by T E Kinsey
We hurtled along the lanes towards Noah Lock’s farm. Well, perhaps “hurtled” is overstating it a bit. Bert had little regard for the twenty miles per hour speed limit, but the little car was hardly a racing model. Still, we made good time and we arrived at the farmhouse gate just as Lock was coming out of his front door.
He was a tall man, built like a sportsman – a rugby player, perhaps – and he looked as though he might be in his early fifties. He smiled a greeting when he noticed us standing at his gate.
‘Come on in, ladies,’ he said with a smile. ‘Mind the mud, the path needs a sweep.’
I opened the sturdy wooden gate and stepped aside to allow Lady Hardcastle to enter.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Lock,’ she said as we approached him. ‘I’m Lady Hardcastle and this is Miss Armstrong.’
‘I know,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Would you like some tea?’
‘If we’re not interrupting your work,’ she said, ‘that would be splendid.’
He led us into the farmhouse and through into the kitchen. It wasn’t as neat and prim as Audrey Carmichael’s kitchen, but it was tidy and clean. He waved us to chairs at the large, oak table and we sat.
‘You were expecting us, you say?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
He laughed, his smile illuminating his face once more. ‘Word travels fast, my lady, even out here. They say you’re investigating the death of Spencer Carmichael. Old Sergeant Boyce down in Chipping Bevington is none too pleased about it, I can tell you.’
Lady Hardcastle frowned. ‘No, I didn’t expect he would be. Still, it can’t be helped; we’re doing a favour for a friend.’
‘He doesn’t speak too kindly of Inspector Sunderland, either,’ said Lock.
‘Poor man. He must feel quite humiliated by the whole thing,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we should try to make peace.’
‘It’s an admirable sentiment, but you’d be wasting your time. He likes to feel hard done by. Thrives on it, you might say. Best to leave him to stew – he’ll be happier in the long run.’
Lock put a kettle on to boil and prepared the tea things.
‘You don’t sound like a local man, Mr Lock,’ said Lady Hardcastle as Lock placed cups and saucers on the table.
‘No, my lady,’ he said. ‘My people are from Hertfordshire.’
‘And how did you end up here, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Resigned my commission, took my pension and went looking for a farm somewhere nice and quiet.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Where did you serve?
‘Here, there, and everywhere,’ he said. It was apparent that he didn’t really want to talk about his military service and he said nothing else as he filled the teapot and set it down on the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘Have you seen Audrey Carmichael since her husband’s death?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
He looked at her appraisingly.
‘I shan’t insult your intelligence, Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, ‘by trying to pretend that I have no idea what you’re talking about. Of course I’ve seen Mrs Carmichael, and I’m sure you know exactly why.’
‘More than once?’ she said.
‘More than once a day, most days,’ he said, regarding her levelly. ‘Look, half the county knows how we feel about each other. I have no desire to see her name sullied by grubby rumours and insinuations, but I also see no profit in denying that I’m in love with Audrey Carmichael and that I fully intend to marry her as soon as it’s seemly.’
‘It’s very convenient that Mr Carmichael has finally died,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘There’s a sense it which it very much is, yes. And I know that that makes me a suspect in his murder–’
‘We’re not yet certain that it is murder,’ she interrupted.
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But the Bristol CID wouldn’t have loosed their favourite hounds on the case if they didn’t at least think there was a possibility that it might be.’
‘You flatter us,’ she said.
‘Nonetheless, I had nothing to do with his death. You’ve met Audrey; do you think she would consent to spend the rest of her life with a murderer? Killing him might have brought us together all the sooner, but once she found out it would have pushed us further apart than ever.’
‘You make a good case,’ she said.
Lock poured the tea.
‘Which poison do you use for your rats?’ I asked as he offered me the sugar.
‘For my what…? Oh, I see.’ He smiled. ‘I use strychnine. There’s a jar in the shed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lock,’ I said with a polite smile.
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Does that make me more suspicious, or less?’
‘To be perfectly frank, Mr Lock,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘we have absolutely no idea. The police surgeon is dragging his heels and no one yet knows what killed Mr Carmichael. For all we know it could be natural causes and we could have been sent on a wild goose chase by Inspector Sunderland, upsetting our neighbours and wasting everyone’s time into the bargain.’
‘But you don’t really think so,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea.
‘Honestly?’ she said. ‘No, I don’t. The witness statements all seem to point to unnatural causes. What did you see on Thursday?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anything. I was on the other side of the room.’
‘Had you seen Mr Carmichael earlier in the day?’
‘No, I was busy selling a few sheep. I didn’t even know Carmichael was there until all the kerfuffle in The Hayrick.’
‘And so when did you last see him?’ she asked.
‘To speak to?’ he said.
‘Or at all. I get the impression that few people spoke to him. At least not without some sort of quarrel ensuing.’
He laughed. ‘You have that right,’ he said. ‘I last spoke to him on Monday afternoon when I called round to ask him if he needed any feed. I’d over-ordered and I was happy to let a neighbour have some.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Ill-tempered and ungrateful as ever.’
