Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  Ned shook his head. ‘I overheard Uncle William and Aunt Gertrude talking about it before Grandma Tressler came to stay here for a fortnight last year. Uncle William got very loud. “For God’s sake, old girl, don’t go upsetting the woman and send her off the deep end again!”’ The mimicry of the man’s deep voice by a child was uncanny. ‘“We’ve never in the history of Mullings had to lock up a mad woman, and I’d just as soon not bloody well start now!”’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that.’ Florence fought down fruitless anger.

  ‘Then Aunt Gertrude said, “No one can disagree that she’s mental, William, but I’m not sure that’s quite the same as mad.”’ Ned did almost as good a job with his aunt’s stolid voice as with his uncle’s bellicose one.

  ‘Did you say anything to your grandparents about this?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Ned’s chin went up. ‘That would have been dishonourable. Ungentlemanly. I shouldn’t be telling you now, but …’

  Florence reassured him, ‘It’s helping fill in the picture about Nanny.’

  ‘You can guess what Uncle William roared back at Aunt Gertrude?’

  ‘My mind doesn’t work as quickly as it should at night.’

  ‘“Balderdash!”’

  Florence smiled, but she was remembering when she’d thought the notion of a mad woman being confined to a secret room was the height of enthralling mystery. She knew very little about Mrs Tressler, other than that her Christian name was Eugenie and that she had been widowed a year or so before her daughter and only child married Lionel Stodmarsh. And then, a few years later, she had lost that child in an accident. What woman might not have fallen apart – especially if she was at that time going through the change? There had been a woman two doors down from the house where Florence had grown up, who’d been ‘taken bad’ after childbirth and then again in middle life. On the latter occasion she had not recovered, as it would seem Mrs Tressler had done.

  ‘It’s Uncle William that makes scenes, not Aunt Gertrude. Anyway,’ the bravado was creeping back, ‘who cares what they think?’

  Florence stroked his arm. It was not permissible for her to comment on his relations’ attitudes or behaviour, but what he said of his uncle and aunt was true. Loyalty did not prevent an inward denial of fact. William Stodmarsh was a blusterer and his wife a mild woman – outwardly, at least. Florence had wondered at times if her emotions were not as well corseted as her stout figure.

  Ned yawned and after a moment turned on his side. ‘I think I can nod off now, Florie.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Stay a little while, please.’

  In a couple of minutes he was asleep, but she waited another ten or so before getting off the bed and tapping on the communicating door. On opening it she saw, as expected from there having been no sound from that quarter, that Nanny had not returned. The bed did not look as though it had been slept in earlier. A bottle along with a glass containing an inch or two of whisky stood on a table next to an easy chair. Where was Nanny – passed out in the kitchen? Florence was halfway down the corridor when she heard heavy, laborious footsteps on the back stairs. A moment later, four persons came into view at the top – two of the maids holding Nanny up under the armpits and another propelling her from the rear. She went instantly to their assistance and with their combined efforts got Nanny into bed. The room was immediately filled with raucous snores.

  Annie Long, a timid and extremely nervous kitchen maid, liable to collapse into hysterics if she heard the word mouse, let alone saw one, now burst into tears, and Florence hurried her and the other two girls out of the room.

  ‘It was Annie what found her lying on the kitchen floor,’ explained the sturdily built, rosy-cheeked girl who had been doing the propelling. ‘She’d gone down because she kept waking up, worrying she hadn’t put the scrubbing brush in the right bucket and there she was,’ cocking an eye to the closed door, ‘lying on the floor.’

  Annie had wiped away her tears but continued to snuffle. ‘It give me such a turn, Mrs Norris. I come over right queer. I thought she was dead. Then I heard the snoring and I run up to fetch Molly and Violet. We was struggling to get her upright when Mr Grumidge come in.’ Annie’s voice trailed off. Florence thought vaguely that there wouldn’t be much work got out of her that day. Molly, who had spoken previously, picked up the thread.

  ‘He’d heard the running up and down stairs and wanted to see what was going on. He picked her up, talked soft but firm till he got her moving – like sleepwalking, it was – told us to get her into bed and then wake you and ask if you’d go down to him.’

