Two days after the funeral she received the anonymous letter.
SIX
Florence happened to be in the kitchen when Alf Thatcher handed in the early morning post. ‘One for you,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Alf,’ she said, taking the batch.
‘Looks like it come from a child. No return address; little ’uns always forget that. Anyways, right there on top.’
Florence automatically looked down. The cautiously printed pencil lettering on the envelope did not suggest a child’s writing to her. She instantly guessed, with sickening trepidation, what was contained within.
‘You all right?’ Alf asked. ‘Me and Doris has been worried about you. As for Birdie, he can’t stay still five minutes, always shifting bottles around or buffing up glasses that’s already got a shine on them you can see yourself in.’
‘I’m doing very well, just extremely busy.’
‘You must be, but any time you fancy a break, you and Birdie come round for a meal.’ When she didn’t respond immediately, he turned a little uncomfortable. ‘Think about it anyways.’
‘I will.’
‘Best be off then.’
‘Say hello to Doris for me.’
‘Will do.’ He hesitated, as if about to say something else, before making for the door.
Florence was dimly aware that he was hurt, but her focus was elsewhere. She handed all but the letter addressed to her to Grumidge when she came across him in the passageway, and then sped into the housekeeper’s room. On ripping open the envelope, she discovered she was right. On the coarse piece of lined notepaper, ripped unevenly from a pad, written with the same exaggerated care, were the words: ‘WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT?’
Unsigned, of course. Sinking down into her desk chair, she waited for her heartbeat to slow and her breathing to even out. To her mind there was no question who had sent it. Hilda Stark. She didn’t think about being fair or the wrongness of prejudging the woman. Lady Stodmarsh had said long ago when Hilda was dismissed as Ned’s nanny that the family had made an enemy for life. Who else in Dovecote Hatch bore a grudge against the family, sufficient to stoop this low? When occasionally passing Hilda on the village street in the years since she’d departed Mullings, Florence had felt an emanation of hatred, reaffirming her view that Lady Stodmarsh had hit the nail on the head. The opportunity for revenge might have taken a long time coming, but bitterness, when constantly stirred in the pot, made for the nastiest of brews.
Florence did not think Hilda Stark had been spurred to write those words because she really believed Lady Stodmarsh had been murdered. A polluted mind will wend itself down the darkest of roads without resorting to fact. It seemed far likelier Hilda had acted out of sheer malice upon the impetus of Lady Stodmarsh’s sudden death. That, however, was really neither here nor there when it came to Florence’s deciding what she should do, if anything, about the letter – if it could be called such.
Had it been delivered before the funeral, she was pretty sure she’d have felt compelled to take it to the police, which in Dovecote Hatch was Constable Trout, who currently spent much of his time helping old ladies across the road whether they wanted to go or not. The letter’s impact was diabolically increased by the timing of its arrival. Florence felt sick picturing Hilda snickering to herself about this piece of cleverness. Turning the letter over to the authorities now could lead to an order to exhume the body. Regardless of whether or not anything substantive was found during the post-mortem, this would be an unspeakable ordeal for Lord Stodmarsh and Ned, as well as seriously unpleasant for all innocent parties concerned. There would be the initial scandal, followed inevitably in some quarters by murmurings of no smoke without fire. Evil, even from a twisted mind, can be exceedingly clever. It was not the first time in the last week and a half that Florence had faced that fact.
Hilda’s malignant cunning was also apparent in the choice of wording. WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT? could be construed to refer to any number of things other than murder, such as tossing a stone against her window to scare her. Was it Hilda’s hope that panicked outrage at receiving such a message in clearly disguised handwriting would send Florence scurrying down to the police station, or that she would be left stewing? If the outcome were the former, and suspicion as to the sender was voiced, Hilda could deny the accusation, which was hard to prove, or admit to it on a trumped-up reason for doing so. Either way, from her sense of persecution she would surely spew forth her reasons for having been glad to see the back of Mullings … one of which was that Florence was a lying backstabber deserving her comeuppance. If Mrs Norris had found the letter sinister, that was her choice.
