A Death in the Asylum

by Caroline Dunford

  A DEATH IN THE ASYLUM

  CAROLINE DUNFORD

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781909520950

  Copyright © Caroline Dunford 2013

  The right of Caroline Dunford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

  Other titles in the series

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Book Club Questions for Discussion

  Chapter One

  Calamity at White Orchards

  Madam Arcana raised her face to the ceiling. Her large purple turban slipped dangerously backwards as she enquired in a loud stage whisper of the plaster above her, ‘Is there anybody there?’

  Despite the rather stern instructions I had been given to keep my eyes on the glass at the centre of the table I too looked up. But then very recently I had found ceilings to have become the most unreliable of objects.

  White Orchards was not a large house. If Stapleford Hall is modest when compared to what my mother refers to as the “real great houses”, she would doubtless rate Mr Bertram’s new seat as adequate for an orangery and its flora incumbents, but never a dwelling for anyone who counted. This all despite the fact that since her marriage to my late father, the Very Reverend Joshia Martins, she had lived in a vicarage and since his death in a cottage that would have fitted neatly into the ballroom at Stapleford Hall and still left room to waltz around the perimeter. But then my mother still clings to memories of her youth in her father’s – the earl who shall not be named’s – great house. I have never seen my grandfather and now I am in service I doubt he will ever have the honour of meeting me.

  Until last week, and the incident with the ceiling, I was a housekeeper at White Orchards. I had come to this position after many an unexpected turn in the previous 14 months. Having thrown myself into service in January 1910 to help provide for mother and my brother, Little Joe, when father left us destitute, fate had washed me up on the shores of Stapleford Hall the same day a murder was committed there. By the time the second murder had occurred – this time of the head of the house – I was entangled in the whole dreadful business and had made a dire enemy of the new Lord Stapleford and formed an almost inappropriate alliance with his younger brother, Bertram, who was quite the best of the family.1 Needless to say no one knew of my antecedents. Though I believe I was counted as somewhat of an oddity in a maid. I weathered these first two murders and their unfortunate consequences only for events eight months later to again take a turn towards the macabre.

  The housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, had had an accident that I still cannot bear to fully recount. Suffice it to say that it involved the substance that comes from the more unfriendly end of a horse, very wet stairs and her sudden and ill-advised descent of the great staircase. This had led to a sudden promotion as I took on the role of housekeeper for a shooting party in the Highlands.2 I hesitate to say it, but again a sudden death greeted me almost upon arrival at the house. This time I clearly was in no way connected or suspected, but world events impinged on my tiny corner of England – or Scotland – and almost caused the arrest of our new, handsome butler, Rory McLeod. He was the son of a greengrocer, vastly ineligible, extremely intelligent and the main reason I accepted the post of housekeeper at White Orchards, when Mr Bertram declared his intention to buy his own house.

  But I should have known things would not go smoothly. Mr Bertram is a passionate man and, like most hot-blooded men, he is quick to act. In the light of what was to transpire I believe that the purchase of White Orchards was itself a matter of impulse.

  It is true I had challenged him on the morality of living in his brother’s house merely to remain in the running to inherit Stapleford Hall as per the dictates of his father’s bizarre will. I had also upbraided him on spending the blood money of the Staplefords (who are in banking and armaments) when he has a comfortable inheritance from his late godfather. However, when he stormed out in a rage at my impertinent words – and they were impertinent, even if my true social status had been acknowledged – I little suspected that I would set him on a course to buy almost the first house he saw and come running back to beg me to become his housekeeper.

  At the time I knew in my heart of hearts it was wrong to accept. Mr Bertram and I – and this I only confess within these pages – are not indifferent to one another. There has never by word or action been anything improper between us, but I have often thought if I had not been a maid then Mr Bertram might have made his feelings plainer – in a respectable manner. Of course, if I were not in service, and my real name acknowledged, he would be beneath my station to notice. I am not unaware of the irony of this situation, although I find no amusement in it.

  And then there was Rory. Rory, who had every reason to believe we were on equal standing, who I rescued from wrongful arrest and whose quick thinking helped me untangle the most difficult of puzzles when Mr Bertram had set his face against aiding me. It was made plain to us, albeit individually, by the Staplefords that should Rory and I wish to wed the household would continue to employ us as a married couple, which was a very gracious concession, but that no extended courtship or close friendship was acceptable.

  To be honest I think we were both taken aback as much by the sudden surprising morality of the Staplefords as we were with the suggestion that on a mere few weeks’ acquaintance we would wish to wed. We chose to remain side by side in service, but with only a cool acquaintance between us. It was most uncomfortable. Mr Bertram had left and Rory was the sole person with whom I was able to engage my mind and active brain. We were naturally drawn together and I saw it would not do for many reasons, so when Mr Bertram returned I followed him to White Orchards as his housekeeper.

  This is all a roundabout way of saying I leapt from the frying pan into the fire.

