Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  To be fair, I might not be bored personally, but the company of the others has bored me and rather than offend anyone by saying or doing something to indicate annoyance, my departure from the group is imperative.

  “As you wish,” says Waterfield graciously, even if he isn’t feeling gracious, “I shall show you to your room. Does anyone else wish to retire for the evening?”

  I believe Waterfield to be equally dismayed and relieved when half the group put their hands in the air, leaving only the Major, Dr Runcible and Mrs Draper willing to stay up with him. I suspect the Major was left wanting for more alcohol following dinner, whilst Runcible and Mrs Draper probably wish to catch up on old times.

  Herbert and Rashid, on the other hand, most likely want to put some distance between themselves and our host. There’s simply no love lost between them. And Mrs Hardcastle?

  “I say, where’s Mrs Hardcastle got to?” I ask, suddenly aware of her absence.

  “She’s probably gone to powder her nose,” says Herbert gallantly. “Or perhaps has already found herself a room for the night.”

  Mrs Draper nods her head. “I believe I saw her venturing up the stairs while you were already up there. You were gone quite a while. I think we all got a little restless.”

  Waterfield isn’t best pleased at this, judging by his expression. “Well, I shall check up on her later. For the moment, let’s get the rest of you settled in your rooms. Why don’t you all come up? Anyone who wants to come down again can do so. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up after your long day anyway?”

  Everyone agrees, and we all file up the stairs after our still-reluctant host, and he leads us into the west wing. He opens the doors to the neutral rooms one by one, indicating that Herbert, Major Simmons and Dr Runcible should take these rooms. He opens the door to the first pink room. “Mrs Hardcastle doesn’t seem to be in here, so you can sleep in this room, Mrs Draper.”

  Mrs Draper steps out of view, and we can hear her mutterings of disapproval from out in the hall. We hide our smirks when she pokes her head back around the door. “I suppose it’ll have to do,” she says, and promptly slams the door in our faces.

  I laugh aloud. “Well, there’s someone with no manners!”

  Waterfield nods. “Indeed.”

  He opens the doors to the two blue rooms, indicating that Rashid and I should choose which we’d prefer. I choose the one nearest the stairs.

  “Well then, I shall bid you goodnight, young man,” Waterfield says to me. “Please feel free to rejoin us downstairs if you should have difficulty sleeping.”

  I have to admire his continued politeness. For a man who wasn’t expecting guests, he’s been nothing short of the perfect host, but I feel certain not everyone else feels as much gratitude.

  “Thank you,” I reply politely. “I shall keep that in mind, but I doubt I shall have any difficulty in sleeping.”

  I close the door with a gentle push and lean against it, sighing deeply. It’s such a relief to have this barrier between myself and those insufferable people. I shall be very glad when this night is over.

  I decide that I might as well get into bed. It certainly won’t do any harm – I might even get a little sleep. The room isn’t quite as barren as I’d at first assumed. Over by the window there is a bookshelf filled with fiction titles – mostly war, westerns, sci-fi and crime. A cupboard reveals a stack of blankets – presumably in case of extra-cold nights, and clean towels, whilst a chest of drawers reveals several different sizes of slippers, a number of old-fashioned voluminous night-shirts and a few different sized pairs of flannel pyjamas, and hanging on the back of the door is a dressing gown that’s way too big for me.

  I don’t know whether this is because Waterfield receives large numbers of unexpected guests, or just because guests sometimes forget to bring their own night-clothes. Whatever the reason, I’m extremely grateful, because I cannot bear to sleep naked.

  I pull the drapes closed to shut out the dreadful weather. I can still hear the rain outside, and the wind howling through the eaves into the attic above is causing the rafters to creak ominously. The fire has been lit and the room has a pleasant ambient temperature, so I strip and plump for a mismatched pair of pyjamas that fit. I go to the bathroom, and am pleased to find that Waterfield has been equally prepared for guests here, too, with toothbrushes neatly laid out in a row in the bathroom cabinet, and a tube of Kolynos toothpaste as well. Flannels and soap complete the medley of ablution necessities.

