The Mitford Murders Read online

  ‘You mean they’re not yours?’ said Jennie and gave her friend an exaggerated wink and a nudge in the ribs. She forced a smile out of Louisa at last, revealing her neat row of teeth and brightening her tawny eyes.

  She peeled them a nut each, Jennie holding hers with the tips of her fingers before popping it into her mouth, Nancy copying her. Louisa took the moment to appraise her friend.

  ‘You look well. Are you?’

  Jennie did not laugh again but she smiled. ‘I was married last summer to Richard Roper. He’s an architect. We’re off to New York soon because he wants to get away from Europe. Too broken by the war, he says. There’s more opportunity there. Let’s hope so, at any rate. What about you?’

  ‘Well, I’m not married,’ said Louisa. ‘Couldn’t do it in time to catch the vote, so I decided against it altogether.’ To her pleasure, Nancy giggled at this.

  ‘You tease,’ said Jennie. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

  Louisa shrugged. The comment stung, though she knew Jennie meant nothing mean by it. ‘No, nothing much has changed: I’m still at home, Ma and me scratching about for work as ever.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. That is hard on you. Can I help you out a bit? Please.’ Jennie started to fish about in her bag, a delicate square hanging on a silver chain.

  ‘No. I mean, no thank you. We’re fine. We’re not completely alone.’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  A cloud passed over Louisa’s face but she shook it off and smiled at Jennie. ‘Yes. So we’ll be fine. We are fine. Come on, let’s walk along together. Where were you going to?’

  ‘I’m dropping Nancy off, then meeting Richard. We’re dancing with friends at the 100 Club – have you been there? You must go. It’s all so different now and Richard is the most daring sort of man. I suppose that’s why he married me.’ She lowered her voice, deliberately conspiratorial. ‘I’m not quite like all the other wives …’

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound as if anyone else from around our way would be in that crowd. But you always were so much more of a lady than anyone else. I remember how you insisted on a starched nightdress. Didn’t you pinch some starch from my ma’s cupboard once?’

  Jennie clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Yes! I’d forgotten all about that! I told your mother I’d work as her assistant and she laughed me right out of the room.’

  ‘I don’t think washerwomen have assistants,’ said Louisa, ‘though I help out often enough. Believe it or not, I’m quite good at darning these days.’

  All the while, Louisa was conscious of Nancy’s green eyes watching them both, taking it all in. She wondered if she ought to be alluding to Jennie’s less-than-aristocratic background in front of her but decided that Jennie was so incapable of any form of fib that Nancy probably knew about it anyway. At any rate, Jennie didn’t seem to be showing any embarrassment.

  ‘Your ma’s still working, then?’ said Jennie, sympathy in her eyes. ‘What about your dad? Not still up and down those chimneys, is he?’

  Louisa gave a tiny nod. She didn’t want to explain to Jennie now that he had died only a few months ago.

  ‘Mr Black and Mrs White we used to call them, didn’t we?’

  The two young women giggled and leaned their shoulders and heads against each other for a second, back to being the schoolgirls they’d been together in pigtails and pinafores.

  Overhead the stars started to pop out in the clear black sky, though they lost the competition to the street lamps. Motorcars drove noisily down the street; frequent toots on the horn could not be translated easily, sounding alike whether impatient at a slow car or a friendly beep of recognition at a pal on the pavement. Passing shoppers were bumping into them with their laden bags, irritated at the young women interrupting the steady stream of the crowd with their slow-moving island of three.

  Jennie looked at her wristwatch and then sadly back at her friend. ‘I’ve got to go. But please, can we meet again? I don’t see enough of my old friends …’ She trailed off. It didn’t need to be spelled out.

  ‘Yes,’ said Louisa, ‘I’d like that. You know where I am – the same old place. Have fun tonight. And merry Christmas! I’m happy for you. I really am.’

  Jennie nodded. ‘I know you are. Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Nancy, with a small wave, and Louisa waved back.

