FOUR
That Monday morning, Alf Thatcher delivered the sad news from Mullings to a good many residents of Dovecote Hatch along with the early morning post. The shock of it had nearly caused him to tumble off his bike on the Mullings woodland path, near where Lord Stodmarsh had wrenched his ankle not so long ago. One of his early stops was at Farn Deane.
‘Say that again,’ Gracie Norris, every inch the popular concept of a farmer’s wife with her florid face, wiry hair and rotund build, stared back at Alf from the open farmhouse doorway.
‘Lady Stodmarsh is gone.’ Alf’s lined face worked. ‘Slipped away in the middle of the night, quiet as a mouse. Nobody heard a peep.’
Gracie admitted to her husband Tom later that she’d gone soft in the head for a moment picturing a knotted sheet rope being tossed out of a bedroom window followed by a nightgowned leg coming over the sill. Then of course the penny dropped. ‘You mean she’s died, Alf?’ Even as she said this she clutched at straws. Could he be talking about Mrs William Stodmarsh? A nice enough woman, no doubt, but not the sort to inspire village loyalty, and with all that weight on her maybe a stroke had been just a matter of time.
‘Afraid so. His Lordship woke around four-thirty and went to look in on her, like he often does during the night.’
Not Mrs William, then. It had been foolish to hope.
‘Doctor said she’d been gone hours before he found her.’ Alf sank down on the step. ‘Pegs are still unsteady under me. Heartbreaking, in’t it?’
‘Best come in, lad, for a cup of tea,’ said Gracie kindly. ‘Get something inside you before you get back on your bike. I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock, what with her having been poorly all these years, but it fair knocks you back, it being so sudden, don’t it?’
She led Alf into the friendly-looking kitchen hung about with cooking utensils and other housewifely paraphernalia. Her mind was filled with what would be going on this minute up at Mullings. Oh, poor Lord Stodmarsh … she winced away from the image conjured. Then there was Florence. Gracie still considered her a sister-in-law, though Robert had been gone these many years. It couldn’t be said that her and Florence had become close friends; since marrying Tom, Gracie’s life had been wrapped around him and the farm. And, Florence was reserved, but – like Tom said – you couldn’t know her without feeling the world wasn’t such a bad old place after all.
‘Heart attack, was it?’ Sighing, Gracie drew out a kitchen chair for Alf.
He sat down gratefully. ‘Seems that’s what Doc Chester thinks – that her ticker just gave out. Said all those tablets and whatnot she had to take for the pain gets to be hard on the system. But there was no way round it with her rheumatics being so bad. He’d just left when I got to Mullings.’
‘Who told you what’d happened?’
‘Jeanie Barnes as works in the kitchen. I always take the post round the back and hand it in. The other one, Annie Long, was all of a heap. Quaking sort of lass at the best of times.’
Gracie set the kettle on the stove. ‘My heart bleeds, it does, for His Lordship.’ Her voice cracked and tears glistened in her eyes. ‘That good man won’t know what’s hit him.’
‘That’s what keeps going round in my head.’ Alf nodded bleakly. ‘Your Florence come into the kitchen just as I was leaving. Looked and sounded calm enough, like you’d expect of her, but she has to have taken it bad, her having bin with the family on and off since she wasn’t much more than a child, and always so devoted to the family. The ground may’ve shifted under Mullings, but she’ll hold things steady.’
Gracie nodded. ‘Fourteen, she was, when she first started out there. Two years younger than what Master Ned is now, and him still but a lad. Florence started bringing him for tea here one Sunday a month when he was around six or seven and now he’s over here every chance he gets, eager to learn all Tom can teach him about farming. Right fond he is – was – of his grandma, though it’s clear Florence is more of what you’d call a mother figure to him, her having done most of the rearing of him since she went back to Mullings. I’ve heard him say, time out of mind, he wouldn’t know what he’d do if she ever left.’
‘I can see why, though it in’t what you could call realistic not to figure that one day she mightn’t want a personal life again.’
