A Death in the Family (A Euphemia Martins Mystery) Read online

  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.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I answered hoping that she was referring to the body as outrageous rather than my discovery.

  ‘We have never had anything like it in all my time as Mistress of Stapleford Hall.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s most distressing, my lady.’

  ‘What were you doing in the library anyway, girl?’

  ‘I was mopping the carpet, my lady.’

  ‘Mopping? Had there been a flood?’ The cold sapphire eyes swept up and down my form.

  ‘It was raining when I arrived, my lady.’

  ‘And you decided to dry yourself by rolling on my Persian library carpet?’

  Now that carpet was as Persian as our family pig, but I didn’t think it would help my case to point this out.

  ‘No, my lady. It is where Mrs Wilson was good enough to interview me.’

  Another cold, hard stare.

  ‘I dripped.’

  ‘You dripped?’ Lady Stapleford couldn’t have sounded more scandalised if I’d confessed to stealing the silver.

  ‘I’m very sorry, my lady. The storm was in full force when I was walking up the drive.’

  ‘Walking up the drive? Were you just passing and took it into your head to visit my housekeeper?’

  ‘Of course not, my lady. I was engaged by letter.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Euphemia St John, ma’am.’

  ‘That is a totally unsuitable name for a servant. I would advise you to change it at once if you wish to gain employment.’

  Oh dear, this wasn’t sounding good. I attempted my most contrite expression. ‘I was hoping to be in service here, my lady.’

  ‘I do comprehend that, young woman, but not only do you have the most ridiculous – one might even suggest false – name, but you discovered a body in my library.’

  ‘It was in the servants’ passage, ma’am,’ I muttered.

  ‘Nonsense! My step-nephew would never have entered the servants’ quarters.’ She flushed pink. ‘I have it on Holdsworth’s authority that the body is lying on my Persian carpet.’

  ‘But it’s not …’

  ‘Do you dare contradict me?’

  Talking to Lady Stapleford was like playing some bizarre game of chess, where at her whim all the pieces exchanged moves. I completely understood she was angry, upset – perhaps even a little afraid – about the death of her relative and that she wanted someone to blame. It was unfortunate I was the nearest person. Not only my pride but an extremely long walk home was at stake on this conversation.

  I bobbed a curtsy. ‘Of course, you’re right, ma’am. The murderer must have put the body in the passage.’

  ‘Murderer?’

  ‘Miss Richenda and I pulled the body into the library.’

  Lady Stapleford leant back in her chair looking quite faint. From somewhere beneath her gown she produced an old-fashioned fan and waved it feebly. With one trembling hand she pointed to the decanter of water on the occasional table beside her. I took the hint, poured her a glass and handed it over with another curtsy. Her long red fingernails grazed the side of my index finger as she grasped the glass. With great effort she took a couple of sips before flinging the glass back at me. I had some idea of what might be coming and innocently intercepted it before I became any wetter (if such a thing was possible).

  ‘Am I to understand,’ began Lady Stapleford in a breathless voice, ‘that you persuaded my stepdaughter to aid you in moving the body? That between you, you picked up my dead step-nephew and carried him into the library?’

  ‘We, er, pulled him, my lady.’ If only my father had not taught me to be so truthful.

  ‘Pulled?’

  ‘We took a leg each.’

  Out came the fan once more. I quickly filled another glass. ‘Really,’ said Lady Stapleford when she had finished waving and gulping down a whole glass. ‘The girl is quite unmanageable.’

  I saw a glimmer of hope. She was talking about Richenda. I kept my mouth shut and hoped.

  ‘You need not think I hold you excused, young woman. However, I will not have anyone say I am an unreasonable woman.’

  ‘I’m sure no one would da-dream of it, my lady.’

  Her ladyship continued on as if she had not heard me. ‘In the spirit of Christian charity, you will be allowed to take a little supper of leftovers before leaving.’

  ‘Leaving?’ I gasped. ‘At this time of night? In this storm?’

