A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  ‘On the contrary, the Cremation Act was passed a good while ago. Her Royal Highness, The Duchess of Connaught and Strathearn, Princess Louise Margaret, was cremated last year and interred less than thirty miles away in the grounds of Windsor Castle.’

  ‘Fascinating, Clifford, thank you. What a simply splendid mine of information you are. A simple cremation for me then. But what of my uncle, was he cremated?’

  ‘Heavens no, my lady, your late uncle was firmly against such a practice.’

  ‘Did he say why he was so set against it?’

  ‘Indeed, he always insisted that if he were to be cremated, it would significantly hinder his plan.’

  ‘Which was…?’

  ‘To come back from the dead, my lady.’

  Twenty-One

  They were greeted by the ding of the doorbell, the genteel murmur of voices and the clinking of fine bone china. Eleanor looked around. Soft wall lights complemented the tasteful chandeliers and helped illuminate the silver thistle relief of the vanilla damask wallpaper. Below each light a framed farming scene had been hung: gleaming cows munching emerald grass, and spotless farm maids bearing baskets of wholesome vegetables.

  After their encounter with Pete, Clifford had suggested they stop for sustenance given, as he had pointedly put it, ‘Luncheon has been missed, again.’

  She’d agreed immediately, never being one to turn down food, especially when, according to Clifford, there was not five minutes from there an excellent tea shop whose fruitcake had won several awards.

  Before Eleanor could pick out a place to sit, a waitress approached and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Welcome, miss, sir, a table for two?’

  The doorbell dinged again.

  ‘Why, Inspector, good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Swift, Mr Clifford.’ DCI Seldon removed his bowler hat and balanced it against a large notebook he held to his chest. He shook her hand, then Clifford’s.

  Eleanor smiled. ‘How wonderful to run into you. Are you taking a break or has there been murder and mayhem in these delightful tea rooms?’

  The waitress gave her a brief glance of horror. DCI Seldon shook his head at the young woman. ‘Rest assured I am here for nothing more dangerous than the fruitcake.’

  ‘A man after my own heart,’ Eleanor said. ‘Inspector, would you care to join us? Only don’t feel the need to be polite if you’d planned for this to be a working break.’ She nodded at the notebook. ‘I shan’t be at all offended if you decline.’

  DCI Seldon’s brown eyes twinkled, in a way that belied his gruff exterior. ‘That is a kind offer, thank you.’

  ‘That’s sorted then.’

  Clifford turned to the waitress. ‘A table for three. In the gallery, please.’

  From her apron pocket the waitress produced a tiny notepad and a perfectly sharpened pencil. She smiled nervously. ‘What would you like today?’

  Eleanor cocked an eyebrow at the inspector. ‘How much time do you have? Shall we do justice to this fine establishment’s reputation and take three full afternoon teas?’

  ‘If that suits you, Lady Swift, that would be most welcome. I have to confess that luncheon passed me by, a hazard of the job.’

  ‘Three set afternoon teas, with warmed cups, and extra preserves.’ Clifford nodded to the waitress who wrote out the order with care and then led them to a short, raised section at the far end of the building. A highly polished handrail led them up the five steps to a generous, rectangular table, flanked by cream button-backed chairs. It promised a degree of privacy, since anyone approaching would be readily spotted.

  Clifford took her coat and hung it on the hat stand at the top of the short staircase, along with his hat. DCI Seldon shrugged out of his substantial blue wool overcoat and hooked the small chain loop over the peg alongside. He added his hat to the stand and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. The gentlemen waited for Eleanor to sit down, then took their places.

  DCI Seldon appeared distracted as he still held onto his notebook. ‘Actually, Lady Swift, there is a matter I wished to discuss with you. I had planned to call at Henley Hall. Perhaps you would prefer me to do so rather than be so coarse as to mention police matters over tea?’

  ‘Not at all. You are welcome to call at the Hall anytime. However, I’m caught up in a rather pressing matter myself, and you are unlikely to find me at home. Besides, my stomach is not at all squeamish, so now is a fine time to discuss whatever it is. Ask away.’

  Just then the waitress appeared with an even more nervous assistant in tow, both weighed down with an impressive array of tea and food.

