The ninth in the Euphemia Martins series of historical murder mysteries by Caroline Dunford, which follows Euphemia’s escapades in the women's suffrage movement. Euphemia is glad to leave London - but before long she finds herself mixed up in another nefarious situation when a body is found burned to death on a country estate... It's up to Euphemia and her friends and employers the Staplefords to get to the bottom of things.
Release date:
May 26, 2016
Publisher:
Accent Press
Print pages:
164
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It had all begun peacefully enough. We had been a small and happy family party at the Mullers’ estate. Christmas of 1912, with its attendant shocks, was past. Richenda’s adopted daughter, three-year-old Amy, would never be left alone ever again – especially if there was an open window nearby and a snowy roof to explore. My very dear friend Merry, Amy’s nursemaid at the time, had been unceremoniously dismissed by Hans, and was thus hovering on destitution1 when her long-term beau, the chauffeur Merrit, asked her to marry him. His employer, my old friend Bertram Stapleford, had given him a cottage on the estate with this very idea in mind. That she would now be called ‘Merry Merrit’ had not dimmed her happiness one wit. I knew that once she was ensconced on Bertram’s damp estate in the heart of the Fens it might be some time before I saw her again, but considering how the story could have ended it was an excellent outcome, though I would miss her sorely.
In general, servants do not have the luxury of indulging in travel. My lot has been different, but then as the granddaughter of an Earl, albeit incognito – and with the advantage of a decent education by a learned and beloved father and the disadvantage of having no money and a mother and little brother to support – I have always been out of the norm. I have even – though strictly I am not allowed to speak of it – worked for King and Country. I have scaled the heady heights of service, going from maid, with upstairs responsibilities, to housekeeper, and have finally settled as companion to Richenda on the Mullers’ lovely, modern estate.
Richenda once locked me in a cupboard, but I try to remember that at the time she was under the influence of her vile twin, Sir Richard, whom I (together with Bertram, their half-brother) was attempting to prove guilty of patricide. Although Richard was arrested, no charges were brought and he is now, perhaps fittingly, an MP. In Parliament he shouts, blusters, does countless deals, and has grown fat. I wish him all the worst.
Which is why Hans’ announcement was so very shocking,
‘You want me to go to Scotland in January?’ screeched Richenda. ‘Scotland? To spend time with Richard?’
‘I believe,’ replied her husband, ‘that the country prides itself on its New Year celebrations.’
‘They call it Hogmanay,’ I added unhelpfully.
It was the day after Boxing Day. The snow, so thick in the week before Christmas, had vanished from the estate leaving a damp chill in its wake. We had, in the end enjoyed a small family celebration, with Bertram staying for the festivities. Amy’s delight at her presents had brought the cheer that only a small child can to Christmas. It was thus a total and very unwelcome surprise to Richenda and me when Hans announced we were shortly to embark on a journey to Richard Stapleford’s new estate, Peterfield, and that Peterfield was in Scotland.
‘I have already accepted on our behalf,’ said Hans calmly. ‘Your brother has made it clear, my dear, that he wishes to be reconciled with you. He is holding a New Year’s party, so we will hardly be alone with him. I gather it is to be quite the glittering affair.’
‘Did you know about this?’ Richenda turned on Bertram. Caught in mid-sip of his coffee, Bertram choked in a way that gave him away completely.
‘You did!’ I cried. ‘I suppose you even agreed to Christmas here so you could travel up with us!’
This was both an unfair and geographically foolish accusation, as Bertram’s estate was far further north than the Mullers’, but a tell-tale blush crept over his face. ‘Oh my goodness,’ I said, ‘you wanted to arrive in a party – not on your own.’ Bertram gave me a furious look before turning his attention to his shoes, so he did not have to meet his half-sister’s gaze.
‘Strength in numbers,’ said Hans, ever the diplomat. ‘I feel much the same myself.’
‘Why on earth did you accept?’ asked Richenda.
‘I have already told you, my dear.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ said Richenda bluntly.
‘There will be many people at the party,’ said Hans, obviously unwilling to say more.
‘Is this to do with business?’ Richenda’s voice rose once more to a screech. ‘Business? How could you be so vulgar, Hans!’
‘I say, see here,’ muttered Bertram in protest. Richenda quelled him with a look.
