A Death in the Family Read online

  We emerged directly into the kitchen. My initial impression was of 30 or more people bustling around the room. I moved sharply aside before Mrs Wilson could shove me again and stepped on a large well-polished shoe. ‘That,’ said Mrs Wilson coldly, ‘is Mr Holdsworth, the butler.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ I said timidly. A tall, stern-faced, middle-aged man with a polished demeanour looked down at me. His expression was cold, but I could see from the lines on his face he was normally no stranger to smiling. I bobbed a small curtsy and did my best to look friendly, but all he said was, ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ His voice was strangely flat.

  The room was modern and brightly lit. There was a fine range with sparkling pots. The high windows had been opened to combat the sweltering heat of a country house kitchen in full engine mode as the family were about to sit down to dinner.

  ‘This is Mary,’ said the butler indicating a pretty young woman with freckles and brown curls. ‘We call her Merry, because of her sunny disposition.’ I glanced up at him to see if he was joking, but his face gave no sign of levity. Merry, on the other hand, bounced over to shake my hand, a delighted smile on her face. ‘Help at last,’ she giggled. ‘It will be so nice to have another girl to work with. I can’t really count Aggie. All she ever talks about is how to get the pots cleaner faster.’

  ‘The scullery maid,’ explained Mr Holdsworth. ‘And this is the magnificent Mrs Deighton, who is coming to the end of the dinner preparations. It would probably be better if you were elsewhere while this process is completed. Perhaps Merry could show her to her room, Mrs Wilson? The girl needs to get out of those wet things.’ He then whispered to me, ‘We’ve had our tea, but I’m sure Mrs Deighton could find you a little something after dinner. She’ll be much calmer then.’

  ‘We have not yet established whether Euphemia will be staying,’ snapped Mrs Wilson. ‘But you are quite correct, Mr Holdsworth. The girl is very wet. She dripped considerably on the library carpet. Merry, show her the way up and give her some rags. I want that excess moisture mopped before the gentlemen retire for whisky. If you can do that right, girl, I might consider putting in a word for you with the Mistress.’

  I had the sense to nod and say, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson. Thank you, Mrs Wilson.’ I’d rather have rammed her rags down her long rangy neck, but I suppressed the impulse and even managed a bobbed half-curtsy. ‘You don’t have to curtsy to me, girl,’ she snapped, but I could tell she was pleased. She had the same way about her as Bishop Pagget. I loathed her already.

  Merry returned from a back room with a pile of rags, and with a wink gestured to follow her. ‘Mind you’re not seen,’ called Mrs Wilson as we entered the passageway.

  ‘Oh lor’,’ I muttered.

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ said Merry. ‘She’s a miserable, dry old stick, but half the time she’s got her lips wrapped round a bottle and she don’t bother us that much.’ She stopped by the library door. ‘Think you can find your way back?’ I nodded in the gloom. ‘Right, I’ll see you later then. Watch out for the gentlemen. You’re so wet through it’s like you’re wearing no clothes.’ She giggled again and gave me a half-pat, half-shove through the door.

  In the gas-light of the library I realised Merry was quite correct. My clothes were clinging far too closely to my body. No wonder the gentlemen had said what they did. I got down on my hands and knees, determined to get the job over with as quickly as possible.

  My hands were numb with cold and I quickly discovered the rags had been previously used for polishing and had enough oil left on them to make them almost impervious to water. I pushed and dabbed at the carpet doing what I could and longing for the stifling warmth of the kitchen. Finally, I thought I had done the best possible under the circumstances. However, when I stood up, I realised that where I had knelt I had left another wet patch. Cursing my own stupidity and Mrs Wilson’s malevolence I spread the driest of the rags on the floor at the edge of the new patch, knelt on that and applied myself to my impossible task. It was as much my fear I would be let go before being fed as my desire to prove myself that kept me going.

  What seemed like a lifetime later I stood up and looked down at the carpet. I had only succeeded in making it all worse. There was now even the odd smear of polish on the pale pattern. I could have screamed with frustration.