  With Nancy beside her, Jennie turned and started to walk along the King’s Road, men stepping out of their way as they parted the waves like Moses.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Christmas had always been a cheery pause in the winter months for Louisa, but this year, without her father there, neither she nor her mother had had the heart to carry out their own small traditions. There had been no decorations hung in the flat, no tree fetched from the market. ‘It’s only one day,’ Ma had muttered.

  It was just as well, thought Louisa, that they had more or less gone on as if it were an ordinary Thursday. Her uncle, Stephen Cannon, had slept until midday and barely muttered tidings of festive cheer to his niece and her mother as they sat close to the fire – Louisa reading Jane Eyre, her mother knitting a dark green jersey – before heaving himself into the kitchen in search of beer. Stephen’s dog, Socks – a long-legged black-and-white mongrel with silky ears – lazed at Louisa’s feet, having the best time of all.

  When Stephen sank into the armchair, Winnie picked up a dropped stitch and edged a little closer to the fire. ‘We’ve got a joint of pork for dinner,’ she said, her head only slightly turned towards her brother-in-law. ‘And I was given a small Christmas pudding by Mrs Shovelton.’

  ‘What she give you that for?’ said Stephen. ‘Bloody snobs. They’d never give you half a crown extra, would they? Be more use than a pudding.’

  ‘Mrs Shovelton’s been good to me. You know I had to take two weeks off when your brother … when Arthur …’ Winnie gave a hiccup and looked down, breathing deeply, keeping panic at bay. The worry had got worse lately and not all of her mistresses were so understanding when their washing came back a day later than promised.

  ‘Sshh, Ma,’ said Louisa. ‘It was very nice of Mrs Shovelton to give it to us. I think I’ve got a few coins to put in it, too.’ She glared at her uncle, who shrugged back at her and took a swig of his drink.

  Thankfully, after the pork and potatoes, Stephen had announced he was going for a kip in the chair. Louisa and her mother had wrung out all their Christmas spirit in one concentrated joint effort over the pudding. Louisa had put three halfpennies in and a sprig of holly on top. There was no brandy to light and they briefly wondered if a splash of beer would have the same effect but decided against.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Louisa had said over the first spoonful, held triumphantly in the air. ‘Here’s to Dad, eh?’

  Winnie’s eyes had filled up but she smiled at her daughter. ‘Yes, love. Here’s to Dad.’

  They’d finished off the pud, not bothering to leave any for Stephen, and cleared up together, their almost identical figures moving against each other in a well-worn pattern as Louisa washed and Winnie dried in the cramped kitchen. Stephen woke up only to grab his coat and say that he was going to the pub, slamming the door behind him and Socks, who trotted after him. Mother and daughter resumed their quiet activities and went to bed as early as they felt they could decently get away with – nine o’clock at night. Through the walls they could hear the next-door neighbours begin a rousing chorus of Good King Wenceslas and knew it would be the first of many.

  Some hours later, Louisa felt Stephen shaking her shoulder as he woke her from a shallow sleep.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered, not wanting to wake her ma beside her. She ran through in her mind all the people she might need to receive news about in the middle of the night but she was hard pressed to think of any. Mrs Fitch next door on the other side, who had minded their old cat when they’d gone to Weston-super-Mare for five days a few years ago? Mrs Shovelton? But if something had happened to her, couldn’
t it wait till morning? All the grandparents were long dead – Louisa had been ‘a lovely surprise’ to her parents, forty and forty-six years old when she was born. But Stephen put his fingers to his lips, slightly off-centre, and gripped her shoulder firmly, pulling her out of bed.

  ‘All right! All right, I’m coming,’ she said in a loud whisper, rubbing her face to wake herself up. Ma turned on her side, a rasping sigh as she breathed out. ‘Keep your hair on.’ She walked into the kitchen, where Stephen was waiting for her. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a man in the front room,’ said Stephen. ‘He wants to see you. He’s letting me off a small debt for the pleasure. So make sure you give it to him.’ His blank face gave way to a smirk at his own joke.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will when you get in the next room. Get.’ He shooed at her like a stray dog that was bothering him for scraps.

  ‘No,’ said Louisa. She’d grasped his meaning. ‘No. I’ll tell Ma.’

