by T E Kinsey
‘Just so. We’ll keep that as our working hypothesis for now, then, and await further news.’
‘Unless . . .’ I said.
‘Unless what, dear?’
‘What if Brookfield’s death really was accidental? What if Hinkley’s firm needed the land that old shop stood on but the landlord wouldn’t budge? Or if it was some sort of insurance swindle? Maybe the landlord worked out that he could get paid twice – once by the insurance company and then again when he sold the vacant land?’
‘How very ingenious,’ she said. ‘But the development deal is signed and sealed. It’s at the other end of the road, too, with a good few buildings in between, not least that pub . . .’
‘The Court Samson Inn,’ I said.
‘Yes, there. It sounded like a busy place from the police report so I can’t imagine the landlord selling up. I doubt Fandangle, Piffle, and Snood—’
‘Churn, Whiting, Hinkley, and Puffett,’ I said wearily.
‘Even they. I doubt they’d offer a decent price to buy out a business when all they’d want is the land, even if they were looking to expand their doings to the other end of the street.’
‘You make a good case,’ I said. ‘So we’re back to coincidence?’
‘For Thomas Street? It’s more likely that the link is simply Brookfield himself, just as Dinah Caudle said. It was where he lived, after all, so he’d have been disposed to keep an eye on what was going on outside his own front door.’
‘Then we’re stuck until we get more decipherings from Miss Caudle.’
‘We are, indeed. We shall take the weekend off.’
‘You might be able to,’ I said, ‘but one of us has got to make sure the other one’s best gown and dancing shoes are spick and span for the Farley-Strouds’ do tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh my word, I’d completely forgotten. Will you drive me up there, too, please? It’s a long walk in dancing shoes.’
‘Of course. Carriages at one?’
‘It’ll be on the invitation, but I’m sure Gertie won’t mind if you slip downstairs and wait there. It’ll save you sitting here on your own all evening.’
‘I might have been looking forward to sitting on my own all evening,’ I said.
‘Were you?’
‘No. I was hoping to spend the evening with Maude Denton. She’ll have nothing to do if Lady Farley-Stroud is hosting a soirée so we can have a chinwag in her room. I’ve not spoken to her for ages.’
‘A convocation of ladies’ maids. Do you have a collective noun? A mending of ladies’ maids? A dressing? Oh, oh, I know, an impertinence of ladies’ maids.’
‘Might I offer you some friendly and respectful advice, my lady?’
‘Of course, dear.’
‘Shut your trap before it gets you in trouble. You might end up walking home tomorrow night.’
‘Right you are. Shall I play? Some Mendelssohn, perhaps. A couple of Lieder ohne Worte would go down well, I feel. And some cheese and crackers if we have any.’
Chapter Seven
I allowed Lady Hardcastle to lie-in on Saturday morning. She was going to have to stay up late being sparkling and wonderful at the Farley-Strouds’ soirée, after all. I got on with a few odds and ends, and then helped Miss Jones plan the menus for the coming week so that she could get the orders out before the local shops shut at lunchtime.
Lady Hardcastle ambled blearily into the kitchen shortly before ten o’clock.
‘Good morning, household,’ she said. ‘Am I too late for brekker?’
‘Never too late, m’lady,’ said Miss Jones. ‘But we didn’t know when to expect you so I didn’t put nothin’ on. What would you like?’
‘Can I have a couple of poached eggs, please?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘On toast. Did we ever get any of that American stuff, the tomato ketchup? Helston’s?’
‘Heinz,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring it through.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said as she ambled out again. ‘Join me, would you?’
When she had gone, Miss Jones said, ‘I don’t know how she can eat that muck.’
‘Egg on toast?’ I said.
‘No, that tomato ketchup stuff. Don’t taste nothin’ like tomatoes. I can make her a lovely tomato sauce if she wants one. Or a mushroom ketchup. It’d take a while, mind, but it’d go lovely with her eggs.’
‘I’ve grown rather fond of it,’ I said. ‘There are worse crimes committed in the name of food, don’t forget. There’s a fermented herring dish in Sweden called surströmming – it smells so revolting that they only eat it outdoors.’
