A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  DCI Seldon stared at Eleanor long and hard before putting down his tea with a sigh. ‘I see, well, perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten me as to what you are basing your theory on.’

  ‘I believe he was murdered in the quarry that borders the grounds of Henley Hall. His was the corpse I couldn’t find that night.’

  The inspector failed to hide his irritation. ‘The corpse you couldn’t find? I must insist you be a little clearer.’

  ‘Clearer? If the police had come out that night, they would perhaps have apprehended the perpetrator by now and everything would be perfectly clear.’

  ‘Lady Swift. May we go back a few steps, I am not quite following this.’ The inspector wriggled forward in his seat, sliding Gladstone on to the floor. ‘Sorry, old chap, legs are really quite numb,’ he muttered. He turned back to Eleanor, closer than before. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. ‘Now, start at the beginning. What night? What murder? Which police?’

  ‘The murder in the quarry that I reported three days ago.’

  DCI Seldon pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. ‘Did you report the incident to the Little Buckford or Chipstone police?’

  ‘Chipstone. Little Buckford has but one constable and he was apparently detained by the inconvenient arrival of three offspring in the space of half an hour.’

  For the first time, he seemed to be trying to hide a quiet smile. ‘As I mentioned earlier, Lady Swift, I’m based in Oxford and sometimes London. Local reports rarely come across my desk, not unless there’s a serious murder involved.’

  Eleanor jumped in. ‘And what constitutes a “serious murder”, Inspector? Is it possible to have a “trivial” murder?’

  ‘It is a standard police term. “Serious murder” is a phrase we use when there are sufficient facts to warrant a full-on murder investigation. As public servants we are duty bound to justify our use of time, resources and manpower. I gather the Chipstone police did not feel sufficient facts had arisen in the report they took from your statement.’

  Tired of defending what she knew she’d seen that night, her tone was terse. ‘My statement was quite clear. I saw a man shot in the workman’s hut in the quarry yard at around ten fifteen on Saturday. When I arrived at the hut, there was a large pool of blood but no corpse. Oh, and a man on a motorbike then nearly ran poor Gladstone and myself down while we were trying to get back home.’

  ‘No corpse, you say? I see. And the blood?’

  ‘When the police finally turned up the following day that too, had conveniently vanished.’

  DCI Seldon took a long breath. ‘And was there any other evidence of this murder? The gun in question, spent cartridges?’ He held out his hands. ‘Anything?’

  Eleanor sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘Then that probably would have prevented the event from being tagged as a “serious murder”.’

  ‘That’s because the police are buffoons with badges!’

  He snorted through his tea. ‘I’m a policeman. Am I a buffoon with a badge?’

  Eleanor laughed, she was beginning to like this detective. ‘It’s too early to tell, Inspector, I’d have to get to know you better.’ She did a tiny double take. Where had that come from?

  DCI Seldon put his cup down. ‘Today is not the day for that, as I have a full schedule. If you would care to repeat what you reported to the police, I will open up a new line of enquiry at a later date, if that suits you?’

  A knock at the door interrupted Eleanor’s reply. ‘Yes,’ she called.

  Clifford stepped into the room and bowed. ‘Please forgive my intrusion, my lady. I merely wanted to alert you to the news of my return. Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No, thank you, Clifford. I believe the inspector and I are almost finished here.’

  DCI Seldon rose from his seat. ‘Lady Swift, thank you for your gracious hospitality and for assisting in my enquiries. Goodbye, Lady Swift.’ DCI Seldon collected his battered hat and gloves. The two men left the room.

  As the door closed, Gladstone joined her on the chaise longue. Eleanor poured herself another cup of tea and helped herself to a slice of Mrs Trotman’s fruitcake. She cosied up to Gladstone. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Gladstone gave the impression that he wouldn’t mind so long as she shifted over and fed him some.

