A Death in the Family (A Euphemia Martins Mystery)

by Caroline Dunford

  A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

  CAROLINE DUNFORD

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781909520943

  Copyright © Caroline Dunford 2013

  The right of Caroline Dunford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Author's Note

  For the boys, M and X, who are in equal parts inspiring and distracting, but always wonderful, and for Graham, without whom so much would not have been possible

  Chapter One

  Serious Consequences

  In December 1909 England was gearing up for a general election, Russia was rumbling with the undercurrent of revolution, and my father – the very Reverend Joshia Peter Martins – expired, face down, in his dish of mutton and onions leaving Mother, myself and my younger brother Joe at the whim of Bishop Pagget.

  Quite in character Mother was more concerned with the immediate rather than long-term consequences. ‘Why did he not call for the dishes to be removed before port?’ she had cried when our housekeeper had summoned us to the fateful table. ‘To be found among such common fare. Oh, Joshia!’ As it was rare for her to use his Christian name I immediately realised this was my mother in deep despair.

  ‘He looks very peaceful,’ I offered tactfully. In fact, my father looked if anything deeply relieved. He had the aspect of a man who had welcomed death, albeit he had found it among the gravy, and this helped me bear the awful, wrenching pain I felt at his loss.

  ‘Oh, Euphemia, if only your father …’

  ‘There was really nothing he could do about it,’ I countered fairly.

  My mother lifted a haughty eyebrow at me. ‘Do not interrupt, young lady. It is not at all becoming. I was going to say if only your father had not been a vicar.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t take the decision lightly, Mother.’

  ‘I have no way of knowing. It was before he met me,’ Mother paused and then shook her head. ‘It really will not do. I will write to your grandfather.’

  ‘I will be only too delighted if he offers to help us, but you have been writing to that man for most of my life, Mother, and he has never bothered to reply.’

  ‘He is not “that man”, Euphemia. He is your grandfather.’

  ‘He has never behaved as one,’ I declared, grief lending my tone a sharpness I did not intend.

  ‘Just like your father,’ my mother snapped and left.

  Despite my glossy, abundant chestnut hair and clear, grey intelligent eyes, I fear at 18 I am not – nor ever will be – my mother’s ideal of a good daughter. Between us lay the not inconsiderable hours I had spent at my father’s side in his study, while he taught me what he could of the world; how to think analytically and what little he had grown to understand of the human soul during his time as a man of the cloth. My mother considered intelligence ‘as much use on a young girl as a pair of hooves and about as attractive’. I once pointed out how this could occasion a very great saving on shoes and Pa had to stand by as I was sent to bed without supper. Mother and Pa were not close, but without Pa all our futures were dangerously uncertain. The eviction letter was sent by his secretary the day after my father’s death.

  So while Mother retired to her room to grieve and continue her one-sided correspondence with my grandfather, I took decisive action. I began to write letters of my own to various country houses. I cannot say where the idea came from. It was certainly born of desperation, but I confess at this point it appealed to my sense of romanticism which I have failed to repress despite witnessing the outcome of my parents’ love-match.

  Naturally, I took precautions to protect my identity. I directed all answers to the nearby post office and chose a nom-de-plume. I told the post mistress I was collecting letters for my cousin, who was to join us shortly. This blatant falsehood cost me some sleep, but I doubted anything would transpire of the scheme.

  So, I was somewhat taken aback when, after a flood of rejections, I received a positive reply. How on earth would I tell Mother?

  As it happened it was Little Joe who let my secret out of the bag. I was in my room thinking of what I would take with me, when my brother barrelled through the door and bolted under the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Effie,’ he called. ‘I didn’t mean to give you away.’

  My mother’s voice rose up through the hall. ‘Euphemia Martins, come downstairs at once!’

  I bent down and looked under the bed. My brother scuttled backwards with the speed of a spider escaping a broom. ‘Joe, what have you done?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. Mother kept going on about what were we to do and how you weren’t any help hiding in your room. I didn’t think it was fair, so I might have let slip about your great adventure.’

  ‘Great adventure?’

  ‘I found one of your letters. I think it’s a grand idea, Effie. You could meet a rich nobleman and he could fall in love with you and give you jewels and a great house and no one deserves it more than you, Effie. You’re quite pretty, you know, for a sister. Maybe you’d even be able to buy me the wooden soldier set Pa had promised me for my birthday.’

  ‘Oh, Joe! You had no business …’

  I heard our creaky stairs moan under the approaching weight of my mother, resplendent in her heavy widow’s weeds.

  Mother arrived at my door and paused, dark and looming, on the threshold to make an impression. Mother retains the hereditary ability to make her presence felt despite being a mere whisker over four foot-ten.

  ‘Euphemia, I will not countenance such disgrace.’

  At her tone my brother edged farther under my bed.

  ‘We need to eat, Mother.’

