The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1)

by Florrie Boleyn

  “Not that I,” continued Harriet firmly, “would ever allow her ladyship’s opinions to guide my own.”

  “No?” said Mr. Benjamin.

  “No,” said Harriet. “Particularly when she seems so very anxious to spread them. It makes one think, Mr. Benjamin, it makes one wonder. And I have a rooted objection to being used as a cat’s paw…”

  “Particularly with tea the price it is!”

  Harriet smiled at her sister. “Exactly,” she said, “particularly with tea the price it is. I must admit I am curious about this accident, and would like very much to know more - and I also hope that if her ladyship is intent on blaming an innocent young man, that he is able to keep himself well out of sight.” Harriet nodded to the potter. “Good day, Mr. Benjamin,” she said, “good day Mr….?”

  The faun stared at her.

  “Rush” said Mr. Benjamin. “Moses Rush.”

  “Well!” said Effie, as they walked away along the river path, “that was a surprise!”

  Harriet glanced over her shoulder at her sister. “What in particular?” she said.

  “All of it, really,” said Effie, after consideration. There was a pause. “Did you notice Mr. Benjamin was holding a bit of reed in his hand just at the end there?”

  Harriet’s bonnet nodded - Harriet was walking in front and therefore her face was not visible, but the bonnet was highly expressive. “A bit of bullrush, I think - I expect he took it out of the bucket of water that the young man had brought in.” There seemed to be a laugh in her voice. “At least it gave him something better to say than “Smith”, although I think “Moses” was over-egging the pudding a little.” She turned and smiled at her sister with a look of pure mischief.

  “Moses in the bullrushes!” squealed Effie - “although it is really quite a good name for a faun!”

  CHAPTER 4

  In which we meet Grace Albright, and Miss Effie’s handkerchief is maltreated

  The Miss Fotheringays had hardly climbed the stairs into their rooms after church on the following Sunday, and Miss Effie was still smoothing down her braids - which had got into sad disarray in the putting on and taking off of her bonnet - when Becky made her usual burst into the little sitting room.

  “Excuse me, M’m,” she bobbed a hasty curtsey as she spoke, “but I thought as you and Miss Effie would like to hear the latest news about poor Millie Budge!”

  “Millie Budge? Oh, of course, the poor girl who drowned - I am not sure I had ever heard her name, but I remember now that you said she was Silas Budge’s daughter.”

  “That’s right, Miss, and led a fair old dance by the cantankersome old…”

  “Now, now, Becky, it is Sunday, remember!”

  “Indeed yes,” said Effie, coming into the room at that point, “although of course we should always speak as kindly as possible on all days of the week… the most awful people have Christian souls and may prove, in the end…not that one may not have to wait quite a considerable time for some people… but there, the Murderer on the Cross! It is never too late…do you know, I remember hearing at one time that there was a school of thought that believed that Sunday was not in fact the Sabbath! Jewish people, I understand, celebrate a Saturday… and of course they should know, since their association with the Lord is so much older than ours… than our English church, that is…”

  Becky rolled her eyes, “I’ve got one of the other maids from the Manor downstairs, and she’s heard that poor Millie…” Here she paused and looked conspiratorially from one to the other of the Miss Fotheringays, who leaned a little closer to hear what this dreadful news could be - for what, thought Miss Effie, could be worse than death? “That poor Millie,” repeated Becky, “was…in the family way.”

  “Oh my goodness!” the two sisters gazed at each other. Of course, thought Miss Effie, the ‘fate worse than death’ - what else could it have been?

  “The poor, poor girl,” said Miss Harriet, dropping into her chair, “so perhaps it was suicide, after all.”

  Miss Effie was struck to the heart at a sudden thought. “Not… the faun?” she faltered.

  Harriet roused herself. “Is the maid still downstairs?”

  “Yes, M’m, I said to her, just wait there, I expect as my Misses will want to have a word. She weren’t too keen, but there, M’m, she’s in a bit of a state - and not knowing who to trust… that’s why she come to me, says she don’t feel safe talking to anyone at the Manor, and we’ve always been friendly-like, just passing the time of day, sort of thing, after chapel.”

