A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  ‘Oh, I see, you were working,’ said the dowager countess, emphasising the word ‘working’ with disdain.

  ‘Wasn’t that frightfully dangerous?’ Cora whispered, her eyes open wide.

  ‘Thankfully never to the point that I felt compelled to call in her majesty’s cavalry.’ Eleanor smiled and met the colonel’s gaze.

  ‘I can’t wait to hear how you pedalled through the deserts,’ the colonel sneered.

  ‘If you insist,’ Eleanor said. ‘Where would you like to hear about? Following the Silk Road through Turkey, Persia and China? Crossing the Himalayas? Travelling in Egypt through the Valley of the Kings? Seeking out new safari locations in South Africa?’

  ‘Oh, Africa!’ Miss Wynne cooed.

  ‘China, for sure,’ the viscountess offered. ‘The silks are to die for.’

  ‘Persia!’ Viscount Littleton called out. ‘I want to hear the desert stories.’

  ‘No, I vote for Turkey,’ Lady Fenwick-Langham countered, ‘the home of the rose. I want to hear all about where my beautiful blooms originated. Did you know that royalty considered rose water to be currency three hundred years ago, so highly prized was it?’

  ‘The Silk Road!’ Lord Fenwick-Langham waved enthusiastically to the footman to refill everyone’s glasses.

  Lancelot sat back with a grin and winked at Eleanor.

  Lady Fenwick-Langham nodded for Sandford to serve the entrées while Eleanor enthralled the table with her adventures.

  The viscountess dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth. ‘Lady Fenwick-Langham, the lobster was quite sublime. One must congratulate the chef.’

  ‘Thank you, Delia, they were the finest of yesterday’s Isle of Tiree catch, shipped overnight by train.’

  This stirred the dowager countess from her doze. ‘They’ll have left Hynish Pier at eight o’clock on the dot, mind ye. Aye, our Scots fishermen are the finest in the world.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of beef Wellington vol-au-vents served with caramelised onions and Madeira port relish, and the pouring of glasses of claret.

  Lord Fenwick-Langham smacked his lips. ‘Let the feasting and storytelling recommence. Where are you whisking us to now, my dear Eleanor?’

  Out of deference to the hostess, Eleanor proposed, ‘Turkey, the land of the rose and of the magnificent Ottomans, such a fiercely proud and dynamic group of people.’

  ‘Come on, spill the beans, old girl, what scrapes did you get into… and out of?’ Lancelot muttered.

  Eleanor took a breath and looked around at the expectant faces. ‘Well, perhaps I could tell you about my stay with the eminent Sultan, Mehmed the Fifth. You see, he needed a little help in solving a small problem.’

  ‘And you helped solve it?’ Cora lay across her plate in her excitement.

  ‘It was merely a matter of miscommunication.’

  The colonel snorted. ‘Are we to believe you were an ambassador for His Majesty’s government?’

  ‘Gracious, no. I simply thought it a tragedy that lives should be lost over such a misunderstanding. You see, the sultan had inadvertently angered a powerful leader in the south of the country. They are a fearsomely proud race, the Turks. The sultan, however, was a very kind and gentle man, more suited to learning than fighting. After consulting his advisors, all of whom informed him that bloodshed was inevitable, he asked me, as an outsider, what I thought he should do.

  ‘I asked him what was his most-prized possession, to which he replied without hesitation, “Muhteşeml”. I must explain, the Turks are extraordinary horsemen and love their horses, and Muhteşeml was the sultan’s favourite. A Turkoman stud, the father of no less than three champions, his incredible coat shone like gold in sunlight. I suggested that the only answer was to offer Muhteşeml to his adversary as a gift, which, even though it tore at his heart, he did.

  ‘His adversary was so humbled that the sultan was willing to part with his most-prized possession to maintain their friendship, that he immediately ceased all hostilities. In fact, the gift of Muhteşeml not only reunited the two regions again, but went on to inspire an annual interstate horse race they’ve run every year since.’