  White Orchards was set with a most handsome facing, clean lined and modern on the fens. Sunrises and sunsets there were more magnificent than I have ever seen. It was surrounded by apple trees and when, in spring 1911, their white blossom flowered it was lovely to see. However a mere few months after our arrival, the floods began. An unexpected rainfall, a failing of some ditch and our basement was soon filled with water. However, I am always happy to rise to a challenge and now with my own small staff we weathered the storm literally and figuratively. We dried out what could be saved and threw out what could not. I was pleased with my adaptability and that I had not been thrown by this disaster.

  However, when the event again occurred after just two weeks and then again, it became clear that unexpected rainfall or ditch failures could not be blamed. It was at this point that I enquired of Mr Bertram if he had checked with the local people about the house before purchasing it.
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br />   ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Euphemia,’ he had said when I presented him with his morning breakfast of eggs and toast.

  ‘I mean, sir, did you realise the house would be liable to such flooding?’

  Mr Bertram shrugged. ‘It is in the fens.’

  ‘I believe the engineering feat that drained the fens some time ago was and is regarded as something of a marvel,’ I said.

  ‘There are always teething difficulties when one takes possession of a new property.’ Mr Bertram lifted his newspaper to signal the conversation was at an end.

  ‘I think this is more than a mere inconvenience, sir. I fear there is a fault with the house that will need correcting.’

  ‘Nonsense, Euphemia. It is a brand-new house. A marvel of modernity. The plumbing alone is a miracle.’

  ‘Quite spectacular, sir,’ I agreed. ‘But it is the water outwith the pipes I am referring to. I fear the basement is flooded out again.’

  Mr Bertram went pale. ‘But my wines. My shipment. What I ordered laid down.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t lay the wine down as per your instructions. I was confident that on reflection you would see it was an unwise choice.’

  We were speaking to one another more formally than we had been used to at Stapleford Hall and even the wretched hunting lodge in the Highlands, but here, in the middle of nowhere – albeit a very beautiful nowhere – with a small staff we were thrown upon one another more often than either of us had suspected. I continued with caution. ‘I fear we may need to quit the house while repairs are made. The smell from the cellars has risen in some strength to the kitchen and, as summer approaches, I fear it will become more rank. I do not think it can be sanitary.’

  Mr Bertram pushed his plate away. ‘So what do you suggest, Euphemia?’ he said almost in our old manner.

  ‘That we return to Stapleford Hall while repairs are put in process. I think, even if you wished it, in its current state White Orchards would not be saleable.’

  ‘Damn it, Euphemia. I don’t want to sell the place.’

  ‘Then you will have to have it fixed, sir.’

  Mr Bertram pushed his chair back roughly, scraping a fine layer of wax off the floor Jenny had so lovingly polished. ‘I will not believe it is that bad.’ He stood and faced me angrily. ‘I believe you are regretting your choice to come here and wish to return to work at Stapleford.’

  ‘If you think that, sir, you must think me a fool,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘What la-woman in her right mind would exchange the position of housekeeper for that of maid?’

  ‘Perhaps you now find there are inducements at Stapleford Hall that White Orchards cannot supply.’

  ‘Such as a dry cellar?’

  ‘Enough! Show me the cellar. If there is more than an inch of water there I’ll return to my brother’s house tonight.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ I turned to lead the way out. ‘Perhaps you should consider more appropriate footwear?’

  Mr Bertram growled under his breath. He clearly did not believe me. We entered the cellar. I allowed him to go first. The dank, odorous water that seeped into the lining of his handmade shoes quickly changed his mind. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was so bad, Euphemia?’ he cried. ‘This is impossible.’

  I thought of responding that this was all of a piece. He had not believed me about the dangers of cracked eggs, the bad cheese from Hadwell Farm, the number of servants we would need and a thousand and one other things. Owning his own home had gone to Mr Bertram’s head and each time I drew his attention to some shortfall he took it as a personal blow to his pride. For his own reasons he was utterly determined to demonstrate his mastery of all he surveyed. The result was, of course, that having lived all his life under his parents’ roof he frequently looked extremely foolish – and then he blamed me.

  ‘Shall I make the arrangements for leaving?’ I asked. Unlike my master I had learned a great deal as housekeeper and was equal to much more than when we had first met. If anything this appeared to infuriate him further.

  ‘We can’t take all the servants to Stapleford!’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I replied. ‘I suggest all the local servants are allowed home – although it will be very difficult to retain their service if they are not paid some kind of allowance.’

  ‘That will be nothing compared to what this will cost to set right,’ said Mr Bertram bitterly.

  I moved on. ‘I could return to my own home, but Merrit joined us from a London household. ‘

  ‘Richard won’t object to having another footman around as long as I’m paying.’

  ‘I don’t believe either Sam, the bootboy, or Jenny will have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘Your kitchen-maid.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Mrs Deighton can always use an extra pair of hands.’ He frowned heavily. ‘We can’t take our cook!’

