The Bagington Hall Mystery Read online

  The Bagington Hall Mystery

  A Maggie Darling Historical Cozy Mystery

  N.C. Lewis

  © N.C. Lewis 2019

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Reader's Note

  This book is set in the small coastal town of Cromer in the county of Norfolk, England and makes use of British English (although one or two American words or spellings might have slipped past me).

  Cromer is an ancient town, a modern community and a hidden gem of a seaside resort. I hope one day you will get to visit.

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, March 25, 1923

  The late afternoon sunlight sparkled and shimmered across the deep greens and browns of the Norfolk countryside. Across the entire landscape, pink and white blossoms bloomed on the trees. Sheep grazed lazily on the slopes, and the cries of flocks of blackbirds sounded in harmony with the rhythmic rattle of the steam train as it clattered towards the town of Cromer.

  I had the entire compartment to myself, rested my leather-bound journal in my lap and idly watched the hedgerows, farms, and hamlets roll by. It was seventeen years since I moved away with my father and sister. I was a fresh-faced, twenty-five-year-old girl from the country then. Now I'm forty-two, weary, and unmarried.

  As I watched the rural scenery flit by, memories of a half-forgotten life flooded back. I remembered our little russet-bricked cottage with the slanted tile roof that sat perched at the end of a narrow lane and the dirt path that led to the cliff with the steep, jagged steps down to the rocky beach. There was old Mr Gunthorpe with his short trousers and wooden clogs, the Victorian schoolhouse, the ancient, grey-stoned Saint Magdalene church, and the King's Head Tavern where Father drank away his Sunday afternoons.

  And I remembered Mother. "Maggie, you give up on things too easily. Whatever you start, see it through. Be persistent but polite."

  Seventeen years since she died.

  Seventeen years since my sister, Nancy's, birth.

  The train slowed to a crawl as the track curved around a sharp bend. Iron wheels screeched; the steam whistle tooted; the carriages rocked and shuddered.

  Within three months of Mother passing, we moved to London. Father said business in the capital city was booming, and to believe the newspaper reports, nuggets of gold paved the streets. But I suspect it was to get away from Cromer and the memories of what happened to Mother.

  In London, Father sunk what little money we had into a fish shop on Seven Sisters Road.

  The shop did not prosper.

  Father turned his hand to stone masonry, and when that did not work out, went into the horse-drawn cab trade. But the business collapsed as motor vehicles replaced horses, and Father was once again unemployed, this time for nearly three months. That's when he bought Nancy a mangle so she could earn a little money by taking in laundry.

  Soon after, Father gave up self-employment for work in a bakery shop and took to smoking a clay pipe in the evenings. One night as he read the newspaper by lamplight, he said, "Maggie, you'll be fine when I'm long gone. It is little Nancy that grieves my heart. What will she do when my time is up?"

  Nancy suffers from terrible spasms in the warmer months and bone-shaking coughs when the cold sets in. Undersized for her age, she was born unable to hear and cannot speak.

  "When I am gone, you will care for Nancy. Promise me that, Maggie."

  Quietly, I had resolved I would do exactly as my father had asked. That was one promise I wouldn’t break. And now as Father grows old and Nancy's health worsens, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing leaving them alone in London.

  The train whistle sounded three shrill blasts. I looked through the window. A herd of cattle clambered through a gap in the hedgerow. A scrawny man, with a cloth hat and large pole, yelled and steered the tan-and-white animals away from the railway track. Two young boys, dressed almost in rags, ran alongside the herd—a family of farmworkers. And to look at them, more unfortunate than the street urchins that populated the cobbled streets of London.

  The boys waved. I opened the carriage window, waved back, then settled deep into my seat. The train picked up speed.

  I'm moving back to Cromer to work as a bookkeeper for my uncle, Tristan Harbottle—my mother's younger brother. Uncle Tristan had tried his hand at many things—a poet, abstract sculptor, photography portrait artist, novelist. He had even worked in a travelling circus and lived in America. Tristan's Hands, a staffing agency, was his latest venture. It supplied workers to wealthy families: maids, butlers, cooks, and gardeners.

  Father was unhappy with the move. "Why go back to Norfolk, Maggie? Why are you leaving the capital city to go back to a rural backwater?"

  I'd tried to explain about Uncle Tristan and his business, about my memories of Mother, and the need to return to my roots.

  "Well," Father had said, "Uncle Tristan has matured over the years and put his boyish pastimes and tomfoolery behind him. He has written to me of his latest business ventures, which I feel will be very profitable. Whatever you learn about running a successful business, write and tell me. I've not given up hope of one day being my own boss again, so I can earn enough to help provide for Nancy when I'm gone."

  I unfolded Uncle Tristan's letter and read the thin, untidy handwriting.

  Dear Maggie,

  Oh yes. Yes, and once again, yes! Leave the grimy confines of London. Come home to the fresh air and infinite freedom of the Norfolk coast. Here on the seashore, the living is easy, inexpensive, and relaxed, and you will make an excellent clerk for Tristan's Hands. Lord knows I need one. The enterprise has become somewhat of a strain on my artistic pursuits. A burden made doubly troublesome by a lack of a wife and children to help. I'm afraid I just don't have the business nose of your father.