‘Lads Master Ned’s age don’t tend to be realistic.’ Gracie filled the glazed brown teapot. ‘I’ve nephews of similar years that’s making their mums and dads tear their hair out.’
‘I suppose it’s bin that way since Adam and Eve annoyed God; either visit people with floods or plagues of young ’uns.’ It settled Alf’s mind a little to shift his thoughts sideward. ‘You’ll know Florence has been seeing something of Birdie these past months. Me an’ Doris have had them over for Sunday dinner a few times and yesterday she took him to meet her fam’ly. Oh, they both say it’s naught but a friendship, but I can’t keep from hoping that it’ll come to something more. Though don’t go telling Doris I said so, Gracie, if you meet up. She’d have my innards for garters.’
‘My lips are sealed, Alf.’
His face turned bleak again. ‘Shouldn’t be getting off the subject of Lady Stodmarsh – it isn’t decent.’
‘Rubbish!’ Gracie placed a cup of strong tea in front of him. ‘Thinking hopefully is what gets us through the rough spots in life. Tom and I’ve been thinking along those same lines about Florence and George Bird. We don’t see it would be any disrespect to Robert’s memory if she was to marry again. It’d be what he’d want. Lord and Lady Stodmarsh gave them the loveliest dinner service ever. Real china. It’s still here, seeing as Florence took nothing much when they wed but her clothes and a framed photograph of Robert when she went back to Mullings, and I’ll be more than happy to pack it up for her if she has a home of her own to take it.’
‘Of course,’ Alf shook his head, ‘like we just bin reminded – there’s no telling what lies round the next corner.’
‘Now, don’t go all morbid, saying each and every one of us could pop our clogs tomorrow. God doesn’t get his fun that way. Let’s think positive about Florence and George.’ Gracie poured him more tea, set a plate of hot buttered toast in front of him and sat down at the table with her own cup. ‘It’s a good thing you’re doing, Alf, spreading the word about Lady Stodmarsh being called above. It’s best to let the village know as soon as possible, so people can comfort each other.’ She blew on her tea to cool it.
‘You’re a good ’un, Gracie.’
‘Feeling more yourself, are you, lad? Whatever will my Tom say when he comes in from milking? I’ll wait here to give him the bad news, and then get over to see Florence. Or maybe, come to think of it, I’d do better giving you a note to take to her. Things are bound to be at sixes and seven today. Would I be sending you much out of your way, Alf?’
‘It wouldn’t matter if it did, but I’ll tell you what – I always finish up at the Dog and Whistle, so’s to have a chat with George. He’s going to be upset when I break the news to him, especially for Florence. I’m sure he’d want to telephone her right away, but knowing what things will be like today at Mullings, I’d think he’ll also decide on sending something written for the time being, so as soon as I leave him I’ll take the woodland path back to Mullings.’
‘Thanks, Alf. I’ll ask Florence what’d be a good time for me to come and see her, or if she’d rather Tom picked her up and brought her here. What a sorrowful day this’ll be for everyone hereabouts.’
Alf managed to finish off a piece of toast. ‘Them I’ve already told took it bad, and it’ll be the same all over Dovecote Hatch. Lady Stodmarsh mayn’t have got out and about much in recent years, but a sweeter lady there never was.’
Let him talk himself through the shock of it, before getting back on his bike, thought Gracie. She had her own memories to share. ‘They had me and Tom over for tea in the drawing room, she and His Lordship did, when we was about to be wed. Treated us like they was grateful we’d bothered to come, and
gave us a very nice wedding present, just like they did Florence and Robert. Ours was enough linen sheets and pillowcases to last us out and our children too, if we’d had any. Along with that was a beautiful bedspread and eiderdown.
‘The only person with anything bad to say about Lord and Lady Stodmarsh was Hilda Stark, that got turned out after being Master Ned’s nanny, despite them treating her fairer than she deserved when it came to a pension or whatever. And what she put around about Master Ned’s other granny being poorly a time or two don’t bear repeating. Wicked, is what she is!’ Gracie’s eyes sparked. ‘As Tom and I well remember, Florence was on her enemy list, too, for having supposedly got her the shove. There’s always one of Hilda Stark’s sort, more’s the pity. You’ll find them in a convent of nuns bobbing up and down in prayer, no doubt! Reckon she only decided to shut her mouth when she realized she was doing herself more harm than good with the villagers.’
