Olveston Inspired Writing.

Blood sprayed up her face. Smile, my pretty, smile! Her ashy, blemishing hands slipped from the swing’s rope, mottled veins buttermilk white and charcoal. Her neck slumped, hot and sticky. Carefully-pressed chocolate curls crushed against her bonnet. In the shadowy glade, her milky skin only contrasted with the scarlet stain down her neck. She looked so calm, so peaceful, the ease now plastered on her face forever.

The knife dropped to the dewy grass.

Pretty girl.

The quill skidded across the page, ink splattering in haste. A dark curl swung down in front of his eyes and he brushed it back. An agonising minute passed as he stopped, tried to find the right word, a delectable, slide-off-the-tongue word to drive his argument home. Cruel. The treatment of sufferers in modern society was cruel. Heartless. Inhumane. Clifford signed to leathery paper with a flourish and signalled to Essie. How his father would hate this. Her white maid’s cap bobbing away, Clifford watched Essie retreat down the stairs. The click of her well shined boots could be heard from the concreted servant’s stairwell. Everything else was still. Muffled. Rich carpet and leather. Rhino’s horn ashtray. Lingering cigar smoke from his father’s meetings. How ironic, to be in a room of such wealth, such luxury, but still feel so… discontent. Manicured nails rubbed the cedar writing desk and he sighed.

Essie bounded down the steps, two at a time, free from the gaze of Clifford’s thoughtful raven eyes. So deep. So clever. She wasn’t one to fall for such things, but her heart was giddy and racing. A stern gaze from Matron soon knocked her steps into shape - “Essie! Calm down, child!” - and delicious smells wafted from the kitchens. Essie tottered down the hallway and peered around the doorframe. There had never been a time when she had not appreciated the bustle and rhythm of the kitchen. Orderly rows of china pots; sugar, flour, treacle and the likes, and Old Meggie in command, pounding meat or kneading dough for another meal. Pristine white caps of cooking maids danced between stirring bubbling pots and sampling fat apple turnovers. Essie’s eyes twinkled.

“M’dear!” Old Meggie called over the steaming pots, “What brings you down to the kitchens, lassie?”

“A letter ma’am. Master Clifford ma’am. He was wantin’ to catch the next post, ma’am, and I thought I could send it with a cook maid. Shoppin’ errands, ma’am.” Essie panted.

“Aye, I think that can be arranged. Run along now!”

A whole hour to herself now. Essie glowed just thinking about it. She’d write a letter to Mother, then it’d be her shift to wait on Mister Edgar. Her bubble deflated, just a bit.

He drew a great puff. of the cigar and swirled the smoke around his mouth. It was deep and rich and woody. Luxury. This was the life. He stretched out on chaise lounge and rubbed his belly. Chubby pink fingers reached for the pewter teapot. A mug of steaming tea. And a drip of liquor. An old man like him needed something to liven up the afternoon. Billiards at four. Mister Edgar did not mess around. Darn it. The tea was cold. He rolled off the velvet upholstery and snuffed out his cigar. Woody smoke still filtered around the room. Mister Edgar reached for the bell.

“Butler? Butler? A damn maid for all I care. Servants these days! Blimmen’ inadequate. I’ll have a word with that darn man!” He rang once - twice - three times, and fell back down with a wheeze. Mister Edgar poured another shot of liquor and downed the whole thing in one go. He’d earnt the right, darn it! He slouched, drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for Butler.

The grandfather clock chimed four. Mister Edgar awoke with a start. He’d give the spoiled servants a lesson. He brushed off his silken jacket and wheezed again. A cigar, that’d fix it. His buttons strained as he stood up and stretched. The ol’ lads would be waiting. Away Mister Edgar thudded, stumbling a little on the turkish rugs. The should know their place, cold tea, not attending, unacceptable, cold tea, damnit!

Fire the lot of’em!

The resounding chime of old Grandfather rumbled through the house. Essie looked up, engrossed in her letter, and felt her heart drop out of her chest. Four of the clock. Four. she’d missed her shift. Mister Edgar. Soon Butler would come, and tell Matron, and Matron would find her, and she’d be punished, or fired or.. or…

Essie scrabbled around her suitcase, frantically hunting for her last stamp. She’d lose her job. She’d lose her position. She’d lose her home! Mister Edgar was lethal when he was in one of his moods. Had some drinkies, as Old Meggie would say. How could she have forgotten, all wrapped up in telling Mother about it? Essie could feel a searing in her throat. Something hot and wet threatened to pool on her cheeks. Don’t cry. Don’t cry! She could hear someone treading heavily beneath the drafty attic where they slept. Of course, billiards at four. She had some time. Mister Edgar wouldn’t even see Butler until later, that was how he liked it with billiard and the lads. She licked the stamp and pressed it onto the papery envelope. But who to go to? How, how to get out of this mess? Shakily Essie re-pinned her cap.

