Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery Read Free Page B

in the world from her beginnings for ‘Florie’ to be right or proper. She wished it weren’t that way, but nothing she lovingly said or did had any effect, except to bring awkwardness to the situation. Even her mother rarely slipped back to the shortened version. Other than Hattie, there was only one person who still addressed her as Florie.
    This was little Ned Stodmarsh. Now seven years old, he was a remarkably articulate child who quickly captivated her heart with his pluck and mischief, which Mrs Longbrow was complacently certain he’d outgrow. Equally endearing to Florence were his ginger hair and freckles. He rarely mentioned his parents, but Florence was sure that he had not forgotten them completely even though he had been several months short of his third birthday when the accident occurred. She discovered shortly after her return to Mullings that his learning of the accident and the consequence that his mother and father weren’t ever coming home to him again had imprinted itself starkly on his little mind.
    Shortly after midnight one evening, a tap came at her bedroom door. It was Ned’s nanny, dressing gown sagging off one shoulder and cord untied. The ring of housekeeping keys lay on the dressing table, but Florence, having just finished writing a lengthy letter to Hattie, was still in her navy-blue dress with the round, silver-plated brooch Robert had given her on their wedding day at its throat. Surprise escalated into concern as she faced the woman – saw her lean into the wall, hand pressed against it as if to maintain her balance.
    So far Florence had had few encounters with her. From these she had gained only an impression of sombre bustle and a disinclination to continue a conversation, let alone start one. She appeared to be in her late fifties, a shortish woman of medium build with coarse, graying hair. Anything more meaningful had been learned from other members of the staff, not Ned. She was a Miss Hilda Stark, previously employed by a family named Rutledge in the northern part of the county. Understandably, she was now bleary-eyed and frowsy-haired, as anyone would be after being roused from a night’s slumber – or, possibly, from being drunk. Florence caught the fumes of whisky from her breath. Saw her stagger when her hand slipped off the wall. Belligerence, rather than distress, contorted her features.
    â€˜What’s wrong, Nanny? Is Master Ned ill?’ The enquiry was unusually sharp for Florence.
    â€˜Not the fever sort of ill.’ She noted the thickened, slurred voice. ‘Just his nibs having a screaming fit; woke from a nightmare, he said; but if you ask me it was sheer naughtiness. Claimed he’d go on bellowing the house down if I didn’t fetch you.’
    â€˜Had he calmed down when you left?’
    The mouth worked itself into a grimace. ‘I told him I wouldn’t take a step if he didn’t. What I should’ve done was tape his wretched mouth shut.’
    â€˜Not so easy to do for someone lacking control of her limbs.’ This was a Florence even Robert wouldn’t have recognized. She’d never at Mullings had to deal with such an ugly situation, but now she had to get to Ned.
    â€˜And why wouldn’t I be all of a shake, roused out of a deep sleep by that ear-piercing racket he made? You saying anything different will be a wicked lie that’ll you pay dear for!’
    The woman’s face, contorted by spite, verged on the grotesque, with its florid complexion and slack lips, spittle dribbling down her chin. Did she see no reason to rein herself in, or was she too sozzled to know half of what she was saying?
    â€˜Go down to the kitchen and get yourself a cup of hot milk,’ Florence ordered, and brushed past her to head down the corridor. She had been sorely tempted to add, ‘and not a buttered rum’, but to have aggravated the situation would have been foolhardy. The respectable front