A Grave Gala (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Shéa MacLeod

  Her eyes widened. “Really? Whose?”

  “Lady Netherford,” Penny piped up. “She’s ever so nice, Mrs. Johnson, but somebody is trying to kill her!”

  “Goodness. And you think it might have something to do with that old scandal?”

  I shrugged. “Could be. It’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  “Right then. I don’t recall all the particulars, but what I do remember is that back in the day, there was a young maid up at the manor. Pretty little thing. Blonde, big eyes, half scared of her own shadow. Not a local, mind. She come down from London, though she weren’t from there originally. Up north, I imagine, what with her accent and all. Anyhow, she was working up there when his lordship came to stay one summer. He was a young man then, and rumor has it he did what young men are wont to do, if you get my meaning.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  I did, indeed, get her meaning, although I wasn’t likely to excuse such behavior, regardless of what the rest of the world did. Gentlemen did not take advantage of young ladies in their employ. I’d had one pinch me on the bottom once, and you know how that went. Call me a feminist if you must, but such behavior is unacceptable. “Let me guess. She got in the family way?”

  Mrs. Johnson tapped the end of her nose. “Nail on the head, my girl.”

  “Then what happened?” Penny wanted to know. She unwrapped a boiled sweet—rhubarb custard—and popped it in her mouth.

  When Mrs. Johnson gave her a look, she slid a penny on the counter. It was quickly tucked away and Mrs. Johnson continued her story.

  “Well, as I recall, she was sent packing. Doubt her family would have had much to do with her after that. Most wouldn’t, but there’s always homes for such girls.”

  “She had the baby?” I asked.

  “Far as I know. Likely put up for adoption, as such usually are. But no one ever saw nor heard from her again, nor did any child of hers ever show up claiming his lordship as father. Leastways not that I’m aware of.”

  “What was her name?” I asked. “The maid, I mean.”

  “Mavis. Mavis... Something with a T. Tilcum, I think.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. You’ve been very helpful.” I made to leave, then paused. “By the way, have you ever heard of a Frankie Smith?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” she said almost apologetically. She did love her gossip and hated being out of the know.

  “Now what?” Penny asked as we burst once again into the sunshine.

  “Now we find out what happened to Mavis Tilcum.”

  Chapter 12

  Normally when searching for someone, I would start in the village church. After all, as I’d discovered during my time working for Mr. Woodward, that was where every birth, marriage, and death in the history of England was recorded. Sometimes with juicy details. But Mavis wasn’t from Meres Reach, nor had her child, if indeed she’d had a child, been born here. And I very much doubted anyone had married her. Not if she’d gone off to a home for unwed mothers. So the church was out.

  Back home, I’d head straight to the library. Old newspaper articles were always useful, but Meres Reach didn’t have a library. The nearest one was at St. Cyres Bay, and I wasn’t sure the paper there would have covered the scandal. I mean, I had no doubt they would have if they’d caught wind of it, but St. Cyres was far enough away that it could have been hushed up before news reached the town. Still, that was the best place to start, so the next morning Tippy and I boarded the train once again and took the short jaunt to the next stop.

  Unlike Meres Reach, which sort of spilled down a steepish hillside until it came to a screeching halt at the promenade and seawall that stretched along the water, St. Cyres Bay sprawled out on much flatter land in a semi-circle along a wide, sandy beach. Overhead, gulls screeched, diving into the blue-gray sea for their morning snack. An elderly couple alighted from the next car over, the gentleman nodding as if he recognized me. I realized with a start it was my neighbor, Mr. Carbuncle, though I didn’t recognize the lady with him. Mr. Carbuncle was a widower and—as far as I knew—had no lady friends, though clearly he was chummy with this one. I wondered what my other neighbor, Mrs. Druthers, would think. Despite their endless feud, I had a sneaking suspicion she was sweet on him.

