by T E Kinsey
‘Then fear not, Inspector darling, we shall do our bit. Where do we start? Who was this Carmichael? Did he have a wife? Where can we find her? Who were his friends? What are the local bobbies up to?’
He chuckled his throaty chuckle once more. ‘I knew you were the ladies for the job. Thank you. I don’t have all the details yet, but I’ve got a couple of lads making some preliminary enquiries over in Chipping Bevington and I’ll make sure you have a full report first thing in the morning. The local bobbies are… let’s just say that I’d rather they weren’t too closely involved. Well meaning chaps, but not among Nature’s great thinkers. Be polite, but don’t rely on them for anything. Your own local man, Sergeant Dobson, will be able to contact me at Bristol CID if you need me, and I’ll pop by in a couple of days to see how you’re getting on.’
‘Right you are, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Of course you know what we’re going to have to fetch out now, don’t you?’
‘Your famous Crime Board, my lady?’ he said, smirking slightly.
‘The very same,’ she said. ‘Flo, why does everyone have that look on their face every time they mention the Crime Board?’
‘Because it’s the most preposterously silly idea they’ve ever heard, my lady?’ I said.
‘Heathens!’ she said. ‘Heathens and Philistines! You don’t have the trained minds of the scientist, that’s all. Clarity of thought, that’s what’s required. Organization. Connections. Reasons. The board helps me think. We shall fetch it from the attic this very evening, Inspector, and begin our analysis.’
‘She means that I’ll fetch it,’ I said.
‘I’m poorly,’ she said, weakly, clutching her side. ‘I was shot in the stomach, you know. An assassin. I try not to talk about it, but it prevents me from fetching blackboards and easels from the attic.’
‘And she means that we’ll begin our analysis tomorrow when we have your officers’ report and know what there is to analyze.’
The inspector put down his teacup and stood.
‘It seems it’s all in hand, then,’ he said. ‘I shall take my leave. Good afternoon, my lady, and thank you again.’
I stood, too, and went to see him out. When we were in the hall, I spoke quietly. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you really do need our help, but this is the most animated she’s been since the shooting. You’re something of a breath of fresh air yourself.’
He shook my hand and I opened the front door for him.
‘You really were my first thought when I realized I needed help,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad I could be of some small service in return. I shall be in touch presently.’
He walked down the path to the waiting police car in the lane.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we enjoyed breakfast together in the kitchen. ‘What we really need, is a telephone.’
‘We do?’ I said, picking up another crumpet.
‘We do,’ she said. ‘Think how much more quickly the inspector could have contacted us yesterday if we had a telephone. And think how easy it would be to ask him questions and give our reports.’
‘True, my lady,’ I said. ‘But it was lovely to see him in person again.’
‘Oh, telephones won’t stop people paying calls on each other,’ she said, dismissively. ‘But think of the convenience, the immediacy, the…’
‘The bills, my lady? And the intrusion?’
‘Oh, Flo, you are a fuddy-duddy. No, I have made up my mind. We shall have a telephone. I shall write to… to… Actually, to whom does one write?’
‘They have a telephone at The Grange, my lady. Sir Hector will know.’
‘Sir Hector is the sweetest old buffer in the West, dear,’ she said. ‘But we both know he won’t know anything of the sort. Gertie’s the girl to go to for information about the household. I shall ask her. Perhaps we could pop up there this morning to see how she is.’
‘I think we should, my lady,’ I said. ‘Should we take her a gift?’
‘How very thoughtful. What have we got?’
I thought for a while. ‘I made a cake this morning,’ I suggested.
‘We’d offend Mrs Brown,’ she said. ‘Now there’s a cook I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.’
‘Some brandy?’
‘She is partial to a little brandy.’
‘A little?’ I said.
‘Do we have any to spare?’
‘An unopened bottle, my lady? Actually, I don’t think so. The vintner’s order is due at the end of the week.’ I sat for a moment in contemplation. ‘Oh, I know. A caricature. She loves your drawings. We must have an old frame somewhere that we can use.’
‘What a splendid idea,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘At the cattle market, I think. Give her an uplifting image of the place so she’s not always dwelling on poor Mr Carmichael. I’ll get sketching; you find the frame.’
‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said, and gathered up the breakfast things.
She worked fast, and by eleven o’clock we had a framed pen-and-ink sketch of Lady Farley-Stroud surrounded by cows, entitled “Cattle Market”.
‘There,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That should put a smile back on the old girl’s face. I’m rather pleased with that.’
‘And rightly so, my lady,’ I said. ‘You have a rare gift.’
‘Then let’s get our hats and coats and take a stroll up to The Grange where we can give the gift created by my gift to–’
Thankfully, the doorbell rang before she could get too far with that particular out-of-control thought.
It was Constable Hancock from the village police station.
‘Mornin’, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, touching the peak of his police helmet with a fingertip. ‘Is Lady Hardcastle at home?’
‘She is, constable, she is. Do come in. She’s in the dining room.’
‘Oh, I hope I haven’t interrupted her lunch,’ he said.
