The ubiquitous Lucy showed me to the library. She left me at the door. My fingertips trembled against the cold metal of the door handle. I gave myself a mental shake. I told myself that this was only words. People were behaving oddly tonight, but considering how volatile the Staplefords had been over the years this situation should not be rattling me as much as it was. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Mr Gilbert Barker stood there very much alive. He was tall and thin with short, curly ginger hair. He wore a suit of the best cut but it sat uneasily on him. An unflattering five o’clock shadow framed a thin, pinched face set with dark eyes. His age could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five. He had what can only be described as a lived-in face.
‘Euphemia,’ he said and gestured to a seat. ‘I had the maid bring a decanter and glasses. I think we are both going to need some whisky.’
‘I do not believe we have been introduced, sir.’
‘Oh, no need to call me sir, Euphemia. After all you don’t exactly work for Sir Richard any more. Barker will do.’
‘And Miss St John will do for me,’ I replied making no move towards the indicated seat. Barker walked across and sat down in one of the seats. He poured two glasses of whisky, one much larger than the other, which he placed in front of himself. ‘Do at least close the door behind you, Euphemia. There is a draft.’
‘I will happily do so from the other side,’ I said, turning to go.
‘Miss St John, you have secrets. Ones I think you do not care to share.’
I pushed the door hard closed behind me, took my seat, and demanded, ‘What secrets?’
Barker shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but obviously ones you don’t want shared with your current employer. I shall have to ask Stapleford to fill me in. And make no doubt he will. I am his right hand.’
Internally I let out a great sigh of relief. He knew nothing. But since I was here I might as well get the interview over and done with. ‘What do you want?’ I asked.
Barker pushed the smaller glass towards me. I pushed it back. He picked it up and poured it into his own glass. ‘I hate waste,’ he said.
I did not repeat my question, but waited. Obviously a little of Fitzroy had rubbed off on me. However, while I had never had any doubts that the spy Fitzroy would shoot me if he had to – with I hoped a soupçon of regret, I had never felt that physical violence hovered about him as it did with Barker.
Barker took a sip of his whisky. He gave me a thin smile. ‘I can say one thing for this German, he knows his whisky. But then foreigners are often more accurate on these things than real gentlemen. It’s all to do with keeping up the pretence, isn’t it, Euphemia?’
It hovered on my tongue to tell him that he should know. Clothes do not maketh the man and all that, but I refused to allow myself to be baited and sat quietly with my hands folded in my lap.
‘If Sir Richard had not briefed me fully on you and your services to the family,’ said Barker, ‘I might take you for the insipid companion of moderate intelligence that you are pretending to be, but we both know that is far from the truth.’
Words, I told myself, it is merely words. ‘Your empty threats aren’t even fully formed,’ I said.
Barker gave a crack of laughter. ‘Oh, we haven’t got to the threats yet. I am here to open up communications between Sir Richard and his beloved sister once more. Sir Richard is mindful that she has no claim on the Mullers and that her prolonged residence here is beginning to cause talk. And we both know how dangerous talk can be, don’t we Euphemia? Why it can even land innocent men in jail.’
‘I don’t believe Sir Richard was ever tried, so technically we cannot say if he was guilty.’ I paused. ‘Or not,’ I added.
Barker’s eyes narrowed. I knew I was over-stepping the mark, but much as I have disliked Richenda in the past I felt a rather surprising desire to protect her from her brother. One’s training as a vicar’s daughter is always inescapable.
‘I see you believe in straight talking,’ said Barker, ‘so do I. It makes things much easier. You and I Euphemia are not unlike. We both work for difficult masters and we both make our way in the world determined by the success of these masters. Richenda has little social status. The suspicious death of her father, compounded with her age, her fondness for the suffragettes and fallen women and not least her undeniable facial similarity to a horse all stand against her. Now she is again linked with death as her almost husband kills himself, embarrassing his relations and proving himself to be of unsavoury character. All she has is some money and a few shares in the family bank. Nothing else stands in her favour. I believe you know all too well her unappealing character. Shut you in a wardrobe, didn’t she?’