  ‘Pah! A little rain never hurt anyone.’

  ‘A little rain,’ I said faintly. I was about to enlighten Lady Stapleford on my view’s of her Christian charity when the door behind me opened.

  ‘A policeman, your ladyship,’ announced Holdsworth.

  A small stout man in a greenish bowler hat and worn, shiny suit entered. He matched some of the furnishing. ‘Good evening to you, my lady. I was enquiring as to the whereabouts of the young lady what found the body and was told she was with you.’

  Lady Stapleford inclined her head towards me. ‘I was about to dismiss her.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t recommend that, my lady. Look most odd like. If you forgive me saying so. Besides, the inspector will want a word. Best to keep the girl on the premises until this is all over. Bird in the bush, if you catch my drift.’

  Lady Stapleford gave me a look of pure loathing, but at least the prospect of a long walk home had receded from my immediate future. I gave the policeman my sunniest smile.

  Chapter Three

  A Policeman’s Lot

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, miss, you look a trifle on the damp side,’ pronounced the grey-haired Sergeant Davies as he poured me a second cup of tea. ‘It’s not regular to be giving witnesses tea, but I reckon how the inspector would like it if you didn’t expire from pneumonia before he had the chance to interview you himself.’

  We were sitting in Mrs Deighton’s lovely, bright and wonderfully warm kitchen. The sergeant had insisted I put my chair near the range. It was a hard wooden seat, but I had never felt more comfortable or more blissful as I sipped my hot tea and admired, through the windows behind Mr Davies, the pattern of stars glittering in the night sky. Even Lady Stapleford would surely bulk at turning me out into the darkness – what with her reputation of being a Christian soul to uphold.

  ‘There now, if she isn’t getting the colour back into her cheeks,’ said the redoubtable Mrs Deighton, who had opted to stay alert and maintain a flow of tea and edible support for the staff and family in this crisis.

  Tears stung my eyes. That two people who didn’t know me from Eve and who didn’t have a good reason for ruling me out as a murderer, or at least a suspicious person, were being so kind.

  ‘There, there, pet. Don’t you go upsetting yourself. She’s had a most difficult day, officer. What she needs is her bed.’

  Sergeant Davies produced a small notebook. He flicked open the top with a practised air, retrieved a pencil from behind his ear and licked it once. He hovered his pencil above the fresh page. ‘It was my understanding that the young lady had not yet been engaged. In which case she won’t necessarily be having a bed to be sleeping in.’ He paused significantly. ‘If this be the case then I expect I shall have to be taking her back to the station house with me to sleep in a cell.’

  I gasped.

  ‘Sorry, miss, but I can’t let you go tramping around the countryside at this time of night.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be locked up,’ I whined miserably and idiotically added the most suspicious of phrases, ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘That might be the case, but there’s a law again
st vagrants around here and if I was to be letting you loose into the night I’d only have to follow you and pick you up later. Far better for me to take you down as a guest than have to arrest you later. I’ll do my best to get you a single cell.’

  Out the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mrs Wilson lurking in the shadows of the doorway. A shaft of starlight showed me the approving sneer on her face. I think the sergeant saw too, because he added, ‘’Course, it’s a shame and all. Ain’t going to do the Staplefords’ reputation any good that I’ve got to go hauling servants from their house down to the jail. I know you says how she’s not been engaged yet, but you know how folks natter and the stories what they tell often bears no resemblance to the honest truth.’

  Mrs Deighton put her hand to her cheek. ‘Oh, Sergeant Davies, you don’t say! Likely the Mistress’ll have someone’s hide for a tale like that starting.’

  I felt it was a bit overdone, but Mrs Wilson caved. ‘Of course, Euphemia is engaged. I have only this moment been satisfying myself that her room is ready.’

  I smiled too soon for the harpy added, ‘The engagement is naturally on a trial basis. A two-week trial.’

