A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  As she strode on, her mind turned this over. After a few minutes her head hurt and as she’d come up with no real answers, she turned to the matter of suspects. Well, it was early days, but Mr Cartwright was certainly looking like a contender. Why had he said the quarry gates were always locked? On the night of the murder she’d walked right through them. True, they’d been locked when she arrived the following day with the inept Sergeant Wilby and Constable Lowe. Yes, that morning ‘them gates’ had been locked alright. But the night before…

  Eleanor’s pace quickened. She’d decided she would show the police how it was done and interview Thomas Cartwright herself. After all, if she left the murder investigation in their incompetent hands, Atkins’ murderer would never be caught.

  Maybe she should make another foray into Little Buckford as well, under the guise of running some more errands for Mrs Butters. She needed to find out more about why Cartwright was persona non grata, certainly to some of Little Buckford’s inhabitants.

  As she continued to her new destination of Pike’s Farm, the hedgerows twittered with the chatter of various birds. Different birds were singing their hearts out. However, Eleanor couldn’t distinguish any of them. In fact, the only bird she could name was the brave robin redbreast who was fluttering curiously alongside her.

  Ah! Thinking of birds, there was the small matter of Cartwright’s vicious geese. Eleanor had spent her early childhood and large parts of her adult life in countries where the majority of the animals were trying to either kill you or eat you (or both). Since, by the time you worked out whether or not an animal was dangerous, you could be dead or a mummified snack, she had a somewhat jaundiced view of wildlife in general.

  Spying a stout length of hawthorn, she picked it up and swished it in the air. ‘Perfect! Let’s see those pests try any of their geesey ways on me!’

  Thirty minutes later she stood at the entrance to Pike’s Farm. The farmhouse itself was a fine example of the local flint dwellings of the Chilterns: a large building with a hotchpotch of angled roofs and outbuildings. The immediate wall boasted one small round window, bordered by a circle of red bricks and flanked by two recently repainted iron cross braces either side.

  She looked around the yard, which was surprisingly free of pecking and hissing guards. A row of higgledy barns lined the right flank, while the central driveway continued straight on to a sturdy gate that secured the first of Cartwright’s fields.

  Unfamiliar with the protocol of seeking a farmer on his property, she looked around, dismissing the house. He was unlikely to be sitting with his feet up having tea. Was it lambing season? Then again, did Cartwright even have sheep? Or was this an arable farm? Eleanor didn’t have the patience for these kinds of questions and plumped for searching the barns instead.

  In the first outbuilding, she found a stack of straw bales and a barn owl watching her from its lofty perch on a rafter. In the second, there was a stack of poultry feed and a dead rat.

  ‘Lovely!’

  She was coming out of the second barn when she caught her breath and ducked back inside. Looking around, she spotted a shaft of light coming through a split plank in the barn’s side. By bending down and squinting through the crack, she could clearly see across the yard to the far outbuildings. In the shadow of the largest, a man was handing Cartwright a large brown-paper-wrapped parcel in exchange for a sum of money.

  She couldn’t see the man’s face as he had his back to her, but what she could see was a motorcycle leaning against the wall inside the outbuilding. It did look rather like the one that had almost run her down. As to the man with the package, she couldn’t say if he was the rider that night. It was so dark and squally, and the rider had had on a large, shapeless rain cape and goggles.

  Cartwright and the mysterious stranger looked up at the sound of a low-flying plane. Eleanor lay flat against the barn wall, hoping they hadn’t seen her. Once the sound of the plane had passed, she peeped through her spyhole, only now the outbuilding door had been closed and both men had disappeared.

  ‘I presume you’ve come for an insight into the farming life, Lady Swift?’ Cartwright was leaning in the doorway, looking unimpressed by her unannounced visit. All she could think of was to be engrossed in studying the dead rat. ‘There are some traps in the next barn you might like to see?’ he offered.

  She turned. ‘Why, Mr Cartwright, what a splendid idea. But I fear even though we are now neighbours you are far too busy serving our community’s agricultural needs to be wasting time showing me the workings of a model farm such as this.’

