Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  ‘No umbrella in this weather, you need that pretty head examined.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You get on with your drink and I’ll fetch one from the passageway.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Outside the rain was indeed coming down hard. From around the corner of the Dog and Whistle came a darkly clothed man pushing a bike with an unlit lamp. No one else was out and about in that vicinity, but had anyone observed him they might have detected something furtive in his movements. Behind him came a cacophony of barking dogs, and he moved faster towards the iron gate in the wall built to prevent trespassers entering the Mullings woods following the arrival of the ornamental hermit. The gate was, of course, meant to be locked at all times, with only family members and the postman Alf Thatcher having keys to it, but over the course of time a laxity had set in and more often than not the gate was left unsecured. The man tried the latch and a moment later was pedalling on the unlighted bike along the woodland path. He did so uncertainly because he’d never been much of a cyclist in broad daylight and perfect weather. Only the desperation of his situation propelled him forward in the near dark and rain. The bike suddenly slithered under him and his attempt to rebalance only served to increase the swerve and send him pitching down into the ravine, in a series of wild bumps before the thud that toppled him to the ground.

  Back at the Dog and Whistle George had returned from the passageway with an umbrella. ‘Took me a while to find one that didn’t leak,’ he told Toffee, who had finished her gin and orange unhindered by anyone joining her at the bar. What man wanted it reaching his wife or girl that he’d been spotted chatting up a tarty blonde over his pint of bitter? And none of the few women present looked like they’d budge an inch in her direction unless they were dragged. ‘Some had more holes in them than a sieve,’ George added for good value.

  ‘I never had one that the material didn’t perish in a week, that’s why I’ve stopped bothering with them.’ Toffee knew what had delayed him – he’d been considering the question of whether or not to trust her.

  ‘This one’s a bit fiddly to put up; I’ll come outside and see to it for you.’

  ‘Aren’t you the knight in shining armour?’ On their way to the door Toffee winked at the scrutinizing faces. Better the brazen hussy than a girl afraid to be noticed. For good measure she wiggled her fingers and mouthed ‘bye-bye’. Once outside, she and George moved several paces away from the entrance. The rain was still coming down, but in a half-hearted manner. The street was empty of all but a cat scurrying around into the shelter of a doorway.

  ‘I don’t know why in the world you should trust me,’ Toffee said, looking up at him. ‘I could be out for revenge because he broke things off between us.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be the girl he wrote to me about.’

  ‘You look just the way I pictured you.’

  ‘And you nothing like.’ George flexed the umbrella.

  ‘So why believe I am who I say I am?’

  ‘If you was sent to fool me it wouldn’t be with a whole head of platinum blond – just the one streak in front, like I knew about.’

  ‘Unless the police are too clever by half – thinking it out from your perspective. Have they been here?’

  ‘Yesterday evening.’ George had the umbrella up. ‘A man pretending to ask for directions. I don’t think any of the customers twigged. I came outside with him like I’ve just done with you. He seemed satisfied when I told him I hadn’t seen nor heard from …’

  ‘Our friend.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘And was that true?’

  ‘It so happens it was.’

  Toffee eyed him speculatively. ‘I doubt you’ve ever told a proper lie in your life and are hoping against anything you won’t have to do so, whilst still standing ready to help if he does show up.’

  George pretended to adjust an umbrella spoke. ‘I keep going round in my head about what would be best, but every time I think I should urge him to turn himself in, I think of how innocent men have been hung in the past. What has you thinking he’ll come here?’

  ‘Well, friendship can go by the wayside when it comes to the crunch, and he wouldn’t go to his parents, would he?’

  ‘No. His father telephoned to tell me the police had been round to see them and in the course of the conversation they’d told them about me and given my address. I’m not blaming them, you understand. If it hadn’t come from them it would’ve come from someone else.’

