01 - Murder at Ashgrove House

by Margaret Addison

  Rose started practicing her make-up. Usually she applied just a touch of rouge to her cheeks because foundation creams were so expensive, but for going to the Withers’ she had decided to splash out on it. Expense being no issue for Lavinia, Rose had marvelled at the ‘Gardenia’ look her friend wore each day to the shop; it gave a white and waxen look to Lavinia’s face much favoured by the Hollywood silver screen stars of the time, but Rose hesitated at trying the look herself. Instead she had opted for the more natural ‘tea rose’ shade of foundation, ivory with a touch of pink. She applied it carefully and sparingly. When she had finished, she thought that there was a slightly surreal look to her face that she was not sure she liked. No, it didn’t look quite right. Sighing, she applied lipstick in a light rose shade which seemed to soften the effect.

  ‘That looks better, more like me,’ she whispered to her reflection. Still, she thought, I’d better take the rouge along as well, just in case. What a pity there isn’t time to ask Lavinia for a lesson in applying foundation.

  Lady Lavinia Sedgwick flung open the door of her wardrobe and surveyed its contents, with something approaching satisfaction. True, it held nothing like the vast array of dresses that hung in the massive wardrobes in her dressing room at Sedgwick Court, but even so, she had managed to bring with her to London a few of her favourite outfits. She giggled suddenly as a thought struck her. Eliza, her lady’s maid, would have had a fit if she had seen the way she had shoved and crammed all her clothes into this tiny little wardrobe in her lodgings. She had given absolutely no thought to creases or whether the delicate fabric of her dresses would be crumpled and ruined beyond repair by such harsh treatment. Instead she had just leaned against the door to make it shut, and Eliza had not been there to give her a disapproving stare.

  It hadn’t seemed quite right to bring her lady’s maid with her somehow. She couldn’t imagine Eliza dressing her just to go to work in a shop serving others, and she certainly could not imagine any other shop girl being dressed by a maid. Eliza wouldn’t have approved anyway, far better to let her maid stay at home with her parents and attend to her mother’s numerous house guests. Still, it would be nice to get back home and be pampered again, to have someone else lay out her clothes for her, run her bath and dress her hair.

  If she were honest, and she would admit this to no-one but herself, she was getting a little bit bored with it all now, this working in a shop business. It had all been quite fun when she had first started, a bit of a lark, something to write and tell her brother and friends about. And to begin with she had not had a moment to get bored because her friends had kept popping in to see her, even though the shop was certainly not located in the most fashionable of addresses and the clothes tended to be ready-to-wear or semi-made scaled-down from the Parisian designs, not at all the bespoke outfits they were used to. Even so, her friends had bought one or two small items, which had gone down very well with Madame Renard, who she knew was hoping that, by employing a member of the aristocracy, she might attract a more elite clientele to her establishment, which might eventually enable her to move to a more up market premises, even perhaps in time Regent Street itself, where she could stock the genuine Paris fashions, not just cheap replicas that almost any woman, regardless of her financial circumstances, could afford to buy. She might even be able to employ a few more expert stream-stresses who could produce gowns from scratch for her more favoured, well-heeled clientele …

  After some deliberations Lavinia selected a brightly coloured silk twin-print ensemble consisting of a sleeveless, drop-waisted dress with contrasting winged collar and matching three-quarter length coat. It was one of her favourite outfits because of the vividness of the colour and pattern, a deep royal blue background, decorated with red and white roses, which looked quite wonderful with her bright red, lacy Italian straw hat. When she put this on, she would feel more like her old self again, a moneyed, young woman about town with no cares but to shop, not a nondescript shop girl disappearing into the background while all attention was given to pleasing the customer.

