A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  Unwrapping the parcel, she took out four huge potatoes and sliced them into equally sized thin batons. A wisp of steam twirled up with each cut. Through the open pantry door, she reached for a jug of milk. After splashing a generous amount into a smaller jug she filled a small glass and set it at Eleanor’s side with a smile.

  Eleanor took a sip as the cook shuffled round and lifted down two of the most enormous mixing bowls she had ever seen. In a trice, flour, cubes of butter and the milk were transformed into a crafted ball of dough in the first bowl.

  Transfixed by the activity, Eleanor looked up. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Now we make the badger.’

  Make a badger? How on earth did one make a badger?

  As if she’d read Eleanor’s mind, the cook continued. ‘But that needs the flour to be sifted just right.’

  ‘May I?’ Eleanor said the words without thinking.

  The cook smiled as she handed her an apron and a sieve before pushing a small sack of flour across the table.

  Eleanor struggled to lift it. ‘Perhaps, I should take up cooking for the sake of the exercise.’

  The cook laughed and came to Eleanor’s side. ‘The trick, my lady, is to hook it in the crook of your arm and tilt it forward, guiding the neck of the bag with your other hand.’

  Eleanor was enjoying Mrs Trotman’s company and from the way the cook was bustling around her, gently explaining, Eleanor thought the feeling must be mutual.

  The ‘badger’ element proved more complicated than Eleanor had expected. After sifting the flour and cleaning up the extra that had spilt, the cook showed her how to add shredded suet and water in exact proportions.

  ‘I fear precision is not my strong suit, Mrs Trotman.’ Eleanor peered into the bowl.

  ‘There’s always a rescue remedy for too much water, don’t fret, my lady. But it isn’t simply flour as some folk think.’ She took what looked like a giant saltshaker and sprinkled a fine dusting of rusk into Eleanor’s bowl. She then added a generous handful of finely chopped herbs.

  ‘I’m reminded of the ballad of “Scarborough Fair”!’ Eleanor exclaimed.

  ‘Very close, my lady. Only there’s no rosemary in bacon badger pie, only parsley, sage and thyme.’

  Eleanor finished the milk in her glass. ‘And the herbs are from the garden?’

  ‘Gracious, yes. Mr Clifford made sure Joseph brought them up first thing before he left.’

  Clifford! She’d come to grill Mrs Trotman about Clifford, not to learn how to bake four and twenty badgers in a pie.

  ‘Did Clifford say where he was going, I wonder?’

  ‘Mr Clifford did say he had some errands outside of the village but that he would be back in good time to serve dinner, should her ladyship be at home.’ The cook gave Eleanor a wink as she rolled out the pastry that had finished resting in the bowl.

  ‘He’s an intriguing fellow,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know he has been with my uncle for, well, longer than I’ve been alive I suppose. And you’re right, I don’t really know him. I was, well, only a child when I used to stay here.’

  ‘Mr Clifford is the epitome of loyalty. Your uncle, bless his soul, was most fortunate to have him in service all those years.’

  ‘Indeed. Does Clifford have any friends in the village?’

  ‘Friends? Well, everyone knows him. He does like to keep himself rather private, although him and Mr Sandford enjoy a tipple together sometimes, as is appropriate.’

  ‘Clifford seemed awfully cross that I turned up unannounced that first day.’

  ‘He was a little agitated under his starched collar, alright. But only on account of him having wanted to meet you properly at the station in the manner befitting the new lady of the house.’ The cook looked down at the spoon in her mixing bowl for a minute.

  Eleanor thought Mrs Trotman seemed embarrassed. Oh dear, you’ve no idea about the proper boundaries between employer and staff, Ellie. She looked at her food-covered hands and her empty milk glass. Whatever those lines were, it was obvious even to her that she’d seriously crossed them this afternoon.

  Deciding the staff would just have to get used to her ways, she asked a question that had been niggling her for a while.

  ‘The night of the storm, when I returned to the house a little…’

  ‘Dishevelled, my lady?’

  The women smiled at each other. The cook continued adroitly wrapping the neat pastry parcel with a fine web of hand-cut strings.

  ‘Yes. Where was Clifford? Was he at home while I was out?’