  ‘You’d be right on that. So, to what do I owe your gracious visit then? Would it be summat along the lines of more murder business?’

  ‘How shrewd you are, Mr Cartwright.’

  His lack of surprise at seeing her was unnerving. Did he know she’d seen his clandestine trade with the mystery man?

  ‘Folks call me Thomas as a rule.’

  ‘Excellent! Now, Mr Cartwright, have the police called to ask you any further questions?’

  ‘Nope. Why would they? I can’t see nothing of the quarry down here. Look for yourself. Middle field rises up so you can’t see over the brow.’

  Eleanor couldn’t argue with that. In the distance lambs called. Ah! Mystery solved – a sheep farm. ‘I appreciate you are busy, Mr Cartwright, so forgive me for detaining you.’ She tried a smile. Cartwright’s expression remained as hard as the stone wall he was leaning against. Eleanor shrugged – she hadn’t come to make friends. ‘I have been feeling perplexed by something you said to Sergeant Wilby and myself.’

  Cartwright shifted slightly. ‘And that would be?’

  ‘As you know, when we went up to the quarry, the one that borders my uncle… my grounds and you followed the police car, the gates were indeed locked. However, only the night before, at around ten thirty I think, I had walked through them unhindered. How could that have been? It has got me wondering because I thought I heard you say they are always locked.’

  ‘No idea. T’aint no business of mine. Like I told you, I leased that land to the quarry firm long time ago. What they do over there’s none of my affair, long as they don’t upset the livestock. They said gates had to be locked to stop fools’ – he looked pointedly at Eleanor – ‘from falling in the pits and messing with the machinery.’

  ‘What a good job I’m not a fool then, Mr Cartwright, because those gates were definitely open that night.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do, Mr Cartwright. And I wonder, Mr Cartwright, if you own a motorcycle?’

  The farmer looked at her quizzically. ‘What would I be doing with a motorcycle? You can’t round up half a dozen stray sheep and take them back to the farm on a ruddy motorcycle, can you?’

  ‘Indeed not, but you might have one just for the fun of it.’

  Cartwright grunted. ‘I’m a farmer, Lady Swift, not one of your entitled set. I don’t own anything for fun. Everything I own has to earn its keep, and a motorcycle ain’t going to do that on a farm.’

  ‘Quite, Mr Cartwright. I have one more question. Where were you the evening of the murder between say, ten and eleven thirty? Perhaps you saw or heard something?’

  Cartwright glared at her.

  She tightened her grip on the geese stick. In an emergency she was adept enough at defending herself to take a man’s eye out with such a weapon, but Cartwright’s eyes followed her action and seemed to find it more amusing than threatening.

  ‘If you must pry, I had my tea with the wife and then I settled into sharpening a box of hand tools by the fire.’

  ‘So you were indoors all evening?’

  Cartwright nodded and gestured towards the road. ‘Now if you’ll be so good as to remove yourself from these premises, I’ll be getting back to my business.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Cartwright. You’ve been most helpful in my investigation of the murder.’

  ‘It’s a rummy kind of murder without a body, and no cartridge case
s left at the scene I’d say.’

  Dash it! She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Are you saying you don’t believe there was a murder?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything either way. I wasn’t there, after all. Just seems an unlikely set of facts. Now as I said I’ll be getting back to my business.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course, I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’ She half-turned to go, but then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way, did you hear the news about poor old Mr Atkins?’

  Cartwright’s eyes narrowed. ‘I heard, alright. Man always was a fool.’

  Eleanor stiffened. ‘That’s no way to talk of the dead, Mr Cartwright. He was a neighbour of yours, I believe?’

  Cartwright looked at her coldly. ‘Lady Swift, I say what I think. The man was my neighbour and a worse neighbour you couldn’t have. I wasn’t surprised when I heard, he had no idea how to handle a gun.’

  ‘But you obviously do, Mr Cartwright. Especially a shotgun, I would think, being a farmer?’

