A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4)

by R. A. Bentley

  As a loose kind of settlement, Bettishaw, said to be a corruption of Beorhtsige's Shaw (shaw being a thicket or copse), was very ancient, probably dating from the eighth century, but as a parish it did not exist prior to the Norman conquest, having no church. Within a few years of that monstrous social and political upheaval, however, its inhabitants had ceased to be relatively free men, hunting unhindered over woodland and heath, and had become bonded serfs, exchanging their labour, the produce of their little plots, and occasionally the virtue of their daughters, for laws and protections they neither wanted nor had asked for. They also acquired a handsome place of worship and a priest to tell them what to do. They were, in short, on the way to becoming civilised.

  For three hundred years they lived uneventful and largely unrecorded lives until the dreadful winter of thirteen forty-nine when pneumonic plague swept away some six in ten of them. The little village around the church was all but depopulated, and the survivors fled for a while to Lower, which was not so badly affected. This was presumed to account for the building of a replacement manor house there some ten years later. The house, much altered and augmented, came into the hands of the present family in sixteen eighty-eight following the notorious decapitation of Sir John Rawlins by one Thomas Shutler, blacksmith, over the non-payment of a debt (a framed Victorian account of the murder, with accompanying woodcut, was even now hanging, for reasons not lost on his customers, in Gabriel's office).

  Sir John's young widow quickly attracted the attention of William Trenchard, wool merchant, and their indecently swift union began a dynasty that was to last until the present day, its latest incumbent now gazing in undisguised admiration at Connie Harrison.

  ' . . . which means,' he was saying, 'that we've never felt entirely a part of the village. If Sir Rupert wants to play the squire, let him. I've no objection.'

  'Does he, then? Play the squire?'

  'No,' admitted, the Colonel. 'Not that I know of. He provides a little employment, of course, as do we.'

  'He also paid for the Church Hall,' said Roger, 'among other things.'

  'Yes, that too,' admitted the Colonel, somewhat grudgingly.

  'What do you make of him?' said Miles, 'Or shouldn't I ask?'

  'Rupert? Too darned good at bridge! Apart from that he's all right I suppose. We have India in common, of course.'

  'You never met there?'

  'No. He was cavalry, like you. Didn't care for it, so he says, and bought himself out. Now when I was in Poona —' 'He doesn't ride now though, does he?' interjected Roger. 'Never seen him on a horse.'

  'Not that I know of. Fellow's obsessed with motor cars. You know he's got another now? Three of 'em! Don't get him onto them if you value your sanity. Only good thing is, it keeps old Hilda quiet, what? Mustn't malign our hostess, however, we're dining with them tomorrow. You goin'?'

  'No, we're off to the dance.'

  'Are you now? Not sure I don't envy you. Gettin' a bit decrepit for tripping the light fantastic unfortunately. Now when we were in Poona, the dances there —'

  'What I envy is your garden, Gertie,' cut in Lavinia, hurriedly. She was standing at the French windows, looking out. 'I've threatened to pull our barn down and create one.'

  'You'd have to demolish the cottages as well,' said Roger. 'It is rather fine though. I like the statue. New, is it?'

  'We don't talk about the statue,' said Gertie, disapprovingly.

  'It's perfectly respectable,' protested Gerald. 'It's Diana the huntress.'

  'Yes, and I'd like to see her go cubbing in that,' said Gertrude to Lavinia. 'She'd catch her death.'

  'It's a beautiful house, Gerald,' said Connie. 'Is that your land beyond, where those cows are?'

  The Colonel shook his head. 'Only down to the hedge, I'm afraid. My grandfather sold it off. Wish he hadn't in many ways, but there you are. Bulloch's got it now, of course, though Charlie Ashett runs it for him.'

  'Martin Bulloch, do you mean?'

  'Yes. Have you met him yet? He's the big noise round here, agriculturally speakin'. Must have three hundred acres I should think.'

  'Three hundred and forty, sir,' said Ian.

  'That so?' said the Colonel, swinging round to look at him. 'Oh of course, he bought old Wheeler out. Back with him now are you?'

  'No, I've another year to go at college.'

  'And then he'll make you a manager, I daresay?'

  'Oh, I don't know about that.'

  'I hope he gives him something,' said Daisy, 'or he might have to go away to work.'

