Death at Crookham Hall: The start of a gripping 1920s cozy mystery series from Michelle Salter

PROLOGUE

WALDENMERE LAKE, WALDEN, HAMPSHIRE

She wore a linen cloak that was too thick for the warm August night, but it hid her features.

She stood at the end of the wooden jetty; the water was inviting. She wanted to jump, to feel the cold of the lake, submerge, float upwards and drift away. Her body ached with tiredness.

The noise of a train pulling into the railway station roused her. She drew the hood over her head, touching her unfamiliar cropped hair. A short dark bob had replaced her long blonde locks. She took a lingering look at the silver-grey water then emerged from the shadows and strolled towards the station.

She walked to the end of the platform and boarded. It was the last train of the night and no other passengers joined her in the carriage during the journey.

When she reached her destination, she waited for a few minutes before leaving the train. She stepped down and the platform was empty. Panic gripped her. What if they weren’t here? Where would she go? She had nothing but the clothes she was wearing.

She walked through the deserted concourse, taking deep breaths and tasting burning coal. A tall figure emerged from behind a kiosk at the far end of the station. Arranging the cloak to disguise her features, she moved towards the person.

‘Did anyone see you?’

It was a familiar voice. Her panic subsided.

‘I don’t think so.’ She pulled back her hood. ‘If they did, they wouldn’t have recognised me.’

‘Good.’

‘I hid by the lake until the train pulled in.’ She still longed to be immersed in the calmness of the water. ‘It’s strange to think I may never see Waldenmere again.’

‘You will never see it again. You must never return to Walden.’

She nodded. She had no choice but to agree.

‘There’s a taxi outside. I’ve paid him. He’ll take you to where you’re going to be living.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

‘I can’t. I’ll be missed.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ She took the purse she was handed.

‘Because I was once helpless. And I remember the fear.’

1

1920

‘Mrs Siddons has invited me to listen to a debate in the House of Commons.’ I hooked my coat on the hatstand, dumped my bag on my desk and went through to the boss’s office.

Elijah Whittle, editor of The Walden Herald, commanded his empire from a smoke-filled den. I say empire, the newspaper’s headquarters consisted of two rooms above Laffaye Printworks. My desk was in the main office whilst Elijah sat in a small adjoining room.

From his desk, he could keep an eye on the main office door, the large railway clock on the wall and me at work. I was the only permanent reporter; he mainly used freelancers, and the rest of the newspaper staff were housed downstairs in the printworks.

‘Is that a good idea, Iris?’ He stubbed out his cigarette and ran his nicotine-stained fingers through his grey hair.

‘I can’t avoid the place forever,’ I said with a flippancy I didn’t feel. ‘You must have seen debates there?’

‘Many times, when I worked for The Daily Telegraph. I can’t promise you’ll enjoy the experience.’

‘Is The Walden Herald going to support Mrs Siddons?’ I didn’t think he’d commit before the other candidates in the by-election had been announced, but it was worth a try.

‘I’ll see what she has to say on the hustings, then make up my mind.’ He reached for his cigarettes and I cranked open the window.

‘What do you think about women in Parliament?’

Elijah held progressive views on many things, but there was a traditional streak running through him. ‘I think women MPs will vastly improve our parliamentary system. But I’ll judge each candidate on their merits, irrespective of their sex.’

I couldn’t object to this infuriatingly reasonable response. ‘Do we know who the other candidates are yet?’ So far, only Mrs Siddons had been declared for the Liberal Party.

He gave me a wry smile. I flopped into the nearest chair. ‘What have you heard?’

‘Lady Delphina Timpson is standing for the Conservatives.’

‘What? Another woman’s standing?’ This ruined my vision of Mrs Siddons’ triumphant victory over the male opposition.

‘What are you going to do now?’ He regarded me with amusement. ‘With two women to support?’

‘I’ll judge each on their merits.’ I repeated his words back to him, but I was lying. Mrs Siddons had become my friend after my mother’s death. Six years and the Great War had passed since then, and I wasn’t about to switch my allegiance.

‘The first constituency ever to have two women standing against each other in a by-election.’ He took a contented drag of his cigarette.

