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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Chums, darling,’ said Lady Bickle, looking pointedly in my direction.

  He flushed slightly. ‘Er, yes, quite,’ he blustered, and became suddenly very interested in his boiled egg.

  ‘Do you have plans for today?’ asked Lady Bickle, ignoring his discomfiture.

  ‘Flo and I have an appointment at the Bristol News,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Other than that, the day is entirely our own.’

  ‘Wonderful. Then you must be sure to be back here as soon as you’re done. I thought we might go up to the Downs and have a picnic tea.’

  ‘What fun. We shall hurry back.’

  On arrival at the Bristol News, we had been met by a prim and slightly intimidating secretary who had led us to the editor’s office. She introduced us, handing the editor Sir Benjamin’s letter of introduction, then offered us tea before stepping smartly out and closing the door behind her.

  Charles Tapscott occupied the corner office on the newspaper’s noisily busy editorial floor. It wasn’t as large or luxurious as I had expected the office of the editor of a major provincial newspaper to be, but the man himself exuded a quiet authority which gave the room an air of grandeur which the dilapidated furniture and flyblown lamps could not have managed on their own. A large window gave him an emperor’s view of the main office but did little to block out the clamour of the shirtsleeved reporters as they rushed around with paper in their hands, shouting questions and instructions at each other at deafening volume.

  He put down Sir Benjamin’s letter and invited us to sit down. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ he said. ‘Ben asks that I do all within my power to help, but from what I hear, you’ve done enough to deserve any help I can offer without his needing to commend you to me.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Lady Hardcastle, inclining her head slightly. ‘Though to be honest, I rather hope that we shan’t take up too much of your time. We could have done all this by letter, but I do find the personal approach to be more efficient sometimes.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ he said, sitting behind his cluttered desk. ‘I always tell my lads to get out and talk to folk face-to-face. What do you wish to know?’

  ‘We were simply wondering what you could tell us about one of your reporters, a Mr Christian Brookfield.’

  ‘Are you certain you have that name right?’ he said with a frown.

  ‘Quite certain,’ she said. ‘Armstrong here has corrected me often enough, and it’s not a name I’m likely to forget again.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry, my lady, but we have no Christian Brookfield on the staff. Never have had.’

  ‘Might he be a freelance contributor?’

  ‘I’m reasonably certain I know most of our freelancers,’ he said, ‘but my deputy might know. I’ll get Mary to fetch him.’

  At that moment, the secretary arrived bearing a tea tray.

  ‘Ah, Mary,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘Excellent timing as always. Fetch Salthouse for me, would you. And tell him to bring the freelance book.’

  Mary nodded and left, closing the door once more.

  ‘Gives me the creeps, that woman,’ said Mr Tapscott, handing us each a slightly chipped and scarred cup full of dauntingly strong tea. ‘Just materializes out of nowhere; it’s as though she can sense your thoughts. Pretty sure we’d have burned her as a witch in the middle ages. Not sure there’s many here who would try to stop me if I ordered it now, to tell the truth. Damn fine secretary, mind you. Efficient, but unnerving.’

  Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged glances but said nothing as we sipped our tea and waited for the deputy editor.

  A moment later, a harried looking man in his thirties appeared at the door. ‘You wanted me, Mr Tapscott?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Salthouse. Come in for a moment. This is Lady Hardcastle and her maid Miss Armstrong–’

  ‘I’ve read about you both, of course,’ said Salthouse. ‘How do you do?’

  We both smiled and nodded our greetings.

  ‘They’ve been asking me about one of our freelancers,’ continued Mr Tapscott. ‘One Christian Brookfield.’

  ‘Christian Brookfield?’ said Salthouse with some bewilderment. ‘I’m not sure I…’

  ‘No, nor I,’ said Mr Tapscott.

  Salthouse riffled hastily through his book, but came up blank. ‘No Christian Brookfield on our books, my lady,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you have the name correctly?’

  ‘Quite sure, Mr Salthouse,’ said Lady Hardcastle, kindly. ‘Since you’re both here, might I ask what might be an impertinent question?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Mr Tapscott magnanimously from behind his desk as though he were a potentate dispensing favours to the poor.

