A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One

by Caroline Dunford

  I felt I was quite getting into the swing of things when disaster struck. The top of the tester was quite out of my reach, but if I stood on tiptoe I was certain I could reach its sides. I managed to remove a loop of spider-web, but in doing so I dislodged a small dust kitten from farther up the bed. I stretched a tiny bit more and overreached myself.

  The dust kitten fell on my head and I fell onto the bed sneezing violently.

  My impact with the counterpane was hard and painful enough that I didn’t even fuss about the mess in my hair. Instead I rolled over onto my side groaning. The bed was once again soft. There was something hard under the cover. I paused for a moment to collect myself and became aware of a subtle but distinct male scent coming from the bed. Instead of feeling repelled as a girl of my breeding should have done, I confess I rather liked it. The total impropriety of my response brought me to my senses and I sat up, blushing vividly.

  My hand touched the hard surface under the covers. I was here to make the bed, so surely …? I threw back the counterpane and uncovered a book. The cover was bound in blue leather. Stencilled on the front was the title The Complete Architectural Drawings of Stapleford House.

  I was kneeling on the rumpled bed, staring down in horror at my discovery, when the bedroom door opened and Mr Bertram entered.

  Chapter Five

  Striking A Deal

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my bed?’ demanded Mr Bertram, his face suffused with colour.

  ‘I am not in your bed,’ I retorted hotly. ‘I am on it. And pray, what are you doing with the missing book?’ I attempted to brandish the tome at him, but it was too heavy. I had to content myself with waggling the hard cover in a way I intended to be forceful and menacing. It was not entirely successful.

  ‘Leave my chambers at once!’

  ‘It is hardly “chambers”. There is only one room!’

  Mr Bertram walked across to the bed. ‘There is an en-suite,’ he said icily. ‘One I assume you were sent to clean rather than riffling through my possessions.’

  ‘I am not riffling!’ I protested. I scrambled to the edge of the bed. Mr Bertram was very close, but at least I was no longer among the sheets. ‘Do not change the subject. You should not have this.’

  ‘How dare you tell me what I can or cannot do, wench!’

  ‘I am not a wench,’ I screeched. ‘If you do not immediately tell me why this book is hidden in your room I shall scream the place down.’

  ‘Euphemia, that is enough.’

  ‘I will.’

  We stood facing each other, eyes locked. I had to look up, but I am sure my intent showed in my eyes because Mr Bertram suddenly gave a huge sigh and seemed to shrink a little. I was conscious of a pang of sympathy. ‘You are the most extraordinary maid I have ever met,’ he said, backing towards one of the chairs and sitting on it. I was about to reply with a blistering retort about so-called gentlemen who sit in the presence of a lady when I remembered my situation. So instead I drew myself up to my full height and said, ‘I may be only a maid, but I am a female. Would it be unreasonable of me to expect you to offer me a seat before we talk?’

  He waved his hand at the other chair. ‘Are we going to talk?’

  I sighed and walked round the bed to fetch the other chair. He made no move to help me. I lugged it over. ‘I do hope you generally treat ladies better than this.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of entertaining ladies in my bedchamber.’

  I flushed.

  ‘I repeat my question: are we going to talk?’ he said. This time his moustache was not quivering. It was quite still. His forehead was wrinkled in an unbecoming frown.

  I plonked my chair into place and sat down. ‘You shouldn’t frown like that,’ I said directly. ‘Your hair will recede early.’

  Mr Bertram put his hand up involuntarily to check his hairline. I suspected from the neatness of the room he was a somewhat vain man. I had what I wanted; I had him off-guard. I continued. ‘I think considering what I have just found concealed in your room we need to discuss the matter.’

  ‘What? Are you going to blackmail me?’

  I almost shot out of my chair. ‘Of course not,’ I spat. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure what you are. I am fast coming to the conclusion you are no serving maid.’

