‘Wish that was all it’d take to put you in your coffin,’ he’d groused into his soup bowl. Regina’s response was the thinning of thin red lips into a disdainful smile. These little exchanges were to her the champagne of life, the sparkling, bubbling lift that energized and kept her looking younger than her age.
Ned directed a thought his uncle’s way. Poor blighter! He’d gone the way of all blown-up balloons: the air had finally seeped out of him. His raucous outbursts had become less frequent over the past couple of years. One reason, perhaps, was that the victim of choice, his wife, was gone from the house a good deal these days – her pleasure in attending to the altar flowers having extended to other church matters. Also he’d gained a considerable amount of weight, limiting much of the huffing and puffing of yore to the business of catching his breath. An ageing, overly stout fellow reduced to an emotional shadow of his former self. It came to Ned at that moment, perhaps because the arrival of Sylvia Jones had subconsciously nudged at his own notions of family, that despite William’s never having paid him much account and having a disagreeable impact on those around him, the man was his grandparents’ son and his father’s brother, and such ties mattered.
Watching Regina finger the pearls she always wore, Ned revelled in a vision of her choking herself with them on being presented with Sylvia Jones.
Madge’s voice brought him back to the moment. It was typical of her to fill in silences, searching out any piece of verbal flotsam and poking it downstream in the hope of reeling in a response that would get everyone chatting, but this did not appear to be her present aim. She was clearly upset and Ned realized belatedly that she was addressing him. ‘Poor Cyril. It really is too mean of whoever stole his bike.’
‘It certainly is,’ Ned replied.
‘Of course it’s not new, but that’s not the point, is it?’
‘I should say not!’
‘And coming on top of finding out Mr Craddock’s intention to sell the bookshop, you’ll understand how depressed he’s feeling.’
Regina cut in, voice icy, eyes mirthful. ‘I hope, Madge, this plaintive tale is not a hint that I buy him another.’
‘Of course not.’ Madge flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment, Ned could not gauge, but the impact of colour against her dark hair and eyes resulted in a prettiness that made it more understandable to him why Cyril Fritch wished to marry her. ‘I have the money in my Post Office account.’
‘For a bookshop?’ Gertrude asked, out of what Ned assumed to be Christian politeness. She had little interest in Madge and none in Cyril.
‘For a new bike, but Cyril is fond of the one he has!’ A sob caught at the words. ‘He dislikes change.’
‘Then one can only assume,’ Regina’s voice had never been more sneering, ‘that you held him at gunpoint until you got a marriage proposal out of him.’
‘That’s a filthy thing to say!’ Ned shot up in his chair. Vile woman! He couldn’t wait to feed her to Sylvia Jones.
‘I’m merely supplying an answer to what has puzzled so many. Not Lady Blake, however – such a clear-sighted woman on occasion. She’s in no doubt, Madge, that you did that sad little excuse for a man the honour of begging his hand in marriage. By the way, Ned, speaking of wedding bells, I’ve invited your betrothed along with her parents and brother to tea tomorrow. I trust you appreciate my thoughtfulness in making this gesture …’ Her gaze shifted away from him as Madge, head ducked, fled the room. ‘Oh, dear! Did I say something to wound her?’
‘I don’t think that question merits an answer,’ said Gertrude in a voice as stout as her figure. Ned had risen to follow Madge, but the advisability of allowing her time alone struck him and he settled back into his chair to eye his aunt with respect. All this churchy business must be applauded for having supplied the old bean with sufficient backbone to have her casting off her corsets in the near future. Really, he was becoming quite fond of her.
William muttered something about damned, prattling women. Regina opened her gash of a mouth to respond, but closed it upon the entrance of the better looking of the two footmen with the fish course. Any continuation was thus forestalled until the door closed on his retreat, whereupon Ned beamed at Gertrude.
‘Back to what you were saying, Aunt.’