  ‘The recent run of scandals in the paper about the board of the tram company… who wrote them?’

  ‘One of our staff reporters, wasn’t it?’ said Mr Tapscott.

  His deputy nodded.

  ‘And did he find the stories himself?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘As I recall, it was a series of anonymous tip-offs,’ said Mr Tapscott.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Did you corroborate them?’

  ‘We, er, we checked them most thoroughly,’ said Salthouse, anxiously. ‘We always do.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to think me the most frightful old busybody, but would you mind awfully checking them all once more?’

  ‘You have reason to doubt our stories?’ said Mr Tapscott, defensively. ‘I would caution you to step lightly, Lady Hardcastle. Your reputation precedes you, and I have the utmost respect for the achievements of you and your… colleague here, but this newspaper’s reputation as a journal of record and my personal reputation as its editor–’

  ‘Please, Mr Tapscott, no one is impugning your reputation, but I would be doing you a greater disservice were I not to alert you to my suspicions. I gather that reporters are unwilling to divulge the identities of their sources, but I would place an impressively hefty wager that your source in this case was the man who introduced himself to us as Christian Brookfield. I think that we have all been taken in by this man and that you might save yourself some hefty barristers’ fees defending some rather nasty libel writs if you were to triple check your facts now and issue such retractions as prove necessary.’

  The two newspapermen exchanged a look which suggested that Lady Hardcastle’s comments had hit home, and after a moment’s pause, Mr Tapscott spoke in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘I see. Well that puts a different complexion on things. We’ll… ah… we’ll look into it, certainly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle, standing. ‘Well, we don’t wish to take up any more of your time. Thank you so much for agreeing to see us and for your information. I’m not certain that we’ve solved any mysteries, but I understand a little better than I did.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand anything at all,’ said the editor as he stood up. ‘But I’m sure Sir Benjamin will fill me in in due course.’ He smiled ingratiatingly and held out his hand.

  Lady Hardcastle shook the proffered hand and I thought, ‘I’m pretty sure Sir Benjamin won’t have a clue what’s going on,’ but I said nothing and simply smiled and inclined my head in thanks and farewell.

  Out on the street once more, we made our slow and steady way back to the motorcar. I was becoming quite adept at manoeuvring about with the crutches, but this was my first proper trip out of the house and I was slightly frustrated by the amount of time it seemed to take to get anywhere. Lady Hardcastle, though, was patient and kind and chatted incessantly to take my mind off the tedium of getting about.

  ‘…and I was thinking that perhaps we should get you a Bath chair. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could put a rug over your knees and I could wheel you about.’

  I stopped and turned to face her. ‘It’s a wonderfully generous thought, my lady,’ I said. ‘But I think it only fair to warn you that if you were to go through with it, I should certainly have to kill you. I shall be fine on the crutches, thank you
.’

  She laughed. ‘Fair enough, pet,’ she said. ‘But the offer’s there.’

  We finally made it to the car and she set off recklessly for tea with the Bickleses.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Lady Hardcastle a few minutes later as she negotiated her way through the narrow streets near the centre of the city, ‘I really do think we ought to do something about so-called Brookfield.’

  ‘I can’t say that I disagree, my lady,’ I said. ‘But what? I’m on the crocked list and so is Inspector Sunderland… how on earth are we going to bring a slippery weasel like Brookfield to book? I’d wager he’s not quite the timid fool he pretends to be – if we corner him he might cut up rough. He might even have Ehrlichmann with him; then we’d be properly done for.’

  She sat in contemplative silence for a while. Eventually, she said, ‘Although, of course, he doesn’t know we’re on to him, does he? Would he be on his guard if he thought his ruse was working and that we’d been utterly hoodwinked?’

  ‘Perhaps not, my lady. You have something cunning in mind?’

  ‘Not “cunning” in the fox-with-an-evil-glint-in-its-eye way, but cunning enough. I thought we might invite him out for coffee.’