  “She attends chapel?”

  “Oh yes, reg’lar every Sunday - well, it’s the only chance the maids have of getting a few hours to themselves, and she likes the hymn-singing…”

  “Ask her to come up, would you, Becky?”

  Effie looked piteously at her sister as the maid clattered down the stairs. “Not the faun, Harry!”

  Harriet sighed, “i believe fauns never did have much of a reputation for morality, Effie dear.”

  “Here she is, M’ms,” said Becky, pulling a reluctant figure along behind her.

  The two sisters looked curiously at the drooping figure of the maid. Neatly dressed, although the dress looked as if it had previously belonged to a rather larger girl - perhaps she was expected to ‘grow into it’? Doubtless when she was wearing an apron, as she would of course be during her work, the ties of the apron would pull the waist in rather more tightly… Then the girl looked up and both sisters forgot about any errors in dressmaking. Light blue eyes in an apple-blossom face, russet hair firmly parted and coiled, except for small wisps that had escaped into a free life of their own and were glinting in the light that managed to find its way in through the geranium leaves. Only the chin gave any evidence that this was likely to be a young lady with a will of her own. Effie, who had the truly generous ability of admiring beauty wherever she saw it - even in girls considerably younger and prettier than she was herself - warmed to the girl immediately.

  “Good morning, dear,” she said.

  “Morning, Ma’am,” the girl curtsied to both sisters, but instinctively looked at Harriet, who seemed to hold the authority of that little room.

  “What is your name?” asked Harriet.

  “Grace, M’m” said the girl.

  “You were a friend of Millie, Grace?”

  Grace’s mouth twisted, “Not…exactly, M’m, I…she…” Grace took a deep breath. “We worked together, we’re both chambermaids, she was, I mean.” The girls’ blue eyes swam with unshed tears, although by the look of her face plenty of tears had already fallen, thought Harriet.

  “But it has been a great shock to you - her death, that is?” said Harriet.

  “Oh yes, Ma’am, I never thought…she were always so full of life, and…” the girl blushed deeply, doubtless reminded of that new life that had died along with Millie herself in the lily pond.

  “Becky says that it has been discovered that Millie was with child?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. There was an inspector come to see Sir William yesterday, and Peter - he’s footman - he overheard, like, what the man said, and he told us all downstairs.”

  Listening at the door, I expect, reflected Effie, no wonder the servants always know everything in a house - and spread it around the village as soon as possible. Really, we should not be listening to this pretty little girl at all…it is hardly…“So I suppose it is thought now that the poor girl…overcome with shame, so to speak…?” Effie asked.

  Grace turned to her with an air of appeal, “No, Ma’am, Peter said the Inspector man was quite definite about that; it seems there was some sort of…examination, like…and the police doctor had said that Millie was dead before she fell in the pond."

  “Before?”

  Grace nodded rapidly in affirmation. The sisters looked at each other.

  “How, exactly…?” began Effie.

  “Really, Effie dear, I don’t think we need to ask that sort o
f question, let us just take it on trust that the gentleman who examined the poor girl knows his business.”

  Effie looked rather disappointed.

  “Then I presume that the police are now investigating a murder?” asked Harriet.

  Grace nodded again, and again her eyes filled with tears. “Her ladyship keeps saying it were Elwy, but it wasn’t M’m, it wasn’t.”

  “Elwy?”

  The girl was sobbing openly now.

  “One of the gardeners,” said Becky, and nodded to the sisters, winking in the direction of the girl at the same time as she patted her on the back, “Come on now,” she said comfortingly, “it’ll all get sorted out, you’ve got no need to worry. He’ll be alright.”

  “I presume this Elwy is a friend of yours?”

  The maid only cried harder.

  “I think we can take that as a Yes,” said Harriet to Effie.

  “Oh dear, poor thing,” said Effie, “Becky, dear, why don’t you take Grace downstairs and give her a nice cup of…” she looked fearfully at her sister, “…water?”

