A Death in the Highlands (2 page)

With the departure of their widowed mother to stay with friends in Brighton – can you think of any place less likely to alleviate the spirits? – Miss Richenda had assumed control of the household. This meant she sent many invitations and left all the organisation to the increasingly overworked housekeeper Mrs Wilson. The house-staff had been enlarged to a much more reasonable size, but there was no one else of my organisational ability. I might be paid and named a maid, but in reality I did a great deal more for the household. Especially when the strain proved too much for Mrs Wilson and she had to resort to her “special medicine”.

I sighed so deeply the letter within my bodice rustled and continued with my allotted task. Water trickled down onto my skirt from the step above. I should not have started from the top. It had seemed the obvious and most efficient way to work, but in practice had created a small waterfall that grew increasingly dirty as Miss Richenda roamed back and forth.

I slopped water onto the step and set to scrubbing. I reminded myself that no skilled maid would have made such a mistake and this was one of the many reasons I could not move on. Despite the abounding enmities within the household I was considered, if not indispensable, annoyingly necessary. Mrs Wilson had even forgotten herself, so far as to murmur what might have been thanks, when I devised a seating plan for one of Lord Richard’s highly complex mix of entrepreneurial, minor aristocratic and political guests. Necessity makes the strangest of bedfellows and after the dismal, strange and destructive series of butlers we had experienced, a servant with knowledge of how things should be done had become valuable.
²

I had heard whispers that a new butler would shortly be appointed and, in a triumph of faith over experience, entertained hopes he might prove to be an ally. I was musing on this when there came a strange cry from above me. It sounded not unlike a pig being led by the ear to slaughter. I looked up as a loud smack followed the cry and I saw the housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, on her way down towards me. Except, instead of using the steps, she appeared to have decided to toboggan down, but without a sledge.

She had slipped on the wet stairs.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,’ she cried. As she passed over each stair her body rose a little in the air, only to fall once more, so her cries of dismay undulated accordingly.

It all happened very quickly, but at the time it seemed to take for ever. I noticed every detail: her pale alarmed face with its tiny beady black eyes widened to almost normal size by the surprise; the thin pink lips parted in an “O” of horror; her crow-black hair escaping its tightly bound bun and whipping from side to side; her black skirts wrinkling, rustling and beginning to display an old-fashioned set of undergarments as her narrow form bumped over each stair. Most horrific of all was the smacking noise her left arm made as she half-twisted and attempted to stop her fall by holding on to balustrade after balustrade, only to have the soapy water sweep her on.

Without thinking, I moved backwards away from this trundling nightmare. It did not occur to me to stop her. In my defence, I will add that, by the time she was nearing me, she was travelling with significant force. She landed with a final yelp of despair on the black and white tiles. Sadly, these too remained slick with water, so she slid a little more across the hall, slaloming from side to side on the moistened marble, until her head hit my bucket and she was still.

I did not like Mrs Wilson, but this does not excuse my extremely uncharitable reaction. I giggled.

In my further defence I will say she was clearly still breathing and she had been enacting the tyrant over me for eight weary months. I also immediately, or as soon as I got my emotions under control, ran to her assistance. Her thin chest rose and fell in an agitated manner. At my approach her little black eyes snapped open, ‘You,’ she gasped in tones of loathing. ‘I should have known this would be your doing. Help me up at once, girl!’

‘Should I not summon assistance?’ I queried bending over her. ‘You may have unseen injuries.’

She reached up and grabbed my braid. I cried out in pain as she yanked hard with her right hand and sunk the steely fingers of her left into my shoulder as she attempted to right herself.

‘Be quiet, girl,’ she snarled in my ear. ‘You’ll have us both over.’ A wave of liquor fumes washed over me and I suddenly felt far less guilty about her fall. My hair hurt terribly. I was quite sure she would have it all out by the roots, when her left leg, on which she was attempting to rise, slid from under her, and we both went down in a crashing heap.

Mrs Wilson screamed.

As I lay winded on my back with her spider-like claw still digging painfully into my shoulder, I determined I cared nothing for the bathing rules and I would be washing tonight. My hair, my dress, my skin – all were filthy. For no matter how much I scrubbed, Miss Richenda’s constant pacing had ensured a high level of dirt remained in the water.

