A Death in the Hospital

Book 15: A Euphemia Martins Mystery

by Caroline Dunford

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Euphemia's sixteenth gripping mystery is a nail-biting adventure set at the beginning of the Great War. It is August 1914 and war has been declared. Spymaster Fitzroy returns from France with a team of highly trained spotters wounded and unfit for duty. While Euphemia's husband, Bertram, is away undertaking Fitzroy's next mission, Euphemia and Merry go undercover as nurses in the hospital where Fitzroy's four surviving scouts are being treated. It is feared one of them is a traitor and Euphemia must identify him before it is too late... At the hospital, Euphemia encounters a black-market racketeer, the impenetrable high security Ward D, and an old familiar face who believes some deaths on his ward are a result of foul play. Uncovering far more than she'd bargained for, Euphemia will need all her strength, wit and ingenuity to survive unscathed ...

Release date: October 1, 2020

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 263

Sample

The day was dull, with the kind of white sky that bears down on you and leaves you restless and feeling out of sorts. The apple trees outside the morning room dripped steadily with fat raindrops. I couldn’t hear them through the glass, but watching them, it felt as if I could. The ground outside was turning to mud, and all I could think of was the young men from the estate we had so recently sent off to war.

‘Mrs Stapleford?’

Our housekeeper, Mrs Templeton, a widowed lady of a mellowed age, who had fallen on hard times, tried valiantly once more to turn my attention to the bed linen we were inspecting.

‘I’m sure you are right, Mrs Templeton.’

‘About what, Mrs Stapleford?’

‘Everything,’ I said hopefully.

Mrs Templeton pinched the bridge of her nose with the fingers of her right hand. ‘I fear I shall have to get eyeglasses,’ she said. ‘I keep getting the most annoying headaches.’ She gave a small, ladylike sigh.

Guilt pinched at me. ‘Mrs T,’ I said, directing my full attention to her, ‘I am aware I appear pre-occupied. I very much need to get back to my study. I employed you because I have confidence in you and your decisions. If you feel all this linen needs replacing, then do it. Turn out the cupboards to your heart’s content. I expect there are even ones that we have not opened since we settled here. I leave it entirely to you.’

‘Madam, if I may say so, this is a very strange way to run a household.’

‘I am afraid, Mrs T, I will always be a strange mistress. I have had my fill of running houses. I am content to issue the most general of orders, although I will continue to approve the daily menus. That, and the occasional conversation with our new factor, will be my only concession to the day-to-day housekeeping routine.’

‘But won’t Mr Stapleford wish to talk to the factor?’

‘Probably, but afterwards Mr McArthur will generally wish to see me. He doesn’t like to bother my husband with the more troublesome details. His heart, you know.’

‘Of course.’

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have some urgent letters to attend to.’ I nodded briefly to her and did my best to sweep out of the room as my mother would have done, but with a touch less haughtiness. I liked Mrs Templeton. I knew she would be good at her job. I only wished she would leave me alone.

The small room off the morning room is my office. We call it my writing room, so the staff don’t find it too unusual. It’s really a remote occupational base. It’s bad enough that I have my own telephone apparatus in there that none of them are allowed to answer. I closed the door and went to sit at my desk. I stared at the wretched new-fangled device and willed it to ring.

All I could hear was the sound of the rain falling steadily and relentless against the windows of White Orchards.

The truth was, I had no new letters to write. I took some papers out of a locked drawer and again read my copy of the notes I had presented to my masters in London. News had reached me yesterday that one of the supply lines I had advised the army to use had been compromised. I went over my information and my report. I could find no flaw in either. The British Expeditionary Force had begun to land in France three days ago, on 7th August. A small force, but all of them hardened veterans, they were there to help the French and Belgians repel German invasion.

What was not generally known to the public was that there had been an earlier landing. Spotters, or scouts, as they were sometimes known, had gone in to check the lie of the land. Sending back information to analysts like myself, on the terrain, population, roads, etc, they also looked for places to engage of the enemy, locations for bases, and everything an advancing army might need. The very best of them had gone forward to scout the enemy lines – or as close as they could get. That’s where my partner, the spymaster Fitzroy, currently was. He likes to think of himself as my superior officer, but as my standing is still in debate in the Service I have said I will only work with him if he considers me his partner. I have admittedly also said I will respect his experience. It’s a stand off.