This was heady stuff for our corner of north-east Hampshire. But I wanted Mrs Siddons to be the third female to take her seat in the House of Commons. Not some other woman.

‘Who’s the Labour candidate?’ I asked.

‘Donald Anstey. I don’t know much about him. He supports women becoming MPs but I bet he never thought he’d be standing against two of them.’

‘Will we get to interview them all?’

‘That’s the plan. I’ve put in a request to Lady Timpson’s office.’

‘I know her daughter, Constance. She was at Miss Cotton’s Academy at the same time as me. I haven’t seen her for years. What about Donald Anstey?’

‘He’s looking pretty dull compared to the mighty Mrs Siddons and the wealthy Lady Timpson. I expect he’ll do what he can to gain a few column inches.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘This won’t do our circulation any harm.’

My emotions were doing battle. I was irritated that another woman was standing against Mrs Siddons. But this was a story that was likely to generate national interest, especially with a candidate as famous as Lady Timpson.

‘Do some research and draft notes on each candidate. I want impartial information. I know who you favour, but I don’t want any bias coming through yet. We may decide not to support any of them.’

‘We?’ I’d already made up my mind to do everything in my power to ensure Mrs Siddons became the next MP for Aldershot.

‘I mean Mr Laffaye and me.’

‘Does Mr Laffaye ever tell you what to write? Or what not to write?’

As editor of The Walden Herald, Elijah was responsible for the newspaper’s content. But Horace Laffaye owned the paper and held the purse strings. I often wondered how much influence he exerted.

‘He offers advice. Which I can regard or disregard. Fortunately, we tend to agree on most things. And I’m sure we will over this.’

I wondered what would happen if they didn’t.

At five o’clock, I left the office and went downstairs and out onto Queens Road. It was a still, damp evening and the smell of ink hung in the air, rising through the grate above the printworks.

Further down the road I took the footpath that led to Waldenmere. One of my favourite walks was to follow the meandering route of Grebe Stream down to Heron Bay, where it flowed into the lake.

Wood sorrel and lesser celandine were in flower on the banks, and dog violets were peeking out along the edges of the footpath. The trees were still bare, but it wouldn’t be long before their leaves unfurled.

As I’d hoped, I spotted an easel propped up in a glade near Heron Bay. Alice Thackeray’s distinctive red hair stood out against the watery grey backdrop. I pushed through the ferns to join her in the clearing.

Although it was mild for March, there was still a chill in the air and she was wrapped in a thick, green woollen coat, her bare hands delicately dabbing a paintbrush onto canvas.

I examined the watercolour. She’d started with a rough sketch of the shoreline and had just begun to colour the reedbeds. The more she progressed, the more the reeds appeared to be swaying in the breeze. ‘I wish I could paint like that.’

She smiled. Then frowned. ‘Iris, you’re wearing trousers again.’

I ignored this. ‘Guess who’s standing against Mrs Siddons in the by-election?’

‘Some chap called Anstey. Father says he’s a communist.’

‘No, not him. Lady Delphina Timpson.’ I perched on a nearby log, but it was too damp, so I got up again.

‘Constance’s mother?’ I had her attention.

‘She’s standing as the Conservative candidate. She announced it this morning from Army HQ in Aldershot. Lord Tobias Timpson by her side.’

‘Two women standing? Father’s going to be furious.’ The light was fading and she began to wash her brushes.

‘Lady Timpson’s hoping for the military vote.’

‘She won’t get Father’s. He disapproves of women in politics.’

‘He’ll have to vote for the communist then.’ I took great pleasure in Colonel Thackeray’s predicament. ‘Have you seen Constance since school?’

‘During the war she gave us donations of food and clothes, the Walden Women’s Group, I mean. We used to distribute them to local families in need.’ She carefully covered up the canvas and I helped her to pack away her paints.

‘Ever been to Crookham Hall?’ I asked.

‘A few times, for dances. The Timpsons used to hold them to entertain the troops. It’s very grand. Are you going there?’

‘Maybe. Elijah wants to interview Lady Timpson.’

