The sergeant watched me closely. He swung round suddenly to Mrs Wilson. ‘Would you say, Mrs Wilson, that this is a happy house?’
She flushed bright red and stammered incoherently. Mr Bertram protested, ‘Really, sergeant, you cannot ask such questions of my mother’s staff!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re quite correct. I should leaves that to my superiors.’ He nodded contritely, but I had the impression he had seen the reaction he needed to confirm his suspicions.
‘Sergeant,’ I began, ‘there was a point I was trying to make earlier.’
‘Did you ever hear such impertinence?’ snapped Mrs Wilson recovering.
‘Indeed, miss, and what might that be?’
‘I only wanted to say that the reason, on reflection, I thought the break-in to my room was a break-out, as it were, was that when I discovered the body I do not think it – he – had been long dead.’
‘And why do you think that, miss?’ interrupted the sergeant.
I dug my nails into my palms to keep my patience and took a short breath in. I realised everyone in the room was now regarding me intently. ‘Because he was still warm,’ I replied. ‘Everyone knows a body grows cold with death.’
‘Do they?’ inquired Mrs Wilson. ‘You do.’
‘Anyone who has ever killed a chicken knows this,’ I snapped. Mr Bertram’s moustache twitched again. ‘What I am trying to say is that it was very busy on the ground floor. I saw screaming. Miss Richenda was arriving. Mr Holdsworth was summoning the police on the telephone. The kitchen was in the midst of serving dinner.’
‘You’re saying as how the businesses of the downstairs floors may have driven the assailant upstairs, miss?’
‘Exactly, sergeant.’
‘Dear God,’ breathed Mr Bertram. ‘The man might have been here all that time? Why did no one think of searching the house?’ No one answered him. Mrs Wilson cast her eyes down.
‘A very interesting point, miss. And a clever one, if I may say so. I’m not sure I hold with serving girls being clever,’ he said darkly, but I was sure I saw his eyes twinkle.
‘No, indeed not,’ affirmed Mrs Wilson, ‘quite unsuitable.’
‘Are there passages that lead upstairs, sir?’ asked the sergeant.
‘There’s a whole blasted network of passages, sergeant. I doubt any of the family knows their full extent. It was my father’s architect’s idea. Damn the man!’
‘Sir!’ Mrs Wilson was scandalised. Personally, I found his display of emotion refreshing.
‘There should be a copy of the house blueprint in here. Father had it made up into a book. Let me look.’ Mr Bertram searched the shelves first by running his fingers along the backs of titles, but after a few minutes it was clear the hunted book was not in evidence. At this point he began to pull books from the shelves and toss them on the floor. ‘Might have hidden the thing,’ he grunted heaving a particularly large tome onto the sofa.
I gazed at the sergeant in horror as book after book was tumbled from its rightful place. ‘Perhaps, sir, there might be someone who was more familiar with the tome and its whereabouts?’ enquired the sergeant politely as he neatly sidestepped a small avalanche of books from the chaise that were about to land on his boots.
Mr Bertram paused, slack jawed. ‘Of course,’ he cried. ‘What an imbecile I am! My sister re-organised the library shortly before she moved to the city. I’ll fetch her.’
And putting action to the thought he strode out of the room in a most commanding manner. I would have been more impressed if he had left less devastation in his wake. I was fairly certain who would be called upon to clear up the mess.
‘I think Mrs Wilson that now might be a suitable time to interview this Merry.’
‘Of course, sergeant. Euphemia, if you could quickly straighten this room. Try as well as you can to put the books back where they belong. I will not expect perfection.’ With a gracious nod, she steamed out of the room, the sergeant in her wake.
I sighed and surveyed my surroundings. It had taken Mr Bertram a bare few minutes to wreck this room, but it would take me a lot longer to put it back together. Mrs Wilson might not expect perfection, but if any family member complained they were unable to locate a book I knew she would take great delight in blaming me. Accordingly I determined to put everything back in its exact place.