Our last mission had seen us travelling back through France and Germany in February and March. Fitzroy had been recovering from a knife wound in his side, so we had been meandering back in a leisurely manner, pretending to be a newly married couple, but in reality scoping out the environment in anticipation of the war that we both feared was imminent.

As soon as we were back on British soil, he had been transferred to train the spotters. I had been drafted to do the analysis of their work as I had so recently driven through much of the landscape. I agreed I had no place training army veterans as spotters. Fitzroy had a lot of experience and I was a newish recruit. It also meant that I got to stay at home with my long-suffering husband, Bertram. Yet I had been unprepared for the levels of anxiety that would suddenly seize me with Fitzroy away in the heart of the action. He had been working successfully for ten years without my concern – as he would have happily pointed out. Although, last time, I had saved his life at least twice. However, he was with men he had trained and trusted – and that’s the best you can hope for in the field. It was just that with that food supply line becoming compromised, I had this nagging doubt in my mind that something had gone very wrong.

At this point I hadn’t heard from Fitzroy by post or official communication for two weeks. I hesitated to telephone head office. That I was a female spy was bad enough. That I had previously worked exclusively with Fitzroy had started extensive rumours. I believe, before he left, Fitzroy had punched two junior officers, who had made inappropriate comments about our partnership. If I called Head Office about his welfare, I would undo all his ‘good’ work. I presumed – I hoped – they would tell me if he wasn’t going to come back.

I sat in my office for the rest of the afternoon, until it was time to change for dinner. We keep things informal here in many ways, but both Bertram and I agree one should, at the very least, smarten up for dinner. He likes the ritual of it. I need something to break up the endless monotony of body and soul into which I appear to have fallen.

Dinner proved to go down very well with Bertram. Our gamekeeper had supplied some fresh duck, of which he is very fond. I find it a dark and fatty meat, but with little pleasing me, I could at least do my best to please my husband.

Bertram smiled at me from his end of the shortened dining table. The candlelight we prefer at dinner caught in his deep brown eyes, so that they shone with happiness. ‘Jolly fine dinner, darling,’ he said. ‘Fancy a game of chess afterwards? I’ve read the ruddy papers three times. Nothing in them but ridiculous speculation. I dashed off a couple of letters to the editors. Ones I hope that will quite spoil their digestive systems.’ He took a swig of claret. ‘But other than that, my day’s been rather dull. How’s yours been?’

I pondered on which question to address first. Bertram tends now to deliver his thoughts in bunches. Almost as if he is saving them up to avoid diminishing his energy during the day.

‘In order, dearest: I am glad you like your dinner. I will happily play chess with you, but I will beat you, as I always do. The papers are speculating wildly to gain a better readership and because no one yet knows what will happen.’

‘Be over by Christmas,’ muttered Bertram.

‘I applaud you writing to the papers. As I have said before, you write very well, and I think you should offer yourself as a consultant correspondent. My day has been spent in various ways, from looking at linen with Mrs T to trawling through some work documents for information.’

‘Which you can’t tell me about?’ said my husband, his voice losing much of its pleasantness.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Besides, I believe you would find it of little interest.’

‘All for old Fitz-bang, is it?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to state that I could neither confirm nor deny, but the servants had left us, so I threw him a crumb. ‘My reports are going to Head Office.’

My husband’s shoulders descended from being near his ears and he leant back in his seat. ‘Ah, well, I see. One must do one’s duty and all that. Especially in these times. I don’t suppose I . . .’

Bertram has, in the past, acted as an asset for the Crown.

‘I will ask Head Office next time I call,’ I said, knowing that would not be any time soon.

‘After all, I do have experience,’ said Bertram. ‘I want to do my bit.’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘But you have a weak heart and must be accommodated accordingly.’ I levelled a firm gaze at him. ‘You will not be going off to war. Why, we haven’t even been married a year!’

‘The third gardener, that young chap Bobby, married two days before he volunteered,’ said my husband. ‘I don’t want to be an exception.’

I stood up. ‘I wish to retire. It’s been a ghastly day. Would you be so kind as to escort me up the stairs, husband?’

