Murder at Mullings

by Dorothy Cannell

  Florence stared at him, some semblance of normal feeling returning.

  ‘You recall what it contains?’

  ‘Yes. Notations I made in the aftermath of the first Lady Stodmarsh’s death, along with a letter I received from a friend.’

  ‘George Bird, publican of the Dog and Whistle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No handkerchiefs?’

  ‘I put those in a new sachet my sister sent me the following Christmas.’

  ‘Anything else in this one?’

  ‘An anonymous note.’

  ‘Saying?’

  ‘Which one of them did it?’

  ‘Just checking your recall, Mrs Norris. Did you show it to anyone?’

  ‘No,’ said Florence quietly.

  ‘Not even your friend, George Bird?’

  ‘I didn’t want to burden him with my suspicions. I feared having to keep them back from him would put constraints on our friendship and stopped seeing him.’

  ‘No contact of any sort with him since?

  ‘None.’

  ‘You didn’t take the note to Constable Trump?’

  ‘If you’ve read what I wrote about that …’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you’ll see it was a difficult decision to make. In the end I decided it wouldn’t be taken seriously – the implication was clear to me, but there was no reference to murder and no threat was made. As you’ll have read, I felt sure it was written, not out of any knowledge, but from spite by a nanny who had been dismissed for drinking. Also, I had no concrete evidence to back up my suspicions.’

  ‘And you were loath to place innocent persons under suspicion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your being devoted to the family, especially to young Ned Stodmarsh?’

  ‘I know him – have done so since he was a small boy.’

  Inspector LeCrane leaned back in his chair. ‘How do you now regard your decision to remain silent?’

  ‘I’ve yet to delve into my feelings.’

  ‘Then let me offer you some reassurance, Mrs Norris. I think you were right in believing the murderer would decide it was too risky to strike again and would not have done so had a scapegoat not appeared at an opportune moment.’ Inspector LeCrane nodded towards the door. ‘That will be all for now.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Florence had just risen, her legs steadier than they had been when she’d sat down, when a constable entered, followed by Ned with Rouser at his heels.

  ‘Positive news to report, sir,’ said the taller of the policemen. ‘We discovered the body of the so-called ornamental hermit in a ravine close to the woodland path. He’d been covered by dead leaves. It was the dog that alerted us to the spot. We also found these near the hut.’ He held up a string of pearls. ‘Constable Phipps remains at the scene, awaiting further instructions.’

  Inspector LeCrane looked to Ned, his expression as laconic as it had been during his questioning of Florence. ‘I thank you for your cooperation and suggest you conduct Mrs Norris to a place where she can recover from this further shock.’

  Ned put an arm round her in the hall. ‘My God, Florie! This gets beastlier by the hour. Why the desire or need to kill that pathetic creature who may have done nothing to hurt anyone, beyond scaring them a little?’

  ‘That has to be thought through. I’m all right, Ned. I’d like to go and sit at my desk and hope answers work their way into place. How are you after so grim an experience?’

  ‘I was prepared. We’d been told what we were looking for. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. You have to pass on this news.’

  ‘I refuse not to see you to your desk.’

  When he left her, Florie closed her eyes and decided it might help to empty her mind of horror momentarily. She reached for Hattie’s letter and read it through, picking up speed as she went along. She then refolded it, returned it to the envelope and drew in a deep breath. After doing so she sought out Grumidge and asked if he’d request Miss Jones to do her the kindness of coming to the housekeeper’s room for a talk.

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Norris.’

  Florence turned her chair to face the door, drew another chair forward and angled it towards hers, then picked up the envelope again. Several minutes later she rose as the white-faced girl entered. She must have guessed what was coming. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned back against it, eyes riveted on what Florence was holding.

  ‘From Miss Fly?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ Florence guided her to the chair. ‘Don’t look so frightened. Hattie writes very fondly of you and I value her opinion over most others. I think you and I should put our heads together.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can help.’

  ‘I have faith it will. May I call you Toffee?’

  ‘If you like.’ The girl sat utterly listless.

