A Death in the Asylum

Book 3: A Euphemia Martins Mystery

by Caroline Dunford

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

'A sparkling and witty crime debut with a female protagonist to challenge Miss Marple' LIN ANDERSON, Award winning Scottish crime author A Death in the Asylum - the third edition of the gripping and twisty Euphemia Martin Mysteries! _______________ A meddling mystic......with the power to unravel it all. Euphemia's working unhappily as a housekeeper for Bertram Stapleford at his ill advised new property, when the dramatic collapse of the kitchen floor sends her back to where it all began, Stapleford House. A visiting mystic disrupts the Staplefords unleashing old family rumours. Euphemia finds herself playing second fiddle to Bertram's new love, Beatrice Wilton, as she launches a project to investigate the new aslyums. It is not long before Euphemia realizes that not only does Beatrice have her unscrupulous sights set on Bertram, but that her enterprises may be about to put them all in very great danger. _______________ Readers LOVE Caroline Dunford's compelling crime novels! 'This is one of the best written mystery series that I have read' ***** Reader review 'They're so well written that they're hard to put down! I can't wait for the next one!' ***** Reader review '...these are wonderful mysteries, with great characters and good plots' ***** Reader review 'I purchased all four of the Euphemia Martins Mysteries and I have read them and enjoyed them...' ***** Reader review

Release date: May 23, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 193

Sample

Chapter OneCalamity at White Orchards

Madam Arcana raised her face to the ceiling. Her large purple turban slipped dangerously backwards as she enquired in a loud stage whisper of the plaster above her, ‘Is there anybody there?’

Despite the rather stern instructions I had been given to keep my eyes on the glass at the centre of the table I too looked up. But then very recently I had found ceilings to have become the most unreliable of objects.

White Orchards was not a large house. If Stapleford Hall is modest when compared to what my mother refers to as the “real great houses”, she would doubtless rate Mr Bertram’s new seat as adequate for an orangery and its flora incumbents, but never a dwelling for anyone who counted. This all despite the fact that since her marriage to my late father, the Very Reverend Joshia Martins, she had lived in a vicarage and since his death in a cottage that would have fitted neatly into the ballroom at Stapleford Hall and still left room to waltz around the perimeter. But then my mother still clings to memories of her youth in her father’s – the earl who shall not be named’s – great house. I have never seen my grandfather and now I am in service I doubt he will ever have the honour of meeting me.

Until last week, and the incident with the ceiling, I was a housekeeper at White Orchards. I had come to this position after many an unexpected turn in the previous 14 months. Having thrown myself into service in January 1910 to help provide for mother and my brother, Little Joe, when father left us destitute, fate had washed me up on the shores of Stapleford Hall the same day a murder was committed there. By the time the second murder had occurred – this time of the head of the house – I was entangled in the whole dreadful business and had made a dire enemy of the new Lord Stapleford and formed an almost inappropriate alliance with his younger brother, Bertram, who was quite the best of the family.1 Needless to say no one knew of my antecedents. Though I believe I was counted as somewhat of an oddity in a maid. I weathered these first two murders and their unfortunate consequences only for events eight months later to again take a turn towards the macabre.

The housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, had had an accident that I still cannot bear to fully recount. Suffice it to say that it involved the substance that comes from the more unfriendly end of a horse, very wet stairs and her sudden and ill-advised descent of the great staircase. This had led to a sudden promotion as I took on the role of housekeeper for a shooting party in the Highlands.2 I hesitate to say it, but again a sudden death greeted me almost upon arrival at the house. This time I clearly was in no way connected or suspected, but world events impinged on my tiny corner of England – or Scotland – and almost caused the arrest of our new, handsome butler, Rory McLeod. He was the son of a greengrocer, vastly ineligible, extremely intelligent and the main reason I accepted the post of housekeeper at White Orchards, when Mr Bertram declared his intention to buy his own house.

But I should have known things would not go smoothly. Mr Bertram is a passionate man and, like most hot-blooded men, he is quick to act. In the light of what was to transpire I believe that the purchase of White Orchards was itself a matter of impulse.

It is true I had challenged him on the morality of living in his brother’s house merely to remain in the running to inherit Stapleford Hall as per the dictates of his father’s bizarre will. I had also upbraided him on spending the blood money of the Staplefords (who are in banking and armaments) when he has a comfortable inheritance from his late godfather. However, when he stormed out in a rage at my impertinent words – and they were impertinent, even if my true social status had been acknowledged – I little suspected that I would set him on a course to buy almost the first house he saw and come running back to beg me to become his housekeeper.