  'Ah well, you know; a man has to be flexible in these days, m'dear,' said the Colonel. 'Always has done, come to that. I remember when we were in Poona —'

  'Lavinia was saying you model for someone, Connie?' cut in Gertrude firmly.

  'Yes, for my friend,' smiled Connie. 'There's not much to it really. I just have to be seen wearing his creations, in all the right places.'

  The Colonel now acquired the expression of a man attempting to shape a quip but quailed under the stare of his wife. 'And are you paid for that?' he asked lamely. 'Amazin' what you gels get up to nowadays.'

  'Only in dresses I'm afraid, plus expenses. If someone asks about them I give them his card. It's surprisingly effective.' She opened her bag and gave Gertrude one. 'Here you are.'

  Gertrude glanced at it and gave her rather mannish laugh. 'Thank you dear. Though I can't promise to patronise him, unless he does tweeds and brogues. Or riding breeches.'

  'Nonsense,' said Lavinia. 'You're not wearing tweeds now.'

  'Oh, I've had this old thing years.'

  'Time for a change then.'

  'And what's your view of it, Miles?' said Gerald. 'Do you approve?'

  'Of the modelling?' said Miles. 'Wholeheartedly. It'll save giving her a dress allowance for one thing. In fact, if it all stops I plan to make her wear a sandwich board — fags on the front, holiday tours on the back.'

  'Oh, he's such a tease,' complained Lavinia. 'I don't know how you put up with him, Connie.'

  'He has his compensations,' said Connie, 'though I can't quite call them to mind just at the moment.'

  The luncheon gong sounded.

  'Ah! Wittles,' said the Colonel. 'May I have the honour of escorting you, Miss Harrison? You know, whenever they sound that thing, which, incidently, we bought with us from Poona, I'm reminded . . .'

  'Sorry, darling,' said Miles when they arrived home. 'You bore up well.'

  Connie laughed. 'He's a nice enough old chap, but Sir Rupert's cars might have been more interesting.'

  'Spare me that! Anyway, tomorrow should be fun at least.'

  Chapter Four

  Boxing Day was again spent riding – their last chance, as it turned out – and by local tradition, boxing night in Bettishaw was dance night. Fully one half of the parish could be expected to attend this unmissable event, and with no risk of it being under-subscribed, the Church Hall committee was able to hire a first-rate band. The young and single had particular reason to be there, for next to someone else's wedding more people acquired their life partners on boxing night than at any other time. Indeed, consenting to dance the last waltz was tantamount to betrothal in some quarters, and likely to lead at the least to the couple "walking out" together. By five o'clock in the evening, therefore, the maidens of the village were already to be found bathing and primping and using every artifice to transform themselves from farm workers, domestic servants and shopgirls into whatever star of stage or screen was currently in fashion. The young men, meanwhile, having painstakingly squeezed every pimple and brushed and brilliantined their hair to the appearance of varnish would early repair to the Bell, there to imbibe a sufficiency of liquid courage to cross ten terrifying yards of bare boards to beg a dance from a girl they had probably known since childhood.

  The maidens of Hilltop Farm meanwhile, secure in the knowledge that their relaxed and dinner-suited beaux sat smoking downstairs, were enjoying immensely their toilette.

  'Oh, Connie,' sighe
d Daisy, adjusting a suspender, 'I feel such a dowdy little thing compared with you. You just throw something on, shake out your hair and you're a goddess. Tell me honestly, which of these old rags do you think is best?'

  'I'd hardly call them rags,' laughed Connie, 'but you might try this one.'

  'Oh that's cruel! It'd be down to my ankles. It's lovely though.'

  'No it won't. Put it on.'

  'You really want me to? All right then.'

  Connie watched Daisy wriggle, frowning doubtfully, into the dress. 'Right, stand in front of the mirror and let me button you up.'

  'But . . . it fits!'

  'So it should. I provided very precise measurements. Or rather, your mother did.'

  'You had it made for me? I . . . don't know what to say!'

  'Just say you like it. I hope you do or Maurice will stamp his little foot.'

  'It's a Lefevre?'

  'Of course. How many up and coming couturiers do you think I know?'

  'No, I mean, is it unique?'