  I finish my night-time routine, and return to my room. Selecting a book to read from the shelf by the window I snuggle under the blankets, marvelling at the coldness of the crisp white cotton sheets, which quickly warm beneath me. Propping the pillows behind my head, I start reading The Pangbourne Mystery by Lavinia Rushbrook. She’s a favourite author of mine, along with Margery Allingham and Agatha Christie. I love the crime genre, and have to admit I seldom guess whodunit when reading a book for the first time.

  I’ve read this one before, but then I’ve read all the crime novels available on the shelf, and this is the one I remember least. I daresay I’ll remember who the murderer is once I start reading.

  With the room illuminated only by the light of the fire and the oil-lamp on the table beside the bed, the room is cast in a warming golden glow that casts flickering shadows around the walls. I see movement over by the window, but it’s only where the wind outside has forced its way in through the slightly ill-fitting windows.

  I snuggle down further, pulling the blankets up to my chin. It might be August, but with the storm raging outside it certainly feels more like a November night.

  I lose track of how long I’ve been reading for. The fire is still ablaze in the grate, but it’s at a much lower ebb now. I yawn, close the book – having reached the end of a chapter – shut off the oil-lamp and readjust my pillows.

  I lay there for a moment listening to the nocturnal sounds of the house. I can hear the distant sound of voices from downstairs. There is some music playing somewhere, and laughter. I guess those who’ve decided to stay up are playing cards or some other banal pastime.

  There are footsteps in the passage outside my room, and the soft murmur of voices. There is a knock. As I’m on the verge of drifting off to sleep I don’t pay it much heed, but when I hear a second more insistent knock, I begin to wonder whether it’s my door. I clamber groggily from the bed and cross to the room. I open my door a crack, just in case it’s not my door that’s being knocked upon. I don’t want to be accused of spying on some midnight assignation.

  At what I see in the hallway, my mind is taken back to earlier in the evening, and I chuckle quietly. “Julie you’re a sly one! You’re as cunning as a fox!”

  And with a sigh, I close the door and return to my bed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I awaken, it’s quite early still. I clamber from the bed and pull open the drapes. It’s still raining outside, although not as heavily as during the night, and the thunderstorm itself seems to have passed. I didn’t sleep particularly well. The thunder went on until the very small hours, and then I was awakened by the drunken sounds of the Major being helped to bed.

  I decide that I might as well get dressed as I’m now wide awake. A wash and brush up in the bathroom is all I need to revive me, and then I dress in the clothes from yesterday. It’s a pity Waterfield’s hospitality hasn’t extended to clean attire. I guess most visitors, though they might forget bed wear, wouldn’t forget a fresh set of underwear and socks. Still, turn them inside out and at least they don’t make me feel quite so grubby.

  I leave my room at the same time as Mrs Draper leaves hers. “Good morning,” she says with a smile.

  “Good morning, Mrs Draper,” I reply, casting a cursory glance at my watch. “Good grief, it’s only seven o’clock!”

  “I know. It’s quite late for me to rise at this hour, but I didn’t have a particularly restful night.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say ruefully. “Wh
at with the storm, and then being awakened at God knows what time by dear old Major Simmons.”

  Mrs Draper inclines her head slightly. “You heard that commotion too then? I must say, that man has a serious drink problem.”

  “I agree. Do you think there’ll be any breakfast waiting for us? I’m starved.”

  “Well, if there’s not, then I’m sure Mr Waterfield won’t mind us helping ourselves. In fact, if you’re amenable to the suggestion, perhaps between us we could make a nice breakfast spread for the others. What do you say?”

  I offer up a hearty laugh. “Me, in a kitchen? Well, I’ll give it a go, but I can’t guarantee what the outcome will be.”

  Mrs Draper pats my arm. “Don’t worry dear, you’ll do fine. You do what I ask, and we’ll knock up breakfast in next to no time.”

