A Death in the Pavilion: A Euphemia Martins Mystery Read online

  Richenda nodded. ‘Yes, she was found dead in the pavilion three years ago I believe. A weak heart. Quite terrible for Muller of course, but so long ago now.’

  My mother made a pithy response, but Little Joe and I had now locked eyes. I shook my head very slightly. In response my brother’s eyes grew round as saucers. My mother now turned her attention to him and started scolding him for repeating such a tale. The room seemed over-full of people and oppressively hot. I was seriously considering fainting when the door opened once more and Mrs Philomena Muller, mother of the master of the estate, entered. ‘Guests we are having?’ she enquired of Richenda loudly, ‘Introduced I must be!’

  ‘My dear, Philomena,’ said Richenda hurrying forward, ‘I understood you to be resting or I would …’’

  Mrs Muller had not closed the door behind her and I made use of the opportunity to exit. Sliding out of my seat and away from the uproar.

  What I needed, I told myself, was a nice cup of tea. As a companion of Richenda’s I was meant to be in her company as much of the time as possible. However, Mrs Muller being in residence and having taken to Richenda, I had quietly been awarded my own small sitting room where I could indulge in outlandish and unladylike habits like reading. I made my way there now and rang the bell.

  A companion’s lot is not a happy one. We don’t quite fit into the social hierarchy. Richenda had not let it be known I was once a maid and housekeeper and though Muller knew he had said nothing. Therefore the staff, all four hundred-odd of them, had been assessing me over the last few weeks. As far as I knew they had yet to make up their minds. I, on the other hand, had determined my role from the moment we drew up on the impressive and very new drive. Country people don’t like new money and new ways. I felt certain Muller would be disliked, but in fact not one of the staff had a bad word to say about him. He had designed his estate with complete efficiency. He paid his staff a reasonable salary for a country estate. He was known to be fair in all disputes and never to have a cross word in the normal way of things. He was described by all as a charming gentleman and no reference was made to his foreign-ness. He had a very loyal staff. The role he had undoubtedly designed for his mother was very clever. She was the one who threw temper tantrums, scolded maids who failed in their duty, and gave orders for anything that could be considered remotely out of the ordinary. She was feared, but respected because of the general appreciation of Muller. I had no doubt it had all been cleverly arranged.

  Richenda did not know how to behave in a large estate and often made mistakes. She was not above gossiping with the maids, as she had done with my good friend Merry at Stapleford Hall. The difference of course was that she and Merry had almost grown up side by side. The staff here were contemptuous of her. Her recent defence of Muller to my mother gave weight to my growing suspicion that she was contemplating him as a husband. If he should offer I had no doubt he would also do this charmingly. His staff, however, would be hell to tame.

  For my part I treated all the staff politely, never asked for anything to excess, but I was careful never to do anything that might lower my position. Which was why I was ringing for tea rather than going to the kitchen to ask for some – something Richenda had done on our first week here. I despaired of her.

  Lucy popped her head around the door. ‘Anything I can get you, Miss St John?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, I could really do with a nice cup of tea, please.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucy, entering rather than leaving. ‘It all got a bit heated in the morning room from what I heard.’

  I had the choice now of engaging in gossip or snubbing her. A companion who gossips is highly prized by a household staff, but also loses respect from her lack of loyalty. A companion who snubs the staff is liable to be thought above herself and cold tea will be the least of her contrived inconveniences. I tried a lateral approach.

  ‘I quite misunderstood the young boy and thought he had found a body in the pavilion,’ I said, striking a happy balance between truth and a suitably shocking topic.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Lucy and made to sit down on one of the chairs. A raised eyebrow halted her progress.

  ‘I believe he had heard the tale from the gardener.’

  ‘Mr Bennie. He was the one that found the body. It’s coming up to the third anniversary. Must have been on his mind.’

  ‘She had a weak heart,’ I said invitingly.