  Cartwright nodded. ‘Now as I said, for the third time, I’ll be getting back to my business.’

  Eleanor was desperate to ask him why Atkins had been such a bad neighbour, but it was obvious Cartwright considered their conversation over. She’d just have to ask Clifford later, he was bound to know. He knew everything.

  The roar of a plane that skimmed the roof of the farmhouse interrupted her thoughts. Cartwright shook his fist at the sky. ‘Oh, but there’ll likely be a real murder sometime if he don’t stop that!’

  Eleanor had shielded the sun from her eyes and was still staring at the plane as it turned over a field somewhere behind the barns. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘It’s that young fool who pays to use the next field for his flying antics but I’ll have to consider stopping that arrangement after all his shenanigans. He drives that plane so as to scare the sheep, I’m sure of that. Shame, mind – he pays well enough for it.’ Cartwright brightened. ‘You should ask him, young moneybags. He’s got the bird’s-eye view up there. Always hanging his beaky nose out of the cockpit, staring at my missus. If anyone knows anything about goings on at that quarry, it’ll be him.’

  ‘Capital idea, Mr Cartwright, I’m most grateful.’

  ‘And I’ll be most grateful not to find you sniffing round my barns in future, Lady Swift. I’ll be sure to keep the geese out from now on.’ Cartwright turned without a word and strode up the central driveway.

  She shivered at the image of a pack of Cartwright’s geese bearing down on her, hissing and flapping those hideous wings. Or was that turkeys? Whatever, she’d rather face a charging rhino, at least rhinos didn’t attack you in flocks.

  ‘Charming fellow, that Cartwright.’ She addressed her remarks in the general direction of the dead rodent. ‘And quite definitely at the top of my suspect list!’ In fact, if she was honest, he was the only person on her suspect list, apart from the mysterious motorcyclist. But perhaps she was about to add another…

  Eight

  The plane’s landing place was easy to spot as Eleanor trudged across the field looking for a way into the makeshift airstrip. A gap in the hedge, where two hawthorn trees hadn’t yet grown together, presented an opportunity. She squeezed through, shielding her face with one hand and holding her hat with the other. Glancing down at her mud-spattered boots and ripped dress, Eleanor wondered if Mrs Butters had an above-average tolerance for a housekeeper. She might be needing it.

  On the other side of the hedge the sun seemed brighter and her dress even more torn. She squinted across to the plane. Ah! Movement! She wasn’t too late. She swished through the swathe of long grass and umbrellas of cow parsley bordering the field. The shorter grass, which had presumably been cut low to make a rudimentary landing strip, made for speedier progress and she soon reached the plane.

  Resplendent in its coat of vibrant blue paint, with its intricately carved wooden propeller, it looked as majestic and dainty as a dragonfly. Between the two sets of short, wide wings, sat the teardrop cockpit from where the muffled clang of what sounded like tools was the only response to Eleanor’s hollered ‘hello!’ Peering round the front of the plane she could see a pair of green flannel trousers tucked into tan leather boots, and a torso bent over into the cockpit. ‘I say, good morning!’ she tried again.

  The pilot turned to her, the straps of his aviator helmet hanging loosely against his chiselled jaw.

  ‘I say.’ He grinned. ‘Now it is a good morning.’

  Eleanor thought the morning was improving too as she cast a discreet eye over his athletic frame, broad shoulders and boyish good looks.

  ‘Excuse the interruption,’ she called up. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Coming right down.’ He jumped backwards, landing close beside her.

  ‘Lancelot!’ He held out a hand, pulling off his helmet with the other. The ends of his tousled blond hair quivered in the breeze.

  ‘Eleanor.’

  ‘Sorry about your uncle.’

  Naturally he knew who she was, everyone did. Shaking hands, she couldn’t help staring at his eyes, so unusual, steel grey or were they blue? Either way, his silk scarf set them off magnificently.

  ‘You’ve made quite a trek to snag me in the middle of this glamorous rurality.’ He gestured round the field, his shirtsleeve rolled up past his forearm. ‘It must be something frightfully exciting.’

