Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘You were not taken in by her story of arranging the parish flowers then?’ inquired Rose.

  ‘Well, of course not,’ retorted her mother. ‘Everyone knows that Miss Bright is in charge of the church flowers. Mrs Dobson and I were only discussing it the other day. We have so many flowers here in the garden at South Lodge, that I was wondering about donating a few sprays to the church in the spring and summer months. It seems a pity that more people shouldn’t benefit from these abundant gardens.’

  Mrs Simpson walked to the window and looked out. Rose wondered whether her mother was comparing the view with that from the mean little house which, until recently, they had shared in London. It had looked out on nothing more than a miserable cobbled yard.

  ‘Does South Lodge remind you of the house we had before … before father died?’ enquired Rose tentatively.

  ‘Before we came down in the world?’ said her mother, turning around and staring at her daughter reflectively. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it does, a little.’ She laughed. ‘Oh … there are so many adjustments to be made. How pleased I am to have Mrs Dobson here to help me. Just like old times. It does seem like that, doesn’t it? And now, of course, I must get used to the idea of having a countess for a daughter and an earl for a son-in-law. How is dear Cedric?’

  ‘Very well. He’s spending the day holed up with his estate manager. We were away for almost a month and I don’t think he believes the estate can manage without him.’

  ‘The estate and village are fortunate to have such a diligent landlord,’ said Mrs Simpson. ‘Cedric is aware his privileged position entails various responsibilities. One hears such awful stories about absent or neglectful landlords. And married life, are you finding it agreeable, Rose?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Rose blushing.

  ‘I am very pleased to hear it. You know, my dear, I had some reservations about your marriage. It is so difficult when one marries out of one’s class.’

  ‘I am perfectly happy, Mother. I couldn’t ask for a better husband, and I don’t think you could ask for a better son-in-law.’

  ‘Indeed I could not,’ agreed Mrs Simpson, with considerable feeling. ‘Cedric is a dear … which is more than can be said for that sister of his.’

  ‘Lavinia is all right,’ said Rose laughing. ‘I am very fond of her. She isn’t nearly as bad as she would have everyone believe.’

  ‘Well, you know her better than I do,’ said her mother, sounding far from convinced. ‘I will say this for her, though, that she has had the good sense to leave the two of you to settle in to married life without her interference. She’s in the house in London, I believe?’ Rose nodded. Mrs Simpson gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘It is always regrettable if one must start one’s married life living with one’s in-laws. The company of others never makes for a good marriage.’

  She spoke with such feeling that Rose wondered if she was speaking from bitter experience. It occurred to her that she had enquired very little into her parents’ lives before her father had returned from the Great War irreparably damaged, a shadow of his former self. It had been a most miserable time for all concerned, and she had forgotten or become blind to the idea that her parents had shared a life together before the war, before her birth even.

  ‘Well, you need have no fear as far as Lavinia is concerned,’ Rose said, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘She is intending to stay in London for the next few months, at least. I think she finds life at Sedgwick a little dull.’

  Mrs Simpson made a face, but refrained from comment. It was regrettable, Rose thought, that her friend had made such an unfavourable impression on her mother. It was unlikely that Mrs Simpson would ever see Lavinia as she herself saw her. As much to change the subject of their conversation than for any other purpose, she said: ‘What do you make of Miss Spittlehouse?’

  ‘She seems to me rather an odd young woman, earnest in her manner and very eager to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘You thought so?’

  ‘Yes, I did. She addressed her remarks to me, but all the while she was looking at you.’ Mrs Simpson smiled. ‘I suppose, my dear, you must get used to that. People have always been interested in the lives of the gentry. And you are out of the ordinary.’

  ‘On account of my humble origins?’

  ‘Any woman who has secured the hand of one of the most eligible young men in England will inevitably create some degree of interest. And that you have made your own way in society, rather than having been born to riches, will make you more fascinating still.’

  ‘What a Cinderella creature I am,’ laughed Rose. ‘Alas, I don’t share her beauty.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said her mother, who understandably had rather an inflated view of her own daughter’s looks.

