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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘Here,’ she shoved the cushion into my hands. ‘You can throw it at me, if you like.’

  I grinned, put Tubbs down and gave her a hug. ‘I’m sorry, old girl.’

  ‘I am, too. It’s just…’ she waved a hand in the air.

  ‘I know, and dead bodies don’t help.’

  ‘Can you keep it out of the house, Lennox? Away from the wedding?’

  ‘As far as I’m able, yes I will,’ I promised.

  She looked up at me, the cushion clutched in her hands. ‘Still my ‘almost big brother’?’

  ‘Always,’ I told her.

  She laughed, kissed my cheek, and made for the door, then turned. ‘Oh, I forgot. Hiram gave me this.’ She came back, handed me an envelope and skipped off with a wave and a bright smile.

  I went to my desk. The envelope was scrawled with heavy handwriting. I slit it open with my letter opener.

  ‘Howdy, old man. I’ll kindly take you up on the offer to go shoot pigeon. Tomorrow at around 6.30 a.m. Suggest we meet out front. I have my own guns. Hiram Chisholm.’

  Feeling a trifle better, I went to retrieve my pair of Purdeys from the dressing room and began the task of stripping them and putting them in good order. Whilst my hands were occupied with the cleaning and oiling of my guns, my mind turned to the puzzle of the murders.

  I could understand Swift’s desire to apprehend Andrew Dundale, given that he’d taken Crispin’s role as lead tenor and was missing at the time the trap-door collapsed. And I suspect Swift had learned about Crispin and Andrew’s partnership during the war and latterly at the Black Cat Club, which would make him even more determined to drag him off to the cells.

  Andrew amounted to the perfect suspect – but Andrew had neither the brains nor the backbone for such an enterprise, and it wouldn’t take Swift long to realise this. No, I was convinced it wasn’t Andrew. Von Graf was missing at the time, too, as was Jarvis, and either or both of them could very easily have exchanged the plank. But unlike the machinations leading to Crispin’s demise, the murder of Jarvis was neither devious nor disguised. Whoever killed Jarvis chose a very vivid act of murder. And they left the sword at the scene. Why?

  I replaced my guns in the safe cupboard in my dressing room and locked it. The kitten had woken up and scrambled onto my desk. It sat on my notebook and stared at me with round eyes and long whiskers.

  ‘Down,’ I ordered him. Nothing. Completely ignored me. He had very large ears. If they carried on growing he’d look more like a bat than a cat. Maybe I should rename him? I could call him ‘Batty’, perhaps? He meowed. I think he was hungry. Dicks had left a jug of milk on the windowsill; I went over to pour some into the saucer by his and Fogg’s basket. When I turned around to fetch him, he’d scattered all the pens, pencils and whatnots off the desk. Dicks came in just as I was carrying the kitten to the saucer and quietly remonstrating with him about his juvenile behaviour.

  ‘Sir.’ Dicks regarded the mess on the desk.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  He placed a fresh jug of milk for Tubbs on the windowsill, returned to the desk and quickly tidied everything back again, then walked off with an air of hurt martyrdom. Damn it, he was turning into his Uncle Greggs.

  Swift came in as Dicks went out.

  ‘You went to school with Andrew Dundale, didn’t you? Is that why you didn’t tell me about his partnership with Sir Crispin at the Black Cat Club?’

  ‘Who told you about that?’ I asked.

  ‘One of the troupe; apparently it had been kept secret. But I think you found out?’

  ‘Listen, Swift, Andrew Dundale is too dumb to commit anything, never mind murder. Chasing him merely detracts from the search for the real culprit.’

  ‘That’s for me to judge,’ he snapped. ‘I knew nothing about it, but you did. You’re obstructing my work, Lennox. I’ll cut you out if you hide evidence from me – you’re just protecting one of your own, aren’t you?’

  ‘Utter nonsense, man. You really are going to have to drop this Socialist resentment if you’re going to achieve anything.’

  ‘I don’t need to kowtow to nobs to succeed in my work,’ he argued.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to your work,’ I retorted.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘If you want your romance with Florence to blossom, you need to know that she’s actually Lady Florence of Braeburn Castle. Her father is the Laird of one of the oldest aristocratic families in the country and Florence is the sole heiress.’