‘Damn it, Euphemia it’s not even seven p.m. I know we’re keeping country hours, but there is no way I will be able to sleep. I will end up staring at the ceiling for hours. There’s nothing to do in bed . . .’ He caught my expression. ‘Unless you were thinking . . .’

I tilted my head very slightly.

‘You don’t mean . . .? Why, the sun isn’t even down!’

‘How outrageous,’ I quipped. ‘Whatever would the staff think?’

‘They are not employed to dictate our actions.’

‘Exactly.’

‘My goodness,’ said Bertram, standing up and trailing his napkin from his waistcoat. ‘And skipping pudding too. You are a rascal, Euphemia.’

‘But I’m your rascal,’ I said, coming over and kissing him lightly on the mouth.

‘To think I would ever have married such a goer,’ said my husband with an enormous grin.

At breakfast the next morning Bertram read the papers while humming softly and discordantly to himself. We had not yet been married long enough for me to find this any less than charming, and I fussed around him with the coffee pot. I did not prevent the maid from bringing up second helpings of all the dishes. Bertram had lost a second waistcoat button yesterday. He was spreading. With the weather so bad, the opportunity for exercise waned. Our poor horses, wearing weather blankets, congregated under the elms and regarded the house miserably as if we had the power to turn back the rain.

In truth I could have screamed with the boredom and anxiety of it all – despite the lovely evening I had only just spent with Bertram. I had always loathed White Orchards and the Fens, where it was situated. Bertram loved country living. I, who had grown up in the country, constantly longed for something different. However, I had known of my husband’s heart condition before I married him, and I wished us to have a long life together. If only there could be a little more to it . . .

The telephone rang loudly in my study. I excused myself and ran to answer it. For it to ring outside office hours was abnormal, and significant. I picked up the receiver while I was still an arm’s length from my desk. ‘Hello!’ I said breathlessly.

‘Mrs Stapleford?’ said a male voice.

‘This is Alice,’ I said, giving my code name and confirming no one was within earshot.

‘We thought you should know. There have been further complications arising from your information.’

‘Another supply line?’ I said, my heart sinking.

‘No, this concerns the report you wrote when you returned from France. In particular, about the German border.’

‘Can you say who is speaking, please?’ I asked. I needed to know what his rank was because I had an overwhelming urge to tell him to damn well spit it out.

‘No, but I can tell you Captain Fitzroy is missing. We believe he and his group of spotters were caught in an ambush.’

I sat down heavily in my chair. ‘Can you tell me . . . no, you said, missing. You must know the Captain co-authored that report with me.’

‘I am aware he signed off on it. He said you had done the bulk of the work.’

I closed my eyes. Fitzroy often tried to give me more credit than I was due. He was constantly trying to bolster my importance to the Service. This time it might well have backfired. Although the words hadn’t been spoken, I could hear the suspicion in the nameless voice. Twice now my data had led to failures – possibly captures or deaths. My throat tightened.

‘Alice? Do you have anything to say that could be of help?’

‘Such as what?’ I said.

‘Could you or your material have been compromised?’

I didn’t snap back the response I wanted to. I owed the lives of the men involved more than that. ‘I have not been compromised,’ I said in a level voice. ‘I have followed all the set protocols for delivering information.’

‘Have you spoken to your husband about your work? We are aware he has also signed the Official Secrets Act.’

‘No. I was expressly told he did not have clearance.’

‘That must make things difficult for you.’

I did not make the mistake of thinking the voice was empathising with me. ‘I know my duty,’ I said curtly.

‘Then you will agree, we have a problem.’

‘It would certainly appear Captain Fitzroy does,’ I said, struggling to maintain my temper. ‘Would you notify me at once when you hear from him, please?’

‘We will follow all normal protocols. Until you hear from us again, consider yourself stood down, Alice.’

The voice rang off.

I stormed back to the breakfast room. ‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ I yelled at Bertram. ‘I’ve been stood down!’ Then, without warning, I burst into involuntary tears.

It is very difficult for a husband to console his wife when she cannot tell him the better part of what is distressing her. However, Bertram did his best. He has always been the kindest, gentlest man I have known. He is passionate about right and wrong, abhors injustice, and has always supported me in my suffragette ideals. He was so concerned for me that he even suggested, three days later, days which I had spent in misery and unable to eat properly, we might have a party. ‘I know it’s not the bally thing to enjoy oneself right now,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been giving it some thought. Why don’t we have some kind of event to raise morale and even funds, or . . . socks, or something for the boys going away and the families left behind?’