  ‘Splendid!’ Eleanor beamed as they placed tiered stands of delicately cut sandwiches, fruit scones and cakes on the table. An enormous china teapot followed with three perfectly warmed cups.

  ‘Will that be all?’ the waitress asked.

  ‘For now, thank you.’ Eleanor stared at the quantity of food. It seemed that beneath their fine airs and manners, the clientele were proper country folk with robust appetites. ‘Golly, I hadn’t realised how famished I was.’

  ‘Shall I pour the tea, my lady?’ asked Clifford.

  ‘Rather!’ Eleanor sat back in her seat and put her hands together on the table. She smiled. ‘So, Inspector, are you now more inclined to believe my report of the murder at the quarry?’

  DCI Seldon grunted. ‘Lady Swift, there was never a question as to my believing, or disbelieving, your account. There are simply not enough facts to pursue an investigation.’

  Eleanor took the steaming teacup Clifford held out. ‘Thank you, Clifford.’ She sipped her tea. ‘By jingo, that is hot!’ She fanned her lips and clattered the cup and saucer down on to the table.

  ‘Are you alright, Lady Swift?’ DCI Seldon looked genuinely concerned, which surprised her, given his gruff manner.

  ‘Quite alright, thank you,’ she lied, taking a big gulp of iced lemon water.

  ‘Right.’ The inspector rearranged the finger sandwiches on his plate and picked up a salmon sandwich, looked at it with suspicion and took a bite. ‘I am sorry, but my investigations simply do not point to any other conclusion than that Mr Atkins met with an unfortunate accident.’

  Eleanor paused in the unladylike pose of having half a cucumber sandwich in her mouth, and half very much not. Setting the sandwich back on her plate, she stared at him. ‘I fail to see how you can make such a sweeping statement, Inspector. Surely, it must strike you as odd that only the day after I reported the quarry murder, Mr Atkins’ body turns up? Both men shot?’ Eleanor hesitated between the second and third tiers of delicacies. ‘Shall I start in on the fine-looking fancies or dive straight into the fruitcake? It’s a dilemma. What do you think, Inspector?’

  DCI Seldon sighed. ‘Lady Swift, I understand your belief that the missing body from the quarry was that of Mr Atkins, but there are no facts to back this up. And from the impression I have formed of the gentleman so far, the thought of Mr Atkins stumbling about in the gloom in a muddy quarry is not an image that comes easily to mind.’

  ‘And yet you did not bat an eye when I told you I had done exactly that!’

  DCI Seldon failed to hide a smile. ‘First impressions can be so unreliable… although not always.’

  An awkward silence pervaded the table.

  ‘More tea, my lady?’

  ‘Thank you, Clifford.’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you, I fear I must be getting along.’ DCI Seldon rose to go.

  Eleanor tutted. ‘Inspector, you’ve only just sat down. And you haven’t eaten a thing.’

  DCI Seldon shrugged. ‘A consequence of the job.’ He pocketed his notebook and pen. ‘May I ring you this evening, Lady Swift?’

  This time it was Eleanor who raised an eyebrow. ‘Ring me, Inspector?’

  He coughed. ‘If there are any further developments. I feel I owe you the courtesy.’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘No?’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Not until
you have devoured your share of the fruitcake.’ She held a slice out to him.

  He sighed but sat back down. ‘Thank you. Then, Mr Clifford, it seems I will require another cup of tea after all.’

  Twenty-Two

  From the Rolls Eleanor watched as the rows of flint houses gave way to hawthorn hedges and sheep scattered fields. Kites wheeled above in the cloudless sky. This was rural England at its finest.

  It was the morning following their meeting with DCI Seldon and he had, as promised, called the previous evening. However, the conversation hadn’t gone the way Eleanor had hoped.

  ‘Firstly, all facts considered, there is insufficient evidence to warrant any further investigation into the “quarry murder”,’ he had said. ‘I simply cannot justify the man-hours that would entail to my superiors, given the paucity of evidence. And secondly, Lady Swift, it is my duty to officially caution you against interfering in the investigation of Mr Atkins’ death. I must insist…’

  But she had replaced the receiver, and he was talking to himself.

