by T E Kinsey
The pub was open. There was no one in the saloon save Joe, but we could hear voices in the public bar.
‘Mornin’ m’lady, Miss Armstrong,’ said Joe toothlessly from behind the bar. ‘And you too, Wally. You done I a big favour there, boy.’
‘Pleasure, Joe,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now if you don’t mind, m’lady, I shall leave you to it and see if they lads from up Gloucester has managed to send us any news.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Lady Hardcastle, and with a casual salute, the sergeant returned to the two nearby cottages that served both as the police station and the residence of our two local bobbies.
When he had gone, we returned our attention to the landlord.
‘I hear you’ve had a spot more bother, Joe,’ said Lady Hardcastle amiably.
‘I shan’t lie to you, m’lady,’ he said, ‘it’s fair shook me up, it has. I told that Daisy there’d be trouble if she started meddlin’ with t’other side. And now look.’
We looked. I could see no real evidence of any supernatural activity, but then again it was almost lunchtime and Joe would certainly have cleared up by now.
‘May we see the message?’ I said, gesturing in the direction of the skittle alley.
‘Course you may, m’dear,’ he said. ‘I left it there so’s you could take a look.’
We went through to the other bar, where a couple of young farmhands were sitting at a table in the corner, tucking onto great slabs of bread and cheese as they discussed one of the local girls in the most indelicate terms. They stopped mid-sentence when they noticed us, and gigglingly sipped their ciders.
We crossed to the skittle alley and there on the blackboard, in the same untidy hand, was the message that Sergeant Dobson had described.
‘Whoever or whatever it is is quite determined to get this message across, aren’t they,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we examined the scoreboard more closely.
‘I just wish we knew who this Mummy Bear was,’ I said. ‘A Sioux spirit guide, perhaps?’
She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps,’ she said at length. ‘Can you go and have a quick chat with Joe, please, pet. Keep him out of my way while I have a poke around.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ I said and went back to the other bar.
‘’T’i’n’t much different to t’other one, is it?’ said Joe as I leant on the bar to chat.
‘Very similar,’ I said. ‘And what about the activities in the night? Did you hear or see anything this time?’
‘No, nothin’. I got up this mornin’ same as usual and come down here to get ready for openin’ up, and there was a couple of chairs knocked about but nothing broken and I hadn’t heard a thing in the night.’
‘How did you know the chairs had been moved?’
‘They was on their sides in the middle of the floor,’ he said, pointing. ‘I always stacks everything up neat before I goes up to bed, makes it easier to sweep up in the morning, see.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. But nothing broken this time.’
‘No, miss, not this time. But what do you reckon it could be?’
‘I’m trying my best to keep an open mind, Joe, I really am, but I can’t get away from the idea that it really is an unquiet spirit come to settle some unfinished business with Mr Snelson.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he said, dejectedly. A movement by the window caught his eye. ‘Are you all right there, m’lady?’ he said when he realized what it was.
Lady Hardcastle was on her hands and knees, examining the chair legs. ‘Fine thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘Floor’s been swept, m’lady, but you’ll get yourself filthy down there even so. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, dear, really,’ she said, standing up. ‘All done now. And look, it brushes off.’ She patted at the knees of her now dusty black skirt, making no difference to it’s cleanliness whatsoever. ‘Well it will, at any rate,’ she said. ‘Once Armstrong has worked her mysterious magic on it.’
Joe winked at me. ‘Find anything, m’lady?’ he said.
‘I’ve got an idea or two bubbling away,’ she said.
‘Anything you can share, my lady?’ I said, keen to give poor old Joe even a tiny shred of comfort.
‘Not at the moment, pet, no. The ideas are still percolating.’
‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said. ‘Sorry, Joe, but we’re working on it.’
‘We are indeed,’ she said. ‘Shall we pop along to the police station and see what the fine gentlemen of the Gloucester Constabulary have got to say for themselves. They must have replied to Constable Hancock by now.’