  Chapter 14

  He fell silent, then raised a hand to his chin. I thought he was going to turn on his heel and storm out, but he didn’t, he stared at me, or rather through me. Then he let out a sigh and slumped down in one of the club chairs next to the unlit hearth.

  ‘Lennox,’ he began.

  I waited because it seemed he had more to say.

  ‘Lennox …’

  ‘Yes? Do spit it out, old chap.’

  ‘Are you going to pursue Florence? Because I’d rather know.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, why not? She’s a marvellous girl. The best. Anyone would want to be with her. How could they not?’ He was becoming quite worked up. ‘She is probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on. And an intellect to match, do you know –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I cut in on him before he got carried away with the rhapsodising. 'But she has a very different nature to mine. And she sings, and she likes all that highbrow sort of stuff. Opera and whatnot. And I don’t, and I never will. Not even for a girl as lovely as Florence. And I don’t think she’s particularly interested in me, either.’ I finished with a silent sigh.

  ‘Really? Are you just telling me this – trying to throw the wool over my eyes?’ he accused.

  ‘Swift, you are the most suspicious fellow I’ve ever come across,’ I retorted. ‘If you think you and Florence can make a go of it, I wish you the very best of luck.’

  ‘But she’s one of you, the aristocracy,’ he said, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘She’ll never look at me.’

  ‘She has already taken a look at you, old chap, and I’d say it was a very favourable look.’

  He continued to stare in a perturbed state at the far wall.

  I rang the bell for Dicks – this was the sort of occasion where only brandy will serve. Dicks came and fussed around, setting up small tables, brushing them down, polishing the goblets, and then dusting the bottle of best Napoleon. I took it from him in the end and shooed him out of the door.

  ‘Here.’ I held out the snifter for Swift. ‘And do not say one word about drinking on duty.’

  Whatever year the brandy was made, it was an extremely good one. A couple of sips of the amber liquor had us both in better spirits.

  ‘I have nothing to offer her, you know,’ Swift said.

  ‘Times have changed, old man. She’ll follow her heart. If that’s what you’re offering, let her decide whether to take it or not.’

  ‘Is she wealthy, then?’ He looked at me, the hawkish expression he habitually wore replaced with a furrow of doubt.

  ‘Poorer than a church mouse,’ I told him. ‘Castle is falling about their ears, debts up to their eyes, and all she can do is sing, which isn’t going to do a damn thing to restore the family fortune.’

  ‘So she needs to marry a rich chap like Hiram,’ Swift maundered.

  I topped up his snifter. ‘Nonsense, the days of selling off the prettiest daughters has gone. We live in an enlightened age, Swift. Poorer, but happier – or something akin to that.’

  He didn’t seem entirely convinced, but the brandy had blazed a course through his blood and I think he was prepared to square up and hazard his heart. I hoped he would, anyway.

  ‘I’ll deliver Andrew to you in the morning,’ I told him. ‘But take my word for it, it isn’t him. We need to get back on the trail of the real culprit, old chap.’

  ‘Yes, you’re ri
ght. Been rather distracted. We’re erm … Lennox, we’re going to a show this evening. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Already made my apologies.’ I told him.

  ‘Ah, very well. It seems you’re ahead of me.’ He focused his eyes on me. ‘You’re sure it’s a good idea? You know, it’s all rather –’

  ‘Swift,’ I told him firmly. ‘Faint hearts, and all that. Go and win the fair maiden.’ I opened the door and pointed the way.

  He finished his brandy, placed the glass carefully on the table at his elbow, stood up, swayed for a moment, and wove his way to the door. He turned to face me, yanked the belt of his trench coat tighter and raised a hand in farewell.

  ‘Back in the morning,’ he told me, and departed.

  I closed the door behind him. I had a free evening and would spend it tracking down that oaf Andrew Dundale and finding out what the devil he’d been up to the night Crispin was killed. And a bit of dedicated detecting would also keep me from contemplating the loss of the lovely Florence Braeburn.

  I headed for the Bloxford Arms, which was where I thought Andrew would be. Even at school he’d take a sniff of the hard stuff before bounding out onto the stage or cricket pitch or whatever the event.