  ‘I think I had already told you that a change in circumstances had led me to seek a position in service,’ I responded with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Mr Bertram grunted. My disgust must have shown for he said, ‘If you choose to hire yourself as a maid you will have to become used to men treating you like a servant. I should take this opportunity to warn you that any other male member of the household finding a pretty servant in …’ I gave him a furious glare and he corrected himself. ‘… on his bed would have been unlikely to have behaved with the restraint I have shown.’

  I quailed inwardly, but I also noted he referred positively to my appearance. ‘I was led to understand this was a gentleman’s household.’

  Mr Bertram shook his head. ‘You have no idea of what it means to be a gentleman in these changing times.’ I opened my mouth to speak. He raised his hand commandingly to silence me and continued. ‘And you have certainly no idea of what being in service is liable to require of you.’ He pulled his brows close and leant forward. His eyes travelled from my toes to my head. I felt myself flinching under his gaze. ‘This is an unsuitable occupation for you.’

  ‘So you have said at wearisome length. But what you have not done, sir, is explain the presence of this book.’

  Mr Bertram sat back in his seat. ‘You are akin to a terrier with a rat,’ he said smiling slightly.

  ‘Thank you for the flattering comparison,’ I responded. ‘I assure you I am a most assiduous hunter.’

  He did laugh at that. ‘My God, to be threatened by a maid in my own house! I take it you think I murdered dear Cousin George?’

  I considered this idea briefly. I can honestly say it had not occurred to me. I began to realise what a dangerous position I might have put myself in. ‘No,’ I said carefully, ‘I do not think that. However, I do think you had a reason for removing the book. I also would not have described you as overwhelmed by grief. I surmise you know something about this incident you are unwilling to share with the police.’

  Mr Bertram clapped twice. ‘Bravo! You surmise correctly.’

  ‘Don’t mock me,’ I snapped. I recovered quickly and added, ‘Please, sir.’

  ‘What is your interest in all this?’

  ‘It has been variously suggested that I may have some personal involvement with the recent tragedy.’

  ‘You want to clear your name?’

  ‘I’m certainly keen not to be dismissed without references.’

  ‘So you would not claim you had an innate passion for justice?’

  ‘I have never had cause to consider it,’ I responded honestly. ‘Though I naturally would not want to see a criminal go unpunished.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I cannot say I am used to having an honest staff. In my experience servants do not tend to mourn the passing of their masters and are more likely to avail themselves of his boots on his demise than weep with grief.’

  ‘Then they must have had to endure some very poor masters.’

  Mr Bertram bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘There is merit in what you say. However, while the lower classes may distrust the upper, the upper – or in my case the upper-middle – tend to be wary of the police.’

  ‘Scandal,’ I conjectured.

  ‘Yes, that. An unwillingness to have one’s affairs paraded for the amusement of the common lot. But also perhaps also a distrust of a police service that is comprised of men, who will not ever be able to afford to live as we – my family – do.’

  ‘You think Sergeant Davies is not an honest man?’

  Mr Bertram shrugged. ‘What now?’ he asked.


  ‘Now you tell me who you are shielding.’

  We locked eyes once more. Then to my surprise, he conceded. ‘Lord knows I have no one else to address my suspicions towards. I shall of course deny this conversation took place if you are ever foolish enough to mention it to another.’

  ‘Of course,’ I responded. ‘You are a gentleman.’

  He coloured but whipped back, ‘And you are a servant.’

  ‘We approach the situation from different sides, but I suspect not entirely different moral stances.’

  ‘Madam, you accuse me of having morals?’

  ‘Do not joke, sir. I acquit you of dishonesty and accuse you of a desire to protect. Who are you shielding?’

  ‘My half-sister, Richenda. My family are an odd lot, but I like her the best of them all.’

  ‘And your like of her would make her murdering of your cousin acceptable? I see now why you and the police force are unlikely to agree.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I do not know that Richenda did this – and if she has I would not approve of her actions – but there are mitigating circumstances. You would not understand.’

