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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘I don’t give a damn which side you were on. If I’d come across you a few years ago I’d have shot you on sight,’ I told him.

  ‘But … but …’ he spluttered. ‘This is outrageous!’

  I was about to deliver a few more outrages on the bloody Prussian oil slick when Caroline came over with a chap who was more mountain than man. He was dressed in a brand-new tweed jacket and trousers, a chequered shirt and tie. He fingered the collar as if everything were a touch too tight. I fixed a smile on my phiz as I watched the Prussian sidle off from out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Lennox.’ Caroline gave me a wide, happy smile. ‘This is Hiram.’

  I had to look up at him. I fall in at six three, and he was taller than me, and broader. Black hair, dark blue eyes, an amiable face, square jaw, and a tanned skin that spoke of a man who lived more outdoors than in. As grooms go, Caroline could have done a great deal worse. I extended my hand to his larger one.

  ‘Greetings, old man.’ I smiled as he crushed my fingers.

  ‘Howdy,’ he returned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He means “hello”,’ Caroline giggled.

  ‘Ah, excellent.’

  ‘Ah’m trying to teach you guys some American. We say “howdy” in Texas.’ He spoke slowly, extending his vowels into a drawl. Not unpleasant or particularly difficult to decipher once one got used to it.

  ‘Yes, well, “Howdy”, old “guy”,’ I replied.

  ‘And these here are ma folks –’ he held an arm out to an older couple just behind him and Caroline ‘– Ford and Ruth Chisholm.’

  A tall, thin lady, severely upright in a purplish frock and wearing an expression as though she’d swallowed a wasp, stepped forward. Her husband was an older version of Hiram and wore a very rum get-up – a blue serge suit of a casual cut with a white shirt and a thin black cord in place of a tie. I looked at his boots and words failed me: the leather came from the skin of something brown, shiny and exotic; they reached to mid-calf and ended in pointed toes.

  ‘Howdy, I believe you’re Major Lennox?’ he drawled as he shook my hand. ‘This here’s ma wife, Lady Ruth. She’s a high-born lady from Scotland and she don't never let me forgit it.’ He smiled broadly, his eyes crinkled in a deeply tanned face, setting off extraordinarily white teeth - they must have marvellous dentists in America.

  ‘Good evening, Major Lennox,’ Lady Ruth greeted me coolly. ‘I believe you take yourself for a sleuth?’

  ‘Erm …’ There didn’t seem to be much of an answer to that.

  ‘No sleuthing, young man, I will not permit it,’ she proceeded to lecture me. ‘I am organising this wedding, and I will brook no distractions. You will behave yourself. Do you understand?'

  Well, really, what did she know about it? I was just about to open my mouth to inform her that there was actually a murderer in the vicinity, when Caroline broke in:

  ‘Lennox, will you walk Dame Gabriel into dinner, please? You’re seated between her and Daddy.’

  ‘What?’

  I was approached by a very round lady sporting some fairly startling make-up. She was brightly dressed in yellow silk and had a ridiculous feather-and-diamante concoction in her curled hair.

  ‘You must be Heathcliff, how delightful!’ she gushed. ‘Such a heroic name, Heathcliff. You must simply adore it.’

  It was the soprano. I turned to scowl at Caroline, who laughed. ‘Serves you right for bringing that policeman here,’ she hissed.

  Benson materialised to bang the dinner gong with a wobbly hand, and the beaming soprano grabbed my arm and dragged me into the dining room. I helped her into her chair and with a suppressed sigh sank into my seat. The sight of the magnificent room cheered me though — it was an ancient place with rich mahogany panelling reflecting flickering candlelight from the glittering chandelier. The high ceiling above was deeply carved in rococo plasterwork and the carpet was thick as fleece underfoot. Despite its size, it felt cosy and companionable — a warm refuge for a feast with friends.

  The Brigadier couldn’t hear a thing amongst the clatter of plates, cutlery and chit-chat, so he either ate in silence or roared orders at me.

  ‘Lennox, tell those idiots in the mess my soup is cold.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied loudly, although the whole house could have heard him. I turned toward Dame Gabriel.

  ‘I hope you are recovered? After the accident?’ I asked her.