‘The usual meaningless drivel, but if you must encourage her,’ Regina gave a dismissive smile, ‘I shall not attend.’
Gertrude took her time swallowing a forkful of salmon coated in hollandaise and then dabbing at her mouth. ‘I am happy to repeat that most of what you have to say is without merit. On the subject of snaring husbands, I believe you can speak from the wisdom of experience. One of course dislikes being judgmental, but …’
‘Do let’s,’ Ned urged. ‘It’s such a pleasure to see you coming out of your shell, Aunt, after all these years.’
‘Pink muck,’ groused William, staring at his plate.
‘Can’t agree with you there, Uncle. In my opinion, both Keats and Shelley might have been inspired to write “Odes to A Salmon Mousse” had they tasted Mrs McDonald’s.’
‘She’s been slipping lately, to the point where I’ve been enquiring into locating a replacement.’ If Regina hoped a protest from Ned would end the rest of what Gertrude had to say she was mistaken.
‘Miss Hendrick, the vicar’s housekeeper, says if we don’t encourage people to take a good peek into their weaknesses they’ll never change for the better. It is true some may wonder how Madge and Cyril Fritch came to be engaged – the difference in their walks of life would assure that – but I cannot think there has been near as much speculation about them as there has been on how you manoeuvred my father-in-law into marrying you.’
Regina’s expression did not alter by the flicker of an eyelash; she continued poking at her salmon mousse, yet the temperature seemed to drop – as if a window had been opened to introduce an icy draft.
‘It has also been of interest, to myself amongst others, that the Reverend Pimcrisp has practically shunned this house since your arrival. Miss Hendrick is fond of him, and she and I have become good friends. We seem to fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle; it seemed a little strange at first … and yet so nice to be regarded as a reliable confidante. I say this to explain that she isn’t a gossip. Only our closeness allowed her to tell me this afternoon how upset she had been by Reverend Pimcrisp’s distress, mounting to alarm, when Edward returned from his visit to Weymouth engaged to you.’
‘Indeed?’ Regina’s tone expressed boredom.
‘He blamed himself.’
‘Why?’ Ned leaned forward.
‘For the sin of worldly vanity that had led him to include mention in correspondence with his cousin, Lord Asprey, of his friendship with a man of such stature as Edward Stodmarsh. In the pertinent letter he’d written of Edward’s imminent visit to Weymouth, providing dates and the name of the hotel.’
‘I see where you’re leading,’ said Ned, ‘but how was that information relayed to …?’
‘My charming self?’ Regina’s laugh was airy. Despite her comment that Mrs McDonald needed sacking, she had finished her salmon mousse and now sipped her wine.
Gertrude reached for the salt cellar. ‘Lord Asprey lives in Northumbria and is friendly with your family, the Tamershams, and he acknowledged on inquiry from Mr Pimcrisp that he had passed along word to them of the holiday, along with the information that Edward was a grief-stricken widower in failing health. Was it a coincidence that you should visit Weymouth at the same time? The embarrassed Lord Asprey didn’t think so, any more than the vicar had. In his letter of apology, he described you as a malevolent woman who had made her brother and sister-in-law’s lives wretched for years and had driven her daughter to escape, by eloping with the Jones lad, then refused to aid the girl when pregnant and impoverished. When she begged you to send the jewellery given to her by her grandparents you laughed as you tore up the letter and refused to give her uncle or aunt her address.’
Ned sat rig
id, picturing Sylvia Jones in the sitting room and hoping she was an imposter. Being related by blood to Regina should not be wished on anyone.
‘And you heard this fairy tale from your Miss Hendrick?’ Regina fingered her pearls.
‘This afternoon, as I said.’ Gertrude saw her husband remove his pipe from his pocket, shook her head and watched him return it, grumbling. ‘It has played heavily upon her mind that Mr Pimcrisp continues to do penance by giving up crumpets with his afternoon tea. It was her hope that I could persuade you into a life of atonement, which if he were to know about it might ease his mind.’