I was halfway through re-organising a section on classics that had mysteriously become mixed with turf almanacs – I was developing a suspicion that the master of the house might be more into appearance than actual knowledge – when I heard footsteps. I glanced over at the door handle and saw it turn. It was true that staff were not meant to be seen generally by the family – we were meant to be some kind of invisible benevolent fairy army that swept, cleaned and generally made their lives perfect – but I was not keen to re-enter the passage where I had found Cousin George. On the other hand it might be someone seeking me. Or it might be someone come to retrieve the architect’s plans for their own nefarious reasons.
The thoughts flashed through my brain like lightning. Before I could form a solid conclusion the door was opening. I dived into the small gap behind the screen, narrowly avoiding knocking it to the ground as I pulled it close in.
Footsteps entered the room. I stealthily steadied the screen hoping the new occupant would be looking the other way. Then I crouched down and put my eye to the gap above one of the screen’s hinges. It was Mr Richard.
He closed the door quietly behind him and turned the key. My heart turned over. I prayed he had no idea I was here.
He walked directly towards the screen then veered off to the fire. I slunk to the edge of the screen and watched from the gap between screen and shelves. To my amazement I saw Mr Richard stretch up onto tiptoe and run his hands along the top of the mantelpiece. A cloud of dust rolled over him and he began to sneeze violently. But apart from discovering the ineptitude of his mother’s staff he unearthed nothing else. Eyes streaming, he staggered back into the room. Then he went down on his hands and knees and begun searching the room. I edged as far back against the shelving as I could. My shoes were dark and nondescript. Maybe he would take them as shadows.
Mr Richard checked under the chaise and the wing-chair. Then he checked down the sides of the chair. I could only imagine he was losing his patience because there is no other word than to describe his next actions as ransacking the desk. He pulled out whole drawers and threw them onto the floor. I could not help but reflect he was unlikely to be the brightest member of the family as his secret search was raising quite a commotion.
He turned his attention next to the shelves and began pulling out book after book. I marvelled that he had so far ignored the screen. He stopped, wrung his fingers through his hair and turned on the spot to survey the room. Then, of course, he made directly for the screen.
A thousand useless excuses flitted through my brain. That I might appeal to the man’s better nature did not occur to me. He was here for a nefarious purpose – of that I had no doubt.
He was almost upon me when the door handle rattled loudly. ‘Hey there! Open the door!’ cried Mr Bertram’s voice. Mr Richard’s head jerked round. Then he fled – there is no other word for it – through the servants’ passage.
I ran over to the desk and quickly fitted the drawers back in place. I had no time to do more. Then I unlocked the door.
‘Euphemia! What are you doing?’ began Mr Bertram, but then he caught sight of the room behind me. ‘Did I do all that?’ he asked with amazement.
‘Not exactly, sir,’ I answered honestly. ‘But you know how it is when one is tidying. It always looks worse before it looks better.’
‘How very thrilling,’ said Miss Richenda entering the room twirling a long string of beads between her fingers. ‘A maid who says “one”. You must come and dress me this evening and tell me more about your humble beginnings.’
‘Richenda, I hardly think …’
‘Don’t be a tiresome patric
ian, Bertram. Helping me dress will be a lot better than swilling out the pigs or whatever else Wilson makes our prettiest maids do. Besides Euphemia and I are old friends. We bonded dragging Cousin Georgie out by his legs.’
‘Richenda, this is no joke!’
‘Darling, the joke is on you. There is no way I could find anything in this mess. Let me know when it’s tidied and I’ll come back. Right now, I need to go and do service to your dearest Mama. She hasn’t made up her mind yet if it will annoy our Papa more if I stay or if I go.’
With that she left. Mr Bertram looked at me uncomfortably. ‘Will you be all right doing all this?’
I curtsied rather than pointing out I had little choice in the matter.
‘I don’t suppose you have much choice,’ he said surprising me. ‘Nevertheless in this household it would not be appropriate or wise of me to help you.’
