The Mitford Murders Page 6

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I can’t deny it would be helpful.’ She gestured at her large bump, well disguised by her simple dress. ‘We’ll give you a week’s trial. If Nanny Blor and Mrs Windsor are happy with you, then you’ll have every Wednesday off from four o’clock, and every other Sunday at the same time. You must come back by ten o’clock at night or Mrs Windsor will have fits. I shall pay you on the first of every month. One pound.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Louisa, trying not to grin like a barrow boy. She gave a quick bob.

  ‘There’s no need to curtsey,’ said Lady Redesdale, pulling the bell. ‘I’m not the queen. Mrs Windsor will take you up to Nanny Blor, who will show you around. I expect I’ll see you at five o’clock when the children are brought down for tea.’ With a small nod, Louisa was dismissed.

  So this is it, she thought. Everything is different now.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The coroner’s court at the East Sussex Hospital was a crisp and formal place with whitewashed walls and small, high windows, too reminiscent of those in a prison cell. The coroner, Mr Glenister, sat on a raised platform behind a long desk, with his deputy and the coroner’s officer on either side. Eleven men were sworn in as jurors and took their places on benches along one wall, with a clear view of the witness stand. They had just been to inspect Florence Shore’s body in the mortuary next door and their pale faces bore testament to the severity of her injuries.

  Mr Glenister, a short man with a serious expression, called everyone to attention. News of the brave nurse’s untimely and appalling end had caught the public imagination and the gallery was filled with reporters and gawkers.

  First, there was an apology from the solicitor of the railway company; they wished, he said, to express their deep regret and sincere sympathy to relatives and friends at the unfortunate lady’s end.

  The coroner then launched into a lengthy opening speech about the career of Miss Shore: ‘She was a lady of philanthropic disposition, a nurse of many years’ standing and had devoted herself to tending the sick and people wounded in the war …’

  Guy, upright between Superintendent Jarvis and Harry, with DI Vine on the same bench, tried to listen to the long list of noble attributes of the poor murdered nurse but his eye had been caught by a wan, petite woman sitting on the front bench, a hospital nurse at her side in starched white. On the other side of her sat a sombre, rake-thin man in a suit that had seen better days. He did not touch the woman but looked to her frequently, as if to check she was still there.

  Strands of wispy grey hair had fallen down beneath the woman’s unfussy black hat and she clutched a handkerchief, but her eyes were dry; they were open but unseeing and she did not respond to the speech, even as Mr Glenister asked the jurors not to ask questions of ‘this poor woman’, gesturing to her, until she gave evidence at a second hearing. His speech concluded, Miss Mabel Rogers was sworn in. Guy watched her walk over slowly, the hospital nurse holding her elbow all the while.

  The coroner established her residence, her position as matron in charge of the nurses’ home and the fact that she had known the deceased for nearly twenty-six years. Mabel explained that her friend had also lived at Carnforth Lodge and had done so for just two months, since her demobilisation from active service. Her relatives, she said, in a voice that neither faltered nor resonated, were a brother in California, and an aunt and cousins in England.

  ‘What was her disposition? Was she reserved?’ asked Mr Glenister.

  ‘She was very reserved and very quiet, but cheerful.’

  ‘As far as you know, she had no enemies?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘As to her physique, was she strong?’

  ‘No, I would not say she was, but she had been stronger in recent years.’

  Mr Glenister continued to confirm further facts of the case: ‘Did she spend Sunday the eleventh with you?’

  ‘She was with me, but she went down to Tonbridge for the day and returned the same evening to me.’

  Yes, said Miss Rogers, she knew Miss Shore had arranged to stay with friends in St Leonards and had assisted her to Victoria station, where she took the 3.20 to Warrior Square. There were detailed questions about the compartment chosen for her friend, the position of the seat and the luggage she had with her. Miss Rogers confirmed she had selected a compartment for her friend, which was empty until a man in a brown tweed suit entered shortly before the train was due to depart.

  ‘Did you get into the compartment as well?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you sit there and talk to her for a while?’

  ‘I am not sure whether I sat or stood but I got in.’

