A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One Page 35

  ‘Bolsheviks? Good God,’ I exclaimed with anger. ‘Surely no one is trying to pass off that old line again!’

  ‘Just my little joke, miss. Though it’s interesting to see how you never believed the official line about the late Lord Stapleford’s death. Endorsed by my inspector it was. But there you obviously know better, being an exceptionally bright young lady.’

  I sank back into my pillow and tried to compose my thoughts. On our last encounter I had suspected Sergeant Davies of being perceptive, intelligent, cunning, but straight as a die. I saw no reason to change my opinion. ‘I would hardly claim to know better than the police, sergeant,’ I said politely. ‘I’m very sorry if I gave you that impression.’

  ‘Just tell me you ’aven’t been hauling any dead bodies around by the leg this time?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware we had any dead bodies,’ I said shortly. ‘Oh no, is Mrs Wilson …?’ I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

  ‘Not as far as I know, miss. Dr Simpson tells me it’s touch and go. In the hands of the Lord, as they say.’

  ‘Poor woman. I never liked her,’ I said bluntly, ‘but I’d not wish this on my worst enemy.’ Something struck a chord in my mind, but it was fleeting and gone in a second. The sergeant was speaking.

  ‘If the toffs – I mean, the ladies and gents – are to be believed nothing occurred during the séance except a little high spirits.’ He laughed at his own joke and then suddenly stopped. ‘But I was thinking ’ow it might all be connected. What do you think, Miss St John?’

  ‘Mrs Wilson was certainly very upset at being included. She reacted badly to the messages.’ I hesitated unsure of how much to say.

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘One about a child not being wanted by its mother.’

  Sergeant Davies blew out his moustache. His pencil hovered over the page. ‘Now that sounds like a keg of powder if ever there was one.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said.

  ‘I want you to think carefully, Miss St John, do you know anything about this delicate matter?’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘But you’ve heard rumours and you have ideas?’

  I decided it was time to change the subject. ‘You’re not a local man, are you, sergeant?’

  ‘No, miss. I’m a Londoner. I married a young woman in service, much like yourself, and she came from this part of the world and had fancy to be near her family, so I transferred down.’

  ‘I bet you regret that now.’

  ‘Since I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance I’ve been more and more inclined to that way of thinking.’

  ‘So you never knew Mrs Wilson when she was young – and if there was ever a Mr Wilson?’

  ‘I believe housekeepers are generally called Mrs unless they are ridiculously young, Miss St John.’

  I grinned at the blow. ‘Dr Simpson, the family doctor, told me once he’d known her from a young girl.’

  ‘Did he, miss? That might be useful or this might turn out to be another of them Bolshevik cases again. Unless you can tell me anything about the attacker?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I can only tell you he was a little below average height, not heavily built, but still powerful. Wiry, I suppose. And that he had blue eyes.’

  Sergeant Davies gave me a level look. ‘Are you aware of how accurate a description that could be?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t follow you, sergeant.’

  ‘Can I ask you to keep that description between ourselves for now?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything to help the police.’

  ‘And might I have your word, miss, that you won’t go blundering around in this case stirring things up.’

  ‘I have no intention of blundering.’

  ‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘Only this will be the third time you’ve been involved with murders around this family and that doesn’t look good for anyone. People, and I’m not saying who, might start thinking you know more than you’re saying. That you, in common parlance, know too much for your own good.’

  4 The terrible truths of what happened when I first joined service are only known to the Stapleford children and myself. See my journal A Death in the Family for full, but very secret, details

  Chapter Four:

  Mr Bertram Has an Idea

  Despite Merry’s roaring fire I found myself shivering. Sergeant Davies had shut up his notebook and departed leaving me with conflicting feelings. However, I was not destined to have the rest Dr Simpson had prescribed. The door had barely closed when it opened again to admit Mr Bertram. He had an expression on his face I couldn’t read and moved into the room almost on tip-toe.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, half-lifting my head off my pillow and immediately regretting it. ‘Or I will be.’

