The Black Cat Murders: A Cotswolds Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox Book 2)

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘Greetings, Benson.’ I trotted damply up the worn stone steps to the huge columned portico and hailed the ancient retainer.

  ‘Ah, Major Lennox, sir. We were expecting you some days ago,’ his voice quavered. ‘We have opera …’ He trailed off, then wound back up. ‘Singers for the wedding, you know …’ He puttered to a halt; I didn’t know if it was through age or lack of enthusiasm for the subject.

  ‘Yes, yes, excellent, Benson.’ My goggles had started to steam up as I entered the interior so I whipped them off and peeled away my soggy outerwear onto a footman in the green and black house livery. He held them at arm's length as they dripped on the black and white chequered tiles.

  ‘Boot room, old chap’ I advised him.

  He looked at me with hound-dog eyes in a long face, framed by lank brown hair falling each side of a middle parting.

  ‘They’re all wet,’ he complained.

  ‘Yes, I know. Would you hang them up to dry, please.’

  He didn’t move; he stood there looking at me.

  ‘Name?’ I asked.

  ‘Dawkins, I am. Just a dogsbody. Dogsbody Dawkins. Do this, do that. Never a minutes peace. Always running about, no thanks nor nothin'…’ he whinged, then finally trailed off, dripping, in the direction of the boot room.

  Good Lord, the service round here certainly hadn’t improved.

  Foggy was racing around the old butler’s bandy legs.

  ‘Don’t give the car a thought, Benson,’ I told him as the poor fellow bent at the knees trying to stroke the excited dog. ‘I’m sure some of the other chaps will unload it.’

  A young man, also wearing the green and black house uniform, came from the nether regions to stand smartly in front of me. I dropped the keys into his extended, white-gloved hand.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he greeted me. ‘I’m Dicks, sir,’ he said with a little bow. ‘Head footman.’

  ‘Nephew of Greggs, I take it.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ He didn’t look at all like Greggs, which was of great benefit to the fellow. Upright, slim, ginger hair and brows, freckles and an air of earnestness in a young face untouched by the worries of the world.

  ‘Excellent! Greetings, Dicks.’

  ‘Erm, you have some dog hairs on your jacket, sir. I could brush them off. Won’t take a minute,’ Dicks reached into his topcoat pocket and withdrew a small brush.

  ‘No, thank you.’ I took a step back and swept my arm across the old tweed shooting jacket I habitually wore. ‘Not necessary, Dicks. Just have the car unloaded, will you.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll call some of the staff. Won’t take a minute, sir.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Mister Benson will show you to your rooms, sir.’

  We both turned to watch the old man totter into the expanse of the hall, his white hair a frizzled crown – he looked as though he’d recently been struck by lightning, and moved like he had, too. He doddered to the grand staircase with Fogg cavorting around him and they both set off to the upper reaches together. A line of Dicks and footmen laden with trunk, basket, dog bowls and whatnots from the car came through and slowly followed old Benson up the stairs at a stately pace.

  My rooms were at the front and rather nice they were, too – nothing like an earl’s pile for a touch of luxury, although this particular pile had seen better days – actually, it had seen better centuries. The gilded wallpaper, gaily painted with red and blue parrots cavorting on tropical greenery, was curled at the edges and held in place by rusty drawing pins. The varnish on the flaking wood panelling was crackled with age and the Persian rugs were as moth-eaten as the blue velvet curtains.

  I wandered about my quarters while Dicks organised the servants unpacking my gear and stashing it away in a dressing room the size of my drawing room at home. The bedroom was even larger, and Fogg ferreted about under the massive four-poster bed in the hope of startling the mice while I noted the depth of the club chairs set before the marble fireplace. Fine hunting prints hung on the walls and I perused them before testing the eccentricities of the electric light fittings, which mostly didn’t work. There was a handsome desk and leather captain’s chair stationed in the window embrasure overlooking the long drive. I admired the view – ancient trees lined the carriageway, greening woodland in the distance, an adjoining deer park and horse paddocks beyond neatly trimmed lawns. If I hadn’t known that the whole house was in danger of crumbling into woodworm-eaten dust I’d have been terribly impressed.

