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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘Or sword point.’ I added.

  Swift looked back down at the corpse’s fingers. ‘There’s paint under his fingernails and on his clothes.’

  ‘Oil paint, probably,’ I said. ‘He was an artist of some sort.’

  ‘He was a very good artist, actually.’ Miss Busby came to stand beside us; she was evidently made of pretty stern stuff. ‘It was the only good thing about him.’ She watched as we rolled the body back. ‘Why do you think the sword was struck there, just behind his head?’ she asked.

  Swift and I looked at it for a moment, then each other.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said and closed his lips firmly.

  Neither did I, but I knew that it must have considerable significance.

  ‘He was killed sometime after dawn, I’d say,’ I remarked, changing tack.

  ‘Agreed,’ Swift replied. ‘About half-past six this morning.’

  ‘Whose grave is this?’ I asked Miss Busby, trying to decipher the worn lettering on the headstone.

  ‘Frederick Benson. Old Benson’s grandfather,’ she replied. ‘The Bloxfords are in the vault.’ She turned to indicate the stone mausoleum surrounded by bluebells at the centre of the graveyard.

  ‘We’ll have to call the local constabulary,’ Swift said wiping his hands together. ‘And an ambulance.’

  ‘Oh, I already have,’ Miss Busby put in. ‘My nephew is on his way.’

  ‘He’s the local Inspector,’ I told Swift, and turned back to Miss Busby. ‘He’s not coming in by the main gate, is he? Because I haven’t warned them at the Hall yet …’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. 'There’s a lych-gate just beyond the hill, it opens onto the village. He will be here very soon, he was just finishing his breakfast.’

  The piercing blast of police whistles broke into our conversation, quickly followed by the sound of heavy boots running up the hill.

  ‘Well, Swift,’ I said, moving in the other direction. ‘I think we’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Stop right there!’ A voice bellowed at us from the direction of the trampling boots. ‘Don’t you be touching a thing.’

  There followed another loud blast of whistles.

  A platoon of police arrived red-faced and panting, led by a doughy individual whom I took to be Inspector Watson.

  We had arranged the body back into its original position and the uniformed constables gathered around it, agog with excitement. One of them collapsed in a heap.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Watson ordered, ‘Walter always faints at the sight of blood.’ He was near bald with small eyes and pink cheeks; beads of sweat were gathering over his sparse brows. His creased suit was slightly too small for his girth and his paunch threatened to burst his waistcoat buttons.

  ‘Why did you bring him, then?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s the Sergeant,’ Watson replied. ‘Got to have a sergeant present. Takes the notes, he does.’

  ‘Not from down there he doesn’t,’ Swift retorted.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector Swift?’ Watson recognised him and sketched a salute. ‘I’ve come to inspect the scene of the crime, sir.’

  ‘I haven’t seen no one killed afore,’ one of the bobbies said.

  ‘You ain’t been in the War, you ain’t,’ an older constable responded.

  ‘Is ’e gone stiff yet?’ another asked.

  ‘Why’s that sword stickin’ in the ground?’ someone piped up from the rear.

  Watson knelt down next the body and began prodding the corpse, then looked up at Swift and me. ‘He’s been shot. I hope you haven’t touched him?’

  We glanced at each other and remained silent.

  ‘I’ll be needing statements and fingerprints, we’ll do it proper, like,’ Watson continued.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, George,’ Miss Busby told him. ‘I am not going to have my fingerprints taken.’

  ‘Aunty Bella,’ he hissed, ‘don’t be showing me up now.’

  ‘Do you think the bullet went right through?’ another copper said, leaning in closer.

  ‘Yes,’ I informed him, ‘it did.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Watson snapped, pausing in his search of the body for papers or anything interesting.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Was it you’ as found him?’ Watson looked at me accusingly.

  ‘Yes, but he’d been dead a couple of hours by then,’ I replied.

  ‘Where was you two hours before, then?’

  ‘At the house – and I have a number of reliable witnesses,’ I informed him, although Andrew Dundale could hardly be described as reliable.

  ‘I can vouch for him,’ Swift backed me up, which made a change.

