by Tessa Arlen
“Maybe it was a farmer’s son who decided to take the horse for a gallop? Dolly’s run from the lane to the kitchen garden might have nothing to do with the murder at all.”
Mrs. Jackson felt almost annoyed. “Mr. Bray was at Brook End Lane in his broken-down motorcar, right by the horse pasture. M’lady, I am wondering if Mr. Bray rode Dolly?”
But her ladyship was already shaking her head. “No, Jackson, it simply won’t wash. If you saw Mr. Bray you would understand, his right leg was badly damaged in a hunting accident. He can no longer ride. It cannot have been him. And another thing, perhaps Mr. Bray did not recognize Private Hector being introduced to him as Lieutenant Carmichael because he had never met him.” She closed her eyes and lifted both hands to hold her head as if to stop it from spinning. “I need to have a talk with my daughter,” she said, “get her impressions of their meeting in Brook End Lane, and we should be ready to run off to Gloucestershire as soon as we can locate this Corporal Glenn. Because we certainly need more information about who is who, and this Glenn person might be able to supply it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Clementine was up early and ready for whatever the morning would bring. It can’t be this hot so early in the day, she thought as she walked along the corridor to her daughter’s room before Althea left for Holly Farm.
“Are you coming too, Mama?” Althea asked as she took in her practical gardening clothes.
“No, darling. I thought I would show Mr. Bray the rose garden, since he cannot come with you to the farm, and he must be bored to tears sitting in the library all day. But before you go I wanted to ask you something.” Althea’s face assumed an expression of daughterly obedience. “How was Mr. Bray when you came upon him in his broken-down motorcar the other day?” Althea looked at her as if she hadn’t understood. “I mean what was he doing, just sitting in his motor?”
Althea looked even more puzzled. “Yes, he was sitting in his motor.” She hesitated and then added, “He was awfully pleased to see us.”
“How did he know who you were?”
“I introduced both of us. He said something like, ‘Rescued at long last, I’ve been stranded here for hours. I’m on my way to Iyntwood and my wretched motor stalled and I can’t get it going.’ I told him that Papa was the Earl of Montfort and who I was. And he said his name was Edgar Bray and I realized that he couldn’t have gone very far for help because of, you know … his leg.”
“And Lieutenant Carmichael, where was he when this conversation was going on?”
“Just standing there; I introduced him, and he said he knew nothing about mending engines, poor Ian.” Her face fell at the thought of the murdered man.
“You didn’t get the impression that they might have known one another. Perhaps met before?” Clementine asked before Althea could dwell too long on poor Ian.
Althea looked so startled that her voice was almost loud in the quiet corridor “No … of course not—why would you think that?” and Clementine hastily tried to cover her tracks by saying, “I am sorry darling; it must be the weather, such a headache this morning. I can’t imagine how they could have met before.”
* * *
Clementine worked methodically through the rose bed closest to where Mr. Bray was sitting, reading a pamphlet on cross-strains of sheep bred to produce both high-quality wool and the springtime lamb that graced every table in the country with a roast joint on Sunday. Occasionally she threw the odd remark or question at him, until with the utmost patience he put his pamphlet down and gave her the attention she required.
“I think we have become a much closer farming community here since the beginning of the war. Don’t you find that we depend on our neighbors even more than we did a couple of years ago?” She kept to the only interest in common they might have, that of being a landowner or a woman married to one—he certainly couldn’t care tuppence for roses since scarcely an exclamation of appreciation had he made on their arrival in the garden. He had patiently waited for Hollyoak to organize a lawn chair and set a jug of lemonade on a little table next to him in one of the most acclaimed rose gardens of the decade without even a glance at its exquisite symmetry of design and equally glorious specimens.
“Arable farming must be hard with so many men in the military. Sheep farming has always been about the shepherd and his dogs. And since most good shepherds are elderly men I have been most fortunate. It is lambing time and shearing that present the real problem. Lady Althea suggested I talk to my local Land Army office, she has been most helpful.”
She bent down to tie up the heavy head of the Madame Plantier rose that tended to flop a little on its slender stem; its scent filled the morning air and she stopped work to enjoy it. “Yes, so much has changed, and not just in the country. Althea says that London is full of young men and women going to nightclubs, but I have not had the time to go to town since we opened Haversham Hall.”
“Never go there myself, can’t stand the place,” he said as is eyes wandered back to his pamphlet. “Like your lovely daughter, I am quite contented in the country.” And unlike your man-about-town brother, she thought as it occurred to her that even before the war this brother had stayed at home to run the estate, while the other had enjoyed a more cosmopolitan existence. They had undoubtedly moved in different social circles and perhaps did not share the same friends. But Lieutenant Carmichael was from Gloucestershire and he had joined up in Cheltenham, so there was a very strong chance Edgar Bray knew him. She decided to keep Althea the center of their conversation and lead it back to the day his motor had broken down on Brook End Lane.
“We offered our London house to the War Office as a private hospital,” she explained. “But Althea has no interest in nursing, she is far more interested in the business of farming,” she tested, also hoping to find out whether or not this man had any interest in her daughter, or whether he was still a guest in their house for other reasons. She had his immediate attention. “She is immensely knowledgeable for such a young woman.”
He put down his pamphlet and poured two glasses of lemonade, and getting to his feet he picked one up and with the aid of his stick walked very carefully to her. He had not filled it quite to the top, so it didn’t spill. “Hot work gardening in this weather, Lady Montfort.” He offered her the glass. “Your garden is quite lovely.” He looked around him at the house, its grounds, and out toward the sweep of land below them with approval. “No wonder Althea is so happy here.”
“Thank you.” She sipped lemonade and thought of her daughter’s addiction to travel before the war. “Yes, she has always loved the country, far more so than our son. Harry is passionately interested in anything mechanical. Althea should have been a boy!” She handed him her empty glass and bent to tie a strong knot to anchor the wayward rose in its place.
