A Death in the Highlands

  A DEATH IN THE HIGHLANDS

  A Euphemia Martins Mystery

  CAROLINE DUNFORD

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781909520936

  Copyright © Caroline Dunford 2013

  The right of Caroline Dunford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

  Other titles in the series

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  An Accident Occurs

  Under my bed,

  Roseleaf Cottage,

  Little Crosshore,

  X-county

  1 August 1910

  Euphemia St John,

  Stapleford Hall,

  The Servants’ Quarters,

  X-county

  Dearest Effy,

  (So wrote my little brother in a remarkably fine hand and with a fluidity that I assumed only the boredom of a country cottage could have inspired.)

  Thank you so much for the wooden soldiers. I have been having a jolly time with them all day. Mother says you are spoiling me and should have at least waited until my birthday, if not Christmas! Sometimes I think Mother is no fun!

  I was delighted by your last letter. You are having the grandest of adventures! Two murders! One arrest! An absconded criminal and so many times when your life and virtue were in danger. Mother nearly fainted when I read your letter to her. The girl-that-does tried to burn chicken feathers under her nose and made such a mess!

  I have written to you under your nom de guerre, so as not to expose your true identity. I’m writing it under the covers to keep it extra secret. Mother said I was to write and thank you for the soldiers, but not to encourage you in your disgraceful escapade. She misses you and hopes you will come home soon. She also told me to say she wonders why you have not written again at length as you did last February. She says you are sending no more than a few lines now and that it can hardly be called a correspondence.

  She gave the money you sent last week to Mr Bulling, the butcher, to whom we owed a great deal. She said he was extremely rude, but now we can have sausages again for tea. Bessy and Tuggy grow bigger by the day, but they aren’t yet ready for slaughter. It will be devilish hard to eat them when they are. Why do sausages have to come from pigs? Tuggy is such a little terror. He keeps getting out of his pen and Mother has to chase him around the yard to get him back in. In all those black skirts she is like a giant crow and, as she would say, most undignified.

  I miss Pa. So does Mother. Life isn’t very fair, is it, Effy?

  Anyway have lots of adventures for me and when I’m big and rich I’ll buy us all a dozen houses bigger than Stapleford Hall and we will all live happily ever after. Sadly, Mother is still determined I shall go to school rather than letting me start my own business enterprise at once, so it may be a little while until I can afford the houses. Unless, of course, Grandfather ever comes through with the pennies. Mother still writes to him, but he never writes back. If it was Pa he was cross about, you would think he would answer now. If I ever have children I will never cast them off no matter what they do. Well, perhaps not no matter what, I mean there could be dreadful things one might do, but I can’t imagine Mother or Pa ever getting up to anything dreadful, can you?

  Take care of yourself, Effy. Mr Bertram sounds like a fine chap. Perhaps you should tell him your real identity. He’ll get the title when they hang his brother. You mention him so much I was wondering if you might get married? With all that brown hair you’re quite pretty for a sister.

  Your loving brother,

  Little Joe

  ps What is virtue? Mother kept going on about it, but when I asked she wouldn’t explain.

  I tucked the letter into my bodice and sat back on my heels. I had been carrying it around with me for days, reading it often as if Little Joe’s words could somehow transport me to a happier place or time. It was a risky action, for the words written within it could expose me utterly.

  I had taken a position far below my station and, while the money was most welcome, if any of my employers or co-workers discovered my true identity then for the sake of pride (my mother’s) and preserving the societal norm (not that I care of such things), I should be forced , one way or another, to quit my position. This would send my widowed mother, my little brother and me to the brink of destitution once more. We had noble relatives, but for their own reasons they had forsaken us.

  I sighed and checked again it was firmly secured. There were reasons I had not again written at length to my mother. These reasons had much to do with the bucket of soapy water at my side and the maid’s cap still on my head.

  It was 8th August 1910 and much was right with the world. The doomsayers had been forced to hang their heads in shame as the world passed unscathed through the tail of Halley’s Comet. King George V was safely installed on his throne. There were rumours that powered flight was only months away from total success and, in the small corner of England where I worked, we were enjoying a most glorious summer.

  Of course there were many things wrong with the world. In a less self-absorbed moment I might have mused on the fate of the Russians, that dreadful fire in Hungary or the riots in France, but to be honest I was more concerned with the fourth set of dung-ridden footsteps Miss Richenda has stomped over the marble staircase for me to clean. She had unfortunately large feet and a weighty tread, being one of the more large-boned of the recently ennobled. I remained more than a little persuaded she was attempting to annoy me.

  My father is now almost nine months dead and, despite previous hopes of becoming a secretary or more senior member of staff, I remain a maid in service.

