A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  She managed to resist the urge to stick her tongue out at him. ‘Oh alright, let’s start with Cartwright. As I say, he’s just as objectionable.’

  He let out a small groan, which she ignored.

  ‘Now, he has not only been obstructive, he also lied about the quarry gates always being locked. And he owns the land, and certainly he’ll own a shotgun, he’s a farmer. He also owns a motorbike, or at least I saw him carrying out some dubious dealings with a man who owns a motorbike similar to the one that almost ran me down. Oh, and Mr Penry, the butcher doesn’t seem to like him at all.’

  ‘I am not sure a judge would be swayed by those points alone, my lady. Especially Mr Cartwright being unpopular with individual members of the village. He is,’ he adjusted the cuffs of his white gloves, ‘not the kind of man to be universally liked.’

  She flapped her hand. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, even you can’t be that polite about him. He’s the type of man who would pick a fight with his own shadow!’

  ‘I couldn’t comment, my lady, but even if that is the case, it doesn’t make him a murderer. When you spoke with him, did he furnish an alibi?’

  ‘Yes, but a mighty flimflam one, to say the least. He said he was indoors at the time of the murder, sharpening tools by the fire. And the best he could come up with as proof was to say that his good lady wife would vouch for him.’

  ‘Hmm, without slighting Mrs Cartwright, it is de rigueur in the rural communities for a wife to back up her husband’s word whether it is true or not. We need to establish Mr Cartwright’s exact movements that night. For the moment, perhaps we should concentrate on possible motives?’

  Eleanor nodded as she sipped her coffee. ‘But that’s where you need to come in, Clifford. I can only stab in the dark about what might have got Cartwright’s goat sufficiently to resort to murder. Are you aware of any conflict between Atkins and Cartwright?’

  ‘Regrettably yes, theirs was not the best of neighbourly relationships.’

  ‘Ooh, another coffee please and then spill all the juicy gossip.’

  ‘I will relay the matters that I am aware of but abstain from labelling them “juicy” or “gossip”.’

  She grinned and took her refilled cup when he returned from the serving table. Patting the chair next to her for Gladstone to join her, she listened to Clifford. A few minutes later, she let out a long low whistle. ‘So, Cartwright was pumping his livestock’s slurry onto Atkins’ land?’

  Clifford nodded. ‘He denied it was done knowingly. I recall he blamed a split drainage system.’

  ‘What three times over the course of seven months? Nonsense!’

  ‘Equally though, Mr Cartwright caught Mr Atkins shooting on his land without permission on more than one occasion. A further point of conflict between them was the boundary fence. Mr Cartwright’s more adventurous livestock often strayed onto Mr Atkins’ land due to, in Mr Atkins’ opinion, Mr Cartwright leaving the aforementioned fence in disrepair on purpose.’

  ‘Swings and roundabouts, you might say. But did any of these incidents happen recently?’

  ‘The previous month I believe was the last occasion. But, of course, there may have been others that I am not aware of. On one occasion I believe the police were called when the two gentlemen actually came to blows. For a man as mild-mannered as Mr Atkins, he must have felt provoked in the extreme.’

  She frowned. ‘And do you think any of these instances were a strong enough motive for murder though?’

  ‘Men have killed over much less, my lady, as I’m sure you are aware. Combined, it is certainly a possibility.’

  ‘Well then Cartwright definitely has a motive which could have smouldered and then been easily ignited into violence. He had the means, being a shotgun owner for sure.’

  ‘And with the quarry being on his land, also the opportunity. However, as I said, my lady, we need to re-interview Mr Cartwright and establish more precisely his movements between the hours of ten and eleven thirty the evening of the murder at least.’

  ‘Until we do, you have to admit his alibi is weak to say the least, and he’s even got the key to the gate that was unlocked that night. He might have nudged that idiot Wilby down to number two, dash it!’

  ‘I didn’t enquire the exact number on your suspect list, my lady?’

  ‘Er, three.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘We could consider Lancelot next. Hopefully he’ll be quicker to rule out, or at least move to the bottom of the list.’