  ‘I’d like to begin at my end. A few years ago I was friendly with George Bird; that ended when … something happened that caused me to regretfully cut off contact with him. I’ll tell you about that later. During our times together he spoke often and with deep affection of his godson Jim. At our last meeting he mentioned that Jim had a young lady, from the sound of her a lovely girl, but his parents didn’t approve of her any more than they had of his attempting to earn a living as a painter. Their reasons for disliking the girl unseen included her having a name they thought silly and affected. George couldn’t remember what it was, only that it was something such as “Fudge”. Hattie writes of her lodger, who went off unexpectedly with the possibility of not returning for an uncertain length of time, as “Toffee”. It seemed just too close to be a coincidence. And there’s the surname being the same.’

  ‘I was sure she’d write – you’re such an important part of her life, but I hoped I’d be gone before a letter came.’ The response was bleak.

  ‘George also mentioned that Jim’s young lady had a platinum streak in her brown hair.’

  ‘I had to bleach the rest, not because I thought you’d know about it, but because I was afraid the police had me under watch and might have me followed. It wasn’t hard for them to find out about Jim and me. Even though things have been over between us for some time, as he said it was unfair to keep me waiting perhaps for years until we could afford to marry, it had to occur to them he might try to get in touch with me, to borrow money to help in his escape. I tried my very best to throw them off my trail in coming here.’

  ‘I didn’t know about the murder of the old lady until half an hour ago when Mrs McDonald mentioned it. I don’t read the papers,’ Florence told her. ‘Did you come to this area principally to see George, to find out if he’d heard from Jim, or might even be hiding him?’

  Toffee nodded. ‘Neither proved the case. That lovely man is distraught but fighting against giving the game away. There is also the fact that I really am – was – Regina Stodmarsh’s granddaughter. And my first name is Sylvia. My father named me after my mother, but wished he hadn’t. He found it too painful, so he called me Toffee for the colour of my eyes. I discovered Regina had remarried and what her new surname was from the pure chance of going to lodge with dear Miss Fly. She never told me anything revealing about life at Mullings, apart from a few bare facts, and that was one of them. As I told you, I wanted my mother’s pearls – they belonged to me by right – so I could give them to Jim if I were blessed enough to find him. And yesterday … I did.’

  Florence stared at her in amazement. ‘When … where?’

  ‘In the ornamental hermit’s hut, when I took out the tray of food because that girl Annie was too afraid to do so. It took several good looks for me to realize it was Jim. He was disguised by a false beard and hair, both of them long and gray. But I’d know his eyes anywhere … I love him more than words can express and the only comfort left to me is that he told me he still felt the same about me. I hadn’t argued when he broke things off between us, because I was afraid his explanation about our not being able to marry for ages was an excuse – that r
eally he’d grown tired of me. I’ve never exactly bubbled over with confidence.’

  Florence’s thoughts ticked away with increasing speed. ‘How had he come by the beard and hair?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say; only that it was not from George. There’d be no reason not to tell me if he’d bought them at a shop.’

  ‘For the purpose of posing as the ornamental hermit?’

  ‘I suppose the police might say he knew of the man’s existence from George and somehow got him out of the way.’

  Florence hoped her face did not reveal the dread she was feeling. Then came a relieving memory. Inspector LeCrane had spoken of Lillian Stodmarsh’s possible killer waiting for a scapegoat before striking again. ‘Did you visit Jim again yesterday?’

  Toffee shook her head. ‘I told him I’d get the pearls in the middle of the night. He asked me not to, but I was determined and slipped into her bedroom, leaving the door ajar so there’d be some light. I hadn’t taken two steps when I saw she … she was dead. I raced out and went to warn Jim that he was liable to be suspected of her murder too. He was gone.’

  ‘The false beard and hair?’

  ‘Also gone.’

  ‘I think,’ said Florence, ‘I can hazard a guess where they came from. When I first came to Mullings as a girl of fourteen, the housekeeper at that time, a Mrs Longbrow, mentioned that Edward Stodmarsh, Ned’s grandfather, enjoyed amateur theatricals, which were performed in this house. He later mentioned to me that he had acted the part of Prospero in The Tempest, and that old costumes were stored in trunks in the attic.’

