The Spirit Is Willing (The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries Book 2)

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Wouldn’t any motorcar impress people, Bert?’

  ‘I dare say it would, m’lady, but there’s, “Blimey, look, there’s a lady in a motorcar,” and then there’s, “Blimey, look, there’s a motorcar. Oh, and it’s got a lady in it.” Do you see what I means?’

  ‘Sort of. So if I just wanted to pootle around the countryside with my maid by my side, visiting, exploring, flitting hither and yon, with no need to impress the impressionable, what should I get?’

  He looked a little surprised. ‘You intends to drive it yourself, m’lady?’

  ‘But of course, Bert dear. Why ever not?’

  He gave a disbelieving chuckle. ‘If you say so, m’lady. In that case, I hear tell that the Rover 6 is a capable little motorcar and it’s small enough for even a lady to drive.’

  ‘Even a lady, eh?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Does it come in red?’

  He laughed again, his doubts about the ability of women to understand the complex engineering of the motorcar no doubt confirmed. ‘I dare say they can paint it any colour you wish, m’lady.’

  ‘You hear that, Armstrong? We need a red Rover 6. Make a note.’

  ‘You have the notebook, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘I do? Oh, I do. Remind me to make a note.’

  ‘I shall do my utmost.’

  ‘Splendid, thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, I say, I think I know where we are now.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Bert. ‘That’s Top Farm up yonder.’

  ‘So it is. Make a note of this route, Armstrong, we shall come out here in the new motorcar.’

  ‘You still have the notebook, my lady.’

  ‘And we shall get you a blessed notebook as well.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘You’re a kind and generous woman. I’ve always said so.’

  ‘Pish and fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘You’ve never said anything of the sort. Have you ever heard such tommyrot, Bert?’

  ‘No, m’lady,’ he said with a smirk.

  With a squeal from the brakes, the car drew up in the farmyard and we stepped out into the mud.

  Lady Hardcastle leaned down to speak to Bert through the window.

  ‘We might not be too long if Morris Carmichael isn’t in, but it’s worth a try. Don’t nod off.’

  ‘I shall remain alert and ready, m’lady,’ he said, touching the peak of his cap.

  ‘Good man,’ she said, and led the way up to the farmhouse door.

  She rapped smartly on the black-painted door and we didn’t have to wait long before it was opened by a timid looking man in his mid-twenties. He was tall, and skinny, and very much resembled his late father. This was clearly Morris Carmichael.

  ‘Yes?’ he said with more than a hint of surliness.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m Lady Har–’

  ‘I kn-n-now who you are,’ he stammered. ‘What do you w-w-want?’

  ‘May we come in, please, Mr Carmichael?’

  ‘C-c-can I s-s-stop you?’

  ‘Of course you can, but I’d rather you didn’t. We just want a few words and then we’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘You’d b-b-better c-c-come in, then,’ he said, and stepped aside so that we could enter.

  ‘Is your mother at home?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we made our way towards the kitchen.

  ‘N-n-no, she went out with N-N-Noah Lock.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? Good for her,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.

  He looked blankly at her.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea if there’s one going,’ she said, continuing to smile warmly. ‘How about you, Armstrong?’

  ‘I never say no to a cup of tea, my lady,’ I said.

  He meekly set about preparing tea for us all.

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s been a long day and I find I still tire easily.’

  He waved to the kitchen chairs and we sat in silence while he continued with his tea making. He seemed thoroughly absorbed in his task and it was plain that he would be too distracted to answer any questions. At length, he banged the teapot on the table, where he had already placed three cups, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. He sat down and stared at us.

  ‘Will you pour, please, Armstrong?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  I stood and took care of the pouring while she addressed Morris.

  ‘You have our utmost sympathies on the loss of your father,’ she began.

  He snorted.

  ‘I understand that you were not especially close,’ she continued. ‘But I know from a lifetime’s experience of such things that you will feel the loss nevertheless.’