‘The truth, Richenda,’ said Hans, and, for once, his voice took on a steely note, ‘is that we owe our living to my business interests and that your father made his fortune in business.’
‘I hold shares in the Stapleford bank,’ said Richenda, turning her argument around in a moment, ‘Are those and the estate not enough to sustain us?’
‘I am not a man to live off his wife,’ said Hans coldly, his eyes sending Richenda the clear message that this was something better discussed in private.
Richenda, as ever, missed the point.
‘Admirable though that may be, husband,’ she said, ‘I do not like my brother. I do not wish to go to Scotland.’
‘I have accepted,’ said Hans, with what I, at least, could hear was a finality which would not be brooked.
‘This is not a good time for me to be travelling!’ cried Richenda, and then to everyone’s surprise and embarrassment she burst into tears and fled from the room.
Hans looked as uncomfortable as I have ever seen him. He is usually the most unperturbable sort.2
‘Well, yes,’ said Bertram, indulging in the annoying habit of coughing that he does when he is unsettled, ‘you could hardly expect her to love the plan, old chap. Perhaps you should have given her a little more warning.’
‘And spoil Christmas?’ said Hans sharply. Then he sighed and turned to me. ‘I am sorry to have sprung this on you, Euphemia. I know your history with Richard Stapleford is not a happy one.3 But I am afraid I am indeed using his connections to meet some business people at the party, people who I have not been successful in engaging with recently.’
Bertram and I exchanged looks. Hans is a merchant banker. He is also half-German – and it was a time when Germany was viewed with increasing hostility. I should add that there is nothing vaguely Germanic about Hans, except for his blond hair. In all else he is the perfect English gentleman.4
Bertram, irritatingly, coughed again. ‘There’s no need to explain to us, old chap.’
‘Why are you going?’ I asked him, both to divert attention away from Hans’ embarrassment and because I was genuinely curious. ‘You don’t owe Richard a thing. Nor are you involved in banking.’
‘I asked him,’ interjected Hans. ‘I thought it would make all our lives easier.’
I regarded Bertram thoughtfully. ‘That was very kind,’ I said. Bertram coughed again. ‘Though I do wish you would stop doing that,’ I snapped.
Bertram looked at me as might a puppy that had been unexpectedly kicked. I suppose another woman might have found him sweetly attractive at that moment. At least he had finally shaved off his dreadful beard, and it had taken a decade off him.
‘I think I might take some air,’ he said with as much dignity as he could muster. Outside I could hear the sort of drizzling rain that makes leaves drip endlessly and soaks through any coat in minutes. I gave him an incredulous look. Bertram nodded to Hans and left.
‘You are a little unkind,’ said Hans gently. ‘He is doing me a great favour.’
‘You mean that people who might not easily talk to you will do so in his company?’
Hans looked pained. ‘I do not believe that needed saying, Euphemia.’
‘I am sorry, Hans,’ I said. ‘You are right. I was rude. I am upset you did not confide in me earlier. I could have helped Richenda accept your plan and avoided this scene.’
Hans’ handsome face broke into a smile. He reached out and touched my hand lightly. ‘My dear girl, there is nothing anyone – even you with your mighty powers of persuasion – could have done to make Richenda happy about this.’
He did perhaps leave his hand on mine a touch longer than was necessary. Hans and I have an affection for one another that is perhaps not common between employer and employee, but there has never been the slightest suggestion of impropriety on either side. But it was unfortunate that at that moment, Rory McLeod – Bertram’s butler, and the man who had jilted me – walked into the room.
He took in the situation at one glance and his face became a mask of fury.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.
1A feeling I was once all too familiar with.
2He needs to be, married to Richenda.
3Only a diplomatic sort like Hans could have understated this so vastly.
4This may be the problem. Hans combines diplomacy and charm, where other English gentlemen usually combine boorish behaviour and schoolboy banter.
Chapter TwoNot everything can be blamed on cake
Hans stood and faced Rory. He is one of the few men who can match Rory for height. ‘I have no idea how your relationship with Mr Stapleford works, but in my house no one, least of all someone else’s servant, addresses either Miss St John or myself in that manner.’
Rory hesitated. ‘I take it you are still in Mr Stapleford’s employ?’ asked Hans, his voice as cutting as I have ever heard it.