‘At the time she believed she had to do so to support her twin,’ I said with more forgiveness than I had ever felt before.
Barker jumped on this. ‘And this time her twin wants to stand by her. Sir Richard is becoming more prominent in parliament, his business is progressing and he may soon be entering into a very successful engagement. He can rescue his sister from her downward spiral into obscurity and possibly even attempt to find her a husband in a year or two when her social disgrace has abated.’
‘Social disgrace!’ I cried, jumping to my feet, ‘I’d like to see you say that to her face! Richenda has done nothing wrong except give her heart unwisely.’
‘I have no intention of saying it to her face,’ said Barker. ‘That is why I am talking to you. You need to get Richenda to see that it is in her best interests to return home.’
‘But I don’t see that it is,’ I said coldly. ‘I have known Sir Richard for a little time now and, if we are speaking plainly, I have never seen him do anything for his sister’s sake or for any other sake than his own.’ I remained standing. Barker lounged back at this ease. His entire attitude was an insult, but still I stayed. I knew a threat was coming and it would be real whether or not I chose to hear it.
‘Euphemia, such a display of affection for someone who would not grieve for a moment if you fell and broke your neck! She really isn’t worth your defence. Her brother wants her back. Advise her of this. Persuade her of the advantages of this. Get her out of the house of this ruddy German and back where she belongs.’
‘Where she belongs or where her shares belong?’
Barker shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter to you. What matters is if you stand against Sir Richard on this you will find him a formidable enemy.’
‘You overestimate my influence on Richenda,’ I said flatly.
‘For your sake, let us hope I do not,’ said Barker and he rose. ‘Sir Richard will be paying his compliments in person shortly. Ensure his sister receives him well. Or it will go badly for both of you.’
‘An empty threat?’
Barker jammed his hat back on his head. ‘Oh, you know only too well what Sir Richard is capable of doing should he not get his own way.’ Despite my intention to stand up to this jumped-up little man a shiver ran down my spine. This was as close to a death threat as he could have uttered.
He made his way to the door, brushing past me rudely. He stood with his hand on the door handle for a moment as if deciding whether or not to speak. Then he turned back towards me one last time. ‘Besides, you do know Muller murdered his first wife, don’t you?’
Chapter Five
Attic Adventure
‘So what did he want?’ fired Richenda the moment I returned to the dining-room.
‘Your brother sends his regards and would like you to come home,’ I said simply.
Muller raised one elegant eyebrow. ‘I suspect you are giving us the shortened version?’
Richenda got to her feet. ‘Did he threaten you?’ she demanded.
‘To be honest,’ I said taking my seat and attempting to calm the situation, ‘I do not see the purpose of Sir Richard sending his man to talk to me.’
‘He is maybe concerned Richenda would respond less civilly to him,’ said Muller.
‘Plant him a face
r,’ said Richenda crudely.
‘I think we have lingered long enough over the table,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘We should all retire to the drawing-room for tea.’
Muller gave a mock groan. ‘We do not have to drink tea after every meal, Mother.’
‘It is the English thing to do,’ said his mother stubbornly in her perfect English. I looked at her sharply. Why had she been so obviously, even comically, German in front of my mother?
As if reading my thoughts, Richenda commented excitedly, ‘We had the most intriguing visitor this afternoon. The daughter of an earl, no less.’
‘Then we must invite her to the ball,’ said Muller, rising and pulling out Richenda’s chair for her.
‘I doubt she would come,’ I said quickly. ‘She is widowed with a young son.’
‘You know her?’ asked Muller.
‘I have heard of her,’ I answered quickly. ‘Staff talk.’
‘Not mine,’ said Mrs Muller, blissfully unaware that the task of keeping her four hundred staff from gossiping is not humanly possible, but I assured her it was a morsel from my Stapleford Hall days.