I quietly untangled this suggestion. ‘I do think that is an excellent idea. Many women must feel helpless with their men away at the war.’

‘Has all this – your mood – got something to do with that man,’ said Bertram, a scowl marring his face. ‘If it’s he who has upset you, I’ll damn well punch his lights out, dicky heart or not. I won’t have him upsetting you.’

‘No, Fitzroy hasn’t done anything,’ I said. Only disappear. Possibly die, I thought. I came closer and buried my head in Bertram’s shoulder, sniffing a bit. How could I possibly tell him about my anxiety for my partner without him reading more into it? Only partners who have shared life and death experiences in the field could understand the bond of camaraderie that builds up between you. No agent would dispute it. Except when it involved partners of opposite sexes. It didn’t help, of course, that Fitzroy had something of a reputation with the ladies. None of them seemed to understand the man was a consummate professional and would never have entangled himself romantically with me, even if I had wanted him to.

‘I think people may have died as a result of information I sent to Head Office.’ I sniffed louder. ‘And they seem to think it might be my fault.’

I looked up into Bertram’s horrified face. ‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ I said quickly. ‘They already think I’ve been careless with secrets.’

‘My dear girl,’ said my husband, ‘I appreciate, under the circumstances, I cannot set about these rotters with a large stick, but I know you. You always do your duty with the utmost care. Even if they don’t know that now, they’ll work it out. Cannot Fitzroy speak for you?’

I shook my head. ‘He’s in the field.’

Bertram huffed. ‘Should have known the bloody man would never be around when you need him. When you don’t want to see him, like when you’ve returned from your honeymoon by a few hours, the damned man turns up like a ruddy bad penny.’

I straightened up. ‘He is rather like that,’ I agreed. ‘I will speak to Mrs T about your party. Perhaps we could involve the vicar and do a sort of fete in support of the troops and their families. Involving the church would make it seem less frivolous.’

‘That’s a damn good idea,’ said Bertram. ‘We could have candy cotton stalls, and coconut shies, guess the weight of the cake and all those jolly kinds of things. But no clowns. Clowns wouldn’t be appropriate.’

‘No,’ I said, smiling very slightly. ‘They wouldn’t. Besides, you still have nightmares about your brother popping out of your wardrobe wearing a clown costume.’

‘Reckon that’s what did it for my heart,’ said Bertram. ‘I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Richard was a rotter, through and through.’

‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ I said. ‘Let’s convene a meeting with the vicar, McArthur, Mrs Templeton, and even Merry. We’ll make it a tea-time affair with cake.’

Bertram’s eyes misted with tears. ‘You are the very best sort of a wife,’ he said, and grabbed me in a rib-crushing embrace. Fortunately, after years of trying, Bertram has given up attempting to grow a beard, and so there was no impediment to kissing him after breakfast.

‘Now, you must let me go, so I can arrange a meeting of the fete committee. Is this afternoon too soon?’

‘Not at all,’ said Bertram. ‘May I take it upon myself to visit Cook and speak to her about the cakes required?’

I knew this meant we would end up with far too many cakes, which the household would be forced to finish off – in other words, Bertram. ‘Of course, my dear,’ I said.

I sent my old friend Merry a note offering, if necessary, the attention of our cook to mind her baby. I rather hoped she wouldn’t agree to this as I knew Cook, who loved babies, would completely desert her preparations for dinner and Bertram would end the day in a most grumpy mood when he received some hastily scrambled eggs and cold cuts for his supper.

I then wrote notes for the vicar and rang for Mrs T. I explained the plan and asked her to get the boot boy to deliver my notes. Having done all this, I sat back in my chair, feeling very much like the wife of a country squire. It was not an unpleasant feeling and I felt the fete could lift all our spirits. It would give me an excuse to spend more time with Merry, who, unless she was invited, would not make the journey from her cottage to our house for fear of overstepping boundaries. I had given up trying to persuade her otherwise.

