A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  ‘Yes, my lady. The Henleys have always been on the cutting edge of unconventional. And perhaps the Swifts too?’

  ‘Perhaps, Clifford.’

  He held the door respectfully as Eleanor wandered out into the hallway.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady.’ Mrs Butters was waiting. ‘May I speak with Mr Clifford?’

  ‘Of course, go right ahead, Mrs Butters.’

  ‘Mr Clifford, were you planning to venture into the village this afternoon? I can’t be waiting for Mr Penry’s boy to deliver tomorrow. If you’re not going, I’ll send Polly, and just hope she manages better this time.’ She smiled wryly.

  ‘No, Mrs Butters. My schedule does not include venturing into the wilds of Little Buckford today.’

  ‘Oh, no matter, Mr Clifford. Just asking.’

  Eleanor snapped to.

  ‘Mrs Butters, my schedule absolutely includes such a venture. I will complete the errands.’

  ‘Oh, my lady, I couldn’t!’ the housekeeper flustered. ‘Thank you kindly for your offer but that wouldn’t do at all.’ She faltered at Clifford’s deep inhalation.

  ‘I insist. I wish to become acquainted with the village and its undoubtedly interesting and colourful inhabitants. Leave me a list. I shall depart in twenty minutes.’ Without waiting for a reply, she made her escape upstairs to grab a jacket.

  Six

  After passing through the gates, Eleanor adjusted her stride to make it easier for her increasingly faithful sidekick to keep pace. Life at the Hall might be looking up, but there was the matter of a cold-blooded murderer on the loose. With the police as hopeless and disinterested as a flapper in a nunnery, she’d have to tackle the investigation herself. And a trip to the village would give her just such an opportunity.

  At the brow of the hill, she paused and looked around. The view across the valley was one of peaceful beauty. The only sound was the piercing whistle of red kites. It was an eerie call, but she felt strangely comforted by it. It took her back to the few childhood days she’d spent wandering the grounds of Henley Hall, wishing there was something tangible to do with the summer holidays.

  Below her, Little Buckford nestled among the fields and woods like a picture postcard. From the medieval flint church, the short high street ran the length of just seven small shops and a reading room, before meeting the village common and the well-populated duck pond. A series of cobbled lanes ran off in three directions to the higgledy-piggledy clusters of thatched roofs dotted between apple orchards and neatly planted vegetable gardens. Murder surely had no place here.

  Eleanor breathed out deeply. ‘Murder or no murder, the country air is good for the soul, Gladstone. And walking is excellent for the health. But slow. I think I shall look to buying a bicycle. I used to cycle a lot, you know.’

  Gladstone jerked his head up.

  ‘Hmm, good point. I don’t think there is a basket large enough for such a sturdy beast as yourself. I’d certainly get my fitness back though, pedalling you up these slopes.’ She looked beyond the village at the distant landscape, an unbroken swathe of green fields and copses peppered by clouds of white flowering blackthorn. ‘It’s funny, this all feels so familiar and yet I came so few times growing up.’ She sighed. ‘Come on, my trusty sidekick. Let’s go investigating!’

  The curtains in the first three houses on the opposite side of the street to Eleanor all twitched in unison. Eleanor smiled. She was used to drawing curious looks. And none more so than in a sleepy village like Little Buckford where nothing much happened. Except, it seemed, murder.

  She swung into the first shop on Mrs Butters’ list. The sign outside promised ‘Penry’s Butchery, the finest cuts’.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ She smiled at the aproned heifer of a man behind the counter.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Swift.’

  She wondered how he knew who she was. ‘You must be Mr Penry?’

  ‘Dylan Penry at your service, m’lady. It is a great pleasure to have you visit my humble shop.’ The lilt of his sing-song Welsh accent was charming.

  ‘I can see you run a most well-provisioned and spotless place of business, Mr Penry. Here is a list Mrs Butters has entrusted me with.’

  Penry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, that’s quite the thing, Mrs Butters sending you on errands.’

  ‘Yes, it is unusual, I suppose. However, I volunteered, so the slight is upon my character, not Mrs Butters.’ She placed the list on the wooden counter, noting the neatly stacked wrapping papers and perfectly wound string on its bobbin.