  ‘Euphemia! A young girl knows nothing of such things.’

  ‘Mother, we all get hungry. Especially Little Joe.’

  Mother hesitated. Little Joe helpfully popped his angelic, curly topped features out from under the bed. Mother heaved a great sigh and folded herself down onto the mattress like some giant, despairing black velvet fan.

  ‘It’s not as if I will be using my real name,’ I offered. ‘And you do have to leave the vicarage. I can help with the rent as well as Joe’s schooling.’

  Joe pulled a face at me.

  ‘We have to leave here in two weeks.’ Mother turned on her heel, calling for Joe to come practise his Latin, and left without a backward glance. She knew as well as I how desperate our situation was becoming.

  A we
ek later no letter had arrived. My mother’s face closed in upon itself and Little Joe, try as he might, could not conjure up antics to make her smile. Instead she threw herself into the business of packing. Finally, she began to make enquiries no lady should ever have to make – concerning cottages for rent. I, in my turn, made my decision and wrote the letter that would seal my future.

  It was early one spring morning when Mother and I met in the hallway, each of us with our own serious news. As usual Mother went first.

  ‘I have found a cottage, Euphemia. It will not be what we are used to, but it is small and neat with a yard for chickens and space for two pigs and a goat. I believe goat’s milk to be most nutritious. I have taken it on a three-month term and we will take possession next Tuesday. I have made enquiries in the village and have already gained four students for the pianoforte. I expect the number to rise once I am established. Of course, I will have to continue Joe’s education myself, but I hope in time we will again be able to afford a tutor. Perhaps you would be so kind as to select from your father’s study the books you feel will be most suitable?’

  I had some idea of what this request had cost her. ‘Does Bishop Pagget not require a full inventory?’

  My mother had the grace to blush as she replied, ‘We will adjust it accordingly.’ I had no problem of depriving the old Port-and-Bluster (as my father had called him), but I was surprised at my mother’s decision. It must have showed in my face.

  ‘Really, Euphemia, you are usually more than ready to flout convention!’

  Now was the time to tell her. I could not find the words. Instead, I stepped aside and revealed my bag, standing behind me, and packed full of all I could not bear to leave. My mother’s hand stole to her mouth. ‘You haven’t,’ she gasped.

  ‘I am sorry, Mother. I have taken a position at Stapleford Hall.’ I half-expected a dramatic declaration that I was no longer her daughter. Her reaction took me by complete surprise.

  My mother embraced me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered so softly I could not be sure of the words. Then she stepped back and said, much in her normal manner, ‘I hope it is at least a senior maid. It would be ridiculous for you to give up all your chances to earn no more than I shall be paying a girl that does.’

  ‘I will be a maid with upstairs responsibilities.’

  My mother made a most unladylike noise. ‘Stapleford Hall. Aping the great houses.’

  ‘I think that’s why they have taken me. I have no references. But I am intelligent and I have hope my employer will notice this. I intend to rise to the position of housekeeper quite swiftly.’

  Mother sighed. ‘You are very naive, Euphemia. Fortunately I shall not be far away when you find yourself evicted from the house. The cottage is in Little Crosshore. You will always have a place with Little Joe and I,’ Mother said grandly, although at this point we both knew that it would be nigh-on impossible for her to maintain the rent on a property as she had described without help from my wages. I didn’t think she would make the most popular of music teachers.

  ‘I will return home to visit whenever my employer allows.’

  ‘Whenever your employer allows? Never did I think to hear a daughter of mine utter such words.’

  Mother was growing dramatic. I judged it time to make a smart exit. I assured her Stapleford Hall had arranged for a carrier to pick me up at the square – triggering yet more lamentations ‘… a common carrier’. I kissed Joe goodbye and promised him his soldiers. Then I stepped out into the bright morning of 8 January 1910, and prepared to leave behind me not only my old life, but my name. The air was sharp as lemon on my skin and the wind whipped a tear into my eyes, but more than any other emotion, I am ashamed to say, the one that was uppermost in my heart as I left my childhood home behind, was excitement – excitement at this new beginning.

  My excitement was slightly dampened both literally and figuratively by the storm that opened over me that day. It took the carrier longer than he expected to get the old cart down increasingly muddy lanes, but as the afternoon approached evening we finally entered the long tree-lined drive that was the obligatory foreshadowing of all the new great houses. I was dropped halfway along as the carrier was turning off to the estate farm. However, the trees gave some shelter from the storm and, although I now had to lug my own bags along, at least water was no longer running down the back of my neck and spouting out through my sleeves as it had been for much of the day.

  The sight of Stapleford Hall was all that I had hoped for. It was a large house built along the lines of the great houses, but more compact, modern and with warm, buttery light blazing from all three floors. My welcome, if it could be called such, was not so inspiring.

  ‘Euphemia St John! Hardly a name for a serving girl. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, were you? I won’t have any airs and graces on my staff.’