  ‘Oh, it was a dreadful shock but I am quite restored, dear boy. I brim with good health! – though I grieve for poor, poor Crispin. A wonderful talent lost to the world and in his prime, too,’ she expounded, make-up creasing around her eyes. ‘I have had to break-in the new man. It has been quite exhausting, but he is coming along under my guidance. I have exacting standards, Heathcliff.’

  ‘Erm, my name is Lennox, actually.’

  ‘Really? But Caroline expressly informed me that you are Heathcliff.’ She raised painted eyebrows.

  ‘That is Caroline’s idea of a joke.’ I turned back to the subject of the extinguished tenor. ‘Who is the new chap – the one who’s taken over from Crispin?’

  ‘The Understudy. Young and quite inexperienced but with a good voice. If it were not for the dreadful circumstances, I’m afraid he would never have had the chance to take the lead.’

  ‘Really, and who did you say he was?’ I enquired, wondering if said tenor had kiboshed Crispin to gain top billing.

  ‘Andrew Dundale. He wasn’t able to attend dinner this evening. Both myself and the leading man are always invited to dinner. The rest of the troupe take their supper in the Dower House,’ Dame Gabriel informed me while swiping the remaining bread roll.

  ‘You don’t mean Lord Dundale’s son, do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we are all top-drawer, you know. No hoi-polloi in our group,’ she laughed. ‘Are you acquainted with him?’

  I nodded. Andrew Dundale had been better known as Andrew Dumbdale because of his wooden-headed intellect. Andrew's nature was harmless, but he had very little brain. We’d been at school together, where he’d excelled at attendance, and that was pretty much the sum of his achievements. Although I do recall his enthusiasm for drama and singing – qualities no doubt requisite to play lead tenor for the Noble House of Opera.

  ‘Major Lennox, muster the men at dawn for Inspection. This is a shambles,’ the Brigadier suddenly snapped, making me jump.

  ‘Yes, sir. Will do,’ I shouted, and returned to Dame Gabriel. ‘Is Andrew leading the opera company now?’

  She tittered gaily. ‘Oh, no. I have stepped into Crispin’s shoes. It is such an honour. And I may add, we did need freshening up. I mean, Crispin was a marvel but he was rather set in his ideas and he could be quite forceful. There were times when we were not a happy crew …’ She looked at me over her wine as she took a sip; lipstick smeared on the glass.

  ‘And were these “times” frequent or just now and then?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead,’ she began, knowing damn well she was doing exactly that, ‘but Crispin could be a bit of a Tartar and quite disruptive when he was in one of his moods, and that was really quite often. But he was an artiste, you know, and the greater the talent, the greater the desire for perfection. Sometimes it is necessary to crack the whip.’

  ‘So he terrorised the company?’ I said as a plate of spring lamb, new potatoes and various greens was placed in front of me. ‘Will you be doing the same?’

  ‘I … No … No. But the performance is paramount. We must give our all, we must …’ She spluttered to a halt, having flummoxed herself. ‘Do excuse me, there is something I really must discuss with dear Ford.’ She turned to Hiram’s father on the other side of her.

  At least that shut her up. I enjoyed the excellent repast and quietly observed the guests, my gaze lingering on Florence, who was wearing a pale tartan jacket over a cream silk blouse. She was amongst the animated crowd at the other end of the table, seated next to Hiram; they were laug
hing and chatting. Caroline was talking to a smooth-looking chap I hadn’t met, although judging by the jocular manner in which he spoke to both Caroline and Hiram I had him down as the best man. He was around thirty, much the same age as me and the rest of the younger set.

  The Brigadier held a dislike for modernity and the room was entirely candlelit. Beneath the chandelier, gleaming silver candelabra holding creamy candles were ranged along the centre of the table radiating a warm glow and lighting people’s faces as they leaned in to exchange small talk, anecdotes and jokey gossip. I watched Florence as she took a sip of wine and looked at me over the rim. I smiled, she smiled, and then turned her lovely face back toward Hiram.

