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

  At the first opportunity I will return home for a short visit to assure you of both my health and my good fortune in securing this position.

  Your loving, dutiful daughter

  Euphemia

  Post script: Much love to Little Joe

  Post post script: I hope the new pigs are proving obedient and fattening quickly.

  I read over the letter, before adding:

  Post post script: Mr Holdsworth is, of course, a man, but still quite respectable.

  I hesitated.

  Post post script: Please forgive the post scripts, but this letter was written in haste as I only have a short time to reach the post office before it closes.

  It was less than a pattern card letter, but then I had only the two sheets, little time and I knew Mother hated reading a scored-through letter. At least I would not be present to hear her strictures on my lackadaisical correspondence. I fitted the letter into its envelope, collected my outdoor things and hurried down the back stairs.

  The air was sharp with an impending frost and the winter light weak, but already the turning of the year at midwinter meant daylight lasted a little longer.

  I had had more than adequate opportunity to mark the way from my slow arrival on cart and had a fair idea of where the village lay. I also have a remarkable sense of direction, so despite the confusion of corpses of trees on both the left and then the right side of a crossroads and the exceedingly bad lettering on the sign, I soon found myself heading down the hill towards the pretty little village green with its crop of cottages and small shops.

  The sun was levelling off on the horizon, sending the bare trees with their angular black limbs into sharp relief. A smooth white frost crept across the fields; the white line practically rising before my eyes as if dragged by invisible hands. The air caught at the back of my throat in a not unpleasant manner. The cold pinched my face, rousing my mood and clearing my mind. I was surprised by how happy I felt.

  Ahead I could see the lane branched once more and then I would be on the direct path into the village. Looking out across the fields I gathered my bearings. I was now fairly certain I could find my way walking across the fields rather than braving the network of lanes. The gathering frost would make walking across the fields easier. This could give me a little extra time. Perhaps enough to discover if there was a village shop that sold those toy soldiers Joe so craved.

  ‘Euphemia!’

  I turned startled to see Mr Bertram emerge from the other branch of the lane. Any suspicion he might have been following me was quickly put to flight as his once white and now distinctly muddy wolfhound hurried to meet me.

  As the beast leapt I caught his big, dirty paws and controlled the big, friendly brute as he tried to cover my face with dog kisses.

  Growing up in a rural vicarage has few advantages, but one of these is the ability to quickly size up the temperament of canines. If only I was able to do the same with their masters.

  ‘Down, Siegfried!’ shouted Mr Bertram.

  The dog showed no signs of obeying him being happily engaged in trying to lick my face. I laughed and scolded the animal dropping his paws away from me and earning his love by scratching his ears.

  ‘I see you are used to dogs,’ Mr Bertram said quizzically. ‘Very unusual for a London maid.’

  I smiled at him. ‘I have never been to London, sir.’

  ‘Indeed? I thought that was perhaps where you had acquired your polish?’

  I laughed then, quite forgetting my place. It was easy to do outside the house. ‘Indeed not! I am country bred through and through.’

  Mr Bertram gave me a look I could not fathom. Then he said quite sharply, ‘We should not be seen together.’

  This brought me down to earth at once. My happiness evaporated. I bobbed a curtsy. ‘No, sir. I am on my way to the post office to post a letter to my mother. If you will excuse me.’

  I curtsied again and turned to go. Mr Bertram was suddenly at my side. He caught my arm. ‘No, Euphemia. We should talk, but not in such an unguarded place as this. Do you know The Red Lion?’

  I shook my head bewildered.

  ‘The inn. It is below us and a little to the right. Take the lane and I will go cross country. I will meet you outside. The snug bar is dark and we can talk there.’

  ‘Sir,’ I stammered. ‘I cannot go into a public house. I believe most will not even admit women.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Euphemia, you will be with me. The landlord will allow me to bring in who I choose.’

  ‘I thought you did not want us to be seen together?’

  ‘You have only to pull up the hood of your cloak until we are seated. No one will know who you are.’

