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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘No, bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all,’ I said. ‘You recommended Jarvis to the household, I understand.’ I knew that wasn’t the case but tossing a bit of bait his way might bring some titbits to the fore.

  ‘The Reverend? It was the Lady Ruth who did so. She knows both him and I. Jarvis is a good man. He was much help to me during the troubles, you know.’

  ‘You mean the War?’ I slipped some liver into my handkerchief to save for Foggy as he’d declined to come with me.

  ‘I was with the Allied forces. Helping.’ He ate very quickly; you’d think he was anxious to be elsewhere.

  ‘Were you a traitor or a spy?’

  ‘Nein, nein. Major Lennox, I protest. I was an adviser on art. Before the troubles I was in Paris, I owned my own gallery, and before that I was in London. I am quite an expert, you know.’ He leaned forward and fixed me with blue eyes.

  ‘So how did you and Jarvis meet?’ I asked him.

  ‘He is excellent artist, very good. I departed Paris when the bombs began falling. I fled to find the British and some old friends from London. I speak German, I offer to be a translator. Jarvis, he is Chaplain at this place and when the men, the Tommies, you know, when they find artworks, they show me. Jarvis, he can make the mending if the art is damaged. We worked together at this, for the Army. We always reported everything. Nothing missed.’

  ‘Which regiment?’

  ‘The Royal Highlanders. Scottishers. We were with the Headquarters.’

  ‘And after the War? I had finished my lunch, which I must admit was very tasty, despite the company.

  ‘I returned to Paris, of course. It is my home. But the French, these people are not happy, and there is not enough food and money. Jarvis writes to me, he is at Braeburn Castle. The Laird of Braeburn was also in Headquarters and he has trust in us, knows we are experts in the world of art. Jarvis says the Laird is in need of selling some pieces. The Schloss, it is not good, the roof has water falling in, the stones are tumbling down. I know very well how to sell art and Jarvis, he can mend it and clean it. Make it in first-class order so we can sell it for the old chap for the first-class price.’

  Von Graf had become animated during the exchange, smiling and gesticulating. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as I thought. After all, some jolly decent people had invited him into their homes. He began telling me about some incident with a chap in a kilt during the war – rather funny, actually. I watched him as he talked, he could be jolly and amusing – perhaps I’d been hasty in my first impressions.

  ‘And you met Lady Ruth there?’ I asked.

  ‘Ja,’ he nodded. ‘All the Chisholms, I meet them. They are family of the Laird. We become good friends, Lady Ruth and I. She is a cultured lady. She lives in a desert you know, a cultural desert, I think, ha-ha-ha!’ He laughed loudly at his rather feeble jest.

  He unhooked his napkin from its chain and placed it on the table. ‘But I must leave you now, Major. I go to see Dame Gabriel. The next opera, it is to be Carmen. Quite vunderbar. And Jarvis, too, he is at work, you know.’ Von Graf tapped the side of his nose. ‘Special work for the Brigadier. Quite delightful,’ he laughed. ‘But he must finish painting the set now for the opera. It is time.’

  ‘Might be a bit of a problem there, old chap,’ I told him as he tossed his napkin on the table.

  ‘Ja?’

  ‘Jarvis is dead. Murdered. Where were you at six thirty this morning?’

  Chapter 11

  He blanched, his mouth fell open and then quivered, his eyes widened in shock. It all looked pretty genuine to me.

  ‘Dead?’ He sounded quite astounded.

  I nodded, didn’t even eat my pudding, just watched him.

  ‘B-but …Jarvis, dead,’ he stuttered, then straightened his back and stared at me. ’Was this the cause of the police? They were here. Is this why?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and dug into my jam roly-poly and custard.

  He stood up to leave. ‘This is a tragedy. What will we do? The paintings, the opera, Oh, Gott im Himmel, this is terrible, terrible.’

  If he was acting it was pretty good, but then he was an aficionado of art and opera, so maybe he could act, too.

  ‘One moment, old man.’ I stopped him. ‘You didn’t mention where you were early this morning.’

  ‘In bed. Asleep, of course, what else would I be doing!’ He stalked out, his stacked heels rat-tatting on the wooden floor as he went.

