The Mitford Murders Page 5

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant, but we’ve got everything in hand. The ambulance is here and they’re taking away the victim.’ He ran an index finger over his moustache and nodded at Guy peremptorily.

  ‘Absolutely, sir. But we need to make a report for the Super,’ said Guy resolutely. He moved towards the open carriage door, where a station guard stood, keeping the crowds away. The moustache on the lip of DI Vine seemed to curl a little tighter as he took a step back to allow them through.

  They peered inside the narrow compartment, where the gaslights threw off a sharp glare that illuminated perfect spotlights, giving Guy the sensation of a dressed stage. It took him a moment or two to adjust his eyes to the dim outlines. Two men dressed in ambulance uniform were heaving a woman on to a stretcher. She still wore her fur coat but it had fallen open to reveal her old-fashioned black crêpe dress and laced patent boots. Her head flopped to the side, showing a wide streak of dark, dried blood, her mouth was slightly agape, her hair disarrayed.

  It was raining women in peril that day, thought Guy.

  ‘Is she alive?’ he whispered to Harry.

  ‘I think she must be,’ he whispered back. ‘Look.’

  They watched as the woman raised one of her hands, fluttering her fingers, like a chicken walking after its head had been cut off. The men bore the stretcher out through the carriage door, bracing themselves as they did so against the crowd outside.

  Once the ambulance men had left, Guy and Harry stepped inside. ‘There’s blood on the floor,’ said Guy, aghast.

  Harry looked at the blood, a smudge of dark red, then at the empty space where she had sat. There was a worn-looking leather case beside it, a hat clumsily placed on top, with a black handbag. The Illustrated London News was lying awry on the seat, with blood smeared on the folded side, as if she had held it to her head, perhaps to stem the flow. Another suitcase was below the seat. There was a navy blue vanity case too, open, showing a glimpse of white clothing inside. On the floor was a pair of broken spectacles, two pieces of a snapped hair comb and a page of newspaper. Guy wrote down each item in a list. It seemed a rather pathetic summary of a woman’s life. He noticed another large smudge of blood on the wall where her head had been.

  ‘Look in her handbag,’ said Harry. ‘It might say who she was. I mean, is.’

  Guy looked: there was a purse with no money inside it, a notebook with a few faint pencil notes he couldn’t read in the dusk, the return portion of her train ticket and a National Registration Card identifying the owner as Florence Nightingale Shore, Queen’s Nurse, of Carnforth Lodge, Queen Street, Hammersmith.

  Overcome, Guy’s eyes grew wider behind his glasses. ‘It’s a murder investigation,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Harry. ‘She’s still alive. Let’s hope she pulls through. Come on, we’d better talk to the others.’

  Outside there was a commotion. Passengers had seen the body being carried out and it had created amongst them a wave of fervent whispers, and one woman had fainted. Mr Manning found himself surrounded by DI Vine and the two guards from the train – introduced as Henry Duck and George Walters – as well as Guy and Harry. There was a loud discussion as to what should happen next but no one seemed to be listening to anyone else.

  Mr Manning turned to DI Vine. ‘Will you take the woman’s things away, Mr Vine? We’ve got to get this train moving or there’s going to be delays on the line all night.’

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Vine, actually, Mr Manning,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but this train is now a part of our investigation. We won’t be clearing anything away.’

  Guy felt an agitation that confused him. The attack had happened to someone else but it had infected the air with something sour and acrid. A little apart from them were the three working men, no longer talking to each other; they smoked and looked at their feet.

  DI Vine beckoned Guy and Harry over. ‘I need to take these three into the station. They got on the train at Polegate Junction but didn’t raise the alarm until Bexhill. They’re saying they thought she was asleep at first and then just as they got to the next stop they saw the blood on her face. Let’s take one each. The station’s only a few minutes’ walk away. But be careful, lads – these might turn out to be our murder suspects.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  12 January 1920

  Louisa got back to London after darkness as the frost had settled in for another long night. She gripped the letter in her pocket. She knew she’d missed the interview time – 5.30 p.m., already an hour gone since – but she would go there anyway. She had nothing, quite literally nothing, to lose.