  I’d brought Foggy with me as it was a pleasant stroll down to the local hostelry. We were met by a mix of scents at the door: dry hops, spilt ale, pipe tobacco, wood smoke and wet dogs. The ancient walls were lined with old pews and assorted locals were sitting chatting quietly upon them. A chap in the corner was singing a folk song in the local dialect, and soon a few more joined in, the words lifting to the smoke-blackened rafters.

  ‘You here, Heathcliff,’ Andrew greeted me from his perch at the bar.

  ‘Clearly, Andrew.’ I could see he was in his cups. I ordered a tankard of beer from the landlord.

  ‘The old Bill are persecuting me, Heathcliff.’ He addressed his large tumbler of whisky.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, although I knew most of it already.

  ‘Crispin. Black Cat Club. One of the troupe spilled the beans, probably the wardrobe master, he loves indulging in tittle-tattle.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me where you were when Crispin dropped through the trap-door, did you, Andrew. And don’t call me Heathcliff.’

  He sniffed, looking morose and guilty at the same time.

  ‘Don’t tell me it was you,’ I warned him. ‘I’ve just spent the last hour persuading the police of your innocence.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he responded.

  ‘Because you’re too stupid to have killed him,’ I said, taking a sip of the excellent local ale.

  ‘Absolute rot! I could have done, if I’d wanted to, not that I did, but – you know, you really are quite rude, Heath –’ he looked me in the face ‘– Lennox.’

  ‘Where were you, Andrew?’

  He reddened. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘Yes, I damn well will because you need an alibi for murder, so spit it out, man.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I was meeting Dawkins behind the theatre.’

  That almost made me choke. ‘Dawkins? You mean that idiot footman from the house? What the devil were you meeting Dawkins for?’

  ‘Brandy and wine. Excellent examples. I’m actually a bit of a connoisseur, old chap.’

  ‘You’ve been buying the Brigadier’s best brandy and wine from that toad Dawkins? Is that what you mean?’ I may have raised my voice.

  The singing in the corner stopped suddenly and heads turned in our direction.

  ‘Yes, just said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘Knowing that Dawkins was stealing it?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to sneak in and steal it myself, was I,’ he expostulated, then deflated in defeat. ‘Do you think they’ll arrest me?’

  ‘I bloody well hope so.’ I put my beer down on the bar. I’d lost my taste for it and the company. ‘Eight o’clock in the morning you will report to my room with all the Brigadier’s bottles intact. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Well, really, Lennox,’ he spluttered. ‘I protest. I paid good money, you know.’

  ‘Eight o’clock,’ I reminded him forcibly. All eyes followed my departure, then no doubt, turned toward the red-faced thief.

  Fogg and I returned through the still settlement where thatched cottages fringed the village green. Woodsmoke hung in the air – kitchen stoves would be alight, warming pies or puddings or kettles for tea. The scent of damp grass mingled with the fragrance of flowers from close-tended gardens. A black iron hand pump stood sentinel, a horse trough beside it, the stone stuccoed with dark moss. Ducks huddled together at the edge of a still pond, their heads tucked tightly under downy wings. Fogg ran ahead, nose to the ground, I whistled him quietly to come by my side and we trod softly together across the grass, lest we disturb the peace.

  Benson tugged the door open. He seemed rather more sprightly this evening – perhaps the spring weather was adding a bit of zest to his old bones.

  Greetings old chap,’ I hailed him warmly, pleased to see him in better fettle. ‘Looking for Dawkins.’

  His eyes slid in the direction of below stairs so I trotted down, ignoring sideways glances from various maids and minions, and caught my quarry coming out of the kitchens with a slice of fresh baked bread in hand. He dropped it when he saw my face and backed away.

  ‘I ain’t done nuffink,’ he shouted.

  ‘You’ve been stealing from the Brigadier’s cellars, you snivelling worm.’

  ‘Only a few bottles, that’s all it were.’ He had backed into the whitewashed wall and started wheedling. ‘I was asked by that opery singer. He’s a nob; I was just doing as I were told, I was. He told me to get him some an’ I did.’

  ‘You’ll answer to the police in the morning, Dawkins. Tonight you’re going to be locked in the coal cellar. That will give you time to think about your thievery.’