‘Atonement! For taking a trip to Weymouth, even if it were in pursuit of meeting an eligible man? I couldn’t compel him to offer marriage!’
‘Oh, but I think, as does the poor vicar, that you could and did. You certainly had no difficulty in believing Madge pulled the same rabbit out of the hat with Cyril Fritch.’
‘None of this comes as a surprise.’ Ned’s eyes glittered like green glass. ‘I was never angry with Grandfather for marrying you, or for the trust he set up afterwards, but there was a hurt – now it’s all for him. You played your cards so splendidly, Regina, with your stories of being ill-treated by your family and your fear of finding yourself a dependent at Mullings after his death.’
‘All that fascinates me about this conversation,’ Regina waved a dismissive hand at him, ‘is the glow your aunt radiates when she’s talking about her Miss Hendrick – for all the world as if she’s swept up in a schoolgirl crush on the games mistress. Can it be she’s amongst those who never outgrow that stage?’
‘What? What?’ William roused himself to growl.
Gertrude placidly advised him not to excite himself. Ned could not guess at the true state of her feelings; she’d always had the ability to constrain her emotions. ‘Regina is merely suggesting, my dear, that I’m a woman of unnatural inclinations.’
‘Harrumph! Hate to agree with a word out of her mouth, but have to for once. All this prancing down to church! Not normal!’ He ruminated for a moment or two. ‘It could get around that you regret not taking the veil.’
Ned relaxed fractionally before Regina spoke again. ‘What a fool you are! No wonder your parents had little time for you!’
‘Damn you to hell, you vicious swine!’ It was the old William Stodmarsh rearing up, face empurpled, eyes bulging, fist thumping the table.
‘Have we not all heard,’ Regina surveyed Ned and Gertrude wonderingly, ‘this man, using the term loosely, bleat ad nauseam about being the ignored, unloved younger son?’ A hush, thick and impenetrable as smog, descended.
In light of all that had preceded, Ned should not perhaps have been as aghast as he was, and there was undeniable truth on Regina’s side in this instant, but when he saw the look in his uncle’s eyes – a mixture of hate and defeat – he knew that a mortal wound had been dealt. He would from now on be a walking corpse.
Ned saw, for the first time in his memory, Gertrude look at her husband with compassion bordering on tenderness. She went to his chair and helped him to his feet. Ned started to rise, but she shook her head. ‘There, there, my dear, let me help you to your room and I’ll read you a comforting piece from the Bible. You’ll see,’ she continued as she led him shambling from the room, ‘that there are none forsaken, none left unloved by the one who counts above all.’
They had just passed into the hall when the footman came in. Expertly trained as he was, he showed no surprise at finding Regina and Ned alone at the table. Ordinarily Ned felt it appropriate to provide an explanation, but he was convinced that if he did so Regina would counter it with a blistering one of her own. It seemed to him that the meal would never end. The minutes ticked by in silence, save for the clinking of cutlery and the rain pattering forcefully against the windows. At last! Regina rose and he followed suit, but the sequence was not as he had imagined it. Instead of joining him for coffee in the drawing room where he had arranged for Grumidge to inform her of Sylvia Jones’s arrival, she instead swept upstairs to her room.
Not an unfortunate turn of events, he decided. It was now appropriate to send Florie to relay the message, but this would need to occur quickly – before Regina could use the excuse of having retired to bed for refusing to see the girl. Ned hastened from the hall back into the dining room and asked the footman who was clearing the table if he knew where Mrs Norris was to be found.
‘I saw her go into the sitting room across from the study a moment ago, sir.’
Ned thanked him and darted down the hall to slide to a standstill when Florence came out of the door to which he was headed.
‘How is she?’
‘Asleep. I’d taken her in another cup of tea but she was too worn out to take more than a couple of sips before her eyes closed. I put her feet on a hassock and here I am.’