At the time I knew in my heart of hearts it was wrong to accept. Mr Bertram and I – and this I only confess within these pages – are not indifferent to one another. There has never by word or action been anything improper between us, but I have often thought if I had not been a maid then Mr Bertram might have made his feelings plainer – in a respectable manner. Of course, if I were not in service, and my real name acknowledged, he would be beneath my station to notice. I am not unaware of the irony of this situation, although I find no amusement in it.

And then there was Rory. Rory, who had every reason to believe we were on equal standing, who I rescued from wrongful arrest and whose quick thinking helped me untangle the most difficult of puzzles when Mr Bertram had set his face against aiding me. It was made plain to us, albeit individually, by the Staplefords that should Rory and I wish to wed the household would continue to employ us as a married couple, which was a very gracious concession, but that no extended courtship or close friendship was acceptable.

To be honest I think we were both taken aback as much by the sudden surprising morality of the Staplefords as we were with the suggestion that on a mere few weeks’ acquaintance we would wish to wed. We chose to remain side by side in service, but with only a cool acquaintance between us. It was most uncomfortable. Mr Bertram had left and Rory was the sole person with whom I was able to engage my mind and active brain. We were naturally drawn together and I saw it would not do for many reasons, so when Mr Bertram returned I followed him to White Orchards as his housekeeper.

This is all a roundabout way of saying I leapt from the frying pan into the fire.

White Orchards was set with a most handsome facing, clean lined and modern on the fens. Sunrises and sunsets there were more magnificent than I have ever seen. It was surrounded by apple trees and when, in spring 1911, their white blossom flowered it was lovely to see. However a mere few months after our arrival, the floods began. An unexpected rainfall, a failing of some ditch and our basement was soon filled with water. However, I am always happy to rise to a challenge and now with my own small staff we weathered the storm literally and figuratively. We dried out what could be saved and threw out what could not. I was pleased with my adaptability and that I had not been thrown by this disaster.

However, when the event again occurred after just two weeks and then again, it became clear that unexpected rainfall or ditch failures could not be blamed. It was at this point that I enquired of Mr Bertram if he had checked with the local people about the house before purchasing it.

‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Euphemia,’ he had said when I presented him with his morning breakfast of eggs and toast.

‘I mean, sir, did you realise the house would be liable to such flooding?’

Mr Bertram shrugged. ‘It is in the fens.’

‘I believe the engineering feat that drained the fens some time ago was and is regarded as something of a marvel,’ I said.

‘There are always teething difficulties when one takes possession of a new property.’ Mr Bertram lifted his newspaper to signal the conversation was at an end.

‘I think this is more than a mere inconvenience, sir. I fear there is a fault with the house that will need correcting.’

‘Nonsense, Euphemia. It is a brand-new house. A marvel of modernity. The plumbing alone is a miracle.’

‘Quite spectacular, sir,’ I agreed. ‘But it is the water outwith the pipes I am referring to. I fear the basement is flooded out again.’

Mr Bertram went pale. ‘But my wines. My shipment. What I ordered laid down.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t lay the wine down as per your instructions. I was confident that on reflection you would see it was an unwise choice.’

We were speaking to one another more formally than we had been used to at Stapleford Hall and even the wretched hunting lodge in the Highlands, but here, in the middle of nowhere – albeit a very beautiful nowhere – with a small staff we were thrown upon one another more often than either of us had suspected. I continued with caution. ‘I fear we may need to quit the house while repairs are made. The smell from the cellars has risen in some strength to the kitchen and, as summer approaches, I fear it will become more rank. I do not think it can be sanitary.’

Mr Bertram pushed his plate away. ‘So what do you suggest, Euphemia?’ he said almost in our old manner.

‘That we return to Stapleford Hall while repairs are put in process. I think, even if you wished it, in its current state White Orchards would not be saleable.’

‘Damn it, Euphemia. I don’t want to sell the place.’

‘Then you will have to have it fixed, sir.’

Mr Bertram pushed his chair back roughly, scraping a fine layer of wax off the floor Jenny had so lovingly polished. ‘I will not believe it is that bad.’ He stood and faced me angrily. ‘I believe you are regretting your choice to come here and wish to return to work at Stapleford.’