‘That’s as may be, but it don’t mean I has to like Mr Heinz, or his tomato ketchup.’
‘What about the baked beans Lady Hardcastle got from Fortnum’s?’
‘You got me there,’ she said with a grin. ‘I loves they.’
‘Me too. Can you do me a couple of eggs as well, please? I’ll make the coffee.’
A few minutes later I carried the food and the post through to the morning room, where I joined Lady Hardcastle at the table.
‘Here you go, my lady,’ I said as I gave her a plate of eggs on toast. ‘Welcome to Saturday.’
She looked out of the window at the grey wintry sky. ‘You’re welcome to it,’ she said. ‘I might go back to bed.’
She started on her breakfast.
‘Do you have any exciting plans for the day?’ I asked, trying to lift the mood a little.
‘Nothing fabulous,’ she said. ‘If I “had my druthers”, as our colonial cousins say, I should prefer to be trying to free Lizzie Worrel from gaol, but we’re kicking our heels on that one until Caudle comes up with more of the transcription. I thought I might do some work on the models for the new animation, but even with the paraffin heater it’s a bit parky in the orangery. I keep feeling we ought to do something about the garden, too.’
‘But you hate gardening,’ I said.
‘Precisely the reason nothing ever gets done. Perhaps I should make enquiries. There must be a reliable fellow nearby who could take care of a bit of planting and pruning for us.’
‘You know who I always thought would make a good gardener?’ I said.
‘No? Who?’ She was distracted now, leafing through the post.
‘You remember that chap who helped us out with the Spencer Caradine case? Lived in a caravan in the woods.’
‘Obadiah Tuppence,’ she said absently.
‘Jedediah Halfpenny,’ I replied. ‘Better known as Old Jed. I bet he knows a thing or two. And I bet he’d be glad of a few bob in his pocket in return for an honest day’s toil. He liked you.’
‘Everyone likes me, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m adorable. But if you think he’d be up to the job, you have my permission to seek him out and attempt to engage him. Oh, this one’s from Harry. Pass me your butter knife, would you? Mine’s covered in something.’
‘Butter?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, please.’
I passed her the knife, which she used to slit open the envelope from her brother, Harry. She began reading.
‘Is he well?’ I asked.
‘Full of the joys,’ she said. ‘Married life seems to suit him . . . Let’s see . . . They’re renting a place on Bedford Square. Not terribly handy for Whitehall, but he says the walk will do him good. What else . . . ? Servants have been engaged and he even has a valet now, so he has no excuses for being badly turned out. I must say, it always used to frustrate me so much that he just had a part-time housekeeper at that flat in St John’s Wood . . . Lavinia is engaged in the usual round of charities and good causes. Oh, but she’s also been appointed to the board of her brother’s company. She has a shrewd mind. She’ll do well there.’
Lady Lavinia’s brother was the ‘Fishy’ from whom Lady Hardcastle was hoping to buy a new motor car.
She read on for a moment. ‘Then he asks after me. Oh, and you. Apparently Lavinia wants to know when we’re going to visit . . . There’s some stuff about work . . . Oh.’ Abruptly, she p
ut the letter down.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Ehrlichmann has been spotted again.’
Günther Ehrlichmann was the German agent who had killed Lady Hardcastle’s husband, Sir Roderick, in Shanghai. We knew little about him other than that Lady Hardcastle had shot him dead moments after he murdered Sir Roderick. His very real, slightly messy death notwithstanding, our friends Skins and Dunn – two ragtime musicians – had seen him in a London nightclub before Christmas.
‘What does he say?’ I asked.
‘You remember the boys said Harry had spoken to them at Rag-A-Muffin after their encounter with the man calling himself Ehrlichmann?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘He said he’d had some men from the Foreign Office following the chap for a while.’
‘He did. They lost track of him, apparently, but Harry had also asked Special Branch to keep an eye out and one of their chaps spotted him on Thursday. He was at Paddington Station boarding a train for Penzance.’