  She sighed. She had found it hard work. Not so much choosing suitable clothes for her customers to try on, or giving fashion advice for which she prided herself on being something of an expert. No it had been the being nice to customers bit that she had found so hard. To be polite and seem interested in people whom she would not normally have passed the time of day, she had found particularly trying. And then when they wouldn’t take her advice and insisted on buying something that did not, in her opinion, suit them at all, oh, to have to bite her tongue! And it was not even as if Madame Renard had given her the more mundane tasks to do. She had been protected from doing the most boring aspects of the work; Madame Renard was not a stupid woman, she wanted to hold on to her key attraction, her prize procession, as long as possible.

  So Lavinia had not been asked to sweep the floor or pack the dresses into boxes and wrap them in brown paper with string to be sent to customers on approval, or been expected to wait on the most insignificant or dithering customers. Madame Renard had asked her only to attend to her most fashionable and wealthy customers, who could be persuaded to spend a considerable amount of money on outfits if they knew that they were being recommended by a fashionable member of the aristocracy, and they were informed by Madame Renard of Lavinia’s identity straightaway for fear that they might be tempted to be rude to her if they thought that she was just another shop assistant, so it had been all: ‘Oh, do let me introduce you to Lady Lavinia, daughter of the Earl of Belvedere, don’t you know. Lady Lavinia’s helping me out in my shop for a while, a little bet she has made with her brother, Lord Sedgwick, so funny don’t you think, ha, ha! Lady Lavinia has cast her eye over my new season stock and would be absolutely delighted to give you her recommendations as to what the fashionable young lady will be wearing this season …’

  If Lavinia was honest, she had found it all rather embarrassing and sick making, not helped by Sylvia, another of the shop girls who particularly resented her presence at Madame Renard’s, rolling her eyes and then looking at her with daggers in the background. But she had liked the look of shock on the customers’ faces as they had become aware of her as a person, and an important one at that, rather than dismissing her as just another faceless servant. They had engaged with her as if she were their equal, although of course she was far above them. That had not stopped them thinking she was interested in them, asking her opinion on which clothes would suit them and going with her choices.

  On the odd occasion, just for wickedness and because she could, or just because she was bored and thought she could not possibly last out the day, she would advise them to buy something that did not flatter them at all, and they would go with her recommendation just so that they could say to their friends: ‘Lady Lavinia helped me choose this outfit, don’t you know, it’s going to be all the rage this season.’ Still she had stopped doing that now ever since she had overheard Sylvia saying to Mary, another of the shop girls, that for someone with all her money and breeding, she had absolutely no taste in clothes at all.

  Oh, she could hardly wait to be at Ashgrove again, to be spoilt and pampered by Constance’s array of servants, many of whom had known her since she was a small child. Of course, it was a pity that dull old Edith was going to be there too. She’d have much preferred it if it was just going to be Sir William, Lady Withers, Rose and herself. Never mind, Edith was bound to still be moping around, keeping herself to herself so she needn’t hinder their enjoyment. Just as well Ceddie wasn’t going to be there, because how embarrassing it would be to have a repeat of all that. Lavinia shuddered just thinking about it. No, it was going to be good bye Lavinia, drab little shop girl, and hello Lady Lavinia Sedgwick, the beautiful, much photographed debutant and favoured style icon of the women’s weeklies. She would have to get up especially early so that she could spend time making up her face and dressing her hair before they set off on their journey, which she always found so fiddly and time consuming th
ese days with no maid to help. After all they must make the most of Madame Renard allowing them to take the day off on Friday as well as Saturday. She could just imagine Sylvia’s face when she heard the news. She giggled.

  Rose was the only real friend that she had made in the dress shop. The other shop girls had not known what to make of her and were definitely working class, whereas Rose had appeared at ease in her presence. She would even hazard a guess that Rose was originally from the middle classes although, from what she could gather, her family had now fallen on hard times. Horrid Sylvia had made a point of either ignoring Lavinia completely or being rude to her when Madame Renard’s back was turned, and Mary had gone to the other extreme, hanging on her every word and trying to show her everything and do everything for her, when all she had wanted was to be treated like just any other shop girl, well not quite, of course, she didn’t want to do anything too boring or back breaking or mundane. Only Rose had treated her normally and had been genuinely friendly. She had probably been as fascinated by her as Mary had been but, unlike Mary, she had not felt intimated by her, or felt the need to try and please her. No, she liked the friendship she had with Rose because she felt that Rose liked her for herself.