  A door opened somewhere below. The gentlemen must be on their way up! Between facing them in my current state and facing Mrs Wilson I chose to retreat. I opened the passage entrance and darted through. In the darkness I tripped over something and landed flat on my face. My hands touched something wet.

  Fortunately I was too numb from cold to feel any pain. My eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but my fingers found a man’s shoe. They travelled up to a trouser leg. ‘Excuse me,’ I whispered softly. But already I knew there was something solid and heavy about this form that was not right. I edged backward towards the door, my heart beating faster and faster. I pushed the panel and let the light from the library shine in through a crack. It took me several moments to understand what I was seeing.

  The strip of pale yellow light fell upon a recumbent gentleman of middle age in evening dress. He was lying with his limbs tangled oddly about him. His gaze was fixed and distant. One hand was clutched to his chest and there was a pool of liquid spread around him. I pushed the door open wider and saw the full glory of his scarlet blood, the silver glint of the knife hilt and the death glaze on his pale blue eyes. Only then did I fully comprehend what I had found.

  Chapter Two

  The Body in the Library

  I briefly considered the option of swooning in a ladylike manner, but I was denied this by virtue of position: I was a maid, and by natural inclination, I have never known how to swoon. Instead I did what I believe most females of sensibility would have done finding themselves alone with a murdered corpse. I screamed exceedingly loudly and pelted out of the room.

  I was, of course, still frozen to the bone, so my egress was somewhat erratic. However, I located the main door by reason of its size, and skated, wet and panting, to an awkward halt with the balustrade of the upper landing wedged firmly against my midriff. My screaming stopped at once as all the air was punched out of me by the ironwork.

  Some 15 feet below, the butler, whose shoe I had recently trodden on, paused in his path towards the main door and stared up at me with the expression of a startled carp.

  The doorbell rang, loud and insistent, and doubtless not for the first time. Mr Holdsworth gave himself a small shake, tore his gaze away from me and continued his progress across the black and white tiled hall.

  ‘Body,’ I gasped, leaning over the balcony. And then more loudly, ‘There’s a body in the library.’

  I saw his shoulders stiffen, but the measured gait continued. Clearly, he was determined the presence of a madwoman in the house would not detain him from his duties.

  Suddenly, I felt quite light-headed. My cold fingers found the balustrade and wrapped around them. The tiled floor swam beneath my eyes, and the elegant free-hung staircase that rose around the sides of the room appeared to shiver, becoming a foaming river of marble. There was a particularly fine Persian rug in the middle of the hallway below. It clashed quite horribly with the tiles and, before my bemused eyes, the patterns began to pulse and swirl.

  At that moment it seemed most likely one of two eventualities would occur. I would either shower the hall with the remnants of my breakfast or I would topple forward and decorate it with my brains. Either way I was about to make the most horrid mess, when I became dimly aware of the sound of running feet and a pair of strong arms pulled me back from the brink of disgrace or, indeed, death.

  ‘Good gracious, Holdsworth,’ announced a female, with the voice of one educated at the most exclusive of seminaries, ‘is that wretched woman half-drowning our maids now?’

  I was led gently to a chair at the back of the balcony and, when I demurred due to my wet raiment, was told quite forcibly to sit.

 
‘I believe,’ said Holdsworth, his voice to my ears coming from a long way away, ‘that the new maid has had a difficult journey through the recent storm. Mrs Wilson was most keen that she should clean up the library before supper.’ His tone remained respectful and yet still managed to convey his disapproval. Holdsworth was an excellent butler.

  ‘Damn that woman!’ said my female rescuer. Her language shocked me back to some sense of reality. I took note of her for the first time. I found a tall, red-headed woman with slightly too resolute a jaw to ever be a great beauty, but with the most fascinating of green eyes. I could see little of her dress as she still wore a crimson cape, edged with fur, but I did see the most wonderful of buttoned brown boots that I guessed extended a goodly way over her slender ankles thus keeping out the winter chills. How I longed to be warm, but I too knew my duty.

  ‘There’s a body in the library, miss.’ I felt I should apologise for the vulgarity of the announcement, but there was really no other way to say it.

  As if a bad play Holdsworth and the young lady repeated my statement. It was clear I would have to explain further. ‘I was cleaning the rug in the library, but I kept making it worse.’