  ‘All the same,’ said Rose, pacing the room, ‘I don’t think that is why Miss Spittlehouse dropped in, to satisfy her own curiosity concerning my person, I mean. She didn’t particularly strike me as the inquisitive sort.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Mrs Simpson. ‘I thought her an impulsive woman. Rather a selfish one too. Mrs Dobson told her I was not at home to visitors, yet she barged her way in without so much as a by your leave.’

  ‘I had the impression she wished to speak with me about something in particular?’ said Rose cautiously.

  ‘Oh?’ said her mother, looking at her daughter apprehensively.

  However, before Rose could elaborate further, Mrs Dobson came huffing and puffing into the room, as forcefully as had their uninvited guest only minutes earlier. She was bearing a tray laden with cucumber sandwiches and a boiled fruit cake, and made a great show of putting out the plates and cups and saucers, tut-tutting under her breath.

  ‘I do hope, madam, you sent that woman away with a flea in her ear?’ Mrs Dobson paused in her activities to fold her arms and give her mistress a meaningful look. ‘Barging in here like she owned the place.’ She screwed up her face as if she had caught a sudden whiff of vinegar. ‘Treating me as if I were no more than a skivvy and her who should know better. Well, I was not going to bring in tea for her, not if you’d asked me, though I know you’d never.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Rose.

  The housekeeper’s remarks had been addressed to Mrs Simpson, who remained silent. Mrs Dobson, apparently unperturbed, beamed. It occurred to Rose that her mother might be wondering whether it was appropriate to employ a servant who was quite so outspoken. Rose herself found it refreshing, particularly when she compared it with the deference displayed towards her by the servants at Sedgwick Court, which could be a little intimidating. Aloud she said:

  ‘I am so glad you are back with us, Mrs Dobson. It is just like old times.’

  ‘Indeed it is my dear,’ agreed the housekeeper. ‘You’ll always be Miss Rose to me, a cheeky, lively young thing, though you be gentry now and ever so grand.’

  ‘Rose,’ said her mother when the housekeeper had left them to their sandwiches and cake, ‘what did you mean just now when you said that you thought Miss Spittlehouse wished to talk to you about something in particular?’

  Rose chewed her mouthful of sandwich slowly and deliberately, trying to bide time. She was mulling over in her mind how best to answer her mother’s question. That Mrs Simpson had her own views as to the purpose of Daphne Spittlehouse’s visit was obvious. In all likelihood they mirrored her own thoughts on the matter. It was one thing, however, to have one’s own suspicions, but to have them shared by another was something else entirely, particularly when that other party did not normally share one’s own misgivings.

  ‘I thought it very probable that she came to consult me,’ Rose said at length, deciding that honesty was the best approach.

  ‘To consult you? What do you mean?’ demanded Mrs Simpson, though the look of horror on her face betrayed the fact that she knew full well the answer to her question.

  ‘I think Miss Spittlehouse came to consult me as one would a private enquiry agent.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, do you think so?’ Mrs Simpson looked a
t her daughter imploringly and spoke in earnest. ‘You must tell her that you have dropped all that now you are married. Think of the standing of the family you have married into. You are a countess now, not a shop girl dabbling in dubious hobbies; you must behave as such.’

  ‘I never chose my hobby, as you call it,’ cried Rose, ‘rather it chose me. I have been unfortunate enough to be in gatherings where murders have occurred, that is all. It is hardly my fault.’

  ‘But you will insist on investigating them, instead of leaving well alone. Poking your nose into matters that don’t concern you and putting yourself into heaven knows what danger. And,’ continued Mrs Simpson, clearly getting into her stride, ‘it’s no good you telling me that you don’t seek it out. Look at that business at Crossing Manor. Fancy going there dressed as a servant and prying into everyone’s affairs.’

  ‘I was asked to investigate the theft of a diamond necklace,’ protested Rose. ‘I have found that I have something of an aptitude for sleuthing.’

