Death at the Dance: An addictive historical cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 2)

by Verity Bright

  Then again, she reminded herself, the police hadn’t established a definite time of death and weren’t treating it as suspicious. The newspaper had said around one in the morning, but where they’d got that piece of information from, she didn’t know. Unless someone had seen the car going into the canal, and as far as she knew there were no witnesses. Albie could easily have died a couple of hours either side of that time.

  She realised Johnny was talking to her.

  ‘But let’s not forget our incarcerated friend in all this. We’re relying on you, Eleanor, to pull something out of the bag and get poor old Lance back here where he belongs.’

  Eleanor didn’t know what to say. At the moment she wasn’t quite sure if Lancelot would be in any less peril than he already was, with the way Johnny was driving and knocking back cocktails.

  Johnny turned part of his attention back to the road. ‘Now, what’s our last piece of treasure to hunt, clue master?’

  Eleanor scrabbled for the paper on the seat next to her. ‘Right, yes that’s me, isn’t it?’

  Millie, who’d switched cars at the same time as Eleanor, rolled her eyes at Johnny, being sure Eleanor could see.

  Eleanor ignored her and shouted out the next rhyme on the crumpled sheet.

  ‘Take my hand, oh what a mass

  ‘That sweet caress of a tuneful lass

  ‘The only sound in old Sanctus land

  ‘Will be the roar of Lawrence Peel, the slow win man.’

  Johnny hit the steering wheel. ‘Balderdash and beyond, that’s a tricky one!’

  Eleanor was feeling decidedly green now. She could hold her drink if she needed to, and she was no stranger to fast cars, but that last oyster had definitely been off.

  ‘Maybe we should pull over and look at the map? We’ll likely save more time than chasing along trying to work it out.’

  ‘As long as you promise to hurl away from the rest of us,’ Millie called behind her.

  Eleanor leaned forward and cooed into Millie’s ear, ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  For the first time Millie looked unsettled.

  With the cars mounted on the verge, Eleanor spread on the bonnet the battered map Lucas handed her. She’d managed to discreetly down a bottle of water and was feeling quite restored. A cool evening breeze rustled the map. She looked up. ‘You’re the experts at this treasure hunt lark, and the area. What are the clues in this? Tuneful? Hand? Sanctus?’

  Coco leaned in and took the paper from Eleanor. ‘Who the heck was Lawrence Peel? Never heard of him.’

  Eleanor rubbed her forehead. ‘Are the clues usually this hard?’

  A mixture of nods and shrugs came in reply. ‘We usually call on the boffin. I mean, we used to,’ Coco said quietly.

  Eleanor frowned. ‘The boffin?’

  Millie rubbed a hand down her arm. ‘Albie. He always worked out the stupidly hard clues.’

  Johnny reached into his front seat and grabbed a bottle of Tanqueray gin. ‘A juniper toast to our dear departed friend, who would have taught us so much, had we been inclined to listen.’

  Taking a swig from the bottle, he wiped the top on his coat-tail and handed it to Coco who did the same before passing it to Millie. Lucas went last. He took a swig.

  ‘To Albie, RIP old chum. We’re sorry for everything.’

  Eleanor wondered what this last remark meant. Had Lucas also been taunting Albie like Johnny and Lancelot did? Did he think Albie had driven into the canal on purpose because he couldn’t take any more of their cruel jibes? Or was it something else altogether?

  Johnny quickly broke the silence. ‘Better crack on with this clue then. Come on, no slacking!’ He cocked his head towards Eleanor. ‘You know, Lancelot said you’re quite the sleuthing ace so this should be right up your alley.’ He leaned forward with a cheeky grin. ‘Or has he been labouring under a gross misapprehension?’

  Coco slapped his back. ‘Shut up, Johnny!’

  Millie folded her arms. ‘No, come on. I’m dying to see how good she really is.’

  The desire to slap Millie’s spite back down her throat miraculously sharpened Eleanor’s wits. ‘Whatever we’re looking for, it’s in a church, for sure.’

  Millie snorted. ‘Brilliant! There can’t be more than a couple of hundred in the area!’

  Unabashed Eleanor continued. ‘As I was saying, a church because the clues says, “Oh what a mass”, not mess. “Tuneful lass”, hmm, what makes a tune in a church?’

