Murder in Stained Glass

By Margaret Armstrong

The scene of this story is a fascinating one: the Connecticut workshop of the country's foremost stained-glass window artist. This eccentric man, Frederick Ullathorne, has fled New York to escape reporters, friends, scandal and interruptions of all kinds while he finishes his life work, a magnificent rose window for St. John's Cathedral. This is harshly interrupted early one morning when bones are found in the furnace of the workshop cellar…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781479439836

Book preview

I

There was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone.

EZEKIEL.

I SUPPOSE weather, bad and good, has often made a lot of difference in people’s lives. Battles have been won or lost; invalids died or recovered; promising engagements come to nothing because a rainy day kept the young couple well within the family circle. A truism, no doubt. Anyhow, when I think back and consider the part I played in the Ullathorne affair, I realize that if the sun had not been shining on one particular Monday morning last March, nothing that happened at Bassett’s Bridge would have happened in exactly the same way, and some of it would never have happened at all. For I shouldn’t have been there.

It’s like the nursery rhyme about the old woman who milked the cow with the crumpled horn. If the weather hadn’t cleared I wouldn’t have gone to stay with Charlotte Blair; I shouldn’t have been on hand with my eyes wide open when things began to happen; I shouldn’t have been forced to play the part of innocent bystander—a dangerous part when bullets are flying about; and as I should have known nothing about the case, except what I read in the newspapers, I couldn’t have been of the smallest use to anybody concerned.

But I did go. I saw what no one else saw. Or, rather, I saw it sooner. In fact, I am inclined to think that if Skinner had been less conceited, had been willing to let me untie some of the most puzzling knots in his problem. . . .

But I’m getting ahead of my story. Let’s go back to that Monday morning in New York when the sun shone and I lay in bed trying to make up my mind whether or not to go to Bassett’s Bridge. You see I don’t enjoy visiting—most spinsters like their own homes better than other people’s, and I simply hate the country in winter. So I had gone to bed, glad of the rain beating on the window panes, and in my mind writing a telegram to Charlotte: Slight cold so sorry must postpone visit till spring, some such meaningless politeness. And there, when I woke, was the sun!

I sighed and snuggled down again in my nice soft bed—spare room beds are either lumpy, or so springy that you think you’re going to bounce out any minute; sighed as I heard Bessie running my bath, boiling hot, of course—water is always lukewarm in old-fashioned country houses; and sighed for the third time as I thought of Charlotte. Why had I told Charlotte I would go? I didn’t really like Charlotte. I never had liked her. We hadn’t met for years, not since boarding school, and that’s a long time now, for we are both in our late forties. I remembered Charlotte as an immensely tall pale thin silent girl with frightened eyes, who took a fancy to me, I think, because I was plump and lively and never afraid of anything. That sums me up pretty well today, as a matter of fact. Time doesn’t change you, it only makes you more so. I have grown stouter and heavier and more talkative, I reflected; so Charlotte must be thinner and paler. As for her eyes, if they are any queerer than they used to be, God help us all!

But at this point in my meditations I stopped struggling with fate. As I thought of that scared look in Charlotte’s eyes, I felt sorry for her, just as I had always felt sorry for her at Saint Timothy’s. Poor dear Charlotte. She would be disappointed if I didn’t turn up; the warmth of her invitation left me no doubt of that. I got grimly out of bed.

In this unselfish mood I breakfasted, told Bessie to pack a hot water bottle and my woolliest socks, added three mystery stories and five pounds of chocolate, and in due time found myself in an overheated airless day coach bound for Bassett’s Bridge and poor Charlotte.

Why poor Charlotte, I asked myself, as I sat looking out of the car window, watching the city disintegrate and New York fade into Connecticut. Why did I feel sorry for Charlotte? She lived in the country all the year round but she didn’t have to. She was comfortably off. She could have taken a nice Park Avenue apartment like mine, or gone abroad as I do every other winter. Her house, judging from the photograph I had seen, was rather gloomy, one of those Greek temples our great-grandfathers admired; tall white pillars in front and tall dark spruces crowding too close all around. But she was free to leave it if she chose.

Free? No; not in spirit. As a girl Charlotte had been forever tying herself up in scruples and prejudices. She would, no doubt, be ten times worse by now. My spirits went down to zero.

