A Death in the Highlands

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘Do you often find yourself in these difficult situations, Euphemia?’ asked the new butler.

  ‘All too often, sir,’ I answered honestly.

  ‘It is the only possible solution,’ said Mr Bertram coldly. ‘If the party cannot be deferred and Richenda will not go, then Euphemia must take care of the women staff.’

  ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ snapped Miss Richenda. ‘Having Euphemia up there with you in the wild of the Highlands.’

  Mr McLeod’s puzzled eyes travelled from my blushing face to Mr Bertram’s furious one.

  ‘Richenda! How dare you!’

  We were in the library. The three offspring of the late lord were all seated and Mr McLeod and I were standing. No doubt tempers had been exacerbated by the frugal supper Mrs Deighton had been forced to produce. Although, to give Mr McLeod his credit, he had been as good as his word and taken the blame for the accident.

  Richenda poked her tongue out at Bertram. ‘Can’t you delay it until Wilson is better?’ she implored her twin.

  ‘The Glorious Twelfth waits for no man, miss,’ said Mr McLeod.

  ‘No, indeed,’ barked Lord Richard. ‘Well said, McLeod. And neither do the gentlemen I’ve invited. If you won’t come to be my hostess, Richie, then Euphemia it is. Right. Good. Off you go.’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ said Rory. ‘It’s not quite that simple. My understanding of Mrs Wilson’s condition is that she won’t be able to take up her duties for some time.’

  Miss Richenda waved her hand dismissively. ‘How long can a broken leg take to heal?’

  ‘Around six months, miss,’ answered our new butler.

  ‘Damn it!’ cried Richenda. ‘Why did the old crow have to go and get herself soused up today!’

  ‘From what I hear if you hadn’t been intent on tracking as much dirt through the house as possible to make extra work for Euphemia then none of this would have happened,’ countered Mr Bertram angrily.

  Oh confound the man! Couldn’t he see he was making things worse? I felt Mr McLeod’s eyes burning into the back of my head.

  ‘Whatever the situation, I might suggest, ma’am, that for entertaining purposes and anything out of the norm you will require the services of an under-housekeeper for the interim time.’

  ‘Whom did you have in mind?’ demanded Richenda, her eyes glittering dangerously.

  ‘As I have only just arrived on staff, ma’am, I really could not say. It would be entirely down to you to suggest,’ replied the butler suavely.

  Richenda snorted and wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes, well, Euphemia had better do it. She’s the only one on the staff to have half a brain.’

  ‘Right. Settled. You may go,’ said Lord Richard.

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ said McLeod. ‘With the greatest of respect, there will be the question of increased remuneration for the girl in question. I understand that at present she is employed as a maid only.’

  There was a moment’s shocked stillness in the room. Then Lord Richard nodded brusquely. ‘Quite right. Speak to my man, McLeod. He’ll sort it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Euphemia?’ He gestured for me to precede him and I fairly fled from the room. When we were outside I turned to him and tried to thank him for the increase in my wages. Mr McLeod shook his head at me. ‘I pride myself on treating people fairly, Euphemia, and seeing that those in my care are treated right too.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘As under-housekeeper I think in front of the other staff we should use our proper names. Yours is?’

  ‘Euphemia M-St John,’ I stammered.

  He gave me another of his piercing quizzical looks. ‘Between the two of us, Euphemia and Rory are suitable to our stations.’

  I smiled. ‘Certainly, Rory.’

  We were almost at the kitchen. ‘It will take me time to come to understand this household. But I will warn you now, Euphemia, I run a very moral household. I will not tolerate liaisons with the family.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say then he had better tell them that, but I merely nodded. After Mr Bertram’s behaviour any protestations on my part would seem disingenuous.

  ‘Well then, lass, you’d better warn your maids and whoever else they’re sending up to the hunting lodge they need to start packing. We leave tomorrow morning.’

  I looked at him with complete horror. ‘Tomorrow morning!’

  We were crossing the threshold into the kitchen at this point. ‘Aye, the toffs always think packing takes no time at all.’