  Molly was a girl destined to become head housemaid. The silent Violet struggled to suppress a yawn and Annie hiccupped. Florence thanked them, asked them not to talk about any of this to other members of the staff and sent them back to their beds.

  She found Mr Grumidge, dressed and alert as if the working day were well begun – in the kitchen, where she had expected him to be. At this hour propriety forbade a conference in either the butler’s or housekeeper’s room. He was a neatly built man, probably a few years older than herself, with a grave manner suited to his position but none of the pomposity prevalent in his species. His pale hair and complexion served to heighten the keenness of his eyes. Florence both respected and liked him, and believed he felt the same about her; making for a harmonious relationship.

  ‘I apologize for asking you to come down, Mrs Norris, but I thought it right to inform you immediately of this regrettable incident.’ His composure was as it would have been on learning of any other household infraction.

  ‘That’s perfectly all right, Mr Grumidge.’ The kitchen, with its scrubbed stone sinks, old cupboards and vast deal table, gave off a peaceful sense of having seen and heard anything and everything many times over, and had survived to witness modern cook stoves. Florence relaxed for the first time in over an hour. ‘I had been sitting with Master Ned.’

  She followed quickly with her account of events, including ordering Nanny to go to the kitchen and heat herself a milky drink. ‘I’m sorry to say she was very belligerent. Fortunately, Master Ned seemed not to have noticed the state she was in – having wakened terrified from a bad dream.’

  ‘Poor child.’

  ‘He did say that Nanny has been treating him unkindly – increasingly so, it sounded – of late.’ Florence did not elaborate; doing so would have violated what Ned had said to her in confidence. Mr Grumidge did not press her; there was a heightening of that keenness in his eyes.

  ‘A possible contribution to his nightmare. He cannot have informed Lord or Lady Stodmarsh of her treatment or she would have been dismissed. Our English code of not carrying tales may be good for the character, Mrs Norris, but it does not always serve the practicalities well.’

  ‘I could not agree more.’ Florence clasped her hands, recalling the feel of Ned’s small one. ‘I’m sure that but for his distressed state Master Ned would have thought it unmanly to tell me what had been happening. If only suspicions that she was inclined to the bottle had been aroused! But I never heard a whisper.’

  ‘Nor I, Mrs Norris.’

  ‘I’d prefer to believe this a one-time lapse, but sadly – for Nanny’s own sake as well as the family’s – I can’t. Master Ned’s account of her behaviour suggests that she has been increasingly unable to control her emotions.’

  Mr Grumidge nodded. ‘There is, however, no point in blaming ourselves or other members of the staff for failing to recognize there was a problem. Perhaps we might have done had she been with Master Ned during the mornings. But with his spending the hours between nine and twelve-thirty taking lessons from the retired schoolmistress, she will have been free to return to her bed after seeing him up, dressed and breakfasted. Also, secret drinkers must of necessity become adept at allaying suspicions. I have sometimes thought that women may be more prone to secrecy because society allows men so much more latitude when it comes to libation.’

  ‘She may have starte
d slowly, Mr Grumidge. Indeed, I have to believe that she wasn’t anywhere close to getting out of her depth when she came here, or the family that recommended her to Lady Stodmarsh would not have done so.’

  ‘One would think not, but the Rutledges had a large number of children very close in age, making, I’ve gleaned, for a cheerful if somewhat chaotic household. This may have inclined them to be grateful to any nanny who had been willing to stay.’

  ‘What now, Mr Grumidge?’

  ‘I doubt she took a hard fall, more likely crumbled to the floor, but I believe telephoning the doctor is in order. An examination will prove me right or wrong on that and should also provide confirmation of her inebriated state. Such an action on my part will necessitate rousing the master, but hopefully the mistress will not need to be disturbed.’

  ‘A wise course of action. I think I should go back to the night nursery so Master Ned has someone with him should he be awakened by footsteps or voices from the adjoining bedroom.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Those keen eyes appraised hers. ‘You must, however, be exhausted at this hour.’