  Coco shrugged. ‘An organ?’

  ‘The choir?’ Lucas offered.

  ‘We can’t steal a whole choir, old man.’ Johnny laughed. ‘Damn good fun it would be though. I’m game and’ – he looked at Lucas with a mixture of admiration and amusement – ‘I know you are.’

  Lucas shrugged and said nothing.

  Eleanor snapped her fingers. ‘The bells! And “take my hand” must mean steal the clapper. Now this “Lawrence Peel” character…’

  Millie leaned in close to Eleanor’s face. ‘I do believe he was a Tory minister, son of the renowned Sir Robert Peel. How’s that?’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Impressive. I didn’t know you were such a mine of information. Sadly, however, irrelevant.’

  Millie looked daggers at her. ‘Irrelevant?’

  ‘Yes. “Peel” refers to the bell and “Lawrence” is the name of the well-known church that houses the bell with the clapper we’re supposed to steal.’ Let’s hope so, Ellie, or you’ll look pretty foolish.

  Coco pushed Millie aside. ‘How do you know it’s well known?’

  ‘Look “Sanctus” has a capital, it’s a name. So I assume it’s well known enough to find.’

  Lucas took the paper from Coco. ‘Okay, so if “Lawrence Peel” isn’t a person we’re looking for, who is the “slow win man” who’s going to roar?’

  Johnny stepped forward. ‘The roar will be the vicar’s rage at the theft of his precious clapper by the sound of it.’

  Eleanor grinned. ‘Absolutely right. Have you worked out the last part? Where do you think this church with its famous bell is?’

  ‘No clue,’ Millie muttered.

  Eleanor chalked up another childish, but satisfactory point. ‘It’s an anagram, silly! Is there a place anywhere near here called Owlswin, Swinlow or Swinowl?’

  ‘Owlswin!’ Coco and Millie chorused.

  Johnny clapped his hands. ‘In the cars, chop chop! To St Lawrence’s Church, Owlswin!’

  Lucas sidled up to Eleanor as she opened the rear passenger door. ‘Very impressive, Lady Swift. It seems everything Lancelot said about you was right. Someone needs to watch their step.’

  Back at home later that evening, Eleanor lay on the chaise longue in her silk house pyjamas and Ryeland wool shawl, with Gladstone wedged against her side.

  Clifford coughed. ‘Perhaps, my lady, there might be another way to obtain the information we seek. One where you are less likely to be killed or arrested, per chance. Unless, of course, your plan is to create the opportunity to converse with young Lord Fenwick-Langham through the bars of an adjoining cell?’

  Eleanor lifted her head just enough to offer a disapproving stare. ‘No, that is not my plan, as you know all too well. If you have a sensible suggestion, let’s hear it. Trust me, I don’t want to fall to my death scaling a church tower to steal a blasted bell. Nor do I want to be crushed under a train while trying to break into a signal box to nick some blasted lever! And I definitely have no interest in going to jail for breaking into a cricket ground, Lord’s if you will, to pinch their wretched stumps!’

  Clifford drew a sharp breath at her last words.

  ‘I know, all this stealing stuff really isn’t cricket.’

  ‘Actually, my lady, even though I obviously do not condone stealing of any kind, I was more concerned that you may have damaged the square. There is a very important match tomorrow between—’

  ‘Clifford!’ Eleanor’s tone held a warning note. ‘As I was saying, the only consolation is that I di
d find out some details about the night Albie was killed. Oh, and I observed something rather interesting.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, perhaps due to the late hour we should discuss Mr Appleby’s last evening tomorrow. However, I am curious as to what you observed.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t actually climb the church tower to steal the bell. Lucas did. And he climbed it like one of those steeplejacks who do it for a living.’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘Or like a…’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Cat burglar. Anyway, I convinced the others to store all the treasure hunt spoils here.’

  ‘Here, my lady? Is that absolutely wise?’

  ‘Yes, on two counts. First, I fully intend to return all the items to their rightful owners the minute this wretched business is over. And no, I haven’t got a plan for how to do so, before you ask.’

  ‘I’m sure when you have, my lady, it will be quite the thing. And second?’

