by T E Kinsey
Brookfield stood, but Lady Hardcastle remained seated. ‘So you didn’t have him killed, then?’
‘Out!’ he bellowed, his composure finally deserting him.
Trying not to laugh, I followed her out of the shop, protecting her back lest he decide to lash out. The few other customers looked on in scandalized shock or unabashed curiosity, according to their character, while the staff cowered in the background, clearly worried that the managing director might take out his anger upon them.
Outside on the pavement, Brookfield was equally livid.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he demanded.
‘Do what, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Blow our cover and ask your damn fool questions.’
‘Oh, pish and fiddlesticks. It was obvious the man had nothing to do with it. He’s a tedious little man obsessed with coffee. He’s all fuss and bluster and he could no more kill a man than flap his arms and fly to the West Indies to check on his precious plantations.’
‘He might have paid someone to do it,’ insisted the reporter angrily.
‘He would wet his breeches if he came within a hundred yards of the sort of man that would kill for money. Oswald Craine is a boor, a bigot and a bully, but he’s not your murderer.’
Brookfield was still simmering. ‘But there was still no need to blurt it out like that. You ruined everything.’
‘I did? How so? You have plenty of fluffy nonsense for an article describing the coffee business and the absolutely splendid role Mr Oswald Craine plays in bringing the delicious beverage to the occasional tables of England, and we know for certain that he is not in any way involved in the killing of Nathaniel Morry. I’d say that my contribution to the enterprise was invaluable: I brought an end to one of the most tedious conversations in the history of human discourse and we nearly made a boorish oaf explode with rage. I think that’s a morning well spent.’
‘If I’d known you were going to behave so childishly I’d never have invited you,’ said Brookfield. ‘I shall think carefully about bringing you along to any further interviews.’
‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Brookfield. You know how to reach us if you need us,’ she said, and we turned and walked away, leaving him still fuming on the pavement outside the coffee house.
‘Childish, indeed!’ she said as she climbed back into the motor and I set about turning the starting handle. ‘Do you think me childish, Flo?’
I climbed in beside her. ‘Of course, my lady,’ I said. ‘It’s part of your charm.’
She harrumphed and drove off.
‘But not then,’ I said. ‘That was delicious. I would have paid good money to see that oaf discomfited after all the appalling things he said, and you humiliated him beautifully. One of the waitresses heard, so there won’t be anyone in the company who doesn’t know about his wife’s indiscretion before the day’s end.’
We drove home, discussing the many failings of Oswald Craine, but each agreeing that he was not the murderer.
The next few days were spent quietly at home. Now that the spring weather was cheering up, we resumed our morning walks and then spent our days in cheerful industry. I embarked on a programme of spring cleaning of the sort that had made the hero of Mr Graham’s popular new children’s book say, “Hang spring cleaning!” and set off for adventures on the water with Ratty.
Lady Hardcastle continued to correspond with friends and acquaintances from around the world on subjects from embroidery and knitting, through painting and music, and on to electronics and Dr Einstein’s “Special Relativity”, and was never happier than when she was sitting at her desk setting down her thoughts on one of those, or any number of other subjects.
To my dismay, one of her many correspondents – a lady with whom she usually discussed developments in modern music – was also a keen gardener and she became fixated once more on the creation of “the perfect English country garden”, despite the inconvenient facts that neither of us knew the first thing about horticulture and she was deathly afraid of spiders. Nevertheless, there was much talk and fanciful planning and I feared that the burden of the duties of Head Gardener would fall to me unless I did something to prevent it.
And so it was that I was rather pleased with myself when I subtly diverted one of our regular walks in the woods such that we passed close to Jed Halfpenny’s caravan again and Lady Hardcastle managed to come up with the idea, with no prompting from me whatsoever, that Old Jed would almost certainly make the most wonderful gardener. We bearded him in his lair and she offered him the job there and then. To my immense (and continuing) relief, he accepted and I was forever spared the ordeal of planting, weeding, dead-heading and a great many other arcane and back-breaking tasks.
After several days of this bucolic bliss, our breakfast was interrupted by an urgent ringing of the doorbell when the postman delivered a large, well-stuffed envelope.
‘Hullo,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I handed her the package. ‘And what have we here?’
‘Might I respectfully suggest opening it and finding out, my lady?’ I said.
‘You have all the best ideas, Flo,’ she said, and slit open the flap with her silver letter opener. She took out the sheaf of papers and read the covering letter. ‘It’s from Brookfield,’ she said.
‘Brookfield, my lady,’ I said, automatically.
‘Oh,’ she said with some dismay. ‘What did I say?’
I thought back. ‘Brookfield, my lady,’ I said, slowly.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘It seems he went ahead and spoke to his other two suspects without us, but still wants us to look over the transcripts to see if we agree with him as to which of them is guilty.’
‘He seems reluctant to let us go, no matter how much we irritate him,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘He does, rather, doesn’t he. I wonder what he’s up to.’
