A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, that last roof, that’s Bevans.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Eleanor straightened up. ‘You have been most helpful, and a well-earned penny it is, young man.’ Eleanor opened her purse and smiled as she handed over the coin.

  ‘Thank you, miss. Anything else you need, miss?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Alfie.’ But as he was about to go, she dropped another penny into his hand.

  Alfie stared at it wide-eyed. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  ‘Call it a retainer fee. If I need any more information when I visit Chipstone, I’ll know where to come.’

  ‘Thank you, miss, but the deal was a penny. We shook on it.’ The boy handed the penny back and sprinted down a path that ran along one side of the town hall.

  What a splendid young chap. She turned her attention back to the matter of Bevan Brothers.

  Now, head for the chimney, then the last roof.

  ‘What could be easier?’

  A glance at her uncle’s fob watch showed two twenty, an hour since she had uttered those fateful words. Well, getting lost in the backstreets of Chipstone was certainly easy, it seemed. What had happened to that blasted chimney? It had simply disappeared when she’d crossed the road to peer into a dress shop when a dazzling emerald silk scarf had caught her eye. Even though she’d never admit it, it set her pulse racing as much as the recent ride on Lancelot’s motorbike. Despite her apparent disregard for fashion, she occasionally dreamed of pulling off the effortless elegance she’d seen in ladies parading through Paris, London and Milan. Then she’d noticed another gorgeous accessory shop further along. In fact it was as if someone had dropped a trail of coloured sweets along Chipstone’s winding backstreets.

  Emerging from the last shop clutching another exquisitely wrapped packet, she pictured herself sashaying along in her new organza choker with matching fascinator somewhere fantastically elegant with a deliciously handsome escort. Maybe someone with tousled blond hair and grey-blue eyes? She pulled the gold ribbon from the parcel and tied it around her wrist with a giggle.

  Eleanor wrenched her thoughts back to the job in hand. No falling for the enemy, Ellie! Lancelot was still a suspect.

  She stood on the pavement, scanning the skyline for any sign of a chimney or roof that might be Bevan Brothers. Seeing none, she chose a random street and emerged a few moments later on the high street opposite Chipstone’s police station, with its typical blue lamp over the door.

  Eleanor’s quest for Bevan Brothers receded into the back of her mind. She had intended to let the mayor deal with the police, but now she had arrived on their doorstep it seemed the perfect opportunity to move her investigation forward. After all, never send a man, however helpful, to do a woman’s job, Ellie! She strode towards the building with renewed purpose.

  Approaching the entrance, Eleanor tutted at the small huddle of uniformed men smoking in the adjoining alley. ‘Good to see the town is crime-free, gentlemen,’ she called before climbing the steps to the station’s door. Please ring the bell a sign instructed. Ignoring it, she pushed the door and strode in.

  ‘Sergeant Wilby, please.’

  There was a scuffle as the two policemen behind the desk tried to appear awake and busy.

  ‘Bell not working, miss?’ the leaner of the two chided.

  ‘Oh heavens, there was a bell? You should have a sign. Sergeant Wilby, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Sergeant Wilby will be too pleased at being called out unexpected like,’ his chubbier colleague ventured.

  ‘I have no doubt of that. Shall I find him myself?’ She made to set off down the corridor.

  ‘Miss! Please take a seat. We will have Sergeant Wilby with you in just a moment.’ The first policeman was already hurrying up the stairs.

  ‘Good.’ Eleanor returned to the front desk and waited with the sweetest of smiles.

  A moment later she heard an unmistakable voice. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  She turned to the approaching sergeant who faltered on realising who his visitor was.

  ‘Brice, Fry, make yourselves scarce, and no listening down the stairwell!’ Wilby barked. ‘Lady Swift,’ he groaned. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Wilby’s expression revealed that the only thing that might actually give him pleasure would be to manhandle her back into the street.

  One of Eleanor’s great strengths was her decisiveness. Unfortunately, it wasn’t always matched by a capacity to think ahead. Now she was in front of Sergeant Wilby, she had little idea as to how to extract any pertinent information from him. Think, Ellie, think!