  'Mais naturellement. There's only one in the world and you are in it. Now put on your glass slippers and you shall go to the ball.'

  'Is it on?' said Lavinia, peering round the door. 'Oh, darling, you look wonderful! Ian will blow his buttons off.'

  'I'm almost shy of you,' said Ian, awestruck. 'Am I allowed to touch?'

  'Not my hair, said Daisy firmly.'

  'Will I do, darling?' asked Connie.

  'Yes I suppose so,' said Miles offhandedly. 'What do you think, Dad?'

  'Pretty in her way,' chuckled Roger.

  'If you two aren't careful,' said Connie, 'I shall dance with all the other men and not you.'

  'What, even Bert Clement?'

  'What's wrong with Bert Clement?'

  'Half man, half pig,' said Ian. 'Not for the fainthearted.'

  'Is that Marjory's father? Very well, I shall dance with Bert Clement too, if he asks me.'

  'I wouldn't advise it,' said Miles, 'unless you want to people the village with Calibans.'

  'Caliban was half-fish,' objected Daisy, putting on her overcoat. 'We did it at school.' She linked arms with Ian. 'I was Miranda of course.'

  'Teacher's pet,' said Ian.

  'Brrr! cold,' said Lavinia, as they stepped outside.

  'Shouldn't be surprised if we get more snow,' said the doctor.

  The hall was already packed and the band playing when they arrived. They slipped quietly in and requisitioned one of the remaining tables. Taking Miles with him, Roger went immediately to the bar, presided over for the night by Fanny and Minnie Kitcher. This short journey required many pauses for greetings and conversation, the Felixes informally representing the local squirearchy, without whose presence a village function could not be considered entirely a success. Ian, meanwhile, towed Daisy across the room to display to his great-aunt, who was sitting with Beatrice Pruitt and the Harrises, the elderly couple who ran the draper-stationer and post-office.

  'Not so fast,' complained Daisy, 'I can't hurry in these shoes.'

  'How are you going to dance then?'

  'That's different.'

  'Good evening, young man,' said Beatrice. 'Who is this lovely girl? I don't think we've met.'

  'She's an absolute picture,' agreed Mrs Harris. 'See that no-one pinches her off you, Ian.'

  Ian grinned happily. 'Let 'em try! Are you all right, Auntie?'

  'She's tired, aren't you, dear?' said Beatrice, who had an irritating habit of answering for her friend.

  'I am a little,' admitted Miss Ashton. 'Daisy, you look quite lovely, and Ian should be very proud of you. I don't think I shall stay long, though the band is rather good.'

  'Come on,' said Daisy impatiently. 'I love this one.'

  'They look happy,' said Connie, as they watched them pass by.

  Lavinia smiled. 'They think I don't know, you know, but of course I do.'

  'How do you feel about that?' asked Connie, correctly interpreting this gnomic assertion. 'Do you mind?'

  'Not in the least. Why would I? He's a very nice boy – ambitious too – and I know she's safe with him. I could wish they were older, as they've such a long wait; which is why I haven't said anything. I don't want it to become "official" just yet. You're not to tell them, mind.'

  'My lips are sealed.'

  'Except Miles, of course.'

  'Except me what?' said Miles, putting down a tray.

  'Girl talk,' said Connie. 'Is that Mrs Bulloch?'

  'Alma, yes.'

  'Not what I expected somehow. And that, presumably is Mrs Ronald Adams? You can tell so much about a man, can't you? by watching him with his wife. And vice versa, of course.'

  'Bit like driving a lorry in his case,' said the doctor. 'As opposed, let us say, to a sports car. Big people, the Kitchers.'

  'She'd make three of him,' chuckled Miles.

  'Fancy a spin then, Roger?' said Connie. 'I'm light to steer, with remarkable acceleration.'

  The doctor chuckled, 'I should be honoured, my dear.'

  'Can Connie drive?' said Lavinia, watching them take the floor.

  'Oh yes. Tells me how to as well. You ought to get a car, Mum.'

  Lavinia shook her head. 'I've never really fancied to. I only go up to Town anyway, and I shouldn't want to drive that far.'

  'They're not much use in London, but we spend a good deal of time outside it, one way and another. We claim the cost of the fares and then use the car. If we ever move out I expect Connie will want one.'