  The table was so wide it was almost impossible to converse across it, saving me from small talk with Lady Ruth Chisholm, who was sitting opposite me. I took a longer look at her. Must say, she didn’t look much like Hiram: a long, lean face, sharp nose with a slight hook at the bridge, and steel-grey hair cut to the nape of the neck. She noticed my attention and stared back, so I offered my best grin but she looked away, evidently unimpressed. The Prussian, von Graf, sat next to her, and she ignored him, too – although I noticed he made eyes at Dame Gabriel next to me. I’d wager she was the recipient of the stolen roses.

  Benson doddered about, a napkin hanging from his arm, hands trembling as he served the Brigadier. Fortunately Dicks was also on duty and chivvied the other servants. Our plates were cleared as they were finished, napkins retrieved when dropped, wine glasses refilled when empty – it was all smoothly and elegantly done.

  An unknown lady, discreet and inquisitive, was taking more of an interest in the conversation than her food. I think she was a neighbour: grey hair tied in a neat bun, thin, bird-like in manner and looks, she was watching with bright eyes, and then turned to say something to Ford. There was another strange name – Ford – where did parents get their ideas? And Hiram? Maybe it meant Henry, or was a version of Heinrich, or some such. What was wrong with normal names? My mother had landed me with Heathcliff. Heathcliff, for God’s sake – what was she thinking!

  ‘The girl, Lennox.’ The Brigadier broke loudly into my meanderings.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Marrying a foreigner, you know. He can speak the language. Big fellow. He’ll need a mount. Find something in the stables for him, would you?’ he bellowed huskily in what he must have thought was sotto voce.

  ‘I will see to it, sir.’

  ‘I think he’ll do,’ he continued, staring straight at Hiram, who was pretending not to notice, though the chatter around the table suddenly became muted.

  ‘Yes, excellent choice, sir.’ I leaned in to reply.

  ‘Good people, Americans – your mother was one, Lennox.’

  ‘She was, sir. But she spent most of her life in England.’

  ‘I remember her, marvellous woman. Good heart, very kind. They beat us once, you know. Seventeen eighty-three. On our side now. Whole divisions of them on the Western Front. It will make a difference.’ The Brigadier slammed a hand down on the table, making the silver jump. ‘Damned Russians have turned, the bounders! Not the Americans – they won’t turn. Steadfast people.’ He stared down the table, his eyes slipping out of focus as he lapsed back into the past and the murmur of conversation rose again. Benson removed the Brigadier’s plate as a number of footmen cleared the way for pudding. The Gurkha, Kalo, remained silently behind his master’s chair; there was little for him to do, but he was never far from the old man’s side.

  ‘Didn’t happen to know that Crispin had a habit of bleeding, did you?’ I thought I’d drop a minor bombshell into Dame Gabriel’s ear as she bit into her Eton mess.

  She coughed and spluttered bits of meringue. ‘Well, well ... I knew, but he was so careful. He said he had “the disease of kings”. Haemophilia, you know. He didn’t bandy it about but it wasn’t a secret either.’

  ‘And you fell on top of him, didn’t you?’ I continued.

  ‘Major Lennox, it was an accident!’ She said loudly.

  People turned to scowl at me – well, Lady Ruth and Caroline did. I finished my pudding in silence.

  Dinner broke up amidst chatter and we gentleman made our way towards the smoking room for brandy and cigars. The ladies headed for the drawing room to do whatever they did there. Hiram fell in beside me and I enquired if he had a fancy for a spot of pigeon shooting.

  ‘I sure do, old man. I seen any number around and I’ve been wanting to take a shot at them. They eat the corn faster than we can plant it back home.’

  ‘Excellent, I suggest we…’ I was cut off suddenly and rudely hailed.

  ‘I say, you’re Major Heathcliff Lennox, aren’t you?’ It was the chap I assumed was the best man. He held his hand out, which I shook sparingly.

  ‘Yes, greetings, old chap,’ I replied.

  ‘Geoffrey Jarvis – old friend of your cousin Adam Kingsley.’

  ‘Kingsley is not my cousin, he is a lawyer and a snake,’ I told him quite clearly to lay any doubt on the case.

  The Brigadier and the other chaps had continued on to the smoking room but Hiram had turned and was quietly waiting and watching.

  Jarvis laughed. ‘Excellent, Heathcliff, old boy. He told me you were a wit.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m nothing of the sort.’ I took a step back. ‘And don’t call me Heathcliff.’