  In a single, violent movement his large, flat hand smacked her straight across the cheek and Louisa almost slipped to the floor in her bare feet. Her dressing gown was not quite tied around her cotton nightdress as she tried to straighten up, her hand out, groping for the kitchen table, when she was hit by a second slap, the back of his hand this time, on the same cheek. She felt it burn; an ache in her jaw started to throb. There were no tears, her eyes were dry, her throat drier.

  ‘Your mother doesn’t need to know. She’s got enough to worry about, ain’t she? Now, for the last time – get in there.’

  Louisa looked at her uncle for a long, cold moment. He stared back and thrust his chin at the door. This … she thought. It’s come to this.

  Stephen had been the only one to notice her change from being a child. Once or twice he’d told her she ‘wasn’t just a pretty face’ and she’d accepted the faint praise with pleasure. Now she understood.

  She pulled her hand away from her cheek and wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her, retying the knot firmly. Then she turned around and walked into the next room, closing the door behind her softly, so as not to wake her mother.

  Standing by the fireplace, the embers long gone out, was a man she recognised from the pub down the street when she’d gone to fetch Stephen home for dinner: Liam Mahoney. Her throat closed.

  His eyes were narrowed slits, his mouth set in determination. She stayed by the door, her hand on the knob. She thought: So long as I’m holding on to this, I’ll be all right.

  In the near-blackness it seemed as if every other sense was heightened. She could smell the ale on his breath, the sweat that seeped out of every pore; it even seemed as if she could smell the very dirt beneath his fingernails. There was a shuffling sound behind the door: Stephen, bending his ear down to listen.

  ‘Come over here, girl,’ said Liam, and his hand moved to his belt buckle, the brass gleaming in the half-light.

  Louisa didn’t move.

  ‘Not a very well brought-up young lady, are you?’ he said. Louisa’s knuckles turned white.

  His tone softened. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I just want to take a look. Your face could be your fortune, you know that?’ He chuckled as he came towards her and reached out a hand. Louisa flinched and crossed her arms.

  ‘You’re not looking at anything,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is you want, I’m not giving it to you. Touch me and I’ll scream.’

  The man barked a laugh. ‘Shush. There’s no need for all that. Look, the thing is …’ He lowered his voice and bent his head to talk directly into her ear. She smelled the alcohol and the sweat again, and closed her eyes. ‘The thing is, your uncle owes me money. All you have to do is one small job and I’ll forget it. You come down to Hastings with me and I’ll have you back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Nobody around here need know.’

  Louisa was still standing close to the door. She thought she heard Stephen – a stifled noise. She pictured his fist in his mouth.

  With one hand Liam pushed her back against the wall. Fear set in then. Her hands flew up and she tried to pull him off but he was stronger, catching them in one hand, then sliding his other hand down her side, feeling her curve at the waist, her hip bone.

  Louisa went still. She looked past his head at the window opposite, where the curtains were drawn but no longer met in the middle, shrunken by the years. Through the gap, a lamp glowed yellow, flickering gently. The road was empty. She stared at the pavement, the tufts of grass that grew between the cracks. She tried to go inside the cracks, to crouch in the darkness there. She’d been there before, where she was safest.

  Then there was a sound from the stairs – Ma calling.

  Abruptly, Liam pulled away and she slumped, taking deep breaths. Stepping back, he did up his jacket buttons and pulled up his collar. ‘Just a night in Hastings,’ he said. ‘It isn’t a lot to ask.’

  She wasn’t aware of much after that, just him in the hallway and murmuring voices. Then Stephen’s footsteps, heavy and erratic up the short staircase. At last, silence.

  Mechanically, she put herself in motion, going to the kitchen, boiling water in the kettle and carefully making tea. She warmed the pot, poured milk into a jug and took out a porcelain cup and saucer from the back of the cupboard. Her father had bought the blue-and-white china set for her mother just before she was born. That made the cup and saucer older than she was – nineteen years old at least, and they looked less chipped and cracked than she felt.