Mrs Wilson continued to scream.

I realised something must be wrong. I prised her fingers off my shoulder and righted myself. ‘What is wrong, Mrs Wilson?’ I asked as sympathetically as I could, but at the same time tactically retreating beyond her reach. ‘Are you hurt?’

The housekeeper managed to control her cries for a moment. She glared at me, reached out with her hands and, failing to grasp me, gasped, ‘My leg, you stupid girl, my leg! Get me out of the hall before the family come.’

‘I think it is too late for that,’ I answered. My ears detected the sound of heavy, running footsteps.

In a moment a figure emerged through the doorway at the back of the lower hall. My most unreliable and treacherous heart did something odd within my chest. ‘Sir,’ the words broke from my lips without thought, ‘I believed you to still be in London.’ Although Mr Bertram Stapleford had been a less than successful champion he had always tried to fight my corner – as Little Joe would say. He was shorter than his brother and, instead of his fierce red hair, had dark locks inherited from his now-absent mother. As was his habit they were oiled and neatly cut. To those who knew him well, his face betrayed his French ancestry as if a subtle veil of difference had been cast over his features, making them finer and more chiselled than his siblings’. He had extraordinarily long and delicate fingers, and totally lacked the bovine bulkiness that the twins shared. While Lord Richard’s voice was likely to be sharp with command, Mr Bertram’s often warmed with compassion. I could see in his face that already he was empathising with Mrs Wilson’s fate. Lord Richard would have already been on his way back to his office writing her an uncharitable dismissal reference after checking the stairs for damage.

‘Just back,’ he answered briefly as he made to kneel beside the fallen housekeeper.

‘Sir, not on the floor!’ I cried out in alarm. ‘It’s filthy!’ He ignored me and went down on one knee.

Mrs Wilson struggled to sit, this time sinking her talons into his shoulder and breathing harshly into his face. ‘She did it. She!’ She flung out an accusatory finger at me. ‘She wants me dead, you know.’

Mr Bertram winced at her breath. ‘My dear Mrs Wilson. I’m sure this is only some dreadful accident. Euphemia wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

I attempted to look demure, pushing to the back of my mind the five flies I had slain earlier in the kitchen as Mrs Deighton had fought valiantly to protect her custard tarts from unwelcome summer intruders.

Mrs Wilson exhaled loudly. Mr Bertram coughed. ‘It’s not my fault, sir,’ slurred Mrs Wilson. ‘Since the mistress left and with all those butlers … Mr Harris …’

Mr Bertram shuddered. ‘I’d rather not recall the man. Let’s get you up.’

‘It’s her leg,’ I interjected, but Mr Bertram hauled the unresisting housekeeper to her feet. The moment she put weight upon her left leg, her eyes rolled up inside her head and she lost consciousness.

‘What has been going on here, Euphemia?’ demanded Mr Bertram as he struggled with the ungainly form of Mrs Wilson. I hurried to her other side to assist him.

‘Well, sir,’ I responded, a mite too harshly, ‘being only a maid, I wouldn’t be in a position to know the ins and outs of things.’

Mr Bertram had the grace to hang his head for a moment. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. But as things stand …’ He levelled his eyes to meet mine. ‘And don’t for a moment think, Euphemia, that I don’t appreciate that you know everything that goes on in this house. Even Dickie is sharp enough to be wary of your intelligence.’

‘Why did he keep me on?’ I asked.

‘Now is not the time, Euphemia.’

‘You say that every time I ask!’

‘Good gracious, girl. We need to get this woman to bed and ring for a doctor and you want to stand around here talking about your situation in a manner, I might add, that is quite out of character for a maid.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t grit your teeth at me, Euphemia. You might try being grateful that you have a job at all. Now help me get Mrs Wilson through to her room. Careful of the floor.’

Grateful! If I hadn’t been holding up the housekeeper, I would have boxed his ears and damned the consequences.
³
So really, it was just as well Mrs Wilson was between us. I am not normally this hot-blooded, but Mr Bertram and his often confusing actions do stir my blood. It does not help that he allows me to talk to him in a manner that is quite unfitting for our relationship.