  ‘Right so, m’lady, let’s see what we’re up against today then.’ Taking up the list with his sausage-like fingers he read the paper carefully. ‘Mrs Trotman will be after making one of her specials, I see. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He lumbered out of view into the rear of the shop.

  While waiting, Eleanor admired the shelves of fine pickles and sauces. In the three glass-fronted cabinets lay trays of precisely sliced meat cuts, displayed like works of art, each separated by a thin line of fresh green herbs. An extensive selection of fine crust pies filled one section of the window, offset by links of sausages framing the display area.

  Penry lumbered back into the front of the shop, with his hands full of carefully wrapped packages. ‘That’s almost all, m’lady. Just the finest of chops in addition.’

  Never one to hesitate, Eleanor saw her opportunity. ‘The Little Buckford community are lucky to have such a fine establishment as yours. Tell me, do you deliver to the outer edges of the area?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Penry drives our van on the round, Wednesdays and Saturdays.’

  ‘And does she drive past Henley Hall? I passed what I believe was a quarry that way.’

  ‘A quarry? Most of our outlying customers are to the south of the village, no trade out past the Hall. Indeed, your late uncle could have been said to be our most northerly customer, you see.’ He laughed at a joke that escaped her entirely. Once he’d contained himself, he continued. ‘I’ve no idea about the quarries, except there’s a few and the wagons have gone quiet these past six months or so.’

  With an innocent air Eleanor enquired, ‘I ran into a Mr Cartwright out that way, the quarry was on his land. Do you know him?’

  Penry stiffened at the name. ‘Thomas Cartwright has no need of my butcher’s shop.’ He

  strung up the last of the parcels with an extra-sharp twist of the knot.

  Eleanor’s eyes glinted. It seemed Mr Cartwright was not wholly beloved in Little Buckford. ‘Really, Mr Penry? I find it hard to believe that Mr Cartwright would have no need of your excellent shop. Is he, perhaps, a vegetarian?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ Penry shook his head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Thomas Cartwright in that department. He’s still got all his own teeth and can chew meat just fine.’

  Eleanor smiled weakly. ‘I rather thought vegetarians avoided meat on moral, rather than dental, grounds, Mr Penry?’

  The butcher looked uncomfortable. ‘I hate to disagree, m’lady, but you’re surely not suggesting a man in full control of his mental faculties would voluntarily avoid eating all meat? Why, the poor man would be dead within a year at most.’

  Eleanor felt she needed to get the conversation back on track. ‘Well, if Mr Cartwright isn’t a vegetarian, why has he no need of your shop?’

  Penry shuffled his feet behind the counter. ‘The fact is, Thomas Cartwright may, or may not, have need of my shop, but either way he’s not welcome here. I may not understand the morals of those new-fangled “vegetables”, I mean, those—’

  ‘Vegetarians, Mr Penry?’

  ‘Thank you, m’lady, those vegetarians, but I understand the morals of Thomas Cartwright even less!’ He placed her packages on the counter. ‘Now, I almost forgot the most important package of all.’ The conversation about Mr Cartwright was obviously over. He wrapped a giant knuckle bone in brown paper and handed it to her. ‘For Master Gladstone.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Penry. It has been delightful meeting you. Now, I mus
t be off to continue my walk.’

  ‘Your feet will always bring you to where your heart is.’

  She turned back to him, surprised.

  He smiled. ‘It is a Welsh expression, m’lady. Good morning.’

  Walking back to the Hall, she observed, ‘So, it seems Mr Penry considers Mr Cartwright a man of lax morals. Lax enough, perhaps, to commit murder? What we need to establish, Gladstone, is where exactly Cartwright was at the time I saw the man shot. We shall have to investigate further. You know, Gladstone, I think women are naturally good at this detective lark. I believe I mentioned that the more progressive police forces in this country have a scattering of brave ladies among their ranks.’ She stopped in her stride and fixed the bulldog with a withering look. ‘Although I’m told that the women officers are only allowed to patrol the streets in pairs with…’ she spluttered ‘… with two male officers walking some yards behind them!’