  It was only as she sat at the table, the cup of tea poured out before her, that she allowed herself to cry, but not for long. She wiped her face with the flat of her hands and shook her head. The time had come to do something. With a start, she remembered Nancy Mitford saying that the nursery maid had run away. There was a chance they could still be looking for someone. Jennie would know. From a drawer in the kitchen Louisa found some paper and a pencil, and then began to write the letter she hoped would change everything.

  CHAPTER THREE

  12 January 1920

  When Louisa and her mother emerged from the back door of Mrs Shovelton’s white painted house in Drayton Gardens, their concentration was on their heavy loads. Louisa, wanting to spare her mother any more burden than she absolutely had to bear, had squashed in almost half as much again in her own basket.

  Jennie had replied to Louisa’s letter and told her to write to the Mitfords’ housekeeper, Mrs Windsor. And darling, she had added, I think you’d better mention any work you’ve done with children, if you have it. There are six in their nursery. That had been almost two weeks ago. With no word from Mrs Windsor and no nearer to another solution to getting rid of her uncle, there was more weighing on her mind than a laundry basket. The biting wind made them dip their heads and the glare of the metallic winter sunshine, still low in the sky, burned their necks as they walked steadily to get the day’s work back home.

  Over the road, Louisa spotted her uncle Stephen in his pork pie hat, leaning against a lamppost and smoking a cigarette. He threw it down when he realised they were about to walk past him. Socks was there, too, obediently sitting on his haunches by Stephen’s feet. He moved to go to Louisa but was stilled by a short whistle from his master. Stephen gave him a titbit from his pocket and patted his silky head. Then he fixed a smile on to his face that radiated absolutely nothing at all. Louisa saw all this but kept close to her mother, looking fixedly ahead to where the main road lay, with its people and cars. Witnesses.

  ‘Oi, oi,’ he shouted after them. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello, then?’

  Louisa’s mother turned around to look at him. She squinted at him in puzzlement. ‘Stephen? It’s not payday, today,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why are you here, then?’

  ‘Can’t a man come and say hello to his dear old sister-in-law and lovely niece?’ said Stephen. He moved towards them, his face empty, Socks padding behind him. Louisa felt something pass through her and wondered, briefly, if she might faint.<
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  ‘I thought I’d come and give you a helping hand,’ he said as he took Louisa’s basket. She resisted for just the smallest moment but he tugged it easily out of her hands. He turned back to Winnie, his mouth turned up at the corners, no teeth showing this time. ‘Help you get back to the flat nice and quick.’

  Winnie looked at him blankly, said nothing and continued to walk in the direction she was going in, towards her home and against the easterly wind. Stephen stood back on the pavement, as if to let her pass like Sir Walter Raleigh throwing his cloak down for Elizabeth I. Louisa watched her mother’s weak back and rounded shoulders hunch her basket up an inch and started to go after her. She didn’t see her uncle put the basket down on the pavement behind her before his hand shot out and grabbed her at the elbow.

  In a low voice he said, ‘I don’t think so, do you?’

  In that moment, Winnie turned the corner and lost them both to the noise of the traffic and loud clip-clop of a carthorse. Louisa knew her mother wouldn’t look back.

  Stephen said, ‘I know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘I haven’t been up to anything. Let me go.’ Louisa pulled her arm but Stephen’s grip got tighter. He started to walk them both away from the main road.

  ‘You can’t leave the washing there!’ said Louisa. ‘They’ll charge Ma for it and we’ll get no pay. If you must take me with you, at least let me take it back to them first.’

  Stephen considered this for a moment then shook his head. ‘They’ll find it. We’re barely ten yards from the front door,’ he said. But, in looking at the basket sitting in the middle of the pavement, he had loosened his grip.

  Louisa slipped her arm out and started to run, back towards the house. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to do when she got there – she didn’t think she’d have the nerve to knock on the front door. Mrs Shovelton’s butler probably wouldn’t even recognise her as the washerwoman’s daughter, even though she’d been collecting the linens with her mother for six years. Even if he did recognise her, he would be so outraged at her appearance and at her standing on the front steps – so clearly a servant and not a visitor of the family – he was likely to slam the door in her face.