Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 21

  Edwina’s earlier dislike of Mrs. Kimberly intensified, and she found herself hoping the doctor would not be able to squeeze her in for an appointment. Edwina was not sure if she felt more offended that someone would think her capable of such wanton behavior or that Mrs. Kimberly was eyeing her as though they had something in common.

  With a sense of relief, she realized that the hand had come to an end, and Mrs. Kimberly rejoined the others at the table. By the time Beryl joined her on the sofa, she was ready for the evening to be over. Beryl took one look at her and suggested another round of drinks. The others gladly accepted her suggestion, and Edwina noticed that Beryl skipped the soda water in the glass that she offered to Edwina.

  Beryl served the drinks to the others, then carried Edwina’s to her and leaned over her friend closely as she pressed it into her hand.

  “Have you learned anything important?” Beryl asked, her voice pitched low.

  “Only that Mr. Fanhurst did not care much for his uncle and that Mrs. Kimberly has been feeling unwell for some time,” Edwina said. She could feel that her neck was still hot and hoped Beryl had not noticed it.

  “Nothing else?” Beryl asked. “You seem a little on edge.”

  “Mrs. Kimberly claims that she intends to head to Tunbridge Wells when she leaves here, for a visit to the Wellington Rocks. I find that very hard to believe,” Edwina said quietly.

  “Why do you not believe her?” Beryl asked.

  “Does she seem the sort to hike about in search of geological wonders?” Edwina said.

  “Not particularly. But we don’t know her well enough to say.”

  “I thought it was a bit of a coincidence that she is planning a trip to the very same town from which the letter to Simpkins was posted,” Edwina said.

  “Tunbridge Wells is a popular tourist spot, though, isn’t it?” Beryl asked. Edwina had to admit that it was. There had been visitors to the town for ages upon ages, looking to take the waters and visit the local abbey.

  “It still caught my attention,” Edwina said. “As an investigator, it is important not to allow one to believe too often in coincidences.”

  “Agreed. I shall keep my ear to the ground about any other nefarious trips Mrs. Kimberly or any other member of her party might be planning while I relieve them of some more of their money,” Beryl said, giving Edwina an exaggerated wink before heading back to the table.

  Edwina felt miffed at being teased about her attention to detail. Cases were solved by noticing where the pieces all fit and where they did not. No matter what Beryl or Mrs. Kimberly had to say, there was something about the entire party that just wasn’t quite right.

  Chapter 33

  The day started off decidedly on the wrong foot. Both Beryl and Simpkins had arisen at an hour far earlier than Edwina would have preferred that they do. Each had seemed intent on consuming a full English breakfast. Simpkins had offered to assist in its preparation, but Edwina did not wish for him to feel entirely at home. She felt it best to relegate him to the sidelines in her own kitchen. At least for the moment.

  She had slept poorly herself after the bridge party the evening before. She had lain awake for much of the night, mulling over what the future was likely to hold. Beryl looked no worse for the wear after her adventures the evening prior.

  While she would be loath to admit it, Edwina had been delighted with the amount of winnings her friend had pocketed by evening’s end. Beryl truly was an astonishingly adept player. While Edwina had a passion for the game, she would never be able to bring herself to place a wager for anything more valuable than a pile of matchsticks. It was simply not in her nature to gamble.

  But Beryl seemed to thrive on such experiences. She bet aggressively and somehow managed to make it pay off, taking trick after trick, rubber after rubber. In fact, Beryl’s constant run of luck seemed to have increased the tension in the room and had led to additional worries on Edwina’s mind as she lay awake in bed last night. She felt as if she had been a poor hostess, despite the fact that the point of the evening had been to extract information from a trio of suspects.

  Somehow it still felt odd that there was a business aspect in her life that pushed any other considerations into second place. Her mother had raised her to be someone who put the comfort of guests before everything else. She had spent the evening feeling as though she was torn between her priorities and, as a result, had felt groggy and out of sorts when the sun peeped through her window.

  It had not helped matters that she had not been able to spend a few hours on her own pottering about the library or amongst the plants out in the garden before anyone else in the household stirred. Beryl had been up early in order to partake in her first typewriting lesson with Geraldine. It was one other reason Edwina felt somewhat out of sorts. She felt obligated to hurry in preparing the breakfast and also in cleaning up afterwards.

  Although Geraldine was being hired as a sort of an employee, Edwina did not wish for her to arrive at the Beeches and see any untidiness in the kitchen. Beryl protested that Geraldine would not be likely to make her way into any room other than the morning room, where the typewriter was set up, but Edwina could not bring herself to leave the dishes sitting in the sink.

  Simpkins did not offer to help with the washing-up. He drained the dregs from his teacup and then shuffled off towards the potting shed without so much as a by-your-leave. She rolled up her sleeves and set about scrubbing the crockery with a bit more energy than was strictly necessary. Beryl offered to dry the dishes, but Edwina knew better than to take her friend up on her offer. More than once Edwina had been forced to replace a plate or teacup when Beryl set about the job with her usual vigor.