  You write of your "utter" lack of bookkeeping knowledge. Well, I never could figure it out myself. The artist's mind isn't wired that way. But I am as certain as Christmas, you will pick it up. And you shall start with the Sandoe account—Sir Richard Sandoe and his charming aunt, Lady Louisa Herriman. All will be explained when we meet.

  I gazed at the countryside. The train was clattering along a narrow valley which opened into a hamlet with tiny, russet-brick houses. I had never heard of Sir Sandoe before, but the name raised a picture of a tall, elegant gentleman with the charm and grace of royalty.

  And Lady Herriman, what was she like? All pearls, silk gowns, and elegance. Yes, they were beginning to take shape. It all sounded so glamorous. Quite different from my previous position—shop assistant for the stout, short-tempered Mr Pritchard in his pie-and-mash shop on Darlington Road. There I'd served jellied eels, meat pies, and mashed potatoes to a hoard of eager Londoners.

  On my first day behind the counter, Mr Pritchard had said, "I shall pay you above the going rate, and soon you will have the money to build a better future." It was a wonderful job until he demanded I become his sweetheart. He is married with seven children.

  I turned back to the letter and read on.

  Now, I have arranged accommodation for you at Mrs Rusbridger's excellent dwellings. A tranquil boarding house where you can look forward to quiet
, peaceful, lamplit evenings to practise your calligraphic penmanship. The kindly lodgings offer a room with a comfortable bed, a hearty breakfast as well as a delicious evening meal. Oh what a time you will have!

  We shall celebrate your arrival with a feast. Only the best Norfolk offers for my wonderful niece!

  How is your father getting along? I know his ailments are a profound source of worry for you (and me too). I hear he is in the bread-baking business. Londoners love their daily, fresh baked bread; he must be making a good living. I have written to him about my latest business ventures, and they meet with his approval.

  Let us agree to discuss financial matters on your arrival. For now, I enclose a first-class train ticket and look forward to hearing about all the new business ideas you have gained in London.

  I shall be at Cromer train station to meet you.

  Warmly Yours,

  Uncle Tristan.

  P.S. Give Nancy a warm hug and lots of kisses from her old uncle.

  P.P.S. I am sure your father will grow to appreciate the wisdom of your move, even if the memories of what happened to your mother are too painful for him to contemplate a return to the bosom of his ancestors.

  Once I'd settled, I'd send for Nancy and pray Father would follow. With only five shillings in my purse, that day was some way off. I needed to earn a little more of the king's currency. But I had a vision, a plan, and determination to get to my destination.

  Time would soon tell whether I'd make a success of things.

  Chapter 2

  The train slowed as it pulled into the city of Norwich, shuddering to a stop at an extended wooden platform: carriage doors opened; steam hissed from the idle engine. The platform filled then emptied of people.

  I placed Uncle Tristan's letter in my bag, took out a pencil, and practised calligraphic penmanship. I'd taken up calligraphy as a pastime in London. For several minutes, I sketched Gaelic characters. The acute accents over the vowels offered a particular challenge.

  The door to my carriage opened.

  A stranger entered, stood plumb in the middle of the compartment, feet apart, hands on hips, looking like a Shakespearean actor on the London stage. He was a short little man respectably dressed in a tweed jacket with matching trousers, a white shirt with heavy-starched collars, and a brown fedora hat.

  I suppose he was in his late fifties with the leathery countenance of a hunting man. He had peculiarly arched nostrils and his elongated face, like that of a barnyard donkey, served only to emphasise his weathered skin and wide, dark eyes. They were owl-like and seemed to take in everything all at once: my pencil, my journal, my dress, coat, cloche hat, and even my small trunk, which the train guard had placed so carefully on an overhead rack.

  "Good afternoon," said the short little man as he raised his fedora. There was a richness to his voice, a superior, plummy accent typical to the English upper class. But he slurred his words, and his breath oozed with brandy or whisky or both. "This seat is vacant, I take it?"

  Oh bother!

  I clutched my pencil tight in my right hand, annoyed at allowing such an unladylike expression to enter my mind. I'd enjoyed the solitude of the carriage and didn’t want to share the space. With a guilty flush, I said, "Indeed it is. It seems we are in luck and have the carriage to ourselves."

  "Excellent!" He took the seat directly opposite, unfolded a battered copy of the Norfolk News, held it high in front of his face with his arms extended like the captain of a ship might grasp a telescope. "Ah-ha," he said as if to himself, "my stocks are doing rather well."

  For a moment, I watched, then relieved he wasn’t about to make further conversation, let my eyes drift back to my journal. There were only two stops left on my journey—Bagington Hall then Cromer. With a renewed determination, I continued my penmanship practice. So complete was my concentration that the sound of the steam whistle and low groan of wood and metal, as the train pulled out of Norwich station, barely touched my conscious mind.