  Using the shillings Guy had given her, she bought an Underground ticket to Paddington – the letter had instructed her to catch a train to Shipton – and a hot cup of tea with a slice of buttered bread. Only when she held the mug did she realise how frozen her fingers were. In the public washroom at the station, she splashed water on to her face and tried to smooth her hair down. An elegant lady beside her, adjusting her hat, gave her a barely hidden look of disdain.

  At the platform gate, Louisa’s chest tightened as she showed the pass Sergeant Sullivan had given her, but the guard waved her through and she was on her way. There was only blackness beyond the windows, no view to show her the fading horizon of London. Exhausted, Louisa closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  When it seemed that she had slept but a minute, Louisa heard the guard coming through, announcing the next stop as Shipton. As she walked out on to the platform it was only 7 p.m. but the desolate scene and the cold made it seem much later. There was a pub in view and Louisa went in to enquire for directions to Asthall Manor. The old men at the bar looked at her quizzically.

  ‘What business you got there, then?’ the publican asked.

  ‘I’m there about a job,’ said Louisa, caught on the spot. ‘Please, will you tell me the way?’

  ‘Seems a funny sort of time to have an interview.’

  ‘Please,’ said Louisa. ‘Could you just tell me the road I need?’

  An old farmer swigged the last of his ale and said he’d give her a lift most of the way – it was time he got home to his supper anyway. He warned her she’d still have to walk another half an hour or so on the dark road. Louisa almost fell to her knees in gratitude but made do with a ‘thank you’.

  When the farmer dropped her off, the clouds had gathered above and she felt the first few drops descend. She thought about sheltering under a tree until it passed but she knew she was going to arrive at the house far too late as it was. If she could have, she’d have slept outside until morning but it was too cold. At least the temperature stopped her from thinking about the ache in her ankle. She blew on her fingers and walked as fast as she could, staying in the middle of the road, out of the way of strange shapes that seemed to lurk in the hedges, startling her at corners. A couple of cars came past, beeping their horns to make her leap to the side, their lights sweeping over her and briefly illuminating the falling rain.

  At last – God alone knew what time it was – Louisa saw the long stone wall with an archway and iron gates that the farmer had told her to look for. He told her that was the entrance to the house from Asthall village, which went to the back of the house. Clearly he had understood she would not be knocking on their front door.

  The back door was opened to her timid knock by a young maid, dressed in a uniform of blue and white Toile de Jouy with a white linen apron and an organdie cap threaded through with black velvet ribbon, tight curls barely contained beneath. Louisa knew that what she saw was a bedraggled, wet girl with a broken hat, worn-out boots, a bandage coming loose and a face red raw from the winter. She shivered, unable to speak instantly. The maid continued to look at her, though not unkindly.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Louisa. ‘I know it’s late but I was expected – I had a letter from a Mrs Windsor to come here for the job of nursery maid.’ She went to her pocket and pulled out the crumpled letter to show the maid the unmistakab
le crest embossed at the top.

  ‘Blimey,’ said the maid, ‘I don’t know what Mrs Windsor’ll say about this. You’d better come in quick, it’s horrible out there.’

  Louisa fought back a sob as she stepped into the kitchen and was put in a chair close to the heat of the wood-burning stove while the maid went to fetch Mrs Windsor. A cook gave her a glance of concern but was otherwise busy finishing her preparations for the family’s dinner. Louisa could see there must only be minutes until it would be served.

  Mrs Windsor came through shortly, in the same uniform, with a handsome head of dark hair showing a few strands of grey below her cap. She looked stern as she approached Louisa, who stood immediately and then wobbled as the blood rushed from her head.

  ‘Louisa Cannon?’ said Mrs Windsor. She did not offer a hand.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Louisa. ‘I know I must look—’

  She was interrupted. ‘I’m afraid whatever your story is, I can’t allow you to meet Her Ladyship. You shall have to return home. I’m sorry, Miss Cannon, but I’m sure you understand.’