‘You’re right for the most part about that,’ Alf agreed, polishing off his second slice of toast, ‘although she did have a dig at Miss Bradley after that lady come to live at Mullings. One time when Hilda was at the Dog and Whistle, she dredged up about Miss Bradley being stood up at the church; said as how the man could’ve had good reason for ducking out. Birdie laid into her good and proper.’
‘Rightly so,’ said Gracie staunchly, ‘though I have to admit thinking to myself that there can be two sides to one story. On the face of it the bridegroom sounds a wretched excuse for a man, but what if something happened at the last minute? Perhaps he saw her do something nasty and realized he couldn’t abide living with her till one of them kicked the bucket.’
‘It won’t do, Gracie.’ Alf shook his head. ‘He should’ve told her he was ducking out ahead of time, not left her to face the organ music, waiting on him like a figure of fun.’
‘You’re right, there’s no getting round that. Probably I wouldn’t be thinking that way if Master Ned had taken to her, but I know from talking to him that he hasn’t. But, like we said, lads his age can take it into their heads to be awkward just for the sake of it.’
Alf looked thoughtful. ‘It’s understandable, I suppose, for him to be leery of any newcomer as might want to keep in with his uncle and aunt, as well as his grandparents. The lad makes no secret of not being over fond of Mr and Mrs William. An’ why should he be? They don’t never seem to have put themselves out none to help make up, by way of affection, for his parents being dead.’
‘That’s just what Tom and I think; though it can’t be said Master Ned moans on about them. He makes more of a joke of it – says he’d sooner the vicar took him under his wing than they did. You get the point, Alf, seeing as Mr Pimcrisp only warms up when he’s talking about fire and brimstone.’
‘It comes from Mr William always being jealous of his brother, I’ve always thought, and with a temper like he’s got, it don’t seem likely his wife’d stand up to him by making a fuss of Master Ned. Still,’ Alf always tried to be fair, ‘it can’t be easy being the younger son of one of the big families, knowing from early on your brother’s going to inherit the old ancestral. Then when Mr Lionel and his wife got killed, he must’ve thought how he’d’ve bin in clover if it wasn’t for the little tyke left behind. Put a grudge under his other armpit to match the first, that would.’
‘I hadn’t thought along those lines,’ conceded Gracie. ‘I tend to think of men that bluster and bully as not having all that much going on in their heads. But would Mrs William hold the same grudge against Master Ned?’
‘She’s a deep one, is what Doris thinks. She comes from a little place named Warley in Essex, and we knows a couple that’s lived there forever. Well, they say that Gertrude Miller, as she was then, was an only child brung up by a widowed older mother as should have stayed an old maid. The sort that warns a daughter the night before her wedding that she’ll have disgustin’ stuff to put up with in the bedroom and to hang on to her prayer book till it’s over. That sort of thing can warp a woman’s mind when it comes to the male o’ the species – even a boy as young as Master Ned was when he was orphaned.’ Alf became aware that if he’d been more himself this wasn’t a conversation he would be having with any woman but Doris. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope you won’t take what I’ve said as too off colour, Gracie.’
‘Go on with you, Alf! I was a farmer’s daughter before I married Tom. You can’t grow up on the land, especially around horses, without knowing what’s what. That said, even my mother – sensible woman that she was – warned me that the best of husbands was given to making excessive demands.’ Gracie laughed. ‘From the looks of Mrs William, she probably wouldn’t have known what she was born for when she married, and would’ve taken that to mean being forced to play bridge, whether she wanted to or not. Then again, appearances can be deceiving, and she could be the sort that would have given anything for a handsome lad to come riding up on a white horse.’
‘Somehow I doubt that,’ said Alf. ‘From what our friends from Warley say, she didn’t come from a lot of money and was verging on thirty when she was introduced by mutual acquaintances to Mr William.’