  ‘Would you like a tray, sir? Coffee and sandwiches, perhaps?’ Dicks asked as he smoothed the bed linen, then shook out the hangings, sneezing with the dust.

  ‘Umm, yes, good idea, Dicks. And a treat from the kitchens for Mr Fogg.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Dicks grinned and left, the other chaps following behind. I must say, Greggs’s young nephew might be the saving of this place. Benson had wandered off – probably forgotten where he was going.

  ‘Lennox, about time too! Where have you been?’ Lady Caroline Bloxford blew in. Fogg raced over to her, yelped, then flaked to the floor on his back for a tummy-rub. She knelt to give him a hearty ruffle and he remained there in happy abandon as she came and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Greetings, old girl. I believe congratulations are in order.’ I pecked her in return.

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ she retorted sharply, looking up at me – she’d always been bossy, and a dose of the tender emotions didn’t appear to have softened her up very much. ‘You were supposed to be here days ago,’ she declared. ‘We called you. No one ever answers your telephone. We sent telegrams, too.’

  ‘Greggs is not allowed to answer the telephone, it just confuses things. And he’s saving his voice,’ I explained. ‘Anyway, why drag me into this? It’s not as though you can’t get married without me.’

  ‘Daddy’s been fretting, he’s been asking for you. And Hiram’s family are so utterly nice,’ she said with a slight frown. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Caroline regarded me with intelligent green eyes in a matter-of-fact face, her straight brown hair held back by an Alice band. She was dressed in the usual country style – sensible brown shoes, tweed jacket and skirt, faded green jersey with a simple pearl necklace.

  ‘What’s wrong with being nice? Damn sight better than having a bunch of curmudgeons knocking around the place,’ I remarked with a smile – despite the ticking off, I was very pleased to see her again.

  ‘Because I have to be nice too and it’s driving me doolally.’ She plumped herself down on the bed, looked at me dryly then suddenly grinned as we dropped back into our old childhood rapport.

  I laughed, then took on a serious note because I’d been rather surprised by the speed of the romance. ‘You’re not selling out, are you, old stick? I mean, I know things are a bit tricky for the Brigadier, but leaping into matrimony for the money isn’t going to make anyone happy in the long run.’

  It was her turn to laugh and her face lit up. ‘No, nothing like that. We’re quite dotty about each other, actually. But his family does have oodles of money — they’re from Texas. Hiram’s a rancher at heart – happiest riding a horse and rounding up cows. He’s learning to be an English gentleman – it’s a hoot! But I need a dose of reality, Lennox. I need you and your stupid obsession with tying fly lures and shooting and walking your brainless dog. You understand why things are funny, even when they’re not.’

  I went over and gave her a hug, poor girl. A wedding on this scale, even if it was going to take place at the house, was pretty tense and she had no mother or sisters to give her support.

  ‘Dicks seems a useful addition.’

  ‘Yes, he is. Poor Benson is entirely decrepit. We’ve tried to persuade him to retire, but he won’t, he just totters around the place like a clockwork toy slowly running out of whizz.’

  I smiled and turned to the topic uppermost in my mind. ‘Cyril Fletcher told me your fiancé was mad keen on opera,’ I said, wondering how a Texan cowboy could have acquired a taste for highbrow
warbling.

  ‘No, what nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘Hiram’s parents asked father if they could arrange the entertainment as part of the wedding celebrations. Hiram’s mother, Ruth, has highbrow tastes and is a patron of the arts in Texas. I tried to convince her that we are simple country folk, but she won’t listen. She has a dreadful man who advises her on all things cultural, and he’s not even English, he’s German! It’s all quite ridiculous.’

  ‘But why opera, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘The old theatre in the grounds – you remember: we used to play dressing-up there when we were children. Hiram’s mother saw it when they stayed with us last year and declared it to be charming. Then their German chap said he knew an opera troupe and persuaded them to let him organise the show, and that was that. We had our fait accompli’ed!’