‘I appreciates all your help, m’lady,’ said Joe.
‘It’s entirely our pleasure,’ she said. ‘Oh, one more thing before we go: have you seen anything of your guest lately?’
‘Madame Eugénie?’
‘The same.’
‘No, m’lady. Same as I told Wally – she stays locked in her room and only opens the door to take in her meals and pass out the dirty plates. She’s paid till the end of the week, mind, so if it weren’t for all these goings on I’d be happy enough to leave her be.’
‘But you’d rather she came out to help?’ I said.
‘Well, seems a shame to have an expert on the occult livin’ under your roof while there’s mysterious goings on afoot and then have her stay in her room all the time, not even talking to no one.’
‘At least she’s a quiet guest, though, eh?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘No trouble.’
‘No, m’lady, she i’n’t no trouble. I hears her mutterin’ to herself sometimes when I goes past the door, but she don’t cause no trouble. Somethin’ to be grateful for, I s’pose.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Lady Hardcastle, bracingly. ‘We’ll be on our way, but we’ll keep working on your little puzzle and we’ll tell you the instant we know anything. Toodle pip.’
‘Cheerio, m’lady, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, and we stepped out into the daylight.
‘Did you find what you were looking for, my lady?’ I asked as we strolled along the street to the police station.
‘I think I did, yes,’ she said.
‘And…?’ I said, slightly frustrated by her reticence.
‘All in good time, pet. Percolating, remember?’
I harrumphed.
‘You can huff and puff all you like, dear, but I’ll tell all when I’m good and ready.’
I harrumphed again, but we’d reached the police station so my continued disgruntlement went unchallenged. I made to go in, but she held my arm.
‘It’s really niggling me that we’ve not managed to speak to Snelson. Would you mind seeing the sergeant on your own while I pop up to the Snelson house and try to beard him in his lair.’
‘Not at all, my lady. You pop off and do your bearding and I’ll see you at home.’
‘Splendid,’ she said, and we parted.
The police station was housed in one of a pair of cottages facing the village green. Sergeant Dobson lived above the station office while Constable Hancock lived in the much smaller cottage next door. We teased them about their luxurious accommodation, but they paid no heed. They were doing an important job, they said, policing villages and hamlets for miles around. They needed their police station and their convenient quarters.
There was no one in the small front office so I picked up the little bell from the counter and tinkled it in what I hoped was a polite way.
Sergeant Dobson emerged from a back room bearing a fat manilla folder.
‘Ah, there you are, miss. I was just about to come over the pub looking for you. Is Lady Hardcastle not with you?’
‘She sends her apologies, Sergeant, but she has urgent business elsewhere.’
‘Not to worry, miss, I’m sure you’ll be more than able to convey the news to her.’
‘What news?’ I said.
‘Look what the Gloucester boys send down by one o’ they motorcycle messengers this morning.’
He brandished the file.
‘Crikey,’ I said. ‘They must think it important if they’ve gone to that much trouble.’
‘Unsolved case,’ said the sergeant, importantly. ‘Would you like to come through to the back? There’s more room at the kitchen table and I’ve just put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea.’
‘That sounds splendid, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘Lead on.’
It had taken the best part of an hour in the company of Sergeant Dobson to go through all the notes in the file he had been sent. By the time we had finished it was almost tea time, and even though I was there at his request and was offering to help with the Mystery of Mr Nelson Snelson, I was beginning to feel a little guilty about keeping the sergeant from his duties. When I was sure I had fully understood everything in the file, I had thanked the sergeant for the tea and promised to let him know if there were any further developments. We said our farewells and I set off for home by way of the fishmonger.
I returned to find that Lady Hardcastle had retired to her study to make some notes, so I prepared an early dinner and we then sat together in the dining room, eating pan fried Dover sole.
‘What did the good sergeant have to say for himself, then, pet?’ she said once we were settled and the wine had been poured.
‘He was rather excited,’ I said. ‘A file had been sent by messenger from Gloucester and we spent a while going through it together.’