  ‘Good. Good. I’m glad to hear it, Miss St John. You gave us all quite a shock.’

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ I asked. ‘You’re acting …’ I broke off as I saw the reason for Mr Bertram’s behaviour had followed him into the room.

  ‘Good heavens, Bertram. This must be the warmest room in the house,’ said Beatrice Wilton. ‘So interesting how people treat their servants.’

  Mr Bertram blushed. ‘I’m sure Miss St John is very grateful to Lord Stapleford for the care he has arranged.’

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ I said, gently sliding up my pillows. ‘How may I help you? I’m afraid the doctor does not think I will be able to return to my full duties for several days.’

  ‘So we heard,’ said Miss Wilton, seating herself on the edge of a chair and sniffing slightly.

  ‘Miss Wilton is a journalist,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘She writes the Lady Grey column.’

  ‘Really, Bertram, there’s no need to explain. I doubt the girl has ever read a newspaper in her life.’ She leant forward, peering short-sightedly at my face. ‘She is very young.’

  I guessed there were very few years between us and I was sure that thanks to my father I was far better read than any gossip columnist, but it was hardly my place to say so. I smiled politely. Mr Bertram, who had cause to know that smile, rushed on.

  ‘Miss Wilton has a journalist’s mind. She may have some insights into the current situation.’

  ‘Really, Bertram, you make it sound as if we’re going to discuss the matter with the girl. You’ll confuse her.’ She turned with a smile, even more unfriendly than mine, towards me. Then she edged her chair slightly forward, blocking much of the heat from me. ‘I want to ask you some questions, Ursula – isn’t it?’

  ‘Euphemia.’

  She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry, I will keep them simple. I only ask that you give me the facts, not your own ideas.’

  Mr Bertram coughed. ‘Actually, Beatrice, Euphemia has been most helpful in the past when there were, er, family difficulties–’

  ‘Bertram, you asked me to help. Now trust me to do my job.’

  ‘Of course, Beatrice.’

  I looked from one to the other. Surely he couldn’t have developed a soft spot for this terrible woman.

  ‘Now, Euphemia, if you could tell me what you know about Mrs Wilson’s affair?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘So you do know that she had one?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that,’ I said.

  ‘Euphemia worked here for less than a year,’ said Mr Bertram.

  ‘Hush, Bertie. You men never realise how much servants gossip. Now, Ursula, you can tell me the truth. I’m not here to judge.’

  ‘But, ma’am,’ I said carefully. ‘You asked me only to tell you if I knew anything for a fact and I don’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see I was mistaken,’ said Beatrice. ‘You are much cleverer than I supposed.’ To my horror she opened her purse and took out some coins. ‘How much?’

  ‘I am more than adequately compensated for my services,’ I said coldly. ‘As Mr Bertram said I worked at Stapleford Hall for a very short ti
me.’

  Beatrice Wilton leant forward and touched my arm. ‘Come now, my dear, don’t be proud. All servants can do with a little more than their masters give them. No matter how good they might be.’ She laughed girlishly. ‘I’m sure you do know something if you put your mind to it. Why, your Mr Bertram says you display almost to an educated standard.’

  I shot Mr Bertram a furious look. To be fair, he did look embarrassed, but then to my astonishment he opened his mouth and said, ‘If there is anything, Euphemia, you should tell Miss Wilton. She’s a professional.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ I said, ‘and I feel dizzy. I need to rest. I don’t want your money, Miss Wilton. I don’t know anything that can be of any help.’