  I finished my meal and went in search of my rooms and my notebook to jot down the findings of the interview. Foggy greeted me enthusiastically and I shared the purloined liver between him and the kitten. I sat down, opened my book and started my list of possible culprits. Count von Graf was about to be noted as suspect number one. The ink dried on my nib as I pondered who else I could add. Watson and his bobbies had determined that all the servants were accounted for; only the idiot Dawkins was absent. Much as I found Dawkins an irritation, I couldn’t see him as a murderer – he didn’t have the gumption, for a start. I had no idea of the Chisholms’ whereabouts, nor Caroline or Florence either, but the mention of Braeburn Castle had given me pause. That was Florence’s home and I had met her coming in from the gardens this morning.

  No, I refused to go along that route. The mystery must lie within the opera group or the Black Cat Club and, like it or not, I would have to go with Swift and interview them. I drew out my fob watch and wondered how long it would be before the Inspector returned. I probably should have warned von Graf not to talk to anyone. And he’d said he was going off to hobnob with the soprano. Damn, he was probably letting the cat out of the bag even now. I stood up – I would go, even if it did mean tackling that bunch of warblers entirely alone.

  Voices rose from the hall; I heard Caroline giving orders and Hiram’s deep tones as I descended.

  ‘Oh, Lennox, you didn’t come,’ Caroline said when she caught sight of me. ‘We had such a marvellous time down by the river – you know where it widens out between the trees? The old boat was there and we rowed up-river, it was simply heaven!’ She gave me a peck on the cheek; she was looking vibrant, with rosy cheeks and a wide smile.

  ‘Well, there was a bit of an emergency, old stick. Got rather held up.’ I opened my mouth to explain further but was cut off.

  ‘We had one, too: poor Florence turned her ankle,’ Caroline interrupted. ‘She battled on, of course, but it’s really quite swollen now. Luckily your chap Swift was on hand when we arrived back here and he carried her up to her room in his arms. Quite the romantic, isn’t he?’ she laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ Hiram drawled, ‘He’s a real good guy. Well-mannered, too.’

  ‘You can sure tell a man by his friends, Lennox,’ Ford added. ‘An’ you’ve got good uns.’ He patted me on the back as he said this.

  I was virtually speechless. Damn it! Swift was a total sourpuss most of the time; now they thought he was charming and he’d carried Florence off in his arms, leaving me to break the news about Jarvis.

  They took it reasonably well: Caroline immediately said she would rope in the local vicar, whom everyone preferred to Jarvis anyway. I didn’t ask where they were when Jarvis had been dispatched this morning; it seemed rather infra dig and I had already put a damper on the day.

  ‘Listen, old thing,’ I told Caroline, who was holding onto Hiram, her hand lost in his huge one, ‘your father’s had a bit of a run-in with the local law. Swift is handling it, I’m supporting him, but you should go and calm him down. We don’t need any more excitement.’

  Hiram replied, ‘We’ll go up there now, Lennox, old man. I thank you for your help right kindly.’ He nodded and led Caroline upstairs.

  ‘I have informed your wife, sir,’ I said to Ford, who was still in the hall, watching and listening to events.

  ‘And how did she take that?’ he grinned. ‘I’ll bet she pursed her mouth up.’

  ‘Um, well she wasn’t terribly pleased about it,’ I replied.

  He laughed. ‘She’s got all uppity
about this wedding and she likes things runnin’ smooth. And Hiram’s our only child. Truth to tell he’s mine – his Ma died when he was still in diapers. But Ruth, when I wed her she took to him like he was her own little chick. A remarkable woman is my Ruth.’

  ‘She’s Scottish – is that where you met her? Scotland?’ I asked, wondering what diapers were and why Hiram wore them.

  ‘No, I ain’t never set foot outside the United States in my life until last year. Her folks left Scotland when she was a small child, I met her in Dallas at some oil tycoon’s party that she and her old folks was attending. They’ve got blue blood all the way through and Ruth don’t ever forgit it. She keeps the old ways, even in the Texas plains.’

  ‘And she’s related to the Braeburns?’

  ‘She sure is: her father was the junior son of the old Laird. She’s young Florence’s great-aunty. You can see the resemblance – when I see Florence, I see my dear wife when we were first introduced.’