  ‘It does not seem right, sir.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a silly girl, Euphemia. If you were a lady it would be different, but you are a maid. A maid in quite a precarious position in my father’s household.’

  I blushed red. ‘That is unfair.’

  ‘You want to keep your position, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I responded, ‘but not at the cost of my virtue.’

  He laughed loudly at that. ‘Euphemia I accuse you of reading novels! You are the most unusual girl. But fear not I have no designs upon your person – I want only to borrow your mind.’

  His speech awoke a curious mixture of emotions within me. I could not readily untangle them. I only knew I felt distressed. ‘I’ll meet you,’ I agreed to bring the uncomfortable scene to an end and set off smartly down the lane.

  The bar was very much as he had said. On the outside The Red Lion presented the appearance of a local but respectable inn. It was built of grey granite blocks and neatly thatched. It comprised two storeys and the paintwork on the windows and doors was neat and fresh.

  Mr Bertram arrived very shortly. As we entered through the side-door we immediately plunged into gloom. The bar was small and cramped. Mr Bertram led me to a secluded, tiny bay and went to collect refreshments. I marked the exit.

  He left Siegfried with me, who seemed used to the location. He curled up under the table, but like many large dogs he unfortunately forgot the length of his tail. A large man trod on it and the poor dog yelped. The man cursed us both in both unbecoming language, and I forgot myself enough to berate him for his carelessness. I believe things might have gone rather ill if it had not been for a shuffling at the closely packed bar. The man, offered the choice between arguing with me and getting in his order, chose to head for his ale.

  Mr Bertram returned with a half-pint of beer for me and a full pint for himself. In response to his ‘Cheer-ho!’ I forced myself to take a sip of the brew. It was vile. ‘Thank you,’ I stammered.

  He smiled. ‘Tell me what you have learnt. Be honest. I will not take offence and keep your voice low.’

  ‘Merry was close to your cousin …’ I began.

  Mr Bertram whistled softly. ‘So that’s how it was.’

  ‘No, I do not believe so. Merry had much affection for the gentleman and believed that a future together was possible. Do not look at me like that, Mr Bertram. I am fully aware that he could have had no such intentions towards her. However, I believe Merry had not crossed a, er, certain line before his death and is possibly the person most emotionally affected by his death.’

  ‘So no chance she killed him in a fit of revenge?’

  ‘I do not think so. Obviously, as a servant she had ample knowledge of the various passageways and, when I casually enquired of her whereabouts during the actual murder, neither Mrs Deighton nor Mr Holdsworth could give me an answer.’

  ‘What about Mrs Wilson?’ asked Mr Bertram.

  ‘She is not a person one can make casual enquiries of.’

  Mr Bertram waved his hand. ‘No, I know that. She does not like you. I meant did she have opportunity or motive that you know of?’

  ‘Again, I have not been able to verify her whereabouts. Although I imagine the police will be looking into exactly this.’

  ‘My fa
ther has asked the police to move things along quickly. There is the seat to be taken into account.’

  ‘Seat?’ I queried. Mr Bertram shook his head. ‘It’s not relevant. Do you think Mrs Wilson could have killed him?’

  ‘I like her as little as she likes me, but unless your cousin George was in some way threatening your father or her own position I cannot see her committing such an act.’

  Mr Bertram downed a large part of his pint. ‘We do not appear to be progressing.’

  I sighed. ‘When I tidied your stepsister’s room I did not come across anything helpful.’

  ‘You searched Richenda’s room?’ Mr Bertram’s voice hovered between disapproval and amusement.

  ‘I tidied it, sir, and it was in sore need of tidying. However, I did learn she has become prey to somnambulism once more. Something I believe she is prone to during times of stress.’

  Mr Bertram nodded soberly.

  ‘Again I am afraid I do not have anything to share over Mr Holdsworth’s locality during the murder. Except we know he was in position to open the door to Richenda very shortly after the murder was committed.’

  ‘The library is not far from the front door,’ commented Mr Bertram.