  In the Rolls, Eleanor sighed. ‘It was a good idea of yours, Clifford, this drive after breakfast. I’m already feeling in a brighter mood.’

  Clifford slowed for a sharp corner. ‘I thought we could discuss the case and if you would permit me, my lady, I can show you the sites you never had a chance to get to know on your previous visits.’

  She leaned back in her seat. ‘That would be lovely, Clifford.’

  ‘And I have some information from Mr Sandford that corroborates one of our suspect’s alibi.’

  Eleanor sat upright. Trying to sound casual, she asked, ‘Oh, really, which suspect would that be?’

  ‘Young Lord Fenwick-Langham, my lady. It seems he did indeed attend a masked ball at The Goat Club.’

  ‘So someone recognised him? Even in a mask?’

  ‘Whether or not he was recognised in his mask, I do not know. I was informed by Mr Sandford, however, that the doorman of The Goat Club recognised our young lord when he and his fellow “Bright Young Things” removed their masks.’ Clifford coughed. ‘And much else besides and went, I believe the expression is, “skinny-dipping” in the ornamental fountain.’

  Eleanor suddenly found the scenery passing outside of great interest. She’d seen plenty of naked men in her time, you could hardly travel the world and not, but the thought of that particular gentleman in his birthday suit…

  Pulling herself together, she turned her attention back to Clifford. ‘Well, that takes him off our suspect list! But how did Sandford get to hear about all this?’

  ‘The doorman at The Goat Club telephoned Mr Sandford to request Mr Jenkins, the Langham Manor chauffeur, you may recall, pick up young Lord Fenwick-Langham as he was not in a fit state to drive. As it turned out, none of his companions were either, so Jenkins did the rounds dropping them off before returning to Langham Manor with our young lord.’

  ‘And the times tally?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady. Our young friends arrived in a rather intoxicated state to start with around nine o’clock, so it seems they were cavorting in the fountain by the time you saw Mr Atkins shot. Jenkins picked up his lordship and his friends from the club at two a.m. and had to drop them off before finally arriving at the Manor with his young lordship around three thirty, well after the events at the quarry.’

  A slow smile crept onto Eleanor’s face despite her best efforts. Don’t even think about it, Ellie! He may no longer be a suspect, but he’s still a complete clown!

  As the Rolls negotiated the corner, Eleanor switched her attention from the sheep-dotted fields outside to the dog sprawled on the rear seat.

  ‘I say, Gladstone doesn’t look the full ticket. Does he get car sick, Clifford?’

  ‘Only if he rides in the back, my lady.’

  Eleanor looked at the sulky bulldog again. ‘Well, he can sit upfront with me. Anything to lose that hangdog expression.’

  ‘Very good.’ Clifford pulled to a careful stop on the grass verge. The bulldog almost broke Eleanor’s arm in his enthusiasm to ride with her.

  ‘Happy now, oh spoilt Prince of Pooches?’ Eleanor teased as Clifford pulled away. The bulldog leaned against her, his chin resting on the window frame, relishing the wind flapping through his jowls.

  ‘And why Gladstone? I’ve been meaning to ask since I first arrived. Was my uncle a Liberal? A fan of our famous ex-prime minister?’

  ‘Not as such, my lady. Master Gladstone was named for another reason. On the day of his arrival at the Hall, he tumbled from the crate the courier set down in the hallway. The courier offered his unsympathetic view that the puppy was an unattractive, rigid fellow. He described it as a stiff creature, deeper in chest than he was long, and implied this was a most unfortunate purchase of your uncle’s.’

  ‘And how did my uncle respond?’

  ‘He graciously thanked the man for his observations. Then he picked up the puppy and named him after his Gladstone bag, robust and sturdy.’

  Eleanor chuckled. ‘What a wonderful story.’ She turned to Clifford. ‘And did my uncle enjoy driving?’

  ‘Your uncle enjoyed many long drives, my lady, even as far as Gwel an Mor House on the Western edge of Cornwall to visit his good friend Mr Cunliffe. Gwel an Mor is Cornish for sea view.’

  ‘That’s quite a trek.’