  “All right then. Let’s do it.”

  I think that she as going to link arms as we go downstairs, but she doesn’t. She reminds me in many ways of Grandmamma before she died, although she’s not quite as old.

  I miss Grandmamma. Sometimes I think it’d be nice to have someone to replace her in my life, but I know that no-one could replace her in my heart. I miss her, and the emptiness her death has left in me can never be filled.

  Downstairs, I follow Mrs Draper through the dining room, down a short passage on the other side of the door at the far end, and into the kitchen. I’m not sure what I was expecting in the kitchen of such a grand house as West Cliff, but I don’t think I anticipated finding myself in an oak country styled kitchen, complete with an oil-fired range.

  “This reminds me of my kitchen back home, when I lived with my grandparents,” I say, emitting a low whistle. “Only it’s much bigger.” I count the cabinet doors. There are eighteen, and three sets of drawers. There’s a door at the far end with a grill in it, which I know to be the pantry. There are two butler sinks next to the door that leads outside.

  “It’s really quite marvelous, this kitchen, don’t you think?” says Mrs Draper.

  I have to agree. I can picture her at work here. “So you worked for Mr Waterfield in London? Did he have such a kitchen up there?”

  “Good lord no!” Mrs Draper emits a high-pitched squeal of amusement at the notion. “And before you ask, I didn’t work in the kitchen for him back then.” She sighs wistfully. “Oh, much happier times.”

  “Why did you leave his employ?”

  Lost in her reverie, my words bring Mrs Draper back to the present. She clearly doesn’t wish to answer my question. “There was – an incident. It was most unpleasant, so I left.”

  “Was that when you caught Herbert trying to steal from him?”

  Mrs Draper starts to shake her head, but then changes it to an emphatic nod. “Yes. I felt that if Mr Herbert wanted to steal from his own brother then there must be a reason for it. There were – words, shall we say, and so I handed in my notice and left with no severance pay.”

  I’m no fool. I know that’s not the entire truth. Mrs Draper is being less than honest with me about the circumstances surrounding her departure from Waterfield’s London home. I’m sure she has her reasons, and I wonder whether I can coax a little more information from her. “That must have hurt, not getting severance pay!”

  “Yes it did.”

  “Did you get good references from him?”

  “Not one!”

  I can see Mrs Draper’s throat constricting at the mention of this, and I realise I’ve hit a raw nerve. “You must hate him for that?”

  Oddly, Mrs Draper shakes her head. “No, I don’t hate the man. It was a most difficult period, back then. There were other things going on at the same time, and the poor man had a lot to deal with. I’m sure the very last thing on his mind was giving references to an employee who’d just walked out on him.”

  “But it hurt you deeply?”

  “Oh yes. It took me a very long time to forgive him. I thought perhaps that’s why I’d been invited here, as a step towards forgiveness. Obviously that’s not the case though.”

  “Obviously.”

  Mrs Draper laughs. I wonder what she’s laughing at, but she doesn’t elaborate. I think perhaps she might be planning some sort of revenge on Waterfield, but I can’t be certain. She doesn’t seem the sort to do anything especially vindictive though, so whatever she’s planning won’t be too traumatic.

  “So what did you do for Mr Waterfield in London?” I ask, curious to see how honest her response will be since I already know the answer from Herbert.

  “I was housekeeper, for a number of years, to Mr Waterfield and his lovely wife, Annie.”

  “Were they very happy together?”

  “What an impertinent question. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  I’m a little stunned by the vehemence in the tone Mrs Draper uses in response to my innocent question. “I ask because there are no photos or pictures of her around the house. None that I’ve seen, anyway. I just wondered whether they were unhappy together. She’s obviously not around anymore. Did she leave him?”

  “Young man, I really think you should desist from that line of enquiry!” Mrs Draper’s voice is snappish to match her waspish expression. I’ve never seen anyone purse their lips quite so tightly together before. Clearly I’ve touched on something raw. I dare not ask what springs to mind next: Were Mrs Draper and Waterfield intimate?