Florence could picture Hilda looking Constable Trout squarely in the eyes, hear her hissing, ‘I might be a drinker but I’m not the villain Mrs Norris was bent on making out. If there was some nasty business afoot, best to look no further than Mullings – where there was more than one sly customer that wasn’t all they put out to be by half. And well that housekeeper of theirs knew it! Why all this muttering in the village that Lady Stodmarsh died awfully sudden if there weren’t others that were thinking something wasn’t right? And let’s not forget Doctor Chester being on friendly terms with the family. Think he’d risk landing any of them within bells of the gallows by refusing to sign the death certificate? My Aunt Fanny, he would …’
She tried to imagine Constable Trout’s reaction to these insinuations. Would he send Hilda off with a flea in her ear? Or decide he wasn’t worth his bicycle if he didn’t press for more information? Florence went down the list of people whom Hilda would name, in order to get it through Constable Trout’s helmet there were motives aplenty for Lady Stodmarsh to have been murdered.
Miss Bradley had determined to escape the shame of being brutally jilted by getting His Lordship for a husband over his wife’s dead body.
Mrs Tressler had suffered bouts of insanity, during one of which she’d believed her teeth were rotting in her head and her dog would attack and kill her. Word had gone round she had an appointment with her dentist and there was a new dog at Mullings.
Mr William Stodmarsh not only had an uncontrollable temper, as was generally known, but also hated his mother (and father) for having favoured their older son, the late Lionel Stodmarsh.
Mrs William Gertrude Stodmarsh was of an unnaturally repressed nature and was bound to fester with resentment at being treated like an unnecessary piece of furniture by the family. Also, a mother should know her son. Lady Stodmarsh had failed in her duty to have warned her against marrying William and ruining her life.
Florence’s breath caught, causing her to sit like a block of unfinished sculpture, being chipped at unsparingly by a chisel. She could imagine Hilda’s voice more clearly than ever: ‘Lord Stodmarsh has, it’s true, the reputation of being one of the finest men going, but who could say for sure that he’d not grown bone-weary of being tied to an invalid, when along came Miss Bradley? Her with all the advantage of being many years younger, and healthy to boot. Or perhaps he’d always had a fancy for Mrs Norris, who – you have to give it to her – pulled herself up from nothing with all that book reading.’
Florence continued to stand immobile. Yes, Hilda would leave no leaf unturned, before getting to Ned. ‘Again, don’t be taken in by what you think you see, Constable Trout. He never seemed to me what you could call normal. Don’t forget I was nanny to him from when he was a baby till he was six. I’ve always thought the reason I was sent packing was because I’d got it figured out he wasn’t right in the head. He was always flying into rages, like I heard his mother did in her time – and of course there’s her mother – Mrs Tressler. You don’t get put in insane asylums unless you’re a danger to yourself or others. Go round the bend once or in her case twice, and it’s not like it won’t happen again. I suppose we should feel sorry for the boy – can’t help what nature hands on, can we? His being so dependent on Mrs Norris strikes a number of people as very odd – still clinging to her apron strings like he’s s
till six. Goodness knows what could’ve got into him if he got the idea she was about to up and leave Mullings, and there’s been quite some talk about her and George Bird getting all lovey-dovey.’
Florence kept coming back to Ned, and his taking up Lady Stodmarsh’s hot milk that night. The police were bound to focus on motive and opportunity … not necessarily in that order. Ned had to be protected at all costs; he had suffered enough in his young life to be put through the wringer again. It would be different if there was one chance in a thousand he’d killed his grandmother – that she’d been mistaken about what she’d glimpsed in another pair of eyes; but she wasn’t … couldn’t have been. But who would listen to her on this? Possibly Constable Trout, but not his superiors. Of course she’d assert roundly that Ned would never hurt a fly. The trouble was that people always said that about those they loved. Even when presented with the most damning evidence, loyalty had the ability to triumph over reason. And yet … what about duty to society? What about allowing the wheels of justice to turn as they should?