  Sunlight suddenly broke through the high row of windows and revealed a cloud of cigar smoke floating above their heads; Detective Inspector Haigh from Scotland Yard had stubbed one out shortly before proceedings began. Guy looked up and gave an involuntary cough. He tried to stifle another and his eyes began to water.

  ‘When the train started, there was nobody else in the compartment but Miss Shore and the man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your friend was in her usual state of health?’

  ‘She was very well.’

  He then asked Miss Rogers to confirm her actions on receiving the telegram about her friend: she had been at the theatre so she got it late and caught the 11.20 p.m. train to Tonbridge, continuing on by car. She looked down at her lap and took a shaky breath.

  ‘Did you see the deceased when you arrived?’ continued the coroner.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose she was in bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You stayed at the hospital until the time of her death?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mabel. She spoke a little more faintly with each answer.

  ‘Did she regain consciousness during that time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘On Friday at five minutes to eight in the evening.’

  ‘Was the man who got into the carriage a stranger to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And to the deceased?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As far as you know, you had never seen him before.’

  ‘No.’

  Mr Glenister gave Miss Rogers a sympathetic smile and said he had finished for the time being. The foreman said the jury had no questions. A newspaper reporter looked as if he wanted to ask something but clearly thought better of it and scribbled his last few notes. The next hearing was set for 4 February at 3 p.m., in Hastings Town Hall. The coroner closed by calling the assault ‘a cowardly and dastardly act’, before dismissing the court.

  The policemen filed out together last of all. Guy and Harry gave each other an excited look as they walked out; it had been their first murder inquest and they felt childishly pleased to have been there. Out in the hall, the various uniforms stood around, holding back until Mabel Rogers had walked out, the thin man holding her firmly by the arm this time.

  Haigh took command. ‘Vine, we’ll head back to your station. We need to co-ordinate our plan before the next inquest.’

  Vine stroked his moustache and gave just the slightest pause before replying; Haigh was not his boss and he well knew that the local constabulary were in charge of the case, but Haigh was his superior and, after all, he couldn’t contest the fact that his chief had called in the services of Scotland Yard.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. We can use my office.’

  At Bexhill Police Station, the men sat on a variety of wooden chairs pulled into the blank box that was Vine’s office. Haigh, asserting his right as detective inspector at Scotland Yard, continued to assume control of the situation.

  ‘This is a troublesome murder, men. We’ve got no weapon and no real witnesses. I’ve had the chief of the Brighton railway line on the telephone this morning. They want this case solved fast.’ He rolled another cigar between his fingers as he spoke. ‘Today’s article in the Mail on famous rail
way murders isn’t helping matters when it comes to their passengers’ sense of wellbeing, it seems.’ He decided to light his Havana and held it up, looking on Vine’s desk for some matches. There were none.

  Guy did not have the nerve to speak; instead he took his glasses off and started to polish them with the corner of his jacket. Harry coughed and tried to catch his friend’s eye. They had spoken about this over the weekend, when they met on Saturday evening, ostensibly for a cocktail or two at Harry’s usual nightclub but more truthfully because they had both been shocked by the news of Miss Shore’s death. What had started as an investigation into a brutal assault – nasty enough in itself and certainly outside their usual routine – was now a murder. There was a confusion in their minds that only the other could understand: shock, awe and manliness. Yes, this was something that would make them men at last, like their friends and brothers who had been to war.

  They had discussed the scene of the crime, the lack of a weapon despite an army of policemen combing the seventy-odd miles of railway line between Victoria and Bexhill. The only thing that had caused a stir was a blood-stained khaki-coloured handkerchief, but it was the sort of object owned by thousands of former soldiers. Other clues, such as they were, were paltry: the blood on the walls; broken spectacles; an empty purse; stolen jewellery. Guy wondered over and over again if there was something he should have spotted. Miss Shore’s train, after all, would have stopped at Lewes. Her attacker must surely have left the train at that first stop. Might he have noticed someone getting off the train who had been engaged in a struggle?