  She might well have added that her servant’s disguise had been at Lavinia’s instigation, and that she herself had harboured various misgivings concerning the venture. However, on reflection, she thought better of it and held her tongue. There was little point in providing her mother with yet another reason to dislike her sister-in-law. And besides, she was rather taken aback by the passion of her mother’s feelings on the subject. She had known, of course, that Mrs Simpson had been troubled by the frequency with which her daughter had found herself surrounded by corpses, but that she was so strongly opposed to her daughter’s detecting activities came as something of a surprise.

  ‘Oh, do let us leave this subject and not argue,’ said Mrs Simpson quickly. ‘I daresay I am being silly. No one will expect a member of the aristocracy to undertake the activities of an amateur sleuth. Now, you were telling me all about Paris before we were so rudely interrupted …’

  For the next half hour, Rose regaled her mother with tales of her honeymoon. It was almost as if Daphne Spittlehouse had never forced her way past Mrs Dobson and intruded upon their conversation. Almost, but not quite. For Rose was reminded of Lavinia’s words as they had left Crossing Manor. She had been adamant that Rose would always be an amateur sleuth or a private enquiry agent, and that her services would still be required and be in great demand whether she was Miss Simpson or the Countess of Belvedere. Rose bit her lip; she wouldn’t tell her mother that.

  Chapter Five

  Rose returned to Sedgwick Court with Mrs Simpson’s words still echoing in her ears. She was a countess now, and must not dabble in childish or unseemly games; that was the essence of her mother’s argument against her continuing with her sleuthing activities. There was a part of her that felt annoyed, another part that suppressed a smile. Her mother had assumed, perhaps naturally enough, that her daughter’s husband would be of a like mind. This was in fact so far removed from the truth that Rose had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing aloud. What would her mother say if she were told that Cedric had been fully aware of his future wife’s intention to go to Crossing Manor in the guise of a servant and had laughed heartily?

  On enquiry of one of the footmen, she discovered that her husband was still engaged with his estate manager, the two of them currently undertaking a tour of the estate and visiting the tenants. She was obliged, therefore, to entertain herself until dinner. To while away the time, she chose to roam the house and permit herself the luxury of studying each room at leisure, admiring its ornaments, rich furnishings and decoration.

  She might have been viewing them for the first time or, at least, with fresh eyes. She felt she had tiptoed inside a giant dolls’ house, for there was a sense about the place that it was not quite real, that everything was a bit too grand. She had visited Sedgwick Court before, of course, on numerous occasions but only as a guest. Then she had given each room and its possessions a cursory glance, marvelling nevertheless at the very splendour of the place. Now she entered each room as its mistress; it was a daunting prospect. Along with Cedric, she considered herself to be a custodian of Sedgwick Court and all that it housed, keeping each item safe and preserved to pass on to the next generation. The responsibility weighed heavily upon her.

  Without a gathering of guests or relations to occupy and fill the space, the house seemed vast and empty, almost like a museum awaiting its visitors. She knew it was a mere illusion and that a veritable army of servants laboured behind the green baize doors ensuring the smooth running of the house. Yet still the irrational feeling persisted, that she was trespassing in a world that was both deserted and not her own.

  It was rather unsettling to know that she might spend her time doing very little if she chose. There was no mundane chore that needed undertaking by her hand, no domestic task that was aching to be done by herself alone. While she willingly embraced her new life, there was a sadness in the knowledge that she would never again be required to boil her own kettle or make do with a meagre, scanty lunch put together with her own two hands. She might always, if she wished, walk aimlessly from one room to another, marvelling at her kingdom.

  Rose gave herself a good talking to. She had known that there would be a period of adjustment. She could not expect to move seamlessly from one life to another without a slight feeling of disorientation, of being something of an observer looking on, particularly when the existence she had endured previously had differed so very much from the world she now inhabited.

  She strolled into the dining room, which was a particularly grand affair with its high, strapwork ceiling, wood-panelled walls and lavish furnishings. Idly Rose surveyed the highly polished mahogany dining table, which ran almost the full length of the room. Against the far wall was a large, bow-fronted Georgian sideboard, on which were placed two tapered column, silver candlesticks gleaming back at her, bright and sparkling, belying a rather sinister recent history.