  He continued to stare blankly.

  ‘My friend Lady Farley-Stroud tells me that you’re a talented artist,’ she said.

  ‘I paints a bit. N-n-nothing you’d like, I don’t s’pose.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I have quite catholic tastes when it comes to the visual arts. I might surprise you.’

  He stared.

  ‘Now that your father has gone, I suppose you’ll be taking over the running of the farm.’

  His stare changed to a quizzical frown, and then his face split into a broad grin.

  ‘Th-th-that’s where you’d be wrong,’ he said. ‘As s-s-soon as we s-s-sell this place I’m off to L-l-ondon. I’ve got a p-p-place at art college.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Our Ma’s going to marry Noah.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘But how are you going to sell the farm? I understood from Mr Dougal that he couldn’t find a buyer for his place.’

  ‘G-g-got it all sorted out,’ he said, proudly. ‘N-n-nothing to worry about. Be g-g-glad to get out of the place.’

  ‘From all I’ve heard, I’m sure you will,’ she said. ‘But I’m intrigued. How have you managed to be so lucky when Mr Dougal can’t find a buyer? Is Top Farm so different?’

  ‘C-c-can’t say,’ he said. ‘Sworn to s-s-secrecy. But it’ll be fine, you’ll s-s-see.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted for you. I’m sorry to have to bring the subject back to your father, Mr Carmichael, but do you remember anything odd happening in the days before his death?’

  ‘N-n-nothin’ I can think of,’ he said. ‘But then I s-s-stayed away from the house as much as I c-c-could when he was at home.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have seen any visitors?’

  ‘N-n-no one visited Our Dad. He was a b-b-ba–’

  ‘Yes, dear, I gather he was.’

  We all three sipped our tea, almost in unison.

  ‘What do you do about rats on the farm, Mr Carmichael?’ I said.

  ‘About what?’ he said, so surprised by the change of direction that it seemed to shock the stammer out of him.

  ‘Rats, sir,’ I said. ‘Which poison do you use to kill them?’

  ‘Oh, I s-s-see. N-n-no poison. Our D-D-Dad used to use traps. Sometimes he’d sh-sh-shoot them with an airg-g-gun.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said with a nod.

  ‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You make a smashing cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, nonplussed by yet another change of tack. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s surprisingly rare in a young man. In any man, come to think of it. My brother makes a simply revolting cup of tea, doesn’t he, Armstrong?’

  ‘I promised myself I’d never mention it, my lady – after all, he’s your brother and you must stand by him no matter what – but Harry’s tea is quite the most disgusting liquid known to man.’

  ‘You’d never know if he’d put poison in it,’ she said. ‘His tea could hide the taste of anything.’

  Morris Carmichael simply stared again. It struck me at that moment that he wasn’t the wet lettuce that Lady Farley-Stroud believed, nor was he as dull-witted as I had thought him when he answered the door. He knew we were fishing and just decided to shut up.

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Hardcastle,
putting her teacup in its saucer with a clink. ‘We ought to leave you to get on. We just wanted to see if there was anything you could tell us that might help us to work out who killed your father, and you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘I h-h-have? I d-d-don’t feel like I’ve s-s-said anything. I don’t know n-n-nothing.’

  ‘And yet you’ve been most helpful, dear,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Give our regards to your mother, and I hope everything works out for you just the way you hope. You’ll love London. We were very happy there for many years. And when things are more settled I’d love to see some of your paintings if you’d care to show them to me.’

  ‘I sh-sh-should like that, I think,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  We both shook it and took our leave.

  Bert was asleep in the car but a sharp rap on the window from Lady Hardcastle’s ever-present walking stick woke him with a start and within a few minutes we were on our way back to the house.

