Lady Collendon's Cook Read online

  Lady Collendon’s Cook

  Herbert Howard Jones

  Copyright © Herbert Howard Jones 2018

  The right of Herbert Howard Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Opinions expressed in this book do not necessarily reflect the author’s own views.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Distributed by Smashwords.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One

  Taunton 1957

  Fear is an ugly emotion and not for pretty faces. It subsided slightly when Marjorie walked into Taunton Police Station with the bag of old diaries under her arm. Taking a deep breath, she went up to the enquiry desk being manned by a middle-aged duty officer. He looked at the attractive dark-haired young woman standing before him and smiled. ‘Can I help you, Miss?’

  ‘I would like to speak to somebody important, please?’ Marjorie asked in a tense voice.

  The officer winked at her. ‘Will I do?’ He glanced at the bag she was awkwardly holding.

  ‘I think I might need to speak to an inspector.’

  The officer considered this for a moment and then motioned for her to sit down. ‘Alright. Please have a seat. I’ll see if Inspector Burse is around. As it happens he’s retiring today, and so it won’t hurt him to have a little chat with a nice young lady. What’s it to do with?’

  Marjorie smiled self-consciously as she tried to summarise the problem. ‘Well, it’s to do with what’s in these diaries in this bag. Things that the police might need to know.’

  ‘Right, fair enough,’ the officer replied none the wiser. He went into a rear office to get the inspector, who came out after a few minutes with a curious expression on his face. He wasn’t really a fat man, though he had a wide girth and a thin face with a wattle of flesh underneath.

  ‘I’m Inspector Malcolm Burse, and your name is?’

  ‘I’m Marjorie Moore,’ she stated.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Come through. That’s a strong accent you’ve got, if you don’t mind my saying so!’

  ‘People do say that! I’m from County Galway, but now I live just down the road in Nailsbourne!’ She followed the inspector into a nondescript but functional-looking office.

  The Inspector went behind his desk and sat down, waving her into the chair opposite. ‘Nailsbourne, know it well. Sit down please and tell me why you want to disturb me on the day I’m supposed to be clearing out my desk? I’m retiring today!’

  This humorously intended remark threw her for a moment. She gathered herself together and removed the diaries from the bag and placed them on the Inspector’s desk. There were eight in all, and they had the appearance of being some years old. ‘I’m here because of these,’ Marjorie began. ‘I was hoping you could help me. These are some of Mrs Green’s diaries, and she was Lady Collendon’s cook up in Lincolnshire. And there’s a lot of stuff in them. Well, people got hurt and things. People died.’

  At these ominous words, the inspector’s face changed and seemed to register some undefined emotion. He reached forward to pick one of the diaries up. ‘Ah, yes, Lady Collendon’s cook! I remember. It was in all the papers, some good while ago!’

  ‘Just before the war,’ she replied. Her confidence was beginning to return.

  ‘Yes, a lot of things happened before the war, and during the war,’ the Inspector said with the wisdom of man who had himself done many things. He flicked through the diary he was holding and glanced at an entry dated 15th September. He read a few lines and then looked up. ‘Nice handwriting. Yes, Mrs Green was accused of murder as I recall, and she was sent to prison.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Marjorie replied. ‘They said she killed a diplomat.’

  The Inspector’s face was blank. ‘Can you remember his name?’

  ‘It’s in the diaries,’ she answered. ‘I can’t remember. But it was good for the country.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he said with a wry look. ‘Sounds doubtful. Why have you come forward with these now? I mean, how can I help you?’

  ‘My husband reckoned I should, to clear Mrs Green’s name. You are our nearest main police station, so I thought I’d come in. She was blamed for a murder but there wasn’t much proof. She was badly treated. The diaries tell some of her story and might help to prove her innocence.’

  ‘And what’s that to you?’

  ‘Well, it’s important to me,’ she replied. ‘I’m related to her. I think she should have got compensation for what she went through.’

  ‘Is she still alive, this Mrs Green?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s very poorly and I’ve come to speak on her behalf.’

  The Inspector’s eyes were mildly interested, and he sat back in his uncomfortable chair. ‘Then, well done for having the presence of mind to bring these…diaries in. But regarding compensation for a case like this, you would really need a solicitor.’

  ‘I know,’ she answered. ‘But we were wondering if there were any official public records about her conviction? See, we can’t find any. We thought you might be able to check.’

  ‘Could you give me some more details?’ he asked with a frown. ‘In what capacity are you related to her? Was she an aunt or something, or your mother?’

  Marjorie licked her lips. This was a question she had anticipated and had planned to lie about. But the earnest look on the Inspector’s face broke through her resolve. She decided to come clean and admit an uncomfortable fact known to few others. ‘It’s a bit of a long story,’ she began. ‘And I’m not sure where to begin.’

  Inspector Burse smiled. ‘I’m an old hand at this, let me tell you. The best place to begin is always at the beginning. Or just before!’

