‘From what you say,’ said Mrs McDonald, ‘Miss Jones seems a nice enough girl, and one that’s had as hard a time as shouldn’t, but we don’t know any more about her than what she has to say for herself. Could be she’s every bit as nasty natured as her grandmother. Let’s not forget how Regina Stapleton pulled the wool over His Lordship’s eyes, turning him sweet, even managing to keep up the act – not showing her true colours till after his death, when much of the money was tied up in her favour. I know you’ve spent time with Miss Jones,’ Mrs McDonald acknowledged, ‘but like they say, blood’s thicker than water.’
Florence wasn’t sure about the last bit, but it would have been counterproductive to raise the question that the girl might only be pretending to be Sylvia Jones, having heard the story of the girl who had eloped with the groom and the evil mother.
‘Maybe,’ Mrs McDonald persisted in response to her silence, ‘she gets enjoyment out of such tricks – sneaking off in the middle of the night with a kind young man’s dog or pushing people down staircases. People that have had things tough sometimes resent them that’s had it easy. Or,’ she amended, ‘in Jeanie’s case – easier.’
Florence stopped herself in time from saying that perhaps that was what someone wanted them to think. Now her head was no longer swimming, she got to her feet, smoothed out her skirt, and smiled wryly. ‘I hope we’re not dramatizing the situation. There really isn’t anything we can do except, as we said, be on the alert for further mischief.’
‘Right you are!’ Mrs McDonald heaved herself into action with an enormous mixing bowl and giant spoon, ‘The good Lord knows I don’t want to make judgements on anyone.’
‘I wasn’t being critical,’ said Florence, ‘but we can’t stick our heads in the sands either. I’m going outside for some fresh air, to try and clear away the cobwebs.’ Once outside she wandered into the kitchen garden and sat on a tree trunk against the drystone wall. The sky remained shadowy with cloud and there was little sun. She realized she was being forced to think deeply for the first time in a long while about Lillian Stodmarsh’s death and her own subsequent behaviour. Was the lack of tangible proof a good enough excuse for not taking her suspicions to the police? She could have given the anonymous note from Hilda Stark to Constable Trout and let the situation play out as it would. Hadn’t she allowed her devotion to the Stodmarsh family, the desire to protect Ned from suspicion that could have ruined his life, to govern her conscience? Was devotion the right word, or was obsession a better fit? Was she as unbalanced in this regard as her mother was about the Tamershams and their ornamental hermit? She thought of George Bird and how she had allowed him go out of her life rather than trust him as a confidant. No wonder he no longer wished to have anything to do with her.
She pondered over the current situation in relation to the past. Was she so swept away by her powers of deduction that she saw menace without justification in happenings that were not unusual – a dog gone missing and a kitchen maid taking a tumble down a staircase? Someone had undoubtedly let Rouser out during the night, but why leap to the conclusion that it had been done on purpose out of spite, or for some other, as yet unfathomable, reason? Jeanie claimed she was pushed down the stairs, but she was not always truthful and this time her job was at stake. What benefit could these two incidents provide a possible instigator?
Florence sighed. She could worry away at coming up with an answer until her head spun and not get an inkling of an idea. A somewhat reassuring thought slid into her mind. Maybe the murderer had no desire to kill again, even having been presented with a potential scapegoat in Sylvia Jones. Hatred and resentment might have faded to be replaced by apathy – a sluggish need to leave well enough alone.
Florence heard voices as she stepped into the courtyard after leaving the kitchen garden, and she saw Ned and Sylvia Jones crossing the lawn towards her. Rouser was not with them.
‘Is he back?’ Ned called out as they drew near.
‘Afraid not, unless he came round the front and was let in during the last ten minutes while I’ve been out here.’
‘Even if he hasn’t, you can’t lose hope.’ Miss Jones laid a hand on his arm, her platinum hair close in colour to the silvery clouds overhead. ‘Call me foolish, but I truly believe we can will happy endings.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Ned’s smile could not mask his quivering lips. He went over to Florence and put an arm round her. ‘Don’t look so sad, Florie, I’m supposed to be a grown-up capable of dealing with the knocks of life,’ he murmured against her cheek. ‘Sylvia,’ he added in a louder voice, stepping away from her to look at the girl, ‘was kind enough to walk over with me to Farn Deane so I could find out from Tom or Gracie if Rouser had been seen around there this morning. But no luck.’ Again his mouth quivered but he forced himself on. ‘They’re great people, don’t you think, Sylvia?’