  ‘As you wish. Might I ask what has led you to include young Lord Fenwick-Langham in the line-up?’

  ‘First, he has a motorbike. Second, consequently he has goggles and a helmet the same as, or too similar to distinguish from, those worn by the chap who almost ran me and Gladstone down that night. Third, he keeps his plane in the field very near the quarry. Fourth, he didn’t seem very surprised when I told him there had been a murder.’ A thought struck her. ‘Oh, I’m such a ninny for having forgotten until now. The Sand Gang! Lancelot suggested it might be the work of a local gang, but maybe he was just trying to throw suspicion off himself?’

  Clifford coughed again. Eleanor gave a mock cough in return. ‘That’s another habit we need to work on, Clifford, that cough. If we are alone and you wish to disagree, you have my permission to offer a contrary view without pretending you are suddenly afflicted by laryngitis.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. I fear that young Lord Fenwick-Langham may have been making a joke with his reference to the Sand Gang.’

  ‘Sand? Gang? I don’t get… oh no.’ She groaned. Sometimes she could be so obtuse, especially when it involved a handsome man. ‘Sand, as in quarry. Oh snap, he must think me such a fool for swallowing that.’

  ‘It takes courage to make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘Chaplin.’

  Eleanor looked confused.

  ‘Charlie Chaplin, my lady.’

  ‘Did you and my late uncle spend the bulk of your days engrossed in the exploits of heroic cowboys and silent comics of the silver screen?’

  ‘To a certain extent, yes.’

  Curious though she was to learn more about her late uncle’s eccentricities, she dragged her attention back to the case. ‘So, perhaps Lancelot was just ribbing me with this Sand Gang nonsense? Or maybe he was trying to throw me off the scent?’

  ‘Are you aware of his alibi for the night in question?’

  ‘Yes, he told me he was at a masked ball and that some of his chums could vouch for him.’

  ‘It would be a simple matter to find out which ball he attended and to verify his story.’

  ‘Excellent. I have to say, though, I’m clueless on a possible motive for Lancelot, unless he was mixed up in something very rummy and Atkins found out somehow?’

  ‘Well, my lady, I am obviously not intimately acquainted with young Lord Fenwick-Langham but, as I said, I am acquainted with Mr Sandford, the butler at Langham Manor. Your late uncle was good friends with Lord and Lady Fenwick-Langham. Without wishing to be indiscreet, Mr Sandford mentioned her ladyship’s perturbation at her son’s involvement with an actual gang.’

  ‘A gang! What a criminal gang? Mafia? Or Chinese triads, do you suppose?’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe Lady Fenwick-Langham was referring to something more akin to a social gang. Other young people of titled parents, though some of them are artists and bohemians.’

  ‘And does this gang have a name?’

  ‘No, but I believe they model themselves on the so-called “Bright Young Things”.’

  ‘Ah, so over-privileged and over-monied wastrels rebelling against their parents and running around shocking the general population and delighting the press?’

  ‘That is one interpretation, my lady, although I shouldn’t wish to put my name to such a definition.’

  ‘Maybe I should join them, this gang of Lancelot’s? I have the opportunity to play the spoilt little rich kid if I want to now.’ She waved off his pol
ite face of dissent. ‘No, don’t bother to reject that confession. I am acutely aware of the immense good fortune life has bestowed on me.’

  ‘Which, with all due respect, is precisely why I suspect that young Lord Fenwick-Langham’s gang would not suit you. Not at all.’

  ‘But you don’t know me at all, Clifford.’ Eleanor realised her voice had wobbled, which surprised her.

  ‘Indeed, my lady, we haven’t been much acquainted… until your recent arrival. When you were younger, we didn’t see enough of you at the Hall and then you went abroad…’ He broke off.

  ‘And then my uncle passed away…’

  He took a deep breath. ‘If I might be permitted, your uncle regretted not seeing more of you.’

  A flame of anger surged up inside her. She found her voice, but not her composure. ‘Really, that surprises me, because he packed me off to boarding school and failed to play any meaningful part in my life. Where was he all those years when I was growing up without parents?’

  She could see from his stiff demeanour that he wished he’d held his tongue.