  ‘Surely I’m supposed to be top dog, Gladstone? Although I fancy Clifford thinks he’s the one in charge.’ She bent and rubbed the dog’s belly. ‘But then again, perhaps you think you should be top dog? I suppose we could share the title.’ She fed him the last edge of her fruitcake, making sure it had no raisins in it. ‘Mrs Trotman tells me that even though you love them, they don’t agree with you.’ Eleanor lay back on the chaise longue and sighed. ‘I think I have the same problem with men, Gladstone!’

  Eleanor heard DCI Seldon’s car purr down the drive. She was still smarting from his apparent lack of interest in her investigations when Clifford returned to the drawing room.

  ‘So, Clifford, did you and the inspector have a hearty chuckle over my “tale” of the quarry murder?’

  Clifford’s face remained impassive. ‘No, my lady, that would have been entirely inappropriate considering…’

  She frowned. ‘Considering what, Clifford?’

  ‘That I am certain of the events you saw at the quarry, my lady.’

  Eleanor blinked. ‘What? You mean you believe me about the murder at the quarry? Because if you do, you’re the only dashed one who does!’

  Clifford nodded. ‘That may be true, my lady, but I for one certainly believe your version of events.’

  To find that someone took her seriously, and that it was Clifford of all people, touched her. ‘Look here, if you believe me, then why have you been dashedly stiff and silent about it until now?’

  ‘I am a butler, my lady,’ Clifford answered, as if that clarified everything.

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, all credit to you. But when it’s just the two of us, you really can let it slip just a little if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Right, now that’s sorted, let’s get back to the all-important matter. When the world is treating me like a liar and a lunatic, what has led you to be so certain that I am in my right mind?’

  ‘If I could ask your indulgence, my lady, there are a great many things on which we might confer but I fear the hour is growing late. A supper tray and a bath may be the best course of action, if you’ll forgive my proposal.’

  Eleanor considered rebuking him for his ‘bath’ comment and his obvious dig at yet another missed mealtime. Then she remembered she’d given him permission not to hold his tongue. She might regret that decision, she thought ruefully.

  Clifford continued. ‘We could reconvene tomorrow after a hearty plate of Mrs Trotman’s fine breakfast fayre, with a full stomach, and an open mind.’

  Tired after her epic cycle ride and the emotion of the last hour, she conceded. ‘Whatever you say, Clifford, you’re the boss!’

  Twelve

  ‘So, Clifford, I must say you surprised me.’

  ‘How is that, my lady?’ Clifford replaced the salver lid on the few remaining sausages.

  ‘Oh, this home-made onion relish is simply divine!’ Eleanor took another mouthful.

  Clifford waited patiently.

  Eventually she paused in her single-handed demolition of Mrs Trotman’s delectable fayre.

  ‘You surprised me, Clifford, by believing that I saw someone shot that night in the quarry, and that that someone was poor Mr Atkins.’

  Clifford offered her a salver from which she speared a large forkful of braised mushrooms. ‘There is a predominant reason, my lady, why I am in agreement with your version of events.’

  Eleanor stopped waving her fork around. ‘Go on.’

  He placed the salver back onto the side table and stood next to her. ‘Mr Sandford, the butler at Langham Manor, whom I believe you’ll meet when you go to luncheon with Lor
d and Lady Fenwick-Langham tomorrow, has a niece, Miss Abigail, who works as a typist at Chipstone Police Station. She is a delightful young lady and quite… observant.’

  Eleanor grinned. ‘So, you have a mole at the police station. I say, that might be jolly handy, given that I’ve my suspicions about Sergeant Wilby, but we’ll come to that presently. Do continue.’

  Clifford half-bowed. ‘Thank you, my lady. You see, I too thought it a strange coincidence that you should report seeing a man shot over at the quarry, and a body should turn up the following day shot, not half a mile away.’

  Eleanor started. ‘I didn’t know he lived so near.’

  ‘Indeed. Mr Atkins’ property backs onto the north of Mr Cartwright’s land as Henley Estate does the south. It would be a relatively easy task to transfer the body from the quarry to Mr Atkins’ house. It’s half a mile at best.’

  ‘And under the cover of darkness, very unlikely anyone would see?’

  ‘Indeed, there are very few other properties around that area.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘But what’s Abigail got to do with all this?’

