The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  ‘Or what?’ said Mickey.

  There were no words spoken but a punch was thrown, and as Mickey let go, Louisa sprang away and rushed on to the dance floor, looking frantically for Nancy.

  The band had taken a short break between songs and the girls peered hopefully at their cards, as if the blank spaces might have been filled in magically since they last looked. The men shuffled, trying to find the ones they had lined up for the next dance. Now, a noisy chatter sprang up around the two men as more punches were thrown and others joined in, trying to pull them apart. The band struck up a gay new tune as waiters urged people to disperse.

  With relief, Louisa saw Nancy standing alone and pulled her arm. ‘We’ve got to go,’ she said.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Please, Nancy. Let’s go.’

  ‘But I’m just waiting for Roland – he only went to get a drink,’ said Nancy stubbornly.

  ‘I mean it, we have to leave now.’

  Louisa pulled Nancy by the hand and out into the hall, where the cooler night air had been let in through the front door of the hotel as men and women came and went. It brought them both back to their senses and they gloomily fetched their coats from the cloakroom and headed out into the street. The rain had stopped but the pavements were slick, glowing with the reflection of the bright streetlights. They turned left out of the Savoy, heading towards Trafalgar Square, with Louisa leading them at a fast pace, looking back over her shoulder frequently.

  ‘Why do you keep doing that?’ asked Nancy. ‘Just tell me what’s going on. Is someone following us?’

  Louisa looked again. The people on the pavement were moving slowly, sidestepping puddles, the women holding up their long dresses, the men attending to them. London at night seemed hardly less full than during the day. Then she saw Mickey shoulder forwards, pushing his way through, his face grim. Louisa pushed Nancy into a shop doorway, silencing her protests with a finger to her lips. Nancy’s face was screwed up in disgust and Louisa realised that the corner they were in had provided relief for either man or dog not long before.

  She edged forwards a tiny bit and looked back. Mickey had been stopped by another man and there was an argument going on between them, though she couldn’t hear anything they were saying. The second man looked lean but strong, his arms were folded and his demeanour was firm but calm, even at a distance. It wasn’t long before she saw Mickey storm off, angry but no longer spoiling for a fight. The other man walked back towards the Savoy after looking around. Who was he hoping to see? It was only then that she realised with a start that it was the officer that had been dancing with Nancy.

  She took Nancy’s arm and started walking them both towards Trafalgar Square again, away from the party.

  ‘Honestly, I wish you would tell me what’s going on. Is someone following us or what?’ said Nancy.

  ‘They might be.’

  ‘Who are they, Louisa?’

  ‘Someone who thought they knew me. Someone who might …’

  ‘Might what?’ Nancy’s composure had vanished.

  ‘Might tell my uncle I’m in London.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Louisa slowed down, then stopped, taking in deep breaths of air. Everything about her seemed to be shaking.

  ‘Come on,’ said Nancy, ‘let’s go and sit by the lions. They always used to cheer me up when I was little.’ They walked together, arm in arm, towards the great cats of London, guarding Nelson’s column. Louisa felt an uncomfortable familiarity in her sensations – the fear, the running away. It made her think again of Florence Shore, attacked on the train that same day. Had she been running from a man, too? The mysterious man in the brown suit that got on the train at Victoria – was he the attacker? Despite Nancy’s combing of the newspapers, there didn’t seem to have been any progress on the case reported.

  How long ago it seemed, she thought, and yet here she was, running again.

  At least now the city was warmer, the trees were thick with leaves and nothing seemed so menacing as it had in the depths of winter. They walked together to a bench, Louisa’s trembling subdued now, Nancy taking the mantle of responsibility, steering her gently.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked again, the fury gone.

  ‘It was …’ Louisa hesitated. How much to tell her? She needed a friend, but more than that she needed to hold on to her job. ‘Two men started fighting, and I was caught up in it,’ she said.

  ‘My goodness! That’s rather exciting,’ said Nancy.

  ‘It wasn’t exciting at all, it was horrible,’ said Louisa sharply.