  I gave them a little wave and hurried on my way, Tippy trotting beside me. Father Thorne had given me the name of the vicar of the parish church at St. Cyres Bay and promised to ring ahead and smooth the way. “He’s a dotty old dear,” he’d promised me. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with him.”

  The church was easy enough to find, sitting as it was smack dab in the middle of the village of St. Cyres Bay. Its church tower was impossible to miss as it bonged away the hour. I followed the path past the front gates which creaked heavily as I pushed them open, through the graveyard with its tilted, lichen covered tombstones, and into the dim coolness of the church.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they did, I gave the place a good once over. It wasn’t much different from the church in Meres Reach, though perhaps a little larger and with more plaques on the wall. A black-garbed figure was knelt at the altar.

  I left Tippy tied to the back pew and made my way down the aisle, heels clicking loudly on the stone floor. I paused at the front row. The man didn’t turn around.

  Either he didn’t hear me, or he was ignoring me, so I cleared my throat. Still no response. I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. He let out a gasp and whirled around to face me, clutching his chest, watery eyes behind thick-lensed glasses as wide as salad plates. He looked older than Methuselah.

  “Sorry to startle you,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Sorry to startle you,” I repeated, a bit louder this time.

  “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Hard of hearing, you see.” He yanked on his earlobe. “American are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Here for a visit?”

  “No, I live in England now.”

  “Delightful. I knew an American girl once. Charming thing. Lovely, large—” A look of confusion crossed his face. “Did you want something?”

  Part of me wanted him to finish the story about the American. And part of me didn’t. “Yes. Are you Father Thomas?”

  “I am.”

  “Father Thorne from Meres Reach parish said he would call you?”

  He scratched his head which was mostly bald save for a thick ring of white hair which stood out a bit wildly like a ruff of fur. “Eh?”

  I repeated myself, louder this time, finishing with, “He did ring you, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, er, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been in the house. Been busy, you see.” He frowned as if unsure what he’d been busy doing. “Did you want something?”

  Oh, dear. “Well, I wanted a look at your records.”

  He blinked. “What records?”

  This wasn’t going well. “Birth records in particular. You do have those, don’t you?”

  He scratched his head and tugged at his earlobe again. “I think... yes, I’m certain we do, but... well, I can’t recall quite where they are. You should speak with Mrs. Shufflebottom.”

  I tried very hard not to laugh. “Who is Mrs. Shufflebottom?”

  “Eh?”

  “Who is Mrs. Shufflebottom?” I nearly yelled.

  “No need to yell. She’s my housekeeper.”

  I had no idea how a housekeeper was going to help me with birth records, but at least it was better than shouting at the top of my lungs with a man who couldn’t remember what day it was. “Where can I find her?”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Mrs. Shufflebottom.”

  “Why do you want my housekeeper?” His brow creased.

  “I’m a friend,” I lied.

  “Whose friend?”

  Oh, dear heavens above. “Thanks for your help.” I collected Tippy, who was sore at me about being woken from his nap, and strode out of the church, leaving behind a very confused vicar, and made a
beeline for the vicarage which sat on the edge of the property. I figured that was the most likely place to find the vicar’s housekeeper.

  The vicarage was a sweet little stone cottage half drowned in ivy. A line of black trousers and shirts flapped in the breeze, and every window was open, the scent of freshly baked bread wafting out to tease my nose and rumble my stomach, even though I’d eaten breakfast not that long ago.

  I rapped on the thick oak door with a brass door knocker in the shape of a cherub. Seemed like a pretty pagan thing for a vicar to have.

  After a few moments, the door swung open revealing a short, stout woman in her sixties with silver hair done up in a bun and her figure swathed in a green and pink ruffled apron.

  She peered at me. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Shufflebottom?” Somehow, I managed to keep a straight face.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Sugar Martin.” Maybe people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. “I’ve come over from Meres Reach. Father Thorne sent me.”

  She propped her hands on her ample hips. “Did he now? I suppose he said he’d ring ahead.”

