A Death in the Highlands

Under my bed,

Roseleaf Cottage,

Little Crossh
ore,

X-county

1
August 1910

Euphemia St John,

Stapleford Hall,

The Servants
’ Quarters,

X-county

Dearest Effy,

(So wrote my little brother in a remarkably fine hand and with a fluidity that I assumed only the boredom of a country cottage could have inspired.)

Thank you so much for the wooden soldiers. I have been having a jolly time with them all day. Mother says you are spoiling me and should have at least waited until my birthday, if not Christmas! Sometimes I think Mother is no fun!

I was delighted by your last letter. You are having the grandest of adventures! Two murders! One arrest! An absconded criminal and so many times when your life and virtue were in danger. Mother nearly fainted when I read your letter to her. The girl-that-does tried to burn chicken feathers under her nose and made such a mess!

I have written to you under your
nom de guerre
, so as not to expose your true identity. I’m writing it under the covers to keep it extra secret. Mother said I was to write and thank you for the soldiers, but not to encourage you in your disgraceful escapade. She misses you and hopes you will come home soon. She also told me to say she wonders why you have not written again at length as you did last February. She says you are sending no more than a few lines now and that it can hardly be called a correspondence.

She gave the money you sent last week to Mr Bulling, the butcher, to whom we owed a great deal. She said he was extremely rude, but now we can have sausages again for tea. Bessy and Tuggy grow bigger by the day, but they aren
’t yet ready for slaughter. It will be devilish hard to eat them when they are. Why do sausages have to come from pigs? Tuggy is such a little terror. He keeps getting out of his pen and Mother has to chase him around the yard to get him back in. In all those black skirts she is like a giant crow and, as she would say, most undignified.

I miss
Pa. So does Mother. Life isn’t very fair, is it, Effy?

Anyway have lots of adventures for me and when I
’m big and rich I’ll buy us all a dozen houses bigger than Stapleford Hall and we will all live happily ever after. Sadly, Mother is still determined I shall go to school rather than letting me start my own business enterprise at once, so it may be a little while until I can afford the houses. Unless, of course, Grandfather ever comes through with the pennies. Mother still writes to him, but he never writes back. If it was Pa he was cross about, you would think he would answer now. If I ever have children I will never cast them off no matter what they do. Well, perhaps not no matter what, I mean there could be dreadful things one might do, but I can’t imagine Mother or Pa ever getting up to anything dreadful, can you?

Take care of yourself, Effy. Mr Bertram sounds like a fine chap. Perhaps you should tell him your real identity. He
’ll get the title when they hang his brother. You mention him so much I was wondering if you might get married? With all that brown hair you’re quite pretty for a sister.

Your loving brother
,

Little Joe

ps What is virtue? Mother kept going on about it, but when I asked she wouldn
’t explain.

I tucked the letter into my bodice and sat back on my heels. I had been carrying it around with me for days, reading it often as if Little Joe’s words could somehow transport me to a happier place or time. It was a risky action, for the words written within it could expose me utterly.

I had taken a position far below my station and, while the money was most welcome, if any of my employers or co-workers discovered my true identity then for the sake of pride (my mother’s) and preserving the societal norm (not that I care of such things), I should be forced , one way or another, to quit my position. This would send my widowed mother, my little brother and me to the brink of destitution once more. We had noble relatives, but for their own reasons they had forsaken us.

I sighed and checked again it was firmly secured. There were reasons I had not again written at length to my mother. These reasons had much to do with the bucket of soapy water at my side and the maid’s cap still on my head.

It was 8th August 1910 and much was right with the world. The doomsayers had been forced to hang their heads in shame as the world passed unscathed through the tail of Halley’s Comet. King George V was safely installed on his throne. There were rumours that powered flight was only months away from total success and, in the small corner of England where I worked, we were enjoying a most glorious summer.

Of course there were many things wrong with the world. In a less self-absorbed moment I might have mused on the fate of the Russians, that dreadful fire in Hungary or the riots in France, but to be honest I was more concerned with the fourth set of dung-ridden footsteps Miss Richenda has stomped over the marble staircase for me to clean. She had unfortunately large feet and a weighty tread, being one of the more large-boned of the recently ennobled. I remained more than a little persuaded she was attempting to annoy me.

My father is now almost nine months dead and, despite previous hopes of becoming a secretary or more senior member of staff, I remain a maid in service.

Miss Richenda tripped down the stairs again. At least in her mind she doubtlessly believed she was tripping, but it was more of an ungainly lumber. Sadly this thought so unworthy of a vicar’s daughter was not one I had the position or right to utter. Instead, quite unfairly, my conscience upbraided me. That Pa should have made such a good job of my schooling and spiritual upbringing is a constant trial to me. In my mother’s world, and as she often said: ‘Intelligence is about as much use to a girl as a pair of hooves’. Alas, as a maid I also have little use for the brain with which God had in his wisdom gifted me. I am often bored and when so prey to the most unsuitable (if accurate) thoughts about my employers.

‘Oh, Euphemia! Silly, silly me! Now you’ll have to wash it all over again, won’t you?’ The eyes that lowered to meet mine did not reflect the smile across her lips. She gave one of her harsh braying laughs, which no doubt her horse would have understood, but I did not. I merely answered with a smile as equally false and a servile nod of the head.

It was small and petty of me to resent her, but it was even smaller and pettier to force a maid to spend the better part of a glorious afternoon in the unseasonably cold marble hallway scrubbing up horse dirt. Yes, I and her younger brother, Mr Bertram, had attempted to have her twin indicted for murder. But the Right Honourable Lord Richard Stapleford was safe at home, having returned from this first sitting as a freshly elected Unionist MP, rather than rotting in jail awaiting execution as, by rights, he should have been. Much it seems can be overlooked for a man with friends in high places.
¹

Miss Richenda continued on her way. In all likelihood she really did want to see her horse again. In lieu of any suitors she was lavishing affection on the beast. That it meant she was able to keep me on my knees was no doubt an enjoyable bonus. She hates me with a passion. She once locked me in a wardrobe, so I am not particularly fond of her either. I slopped more water onto the step and scrubbed vigorously. My long braid swung loose, released by my efforts. My hands were filthy from the job, so I chose not to pin it up once more, but swung it to one side in the hope I could keep it out of the water. I would not be allowed to wash my hair until Tuesday week and I did not want it reeking of horse manure all that time.

My lot was not a happy one. Mr Bertram had managed to preserve my position as a maid at the house. There were things in his father’s will that had given him some sway with his brother. He had not been clear on what this was but knowing, yet being unable to prove, Richard had murdered their father put the relationship on the most uneven footing. They circled each other like feral dogs, each unwilling to turn his back on the other. Their metaphorical teeth were on prominent display in what could be mistaken by a stranger for a smile, though I knew each was waiting for the moment to grasp a death grip on the other. But then Stapleford Hall has never been a happy home.