A Death in the Pavilion

Book 5: A Euphemia Martins Mystery

by Caroline Dunford

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Lady Amanda Golightly and her housemate Hugo Cholmondeley-Crichton-Crump return from their visit to Scotland to find a letter informing them that Hugo's sister will be arriving the following day for a month's visit, which sours Lady A's mood as Tabitha constantly bullied her at school. Her manservant's announcement that he is now betrothed to Enid Tweedie, sort of friend and general gopher, has already unsettled her. If that wasn't enough, it appears that, while they were away, the security of Belchester Towers was breached and somebody is systematically killing off the staff! Enter Detective Inspector Moody and Detective Sergeant Glenister, and all hell breaks loose!

Release date: March 20, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 138

Sample

Chapter One

Relations

‘Thwock! Thwock!’

Is there any sound more quintessentially British than the sound of leather on willow? The early autumn afternoons were beginning to get a slight chill, but it was refreshing and bracing. From my seat in the small pavilion I could see white-clothed figures running backwards and forewards across the small area of the pitch between the stumps. A distant cry floated to me on the wind; someone was out.

A long time ago before all my adventures began my little brother, Joe, had attempted to explain the vagaries of cricket to me. Although my Latin is good and my Greek passable, thanks to the efforts of my father, who believed in one exploring one’s intelligence regardless of gender, I never did manage to get my head around cricket. As Joe explained the game, I remember thinking that it seemed more and more pointless and I didn’t want to think that. I enjoy watching the game. It brings back memories of when my father was alive and he used to umpire the parish match each summer. All conflict between the parishioners, and there was much, was put aside as they ran trailing their well-worn bats behind them. Mr Gregor, the exceedingly fat village grocer, would for once cheer on Mr Hainley the postman. All conflicts over which had the best beer, The Village Crown or The Empty Bottle, would be forgotten. It was a pure and peaceful time, punctuated by lemonade and thick-cut crusty sandwiches and cakes baked by the village women. Understanding the game would only have spoiled the moment.

Today I was far from my village home and my father had gone to his rest some two years hence after an unfortunate encounter with some mutton and onions. A demise so plebeian, I was unsure if my mother, the estranged daughter of an earl, had yet forgiven him. The bishop had whipped the rectory out from beneath our feet when the coffin was barely in the ground and tipped us out on the brink of destitution. Only an unexpected successful application for a maid’s position at Stapleford Hall had saved me.

In the next two years came murder, intrigue, proposals from men who believed me to be no more than the working maid I claimed to be, and much heartache. I have written journals of all these adventures and the curious reader can learn much from perusing them. But suffice it to say at this time I am now companion to my once adversary, Richenda Stapleford, whose fiancé the late ‘Baggy’ Tipton was found hanging on the eve of their wedding. It is believed he killed himself after committing murder. In reality he was more than likely killed by Richenda’s twin brother. Tipton was an unlovable soul. I suspect him of much. But all of this remains unproven. We live in an age when money and position trumps justice. In fact the first time I entered Stapleford Hall I encountered a murdered body, and shortly after the master of the house was also murdered. That time Bertram and I managed to get Richard arrested, but matters took their natural course and he became an MP.

He had once again won out over Tipton’s death, but this time his sister had turned against him and just when it seemed Richard had made certain of my destitution, she rescued me and made me her companion. She did this not only to spite her brother, but because she needed a chaperone to take refuge at the estate of Hans Muller. Muller had been at the same school as Richard and Tipton. He has known the Stapleford’s a long time and is in some way connected with the prime rival bank to the Staplefords’ in the city. When we had met at the court I had initially mistaken him for his cousin Frederick, which was quite unfair; for while there is a family resemblance, Frederick is older and much, much stouter. At the time I merely thought he had been on a weight-reducing diet.

Hans Muller has been nothing but kindness since we arrived and I have seen Richenda mellow under his influence. He is also a widower which lends almost as much attraction to him as the very lovely estate he had built in 1900. Now, eleven years on, the estate is in its prime. The gardens delightful, the special tower built for ladies’ afternoon tea splendid, the marble dairy a masterpiece of modernity, and the staff copious. The main house is respectably large without being brash, but has the requisite room for balls and banquets, which remain modestly (and very Britishly) shuttered at all times when not in use. The only handicap Muller suffers from, apart from his Christian name, which he never uses, is his mother. She is, to put it kindly, eccentric. His German father has had the decency to depart this mortal coil long before the current difficulties with Germany, but his mother remains an embarrassment. Unfortunately for Muller, he clearly loves his mother very much and thus cannot take a typical Stapleford way out of the situation and dispose of her.