  ‘Initially, my lady, but not for long because the wind and rain got right up. So he went out to start the Rolls and then returned to find Mrs Butters.’

  ‘Why did he need to find Mrs Butters?’

  ‘Well, Mr Clifford worried that you might get lost, my lady, seeing as how you’d only just arrived. Mrs Butters came down with the message to keep lots of water boiling and to have tea and hot soup ready at a moment’s notice. Then I saw Mr Clifford driving past.’

  ‘And when did he return?’

  ‘Oh, much about the time you yourself did, my lady, maybe a few minutes before.’

  ‘That was most kind of you all. I fear I may have put you all to rather a lot of trouble after only a few hours of having arrived.’

  ‘Oh, it was no trouble, my lady. That’s what we’re all here for, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Eleanor untied her apron.

  ‘Oh, leave that there. I’m nearly finished stringing up the pie. I’ll be all cleared up in a jiffy and then I’ll start in on the stewed apples.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Trotman. This has been most enlightening, and enjoyable. What time will the bacon badger pie be appearing?’

  ‘Seeing as he’s to be the star of the dinner table, eight o’clock if that would suit you, my lady? Truth is, badger pie works at any time of the day so he’ll be happy to fit right around your schedule.’

  ‘Eight o’clock it is. I shall wait with tingling taste buds until then. Thank you again, Mrs Trotman.’

  ‘A true pleasure, my lady.’

  For the first time since arriving at Henley Hall, Eleanor decided it might, just might, one day feel like home.

  Fifteen

  The following morning, Eleanor thought a gentle stroll with her trusty sidekick through the woods behind the Hall would quell her nerves about the upcoming invitation to Langham Manor, but it was futile.

  ‘Oh stuff it, Gladstone. Why did I agree to go for this hideous luncheon? It will be a nightmare of etiquette and formalities.’

  Brought up abroad by bohemian parents, she was more at home at a Uyghur wedding parade or a Zulu reed dance than a stuffy English society ball. Her uncle had been aware of that, so, after her parents’ mysterious disappearance, he had sent her to that expensive girls boarding school where they’d tried to instil strict social etiquette into her. But by then she was an inveterate free spirit and all their Victorian teaching had been like water off a rather independent duck’s back.

  Gladstone picked up a stick that would have been better described as a tree and dropped it at her feet.

  ‘I can’t throw that, silly. I’d probably knock you out with it.’

  Having thus vetoed the game of ‘fetch’, she fell into a comfortable pace, while the bulldog charged left and right after squirrels. Eleanor needed to talk her thoughts through with someone and, seeing as Clifford had disappeared again this morning, she settled for Gladstone.

  ‘I don’t feel I’ve got very far with the case, Gladstone. I mean, who have I got as suspects? Cartwright acted most unhelpfully and his story with the gate always being locked doesn’t add up at all. Not to mention his mysterious “transaction” with our mystery man. And there was a motorbike in his outbuilding, although I couldn’t hear whether our mystery man rode off on it or not as Lancelot’s plane was overhead. Maybe it’s still in the outbuilding? Either way, Cartwright is suspect one. Then there’s our rather dashing pilot, Lancelot. He hangs
around near the quarry and has a motorbike and goggles. So, I suppose that makes him suspect number two.’

  Gladstone had found a murky pool of water at the base of a tree. He looked up at her with algae green jowls.

  ‘Yucky, boy! Okay, I’ll bring some water next time.’ She carried on pondering as they took the left-hand path. ‘And Sergeant Wilby is definitely suspect number three.’ She sighed. So, her total tally of suspects was the grand sum of… three. And she’d yet to establish a motive, even a tenuous one, for any of them.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh golly! Clifford! How had she not thought of him before? He knew Atkins, and had been peculiarly absent since the man died. Another thought struck her: Mrs Trotman had told her that on the night of the murder he had gone out in the Rolls after she’d left the house. Think, Ellie, think! Clifford had returned just before her and for him, he was positively flustered. He would have had time to drive round to the quarry entrance and… She looked behind her before turning back to Gladstone and whispering, ‘… and commit the murder!’

  She gathered her thoughts at this unexpected twist. Clifford may have had the means and opportunity, but, like the others, what possible motive could he have had? Her uncle had trusted him all these years. Could he have been that bad a judge of character?