‘Yes, but there’s no need for gratitude that I went with you. I was glad to get out of the house.’ Her brown eyes brought Florence into what she was saying. ‘Breakfast wasn’t too bad. Mr William Stodmarsh didn’t show any interest in me whatsoever. His wife asked why in the world I would want to get in touch with, let alone meet, my grandmother, and Miss Bradley merely said she hoped I liked the marmalade and that she always found spreading it on her toast soothing.’
‘Needless to say,’ interpolated Ned, ‘Regina did not grace us with her presence.’
‘And as I had no intention of bearding her again in her den, I was glad of the chance to get out of the house.’ Miss Jones beamed at him as if she didn’t have a care in the world. ‘Especially as the three other family members disappeared after leaving the table. And there’s me worrying about disrupting the entire household, because of Granny’s,’ her lips curled around the name, ‘sins.’
‘I’m glad your fears have been put at rest,’ said Florence, ‘and it’s obvious Ned … Lord Stodmarsh is glad to have you here. If you’ll please both excuse me, I should get back to the house. It has to be close on time for luncheon to be served.’
‘Lord, yes!’ exclaimed Ned, looking at his watch. ‘Almost noon! I want to stop in at the police station and report Rouser’s disappearance to Constable Trout before meeting Grandma Tressler at the station. Makes for a rushed wash and brush-up. Want to come in with me through the study door, Sylvia?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to accompany Mrs Norris so she can introduce me to the cook, who so kindly sent up nourishment for me last night.’ This sounded reasonable to Ned.
‘Right-ho!’ He made a dash for the veranda steps.
‘That’s true,’ said Miss Jones as they crossed the courtyard to the servants’ entrance, ‘but I also feel the need for a chat with you, even if it’s about this, that or nothing. You’re one of the most restful people I’ve ever met. Do you ever lose your temper?’
They paused on flagstones facing the door leading to the realm below stairs. Florence considered the question. ‘Rarely. Displays of anger are trained out of those in service. Control is the byword, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer capable of anger … at least I hope not.’
‘On your own behalf?’ Miss Jones sounded as if she really wanted to know.
Florence hesitated. ‘Sometimes … not often … perhaps not.’ This sounded to her own ears like an admission of weakness. She saw that her world had narrowed through the years and there was no room in it for herself.
‘I understand.’ Sylvia Jones took hold of her hand. ‘Look, the way I see it – to be angry on our own behalf we have to realize we’re worth the fight. I’ve never had that sort of confidence – it’s so much easier to go all out for someone else in need, to try and right wrongs done to others. That’s partly … mostly … why I’m here, but I also have to prove I’m not one to throw away a chance of happiness for myself, if it’s there – if not, I’ll have found the strength to carry on independently.’
Florence, usually undemonstrative, kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’ve settled one thing for me
, Miss Jones.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you haven’t fabricated the story of being Regina Stodmarsh’s granddaughter. I wasn’t sure about that.’
They went though the passageway into the kitchen where they glimpsed the hovering footman. There was minimal hustle and bustle. A pan of sautéing sweetbreads was evident on the stove. Platters filled with tempting arrays of salads, lobster patties, and fruit were set out, waiting to be carried upstairs. As Mrs McDonald said often enough, ‘If a mother with three or four young ’uns clinging to her legs can get a meal on the table the minute her man walks through the door, I have no reason on God’s earth for huffing and puffing before dishing up for a small number of people, and some of them out half the time.’ Not that she’d go so far as to say she got paid for sitting on her bottom, but no one would hear her moan she had it hard! On this occasion, her colour was up and her bosom heaved with emotion. The source, Florence saw immediately, was Annie Long, looking more whey-faced than ever as she cringed, twitched and wrung her hands while backing away as if from a persecutor.