  As the train picked up speed, I knew I was being observed. In London, watching and being watched is a natural everyday occurrence. You notice the milkman who delivers at such-and-such an hour, and your neighbour calls if they don't see you return from work at your regular time. There is a certain comfort in that, a natural ebb and flow. But here in the tiny confines of a rickety steam train carriage, with a strange man, it was a most unwelcome and somewhat unnerving experience.

  I stole a glance at the man. He continued to hold the newspaper high in front of his face.

  Don’t be silly, Maggie, I told myself. The gentleman is reading, and there is no one else in the carriage.

  With a slow movement of my head, I turned from the man and looked through the window. The sun glowed from behind the treeline streaking the countryside with varying hues of red, orange, and gold. Cattle chewed their cud in the shade of a copse of ancient oak trees, and a scruffy, brown dog galloped alongside the railway track as if trying to outrun the train.

  I wrenched my mind back to the journal, picked up the pencil, and concentrated on the acute accents over the Gaelic vowels. As I was finishing a delicate swirl, I suddenly had the feeling, once again, that I was being watched. I turned towards the carriage hallway expecting to see the ticket collector peering through the glass window of the door.

  There was no one at the entrance, only the darkened hallway beyond.

  Now I felt slightly foolish. Who would be watching?

  With determination, I continued my penmanship practice. But the haphazard rock of the carriage as the train slowed to climb a steep incline threw off my hand. Untidy, black scribbles dotted the paper. I put down my journal and pencil then stole another glance at the man.

  Through two circular slits cut into the newspaper, a pair of dark eyes stared back.

  Chapter 3

  "Sir, do you make a regular practice of watching women through peepholes in your newspaper?" My voice was calm and firm, although inside, my stomach flipped like a pancake in a frying pan.

  The Norfolk News trembled then slowly lowered. With great care, the man folded it. After gazing at me for a few moments, he peeled back his lips into a doglike smirk. "Suffragette."

  The word hung in the air as if it explained everything.

  I glanced warily at the man. "Pardon?"

  "Damn suffragettes have the whole country in an uproar."

  Jolly good thing, had trembled on my lips but never passed them. I didn’t want to make a scene. "Really?"

  "Thought you might be one of the buggers." Again came the doggish smile. "A woman travelling alone, don't you know."

  In London, I travelled on the underground trains, overground railways, and omnibuses by myself. But I knew in the rural countryside, everyone knew everyone's business and felt it part of their business to comment on it. And a woman travelling unaccompanied in first class was something to be noted and gossiped about.

  I said, "There is nothing in the least bit unusual about my travel arrangements."

  The man leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to impart a secret. "I visited Finland a few years back; the place is swarming with women members of parliament. The first country to allow that." He adjusted his fedora. "The Finnish nation has gone to the dogs!"

  Riled by the man's impudence, I took a deep breath to calm the fury that brewed in my stomach. "Sir," I began in an even tone, "I take it you are not in favour of the universal franchise?"

  "Good God, woman, no!"

  l said, "Do you have a daughter?"

  There was an almost imperceptible hesitation. "Oh yes, Antoinette was a lovely little thing, quite regal, don't you know. Read Latin, French, Gaelic, and German. Even taught the chambermaid and head butler to read the languages. Quite a character, really." Something seemed to catch in his throat. After a moment, he continued, "Then she got to reading and thinking about politics. The silly girl even petitioned for women to join the Norfolk Workers Agricultural Union."

  Enlightened offspring, I thought and wan
ted to let him know his daughter's outlook bode well for the future of the country. But not wanting an argument, I said, "Where is Antoinette now?"

  His eyes turned cold and hard. "Sharrington Insane Asylum."

  I sat in shock as his words sunk in. "Dear God! You put your own daughter away?"

  "It's been three years."

  "How could you?" I made up my mind that I would visit the poor girl as soon as I settled into Cromer. I've never visited Sharrington, but it was local, and now I had a very good reason. "What is your full name, sir?"

  The man turned his gaze to the window. "Do you hunt?"

  He was clearly too impolite to answer my question. It didn’t matter; I knew his daughter's name, Antoinette, and that was enough.

  I said, "I find no sport in killing innocent creatures."

  "Enjoy a good roast?"

  I'd had enough of the terrible little man and said, "I really ought to get back to my penmanship. I hope you don't mind."

  "Cabbage, roast beef with lashings of gravy, eh?"

  "Have you tried your hand at calligraphy?"

  "I like to shoot game and finish them with a knife."

  I turned towards the carriage hallway. Where was the ticket inspector?

  I said, "Goodness!"

  "The hunt, the chase, the kill." His owl-like eyes became very large.

  "I see."

  "I fought in the Great War, you know."

  I wondered whether the fighting had affected his mind. There were few families untouched by tragedy, including my own. Millions had perished.

  Others came back a little crazed.

  I'd met way too many in Mr Pritchard's pie-and-mash shop. They were aged beyond their years, broken men who suffered from mental traumas. For the most part, they sat muttering to themselves at a table in the shop and were harmless. The only exception was Peter Thistle.

  My voice softened. "A grim time, indeed. It must have been difficult for you."