I was unlikely to be invited to the hall in any other capacity. Alice had the advantage of being a Colonel’s daughter, whereas I was further down the social scale.

We waded through bracken to join the lake path and I told her about my invitation to the House of Commons.

‘Isn’t that where your mother…’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m surprised Mrs Siddons wants to take you there.’

‘So am I,’ I admitted.

‘Is she trying to influence how you’ll write about her in the paper?’

‘I’m not sure she’d risk taking me to Westminster if that was all she wanted,’ I snapped.

‘I suppose not. Are you sure you want to go?’ She linked her arm through mine.

‘Yes,’ I said untruthfully. I wasn’t sure at all. ‘I’m going to stay with Gran and Aunt Maud.’

‘Just for a visit?’ she said in alarm. ‘I’d hate you to move away again. I missed you during the war.’

‘I’m only staying with them overnight as the debate might not finish in time for me to catch the last train,’ I reassured her. ‘I missed you too. And Waldenmere.’ But I avoided meeting her eyes. I had missed Alice, but I hadn’t wanted to leave our home on Hither Green Lane. The truth was it had been Father’s idea to move back to Walden. He’d persuaded me to return by getting me the job with Elijah. They were old friends from their days at The Daily Telegraph. It hadn’t been how I’d imagined launching my writing career, but I’d tried – and failed – to get a foot in the door of any of the London newspapers. All I’d managed to do was sell a few of my articles to ladies’ magazines. The Walden Herald had seemed as good a place to start as any.

And now, sleepy old Walden had a story on its hands that would be of national interest. For once, I seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

2

I left the house early. Too early to catch my train to London.

But dawn was the only time I could guarantee having the lake to myself. Even on this dull March morning, Waldenmere had an eerie beauty. At first light, there was a stillness about the lake that became diluted as the day progressed. To be by the water at this time reassured me that the storm had passed, and we were at peace.

During the war years in the city, I often dreamt of being back at Waldenmere. It represented something constant in an ever-changing world.

I was watching the light shimmer on the flat silvery water when the sound of the newspaper train pulling in made me look up. I realised I wasn’t alone. A man was standing on the wooden jetty by the railway station. He gave me a sad smile as though he knew who I was.

There was only a short distance between us, but a low mist hung in the air, and I had to squint to get a better look at his face. I didn’t recognise him. He appeared to be holding some flowers, which he dropped into the water.

I pulled my coat tighter around me and walked away. I glanced back to see if he’d moved, but he remained on the jetty.

After breakfast, I headed to the railway station, carrying a small suitcase. I half expected to see the man still on the jetty, but no one was around. I walked over to where he’d been standing and peered into the water. Half a dozen bedraggled purple flowers were clinging to the banks. They looked strangely out of place. These weren’t the common dog violets that grew in abundance around Waldenmere.

They were sweet violets – the flower of the suffragettes.

That afternoon, I walked through the Central Lobby of the Houses of Parliament, a nervous tension tightening my stomach.

I strolled in a circle, making a pretence of examining each painting and reading each inscription. But they were all a blur. I wanted to appear as though I was casually sauntering, but I knew exactly where I was heading. As soon as I’d entered the lobby, my eyes had sought out the ornate metal grilles set into the windows.

The grilles had once sat in the stone arches of the Ladies’ Gallery, but after my mother’s protest, they’d been cleaned and moved to the Central Lobby.

My heart beat a little faster as I got nearer. I checked no one was watching and reached out to touch the cold metal. The grilles were still impressive, though I suspected they wouldn’t be quite so tarnished if my mother hadn’t painted them. I ran my fingers over the latticework, imagining her in action. Had she been scared? Or exhilarated?

‘Are those the ones…?’ Mrs Siddons appeared by my side, making me jump.

I nodded.

The grilles had been designed in the 1830s to screen the ladies in the gallery from the men below. MPs weren’t to be distracted by women watching them at work. The problem was, they restricted the view of the debating chamber and made the Ladies’ Gallery extremely hot. My mother hadn’t been the first suffragist to target them.