‘Please! Don’t ask it of me no more,’ she gabbled. ‘I can’t do it; I’d be too afeared. What if he came at me with them long nails of his and clawed me to ribbons? What if he tried to interfere with me?’
‘Spare me!’ Mrs McDonald begged the ceiling. ‘The poor man has to be eighty at least!’
Florence knew what was at issue, but waited to insert herself until appealed to by her friend and colleague. She saw that Sylvia Jones looked interested to the point of working up to a verbal contribution.
Annie carried on gabbling. ‘My mum says no man’s to be trusted when it comes to that until he’s boxed up and nailed down, and even then he’ll try wiggling it through a crack in the wood.’
Mrs McDonald threw up her hands. ‘Tell me she hasn’t taken leave of her senses, Mrs Norris? Could you have ever imagined such language coming out of our Annie’s mouth? It’s enough to make me become a Methodist!’
‘I had to put it that way, Mrs Norris!’ Annie was now sobbing brokenly. ‘She wouldn’t listen when I said he’s not human flesh and blood. He’s from the Devil – that’s what the vicar told me Auntie Jess.’
There was no point in protesting this viewpoint. ‘Very well, Annie, I’ll have to send one of the other girls.’ Florence waved her away. ‘Calm yourself and find something else to do. And in future please don’t refer to Mrs McDonald as she.’
‘Oh, I won’t!’ Annie snuffled against the back of her wrist. ‘Never again I won’t! I’m that grateful, you don’t know, madams!’ Her knees buckled in what might have been a remorseful curtsy, or a sign that her legs were about to give out. She wove her way into the passageway.
Mrs McDonald shook her white woolly head. ‘Ten minutes wasted. I should have known better, Mrs Norris, than thinking I could persuade her. And here’s me,’ looking apologetically at Miss Jones, ‘ignoring this young lady who’s a guest of the family. Leastways, I’m thinking you must be Lady Stodmarsh’s granddaughter.’
‘For better or worse, that’s me.’ Miss Jones showed an unexpected dimple when she smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs McDonald, for sending a meal up for me last night. It was the perfect one for someone coming in out of the rain. Breakfast was also very good.’
‘Kind of you to say so, miss.’
‘Miss Jones came in with me,’ said Florence, ‘especially to voice her appreciation.’
Mrs McDonald expanded from a very large woman into a tree bursting into blossom. Her face had gone from a flustered red to a pleased pink. ‘What a very nice young lady you must be! I’d one of my feelings I’d take to you right off, and so I have. If there is the least thing I can do, I’m more than pleased to make your stay a happy one, you’ve only to ask.’
‘That’s so dear of you to say. One more person on my side.’ Miss Jones’s eyes shone with either pleasure or tears; Florence’s opinion was a mixture of both. ‘Lord Stodmarsh and Mrs Norris have already been so nice to me. What a wonderfully warm and welcoming kitchen this is; but I mustn’t distract you from your work.’
‘There, miss, I wish I didn’t have to get on with things, but needs must. Any other time … and there’ll be another one, of course. Who’d you like me to send out with the poor old blighter’s meal, Mrs Norris?’
‘Let me do it,’ Miss Jones nipped in quickly with the offer. ‘I’d be glad of the walk. I enjoyed the one to Farn Deane and I can never get enough of being outdoors, besides, if my grandmother should descend for lunch, I’d just as soon not be there. If she’s come up with anything to communicate with me she can save it until we’re on our own.’
‘She’s gone out, miss.’ Mrs McDonald could have been letting her know that the weather prediction was for unclouded skies and brilliant sunshine. ‘Mrs Palfrett from the Chimneys in Kingsbury Knox came in her car an hour ago and they went off to lunch with Mrs Stafford-Reid at her home – Hidden Meadows in Small Middlington. Lady Stodmarsh informed Mr Grumidge that the afternoon will almost certainly turn into an evening of bridge, meaning she would not return until late. Mr Grumidge, from past experience, assesses that to be ten or later.’
Florence looked at Miss Jones, questioningly.
‘I’d still like to go. I noticed a ladder in a pair of stockings I brought and I could buy another in the village. I’ve got my purse with me,’ she touched the side pocket in her dress, ‘so after taking in the meal I’ll continue on. All I need are directions to the hut.’