  ‘Good Lord, really?’ That was a bit of a shock – I tried to vanquish images of Florence as Ruth Chisholm.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and find the good lady. You have a good day now.’ He raised his wide-brimmed hat and ambled off.

  The sound of singing reached my ears a hundred yards from the Dower House. It wasn’t far from the theatre, making me wonder why on earth they didn't just go over there and practice. As I reached for the door-knocker on the rather handsome little house an ear-shattering note sang out from an open mullioned window. I took an involuntary step back, then took a grip of myself and knocked loudly. The singing stopped. A head appeared from an upstairs window. ‘Yoo-hoo,’ the lady sang rather than said. ‘Gosh, you are handsome.’

  ‘Um, greetings,’ I called up. ‘I’m Major Lennox, from the house. Friend of the family. Lady Caroline, the Brigadier, and all that.’ I had a habit of babbling when nervous and the buxom lady leaning from the window was making me very nervous indeed.

  The door was yanked open.

  ‘We’re busy,’ a large gentleman with a handlebar moustache told me. He was wearing a bullfighting costume complete with red cape, and began pushing the door closed as he spoke.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ I beat a retreat but didn’t get very far as Swift arrived behind me.

  ‘Open up. Police,’ he said, and held up a badge.

  I was quietly impressed because it did the trick: the door was immediately flung back open. It wasn’t the moustache this time, it was the buxom lady with curly dark hair piled up on her head.

  ‘Oh, are you the police? My goodness, I simply adore a man in uniform,’ she almost purred, while flashing very long eyelashes at Swift. ‘And as for you …’ She reached out and slid a finger down my tie.

  ‘Erm …’ we both mumbled at once.

  Swift recovered his wits first. ‘Madam, I am not wearing a uniform.’

  ‘I know,’ she drawled, ‘that’s even better: a man without his uniform.’ She was leaning against the door, almost wearing a scarlet silk dress with sleeves drooping across her bare shoulders. It was some sort of gypsy costume, I think, although any gypsy wandering the countryside dressed like that would be immediately arrested – assuming the policeman could keep an adequate grip on himself, that is.

  ‘Lizzie, clear off.’ The moustache reappeared and tried to shoo her away. It didn’t work.

  ‘They are the police, Ferdinand, and they simply must be allowed in.’ Lizzie tossed her head, lifting a hand to a stray curl.

  Swift tightened the belt of his trench coat. ‘Madam,’ he barked, ‘we’re here about Sir Crispin’s death.’ He stepped across the threshold driving back the theatre folk. I stood back in admiration: it takes a brave man to tackle a lady in that state of undress.

  ‘Oo, you are forceful,’ she giggled, and backed into the interior. ‘But I like you.’

  They were all dressed in gaudy get-ups. There were five in view, the two from the doorway and another three leaning over the bannisters from upstairs. Then another lady in scanties came to join them, and a rotund chap with thick dark hair and a goatee. I didn't spot Andrew Dundale or Dame Gabriel among them.

  ‘We’re doing Carmen,’ Ferdinand the moustache boomed by way of explanation. ‘I’m the baritone, Escamillo,’ he announced.

  ‘Thought you were called Ferdinand,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, really! Utter bourgeoise.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You are not opera lovers, are you?’

  Swift broke in. ‘Go and sit down – NOW! We’ll interview you all in there.’ He indicated the large room beyond the hall.

  That brought about a babble of voices and more ladies and men descended the stairs chattering as they came.

  ‘How exciting,’ Lizzie trilled, and led the way from the crowded hallway through the open double doors into the drawing room.

  It was very elegant, with an ornate plaster ceiling, prettily decorated walls with patterns of peacocks and whatnots and large portraits of rather pretty ladies. I wondered if these were the same Bloxford Beauties, albeit fully clothed.

  There wasn’t much time to admire anything; the babble grew more clamorous as they squabbled over seating on the three large sofas set around an unlit fireplace.

  ‘Silence,’ Swift shouted. He pulled up an ornate chair and placed himself between two couches where he could see them all. There was only one place left and Lizzie patted it for me to come and sit next to her.