In 1908, Helen Fox and Muriel Matters of the Women’s Freedom League had chained and padlocked themselves to the grilles whilst my mother’s namesake, Violet Tillard, had pushed a large banner through the latticework on the end of a rope.

‘How did your mother’s protest come about? It was the day Emmeline Pankhurst tried to petition the King, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, the twenty-first of May 1914. We didn’t know what she was planning. We thought she was marching to Buckingham Palace with the others.’

‘But she came here instead?’

‘She knew there’d be no police around. They’d all be at the march. Somehow, she managed to get into the Ladies’ Gallery. She painted the grilles suffragette green and lowered a Women’s Social and Political Union banner into the chamber below.’

Mrs Siddons smiled and touched the tarnished metal. I took a last look before she led me away to the Strangers’ Gallery, where the public sat. Several MPs I recognised greeted her cordially – I couldn’t help wondering how much support they’d give her if she were taking to the floor with them instead of spectating.

In the chamber, my eyes were drawn to the Ladies’ Gallery. It hadn’t been used for years. Knowing my mother had been there shortly before she died made my skin prickle.

I turned my attention to the speakers when the Equal Franchise Act came up for debate. Lady Astor faced an all-male audience and gave a vigorous but uninspiring speech on why women must have the vote on the same terms as men. Winston Churchill retaliated with a forceful and vociferous argument against the bill. Heated exchanges followed with numerous interjections from the Speaker.

‘I wish Mother were here to see this,’ I whispered to Mrs Siddons. ‘Though I expect she would’ve done something embarrassing to get us thrown out.’

‘I feel like doing that myself.’ Mrs Siddons laughed but shook her head. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’

The Representation of the People Act in 1918 had given the vote to all men over the age of twenty-one but only to women over the age of thirty who met a property qualification.

At twenty-one, I wasn’t eligible to vote. My mother wouldn’t have been satisfied, and neither was I. As expected, the bill was rejected and the discussion moved on.

I emerged with relief from the smoke-filled gallery into the cool evening air. ‘I’m surprised any women stand for election. They get patronised by their fellow MPs and ridiculed by the newspapers.’

‘Most of my press coverage does tend to focus on what I look like rather than what I have to say.’

I smiled, glancing at her attire. She was wearing a full-length, dark green silk dress that hugged her matronly figure. A matching silk cap rested on her perfectly curled dark hair. And despite disparaging comments in the press about her fondness for expensive jewellery, she wore an emerald necklace and matching earrings. In a country still on its knees after a bloody and costly war, ostentatious displays of wealth were frowned upon by some.

‘They’ve moved on from Lady Astor’s hats to your earrings,’ I commented as we strolled towards Westminster Bridge.

‘No doubt Delphina and I will be pitted against each other in the fashion stakes as well as the political ones. As for Mr Anstey, apart from passing comment on the type of hat he wears, I don’t think they’ll worry too much about his clothes.’

Delphina? So, Mrs Siddons was on first-name terms with her opponent.

‘How do you feel about Lady Timpson standing against you?’

‘I welcome more women playing a part in politics. I’m just not sure of her motives.’

‘How do you know her?’

‘We were friends when we were young. I haven’t seen much of her in recent years.’

I wanted to find out more, but I knew we were nearing the spot where it happened. Mrs Siddons must have sensed my anxiety because she took my hand.

‘Would you like to go a different way?’ We were by the corner of Parliament as it joined Westminster Bridge.

‘No.’

She glanced at me but said nothing.

I wanted to go to the exact place. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know why, but I had to. ‘It was here.’ I stopped abruptly. ‘Mother went into the water here.’

We stood under the shadow of Big Ben.

‘She came out through Speaker’s Court over there and onto the Green.’ I pointed. ‘She must have been heading towards these steps up to the bridge when she fell into the river.’

The Thames was black and fetid. I shuddered, trying to block out the image of my mother sinking into its filthy darkness, swallowing putrid water.

‘Come away.’ I felt Mrs Siddons tug my hand.

‘I’m surprised the WSPU didn’t put up a plaque.’ I forced a laugh. ‘Suffragette Violet Woodmore fell here – another martyr to the cause.’