  Eleanor wasn’t sure if Clifford was complimenting her or not, so she let it go. ‘And on the second count, it worked just as I intended in currying favour with Lancelot’s gang. They said they used to hide the stuff in a barn somewhere but the farmer was getting suspicious. The only thing that forces them to keep a vestige of morality, or at least an appearance of it, is the threat of their parents cutting off their allowances, so my offering to hide the spoils was much appreciated. Honestly, Clifford, they are great fun but also a terrible bunch of spoiled children who only get out of bed each day to see what mischief they can create on their pocket money.’

  ‘Then their pockets must be considerably more voluminous than average to house the vast amounts of cash needed to keep up with such activities.’

  ‘Quite so. And I hate to admit it, but with all that drinking and driving, it’s no wonder Inspector Seldon has no sympathy for poor Albie. On paper, it looks like it was only a matter of time before one of them ended up dead.’ Eleanor pulled her shawl closer round her shoulders. ‘But there’s something I’m struggling to put my finger on. Trouble is, I’m so tired, my brain isn’t working properly. Let’s catch up tomorrow.’

  Clifford gave his customary half bow. ‘Very good, my lady. Perhaps after your am-dram rehearsal? Ah! But as you are now a fully paid-up member of the bright young things, you then have dinner with the gang at the Criterion in Piccadilly. Perhaps after that? But, of course not, you are all then partying at the elegant residence of Beau Brennant. Until the morn I would imagine. Perhaps you will be more disposed to continue our conversation then?’

  Eleanor flopped back on the chaise longue and whispered, ‘Clifford, please kill me!’

  Twenty-Three

  The following afternoon, Eleanor entered the village hall determined it would be a short rehearsal. Reverend Gaskell spied her immediately and skipped over.

  ‘Lady Swift, how are you? What a blessing this delightful summer weather is.’

  ‘Hello, Reverend. The weather, as you say, is so bright… unlike your attire. Have you lost someone dear to you?’

  ‘Lost someone?’ He frowned in confusion then laughed. ‘No, no. I’m merely getting into character as the evil Doctor Wells. Respectable on the outside…’ He gestured at his sombre grey suit and then opened the jacket to reveal a scarlet waistcoat. ‘But devilish on the inside.’

  She smiled and looped her arm through his. ‘I can see your standing ovation already, Reverend.’

  He giggled. ‘This is such fun, don’t you think? My delightful housekeeper, Mrs Appleton, has been most kind in helping me learn my lines.’

  ‘Lines, ah yes…’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Cartwright! What a splendid performance. You’ll have the audience fooled for sure.’

  He pretended not to be delighted by her praise. ‘This won’t be my first performance, Lady Swift.’

  Reverend Gaskell skipped over, his red waistcoat flashing as his jacket lifted. ‘A true veteran of the amateur boards, Mr Cartwright.’

  ‘Most folks call me Thomas.’

  The vicar waved to the far side of the stage. ‘I say, Elizabeth, my dear. Did you hear Mr Cartwright’s rendition?’

  Shackley stepped forward in the wings. ‘Come along, we need to crack on with the next scene after tea and buns.’

  Elizabeth’s cheeks coloured. ‘Well, it’s only Nelson cake but the fruit peel gives a good zing. Morace thought it would keep us all fresh as daisies while we rehearse.’

  Eleanor took a large mouthful and swallowed. ‘This is quite simply the best I’ve tasted.’

  ‘A drop of brandy would liven it up a notch,’ Cartwright said as he took his position for the next scene.

  Penry sniffed. ‘As we say in the valleys, “everything we have in this world is just borrowed for a time”. And that includes health in my book. A glass of the strong stuff every now and then is all well and good, but when added to cake, that’s the start of ruin.’

  Cartwright threw his script onto the chair next to him and set his shoulders square. ‘Are you starting, Penry?’

  Penry smiled innocently. ‘Starting?’

  Cartwright strode across the stage towards him. ‘You know full well what I mean.’

  Reverend Gaskell tottered in between them waving the teapot. ‘As we are reminded in Ecclesiastes chapter nine, verse seven: “Go, eat your bread with joy and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do.” So, top up time for all, then we’ll be refreshed and cheered from within.’

  The two men glowered at each other before both turning back to their scripts. Eleanor sighed in relief. If they wanted to strangle each other that was fine with her, but not when she was meeting Lancelot’s gang in an hour or so. She took another slice of Nelson cake. Better fill yourself up, Ellie, those fancy restaurants always leave you hungry.