  It had been quite late by the time we returned from visiting Morris, and the rest of Saturday evening passed in a haze of Lady Hardcastle’s best cognac, a light supper, and some rather adventurous piano playing. Sunday had been… just Sunday – that melancholy day that seems to stretch out forever and yet still seems to be over too soon. There was no particular difference for me between any one day of the week and any other, but there was always something about Sunday that seemed to be different for the rest of the world, and somehow that difference managed to seep in through the cracks around the windows and doors, no matter how hard we worked to keep it out.

  I was jolly glad when Monday came.

  I was up with the robin. I had decided that not only did I have no idea when larks rose, but that I shouldn’t know a lark if it perched on my shoulder and sang in my ear. But the robin was an entirely different proposition; even I could spot our neighbourhood robin as he hopped proprietorially around the walled garden.

  So Mr Red Breast and I rose together and went about our business. He was digging about in the grass for worms and insects and I had vanquished many a chore by the time Lady Hardcastle rang for her morning coffee.

  By ten o’clock she was up and dressed, we had eaten a substantial breakfast and we were sitting together in the dining room with fresh coffee examining the Crime Board. During our first investigation the previous summer, Lady Hardcastle had hit upon the idea of using a large blackboard to help us keep track of all the information relating to the apparent suicide of a man in the woods. She drew sketches of the people involved which she pinned to the board, and then we made notes, attempting to make connections, see patterns and, eventually, solve the mystery. It caused our friend Inspector Sunderland some amusement and he ribbed her mercilessly about it, but he told me privately that he thought it was an excellent idea and that he had begun using something similar with his colleagues in Bristol CID.

  At the centre of the board was Lady Hardcastle’s sketch of Spencer Carmichael. Under it we had written, “Grumpy, argumentative, universally disliked.” Around the rest of the board were sketches of other people we had met or knew about. There was Audrey Carmichael, Spencer’s long-suffering and devout widow. His son, Morris, the bullied artist. Their neighbour Noah Lock, in love with the beautiful Audrey. Carmichael’s rival, Dick Alford, with whom he was locked in a perpetual battle of one-upmanship. All of them might have had reason do the old man to death.

  Lady Hardcastle was just putting the finishing touches to a sketch of Laurence Dougal.

  ‘Why Mr Dougal, my lady?’ I asked.

  ‘Completeness, pet,’ she said, as she handed me the sketch.

  I pinned it to the board. ‘But what would be his motive?’

  ‘Aside from the fact that almost anyone who met Spencer Carmichael would happily have killed him?’ she said.

  ‘Aside from that, my lady. If that were motive enough there wouldn’t be room on the board for all the people who might have done him in.’

  ‘Jealousy?’ she suggested.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Morris Carmichael seems to have a buyer lined up for Top Farm. Maybe Dougal found out about it and killed the old chap in a fit of rage. He said he was having a devil of a job selling his own place.’

  ‘Poison’s not a weapon for moments of rage, my lady. A blow to the head with a heavy object, a punch to the windpipe, a kitchen knife through the heart – those are the methods an angry man might choose. Poison is slow, it requires planning. Premeditation, as they say.’

  ‘Hmmm, I think you’re right. But we’ve spoken to him so it’s right that he should be up there. There’s something odd about him, too, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘He seemed pleasant enough to me, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Ah well, I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said, gazing at the board. ‘But where are we now? Everyone has a motive, not matter how slender. Several people might have had the means to kill him, though we have no idea what the poison was, nor even if it was poison at all. And almost everyone seems to have had some sort of opportunity to administer the putative poison. Perhaps we should call Inspector Sunderland; the police surgeon must know something by now and a professional detective might have a better idea of how to proceed. Or would it profit us to visit The Hayrick and speak to the landlord there, I wonder?’

  ‘Townsley, my lady. “Call me Ronnie”.’

  ‘I say, what a memory you have.’

  ‘It’s a gift, my lady. And sometimes a curse. I remember, for instance, your aching desire to end our lives in a fiery mass of twisted metal by buying a small red motor car.’