  ‘Excuse me, m’lady,’ Stafford gave a little cough and half bowed towards her ladyship. Lady Withers, who had been in the process of arranging some flowers rather haphazardly in a vase, jumped, knocking the vase over, water and flowers spilling out on to the table and floor.

  ‘Oh, Stafford, now look what you’ve made me do! I do wish you wouldn’t creep up on one so, it isn’t natural. Why can’t you make a noise like everyone else?’

  ‘Quite so, m’lady, please forgive me. I’ll arrange for Martha to clear up straightaway.’

  Although certainly not his intention to make her ladyship start, he thought on reflection that the outcome was not disastrous. After all, he always sent Martha to rearrange the flowers whenever Lady Withers took it upon herself to start flower arranging. Her ladyship, in his opinion, had many fine qualities, but arranging flowers in a vase was not one of them. Of course, when only Sir William and Lady Withers were at Ashgrove it did not matter so much because Lady Withers always thought her flower arrangements looked wonderful and Sir William was not one to notice such things, but when guests were staying, and titled ones at that … Stafford almost grimaced despite himself, that would never do at all. ‘But I thought you’d like to know m’lady,’ he continued, ‘as soon as I had been informed.’

  ‘Informed of what, Stafford? Oh, do stop talking in riddles or drawing things out.’ Lady Withers sunk into a nearby chair and dabbed at her wet hands ineffectually with her handkerchief. ‘Out with it, Stafford. What was this thing that was so important to tell me that you had to sneak up on me and worry me half to death?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady, very sorry m’lady.’ Had Lady Withers looked at him instead of busying herself with drying her fingers she would have seen that, despite his tone, he did not look particularly contrite. ‘I thought you’d like to know, m’lady, that I’ve just taken a telephone call from Sedgwick Court. It appears that the Earl and Countess of Belvedere are on their way down.’

  ‘On their way down, whatever do you mean, on their way down?’ Lady Withers had stopped dabbing at her fingers, her handkerchief now clutched in one hand that was beginning to tremble.

  ‘It appears, m’lady, that the Earl and Countess have it in mind to stay the weekend, here at Ashgrove.’

  ‘What!’ The handkerchief was flung to the floor as Lady Withers sprang up from her seat with a speed that surprised even Stafford, although he was careful as always not to show it.

  ‘William! William!’ Stafford was just in time to rush over to the door and hold it open for Lady Withers as she fled from the room in search of her husband. Such was her distress that she did not wait until she had found him, before starting her conversation. ‘Oh, William, William, it’s so awful. Stafford has just brought me the most dreadful news …’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Mr Stafford, you could have knocked me down with a feather when I met with her ladyship this morning to go through the menus!’ Mrs Palmer was sitting at the highly scrubbed kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea before her and Edna, the little scullery maid, standing beside her, fanning Mrs Palmer’s face with pages from a day old copy of The Times newspaper.

  Stafford secretly thought that the effect created was a little melodramatic, even by Mrs Palmer’s standards. She was a short, dumpy woman who always looked hot and flustered as a result of standing over a hot stove all day and barking orders at the scullery and kitchen maids. Today, however, he had some sympathy for her predicament.