  Mrs Deighton, Merry, the three new maids, the bootboy, two of the footmen and the scullery maid awaited us. Merry grinned expectantly. I noticed her eyes lingering over Rory and felt my spine stiffening. I mentally upbraided myself for uncharitable thoughts. Merry had a very “warm” nature.

  ‘Right then, ladies and gentlemen,’ began Rory. ‘I am Rory McLeod, the new butler, and tomorrow I’m taking a pack of you back to my home country for a little shooting.’

  ‘Home country?’ asked Merry.

  ‘Scotland, lass. Bonnie Scotland. Your master has bought a new hunting lodge right in time for the grouse season. While Mrs Wilson is indisposed, Miss St John will be acting as under-housekeeper. She will give you instructions for packing.’

  And with that he walked off to the pantry leaving me to face a barrage of questions.

  1 As recorded in my earlier journal A Death in the Family

  2 Of course no one could adequately have filled dear Mr Holdsworth’s shoes, but the individuals employed so far had all been quite drastically bad.

  3 Please forgive my extremely unladylike language, but Mr Bertram does cause me much consternation.

  Chapter Two

  The Lodge on the Moors

  Two days later I opened my window to the most magnificent of views. The night of Rory’s announcement had been spent in a frenzy of packing. It had taken a great deal of time, not least because I was so unsure of what to ask the others to pack and had doubtless commanded that too much be taken. Mrs Deighton had also taken much comforting.

  ‘What will you do without me?’ she had wailed. ‘It’s because I’s too old, isn’t it? The next thing you know I’ll be turned off without a character.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said knowing I was offering comfort to a woman wholly my senior in wisdom and experience. ‘Miss Richenda needs you here. Without Mrs Wilson, the family must depend on you totally.’ Probably these demands would not be much more than reminding the new maids to dust and preparing a great deal of cake, but it did calm her.

  I, on the other hand, was filled with trepidation. I felt Mr McLeod had tossed a great load on my shoulders, but when I went through to the butler’s pantry to demand his assistance I found him deep in the process of cleaning and packing an alarming number of shotguns. I made some feeble excuse for disturbing him and retreated to the comparative safety of the kitchen, where only knives were on display. Which is ridiculous, when you consider the previous deaths at the house.

  The train journey yesterday had been long, tiring and dirty. We had arrived late at night and been driven along dark, rumbling tracks in carts so primitive our very bones were bruised by the time we arrived at the new lodge. But this morning, with the cool Scottish air wafting in through my bedroom window scented with pine and heather, I was content.

  The term “lodge” had led me to expect something small and neat. I should have known Lord Richard better. The main building housed the guest bedrooms as well as a dining hall, two drawing rooms, a kitchen Mrs D would have adored, a billiard hall and a library of sorts that was to be used for informal dining and drinks. And everywhere were dotted the skulls of dead deer shot by the previous owners. There was much about the house to admire. It ranged over three levels, with the servants’ quarters and stables neatly arranged around a small courtyard. But it was set in the middle of nowhere.

  The scenery was breathtaking. We were in the heart of the wilds. Mountains towered above us. A lake as deep as the sea could be seen f
rom the windows and the verdant greenery and abundance made the farmed countryside around Stapleford Hall seem pale and insipid in comparison. I had envisioned a flat moor for the shooting, but looking around me at the rising landscape I could not imagine where the grouse would be shot.

  What I did know was it was 10 August. The guests would arrive tomorrow in time for a dinner party, before they breakfasted early on the 12th and went out to slaughter the local avian wildlife. Merry and I had a great deal of dusting ahead of us. For all the talk of needing me to act as under-housekeeper, it appeared my duties were to assign Merry and myself our tasks, oversee the local help who would be coming in to do some heavier cleaning, and liaise between the local chef and Lord Richard. Mr McLeod would oversee the valets, bootboys, stable staff and much of the day-to-day running of the lodge.

  I suspect Mr McLeod had taken on more than the normal duties of a butler. I was uncertain if I felt grateful to him for lightening my load, or offended at this highhandedness that had led him to assume I could not manage my new role. To be fair, I was unsure myself if I was up to the task, but I wanted the opportunity to rise to the challenge.