  Florence assured him she was not tired, but within moments of sitting down in the armchair across from Ned’s bed, where he was sleeping peacefully, she felt herself beginning to doze. She must have dropped off for almost an hour, although it seemed only moments before she heard a tap at the door to the corridor. There stood a stocky, grizzled man, black bag in hand.

  ‘No head injury, Mrs Norris,’ said Doctor Chester in his comfortable manner. ‘I’m on my way down to talk with His Lordship, which means that you can go to your bed, my dear, reassured that all will be dealt with as it should be. We both know he won’t send her off without something to live on. I hope Miss Stark will agree to let me help her, but I doubt she will; they rarely do.’

  Florence went gratefully to her bed. She woke at seven, an hour later than usual, feeling well rested. At ten Mr Grumidge informed her that Lord and Lady Stodmarsh requested her presence in the elegant but restful drawing room. They greeted her warmly and invited her to sit down on one of the cream- and gold-striped Regency sofas. After thanking her for all she had done on the previous night, they spoke of the future. Nanny had declined a pension in favour of a settlement and would not be replaced. Ned would be moved from the nursery down to his father’s old room, where his daily needs could be handled by one of the maids. Florence suggested Molly – the sensible, sturdy girl who had propelled the barely awake woman up the stairs. Earlier that morning His Lordship had placed a telephone call to a Mr Shepherd, headmaster of Westerbey Junior Boys’ School, halfway between Dovecote Hatch and Large Middlington, and had arranged for Ned to start there in a couple of weeks instead of at the start of the new term, as had previously been intended.

  ‘It sounds ideal.’ Florence’s smile lit up her face. ‘It will be good for Master Ned to be with other boys, and I’m sure he’ll take to Molly – she’s a very cheerful girl. Do please let me know if there is any way in which I can be of help.’ She started to rise.

  ‘Oh, do stay a few moments longer if you can spare the time,’ said Lady Stodmarsh in her light, musical voice. ‘My husband and I want you to know how important it is to us that you continue the close relationship you have begun to establish with Ned. He told us earlier this morning how he had confided in you in the small hours about what Nanny had told him regarding his other grandmother – so unkind. Certainly she had a couple of distressing episodes, but is now recovered. It says so much that he unburdened himself to you after keeping silent for too long.’

  ‘It had frightened him.’

  ‘Of course it did.’ Lord Stodmarsh shook his head. ‘How could he not worry at the idea he might inherit a mental weakness? Your reassurances appear to have helped a good deal, Flor— Mrs Norris. That he trusts you completely, as we all do, is apparent. He is always at the heart of our thoughts and we greatly enjoy spending time with him, but …’

  His wife gave him her sweet smile. ‘You, my dear, are as active as you ever were and can completely fulfill your role with him. Regrettably, I am unable to provide all that I would wish by way of activities to make for a happy childhood, and an orphaned boy needs a woman’s daily touch to help soften the rough edges of life for him, if he is not to grow up with an empty place in his heart. Our daughter-in-law is kind, but admits neither she nor our son has a way with children. So, to come to the point!’ Lady Stodmarsh looked hopefully at Florence. ‘In addition to your other qualities, you have the benefit of being of his mother’s generation. We do hope our asking you to help nurture him is not an imposition?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Florence had not felt such deep happiness since Robert’s death. ‘Would it be all right if I took him with me to Farn Deane, when I go to see Tom and Gracie? It has been agreed that I shall have midday dinner with them one Sunday a month and remain through afternoon tea.’

  A short, cheerful conversation followed. Knowing that this was His Lordship’s day for going through the estate’s accounts, Florence got to her feet and was about to excuse herself when Lady Stodmarsh spoke ruefully.

  ‘I should not allow a dark thought to intrude, but I suspect that we have made a lasting enemy in Nanny.’

  ‘An ill-wisher perhaps,’ responded her husband with tender affection in his eyes, ‘but what possible harm can she do us?’

  ‘None, I suppose, unless her bitterness should one day align itself with some unforeseen circumstance.’ Lady Stodmarsh shivered, and then smiled. ‘I cannot lay claim to being fey, as I understand Mrs McDonald does, and it is well documented that in all these hundreds of years nothing in the way of melodrama has ever touched Mullings. So silly, that feeling that a goose has just walked over my grave.’