  Beatrice didn’t budge an inch and her face took on an unbecoming mulish look. Sadly, she had her back to Bertram. I decided to up the stakes. ‘In fact,’ I said, ‘I think I may vomit at any moment.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Bertram. ‘We must leave at once. I shall send Merry to you.’ He fairly bolted for the door. Miss Wilton gave me an astute look. ‘I’m not as squeamish as Bertram,’ she said, ‘but I’ll concede the field for now.’ She got up and went to the door. She paused with her hand on the door handle. ‘You may like to consider, my dear, that in a very short space of time your Mr Bertram and myself have found ourselves to be extremely compatible. Unlike Madam Arcana, I cannot foretell the future, but it may very well be in your best interests for us to reach agreement. I understand you have been invaluable in helping Bertram,’ she paused as though struggling for the right word, ‘invaluable in helping Bertram sort things out.’

  ‘He told you about that!’ I gasped.

  ‘Not everything, but he will. He seems uncommonly fond of you. Are you of him?’

  ‘Your only interest is in filling your column,’ I said astounded.

  Miss Wilton raised one dainty eyebrow. ‘I haven’t decided what my interest is yet,’ she said. ‘But readers are always more interested in current news. One never needs to go raking through old material when one has new.’ The accompanying smile was as lacking in warmth as it is possible for one alive to be. ‘I’ll leave you to your rest. We’ll talk again later, I’m sure.’

  I sat up and gaped at her, unable to find the words to express my shock. The smile widened and she left, closing the door gently and slowly behind her. I heard her calling for Bertram as she had intended I would. Her voice was sweet and low and, I feared Bertram would think, enticing.

  The door had barely closed before Rory burst in. ‘What’s this? Are ye worse, lass? Do I need to send for yon doctor again?’

  I settled my head back against the pillows. ‘Do you realise you become alarmingly Scotch when you’re upset?’

  ‘Do I? It tends to slip out when I’m not concentrating. What’s this about you being sick on Miss Wilton?’

  ‘I wish,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘I’m fine, Rory. Or as fine as I was. She and Mr Bertram were pestering me with questions until my head span. I had to find a way to get them to leave.’

  Rory came over and placed a hand on my brow. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they had worried you back into a fever,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve half a mind …’

  ‘Not to say something to our betters, Rory?’ I said. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘Aye, well. From what I’ve heard every time you’ve got mixed up with the Staplefords it’s not come out good for anyone, but they can shrug it off. Look at me. I can’t get a job anywhere else now I’ve been arrested for murder. Even that policeman was looking at me strange. I bet Stapleford’s seen to it that the local nick has heard about my past association with the communists.’

  ‘But you were cleared,’ I protested.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Mud might slide off their groomed, greasy backs, but it sticks to ours.’

  ‘I don’t understand why he would do that.’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want to lose me.’

  ‘Back-handed compliment?’

  ‘And he doesn’t want to pay me what I’m worth.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, casting my eyes down. ‘I’m sorry about all the stuff I got you involved with last time.’

  ‘Nay, lassie. I wasn’t for scolding you. If it hadn’t been for your help I’d have ended my days swinging from a noose. I’ll always be grateful for that.’5 He took a breath. ‘Now, don’t go biting my head off. It’s just that I don’t want to see that stuff happening to you. Leave ’em to it. Don’t get involved this time. Mrs Wilson has been no friend to either of us and, while I’d not withhold information on what happened to her if I knew, I’m not going to be sticking my neck out to help. And I’d suggest you follow my lead.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’ said Rory. ‘Are you sure you’re not feeling worse, Euphemia? You’ve never given in without a fight before.’

  ‘Mr Bertram appears to have all the help he needs from Miss Wilton.’

  Rory finally removed his hand from my head and sat down beside me. ‘Och, lass, it was only time before he found someone of his own standing to help him with his mysterying.’

  ‘That’s not even a word.’

  ‘You’re jealous,’ said Rory.

  I blinked. ‘I am not jealous,’ I spluttered. ‘Besides, he helped me.’

  Rory shook his head. ‘Green as the grass in the park.’