  ‘Well done, pet, I meant to write that in my notebook, didn’t I.’ She flicked through the pages, looking at the notes she’d made over the past few days. ‘Ah, look, there he is. Ronnie. You’re so clever. Would it help to talk to him, I wonder? You could trot up to The Grange and get Bert.’

  ‘I could at that. But what would we ask him?’

  ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it. We could–’

  The doorbell prevented me from finding out what it was that we could do. I left her leafing through her notes and went to answer the door.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Armstrong,’ said Inspector Sunderland with a smile.

  ‘And good morning to you, Inspector,’ I said, stepping aside. ‘Won’t you come in. We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Nothing defamatory, I hope,’ he said, stepping inside and removing his bowler hat.

  I took the hat and put it on the hall table along with a leather document case he was carrying, then helped him off with his overcoat. ‘No, sir, it’s just that we’re a little stuck and we thought you might be able to help us. Point us in a new direction as it were.’

  ‘What have you managed so far?’ he asked, picking up the case.

  I led him to the dining room and ushered him in. ‘I’ll let Lady Hardcastle explain,’ I said. ‘Inspector Sunderland, my lady.’

  ‘Oh, I say, what a treat. Do come in and sit down, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, sitting in one of the dining chairs.

  ‘The inspector was wondering how we were getting on, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘Then we must give him chapter and verse, pet. Why don’t I bring him up to date while you make us all a fresh pot of coffee.’

  ‘Very good, my lady,’ I said with a smile, and went to my kitchen.

  It took only a short while to brew a fresh pot of coffee and cut a few slices of the madeira cake I’d made earlier that morning, but by the time I returned with the tray, their discussion had already moved on to other things.

  ‘…and she bought this awful elephant’s foot umbrella stand,’ Lady Hardcastle was saying. ‘It’s a replica, of course. Looks just like the real thing, and she was so taken with it that I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I really thought. Ah, there you are, pet, thank you. Come and sit down. I was just telling the inspector about our visit to the junk shop in Chipping Bevington with Gertie an
d Maude.’

  ‘Pomphrey’s Bric-a-Brac Emporium, my lady,’ I said, sitting down.

  ‘That’s the place,’ she said. ‘I was just complimenting her on her memory, Inspector. Pomphrey’s. Yes.’

  ‘I know of it, my lady,’ said the inspector with a smile. ‘Mr Pomphrey helped us out a few years ago with a case involving smuggled Egyptian mummified cats.’

  ‘I think I read about that,’ she said. ‘That was you? Well I never.’

  ‘I have my moments, my lady,’ he said.

  I poured the coffee and passed round the cake. When we were all settled, the inspector picked up the leather document case from the floor beside him and opened it. ‘Now that Miss Armstrong is back,’ he said, ‘I can share my own news.’

  He took out a manila folder and placed it on the table in front of him. From inside he produced a sheet of paper headed with the badge of the Bristol Police.

  ‘At long last,’ he said, tapping the paper with his finger, ‘we have the report from the police surgeon. The cause of death was, indeed, poison. And unless Mr Carmichael ingested it by accident, I should say it’s murder.’

  ‘By accident, Inspector?’ I said. ‘Is that common?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice, miss, no, but the surgeon is insistent that we don’t rule it out.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Because in spite of his painstaking efforts, using the entirety of the baffling array of chemical tests available to him, he has no idea what the poison was.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, dejectedly.

  ‘Quite, miss, quite. And without knowing exactly what poisoned Mr Carmichael, the surgeon refuses to discount the possibility that he might have unknowingly ingested something deadly without any skulduggery or mischief being involved.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lady Hardcastle echoed my dejection.

  ‘“Oh” indeed, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘Looking on the bright side, at least he’s ruled out the common poisons: arsenic, strychnine, even cyanide. And the reports from the laboratory say that there was nothing untoward in his pie or his cider. Although they’re not completely convinced that the meat was beef as advertised.’