  ‘Perhaps another time, my lady.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She took a swig from her water glass, hoping to dowse her anger before it spilled out any further into the discussion. ‘Now, we are here to solve a murder.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He took his cue and retreated to safer ground. ‘Shall we turn our attention to Sergeant Wilby? What suspicions do you harbour that have led to him being on your list?’

  ‘In short, when I reported witnessing a murder, he refused to investigate until the following day, leaving him plenty of time to remove any evidence of the crime. Surely, that is enough in itself? There are, however, two more good reasons to suspect him. One, when he did finally turn up the next day, he did nothing but fob me off and refused to take down most of my account for his report. Then when Inspector Seldon turned up here, he told me that Wilby hadn’t passed my eyewitness account on to any higher authority.’

  ‘Far from ideal, my lady, although I fear his actions could equally be a result of his incompetence, general laziness and boorish attitude to women as reliable witnesses.’

  Eleanor glowered at the memory. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘As he answered the phone at Chipstone Police Station when you rang, we can place him there at…?’

  Eleanor thought. ‘He was obviously there when I rang that night, but that must have been hours after it happened. As I’ve said, I checked my watch about five to ten minutes before I saw Atkins shot, which would have put the murder around ten fifteen to ten twenty. I was rather… erm, lost, I confess, so it took forever to find a route back to the Hall. Gladstone was thoroughly fed up and straggled all the way. Then trying to get through to the police took an absolute age.’

  His brow creased. ‘Regrettably, I did not note the precise time of your return home, my lady. I was out looking for you and only returned shortly before you arrived. However, I was aware of you using the telephone, so we can be sure therefore that Sergeant Wilby was at Chipstone Police Station manning the phones at around twelve thirty. What we really need to know, however, is if he was at the station the hours preceding the murder. We might, however, have trouble verifying his alibi, assuming we can find out what it is. Discretion may be needed.’

  ‘No need to get too hung up on discretion, Clifford. I usually find the direct approach to work best.’

  ‘If I might suggest we ask Miss Abigail to uncover what she can without arousing suspicion. It would, after all, be a shame to alert the possible murderer to the fact that we have him on our list of suspects.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ She sighed. ‘What about a motive for Wilby? Anything in your vast insider knowledge?’

  ‘Only the tenuous information through the village grapevine that Mr Atkins met with Sergeant Wilby a week ago. And apparently it was not a cordial meeting.’

  Eleanor’s ears pricked up. This is what she was looking for! ‘Do you have any idea what the meeting was about?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I have heard, however, that Mr Atkins has met with a number of high- and low-ranking members of the constabulary and council over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Maybe his remit from Whitehall is to weed out incompetence and laziness and Wilby was read the riot act. That would give him a motive – to save his sorry backside before Atkins could act.’

  ‘Possibly, my lady, but this is all conjecture at the moment.’

  ‘Agreed. I think the only course of action then is to interview Wilby, Cartwright and Lancelot again. But this time together we should be able to crowbar some decent clues out of them.’

  She looked across at Clifford’s pained expression.

  ‘Okay, Clifford, discreetly pry some clues out of them. Agreed?’

  He nodded and went to leave but stopped at her raised hand.

  ‘Clifford, what a chump I’ve been. What with all the novelty of being at the Hall and this murder investigation, I’ve quite overlooked the loss you have suffered in my uncle’s passing.’

  Clifford swallowed. ‘If I may be so bold as to say your uncle considered me not just a trusted servant, but also a trusted friend, despite the difference in our social status.’

  Eleanor gave a soft smile, borne of genuine warmth. Trying to ease his discomfort she said, ‘Can I help the transition to your new situation, less familiar though it is? Maybe you’d like me to foster a love of watching cowboy films or indulging in some comedies to help keep my uncle’s memory alive?’

  Clifford didn’t flinch. ‘It is kind of your ladyship, but perhaps I could suggest a more suitable way to honour your uncle’s memory?’

  ‘Suggest away. Anything to help.’

  ‘If we might work on your timing for dinner? Your uncle was always most punctual for meals, which was greatly appreciated by the staff. Perhaps you would like to continue in his footsteps?’

