Scallaway's End

Mrs Minkwater and Gladys Stubbs

Mrs Minkwater was right, Scallaway’s End was unmistakable. Richard Sturling walked slowly with long strides up the long driveway bordered by dark green trees and lined with mossy stones. The house, rising into view above the lip of the drive, was large and grandly built, made from a grey stone and surrounded on all sides by tall evergreen trees, the sort of house where an elderly, reclusive and rich widow was certain to be found. The gravel driveway looped around on itself, drawing up before some sweeping stone steps which led to a large front door.

Sturling walked up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited, and listened as the sound of brisk footsteps came closer and closer. The door opened, and Sturling found himself looking at a middle aged maid in a black dress, her greying hair drawn back from her face in a tight bun.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Sturling, taking off his hat. ‘My name is Richard Sturling, and I’m here as a guest of Mrs Minkwater.’

The maid looked him up and down in a bland, appraising way. ‘Follow me,’ she said after concluding her inspection, and Sturling followed as he was led down a long hallway of paneled oak lined with mirrors, portraits and paintings. As he did, Sturling noted that one of the large oil paintings was leaning against the wall, and beside it was a low table with a gold tray on it. This was clearly the scene of the latest crime. He eyed the maid in front of him, who was leading him off down a smaller hallway. Suspect number one.

The maid opened a door and Sturling stepped into a room lined from floor to ceiling with oak bookcases filled with books, clearly the library. The maid bent down and began to light a fire set in the grate. Beside the fire was a large chair, in which sat an elderly lady with small beady eyes, dressed in black with a bow at her throat.

‘Richard Sturling,’ said the woman in a deep, cold voice, ‘I am glad you came here so fast.’ She made no attempt to stand up or even to signal Sturling to a seat.

‘I booked a ticket immediately on receiving your letter,’ Sturling replied.

Mrs Minkwater looked hard at him. ‘I suppose you want me to pay for it now?’ she snapped.

‘Believe me, I am perfectly satisfied with paying my own fare,’ Stirling replied evenly. Mrs Minkwater sniffed.

‘Once this confounded maid gets the fire going we can begin our discussion.’ Mrs Minkwater poked the maid with her foot. ‘Gladys you slow creature, hurry up with that fire and get out.’ The maid fumbled with the matchbox and the match she was holding snapped as she tried to strike it. Mrs Minkwater looked sharply up at Sturling. ‘Well, what are you still doing standing up? Sit.’ She waved her hand at the seat opposite, and Sturling sat down, keeping his expression bland and mild. The maid managed to light a match, and set the kindling alight. She stood up and meekly exited, closing the door softly behind her.

‘Darned maid,’ said Mrs Minkwater. ‘She plays herself as sweet and naive, but I’ve caught her numerous times reading my letters and listening at keyholes. Luckily I have rather a sixth sense for telling if someone’s listening in on a conversation.’ She raised her voice. ‘Gladys, get away from that door right now and go do the laundry, or I’ll sack you.’ Sturling heard muffled footsteps creeping away from the door.

‘What a nice library you have,’ said Sturling, feeling that he should compliment his hostess on her house.

Mrs Minkwater snorted. ‘I hate reading, so did my late husband,’ she said. ‘The only reason I even keep books in here is because the spines all match. Now, are you done making meaningless compliments yet? May we get back to business?’

‘Yes,’ said Sturling.

‘Good,’ said Mrs Minkwater. ‘Now, you’re the detective. I have a housefull of suspects, all of whom want my money. I believe that a detective’s first step is to question the victim.’

Sturling hesitated. He was not used to cases where the victim was still alive; in all his previous cases the victim had been dead. It was a rare and unexpected opportunity to be able to talk first hand to the victim.

‘Would you be so kind as to discuss each of your guests with me,’ said Sturling, leaning back in his chair. ‘Tell me about their dispositions, their relationships to you, and why you suspect them.’

Mrs Minkwater needed no more prompting. ‘The first of the guests is my friend Ethel,’ she said. ‘Ethel Braithwaite, if you want her full name. She and I have been friends for years, though in a rather distant and mistrusting fashion. She has never made it a secret that she wants my money, and I have never made it a secret that every cent of my money goes to her in my will.

‘Next, I suppose, there is my nephew, Tristan Sueducate. I am highly good at forgetting my relatives, and would have forgotten his existence years ago it he did not have the persistence to keep remembering me. For years I won’t see him but for the occasional letter begging for me to help him out of his gambling debts, and then out of the blue he will then up on my doorstep and will stay for just however long he pleases, and I will be forced to acknowledge that by some fault of nature we are somehow related. He’s an untrustworthy boy, sly, stupid.

‘Then there’s my lawyer Sylvester Symes. He seems to be bent on getting hold of my money through whatever means he can. Last year he was peppering me with requests to sign some papers which would, on reading the small text, give him the rights to everything I own upon my death. Now he is staying here under some pretence of looking after my financial matters while constantly sliding dotted lines under my pen nib with his slimy fingers. That man is more sly than Gladys Stubb’s cat.’