‘Did he take the feed?’
‘Like a shot. He was a grumpy old codger, but he wasn’t stupid.’
‘And did you see him after that at all?’ I asked.
‘I saw him across the field on Wednesday as I was… ah…’
‘Making your way home from your assignation?’ suggested Lady Hardcastle.
‘You have a charming way of making our perfectly innocent meetings sound sordid and grubby, Lady Hardcastle.’
‘How would you describe it, then?’ she asked.
‘A cup of tea and a chat,’ he said. ‘She was trapped in a loveless marriage with a charmless bully. He had chased all her other friends away and no one else had the nerve to stand up to him. I was all she had for company other than her son, and Morris tried to spend as much time away from the house as he could.’
‘But you didn’t speak to Carmichael on Wednesday,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Was he far away? How did he look?’
‘Like a miserable old goat.’
‘But in himself, Mr Lock, did he look ill?’
‘Come to think of it, he did look a bit less robust than usual. Did you meet him when he was alive? Tall, thin man, but quite vigorous. Now you ask, I suppose he looked a little… diminished on Wednesday.’
‘Pale?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid, he must have been a couple of hundred yards away across a field, but there was something about his walk. Why?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Mrs Carmichael said he’d been ill, that was all. I was just wondering whether it might have been an illness sufficient to kill him. I just thought you might have got an impression, something that might give us more of an idea of the state of his health.’
‘Well, I’m no doctor, I’m afraid. And I didn’t get a terribly good look. Just an impression, you know.’
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bsp; ‘I do,’ she said. ‘And then on Thursday you sold your sheep and retired to The Hayrick for lunch?’
‘In a nutshell.’
‘Do you have many friends there?’
‘Where? The pub? A fair few, I suppose.’
‘Despite…’ she said, hunting for the right phrase.
‘Despite my background, you mean?’ he said.
‘Quite.’
‘We’re all farmers, my lady. Once the frosts come and the lambs are freezing, we’re all in it together. When the storms come and blow down the pig sheds, we all rally round. No one cares about the Royal Engineers or the family name then, I’m just another farmer, a neighbour in need, or a pair of strong arms to pick up the pieces.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And were many of your friends at The Hayrick?’
‘Most of them, I should say. It’s always lively on market day.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ she said.
‘Ah, yes, I was wondering where I’d seen you. Heard of you, of course, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen you. You were there with Lady Farley-Stroud.’
‘We were.’
‘Is it always the same crowd, Mr Lock?’ I said.
‘More or less,’ he said. ‘Not everyone is there every week, but it’s not like we take roll-call.’
‘You’ve been very patient,’ said Lady Hardcastle, putting her cup emphatically back into its saucer. ‘But we mustn’t take up any more of your time.’
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said, with a nod and a wry smile.
Lady Hardcastle stood and Mr Lock and I rose, too.
‘Thank you for speaking to us, Mr Lock. May we call again if anything else comes up?’
‘Of course, my lady,’ he said. ‘My door is always open.’
He saw us to the door and waited there, watching, as we tiptoed along the path to the waiting car at the gate. Bert had already cranked the engine to life and was settling into the driver’s seat as we approached.
‘Where to now, m’lady?’ asked Bert as we clambered into the back of the motorcar.
‘Crikey, Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. There are still a couple of people we need to talk to, but I hadn’t really made any plans beyond these two visits. What do you think, Armstrong?’
‘I’ve no idea, my lady,’ I said. ‘Home for lunch and a ponder?’
‘Would you think it impertinent of me to make a suggestion, m’lady?’ said Bert, regarding us warily in his rearview mirror as he set off.
‘Not at all, Bert, suggest away,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Lady Farley-Stroud did say this morning that she would welcome another visit. She seemed to be hinting heavily that I should try to persuade you to come for lunch. Would that be acceptable?’
‘Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle delightedly, ‘that would be nothing short of absolutely perfect. To The Grange for lunch and don’t spare the horses.’
And with a crunch of gears and a fierce revving of the engine, we were off.
Jenkins answered the door almost as soon as Lady Hardcastle had rung it, and led us straight through to the dining room with barely a word of greeting. Lady Farley-Stroud was at the sideboard, filling her plate.
‘Lady Hardcastle, my lady,’ said Jenkins, ushering us inside.
‘Emily! Come on in, m’dear. So glad you could come. Grab a plate. Help yourself. Plenty of nosh.’
Lady Hardcastle kissed her in greeting and picked up two plates, handing one to me. She didn’t ask if Lady Farley-Stroud minded if I ate with them but I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.
‘Will Hector be joining us?’ she said as she helped herself to a slice of pie.
‘No, m’dear. Gone up to Gloucester for the day. Not back till supper time. Help yourself, Armstrong,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’
I put a few bits and bobs on my plate and sat down next to Lady Hardcastle.
‘So, my dears,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Tell Auntie Gertie all. What have you discovered?’
Lady Hardcastle recounted the details of our two meetings while Lady Farley-Stroud listened attentively.