  ‘Then that means,’ gasped Toffee, ‘that someone at Mullings provided them and helped him to hide out as the hermit, so that when Regina was murdered …’

  She got no further. The door was opened by Inspector LeCrane.

  ‘I trust you will both excuse me. Miss Jones, I would like you to accompany me to the police station, for no alarming reason. I have someone waiting there who is anxious to see you. And to allay further concerns, that person is not, nor will be, placed under arrest.’

  Florence saw the girl’s face light up with a wonderful vivacity. ‘Come with me,’ Toffee grasped her hand as they both stood, ‘I want you to hear whatever else he has to say.’

  Inspector LeCrane said, ‘I hope to return in a couple of hours to find the family assembled so I can update them on how matters stand. I would appreciate your being present, Mrs Norris. Coming, Miss Jones?’

  That was at three o’clock in the afternoon. At precisely five Grumidge ushered Inspector LeCrane once more into the drawing room. Gertrude Stodmarsh had not returned from the hospital; recent news of her husband was not good, and she did not expect to return that night. Miss Hendrick was with her. Inspector LeCrane surveyed the expectant faces fixed on his. Ned was standing. The others sat.

  ‘As I told you this morning, I expected to make a speedy arrest. As it happens, the obvious suspect at that time has been positively cleared. We are, however, well on our way to closure. Mr Cyril Fritch has confessed to the murder of Regina Stodmarsh.’

  Madge Bradley swayed, emitting a cry of anguish.

  ‘He claims his reason for committing the crime was that he has been embezzling money from the bookshop where he works to support his mother’s excessive spending and feared discovery when his employer, Mr Craddock, sells it. Mr Fritch knew you were due for an inheritance, Miss Bradley, on Lady Stodmarsh’s death, which would enable him to return the money.’

  ‘I don’t … won’t believe it!’ Madge Bradley was weeping, tears dripping through the fingers covering her face.

  Inspector LeCrane smiled thinly, ‘Neither do I, Miss Bradley, but I think he’ll stick gamely to his version, until we have him sit in while we question you about the death of Lillian Stodmarsh.’

  ‘What rubbish is this?’ Her hands dropped and Florence saw the vicious glitter of hatred in her eyes that she had witnessed once before, but this time it didn’t flash almost too quickly to be absorbed. She then made the obvious mistake. ‘You’ve no proof.’

  ‘Perhaps not what might be termed hard evidence, but enough of the circumstantial sort to request an order of exhumation from the Home Secretary. But more importantly, sufficient evidence to have Mr Fritch decide you’re not worth hanging for.’ Inspector LeCrane nodded towards the two constables hovering in the doorway. ‘Take her away, chaps. You can fetch me later. I’d like to stay for a cup of tea if it’s on offer.’

  THIRTEEN

  Florence had not been so mesmerized by the scene which had just unfolded that she had failed to see the startled look on Ned’s face change to one of anguish on hearing what the inspector had to say regarding Lillian Stodmarsh’s death. He stared blankly after the figure being escorted from the room and stood as if frozen, even after they heard the front door closing, followed by the sound of a car being started and then driven away into silence. Florence longed to go over and put her arms around him, but she knew it was not her place to do so with Mrs Tressler present to offer comfort.

  ‘My dear Ned,’ said that lady, rising from the sofa, ‘why don’t I walk with you to another room, such as your study, where you can have the peace to allow the shock of what you’ve just heard sink in? I’ll then leave if you wish, or sit without saying a word, unless you wish to talk.’

  ‘Thank you, Grandma,’ his green eyes held both gratitude and love behind the blur of tears, ‘but I’ll stay here.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  He nodded and she returned to the sofa. ‘I need to hear all that Inspector LeCrane has to reveal.’ He turned to the long, lean figure, now occupying a wingback chair beside the fireplace, angled towards the other seating. ‘May I offer you something stronger than tea, Inspector?’