  Ah! She remembered Lancelot’s words. Mayor Kingsley was the highest authority in the area; a man like Wilby would be bound to be terrified of him. She looked him coldly in the eye.

  ‘News of my recent meeting. With the mayor.’

  ‘Mayor Kingsley?’

  ‘You have more than one mayor?’

  Wilby shook his head.

  ‘I thought not, so it’s a pointless question on your part, I fear. Anyway, Mayor Kingsley was fit to burst when I told him about your dismissive treatment of the murder I witnessed and reported to you. He will be taking severe steps to rectify the matter and then will be monitoring your activities and attitude personally. I thought it might be helpful for you to be forewarned. The mayor appears to have a most fearsome temper, wouldn’t you say?’

  Sergeant Wilby was ashen by the end of Eleanor’s speech. ‘I’ll call his worshipfulness now and explain that’s not how it is at all, really not at all.’ He moved towards the desk.

  ‘There’s no point,’ Eleanor bluffed. ‘He went out. Probably to call upon your superiors, I expect.’

  Wilby squirmed. ‘But, Lady Swift—’

  ‘But nothing. I have a few questions for you.’

  Wilby nodded sullenly.

  Again, Eleanor decided not to pass on her belief that the man she had seen shot in the quarry was the same man who had apparently died by accident in his own home. Besides, she didn’t trust Sergeant Wilby, but that distrust was largely born of her upbringing. After her parents’ disappearance and her uncle’s, as she saw it, failure to take her in as his own, she’d developed a general distrust of humanity as a whole. Her naturally positive side fought against it, often leaving her hopelessly see-sawing between deciding whether to trust someone or not.

  ‘Have there been any reports of any other deaths in the last twenty-four hours, excluding that of Mr Atkins?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Because I have been on duty twice in that time, both being long shifts.’

  Eleanor started imperceptibly, her mind whirling. Maybe Sergeant Wilby had been reluctant to attend her call that night because he was the cause? Perhaps he’d been too busy cleaning his uniform – of blood? After all, it had been Sergeant Wilby who had refused to come out when she’d reported the murder originally and who had also refused to take her seriously when they finally did go to the quarry. But why would he murder Atkins? For the moment she had no idea, but Wilby was definitely elevated to her suspect list.

  She looked shrewdly at the sergeant. ‘Has anyone from your department returned to the quarry and looked for further evidence of a murder?’

  ‘No.’ Wilby gritted his teeth.

  ‘Has anyone from your department checked all the registered owners of motorbikes in the area and interviewed them?’

  ‘Again, Lady Swift, no.’

  ‘Mmm. Have you established the exact time of death?’

  A sound like escaping gas alerted her that Sergeant Wilby was close to snapping.

  ‘No, how could I given there was no murder!’

  ‘Has any evidence come to light that Mr Atkins’ death was, perhaps, not entirely accidental?’

  Wilby breathed hard. ‘We investigated Mr Atkins death thoroughly and have come to the conclusion that his death was entirely accidental. Mr Atkins died some
time between seven thirty in the evening after his housekeeper left and four in the morning at his home, not in a blooming quarry!’

  She decided to go for broke. ‘Ah! But he could have been killed in the quarry and then his body transported to his house and arranged to look like an accident. I don’t imagine Mr Atkins’ house is very far from the quarry, nowhere is very far from anywhere round here, and on those back roads at night the murderer would have been unlucky to have come across—’

  Wilby leaned forward. ‘An interfering busybody? With nothing better to do, perhaps, than—’

  Eleanor raised her hand, silencing Wilby. She noted the sergeant’s ashen colour had switched to near beetroot in a matter of moments. She obviously wasn’t going to get anything further from him, so she might as well have some fun. ‘With nothing better to do, perhaps, than show the Chipstone police that if they want to join the twentieth century, they need to employ women in their ranks?’

  Wilby exploded. ‘Lady Swift, if you will!’ He indicated the door with a jerk of his arm.

  Eleanor tossed her head. ‘Well, I shall report back to Mayor Kingsley but he won’t be at all pleased. In fact, it seems I have no choice but to solve the case myself!’