  ‘You mean the man was a cad?’

  ‘I see my cousin’s epitaph is already being written by rumour. An epitaph is …’

  ‘I know what it is,’ I interrupted. ‘So your cousin was close to Miss Richenda?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Let us just say I have always thought it was not only politics that caused Richenda to flee the house as soon as she was able.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Until recently Cousin George lived here.’

  ‘Ah, I do understand.’

  ‘I rather hope you don’t,’ said Mr Bertram unexpectedly.

  ‘But she arrived after the murder.’

  ‘The perfect alibi.’

  ‘If you count it being physically impossible for her to have committed the atrocity, yes. I would call that the ultimate alibi. I believe it is also technically known as innocence.’

  ‘But did she arrive afterwards?’ asked Mr Bertram. He got up and went over the rumpled bed and threw back the untidy sheets. I tensed myself ready to run, but all he did was uncover and open the book. ‘Look here.’

  I crossed cautiously to the other side of the bed. He observed my progress with a wry smile. ‘If I had nefarious designs upon you, Euphemia, I would hardly have warned you. Nefarious means …’

  ‘I know what it means,’ I snapped.

  He looked at me levelly. ‘Of course you do. Now come round here where you can see properly.’

  I gripped my duster firmly. The stick was quite strong and, if necessary, I could always give him a hearty whack. I came round to his side and stood a shade out of arm’s reach. But Mr Bertram showed no sign of wanting to grab me. Instead he opened the book and pointed to a map showing a passage that ran in from the side of the house, connected to the servants’ staircase and thus through to the passage serving the library. ‘I believe this is what they call a discreet entrance. It would have been possible for Richenda to enter from the side of the property and then gain access to the library. She could even retreat the way she had come without being seen and then arrive at the front door.’

  ‘Would not the side-door be locked?’

  ‘I doubt it. This is the middle of the country and this is a gentleman’s house. It is unlikely that someone would attempt to rob the house during the day. At night, of course, it is more likely and that door would definitely be locked. My father has a very fine porcelain collection that could be targeted by thieves, but even the bravest thief would surely flinch at a daylight robbery. Whereas Richenda …’

  ‘Could always say she had slipped in this way to surprise your parents if she was caught.’

  ‘I was going to say Richenda has never lacked courage, but you are quite right. If accosted Richenda could claim she had every reason to be in the house.’

  ‘It would still be a bold plan.’

  Mr Bertram nodded. ‘But not impossible, you will agree.’

  ‘You called it a discreet entrance?’

  Mr Bertram fingered his collar. ‘I should perhaps have called it a discreet exit. I suspect the architect included this passage so the master of the house could slip away to see his, er, local female acquaintance without the Mistress of the house being aware of his absence.’

  ‘But this house is not very old …’

  ‘Exactly. Another reason I prefer not to show this map to the police. I do not inquire into my father’s affairs and I would prefer it if no one else did.’

  I struggled mentally with this information. That one’s father should be such a reprobate! What would it do to the children of the house? How would their young minds be formed under such a situation? If his father had had this discreet exit built into his home, it was not unreasonable to assume this was not a recently acquired predilection. Mr Bertram’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘So do I have your word you will not mention this to the police?’

  I stepped back. ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘Have you no loyalty?’ he cried.

  ‘I have been in this house less than 24 hours and I would not say it has been a happy experience.’

  ‘You are in our employ!’

  ‘You do not buy loyalty, Mr Bertram,’ I said haughtily. ‘You might buy silence, but not loyalty.’

  Mr Bertram reached into his inside coat pocket. ‘I thought you better than this. How much?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘What price is your honour?’

  His face positively glowed at that. ‘My honour is not for sale,’ he barked.

  ‘And neither is mine,’ I said quietly.

  He gestured to me to take a seat again. ‘We appear to have reached an impasse.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Am I incorrect in thinking that if the murderer should transpire to be other than your stepsister you would want justice to be served?’