‘If you think that, sir, you must think me a fool,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘What la-woman in her right mind would exchange the position of housekeeper for that of maid?’

‘Perhaps you now find there are inducements at Stapleford Hall that White Orchards cannot supply.’

‘Such as a dry cellar?’

‘Enough! Show me the cellar. If there is more than an inch of water there I’ll return to my brother’s house tonight.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ I turned to lead the way out. ‘Perhaps you should consider more appropriate footwear?’

Mr Bertram growled under his breath. He clearly did not believe me. We entered the cellar. I allowed him to go first. The dank, odorous water that seeped into the lining of his handmade shoes quickly changed his mind. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was so bad, Euphemia?’ he cried. ‘This is impossible.’

I thought of responding that this was all of a piece. He had not believed me about the dangers of cracked eggs, the bad cheese from Hadwell Farm, the number of servants we would need and a thousand and one other things. Owning his own home had gone to Mr Bertram’s head and each time I drew his attention to some shortfall he took it as a personal blow to his pride. For his own reasons he was utterly determined to demonstrate his mastery of all he surveyed. The result was, of course, that having lived all his life under his parents’ roof he frequently looked extremely foolish – and then he blamed me.

‘Shall I make the arrangements for leaving?’ I asked. Unlike my master I had learned a great deal as housekeeper and was equal to much more than when we had first met. If anything this appeared to infuriate him further.

‘We can’t take all the servants to Stapleford!’

‘No, of course not,’ I replied. ‘I suggest all the local servants are allowed home – although it will be very difficult to retain their service if they are not paid some kind of allowance.’

‘That will be nothing compared to what this will cost to set right,’ said Mr Bertram bitterly.

I moved on. ‘I could return to my own home, but Merrit joined us from a London household. ‘

‘Richard won’t object to having another footman around as long as I’m paying.’

‘I don’t believe either Sam, the bootboy, or Jenny will have anywhere else to go.’

‘Jenny?’

‘Your kitchen-maid.’

‘Oh, I’m sure Mrs Deighton can always use an extra pair of hands.’ He frowned heavily. ‘We can’t take our cook!’

‘Of course not, sir. I’m sure she will be happy to have some time to spend with her new grandchild.’

‘Grandchild?’ echoed Mr Bertram blankly.

‘Your tenants, the Hadfields at Mile-End Farm.’

‘Good God, Euphemia, you’re my housekeeper, not my …’ He stopped, turned fiery red and swallowed. ‘I mean, how come you know so much about my people? We’ve barely been here a moment.’

‘It must be my background as a vicar’s daughter, sir,’ I said without thinking.

‘But I thought your father was …’

‘I’d better start seeing to the arrangements,’ I answered and fled.

When we first met the Staplefords had assumed I was the love-child of some recently deceased gentleman because I spoke well and could read. At the time it had been easier to allow them to think this. ‘Damn,’ I said aloud, startling both the kitchen cat and cook in equal measure.

‘It’s not like you to swear, Miss St John,’ said our cook, Mrs Tweedy. ‘Has the master not seen sense yet?’

‘Mr Stapleford agrees the house needs work and we are all to quit this place while it is done. All local servants will be kept on at wages, but allowed to go home. Merrit, Sam and Jenny will accompany Mr Stapleford to Stapleford Hall.’

‘Well, that’s very decent of him,’ said Mrs Tweedy. ‘And I’ll get time to spend with the little ’un. But what about you, my dear?’

I blinked. ‘I really have no idea.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Euphemia,’ said Mr Bertram emerging from the cellar. ‘Of course you’re coming with me.’

He stormed out of the room. I followed. ‘Really, sir, you mustn’t call me by my Christian name in front of the other servants. It gives the wrong impression.’

Mr Bertram turned on his heel to face me. ‘And what impression would that be, Euphemia? Apart from the ridiculousness of addressing one as young as you as Mrs …’

‘Many women are married at 19,’ I countered reasonably.

‘But none of them would have the audacity to constantly contradict their master. You complain of my manners …’

‘I meant simply that it might be taken as improper considering the isolated nature of the estate and you still a bachelor, sir.’

‘Good God! You’re doing it again. Will you not let me finish a sentence?’

I thought of pointing out that he had just finished two, but kept my tongue between my teeth. Mr Bertram heaved a huge sigh. ‘And you’re right again. I’m not fit to run a house on my own. I need a wife. Perhaps I shall find one at Stapleford Hall. Do you think along w. . .