The landscape did nothing to cheer me up. The sky was gray. The sun, having made me do what I didn’t want to do, had gone under a cloud; the fields were dingy with rusty old snow, cut across by black roads streaked with ice.

Goodness, I thought, I hope Charlotte has a heavy car and a good chauffeur. It would be just like her to stick to an old Ford with flapping curtains, driven by the village idiot, or worse yet, by Charlotte herself. Then with relief I remembered Phyllis Blair, a young cousin who was spending the winter with Charlotte, to keep me company and drive the car, Charlotte had said. The young always know how to drive and they drive well if they happen to be sober, and somehow I didn’t believe Charlotte’s establishment went in very heavily for cocktails.

I was right. The car was a Ford, and Phyllis, darling Phyllis, was the chauffeur. I didn’t, of course, realize as she came running down the platform to meet me how very darling Phyllis was—and is! But I saw she was pretty and lively and slim, and a second glance told me she had bright red hair, bright blue eyes and bright pink cheeks, not enough lipstick to matter and, thank the Lord, eyebrows.

You’re Miss Trumbull, she said, not a difficult guess as no one else had got off the train. I’m so glad you’ve come. Her voice, I discovered, was as pretty as all the rest of her. I’m Phyllis—Phyllis Blair.

We shook hands. I would have liked to kiss her. I adore pretty young things, and this Phyllis was as near perfection as you’re likely to see this side of heaven. Competent too. She gathered up my luggage, stowed it away in the back of the Ford, helped me into the front seat, wrapped me up in a fur rug and took the wheel. The Ford started without a single groan, and we moved smoothly away from the station and turned into a wide elm-bordered village street.

It was almost dark now, but I could see that the village, a very little one, was of the usual New England type: a dozen comfortable old white houses, tall trees, the commons, white church at one end, white post office at the other.

A pretty little place, I remarked, peering out, but not much going on in winter, I suppose. How do you amuse yourself?

Oh, there’s skating and skiing and . . . . Her voice trailed off; the car had slowed down and she was looking back at a long low building we had just passed. Then: I beg your pardon, Miss Trumbull, you were saying . . . .

Nothing of any consequence. What building is that we passed just now?

The Ullathorne glass shop, where Mr. Ullathorne makes his stained glass windows.

Really? I thought the studio was in New York.

It was. But Mr. Ullathorne hates publicity—he’s frightfully temperamental—and when he got the order for a big rose window in the cathedral so many visitors and reporters came prowling in that he flew into a rage—he has a terrible temper—and he moved the whole show out here, bag and baggage.

Very sensible. I nodded. There is a young Mr. Ullathorne, I believe, a son. Are they agreeable neighbors?

Oh, yes. She hesitated. I don’t think Cousin Charlotte likes Mr. Ullathorne much, not as much as I do. But Cousin Charlotte and I don’t always like the same sort of people.

What about me? I laughed. Charlotte likes me, I suppose, or she wouldn’t have invited me to visit her.

Phyllis gave me a considering glance. I’ve been wondering about that, she said. You’re a strange friend for Cousin Charlotte.

Strange?

You know what I mean. I expected you to be a sort of twin, another gloomy old lady in black and rather severe. And then you got out of the train, and you looked so smart. That hat is terribly pretty, and . . . . But here we are.

The car had turned into a driveway. It stopped at the foot of a steep flight of steps that mounted between columns to a monumental front door. The door opened. A woman came down carrying a candle lantern.

This is Minnie Clater, Miss Trumbull, Phyllis said. She’s our right-hand man. We’d just curl up and die without Minnie.

Minnie gave me a parched New England smile, picked up my suitcases and led the way into a large square hall dimly lighted and paneled with black walnut. But its size and high ceiling gave it a certain Victorian elegance, and a wood fire burned on the hearth.

Footsteps sounded from somewhere in the rear of the house, a door opened and Charlotte appeared. Tall and dark and pale as ever, I thought. But she seemed glad to see me. We kissed. She made the usual polite remarks, and told Phyllis to show me to my room.

I don’t go upstairs much, she explained. My heart is weak.

Is her heart bad? I asked Phyllis as we went upstairs.

She thinks it is. But the other day I left the car too close to one of her bird houses—she has a mad passion for birds—and she took off the brake and pushed it away as if it had been a baby carriage! This is your room. Pretty grim, isn’t it?