  ‘Oh, quite. Exciting, yes… no.’ Get a hold of yourself, Ellie! ‘A few nights ago, I saw a man murdered over there in the quarry.’

  To her surprise, Lancelot didn’t react. Was murder such a common occurrence around here? she wondered. She pointed in the quarry’s direction. He gently took her wrist and slid it to the right.

  ‘Over there, perhaps?’

  The touch of his hand on her bare skin was unexpectedly thrilling, and her quickened pulse threatened to give her away. ‘Don’t be obtuse. You know where I mean; you can see everything from up there on the wing. Even Mrs Cartwright, apparently.’

  Lancelot guffawed. ‘I see you’ve been speaking to Cartwright.’

  ‘He prefers Thomas.’

  ‘Absolutely. Cartwright’s a pain in the behind, always fussing about something. Ranted on about his blessed sheep, then his roof, then his wife. He’s a finicky old nuisance but I do need this field.’

  ‘Indeed, for your “flying antics” no less.’

  ‘What a delight to hear you have discussed me in such detail, and before we’d even met.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘But you didn’t come here to discuss Cartwright. What was it you wanted to ask me about this sensational murder?’

  Eleanor wrenched her mind off Lancelot’s hair and back to her investigation. ‘Oh, I thought you might have noticed any recent activity round the quarry. Cartwright mentioned to the police that there has been little excavation for some time, but there was plenty of activity that night and no mistake.’

  Lancelot threw his head back and laughed. ‘You really are a most intriguing creature. Traipsing across fields to accost dashing chaps you’ve never met, cavorting round murderous quarries at night and sleuthing all on your own. I shall call you Sherlock! Tell me, Sherlock, what wheeze have you got up your sleeve for this afternoon? Sneaking into Parliament, dressed as the prime minister and delivering his four o’clock address to the chamber?’

  She couldn’t help feeling he was mocking her. ‘Women politicians aren’t a joke. And you really are insufferably smug and asinine.’

  ‘My dear girl, what a great pair we’d make.’ Before Eleanor could think of a suitable comeback, Lancelot continued. ‘Now, what can I tell you about the quarry? Apart from the fact it is north-west of where we’re standing, not south-west. There are lots of diggings, some frightfully deep and dangerous-looking holes that genteel ladies should avoid. Although…’ He glanced at her muddied, torn state. ‘You look like it might actually be your idea of fun. Unfortunately, I’ve seen no one moving about there, not for some time just as Cartwright told you. As for the evening of
your “murder”, what day and time was that?’

  ‘Saturday night. Around ten fifteen in the evening.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I was at a masked ball.’

  ‘Where exactly was this masked ball? And when did you arrive and leave?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘This is serious! Can you prove you were at this ball?’

  ‘Yes, but where would be the fun in that? You’d have all your answers and you’d have no need to quiz me again later.’

  Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘So there’s no chance you were in that quarry between, say, ten and eleven Saturday evening?’

  Lancelot grinned infuriatingly. ‘No chance.’

  ‘So, no chance either that you saw someone dragging a body away then?’

  Lancelot looked at her quizzically for a moment before understanding dawned. ‘There’s no corpse, is there? Oh, this is too rich, are you really sure you saw a murder?’

  The playboy pilot had been entertaining Eleanor, but she bristled at this remark. ‘Quite sure. I’m convinced of what I saw. The fact that the police are too idle to do anything about it only makes it more imperative that I continue, what was it you said, oh yes, “sleuthing”. Now, do you own a motorcycle?’

  He gently held her shoulders and turned her round. A motorbike stood only a few yards away on the other side of the plane. So that was a yes! Then again, he hadn’t tried to hide it. What did that mean? She sighed to herself, maybe this detective lark was more difficult than it looked.

  A thought struck her. ‘Have you ever seen Cartwright on a motorbike?’

  Lancelot guffawed. ‘Cartwright? On a motorbike? That I’d love to see!’

  ‘I’ll take that as a “no” then. Last question and you can get back to fixing your plane.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Did you know Spencer Atkins?’