A Death in the Loch by Caroline Dunford Read Free Book Online Page A

in the dumb waiter, hopefully signalling to the kitchen below he needed a new stock. Retrieving the ladle, he polished it on a napkin from the buffet, glided over to Bertram, and said smoothly, ‘Soup, Mr Stapleford?’ Realising I still had the tureen I staggered over, so that by the time he lowered his ladle there was something to immerse it in. Bertram, scratching furiously at his beard, made a little bleating noise which Rory liberally interpreted as a yes and filled his soup bowl with a flourish.
    The meal continued. The woman did not return and while I was in the room at least the conversation was muted, consisting of such comments as: ‘A fine soup, Stapleford’ or ‘Well-seasoned sauce, this’. No one of course referred to the incident. I felt a momentary nostalgic pang for the Stapleford House retinue, who were uncivilised enough to discuss murder over lunch and would certainly have commented on Merry’s display. Here everything hung heavily unsaid in the air. Everyone was oppressively civil. My mother would have been proud of them, but I fear my standards had been lowered and I would have been glad of hearing everything that shouldn’t be said in front of the servants. Bertram was a sad storyteller and I knew would make a fearful mess of explaining what was eventually said over the cigars.
    I kept up my appearance of professional disinterest. Inside I was longing to get away to see Merry, but no footman appeared to relieve me. Instead Rory and I served the entire meal, barely looking at each other. It was agonising. I knew enough of Merry to know she would be throwing a fair fit downstairs. I also had no idea where the footman had gone, and if my life has taught me anything it is these little mysteries that often reveal the whole. I barely spared a thought for the be-souped woman. I felt she had got no more than she deserved, dressed the way she had been for luncheon!
    Finally everything that could be served was served. Rory would have to stay on hand, but I loaded the final serving dishes in the dumb waiter and nodded to Rory indicating I was leaving. I didn’t wait for any response, but closed the door quietly behind me before flying down the servants stairs.
    I found Susan sitting in the kitchen with a very large mug of tea in front of her. Jock was banging and clattering about the range and muttering even louder and even more unintelligibly than usual.
    ‘Whit do you ken about being a lady’s maid, Euphemia?’
    ‘Not a lot,’ I said sitting down. Jock slammed a cup of tea, unasked, in front of me. At least I think it was tea. It was darker than pitch and when I added a little milk from the jug on the table it still appeared unable to reflect light.
    ‘Nothing?’ asked Susan again.
    ‘It was always more Merry’s thing than mine.’ I paused. ‘Do you we have a lady coming to stay?’
    ‘Pah!’ said Susan and Jock almost simultaneously.
    ‘Miss Flowers wants someone to get the soup out of her skirt and to do her hair for this evening.’
    ‘Does she? I don’t think you’ll find Merry offering after what happened upstairs.’
    ‘Miss Flowers wants her dismissed!’
    ‘What!’ I cried, outraged.
    ‘Euphemia, I’ve not long been a housekeeper, but even I’m aware that the dumping of soup in a lady’s lap is grounds for dismissal.’
    I knew she was right and cursed Rory for his refusal to let me carry the tureen. ‘Have you given her her letters?’ I asked, referring to the practise of given a reference to an outgoing servant.
    ‘Thankfully,’ said Susan, ‘she is not a member of my staff. It will be up to Mr McLeod and Mr Stapleford to decide what to do. Personally I think whoever decided a tiny maid unused to serving should deal with that great cauldron of soup pot is a gormless eejit!’
    Not all the words were familiar to me, but I agreed with the sentiment. ‘What happened to your footman?’ I asked.
    ‘Postie called to say his mother had taken a turn for the worse and