‘Not at all, she was sketching. Come through.’
I led him to the dining room.
‘Constable Hancock is here, my lady,’ I said as I ushered him in.
‘My dear constable,’ she said as she put her pens and pencils into the lacquered box on the table. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure? Would you care for some tea?’
‘Never been known to refuse the offer of tea, my lady,’ he said with a smile. ‘That would be most welcome.’
‘Do the honours, would you, pet,’ she said, and I took myself off to the kitchen.
By the time I returned with the tray, Lady Hardcastle was leafing through the contents of an official-looking manila folder.
‘Admirable diligence from the city detectives, constable, but it doesn’t appear they were able to discover much,’ she said as I set the tray down on the table.
‘No, m’lady,’ said Hancock. ‘I took a look at the reports and I reckon they must have asked everyone as was there that lunchtime. Don’t look like no one saw a thing.’
‘Any report from the police surgeon?’
‘Not yet, m’lady, but that’ll go to Bristol CID with a copy to the station at Chipping Bevington. We’ll not see it ’less we asks. And even then I don’t reckon as they’d let us. Not much love lost ’tween us and the boys in the town. Sergeant Dobson reckons they’s a bunch of idiots, and I can’t say as I disagrees with him. And they thinks we’re nobodies ’cause we’re based over here in the village, like it makes us second class coppers or somethin’.’
‘We know the truth though, eh, Flo?’ she said.
‘We do, my lady. Finest police officers in the West we’ve got here.’
‘You’re both very kind,’ said Hancock, taking the tea that I’d poured for him. ‘Don’t suppose you’d mind if I helped myself to one o’ they biscuits? I’m famished.’
Lady Hardcastle invited the constable to help himself to biscuits and invited me to take a look at the report from the Bristol detectives. She picked up a small notebook and a mechanical pencil from the ta
ble and made some notes while I read the file. The notebook and pencil had been a “get well” gift from Inspector Sunderland after the shooting. He was never without his own trusty notebook and she took it as a sign of his approval of her detective skills that he had chosen to give her a notebook of her own.
The pub had been packed, as was usual for a Thursday, and Inspector Sunderland’s men had interviewed them all. Dismayingly, though, not one of the several dozen witnesses had witnessed anything at all. No one was behaving oddly, there were no arguments, no one was seen with a bottle made of dark glass bearing a skull and crossbones and the word “Poison” in shaky writing. No one knew of anyone with a particular grudge against Spencer Carmichael. Although there was a carefully written note to the effect that the detectives couldn’t be sure that this was definitely the case. “It is usually noted in cases of recent death that no one cares to speak ill of the deceased nor to suggest that there might be any reason for anyone to dislike him. In cases of murder, no one wishes to say anything which might be construed as an accusation.” They made a good point. Unless folk had grudges of their own to be settled, most people would tend to keep mum.
‘Well,’ I said when I’d finished reading. ‘That doesn’t tell us much.’
‘No, pet, not really,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There are a few names to follow up, I think, but I do wonder if it’s just because I’ve heard them before. Gertie pointed out a few of them to us, do you remember? They were all neighbours, though, so perhaps it might be worth speaking to them. And the widow… what’s her name?’
I looked at the file. ‘Audrey,’ I said.
‘Audrey,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s it. It will be awkward, but I think we ought to start with her.’
‘Should we clear it with the Chipping Bevington police?’ I asked.
‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you, miss,’ said Constable Hancock. ‘They’s a bunch of idiots and they’ll only give you a hard time if you tries. You’ve got the go-ahead from Inspector Sunderland so I suggests you just does what you wants and treads lightly round they Chipping Bevington lot. That Sergeant Boyce is a right one. I’d give him a wide berth if I were you.’
‘Very well, Constable, we shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There’s just one problem we need to overcome.’
‘What’s that, my lady?’ I said.
‘Transportation,’ she said, dejectedly. ‘How the devil do we get to all these blessed farms?’
‘Aha,’ said a triumphant Constable Hancock. ‘I have the answer to that one.’
‘You do?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Indeed I do, m’lady,’ he said, and produced a letter from his tunic pocket.
Lady Hardcastle read the note.
‘Oh, what a splendid woman dear old Gertie is,’ she said, beaming. ‘Bert and the motorcar are at our disposal. She’s sending him over at noon and I am to treat him as though he were my own. Well, that’s just perfect. We shall go and visit the Widow Carmichael first, then call on Lady Farley-Stroud on the way back.’
We gossiped a little with Constable Hancock while he finished his tea, catching up with the goings-on in the village, but soon he bade us good morning and went on his way.
Just as he reached the gate at the end of the short front-garden path, Bert drew up in the Farley-Strouds’ motorcar. I waved to Bert and hurried inside to finish getting ready to leave.
Without Lady Farley-Stroud in the motorcar, Bert was a far more adventurous driver and we made much more rapid progress than I had been expecting. The hedgerows rushed by and I was rather enjoying the sensation of speed.
