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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Quite so,’ I said, returning to my narrative. ‘He told us about the mushrooms, so this morning we visited an old friend of Lady Hardcastle’s at the hospital, and he agrees that it could well be deadly webcap that killed Mr Carmichael. And because it can take up to a week, it means he was mostly likely poisoned much earlier than we all thought.’

  ‘A week, eh? So that puts all sorts of new people in the frame. Including you, actually. Didn’t you see him a week before he died?’

  ‘We did, Inspector,’ I said. ‘And that brings me to the main reason for my visit.’

  ‘You’re going to confess? That would clear things up very neatly.’

  ‘No, silly. If I’d done it you’d never even find the body.’

  He looked suddenly rather chilled and I had to smile to let him know that I was at least half joking.

  ‘No,’ I said, slightly more brightly. ‘But Lady Hardcastle does think she’s close to solving the case. She’s paying a visit to her solicitor even as we speak to clear up some question or other, but please don’t ask me what because that’s one of the things she’s being infuriatingly coy about.’

  ‘When will we be allowed to know the results of her abductions?’

  ‘Abductions?’ I asked with a frown. ‘Not deductions?’

  ‘No, miss, definitely abductions.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, making a mental note to look up the difference. ‘Tomorrow. At twelve o’clock. At The Hayrick in Chipping Bevington. She says you’re to bring burly companions and a black maria and to expect to make an arrest.’

  He chuckled his familiar throaty chuckle. ‘Does she, by crikey. Well if it were anyone else I’d make them sweat for their impudence, but since it’s her, I shall see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, you’re an absolute poppet.’

  ‘I am on the quiet, miss. But don’t let on round here, I have a reputation as a stickler and a martinet to maintain.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ I said, finishing my tea. ‘But I mustn’t keep you. It seems you’re hot on the trail of your bank robbers, too.’

  ‘Not much gets past you, does it?’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with the sewers but my boys are onto them now and all I have to do is keep an eye on things.’

  ‘How exciting,’ I said, standing up and straightening my coat. ‘Do you want to give me a black eye, just to make it look convincing?’

  He laughed. ‘I can’t imagine many people managing to give you even a playful slap, Miss Armstrong. I’m not sure anyone would believe I’d blackened your eye.’

  ‘Just thought I’d offer. Don’t want your men thinking you’re too soft on witnesses.’

  ‘You’re more by way of being “consulting detectives”, miss,’ he said. ‘We don’t beat up our consultants. Once one has that reputation it makes it very difficult to engage anyone else.’

  ‘Consulting detectives,’ I said. ‘I like the sound of that. Like Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘I suppose so, miss, yes. But slightly easier to get along with, I’d wager.’

  I smiled and offered my hand which he shook warmly.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘I’m already looking forward to it,’ he said. ‘Here, I’ll show you out.’

  He led me back along the corridor and down the stairs and I confirmed the arrangements for the following day. I gave Sergeant Massive Beard a cheery wave as I went out through the main door and he glared at me.

  As I walked down the steps to the car I could just about hear Inspector Sunderland barking a rebuke at Sergeant Massive Beard for being rude to members of the public.

  I was still smiling as Lady Hardcastle came round the corner and waved a greeting.

  ‘What splendid timing,’ she said as she reached the car. ‘It went well, I take it? You’re terribly grinny.’

  ‘Very well indeed, my lady. The inspector will join us for lunch tomorrow.’

  I waved Bert back into his driving seat and opened the car door for her myself.

  ‘Splendid, splendid,’ she said, climbing in. ‘Mr Pentelow hopes to be able to send me a telegram by tomorrow morning to confirm my suspicions and then we’re all set for arrests and justice.’

  ‘And you’re still not going to tell me anything further,’ I said as I slid in beside her.

  ‘No, pet.’ She clutched her side melodramatically. ‘Poorly, remember? Need to be indulged.’

  ‘Pfft.’

  She laughed. ‘To luncheon, Bert, dear thing.’