  ‘I’ve gone over and over things in my mind too. I’m sure the last thing he’ll want to do is drag you into this horrible business, but if he runs out of money – and I can’t think he’d have had much on him – then he may think you’re his only means of escaping … to France, say. There have to be boatmen who can be bribed, wouldn’t you think? Or is that only in adventure stories?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ George felt the first twitch of a smile in days. ‘Until now I’ve lived a very dull life.’

  ‘And so you shall again,’ said Toffee firmly. ‘This is all going to turn out all right. It has to, or there’s no justice in the world – the real murderer will be discovered. We’re not going to think that only happens in books. As for the money, I have a plan – it’s connected to my cover story for coming to Dovecote Hatch.’ She took the umbrella from him. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Where?’

  Toffee had already started walking away, but turned back to grin at him, ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Tongues will be wagging and you’ll need to be as surprised as everyone else. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  She’d received directions from the bus conductor and was prepared for a goodish walk, which wouldn’t have been a problem but for the high heels. It was tempting to take them off and continue in her stockinged feet, but she soldiered on.

  At that same time Ned, with Rouser the Labrador at his side, was returning to Mullings from Farn Deane, reluctantly so, because he relished his days there – working with Tom Norris and always learning something new about farming. Also, it weighed on him that he had still not told Florie about his engagement to Lamorna Blake. Initially this had been because he knew her thoughts were occupied with George Bird, but increasingly he found himself trying not to think about his imprudence unless driven to do so by telephone communications with Lamorna, which were ever more plaintive on her part. He couldn’t blame her for that – poor darling, he would insert conscientiously at the end of each session, followed by a sigh – dutiful husbands were one thing but surely the term shouldn’t apply to fiancés. He was a cad, as despicable a rat as the one who had ditched Madge Bradley at the altar; not that he would back out from his commitment to Lamorna, but the thought that he should never have asked her to marry him given his financial situation was treachery in itself.

  As he had expected, Seymour Cleerly had informed him that funds could not be released to him without Regina’s authorization. Lamorna had been less squealing than expected when he relayed this information, saying she really hadn’t expected the old stick to come through, therefore he must stop thinking like a silly and twist his Grandmother Tressler around his finger. Ned had shuddered at the phrase; but did he owe it to Lamorna to set aside squeamishness on this point?

  Indifferent to the rain, he approached Mullings by the rear grounds and saw Madge Bradley in mackintosh and Wellington boots come out of the summer house. Drawing level with her as she put up her umbrella, he asked with the requisite smile if she’d like to race him to the house. Rouser shook his coat in readiness for those thrilling words – ready, set, go. If a dog could smile, he did. Madge didn’t smile, but it wasn’t really to be expected that she would, seeing that she had next to no sense of humour. Despite his own burdensome thoughts, he saw she was looking grave. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Not really. I’d arranged to meet Cyril inside.’ She pointed to the summer house. ‘He telephoned half an hour ago to say he really needed to talk to me in private,
and you know how difficult that can be up at the house.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ Ned said, remembering his concern that he’d been overheard telling Lamorna on the phone that he would be willing to murder Regina, ‘unless you’re prepared to fly in the face of convention and take him up to your bedroom. No, no, forget that! It wouldn’t do to give la femme horrible an excuse to give you your marching orders.’

  ‘It’s difficult; sometimes I think I should leave of my own accord, but where would I go? Cyril can’t ask his mother to move out – it wouldn’t be right – but she’d make both our lives miserable if he brought me there. I suppose that makes us cowards.’ Madge sighed. ‘And now he’s worried about Mr Craddock selling the bookshop and what that will mean for his job there. That’s what he telephoned me about; it’s got him in a real quake.’

  ‘It shouldn’t,’ said Ned, ‘he can work more hours at Mullings. Regina doesn’t have any say about business expenditures. I’ve suggested to him several times that he could come on board full-time, but he insisted he didn’t think it right to leave Craddock because the old chap gave him a job when needed.’

  ‘That’s Cyril for you.’ Madge nodded. ‘Something’s delayed him, so I think I’ll start down the woodland path and hope to meet up along the way.’