  Her audience devoured every word throughout the main course of roast pheasant and garden vegetables roasted in honey from the manor’s hives. Among other exploits, she recounted the tale of her run-in with the Persian army in the Dasht-e Lut salt flats and the Hunza tribesmen befriending her in the high Himalayas. Her exploits in South Africa entranced the assembled company through the entremêts of dressed vegetables, devilled sardines and savarin of peach with goat’s cheese. But over the dessert course of cherry and pear tart they returned, fascinated, to her tales of the Silk Road.

  ‘But you couldn’t have pushed your bicycle across that desert for two whole days!’ groaned the viscountess.

  ‘I didn’t really have a choice,’ Eleanor said. ‘It was either that or lie down in the sand and hope the buzzards were hungry.’

  Eighteen

  There was a most peculiar huffing sound coming from the room the staff referred to as ‘the snug’. Eleanor saw nothing snug or cosy about it save for the fact it was a tenth the size of every other room. She peered round the door. Inside, Mrs Butters had a hand either side of Gladstone’s chest and was attempting to dislodge him from the sofa.

  She grunted and gave him an extra hard yank, but succeeded only in falling backwards at Eleanor’s feet.

  ‘I’m afraid Gladstone is becoming more wilful in his old age, my lady. And with his paws all over the leather Polly put her best elbow grease into buffing up only the other week.’

  Eleanor laughed and offered Mrs Butters a hand up.

  ‘Perhaps we could let him rest. To save Polly wasting her efforts in future, there is a red-and-blue blanket in my valise. It’s a quirky combination of twill and plaid but it would cover the sofa perfectly. And it would protect the leather from Gladstone’s scrabbling claws when he dreams of chasing rabbits.’

  Mrs Butters laughed. ‘But we probably have something less precious than your travelling blanket in the linen store that we could use.’

  ‘Really, it is a well-used old thing. I only brought it along out of habit… and maybe a little sentimentality. It was a present from a delightful family that helped me out in a tiny mountain village in Chinese Turkestan. I did so often get lost trying to follow that elusive Silk Road.’ She beamed at the housekeeper. ‘I can’t think of a more fitting end for a beautiful gift that kept me warm… well, mostly warm, on many a freezing night.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch it now, my lady. Gladstone will think he’s already up and gone to heaven. It’s kind of you to think of Polly not wasting her time too.’ Mrs Butters bobbed a half-curtsey and left the room.

  Eleanor leaned over and rubbed the bulldog’s soft, warm tummy. ‘Sleep well, old friend. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘All aboard!’ Eleanor closed the passenger door with considerable force.

  ‘Did you find your coffee a little strong, my lady?’

  Eleanor ignored Clifford. Even though she now had him pegged loosely as suspect number four, she saw no choice but to work with him. After all, he was the only one who believed her and besides, she’d yet to come up with anything remotely resembling a motive for him wanting to kill her uncle’s old friend, so he was largely on her list to make it seem less lacking in suspects. ‘Now, I’m going to watch your every move so I can learn how to drive this infernal machine.’

  ‘Very good.’ Clifford remained expressionless but Eleanor suspected she had seen a tiny shudder.

  ‘Excellent idea of yours, this, Clifford, two chaps out on field ops, rooting out the killer. He’s as good as caught!’ She rubbed her hands together.

  ‘Or her.’

  ‘Or her?’ Eleanor considered the idea. ‘You think it might be a her? I’d never thought of that!’

  ‘I have no reason to think so in this particular case, my lady, I was merely giving the fairer sex their due. Aft
er all, “Destruction often lurks in women’s eyes” as Edward Counsel noted in his famous Maxims. And in these times of increasing equality, it would be churlish having given women the right to vote, not to give them the right to murder. Or at least the equal chance to be considered as a suspect in a murder.’

  ‘Well said, Clifford, how very Victorian of me, even though I’m reasonably sure that isn’t what the noble ladies Pankhurst and Fawcett necessarily have at the centre of their suffragette vision.’ She frowned. ‘But we know the murderer was a man, I saw him.’

  The car rumbled into life. ‘True, my lady. Then again, as you proved yourself, it is a fairly simple matter for a woman to pass herself off as a man. Especially on a dark, stormy night.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Clifford, that does…’ she trailed off as she digested his words. ‘What the…! Clifford, how did you know about that?’