‘No, indeed, sir,’ I said wondering what on earth he meant.
Still he hesitated. ‘But you are so very small.’
I bridled at this. ‘I am an adequate height for my age and sex, sir, besides being strong, healthy and young. I assure any of the tasks that might be reasonably expected of me are not beyond my abilities or talents.’
This was quite true as long as no one asked me to boil an egg. I have always been a complete disaster in the kitchen. Mother disapproved of her daughter learning to cook.
Mr Bertram laughed. ‘I believe you might be, Euphemia. I shall leave you to it.’ He started to leave and then stopped, his hand on the door handle. ‘You know,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you really should seek a different situation.’ And then he was gone before I had a chance to protest.
Mere moments after he closed the door behind him it opened to admit Mrs Wilson. ‘You call this putting the room to rights, girl? If this is your idea of decent work …’
‘It will all be sorted, Mrs Wilson,’ I promised. ‘Mr Bertram was here not a moment before you giving me specific instructions.’ I didn’t mention these were instructions to leave.
Mrs Wilson snorted through her nose and turned on her heel. I took this as permission to proceed and did so. It was many weary hours later that I had returned the library to some form of normality. My father would have been appalled by their cataloguing system. I had begun to right this as I worked until it became apparent it would take the better part of a week to get the contents truly in order. I strongly doubted that even if I spent the time any member of the household would appreciate my efforts. So although it went against my natural inclinations I completed my work within the day. At least the sections were roughly grouped.
I made my way below stairs. Mrs Deighton grabbed me almost immediately. ‘You sit down there, girl, and you eat. You’re far too thin.’ She sat me at the kitchen table and heaped tubers, bread, gravy and sausages onto my plate. ‘But the family,’ I protested.
‘Lord love you, duck,’ replied the cook. ‘You’ve missed all your meals today and goodness only knows when we’ll all be sitting down again proper the state the house is in. You get that inside you before they call you up for service.’
I was intent on scraping up the last of Mrs Deighton’s delicious gravy when a bell began to ring. Shrill and persistent I imagined the owner was most impatient. Naturally the butler would know all the bells by sound. My eyes searched the room until I found the bell panel above the main door. It was Miss Richenda. I scrambled to my feet and ran up the servants’ stairs.
‘I thought you had quite forgotten me.’ Miss Richenda was seated at her dressing table in a floral dressing gown. Her hair was wet from her bath. With a sinking feeling I realised I was expected to dress her.
‘Something simple tonight. I don’t want dear Step-Mama to have an excuse to say I am dressing like a peacock. But one has to put on a good show. Especially when there’s been a murder in the house.’
I didn’t see why this should be so, but kept my eyes down. ‘The orange crepe with the cream shoes. Damn dress makes me look twice my age, but Papa likes it.’
I dutifully fetched the clothes and helped her into them. Then it was time to do her hair. Fortunately, Miss Richenda, like most women with unflattering hair knew exactly how it needed to be styled and gave explicit instructions. It was thick like my own but coarser with an animal-like texture. I found styling it highly unpleasant.
‘So,’ said Miss Richenda her eyes meeting mine in the mirror and holding them, ‘where did you spring from? You can tell me the truth. I campaign for women’s right to vote, you know. You have no need to tell me that all the wrongs in the world can be laid at a man’s door. What happened to you?’
‘My father died and I was left without a penny.’
Miss Richenda nodded. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that though, is there not, me dear? Who was your father? Dearest Step-Mama will have it you were born on the wrong side of the blanket. I did myself no favours pointing out a noble bastard was still several degrees more noble than any of us.’ She gave a barking laugh. ‘I’ve been defending you. You owe me the truth. Besides I’m the only one you can trust.’
‘Miss?’
‘I arrived after the murder.’
‘Did you hear someone ransacked my room, miss?’
‘I know a distraction when I hear one, Euphemia, but no, I did not.’
‘It was on the night of the murder. I was next door with Merry.’