‘And the trains for Penzance pass through Bristol,’ I said.
‘They do, indeed. He managed to get a local man to Bristol Temple Meads in time to meet the train and there was no sign of the supposed Ehrlichmann, but it does give one pause, don’t you think?’
‘It certainly brought him nearer for a while. Although if he went all the way to Penzance, he’s further away now than he was when he was in London.’
‘True, but what on earth is there at Penzance?’
‘A railway station, for one,’ I said. ‘And a harbour. Perhaps he’s leaving the country.’
‘Perhaps. It’s all a little unsettling, though. I thought all this nonsense was behind us.’
‘There’s nothing much we can do but keep our wits about us. And some sort of weapon.’
‘Excellent. I’ve been dying to wear that holster hat you got me for Christmas. It shall be my hat of choice in the coming days and weeks. Apart from this evening, where glamour and elegance are required.’
‘They are. While you’re doing whatever Lady of the House things you get up to while I’m toiling on your behalf, I shall be—’
‘You shall be toiling on my behalf?’
‘I was actually going to say that I shall be ensuring that your gown, shoes, and jewels are at their elegant and glamorousest best.’
‘You spoil me.’
‘I bloomin’ well do. Are you going to eat that last piece of toast?’
Parties in the country, we had learned, did not start at a civilized hour as they did in the cities. In the city, no one would dream of starting a party much before ten o’clock, but out here in the glorious English countryside they did things differently. They were early-to-bed-early-to-rise types and they thought nothing of starting their gatherings at seven.
And so it was that at a quarter past seven on the dot, I delivered Lady Hardcastle to the front door of The Grange. With a wave to Jenkins, the Farley-Strouds’ butler, I pulled away and drove the Rover around to the side of the big house. I parked in front of the converted stables that now served as a garage for their own motor car and made my way back towards the house, guided by the light coming up the stone steps from the servants’ door.
I entered without knocking and navigated without incident to Maude’s door. I knocked briskly.
‘Oh, for the love of . . . What now?’ came the voice from within.
‘It is I, Miss Denton,’ I said. ‘A simple traveller from distant lands come to seek shelter within. Or Flo from down the hill, come to seek a cup of tea and a chinwag. Whichever you prefer.’
The door opened, and the beaming face of Maude Denton, lady’s maid and All-England Skiving Champion, loomed before me. She was a little older than I – though I’d never established how much – not to mention a smidge taller, and good deal broader about the waist. But she had the mischievously twinkling eyes of a girl half my age and an infectious grin to go with them.
‘For goodness’ sake get inside before anyone notices us,’ she said, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me into the room.
‘Good evening, Maude,’ I said, producing a cake tin from its hiding place under my coat. ‘Got any tea?’
‘Tea be blowed,’ she said, taking the cake. ‘This calls for sherry.’
‘No can do, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Driving.’
‘Tch, you young Welsh girls and your chapel ways,’ she said. ‘Take your coat off and make yourself comfortable – I’ll get the kettle on.’
I had first met Maude shortly after we moved to Littleton Cotterell. I spent much of the afternoon of Clarissa Farley-Stroud’s engagement party hiding out in this very room, lest we be roped into any of the frantic preparations that were then underway. I’d not managed to bump into her for a few months and I anticipated a pleasantly lazy evening in her company.
‘Not helping upstairs with the party, then?’ I said as she handed me a cup of tea and a slice of the Madeira cake I’d brought with me.
She laughed. ‘You’re such a card,’ she said. ‘Imagine it – me helping with the party. As if!’
‘I’ve not seen you for months. You might have suffered a blow to the head and been transformed into a completely different woman for all I knew. These things happen, you know. I’ve read stories in the newspapers.’
‘It’ll take more than a blow to the head to persuade me to pitch in with that sort of nonsense. I have quite enough to be getting on with, taking care of “m’lady”, thank you very much.’
‘And how is life at the big house on the hill?’ I asked. ‘Is there fresh gossip as yet unrepeated in the village?’