  The woman in front of me was tall, thin and had a face like a half-starved crow; an effect compounded by the weight of sheer and unusually shiny dark hair wound tightly round her head. Her lips were the veriest sliver of pink against a pale, angular face that was augmented by a pair of small black eyes. She was the very last person I would have chosen to help make my house a home. I dripped forlornly onto the unbeaten library carpet, tried not to be too distracted by the vast array of books, and hoped the fact I had began to shiver from cold would go in my favour. I had already noticed the desk lamp badly needed polishing and this gave me hope.

  ‘Well, girl, do you have a tongue in your head?’

  ‘You could call me Amelia, miss. It’s my second name.’ I hadn’t been foolish enough to change my Christian name. I was a girl without references and one who did not know her own name might shortly find herself being investigated by the local constabulary.

  ‘Mrs Wilson. All housekeepers and cooks are addressed as Mrs. You would know that if you’d ever been a maid before as your letter claimed.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’ I hung my head. ‘You are right.’

  The crow woman sniffed loudly. ‘You will find, should I choose to employ you, that I am always right. Though why I should employ a liar – give me one good reason.’

  ‘I do know the way things should be done, Mrs Wilson. I might not have been a maid before but …’

  The door opened behind us admitting two gentlemen, who were in the process of arguing. ‘All I’m saying is the old geezer was my uncle too,’ complained a big thick-set man with red hair and a voice thickened by the over-use of port.

  ‘He was my godfather, Dickie,’ replied the shorter man. Both men were in evening dress, but my eye was quick to see that the second man, though arguably less handsome than the man-Viking, had taken greater care over his tie and neatly oiled black locks.

  ‘It’s all very well, old boy,’ blustered the Viking, ‘but some of us have to damn well work for a living. All this health … hello, what’s this, Mrs Wilson? Why is there a dab of a girl dripping on my Pater’s carpet?’

  I clenched my teeth, but kept my head down.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Richard. I was under the impression the family were all having cocktails. This girl was to have been the new maid.’

  ‘Was?’ enquired the shorter man.

  ‘It has become apparent she is not what she says she is. I doubt she has ever done a day’s work in her life.’

  The shorter man approached me. ‘May I?’ he asked and lifted my hands. He had a light touch and extraordinarily long and delicate fingers. He traced gently around the edge of my index fingers and across my palms. ‘A young woman used to writing, riding and light work would be my guess.’

  The Viking barked out a laugh. ‘Someone’s discarded fancy-piece, Mrs Wilson. Won’t do at all.’

  My head jerked up at the insult. The shorter man met my gaze and released my hands. ‘I don’t believe so, Dickie.’

  ‘A by-blow then?’

  ‘Do you find yourself without protection?’ asked the man in front of me. His tone was cool and appraising, bu
t I thought I detected sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘My father died …’ I stopped, suddenly overcome. I was cold. I was hungry. I had never felt more vulnerable. I wanted food. I wanted a bed and I wanted a big stick to beat the Viking for his insolence, but Mother and Little Joe were depending on me. I swallowed my pride. ‘There was no provision for me in his will.’

  ‘So who was this estimable father of yours, young lady?’ asked Dickie.

  ‘I would prefer not to say, sir.’

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Wilson. Can’t have a liar on the staff. Send the girl packing.’

  ‘As you wish, Mr Richard.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the other man. ‘Look at me, girl. Is it a matter of honour that you cannot disclose your father’s name?’

  I met his gaze squarely, ‘Yes, sir.’ My conscience pricked me, but I held my head up. The shorter man turned away to the others. ‘In which case, Mrs Wilson, I do not think it unreasonable that the girl be given a trial. It is not as if we are overflowing with servants at present.’

  Mrs Wilson bristled. ‘If you choose to be taken in, Mr Bertram, then there is nothing I can do. I’ll present the case to the Mistress in the morning. If you would excuse us. Come, girl.’ She opened a panel that I had taken to be real books and ushered me into a servants’ passageway. ‘You might have fooled Mr Bertram, my girl, but you haven’t fooled me,’ she hissed in my ear. ‘We’ll see what the Mistress has to say about you. She’s not one to be taken in.’

  She pushed me hard in the small of the back and I stumbled into darkness. The door closed behind us with a well-oiled click. I stopped in my tracks as the light from the library vanished. Ahead of us a soft clamouring of metal upon metal could be heard. Mrs Wilson shoved me again. ‘Get moving, girl. Any real servant would have known not to turn up minutes before dinner needs to be served.’

  I stumbled on not wishing to be trapped in the darkness any longer than was necessary with the harpy behind me. In only a few moments my eyes adjusted and I could see that, as in the proverbial saying, there was light at the end of the tunnel. As we grew nearer to the egress the soft noises became harsher and interspersed with the barking cries of an angry woman.