  I ignored this. ‘Much help she’ll be. She practically offered me money to make up lies. She’ll do anything to fill that column of hers.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon for the toffs to tip servants,’ said Rory. ‘Though it’s uncommon for it to be an adequate tip.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘She’s evil. Nothing matters to her but the column. Mr Bertram is under her spell. She told me he had been telling her all the old family secrets – and the things he and I know, Rory, you’d not believe it! And she said that if I didn’t help her with what was happening now, if I didn’t give her some current dirt, she’d dig up all the old stuff about the late Lord Stapleford. Mr Bertram doesn’t understand – he’s a lamb to the slaughter.’

  ‘Now, Euphemia …’

  ‘I am not making this up, Rory!’

  ‘I never thought you were, lass. All I’m saying is stay out of it. It’s as clear as the nose on your face that Beatrice Wilton is up to no good. My advice is: keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘But Mr Bertram! He has no idea.’

  ‘You’re his housekeeper, not his guardian angel.’

  ‘But I can’t let him fall prey to this menace!’

  ‘Euphemia, even if you have the audacity to tell him his new lady friend is a scheming hussy he’ll never believe you.’

  ‘Yes, he will! We’ve been through a lot together.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ said Rory gently. ‘No matter how much this man favours you, you will always be a servant in his eyes and the word of a servant against a toff is never accepted. Especially when the toff in question is a very attractive young woman.’

  ‘Is she?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  Rory grinned. ‘You’re no a male. Fine figure of a woman that. Pity, she’s a scheming bitch from hell, but your Mr Bertram will have to find out in his own time.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Has she dropped hints about having you fired yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with fury. ‘She has. She said if we didn’t reach agreement she could make things … well, she didn’t say, but she implied.’

  ‘And if you complain about her you’ll play right into her hands. Don’t put the man in the position of choosing between you, Euphemia, because it won’t be you he chooses.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘You know I’m right, don’t you?’

  I sighed. ‘Yes. But what do I do?’

  ‘Let them blunder around on their own. Your Mr Bertram’s an impulsive sort. Without a calm, rational mind behind him he’s not going to get anywhere.’

  ‘But what if she makes good her thre
at?’

  ‘She wouldn’t dare. From what I’ve heard – and it’s only rumours, mind – if my master didn’t have friends in high places he’d not be where he is today.’

  ‘But that’s a point. He did …’

  Rory put up his hand to shush me. ‘Think about it, Euphemia. If my master can walk away from what he’s rumoured to have walked away from, do you think he’d have difficulty squashing the column of a silly society gossip? The paper would never dare print anything against him.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said miserably. ‘But that’s not right either.’

  ‘If you ask me nothing in their world is right. That’s why we’re well advised to leave it alone.’

  ‘You really think if I do nothing this will all go away.’

  Rory nodded. ‘Trust me,’ he said.

  ‘You’re about the only person I do.’

  He grinned at that and dropped a swift kiss on my forehead. Then he blushed, muttered about his duties and left.

  I was left alone for much of the day. Merry stopped by with food and chattered with much excitement about the goings on. But as far as I could tell nothing had happened and no one knew more than they had last night. It must have been early evening, and I was dozing by the fire, enjoying what must have been the laziest day of my life, when Mr Bertram came to visit me alone.

  ‘How are you, Euphemia?’ he asked, offering me a glass. ‘I thought a sherry might help.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, accepting what was obviously meant as a peace offering with as much grace as I could muster.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Beatrice is very passionate about her work.’

  I nodded, remembering my discussion with Rory, and kept my mouth shut.

  ‘It can take her to some shady places from what she’s told me,’ continued Mr Bertram. He was standing awkwardly, shifting slightly from foot to foot. ‘I don’t believe she is used to meeting servants of your calibre.’

  ‘Not ones as well educated perhaps,’ I said before I could help myself.

  Mr Bertram sat down. ‘I never said that. She misunderstood. I never described you as almost educated. I commented on your intelligence and, well, she took me up wrong.’