  I laughed in spite of myself. ‘Cunning indeed, my lady. The Coffee Pot Plot. It’ll go down in history as one of the greatest ruses in the history of espionage.’

  ‘You may very well mock–’ she began.

  ‘May I, my lady? You’re so wonderfully kind. I shall.’

  She harrumphed. ‘I suppose it’s my turn,’ she said, gracelessly. ‘Nevertheless, I shall telephone him and arrange a meeting tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Righto, my lady. But in the meantime, please concentrate on the road. You nearly had that lad off his bike.’

  ‘What lad?’

  ‘My point precisely, my lady.’

  Lady Hardcastle parked the motor outside the door of the coffee shop and I made a start on hauling myself out of the seat and onto the busy pavement. She hurried round to help me, and as she leaned in to reach under my arms to lift me out, she whispered in my ear.

  ‘Act naturally, pet, but something’s amiss; the shop is closed and the blinds are drawn.’

  ‘He’s on to us,’ I said as I struggled upright. ‘Should we carry on?’

  ‘Let’s just see how it plays out, shall we? There are plenty of people about, so he’s not likely to try anything out here on the street. Just be on your guard, pet.’

  ‘Righto, my lady,’ I said and followed her to the door.

  She cupped her hand around her eyes and tried to peer in around the edge of the blind that covered the inside of the glass door. Ordinarily, I would have been watching the street as she did this, but the plastered leg and crutches made manoeuvring much more difficult than it ought to be and I was still positioning myself at her back when I felt the familiar prod of what could only be a pistol in the small of my back. I was contemplating the bullet-deflecting properties of steel corset bones when a familiar German voice said, ‘Please open the door and go inside.’

  Lady Hardcastle turned the doorknob and entered the darkened coffee shop. I hobbled in after her, and Ehrlichmann brought up the rear, closing the door behind us.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw Brookfield sitting at a table in the centre of the room, accompanied by Mr Craine, the coffee importer and owner of the shop.

  ‘Welcome, ladies,’ said Brookfield in a confident and sneering tone, quite unlike the anxious and earnest journalist we had for so long believed him to be. ‘Please,’ he gestured towards a couple of the empty chairs, ‘don’t sit down. We’ll not be staying long and I do so want you not to be comfortable.’

  ‘I say,’ said Mr Craine. ‘Steady on. There’s no need to be ill-mannered about it.’

  ‘Do shut up, Craine, you pompous old fool,’ said Brookfield. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s your turn to speak.’

  Mr Craine huffed indignantly, but said nothing further.

  Lady Hardcastle looked at Brookfield. ‘I take it you’ve been hired by Autumn Wind,’ she said.

  Mr Craine started in his seat as though he’d been stuck with a hatpin. He began to speak, but Brookfield cut him off.

  ‘Hired? No, not hired. I’m what you might call a Regional Manager. I travel to where the fun is and manage little projects like this one for the organization.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little young to be so high up in your little gang?’ she said.

  ‘In your world, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But Autumn Wind has always been a progressive society; we promote purely on merit, not age or background.’ He all but spat the last word.

  Mr Craine looked very uncomfortable. ‘You can’t go telling them these things, Brookfield. Think of the Code.’

  ‘I’m reasonably certain that I told you to hold your tongue, Craine. You really can be a wet nelly sometimes. No wonder your wife cuckolds you with such eagerness.’

  Mr Craine reddened, but once again said nothing further.

  ‘I take it we’re not long for this world,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘As perspicacious as always,’ said Brookfield. ‘Herr Ehrlichmann here spoke very highly of your abilities but I dismissed his worries and reassured everyone that I’d be able to keep you off the trail. But you kept on coming, didn’t you. And even now, you clever old thing, you’ve managed to work out that we really do have to kill you.’

  ‘Now wait a moment–’ began Mr Craine, but a stinging backhand slap across his face from Brookfield silenced him mid-sentence. He sat in stunned silence, not even wiping the trickle of blood that ran slowly down his chin from his split lip.

  Brookfield stood. ‘Well, we can’t sit here gossiping all day – things to do, busybodies to kill, you know the drill. Up you get, Craine.’

