Murder in Oils 8

 

Chapter 8

 

Alexander woke refreshed. He gave Campbell an errand before breakfast, loaning him a pair of white cotton gloves, and strolled out to the dining area to find that breakfast was a buffet affair with chafing dishes to keep things hot. There was a toaster of the most modern kind, and bread sliced ready for it, very evenly and thinly cut, he noticed approvingly.  Gladys was a treasure if it was her hand! He ignored the corn flakes, checking under each lid to find out what there was, and helped himself to a pair of kippers which he arranged lovingly on buttered toast with a pat of butter on top of them to melt as he dissected out the bones.  This delectable treat was followed by more toast with sausages and a poached egg.

Ida emerged from the kitchen in her frilly pinny and cap she had worn to look like a Lyon’s nippy.

“Sure, and we’re hopin’ sorr foinds it all t’his satisfaction,” she said, in a cod Irish accent.

“You’re adorable, Ida,” said Alexander, and then flushed.

So did Ida.

“Delectable and eligible young men have no right to be charming when they don’t mean anything by it,” said Ida, a little breathless.

“I meant it,” said Alexander. “I should like to court you.” He winked. “And steal Gladys as your maid if she can cut bread this well.”

“Oh, that’s me,” said Ida. “I’m quite capable of doing Gloria’s job as she reckons she is too much in pain to cope. I tried to get a look but she wasn’t having any of it so I don’t know if she’s acting the hypochondriac or if Anna is being spiteful in downplaying her woes, or a little bit of both. As to cutting bread and poaching eggs, it’s all about knowing the tricks; the bread is yesterday’s and so suitable as toast, but it cuts more easily; and you put a dash of vinegar in the water when poaching eggs. I’ve never used a poacher, though they do make them a nice shape.”

“Did you cook the eggs too? Poached to a nicety,” said Alexander.

“Well, I know any idiot can boil eggs, but I can’t,” said Ida. “I can see what poached or fried eggs are doing, but I never seem to get soft-boiled eggs right.”

“Why, there’s a trick to that, too, as a bachelor knows,” said Alexander. “When you ‘swim’ your eggs to check they are good, you can tell how old they are by how high they float in the pan, the older ones rise higher than the newer. Newer eggs need about 4 minutes, older eggs six or seven. That’s if you put them in boiling water. New eggs take three minutes after it boils if you put them into cold, which I’m afraid I usually do.”

“Oh! Then I’ll try that. Of course, they don’t keep for a buffet board anyway. Poached eggs are a bit more forgiving.”

“I take it morning rising is not regular?”

“No, and I’m about to put together a tray for Gloria; Anna will be down soon, and David at about eleven. His man takes him coffee and a poached egg on half a slice of toast, cut diagonally, precisely corner to corner, and his egg made in a poacher so it is perfectly circular, and arranged just so on the toast. The other half of the slice is carefully jammed with strawberry jelly to exactly a quarter inch thick all over which is why it has to be jelly not jam, he can’t abide bits. Tomorrow, being the funeral, we shall all be getting up and I will cook some rice and throw any left over eggs and kipper into it with some curry powder for kedgeree, which may not be the most appetising but who is thinking about what they are eating for funerals?  That’s if they are still going ahead?”

“They are,” said Alexander. “All sorted. Uh, why does David have breakfast in bed?”

“Oh! He will be dressed and in his private sitting room. He doesn’t like to look at the disorder of the way other people eat breakfast, it puts him off his food. He can manage by dinner time. And we usually have sandwiches and cakes with tea at three o’clock which are not too untidy for him.”

“Dear me, he really does take things to excess,” said Alexander.

“I suspect if hens could be bred to lay square eggs, David would invest,” said Ida. She helped herself to kippers, and plonked her own poached egg on top of it, which she devoured daintily, but with evident enjoyment.

“It’s nice to enjoy food again,” said Ida.

“It’s nice to see you enjoying food,” said Alexander. “What a sweetheart you are, and what a horrid time you’ve had!”

“Do you say that to all witnesses?” asked Ida, wistfully.

“What? No! Perish the thought! I normally remain aloof and distant, but... dear me, Ida! I... I appear to have become ridiculously fond of you in the shortest time!”

“Well, then, you had better court me so you know all my faults as well as my virtues,” said Ida.

“What shoes do you wear?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, I’m not extravagant to keep,” said Ida. “I don’t like fashion shoes; too uncomfortable. I have strap patent leather pumps with a low cuban heel.”

“Good,” said Alexander.

“Are you mean about hats? I don’t wear hats if I can avoid it either, but I would expect new hats from time to time.”

“Eh? No, I’m not mean about things like that.  I just wanted to eliminate you from Helen’s death.”

She went white.

“I... I suppose you have to treat me as a suspect,” she said.

“I was pretty sure I had eliminated you, but now I can prove it,” said Alexander. “What about Gladys?”