  I remembered to be meek this time, bowing my head, and murmuring, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson. Of course, Mrs Wilson. I will endeavour to the utmost of my ability to give complete satisfaction, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Merry will show you up when the policeman is done with you. If you would like to follow me, sergeant, I have found a quiet room, as you asked, for statements to be taken.’

  ‘Right then, Euphemia,’ said Sergeant Davies. ‘You’re first. Seeing as how you found the body.’

  The room she showed us into was to my surprise above stairs, but then I suppose she had recalled that people of all ranks would be interviewed. It was a small square box off the hallway with a single window looking out onto the drive. There was a small desk, a table, three wooden chairs and a single coat-stand. The small ironwork hearth was scrubbed but empty. It was very cold.

  ‘I trust this will suit your needs, sergeant,’ said Mrs Wilson, clearly not expecting a response.

  ‘Perfect. Perfect, Mrs Wilson. I reckon you’ve done a fine job getting all them coats and wellies cleared out and the furniture brought up.’

  Mrs Wilson had the grace to blush. ‘I am not accustomed to having the police in the house.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, ma’am. Now if you could just be doing with lighting the fire. Ain’t no saying when the man from the Yard might be turning up – Scotland Yard, that is, ma’am. One of our top men.’

  ‘I will send someone to see to it,’ said Mrs Wilson in a voice that I swear iced up the window.

  As Mrs Wilson swept out I looked at Sergeant Davies with renewed approval.

  ‘Now, there ain’t no use grinning at me, miss. You sit yourself down and take things serious while I work out what I has done with my notebook. Ah-ha.’ He produced the wanted article from his trouser pocket; it was now somewhat dog-eared. Sergeant Davies frowned hard at it, but the edges did not uncurl themselves and he was reduced to bending them back into shape with his fingers. While he was doing this the scullery maid appeared with a coal scuttle and kindling. Soon the fire was roaring nicely.

  Sergeant Davies asked me to start at the beginning. He listened with little comment, except for the occasional nod of encouragement or grunt of acknowledgment. I was a little awkward at first, but after a hesitant start the words quickly began to flow. To my surprise I found telling my tale, especially to such a sympathetic audience, lightened a load on my chest I had not been aware I was carrying. Sergeant Davies’ eyebrows rose somewhat when I described how Mrs Wilson had sent me to mop up the library. ‘That’s why I’m so wet,’ I explained and he merely nodded, but I saw a kindly understanding in his eyes.

  Like most I have had my experiences with the less than fast-thinking country policeman, but while I had no reason to think Sergeant Davies a genius he appeared to be listening hard and making many notes. I had just got to the part of my tale where Miss Richenda and I grabbed a leg each when he suddenly stopped writing and held up his hand.

  ‘You moved the body?’

  ‘Well, yes. I did say I found it in the corridor.’

  ‘So it didn’t tumble out when you opened the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re certain about that, miss?’

  ‘Absolutely. It took the two of us a lot of effort to drag him out. I’m stronger than I look and Miss Richenda is rather large.’

  Sergeant Davies closed his eyes as if in pain and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘So I am to understand that you two young ladies, you two strong young ladies, had no qualms about grabbing the leg of a corpse and dragging it some ten feet across the floor?’

  ‘It was more like 20.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to move the body?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I thought back. ‘I think it was Miss Richenda’s. She wanted to have a good look at him in the light. I thought it was a good idea.’

  ‘You thought it was a good idea?’ repeated the sergeant in an astonished tone. Then Davies slammed his open palm down on the table. ‘Did you never hear how important it is not to disturb a body at the murder scene?!’

  I quailed slightly at this sudden change in temperament, but answered, I felt very reasonably, ‘I do not have much experience with dead bodies, sir.’

  ‘Much experience?’ picked up the far too intelligent sergeant. ‘How many dead bodies have you discovered, young woman?’

  ‘Only two,’ I answered, again cursing my upbringing for schooling me to always be honest. I fancied I could see deep suspicion behind the policeman’s eyes.