‘Not out of the top drawer,’ muttered Mrs Muller as she left the room. Her son followed her quickly and we heard urgent whispering. Richenda blushed and, showing unusual tact, held back for a moment.
‘Whatever have I done wrong, Euphemia?’ she asked. ‘Only this morning Mrs Muller praised my fashion sense and she wasn’t being ironic!’
‘Could she have been jealous of your conversation with your visitor?’ I could not bring myself to give my mother’s name.
‘I would have introduced her,’ said Richenda close to tears. ‘I honestly thought she was asleep and when I first met the woman I had no idea she was aristocracy. She looked so – so drab.’
Considering Richenda’s fashion sense my mother would have taken this as a compliment. However my current mistress looked close to hysteria. I cast about in my mind frantically to think of something to distract her. An hysterical Richenda is not something even the strongest man should bear witness to. ‘Barker, your brother’s man, said Muller killed his first wife.’ As soon as it was out of my mouth I knew I had said the wrong thing.
Richenda’s eyes went very wide. ‘Oh no, Euphemia,’ she said in awed tones, ‘you haven’t discovered another body, have you? That would be too much. Everyone should have a hobby, but …’
‘No, of course not,’ I snapped. ‘Richard is afraid you will marry Muller and he will get his hands on your bank shares.’ I coughed and added, ‘I mean that literally and not as a euphemism.’
‘A what?’ said Richenda blankly, ‘Come on, we should join Muller. Whether his mother likes me or not, I’m damn well going to this ball. I have this idea for a deep purple silk dress with lemon puffed sleeves …’
I followed Richenda through the drawing room, trying desperately hard not to imagine what she was describing, but her notion of sartorial elegance once envisaged tended to engrave itself on one’s mind to the extent that I often woke in the night in a cold sweat fearing she had taken it upon herself to design a dress for me. This disturbed me more than my dreams of finding a body in the corridor of Stapleford Hall. Really, I was becoming almost accustomed to corpses.
The evening ended in a long discussion about the autumn ball. I was dragooned into doing much of the donkey work. Not the actual physical moving for plants and tables, but the labour intensive copper-plate writing of invitations and discussing beforehand with Mrs Muller who should be invited to the dinner and where they should all sit. Gentlemen tend not to realise how difficult and fraught this task can be, merely trusting to their womenfolk that everyone will be happily arranged. I think it is a great pity that they therefore do not have the sense to let us run the Foreign Office.
Richenda gave loads of impractical suggestions and Muller seemed to be at pains to give in to her wishes. Though even he blanched at her prospective colour scheme for the ballroom – to compliment her as yet unmade dress. I gave him a small nod, signifying I would interfere in this matter and he gave an audible sigh of relief.
‘What is the matter, Hans? Are you tired?’ asked his mother.
‘Indeed, it has been a long trip from London and I am ready to retire,’ replied our quick-thinking host. And with that a line was drawn under the proceedings. It was understood that Mr Muller would be supplying the funds, but from now on the ball was the women’s affair. I thought he arranged this very neatly.
As I climbed into bed that night I could not help thinking that if anyone could arrange a murder neatly it would be the charming and impeccable Mr Muller. I silently cursed Barker for putting the thought in my head. Of course I then had to get out of bed and pray for Barker to become a nicer man. Murder and the Staplefords may have changed me, but you cannot stop a vicar’s daughter being a vicar’s daughter. Especially if she almost believes her dead father is looking over her shoulder watching her actions. Not that I do, of course. My father undoubtedly earned his place in heaven simply for living with my mother as long as he did, but once one has been imbued with a beloved parent’s belief system it is difficult to run contrary to it.
I was kneeling on the floor, on a rather comfortable rug, trying to find kind words for the despicable Barker, when someone scratched at my door. Now, with this large a staff, it was not impossible that one of the younger, brasher males might try his luck in the women’s quarters. My door was tightly bolted so I ignored it. I continued to search for words other than despicable, rogue, thuggish and nasty to describe Barker. The scratching continued to the point that my concentration snapped. ‘Oh, do go away,’ I cried. ‘I’m trying to be nice about someone horrible!’