  ‘I should think,’ commented the girl.

  I rudely continued. I had to say it all at once or it would never come out. ‘I heard someone coming and stepped into the servants’ passage, but when I did I found the body of a man lying on the ground. He has a knife protruding from his chest.’

  Instead of the cries of horror two serious faces stared down at me. ‘It’s true,’ I pleaded. ‘As God is my witness.’

  Holdsworth frowned and uttered that small cough servants make just before they are about to suggest that one’s understanding of the situation is at fault. But before he could utter any words of butler-ish wisdom, the girl cut him off. ‘Holdsworth, I think you’d better ring for the police.’

  ‘Surely, Miss Richenda, you cannot believe this young woman is correct? She is feverish with cold and hunger.’

  ‘Possibly. But her eyes look clear. I’ve seen a lot of fever and hunger in the shelters, and she looks more shocked to me. Not that meeting Mrs Wilson wouldn’t be a shock to anyone’s system.’ Miss Richenda uttered an unladylike bark of laughter. It was so inappropriate to the circumstances that I felt tears sting my eyes.

  ‘I am sure it will prove to be nothing, miss,’ soothed Holdsworth.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ said Miss Richenda. ‘C’mon, girl, show us where your body is.’

  To my surprise I found my legs were able to function. I tottered ahead. The library was as I had left it with the door to the servants’ passage still open. By the light of the lamps I could make out the shadow of a man’s leg. I turned my face away and pointed. Miss Richenda dived forward into the passageway.

  ‘Good Lord above, the girl is right, Holdsworth! Come and have a look.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. I will take your word for it, if you don’t mind. I shall go to summon the police and inform the household.’

  ‘Right-o,’ said Richenda. ‘Bring me a lamp, girl.’

  ‘Me, miss?’

  ‘Oh blow that! Give me a hand and we’ll have him out into the light.’

  I had always known a servant’s lot was not a happy one. I closed my eyes, stepped forward and grabbed a leg.

  Dead bodies are remarkably heavy. It is as if when life departs a heavier matter takes the empty seat of the soul. It took us time, unbecoming comments from the lady and a fair bit of grunting on my part, but we dragged the man into the light of the library.

  It was unfortunate that at this moment Merry rushed into the room, took one look at our hard-won corpse and burst into tears.

  ‘My goodness,’ cried Miss Richenda. ‘It’s Cousin Georgie!’

  Merry wailed.

  I don’t think I had ever heard someone actually wail before; Father had always kept me away from the graveside during funerals. It is a high-pitched keening that I would not care to hear again. Miss Richenda did not care for the noise either. She stomped over to Merry and fetched her a smart slap in the face. The noise abated immediately. Merry cowered, her eyes huge and haunted.

  ‘What on earth is the matter with you, girl? He’s my cousin, not yours.’

  ‘I think, miss, some deal better with death than others,’ I said, crossing to the quivering Merry and putting one damp arm around her thin shoulders. ‘We’re not all made of such stern stuff as yourself.’

  ‘Humpf! Didn’t hear you screeching like a banshee.’ She paused. I kept quiet, fearing I had already overstepped the mark. ‘What yer doing here anyway, Merry?’

  ‘I was sent by Mr Holdsworth to provide comfort,’ Merry whispered.

  I failed to wipe the sudden smile from my face this comment inspired before Miss Richenda noticed. But rather than lambasting me, she grinned broadly. ‘Comfort! Ha!’

  ‘Also,’ continued Merry timidly, ‘the Mistress would like to see Euphemia.’

  ‘Oh lor’, if dearest Step-Mama wants you, girl, you’d better hop to it. My father’s latest wife might speak softly, but she’s a bigger harridan than the Wilson monstrosity.’

  I was in equal parts taken aback by her comment and grateful for the warning. I bobbed a curtsy and looked hopefully at Merry.

  ‘I’ll need to take her, miss. Her being new. Will you be all right alone with … him?’ Her voice wavered piteously on the last word.

  Richenda shooed us away. ‘I’ll stand guard. Send that wimp Holdsworth along. There should be two of us here.’