‘Crikey,’ she said. ‘What was in this file? Treasures?’
‘Of a sort, my lady. It was an account of the investigation of a fire. It seems that our Mr Snelson was in business with one Emmanuel Bean–’
‘Oh,’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle.
‘“Oh”, my lady?’
‘Yes, oh. We’ve been so silly,’ she said.
‘Silly?’
‘Yes, Emmanuel Bean. Manny Bean. It wasn’t Mummy Bear at all. I was so very much hoping that Goldilocks would become involved at some point, but it was just poor handwriting and wishful thinking.’
‘Quite so, my lady,’ I said. ‘Snelson and Bean owned a timber business in Hardwicke, just along the canal from Gloucester, which they called – disappointingly unimaginatively, I feel – Hardwicke Timber Limited. One year ago, almost to the day, there was a fire at the yard which completely destroyed the office, the stores and all the stock. When they were finally able to search through the devastation, they found a body, burnt beyond all recognition, but which they identified as belonging to Emmanuel Bean by the distinctive signet ring he wore.’
‘Crikey!’ she said gesticulating expansively with her fish knife. ‘A baked bean.’
I frowned.
‘And they suspected arson?’ she said.
‘They most certainly did. There was a surprisingly thorough investigation, but they could prove nothing. The insurers were reluctant to pay at first, but there wasn’t enough evidence to prevent them. There were stories that the company was in financial difficulties, but the accounts were destroyed so no one could say for sure.’
‘And poor old Bean was killed in the fire as well,’ she said.
‘Indeed he was. Obviously there was some speculation that he’d set the fire himself and had been trapped, but it was little more than speculation. Then they investigated Snelson but they couldn’t pin anything on him, either. Not for sure. He had apparently been in Birmingham on business, and they found witnesses to corroborate, but there were gaps in the story and it might have been possible for him to get back to Gloucester and do the deed without anyone being any the wiser.’
‘And now,’ she said, dramatically, ‘the ghost of Mummy Bear has come back to seek earthly redress for his untimely demise.’
‘You’re mocking me again, my lady,’ I said.
‘A little tiny bit,’ she said with a grin. ‘But it’s either the real ghost of Manny Bean or it’s someone who wants to tell us something about the case.’
‘Do you think Snelson really might have murdered him? What was he like? What did he have to say for himself?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid; he’s still not at home. But at least now we know what to ask him about when we finally do meet him again.’
‘We do at that,’ I said. ‘What else should we try? We could go up to Gloucester now we have the car. They’re bound to have back issues of the local newspaper in the library.’
‘If we can find the library,’ she said. ‘I know where the Bristol library is. But it’s an excellent notion. Newspaper reports so often flesh out the more lurid aspects of the story that a dry old police report tends to leave out.’
‘Perhaps we could go to Bristol first. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, really, now that you have the infernal machine.’
‘A trip for tomorrow, then, if the weather holds,’ she said.
‘Very well, my lady,’ I said. ‘But what of the doctor? Are you healing well?’
‘He’s very pleased with my progress. And like you, he’s pleased to see me up and about.’
‘Excellent news,’ I said. ‘And what did he have to say about the séance?’
‘That was a curious conversation,’ she said. ‘I expected a scientific man to be a bit more sceptical, but he was utterly convinced that he had been given a message from his late wife and he was rather euphoric about the whole thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘It seems the poor dear has been racked with guilt of late because he’s rather fallen for a widow from Woodworthy but he feels that to pursue the subject of marriage would be a betrayal of his late wife. Now that he’s been given the late June’s blessing to “be happy” he feels finally free to plight his troth. Or further his amorous advances, at least.’
‘That’s charming,’ I said.
‘Yes, I think it rather is,’ she said. ‘Even if Madame Eugénie is an absolute old fraud, at least something positive and lovely might come from it.’
‘O ye of little whatnot,’ I said. ‘You’re still convinced she’s a fake? After all you’ve seen?’