  ‘Can I touch ’im, sir?’ another constable said, reaching a finger towards Jarvis, who was taking on a mottled hue under the warming sun.

  A shrill jangle of bells reached us from the direction the police had come.

  ‘That’ll be the ambulance,’ Watson said, getting up off his knees and brushing grass from his trousers. ‘Doctor’ll be here. Enough gawping now, lads. Search the area. Apprehend anyone you find. Look for clues, and find that bullet,’ he shouted, waving his arms about. ‘And you folks, you can make your statements to Walter when ’e wakes up.’ He eyed us firmly.

  ‘You’ll find me at the house,’ I said, turning on my heel. I’d had enough policemen for one day.

  ‘Lennox, you can’t just leave,’ Swift started to argue.

  I ignored him and walked off; Miss Busby followed.

  ‘You’re going to the rectory, aren’t you?’ she said as we trod the path toward the cottage and the copse of trees.

  ‘I assume you telephoned your nephew from there?’ I said.

  ‘I did, yes.’ She was little out of breath trying to keep up with me, so I slowed my pace.

  ‘And you know where the key is,’ I stated.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, under the flowerpot next to the front door. What are you looking for, Major Lennox?’

  ‘Paintings, Miss Busby. There are a few empty spaces up at the house, I noticed them when I arrived.’

  ‘Ah.’ She stopped suddenly and smiled. I turned to face her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Chaplain wasn’t working on the sort of paintings one would exhibit in open view.’

  ‘Really,’ I raised my brows. ‘Why?’

  She giggled. ‘They were all ladies. Naked ladies.’

  ‘Good Lord. Perhaps you’d better stay here.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said, marching off ahead of me. ‘One of them is me!’

  Chapter 9

  I stood irresolute with hands in pockets as Miss Busby took a firm grip of the rectory door and tugged it open. I’d charged into perilous situations during the War, but this one brought me into hitherto uncharted territory. The question playing uppermost in my mind was: how recent was the portrait? And why on earth was she naked?

  The place was more disordered inside than it had appeared from my glance through the windows. I had to duck – the beamed ceiling was low – but I made my way safely to the easel where Miss Busby had tugged the white linen cloth off the canvas resting on the paint-spattered bar.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked meditatively.

  ‘Um … doesn’t look awfully like you, frankly.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ she replied.

  I regarded it more closely. ‘Isn’t that …?’ I began, then suddenly recoiled. ‘Good God, that’s Lady Grace!’

  Miss Busby laughed. ‘Rather good, don’t you think?’

  The picture was mostly modest, although it wasn’t difficult for the imagination to fill in the areas draped in silk and gauze. Caroline Bloxford’s eyes gazed steadily back at me, except that it wasn’t Caroline, it was her mother. A lady whom I recalled as being warm, sparkling, and old to my child’s eye – and always fully clothed. This was an entirely new vision of her and it came as a bit of a shock.

  ‘Jarvis can’t have painted this,’ I said. ‘Lady Grace has been dead
for almost two decades.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Miss Busby answered. ‘He was restoring them. There are over a dozen that I’m aware of, but they’re supposed to be under lock and key at Bloxford Hall. They’re known as the Bloxford Beauties.’

  ‘Including you?’ I frowned, unable to make sense of it.

  She smiled, then grabbed the linen cloth, wrapped it back around the portrait and shoved Lady Grace into my arms.

  ‘Come on. We’re not having the police leering at this. Quickly now, my nephew will be here shortly.’

  ‘Are there any more here? I asked.

  ‘Not that I could find,’ she replied, ‘and this one shouldn’t be here either.’

  I followed her into the copse behind the house and we followed a muddy byway that led back toward the village and stopped at the lych-gate.

  ‘Miss Busby –’ I began.

  She held her hands up to silence me. ‘I will explain, truly, Major Lennox.’

  The swift march through the trees had brought colour to her cheeks; she looked younger, and rather exhilarated by the clandestine thievery. ‘Would you care to come to tea, later this afternoon?’ she asked.