Clifford reached over and lit the kerosene lamp. Had his father been there, he’d have demanded they use the electric lights. Clifford liked the flickering of a flame on the high, vaulted ceilings of his bedroom. He sighed. Things had been getting harder lately - his phases particularly; dealing with Mister Edgar seemed to bring them on more often. His breakdowns. The only thing that could draw him out was information. Reading the articles, and writing, writing, writing.

Clifford jumped when he heard a timid knock at the door. It opened a crack and the white face of the pretty maid - Eliza? Emma? Essie? - peered around.

“M-master Clifford..? M-may I p-please have a word with you, sir?” Her lip tremored. “It’s -it’s - it’s”

Clifford folded his paper and smiled what he hoped was a kindly smile. “Do tell. Have a seat.” Her knees seemed to buckle as she lowered into the chintz armchair.

“It’s - it’s -it’s - I - I - I missed my shift. I missed my shift with M - Mister Edgar. “ The words were tumbling out now. Don’t cry. Don’t cry! “And and I didn’t mean to, of course not, I was writing to M-Mother and time got ahead of me and-”

Clifford looked into her crystal blue eyes and seemed to slip away and she talked. The were rimmed with lashes and sparkling with tears. He almost wished he could comfort her, to assure her he wouldn’t let his father hurt do anything.

“P-Please, Master Clifford, this is my home. Please don’t send me away!” Clifford shook his head back to the present. The smell of rich leather, the muffled shouts and clinks from the billiard room.

“Of course not. I won’t let my father rage like he does - it’s unacceptable, really.” More to himself, he said, “Completely unacceptable. Uncontrollable. A man like him!”

Essie bowed her head. She was already standing to go.

“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. I - I - Thank you.” As she left, Clifford sighed and reached for his medication. He could feel a hard night coming on. A phase.

Essie tripped down the servant's stairs, heart pounding, and out into the shadowy garden. Exotic plants loomed out of the darkness around her. Crickets chirped, and moths fluttered around the spring of fairy lights on the grand veranda. Strictly speaking, servants weren’t permitted in the gardens after 6 of the clock, but Essie needed the fresh air. The dewy grass caressed the bottom of her apron. It was too big of her, like everything she owned. A hand-me-down. She followed the familiar path, now dark and dripping with dew. Overhead, the moon glowed like a silver penny. As she tiptoed down to the bottom of the lawn, far from the yellow squares of light cast from the windows, Essie finally let her chest deflate. She wasn’t to be fired.

Clifford could hear his father before he saw him. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, ta feeble stab at looking ‘presentable’. Not like his father would be. The night was a blur, and he kept sinking in and out of sleep. Or conscious. Clifford was having one of his phases again. Nurse would have to lock the door behind her tonight.

The doors burst open. As usual. Eight of the clock on a Wednesday night. After billiards and solid drinking with the lads. Mister Edgar was drunk. Strict businessman by day and selfish slob by night, Edgar crashed down onto Clifford’s goose-down beddings.

“Son. M’son,” Edgar slurred. “Ye jus’ gotta, jus’ know some things in life, m’son. Service’s rubbish eh… jus’ hire the right ones, m’son, so sloppy… sloppy… “ Edgar’s bloodshot eyes rolled back, and he blacked out. Again. Clifford could smell the waves of alcohol on him. He was sprawled over the silky red linen again. Clifford couldn’t even find the energy to get up, let alone hoist his father off the bed. Why was it he’d come in this time? Sloppy service? He felt bile in his throat. It was hardly fair, dealing with this slob of a man. A wave of dizziness flushed over Clifford’s cheeks and he rang for the nurse. Why him?

She brushed past the tendrils of leaves and out into the clearing. To others, it may have been ominous, but Essie knew every vine and flower like the back of her hand. It was more of a home to her than the attic. She sat down on the shaky swing suspended from The Old Oak. Above, the navy cloak of night was pin pricked with stars. Orion’s belt. Southern cross. She wasn’t getting fired. Clifford would save her. She could stay. Essie could almost weep with joy. Big Dipper. Sirius. Essie swung back and forth, feet brushing the moonlit grass, for longer than she’d intended. She didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon, either. It was beautiful out on a clear night. How long had she been out here now? An hour? Two? Her features were so soft… so calm... so pure… the shadowy figure behind her almost hesitated. The knife flashed in the moonlit night.