  Of course, at the time his mind had been on Miss Cannon … Guy had told Harry over a Brandy Alexander that he wanted a promotion, if not a move across to Scotland Yard, and he knew this case was his chance. Harry, generally more interested in working out the finger movements of his latest jazz piece, nonetheless wanted his friend to do well too. Staying quiet was not going to help.

  He coughed again and this time Guy looked up. ‘Say something,’ Harry mouthed to him. Guy raised his eyebrows back but knew Harry was right.

  ‘Sir? Perhaps we could ask at pawnbrokers and second-hand shops to see if anyone has tried to sell a brown suit, like the one Miss Rogers said the man was wearing? Or they might have tried to sell off Miss Shore’s stolen jewellery?’

  ‘What? All the pawnshops in Sussex?’ Haigh chewed on his unlit cigar. ‘Still, you could be right, it’s not a bad idea. If we can find a suit to match the description, we can look for bloodstains. With no weapon found, it’s all we’ve got to go on.’

  Guy nodded, his colour rising slightly. He pushed his glasses further up his nose. ‘Also, sir, I wonder if we might conduct some further interviews. I was thinking of Mr Duck, the train guard – he must have seen something. And Miss Rogers. Perhaps there’s more she can tell us about the man who got into the compartment? Wouldn’t it be better to talk to her before the next inquest hearing? She might have forgotten things by then.’

  ‘All right, Sullivan, that’s enough,’ said Superintendent Jarvis. ‘I think you’re forgetting your place for the moment. We’ve got it all in hand, haven’t we Haigh?’ The two superiors exchanged a nod of mutual understanding, which left the rest of the men like gooseberries beside a couple who had just got engaged.

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ stammered Guy. ‘Sorry sir.’

  ‘You and Sergeant Conlon can start with the pawnshops in Lewes. Manning can drive you down there now. Report back and we’ll take it from there. You’re lucky you were on the scene at the time, lads. Make the most of this chance,’ said Jarvis.

  Haigh looked slightly put out that he had not issued these directions, but with only a little grumble he nodded to show his assent. ‘We’ll meet back here on Friday to discuss what, if anything, has been found. Off you go, then. Vine – can you tell me of a decent restaurant around here …?’

  And with that Guy and Harry were on their way, officially investigators of a notorious murder.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On her second night at Asthall Manor, when she had been given the job, Louisa had been shown around by Nancy. She had begun in the entrance hall, which had two fireplaces and dark wood panelling. ‘It looks grand,’ said Nancy, ‘but it’s all been salvaged by Farve.’ There was a large central staircase, which ran all the way up to the attic, where the linen cupboard was, and on the last landing Louisa spotted a row of cupboards, all painted in indigo blue. ‘It’s the Mitford livery,’ said Nancy, as if Louisa would know what that meant.

  The nursery wing consisted of a single floor which acted as Nanny Blor’s sitting room, as well as playroom for the little ones and their bedrooms. While the rest of the house was intimidatingly large to Louisa’s eyes, her new domain was cosy, sitting almost by itself on top of the library, which Nancy told her had been converted by Lord Redesdale from a tithe barn. There was a walkway to it from the front door, which he had also created, called The Cloisters. Nancy said she spent most of her time in the library – ‘Grandpa was a collector of books; he even wrote one or two himself’ – and when Tom was home, he would play the big piano in there.

  While the main house had over a dozen bedrooms, in the nursery wing there were just four, but they had their own bathroom and hot water supply. One bedroom was shared by Nanny Blor and the youngest babies, next door to the room in which Louisa was to sleep with Pamela and Diana. One more was due to arrive in two months and Louisa had fallen in with everyone’s assumption that the seventh and final child would be a boy called Paul. Blue knitted jumpers and bootees were already filling a drawer.

  Nancy led Louisa to her own room, its name, Lintrathen, painted above the door. Tom, away at school, had a room of his own too – ‘Because he’s a boy, even though he’s only eleven,’ Nancy explained. She brought Louisa over to the window in her room. ‘Look,’ she said, and Louisa saw the gravestones of the churchyard next door. ‘When it’s full moon, it’s easy to frighten the others about ghosts in the house,’ she tittered.