  ‘Well, that’s what the doctor said, but if she had she’d kept it very quiet. Mind you, she wasn’t one of these ladies that like to complain, like.’ Unlike some I could mention, hovering on the air between us. I was going to have to have a word with Richenda. I gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, but Lucy took it as encouragement. ‘Sweet, she was. Much younger than Mr Muller, but you know how he is. He could charm the birds out of the trees and she was completely bowled over by him. Why when he was in the room she had no eyes for anyone or anything else. Always together they were. Why even when he went up to town for business he took her with him. Stayed at the poshest hotels. And her no more than a vicar’s sister. Course she were lovely like, to look at. But no children. That were the real tragedy. Miscarried five and Mrs Muller distraught each time.’

  ‘How sad,’ I said.

  ‘Course, he will have to marry again, some time,’ said Lucy. ‘We’re all hoping he’ll pick a real lady this time. With his charm and wealth he should be able to look as high as he likes for a bride.’ This was said with a challenging air.

  ‘And I think a teacake too,’ I said, bringing our conversation to an end.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucy, who knew the rules of the game all too well. ‘Milk or lemon?’

  ‘Oh, I think lemon at this time of day, don’t you?’

  Lucy nodded approvingly and left.

  I was left pondering the late Mr Muller’s marriage. Had it been love’s young dream or was it a description of a young woman overbearingly controlled by an older husband; her eyes following him everywhere not out of love, but fear?

  Chapter Three

  A Charming Gentleman

  That very evening I had cause to rethink my speculations. Unexpectedly Muller arrived back from town. The pff-futt of his motor cut through the late afternoon as I sat with Richenda as she did her best to embroider a cushion. I can only say it was fortunate that the thread she was using was red.

  He entered the sitting room not half an hour after we had heard his arrival. He was neatly dressed and his hair impeccably combed. Any smuts from the road had been totally removed, but he had not yet changed for dinner.

  He came across the room, his hands out-stretched towards Richenda. ‘My dear Richenda, are you well? I left the city as soon as I heard.’

  I raised a puzzled eyebrow. My mother might have been known to make waves in social circles in her youth, but it seemed unlikely that even she could have upset the workings of the city. Besides, she would have considered even knowing about such matters far too vulgar.

  Richenda happily took his hands. Muller was not prone to displays of such affection. I wondered if he would regret his impulsiveness when he found his palms and cuffs covered with pinpricks of blood. Richenda really was an extraordinarily bad needlewoman. Worse than myself, and my mother would tell you that is no mean feat.

  Muller held the embrace and searched her eyes. ‘You are being so brave,’ he said. Richenda inflated before my gaze with pride. However, I could see she had no idea what he was talking about, but was simply basking in the moment.

  ‘Mr Muller,’ I interrupted, shocking the gentleman into realising he had been holding her hands too long. He dropped them at once and turned to face me. Richenda did an excellent impression of a basilisk at me.

  ‘My dear Miss St John, at your post by our dear friend’s side,’ he said. ‘I did not see you sitting in that corner, but I should have known you would be on hand at this difficult time.’

  ‘Mr Muller, I fear you have the advantage of us. Neither Richenda nor I know to what you are re
ferring?’

  Mr Muller started, somewhat over-dramatically I felt, and said, ‘It is possible I have beaten him here? I drove like the wind, but I was sure he would reach here before me.’

  I began to feel that I had stumbled into a melodramatic gothic novel, but Richenda appeared to be enjoying the experience. She clasped her hands to her chest and asked in a quivering tone, ‘Who is coming, Mr Muller?’

  It was at this tender moment I became sure that Muller and Richenda had set their sights on each other. Richenda’s betrothed was not long dead, but they had not made it to the altar, so a period of mourning was not set in societal stone. Muller I had suspected of eyeing Richenda’s shares in the Stapleford bank, but she wasn’t high society, or even that attractive if I am painfully honest, and while he was not more than ten years older than her he was not only foreign but no one could have denied his hair was thinning.

  I need not tell you having a bald husband, unless he is of the highest standing, is something of a social faux pas in this age of moustaches and side whiskers.