  Shame pricked Louisa’s skin. She nodded, silent. There didn’t seem much point in saying anything. Mrs Windsor left the room, calling out only to the cook that she would ask the family to go through to the dining room now.

  Louisa watched her leave and found she couldn’t move. She was aware of the rain drumming on the window, far heavier now than when she had been walking along the road, and of the cook bustling about the kitchen, putting plates on the table and stirring a huge pot of something that smelled delicious. Louisa felt the emptiness of her stomach, the dryness of her throat.

  ‘Come and sit over here’ said the maid, ‘out of Mrs Stobie’s way. I’m Ada. You don’t have to go just yet. Let’s get the supper out and then we’ll see what we can do.’

  Numbly, Louisa allowed herself to be led to a bench at the side of the kitchen. She pressed herself into the corner to make herself as small as possible, and watched the cook and the maid as they served supper. Mrs Windsor came in once more to fetch something and saw her, but said nothing.

  When she’d finished serving up, Mrs Stobie gave Louisa a bowl of stew and told her to sit at the table to eat it. No one was unkind but she felt like a stray cat being given milk before it was shooed away. Still, she started to feel a bit more human – feeling returned to her toes, the dampness on her clothes started to dry out. This didn’t change the fact that she didn’t know what she was going to do next.

  As Louisa was sitting at the table, trying not to scrape her spoon noisily at the bottom of the bowl, a girl with long, dark hair and startling green eyes walked into the kitchen. Nancy.

  ‘Mrs Stobie, Nanny says please may we have some hot chocolate—’ She stopped, spotting Louisa. ‘You’re here.’

  Louisa stood hastily, the chair scraping on the flagstone floor. ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  To her amazement, Nancy laughed. ‘Goodness, you did cause a ruckus. Old Hooper went down to the station and you weren’t there! What happened to you? I was a bit embarrassed,’ she carried on talking at a furious pace, ‘seeing as I was the one who had recommended you. So I am glad you’ve shown up. Do tell.’

  ‘Well, I …’ Louisa began, though she hardly knew how she’d go on. To hear that she had caused Nancy embarrassment made her want to throw herself under the table and lie there until everyone had gone. As she began an explanation, she was cut short by the cook, who told Miss Nancy to mind her own beeswax and motioned for Louisa to sit back down. Nancy rolled her eyes when the cook’s back was turned but didn’t pursue the question. There was vitality in that face, thought Louisa, a hunger for more … more what, she didn’t know, but more. She recognised it in herself.

  ‘Have you met Muv? I mean, Lady Redesdale, my mother? She’s having dinner now, so I expect not. Afterwards will be a bit late. Perhaps tomorrow? Do you have somewhere to stay?’ Nancy had pulled up a chair and was sitting opposite Louisa, elbows on the table, an earnest look on her face. Mrs Stobie coughed in disapproval but continued to busy herself with the boiling milk.

  Louisa was suddenly aware of a whole, huge house beyond the kitchen door. A house far bigger than any she’d ever been in, with a family all together, happy and healthy. She remembered what she had been told about them by Jennie, in the letter that had given her their address – five girls and one boy, another on the way. A lord and a lady for the parents, and a nanny in the nursery. A nursery! When Louisa and her mother collected the laundry from Mrs Shovelton, they rarely got further than the back door. So she’d only seen what those houses looked like in illustrations: fine paintings on the walls, silk-covered sofas with plumped-up cushions, thickly tufted rugs and blazing fires. There’d be a gold-framed looking-glass hanging in the hall and vases of freshly cut flowers brought in from the garden. And now this girl, sitting in front of her, with brushed hair and a velvet collar on her dress, a knitted cardigan over the top. The idea that Louisa could be a part of this house for even a minute was patently absurd. She could no more work here than be a nursery maid in Buckingham Palace. She’d better leave, and soon.

  Louisa stood abruptly and picked her hat up off the table, trying to hide the fact that the brim was hanging off the crown. ‘Sorry, miss,’ she said, ‘I’d better get going.’