  She decided her companion looked suitably shocked. ‘Exactly!’ She set off again with Gladstone shaking his head, possibly in disbelief, though it might just have been her rather too forceful pull on his lead. ‘They say that behind every great man is a great woman. But it seems that behind every trailblazing female constable is a lumbering male nanny!’

  Eleanor’s thoughts on the British police force were interrupted by the sound of wailing as she entered the front door of the Hall.

  ‘Polly, what on earth’s the matter? Has someone been hurt?’

  All the young maid could manage was to jiggle from leg to leg and mumble, ‘Oh mercy, your ladyship!’

  The poor girl was obviously in shock. Eleanor wished she’d had more training in these matters.

  Clifford materialised, saving her from having to make what might have been a rash decision.

  ‘Not hurt, my lady. Dead.’

  Polly wailed louder. Clifford clicked his tongue and she scurried away down the corridor.

  ‘Dead, you say?’ Eleanor gasped. ‘Not one of the staff, surely?’ She had no idea how to engage new help. This would be a disaster.

  Should she take charge and administer sweet tea, or whatever else might calm her remaining staff’s nerves? Could one administer brandy to one’s staff? She shook her head. You have so much to learn, Ellie. She tuned back in to Clifford, who was waiting patiently.

  ‘Er, who exactly is dead, Clifford?’

  ‘Mr Spencer Atkins. A most tragic loss.’

  ‘Did you know the man, Clifford?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Mr Atkins was a good friend of your late uncle.’

  A memory flashed into her brain. Of course, she remembered him. A tall and angular man with an earnest expression that didn’t quite fit with his bright-blue eyes and the wilful tuft of hair that continually escaped his best efforts with the brilliantine.

  Several times when she was staying, he’d turned up to dine and play cards with her uncle. And he’d always gone out of his way to include her. Well, not when they were smoking cigars and drinking port, obviously, but, on the whole, she remembered him as a more sympathetic character than her uncle. Indeed, one summer when her uncle had been absent for the whole holiday, Atkins had unexpectedly turned up one wet afternoon with a jigsaw puzzle. He and Eleanor had spent several fun hours together, lying on the floor in the morning room among various puzzle pieces.

  ‘But, Clifford, how did it happen?’

  ‘An apparent accident. Mr Atkins was cleaning his shotgun when it went off.’

  Eleanor froze. An image from the night before flashed across her eyes. ‘Clifford, do you have any recent photographs of Mr Atkins?’

  ‘Naturally, my lady.’

  She waited expectantly until he returned with a framed print.

  Eleanor stared at the photo. Yes, he had more lines around his face than she’d remembered. And his hair was thinner, as was he. But the man smiling back at her from the photo was definitely the man she’d spent those carefree hours with, sprawled on the floor among puzzle pieces.

  And definitely the man she’d seen shot at the quarry.

  Seven

  The news of Mr Atkins’ death had obviously hit the household hard. Clifford had kept his professional air of detachment, but the kitchen had been unusually quiet, while Polly’s eyes had been red-rimmed whenever Eleanor passed her in the hall. Eleanor wanted to hug the young girl, but felt she’d already broken enough house rules and worried the young maid would just be mortified rather than comforted.

  In truth Eleanor was struggling to come to terms with Atkins’ death herself. Especially as she suspected he hadn’t died accidentally while cleaning his gun, but rather had been murdered, possibly by the mysterious motorcyclist at the quarry. She’d tried to find out more details about Atkins’ death from Clifford, but it seemed the police hadn’t released any further information as yet, except that the body had been discovered at seven that morning by Mr Atkins’ housekeeper when she arrived for work.

  With Clifford being out doing whatever it was butlers did, the housekeeper arranged breakfast the following morning. Eleanor found Mrs Butters was in a subdued mood but as genial a presence as ever. Despite the somewhat heavy atmosphere, as the housekeeper busied herself about the salvers, easy conversation flowed between them.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Butters, when was the last time Mr Atkins was at the Hall?’

  The housekeeper paused in checking the sausage salver. ‘Let me think, now. I believe Mr Atkins came round for dinner only a few days before…’ She paused and shook her head sadly. ‘Before your uncle himself passed away.’