  ‘I do remember the theatre,’ I said, ‘and it was rickety then. No wonder Crispin fell through the floor, I’m surprised the whole lot of them didn’t fall through it!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Lennox, we are not complete fools. There have been workmen in there for months putting it in order – that’s one of the reasons we’ve had to wait until now to tie the knot!’ Lady Caroline retorted. ‘And who told you about the accident?’ She fixed me with a steely eye.

  ‘Cyril Fletcher,’ I replied, not intimidated in the slightest.

  ‘Lennox, you know very well Cyril is a terrible gossip. He may be a marvellous doctor but he will recount a tale in the most convoluted manner and get half of it muddled up.’

  ‘But the opera singer did die, didn’t he! He got that right,’ I retorted.

  ‘Yes, but it was an accident. How could it be anything else?’ She suddenly looked at me narrowly. ‘Someone told me you were sleuthing last Christmas – something about your uncle and a scheming countess at Melrose Court. You haven’t come here to detect, have you, Lennox? Because I don’t want anything to spoil my wedding, and –’

  We were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door and I shouted ‘Enter’ with a touch of relief. Caroline was a good sport but she could become quite waspish if things didn’t go her way.

  Dicks came in with a large silver tray heaped with teapot, coffeepot, cups and dainties.

  ‘I brought enough for two, my lady and sir,’ he said, and put it down to spread a white linen cloth upon the oval reading table in front of the fire.

  ‘And for Fogg?’ I asked.

  ‘Liver and steak leftovers, sir.’ He lifted the lid on a bowl of titbits and placed it under Fogg’s nose.

  Caroline turned to him. ‘Dicks, did you bring Major Lennox’s gift?’

  ‘I have it prepared,’ he replied while carefully stationing teapot, cake stands and dainties in serried order on the table. He even measured the distance between items with his gloved finger. ‘I was awaiting the order, my lady.’

  ‘Well, you have it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed and went out as we sat down and tucked in.

  ‘What gift?’ I asked warily.

  She grinned mischievously but said nothing, just bit into a triangular sandwich.

  Dicks returned with a wicker basket.

  ‘Caroline, please don’t tell me …’

  He placed the basket carefully on a chair next to me. There was a blue ribbon tied to the lid to keep it in place – a small black paw was trying to pry through the gap and play with it. A sigh escaped me.

  ‘Well, if Fogg eats it, on your own head be it.’ Fogg jumped onto my lap for a better view. I lifted the lid and a very small black kitten stared at me with wide blue eyes. Fogg took a quick sniff, licked it around the ears and looked up at me with an expression of pure besottedness. I sighed in defeat – it seemed we had a kitten.

  ‘The mother’s vanished,’ Caroline said by way of excuse. ‘There are five of them ...’ She glanced at me. ‘Don’t look like that, Lennox, you’re an absolute pushover and you know it.’

  Dicks bowed and left with a grin. I turned to Caroline, who was pouring cream into a saucer on the table for the kitten. It didn’t seem sure what to do with it.

  ‘Cyril told me there was a commotion with a cat,’ I remarked while watching the kitten place a tentative paw in the cream, then licking it.

  ‘Well, at least he got that right,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, I found the litter under the stage after the accident, and as the mother still hadn’t returned this morning I decided they needed new homes. You can have two if you like.’ She looked at me hopefully.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I replied sternly, quashing any more attempts to trespass on my good nature. ‘Look, if Cyril got things mixed up, you need to tell me the tale, old girl – and stick to the facts, will you.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ She looked at me squarely and put her cup down. ‘Two nights ago the opera group gave their first proper performance. All our chums and neighbours from round and about had been invited to puff up the numbers. Father and I, and Hiram and his parents, sat through three of the longest hours you just cannot imagine. Then, as the opera finally crawled to an end, there was a howling screech from somewhere in the theatre and a thin black cat erupted from behind the stage or under it, I didn’t see where, and then onto the stage itself. It stopped, all its hair on end; the soprano shrieked, the cat shrieked, someone threw a bunch of flowers at the poor thing, and then it scrambled across the orchestra, leaping from violin to oboe to harp as it went. That caused even more chaos, and then the poor cat disappeared from sight. That was the highlight of the evening, of course, and we thought they’d end it there and then. But the troupe were determined to battle on, so we settled down in our seats again. Sir Crispin was shot.’ Caroline paused to laugh at me as I raised my brows. ‘Not really, it was part of the opera. So he lay flat on the floor and the soprano entered from the wings and warbled over to him, then they suddenly vanished from sight, with a sort of shriek. We all applauded, thinking it was some sort of novel finale, but then the lady screamed in earnest, and we realised it wasn’t. Mayhem followed, as you can imagine. Half the audience seemed to head for the pit, so I decided to go in search of the cat, but failed entirely. You know the rest.’ She smiled at me.