As we rounded a bend and began to climb the hill to Top Farm we caught sight of a man leaning against a gate and watching the progress of the car.
‘I say, Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Larry Dougal, m’lady. He owns Bottom Farm.’
‘Just down from Top Farm?’ she said.
‘You got it, m’lady,’ he said with a smile.
‘Can you stop the car, please. I’d like a quick word with him.’
‘He’s not on the list, my lady,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t at The Hayrick when Carmichael died.’
‘No, I know. But he’s their next door neighbour; he might have seen something.’
Bert had stopped as soon as he’d been asked and had already reversed the car back down the road to the gate. We climbed out and Lady Hardcastle introduced herself.
‘Not many folk round here don’t know who you are, m’lady,’ said the chubby man at the gate. He was in his forties, I estimated, and with his ruddy face, his flat cap and his rumpled jacket, he looked exactly how I imagined a farmer should look.
‘You might be right, actually,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m not certain whether fame becomes me, but it does save time on introductions.’
‘Reckon it does at that,’ said Dougal. ‘And what can I do for you?’
‘You’ve heard about the unfortunate death of Mr Carmichael?’
‘I have at that, m’lady. Though there’s not many who’ll be thinking of it as “unfortunate”.’
‘No?’ she said.
‘No, m’lady. He wasn’t well liked, our Spencer.’
‘Oh? And why was that?’
‘No one likes to speak ill of the dead, but in the case of old Spencer Carmichael, it’s pretty much all that’s left you. There’s not much nice you can say about him. He was a miserable old codger who never had a good word for anyone. Well, actually that’s not true; he had plenty of good words for most of the people he met, but not ones I can repeat in front of ladies. He could start a fight in an empty room, that one.’ He seemed almost wistful at the memory.
‘I see,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘The thing is, there’s a suspicion that he might have been murdered, and the Bristol CID have asked us to ask around and see if we can find out a little bit more about him and what might have happened to him. So did you know him well, even though perhaps you didn’t get along?’
‘Well enough, I suppose.’
‘Did you see him often? Speak to him?’
‘We passed the time of day, like. You know how it is.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Early in the week, I s’pose,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Must have been Monday or Tuesday.’
‘What did you talk about?’ she asked.
‘This and that, you know. Nothing of any consequence.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And you didn’t see him again?’
‘No, that was the last.’
‘You weren’t at The Hayrick the day he died, were you?’
‘No, m’lady. Didn’t have no cause to be up at the market last week and I had matters to attend to elsewhere, so I didn’t bother with it.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Just a bit o’ business up in Gloucester.’
‘That must have made a nice change.’
‘Anything to get away from this place for a bit,’ he said, looking round at the field behind him.
‘You’re not keen on the farming life, then?’
He laughed bitterly. ‘I inherited this place from my brother when he passed away five year ago. Been trying to get shot of it ever since.’
‘Oh,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What did you do before that?’
‘I’m a chef, m’lady. Worked in some of the finest hotels in Europe I has. Now look at me. ’Stead of roastin’ pigs I’m chasing round after the little beggars. ’T’i’n’t no life for a skilled man.’
‘Surely there must be people willing to buy a profitable farm, Mr Dougal,’ I said.
‘You’d have thought so, miss, wouldn’t you. There’s some interest. But there’s always something in the way, some reason they back out of the deal.’
‘That’s a terrible shame, Mr Dougal,’ I said. ‘It must be awful to be trapped in an occupation you have no fondness for.’
‘True enough. But in the end you just has to get on wi
th it, I suppose. A fella’s got to eat.’
We all fell silent for an awkward moment.
‘Well you’ve been most helpful, Mr Dougal,’ said Lady Hardcastle eventually. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most generous with your time, but we mustn’t take up any more of it. We should leave you to get on.’
‘No trouble at all, m’lady. Nice to see a friendly face.’
We both thanked him again and returned to the car. Bert had been watching and was already out of his seat and cranking the engine to life.
‘Thank you, Bert. On to Top Farm as soon as you’re ready, please.’
‘Certainly, m’lady,’ he said as the engine coughed and then burbled contentedly.
We all clambered in and were on our way again.
It was less than a mile up to Top Farm and we were pulling into the farmyard before I’d even managed to settle properly into my seat. Lady Hardcastle waved Bert back into his driving seat as he made to get out.
‘You’re most kind, Bert, but I don’t see any great profit in us all getting muddy. It’s not as though I can’t open a car door.’
‘Thank you, m’lady,’ he said.
‘We might be a little while,’ she said. ‘Do make yourself comfortable.’
‘Thank you, m’lady,’ he said. He had brought a newspaper and seemed unconcerned about how long we might be; I got the feeling he was looking forward to a day of dozing broken up by occasional driving.
The farmhouse was solid and well-maintained; a whitewashed family home to be proud of. Lady Hardcastle knocked on the sturdy front door and a few moments later it was opened by a short, plump, grey-haired woman. She was in her late-fifties, I judged, and her face, though etched with sadness, was still pretty. In her youth she would have turned heads, I was certain.