Murder At Mosley Manor

Vicar Toogood and his wife Bunty looked at the invitation with trepidation.

“What do you think it means?” Bunty asked.

“Not sure, dear. I guess we’ll find out in two days time,” he replied, feeling as confused as his wife. 

An invitation from his brother, the Colonel, was never a good thing. His estate, Mosley Manor — well it was really the family estate that he had inherited being the eldest son — had become his fortress that he rarely ventured from. If it had had a moat, the drawbridge would almost always be raised. Now, here was an invitation, embossed and wax-sealed no less. Something was amiss, the Vicar could feel it in his waters. 

“I’ll start packing, shall I?” Bunty asked.

“Yes, and I’ll book the train tickets to Much Wenlock,” Vicar Toogood said with a resigned sigh.

Snow was falling lightly as the Vicar and his wife alighted at Much Wenlock train station two days later. A cab waited to take them the five miles to Mosley Manor on the outskirts of the village. On the way through town, Bunty pointed to a gentleman leaving a betting shop and asked her husband if he looked familiar.

“How on earth could I recognise anyone bundled up like that. I can’t even see his face.”

“The way he’s walking and his build reminds me of someone,” Bunty said.

They travelled in silence the rest of the way, having exhausted all discussion on what could be the reason for the sudden and unexpected invitation. 

The cab driver took them the long way round, as some cab drivers were want to do with tourists. The Vicar and his wife didn’t mind. The countryside was beautiful and they were in no rush to get to the draughty old Manor.

When they finally arrived at the Manor, they marvelled at how beautiful it looked in the fading light and with the dusting of fresh snow, but the Vicar was not deceived. He knew there were a plethora of problems behind the stone facade. These old estates usually came with hefty bills. Owners had to have deep pockets to fund the upkeep. Other estate owners had taken to hiring the grounds out for weddings or market days. The words ‘over my dead body’, frequently came out of the Colonel’s mouth whenever anyone suggested such barbarity to him.

Jeffries, the butler, greeted them at the front door. He was the same age as the Colonel and the Vicar, and grew up with them on the estate. He had never seemed bothered by his station in life, or resentful of the fact that he was now in service to someone he used to play rough and tumble with as a child.

“Vicar, Mrs. Toogood. Welcome back to Mosley Manor. It’s been too long.”

“Three years, two months to be exact, Jeffries. How have you been?” The Vicar asked, as Jeffries took their bags and guided them inside.

“No complaints here, Vicar. The Colonel’s a tip-top employer, like his father before him was to my poor departed dad. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room. Dinner is at 8, Mrs Toogood. Vicar, the Colonel hopes you can meet him in the library for pre-dinner drinks at 7. He has something he wishes to discuss with you.”

“Of course, you can let him know I’ll be there,” the Vicar replied, glancing at his wife with a ‘here we go’ look.

“Will there be any other guests this weekend, Jeffries?” Bunty enquired.

“You will see at dinner, ma’am. The Colonel has kept his cards close to his chest these last few months. I haven’t been privy to the plans.” The Vicar thought he heard a touch of disgruntlement in the butler’s voice.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” the Vicar mumbled in Bunty’s ear.

“Indeed,” she replied.

The library hadn’t changed in a century. The books were old, often first editions, and the Colonel, having no love for reading, hadn’t added to the bookshelves. The smell was as familiar and comforting to the Vicar as his wife’s perfume. He made his way to the drink’s trolley and poured himself a generous measure of single-malt whiskey. He had a feeling this wasn’t the night for moderation.

He heard the door open behind him and the booming voice of his brother.

“Reuben! How the devil are you?” The Vicar grimaced, his brother had used this greeting ever since Reuben had become a ‘man of the cloth’. The Colonel thought it was hilarious, the Vicar didn’t.

“Thaddeus, good to see you again. I’m fine, I hope you’ve kept well these last few years?”

The Colonel cleared his throat rather more importantly than usual. “Yes, yes, all good. Remember Reuben, it’s only Thaddeus when we are alone together, otherwise I am ‘Colonel’.” Thaddeus had always hated his name, Thaddeus Toogood. “Toogood is fine for a Vicar, but not for a Colonel,” he had said. Now he was Colonel T. Danvers, using their mother’s maiden name.