‘She didn’t fall,’ said a gruff voice, startling me.

An old man with a weathered face was watching us. He wore the scarlet uniform of a Thames waterman.

I stared at him, feeling a chill of foreboding, knowing I didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. I had an impulse to run away. But I stayed rooted to the spot.

‘I saw her, that suffragette.’ He rubbed the grey bristles on his chin. ‘She didn’t fall, she jumped.’

3

‘She came out of nowhere and threw herself in the river.’ The waterman pointed to where my mother had entered the water.

‘No,’ I said. ‘She fell.’

‘If she were hurrying, she might have tripped.’ Mrs Siddons tugged at my arm.

‘She jumped. I’m sure of that.’ The man removed his cap and twisted it in his hands.

‘She must have fallen and it looked like she jumped.’ Scenarios of what could have happened flitted through my mind. ‘Was she running? Was someone chasing her?’

‘Not that I could see. She was standing there one minute and the next she was in the river. I’ve worked this stretch of the Thames for forty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘What did you do?’ Mrs Siddons asked.

‘I got her to the shore, and the Serjeant-at-Arms hauled her away.’

‘The Serjeant-at-Arms must have been chasing her.’ My anger rose at the thought of my fragile mother being dragged around like a sack of laundry.

The waterman shook his head. ‘I had to call him over. He wasn’t there before she went into the water.’

‘She wouldn’t have jumped.’ I tried to sound calm. ‘She couldn’t swim.’

‘I could see that. Mad thing to do, it was. She nearly got hit by a boat. I don’t know what possessed her.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t see what caused her to fall?’ Mrs Siddons suggested.

‘I could see it all clearly from my boat.’ He wasn’t to be dissuaded.

I shivered, feeling the chill of the night air. My head pounded, and when Mrs Siddons pulled on my arm, I let her lead me away.

She steered me across the road to St Stephen’s Tavern, where she ordered two brandies. I’d expected the barman to ask us to leave as we were unaccompanied by a man. Instead, he greeted her like an old friend.

‘You’ve always believed your mother fell?’ Mrs Siddons found us a small table in the corner. The tavern smelt of beer and cigars.

‘We thought she’d been spotted on her way out and panicked and slipped into the water.’

‘Is it possible she could have jumped? As a form of protest, I mean?’ She pushed the brandy towards me.

I took a sip, the liquid burning my throat. ‘No. She wouldn’t have done that, she couldn’t swim. She never bathed with me in Waldenmere. She would only paddle in the shallows.’

A Liberal MP I recognised nodded at Mrs Siddons as he passed our table. She gave him an almost coquettish smile, then turned back to me. ‘She wasn’t arrested, was she?’

‘She was taken to St Thomas’ Hospital. The police came, but they were told she was too ill to be questioned. Do you think one of them chased her? Forced her to jump into the river?’

‘Some policemen were heavy-handed on occasions, but…’

‘They were rough with those women who marched on Buckingham Palace.’ I thought back to newspaper reports of that day. ‘They grabbed their breasts and forced them to the ground and lifted their skirts.’

‘Some policemen behaved appallingly towards suffragettes. The rumour is they were encouraged to. But I’m not sure they’d force a woman to jump into a river.’ She touched my arm. ‘Don’t take what that waterman said too seriously. He was probably exaggerating.’

I wasn’t convinced – he’d seemed so certain. I sipped my brandy and took in my surroundings for the first time. I noticed how many MPs were huddled around tables in the dimly lit tavern.

Mrs Siddons followed my gaze. ‘More decisions are made here than they are in Parliament.’ She clearly knew how things worked in this world. And how to play the game.

My family had known Sybil Siddons as a passing acquaintance in Walden but lost touch after our move to London. A few days after Mother’s death, she’d turned up on our doorstep with the offer of help.

At the time, Mrs Siddons had been a suffragist, a member of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies. Their aim was to achieve women’s suffrage through peaceful and legal means by introducing parliamentary bills. My mother had been a suffragette, a member of Emmeline Pankhurst’s more militant Women’s Social and Political Union. Their motto was ‘Deeds not Words’, and they lived up to this