A Death in the Pavilion: A Euphemia Martins Mystery Page 8

  ‘Do you know,’ said Muller with a chuckle, ‘I’m not entirely sure. It has been a lifelong project for them and I have been raised as such and am comfortable as such. But as I said I do not come from money. I am a director of a bank; like many others I have made a good living this way.’

  ‘You built this estate,’ I said.

  ‘And it is beginning to pay its way, but my capital is running short.’

  I looked at the ground. I wished I was anywhere else.

  ‘I have four hundred people relying on me for support as well as my tenants and farmers. I have a duty to the estate.’

  I hazarded a guess that in other circumstances I would not have dared voice, ‘Richenda’s shares.’

  ‘And her inheritance,’ said Muller glumly. ‘Please don’t think too harshly of me. Richenda has made it clear she is eager to be established away from her brother. I am fond of her. She can be quite witty at times.’

  ‘Yes, she can,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘She didn’t have a hard life in the sense that many people do, but I think she was brought up in circumstances that did not allow her to become the best she could be. I think here, with me, she will be able to, well, mellow. I will offer affection, security, children I hope, and nothing less than respect at all times.’

  ‘I take it you would like me to resign,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ said Muller. He ran his hands through his immaculate hair. It curled attractively around his face. ‘I don’t. The last thing I want to take from you is the livelihood you have worked so hard to make for yourself. You support your family, as well, don’t you?’

  I nodded. We were in very dangerous waters.

  ‘I know I’m making a mess of all this. I wanted to tell you I will be making a formal offer of marriage to Richenda at the ball.’

  ‘Sir, you mustn’t tell me this! Especially not before you tell my mistress!’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t, but I need you to understand something. Should Richenda accept me – and I think she will …’

  Probably leap into your arms, I thought sourly, I hope you can take the weight.

  ‘I will from then on regard you as Richenda’s sister. You will always have a place in my home and I will not under any circumstances seek to take advantage of your position.’ Even in the sunset I could see he was blushing. ‘I will always behave towards you in a gentlemanly way.’

  Neither of us said anything for a few moments.

  ‘I’m not saying,’ said Muller, ‘that I am or will be a saint. Few married men are in my experience, but you will never, ever have anything to fear from me. I give you my word.’

  I thought for one awful, and I blush to admit a delightful, moment that he might try and kiss me. But then I realised his very speech had precluded that option. ‘We should get back,’ I said. ‘We will be missed.’

  ‘Yes. I am deeply sorry I had to have this conversation with you at all, Euphemia, but my mother …’ he trailed off.

  ‘You should meet mine,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘On her best days she could be described as formidable.’

  Muller laughed. ‘I should be grateful. These gardens are entirely my mother’s work. She and Bennie used to be out here everyday whatever the weather. I was forced to build the man a cottage near the main house, so she could consult him more easily.’ He paused for a moment. ‘This garden is her life’s work, but …’

  ‘She would prefer grandchildren,’ I said.

  ‘You are a very perceptive young lady.’

  We made our way back to the house. He made me take his arm, so I wouldn’t stumble in the dark. I had not now or ever any wish to marry him, but to think I had won a small part of his affections gave me a warm glow inside. He was a very charming man.

  It was only when my head hit the pillow that night that I realised no one had raised the subject of Lucy’s death. And that Muller’s romantic intervention had driven any thoughts of Lucy completely out of my head.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Fall Before The Ball

  Preparations for the ball continued apace and the weeks flew by.

  After my late-night chat with Muller I became acutely aware that Mrs Muller did go out of her way to be nice to me. Richenda remained completely ignorant of this. Mrs Muller was frequently abrupt with her, but she had no way of knowing that Richenda’s stepmother and even her own father had treated her far worse. In fact Richenda found Mrs Muller’s abrupt little ways with her enchanting. ‘She treats me like a member of the family,’ she confided in me. ‘No extra fuss like one would with a guest. She always comes straight to the point.’