  ‘Then again, Gladstone, I never really knew my uncle.’ She bent down and tickled the dog’s ear. ‘The truth is, I have no idea who to trust. Except you, boy.’ Pulling out her uncle’s fob watch she groaned. Time to get ready, Ellie. No chance of wriggling out of it now! She blinked and shook her head. Listen to yourself. Wriggle out of it? That’s not the Ellie we know!

  As she set off back to the Hall with Gladstone trotting by her side, she wondered what had happened to the bold, fun-loving Ellie who would have taken whatever shenanigans lay ahead in her stride?

  Later, up in her room, no matter how hard she tried to hurry, it seemed her body was as unwilling as her mind to get ready for the Langham Manor lunch.

  She stared at the three dresses she’d thrown on the bed. ‘Hmm, none of those are “the thing”, I’m sure. What do you think, Gladstone?’ A snore was his only reply.

  Pulling on the fanciest, she looked in the full-length mirror. She twisted left and right, staring at her rear view. What was the point? It was wrong in every conceivable way. The black-and-white, dotted dress had been designed for a lady to interview tradesmen or deliver chicken broth to an aged relative, not attend a society function.

  Ever the optimist, she threw on the crepe silk dress with a generous collar and asymmetrical wide ribbon placket on the outer hem, running from the neck to the waist. Stepping into her comfortable brown Oxfords, she was re-tying the laces when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Your car, my lady.’ Clifford’s eyes swept up and down Eleanor. ‘May I enquire how long you would like me to ask Jenkins, the Langham Manor chauffeur, to wait?’

  ‘Wait, Clifford?’

  ‘In order that you can dress for the event.’

  ‘I am dressed for the event.’ She smoothed the front of her dress and pointed one foot out to the side. ‘This is it.’

  ‘If I may be permitted, my lady, you may want to reconsider.’ He pulled open the door of the armoire.

  Eleanor gasped. Beautifully sequinned, silk and feathered dresses filled the hanging space. ‘Clifford, those are…’

  ‘Your mother’s. Yes, my lady.’

  The lump in her throat stopped her from saying another word. With teary eyes, she stumbled over and ran her hand along the row of sleeves.

  Clifford cleared his throat gently. ‘My apologies for the shock. I had hoped you would find these for yourself.’

  She nodded, still staring forward at the precious slice of her childhood that hung in front of her.

  ‘I’ll tell Jenkins that you will be twenty minutes.’ Clifford closed the door and she was alone, with a melting pot of emotions and questions.

  Mother’s dresses? How had they got here? Her mind reeled. She reached out and touched the closest one – it was so familiar, so soft, and it was bringing back so many snippets of memories she’d buried. Her heart ached and skipped at the same time. Those sleeves had held the arms that had hugged her, the ones that had tickled her and picked her up when she’d fallen.

  She pictured her mother. That loving smile and those piercing green eyes that always seemed to know what Eleanor was thinking. Brushing a hand across her cheek, she remembered how her mother had done the same before kissing her. ‘Good night, God bless, sweet dreams.’

  And then one morning, she had been gone.

  Eleanor realised she was swaying. She held a finger under each eye to hold back her tears and reached for her mother’s favourite grey silk gown. Her fingers ran over the bluebirds that were embroidered on the bustier and the delicate peonies set amongst an exquisite pattern of grasses swirling up from the skirt’s base. She peeled off the poor cousin of an outfit she’d been wearing and slid into the dress, holding her breath. The fine lace sleeves stopped just above her elbows, and the waist hugged her perfectly.

  In front of the mirror she gave in and allowed her tears to stream down her face, feeling a strange mix of grief and comfort as she stood seeing every inch of her mother in her own reflection. She wrapped her arms around an imaginary figure in front of her, hearing her mother’s strong and comforting voice, Ellie, this won’t do. Come on, darling.

  Her mother was right, as always. She could unleash those emotions later, but it couldn’t happen now. She had a murderer to catch.