“Of course, and I am ‘Vicar’.” The Colonel raised his glass in a silent salute that indicated he was in agreement with the terms, even though the Vicar knew his brother had never respected his profession or his title.

“Now, what was the business you wished to discuss, Thaddeus?”

The Colonel made his way behind his big oak desk, that had reportedly belonged to some historical figure that the Vicar couldn’t remember and frankly didn’t care to. That sort of pomp and ceremony was wasted on his simple virtues.

“I’ve made the decision to change my will, old chap. It’s time to shake things up a bit, not stand on tradition any longer,” the Colonel said.

This was another case of Reuben not caring one jot. He had given up his attachment to the Manor when he had entered the seminary at age eighteen.

“I have no heir, and really the horse has bolted out of that paddock. A bit late for this bucking stallion to knock some filly up now, what?” The Colonel’s weather-beaten face, red bulbous nose and iron-grey wiry hair was testament to that fact.

Reuben blushed at the crassness of his brother’s terminology.

“Why am I here, Thaddeus? You won’t be leaving it to me I assume.”

The Colonel laughed so heartily his burgeoning belly reminded Reuben of Santa Claus.

“You? No, I won’t be leaving it to you. Imagine a Vicar owning a manor? You’d probably turn it over to the church; hold choir practice here every Thursday, bible studies on Tuesday, prayer groups on Monday. No, dear brother, I am not at liberty to say just yet. I have a plan. I just wanted you and your dear wife here to be witnesses, and sign your names to the new document. That’s manageable for you, isn’t it?”

Reuben sighed. His brother loved theatrics. He couldn’t just change his will quietly with a lawyer like a normal person.

“Of course we can do that, Colonel.” Reuben used his title to show he knew his place. The dinner gong chimed. The men finished their whiskeys and walked to the dining room in single file.

The Vicar surveyed the room with as much trepidation as he had the invitation. His wife came up to stand by his side, aware of the shock he was so obviously feeling.

“Interesting guest list. I’d hazard a guess that this weekend is about the Colonel’s will,” Bunty whispered to her husband.

“Ten points to the beautiful lady with the gorgeous blue eyes,” the Vicar said, amazed once again by his wife’s astuteness and stunning good looks. How had he got so lucky? Thaddeus had wondered too, and for a time had attempted to woo Bunty away from Reuben. It was one of the only times in his life that the Colonel had lost.

“But why are we here?” She asked.

“Witnesses. Hopefully just to the signing of the new will and not to anything more...sinister,” Reuben said, mentally crossing his fingers.

The whole weekend felt like a tinderbox waiting for a match. The Vicar surveyed the room.

There was the eldest nephew, Harry Parker, Reuben’s sister Maud’s son. And his twin sister, Winsome, married to Lewis Woodward. Both siblings were tall and willowy, like their father, with sharp features that Harry wore well, but Winsome didn’t. He looked aristocratic with his long blonde fringe swept over his forehead; she looked like a schoolmarm; hair pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck, glasses perched on the end of her nose. Harry was the quintessential rakish fop, with a new girl on his arm every other week. This week it was Honey, an ‘exotic dancer’ Harry had met on an evening out. Winsome had married young. The couple struggled through life.

Then, almost hidden in the corner and camouflaged against the wallpaper, was Sophie. She was the Colonel’s goddaughter, a simpering slip of a girl with lank, mousy brown hair, she was like a babe in the woods. The Colonel had taken a shine to her and treated her as he would have done a beloved daughter. Sophie was accompanied by her nanny, now companion, since nanny status ended when a girl turned sixteen. Mrs. Fitchley was quite an imposing figure, which made Sophie seem that much smaller. She wore a uniform of a tweed jacket and skirt, sensible shoes and thick wool stockings.

“Now there could be the fly in the ointment, darling,” Bunty astutely commented to her husband. “A new will and all the major players here. What fun!” Reuben could think of a thousand more fun things to do this weekend, this would be like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic then watching it sink as the band played.

“Uncle Ruby! So great to see you. And Aunty Bunty, I do believe you get younger every time I see you. Mwa, mwa,” Harry effused, air kissing Bunty’s cheeks. “This fine creature on my arm is Honey, as sweet as her name. Honey, this is my aunt and uncle, Bunty and the Vicar.”