“Very sensible lace-ups, with old-fashioned round toes for comfort,” said Ida. “She has a pair of winkle-pickers for best, but they have quite low heels, like mine, because she can’t afford to hurt herself on unaccustomed shoes on days off. She’s not frivolous like some maids.”

“I’m glad you have her, she is partisan for you,” said Alexander. “Do you think she would procure me one each of the shoes of the other women in the house?”

“Not a problem, I’m sure,” said Ida.

“What are the chances of getting the shoe of Lady Baskerville?” Alexander asked.

“You take that suggestion seriously?”

“Ida, I have to take every suggestion seriously,” said Alexander.

“I... I could ask Gladys to offer to look after Cyril so that Cecily could come to the funeral, because Saturday is her maid’s day off. Gladys said she didn’t really want to go, as she preferred to remember them living; and so do I, but it would look odd if I did not go. I expect Cecily’s maid would stay if she had to, but she’s no sort of companion for a high-spirited boy, and Gladys has brothers, and took her child-nurse badge.”

“If she would be willing, I will be grateful, and if there is any trouble, I will find her a place until you are able to take her on as your maid,” said Alexander.

“I imagine she’d be much relieved,” said Ida. “Servants are hard to come by, these days, but fired for prying, even if asked by the police, would not be looked on kindly.”

Anna Galbraith came in, slouching somewhat towards the buffet.

“I do not find it amusing that you dress as a maid, Miss Ida,” she said. “Who did the cooking?”

“I did,” said Ida.

“So, should I fear for my life?” asked the nurse.

“That’s not very funny, under the circumstances,” said Alexander, dryly.

Anna flushed.

“I suppose not; but I cannot think that a girl bred with a silver spoon in her mouth can produce palatable food.”

“I used to hang around cook in our former house,” said Ida.

“I enjoyed what she made,” said Alexander.

“Oh, men; they will eat anything,” said Anna. “Except David, and he eats like an old maid. That governess will be down shortly, and she will decry a lack of soft-boiled eggs, will help herself to tea so thin it can hardly struggle out of the pot, a piece of bread-and butter, which she will attempt to dip in her poached egg in lieu of boiled egg, she will leave the white, and have a piece of bread-and-jam, decrying that the bread is dry, because it is bread for toasting.”

“I have to say, Anna has her to a ‘T’,” said Ida.

Miss Truckle minced in.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I suppose if Gloria is still hurt we won’t have any breakfast.”

“And there you would be wrong, Miss Truckle,” said Ida, who discreetly whipped off her cap and was untying her pinny. “I made breakfast.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Truckle. “Let me see... oh! How can anyone face kippers at a time like this?”

“I enjoyed mine,” said Alexander.

“So very hearty,” said Miss Truckle. “No soft-boiled eggs... I hope the poached egg is cooked all through. It will have to do.  And this bread is so hard! Even jam will scarcely soften it.”

“It’s for toasting,” said Ida. “I can get you a slice of soft bread, if you want me to start the new loaf.”

“Oh! I will manage,” said Miss Truckle. “Much will be wasted, you have made too much.”

“I have to take up a tray to Gloria yet, and Major Armitage is eyeing those last kippers with lustful eyes, so we may not have kedgeree tomorrow; I can chop up the sausages and egg with onion and potato in a potato bake, and the last of the dry bread will make a fine bread-and-butter pudding. I am quite capable, you know, of looking after myself, and the household,” said Ida. “We lived in a poky little cottage whilst this place was being built, and I shopped, cooked, and cleaned for David and Basil, though Campbell helped with the heavy work.”

“Oh, dear! You should not have had to be a skivvy!” cried Miss Truckle.

“I quite enjoyed it, actually,” said Ida. “Only then, David packed me off to finishing school for a couple of years, because some busybody complained that it was unseemly that a sixteen-year-old lady should be maid of all work to two gentlemen, even if they were her brothers.  Goodness knows how they managed.”

“By Campbell being resourceful, no doubt,” said Alexander, amused at how closely Anna had guessed Miss Truckle’s behaviour.  She was, indeed, dipping ‘soldiers’ of bread in her poached egg’s yolk.

 

When Ida took a tray up to Gloria, Alexander strolled out to visit Dr. Craiggie.

“I wish you will look in at Foursquares to look at Miss Wandsworth,” he said. “She had a shock and spilled a tureen of soup. Nurse Galbraith patched her up, but I’d like your opinion.”

“Do you trust it?” asked Craiggie, bitterly.

“About the living? You’d be out of business if you were a bad doctor,” said Alexander. “I think you are too partisan a coroner, however.”

“Well... I was shown up as a fool,” said Craiggie.

“Misguided,” said Alexander, pacifically.

“I’ve written to resign from the position rather than have it taken from me,” said Craiggie.