Even the seasons seem to be kinder here. Though the leaves are beginning to change, the exotic flower known as Angel’s Trumpet still flowers and curls around the pavilion. The paint is beginning to crack on the wood and the resident gardener will be seriously neglecting his duty if this is not seen to before the cold weather sets in. The pavilion is also beset with cobwebs and spiders; while this holds no fear for someone who has had a little brother like Joe, I do wonder why the maids do not clean it. The view over the cricket ground and out towards the south lawn induces a feeling of calm and relaxation such as I have not known for the past two years. It is a lovely spot, so it confuses me why I am the only one who takes advantage of it. Even the cricketers themselves do not use it, but prefer to bring a picnic to the side of the pitch for their refreshment. Still, on the positive side, it means that when I sit here, reflecting on both the past and my uncertain future, no one disturbs me. Until today.

‘Miss! Miss!’ Lucy, one of the housemaids erupts onto the pavilion floor. She is breathless and her cap is askew. Her pretty young face is flushed pink and curly tendrils of blonde hair are escaping their pins. She is normally the neatest and most precise of the maids. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked, starting to my feet. ‘Is Miss Richenda ill?’

I confess the tone of worry in my voice is as much for my own position as for Richenda. It is hard to love an employer who once locked you in a cupboard.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ panted Lucy.

I frowned. ‘I would have thought it was quite likely I would be out watching the cricket.’

‘I’ve been all over the gardens,’ replied Lucy, sounding a little stung. ‘It never occurred to me you would be here.’

‘In the cricket pavilion? Watching the cricket?’

‘No one comes here,’ said Lucy. ‘Not after what happened to the Mistress.’

‘What –’ I began, but Lucy was not to be interrupted this time.

‘Miss Richenda wants you now in the morning room. She is entertaining a Lady.’ The last word was said with an undoubted capital L. Muller may be a successful banker and he may be fortunate enough to mix with them in society, but as yet he has been unable to bring many home. Obviously the household was in a fluster over this arrival. My curiosity was piqued.

‘Lead on,’ I said to Lucy. ‘But at a reasonable pace. I do not wish to arrive flushed.’

‘Miss Richenda has been asking for you this past half hour!’

I gave Lucy the look I had learned when I had taken over from Mrs Wilson in my short-lived tenure as housekeeper at Stapleford Hall, and she capitulated. ‘This way, Miss,’ she said and set off at a more moderate pace. I could see her fingers flexing with frustration. Richenda had been among them barely a month, but the staff, if not Muller, already knew her temper.

But when Lucy finally opened the door to the morning room I was faced with a Richenda who was almost purring.

She rose as I entered (in itself remarkable), a warm smile of greeting on her face. I knew her well enough to notice this smile did not reach her eyes. ‘My dear Euphemia,’ she cried. ‘Such a delight. The daughter of the Earl of ----- has come to morning coffee!’

And with that she introduced me to a lady, who having been obscured by the opening door, only now came into view.

My mother.

Chapter Two

Social Niceties

To give her credit my mother responded impeccably. She did of course know I was in service and even that I was using a false name. However, she had every reason to believe that I was miles away serving as a housekeeper at Stapleford Hall. Considering the turmoils of my recent times I had decided it was best to be an infrequent correspondent.

‘Euphemia,’ said my mother coming forward and giving her hand, ‘what a lovely name. I have a daughter of that name, but I am sad to say she has turned out a little wild.’

‘A fault I am sure you will correct,’ said Richenda with a simper,’ she must be very young and breeding will out.’

‘You would think so,’ said my mother, looking me directly in the eye.

‘How charming to meet you,’ I said. ‘I did not know Mr Muller had such distinguished neighbours. Is it too much to hope your daughter will also be joining us?’

My mother, no matter how strict, is not without humour and I saw a distinct twinkle in her eye. ‘We are very close,’ she said. Then turning to Richenda she said, ‘It is almost as if she is with me right now.’

I felt this was taking things too close to the wind and interrupted. ‘Are you a resident of this parish?’ The last I had heard she had been living some considerable distance away in a rented cottage, earning extra money by giving pia. . .