  ‘Your late uncle found the sea air most rejuvenating.’

  ‘And the brandy and card games most jovial, I’m sure.’ Eleanor smiled.

  Clifford studied the road ahead. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, my lady.’

  ‘Who was this Mr Cunliffe? I know so little of my uncle’s life.’

  Clifford took a sharp left-hand bend adroitly, easing back on the car’s speed. ‘Mr Cunliffe was an eminent financier, my lady. He retired from his noteworthy position at Cunliffe Brothers early in September 1912 and relocated to Cornwall to pursue his passion for collecting fine works of art. A loyal associate of your uncle’s, he was partners with him in several… endeavours.’

  ‘What a shame I didn’t have the chance to meet him. He might have been able to share some wonderful anecdotes of their time together.’

  ‘That can probably be arranged, my lady. Mr Cunliffe is still with us and was always most interested to hear your uncle’s accounts of your foreign adventures.’

  Oh heck, there was that lump in her throat again. She switched topic. ‘What’s that monument with the gold bauble on the hill?’

  ‘The Wildmoor family mausoleum. And that is Wildmoor House on the left.’

  Eleanor glanced at the bleak mausoleum and then switched her attention to the sprawling mansion. ‘It looks quite new.’

  ‘Despite its modern looks it was constructed around 1751. At the time the incumbent was Sir Cuthbert, third baronet.’ Clifford honked the horn as a pheasant threatened to commit hara-kiri under the Rolls’ wheels. ‘Around this time there were three consecutive years of bad harvests, or “Devil-walked fields”, as is the common expression in this area. This led to much hardship and unemployment in the area. To alleviate this, Sir Cuthbert took it upon himself to offer labouring positions to local villagers. The four-mile run of road that we have just driven had fallen into such disrepair that carriages frequently overturned. So he had the locals repair it from the centre of Radington to the entrance to Wildmoor House.’

  ‘What a fine fellow!’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Quite so. Of course, there was the other business which somewhat marred his good deeds in the eyes of some.’

  Her ears pricked up. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sir Cuthbert was a colourful character who had, among other extravagances, a full-sized galleon brought to the grounds of the house and moored in the lake.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘During parties Sir Cuthbert would divide the guests into two teams. One team would try to storm the galleon while Sir Cuthbert defended it with the other.’

  ‘What fun! Did the opposing sides throw rotten fruit and vegetables at each ot
her?’

  ‘No, my lady. Sir Cuthbert was very much the “eccentric”. He insisted they used real weapons loaded with wooden bullets. Even the galleon’s cannons fired wooden cannon balls. On one occasion a stray cannon ball set fire to the west wing.’

  ‘But surely guests would have been injured?’

  ‘Frequently, my lady, but Sir Cuthbert was something of a throwback to earlier, more primitive times. He also instigated the notorious Order of the Friars of Wildmoor, later known as the Wildmoor Club. They held their secret meetings in the West Radington Caves.’ He pointed up the hill to the right as they entered the small village of West Radington itself.

  Eleanor looked thoughtful. ‘And now many ancient families like the Wildmoors are struggling just to pay the taxes from that beastly war!’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, a lot has changed in terms of money and power. Whereas Lord Wildmoor would have been the most powerful man in the area, now the head of police or the mayor could rightly claim that title.’

  Eleanor nodded slowly. ‘I bet Lancelot wishes the Order of the Friars of Wildmoor was still in operation, that sounds just his sort of thing.’

  ‘Indeed. On one occasion a member of the club impersonated the King of Sweden at a royal gala.’

  Eleanor giggled. ‘I can imagine him doing just that! What happened?’

  ‘When the real king turned up, the imposter ridiculed him in front of the Royal Court and had him arrested before fleeing the Palace. Despite young Lord Fenwick-Langham’s natural… exuberance, I fear even he would have struggled to match such hijinks.’

  Eleanor wasn’t so sure. She felt certain that Lancelot had hidden talents that she was looking forward to discovering. Now, that is, she knew they weren’t for murder.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘All rise.’

  Eleanor looked around the post office from the doorway. ‘What the dickens?’

  A lugubrious rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’ wailed from an unseen gramophone.