  ‘You could do with a torch.’

  ‘I have one.’ Madge patted a mackintosh pocket.

  Ned looked towards the darkness of the trees. ‘Would you like me to walk with you until you spot him?’

  ‘Oh, no! I’ll be fine. No need to fuss about me, Ned. You know how I hate to be a nuisance to anyone, it makes me feel so upsettingly beholden,’ Madge flustered. ‘Not that you have ever done anything to make me feel unwanted …’

  Ned cut the burbling short. ‘I understand how it is, old bean. Being cooped up all day with William and Gertrude, to say nothing of Regina on the prowl, maintaining sanity demands time alone. Just be sure and watch your step with the ground being slick, and if a spectre emerges from the gloom, remember it’s only the hermit; so don’t take a flying leap and break an ankle.’

  ‘That poor creature! One does feel for him!’

  ‘Yes, well, if he’s any sense left in his head he’ll be snugly in his hut with a fire going in the stove.’ Ned was eager to be gone; not getting much shelter from Madge’s umbrella, he was feeling like a damp parcel left on a step. And if parcels could feel irritable, this one did. As soon as she’d put a few yards between them he sprinted for the steps up to the terrace and entered the house by the study door. After a couple of turns around the room, Rouser settled in his basket by the desk, and Ned went up to his bedroom. There was still more than an hour until dinner, allowing time for a leisurely bath.

  He was descending the stairs with the intention of telephoning Lamorna from the study before joining the family in the drawing room when he saw Grumidge approach the front door. Presumably the bell had rung, meaning a visitor, who, if uninvited, had chosen an awkward time. It was a centuries-old tradition that dinner never be delayed except in cases of fire, flood or famine, and Regina, whatever other changes she had chosen to make, adhered rigidly to this rule. Staying where he was halfway down the staircase, Ned saw Grumidge open the door and heard the butler’s enquiring voice and an answering female one. His hand grasped the banister rail and his heart thudded. It had to be Lamorna – come to have matters out in a scene out of a Victorian melodrama, and really he couldn’t blame her. He’d left her adrift in a sea of doubtful hope, instead of acting like a man and telling her there could be no London flat until he came into his independence; that marrying now would mean living full-time at Mullings.

  Grumidge was stepping back into the hall, making way for a platinum-haired female to enter. He deposited a suitcase he now had in hand on a nearby table before closing the door against the rain and gathering wind. Through a haze of relief, Ned saw that the young woman was dressed in a cheaply smart manner and was giving her surroundings a raking glance that took in his presence on the stairs. To his amazement she winked at him. No offence taken. At that moment Ned could have kissed her – whoever she was. He had yet to take in the import of the suitcase.

  She returned her gaze to Grumidge’s impassive face. ‘Is it all right to leave the umbrella on the porch? I borrowed it from the pub and it’s an awkward old thing that I couldn’t get to come down.’

  ‘Quite acceptable, miss.’

  ‘Jones.’

  Ned saw the smile that emerged. He was also aware that Grumidge, who, like all good butlers, had eyes in the sides of his head as well as the front and back, had seen him and was wishing he’d come to the rescue. Meaning that, for some reason, here was a tricky situation.

  ‘I’ll take your coat if I may and conduct you to a room where you can wait in comfort while I inform Lady Stodmarsh of your arrival.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ came the perky response, ‘no need for that kind of silly fuss; I’ll come in with you.’

  Ned eyed Grumidge kindly; the poor fellow was struggling manfully not to demean himself by looking aghast.

  ‘I think it would be preferable …’

  In three leaps Ned bounded to within inches of them, clapped a hand on Grumidge’s shoulder and announced grandly that the young lady could be left in his care.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ The butler bowed himself off, leaving the platinum blonde to eye Ned with amusement.

  ‘Very la-de-da, all this! Lovely wainscoting and furniture, proper ancestral I call it. Wish I had a camera.’

  ‘I’m sure one can be provided!’ Ned responded in lordly fashion. He was completely at sea, but for some reason feeling quite jolly about it.