  ‘Miss Abigail types up the reports as none of the policemen themselves can type with more than one finger. Subsequently, she typed up the report on Mr Atkins’ “accidental” death.’ He coughed, which Eleanor assumed was a butler’s version of a dramatic pause. ‘Mr Atkins was found holding a bottle of gun oil in his right hand.’

  Eleanor blinked. ‘So?’

  ‘I had the opportunity on many occasions when Mr Atkins visited the Hall to note that he was a left-handed gentleman.’

  Eleanor slapped the table, upending her mushroom-laden fork and sending it flying across the room. She saw Clifford wince. ‘By Jove, good work! If Atkins were to have tried oiling the pin holes wrong-handedly as it were…’

  ‘Quite so. Even a poor shot understands the dangers of trying to fire an incorrectly oiled firearm. I believe the killer made a mistake. He was arrogant enough to believe that Mr Atkins’ reputation for being less than a crack shot would lead to a verdict of “accidental death”. Id est, that a man who couldn’t handle his gun in the field would indubitably mishandle it whilst cleaning the powder residue from the barrels. However, he placed the gun oil in the wrong hand.’

  Eleanor nodded, letting the ‘id est’ wash over her. She could look it up later. For the moment, she saw that, with Clifford’s encyclopaedic knowledge, unwavering logic and keen observation, he could be a huge aid in solving her quarry murder. Assuming, of course, he wasn’t the murderer.

  ‘Hmm.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Clifford, I can see you possess skills beyond those of a… er, regulation butler, as it were.’

  ‘If that is a compliment, thank you, my lady.’

  She grinned. ‘Of course it is! Now, let’s get together and solve the questions around poor Atkins’ last moments. What do you say?’

  She saw the hesitation in his face, but was clueless as to what was behind it. Had she stepped too far across the Lady of the House and butler divide? Was he still mourning the loss of his relationship with her uncle? Or was it something else?

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘What?’ She jerked out of supposing and surmising. ‘Sorry… oh, yes?’

  Clifford took a long breath and adjusted the cuffs of his gloves. ‘Shall we begin with the event itself, perhaps?’

  ‘The event?’

  ‘The murder.’ There was that ‘obviously’ tone again. She let it go.

  ‘Absolutely. So, we both agree Atkins was shot in the quarry and his death arranged to look like an accident. The question that now arises, Clifford, is… why?’

  ‘Indeed, there is the conundrum: what reason can we deduce for the murderer moving the body to the victim’s home?’

  ‘The straightforward answer is glaringly obvious – to make it seem like an accident.’

  ‘Then why did the murderer not complete his terrible act in the house?’

  She scratched the back of her head. ‘Erm… Ah! Too risky. Someone might have heard the gunshot.’

  ‘My lady, this is the country. Everyone has access to a shotgun in areas like Little Buckford, hence the county’s fondness for pigeon pie. Mr Atkins’ land is bordered by Poddington Woods to the east and Cartwright’s land to the south. No one takes any notice of the sound of a shotgun.’

  ‘But Atkins’ staff would have jolly well taken notice at a shot ringing through the house, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Normally that would be the case, but Mrs Campbell, the housekeeper, was the only staff, and she was away visiting her sick sister that evening.’

  ‘But how would the killer have known that? Unless they are local, I suppose.’

  ‘So, our list of suspects at this juncture runs to anyone local with access to a shotgun. I would suggest that is almost the entire local population, my lady.’

  He had a point. ‘We’ll come back to that. Besides, I already have a list of suspects, thank you. First though, one question keeps rattling round and round my brain: how did the murderer lure Atkins to the quarry? Knowing him as you did, it must have been a frightfully convincing ruse, wouldn’t you say?’

  Clifford nodded slowly. ‘That too has been dominating my thoughts. He was not a gentleman fond of evening excursions. Thus, to agree to a rendezvous in a disused quarry seems most uncharacteristic. Then again, men do the oddest things when pressed.’