  ‘Not only does her ladyship say that she thinks it likely that Master Cedric will bring his friend down with him from Oxford, you know, Lord whatsit, but she tells me that the Earl and Countess of Belvedere are coming to visit as well!’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Palmer. I did try and forewarn you as soon as I had taken the telephone call from Sedgwick Court,’ Stafford said, biting his tongue as always to stop himself from reprimanding Mrs Palmer in front of the lower servants for calling Lord Sedgwick, Master Cedric, as if he was still a small boy come creeping in to her kitchen to snatch a freshly baked sausage roll, not a grown man who in the fullness of time would inherit an earldom. ‘But it was your afternoon off yesterday and I didn’t want to trouble you when you returned, given the lateness of the hour.’ Stafford broke off from what he was saying to give her a pointed stare. Really, he thought, Mrs Palmer should set an example to the maid servants. ‘And then this morning, I thought I’d leave it until after breakfast before telling you, but her ladyship was herself a little unsettled by the news and took it upon herself to rush to see you to make sure that you had the necessary stores in, and if you didn’t to give you the chance to order more in.’

  ‘It’s just as well we’ve got a large kitchen garden, Mr Stafford,’ Mrs Palmer said recovering a little and flapping Edna away with instructions to pour her another cup of tea. ‘We shan’t have a problem with the vegetables, it’s the meat and fish I’m worried about, because of course I’ve had to change my menus, it’ll have to be fancy cooking now, what with the countess coming.’ She looked up sharply at the scullery maid. ‘Stop that gawping girl and go and fetch Mr Stafford a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Palmer,’ the girl looked as if she could not get away quickly enough.

  Mrs Palmer started thumbing through her copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Like most cooks of her generation she considered it her cooking bible and, when alarmed by news of an impromptu dinner party, she was in the habit of clutching it to her breast to provide her with the necessary moral support.

  ‘Her ladyship said she would come down again in half an hour or so once I’d had time to put together some dinner party menus. Perhaps I could pass some ideas by you, Mr Stafford, if you don’t mind? As you know, I do like a nice dinner party, gives me a chance to be creative and stretch myself a bit, can make a nice change from the usual plain cooking that her ladyship likes, but of course, it would have been nice to have had a little more notice to get prepared like. I’m not just thinking of the food, neither. I could really do with some more hands in the kitchen. I’m going to need more help than I’ll get from those two dolly daydreams.’ She pointed vaguely at the scullery and kitchen maids. ‘Heads in the clouds most of the time they have, Mr Stafford, boys, dresses and dancing is all that fills their heads most of the time. But like as not I’ll have to make do with them. Too short notice I expect to get help in from the village.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, Mrs Palmer. But I’m sure you’ll cope magnificently, you always do,’ replied the butler soothingly as he and the cook-housekeeper made their way to her sitting room. ‘I think her ladyship feels a little overwhelmed too. She was expecting to be entertaining just a small house party this weekend, her old school friend and Lady Lavinia and her friend and instead she is being bombarded by the gentry! Still,
I’m sure we’ll get through it, Mrs Palmer, as we always do.’

  ‘And of course, Mr Stafford, what with me being housekeeper as well as cook, I’ve all the bedrooms to sort out, decide who’s having what. I suppose we’d better make sure that we give the best room to the countess otherwise she’s sure to complain, and then there will have to be doubling up between the housemaids and footmen to act as ladies’ maids and valets as I’m sure they won’t be bringing down any with them.’

  Edna and Bessie, the kitchen maid, stole towards the sitting room and listened at the closed door with bated breath. They could just about make out what Mrs Palmer was saying.

  ‘I was thinking, Mr Stafford, clear beef consommé to start with, can’t go wrong with that, followed by cheese soufflés, and then the fish, of course. A whole dressed salmon followed by a meat course of chicken in aspic with duchesse potatoes? Then, for pudding, peaches and raspberry mousse. And then just in case any of them is still hungry, you know what an appetite Master Cedric’s got, I’m sure they don’t feed him properly at that university, I’ll send up savouries – eggs stuffed with prawns, angels on horseback, chicken liver on toast, curried shrimps and sweetbreads and suchlike. What do you think, Mr Stafford, will that be posh enough for the countess? I don’t want to show up her ladyship.’

  ‘Indeed it will be, Mrs Palmer, indeed it will. I don’t think the earl and countess could expect a better meal if they’d been invited to dine with the King himself at Buckingham Palace!’