  The two of them appeared to be still locked in their tableaux. Both had forgotten it was almost time to dress for dinner. ‘Who is coming?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

  Muller used the urgency of his news to again clasp Richenda’s hands through he turned to respond to me. ‘Richard Stapleford has sent his agent to bring Richenda home.’

  Thoughts of a rough man in tweed with a cosh passed through my head. ‘What agent?’ asked Richenda.

  ‘He has hired a new factotum to help him manage his estates now he has bought up the Bellfield property. A London man.’

  ‘Then he is probably lost down some country lane,’ I suggested. ‘Your estate, Mr Muller, is not the easiest to find and I doubt a man with a London accent would get much help from the local people.’

  Muller beamed. ‘What an excellent thought, Miss St John. Why I believe we can relax and dress for dinner. Richenda need have no fear that she will be compelled to do or go anywhere she does not wish while I am here.’

  The look Richenda gave him would have made Little Joe lose his luncheon on the spot. I fled before my appetite could be completely eroded.

  I am not totally hard-hearted and I certainly do not wish Richenda ill, but should she marry Muller I would again be in a vulnerable position. I had to continue to earn a wage to support my mother and brother or my mother would indeed have to marry the canon regardless of his lack of ambition.

  As the master of the house had returned, dinner became enlarged by a course. Mrs Muller preferred soup, fish, and a cheese plate when her son was away, but Richenda’s moanings about feeling faint had ensured we received soup, fish, and a proper dessert. This evening included a meat course. As Muller carved the roasted joint Richenda appeared to be in seventh heaven, but whether this was due to the extra course or her budding swain was hard to tell.

  In fact it was Mrs Muller who appeared the most out of sorts. Normally she was delighted to see her son home.

  ‘Are you sure you have not left things undone, Liebling?’ she asked over the tomato and pepper soup.

  ‘Nothing urgent is demanding my attention,’ her son assured her.

  ‘I am sure you always said that this time of year was most demanding with people away from the city in hotter climes.’ That Mrs Muller was now speaking in the most correct English did not escape my attention.

  Muller smiled. ‘It is true that sometimes deals can be achieved while other competitors are sunning themselves, but I have some excellent staff who will take care of my interests.’

  Dover sole, accompanied by asparagus spears, and the tiniest potatoes appeared next. No one mentioned the order of the courses. The footman had barely deboned my fish before Mrs Muller suddenly said, ‘I think family should be together, do you not, Miss St John?’

  The eye on my fish looked up at me pityingly. ‘I rather think it depends on the family,’ I said awkwardly. ‘For example, no one could doubt that you and your son live most happily together, but for some mothers and their adult children it is not so easy.’

  ‘My mother is the easiest woman to live with,’ said Muller. ‘She only wants my happiness and success. She has quite spoilt me for other women.’

  ‘Not, I would hope,’ said his mother, ‘for the right Lady.’ There was considerable emphasis on the last word.

  ‘Of course,’ said Richenda, ‘your mother would want nothing but the best for you. She would want you to marry the woman you loved.’ And she cast him such a glowing look I wondered if she had any idea how transparent she was being.

  Muller merely smiled and turned his attention to his fish. Richenda and Philomena Muller sized each other up across the table. I concentrated on my plate.

  I did my best to appear totally ignorant of the battles that were being waged with what the participants charmingly believed was subtlety over the courses. My head was buzzing with ideas. Mrs Muller had been the most doting of hostesses towards Richenda and myself until tonight. Could it be that she had not foreseen her son might become enamoured of his guest? Before tonight I could have sworn she would have had no objection to Richenda becoming her daughter-in-law. I knew her to be an intelligent woman and despite what his loyal servants might aspire towards, I had been certain she knew how high he could aim for a bride and that Richenda with her shares and comparative youth was no bad bargain. But tonight the first time the pair had effectively acknowledged the possibility of a future together she had taken grave offence.