“Pleased to meet ya, I’m sure,” Honey said, chewing gum and holding her hand out as if she expected someone to kiss it. Bunty took hold of her fingertips and shook them.

“American? Did you run out of dates in England, Harry old chap?” Bunty teased.

“Aunty Bunty, you know how it is. I need to spread myself across the continents. It’s not fair to all those over there if I restrict myself to this fine country, now is it? Well, butter me crumpets, Honey, look who’s over there. It’s little Sophie and Mount Fitchley. I wish little Soph would let her hair down occasionally. She really is as cute as a button. Excuse us, Aunt and Uncle,” Harry said. Bunty and Reuben rolled their eyes at each other.

“Let’s go say hello to Winsome and Lewis, dear,” Bunty said, pulling her reluctant husband along. He wished he was back in front of his fireplace listening to Opportunity Knocks on the wireless. A simple life for a simple man.

Winsome and Lewis had their heads together, whispering fervently to each other. Reuben couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could make an educated guess that it was about the Colonel’s will. Winsome was a smart cookie, she just needed a leg up in life. Reuben considered her the best choice for the Colonel’s heir. Winsome could probably make a real go of this place if given half a chance. But it wasn’t up to him. 

 “Vicar, Bunty. Lovely to see you both again,” Winsome said, breaking off the tête-à-tête with her husband. “I’m surprised to see you here, actually.”

“We were surprised by the invitation as well, Winsome,” the Vicar said, not letting on for his brother’s reasons for having them there. “But a weekend away is not to be sneezed at, so here we are, with bells on.”

“I think dinner is just about to be served. Should we take our seats?” Winsome said, leading Lewis to the dining table.

Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper/cook — servants were thin on the ground at Mosley Manor these days — brought each course to the table, then left a young girl, hired for the evening, to serve each guest. 

Sophie was seated on the Colonel’s left, with Harry on his right. Winsome looked positively livid at the seating arrangements. Everyone knew the Colonel’s soft spot for Sophie, but for him to blatantly show it was beyond the pale for his niece. 

The Vicar and Bunty were down at the end of the long table, barely missing being seated in the kitchen with the staff and poor Mrs. Fitchley. The Colonel loved tradition, especially when it served his ego as Lord of the Manor.

Conversation was stilted, as it often was between family who chose not to keep in touch from year to year. It was mainly the Colonel talking about himself, and Harry trying to get a rise out of Winsome. The Vicar wondered when his brother was going to drop the bombshell.

It turned out to be over port and cigars about midnight. Being three hours past the Toogood’s bedtime was not, however, conducive to tactfulness.

“I have an announcement to make,” the Colonel said, through a haze of cigar smoke.

“Finally,” the Vicar said. He thought he had said it to himself but his wife elbowed him in the ribs and his brother shot him down with one of his military stares, and Harry guffawed. Obviously he had said it louder than he intended. The Vicar blushed as red as the beetroot soup they’d had for dinner.

“Yes, well, as I said I have an important announcement. This weekend I will be changing my will. How I will be changing it will be up to you. Consider this a game, if you will. You may get everything, you may get nothing.”

“What are the rules, Colonel?” Harry asked.

“They’re for me to know and for you lot to find out. I will announce the winner, if there is one, Sunday morning. Now, I bid you all a good evening. Sleep tight as tomorrow the games begin.”

“Your brother is playing a dangerous game, Reuben,” Bunty said as she undressed back in their room. “Maybe you need to have a word with him.”

“I don’t think it’ll be like the gladiator’s in the Colosseum, dear. He obviously just desires his subjects fawning over him for a weekend. Thank God we’re not involved.”

“Thank God, indeed,” Bunty said, hopping into the large lumpy bed. “I just hope no one gets hurt.”

“You worry too much. Sit back and enjoy the fireworks. That’s my plan for the weekend,” the Vicar said, as he kissed his wife goodnight.

Breakfast the next morning was a somber affair. The snow had continued through the night and seemed to be increasing in intensity. Only the Vicar looked as if he had slept well. Everyone avoided looking at each other. Suspicion and greed were nasty bedfellows.

“Where’s Uncle? How are we meant to pleasure him if he’s not around?” Harry questioned the group.

“Maybe he was up before the birds. Early birds catch all the worms, and I can imagine my brother believes he deserves all the worms. I’m sure he’ll show up sooner rather than later. He won’t want to miss any of the attention he’ll be expecting to receive,” the Vicar commented wryly.