  Craine stood at once.

  ‘Now then, Herr Ehrlichmann, if you would be so kind as to conduct our guests out through the back door, we can pop them in the van and take them somewhere a little quieter for disposal.’

  ‘Please place your hands behind your head, Lady Hardcastle,’ said Ehrlichmann, gesturing with his automatic pistol. ‘And you, Miss Armstrong… well I suppose you must use your crutches.’

  Lady Hardcastle raised her hands and placed them behind her head, resting them on her new hat. Ah, yes, the new hat. I really am most dreadfully sorry but I have once again neglected to mention an important detail. I have form for this, having done it in an earlier volume of these stories, and I really can’t apologize enough. I should like to be able to promise that it shan’t happen again, but I think we both know that it almost certainly shall.

  You remember, of course, that Lady Hardcastle had commissioned an absurd holster hat. It had been delivered to her at Lady Bickle’s residence and she was wearing it that morning for our meeting. As she placed her hands behind her head, she reached inside the concealed compartment and carefully drew the Derringer. Having adjusted her grip, she brought her arm down in one swift, smooth motion and before Ehrlichmann had even registered what was happening, she had shot his hand, forcing him to drop his own pistol.

  He was in sufficient pain that he was too distracted to stop me as I used one of my crutches to sweep the fallen pistol towards Lady Hardcastle, who stooped to pick it up while keeping him covered with the Derringer. She kept hold of his automatic and passed me her own tiny gun, which still held one round, and I turned to point it at Brookfield.

  Brookfield, meanwhile, had not been idle. He was armed with a revolver of his own, but seeing how the game had suddenly changed, he had grabbed Mr Craine and was using him as a shield. He spoke to Ehrlichmann. ‘You’d better get going, old chap. That popgun will likely get the rozzers round – no point in us all getting pinched.’

  Ehrlichmann eyed Lady Hardcastle warily and made no move to leave.

  ‘Don’t worry about her; she’d have shot you already if she were going to. I rather think that she’s the sort who would prefer to see you hanged by the Crown than get her own hands
dirty meting out justice.’

  Ehrlichmann knew better what Lady Hardcastle might be prepared to do, and hesitated a moment longer before hurriedly opening the door and scuttling out, clutching his shattered hand to his chest as he bolted for freedom.

  ‘And that just leaves the matter of my own safe exit,’ said Brookfield, edging towards the door, careful to keep Mr Craine between himself and the pistol which Lady Hardcastle had now aimed directly at his head.

  He crabbed towards the door, his eyes locked on Lady Hardcastle and the threat she posed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was even there. As he turned to pull the door open a little further, I saw my chance. I had a clear shot at his legs and I prayed that what little practice I had managed in the garden with the tiny gun would be enough. I squeezed the trigger and was at once both horrified and immensely relieved when I saw the spreading blood stain on Brookfield’s trouser leg and the look of pained horror on his face as he realized what had happened. He levelled his pistol at me but his leg gave way as he fired and the shot went high and wide.

  Lady Hardcastle leapt upon him, and with a stamp of her elegant boot to his wrist, persuaded him to relinquish his gun. She was bending to pick it up when we heard a police whistle in the street, and within moments a rather horrified constable was standing in our midst.

  ‘What the devil...?’ he began, but then he just gaped as he took in the tableau.

  ‘Ah, Constable, how wonderful to see you,’ said Lady Hardcastle, taking control of the situation as usual. ‘Now then, dear, you’ll be wanting to arrest these two gentlemen for being accessories to the murder of Nathaniel Morry and the kidnap of Lady Bickle. If you can get a man out on the street, you might want to look for a tall, blond man with a German accent and a bullet wound to the hand – he’s the chap who actually committed the murder and organized the kidnap. Then–’

  ‘Just a moment, madam,’ said the constable as he regained his wits. ‘I rather think I’ll be the one issuing the orders if you don’t mind. The first is that you two need to hand me those guns. And then I think that when my colleagues arrive, you shall all accompany us to the station.’