  ‘No,’ I countered, ‘but although I am not particularly knowledgeable about murders it seems odd to me that one man could kill another and then calmly go about his duties.’

  ‘Unless he was either an actor or had very good cause for wishing a man dead.’

  ‘I know of neither to be true of Mr Holdsworth.’ I longed to ask him about his thoughts on the family, but I was beginning to understand that my position was to provide information on my peers. The actual term for such an occupation I pushed to the back of my mind.

  ‘Thank you, Euphemia. I can only ask you to keep your eyes and ears open for me. Currently there appear to be many suspects for this murder.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’ I ventured.

  ‘What I think, my dear,’ said Mr Bertram rising, ‘is that you should hurry to post your letter. I will hasten back to the hall so our arrivals will not seem to follow too closely upon one another.’

  I had no wish to stay a moment alone in the inn, so I hastened after him. The post office proved to be only a short distance from the inn. It also proved to be closed. There was a public post box, but I had no stamp. I hesitated. I could pop it in the box and leave the charge to Mother, but considering our shortage of funds I decided against it. I was certain Mother would wish to hear I was doing well, but I was equally certain she would not want to pay for the privilege. I placed the letter back in my coat pocket.

  The walk across the fields was pleasant and, as I had suspected, much quicker. The small frosty puddles snapped beneath my boots as I strode over the muddy fields. Back in the fresh air I felt freer and happier. As long as the family remained at the hall I could always take pleasure in this temporary escape.

  All too soon I was walking up the tree-lined drive to Stapleford Hall. The dusk was drawing in and the trees loomed over me like austere sentries. I have spent most of my life living next to graveyards. Although Papa tried to keep the more morbid side of his occupation from the family, this was impossible. Mother, who was more than happy to do the family visits, hated attending the wakes and I often stepped in. It is perhaps unfair to mention this, but towards the end I was also the one who visited the seriously sick in our parish, Mother having acquired a dread fear of contaminating Little Joe. I digress to mention these facts to prove I do not have an innately fanciful imagination. I do not, as my brother often pretends, see ghosts hovering in the air. I had no sense of foreboding when my own father died. Yet, as I walked with increasing reluctance up the tree-lined avenue, I had the strangest feeling of darkness gathering all around me. If I had had anywhere else to go I do believe there might have been a strong chance I would have fled.

  As it was I slipped in through the servants’ entrance. In the kitchen was an unfamiliar constable. He was seated at the kitchen table watching the door through which I had just come as a cat watches a mouse hole. He rose as I entered.

  ‘Euphemia St John?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must come with me.’ He crossed the room in two swift strides and grasped me roughly by the arm. ‘And no funny business.’

  ‘Ouch! Let me go! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Not likely, girl. I’ve got you now.’

  ‘I’m not trying to escape,’ I protested. ‘This must be some kind of misunderstanding.’

  But he was too intent on dragging me upstairs to listen to my pleas. In fact, other than squeezing my arm in a vice-like grip he paid me no attention at all. I, on the other hand, was able to ascertain his personal hygiene left much to be desired and he had wiry ginger hairs growing out of his ears.

  ‘I’ve got her, governor!’ he yelled as we reached the main hall. ‘I’ve got the girl.’ He stopped, waiting for a response.

  ‘You make it sound as if you have had to chase me over several fields as opposed to merely dragging an unresisting young girl up a few stairs,’ I said. He continued to ignore me.

  Mr Richard stormed into the hall closely followed by Mrs Wilson. Mrs Wilson’s face was contorted in a grimace. I realised she was smiling. I began to worry.

  ‘Where have you been, girl?’ exploded Mr Richard.

  ‘Down to the village, sir.’

  ‘A fine story!’ cried Mrs Wilson.

  ‘Who gave you permission?’ thundered Mr Richard.

  ‘Mrs Deighton.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wanted me to get some currants,’ I said in a very small voice. I had completely forgotten my errand.

  ‘So where are they?’ cried Mrs Wilson.