Florence sat for a full five minutes before going up to her bedroom and hiding the letter in her handkerchief sachet, which already held the one George had written her and the notes she’d made of what Lady Stodmarsh had said – seemingly eons ago. It was silly to feel that Hilda Stark’s spite was physically contaminating, but she couldn’t help it.
It would be a mistake, she decided, to secrete the sachet away. Leaving it in the usual place should draw less attention to it than if it was concealed, should her room be searched, which she didn’t think sufficiently likely to be much of a concern. It was impossible to know for sure, but she didn’t think she’d given herself away, so as to pose a threat in the mind of the guilty party. Murder had to require some arrogance, and she hoped that, in this case, it would lead to complacency.
The remainder of the day passed slowly, despite all that had to be done. She should have been relieved that Annie was much restored emotionally, Jeanie was behaving herself and Mrs Tressler had let her know that Miss Johnson was no worse than she’d been yesterday; but she could not get the words WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT? out of her head for more than a few minutes at a time. Grumidge asked her twice if she was feeling all right, and Mrs McDonald had her say when they sat down with their cups of tea before retiring for the night: ‘You look washed out, Mrs Norris. It’s you Doctor Chester should be taking a look at when he next comes by. What you need is a tonic and a week’s rest. Why don’t you go and stay with that cousin of yours in London for a bit? The one you’re so fond of, that takes in lodgers. Let her spoil you, like you deserve. She sounds just the sort for the job.’
‘Hattie is a born caregiver – she took devoted care of her elderly parents until they died – but I don’t think I could visit her right now, thanks all the same for the suggestion.’ Florence stretched a smile. ‘You’re a kind woman, Mrs McDonald.’
Why hadn’t she reached out to Hattie? she thought. The answer was both simple and foolish. The wish to unburden herself to George and trust her hands and heart to him had blocked out any thought of turning elsewhere for advice.
Nothing could quickly assuage the pain Florence felt at having put a distance between her and George. She did this outside church after Sunday morning service. That this was where they had first met – just beyond the stone steps – was not lost on her; but continuing to deflect his attempts to get together without explanation would be cowardly and cruel. Three weeks had passed since the funeral, during which there had been no time for more than the briefest exchange. An explanation of her discourtesy since was well overdue. His sad-eyed but kindly acceptance of the one she produced only deepened her regret and remorse. Having too much on her plate at Mullings, along with involving herself more fully in her mother’s life, to allow for much else, might sound reasonable in the short term, but was unconvincing as permanence. She’d walked back to Mullings wrapped in shame, her thoughts rarely straying from what he was doing and thinking.
An unsurprising result of her talk with George was the reproach she saw on Alf Thatcher’s face during the coming week. Thereafter, whilst being as polite as ever, he made no attempt to have a chat if she were in the kitchen when he brought in the post. That his wife, Doris, equally resented Florence’s treatment of their friend Birdie was apparent by her always being in a hurry if the two women crossed in the village street. At times Florence feared that the resilience life had instilled in her would fail her at this juncture, but mercifully it did not. She hoped and prayed the same would be true for George.
That her inward and outer composure did not mesh quite so well as before was inevitable, since life at Mullings was irrevocably altered and remained suspect. She kept alert, as Hattie had suggested when she’d eventually been in touch with her, to what was going on within the family that might offer further enlightenment regarding Lady Stodmarsh’s death. Nothing had been achieved there beyond the attempt. Life must and did move on. There was consolation gained by spending much of her off time visiting her mother. She was warmed by her sister Ada’s open appreciation and grateful to her for not pressing, or allowing her husband and brother to do so, about what had really happened between Florence and George. That there was more to it than that both decided to pull back must have been clear.