  I made appropriate noises when she was extolling how well she got on with Mrs Muller and changed the subject as quickly as possible. Richenda also took to asking me if I thought Muller was coming round to her. To which question I always replied cautiously in the affirmative and attempted to control her wardrobe choices.

  Morally, I felt uncertain. Should I be helping her to a potentially loveless marriage? I turned that conversation in the garden over and over in my mind. By promising me a home and an income, Muller had effectively brought me in on his side, but it hadn’t felt like that. It had genuinely felt that he was trying to do his best by me. I felt his honesty that night very deeply. One morning, a week before the ball, I took my livelihood in my hands and attempted to have a straight conversation with Richenda. She was looking over my plans for seating at the ball in the morning room. Bertram was away with Muller. It had become their usual practice to spend the day together if Muller was working on the estate – I think Bertram was trying to pick up tips from a successful enterprise and I encouraged this where I could. Goodness knew Bertram’s estate, White Orchards, needed all the help it could get. On days Muller went into the city Bertram often spent time shadowing the estate factor. In fact, we had spent very little time in each other’s company. Certainly there had been no opportunity given for me to raise the subject of the dead maid with him, and Bertram seemed all too eager to forget the entire matter. But it still worried me.

  On this morning Richenda started as she often did, ‘Do you think Muller values my opinion?’ she asked. ‘Only I suggested a colour scheme for the ball and I don’t believe he is using it.’

  ‘Mrs Muller chose the colour scheme,’ I answered tactfully. Richenda’s idea had involved orange, red, and green.

  ‘Oh, I see. Maybe she didn’t want to repeat a previous scheme?’ said Richenda. ‘We don’t want the ball to bring back unpleasant memories.’

  ‘They might be pleasant ones,’ I said without thinking, as I considered sitting a bishop by a local curate for entertainment’s sake. Bishops tend to ignore curates generally, but in public they must be seen to be Christian-like. As must the average curate, who generally thinks a bishop knows nothing about a working parish.

  Richenda tapped me sharply on the arm. ‘Do you think he is over his late wife?’ she asked. ‘For some reason the man seems to confide in you!’

  This was an unwarranted as it was unfair. Since our rose garden conversation Muller and I had both made an effort to spend as little time alone as possible. I started to protest that he didn’t confide in me, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. Instead I said, ‘I think he is devoted to this estate and wants to establish a family line.’

  Richenda got up and started pacing. ‘I know I don’t have a skinny figure like some debutantes.’

  I bit my lip. It was pushing it for Richenda to consider herself a debutante at her age. I doubted she had even been presented at the Royal Court. ‘But I do have good child-bearing hips. I’m not a frail little thing like his late wife.’

  ‘That is very true,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think it would be tactful to point that out.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Richenda, ‘I’m only talking to you. I need to believe I have a chance.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ I said. Richenda was almost pathetically grateful for my affirmation.

  ‘And I’ve ordered a w
onderful dress for the ball,’ she stopped. ‘Oh heavens, Euphemia, what will you wear? I never thought!’

  ‘Am I invited?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course,’ said Richenda, startling me with a peck on the cheek, ‘I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  She said this with genuine gratitude, so why did it make me feel so guilty?

  ‘I’m going to take coffee in Mrs Muller’s room!’ announced Richenda. I nodded, wondering if Mrs Muller knew anything about this. I got back on with my task. We had had replies now from almost everyone. Mrs Muller had asked me to invite that earl’s daughter, but with rare tact my mother had declined. I was alarmed she had prolonged her stay with the canon and even more so that Mrs Muller was keeping in touch. Richenda hadn’t mentioned her again. Happily, my mother had more sense than to write to me here. Doubtless prolonged contact with the dull and unambitious canon had reminded her how necessary my income was. But then why was she still here? I hoped she was not also entertaining thoughts of a loveless marriage. Although to be fair to Richenda I think she was quite struck by Muller. But I think she also knew she was never going to be love of his life.