  And why was Muller moving towards a declaration now? I felt he had given Richenda refuge partly to annoy Richard and also because I think he had suspected more than most what Richard was capable of doing.

  No doubt something was indeed happening in the city and Richenda’s shares had become important. Richard’s decision to send an agent showed an unusual amount of sense. Richenda would have had no qualms about sending her twin brother packing, but even she knew an agent would be a source of information about what was happening back at Stapleford Hall, an estate the three siblings all held an inordinate affection for despite its continued series of murderous calamities. Muller, of course, also wanted to question the agent. Though he would be seeking business information. I remained conflicted as to whether he aimed to be Richenda’s saviour or was merely capitalising on the opportunity. A man so charming must have many secrets to hide.

  Mrs Muller stood signalling it was time for the ladies to retire. ‘Mother, please don’t go,’ said Muller.

  ‘But we should do things properly, Hans. You are a country gentleman now.’

  Muller’s eyebrows shot up momentarily. The estate had been under his command for ten years. ‘I would very much like to you stay, Mother, as I have a project to suggest. Besides I do not care enough for port to drink it alone.’

  Mrs Muller hesitated. If she defied her son it would be the first time I had seen it. Muller got up and held out her chair for her. She sat.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ he said, ‘that it is time for us to revive the autumn ball.’

  Richenda’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how very exciting,’ she said. ‘You have a ballroom here, do you not?’

  Of course she knew he did. The first time he had headed up to town and Mrs Muller had taken her afternoon rest, Richenda had taken the opportunity to explore the state rooms and look under all the dust covers.

  ‘It is only three years,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘People may feel it is inappropriate.’

  Muller bowed his head. Then looked at Richenda. ‘It was the day after our autumn ball, three years ago, that my late wife died. I stopped the tradition to honour her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richenda, ‘I quite understand.’ One of her hands clenched her glass stem so tightly I feared for it. ‘But …’ she said and let the word hang in the air.

  ‘But,’ continued Muller for her, ‘No man – or woman – is expected to mourn for ever. However exceptional their spouse.’

  Mrs Muller muttered something about Queen Victo
ria and we all pretended not to hear.

  ‘I met my wife in autumn, but seven years earlier in a previous autumn I laid the foundations of this estate. It is my intention to hold the ball to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the house. I will not be making it, this year, a – er – London society ball. That would seem distasteful, but I should like to invite the local gentry and some of my oldest friends. Then later when we have let it known our doors are open once more perhaps we will tackle a bigger event.’

  A war of expressions raged across Mrs Muller’s face. The thought of London society eventually returning to the house and presumably the advent of eligible young ladies for her liebling was temptingly delicious.

  ‘I thought perhaps while Richenda was here she could help you with all the details, Mama. Take much of the work from you.’ He turned to face Richenda. ‘If it is not impudent to ask?’

  ‘Oh, I would love to do it,’ said Richenda eagerly. ‘Euphemia has acted as my brother’s secretary before and could do some little tasks.’

  I knew this to mean she would expect me to do everything for her.

  ‘Ah, yes indeed, Miss St John,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘It would be an honour to work with you.’ I could only stare at her. Words failed me completely. Until now she had largely ignored me. Richenda bristled at the slight and Muller gazed into the middle distance studiously ignoring the chaos he had wrought among us women.

  It was perhaps fortunate for all of us that at this time the butler appeared and sidled up to Muller to whisper in his ear.

  Muller sighed. ‘It appears your brother’s man, Gilbert Barker, has indeed arrived,’ he said. ‘He is asking to speak with Miss St John.’

  Chapter Four

  No Dead Bodies

  Three pairs of eyes looked at me with varying levels of suspicion. Muller nodded slightly and I rose. Richenda began to protest as I exited the room. On the short walk to meet this stranger, I can put it no other way than to say a dark prescience began to overtake me to the extent that I would not have been surprised to find him stretched out on the fine Persian rug with his throat cut. Later, when I came to know Gilbert Barker, I would think it was a very great shame this did not happen.