  Miss Richenda tripped down the stairs again. At least in her mind she doubtlessly believed she was tripping, but it was more of an ungainly lumber. Sadly this thought so unworthy of a vicar’s daughter was not one I had the position or right to utter. Instead, quite unfairly, my conscience upbraided me. That Pa should have made such a good job of my schooling and spiritual upbringing is a constant trial to me. In my mother’s world, and as she often said: ‘Intelligence is about as much use to a girl as a pair of hooves’. Alas, as a maid I also have little use for the brain with which God had in his wisdom gifted me. I am often bored and when so prey to the most unsuitable (if accurate) thoughts about my employers.

  ‘Oh, Euphemia! Silly, silly me! Now you’ll have to wash it all over again, won’t you?’ The eyes that lowered to meet mine did not reflect the smile across her lips. She gave one of her harsh braying laughs, which no doubt her horse would have understood, but I did not. I merely answered with a smile as equally false and a servile nod of the head.

  It was small and petty of me to resent her, but it was even smaller and pettier to force a maid to spend the better part of a glorious afternoon in the unseasonably cold marble hal
lway scrubbing up horse dirt. Yes, I and her younger brother, Mr Bertram, had attempted to have her twin indicted for murder. But the Right Honourable Lord Richard Stapleford was safe at home, having returned from this first sitting as a freshly elected Unionist MP, rather than rotting in jail awaiting execution as, by rights, he should have been. Much it seems can be overlooked for a man with friends in high places.1

  Miss Richenda continued on her way. In all likelihood she really did want to see her horse again. In lieu of any suitors she was lavishing affection on the beast. That it meant she was able to keep me on my knees was no doubt an enjoyable bonus. She hates me with a passion. She once locked me in a wardrobe, so I am not particularly fond of her either. I slopped more water onto the step and scrubbed vigorously. My long braid swung loose, released by my efforts. My hands were filthy from the job, so I chose not to pin it up once more, but swung it to one side in the hope I could keep it out of the water. I would not be allowed to wash my hair until Tuesday week and I did not want it reeking of horse manure all that time.

  My lot was not a happy one. Mr Bertram had managed to preserve my position as a maid at the house. There were things in his father’s will that had given him some sway with his brother. He had not been clear on what this was but knowing, yet being unable to prove, Richard had murdered their father put the relationship on the most uneven footing. They circled each other like feral dogs, each unwilling to turn his back on the other. Their metaphorical teeth were on prominent display in what could be mistaken by a stranger for a smile, though I knew each was waiting for the moment to grasp a death grip on the other. But then Stapleford Hall has never been a happy home.

  With the departure of their widowed mother to stay with friends in Brighton – can you think of any place less likely to alleviate the spirits? – Miss Richenda had assumed control of the household. This meant she sent many invitations and left all the organisation to the increasingly overworked housekeeper Mrs Wilson. The house-staff had been enlarged to a much more reasonable size, but there was no one else of my organisational ability. I might be paid and named a maid, but in reality I did a great deal more for the household. Especially when the strain proved too much for Mrs Wilson and she had to resort to her “special medicine”.

  I sighed so deeply the letter within my bodice rustled and continued with my allotted task. Water trickled down onto my skirt from the step above. I should not have started from the top. It had seemed the obvious and most efficient way to work, but in practice had created a small waterfall that grew increasingly dirty as Miss Richenda roamed back and forth.

  I slopped water onto the step and set to scrubbing. I reminded myself that no skilled maid would have made such a mistake and this was one of the many reasons I could not move on. Despite the abounding enmities within the household I was considered, if not indispensable, annoyingly necessary. Mrs Wilson had even forgotten herself, so far as to murmur what might have been thanks, when I devised a seating plan for one of Lord Richard’s highly complex mix of entrepreneurial, minor aristocratic and political guests. Necessity makes the strangest of bedfellows and after the dismal, strange and destructive series of butlers we had experienced, a servant with knowledge of how things should be done had become valuable.2

  I had heard whispers that a new butler would shortly be appointed and, in a triumph of faith over experience, entertained hopes he might prove to be an ally. I was musing on this when there came a strange cry from above me. It sounded not unlike a pig being led by the ear to slaughter. I looked up as a loud smack followed the cry and I saw the housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, on her way down towards me. Except, instead of using the steps, she appeared to have decided to toboggan down, but without a sledge.

  She had slipped on the wet stairs.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,’ she cried. As she passed over each stair her body rose a little in the air, only to fall once more, so her cries of dismay undulated accordingly.

  It all happened very quickly, but at the time it seemed to take for ever. I noticed every detail: her pale alarmed face with its tiny beady black eyes widened to almost normal size by the surprise; the thin pink lips parted in an “O” of horror; her crow-black hair escaping its tightly bound bun and whipping from side to side; her black skirts wrinkling, rustling and beginning to display an old-fashioned set of undergarments as her narrow form bumped over each stair. Most horrific of all was the smacking noise her left arm made as she half-twisted and attempted to stop her fall by holding on to balustrade after balustrade, only to have the soapy water sweep her on.

  Without thinking, I moved backwards away from this trundling nightmare. It did not occur to me to stop her. In my defence, I will add that, by the time she was nearing me, she was travelling with significant force. She landed with a final yelp of despair on the black and white tiles. Sadly, these too remained slick with water, so she slid a little more across the hall, slaloming from side to side on the moistened marble, until her head hit my bucket and she was still.