  ‘Said you were a clever cove, too. Even got away with murder.’ Jarvis grinned.

  I really took offence at this. ‘Absolute rot! What the devil do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know – last Christmas, at Melrose Court. You should have been fingered for murder but you managed to pin it on someone else. Great wheeze!’ He held the grin on his face, which was smooth-shaven, pale brown eyes and hair, lightly pock-marked, but open, friendly, and entirely at odds with the accusations he was now throwing at me. And, I realised, had probably batted into other ears, too.

  I was aware of Hiram standing like a monument in the passageway, quietly taking in the exchange.

  ‘Now, you may be best man and a guest in this house, but I am damn well not going to allow you to spread filthy slander about me. I’ll have your bloody hide if you repeat that accusation.’

  He simply laughed – thought it was funny. I was in half a mind to hit the fool. ‘Oh, I’m not the best man,’ he replied gaily. ‘I’m the Chaplain.’

  Chapter 6

  The Reverend Jarvis went off chortling as though everything were a huge joke.

  I raised my eyes at Hiram, who was regarding me with a slight furrow to the brow.

  ‘Damn strange sort of chaplain infesting this parish,’ I remarked, still seething, ‘and he’s not even wearing a collar!’

  ‘I thought the same ma-self,’ the Texan replied in that slow drawl. ‘But I reckoned it must be jus’ the way folks are out here.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t. And for the record, I haven’t murdered anyone – ever.’

  Hiram smiled, his teeth very white in the lamplight, and I returned the grin. ‘Come on, old chap, let’s get a snifter before we have to join the ladies.’

  The Brigadier was seated and silent in an upright wing chair by the fire, now alight and crackling, the Gurkha standing sentry behind him. The German had disappeared somewhere, which suited me as I’d no desire to bandy words with that blighter.

  We settled in deep cushioned chairs and were soon discussing the merits of various shotgun mechanisms, particularly in relation to pigeon shooting. Hiram and his father were very knowledgable about guns. Ford slipped a hand into the extraordinary boots he wore and pulled out a neat little Derringer pocket pistol with walnut grips, and passed it to me. I turned it over, eyeing it closely as it gleamed in the firelight, and realised it was loaded. Brows raised, I handed it back, carefully.

  ‘Where I come from we’d be naked without a gun,’ Ford drawled. ‘Even my dear wife packs a pistol. Pearl handled grips it has. I bought it for her myself when we was wed.’

  ‘Pa was a wild-ca
tter,’ Hiram explained. ‘Drilling for oil in the boondocks, way outside of the proven oil fields. Took a few years of grit and guts before he struck a load. It was crazier than the gold rush.’

  ‘An’ just as dangerous,’ Ford laughed. ‘I sure did like the adventure, though. But ranching is my real desire. I sold all my oil fields an’ bought myself a farm. It’s a fine homestead and my wife has made it finer, God bless her.’

  I was trying to imagine Lady Ruth as a rancher’s wife on a Texas range when the Brigadier announced we were to join the ladies. Caroline grabbed me as I arrived in the drawing room, my snifter still clutched in my hand.

  ‘Lennox.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is Miss Isabelle Busby,’ Caroline informed me. ‘She’s terribly interested in crime and detecting. You have first-hand knowledge, so I thought you’d like to chat to her.’ She smirked as she said this, knowing full well I had no desire whatsoever to make small talk with Miss Busybody or anyone else. It seems I was still being punished for introducing Swift into the place.

  I stood to allow the lady to take her seat, then fetched a chair to sit beside her while Caroline went to sit between Florence and Hiram.

  ‘Are you really a murderer?’ Miss Busby immediately asked as Dicks offered her a pale sherry in a dainty glass. She took it with thanks and a bright smile.

  ‘No, of course not. Ask anyone. Ask Chief Inspector Swift of Scotland Yard, he’ll be here tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were. But chaplains can be quite credible, you know. Although I’m not quite sure this particular chaplain is what he seems,’ she mused.

  We both looked toward Jarvis, who was alone on a sofa behind the family group. His face had turned florid as he knocked back the brandy and held his glass up to a footman for a refill.

  ‘How long has he been ministering in the parish?’ I asked.