  She stepped away and said thank you to the cook. Before anyone could move or say anything, she’d opened the back door and walked outside. The cold hit her anew and the rain hadn’t stopped. She still didn’t know where she would walk to but she thought she could follow the road back to the station and there would be shelter there, at least. In the morning, she’d have to steal a few coins for the train journey home. The thought of home, and who would be there, waiting for her, almost made her retch but she carried on, her head bent against the weather. The tears streamed down her face. If it wasn’t for her mother, she’d have lain down in the ditch and waited for death.

  She had been walking only a few minutes, still following the curve of the wall, when she heard someone shouting her name. Louisa turned and saw Nancy running along the road, her cardigan held over her head, a rather pointless attempt to keep the rain off. Louisa stopped and stood still, unable to believe it was happening until Nancy stood right before her.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop sooner? I was calling you!’ said Nancy, catching her breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Louisa, stunned.

  ‘Come back,’ said Nancy. ‘Come and stay the night. I’ve persuaded Mrs Windsor that you’ll look a whole heap better after you’ve had a bath and a sleep. Then you can meet Lady Redesdale in the morning. Come on. It’s pouring and I’m freezing cold.’

  Unable quite to believe it, Louisa walked back with Nancy at her side as the young girl chattered, telling her that it was so silly of them to send her away into such a filthy night. It wasn’t as if they’d managed to find anyone local who wanted the work and they were in desperate need of a nursery maid.

  ‘Not me, of course, I’m sixteen,’ said Nancy, talking at the rate of a wind-up toy. ‘But there’s Pam, who’s thirteen, she’s always playing house; then Deerling is ten; Bobo is five; Decca is three; and Tom’s eleven, but he’s at school. And Lady Redesdale’s expecting again. She’s sure this one is a boy. He’s going to be called Paul. That’s why we need a nursery maid; poor old Nanny Blor can’t do it all by herself.’

  ‘What funny names,’ Louisa exclaimed and then clamped her mouth shut. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But she wanted to laugh, at all of it, at the sheer bloody relief of it.

  Nancy giggled. ‘Oh, some of those aren’t real names. It’s just that hardly anyone gets called by their proper names here. Muv and Farve – that is, Lord and Lady Redesdale – call me Koko because my black hair when I was born reminded them of the Lord High Executioner in Mikado. You’ll soon catch on.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Louisa.

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Nancy abruptly as they turned back into the drive.

  ‘Eighteen,’
said Louisa.

  ‘Then we shall be friends,’ said Nancy as they reached the back door. ‘Will you be able to start here straight away? Oh, here comes Mrs Windsor. I’d better hop to it. See you later!’ She gave Louisa a wink and dashed away.

  The next morning, having been given a bath and a hairbrush, and a night’s sleep in an empty servant’s bedroom, her clothes miraculously washed and dried by the time she woke, Louisa was shown to the morning room to meet Lady Redesdale, who was seated on a pale pink sofa. Louisa trembled with nerves but she knew this was it, her only chance. She had to make it work.

  There were a few brusque questions – her name, her age, her education, queries about her experience with the Shovelton family, whom Louisa had named in her letter of application. Louisa was able to answer honestly about the names and ages of the daughters, having heard the talk in the kitchens, but rather less honestly about how she had taken them to Kensington Gardens for their daily walk and mended their dresses.

  ‘I should write to Mrs Shovelton for a reference,’ said Lady Redesdale and Louisa heard the clang of an alarm bell in her head. ‘But Mrs Roper’s daughter-in-law Jennie has vouched for you, so that will do for now. We are in something of a hurry, as you know.’

  Louisa nodded, not trusting herself to say anything that wouldn’t come out as a squeak.

  ‘Speaking of which, when would you be able to start?’ continued Lady Redesdale.

  ‘Today, my lady.’

  ‘Today?’ She looked at her sharply. ‘Did you bring a suitcase with you? That was rather presumptuous.’

  ‘No, my lady, I haven’t brought a case with me.’

  ‘So you have nothing with you?’

  ‘No. That is, I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Everyone needs a few things,’ said Lady Redesdale.

  ‘Perhaps I could go home to collect them in a week or two,’ said Louisa. She didn’t want her new employer suspecting she was running away from anything. Though it was probably a bit late for that.