  Marjorie nodded her head. The Inspector was right. But in this case, there were two beginnings to speak of. But which of these should she talk about first? Hers? Or Mrs Green’s? That was the question.

  Chapter Two

  Tennyson House late 1930s

  Lady Clara Collendon’s genius for successfully pairing guests at her frequent dinner parties had markedly fallen short that evening. She realised her mistake when she sat Dr Deiter Fefferberg next to Marcia Ingrich, a rabid Theosophist. The doctor was a mercurial if naïve national socialist, who openly promoted the science of eugenics as the future of medicine. When he espoused this at the dinner table, it only found incredulity among
the guests.

  It particularly prompted strong moral resistance from his supper neighbour, Miss Marcia Ingrich. With all the verbosity of an outspoken suffragette, she began an assault on doctor Fefferberg’s most treasured bastion of thought. Other diners at the table found their own conversations drowned out by their heated exchange. It became an increasingly bitter dialectic fuelled by Miss Ingrich’s intolerance of chauvinistic men, of which doctor Fefferberg was most certainly one.

  Their host, the beautiful Lady Clara Collendon was an impeccably turned out socialite who deplored insensitivity and never indulged extremists. Her green eyes blazed as she recoiled with barely concealed embarrassment at what she regarded as Fefferberg’s unsuitable conversation. She didn’t mind discussions of politics at her late-night dinner parties, as long as they were elegant and offended no one. The choice of medical terminology used by Fefferberg, which he mixed liberally with quasi-scientific racial humbug, left an abhorrent taste in her mouth. It was radically at odds with her British Christian values. Certainly, this graphic politico-Speke was completely incompatible with the evening’s menu of several courses of rich food.

  But as it transpired, the present company was rather enjoying the exchange. They were glad to have a strutting pro-Nazi with the grating voice put in his place by the clear-thinking Miss Ingrich. As a conversational tennis match, Miss Ingrich had more than won every set and had the full support of everyone around the table. The present company was most esteemed, being peppered with lords, ladies, gentry and wealthy common folk.

  ‘Eugenics has no moral or factual basis,’ Miss Ingrich was saying. She was a slim bespectacled woman with fair hair.

  ‘No factual basis!’ the doctor spluttered, his sapphire coloured eyes glittering with rage. ‘Are you in the medical profession? Have you ever read a medical textbook?’

  ‘A person doesn’t have to go to the moon to know that it isn’t made of camembert,’ she commented.

  ‘That is a poor analogy!’ the doctor asserted, running a finger through his bushy white moustache. ‘Camembert is not green. If the moon is supposedly made of green cheese then Sage Derby would have been a better analogy, don’t you think?’

  There was muted laughter at this.

  Miss Ingrich bowed to Fefferberg’s point. ‘I’m impressed with your knowledge of our cheeses. But the colour of the moon is grey even creamy sometimes! It doesn’t alter the fact that to compare a race of people to rodents, as you did earlier, is vile. It is also ridiculous, repugnant, ignorant, facile, politically biased beyond belief and not worthy of a man of medicine!’

  Fefferberg sat back in his chair and smiled self-consciously at the eager faces around the table staring at him. ‘And here was I thinking that I was in enlightened company! In the Berlin universities, learned men are propounding a new basis of human understanding. They believe the superman can be birthed almost as a by-product, when we eradicate the accidents of nature…’

  ‘Accidents of nature?’ Miss Ingrich interrupted.

  ‘Let me finish my point,’ Fefferberg said. ‘When Friedrich Nietzsche coined the term Ubermensch - superman, he believed it justified the existence of the human race! Read ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’! Even your Bernard Shaw is in favour of eugenics! It is selective breeding, no more no less, and is exactly the same as a gardener trying to improve the characteristics of a genus of primrose.’

  Miss Ingrich nodded. ‘But who is the ultimate arbiter of what is desirable in human beings? It is surely superficial to try and beautify everything, which would make the world a very bland place.’

  Before the doctor could reply, the young handsome earl sitting opposite him said, ‘Sorry to butt in old man, but tell me doctor, is Mr Hitler planning to go to war with us?’

  Lady Collendon glanced at her tubby drunk husband sitting at the other end of the table. Lord Felix Collendon nodded at her with a wink. She understood this to mean that hopefully, the conversation would now move in a more constructive direction.

  Dr Fefferberg shook his head with emphatic vehemence. The white Romanesque curls at his forehead waved briefly about and then almost perfectly reformed themselves. ‘War? No, no, no. Obviously, this is a fear reflex on the part of the English undergraduate classes. Nothing could be further from the truth. Our leader has a natural affinity for your country. This is after all the birthplace of Shakespeare, Byron, Elgar, men with great minds who are universally respected…’

  ‘Yes, all well and good,’ the earl replied. ‘But there is a translation of Mr Hitler’s book in my old college which pretty much spells out his intentions. Book’s virtually unreadable, but your leader wants to take over the world. He seems to think he’s the Messiah.’

  There was a murmur around the table.