“I can respect a man big enough to acknowledge a fault,” said Alexander. “David can’t.”

“No; he’s an interesting study, but I wouldn’t like to live with him,” said Craiggie. “He’s lost without Helen, I think, which makes him bluster more; but none of those women have a chance with him, except maybe the governess, too forceful.” He added, “I’ll go right there; can I give you a lift back?”

“No, I asked to have any letters or parcels to me directed care of the post-office. Where is the post-office?”

“In the side of the bakery,” said the doctor. “No newsagent here, the newspaper is on sale in the fishmonger’s shop. And the fishmonger’s uses up surplus because they do fish and chips in the evening.”

“Really?  Tell Ida not to make dinner, I’ll order fish and chips sent up to Foursquares for eight.”

“You are getting your feet under the table.”

“With Gloria hors de combat, Ida’s taken on the job. If I take the responsibility for feeding the family and servants for dinner, David can’t snipe at her,” explained Alexander.

“Good point,” grunted Craiggie. “Maybe I’ll invite myself to dinner; I haven’t had fish and chips in an age. My sister keeps house for me and she disapproves of fish and chips as low.”

“The more the merrier,” said Alexander.

 

The bakery took up two shop fronts, and the smell of fresh bread was enticing.  Inside, the two shops had been knocked into one, and the greater part of one of them comprised a cafe, serving anything which was available in the bakery with a cup of tea or coffee. There was room for three small tables, and to one side was a counter with the sign, ‘Royal Mail.’ Alexander went to ask for any mail for him, and was presented with several bulky letters. He paid for the service of holding them, bought a cup of coffee and a cream bun, and examined his mail. A ten by eight photograph showed the shoe print, at a scale of one-to-one; and another also at full scale, showed the wound on Helen’s head, and a wider bruise on her arm than the balustrades, the break also apparent.  Hammond’s execrable handwriting on a note, paperclipped to this photo, read, ‘This bruise was more apparent on the photo than it was last night; I should say confirmation of being hit by a large vase. Note how the bruising fades off as if the weight was less as might be consistent with a roughly cylindrical object.’

Alexander gave a low whistle; it was very clear.

There was also a typed transcript of the autopsy findings, and an addendum covering the examination of the painting, and the conclusions, born out in the photographs, that a vase or similar object had caused the broken arm as a defensive wound.

The laboratory had also confirmed that there had been hemlock in with the herbal tobacco. A note said that the amount was hard to calculate from the burnt dottle, but that even small amounts of hemlock could prove deadly, especially to anyone in poor health or with respiratory ailments. Alexander grimaced.  Basil had fought smoke in his lungs as well as burned legs, and the strain on his heart must have been considerable. He was quite superhuman in his will-power to have painted at all. But that was Basil. Alexander blinked hard on tears of grief, and wished he had visited before; he had not seen Basil for two years, since they met up in a Lyon’s coffee shop in London, and Basil mentioned in passing that his sister was not very well, and he wanted to get back to keep her amused.

Alexander got himself under control.

Basil had said to him as well that he could not be expected to live long, and that he hoped Alexander would keep an eye out for his sister. He had never even known her name was Ida! And he had made reassuring noises, teased Basil that he would outlive them all – which had, at least made Basil laugh – and promised lightly to care for the girl if their brother was unequal to the task. Never expecting to find himself called on that; and not averse to doing so. But caring for Ida was as much about helping Ida to care for herself.

Alexander came from a family where strong, independent women were the norm, and believed that it was important for a woman to be able to be independent, even if she chose to enter a partnership in marriage. After all, one never knew what might befall.

He finished his cream bun, and went into the fish shop.

“Can I make an advance order for fish and chips to be delivered at eight?” he asked.

“If it’s worth my time,” said the fishmonger.

“Ten fish suppers for Foursquares,” said Alexander.

“I don’t appreciate practical jokers,” growled the fishmonger.

“Who’s joking?  I’m happy to pay ahead of time and a fee for delivery,” said Alexander

“That toffee-nosed lot will never eat fish and chips.”

“Well, they’ll go hungry then. The housekeeper is hurt, and I told Miss Ida I’d sort out dinner,” said Alexander. “I’m sorting out dinner.  I’d have paid a hundred guineas and killed a dozen Huns for a fish supper many a time on the front lines, and so would Mr. Basil, rest his soul, who was a friend of mine. And if David Henderson doesn’t like it, he can do the other thing.”

“Ho! Well if you can stand up to Mister-I-Am, good on you, squire,” said the fishmonger. “Mr. Campbell came in more than once for a fish supper for Mr. Basil, when he didn’t want to eat with the family. Ten fish suppers, tuppence delivery because I have to keep the boy up, and I’ll throw in a few sausages in batter as well.”

“Many thanks,” said Alexander, fishing out a shilling and a sixpenny piece. “Keep the penny change, neighbour, for the lad,” he added.