  Intrigued though I was, the thought of the picnic lunch and ride in the company of Florence held far more appeal. But I realised I wasn’t going to join them now. I must talk to the Brigadier and break the news to him that not only had he lost his chaplain, he was also about to be invaded by the police whether he liked it or not. And Caroline would have to know. Damn it, this was exactly the sort of hue and cry everyone had been trying to avoid.

  ‘If I can,’ I replied as I arranged the wrapped painting more firmly under my arm.

  ‘Lavender Cottage,’ Miss Busby smiled. ‘Goodbye.’

  I avoided the graveyard and the police and strode quickly back to the house. I was just in time to see the riding party trot off down the drive. Hiram and his father were riding in the most extraordinary fashion, with high-pommel saddles, and seated as though they were almost falling asleep on their horses’ backs.

  My mother was American, but I don’t recall her ever riding in such a singular fashion.

  Benson was in the hall tottering about with a small tray of the day’s mail, his sleeves falling over his wrists. ‘Ah, Major Lennox,’ he wheezed. ‘They’ve gone, I’m afraid we couldn’t find you. I asked young Dicks, but he didn’t know where you were. You could hurry, sir, catch them.’

  ‘No, no, old chap. I’m off upstairs to see the Brigadier, must have a word. And Benson?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he rasped.

  ‘Find Dicks. Tell him to stand by the door, would you. The police are on their way.’

  He looked at me as though the lights were going out, then perked up suddenly and nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said again, and tottered off.

  I placed my hand on the carved wooden bannister rail to go upstairs, then halted. The missing paintings from the hall had been returned. At least, I assumed they were the same artworks, as they fitted very well into their spaces. There was a fine thoroughbred horse with long legs, an excellent pair of hunting hounds and a landscape of the area with some sheep in it. I went over to take a closer look, noticing they seemed very spruce – in much better condition than the rest, actually, which were dusty with soot from the many log fires that had burnt in the huge fireplace. I gazed for a moment, then turned and bounded up the stairs to my rooms, where I pushed the wrapped portrait of Lady Grace under the bed and dashed onwards to the upper floor.

  Kalo the Gurkha let me in and silently led me through to the Brigadier, who was again seated before a roaring fire, staring into space. I took a chair opposite and broke the news to him loudly.

  ‘The Chaplain?’ he bellowed.

  ‘The Reverend Jarvis, sir,’ I repeated. ‘He’s been killed. Shot. And a rapier from this house was left next to him, sir.’

  ‘Who killed him? The damn Boche? Must have crawled under the wire. Shoot ’em. All of them.’ He slapped his hand down on his knee.

  ‘Jarvis was your chaplain here at the house, sir,’ I tried again.

  The Gurkha brought him something muddy in a cup that may have been tea.

  ‘Herbal. Want some?’ the Brigadier asked, sipping it.

  I shook my head.

  He looked directly at me, eyes slightly blurred by the blue haze around the irises, then suddenly he focused quite clearly. ‘Lennox. Are you telling me that imbecile Jarvis is dead?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  Whatever was in the tea seemed to have done the trick.

  ‘Good, never liked him. Who did it?’

  ‘No idea, sir,’ I persevered. ‘What was he doing here, apart from ministering?’

  He stared at me, a tic flickered on his cheek, but he made no other movement. ‘You are digging, Major, into things that do not concern you.’

  ‘Like the Bloxford Beauties?’ I replied.

  He continued to stare directly at me, then spoke coldly. ‘How did you learn of the Beauties?’

  I could hardly spill the beans on Miss Busby. ‘I discovered the nature of his work. And I need to know if it was sanctioned by you.’

  I was fishing in the dark; it was very clear that the Beauties were a closely guarded secret. I decided not to tell him that I had squirrelled away Lady Grace under my bed.

  He stared at me with hostility, then spoke.

  ‘There was a storm. Some windows blew in, caused damage. The paintings needed restoring. I agreed to the cleaning and whatever these Johnnies do. Started in Charles the Second’s day. Sixteen sixty or thereabouts. Family carried it on. No smut, first class artists and all that. One by Gainsborough. Not for public view, they’re in the Long Gallery, locked up. Going to hand them over to my new son-in-law. Hiram. He can look after it. Soon have it all anyway.’