I then had the thought that it would be rather a good idea to include our local doctor, an intelligent man, who often joined us for dinner when the evenings were long. Dr Samuel Butcher, who was fully aware of the irony of his name, possessed a wry wit that often had Bertram and I in stitches. Although only in his thirties, he was a widower. Neither Bertram nor I had ever enquired into the details of this tragedy and he had never offered up his history. However, he was a good, sensible doctor, who displayed empathy and understanding to all his patients, regardless of status. His tongue could be sharp, as anyone who had called him out in the middle of the night for a trivial reason could attest, but when his patients were in need, he would do all within his power. The birth of Merry’s son had not been easy and, unlike most doctors, he had stayed with her the whole time. Merry was so grateful she had given her son the middle name of Sam. Michael Sam was a hearty baby who had appeared several months before his father had departed for war and was already showing signs of becoming a most determined child. I had no doubt that caring for the baby had been a comfort to Merry, as well as extremely hard work.

I sent the note off to Dr Butcher with the addition of suggesting, if he wished, that he could refer patients to our house during the meeting if an emergency arose.

I had written my notes at a small desk in the morning room. I had shut the door to my office and did not intend to open it until I was called to duty. If I was called, that is. I rang the bell for our butler, Giles, who in the politest terms, and with the most nuanced of expressions, always subtly managed to convey his disappointment at his master having such an outlandish wife. To be fair, I did, on the evening of our first acquaintance, run off into the night after another man’s vehicle calling for him to return. The scrapes that man has got me into.

I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to make notes on what we might feasibly do for the fete in a short time, and with limited resources, and most importantly, where we would be able to move the festivities if the Fens proved to be dour and rainy for the rest of time. Anything to drive thoughts of the Department and Fitzroy from my mind. There was nothing I could do – and it was a feeling I deplored.

However, I was soon distracted by the fussing of Mrs T, who was unsure if she should sit down with the doctor, being a servant. We settled that we should all stay in the morning room, so the meeting would be as informal as possible, while remaining civilised.

Merry sent a note saying she would attend and that her elder sister was currently staying with her and would mind the baby. It was the first I had heard of her sharing the cottage with a relative. I guessed this sister might also have seen her husband march off to war. I was glad she had company. If a little jealous. We were close, but we were not blood.

The time until the meeting passed while I wrestled with thoughts of pop-guns, peppermint sticks (could we get enough sugar?), bunting, and how many balloons was enough. Might we hold a dance? (Were there still enough men?) Bertram wandered in at some point mooing about lunch, but I sustained myself with a sandwich at my desk in the morning room. I believe he muttered something about eating in the kitchen, but I merely smiled and nodded. I wanted to have some cogent ideas and a proper agenda for our meeting.

In the end I should not have worried. Our small group could not have gelled better. Dr Butcher’s open manner and friendliness bypassed Mrs T’s worries. Although Merry did blush on first meeting him. I realised he would have seen in her ways not usual in polite society. However, the doctor pretended not to notice, and Merry quickly settled down. I was delighted that she had no qualms at embracing me when she first entered, and quickly chatted away like her normal lively self. Bertram too threw himself wholeheartedly into the meeting. His long acquaintanceship with Merry, as well as the fact he and I both suspected she might be his half-sibling, ensured there were no clumsy barriers of class. The vicar posed a small obstacle in that he wanted the fete to orientate entirely around the church, including his giving a short sermon. Reverend MacKay is a worthy soul with fluffy white hair and a deceptively soft demeanour, but put him in the pulpit and he becomes all vinegar and fire. Decidedly not someone I wanted speaking at our fete.

Bertram had the grand idea of supplying him with a surfeit of ginger cake, which he adores, and we gradually talked him out of the sermon, but accepted the offer of the church hall for the stands if the weather proved inclement.

Mrs T proved so practical, I wondered inwardly if I should draw on her knowledge of foodstuffs and their preservation when next perusing potential supply lines. Then I remembered I was currently stood down, and I sat back and let the conversation wash over me until Bertram asked me if I was quite well. I reassured him and accepted the offer of ginger cake, which the vicar was now extolling as the nearest thing to the manna of heaven here on earth.

I smiled and made plenty of notes on what was said. Inwardly I had the strangest feeling, as if I was being sucked down into quicksand. I felt heat throughout my body in an unpleasant manner, and although I knew the room was well ventilated, it felt terribly close and stuffy. . .