  Edwina managed to complete the task at hand, sweep the stone flags on the kitchen floor, and put the kettle on the hob for a fresh pot of tea before she realized she had not heard Geraldine arrive at the appointed hour. She untied the strings of her pinny and hung it on its hook. Crumpet followed her to the morning room, where Beryl sat behind the typewriting machine, scowling at it as if it had done her a personal affront.

  “Hasn’t Geraldine turned up yet?” Edwina asked.

  Beryl drummed her fingers on the desktop and shook her head. “No, she hasn’t. In fact, she’s more than thirty minutes late.”

  “Do you suppose she took offense to your questions yesterday at the telephone office?” Edwina said.

  Beryl stopped drumming and gave Edwina her full attention. “She didn’t seem offended, but I would have to say she didn’t seem as though she was entirely telling the truth either,” Beryl said.

  “Do you think she lied about Alma’s alibi?” Edwina asked.

  “I really am not sure what was wrong, but I couldn’t shake the impression that she was not sharing everything that she knew,” Beryl said. “Have you ever heard anyone complain that they thought Geraldine listens in on the telephone lines?”

  Edwina was quite surprised by the question. She had never given such a thing any thought. Her father had been entirely disapproving of the newfangled device. In a rare show of strength, he had refused to allow one at the Beeches during his lifetime. The one consolation her mother had found in her grief after her husband’s death was in the installation of a telephone in her home. She had taken to the instrument with zeal, and hardly a day had gone by when she could not think up a reason to lumber down the hallway, lift the handset, and place a call.

  Edwina had felt no such love of the telephone. In fact, she had felt it almost unseemly the speed with which her mother had acquired one after her father’s passing. He had barely been tucked into his grave at the Walmsley Parva churchyard before her mother had stopped in to the telephone office and made arrangements to have one installed.

  Edwina’s mother had encouraged her to share in her enthusiasm, but Edwina had never warmed to the instrument. Now she felt justified in her reluctance to embrace the new technology. She had always felt awkward about speaking into the receiver and waiting for a response. She ca
st her mind back over the sorts of conversations she had conducted over the telephone in recent weeks. She was relieved to realize nothing more interesting than an order for bonemeal from the seed merchant had transpired in the past few days. However, she thought it unlikely that every resident of Walmsley Barbara could say the same.

  “I can’t say that I have ever heard anyone suggest that Geraldine abused her position at the telephone office. But that doesn’t mean she did not do so. What gave you cause to ask?”

  “I happened to pass through the alleyway that runs along the telephone office when I went to visit her there yesterday. There is a window on the side of the building that looks down onto the switchboard, but it is set quite high up in the wall, and I doubt most people would pay it much mind, Geraldine included.”

  “That still doesn’t explain your suspicions,” Edwina said.

  “I caught sight of her sitting at the switchboard as I passed by, and I took the opportunity to watch her without being observed. A call came in just as I stopped at the window, and rather than removing her headphones, she seemed to be attending to the conversation beyond what the switchboard operator was required to do.”

  “That’s not quite nice, is it?” Edwina said. “Still, that has nothing to do with her failure to arrive today, does it?”

  “Perhaps not. But then again, you never know,” Beryl said.

  Edwina thought it possible that Beryl was simply looking for reasons to dislike Geraldine. She had heard the way that Beryl muttered over the typewriter and had been quite shocked at her friend’s vocabulary. She wondered if Beryl was simply annoyed at the necessity of asking for help with the typewriter and thus was inclined to find fault with the young telephone operator.

  Edwina did not consider herself a gossip, but people did tend to confide things in her, especially if they pertained to domestic help or uncomfortable social situations. On many occasions, she had been consulted on the character of a parlourmaid or the trustworthiness of a potential childminder. Years spent assisting with the girl guides, the educational services offered by the Women’s Institute, and various activities involving the church had put Edwina in a position to evaluate knowledgeably the character of the younger generation.

  Geraldine had never struck her as a particularly prepossessing young woman, but neither had she been a glaringly bad apple. Still, Beryl’s instincts about such things had rarely been amiss. If anything, Beryl was far too inclined, in Edwina’s opinion, to give others the benefit of the doubt.

  “How long do you intend to sit here and wait for her to arrive?” Edwina asked.

  “I’ll give her another quarter of an hour, and then I shall consider our appointment canceled for today,” Beryl said.

  “I shouldn’t consider dismissing her without speaking with her first,” Edwina said. “Ever since the war, it’s been impossible to find good help. The trouble over domestic servants, even when one has the funds to pay for them, has been quite shocking.”

  “I doubt very much that Geraldine would consider herself to be a domestic servant,” Beryl said.

  “The principle is the same, though. Standards in service of any sort have gone entirely downhill ever since the war effort made opportunities available in the armaments factories and other sorts of employment in the cities,” Edwina said.

  She might come off as an old fuddy-duddy who was longing for times past, but she was not the only one to say so. The war years had exposed many of the cracks in the social structure, and Edwina had been slow to embrace the changes that rippled through the country. Young people seemed to want nothing whatsoever to do with small villages and country life. They all wanted to try their luck in London or other large cities. They seemed eager to shake off the dust of small country villages, even if they had been employed for high wages at grand estates.