  And so the days wore on. With help from the seamstress Muller employed, I managed to adapt one of my dresses to something vaguely resembling a ball gown. It would be plain, simple, and darker than most of the other dresses there, but would also signify tactfully that I was not on an equal footing with the other ladies present. I had no jewellery to wear and this more than anything would indicate I was a servant. I didn’t mind. I knew I was pretty, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself for many reasons. Though I did wonder if Bertram would dance with me. Since his arrival and the incident of the dead maid we had spoken even less than Muller and I had. If Bertram found me alone in a room he simply turned and left without a word. I confess I found this a little hurtful.

  Then two days before the ball disaster struck. Mrs Muller, the housekeeper and the cook were working hard to finish off the preparations for the ball, but these were of so personal a nature – as this was a long-standing family ball – that I deliberately excluded myself from much of them. Of course if I was asked I offered an opinion or did what I was bid, but I tried hard to simply not be in the right place at the right time to be asked. I had successfully evaded Mrs Muller with a handful of flowers in the hall. I knew she wanted to ask me about the ball’s colour scheme and as she had wisely refused Richenda’s ideas (honestly I often wondered if Richenda is colour-blind) I felt it would be hugely tactless for me to offer an opinion. I was thus sitting reading quietly and contentedly in my room when I heard the scream.

  I dropped my book and ran. The screams continued, leading me downstairs and to the front hall of the house. Muller stood there, having emerged from his study, an expression of concern and confusion on his face.

  ‘Are you all right, Euphemia?’ he asked with obvious concern.

  ‘It wasn’t me that screamed,’ I replied.

  Another scream came. It sounded fainter now. ‘I do believe it is coming from outside,’ said Muller.

  ‘I had my window open,’ I said. ‘That would explain why it sounded so near.’

  ‘Wait here, my dear,’ said Muller. ‘I will go and investigate.’ Of late he had taken pains to address as nothing but Miss St John. He was genuinely flustered.

  ‘I think I should come with you,’ I said. ‘It sounds like a woman in distress and as such it may not be a gentleman’s company she needs.’

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ said Muller. ‘I only hope this will not involve you in further unpleasantness.’ He opened the front door for me and we left the house. The first person we encountered was a small and rather grubby garden boy. ‘What is happening?’ demanded Muller.

  ‘Some woman be screaming, sir,’ said the child. In other circumstances I might have laughed.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Muller.

  The child looked bemused. ‘In the gardens, sir.’

  ‘I think we need to go and look for ourselves,’ I said.

  Muller gave the child a frustrated look. Richard would have clipped his ear. Then he took my arm and led off at a smart pace to the rear gardens. There had been no more screams.

  ‘It can’t be that far,’ I said, panting slightly.

  ‘I don’t know, Euphemia,’ said Muller. ‘Sound can carry in open countryside like you wouldn’t believe.’ There were beads of sweat on his forehead. I knew this must be reminding him of what had happened with his wife. I was almost absolutely certain that whatever was transpiring it was nothing to do with him. However charming Muller could be on demand, his distress at this time was obvious. We turned a corner and ran straight into Bertram.

  ‘It’s Richenda,’ he panted. He bent over to catch his breath.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ said Muller, turning a sickly shade of white.

  Bertram straightened. ‘Oh it’s nothing like that, old chap. That silly mare of a half-sister of mine has only gone and fallen into a pile of poison ivy! Very painful, but far from fatal!’

  ‘But the ball!’ I exclaimed. Muller and I exchanged glances.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be better by then,’ said Bertram assuredly.

  ‘I think we should telephone the doctor,’ I said.

  ‘I agree,’ said Muller. ‘Perhaps you could help Bertram bring Richenda back to the house if she is otherwise unhurt. I doubt she would like me to see her.’

  ‘Why?’ said Bertram.

  ‘Certainly,’ I said and, tugging Bertram’s sleeve, I told him to show me where Richenda lay.

  When we found Richenda her skin had already started to show a reaction.

  ‘Oh, Euphemia,’ she wailed. ‘Will it go down by the ball?’

  ‘Muller has gone to fetch a doctor,’ I said, avoiding the question.