‘Why would you want to do that,’ came Richenda’s voice from beyond the door. I sighed and got up and unbolted the door.
‘Why didn’t you just say it was you?’
‘I’m being discreet,’ said my mistress. ‘And why are you being nice about horrid people and to whom?’ She looked around the room puzzled.
‘I was praying.’
Richenda looked somewhat startled. ‘Isn’t that what Sundays are for?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve heard something in the attic and I think it must be Muller’s wife,’ said Richenda.
I fetched over my candle from the table, so I could see her more clearly. Her cheeks did not appear flushed. ‘Did you have a lot of wine at dinner?’ I asked bluntly.
Richenda gave a little snort. ‘Don’t be rude,’ she said. ‘I was reading in bed when I quite clearly heard a crash above me.’
‘A servant falling out of bed?’
Richenda shook her head. ‘There are no servants’ quarters above where I sleep. Muller designed the main bedrooms so no servants could be within earshot at any time of day or night.’ She added, ‘There are bells, of course.’
‘So you’re saying there is nothing but storage above your bedroom?’
‘No, it wasn’t simply something falling over,’ said Richenda. ‘It was moving.’
‘Moving luggage?’
Richenda stamped her foot. ‘Damn you, take me seriously! Don’t you think it odd that a man would design a wing out of earshot of his servants?’
‘Not if he wanted privacy.’
‘Exactly! He’s hiding something.’
‘But he put you over there!’
‘Stop splitting hairs and come with me!’ demanded Richenda. ‘Remember, I pay your wages!’
I sighed and picked up a shawl to wrap around myself. ‘Bring the candlestick,’ said Richenda. ‘It will make a good weapon.’
‘Not as good as you would think,’ I muttered trailing after her. I had had experience with the fallibility of candlesticks.
It may be that many servants would have parted company at this point with their mistress, but to me a midnight stroll through a strange attic was a positive breeze compared to when I had first met Richenda and she had asked me to drag her cousin’s body, by the leg, out of a corridor an
d into the light so we ‘could have a really good look’.
Without pride, I can say it would have to be an atticful of bodies to discomfort me. Richenda led me to her bedroom and threw open the door. ‘Listen!’ The room looked as if it had been ransacked and smelt slightly of underwashed garments. No one could have mistaken it for anyone other than Richenda’s room.
I dutifully did as I was bid. After giving it about two minutes – she didn’t pay me that much – I was about to suggest it had been a dream when I heard distinct movement above our heads.
‘There!’ shouted Richenda. ‘You heard that!’
‘Unless you want to wake Mr Muller and ask if he does have a wife stored in the attic, I suggest you keep your voice down,’ I said with a calmness I was far from feeling.
Richenda giggled nervously. Her face went blotchy. I made a mental note to warn her not to do that in public. ‘So how do we get up there?’ I asked.
Richenda frowned. ‘I assumed being a servant you would know.’
‘I’m not that kind of a servant any more,’ I said.
‘But don’t you still know?’ persisted Richenda.
The attic rumbled above us and we both jumped.
‘You mean by some divinely inspired lower-class sense?’ I snapped.
‘How would I know,’ cried Richenda. ‘I wasn’t born in that world!’
I barely bit back the words ‘neither was I’ before a noise like rolling thunder echoed down the chimney. ‘Are you sure you want to go up there?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ said Richenda, ‘but you’re going first. You’ve got the candle.’
‘Our deadly weapon,’ I said. This time Richenda laughed. Then she sighed. ‘I don’t really think it’s Muller’s last wife, you know. Or at least I wouldn’t think that if it wasn’t half past three in the morning and we weren’t standing here in our petticoats in the near dark. It’s just that sometimes the setting …’
A Death in the Pavilion: A Euphemia Martins Mystery Page 3