  Four hours later she would have eaten her words if she wasn’t already so full. The exquisite veal pappardelle entrée had seemed innocent enough, as had the main, a mouth-watering venison ragout with juniper berry garnish. Her mistake had been having extra parmesan arborio rice and the entire first half of the cocktail menu.

  As she idled at the restaurant’s famous Long Bar, she was dreaming of her bed, and another one alongside for her stomach.

  ‘And for madam?’ a thick Italian accent asked.

  ‘Um, a huge glass of water, please, but served in a fancy flute and shove some fruit or mint in so it looks alcoholic, will you?’ She checked that none of Lancelot’s gang were within earshot.

  The waiter smirked. ‘Senor Giordano, our esteemed chef, has done his job this evening? Your senses are sated, I think’

  Eleanor leaned on the bar. ‘That’s one way to put it, I suppose.’ She jumped as someone tapped her back.

  She turned to see Johnny’s seductive smile. ‘Life never tastes any better than at the Criterion, I say,’ he said.

  Coco appeared at his side. ‘I can’t wait for dessert. I’m going for a triple helping of that, that… Johnny, what’s that amazing chocolate dessert called again?’

  ‘Torta Barozzi,’ he replied with a flourish.

  The waiter returned with Eleanor’s drink. ‘Sir is to be congratulated on his flawless accent.’

  Coco waved at Eleanor. ‘Love the look of your drink, might have to try one of those. Back in a tick, off to the powder room.’

  Alone with Johnny, Eleanor was itching to ask what he knew about Albie’s death but he spoke first.

  ‘So, how is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why Lancelot, silly. You must have seen him in the last few days, surely.’

  She shook her head and took a large gulp of her drink, wondering where the conversation was going.

  He shrugged and leaned on the bar, his shoulder nudging hers. ‘Bit disloyal. Poor old chap, there he is languishing in the cells and his maiden in shining armour hasn’t taken the time to canter in to pep him up.’

  Eleanor turned sideways, leaning on one arm as she swirled the ice, orange slices and assorted greenery round in her
glass. ‘Maiden in shining armour? Why, Mr Seaton, that’s a bit over-romantic, wouldn’t you say? Something I would have expected poor Albie to have come out with.’

  ‘Ah, yes poor, dear departed Albie. It seemed none of his muses could help him that last, fateful evening. I rather fancy he should have been wearing the tragic mask he so often trawled out for a masked ball.’

  She frowned. ‘I remember him coming as a Raphael painting at the Langham Ball.’

  ‘Honestly for a young chap in the prime of his life, he was hideously intense.’

  ‘How short the prime of life can be.’ She stared in the mirrored tiles behind the bar to gauge Johnny’s reaction to this.

  However, if Johnny had a troubled conscience he hid it well. ‘Waiter!’ he waved at the bartender. ‘Two corpse revivers, here.’

  She scoured the cocktail menu. ‘What on earth is that? I can’t see it on the list.’

  He pushed the folded card down onto the bar. ‘A suitable tipple to toast a departed friend. Said to be strong enough to bring back the dead. You’ll join me? In Lancelot’s place, of course.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Of course.’

  The waiter coughed. ‘Would sir like Number One or Number Two revivers?’

  ‘Oh, twos, definitely.’ Johnny mirrored Eleanor’s stance, leaning on the bar. ‘Fitting spot, what? The Long Bar, here at the Criterion.’

  ‘Fitting for what?’

  ‘For an expert sleuth like you, obviously.’ At her blank look he grinned. ‘Oh, come on! You mean to tell me you don’t know that this is the very bar where Sherlock Holmes’ friend arranged for him to room with Doctor Watson?’ He leaned in close, his aftershave teasing her nostrils, ‘“Sherlock” is Lancelot’s pet name for you too, isn’t it?’

  She held her reviver cocktail up to the light. ‘Do you know, Mr Seaton, I believe the juniper garnish or the aged parmesan have clouded your mental faculties somewhat.’ She whispered into his ear. ‘Sherlock is a fictional character, a figment of an overactive imagination, as perhaps is the sleuthing persona you mistake me for. I say we leave all of this to the police and seriously start partying. I did want to ask you one thing, though.’