  ‘Of course not, sir. I’m sure she will be happy to have some time to spend with her new grandchild.’

  ‘Grandchild?’ echoed Mr Bertram blankly.

  ‘Your tenants, the Hadfields at Mile-End Farm.’

  ‘Good God, Euphemia, you’re my housekeeper, not my …’ He stopped, turned fiery red and swallowed. ‘I mean, how come you know so much about my people? We’ve barely been here a moment.’

  ‘It must be my background as a vicar’s daughter, sir,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘But I thought your father was …’

  ‘I’d better start seeing to the arrangements,’ I answered and fled.

  When we first met the Staplefords had assumed I was the love-child of some recently deceased gentleman because I spoke well and could read. At the time it had been easier to allow them to think this. ‘Damn,’ I said aloud, startling both the kitchen cat and cook in equal measure.

  ‘It’s not like you to swear, Miss St John,’ said our cook, Mrs Tweedy. ‘Has the master not seen sense yet?’

  ‘Mr Stapleford agrees the house needs work and we are all to quit this place while it is done. All local servants will be kept on at wages, but allowed to go home. Merrit, Sam and Jenny will accompany Mr Stapleford to Stapleford Hall.’

  ‘Well, that’s very decent of him,’ said Mrs Tweedy. ‘And I’ll get time to spend with the little ’un. But what about you, my dear?’

  I blinked. ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Euphemia,’ said Mr Bertram emerging from the cellar. ‘Of course you’re coming with me.’

  He stormed out of the room. I followed. ‘Really, sir, you mustn’t call me by my Christian name in front of the other servants. It gives the wrong impression.’

  Mr Bertram turned on his heel to face me. ‘And what impression would that be, Euphemia? Apart from the ridiculousness of addressing one as young as you as Mrs …’

  ‘Many women are married at 19,’ I countered reasonably.

  ‘But none of them would have the audacity to constantly contradict their master. You complain of my manners …’

  ‘I meant simply that it might be taken as improper considering the isolated nature of the estate and you still a bachelor, sir.’

  ‘Good God! You’re doing it again. Will you not let me finish a sentence?’

  I thought of pointing out that he had just finished two, but kept my tongue between my teeth. Mr Bertram heaved a huge sigh. ‘And you’re right again. I’m not fit to run a house on my own. I need a wife. Perhaps I shall find one at Stapleford Hall. Do you think along with all your other abilities to organise and correct my life that you might be able to find me a suitable spouse as well, Euphemia?’

  ‘I may only be your servant, sir, but that is an unacceptable way to speak to me!’

  By this point we were both breathing hard and our annoyance had brought us into close proximity.

  ‘Euphemia, this has got to stop,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Our relationship …’

  Our eyes met, but whatever Mr Bertram was to say next was cut off by the sudden arrival
of eight-year-old Sam hurtling round the corner.

  ‘Is it true, sir, that you’re taking me to the great Stapleford Hall? Is it? Oh, sir, I’ll polish all them boots better than anyone ever has.’

  The moment shattered into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Stapleford Hall isn’t what most people would call great, Sam, but my elder brother would tan your hide for running around upstairs.’

  ‘Oh lor’,’ said Sam stricken.

  ‘It’s a much more formal house,’ I said kindly. ‘But as long as you stay below stairs I’m sure you’ll be fine. Mr McLeod, the butler, is a good man.’

  Mr Bertram shot me a look of pure poison and strode off. This time I did not follow him.

  It was at this moment of high personal drama that a loud crash echoed through the household. ‘Dear God,’ I cried and ran towards the sound with Sam hot on my heels.

  I cannoned into the kitchen barely stopping in time to avoid falling through the large hole in the floor. ‘Mrs Tweedy!’ I cried in horror.

  ‘I’m here, dear,’ came a faint reply. Then slowly Mrs Tweedy climbed up the cellar steps. She was covered in dust.

  ‘G-g-ghost!’ squeaked Sam.

  ‘Lord love you, Sammy boy,’ said Mrs Tweedy in a shaky voice. ‘It’s just dust. I was checking to see what we could save from the waters when the bloody ceiling came down on my head.’

  ‘Are you injured?’ I asked in horror.

  Mrs Tweedy shook her head. ‘Gave me a bit of a fright, I can tell you, but that ceiling ain’t no more than dust and plaster and we’ve been walking over it for months. This whole ruddy place is a death-trap.’

  Mr Bertram arrived in time to hear Mrs Tweedy pronounce sentence. The look he gave me clearly suggested that he considered everything my fault. After all I had been the one who had urged him to buy his own home and I suspected in his eyes this made me ultimately responsible.

  Less than 48 hours later I had completed our leaving arrangements. Mr Bertram and I were studiously avoiding each other, but there were still occasions when I entered a room too precipitously only to encounter one of his black looks before he exited smartly.