  ‘About what, my lady?’

  ‘About me passing myself off as a man? That was in Isfahan.’

  The Rolls pulled away, forcing Eleanor back in her seat. How could Clifford have known? Unless…

  ‘Clifford, did my uncle keep tabs on me after I left England?’

  The car picked up speed and Clifford changed gear, his expression enigmatic. ‘I really couldn’t say, my lady.’

  Eleanor went to speak and then stopped. If Clifford wanted to tell her at his own pace, then she would let him. She glanced at her uncle’s butler, former batman and, she realised, friend. There was so much she didn’t know about him and her uncle. But, it seemed, there was plenty they had both known about her.

  Before going to the quarry, they stopped off in the village for an errand for Mrs Butters. Eleanor was out of the car before Clifford could react.

  ‘I’ll get the items on Mrs Butters’ list while you wait here, Clifford. I can meet some more of the villagers, as I’m supposed to be the Lady of the Manor.’

  Before he could respond, she crossed the pavement and entered the bakery they’d parked next to. The doorbell pinged as Eleanor stepped inside. The delicious smell of fresh bread and hot cinnamon instantly seduced her senses.

  Feeling like an orphan clutching a precious penny she had found on the pavement, she tried to take in the full array of goodies on display. The counter was crammed with tray after tray of tempting sultana slices, cherry sponge cakes and mixed fruit pies, each with a perfect crust. Behind it, spotless wooden racking with loaves of every shape and size filled the rest of the shop. Glazed wheatsheafs decorated the walls, complete with wheaten harvest mice nestled amongst the sheaves.

  ‘Why, Lady Swift, what an honour!’ A radish-cheeked man wiped his floured hands on his apron.

  Eleanor was accustomed to being the latest news now. ‘Good morning, Mr…?’

  ‘Morace Shackley. Welcome to our wonderful village. Little Buckford is in mourning for the death of your uncle. My sincere condolences, m’lady.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shackley. You’re very kind. Mrs Butters has… er, sent me with a most comprehensive list.’

  ‘Sent you! Oh dear. ’Tis most uncommon, m’lady.’ Shackley’s face turned red. ‘But… but most welcome.’ Taking the proffered list, he peered at it. ‘I see, the usual and summat a bit extra. I won’t keep you a moment.’

  ‘No hurry at all, Mr Shackley. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me a little about the village whilst you pack up Mrs Butters’ order.’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘I’ve just come from Mr Penry’s fine establishment’ – another little white lie – ‘and I rather think I might have put my foot in it. You see, I mentioned Mr Cartwright of Pike’s Farm.’

  Shackley sighed. ‘Oh, that would be an awkward conversation alright, m’lady.’

  ‘Dear, dear, are they fighting over something particular?’

  ‘Oh, they’s not fighting. No, no. You got to be near enough to take a swing if you’re going to fight. Penry wouldn’t stand for being within thirty yards of Cartwright, I’d bet my bakery on that. Unless that is, it’s for one of the local amateur dramatic society plays we put on twice a year. They’re both members, same as me, but they have to be kept apart even then.’

  ‘Just so I know what to avoid, what is Mr Penry’s difficulty with Mr Cartwright?’

  Shackley wiped his hands distractedly. ‘Well, thing is, Dylan Penry is a cornerstone of the village so I wouldn’t want to spread gossip.’

  Eleanor rested her wicker pannier on the counter. ‘Quite the opposite, Mr Shackley. You are simply sparing me some unladylike blushes.’

  ‘Yes, of course, quite a different thing altogether.’ Shackley leaned towards her conspiratorially. ‘Truth is, m’lady, some folk would say stealing was wrong, whether it was you who stole it or you who are merely profiting by another man stealing it.’ He paused. ‘But then Mr Cartwright isn’t “some folk”, if you get my drift. And Mr Penry is a man of strong moral principles.’

  The shop bell jangled. Two old ladies shuffled in, greeting Mr Shackley and Eleanor as they did so. It was obvious that Shackley had no intention of saying any more with the ladies present.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shackley.’ Eleanor added the white-paper parcels to her shopping pannier. ‘You’ve been most illuminating. And, you’ve definitely spared a lady’s blushes.’