“He was probably burning the midnight oil, if I know my godfather,” said Sophie timidly.

At that very moment, a blood-curdling scream rang through the Manor. Sophie dropped the spoon from the black pudding onto the floor. Harry grabbed Honey and pushed her in front of him. The Vicar and Bunty were the first to move into action. They ran up the stairs, the Vicar taking them two at a time. At the top they came across Mrs. Baker stumbling backwards out of the library. She was as white as a ghost, and gibbering about blood and the holy mother, making the sign of the cross on her heaving bosom over and over again. 

Bunty took her to a chair, while the Vicar approached the room. It was still in darkness, the drapes only opened a crack. The sun that did shine in though, illuminated an horrific tableau. There, at the big oak desk, slumped forward over some papers, lay his brother. The back of his head was a bloody matted mess. Knowing it would be a futile act, Reuben checked for his brother’s pulse anyway. His skin was cold and stiff. He was as dead as the proverbial doornail. The Vicar said a silent prayer.

The houseguests were gathered in the doorway, stunned and sickened by the sight before them. Sophie had her head buried in Mrs. Fitchley’s protective chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Lewis had his arms wrapped around Winsome who had a hanky pressed to her mouth. 

“I always thought he’d live to a ripe old age,” Winsome whispered.

Harry was comforting a distressed Honey, finally playing the part of a gentleman. The Vicar told Bunty to get Mrs. Baker a glass of water and to find Jeffries. The police and the doctor would have to be called. 

Reuben’s initial bad feeling about this weekend had manifested itself into the murder of his brother. Fireworks indeed.

“You need to get back into that room before the police get here, Reuben,” Bunty said to her husband. Jeffries had insisted on locking the door to the library keeping the perpetrator, or perpetrators, away from any evidence the police might find. 

Bunty, however, fancied herself as an amateur sleuth, a regular Sherlock Holmes, and Reuben was her Doctor Watson. 

“How do you propose I do that without looking like the guilty party?”

“Tell Jeffries you want to give your dearly departed brother the last rites.”

“That’s a Roman Catholic sacrament, which can’t be performed on someone who has already died,” Reuben informed his wife. 

“Right, well tell him you want to say a prayer over his body before it’s taken away and defiled by the coroner.”

“That might work. What exactly do you want me to do while I’m in there? No doubt Jeffries will be watching me like a hawk. I won’t be able to touch anything.”

“All I want to know is if anything is missing or out of place. We don’t know what the murder weapon was, so look particularly for any possibility.”

“Got it.”

Returning to the bedroom after his reconnaissance of the murder scene, the Vicar had a clear picture of the room in his mind which he relayed to Bunty. She took copious notes and asked questions when she felt Reuben had skipped over something. After half an hour, Bunty had her suspect. 

“Care to share?” Reuben asked.

“Not yet. I’ll see how far the Inspector gets. You know how upset they become when an amateur, especially a lady sleuth, steps in and solves their crime for them. I’ve even seen them go the opposite way out of spite. No, I’ll wait. Save his skin if he gets it horribly wrong and accuses the wrong person.”

Inspector Hunter arrived with the Doctor in due course. Neither looked pleased to be called out in the middle of a snow storm. The Inspector accompanied the Doctor to the library. Jeffries opened the door for them, with what he told them was the only set of keys, and was summarily dismissed. Bunty just happened to be walking past, and relayed this information to her husband. 

Interviews with each member of the household and each guest began after the body was removed to the morgue.

When it was finally Bunty’s turn, she pretended to be too upset to be interviewed without her husband by her side. She proceeded to cleverly interview the Inspector. The Vicar was astonished at his wife’s acumen. 

The Inspector seemed to be leaning towards Harry as the prime suspect.

“He had the most to lose, you see. The old will named Harry as the main beneficiary.”

“I know you’ve probably heard this on countless occasions, Inspector, but I just can’t see Harry having that much passion or malice,” Bunty said.

“You’d be surprised, little lady, what people are capable of when money is involved,” the Inspector said, smiling deprecatingly at Bunty and winking at the Vicar. 

Bunty squared her shoulders. Reuben felt sorry for the Inspector.