  Placing the matching shawl on her shoulders, she scrubbed at her face with a handkerchief. After hastily reapplying a little kohl to her eyes and a dash of rouge to her cheeks, she took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Polly and Mrs Butters peeped over the bannisters as Eleanor made her way downstairs. ‘So beautiful!’ she heard Polly mutter before being silenced with a hasty, ‘Shhh, girl!’

  At the bottom of the stairs, Clifford stood waiting. He nodded without a word and turned. With her heart pounding, she followed him out to the waiting car.

  Sixteen

  ‘Welcome to Langham Manor, Lady Swift.’ The butler’s hazel eyes twinkled.

  ‘Ah, Sandford, I presume.’

  He gave a perfect butlery half-bow that Clifford would have been proud of. As he bent, Eleanor held back a giggle. She stood over him by several inches, enough to note the shiny bald crown of his head and his remaining hair slicked into a neat parting.

  ‘Lord and Lady Fenwick-Langham are receiving the luncheon guests in the rose garden, my lady. If you would be so kind as to follow me?’

  Sandford led her through the grand hall to the terrace. Eleanor looked out over the garden, with each bed marked out by geometric lines of cut box hedges. She closed her eyes and drank in the heavy scent of the blooms as they continued along the central path to a circular, narrow moat, filled with flowering lilies. In the centre was a scrolling ironwork pagoda, large enough to seat a party of thirty.

  ‘Lady Swift,’ Sandford announced from the terrace to the group under the shade of the cream silk awning.

  Carrying the elegance of her title with impeccable grace, a tall lady in her late fifties bustled down the path, her arms outstretched, with her tight, greying curls and deep-blue eyes creating a striking combination. Lady Fenwick-Langham was obviously a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘Lady Swift, welcome, my dear. We’ve been so looking forward to making your acquaintance.’

  ‘Lady Fenwick-Langham, such a pleasure.’ Eleanor smiled. ‘I have to congratulate you on your beautiful rose garden, I have never seen anything so exquisite.’

  The lady of the house puffed up with pride. ‘Thank you, my dear. It is my own little project, my haven. And you must forgive me. It was very remiss not to have asked you to Langham Hall earlier.’

  Turning to the stout man who had appeared at her elbow, Eleanor held out a hand and tried hard not to stare at the monstrous handlebar moustache
that met each ear in an unruly curl of grey whiskers. ‘Lord Fenwick-Langham, I presume?’

  ‘It’s Harold, my dear, and the pleasure is all ours. Fancy the wife not having asked you up before, quite shocking.’ He winked and offered his arm. ‘Shall we introduce our new guest to the rest of the gang, or is there something else on the social agenda first?’

  Eleanor giggled. Lady Fenwick-Langham gave him a mock slap on the shoulder. ‘Ignore him, my dear. I think the champagne has begun to leak into his boots already. Shall we?’ She pointed towards the others.

  Under the awning, coloured silk sashes decorated a handful of chairs suggesting it was an intimate gathering. Lady Fenwick-Langham clapped her hands. ‘Everyone, this is Lady Swift, our latest and most welcome addition to the area. Lady Swift has taken over Henley Hall after the tragic death of Lord Henley.’ She turned to Eleanor. ‘We all extend our deepest sympathies.’

  Eleanor turned to the assembled company. ‘Thank you, you are so kind.’

  ‘Champers, my dear?’ Lord Fenwick-Langham waved to the drinks waiter. ‘Personally, I’d take two. Oils the tongue superbly if polite chatter isn’t quite your thing.’ He gave her elbow a gentle nudge and tootled off, calling ‘Pudders, you reprobate, your glass is empty, what!’

  His wife shook her head at his retreating form. ‘I should have banished him to roam the fields with his favourite hunting gun, rather than pouring him into a morning suit and inflicting him on our guests,’ she whispered to Eleanor.

  Lady Fenwick-Langham took her arm. ‘Now then, introductions. Lady Swift, Viscount and Viscountess Littleton.’ She lowered her voice. ‘His American wife. From Boston.’ Her lips twitched. Eleanor held out her hand to the immaculately suited gentleman who started to rise at their arrival. His wife was swathed from head to toe in the latest Parisian fashion of violet silk pleats.

  ‘Delighted.’ As Viscount Littleton rose, he knocked the stiffened lace brim of his wife’s hat.