  TWO

  To the majority of those living in Dovecote Hatch, the lack of a colourful tapestry woven into the lives of the Stodmarshes throughout the centuries was not held to be a disadvantage. But it did come as something of a let-down to George Bird when he took over the Dog and Whistle in January of 1929. He was at that time a widower, approaching fifty, childless but with a godson living in Bexleyheath, where he had himself been born and bred. The boy’s name was Jim. Much to his parents’ pride, he had passed the scholarship to Dartford Grammar School when he was eleven and was now at university reading art history. No surprise there. Even as a tot he could draw a treat, George remembered. He wrote to Jim regularly and met up with him as often as possible, knowing the lad to be genuinely fond of him. At his last pub George had taken some good-natured ribbing from old buffers who claimed to be able to recite Jim’s letters by heart and said they couldn’t understand why the lad wasn’t up on a column along with Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square.

  Bexleyheath had been good to George but the decision to move to Dovecote Hatch following Mabel’s death had been a wise one. A change of scenery meant meeting new people; it took him out of himself – exactly what his late better half would have urged with a playful poke in the ribs. George didn’t let the grieving widower show at the Dog and Whistle. He was a balding, ruddy-faced man of vast height, with a personality as expansive as his stomach, which portion of his anatomy spoke volumes for his belief in good, honest English grub.

  He also thoroughly enjoyed a good yarn spun for his benefit and believed he in turn owed a contribution of the same sort to strangers coming to the Dog and Whistle. It was his belief, as it had been that of the young Florie Wilks, that the gentry inhabited a world that was more fiction than reality and thus infinitely more fascinating than the one reserved for the Joneses, Smiths and Browns. On first standing at the gates of Mullings and looking down the sweep of elm-lined drive to what could be made out of the house’s serene splendour, he let out a whistle. Talk about fit for a lord! He could almost feel Mabel’s clutch on his arm and hear her: ‘Whooh! Me and my party frock! Wouldn’t you love to hear that house gab, George?’

  Unfortunately, he discovered as Florie had done that the place offered up no worthy anecdotes to be handed out wi
th a pint of bitter or a glass of Mother’s Ruin. No whispers of a long-ago lord being switched at birth with a washerwoman’s baby, no recently discovered priest’s hole with a skeleton inside, no spending of the night by a male member of the royal family – spotted come morning creeping out of the mistress’s bedchamber.

  Alf Thatcher, postman for thirty-odd years, put it this way to George one evening while lighting his decrepit old pipe. It was early enough that only a few of the regulars had filtered in. ‘The other upper-crust families hereabouts made up their minds nigh on two hundred years ago that the Stodmarshes are country bumpkins not worth the knowing, and it’d be like breaking a blood oath to change their minds.’ Alf reached for his pint of bitter. ‘Now, I’ll admit the present lord’s father did drone on about his prize-winning pigs over at Farn Deane, the home farm, but we’ve all got our ways. Our Lord Stodmarsh is as pleasant spoke and open-handed a gentleman as you could wish to meet. Never fails to ask how life’s ticking along when he sees me.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Shame his son, Mr William Stodmarsh, don’t take after him sufficient.’

  George stood idle a moment, waiting in hopes of hearing that said personage had run off to South America with a chorus girl, or in some other way drastically blotted his copybook.

  ‘No disrespect intended, but Mr William Stodmarsh is summat of a curmudgeon, like his grandfather was afore him.’

  ‘Ah.’ George polished a glass.

  ‘Her Ladyship’s a kind, gentle soul – sadly frail and fair crippled with rheumatism, so not seen out and about much, save for opening the Christmas bazaar and such. But you’ll meet His Lordship soon enough, Mr Bird. He comes in here every fortnight or so and makes sure to have a chat with one and all. Often as not he brings along the vicar. And that’s a kindness above and beyond. Feels sorry for him, is what I think. An odd duck, if ever there was one, is the Reverend Pimcrisp. Got one of those narrow faces and the long nose and hooded eyes of a medieval geezer in a stained-glass window. His tipple’s fizzy lemonade that he sips like it’s something nasty the apothecary ordered.’