  When Edwina had broached the subject with Charles one evening, he had taken a rather liberal view. Charles had said that the war had served as a great equalizer for the classes. He’d pointed out that it was not surprising that men who had seen their officers fall apart in the treacherous conditions of mud and disease and vermin no longer felt it their duty to work for long hours, little pay, and even less ability to direct their own lives.

  Edwina had conceded that he made a good point.

  “You can’t expect them to want to molder away in the country, not after all they saw during the war years,” Beryl said, pushing her chair back from the desk.

  Not for the first time, Edwina wondered what Beryl had spent her time doing during the war. Every time the topic came up, she felt a small gap grow between them. Their usual easy camaraderie felt slightly strained, and Edwina wondered if it was something Beryl was not saying or if Edwina’s own sense of guilt at her small contribution to the war effort caused it.

  “Nothing is the same since the fighting broke out, is it?” Edwina said.

  “You can blame it on the trenches,” Beryl said. “Once a workingman has seen those who call themselves his betters panicking under fire or shooting themselves in the feet in order to be sent away from the front, he can be forgiven for declining to serve that same sort of man once armistice was declared.”

  “I suppose the classes were thrown together in an unprecedented way,” Edwina said. “Still, I can’t help but reminisce about the days when it was possible to keep a parlourmaid, a cook, and two gardeners.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to get used to the idea. Now that the serving class has realized that they need not live under the thumb of those with property, they are unlikely to do so.”

  “Do you really think it was such a bad system?” Edwina asked.

  “Indeed I do. Can you imagine having a curfew from your employer or being required to ask for permission to walk out with a young man?” Beryl asked.

  Edwina had not considered it that way. In the past, her parents had always felt it their duty to advise their servants on all matters, including romantic entanglements. It had been her mother’s considered opinion that the average serving girl had no better sense than a chicken in a coop or a rabbit in a hutch. She had said as much to Edwina on more than one occasion.

  Now that she came to think on it, Edwina realized that her mother had been strict about the sort of men with whom her domestic help was allowed to walk out. She wondered if her grandparents had had any say over Simpkins’s connection with his wife, Bess. She thought it unlikely, as men were not so tightly leashed as women, but it might be worth asking, should she find the opportunity presented itself.

  “I suppose I can see why the freedom of factory work might have its appeal,” Edwina said.

  She thought back to her own youth, when her mother had been resistant to any young suitors that turned their attention towards Edwina. It had not seemed strange at the time that Mrs. Davenport had been equally strict with her servants. In fact, Edwina had felt that they had far more freedom than she herself did.

  For one thing, they had earned a wage and had been able to do with their money as they saw fit. Edwina had had no such resources and had been entirely dependent upon her parents until they both passed away. By the time she had gotten her hands on the purse strings, the finances were in a sad state of affairs, and it had done her more harm than good to be in charge of her financial destiny.

  “I shouldn’t think it would be easy to convince anyone to take up domestic service now or in the future,” Beryl said. “Perhaps that’s why Geraldine decided not to keep her appointment. Maybe she felt that it was beneath her to attend to me here at the Beeches. Perhaps I should have offered to meet her at her own home or even in a common meeting space, like the village hall or the reading room. I may have offended her.”

  “Or it may just be that you are correct about her withholding some information about the investigation, and she did not want to spend time with you alone. She may have felt that it would prove impossible to keep her secret if she encountered you once more.”

  “Either way, it seems I shall not have a typi
ng lesson this morning, after all,” Beryl said, gazing at the machine before her through narrowed eyes. She stood and tidied away the papers and writing implements scattered across the surface of the small desk.

  “Why don’t you wait for her by reading the post. I left your letters on the hall table,” Edwina said.

  With less vigor than she usually displayed, Beryl nodded and exited the room. Edwina thought she seemed unhappy about something, but found the thought passed quickly from her mind as she eyed the typewriter. She waited for a moment to be sure that Beryl was not about to return, then slipped around the desk to the chair and took a seat. There was something quite irresistible about the gleaming machine.

  She remembered countless happy hours spent plunking away on the one in her father’s office when she was a younger woman. She had never had any formal lessons, but she had prided herself on being rather a good typist, nonetheless. Her father’s office help had occasionally been called away on family emergencies or on account of illness.

  On one such occasion, his secretary, a plain, humorless woman who lavished her hours away from the office on perfecting a strain of sweet peas through careful crossbreeding, had been hit by a passing lorry and had required a lengthy stay at a convalescent home. Edwina’s mother had not wished for her husband to take on a young, attractive secretary, even on a temporary basis, and had insisted that Edwina fill in until Miss Soames was well enough to return.

  The duties were light, and Edwina found plenty of time for daily practice on the typewriting machine. In fact, she enjoyed it so much that she occasionally remained behind after her father left work for the day in order to tap away for a while longer. She did not mention to him, or to anyone else, for that matter, what she had been typing.