  Mrs Draper has lapsed into silence, and is clearly now in no mood for conversation, so I decide to leave her to prepare the breakfast on her own.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she snaps at me without turning around as I make my way over to the door.

  “I thought–”

  She cuts me off with a savage swipe of her annoyed tongue. “Don’t think you’re getting out of helping me, just because we’ve had a disagreement. I’ve had worse arguments with household staff than that and had to keep on working with them afterwards, so just you come back here and do as I ask.”

  Her tone brokers no response from me. I don’t trust myself to say anything further, and I wordlessly comply with every instruction she gives me.

  I’m busy making scrambled eggs when I realise we’re no longer alone in the kitchen. Herbert and the Major are standing silently over by the door watching the two of us hard at work.

  “You could give us a hand,” I snap irritably.

  Herbert nudges the Major in the ribs. “What do you reckon, Julie Boy,” he says snidely. “Should we offer our services?”

  “Should we hell!” laughs Major Simmons. “I don’t think I’m in a fit state this morning to wield any kitchen implement.”

  “Not the way you were knocking them last night,” says Herbert. “You always did like a drink, didn’t you Julie!”

  Even from across the kitchen I can see the Major is about to explode with apoplexy at the continued use of the nickname.

  “I’ve told you before not to call me that!” the Major shouts, spraying spittle all over Herbert, who wipes his face half in amusement and half in disgust.

  “That’s what happens when you drink too much,” he mutters once his face is dry. “And you know what else happens, don’t you?”

  Major Simmons snorts in fury and leaves the kitchen, and Mrs Draper turns to Herbert and asks the question that’s on my mind too. “Why do you call him Julie?”

  “The Major, as you have clearly witnessed, likes a drink or two,” explains Herbert quietly. “When he’s had enough drinks, and all his barriers come down, his true nature comes out.”

  I’m a little confused by this comment, even though I can tell from Mrs Draper’s reaction that she understands the intimation. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The Major is as straight laced as they come, most of the time. When he’s in Army mode, he’s all stiff upper lip and machismo. When he’s had a few too many, he reverts to his true nature. He likes the boys, if you catch my drift.”

  I am astounded at this revelation. “Are you serious?”

  Herbert nods. “Oh yes,
believe me I’ve never been more serious. To look at him you’d never know. He’s as macho and butch as a man could be. I think if he’d been his normal self all the time he’d never have become a Major. In fact, I don’t think he’d have been accepted into the army in the first place.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Herbert looks across the kitchen at me. “How do you think?”

  I shrug. This is all new territory to me.

  “We were in the same squadron in the army during the war. He was our Captain back then, and after one particular battle which we won, we all had a little too much grog to celebrate, and we found out when he crept into the bed of one of the other guys and tried it on. The other soldier was one too, so he never complained about it. Until then we all had respect for the Captain, but after that it all changed.”

  “So you started calling him Julie”

  Herbert nods. “The other guy we called Shirley, purely because he had blond hair like Shirley Temple. But yes, we took the mickey out of them both something rotten. But they couldn’t say anything to anyone, or they’d get kicked out of the army. But then Julie saved the lives of a few of the others, and we let it go. Well, some of us did.”

  “But you didn’t? Is that what he meant yesterday when he called you a bully?”

  Herbert nods, and I detect a degree of pride to his demeanour. He doesn’t care that Major Simmons is a man with feelings, nor that a wrong word to the wrong person could get the Major arrested. I don’t like that. I’m not especially comfortable with this new information about Major Simmons. I’ve never come into contact with a man such as him before, and I really don’t know how I’m supposed to react.

  “Perhaps,” says Mrs Draper suddenly, “you should look closer to home to find the very definition of the word bully, Mr Waterfield.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Mrs Draper was in the kitchen with us, so wrapped up have I been in Herbert’s tale. I turn to her. “You mean someone else is a bully? Someone like Cuthbert for example?”