‘Well,’ said Gracie flatly, ‘that surly disposition of his was likely to have sent other ladies running.’ She brought the conversation back to the immediate situation at Mullings. ‘I wonder how the two of them are taking Lady Stodmarsh’s death? Even an old grouse like Mr William must’ve been fond of his own mother, but I wonder if Mrs William won’t find comfort in the idea of becoming lady of the house until Master Ned marries, and that’ll be way in the future. However it goes, I can’t see neither of them being much comfort to His Lordship.’ Gracie’s kind eyes blurred with tears. ‘He’ll never get over losing his wife, he won’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t outlive her by long; it happens that way often enough with devoted older couples.’
‘It goes without saying,’ Alf sighed. ‘Love of his life, she was, and well deserved. It puts me to shame when I think o’ the times I goes on about my lumbago, and that dear lady so uncomplaining, crippled up like she were, God rest her soul.’
Gracie echoed this appeal to the Almighty. ‘It’s a good thing Master Ned’s other granny is in the house for him. She won’t be leaving now till after the funeral, and probably some time beyond. An interesting thing I’ve found with women that has done battle with their nerves in the past, they can be the ones that come through in a crisis. You stay put, Alf, while I go and write that note for Florence.’
By mid-morning Dovecote Hatch was in formal mourning. Curtains were drawn, black ties and armbands were spotted up and down the high street, and Craddock’s Antiquarian Bookshop was one of several establishments to hang ‘Closed’ signs behind the glass in their doors.
George Bird, as both Alf and Gracie had known would be the case, had been stunned and deeply grieved. He immediately felt an urge to telephone Florence and tell her how sorry he was, but he was fully aware of how occupied she would be with all that must be going on at Mullings, and he wasn’t about to add the interruption of being called to the telephone, when he could do as Alf suggested and write his condolences, asking her to get in touch when she had the time and felt up to it. After Alf left, he went behind the bar – not to pour himself a drink, but to wipe its spotless surface – back and forth, forth and back. It had come to him that what he really wanted was to be with Florence right this minute, and wrap his arms around her.
Something had changed for him on that drive home from visiting her family yesterday. He hadn’t thought right then that it was love; but last night, on getting ready for bed, he’d heard Mabel’s voice clear – and pleased – in his head. ‘Go on, my old dear, own up! It’s going that way and you and me both know it. Truth is, I’m tickled pink. Do you think I want you mooning over me forever? I haven’t liked to rub it in, but I’m having a rare old time up here. Like you’ve found out moving to Dovecote Hatch, give a new place a chance and you can be walking on clouds. In your case, love, that’s in a manner of spe
aking, but you get the idea – what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’ He’d smiled before drifting off to sleep. That there could be no smiles this morning didn’t alter a thing. If he’d had his wish he’d have been with Florence right now, trying to comfort her as best he could.
It had flashed through Florence’s mind on being told by Molly of Lady Stodmarsh’s death several hours previously that she’d have welcomed the warmth of his arms around her. She had turned cold when Molly had entered her bedroom well before daybreak. It was impossible not to know instantly that Lady Stodmarsh was dead. That in itself was devastating, but the realization that had tugged at Florence on wakening – that her uneasiness of the past week and her beloved employer’s agitated distress were linked – made her feel she would never be warm again. The belief, amounting to certainty, that Lady Stodmarsh had not died from heart failure but had been murdered, held her in its frigid grip. What had come together out of her subconscious was the merging of two incidents – one relating to visiting her mother, the other involving the puppy.
The memory of being in the hall at Mullings to witness Grumidge bearing the tea tray towards the drawing room and becoming entangled with the puppy had always been clear, as had her reason for being there. Miss Bradley had asked earlier if she could save her a trip to the village shop by providing her with a reel of navy cotton, in order to finish the dress she was making. Florence had come downstairs after taking the required item up to Miss Bradley’s room in time to provide assistance to Grumidge, by way of opening the drawing room door for him. It was what had followed that had finally resurfaced.
Murder at Mullings Page 8