‘More so, I’m afraid.’
‘How’s that?’ I asked.
‘I have one or two, shall we say, suspicions about her methods. I shall need to speak to one or two people before I can fully make up my mind, but I’m becoming increasingly convinced that our Madame Eugénie is just another charlatan.’
‘Oh,’ I said, not a little disappointed.
‘Sorry, pet,’ she said, kindly. ‘But the evidence is stacking up against her. That’s not to say that I’m prepared to declare that all mediums are fake, of course, but I’m almost sure that Eugénie isn’t quite the genuine article.’
I pondered this revelation for a moment. I knew there was no point in pressing her for details before she was ready, but it was still a blow. A strong part of me refused to let go, though, and in my heart I remained convinced that The Dog and Duck was, indeed, being haunted by the vengeful spirit of Emmanuel Bean.
‘Still,’ I said brightly, keen to return to jollier thoughts, ‘at least we’re going on a jaunt tomorrow.’
‘I really rather think we ought,’ she said. ‘And on our way I want you to drop in on Joe Arnold and ask if you can stay the night at The Dog and Duck.’
‘On my own?’
‘Yes, please. I want a reliable witness in the place in case the ghost comes back again.’
‘Crikey,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Well… I mean… you know… the ghost.’
‘Frightened, pet?’ she said with a smirk. ‘I thought only cows had the power to frighten my Florence.’
‘Wary, my lady. Respectfully wary.’
‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Just as with the cows.’
‘If you insist, my lady,’ I said, resignedly.
‘I say,’ she said. ‘Imagine how “wary” you’d be of a cow ghost.’
‘A bovine bodach, my lady?’
‘A bodach, by George. No wonder you’re such a whizz at crosswords.’
‘It
’s a Scottish ghost, my lady,’ I said.
‘I surmised as much,’ she said. ‘But fear not, dear heart. We are attempting to pin down a human spirit and your night shall be entirely cattle free.’
‘That’s something, at least.’
‘And my evening appears to be entirely sweet-free. What’s for pudding, chef?’
‘Cake,’ I said, sadly.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘In that case, might I respectfully suggest that we skip pudding and move straight to brandy and the piano? Is there cheese?’
‘There’s cheese, my lady, and some cream crackers. I might be able to rootle out some chutney.’
‘Cheese and biscuits it is, then,’ she said. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood. ‘I shall go and find something fun to play, and you bring the coagulated curds. Any requests?’
‘Something fun, I think,’ I said. ‘A little ragtime? I could fetch my banjo.’
‘That’s settled then. I shall see you presently.’
She left me to tidy up and put together a modest cheeseboard while she went into the drawing room to search for some appropriate music.
Getting ready for the drive into Bristol had been something of a palaver. Unlike the motorcars we had been used to in previous months, Lady Hardcastle’s new transport was a tad… open. It had a hinged folding “roof” such as one might find on a perambulator, and a substantial windscreen, but not much by way of what one might call “doors”. There were half-doors (presumably to conceal our sinful ankles) but precious little protection from the elements as the wind whipped through from the sides. In consequence we were forced to dress in brand new heavy coats, gauntlets (gauntlets!), and with our hats secured by robust, broad ribbons. There were goggles, too, for warmer days, but with the windscreen up we had deemed them superfluous.
As the younger, stronger member of the team, I had been charged with the task of turning the starting handle and after only three goes, we were on our way into the village. The car itself drew a small amount of attention, mostly, I think, because of its striking, pillar box-red paint, but what really caught people’s eye was the sight of Lady Hardcastle at the wheel. I’d been working for her for almost fifteen years and I had grown accustomed to the censorious stares and mutters of those people (mostly men, it must be said) who thought that a woman just shouldn’t be doing that (where “that” was pretty much whatever Lady Hardcastle happened to be doing at the time) and so the shocked glances from the villagers were nothing new. But a motoring lady was a new source of disapproval and I confess I felt a childlike glee in their collective dismay.