  ‘I think if two men started fighting over me, I should be thrilled. Now, as it is, I don’t even have one man interested. If you hadn’t made us leave like that, I might have made an arrangement with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry your night was ruined but I wouldn’t have allowed you to make such an arrangement in any case.’

  ‘Allowed me? You will neither allow nor disallow me to do anything! You are a nursery maid, not my mother.’ Nancy stood up, in a rage that had caught fire in seconds. She looked like her father.

  Louisa stood up, too. ‘I’m glad you have made your feelings clear. I think we should return home now.’

  ‘No,’ said Nancy. ‘I shan’t go home with you. I’m going back to the dance. It’s not even ten o’clock yet. You can do what you like.’

  She started to walk back in the direction of the Savoy. With a big sigh, Louisa walked after her, until the two of them were half-running, half-stalking in a fashion that might have been comical if it wasn’t so absurd, when Nancy turned a corner and slammed into a policeman.

  ‘You need to watch where you’re going, miss,’ he said, wheezing from the body blow.

  Louisa came around shortly after to find a flustered Nancy helping the policeman pick up his hat and babbling apologies. His hat pulled firmly back on his head, the strap stretched below his chin, the policeman recovered his equilibrium. He looked at Louisa. ‘Are you with this young lady?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Right ho, then. You’d better be on your way.’

  Louisa took Nancy firmly by the arm and pulled her back, away from the Savoy. She made a slight show of resistance but must have known that Louisa was right. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Louisa uncertain of how they would get home and when would be a good time to do so. It may not have been raining any more but the wet pavements had wrecked their shoes and stockings, not to mention the hems of their coats. Nanny Blor would be furious and almost certainly guess that they had not spent the evening having a quiet birthday supper with Marjorie and her godmother. If only Nanny didn’t sit up until midnight reading penny dreadfuls, they might sneak in without her seeing. By now they had almost reached the wide avenue of the Mall, with Buckingham Palace dormant at the end. As Louisa was wondering what to do to get out of this scrape, they heard Nancy’s name being called from across the street.

  Roland.

  He was waving at them both and calling out her name. ‘Miss Mitford! Wait!’ Holding on to his hat, neatly sidestepping the puddles, he ran over to them, concern on his face, his mackintosh billowing behind him.

  Louisa stood stock-still, watching him. She didn’t let go of Nancy’s arm, though Nancy was waving to him, calling back, ‘Hello!’

  Then he stood before them, panting slightly, eyes shining like a cat’s in the dark. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘You disappeared so suddenly. There was that fight; I wanted to be sure you hadn’t got caught up in it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy, ‘he was dancing with Louisa—’

  ‘I see,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I recognised one of those men. You’re better off staying away from the likes of them. What are you doing now? It’s late to be out.’

  ‘We’re walking home,’ said Nancy.

  ‘I think I’d better see you back safely, in that case,’ said Roland. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘There’s no n
eed,’ said Louisa. ‘We can manage.’

  ‘We’re on the Gloucester Road,’ said Nancy.

  ‘It’s a long walk,’ said Roland. ‘Let me. I know the way.’

  And so the three of them walked along together, a close triumvirate, often talking but sometimes quiet, taking in the streets by night, the different people that walked beside them.

  At one moment, in Chelsea, a crowd of beautiful young people spilled out on to the pavement, laughing and squealing, a blur of silks, tassels and top hats, nearly all of them smoking, one woman with bobbed hair clutching a cocktail glass, stumbling slightly. They moved as a single, amorphous entity before dividing seamlessly into two cars, which screeched as they tore up the road. Nancy whispered to her companions that she thought she might have recognised one or two of them – an older brother of a London friend, a distant cousin. How she longed to be one of them, she lamented, and Roland laughed at this.