Old-fashioned spare rooms are all alike, I said.

They don’t all have a stuffed fox on the mantelpiece.

He’s horrid, I sighed.

If he gets on your nerves you can put him in the wardrobe.

It takes more than a stuffed fox to upset my nerves, I laughed. What time do we dine? Or is it supper?

At half-past six, and it’s supper. Don’t change—I adore that frock—unless you have something warmer to put on. The dining room is rather cold. You’ll find the bathroom at the end of the hall, tin tub and black marble washstand. It’s cold too.

Are you trying to scare me away?

Heavens no! You’re the first pleasant thing that’s happened for nearly two weeks.

Why, what’s wrong?

Cousin Charlotte has been having one of her bad turns, what Minnie calls ‘spells’. She’s over it now, thank goodness, and I’m a wretch to complain; she’s been so kind to me. But when she gets like that . . .

I know. It doesn’t mean anything, I said cheerily. She used to be like that at school. Moody. Up one day and down the next. The girls called her the ‘Spook’.

Did they? Well, I’m glad you’ve come. Thankful. But it’s horrid of me to talk like this. When Cousin Charlotte heard the aunt I was living with had died—I’m an orphan—just as I was finishing college, she asked me to stay with her until I wanted to take a job—I was rather run down—and I came and no one could have been kinder, and yet . . . Anyway, I’m frightfully glad you’ve come.

Good. Cheer up, darling! I saw Charlotte’s recent spell had been too much for her. I’m here and we’re going to forget the stuffed fox and everything he stands for and have a good time.

Rather to my surprise, we did have a good time, for a while anyhow. The weather improved. It snowed a little that first night, and then the sun came out and woke us to a world of sparkling white and shining blue. Phyllis and I dashed out into the garden the minute breakfast was over. Before long Charlotte joined us and we all three started off to walk to the village.

We walked fast, talking and laughing; even Charlotte smiled now and then. We prowled around the village for a bit, and then turned towards home. As we passed the building which Phyllis had told me was the Ullathorne glass shop, the door opened and a young man, an extraordinarily handsome young man, bare-headed, and wearing a white linen smock, came running down the path.

Good morning, Miss Charlotte! he said. Hello, Phyllis! Father’s compliments and the window is done and up, and if you’ll all come in you can see it. Miss Trumbull too, of course. This is Miss Trumbull?

Charlotte introduced him, mumblingly, as young Mr. Ullathorne.

Christened Leonardo da Vinci, he added cheerfully. Known as Leo. But it might have been worse. Mino da Fiesole was considered, I believe, and then I should have been Minnow. Come in, won’t you?

To my surprise, Charlotte hesitated. It’s rather late, she began.

Leo took her fimly by the arm. She yielded, and we all went up the path.

I saw that the place had once been a garage. The wide front door was now boarded across and we entered by a small door, cut at one side, that opened into a large whitewashed space paved with cement. An oddly shaped furnace stood at one end, racks of glass were ranged along the walls and a confusion of tools, boards, coal, kindling, old boxes, and other odds and ends littered the floor.

A boy was kneeling in front of the furnace adjusting the drafts—it was burning fiercely—and peering anxiously into its red-hot heart. He looked up as we came in.

Oven’s just right, Mr. Leo, he said. Will I tell Jake he can fire the Good Samaritan—the donkey will be a long job—or do we shove in Saint Peter first off?

How should I know, Clarence? Leo said indifferently. Ask Jake, and he led us towards a dark rickety staircase with treads like a ladder, that mounted steeply to an upper floor. I half expected Charlotte to balk. But she didn’t. We all climbed up.

Leo opened a door, and we stepped into a blaze of color and light that came streaming down from an enormous circular stained glass window filling most of the opposite wall. I was dazzled, and didn’t see Frederick Ullathorne until he was beside me, smiling and holding out his hand.

But he was well worth looking at; even handsomer than Leo, reminding me of the bust of some Roman emperor. Nero, perhaps?

We shook hands, but I turned at once to the window. We stood gazing at it, Charlotte and Phyllis and I, in silence for a moment. Then I glanced at Ullathorne: his eyes were fixed on the window, and his face glowed with the rapture of an Orville Wright watching his first plane rise into the air. He started as I spoke.

