Who is it?"

  But Mrs Mullins didn’t have to say a word. Dolly Trimmings hurried into the room. "Lady Herriman sent me to investigate the fuss," she said, standing at the door, wide eyes fixed on the blackened head. After a moment, her voice dropped to a whisper. "Cor blimey, Withers, it is Miss Antoinette! I thought she'd run off to America with that union fellow."

  Chapter 22

  "Go on, 'ave another cup of tea, and put plenty of sugar in it," urged Dolly.

  "Don't mind if I do cos my bloody feet are killing me," replied Sergeant Pender. He was a tall broad-shouldered man with a narrow face. His eyes were sunk deep into his head as if they'd seen too much and were frightened to see any more. "Nothing like a nice cuppa on a day like this eases the nerves."

  Dolly, Mrs Mullins, and I were sitting around the kitchen table in the scullery each having given a brief statement to the sergeant. Swiftee sat firmly in my lap. We were waiting for the return of Chief Inspector Little, who went with Withers to speak with Lady Herriman.

  "It must 'ave been a terrible shock to you," said Dolly, her thick lips curved slightly at the edges as if holding back a secret. "I mean, don't suppose you're called out to a big 'ouse on account of a body every day."

  Sergeant Pender's slender head moved in affirmation. "Aye, but it happens more than you'd like to think about, but they don't pay me enough to go about investigating. I leave all that to the chief inspector. I'm just a regular walk-the-beat type of police officer, and that's the way I like it." He took a long slow gulp of tea, his eyelids drooping. "But, yes, it was a shock to the system, as I came over 'ere on account of a telephone call from the gatekeeper."

  Dolly said, "About the body of poor dear Miss Antoinette?"

  The sergeant shook his head. "The agricultural strike. This business with the union is causing a cartload of trouble. Not that I can blame 'em for putting down tools. Can't say I'd readily agree to work longer hours for less pay either."

  Mrs Mullins said, "The household workers ought to form a union and strike too! Pay and conditions is terrible 'ere, but what choice do we 'ave?"

  Dolly's lips became a straight line. "Now, listen here, Mrs Mullins. Lady Herriman and Sir Sandoe have been good to keep us on."

  "It's all right for them that gets to drink their plum wine from goblets and wear fancy pearls they don't own," said Mrs Mullins, her voice a high-pitched bark.

  Sergeant Pender raised a hand to quell the argument. "Let's not be politicking today; that's for them in parliament. Now where was I?"

  "Talking about why you came over to Bagington Hall in the first place," said Dolly.

  The sergeant said, "We got a call about a disturbance at the gatehouse. A young fellow by the name of Frank Perry, bold as a lion, with a desperate look. Not from around these parts either, said he wanted to speak with Sir Sandoe."

  "Why?" Dolly, Mrs Mullins, and I said together.

  "The young man said he had a letter that would interest Sir Sandoe."

  Mrs Mullins opened her mouth to speak. Dolly flashed her a hard glare and in a slow movement placed a finger to her lips. The two women sat quietly for a moment watching each other. Our cups of tea sat before us on the table, steam rising in great swirls.

  After thirty seconds of silence, Mrs Mullins' lips twitched. She picked up her cup and took a hesitant sip then said, "You were saying, Sergeant?"

  Sergeant Pender's slender face seemed to constrict slightly and draw tight about his cheeks. But he continued as if unaware of what had taken place between the two women. "Mr Perry wouldn’t give me the letter—"

  Dolly interrupted. "What reason could this Frank Perry 'ave for wanting to give a letter to Sir Sandoe? The whole thing is ridiculous."

  "So I searched his pockets. They were empty as I expected, save a knife. Old looking, long handle, a hunting knife." Sergeant Pender let out a satisfied chuckle. "Let me tell you, I gave the young fellow a stern talking to and sent him on his way."

  Now Sergeant Pender turned to Mrs Mullins, and once again, his narrow face seemed to constrict. "There was something you were going to say. Let's be having ya; spit it out, woman."

  Mrs Mullins looked down, her rough fingers toying with her cup. "It was just—"

  "Slice of seed cake, Sergeant?" Dolly got to her feet. "I'm sure we 'ave some around here, don't we, Mrs Mullins?"

  The sergeant became very still, and I thought I saw a flash of indecision in his eyes.

  "Let's leave the investigating to them that gets paid for it," said Dolly in a soft voice. "Now, Sergeant, how about a nice drop of plum wine to go with that seed cake?"

  Sergeant Pender's face relaxed. "Aye, I wouldn’t say no." He lolled back in his seat, eased his feet onto a vacant chair, eyes half closing. "Pour it in a mug, so it doesn't look like I'm dr
inking on duty when the chief inspector returns."

  Chapter 23

  Withers announced Chief Inspector Little with a low bow. As he did so, he turned his head towards Dolly. If I hadn’t been paying attention, what happened next would have gone undetected.

  No words passed from the lips of Withers, but there was a slight lowering of the eyelids, an almost indiscernible downwards curve at the edge of his lips and a flicker of frown lines across his forehead.

  In return, Dolly raised her chin a fraction of a degree. She placed a chubby hand on her cheek like a scientist pondering the answer to one of nature's mysteries. With a smooth movement, her head dipped then rose.

  The chambermaid and the butler were definitely in communication about something but about what was beyond me.

  Chief Inspector Little strode into the scullery. He wore a drab brown suit with a black bowler hat atop an undersized head and walked with a military-style goose-step. His black boots clattered against the tile floor with an authoritative thwack.

  "An absolutely beastly discovery, Sergeant Pender," Chief Inspector Little said, stopping by the table. His small face, plum nose, angular bristled eyebrows, and unblinking eyes gave him the look of a startled squirrel.

  "Bloody awful, sir."

  The chief inspector nodded. "I'd go up there to poke around a little myself if it weren't for the odd touch of lumbago. Picked it up during the war." He peered down at the table. "A hot mug of tea, Officer?"

  Sergeant Pender grasped the mug with one hand and with the other covered the top. "It settles the nerves, sir."

  "Commendable!" Chief Inspector Little turned and walked to the sink. After a moment of staring through the window at the small yard and brick wall, he muttered, "Lady Herriman is in shock. Goodness knows what it will do to Sir Sandoe when word gets to him. No doubt it will mean the end of this year's police ball... unless… Withers, where did you say Sir Sandoe was again?"