‘Hardly. Anything that happens up here is all round the village in moments – so if you’ve heard nothing, there is nothing. Life continues much as it has for generations.’
‘How disappointing. So no footmen are carrying on with any chambermaids? Jenkins isn’t secretly embezzling the wine money to fund his retirement at Weston-Super-Mare?’
She laughed again. ‘Nothing like that. The nearest we ever get to carryings-on is bloomin’ Dora Kendrick.’
‘Not my favourite housemaid?’ I said. ‘What’s she been up to now?’
‘To be honest, I can’t keep up with all her nonsense. There are tales of her being sweet on some young lad in the village and wanting him to take her to some dance in the village hall. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with her and said he was going to ask the butcher’s daughter—’
‘Daisy Spratt,’ I said, automatically filling in the missing name.
‘Yes, that’s her. She’s a pal of yours, isn’t she?’
‘She is, yes. And someone’s been trying to besmirch her good name. Well, besmirch her name, anyway. I’m not sure how good it is by now – she’s never been the chaste type. But she’s a kindhearted soul and, as you say, she’s my pal. You don’t suppose Dora is behind the rumours, do you?’
‘What rumours are they?’ she asked.
‘Something about her being seen behind the cricket pavilion with Lenny Someone-or-other. I forget the details, but she swears it’s not true.’
‘Lenny Leadbetter,’ she said. ‘That’s the chap Dora had her eye on. I wouldn’t put it past her to start trying to stir up trouble for them both.’
‘Keep your ears open for me, would you? I’d like confirmation before I do anything rash.’
‘Ooh, are you planning to waylay her and give her what for? A swift punch on the conk?’
‘Nothing so direct,’ I said. ‘But I do think it’s time someone settled her hash.’
‘It’s well overdue, dear. Well overdue. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a sherry?’
‘Quite sure, but please don’t let me stop you from having one. I’m more than happy with my tea.’
‘I’ll just have a small one,’ she said.
Three sherries later, or perhaps four, Maude was decidedly merry and already well on the way to mischievous. She had a plan.
‘One of the disadvantages,’ she began, ‘of hiding away and refusing to p
itch in with the party preparations, is that one doesn’t get the opportunity to hang around on the periphery with a tray of vol-au-vents and earwig on the conversations of the great and the good.’
‘I’ve earwigged,’ I said. ‘One isn’t missing anything.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But sometimes one might. Unless, that is, one knows the secret door that opens on to the secret passageway that leads to the secret room where the secrets of the secretive can be secretly overheard.’
‘And do you?’
‘Do I what, dear?’
‘Do you know the secret way to the secret room?’
She laughed. ‘Of course I do, you silly ass. It would be a pretty poor show to rattle on about secret doors and then say, “But, alas and alack, I know not the whereabouts of the secret portal to the realms of the secret secrets.” Put down your teacup and follow me.’
I did as I was bidden and tiptoed carefully behind her up the servants’ staircase to the ground floor of the house.
‘Why are we tiptoeing?’ I asked as we emerged into a familiar passage that I knew led past the library and on to the entrance hall.
‘For fun,’ she said, and tapped the side of her nose.
We stopped just short of the first library door, opposite an ornate Chinese cabinet that I remembered from previous visits to The Grange. To the left of the door was a shallow alcove fitted with shelves, upon which stood an eclectic selection of knick-knacks – mementoes of the Farley-Strouds’ lives. Maude reached past a tasselled cap with a ‘First XV’ badge embroidered on it and fiddled around under the shelf above it. There was a soft click. At her gentle push, the whole shelf assembly swung inwards, revealing a dark, cobwebbed passageway.
‘You’re not frightened of spiders, are you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just cows.’
‘You’re frightened of . . . ? Oh, never mind. If we meet any cows in here, I’ll fend them off while you run for it. Come on. And shut the door behind you.’
I followed her in and pushed the perfectly weighted shelf-door until it clicked shut. The passageway was now completely dark.
‘Grab my apron ribbon and follow me,’ said Maude. ‘We’ll have to be quiet from now on.’