‘He probably just feels himself to be out of his depth,’ I suggested. ‘Even a despised mentor is better than none when you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘I haven’t been anyone’s mentor for simply ages,’ she said. ‘I do like the sound of that. Let’s see what I can see. Any chance of a cup of coffee while I read, pet?’
‘In two shakes, my lady.’ I left her to it.
‘With cake!’ she called as I entered the kitchen.
I returned ten minutes later with a tray laden with coffee and cake and, after looking in vain for somewhere to set it down, took it through to the dining room.
‘Good thinking,’ she called. ‘I’ll join you in there in a minute.’
I poured two cups of coffee and waited for her to finish reading and come through.
‘I say,’ she said as she came in, holding the sheaf of paper, ‘that cake looks scrumptious. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Florence, dear.’ She sat down and helped herself.
‘Thank you, my lady, it’s nice to be appreciated. So, who did it?’
‘Did it? Oh, I see. Under other circumstances I’d let you read the notes and make up your own mind, but I fear that would be what our colonial cousins term “cruel and unusual punishment”. If you thought the interview with Craine was dull, you clearly have no idea of the depths of tedium to which some interviews can sink. I’m as certain as I can be that neither of these drivelling nincompoops is capable of arriving on time for dinner still less committing or commissioning a murder.’ She slapped the papers down on the table. ‘James Stansbridge, third in line to the Earldom of wherever it was–’
‘Keynsham, my lady,’ I said.
‘Really? Even the title he won’t be getting is dull. Anyway, the honourable James is in debt because he loses so very badly at cards. And he loses at cards because he has the wit and imagination of an aspidistra. The idea of his coming up with a solution to his debt problem as radical as murdering his creditor is absurd. I doubt the fellow can tie his shoelaces without help.’
I said nothing about a certain lady of my acquaintance
who was incapable of getting into her corsets without assistance and who had once nearly throttled herself with the laces. Instead I said, ‘But his father the Earl might have a bit more about him.’
‘I considered that, but a quick skim through the society pages reveals the Earl to be a first class nincompoop, in his own right. Meanwhile, Redvers Hinkley, accountant and prospective councillor, is such a shambling muttonhead that I fear for the future of that great city should he ever be elected to take part in its governance.’
‘So it couldn’t be him, then?’
‘Once again, this fellow comes across as someone who would find it difficult to locate his own backside with both hands.’
‘I can’t help but feel that these assessments lack your usual scientific rigour, my lady,’ I said.
She sighed. ‘Perhaps. But, I mean… really. We pray that criminals never become too clever lest we mere mortals find ourselves unable to outwit them, but any of Mr Brookfield’s “top suspects” could be easily outwitted by a sleepy two-year-old. I can’t prove that they’re all innocent, but I refuse to believe anything else.’
‘Righto, my lady. And where does that leave us?’
‘“Us”, pet? We’re where we always were, sitting on the touchline and enjoying the early Gloucestershire summer. We might cheer the occasional good tackle, or urge our team to greater efforts in the scrummage, but for the most part we’re free to sip our G&Ts and gossip about the goings-on in the village.’
‘Are there any goings-on in the village, my lady?’ I asked.
‘None that you don’t already know about, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘You seem very much to have your finger on the pulse of village life these days.’
‘One tries to keep up with the gossip, my lady. One never knows when knowledge like that might come in handy.’
‘Quite so, pet, quite so. Now, since Mr Bramble’s promise of adventure has come to nought–’
‘Brookfield, my lady. You’re doing it on purpose now, aren’t you.’
‘Brookfield, yes. But since his promise of adventure has come to nought, we shall have to find our own fun. What say we plan that relaxing getaway we’ve been talking about for so long. The coast, I think. Sea air, buckets and spades, and a pint of winkles.’
‘Splendid, my lady,’ I said. ‘We can take our own pins.’
‘Bring me Bradshaw’s and one of our winkle pins, then, and we shall let fate choose our destination.’
‘Or we could just go to Torquay. I like Torquay,’ I said.
‘Or that,’ she said. ‘But we shall still need Bradshaw’s so as not to miss the train.’
‘It’s in your study, my lady,’ I said. ‘I shall fetch it at once.’
The morning newspaper usually prompted little more than disapproving tutting and an occasional “Oh!” of pleasant surprise from either of us. But the edition which landed on the doormat on the morning after yet another brandy-fuelled card game (which had seen my debt of three shillings and sixpence ha’penny converted into winnings of some one thousand, two hundred and forty-three pounds, twelve shillings and fourpence three-farthings thanks to some intemperate and ill-advised wagering on Lady Hardcastle’s part) was considerably more exciting than usual.
The headline read “LADY BICKLE KIDNAPPED” and the story went on to recount the alarming events of the previous afternoon which had seen Lady Bickle, wife of the Managing Director of the Bristol Electric Tram Company, seized at gunpoint by masked men as she walked her dog on Durdham Down. Her lady’s maid, who had been accompanying her, had been beaten by one of the men as she tried to raise the alarm and was being treated at the Bristol Royal Infirmary for her injuries.
I was reading the story as I walked through to the kitchen to rejoin Lady Hardcastle at the breakfast table.