  ‘George was an annoying little tick, but …’ Mr Bertram broke off. ‘I am not entirely of a mind that there is a but. In many ways whoever rid the world of Cousin George is to be commended.’

  ‘It is the hand of God alone who should decide who lives or dies!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Or a jury of 12 good men tried and true?’

  ‘Well, yes. There is that,’ I conceded. Mr Bertram was a most annoying man.

  ‘Besides, Euphemia, my father is involved in some business deals, which I think I say without fear of compromise are at the heart of the nation’s interest.’

  ‘So now you are saying that rather than bringing scandal to your family the police may choose to conceal the truth? You confuse me, sir.’

  Mr Bertram took out his pocket watch. ‘I confuse myself, Euphemia. Let us say that while I believe the police would be unwilling to look the other way in the face of actual evidence, influence may be brought to bear to close the case quickly, discreetly and without too deep an inquiry.’

  ‘But that is wrong!’

  ‘From a moral standpoint I agree, but as a member of the family, should this have been Richenda taking her revenge, I cannot be other than grateful that she will not hang for it.’

  ‘But what if it was not her?’ I persisted.

  Mr Bertram rose, shutting his watchcase with a snap. He frowned heavily. ‘You really are a most annoying girl and I am late for dinner. I only came to find another pair of cufflinks. The chain of this one is broken.’ He took a broken pair of jade-set links from his pocket. ‘And I find myself embroiled in an ethical and moral dilemma.’

  ‘Please go,’ I responded, quite forgetting myself. ‘A small thing like justice should never get in the way of fine dining.’

  The frown vanished in a laugh. ‘I have been a staunch devotee of Mrs Deighton ever since I was old enough to sneak into her pantry by myself and steal one of her currant buns, but I should never call her handiwork fine dining. Hearty and wholesome is a more fitting description.’

  I jumped to my feet and stamped my foot
. ‘By all means put pies before justice!’

  At this Mr Bertram laughed even harder. ‘My dear girl, this has been the most trying of times, but you positively inspire me. I confess in part my unwillingness to come forward with this book has been due to my inability to trust anyone. You, on the other hand, are undoubtedly trustworthy. And again I suggest you are quite in the wrong situation.’

  ‘I have little choice, sir,’ I responded through gritted teeth.

  ‘Then, I feel you will be a most refreshing addition to the household.’

  ‘But the book!’

  ‘Euphemia, I must go!’

  ‘But, sir!’

  Mr Bertram sighed. ‘I offer a compromise. I suggest we pool our obvious intelligences and see what we can discover between us. That neither of us approaches the police without fully appraising the other of what we have learned.’

  ‘You are proposing we act as a team?’ I was astonished.

  ‘Obviously, some of Richenda’s ideals must have rubbed off on me. And you have access to the servants’ hall and their gossip as I do not.’

  ‘If Mrs Wilson has me dismissed I will feel I must reveal what I know before I leave.’

  ‘So this is your idea of not blackmailing me? Shame Euphemia!’ I could not meet his eyes. ‘Very well,’ continued Mr Bertram, ‘while we are engaged upon this enterprise I will ensure that you stay on staff. I am not entirely sure how I will do so, but I will.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said and curtsied.

  ‘Don’t curtsy to me, Euphemia. I do not believe you.’ On which obscure utterance, he threw his broken cufflinks into the tray on the dressing table. He then opened the small box and extracted a small silver set. He fitted these into his shirt without a word. Indeed if we had not but recently been in deep conversation I would have thought him ignorant of my presence. My heart sank as I gained yet more understanding of what it was to be a servant. Mr Bertram completed his task. Shot his cuffs and checked his appearance in the mirror. Apparently satisfied with what he saw he turned to exit the room without so much as a glance in my direction. I felt his snub as a dull pain in my solar plexus. It was not unlike indigestion and perhaps appropriately so as he was forcing me to swallow the unpalatable nature of my situation.