The subject rather puzzles me, I ventured. All those animals, whales and leopards and peacocks and a sun and moon, suggest the Creation. But there isn’t any Adam and Eve. Who are the three good-looking young persons in the center, with such a very red sky behind them?

He glared at me. Those young persons, he said haughtily, are the Three Holy Children, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, in the burning fiery turnace of King Nebuchadnezzar, singing the hymn known as ‘Benedicite.’ This is a Benedicite window.

Of course! I cried. I always liked those three, so plucky of them to go on praising ‘all the works of the Lord’ in such uncomfortable circumstances. Although, of course, singers will insist on singing in the most . . . I broke off—he was glowering worse than ever—and went on hastily: You have given them the most beautiful faces. As for the ‘works of the Lord,’ the intricate way they go weaving in and out of the border is marvelous. And the coloring! And the pattern! Why, it’s as fine as Chartres!

I had hit the right note at last! He smiled with an unaffected satisfaction I found rather engaging.

Glad you approve, he purred. And you, Phyllis? He broke off, turned sharply. Phyllis and Leo had moved to a far corner of the room. I see, he remarked grimly. She prefers the society of my young Leonardo!

She’ll be back in a minute, Charlotte put in. Leo wanted her to look at his painting.

Painting! Good God! Ullathorne snorted, and turned to me. That boy of mine has no talent whatever, Miss Trumbull. But I have trained him to help me with some of the mechanical parts, inscriptions, quarries, grisaille, all that sort of thing.

He poses for you, I believe? Charlotte ventured.

Oh, yes; ever since he was born, Ullathorne laughed. At first he sat for my cherubs and bambinos, infant Samuels and young angels, and then for full grown saints and prophets and martyrs. You’ll find my Leonardo in nearly every window I have ever built. By the time he was five, he knew what to expect if he so much as batted an eyelash while he was on the model stand.

He is a beautiful creature, I remarked. The figure of a young Greek athlete.

All my doing. Regular setting-up exercises, plain food and not much of it, no sweets, no dissipation. I weigh him once a week, and if he gains a pound he doesn’t eat until he’s lost it. A fine young animal, my Leonardo. But no brains. We’ll have a look at what he calls his ‘painting’ before you go. Shall I take you around the workroom? The process of making stained glass is decidedly interesting.

We made the rounds. Half a dozen men were at work. They stood at long tables on three sides of the room. One was cutting paper patterns, another clipping colored sheets of glass with a diamond into odd shapes like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Several were fitting flexible strips of lead around the edges of fragments already shaped. We moved from table to table. Ullathorne explained each step of the process: how the leads served to bind the separate pieces of glass into one design; how the joints were soldered and the whole became a solid mosaic. Then Clarence, the boy we had seen downstairs, would give a final touch of cementing and polishing and the window would be finished, ready to ship to its destination.

Ullathorne talked well. The workmen seemed to me remarkably intelligent. I liked to see their skillful hands manipulating the various materials so surely, as the diamond bit, the discarded scraps of glass fell tinkling to the floor, the lead bent obediently, the solder hissed and a stained glass window came into being under our eyes. The atmosphere of the studio suited the scene; all four walls were papered with cartoons, and a galaxy of archangels, cherubs, prophets and virgin martyrs gazed down at us with serene condescension. I felt that I knew what a medieval workshop must have looked like.

You have seen everything now, Miss Trumbull, Ullathorne said at length, except the firing. The kiln is downstairs. We’ll take a look at Leo’s work first.

We crossed the room. Phyllis and Leo were talking in low voices. Leo looked up with a start, dropped his brush, picked it up hurriedly and went on with his work. He was painting an inscription in Gothic lettering on a strip of glass with, it seemed to me, remarkable skill and swiftness.

We watched him for a moment, then Mr. Ullathorne laughed. Leo’s hand shook and stopped moving. His eyes went to his father’s face and back to the inscription.

Ullathorne laughed again and louder. "As usual, a mistake, my dear Leonardo! ‘In loving Memmory.’ The word unfortunately requires only two m’s. Too bad! You’ll have to repaint the whole line, figlio mio. He bent and with his thumb obliterated a dozen words, then gave Phyllis a malicious glance. Your fault, young lady. How could any man work properly with an angel breathing sweet nothings into his ear?"

He