  “I think we could all do with a cup of tea,” said Harriet.

  “Yes, indeed,” beamed Effie, thankfully. “A nice cup of tea, and then we can talk some more, perhaps.”

  “I have to get back, M’m,” managed the girl, trying to wipe the tears away with her fingers, and sniffing dolorously. Becky raised the hem of her apron to the girl’s face, but Harriet’s pained cry of “Becky!” stopped her just in time, and she took instead the delicate, lace-edged handkerchief that Effie held out to her. Effie winced a little as the girl blew her nose with more efficiency than delicacy, but cheered up as Grace raised her face, only a little blotched from the tears, and said huskily “thank you Ma’am, I’ll wash the hanky out and bring it back to you next Sunday, if that’s alright?”

  “Of course,” said Harriet, “and next Sunday I hope you will have time to take a cup of tea with us, for I would be most grateful if we could talk a little further about this whole matter.” She smiled gently at the girl. “You have nothing to fear from us, you know.”

  The girl nodded, although the words meant nothing to her. She never thought there could be anything to fear from a couple of old maids; it was the police and Lady Weston, not to mention Sir William and that son of theirs… “I’ll come back after chapel next Sunday, Ma’am, to bring your handkerchief.” A quick, frightened look at Becky, and she was off down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 5

  In which Benjamin Potter tells what happened at The Bull, and Grace returns the handkerchief

  The week passed, as weeks do, tranquilly enough. The townspeople, in little eddies and flows of gossip, discussed the matter of the drowned girl in all possible variations of cause and blame. There were those who said that Millie Budge has been no better than she should be - and who would wonder at it with a father such as hers, and no mother to care what became of her? Such persons whispered of how she was known to ‘flaunt herself’ at Gervais Weston, as well as the menservants, who might be reckoned her fair game. Some even said that Master Gervais might have had something to say about her death - if he had been here, of course. Well for him that his mother had loudly proclaimed his absence at that last Thursday at-home of the Misses Fotheringay!

  Others spoke up of Millie’s generosity to her father, saying she always gave up the best part of her earnings to him, seeing as the man had been out of work for so long, and tended and cleaned his house on her few hours’ off each week, although still others pointed out, more cynically, that the girl had little choice in the matter, seeing as her father was bigger and stronger than she and would give her no rest until he’d had her last farthing out of her.

  Mr. Ravilious at St. Luke’s spoke in ponderously mournful tones of Immorality being the first step on the Primrose Path to Perdition, and Mr. Myers at the Dissenting chapel thundered for a solid fifty minutes at least - many of his flock, with joints of mutton growing tough in the roasting oven, believed it longer - on the basic principle of ‘If thine eye offend thee - pluck it out!’ It was a rousing sermon, all agreed, although there was some discussion as to its precise meaning and how it should be applied to the overwhelming question of the day - who killed Millie Budge?

  And then, to further enliven the church-going on that Sunday, one week after the Miss Fotheringays had first made the acquaintance of Grace Albright, there was the shocking news that ran in sibilant whispers through the various congregations that Silas Budge had actually accosted Sir William on the previous night, as he passed by The Bull where Silas was recruiting his forces with half pints of hoppy ale!

  The Miss Fotheringays received the news at a reliable and excellent second-hand - two maiden ladies not, of course, being in a position to overlook ale-house brawls at first hand. (Although Miss Effie did have the casement open and was engaged in trimming the dead leaves from the geranium at the time it was going on. She was, however, unable to hear more than a general babble of raised male voices.)

  The ladies, with Becky in attendance, had been greeted by Mr. Benjamin the potter on their emergence from chapel; they had chosen chapel over church this week since, as Miss Effie frequently said, “It is always good to enter into a different circle of people from time to time…my sister and I believe that all folks are worthy of attention…one would not wish to be thought superior, you see, and, to be sure, when one thinks of Our Lord going amongst all sorts and conditions of men - tax gatherers and fishermen - one would not wish to…not that we actually know any tax gatherers or fishermen of course - that would not be likely in an inland town, although we do have the river, and quite large boats come up it, and I believe in times past that they actually unloaded goods at the Old Mill, by the bridge - such a handsome building, although brick, but…where was I?”