  The housekeeper was obviously upset.

  Eleanor hesitated to speak, but if the police believed the death to be an accident, then who was there but her to establish the true facts? She owed it to the man who had taken the trouble to befriend her on his visits to the Hall to see justice done and his murderer caught.

  ‘And what was Mr Atkins’ connection with my uncle? Was he a business partner, or just a friend?’

  Mrs Butters replaced the lid on the salver. ‘Mr Atkins worked in London a lot of the time, in some government office, I don’t know which. Mr Clifford would. Your uncle knew him because they were neighbours. Well, nearly. Mr Atkins’ house is straight up the road past Cartwright’s farm. I think they first met at a shooting party at Langham Manor.’

  ‘I see. Was Mr Atkins a good shot?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, my lady, you’d need to ask Mr Clifford, he’ll know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters, I’ll do so on his return. One last question, did Mr Atkins’ job have anything to do with quarries?’

  ‘Quarries! I wouldn’t have thought a man of his standing would have been found dead in such a place, my lady.’

  And yet he was, Ellie!

  She took a gulp of coffee and decided she’d revisit the murder scene straight away while everything was still fresh in her mind. ‘Thank you for a wonderful breakfast, Mrs Butters. And please thank Mrs Trotman. I fear I may burst if I am tempted by another morsel of her yummy fare beyond what’s already on my plate.’

  Mrs Butters laughed. ‘Your late uncle often said that very thing. And most often at breakfast too.’ She placed a stack of plates on an oval silver tray.

  ‘Well, my system needs a kick after that mountain of sausages,’ Eleanor waved her full fork, ‘and Clifford isn’t here to chide me for mucking up the meal schedule. So,’– she smiled at the housekeeper – ‘if it won’t put you all out too much, I shall sail out the front door and return whenever I am done.’

  ‘What a delightful idea, my lady. Please enjoy your day. Food as befits whatever time you return will be easily prepared in a trice.’ Balancing the overladen tray, Mrs Butters left with a cheery smile, pulling the door closed behind her with the front of her shoe.

  ‘Gladstone, my friend, I fear you should stay behind and catch up on your sleep.’ The drumming of his tail let her know he agreed.

  She fed him a corner of toast she’d saved. ‘The thing is, Gladstone, one thing I’ve lea
rned since I was, well, orphaned I suppose, is you need to look after yourself. It’s obvious no one believes me about the man I saw shot in the quarry, so what’s the point of telling them that it was Atkins when they’re all convinced he accidentally killed himself?’

  The bulldog was too busy licking up toast crumbs that had fallen from his jowls to reply.

  Eleanor, however, took this as tacit agreement. ‘Exactly, and if you want something done, do it yourself. Mr Atkins was good to me the few times I met him, more so than my uncle or that stuffed shirt, Clifford, so I owe it to him to see justice done.’ Gladstone looked up at her with his doleful eyes and licked her nose. She patted him on the head. ‘It’s good to have an ally, Gladstone, even if a rather licky one. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get to solve this mystery.’

  As she closed the front door of the Hall behind her, the air outside was giving up the last breaths of a crisp dawn frost and yielding to the warmth of the morning sunshine. A deep blue gave the sky that rare promise of an endless summer soon to arrive. Once out of the Hall’s grounds, she set off toward ‘Murder Quarry’, as she had dubbed it.

  As she walked, she wondered if she could really solve a murder case. True, she’d been in some serious scrapes before, but she didn’t have the foggiest clue about solving a murder. Where on earth does one start, Ellie? Well, the murder scene would be a good place, so she could tick that box straight away as she was already heading there. Feeling pleased with herself, she counted off on her fingers the questions she needed answers to: why was Atkins at the quarry that night? Had he come to meet the man who murdered him? Who was the second man at the quarry? Was he the motorcyclist who had almost run her down? In which case, Atkins’ murderer and the mysterious motorcyclist were one and the same person. Surely all she had to do then was find the motorcycle and that would lead to the motorcyclist and the murderer!

  She mentally patted herself on the back. This crime solving was easier than she’d first thought. Then she remembered the next question she needed an answer to: what had happened to the body?