  Shackley nodded. ‘Delighted to have been of help, Lady Swift.’

  Eleanor drummed her fingers on the walnut dashboard of the Rolls as a vista of hedgerows passed unheeded.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t very illuminating, except now we know Cartwright is definitely mixed up in something crooked. But what exactly?’

  Clifford nodded. ‘In a close-knit village like Little Buckford, my lady, everyone may know everyone else’s business, but it does not mean they want to impart that knowledge to…’ He hesitated.

  ‘A stranger? An offcomer?’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, to the quarry!’

  The quarry gates were eight-foot high and barred with a row of uncapped prongs protruding from the top. She lifted the heavy padlock, which felt surprisingly cold given the warmth of the sun.

  ‘Well, Cartwright’s story of the gates always being locked seems to be true,’ she called to Clifford as he walked round to the rear of the car. ‘At least, it is this morning.’

  Leaning back, she scanned the run of the fence. Clifford came to join her.

  ‘Clifford, I’d say the easiest route is up and over the right-hand gate. Do you see that tall pile of… whatever that is by the gatepost? We simply scramble over, using the post to balance ourselves. Then drop down the other side landing neatly on that other pile of…’ she peered through the bars, hands holding the upright metal struts ‘… of, well, it looks like gravel, wouldn’t you say?’

  The voice that answered wasn’t Clifford’s.

  ‘Gravel it be. Just right for turning an ankle on.’

  Eleanor and Clifford spun in unison.

  ‘Even in stout boots.’ Cartwright nodded at Eleanor’s feet and lifted the front of his cap the barest half an inch in greeting.

  ‘Mr Clifford.’

  Clifford nodded back.

  Cartwright looked across to Eleanor. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, Lady Swift, that you appear to have taken up a keen interest in the business of quarrying. ’Tis a bit unusual for a lady, mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite the student, Mr Cartwright. One must expand the mind to save it from stagnating like a rotten cabbage.’

  Cartwright smiled as he pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on and rocked on his heels. ‘So, ’tis flint and sand you’re interested in now, is it?’

  It sounded more like a threat than a question.

  ‘Less so than murder, Mr Cartwright. But I think you know that already.’

  ‘Seems I do know that. And what I’m more interested in is two people, lurking about trespassing somewhere they’ve no business.’

  ‘You are quite the model citizen, Mr Cartwright. Well, you can rest assured, there’s simply no trespassing going o
n, none that I can see from where I’m standing, anyway.’

  Cartwright looked unconvinced.

  Clifford gestured towards a substantial beech tree that lay where it had fallen on the opposite side of the road. ‘Not a good time for that storm last week, Mr Cartwright.’

  Eleanor smiled to herself. Clifford had all the subtlety she lacked. The night of the storm had also been the night of the murder! Now they could find out if Cartwright’s alibi held water or not.

  Cartwright nodded. ‘Yep, bad timing alright. Could have been worse, I suppose. I didn’t lose any lambs, but the flock was in a heck of a state. And then blow me if the wind didn’t get under the roof of the barn with the nursing pens in. Ripped it half off. I had a job hanging on to the beams and trying to stop the tin top from sailing off over the copse altogether. Nailing roofs in high winds ain’t my favourite.’

  ‘Well, at least your tools would have been ready at hand, Mr Cartwright,’ Eleanor chimed in.

  Cartwright shot her a look that made her pleased Clifford was standing between them.

  ‘Is you suggesting something, Lady Swift?’

  ‘Good gosh, not at all. I was merely saying that you omitted to mention the barn roof coming unpinned in your previous conversation with me. After all, the night of the storm was also the night of the murder I witnessed in the quarry, and you told me you were sharpening your tools at home all evening.’

  Clifford stepped in. ‘Would that have been around ten o’clock you left the farmhouse to mend the roof, Mr Cartwright?’

  ‘As it happens, yes. Took me almost two hours in the end to fix that darned roof.’

  Clifford and Eleanor exchanged a glance. Just long enough to get to the quarry, shoot Atkins, take the body to his house, arrange it to look like an accident, get back and clean up!