  Nancy shut the door and sat cross-legged on her bed. Louisa had the sensation that she was about to get a second interview, more probing than the one with Lady Redesdale. But perhaps she just wanted to talk to someone. Louisa suspected Tom was everyone’s best ally when home; they all seemed to miss him a great deal, speculating endlessly about what he would be doing at school or what food he would be eating (‘Sausages,’ said Nancy, envy lacing her voice). Louisa imagined it must be something of a welcome breather for Tom to escape the cluster of sisters and their constant noise of chatter, teasing and whines. It would certainly take some getting used to for her.

  Despite Nancy’s entreaty, Louisa had stayed hovering near the door, unsure that sitting on the bed would be the right thing to do. The fib she had told about looking after the Shovelton daughters had seemed quite innocuous at the time but it was dawning on her in those first hours just how little she knew about what to do.

  ‘Come on,’ said Nancy, ‘do sit down. I want to know all about you.’

  Louisa blanched. ‘I think perhaps I had better be getting back to Nanny Dicks, to see what she needs me to do.

  ‘Call her Nanny Blor,’ said Nancy. ‘Everyone does – even Muv.’

  ‘Back to Nanny Blor, then.’

  ‘Just a few minutes, please. Won’t you tell me at least where you grew up? I do so want to know about you. We can be friends and friends know all about each other, don’t they?’ said Nancy. ‘You have no idea what it’s like for me here. I’ve been sobbing with boredom, stuck up in this attic with the same silly little girls day in and out.’

  Louisa looked about herself, feeling trapped. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said. ‘I grew up in London, with my mother and father.’ Then she hesitated. It seemed a rather mealy-mouthed answer and she would like a friend, too. But could she really be friends with someone so different? Nancy had poise and an air of confidence that no friend of hers had ever had as a schoolgirl. Not even Jennie.

  ‘Yes, but why did you want to l
eave London? I can’t imagine leaving there – it all sounds like glorious fun to me. My aunt says there are unmarried women who live quite alone, going to nightclubs and drinking Champagne.’

  Louisa wasn’t sure what to say to this. ‘Maybe, but I wasn’t one of them.’ She moved over to the window. ‘It’s beautiful out here. I shan’t ever want to leave the countryside.’ She had gaped at the beauty of the frost in the garden that morning, with silvered blades of grass and a spider’s web that looked like a giant snowflake.

  ‘When will you go home to pick up your things?’ asked Nancy abruptly.

  ‘I don’t know, in a week or two. I don’t need much,’ said Louisa carefully.

  ‘No, I should think not. You’ve come with nothing at all!’ laughed Nancy, and though there was a hint of a teasing tone, Louisa knew she wasn’t being deliberately mean.

  Ada, in fact, had offered to lend her some things until her first payday, and she would go and buy whatever she needed then. But she had no desire to take the conversation any further and made her excuses, leaving the room to find Nanny Blor.

  Soon, Louisa and Nanny had settled into a sort of routine once the youngest children were abed, sitting together in the room that led directly off the stairs – a playroom, dining room and sitting room in one that was Nanny’s room more than anybody’s, with her own carriage clock on the mantelpiece. In chairs by the fire they would listen to the clock ticking and do the crossword in the Daily Mirror. A rocking horse stood in one corner, and in the other was the round table around which they sat for breakfast, luncheon and tea. A mahogany sideboard housed the nursery silver and china with red roses on it, Lord Redesdale not seeing any reason why the children should ‘eat like savages’ away from the dining room.

  Quite aside from her duties in cleaning, laying the fires and bringing things from the kitchens, Louisa had found that the division of labour between her and Nanny had fallen quite naturally. Louisa was more concerned with the older children, while Nanny was quite proprietorial with the babies. Nanny would sit with Unity and Decca in the nursery, reading them books or patiently building towers of blocks for them to knock down. When she had a moment with them, Louisa found their soft cheeks irresistible for kisses and their babyish chatter endeared her to them quickly. Diana and Pamela occupied themselves for hours at a time playing ‘house’ with their dolls when not in the schoolroom.