  “Yes, he did, actually. He was going to tell Father Thomas I was coming.”

  “That dotty old bird.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a wonder he can remember to put on his shoes in the morning. I suppose this Father Thorne told you Father Thomas could help with whatever it is you need, and Father Thomas sent you here.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Well, come on in. And bring the pooch. Bread’s ready to come out. We can talk in the kitchen.”

  I shut the door behind me and followed her into a bright, overly warm kitchen. She sat a kettle on a burner and turned a knob.

  “Have a seat. Tea will be ready in half a tick. Got fresh bread to go with it if you can wait until it cools a bit.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pretending my stomach hadn’t let out an unladylike rumble just then.

  Tippy turned in circles before making himself comfortable directly under my feet. I gave him a look. He ignored me. As usual.

  Mrs. Shufflebottom moved around the kitchen with ease. It was clear she had no intention of chatting until the tea had been poured and the bread sliced, buttered, and topped with jam which she assured me was freshly homemade out of strawberries from her own garden. Even Tippy got his own little plate with the crusty end of the bread. He was very pleased with the offering.

  At last, she sat down and took a sip of tea. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for information on a woman named Mavis Tilcum. She worked as a maid at Endmere in Meres Reach twenty-five or so years ago.” I took a bite of still warm bread and nearly moaned in ecstasy. There is nothing quite like freshly baked bread, and Mrs. Shufflebottom baked a particularly delicious loaf.

  “Mavis, eh? Well, yes, I do remember her.”

  I perked up, nearly forgetting my bread. “You do?”

  “Aye. That I do. Twenty-six years ago it was when she came here.”

  “Here? To St. Cyres Bay?” That was a surprise.

  “She was meant to be a nursemaid for the Grovenor’s young son. The Grovenors were summer people, you see. They’d come to stay in the big house just on the edge of town and lord it over everyone. Have all sorts of fancy people down from London. I don’t know why here rather than Torquay or Plymouth, but in any case, their nursemaid’s mother had taken ill, and she had to go take care of her, so they got this Mavis down from London as a replacement. Mrs. Grovenor took one look at young Mavis and wouldn’t have her in the house. So she ended up here.”

  That was strange to say the least. “What was wrong with her?”

  “Nothing at all, save God graced her with more good looks than one person ought to have. Surprised she didn’t go into pictures or something with that face. Anyhow, most women don’t appreciate having lovely young things in their households, if you know what I mean.”

  I did. It was stupid, but that was the way of the world, I supposed. “They sent her here and what happened? You gave her work?”

  “Only temporarily.” Mrs. Shufflebottom munched on a large bite of bread. “I didn’t have enough work for her, nor could the parish afford it, so I put out word. Sure enough, turned out Lord Chasterly over in Meres Reach needed a maid. So I packed her up and sent her around and she started working for him.”

  “Did you hear from her after that?” I asked.

  “She wrote a letter a couple weeks later thanking me. Seemed she liked it well enough up there. His lordship treated his staff well, paid ‘em decent. And she liked the setting, if not the work particularly. More tea?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She poured and then offered me another slice of bread. I probably should have refused it, but I didn’t. It was delicious.

  “Was that the last you heard from her?”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t hear hide nor hair for months, then she shows up one rainy night on the doorstep. Vicar was at vespers, and I was cleaning up. There was a rap on the door and there she was. I could see it immediately.”

  “See what?”

  Her gaze darted side to side and she leaned forward, voice lowered. “She’d a bun in the oven, if you know what I mean.”

  I assured her I did. “Did she tell you who the father was?”

  “She never did, but I wasn’t born yesterday. It was his lordship. He took advantage, then threw her out when she got in a family way.” A scowl crossed her face. “If I ever got my hands on that man... well, but he’s in prison now, isn’t he? So that’s settled.” She smiled smugly.

  “Yes, I was there when he was arrested.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Were you now?”

  Which led to me telling the entire story. Mrs. Shufflebottom seemed impressed.