  I mused on the story. ‘Bit of a coincidence, the cat suddenly erupting like that.’

  ‘I agree, but the plank below the trap-door gave way. I saw it when they heaved the soprano onto a stretcher. Perhaps it had already started to crack and the noise frightened the cat.’ She looked at me speculatively. ‘I mean, even if there were deliberate intent, it would be impossible to predict whether either singer would be killed at all, or which of them,’ she declared as she finished her tea. ‘It doesn’t add up to anything other than an accident, Lennox.’

  ‘What did the police say about it?’ I asked.

  ‘The police arrived just after Cyril pronounced Sir Crispin dead. They tramped about the place asking ridiculous questions, demanding statements, which they didn’t get, and upsetting everyone. The inspector’s name was Watson, from the local station in Bloxford; he examined the body and wanted to declare the theatre a crime scene and make everybody stay where they were until heaven knows what hour. Cyril told him he was an ass and insisted the body be sent to the mortuary. There was a lot of shouting and nonsense and Daddy lost patience with it and threw them all out.’ She finished her tea as she said this.

  ‘Hum.’ There was much here to think about. Caroline hadn’t mentioned Crispin’s fancy for frocks, and had she known she would surely have had a word or two to say about it. I decided a spot of solitary fresh air would help untangle the mind. ‘I’ll take Foggy and have a look. Theatre’s behind the east wing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, and don’t you dare make a murder out of this, Lennox.’ Caroline’s eyes flashed.

  ‘No, no,’ I reassured her. ‘Just going to allay the curiosity, old stick.’

  She mellowed suddenly, which should have put me on the alert. ‘By the way, Florence is arriving today. She’s my bridesmaid. Do you remember her? Florence Braeburn?’


  ‘No, not in the slightest,’ I shook my head. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Rather hoped you might hit it off, that’s all. She’s a terrific sport. Quite perfect for you, actually.’ And with that declaration of meddlesome intent, she got up and left before I had time to remonstrate.

  Chapter 3

  Fogg refused to come. Long ears drooping, he sat on my chair by the table and watched with intense devotion as the kitten attempted to lap more cream from the saucer. It was a tiny thing, probably only six or seven weeks old. When it finished I picked it up carefully and took it to the dog basket in front of the unlit hearth. Fogg followed, monitoring every movement. The kitten made inexpert attempts to clean its ears, whiskers and face. Dicks had supplied a cardboard box of fresh soil, and, ablutions complete, the kitten tottered over to it, dug a delicate hole, peed, filled in said hole and skipped back to Fogg’s basket to curl up in the blanket. Fogg glanced at me with a hint of apology in his limpid brown eyes, wagged his tail, and then returned to his vigil over the little cat. I sighed, left them to it and set off.

  Turning a corner of the long corridor on the upper floor I spied an unknown chap fingering slicked-back hair into place in front of a mirror. I halted on the spot, not being too keen on the look of the oily specimen — a dandy if ever I saw one. I could see he was handsome, to a lady’s eye, anyway. He was tall, dark, elegantly dressed in a smartly tailored suit with a silk tie and stacked heels. He finished his preening, extracted the bunch of roses from the vase on the table in front of the mirror, and with an expert flourish flicked away the water clinging to the stems. Then he tucked them under his arm and went off in the other direction, humming an operatic aria. Now there was a slick coxcomb and a damn thief besides, that I could take an instant dislike to. I frowned after him before continuing on my way.