  ‘No, don’t, sir. Don’t. Can’t stand being closed in, sir. Please. It were just once. I’ll tell you what I saw, sir, that night. If you leave me be, I’ll tell ye what I saw.’

  I stared down at the blighter, lank hair around his thin face, eyes wide, slack mouth open.

  ‘What did you see?’ I demanded.

  ‘It was in the dark, sir, behind the theatre. That night the singer fell dead. I said to Mister Andrew I’d bring the bottles round the back next to that little green door as goes under the stage. There wouldn’t be no one about, cos they was all inside, listening to the singing. Mister Andrew, he comes out the door and comes over to me. He gives me the dosh – that’s money, that is – an’ I gives him the bottles. Two of brandy, three of burgundy, being all I could carry. He’s all dressed up in his finery, and rushes off to hide the bottles back at the Dower House. I stayed counting the money. He gave it me in all little bits of coins, pennies, threepenny bits, tanners, couple of shilling and two half-crowns. Well, I dropped a half-crown and was feeling about in the grass when another bloke comes by and he’s panting cause he’s carrying this big bit of wood. I didn’t know what he was doing in the dark of a night, but I stayed hid away till he’d gone, then I stood up again.’

  ‘Did you see who it was? With the plank?’

  ‘Ay, sir. It were that chaplain. One as is dead now. Wasn’t wearing his cassock, but I knew it were him.’

  That made me stop and take notice. It was the evidence we needed and it put a very firm finger on the culprit. If I weren’t so damn furious about the thefts, I’d have been rather pleased.

  Dawkins gabbled on. ‘Then Mister Andrew comes back, but he can’t get in the green door. “Locked,” he says. “Where’s the key?” Well, I’m already spooked, and I don’t want to tell on no chaplain cos we shouldn’t a been there, so I didn’t say nuffink. I took to my heels and scarpered.’

  We were interrupted by a noise behind us that sounded like the sort of snort a bull at a gate would make, and turned to look. There was a crowd of astonished servants, including Dicks – they must have heard the commotion and come to
find the cause. The snorting came from the cook, a lady of short stature but a girth as broad as her height. She was pushing up the sleeves of her aproned dress; her large fist was wrapped around a rolling pin and her small eyes shone with the wrath of a good woman’s fury.

  ‘Dawkins,’ she yelled out, the noise filled the stone-flagged corridor and reverberated along to the rooms beyond. ‘You snivelling snake, you’ve gone an’ done it now.’ She advanced on the wretch.

  Dawkins’s eyes widened in horror, he cowered, he shook, and then he turned tail and ran hell for leather. The enraged cook bellowed and followed, thundering along in hobnail boots with rolling pin raised above her head. ‘Dawkins,’ she bellowed again.

  They disappeared around a bend. I turned to see the other servants staring after them, their eyes bright in the lamps hanging above from the ceiling. A few shook their heads and turned away to go back whence they came, muttering amongst themselves.

  Dicks came to join me.

  ‘Rather think retribution has presented itself, Dicks,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, sir, and Cook has a mean hand. There’ll be no escape for Dawkins now.’

  ‘You think she’ll catch up with him?’ I asked. ‘I’d have wagered he was fleeter of foot.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, sir. But that lady with the rolling pin isn’t just Cook – she’s Mrs Dawkins. There’s no escaping an incensed wife, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. A wife is a treasure and a trial, Dicks.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  I gathered up my dog, who had chosen to accompany me, the kitchens being one of his favourite spots, and returned to my rooms.

  Not only was the house now short of a cook but most of the guests were elsewhere. The senior Chisholms, Ruth and Ford, had gone to Oxford in the company of the younger set. The Brigadier was being served by the Gurkha in his rooms, and I had no desire to eat a cold collation with anyone else who chose to turn up in the dining room.

  Dicks proved himself the good soul that he was and put together a tray of game pie, ham, various sticks of greenery, chunks of stilton and cheddar, Cook’s best home-made pickle and thick slices of buttered bread attended by a glass of rich red wine. I lit the fire against the damp night air, and with my dog at my feet and my kitten on my lap, I feasted in solitary splendour. I think it was the most restful meal I’d had since arriving at the Hall.