  At last they arrived at the house and the sight of the front door silenced Louisa. She realised she had no idea what time it was and she was the one who was supposed to be chaperoning Nancy safely. The house was in darkness except for a light in the hall, waiting for them to come in and turn it off.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Louisa to Roland. ‘Thank you for seeing us back safely.’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much,’ said Nancy gaily. She tripped up the steps and gave a light knock on the glossy black door. At once – had she been waiting? – it was opened by Ada, who let Nancy in and caught sight of Louisa, still standing on the pavement with Roland.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Roland, who gave a small bow to Louisa, but she didn’t respond. She had heard the sudden halt of footsteps and then the sound of someone running away. The street was barely lit but she caught a flash of something at the corner, the glow of a cigarette in the black.

  Roland turned and walked away, and Louisa went into the house. It was probably nothing, but she crossed her fingers as she thought it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Guy stood on the doorstep of 53 Hadlow Road in Tonbridge, a modest red-brick, semi-detached house. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead under the rim of his hat. It was 10.59 a.m. and he had had to run down the last three streets after he had taken a wrong turning. Apart from the gentle clicking of a pair of shears as a man trimmed his hedge, there was no sound. He checked his notebook: Baroness Farina, aunt of victim. Spent the Sunday with FNS. Son, Stuart Hobkirk, left money in a trust by FNS.

  After the note from Louisa, in which she revealed to him that she and Nancy had been to see Miss Shore’s lawyer, he had been shocked at their daring but also deeply interested in the information they had gathered. It had spurred him to arrange this meeting with haste.

  Guy rang the doorbell and a young maid with a mobcap on opened the door. She looked at him quizzically but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Ah, hello. I’m Mr Sullivan from the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police, here to see Baroness Farina,’ said Guy, an apologetic note in his voice.

  ‘You don’t look like a policeman,’ said the maid.

  Guy tried out a short laugh. ‘Oh, no. Well, I’m off-duty, as it were.’

  ‘Is the baroness expecting you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I sent a note.’ He coughed and shuffled his feet a bit. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The maid shrugged and walked away from the front door, leaving Guy to close it. ‘She’s out in the garden. Follow me.’

  They walked across a small hall and through a drawing room that made up in style what it lacked in space, with its deep-red walls, crowds of paintings hung close together and Moroccan rugs overlapping each other on the floor. Guy almost tripped over a large white Persian cat, fast asleep on top of a pile of books, just as he approached the French windows, which opened on to the garden.

  Guy could smell the roses before he stepped out and saw an old lady in a long white dress with a high collar, several strands of pearls hanging from her neck. She was sitting at a painted-white iron table, holding a pair of opera glasses up to her face as she frowned at a newspaper article.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said the maid abruptly. ‘Gentleman here to see you. Says he’s expected.’ Without waiting to hear what her mistress had to say, she walked off.

  ‘Wretched girl,’ said the baroness to her retreating back. ‘Are you Constable Sullivan? Come over here. Forgive me, it’s too much for me to stand up.’

  Guy walked over, shook her hand and stood awkwardly, aware that he was blocking her light.

  ‘Sit down, sit down. I don’t expect you want a cup of tea, do you? It’s too hot,’ she said.

  Guy swallowed with difficulty and felt beads of sweat threaten to run down his face as he sat down on a matching iron chair, its hard curlicues offering little in the way of comfort. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Baroness. I appreciate you seeing me.’

  The baroness put her paper and opera glasses down. ‘Anything for my poor niece,’ she said. Her emphasis betrayed a soft Edinburgh accent.

  The case was officially closed but there was an answer out there and, if he found it, a promotion to Scotland Yard would be his, along with a pay rise that would mean he could afford to leave home and get married. A picture of Louisa, sitting beside him on the bench at St Leonards, came into his mind, her face wincing then laughing as she put a too-hot chip in her mouth.

  He sat up straighter, stiffening his resolve, and shifted the chair a little further in, though this was clumsily done – he hadn’t realised it would be quite so heavy. He took a pencil from his pocket and laid the notebook on the table.

  ‘Goodness, so formal,’ said the baroness, and gave a short, high-pitched laugh.