  With something of a shudder, Rose returned her gaze to the great polished table and a smile leapt immediately, and most welcomingly, to her lips. How ridiculous it had seemed last night for her and Cedric to sit at either end of this great wooden monstrosity, staring at each other in the distance and having to raise their voices to be heard by the other, requiring a footman to pass the condiments. The absurdity of the situation had not been lost on the young earl, even though used to such a circumstance, and together they had laughed in a childish fashion. The seating arrangements had been quickly addressed. Rose had forsaken her end of the table and joined Cedric, sitting on his right, which had enabled them to speak in normal tones and, when desired, to bend their heads together in a conspiratorial and affectionate manner. Both butler and footmen had been dismissed from the room and Lord and Lady Belvedere had made do with passing each other the mustard and the pickles.

  The footmen had re-entered the room only to bring in the various dishes and clear away the plates, and the butler to refill his employers’ glasses. Other than that, Rose and Cedric had been left blissfully alone to stare into each other’s eyes and hold hands as the mood took them, surreptitiously disentangling themselves from one another as soon as they became aware of a servant’s unwanted presence. But, to all intents and purposes, the scene had been an intimate one and the table that they had occupied, small and cosy. For they had become conveniently blind to the existence of the rest of the table stretching out into the distance, innocent of white linen, bare except for the reflection thrown out by the candelabra on the polished wood.

  ‘Cedric, what can you tell me about the Spittlehouses?’ asked Rose, as the last of the dishes were cleared away that evening. Their talk during dinner had drifted from sentiment to discussion of how each had occupied their day.

  ‘The Spittlehouses?’ Cedric raised his eyebrows and looked faintly surprised. ‘The major and his sister, do you mean?’ Rose nodded. ‘Well, not very much, I’m afraid, though, as it happens, I’m due to meet with the major in a day or so to discuss the arrangements for Guy Fawkes’ Night.’

&nb
sp; ‘Are you really? Tell me, have they lived here long, in the village, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, about four or five years, I should say. The locals still view them as newcomers.’

  Arm in arm, husband and wife made their way to the drawing room to drink their coffee.

  ‘The major happened to be a great friend of my father’s,’ continued Cedric, ‘which is rather surprising since he was such a solitary fellow. Both loved antique and rare books. I can’t say I know the man very well myself.’ Cedric bent his head towards his wife to whisper in a furtive fashion, though there was no servant present at that moment to overhear their chatter. ‘I’ve always thought the major a bit of a stuffed shirt myself. I daresay it’s only his manner and he doesn’t mean anything by it. But he likes to involve himself in village affairs and always thinks he knows best; his way is the right way and all that. He’s ruffled a few feathers; I can tell you. But I think his heart is in the right place. Must be all that military training, what. But it doesn’t go down too well in the village.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does,’ said Rose, only being vaguely interested in hearing about the major. ‘But what can you tell me about his sister? Talking of her brother ruffling feathers, I think she rather did that herself this afternoon. You should have seen Mrs Dobson’s face. I thought she was going to hurry her out of the house with the broom!’

  ‘I wish I’d been there,’ said Cedric, a mischievous grin on his face. ‘Your mother’s Mrs Dobson rather frightens me. But I’m afraid I can tell you very little about Miss Spittlehouse. All I know is that she lives with her brother but, unlike him, does not concern herself much with village affairs.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I daresay my sister could probably have told you more about her had she been here; Lavinia knows all the gossip!’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Miss Spittlehouse, how do you do? Won’t you take a seat?’

  Daphne took the proffered chair and looked about her with undisguised delight. Rose could almost read the woman’s thoughts as they occurred to her, so expressive was her face. So this was Sedgwick Court, was it? The drawing room was very grand, not that one wouldn’t expect it, because of course one would, it being home to an earl. But such rich furnishings! And everyone saying how we were living in troubled times and had to make economies; little making do here! Not like it was for other people.