  The bell at the servants’ entrance rang loudly. I pulled the window almost closed and hurried downstairs. ‘Merry!’ I called. ‘Come on, that’ll be the chef!’

  Merry had been most wearisomely travel-sick on the journey here. The consequence of this had been when we arrived at the lodge, she was exceedingly hungry. By which point, of course, we were completely out of the wax-paper packs of sandwiches Mrs Deighton had sent with us.

  We arrived exhausted at an empty house and we had to make the rooms ready for the gentlemen. There had been no time for Merry to eat. So despite her fatigue and what appeared to be an ingrained fear of the countryside – I could not otherwise account for each jump and yelp she had uttered every time a bush had rustled or leaf dropped into our carriage – I could optimistically predict that the promise of a good breakfast would get my colleague out of bed.

  As I hurried down to the door, I put up my hand to straighten the small cap on my head. It felt very odd to be wearing a dress instead of my normal uniform, but I knew it was important that I appeared calm and in control. My father had often spoken of the fiery and difficult nature that accompanied Scottish red hair.

  The servants’ door was half glass. Through this I could clearly see a slight and girlish figure, not what I had been led to expect by the name Jock Cameron, who late last night Rory had informed me would be our chef. I had been extremely tired by this point and could only conclude that I had misheard. However, as I opened the door there was a distinct smell of cooking bacon and fried eggs. In front of me stood a young woman of perhaps 25 years of age, with long curly dark hair, wrapped in a tartan shawl and wearing a most unfriendly face.

  ‘Hello?’ I asked bemused.

  ‘Susan.’

  ‘Susan?’ I echoed blankly.

  ‘Aye Susan, your local help. Yous were told I was coming, no?’

  I tried to get my head around this tangled syntax and failed. Instead I smiled and opened the door. ‘I’m Eu-Miss St John, acting housekeeper.’

  ‘Acting, is it? Can you no do the job for real?’ asked the young woman and pushed past me quite rudely. ‘I smell Jock has got the breakfast on. I take it there’s some for me.’ She moved quickly away and into the labyrinth of servants’ passageways. I was sure they weren’t as complicated as they looked, but I had been too tired last night to learn my way to anywhere other than my bed. I was thus at somewhat of a disadvantage as I trailed after her. The scent of breakfast grew stronger as we walked towards the centre of the house.

  Within a few steps we emerged into a kitchen. It was both similar to Mrs Deighton’s and yet not. It was large, but not especially bright and it was extremely warm. There was a huge old-fashioned range. To one side stood a great table. George, one of our footmen, was in the process of loading up a tray. A large man, covered from head to foot in chef’s whites, towered over the range.

  ‘Any bacon pieces going, Jock?’ called Susan. ‘I’m gey hungry. I’ve got the whole of this house to scrub and it’ll be much easier on a full stomach.’

  The chef turned round, revealing a sun-weathered face, a bushy but trimmed brown beard and friendly brown eyes surrounded by crow’s feet. ‘Susan!’ he bellowed. ‘I didnae think you’d be coming back to this place!’

  ‘I’ve got to eat, Jock.’

  ‘Did you get somewhere local to stay?’

  Susan’s face darkened. ‘Fae now.’

  ‘Good. Good. I’ll just load this good man’s tray up and then that’s the toffs fed. Only the two of ’em so far. I’m about to start the folks’ breakfast. There’s supposed to be a young lassie of a housekeeper coming to give me orders, but I dinna think she’s even out of bed yet! Sassenachs!’

  I coughed slightly. ‘Actually, Mr Cameron, I’m right here. I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting on me. I understood Mr McLeod would be giving you the orders for the day until the guests were in residence.’

  ‘Aye. Aye, he did that. But if I’m to go feeding the upstairs I’ll need to know how many for breakfast, what sandwiches for the shoot tomorrow, and how big a dinner they expect. It all takes planning, lassie. They grow a fair amount of their own stuff here, but if I’m to be sending for things I’ll need to know the noo.’

  ‘I think you will find I have anticipated your needs.’ Rory McLeod strode into the kitchen. He was dressed in tweeds and brogues and would have passed easily for a member of the hunting party. ‘I’ve been up inspecting the shoot. There’s a few of the pegs have been set up a wee bit close to my way of thinking.’