‘Anything interesting in the news, pet?’ she asked.
‘Have a look for yourself,’ I said, and passed the newspaper across the table. She carried on with her egg and bacon as she read.
‘Crikey,’ she said. ‘Well, that rather removes any doubt.’
‘Doubt, my lady?’
‘Any doubt that there’s skulduggery afoot in the world of electrified trams.’
‘It has certainly moved well beyond the realms of possible coincidence, even among those without your disdain for the coincidental,’ I said.
‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘I’m blowed if I can see why the tram company might be under attack, but I’d wager you double-or-quits on your cards winnings from last night that it is.’
‘It certainly seems that way.’
We sat in silence for a few moments while she reread the short article until the silence was broken by the ringing of the doorbell.
‘Probably the post,’ she said as I rose from the table.
‘Probably,’ I said and went to the hall.
The doorbell rang again as I reached for the key to unlock the door, and I was very proud of myself for not saying anything curt about our caller’s impatience. Once the door was opened, I was somewhat surprised to see not the postman, but a middle-aged gentleman wearing an expensive-looking overcoat and top hat.
‘Miss Armstrong?’ he said.
‘The same.’
‘Miss Florence Armstrong?’
‘Even she,’ I said, trying to suppress the faint trace of impatience in my voice.
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a calling card. ‘Purcell. Home Office,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘May I come in? I need to speak to you and your mistress.’
I looked at the card which appeared to confirm that his name was Clement Purcell and that, if the insignia and other identifying matter were genuine, he was employed by the Home Office.
I stood aside and ushered him in, then took his hat and coat and led him to the drawing room where I bade him wait while I informed Lady Hardcastle of his visit.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked when I returned to the kitchen.
‘There’s a gentleman in the drawing room who knows my name and wishes to speak to both of us. He claims to be from the Home Office and has a convincing-looking calling card.’ I handed her the card. ‘I should have a silver tray for occasions like this, my lady,’ I said.
‘You should, yes; standards have been slipping lately,’ she said as she took the card and inspected it. ‘Well, it looks like the real thing. I suppose the only way to find out more is to go and talk to the chap.’
Mr Purcell was standing by the window, looking out across the fields on the other side of the lane, and he turned as we entered the room.
‘Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Purcell. How do you do?’
‘How do you do,’ said Lady Hardcastle shaking the proffered hand, but regarding him with faint suspicion.
He noted her glance. ‘Perhaps you should read this,’ he said, and took a letter from the inside pocket of his exquisitely tailored jacket.
She read the letter. ‘Well, Mr Purcell,’ she said, ‘my brother speaks very highly of you.’
He inclined his head slightly and smiled.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. ‘Would you care for tea? Coffee? You must have had a very early start, would you like some breakfast?’
‘I ate on the train, thank you, but tea would be most welcome.’
I hastened to the kitchen to prepare a tray, and when I returned they were chatting amiably about wild birds.
‘Mr Purcell is a birdwatcher, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Plenty of opportunities for that out here,’ I said, setting down the tray and taking a seat beside her on the sofa. I leaned forwards and poured three cups.
‘So, Mr Purcell, what can we do for you?’ asked Lady Hardcastle once we were all settled again, tea in hand.
‘It’s a delicate matter. I’m rather afraid that we need to recall you both to the active list.’ He held up his hand to forestal our joint protest. ‘I appreciate that you have both retired, and that for you, Lady H
ardcastle, your most recent involvement in Crown business ended badly–’
‘Badly?’ I said, crossly. ‘She nearly died.’
‘I’m well aware of the events and their outcome, Miss Armstrong, and it is not my intention to make light of them. I should not be making this request if it were not a vital matter and one which the two of you are uniquely placed to deal with on behalf of His Majesty’s government.’
‘I see,’ said Lady Hardcastle, politely, but without warmth.
‘Have you seen today’s newspaper?’ he went on, seemingly unfazed by our ambivalence.
‘It happens that we have,’ she said. ‘The Lady Bickle kidnapping?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It has caused a great deal of concern in my office.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘I work for Section W,’ he said, as though that were sufficient explanation. We both looked at him in silence. ‘Section W,’ he continued when it became obvious that his pronouncement hadn’t had quite the dramatic effect he had anticipated, ‘deals – among other things – with subversive organizations and secret societies. I believe you encountered one of my predecessors during your time in Bengal: Colonel Mussellwhite? Dickie?’
‘Oh,’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Dear old Dickie Mussellwhite. Lovely fellow. How is he?’
‘He died last year, I’m afraid,’ said Purcell.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He wasn’t terribly old.’
‘Seventy-five,’ he said.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Good lord. He didn’t look seventy when we met him.’
‘Quite,’ he said, apparently keen to get the conversation back on track.
‘And you deal with the same sort of problems as Dickie,’ she said.
‘I do. When you knew him he asked you to help with an investigation into Autumn Wind, and that’s why I’m here, and why we most urgently need your help. Autumn Wind is active again and is behind the kidnap of Lady Bickle.’