‘Gladys Stubbs?’

‘The maid you fool, didn’t you just hear me say her name? One could say I’ve never been particularly soft on her, but she is the most incapable maid, always listening at keyholes and dusting my letter tray at the most convenient times. We had an argument the other night after I found her prying into one of my letters, and I told her that she either had to get rid of that cat of hers or I’d give her the sack.

‘Then there’s Sir Cumbridge, a friend of my late husband’s, Mr Minkwater. We’ve had a falling out recently on a rather extreme scale, however I felt soft hearted towards him and invited him around for a fortnight to see if we could not come to some sort of agreement over the falling out.’ Mrs Minkwater eyed Sturling, as if daring him to ask what the falling out had been. Sturling did not.

‘Is that everyone in the house?’

‘Everyone who would have any motive to kill me, yes.’

Sturling rose. ‘Thank you very much for your time, ma’am. If it is at all possible, I would now like to speak to the suspects.’

‘Yes of course,’ said Mrs Minkwater, waving her hand carelessly. ‘They’ll be in the drawing room. The maid will show you to your room if you care to wash and unpack.’

‘I am assuming you will not want me to disclose my identity?’

‘Of course not! Detectives never tell people that they are detectives, that defies the point. You’re the son of an old friend of mine who has dropped by for a week.’

‘Very good, Ma’am. Thank you for your time.’ Sturling turned and exited the room. He stood in the hallway for a few seconds, hands behind his back. The interior of the house was dark, grim and regal, and the smallest noise echoed loudly through the network of halls and passages. It was one of these old houses kept in good shape, which meant that though it was just as modern as any other structure, the floorboards creaked and footsteps echoed. The ideal place for catching a creeping villain.

The hallway was lined with doors. Sturling turned the handle of the room next to the library and found, not to his surprize, that it was locked. He imagined that this house had many locked doors and hidden secrets.

Richard Sturling paced slowly along the hallway. He had left his bag just inside the door, and as he rounded the corner he saw that it was gone. Listening carefully, he heard the sound of footsteps up ahead, the same footsteps he had heard approaching the front door not half an hour before. At the end of another corridor branching off from the hall, Sturling saw the maid walking briskly along. She saw him, and paused. ‘I’ve put your things in your room, Sir. Shall I show you up?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Sturling followed the maid as she led him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Seeing his opportunity, Sturling, who had been a few steps behind, made pace with the maid and slowed down a little, forcing her to slow her brisk walk. ‘It’s a wonderful place here,’ he said. ‘Peaceful and isolated.’

‘Yes sir,’ the maid answered shortly.

‘I haven’t seen old Mrs Minkwater for years,’ said Sturling. ‘Her temperament certainly hasn’t improved, though.’

The maid smirked a little. ‘If anything, she’s got nastier,’ she admitted, leading Sturling along a carpeted passage lined with doors and more mirrors and paintings. ‘I’ve worked with her over the years, and she’s only got nastier with age.’

‘I can imagine you have your fair share of arguments,’ said Sturling, keeping his voice mild and yet hinting interest.

The maid gave a sharp laugh. ‘Arguments!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can say arguments, all right. She threatens me with all sorts of things, though mostly the sack of course.’

‘I can imagine being sacked is the last thing you want.’

‘The last thing? If I get sacked I’ll have to move out of the country and work in the town. Mrs Minkwater’s the only person out here who needs a maid and can pay me what I need. My old mother lives out here, and if I move I’ll have to leave her behind, as she refuses to move away from the country. So I always make sure to lose every argument I have, you see.’

Sturling thought back to his conversation with Mrs Minkwater. ‘So I suppose you’re going to have to get rid of your cat to keep your job?’ he said.

The maid looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Minkwater seemed in a very talkative mood. We chatted about everything from the weather to train timetables.’

The maid sighed as she opened one of the doors lining the passage. Sturling stepped into a dull, pleasant room with a crackling fire and a small bed. ‘Getting rid of my dear cat is the last thing I want to do,’ said the maid. ‘I’m stuck in a hard place, really. All I can hope is that Mrs Minkwater forgets her threat.’ She suddenly hesitated. ‘I didn’t mean to babble so,’ she said. ‘You…’

‘I won’t say a word to Mrs Minkwater,’ said Sturling, smiling. The maid breathed a sigh and departed, closing the door. Sturling looked around the room, and saw his brown suitcase at the foot of the bed. Bending, he opened it. His shirts were neatly folded, and his toothbrush and spare socks were in the end compartment, just as they should be. But Sturling’s sharp eyes noted something which anyone other than a detective would have most certainly missed. His shirts had been rifled through with delicate fingers, and someone had slid their hand into his briefcase in the bottom of the suitcase, leaving one buckle partially undone.

Mrs Minkwater may be nasty, but she was certainly right about one thing. The maid was untrustworthy.