While Mrs McDonald assembled a tray of bacon sandwiches, cheese and an apple crumble, over which she spread a cloth, Florence explained the quickest route for Miss Jones to take. It was not by way of the woodland path, but through a cutting further down, close to the edge of the lake. ‘If you go straight, you’ll hear a waterfall and come to a clearing by a very large tree. You’ll be able to see the hut a little way beyond.’
‘I understand I’m not to talk to him.’
‘Sounds inhuman, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s how I see it,’ said Florence, ‘though after all these years in isolation, he might die of fright if he was startled out of decades of silence. Then again, maybe not. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeanie, who usually takes his meals out to him, has tried. He’s been reduced to a myth – a fabrication of fear or fantasy according to temperament.’
Sylvia Jones took the tray from Mrs McDonald. Florence opened the outer door for her and then returned to the kitchen. Within the next few minutes luncheon was sent upstairs, and Mrs McDonald returned the conversation to Mullings’ latest house guest.
‘Well, I must say, Mrs Norris, if she’s a wrong ’un you could fool me! That bleached hair could put off someone without sense enough to see beyond it, and I’ll admit I’ve always been one for preferring the natural look, but that face and manner was what spoke volumes. Took her to my heart, I did, and I’m that sorry for the nasty thoughts I let take hold before setting eyes on her. You could blow me down with a feather if it turns out she’d anything to do with Mr Ned’s dog disappearing or Jeanie’s accident.’
Florence leaned against the table. ‘I like her, too, and no longer have any doubt that she’s Lady Stodmarsh’s granddaughter. I wonder what confidences, if any, are being laid before Mrs Palfrett and Mrs Stafford-Reid.’
‘If she’s any sense she’ll keep her mouth shut.’
‘I wonder. If you’d seen and heard her last night you might have wondered if she wasn’t in imminent danger of disintegrating.’
‘For fear of her world coming crashing down, you mean?’
Florence nodded. ‘One good thing, breakfast seems to have gone off with barely a ripple of curiosity from Mr and Mrs William or Miss Bradley regarding Miss Jones’s presence. Any idea how they are each spending their day?’
‘No idea about Mr William; most likely he’ll be around somewhere grunting to himself between puffing on his pipe. Mr Grumidge told me Mrs William will be gone this afternoon, at the church or vicarage, and, like Lady S
todmarsh, probably won’t be back to dinner, and Molly says she barely got to make Miss Bradley’s bed before being hurried away so’s she could have a day at the sewing machine.’
‘I’d like to think she’s working on her trousseau, in the hope that her marriage to Mr Fritch won’t be too long delayed.’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ Mrs McDonald’s sentimental streak showed on her face. ‘Though with this talk about Mr Craddock planning on selling the bookshop and perhaps Mr Fritch not getting to keep his job, the sound of wedding bells could be even longer in coming than already expected. Being the nervy little man he is, I’d think he’ll be all of a twitch about getting the boot.’
‘Hopefully he won’t. Mr Ned says he’s a wonder with figures, accurate down to the last farthing.’ Florence looked up at the clock, thinking that the train with Mrs Tressler on board should be pulling into the station right now. Ned would be glad to see his grandmother; he had grown considerably more attached to her over the past few years. Would his pleasure, however, be dampened by the need to tell her he had proposed to Lamorna Blake?
As it happened, other than thinking Mrs Tressler looked well and as comfortably practical as always in her sensible coat and hat, Ned’s thoughts were on Rouser’s disappearance. It wasn’t until they were in the car that Lamorna crossed his mind, and then only because he remembered that he’d considered himself duty-bound to drive his grandmother to The Manor at Large Middlington.
He’d finally got around to telephoning Lamorna that morning before setting off for the station, and for what seemed like five minutes had been prevented from getting two words in because Lamorna had run the gamut from shrieks to peevishness over his failure to return her call of last evening. But when she at last drew breath, providing the opportunity for him to speak, she cheered up instantly. Had he not been so down in the dumps about Rouser, he would have pitched into anxiety, knowing her aim would be to twist his grandmother around her finger and extract an offer to come up with the funds to purchase the London flat.
Murder at Mullings Page 25