  ‘Very good, m’lady,’ he said, and with a burble and a clatter, the car slid away from the kerb.

  Lady Farley-Stroud’s favourite hotel in Bristol had indeed turned out to be slightly old fashioned, and not at all the sort of place we might ordinarily have chosen, but the food was exquisite. There had been some raised eyebrows from some of our fellow diners at the presence of a mere lady’s maid in their midst, but we ignored them and eventually they had ignored us in return.

  With luncheon eaten, we asked Bert to take us back to The Grange where we gossiped for a pleasingly long while with Lady Farley-Stroud and invited ourselves to the cattle market with her on the following day. She had been delighted to have enthusiastic company for a change, saying that she appreciated Maude’s efforts but that it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it.

  It was early evening by the time we had declined the offer of a lift home and we walked back down the hill to the house by the light of a glorious spring sunset. Neither of us had much of an appetite for supper so I made a few rounds of sandwiches which we decadently ate in the drawing room while we discussed arrangements for the following day.

  By the time we awoke on Thursday morning it was raining heavily.

  ‘We’re jinxed, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle looking our of the kitchen window as we ate our breakfast. ‘We should warn the farmers whenever we intend to attend the market so that they can make appropriate wet weather arrangements.’

  ‘We shall be attending often?’ I said with ill-concealed dismay.

  ‘Of course. Poor Gertie could do with the company.’

  ‘But,’ I said. ‘Cows.’

  She was still laughing at my disappointment when the doorbell rang.

  It was the telegram boy, drenched to the skin but still as cheeky as ever. I gave him a few coppers and he skipped off back down the lane with a cheery, ‘Thanks, missus.’

  I took the damp message through to Lady Hardcastle who read it with satisfaction bordering on glee.

  ‘It’s all coming together nicely,’ she said as I tidied away the breakfast things. ‘And just in time, too; Bert will be here very soon.’

  I finished my tidying and we went to the hall to put on hats, coats and galoshes in readiness for Bert’s inevitably precise ten o’clock arrival. The clock began to chime and, just as it began to strike the hour, I opened the door to find a grinning Bert about to press the doorbell.

  ‘Caught you,’ I said.

  He grinned even more broadly. ‘Good morning, miss. Good morning, m’lady. Are you all set.’

  ‘As ready as ready can be, Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘To market, to market, to catch us a killer.’

  ‘Home again, home again,’ I said. ‘Er… to drink to our wonderful success with the delicious produce of a fine French distiller.’

  ‘Needs work, pet,’ she said. ‘But you can do it later. Let’s go before Bert drowns.’

  We bundled ourselves into the car and were greeted enthusiastically by Lady Farley-Stroud who seemed rather excited at the thought of being in the thick of things.

  ‘Now Gertie,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we set off, ‘you’re not to get too giddy, darling. Inspector Sunderland and his men will be arriving at noon and I shall explain all then.’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘How marvellous. A big theatrical dénouement like you did at The Grange last summer? Everyone gathered around and you explaining everything like a detective in a story?’<
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  Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought of doing it like that, dear, but it might be fun. What do you think, Flo?’

  ‘I think you can’t resist showing off, my lady, so I’m sure some sort of performance is inevitable.’

  She and Lady Farley-Stroud laughed at this and Bert, sitting beside me, tried decorously to conceal his smirk.

  ‘We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that we intend to apprehend a murderer, ladies,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘No, dear, quite,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘But you must admit that it is all rather exciting.’

  ‘I confess I do get something of a thrill from it,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But I think a more quiet and subtle approach might be more suitable this time.’

  It took three-quarters of an hour to wind through the rain-soaked lanes to Chipping Bevington, and another ten minutes of tedious driving around trying to find somewhere to park amid the exuberant chaos of market day.

  By the time we had disembarked and taken a stroll down the High Street and back (with some moments of mild terror occasioned by the ever present bovine menace) it was almost time for our rendezvous with Inspector Sunderland at The Hayrick.