  ‘I suppose he may have known his murderer, so, while you kindly load me up with some more eggs, perhaps you could also tell me more about Atkins?’

  ‘Mr Atkins was an upright and honest man. Your uncle held him in the highest regard.’

  ‘So he wouldn’t have had many enemies?’

  ‘Not necessarily. A man of honour cannot be bought or swayed. Such a man can make as many, if not more, enemies, than one willing to waive his morals for money and power.’

  ‘True, Clifford, too true. And were any of them known to you?’

  For a moment she swore he hesitated before replying. ‘Unfortunately, no, my lady.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘No. He lived a resigned bachelor’s life following a disappointment in love. A certain young lady, an acquaintance of your uncle’s. In the event it seemed there was some incompatibility as she married another gentleman and moved to Devon, I understand.’

  She frowned. ‘We need to find out more about his movements that night.’

  Clifford refilled her cup again. ‘His housekeeper, Mrs Campbell, was most informative. She told me that Mr Atkins was out from late afternoon and returned just before six. It would appear she made him supper and then left at seven thirty to spend the evening and night at her ill sister’s side. She returned at seven the following morning and discovered the body. Miss Abigail mentioned that the report she typed noted there had been no sign of a break-in.’

  Eleanor finished her mouthful before replying. ‘Honestly, the police really are more inept than is conceivable! I should think the criminals of Buckinghamshire are doing spectacularly well as a result. Even the bluntest brick of a man in uniform could have worked out Atkins would have had his house key on him.’

  ‘Indeed. And that may have been how his murderer guessed his housekeeper was away.’

  ‘Good sleuthing, Clifford.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. I rather imagine, however, that I am merely postulating at this point.’

  Eleanor wrinkled her nose. ‘What else has Abigail been able to pass on?’

  ‘Only that there were no fingerprints other than Mr Atkins’ on the gun found next to the deceased.’

  ‘And the gun itself? Have they checked it with a firearms Johnny who knows what he’s talking about?’

  ‘A ballistics expert, I believe you mean, my lady. And the answer is no, I believe they are assuming the gun found next to the deceased was the murder weapon. In any case, it is notoriously difficult with shotguns and cartridges to tell one from the other. More sausages? Eggs? Bac—?’

&n
bsp; Eleanor held up her hand. ‘Absolutely not! I fear I will burst if I eat any more.’ She stared at her stomach. ‘I shall have to take up some strenuous exercise if Mrs Trotman is going to keep up her splendid efforts.’

  As Clifford busied himself clearing her place setting, he suggested they switch their attention to the suspects she had identified, taking each in turn. ‘That way I might be able to supply a motive or two as I knew Mr Atkins better than yourself.’

  ‘Okay, Clifford, but let’s do it with a coffee in the morning room. I need a change of scene to get the cogs working.’

  He nodded. ‘Certainly, my lady. Perhaps you should take the long way round, out through the garden and back in via the kitchen, to aid your overburdened digestive system?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Out through the garden and back via London might just do it!’

  Thirteen

  It was a good twenty minutes later that Eleanor finished her brisk walk around the grounds. Confident she would now be able to sit up, rather than needing to lay full stretch to let her breakfast go down, she located Clifford in the morning room. He handed her a coffee as she ruffled Gladstone’s ears.

  ‘Perhaps I should instruct cook to prepare lighter meals and smaller portions thereof in future?’

  ‘Don’t you dare! I shall simply work it all off running after our suspects.’

  She was impressed that he managed to look disbelieving and disapproving at the same time. That was no mean feat.

  He interrupted her thoughts. ‘On the note of suspects, shall we reconvene our discussion?’

  ‘Definitely. We need to discuss Sergeant Wilby, that oaf Cartwright and, er… Lancelot.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Let’s kick off with that idiot Wilby.’

  ‘Is that because you have stronger suspicions about him than the others?’

  ‘No, it’s because I dislike him the most. Until I’m in front of Cartwright, then I waver between the two.’

  ‘In which case, my lady, might I suggest that we start with another suspect, to bring our thoughts round to a more, shall we say, objective frame of mind?’