  ‘Lennox, will you sit down,’ Swift snapped as he tugged out his notebook and pen.

  I sat on the edge of the sofa while Swift told them who we were and that we were here about Sir Crispin’s ‘accident’. He hadn’t mentioned Jarvis yet; I assumed he was holding it in reserve. Lizzie walked her fingers across my leg, making me jump. ‘I’m Carmen, you know. Mezzo-soprano,’ she whispered.

  I backed into the corner.

  ‘Where was everybody at the time Sir Crispin and Dame Gabriel fell through the trap-door?’ Swift called out.

  That created another cacophony of noise.

  ‘Quiet,’ he yelled again. ‘You.’ He pointed to the moustache. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘On stage,’ he snapped back. ‘We all were.’

  ‘Except Andrew Dundale,’ Lizzie broke in. ‘He had sneaked off and didn’t come back until after darling Crispin had been squished by Madam Whiplash.’

  They all giggled. I was calculating how far it was to the door and how long it would take me to reach it if I vaulted over the back of the sofa.

  ‘I assume you’re referring to Dame Gabriel.’ Swift raised a brow and then noted this down as more laughter broke out. ‘Where is she? And Andrew Dundale?’

  ‘At the big house, stuffing themselves while we sing our hearts out here. I mean, really, who do they think they are?’ Ferdinand the moustache groused.

  A tall man, haughty and thin, came in from a side door. He was wearing a tailor’s smock with pins and threaded needles stuck into it, and a tape measure around his neck; he didn’t have to explain that he was the wardrobe master. He minced across the drawing-room rugs, smoothed his bouffant hair with a limp hand, and stopped to look at us, hand on hip.

  ‘Ooo, are you the boys in blue? How simply darling, you can handcuff me anytime.’

  Right, that was it.

  ‘Swift, I’m going to see about the naked ladies. I’ll see you later.’

  All eyes instantly swivelled in my direction. As exit lines go, that was probably one of my better ones.

  Chapter 12

  Lavender Cottage was full of budding roses, trailing wisteria, late tulips, bluebells and various other spring flowers, but not much in the way of lavender. It was an archetypal Cotswold cottage, with a thatched roof, mellow stone walls and a low beamed ceiling, which I ducked beneath.

  ‘Oh, hello, Major Lennox. You are earlier than I expected.’ Miss Busby stood aside to let me and Fogg in.

  ‘Um, yes.’ I sat down as directed on a chintzy chair beside a merry fire. Miss Busby had, no doubt, set it burning against the drenching rain that
had suddenly blown in under scudding clouds. The kitchen was through an open door, and I watched as she put a copper kettle on an old iron range.

  She tilted her head to one side, a habit I’d noticed before. ‘You’re wet and rather flustered.’ She was perceptive as well. ‘And your poor doggy is dripping.’ She found an old blanket to wrap around Fogg and he sat by the fire looking embarrassed.

  ‘Caught in the rain,’ I mumbled. I dug in my pocket, pulled out the kitten and gave it to her. ‘Got a bit damp too.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, and took it into the kitchen for a rub-down, then placed it next to Fogg. ‘Little boy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your kitten is a boy.’ She gazed at me with mischievous eyes. ‘I checked.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d already made a brief inspection, but had been none the wiser.

  ‘What do you call him?’ she asked.

  ‘Kitten.’

  ‘Is that his name or title?’ she smiled.

  ‘Erm,’ I thought about it, ‘better give him a name.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘any thoughts?’

  ‘He’s grown rather tubby. How about Mr Tubbs?’

  ‘Shows a modicum of imagination at least,’ she laughed, and went to pour the boiling water into a flower painted teapot, then came back with it on a tray, along with cups, milk jug, flapjacks, hot buttered scones and whatnots.

  ‘I have one,’ she said.

  ‘One what?’

  ‘One of the kittens – he’s asleep upstairs.’ She laughed.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s ginger. I called him Pudding. He’s become a little fat, too, just like his brother.’

  ‘Whose brother?’

  ‘Your Mr Tubbs. My kitten is one of the abandoned litter from the theatre.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again, then realised I had been rather distracted. ‘Miss Busby. Are you acquainted with Florence Braeburn?’

  ‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she.’