  ‘Oops! Can it be I’m addressing the master of the house?’

  ‘No,’ Ned grinned back at her, ‘I’m the bootboy, up to my usual naughty tricks. Let’s hear who you are, damsel washed in by the rain. Jones is a suspiciously common name; perhaps you should change it to Smith.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Ginger?’

  ‘I scent mischief afoot … that feeling in the thumbs, or maybe it’s the toes.’

  ‘You’re far too young to be so cynical.’

  ‘At twenty a person can have been through a lot.’

  ‘Now that sounds honest.’ The brown eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve four years on you, but I’m still a sweet young innocent under this brave exterior, desperately hoping to find acceptance after ruthlessly being cast aside to live as an orphan in the storm but for the charity of those disposed to offer it.’ The blonde interrupted this burst of poesy to clutch at Ned’s arm. ‘Gosh, I could do with something to eat – a piece of bread and butter, anything. I shouldn’t have had that gin and orange at the pub on an empty tummy. Nothing for breakfast; egg and chips for lunch, but that was eons ago.’

  ‘Feeling faint?’ Ned took her by the shoulders. ‘Want to sit down?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe. It wouldn’t do to pass out when bearding the dragon in her den, would it?’

  ‘Meaning Regina Stodmarsh, otherwise unfortunately known as my step-grandmother?’

  ‘No need to sound so sorry for yourself.’ A wilting sigh. ‘Put yourself in my place.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m her granddaughter; Sylvia Jones.’

  ‘But you can’t be; you died at birth,’ said Ned nonsensically. He almost added, ‘Don’t you remember?’

  TEN

  ‘Thank you for breaking it to me that I’m the late lamented,’ said the proclaimed Sylvia Jones wryly. Her thoughts seemed to buzz around her head rather than inside it. It was crucial not to be caught out. She needed to blot the girl called ‘Toffee’ out of existence. The problem was the Jones part. If Hattie Fly should write to her cousin Florence and mention that her lodger, a young woman with the same surname, common though it was, had unexpectedly suddenly taken herself off for an indefinite period, suspicion might be aroused that she’d headed for Mullings. There hadn’t, however, seemed any way round that problem. On the optimistic side, Hattie was a
woman of routine who always took care of her correspondence on a Saturday, and hopefully by the time a letter arrived there would no longer be a Miss Jones staying at Mullings.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude,’ said Ned, still holding on to her in case she crumpled, ‘but that’s the story Regina has put about – that your mother died giving birth and you with her.’

  ‘The part about my mother is true. Her Christian name was also Sylvia and my father chose to call me after her. Later he wasn’t so sure that was a good thing – too painful. He died when I was ten. I haven’t fared badly in the meantime. I say, do you think you could …’

  ‘Get you something to eat? Of course. I’ll take you to Florie; she’ll fix you up and make you feel better. She always manages to turn mountains back into molehills.’

  ‘Who’s Florie?’

  ‘Our housekeeper and my friend. Want me to carry you?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  Ned eyed her reprovingly. ‘No need to sound so crushing, it’s bruising to a fellow’s ego.’ He led her into a sitting room across from the study where Grumidge would likely have taken her. It was sometimes occupied these days by Madge and Cyril Fritch in his non-working hours, but Ned doubted they would be using it this evening. If he guessed right, they would either spend their time together at the summer house or – if they had any sense – at his house, enjoying the absence of his mother. A pity she always returned from her jaunts. Make hay while the sun shone should be Cyril and Madge’s motto; although it did boggle the mind to imagine the two of them conducting their courtship in any but the most decorous manner.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Very,’ said Toffee from the chintz-covered chair that matched the curtains. ‘It’s lovely and cozy with the rain coming down outside. I feel I should be embroidering a tray cloth.’

  Ned rumpled his hair. ‘And I feel I’m wandering in circles on a fog-shrouded moor. Have I introduced myself?’

  ‘You claimed to be the bootboy.’