  Eleanor grinned. ‘I shall do my best!’

  Fourteen

  By the afternoon Clifford had vanished once again. Eleanor resolved to learn more about her enigmatic butler and his mysterious absences.

  Upstairs, she pulled on her new flannel cycling britches, a hip-length sweater in a not too incompatible tone of sage, and a patterned silk scarf from the wardrobe. Opening her bedroom door, she looked for her boots.

  ‘Gladstone!’ There was no reply. She’d have to see Mrs Trotman in stockinged feet.

  Padding downstairs, she stuck her head round the kitchen door. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Trotman.’

  ‘Good afternoon, my lady. Is there something I can get you?’ The cook paused in flouring a long wooden board.

  ‘Mrs Trotman, am I interrupting you?’

  ‘Why, no, my lady, of course not.’

  Eleanor realised the cook was still standing, with hands over the board. ‘Please don’t let me stop you. I fear Mr Clifford might start blowing smoke from his ears if I upset the meal schedule again.’

  Mrs Trotman laughed. ‘Mr Clifford has a most particular internal clock for routine, my lady. I think if all the clocks stopped, he’d still know when it was time to serve tiffin.’

  Eleanor was grateful for her cook’s warm personality. She was like everyone’s favourite granny.

  ‘Do you know where Mr Clifford is, Mrs Trotman?’

  Mrs Trotman shook her head. ‘It’s your uncle, m’lady. Even though he was brought up a gentleman, he never liked a lot of servants. Said it made him feel as if he couldn’t tie his own shoelaces without help. The Henleys have always been very self-sufficient, m’lady.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Trotman, but what has this got to do with Mr Clifford’s frequent absences?’

  ‘Well, in a household of this size you’d normally have other servants, footmen and the like, to run errands and so forth, but if Mrs Butters or me is tied up with laundry and cooking and such like, it’s down to Mr Clifford.’

  ‘But what about Polly?’

  The cook giggled. ‘Polly is… well, Polly. You can send her on an errand, but
whether she ever comes back, and whether she comes back with anything you sent her to get…’ She held her hands up in the air.

  ‘But doesn’t Mr Clifford find running errands, well…’ She thought of Clifford’s sniffy demeanour. ‘… beneath him?’

  Mrs Trotman gave her a quizzical look. ‘If I may, without speaking out of turn, my lady, perhaps you don’t know Mr Clifford all that well yet.’

  Eleanor cast around for something to break the slightly awkward silence.

  ‘Gosh, something smells amazing.’

  Mrs Trotman looked relieved to be back on safe ground.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be the bacon and onions. I’m making your late uncle’s favourite, bacon badger pie.’

  ‘Bacon badger pie? I’ve never heard of that, it sounds delicious.’

  ‘It’s an old Buckinghamshire recipe, looks a little like a giant sausage roll with crimped ends when it’s finished, my lady. It takes three hours to prepare, but the result is worth it. Well, that’s what your late uncle, God rest his soul, used to say.’ She looked wistfully out of the window.

  Eleanor was struck again at how much love and respect the staff and villagers showed when talking about her late uncle.

  Mrs Trotman turned back to Eleanor. ‘Mind you, I warrant you’ve eaten quite a few strange things on your travels, my lady.’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, let’s see… I’ve eaten goat, buffalo, kangaroo, alligator… and yak.’

  ‘What on earth is a yak, my lady?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a kind of giant Himalayan cow. They make yak tea as well.’

  ‘Tea from a cow! I never heard the like. Some folk are partial to a bit of squirrel round these parts, but I’ve never heard of no one making squirrel tea.’

  Eleanor decided not to tell Mrs Trotman about the even more exotic items she’d eaten on her travels and switched subject. ‘Please do continue cooking, I’m fascinated. I hope I’m not crowding your workspace?’

  ‘Not at all, my lady, ’tis very nice to have the company.’ The cook deftly shook the pan of sizzling bacon and onions on the stove, sending a delicious odour to Eleanor’s nose. Back at the table, she arranged a cloth-wrapped parcel, another wooden board and a large knife.