We half-carried, half-dragged the unconscious woman through to her room, which fortunately lies a little beyond the kitchen and not on the upper floor. Despite being thin she proved as awkward in her comatose state as in her waking one. Her rake-like limbs and sagging body required an unusual effort to remove her to her bed. As we finally lowered her down onto the counterpane, I was panting heavily.

‘The unconscious are always heavier than the awake,’ remarked a red-faced Mr Bertram.

I suspect he felt that, in requesting my help, he had lessened his manly standard in my eyes but, instead of responding reassuringly, I gazed horrified at Mrs Wilson’s form.

‘Should her leg be bent like that?’ I asked. Mrs Wilson’s skirts had risen up somewhat exposing one limb lying at a sickening angle.

Mr Bertram averted his face. ‘Really, Euphemia. Lower the poor woman’s skirts.’

‘But I think it’s broken.’

‘Cover her and I will ring up for the doctor.’

I obeyed his request. ‘She was drunk, you know.’

‘Euphemia!’

‘You smelled the whisky on her breath – sir.’

Mr Bertram sighed. ‘It has been a most difficult time for all of us. She was very attached to my late father.’

‘Your father,’ I repeated in a marked tone.

‘Not all children are lucky enough to have as positive a relationship with their father as you obviously enjoyed.’

Immediately I found myself blinking back tears. A stray one escaped onto my lashes. Mr Bertram turned quickly, muttered something that might have been an apology and left.

While he attempted to convince our local doctor to come out to the house I searched Mrs Wilson’s room for bottles. I disliked her immensely. She was cruel and capricious, but what Mr Bertram had said made sense. Although I acquitted her of impropriety, she had been most attached to the late master of the house. Now, with him gone and the mistress absent, it must feel as her whole world had turned upside down. Besides I had laughed at her misfortune and, for a vicar’s daughter – let alone the granddaughter of an earl (albeit an incognito one) – my behaviour was unacceptable.

I found and removed five bottles; three empty and two whose contents I poured down the kitchen sink. Mrs Deighton shook her head. ‘You’re a good girl, Euphemia. It’s been her weakness many a long year. Considering how she treats you maids. The old master might have turned a blind eye, but I reckons the new Lord Stapleford would have had ’er packing her bags while she was still ’opping.’

‘Was she always like this?’

‘A drunkard, you mean?’

I grimaced at the distasteful word.

‘You know me. I calls a spade as I see it.’

‘I know you wouldn’t want to see Mrs Wilson turned away without a reference.’

‘Hmm, well, that’s as maybe, but it goes to my heart to see brandy that good pouring down the drain. A drop of that in this syllabub would go down a treat.’

I stopped pouring, startled. ‘I never thought.’

Mrs Deighton shook her head. ‘Nope, you started pouring away like one of those temperance people. You’re not, are you?’

‘Who is going to run the household while she’s ill?’

‘A broken leg won’t stop her giving orders. You wait and see. You girls’ll be working harder than ever you have before. Pain is a bad master.’

I stored the last empty bottle in the pantry for cleaning. ‘Euphemia,’ Mrs Deighton called after me. ‘You’d better get a wash before the master sees you. You smell. Sorry, ducks, but I ain’t got time to heat you any water.’

I groaned. The only hot water the servants were allowed in this house was heated on the range and, with dinner underway and the master expected home at any moment, this meant a wash in cold water. ‘Yer better get that dress into soak too.’

I nodded. ‘I’d better stay with Mrs Wilson until the doctor arrives.’

‘Doesn’t sound like she’s going anywhere. Make sure you’re changed before the master gets home. He’s due.’

My mind suddenly darted back to the hall – the bucket, mop and general mess I had left behind. If I didn’t clean it up it would be the first thing the master saw on entering the house. Then I would be the one in need of a reference. I raced back to the hall only to find another set of dirty footprints across the hallway. I could have screamed.

This time working as fast as I could I slopped water around. ‘Yer making a right mess of that.’ The other senior maid’s freckled face, surrounded by its mass of brown curls, bobbed up over the landing railing.

‘Merry, give me a hand. The master’s due. Find me some rags so I can get this sorted before he arrives, will you?’

‘Seeing as you caused the Old Crow’s accident, I think I might,’ she replied jauntily.