  ‘I believe Miss Shore came to see you on Sunday the eleventh of January of this year?’

  The baroness looked at him. This was going to be a proper police interview after all, then. ‘Yes, she got the train down from London and arrived here shortly before lunch. We were celebrating her birthday. I gave her a gold necklace with two amethyst pendants hanging from it, which the robber must have taken …’ She broke off. ‘You are aware I’ve told all this to the police already?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Guy, taking notes. ‘Did she tell you of her plans for the following week?’

  ‘A little. She was planning to go and stay with her friend in St Leonards, I believe.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything of her mood that day?’

  ‘She was subdued, you could say. But Flo was never one for being very excitable.’

  Guy nodded and jotted down a note or two. ‘Did she mention if she had anything on her mind?’

  The baroness drew herself up and looked at Guy coolly. ‘She was an Englishwoman; she did not often speak of her mind,’ she said. Then she seemed to soften slightly. ‘But, now that I think about it, I think she was concerned about the future. She had only been out of her war work for a few weeks and was thinking of retirement. She had worked very hard for most of her life, and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. She had money, so at least she didn’t have that to worry about.’

  Guy chose not to reveal what he knew here and to see instead what the baroness would volunteer.

  ‘Yes, in spite of the fact she worked as a nurse, Florence came from a respectable family. Her mother was my sister.’ The baroness eyeballed Guy, daring him to suggest her appearance was anything less than absolute respectability. At that moment, another white cat jumped up on his mistress’s lap, padding his paws over her white dress and leaving faintly grubby marks. She continued as if she hadn’t noticed. ‘A few years ago, she was left a considerable sum by her own sister and set up a trust for my son, so that he might receive the income from it in the event of her death. We’re very grateful for it, but we hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.’ She cast her eyes downwards and groped for a handkerchief, without success. ‘My poor niece,’ she said again.

  ‘I take it you mean Stuart Hobkirk?’ said Guy.


  Pride flushed the baroness’ face, brightening the eyes that had started to fade to a pale blue. ‘Yes, Stuart, from my first husband. He’s an artist. He’s doing terribly well – he has a painting in this year’s Summer Exhibition. He’s part of the St Ives artists group in Cornwall.’

  Guy looked blank.

  The baroness exhaled sharply. ‘One always forgets how those outside of an artistic life know so little.’

  Guy felt reproved, though he didn’t know quite what for. ‘Your son and Miss Shore – they were cousins?’

  ‘Yes, not that that had to stop …’ There was a pause. The cat licking its paws was the only sound.

  ‘Stop what?’ prompted Guy.

  ‘They were very close,’ said the baroness. ‘But there were certain members of the family who simply didn’t understand. Flo understood Stuart. She knew that he had to be an artist; he couldn’t be anything else. And she knew that her money would make certain of that.’

  ‘I see,’ said Guy, not at all sure that he did.

  The baroness leaned forwards. ‘I’m afraid some of those not in the artistic world might be shocked,’ she said. ‘But sometimes, well, let’s just say, one cannot always wait for marriage …’

  Guy paled. This was not at all his world, one where old ladies insinuated sinful behaviour. He looked away and focused intently on a rose in the garden, a butterfly busy in the stamens. With a start, he realised there was a connection to be made here. Rosa Peal had mentioned an artist as a gentleman friend of Miss Shore’s. Her cousin, the man who inherited a substantial trust fund from the nurse, was also this lover? Before he could ask more about this, the baroness had carried on speaking in firm tones that brooked no interruption.

  ‘Offley was absurdly angry about it all,’ she continued. ‘But quite honestly, the man lives in California now; he can’t be expected to understand anything.’

  ‘Mr Offley Shore – Miss Shore’s brother?’

  ‘Yes, my nephew,’ said the baroness. ‘Even as a child I found him hard to get on with. He’s been writing me furious letters. He thinks that all the money should have gone to him. Such a greedy man. He’s had the lion’s share. Frankly, Stuart could have done more with that money than he will, lying about in America, eating oranges.’