  So the Brigadier knew he didn’t have long – or I took that to be his meaning.

  ‘Why would anyone kill Jarvis?’ I asked again.

  ‘Man knew how to paint, but he wasn’t a man of the cloth.’

  ‘How did he come to be here?’

  ‘Bishop sent him. No, no, it wasn’t. Ask the Americans, the mother. And Lennox …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I wanted it to be you. Thought if you came here, perhaps she would think again. But I watched her. And him. They’re happy, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are, sir.’ I sighed, saddened to see the old man failing. He was lost to us most of the time and soon he would be gone altogether. ‘Caroline and I were as close as siblings, but it was never more than that. She made the right choice.’

  ‘We all hoped, when you were young. Grace and your mother. Your family came to stay before the War. You should have seen them, the girls. Grace was named well, and your lovely mother, too, Mary-Rose. They were good friends. Led me and your father a merry dance …’ He drifted off, into days long ago. At least he wasn’t fighting the War. I rose, gave him a smart salute, left him to his memories and trotted downstairs.

  I could hear raised voices in the hallway as I descended. The constabulary had arrived. Dawkins was remonstrating, and the police were all arguing with him. It seemed like an excellent time to make a few notes in my book so I turned tail and took the stairs two at a time to arrive at the sanctuary of my rooms. Dicks was there, tidying up – what could possibly be left to tidy up, for heaven’s sake!

  ‘Benson didn’t happen to speak to you, Dicks?

  ‘No, sir. Would you care for coffee, sir? I can bring some.’

  ‘Um, yes please, Dicks, and sandwiches. Been a busy morning.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Mister Fogg returned without you, I gave him a snack.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you. We found a body – he dislikes anything dead. Hopeless as a gun dog,’ I remarked while filling my pen with more ink, some of which dripped onto the desk. Dicks didn’t even notice; he was standing motionless with a small brush in his hand.

  ‘You, mean a – dead person? Somebody dead, sir. Actually dead?�
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  Really, people do get excited about bodies, you’d think no one had ever been murdered before.

  ‘Yes. It was the Chaplain – Jarvis.’ I blotted the ink-spots myself as Dicks seemed to have lost interest in cleaning.

  ‘Another one?’ Dicks stared at me wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes, why? Do you know something about the previous chaplain?’ I asked, eyeing him more closely.

  ‘No, no. I meant another dead body. You know, after the opera singer. This is like the moving pictures. Was it with an axe?’ Dicks asked, eyes open even wider.

  ‘No, shot at close range. What moving pictures?’

  ‘At the new picture house at Oxford, sir. I went to see The Face at the Window. Scared stiff, I was. It was wonderful, sir.’

  ‘Ah, moving-picture houses – never been. You mentioned coffee, Dicks?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Erm, sir, won’t the police want to talk to someone, sir?’

  ‘Probably. You will find them downstairs, Dicks. And don’t let them run amok, will you.’ I turned back to my notebook and wrote down the time and details of this morning’s intriguing incidents. I halted for some moments while I considered the Bloxford Beauties. Was there a direct link between Crispin Gibbons and Jarvis, and if so, was it art or was it theatre, or both? Or neither? The ink dried on my nib as I pondered, then a sharp rap on the door snapped me from my woolgathering.

  ‘I brought coffee and dainties for two, sir.’ Dicks came in with a huge tray.

  I didn’t have to ask why he’d supplied sustenance for two because Swift stalked in right behind him, a deep frown between his brows and the rapier closely wrapped in a striped cloth.

  ‘No fingerprints, I take it?’ I said.

  He shook his head and sat on the edge of one of the club chairs beside the unlit fire. ‘All wiped clean or the killer wore gloves. But I found this.’ He held up a flattened bullet between finger and thumb. ‘It hit a gravestone at the rear of the cemetery.’

  I moved in his direction and took it from him to roll around in my palm.

  ‘Above forty, possibly forty-five, I’d say. Difficult to say, it’s been terribly deformed.’

  ‘Do you have any firearms of that calibre here?’ he asked.