  She swept from the station’s reception area and strode out the front door, petulantly pulling the doorbell on her way.

  Eleven

  Oh, the joy of moving at more than walking pace! Eleanor cycled out of what she now knew was Chipstone’s most southerly end, her goal achieved. It had been easy to find Bevan Brothers’ Cycles, as it turned out to be only a stone’s throw from the police station.

  Once inside, she had dismissed the Bevan brothers’ attempts to sell her a fashionable lady’s bicycle. She knew what she wanted: a sturdy, no-nonsense, go-anywhere machine. The perfect transport for her investigations.

  Actually, the perfect transport would be the Rolls. Disappointingly, it wasn’t the one she’d remembered from her visits to the Hall as a child, but a newer, altogether more imposing model, a ‘Silver Ghost’, it seemed. But since she hadn’t learned to drive any motor car, and Clifford would no doubt make irritating comments should she ask him to chauffeur her on her investigations, a bicycle it was.

  But there was the problem of her new sidekick, Gladstone. That basket on her handlebars would bear little more than the weight of a rabbit. And a runty one at that.

  The poor road surface made the journey considerably harder than Eleanor had expected. For the last few years she’d explored new routes for the travel company, adventures for rich tourists in Persia, China, India and, most recently, South Africa. Unfortunately, using her trusty bicycle had been too slow and erratic out there, and the local guides she had to use preferred the relative speed and safety of a motor. Consequently, she wasn’t fully fit for cycling and, within a few miles, she had become quite sweaty and unladylike. At least her modesty, or what she had of it, stayed intact. The Bevan brothers had thoughtfully provided clothes pegs to anchor her skirt either side of the bicycle’s frame. Several of these, however, now littered the road, as they had pinged off when she was pushing down hard on the pedals on a steeper section. A black car crawled past, giving her a wide berth.

  Unluckily for Eleanor, the county was famed for its hills, and none more so than the final climb up to the Hall. Come on, Ellie, you’ve got this far, just one last bit. Moving at a snail’s pace through the gates and hauling on the handlebars, at last she creaked and wheezed up the drive and came to a shaky halt. She wondered if the Hall gates were always open, or if Joseph or Silas closed them at night. Perhaps with a murderer loose it would make sense to lock them, but then again, it wasn’t as if anyone at the Hall was in danger, was it?

  ‘Congratulations, most impressive!’ A broad-shouldered man in a blue wool overcoat stood with his bowler hat in his leather-gloved hand. The black car that had passed her was parked near the steps to the house.

  ‘Thank… you.’ Eleanor dismounted from her now stationary bicycle, trying to hide her breathless state.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Seldon. Oxford CID. Forgive me, madam, have we met?’

  Eleanor clapped her hands. ‘Lady Eleanor Swift.’ She wiped her hand on her skirt and held it out across the handlebars.

  The detective pulled off his right glove and shook her hand firmly. Since her return to England, Eleanor had noticed how many men shook a lady’s hand as if it were made of fine bone china. The detective seemed to have no such reticence.

  ‘What brings you to see me, Detective? Sorry, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve come to see Lord Henley.’ He smiled. ‘And “Inspector” is fine.’

  ‘Gosh, you must be frightfully late for your appointment.’

  ‘I beg your pardon but I haven’t made an appointment. This is more of an unscheduled visit.’

  ‘Then might I suggest you schedule an appointment in future? My uncle, Lord Henley, passed away this February.’

  To his credit, DCI Seldon remained calm in spite of his social faux pas. ‘My sincere apologies. I am actually stationed in London at present. And, of course, my condolences. How insensitive of me.’

  ‘Indeed. Now whatever you wanted to see my uncle about, you’ll have to deal with me in his place. Come inside, I shall scrape a little of the countryside from my face and be with you before you’ve had time to sit down.’

  Eleanor leaned her bicycle against the steps and gestured for him to follow her.

  Mrs Butters opened the door, revealing straight away that Clifford was obviously off on one of his butlery errands. ‘Hello, my lady. Before I forget, the Reverend Gaskell called to introduce himself. He’s the Vicar of St Winifred’s. He couldn’t stay and said he will come back some other time.