  The rain had finally stopped by the time we walked round the corner and saw a damp Inspector Sunderland waiting outside the pub. There was no sign of the police wagon or of any other officers.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we approached.

  ‘Good morning, my lady. Oh, “my ladies”, I do beg your pardon, Lady Farley-Stroud.’

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, brightly. ‘May I wish you joy of the day, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Good hunting. Are your men here?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it might be best to keep them out of sight. Since you’ve been reluctant to tell anyone who he or she might be, I didn’t want to spook your suspect by having a load of coppers lounging about the place. But they’re here, and so’s the wagon. I’ll have a couple round the front and a couple round the back once we go in. No one will get in or out without our knowing about it.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well, I think it’s time we made our entrance, don’t you. Are you ready ladies?’

  Lady Farley-Stroud and I both nodded and the four of us went into the pub.

  As we’d seen a fortnight before, the pub was bedlam on market day, filled with raucous laughter and oath-filled conversation. But as we filed in, the noise lessened considerably as heads turned towards us and the loud chatter became a suspicious murmur.

  We followed Lady Hardcastle to the bar where she leaned across to have a word with Ronnie, the landlord. He looked up, first at me, then at the inspector, then nodded and motioned us to follow him. We went through into the kitchen, with Lady Farley-Stroud bringing up the rear.

  ‘This is my sister Hilda, m’lady,’ said Ronnie, indicating the toothless serving girl who had brought us our pies and cider the fortnight before.

  The woman eyed us nervously.

  ‘Good morning, Hilda,’ said Lady Hardcastle kindly. ‘Ronnie tells me you’ve been worried about something.’

  Hilda’s eyes flicked anxiously to her brother and then back to the floor. Ronnie nodded his encouragement but she was still reluctant to speak.

  ‘You think you might be in trouble?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Stands to reason, don’t it.’ said Hilda.

  ‘How’s that, dear?’

  ‘He was poisoned with food I brung him. They’s all sayin’ it. But I ’a’n’t done nothin’, I swears.’

  ‘It wasn’t you?’

  ‘I swears it,’ said Hilda, a tear slipping down her pock-marked cheek.

  ‘So why are they saying it was you?’

  ‘Weren’t no one else in the kitchen last week. I told the coppers that. So now they all reckons I must-’a done sommat. They wouldn’t say nothin’ about Our Ronnie. But it weren’t ’im, neither.’

  ‘And nor was it last week’s pie that killed him,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘But he were killed right here in the pub last market day,’ said Hilda. ‘I saw him. Horrible, it was.’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘he died here last Thursday. But he was murdered the week before. Everyone has been talking about last week, but I’d wager no one has asked you about the week before.’

  ‘No, missus, they hasn’t,’ hissed Hilda through her missing teeth.

  ‘And did anything odd happen the week before? Did anyone come into the kitchen?’

  ‘Not as far as I… Oh,’ said Hilda, clearly recalling something. ‘There was someone here. I went out to take some orders to some of the lads from Oldbury, and when I come back there was–’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle, ‘let me say it. Thank you for letting us get involved with this case, Inspector,’ she said, turning to address Inspector Sunderland. ‘It really has been most diverting.’

  ‘My pleasure entirely, my lady,’ said the inspector with a slight bow.

  ‘And I think it only fair that I repay your kindness by explaining our findings and allowing you to arrest the guilty man.’

  ‘That would be rather welcome, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘At first, the most obvious suspects seemed to be Mrs Carmichael and her would-be suitor, and they were my definite favourites for a while; with the old man gone, their path to true love would be clear. But then we met Morris Carmichael, the bullied son. We were told he was a wet lettuce, and against all my noblest intentions, his stammer made me think he wasn’t quite the full shilling. But when we spoke to him we found that he was all there and halfway back, and I began wondering if he’d done away with his tyrannical father. And, of course, Carmichael’s old “friend” Dick Alford’s rivalry might easily have turned deadly.’