‘The timing couldn’t be better.’ Ned nodded at her approvingly. ‘I need to go up to Regina’s bedroom where she has withdrawn – I would like to think to lick her wounds, but more likely to rearm for tomorrow. Dinner was hellish, I’ll tell you about that later – the point is that Grumidge won’t do, so it has to be you who breaks it to her that she’s a grandmother and the proof’s here at Mullings. Poor Florie, I never stop putting you through it, do I?’
‘I do my job, sir.’
‘What nonsense!’ Ned’s mock frown was followed by a hug and suddenly they were both laughing, albeit uneasily.
‘Lady Stodmarsh may be taking a bath.’
‘Haul her out!’
Florence saw him go into the sitting room as she went up the stairs. Regina Stodmarsh responded to her knock on the bedroom door with an order to enter. The interior was one of luxurious silk and satin, plush carpeting, marquetry, gilded mirrors and ornate molding. It had not been that way at the time of Edward Stodmarsh’s death, but it had to be said that Regina had generally made few alterations, extravagant or otherwise, to the house. Wisely so, given its near perfection of good taste, as perhaps she was aware.
Regina was standing before her dressing table mirror, her back to the door and Florence; the light from the overhead chandelier brought out the sapphire fire of the pearls’ clasp. In comparison the reflected eyes appeared drained of their usual blue – their shine was that of polished steel.
‘Is the drawing room on fire, Mrs Norris?’ she inquired, without turning her head.
‘No, madam,’ Florence answered without inflection. ‘A young lady has arrived who wishes to speak with you.’
‘At this hour?’ Contempt tightened the reflected face.
‘She arrived as dinner was about to be served and she agreed to wait until its conclusion so as not to cause a delay.’
‘Agreed?’ Regina Stodmarsh revolved in slow motion. ‘Pray tell me she is a duchess, Mrs Norris, otherwise, as so frequently occurs, you overstep your position in this household.’
Florence chose not to say that Ned had instructed her to relay the information. ‘The young lady says she is a Miss Sylvia Jones and that she is your granddaughter, Lady Stodmarsh.’
‘Nonsense. Impossible!’ The words were fired like shots from a pistol, but it was Regina Stodmarsh who looked as if she had taken a bullet. Her eyes stared blankly; she swayed and in doing so backed into the dressing table, hands grabbing its edge for support. Florence experienced a flicker of sympathy. She was about to offer to help Lady Stodmarsh into a nearby chair, when the woman rallied sufficiently to speak in a trembling voice containing a multitude of emotions warring with each other. ‘I have no granddaughter. This is trickery. I wouldn’t be surprised if my step-grandson thought it up as a way of getting back at me for refusing to finance his marriage to the Blake girl.’ She was regaining confidence with each hissing word.
‘Do you wish her to be fetched, Lady Stodmarsh, so you can tell her so?’ Florence replied at her most detached.
‘Get out! Go downstairs and tell the butler and footmen that if they hope to be employed here five minutes from now they will get hold
of her, by the hair if necessary, and throw her out of my house.’
‘Not so,’ came Ned’s voice from the doorway. Florence turned to see him leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets, feet crossed – a negligent stance that could have sprung from boyish confidence, or a man’s steady determination. ‘The decision as to who comes or goes at Mullings is mine by right of birth. Grandfather did not appoint you my legal guardian; what control you have is limited to what is tied up in the trust. You know that well enough, or you would – threats notwithstanding – have tossed Madge out of here an age ago.’
Regina Stodmarsh’s hand curled. ‘This is a matter pertinent only to myself.’
‘I don’t see it that way.’ Ned’s eyes lit with mockery. ‘Call me nosy, but I’m very much interested in finding out how you explain a granddaughter who, according to your account, died at birth. Perky little thing for a corpse. Didn’t know they could grow.’ He turned, beckoned, and Sylvia Jones came in, platinum head held high.
Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery Page 23