‘Aye,’ said Rory, ‘and it was only a few days ago yous were saying if I ever needed a situation you’d hold one open for me for life.’ It was a good rejoinder, but knowing Rory as I did, I could see he realised he had overstepped the mark.
‘Perhaps then I did not know what manner of a man you were,’ responded Hans.
‘If you will excuse me, Hans, McLeod,’ I said, rising and making my exit from the room. However, the two of them resolved the situation I knew my presence could not help.
It was with a feeling of shameful relief that I climbed the stairs to the first landing. I was considering where I might go and how long I should give for the occupants of the house to cool their spirits when I almost fell over Richenda.
She was lying diagonally across the landing. Her eyes were closed and she was not moving. It says a lot for my career history that the first thing I did, without even thinking about it, was check she was still breathing. It was only when I was assured of this that I screamed.
I have a loud and carrying scream. In mere moments Rory and Hans were panting by my side. The garden door opened and I heard Bertram’s voice call, asking if it was the lunch gong already. Neither Rory nor Hans bothered to reply to him. Between them they lifted Richenda – the observation that neither of them could have lifted her unaided was silently acknowledged.
‘Take her to her room,’ I said to the men, who were already doing so, ‘I’ll send for a doctor.’
Bertram pounded up the stairs. ‘Good God! Is the old girl all right? She’s not…?’
I tapped him on the shoulder and made him descend the stairs before me. I seriously doubted he would be of any help. ‘No,’ I said softly to him. ‘She appears to have fainted.’
‘Richenda doesn’t faint,’ said Bertram bluntly. ‘It’s not the kind of thing she believes in.’
As Richenda was an out-of-doors, horsey kind of woman, who was overly fond of cake, and usually blunt to the point of self-endangerment, I would have agreed with him – if it hadn’t been for the very obvious fact that she just had.
‘Well, she has now,’ I said. ‘I am going to telephone for the doctor.’
‘Do you know how to?’ asked Bertram doubtfully.
‘It cannot be that hard,’ I said. I had never before had occasion to use the telephonic apparatus. ‘I can always ask Stone to do it for me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Bertram with the heartfelt relief of a man who has found a way to be useful in a difficult situation. ‘You should be with her. Get her maid and get the cook to make up whatever it is women have when they faint. What is that?’
‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘Though perhaps her maid will have some smelling salts to hand.’
‘Burnt feathers,’ said Bertram. ‘That’s what my mother used to use. I’ll get some feathers from the garden after I’ve called the doctor.’
At least, I thought, it would give him something else to do. I hurried upstairs, hoping fervently that Richenda’s sudden indisposition would have diverted Hans and Rory from their disagreement.
When I reached her room, I found they had laid her on the daybed. Hans was kneeling by her side, patting uselessly at her hand and calling her name. He looked up at me. ‘I have rung for her maid,’ he said in a despairing voice. Rory hung back by the door. I sent him away to the cook to ‘fetch what was necessary’. I had no idea what might help Richenda, but Rory, who can be the perfect butler when he wishes, would no doubt have more idea than I. He gave me a startled look in response to my curt command and left sharply. Richenda’s maid entered with a small glass bottle. I took it from her, and gently easing Hans aside I uncorked it under Richenda’s nose. At once a vile ammonia smell arose. I slammed the stopper back in at once before my breakfast had occasion to revisit me. Richenda stirred, coughed and said, ‘Jupiter, why must you always wait until we are back in the stable? You bad boy!’ Then she opened her eyes. I stepped back. Hans, in a most undignified way, threw his arms around his wife. Richenda squeaked in surprise. I turned my back so I would not see this unusual display of affection.
‘Good heavens, Hans! What on earth has come over you?’ asked Richenda, sounding entirely like her normal self.
‘Oh my darling girl,’ said Hans in tones that made me blush. ‘You gave us such a fright.’
I heard the sound of Richenda scrambling to sit up and decided it was time I rejoined the conversation. I turned round to see her, pale, but sitting steadily upright. ‘Euphemia?’ she asked.
‘I found you on the landing,’ I said. ‘You had fainted.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Richenda. ‘I don’t believe in fainting.’
‘Well, it appears, my dear,’ said Hans in his more usual accent, . . .
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