‘Well, he is so recently widowed,’ said Ada after a moment’s thought. ‘Don’t worry about the men – they know not to yap when I tell them to shut their traps. Me and you haven’t been as close as we should’ve been over the years – I don’t suppose either of us rightly knows why – but the time’s come when I want to be there for you if needed.’ She followed this with a sisterly hug that meant the world to Florence.
Miss Johnson, as predicted by Doctor Chester, had not outlived Lady Stodmarsh by many weeks, but he continued to visit Mullings frequently to keep his eye on Lord Stodmarsh. In July, at the doctor’s suggestion, Ned – who had by then left school – urged his grandfather to get someone in to assist on a part-time basis with the estate records, at least until he himself could get a better hang of things. Receiving no protest, Ned telephoned Mr Shepherd, who’d been his headmaster at Westerbey prep school.
‘I’d try Cyril Fritch,’ was Mr Shepherd’s response. ‘Used to be a maths teacher, but unfortunately wasn’t cut out for keeping control of a classroom, Mr Stodmarsh.’
‘Ned, please; I only pretend to be old enough for long trousers.’
Mr Shepherd laughed. ‘You may know of him. He works at Craddock’s Antiquarian Bookshop – some selling but mostly bookkeeping. I know Craddock thinks highly of Fritch and my guess is he’d be glad of the added income. He lives with his widowed mother, who’s said to go through money like water.’
‘Thanks, Mr Shepherd. I’ll give it a go.’ Ned had encountered Cyril Fritch and had immediately sized him up as a twitching rabbit in rimless specs, but what did that matter if he could get his sums right every time – something that Ned himself failed to do more often than not?
‘Talk to George Bird about him if you like – his godson attended Dartford Grammar, where Fritch taught.’
Ned decided against this part of Mr Shepherd’s advice. He had lingering guilt over the part he might have played in Florence’s severing her friendship with the pub keeper. She had assured him when he’d brought this up that nothing he’d said had led to her decision, but for once in his life he hadn’t believed her.
In short course Cyril Fritch began working three evenings a week in the capacity offered him. Ned acknowledged to Florence that for once he felt gratitude towards Madge Bradley for making it part of her zealous helpfulness to take the man under her wing – by frequently checking to see if there was anything he needed in the room set aside for him.
Lord Stodmarsh warmly assured both Ned and Cyril Fritch how much he appreciated the new assistance, but it became increasingly noted within and without Mullings that he walked more slowly and seemed to have shrunk in height as well as build. These days he rarely entered the Dog and Whist
le. George, who, whilst putting a good face on it, had indeed been knocked sideways by the break between him and Florence, was deeply saddened by the change in His Lordship. Lord Stodmarsh’s kindly smile was still there, he chatted attentively as always with those present, but the zest was gone.
Word went round Dovecote Hatch that Doctor Chester had ordered a tonic and a change of scene. Some good that’d do, was the general opinion. Pining, plain and simple, was what ailed His Lordship. This sentiment amused Hilda Stark, who cackled as she sat drinking by herself. ‘Not a man alive couldn’t play the role of broken-hearted widower, especially if he’d taken part in theatricals at Mullings when he was a youngster. But don’t be so sure you’ll be the one to get him, Miss Bradley.’ Her merriment sent gin dribbling from her mouth. ‘I still say you’ve got competition from Florence Norris. And if she winds up with a ring on her finger you can bet your knickers there’ll be another letter written all neat and tidy and put in the post.’
To anyone else in Dovecote Hatch, the possibility of Lord Stodmarsh ever again tying the knot with any woman on earth would have been more unthinkable than the man in the moon coming down a ladder into an allotment patch, or someone in their midst walking round free as air after committing a murder under their noses. It was enough of a surprise when a year to the month after his wife’s death His Lordship finally gave into Doctor Chester’s exhortations that he take a holiday.
‘I’m delighted, of course,’ Ned perched himself on the edge of Florence’s desk, ‘though I wish he’d let me go with him.’
‘It’s understandable he should wish for some time alone,’ she answered.
Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery Page 13