  “I believe you were saying that you don’t know any fishermen, Ma’am,” said Mr. Benjamin, “although I did see one or two along the river-bank this morning as I walked in, but I misdoubt me as they’re the sort of fishermen you had in mind.”

  “No,” said Effie, “I hardly see Our Lord commanding them to leave their nets and follow him…”

  “Nor,” said her sister, “can I readily imagine any of them obeying such a command. From what I have seen, I can more easily imagine them saying ‘Hush! You’ll scare the fish!’”

  Mr. Benjamin chuckled. “I think you have the right of it, Ma’am. Certainly they none of them took any notice of me.”

  “Did you come alone, Mr. Benjamin?” asked Effie, peering over his shoulder in search of high cheekbones and a slanting glance.

  “Yes, M’m, I did. I had it in my mind that you ladies might be interested in something I heard last even, seeing as how you, M’m,” he said, nodding to Harriet, “expressed a wish to know more about what happened to poor Millie Budge,”

  Harriet’s eyes brightened. “Have you news?” she said. A consideration of the shifting swirls of the Dissenting flock, in all its Sunday glory of colour and trimmings, embowered in flower-decked and plumed bonnets, decided her that the risk of social stigma in inviting a mere potter to attend them home was worth the benefit of a quiet half hour of news gathering. Besides, if he walked behind them with Becky, it could be passed off as a little Sunday housekeeping - irregular, but permissible. “Perhaps you would care to join us in a cup of tea, Mr. Benjamin?” she asked.

  “Do come up, Mr. Benjamin,” said Harriet, when they reached their front door. “Tea, please, Becky!”

  “Mind the stairs, Mr. Benjamin,” said Effie, “the staircase is a little narrower than we would like, and rather dark, with only the window at the turn - such a pretty window, but it has to be admitted that coloured glass does not let in the light in the same way that clear panels would do, but there! I always say it is a case where instead of the artist having to suffer for his art, it is we who have to suffer…but we are fortunate in having our own front door, of course!”

  “A very pretty set of rooms,” sai
d Mr. Benjamin.

  “We think so, of course,” said Effie, “but how kind of you…”

  “Now, Mr. Benjamin!” said Harriet, looking at him expectantly.

  “Indeed, Ma’am,” said Mr. Benjamin. “Well, what I’ve got to tell you concerns Sir William…”

  “Really?” said Effie.

  “…and Silas Budge.”

  This combination of names was enough to keep even Effie silent for a moment.

  “I walked down to The Bull last night,” resumed Mr. Benjamin. “I step down most Sat’dys for a quick pint or two - although I’m blessed if I know why I call it a ‘quick pint’ seeing as how I make my pints last as long as I decently can! No,” he continued, “one pint, and one to follow, so to say, is my limit, and only on a Saturday as a sort of finish to the week.”

  “A final flourish,” nodded Effie.

  Harriet wondered if Mr. Benjamin was going to prove as prolix as her sister.

  “And…?” she prompted.

  “There was the usual crowd in The Bull,” continued Mr. Benjamin, “perhaps a few more than usual, all on account of the drowning, I suppose - folks will always step out of their usual way in order to hear of someone else’s disaster - although they’ll keep their own shut tight at home; but that certainly didn’t go for Silas Budge. Oh, no - he was in the thick of it and more than one person a-buying of him drinks in order to hear what he thought of it all. Well, I’d have said as Silas Budge had as hard a head as most men - he should have, seeing the amount of practise he puts into it, any chance he gets - but last night he’d had a skinful, begging your pardons, ladies…”

  The sisters nodded eagerly and waved their pardons aside.

  “And when Sir William come strutting past, in that way he has…” he looked at his audience to see if they had the same picture in their heads as he did, “old Silas steps up to him - not so steady on his pins, but he got there - and pokes his finger into Sir William’s third weskitt button and says he expects as how Sir William has come a-looking for him in order to give him ‘a little something’”.