  ‘Not to mind, Mrs Butters, may I trouble you for some tea? We have a visitor.’

  ‘Right away, my lady.’ Mrs Butters trotted off, retying her apron as she went.

  ‘Inspector.’ Eleanor gestured towards the oak door. ‘How are you with dogs?’

  A few minutes later Eleanor reappeared, her face shiny from the rough scrubbing she’d given it in the visitor’s washroom. ‘I see you’ve met Gladstone.’

  DCI Seldon grunted, gesturing to Gladstone’s prostrate form sprawled across his lap. There was a leather slipper hanging from the dog’s mouth.

  ‘Now, that is the finest canine welcome you’ll ever receive, I’m sure, Inspector.’ Eleanor giggled as she took up the chaise longue opposite.

  ‘Not to mention all the licking.’ He grunted again.

  ‘Apologies, he hasn’t quite learned the full etiquette of greeting new people. And I fear, at his advancing years, he’s unlikely to. Now, to business.’

  The inspector’s brow furrowed. ‘With respect, Lady Swift, I am not sure you will be able to assist in my enquiries. Not unless I am mistaken and you were well acquainted with Mr Spencer Atkins?’

  ‘No, I was not well acquainted with him, but…’ She hesitated. Unlike Mayor Kingsley and Sergeant Wilby, this man had something trustworthy about him. ‘But I did know him from my childhood. I was saddened to hear of his passing.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ he said, running the palm of his hand along Gladstone’s side.

  A thought struck her. ‘Inspector, kindly explain to me why…’ She paused as Mrs Butters heralded the arrival of tea with a polite knock. The housekeeper placed it on the occasional table between her and the inspector before leaving.

  ‘Tea, Inspector?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He nodded with minimal enthusiasm.

  Eleanor poured a cup and passed it across the table. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She racked her thoughts a moment. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes. Was I misinformed as to the nature of Mr Atkins’ sad demise? Something to do with his shotgun, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, a fatal wound from his own gun, fired accidentally whilst he was cleaning it.’

  ‘Whilst he was cleaning it? Really?’

  ‘Yes, rather careless. Pe
ople get complacent.’

  ‘Do you get complacent, Inspector?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ he said stiffly. He shuffled his feet, wiggling Gladstone into a more comfortable position. ‘You seem particularly interested in this, Lady Swift.’

  ‘Forgive my rather blunt question, but why are you, a Detective Inspector, investigating an accidental death such as this? Unless, of course, you suspect foul play?’

  He looked at his hat and gloves squashed under Gladstone’s front legs. ‘Mr Atkins was an influential man on account of his position. In such a case it is police protocol to conduct routine enquiries.’

  She narrowed her eyes at this politician’s answer. Plenty of words but they contained nothing but hot air. She snapped to. ‘His position?’ Clifford hadn’t mentioned what Spencer Atkins had done for a living.

  ‘Yes, he was an influential… government official.’

  ‘Do go on, Inspector,’ she encouraged.

  He hesitated a moment. ‘May I ask, Lady Swift, how long have you been here at Henley Hall?’

  She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Three, no four days, I think.’

  ‘And do you intend to remain in Little Buckford?’

  Again she hesitated, still undecided as to whether she should stay or go. And then she remembered she had a murder to solve. ‘I intend to stay, certainly until I have completed my own investigations.’

  DCI Seldon frowned. ‘Your own investigations?’

  Eleanor looked at the man opposite her, and suddenly noticed his soft brown eyes, kind hands and gruff voice. She caught her breath. Was there something in the water out here in the countryside? What was happening to her? Falling for every man who appeared was the job of giddy-minded women with over-tightened corsets. She’d come here for altogether different reasons.

  She was sure she was right though; there was something peculiarly trustworthy about this one. So much so, that she decided to break her recent decision not to tell anyone about her suspicion that the dead man at the quarry was Atkins. ‘I don’t believe Mr Atkins shot himself, accidentally or otherwise. I believe he died elsewhere at someone else’s hands.’