  ‘I forgot,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Nonsense. You never went down to the village at all, did you?’

  ‘I did!’ I protested.

  ‘Then how comes your boots aren’t muddy?’ asked the constable.

  ‘The frost is coming down,’ I snapped. ‘Will you kindly let go of my arm? I’m not liable to run away.’

  ‘Empty your pockets,’ asked Mr Richard more calmly.

  Puzzled, I turned out my coat pockets. My letter was ignored, but Mr Richard pounced on the coin and held it up in front of my eyes. ‘From my father’s purse.’ The vein in his neck bulged.

  ‘Lord Stapleford gave it to me.’

  ‘The girl tells nothing but lies!’ shouted Mrs Wilson triumphantly.

  ‘But you were there!’ I cried.

  ‘I reckon as to how she is the murderer, sir. It makes sense. Some kind of Bolshie, I reckon,’ opined the policeman.

  ‘I only found the body,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Please ask Lord Stapleford about the coin. He will tell you he gave it to me himself.’

  ‘As if you don’t know,’ sneered the constable. ‘Lord Stapleford is dead. Murdered.’

  Chapter Nine

  A Lady of Ill Repute

  With what my mother would have denounced as an unfortunate tendency towards the melodramatic I fainted quite away at the word “murder”.

  The next thing I knew I was back in that wretched library. I had been lain on a rather hard settle. As I came drowsily around, I realised Mr Richard was talking.

  ‘It’s a damn rotten thing to happen to one’s Papa, but on a national level it’s a tragedy. Papa was the back-up man for George. The party’s lost two of its best men in quick succession.’

  ‘Party, sir?’ It was a man’s voice I did not recognise. Well spoken but with the sense that every vowel was earned and with a faint twang of an accent that could not quite be diminished. I guessed this must be the inspector.

  ‘Unionists, man! The Unionists! We’ve finally got a shot to unseat the Liberals.’

  ‘Ah, party politics. Not something the force is connected with, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but surely, you must see,’ blustered Mr Richard, ‘this could be a politically motivated crime. Someone trying to bring down the country!’
r />   ‘Correct me if I’m wrong here, sir, but it’s you Unionists that want to turn the government out of power.’

  I stifled a giggle. The man had it right.

  ‘Good God, man! We want a better-run country, not to bring it to its knees!’

  ‘I see your point, sir. Now, if I’m not mistaken that young girl is awake.’

  Mr Richard pointed an accusatory finger at me in a manner even that I feel a neutral critic would have found even more melodramatic than my fainting fit. ‘You! You girl! You’re Bolshevik, aren’t you? A Marxist.’

  I sat up. My head thumped unpleasantly. ‘I am not entirely sure one can be both,’ I said.

  ‘Ha!’ Mr Richard thumped a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘There you have it. No serving maid knows anything of politics! She’s an impostor.’

  The inspector, a small neat man in a discreet woollen suit and carefully combed short beard, regarded me from small brown eyes. I shifted uncomfortably. It was not that I found his manner exactly threatening, but I had the sense of a keen brain working behind a perfect mask. Also, while I was not guilty of murder I was guilty of deception and duplicity does not fit well with a lifelong career as a vicar’s daughter.

  ‘Well, girl, what do you know of politics?’

  ‘I cannot say I think of it often, sir. It has little to do with me.’

  The inspector smiled thinly. ‘Would all women felt that way.’

  I bridled and suppressed an urge to confess a sudden conversion to the suffragette movement.

  ‘You have no knowledge of the Bolshevik philosophy?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘But some?’ Mr Richard pounced like a cat on a mouse. Fortunately, it was only a verbal pounce.

  ‘Only what I have seen in the papers, sir.’

  ‘Lord Stapleford,’ began the inspector.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is a hereditary title, is it not? You’re a “Lord” now – I have that right?’

  Mr Richard sat down heavily on a chair and rubbed his head with one large hand. ‘Yes. Yes. Feels strange to hear it. Makes the poor old Pater’s death more real.’