  Richenda looked down at her blotchy red hands. ‘I can’t see him like this. I can’t!’

  ‘I’m sure he’s seen the effects of poison ivy before,’ said Bertram. ‘It’s not like you’re covered in blood or anything. Though you are rather bumpy!’

  Richenda wailed again. I ‘accidentally’ kicked Bertram as I took Richenda’s arm. She had half struggled out of the bushes so I could manage to help her without touching the ivy. Bertram waited until she was totally clear to offer his arm. ‘How did it happen?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Richenda. ‘Mrs Muller suggested I took a walk in the garden to get inspiration and to get some blooms. She still hasn’t decided on the floral displays. I came round the corner and suddenly something or someone hit me full force in the back and I toppled face forward into the ivy.’

  ‘Which was when you screamed,’ said Bertram helpfully.

  ‘I knew what it was even before it began to itch,’ said Richenda. ‘Why on earth has it not been removed from the garden? Even Richard’s gardener wouldn’t be so slack as to let it grow.’

  ‘This is the wilderness garden,’ said Bertram. ‘Muller keeps it for his bees. He says it helps improve their honey yield.’

  ‘Idiotic idea,’ snapped Richenda. ‘Everyone knows nature needs to be tamed.’ She unhooked her arm from mine and scratched heartily at her forearm. I recaptured it.

  ‘Stop it, Richenda! You’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ cried Richenda, ‘but it itches.’

  ‘I’m sure the doctor will have something to help,’ I said.

  Mrs Muller appeared on the scene accompanied by Bennie. ‘Oh dear,’ said the head gardener, ‘this doesn’t look good.’

  ‘What do you mean by having such plants in your garden?’ demanded Richenda.

  ‘It is a very pretty thing,’ countered Mrs Muller.

  ‘People don’t regularly go jumping into the plants, miss,’ said Bennie, removing his hat.

  ‘You imbecile,’ shouted Richenda. ‘I should have been warned. I was only fetching the flowers as Mrs Muller requested.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said the lady, ‘I never meant you to get them yoursel
f. Bennie cuts all our flowers. As I am sure I explained to you.’

  ‘But you told me exactly where they were!’

  ‘Only because I could not remember their name,’ said Mrs Muller. ‘It was so you could tell Bennie the exact flowers I needed.’

  Richenda gritted her teeth. ‘Get me into the house,’ she ordered Bertram and me.

  When we were further away, Richenda muttered, ‘I don’t care what she says, she told me to get the wretched things. How was I meant to know she meant I was meant to ask Bennie? I’d never even met the man before.’

  However, by the time the doctor arrived, despite my protests Richenda had managed to scratch herself so badly that the reaction had become red, raw, and most pronounced.

  ‘It is a shame you weren’t able to exercise a little more self-restraint, young lady,’ said the doctor. ‘I am afraid your body has reacted very badly to the poison.’

  ‘I’m not going to die, am I?’ said Richenda starting up off her day-bed in alarm.

  The doctor laughed. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. But I’m rather afraid you will be red and sore for the better part of a week.’

  ‘I wish I was dead,’ wailed Richenda.

  ‘If I could have a word with you, Miss St John,’ said the doctor. We left Richenda’s room. I took him down to the morning room, which had become very much my working domain.

  ‘I don’t think your mistress will be going to the ball,’ said the doctor bluntly. ‘No self-control. I can leave you some salts you can use in her bath water to ease the itching – tepid water, mind. But other than that time will have to be the healer. If you can persuade her to refrain from scratching even more then it would be good. There’s always the risk that any of the skin that breaks open can lead to infection and I don’t need to tell you that can be fatal. It’s imperative that she keeps clean and has fresh cloths on any exposed skin. If she finds it helps with the itching you can dampen them with cold water, but you will need to take care she doesn’t catch a chill.’

  Muller came into the room halfway through the doctor’s instructions. ‘You appear to be under a misconception, doctor,’ he said. ‘Miss St John is not a nurse. I will need you to provide us with one.’