  Florence had never been prouder of Ned, witnessing the steadiness of his voice and stance.

  ‘That is very obliging of you, Lord Stodmarsh,’ was the response. ‘I’ll pretend I’m off duty, which in a sense I temporarily am, and accept, if I may, a whisky and soda.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve earned one.’ Ned provided a handsome crystal glass, shimmering with amber fire, and settled himself down next to Mrs Tressler.

  ‘I really had very little to do with solving one murder and discovering that it had been preceded by another.’ Inspector LeCrane sipped his drink with obvious enjoyment. ‘That’s not self-deprecation. It’s a fact. Credit goes to an unforeseen circumstance, which I will come to later, and the contributions of Mrs Tressler and Mrs Norris.’

  Ned looked at each in turn, but neither his grandmother nor Florence said anything or showed surprise, and he decided this was not the moment to question the inspector and break his train of thought.

  ‘On receiving the telephone message this morning alerting me to the stabbing of Regina Stodmarsh, I was ninety-nine per cent certain the murderer would prove to be Arthur James Leighton, who has been on the run for the past several days. He had fled the scene when discovered with a bloodied knife in his hand, standing over the body of an elderly woman in London who had taken him into her home. She had done so because she wished to assist him in pursuing his ambitions as an artist.’

  Enlightenment dawned on Ned’s face, but again he refrained from interjecting.

  The inspector sat very much at ease in the wingback chair. In relaxation he had an elegance well suited to that of his surroundings. He might have been discussing the vintage contents of his wine cellar, or relating some anecdote about a peer of the realm who happened to be a member of his club. ‘It did not take the police involved in the London case long to seriously consider the possibility that Mr Leighton might make his way to Dovecote Hatch.’

  ‘Jim,’ said Ned, ‘godson of George Bird at the Dog and Whistle.’

  ‘Precisely. He had been named for his father, Arthur James Leighton, but his parents called him Jim from the start. They were, of course, interviewed, and their home watched, but their statement that they were estranged from their son was confirmed by neighbours – p
utting them lower on the list of likely bolt holes the younger Mr Leighton might have in mind.’

  ‘But were they otherwise helpful,’ inquired Mrs Tressler, ‘in directing you to Mr Bird – suggesting their son might seek sanctuary with him and providing his address?’

  ‘That was so.’ Inspector LeCrane finished his drink and set the glass down on the piecrust table by his chair. ‘One prefers to believe they were doing their duty, as viewed from lives of unflagging respectability, and not acting out of jealousy of the closeness between their son and his godfather. The negative aspect of police work is it inclines one to become cynical.’

  ‘I’d call it a ratty thing to do, whatever their motive,’ flared Ned. Florence was heartened by his becoming caught up in the information Inspector LeCrane was providing. ‘Did the detectives who talked to the parents get the impression they believed in Jim’s innocence or not?’

  ‘It’s in the report that they insisted he had been brought up to be a good boy but feared he would get into bad company and be led astray when he insisted on following his dream of becoming an artist. My mother said much the same thing when I told her I wanted to become a policeman.’

  ‘George will have had faith in him all the way, and will go on doing so however dark things look presently,’ Ned said, looking at Florence. ‘Just as you would with me, Florie, if I were in his shoes.’ Ned’s eyes returned to LeCrane. ‘From how George spoke of his godson it was clear he was not only frightfully fond of him, but thought highly of his character – his decency.’

  ‘He did, Inspector,’ said Florence.

  ‘I believe, Mrs Norris,’ said Mrs Tressler, ‘that you and Mr Bird have it in common that you each accepted a formative role in a boy’s life and fulfilled it to the crucial betterment of each.’ Before Florence could answer she addressed LeCrane. ‘Are my grandson and I correct in thinking that when Mr Bird was contacted he vehemently asserted his godson was incapable of murder?’

  ‘That was his position when we sent a man round to the Dog and Whistle. Mr Bird said he had learned of the murder from his morning newspaper and he denied having seen or heard from Leighton since.’