  ‘Those are my main suspects, too, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘But which of them was it? There’s only supposition and suspicion to go on.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Inspector,’ she said. ‘All we could do was plump for one and hope for the best. The odds were against us somewhat, but I’ve backed horses on longer odds and come home with the price of a new dress.’

  The inspector smiled.

  ‘But then Armstrong here tried to pick some mushrooms and things became a lot clearer. We were warned off them by… by…’

  ‘Jed, my lady,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, by Jed, because although they looked ever so very much like delicious chanterelle mushrooms there were, in fact, an altogether less healthy variety called deadly webcap. And I was immediately put in mind of your new umbrella stand, Gertie dear.’

  ‘My umbrella stand?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

  ‘Yes, dear. The one you bought from… from…’

  ‘Pomphrey’s, my lady,’ I said, trying not to roll my eyes.

  ‘Pomphrey’s, yes. The elephant’s foot umbrella stand that looks just like the real thing. And those mushrooms in the woods looked just like chanterelles. And then I remembered that there were chanterelle mushrooms in the pies.’

  ‘I been using chanterelles for a few weeks,’ said Ronnie, proudly. ‘Adds a touch of class.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘So if someone hit upon the idea of committing murder using deadly webcap mushrooms, then the pies in The Hayrick would be an ideal place to hide them. But that’s ridiculous. Who among your customers last would even know that you use chanterelle mushrooms? Who would think of such a convoluted way of killing someone? It’s altogether too far fetched. But then we visited my dear old friend Dr Gosling at the BRI and he told us that deadly webcap can take up to a week to kill, and suddenly I had the ideal man. Someone who was in the pub the week before Carmichael died, and who would have known all about mushrooms and how best to serve them. The man you found in your kitchen two weeks ago on market day, Hilda, was Laurence Dougal.’

  Hilda’s toothless mouth hung open for a few secon
ds before she gathered her wits enough to speak. ‘So… so…’

  ‘Dougal had positioned himself near the door to the kitchen that day. Do you remember, Gertie? He was at the end of the bar when you pointed him out to us.’

  ‘I say,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘So he was.’

  ‘He waited there until Carmichael came to the bar to order his lunch, then while Hilda was delivering someone else’s order, he slipped into the kitchen and popped his deadly mushrooms into the next pie in line. It was risky – he might well have poisoned the wrong pie – but he was a desperate man and it was a gamble he was prepared to take. Hilda came back just as he was leaving, but didn’t think anything of it. Then he slipped back to his place at the bar and stayed there supping and chatting until he was sure that his plan had worked.’

  ‘But why would Dougal wish to kill Carmichael?’ asked Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘And how on earth did you realize it was he?’

  ‘The realization was rather prosaic once we were aware it was probably a mushroom: Dougal is a chef. Just the sort of chap who would have spotted the similarity between the poisonous mushrooms and the chanterelles that he had suggested Ronnie put in the beef and mushroom pies.’

  ‘It was Dougal as suggested it,’ said Ronnie. ‘Three or four weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, he was already working on his plan. He might even have wanted to let the blame fall on you if anyone found out about the deadly webcap. “It’s an easy but tragic mistake to make,” people would say. “Poor old Ronnie accidentally picked poisonous mushrooms one day.” He was building his own alibi.’

  ‘The devious little–’

  ‘Just so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And he made sure that he wasn’t at the pub the day Carmichael died, too.’

  ‘That’s all satisfyingly plausible,’ said Inspector Sunderland. ‘But what was his motive?’

  ‘I was coming to that, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Something about Dougal had been niggling me for a while. Something about him seemed wrong, somehow. And then I was leafing through my notebook – thank you for the gift by the way, Inspector dear, it’s been most terribly useful – and I realized that he had skirted around the matter of his last conversation with Carmichael. He said they just chatted about “this and that”.’ She consulted her notebook. ‘“Nothing of consequence,” he told us.’