‘Hmm, Merry. She was terribly upset. I wonder …’
‘It’s been an odd sort of day, miss. What with that book going missing from the library.’
Miss Richenda tossed her head. The sudden movement made me stab my finger with a hairpin. ‘Sorry,’ she said, but I knew from her expression she didn’t care in the slightest.
‘Mr Richard was looking in the library too. He made a great deal of mess.’ I had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes narrow.
‘It is not your place to criticise my brother,’ she said sharply. ‘He might not be the best or the most careful businessman, but he is my twin.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise, miss,’ I said. I did not feel I could directly ask about Mr Richard’s failings, but I needed to keep the conversation flowing. ‘You are not that alike. Although I suppose both you and Mr Richard are more akin to each other than to Mr Bertram.’
Miss Richenda nodded. ‘He’s dearest Step-Mama’s son. Papa’s second wife.’
‘Oh, I thought …’ I stopped, blushing.
‘Oh no,’ said Miss Richenda. ‘He married her quite young. My mother died when I was seven. Thrown from a horse. A society beauty, but with a background in trade. We’re all terribly middling despite what Dearest Step-Mama pretends. This huge house was all her idea.’
There was a tap at the door. Mrs Wilson entered. ‘Euphemia! You are needed. I’m sorry, Miss Richenda. This maid should not be here.’
Richenda gestured at the door. ‘We’re done. You can go.’
I followed Mrs Wilson out. ‘Seeing as you are up here, you can clean the upstairs bedrooms. Quickly now. It must be finished by the time dinner is over.’
What about mine? I thought, but had the sense not to say. The labours of a servant were giving me the most enormous appetite. I could only hope the generous Mrs Deighton would remember me. Mrs Wilson opened a small, well-concealed cupboard and thrust a dustpan, brush and duster into my hands.
‘Where do I start?’
Mrs Wilson made a sweeping gesture along the corridor. ‘All the bedrooms on this wing need dusting. Merry should have straightened the beds, but I am making it your responsibility to see that when the family return from dinner they find their rooms in perfect order.’
I swallowed, but nodded. My brief acquaintance with the Staplefords gave me little hope they were capable of picking up even a pin.
Mrs Wilson glided away, a dark, self-satisfied apparition. The kinder side of my nature wondered how any woman could have lacked to such a glacial degree, the warmth of human kindness – what had happened to her to make her the way she was
? My other side – the one my mother had worked so hard to suppress – wanted to kick her down the stairs.
To put temptation out of range I chose a room at random and opened the door.
I walked into a bedroom resplendent with heavy, masculine furniture. All the pieces were made from dark stained wood with a twisted pole detail. The bed was a half tester with drapery in verdant green. Curtains of the same colour adorned two wide windows that overlooked the drive. To one side of the bed was a clothes stand with a man’s day clothes neatly hung upon it. I recognised the jacket at once as belonging to Mr Bertram. There were two high chests of drawers. Both shut. A dressing table with a hairbrush, small box and a bowl for change was perfectly arranged. A pair of chairs was placed with mirror symmetry at 45-degree angles either side of the bed. Nothing was out of order except the green counterpane which was in considerable disarray. The faint smell of musky, male cologne hung in the air.
It felt impolite to even look for dust in such an immaculate room. I left the dustpan and broom by the door and began to waft the feather duster. I wasn’t entirely sure of its purpose except as a means to move dust from one area to another. Was I meant to sweep it onto the floor and then capture it with the dustpan? It was hardly the kind of question I could ask. Any of the servants would know I was fraud at once whereas I was certain should I ever be on chatting terms with the family they would have no idea either.
I reasoned as long as I went through the motions I had seen all maids do that an acceptable outcome would occur. I set to with a will and quickly discovered that flicking the feather duster was actually quite enjoyable. In Miss Richenda’s room there was going to be a lot of work tidying and replacing items, but it was pleasurable to whisk around this near-perfect room removing a very few specks of dust and leaving it in totally immaculate order.
A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One Page 5