  'Might you, then — move out?'

  'I'd consider it. I'm not wedded to the Met. I'm overdue for Chief Inspector now, and before you know it I could find myself Superintendent and stuck behind a desk like Polly. I might get out a bit more if I move to a county, and then there's the riding. It would depend on what the missus wants, of course. She comes first now.'

  'Yes, it's really nice that Connie rides. You have that in common.'

  'To continue the analogy, drives like a thoroughbred,' said the doctor, returning Connie to their table.

  'You're hardly an old flivver yourself,' laughed Connie, settling to her drink.

  There came a ripple of amusement and comment as the bandleader, a little dark, bullet-headed man with a faux foreign accent announced a gentlemen's excuse me.

  'Watch out, Connie,' joked Roger. 'Bert's coming.'

  But it was Martin Bulloch who presented himself with a little bow.

  'What kept you?' said Connie, allowing herself to be led away. 'We've been here nearly an hour!'

  'I thought I'd let you settle in first,' smiled Martin. 'I've been watching you though. You dance very well.'

  'So do you.'

  'Oh, I was quite the gay blade in my day. Getting a bit tricky now with Alma of course.'

  'When's she due?'

  'Early March.'

  'What are you hoping for?'

  'Oh, a girl I think.'

  They danced in silence for a minute or two.

  'You don't say much,' said Connie. 'What happened to the Wolf of Bettishaw?'

  'Is that how you see me? Well it appears I was howling at the moon. Miles is a lucky man.'

  'Thank you. Yes he is. Who told you?'

  Martin laughed. 'Ian, I think. No secrets in this village, you know.'

  'I'll bet there are — hundreds of them. Do you employ many men? Someone told me you're the big cheese around here.'

  'Who was that?'

  'Colonel Trenchard.'

  'Oh, I see. Well I'm the biggest employer. Not that that's saying much. I just hope I can hang onto them.'

  'Getting difficult?'

  'Yes, it is.' The music stopped and he immediately led her to her table. 'Thank you, Connie,' he said simply. 'It was a privilege.'

  'Come on,' said Connie, dragging Miles to his feet.

  Dancing was their great pleasure and they moved together without conscious effort, weaving effortlessly among the other couples.

  'What did Bulloch talk about?' asked Miles.

&n
bsp; Connie was pensive for a moment. 'It was a bit odd. When we met in the Bell I thought he might become a nuisance, but tonight he was quite different; shy, almost, and sort of wistful. He's found out we're engaged, which I suppose explains it. Or perhaps he felt inhibited by Alma being here.'

  'I should imagine most men feel that way about you,' said Miles complacently. 'They'll just have to lump it I'm afraid.'

  Connie sighed. 'It's a heavy responsibility being a goddess.'

  'Who called you that — Bulloch?'

  'No, your sister.'

  Miles chuckled. 'I'm so relieved that you two get on. One never knows with families.'

  'I adore your family. I already feel they're mine. I say, careful!'

  For Miles had abruptly swung her round, almost lifting her off her feet. A flying body brushed past them, cannoned into a less fortunate couple and fell to the floor, half-dragging the young woman with him. He was closely followed by a furious Ronald Adams, who attempted to grab the fellow by the lapels of his coat and might have done him further mischief if Miles hadn't pinioned his arms to his sides. 'That's enough of that!' he said. 'Calm down now.'

  'He's torn my dress!' wailed the girl. 'You stupid idiot, look what you've done!'

  'Sorry. I'm really sorry,' said the apparent victim, scrambling to his feet. I'll pay for the damage.'

  'It's just a seam, I think,' said Connie pacifically. 'Come on and I'll pin you up.'

  'Now what was all that about?' demanded Miles.

  'Mind your own business, copper!' snarled Ronald. He was clearly fighting drunk and beginning to stagger.

  Fanny Kitcher and Minnie appeared, parting the dancers like tanks through infantry.

  'It's all right, Miles,' said Fanny. 'We'll take him.'

  He watched, amused, as the two hefty women bore their prisoner away. During all this, the band had sensibly played on, the participants in the brawl forming a little-regarded island among the dancers. A nasty scene avoided, he thought.

  'That should hold it for now,' said Connie to the girl. 'It just needs a few stitches. I shan't want the pins back.'