‘Gracious,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud when she’d finished. ‘So that means Lock killed him for love. How romantic.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘How did you get there, darling?’ she said.
‘It’s plain as the bulbous nose on Hector’s face, m’dear. He and Audrey Carmichael are in it together, putting strychnine in the old boy’s food so they can be together.’
‘Arsenic would be better for that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Lots of low doses over time, slowly poisoning him, making it look like he was just ill.’
‘Oh,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, crestfallen. ‘But Alford had the arsenic. So it was him?’
‘But what if,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a mischievous smile, ‘the Carmichaels used arsenic as their rat poison and there was plenty at their own farm? Or Lock was lying? Or Audrey slipped some strychnine in his porridge before he went to market? What if it was young Morris Carmichael? We’ve not spoken to him yet. And there was such chaos at The Hayrick that day that it could have been anyone there – people we’ve not even thought of talking to.’
‘Oh, Emily, you’re just teasing me now.’
‘A little tiny bit, dear, yes. But do you see? It’s not nearly as simple a matter as one might hope. We do still need to speak to Morris. And we’re still waiting to hear from the police surgeon about the nature of the poison – if indeed there was any poison at all.’
‘How on earth do you keep it all clear in your head? I swear you must be the cleverest person I ever met.’
‘It’s just patience, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘If you wait long enough the solution usually presents itself.’
‘And what about you, Armstrong? D’you think she’s the cleverest?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, turning towards me.
‘Of course, my lady,’ I said. ‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘Quite right, too,’ she said. ‘Proud to be able to call you m’friend, Emily, dear. We should see more of you, you know. You really must come to dinner again soon. You promised last week that you would.’
‘Oh, that’s right, I did,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But perhaps you and Hector should come to the house. It’s my turn, surely. I came here during our first week at the house, do you remember?
‘I do, I do. After young whatshisname got himself hanged in the woods. We had a few people over. Lovely evening, as I recall. Didn’t you play for us?’
‘I might have done. Put me anywhere near a piano and I’m bound to play it eventually. But if that was the last time we dined together then it really is my turn. I’ve been very remiss.’
‘Nonsense, you’ve been recovering from wounds received in action, what?’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I suppose I have at that. But it’s still my turn.’
‘Very well, m’dear, if you insist. Shan’t argue with a free supper. Name the day and we’ll be there. Be good to get out.’
‘We’ll organize it soon, darling.’
They chattered inconsequentially for the rest of the meal, with Lady Farley-Stroud gamely trying to overcome her deeply ingrained social conditioning and include me in the conversation. I did my best not to make things even more awkward for her and kept my remarks as straightforward and polite as possible; I felt that my customary flippancy might have discomfited her altogether too much – best to get her accustomed to the real me by degrees. It’s one thing knowing that your friend’s lady’s maid is a little irreverent, but quite another to have to put up with it when she’s a guest at your lunch table.
At length Lady Hardcastle asked if she could ring for Bert, and there followed a brief and awkward discussion of payment for his services, or at the very least for the costs of running the motorcar. Lady Hardcastle insisted it was only right and proper and Lady Farley-Stroud wouldn’t hear of it. But it was a ritual exchange, intende
d to save face; the Farley-Strouds weren’t nearly as wealthy as the villagers believed and of course she would be only too grateful for any financial help, but it would be humiliating to say so. So they danced around the subject for a while before Lady Hardcastle wrote a generous cheque which Lady Farley-Stroud insisted was far too much before putting it in her bag while Lady Hardcastle discreetly looked the other way.
By the time they’d finished, Jenkins was at the dining room door announcing that Bert was ready whenever we needed him.
‘Thank you for lunch, Gertie darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she kissed her goodbye.
‘Entirely my pleasure, m’dear. Thank you for keeping an old girl company. Where are you off to now?’
‘We’re going to try to catch young Morris Carmichael at home.’
‘You think he did it, then?’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘For the moment, I think everyone did it. But revenge is a strong motive, so who knows.’
‘Well good luck, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Do let me know how you get on, won’t you.’
‘We shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle, and we were back outside and walking towards the waiting motorcar once more.
Bert took us to Top Farm by a new route along roads that we’d never traveled before. We passed through a small hamlet that I didn’t even know was there, with a chapel and a pub by a small stream. Clearly Lady Hardcastle hadn’t known it was there, either.
‘You see this is why we need a motorcar of our own, pet. We’ve lived here nearly a year and this is the first I’ve ever even heard of this place. There’s only so much exploring one can do on foot.’
‘Quite so, my lady,’ I said.
‘I say, Bert,’ she said, raising her voice so that he could hear her in the front.
‘Yes, m’lady?’ He said, looking up to regard us in the rearview mirror.
‘What sort of motorcar would you recommend for a country lady to go gadding about in?’
‘It depends on what you wants it for, m’lady.’
‘For gadding about in,’ she said.
He chuckled. ‘I means, does you want to impress people, or do you want something that’s easy to drive and will get you about the place with the minimum of fuss?’