  I did not like Mrs Wilson, but this does not excuse my extremely uncharitable reaction. I giggled.

  In my further defence I will say she was clearly still breathing and she had been enacting the tyrant over me for eight weary months. I also immediately, or as soon as I got my emotions under control, ran to her assistance. Her thin chest rose and fell in an agitated manner. At my approach her little black eyes snapped open, ‘You,’ she gasped in tones of loathing. ‘I should have known this would be your doing. Help me up at once, girl!’

  ‘Should I not summon assistance?’ I queried bending over her. ‘You may have unseen injuries.’

  She reached up and grabbed my braid. I cried out in pain as she yanked hard with her right hand and sunk the steely fingers of her left into my shoulder as she attempted to right herself.

  ‘Be quiet, girl,’ she snarled in my ear. ‘You’ll have us both over.’ A wave of liquor fumes washed over me and I suddenly felt far less guilty about her fall. My hair hurt terribly. I was quite sure she would have it all out by the roots, when her left leg, on which she was attempting to rise, slid from under her, and we both went down in a crashing heap.

  Mrs Wilson screamed.

  As I lay winded on my back with her spider-like claw still digging painfully into my shoulder, I determined I cared nothing for the bathing rules and I would be washing tonight. My hair, my dress, my skin – all were filthy. For no matter how much I scrubbed, Miss Richenda’s constant pacing had ensured a high level of dirt remained in the water.

  Mrs Wilson continued to scream.

  I realised something must be wrong. I prised her fingers off my shoulder and righted myself. ‘What is wrong, Mrs Wilson?’ I asked as sympathetically as I could, but at the same time tactically retreating beyond her reach. ‘Are you hurt?’

  The housekeeper managed to control her cries for a moment. She glared at me, reached out with her hands and, failing to grasp me, gasped, ‘My leg, you stupid girl, my leg! Get me out of the hall before the family come.’

  ‘I think it is too late for that,’ I answered. My ears detected the sound of heavy, running footsteps.

  In a moment a figure emerged through the doorway at the back of the lower hall. My most unreliable and treacherous heart did something odd within my chest. ‘Sir,’ the words broke from my lips without thought, ‘I believed you to still be in London.’ Although Mr Bertram Stapleford had been a less than successful champion he had always tried to fight my corner – as Little Joe would say. He was shorter than his brother and, instead of his fierce red hair, had dark locks inherited from his now-absent mother. As was his habit they were oiled and neatly cut. To those who knew him well, his face betrayed his French ancestry as if a subtle veil of difference had been cast over his features, making them finer and more chiselled than his siblings’. He had extraordinarily long and delicate fingers, and totally lacked the bovine bulkiness that the twins shared. While Lord Richard’s voice was likely to be sharp with command, Mr Bertram’s often warmed with
compassion. I could see in his face that already he was empathising with Mrs Wilson’s fate. Lord Richard would have already been on his way back to his office writing her an uncharitable dismissal reference after checking the stairs for damage.

  ‘Just back,’ he answered briefly as he made to kneel beside the fallen housekeeper.

  ‘Sir, not on the floor!’ I cried out in alarm. ‘It’s filthy!’ He ignored me and went down on one knee.

  Mrs Wilson struggled to sit, this time sinking her talons into his shoulder and breathing harshly into his face. ‘She did it. She!’ She flung out an accusatory finger at me. ‘She wants me dead, you know.’

  Mr Bertram winced at her breath. ‘My dear Mrs Wilson. I’m sure this is only some dreadful accident. Euphemia wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  I attempted to look demure, pushing to the back of my mind the five flies I had slain earlier in the kitchen as Mrs Deighton had fought valiantly to protect her custard tarts from unwelcome summer intruders.

  Mrs Wilson exhaled loudly. Mr Bertram coughed. ‘It’s not my fault, sir,’ slurred Mrs Wilson. ‘Since the mistress left and with all those butlers … Mr Harris …’

  Mr Bertram shuddered. ‘I’d rather not recall the man. Let’s get you up.’

  ‘It’s her leg,’ I interjected, but Mr Bertram hauled the unresisting housekeeper to her feet. The moment she put weight upon her left leg, her eyes rolled up inside her head and she lost consciousness.

  ‘What has been going on here, Euphemia?’ demanded Mr Bertram as he struggled with the ungainly form of Mrs Wilson. I hurried to her other side to assist him.

  ‘Well, sir,’ I responded, a mite too harshly, ‘being only a maid, I wouldn’t be in a position to know the ins and outs of things.’

  Mr Bertram had the grace to hang his head for a moment. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. But as things stand …’ He levelled his eyes to meet mine. ‘And don’t for a moment think, Euphemia, that I don’t appreciate that you know everything that goes on in this house. Even Dickie is sharp enough to be wary of your intelligence.’