“I have been observing everyone in this household ever since we arrived, Inspector. I believe I have a line of questioning worth pursuing.”

The Inspector kept that smile on his face. The Vicar wanted to warn him.

“Well, if I need help, I know just where to come.” He patted her hand. The Vicar was very impressed with Bunty’s self-control. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d have slapped Inspector Hunter silly.

“Well, if you can’t make a case against Harry stick, you should look at Jeffries.” 

Next to her, her husband started.

“Are you sure you’re not making a mountain out of a molehill, darling? Jeffries was our childhood friend, almost like a brother to us,” Reuben asked, unwilling to believe Jeffries could raise a hand to his brother, let alone kill him.

Bunty held her husband’s hand. “I’m sure darling. Remember when I thought I recognised that man coming out of the betting shop? That was Jeffries.”

The Inspector chuckled softly. “Just because a man likes a wager on the ponies doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. You need to leave this to the professionals, ma’am. We do things by the book.”

“But Jeffries met us here when we arrived at the Manor. He couldn’t have been in town as well,” Reuben argued.

“The cab driver took us on the scenic route, remember? Jeffries had plenty of time to get back here before our arrival.”

Bunty ignored the Inspector’s derision and directed the next part of the conversation to him. “I spoke to Mrs. Baker. She said there’s been quite a few items that have gone missing lately; silver, china, even artwork. She was about to tell the Colonel. She suspected Jeffries. He always had his head in a race form. I think the straw that broke the camel's back was hearing the Colonel talk about changing his will. I think apart from the fear of discovery, he was also worried he’d be left with nothing.”

“That still isn’t proof of murder, Mrs. Toogood, you’re really just opening a can of worms.” The Vicar felt the Inspector was beginning to lose patience with Bunty.

“No, of course not. When we found the Colonel, there was one candlestick on the mantelpiece. How many were there when you went in there, Inspector?”

“I-I-I’m not entirely sure.”

“Once you’ve checked that, check the dust marks for how many there were on the shelf originally. Then ask who is the only person to have keys to that door, that could have entered between the discovery of the body and your presence in there today.”

The Inspector stood up suddenly, a look on his face like thunder.

“Thank you for your insight, Mrs. Toogood. I’ll look into your findings.” 

Dismissed, Bunty and Reuben headed back to their room.

Later that evening, after the Inspector had brought the rest of the policemen from his station in to search the Manor, he assembled the guests and staff in the drawing room.

“Thank you all for being here this evening. We have some news that will come as no surprise to some of you,” he said looking pointedly at Bunty. “Constable Treadwell, can you bring the evidence in please?” Behind the heavy oak doors, a sound like silver clanging together reached everyone’s ears. The Vicar squeezed Bunty’s hand.

“Upon searching the garage we came across an Aladdin’s Cave of goods. Among them were these,” he reached into the pillowcase Constable Treadwell had carried in, and pulled out two silver candlesticks. A gasp from Winsome, a shriek from Sophie and a moan from the guilty party, filled the silence. You would’ve had to have been as blind as a bat to not see the brown stains and hair on the base of one of them.

“The Colonel was murdered with this, and it wasn’t because of the new will. It was to hide theft and debt and there was probably even a little resentment and fear thrown in as well.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Inspector. Spill the beans. Who murdered our dear Uncle?” Harry asked. 

“It was him!” the Inspector said, pointing to Jeffries who had gone as white as a sheet. His legs had turned to jelly and he sank to the floor. 

“I was at the end of my rope. I couldn’t back a winner to save myself. I was drowning in debt. I thought the Colonel was going to find out I’d been stealing from the Manor and pawning the goods in town. I knew he’d have no second thoughts about firing me. Having you all here this weekend was an opportunity too good to pass up. I knew I had to make my move or I’d miss the boat. I’m sorry, Reuben.” Jeffries sobbed, the jig was up. He was headed to the big house for a long spell.

Bunty and the Vicar returned home the next day. Reuben breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold. 

“Cup of tea, dear?” Bunty asked him.

“You are an angel, but promise me no more mysteries for a while. I don’t think my poor old heart could take it.”

“Promise. No murders in manors, just crosswords in cottages,” she said handing him the newspaper. The front page though was no comfort to the Vicar. In big bold letters above pictures of his brother and Jeffries the headline read, THE BUTLER DID IT!