  Jock shrugged. ‘I wouldnae ken anything about that.’

  Rory pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. ‘I’m aware, Jock,’ he said softly, ‘that there is no love lost between the local people and the new owner, but I will not have either safety or service compromised on my watch. You might want to let your people know.’

  The big man shrugged again. ‘I dinna ken wha’ yer fashing yersel’ aboot, mon.’

  Rory slammed his palm down hard on the table. I jumped and a small squeak escaped my lips. Rory’s eyes flickered to mine, but he continued, ‘Ye ken fine. I ken ye’ve no reason to like the Staplefords, but if ye want yer wages ye’ll do yer jobs proper. Do ye understand me?’ He paused, took a deep breath and continued in his more usual accent. ‘Now if you could see your way clear to serving breakfast. Miss St John looks rather in need.’

  Jock grunted. ‘She’s a peely-wally-looking lass.’

  ‘A bit of respect. This young lady is your housekeeper for the duration of the shoot.’

  Rory got up and pulled out a chair for me. ‘It’s been a while since any man has done that for me,’ I said and then bit my tongue.

  ‘Genteel background, is it? Maybe I should convince Lord Richard to retire Mrs Wilson. I don’t think he’d take much persuading.’

  ‘Oh, but you couldn’t,’ I blurted out. ‘She’d never get another job.’

  ‘In a fair world we would all get what we deserve,’ answered Rory obscurely. ‘You! Susan, is it? Come and eat. As I’m sure Miss St John will tell you, after today, we will be expecting a proper early start.’ His eyes met mine and I read a reproof. We ate quickly and in silence. When we had finished Susan stacked the dishes. I went to help her, but Rory very slightly shook his head.

  ‘Do you want me to wash these now?’ she asked.

  ‘I noticed the last occupants of the lodge have left the front hall less than sparkling,’ said Rory.

  ‘Then I think we must make that our priority,’ I said quickly. ‘As long as you have what you need for now, Jock?’

  The chef grunted.

  ‘Right then,’ I said trying to sound efficient. ‘I’m sure there’s a mop and …’

  ‘I know where it’s at,’ said Susan in a surly tone.

  I smiled brightly. ‘In that case, you can start by cleaning the hall floor. Merry will join you
to dust and brush the stairs. Then we will work up the house.’

  ‘I’ll be needing the menus,’ broke in Jock.

  ‘I-I … of course.’

  ‘Miss St John and I need to consult,’ said Rory. ‘If you’ve the time, Miss St John, we could go to my pantry now?’

  I nodded my assent and tried very hard not to blush.

  Rory’s pantry was not a large room, but it was commodious enough. Compared to the butler’s quarters at Stapleford Hall it was positively luxurious. Having grown up in a vicarage amid the cast-offs from the wealthy, my eye was quick to spot the heavy oak pieces that furnished it were less than new. There was a certain sense of style even if the atmosphere was overly masculine and perforce slightly old-fashioned.

  ‘It’s not bad, is it?’ said Rory, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to read my thoughts. ‘There’s a housekeeper’s room for you, but I believe it’s somewhat floral and cluttered. I doubt it’s to your taste but, as Mrs Wilson remains nominally the in absentia housekeeper, I’m afraid I can’t advise you to change much of it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’

  ‘Aye, that’s the problem.’ Rory indicated I should sit. I sank down in to a green armchair, whose springs gave alarmingly beneath me. I must have looked startled, as Rory grinned at my predicament. ‘The thing is, Euphemia, you’re gey young to be a housekeeper and the locals here are going to run rings around you. There’s no love for the new master.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Let’s just say that our master was rigorous and unscrupulous in putting the estate into what he saw as order.’

  I swallowed, remembering Bishop Pagget, who had cast Mother and me out of our home without a second thought once Pa was dead. ‘Did you help him do that?’

  ‘Me?’ Rory blinked in astonishment. ‘What do you think I am? His agent will have done that.’

  ‘And you’re happy to work with him knowing what he’s done?’ The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I realised what I was saying. I blushed fiery-red.