  ‘The Fuhrer is a progressive thinker,’ the doctor observed. ‘He likes to play with ideas like an intellectual. That is why he has such a following in our country and in the academic community.’

  Suddenly Lord Collendon stood up. ‘I would like to propose a toast to countries and alliances,’ he said. ‘And the academic community!’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said a retired schoolteacher sitting nearby.

  Gordon Westcott, a thickly set Yorkshire businessman raised his flute of champagne. ‘Me too. And to greater trading cooperation everywhere.’

  Dr Fefferberg looked slightly bewildered at this digression, and then he smiled. ‘Yes, alliances will be the basis of the relationship between our two great countries. Now and in the future!’ He raised his glass. The response to this around the table was lukewarm, with only a few glasses chinking in unison. ‘And, I also propose a toast to the cook for preparing such a splendid meal. I really must congratulate her in person! What’s her name?’

  ‘Mrs Green,’ Lady Collendon replied.

  The diners were beginning to get restless. It was time for the men to retire to the Smoking room, and the women to the Drawing room. Here, drinks and tasty sweet and savoury canapes would be served.

  ***

  Lady Collendon’s cook, Alice Green, had come into service when she was still young. She had remained attached to one stately house or another all her life. Now at the age of forty-three, she was contemplating a life of remaining in service, with the prospect of independence being dashed years ago. Not to say that she hadn’t been a popular young woman with the footman and at least two butlers. Unfortunately, circumstances had contrived to block the three marriage prospects which were available at that time. She did eventually secretly marry a butler by the name of Stuart Clawe, though it was not a happy union. Years later she dropped his surname and adopted the title of ‘Mrs Green,’ rather than ‘Mrs Clawe’, substituting her maiden name for her actual married name. It stuck with her throughout the rest of her life.

  Her dalliance with Lord Fenwicke’s butler, Stuart Clawe, at Stukely Manor back in the twenties was the high point as far as romantic involvement was concerned. In fact, Clawe’s persona was forever burned into her mind and soul and still impacted on her to this day. Certainly, there were strong possessive elements in the way Stuart Clawe had manipulated her for his own satisfaction. Somehow this had drawn her to him rather than repel her. And as affairs of the heart were concerned, it had been completely overpowering. In fact, it was so intense, whatever had followed afterwards seemed quite impuissant by comparison.

  Clawe’s personal power over her was an example of the mastery of a superior mind upon someone who had been quite immature. At the beginning, she was easily taken in by this cocky, dominant alpha male. Over the years this impression was still very much an indelible feature of her memory of him, which time had not eroded. But gradually, the attraction she had felt for him at the start had declined. Then to everyone’s disbelief, he suddenly died under apparently unusual circumstances. Unbeknown to others, his death was a secret relief to her despite her public show of grief. Rather than leaving her feeling bereft beyond words, she was jubilant, as their all-consuming love had turned into the bitterest of hatred. r />
  Continuing work as a cook occupied the vacuum which her husband once filled, and there was also one other consideration which frequently engaged her thoughts. It was almost a justification for her existence, the most tangible reason for her being alive, for continuing humbly in servitude. It was a matter which might have been frowned upon by her employers. So, it was kept securely locked in her heart with all the diligence of an official guarding a state secret. It was a secret whose name could never be spoken or even raised in confidence with friends, and certainly not with fellow workers. It wasn’t, in the scheme of things a bad thing, just a supremely personally embarrassing one. But she knew that in time, it would surface.

  Aside from that, and an occasionally returning longing for the dead man she had grown to hate, life wasn’t so bad. Life as a cook with a respectable established family in the middle of England had its compensations. Among other things, these included, board and lodging, reasonable hours, interesting work, friendship and wages to boot. They more than scratched the surface of daily satisfactions. And if fate or caprice or intention had robbed her of a husband, it had provided comfort and stability in other ways.

  The staff who worked for Lord and Lady Collendon felt they were practically family in all but name, social rank and finances. These were relatively small considerations in the face of such uncharacteristic familial warmth from nobility! Nor did the Collendon family ever attempt to lord it over their staff. There was an element of basic democracy in the way they ran their household. Or rather, these values were impressed upon their butler, Mr Lawrence Kearns, and he ran the household according to the high principles of his master and mistress.

  And so, what happened to Mrs Green when a German diplomat, by the name of Dr Fefferberg came to stay, was completely unexpected. The consequences for her, of their unfortunate interaction, were truly appalling. On the surface, it appeared that it was entirely outside of Lord and Lady Collendon’s frame of reference or control. For so powerful an elite as they were, their inability to protect a member of their extended family was humiliating for them. It subsequently turned out to be a watershed moment in the history of great aristocratic families, who had always triumphed over adversity and politics. It suggested perhaps, that the twenty-first century was determined to intrude itself, regardless of the fact that it was still only the late 1930s. Mrs Green, a rotund, pert, strong-limbed, able, decent, loyal woman was about to be stripped of her dignity, reputation and liberty. She was confronted with the ugliness of politics in a way which was all too common in those days.