  Merry and I bobbed obediently. Feeling had returned to my limbs and my ankles and knees were beginning to hurt abominably with all this wretched dipping. Being a maid was turning out to be far worse than I had expected and I hadn’t even been engaged yet.

  ‘She’ll see you in the green drawing room,’ Merry threw over a shoulder as she scurried along the hallway. ‘C’mon we mustn’t be seen.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be using the servants’ passage?’ I asked lumbering after her as fast as my damp skirts would allow. Merry might be a slender little thing, but she fairly flew along when she set her mind to it.

  ‘Not bloody likely! Who’s to say the murderer isn’t still in them?’

  ‘If he is,’ I reasoned, ‘he could pop out in any room that had an entrance. So we wouldn’t be safe anywhere.’

  Merry stopped. I caught my breath. ‘You are a one for imaginings, aren’t you? That won’t go down well with the Mistress.’

  ‘I shall be nothing but polite and servile with her ladyship,’ I assured her.

  Merry considered me with her head on one side. ‘I’m not sure as you know how,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘There’s something different about you. Can’t quite put me finger on it.’

  ‘You were very upset earlier. You all right now?’ I deflected.

  ‘It was the shock.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said affably, ‘only I got the impression it was something more. Something I can’t quite put my finger on yet.’

  ‘The green drawing room is this way.’ Merry took off again, and after a dizzying number of twists and turns, we stopped outside two large pale doors. My best guess was that we were now in the east wing, but I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘It’s in here,’ said Merry. ‘Don’t knock. She hates knocking. Says it gets on her nerves.’

  ‘I can’t just barge in. I might disturb her. See something I shouldn’t. It’s rude.’

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Merry, her hands on her hips. ‘We’re servants. The likes of them don’t give a hoot for what we see. We don’t matter except when they want food or hot water or something moved. We don’t count.’

  I’d made a bad mistake, but I caught the note of bitterness behind her words. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘The lady who trained me liked us to knock.’

  ‘I thought you said you hadn’t been in service before?’

  ‘Did I? It wasn’t proper service. She was training me as a favour.’


  Thankfully, Merry didn’t ask who the favour was to. Instead she sucked at her teeth, and then as if suddenly making up her mind, she nodded. ‘There’s something rum about you, but I won’t forget you was kind to me when I was upset.’

  The green drawing room, much like its central figure, was somewhat faded. Lady Stapleford awaited me in a large winged chair facing out from the central fireplace. The hearth was filled with dried flowers. Accordingly the room was very cold. The ambience was further depressed by the sound of rain lashing against the windowpanes.

  My initial impression of the Mistress of the house was one of a slight lady encased in many layers of cloth. My eyes wandered to her face for a moment and met such a look of shocked reproof that I kept them slightly lowered as I approached.

  However, I could see something of the room as I walked towards her. The curtains were closed and the room was lit by gas lamps around the wall that cast flickering shadows. There was furniture everywhere. Seating of various sorts was placed around the room in what some might have called fashionable disarray – and others a mess. Beside the lady was an occasional table on which stood an untidy clutter of things. And around the room were several more little tables with ornaments, china and glass upon them. I picked my way carefully through until I was finally in front of the chair. I felt, as I was surely meant to, that I was being given an audience with someone extremely important. Or at least someone who thought themselves extremely important.

  ‘So you are the young woman who discovered a dead man in my library. Outrageous!’

  Lady Stapleford’s English was almost perfect. There was a trace of a French accent, but it was more a softening of the edges of the cut-glass speech of the Stapleford children. Richenda had referred to Lady Stapleford as her father’s latest wife, a criticism that was either totally unfounded or Lord Stapleford had a penchant for ageing blondes on the dark side of 40.

  Everything about Lady Stapleford was soft, from her downy hair to her flowing layers of ribbons and lace. She must have once been very, very beautiful, but now the twin flames of beauty and youth had deserted her. In her sharp blue eyes I saw the shadows of despair at the cruelty of ageing. Unlike Mother, who had never had much beauty to lose, Lady Stapleford was unwisely clinging to the fashion of her youth and French scent.