It was a brilliant morning, Matron thought, as she rose from her slumber. Heck of night last night, too. Perfectly clear skies. Master Clifford would have gone out and star-gazed if it hadn’t been for the relapse. She deftly emptied the chamber pot and buttoned her starchy apron. Three floors below, Old Meggie would be kneading batch upon batch of fresh dough, filling the house with the yeasty smell of fresh bread. Matron inhaled deeply. A ray of sun pierced through the attic, illuminating the dust motes in the air. She brushed down the linen on her bed and prepared to wake the Olveston family. Down the three flights of concrete stairs, past the bell and pulley system to ring for servants, and into the sunny kitchen. There was the coppery, morning glow that Matron loved. It took a lot to bring a smile on the old girl’s face these days, but the kitchens in the mornings always did. It was strangely quiet, she realised. Too quiet. Old Meggie must be here - somewhere… Yet only the rising bread showed anyone had been there at all. Matron poured herself a cuppa. Strong black coffee. Servant’s rations, but Matron reserved the right to have first pickings. As the coffee brewed, Matron turned it over in her head. Old Meggie’s absence was unusual. The old lady hadn’t missed a day in ten years. It was only when the white faced servant skidded around the corner, hyperventilating and shrieking, “Matron! Matron!” that she realised something had truly gone wrong.

In was a stunning morning when the servants and Old Meggie had found her. Essie’s body was sprawled on the dewy lawn. The kitchen maids were timidly crowded around her twisted frame, shocked into silence for once. Several had fainted. It was all too obvious, the dark stain the covered the side of Essie’s face and across her chest. Her head. It was all to clearly pulled back too far. How much smaller she looked, without the bouncing energy and chatter.

It was impossible to conceive how the light had left her eyes so easily. How she had collapsed, her head snapping back in the fall. How she was sprawled, ashy legs askew, completely void of life. A jagged gash was drawn across her windpipe, oozing with blood.

Essie was dead.

The air smelt of coal smoke from the neighbouring houses that morning. Glorious sunshine illuminated the cold, cold scene that took place - Matron carefully cradling her body and removing Essie’s corpse from the lawn. No-one spoke as she trooped back through the ivy arch and away from view. The rain cleansed the clearing, and the grass grew back, greener and brighter. Matron scrubbed the blood off the old hand-me-down apron. Essie was buried in the peasant's cemetery and her funeral was a quiet affair.

All that remained was the question:

… who killed Essie?

(take a guess then continue for answer)

Answer:

The obvious answer might be Mister Edgar. We know he is upset with the servants and it was Essie that let him down. He was also a raging alcoholic. However, if we examine the evidence in more detail, we find that there is no conceivable way Mister Edgar could have murdered Essie. Mister Edgar leaves the Billiards room at around 8:00pm and goes straight to Clifford's quarters. We know he has not left the Billiards room prior to this as shouts and chinks of glasses are heard throughout the duration of the night. Mister Edgar is also a strict man of habit. Once in Clifford’s quarters, he loses consciousness. Mister Edgar is also unaware which servant let him down. Earlier in the day, calls for Butler and not a specific servant and this further backs up the evidence he is not sure which servant is at fault. Mister Edgar has no reason to kill Essie.

The other character we are familiar with is Clifford. We can deduce by now Clifford suffers from a mental condition that causes him to fall into ‘phases’. We also know Clifford thinks

“Nurse would have to lock the door behind her tonight.” which indicates Clifford may be a danger to himself or others during a mental breakdown, and may have displayed violent tendencies. He is also most likely unaware of what he is doing during a relapse, or ‘phase’.

Clifford has long been incredibly frustrated with his father, and interaction with Mister Edgar makes his condition far worse. Shortly after Clifford starts experiencing the beginnings of a phase, Mister Edgar enters his quarters and rambles drunkenly about sloppy servants. We can deduce that ‘sloppy service’ is the reason that Mister Edgar visits Clifford and subsequently blacks out on his bed. When Clifford is overtaken by the relapse and the stresses of the day accumulate, they all come back to one thing - Essie the servant. Clearly, to Clifford’s deranged mind, she is at fault for Mister Edgar’s outbursts tonight. Things escalate (keep in mind Master Clifford is not in a sound mental state) and Clifford escapes into the garden. Here he finds Essie.

The weapon in choice was Clifford’s own pocket knife. He escapes back to his room, already losing consciousness. In the morning, when he awakens, the events of that fateful night are already lost from his mind. The pocketknife is lost in the undergrowth and no-one is any the wiser.