  ‘And who, exactly, was this other one?’

  ‘The Reverend Joshia Martins of Sweetfield Parish. He died of very natural causes. In his mutton and onions.’ A part of me was willing my mouth to quieten, but my tongue kept skipping along. ‘There were absolutely no suspicious circumstances. You can check.’

  ‘That I will. And you were maid to this Reverend Martins? Cook-maid?’

  Oh Lord forgive me, there it was. If I answered this truthfully I would be not only exposed as a fraud, but probably a strong contender for the role of murderer. After all I’d wormed my way into the house on the flimsiest of pretexts and the murder had been committed within moments of my arrival. Even I felt that I was a suspicious character.

  ‘I lived in, but I had no cooking duties,’ I said, praying silently for my eternal soul, as I uttered this half-truth. It was true we had had a maid and it was true she’d found my father dead at the table. With the vicarage dispersed I could only hope that the sergeant would not enquire too closely or that the murderer would quickly be found.

  At that moment I made up my mind to help him as much as I could. It wasn’t only that I felt some absurd responsibility towards the dead man for finding him – although I did, and I felt quite terrible about dragging his corpse around by the leg now I had had time to think about it – but it was going to be in my very best interests for the murderer to be uncovered quickly before anyone started delving too deeply into my background.

  Without warning the front door crashed open and we heard the sharp footsteps of someone storming across the hall. ‘Holdsworth! Wilson! Fetch the Mistress. I want an explanation of what is going on in my house!’

  The sergeant folded up his notebook and put it away. ‘We will speak again, miss.’ He nodded at the door and, taking my cue, I crept out into the hall. Mindful of the rule of not being seen by the family I stepped behind a very large plant that had grown to a considerable height above its shiny brass container. From this position I was able to observe the master of the house between leaves as he yelled for all and everyone to attend him.

  Lord Stapleford was, I guessed, in his early 60s, but still in excellent health if his energetic striding was anything to go by. As he paced far too close to my hiding place for comfort I was able to ascertain he was not a tall man, being around my height, and that he smelle
d of cigars and cologne. He was stout with the fleshy face of one who has enjoyed during his lifetime a surfeit of fresh meat and fine wine. His nose was growing increasingly claret red with each bellow. He reminded me a great deal of Farmer Forbes’s oxen when their feed was late.

  Unlike the glorious brown mantle of those creatures Lord Stapleford’s thinning hair was dark and plastered slick to his head with some fashionable product. His eyes were small and retracted, practically buried above the copious jowls of his face. His neck hung over the side of his collar in a most unattractive manner, but his clothing and shoes were of the best quality.

  Holdsworth arrived first. His progression across the tiles was quick, but no one could have accused him of scurrying; it was more of a quickened glide. He carried before him a small silver tray on which was perched a large glass of whisky. He came into dock before Lord Stapleford, who took the glass without thinking, downed the contents and continued to berate all those within earshot. ‘Some damn fool rung up my office and said there’d been a murder here.’

  ‘That would have been me, sir,’ said Holdsworth bowing impressively without dropping tray or glass. ‘I fear …’

  We were never to learn what the butler feared as at that moment Richenda appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Dear Papa,’ she cried trotting down the stairs – I would have liked to have used the more feminine word tripping, but in all honesty I cannot. ‘I have come home. And I have found a body. Isn’t it all just ripping?’

  ‘Ripping! Ripping!’ bellowed her father. ‘Did I send you to Switzerland to hear, to see, you conduct yourself with such unbecoming, unbecoming, unbecoming …’

  ‘Conduct?’ suggested Richenda reaching the bottom of the stairs and coming over to give her father a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Does this mean you’ve given up that damn fool business?’

  ‘Now, Father, what can you mean?’

  ‘That London tomfoolery.’

  ‘It’s hardly tomfoolery, Father. We are having questions asked in the House.’

  ‘Good God, girl! Do you want to die a spinster? I strongly doubt any man would take you in hand even if I paid him.’