  “What about Mavis?” I said, finally steering the conversation back. “What happened to her? And the baby?”

  “She couldn’t stay here, of course. Small town like this? It would be sure to get around. An unwed mother?” She tsked. “Old school chum of mine runs a home for such young women just outside London. I sent her there. Only thing I could do, really.”

  “And after that? Do you know what happened to her or the baby?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid. I suppose Gertrude would know. Gertrude Small, that’s who runs the home. It’s still around. Always a need for that sort of thing.” She tsked again. “Poor lambs.”

  I got the address for the home run by Gertrude Small, and Mrs. Shufflebottom sent Tippy and me off with a care package of freshly baked bread and homemade jam. It seemed we would be heading to London. I wondered if we would have the chance to see Jack.

  Chapter 13

  Miss Gertrude’s Home for Young Women was exactly as I expected it to be. The Gothic monstrosity built of dark stone loomed against an overcast sky while ravens—or maybe they were crows, I never could tell the difference—circled the single round tower which seemed to tilt slightly to the left. A multitude of windows stared down at me as if in disapproval. There wasn’t a tree or shrub in sight. The small strip of ground which would have been a front lawn had been paved over in grim gray slate. Even the wrought iron fence surrounding the house was graying.

  The thought of being forced to stay in a place like this... I shuddered. I’d left Tippy with Penny, uncertain he’d be welcome at Gertrude Small’s establishment, so I didn’t even have his dour support. Surprisingly, I missed my fluffy companion.

  It was the day of the gala, but I figured there’d be time to do what I needed to in London and get back to Devon in time. If I didn’t, our plans would be ruined and Toni would have my head.

  Squaring my shoulders, I marched up the walkway and rang the bell. A faint brrrring echoed inside. Moments later there was the sharp tap, tap, tap of sensible heels on hardwood.

  The door swung open, and a woman as dour as the house glared down on me. I’m not short—about five foot four or so—but she was built of Amazonian proportions. She had to be six feet tall
at least, with icy white hair scraped back into a severe bun and shoulders as broad as any man’s. I could easily imagine her as a shieldmaiden of old, charging into battle, sword in hand.

  I cleared my throat. “Miss Small?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  Well, that was rather blunt. I tried a smile which was not returned. “Mrs. Shufflebottom sent me.”

  She eyed me up and down. “A bit old to be getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you?”

  I stiffened, not sure if I was more insulted by the reference to my advanced years (I was only twenty-eight! Hardly on the shelf.) or the supposition that I’d gotten myself in “trouble.”

  “I am not here about a place to stay,” I informed her. “I am a private detective in the employ of Mr. James Woodward, Esquire. Mrs. Shufflebottom was of the opinion you could help me with my inquiries.”

  “Did she now? Well, I suppose you’d better come in.” She stepped back to give me room. “Private detective. What young women won’t get up to these days.” It was clear she did not approve of my choice of employment.

  She led me down a dim hall, the bare walls of which were covered in dark wallpaper. It was impossible to tell the color. Could be burgundy or navy for all I could tell. I could, however, discern a faint fleur-de-lis pattern.

  She pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and we entered a surprisingly bright kitchen. Two young women, hardly more than girls, were peeling potatoes, their rounded stomachs plain to see. They stared at me, and I tried hard not to stare back.

  “Back to work, you two,” Miss Small barked. “Idle hands are the Devil’s tools.”

  Wonderful. She was one of those. I managed to refrain from rolling my eyes.

  Behind the kitchen was a small room that had once probably been the butler’s pantry or perhaps the cook’s bedroom. Now it hosted an office. There was nowhere to sit other than the chair behind the desk which Miss Small took, so I stood. She did not offer me tea or any other refreshment.

  “I’m here about Mavis Tilcum,” I said, immediately getting down to business. Miss Small didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who appreciated prevarication. “Mrs. Shufflebottom said she sent Mavis here twenty-five or so years ago.”