“That would have been a terrible waste.” His smile as he referred to Althea was tender, and was it the heat of the morning or did Clementine imagine that he colored? She beamed her approval and managed to bite back an exclamation of annoyance as Madame Plantier sprang away from her gloved hands and scratched the tender inside of her arm.
“Althea had just finished giving Lieutenant Carmichael a plowing lesson the morning you arrived, before she found you on Brook End Lane,” she said as they walked back to the table together and sat down in the shade. “Actually, Lieutenant Carmichael told Althea that he came from your neck of the woods. I am surprised you did not know him.” She put down her half-finished lemonade, as someone in the kitchen had put in too much sugar and it was far too sweet for her taste.
“Gloucestershire is a large county, Lady Montfort, and the estate keeps me continually busy so I am afraid I don’t accept invitations as often as I used to. My brother is, I mean was, far more sociable than I am. We did not see much of one another in the last couple of years, but it is hard to believe he has gone,” he said, and she turned her head away and gazed at her rose garden, feeling gauche and unmannerly.
“So awfully upse
tting for you … for all of us…” she said to cover her embarrassment at her uncomfortably direct questions.
He quickly made it all right for her: “Yes, after everything Evelyn went through it was his fate to bump into that very unhappy old man. I think we sometimes forget that grief can unhinge even the steadiest of us. Any news of Sir Winchell’s trial?”
“Quite soon I expect.”
He nodded, and taking his stout walking stick he planted it firmly so that he could get to his feet, and Clementine glancing over her shoulder saw the distant figure of her husband approaching across the lawn. “This business is most distressing for you and your family, Lady Montfort, especially since Sir Winchell is an old friend.” She looked up; his eyebrows were raised in regretful commiseration as he started to get to his feet, and she saw, too late, that his heavy stick was caught between the chair leg and its stretcher. A look of acute alarm crossed his face as he put his weight on his good leg and tried to bring his stick forward and could not. For a moment he panicked, abandoning his stick and reaching back for the chair’s arm for support. Clementine whipped around the table and took him firmly by his upper arm and held him until he regained his balance. There was a moment of silence, and then Mr. Bray laughed. “So sorry about that, Lady Montfort.” He shook his head, his face rueful. “Thank you, you saved me from a tumble there, well at least the lawn is soft.” And then as if nothing had happened at all he disentangled his stick and walked forward to greet her husband.
It took this considerate and thoughtful man nearly fifteen minutes to walk to the rose garden, a distance I can easily cover in less than five. How could I even imagine for one moment that he walked up to his brother and hit him hard enough on the head to kill him without completely losing his balance? Clementine felt so unimaginably disgusted with herself that she returned to her rose beds and snipped off withered blooms left and right to avoid joining the two men standing in the sun discussing with considerable energy the many men who were languishing in Market Wingley prison as conscientious objectors.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Good morning, Jackson. Anything from the Glorious Glosters?” Her ladyship loomed out of the bright light of day and into the gloom of the hall looking tired and dusty in her broad gardening hat.
“Good morning, m’lady.” She tried not to notice that her ladyship had tracked in a considerable amount of planting compost. She was not used to seeing Lady Montfort in such a state of dishevelment. “Nothing in the first post, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Jackson had spent a busy and frustrating morning with VAD Ellis, Corporals Budge and West, and the scullery maid organizing for the Medical Board inspection. She concentrated her hope that even if two of their officers had been brutally murdered, the five bureaucrats who would decide the fate of the hospital would find the gleaming floors, shining windows, and the orderly medical wing complete compensation for a hospital that evidently had no control over its patients. And not only close us down, she worried as she had paced between the medical wing and the officers’ mess, holding a duster and being unnecessarily critical to her scurrying workers, but decide that Major Andrews is an incompetent commanding officer and his compassionate treatments complete nonsense.
“So all of our officers are over at Holly Farm today. Did they let poor Lieutenant Phipps out of his room yet to join them? Though I hardly envy him in this terrible heat.”
“Yes, m’lady, Lieutenant Phipps went off with the others. They certainly came home tired out yesterday but they ate a decent dinner and turned in at nine o’clock. And every one of them is looking forward to the harvest supper tonight. I think that our officers’ helping with the harvest has done a lot for local acceptance of the hospital.” Not that their good opinion will influence the War Office when they decide to close this place down.
They walked down the corridor together and into her office. The heat in the room was stifling. Mrs. Jackson opened the heavy sash windows as far as they would go, but it made no difference. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of her neck into what had been a stiffly starched collar this morning and was now mercifully softening its tight grip around her throat.
“Mrs. Jackson?” Corporal West was standing in her open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Jackson, but this dropped out of the postbag when you were looking just now.” Corporal West had in his hand a buff envelope. “Didn’t know you had a family member with the Glosters.”
Lady Montfort practically pushed her out of the way to take the envelope. “Thank you very much, Corporal,” she said, and then remembering herself she turned to her housekeeper and handed over the letter. “I am so sorry, Jackson. How awfully rude of me, it is the anxiety of waiting, my apologies.” But Mrs. Jackson had already torn open the envelope.
Dear Madam, she read aloud.
In answer to your letter … she skipped down to the next paragraph. Private Samuel Glenn was invalided out of the regiment on 30th March of this year, and after treatment has returned home. All correspondence to be forwarded to 10 Balaclava Street, Cheltenham, W. Gloucestershire.
She held out the letter to her ladyship, who read it through and then waved it in the air. “The wonderful, wonderful Private Glenn is in Cheltenham! At last, there is someone who can throw some light on this mystery,” and then as was customary when Lady Montfort rushed too quickly to enthusiasm: “But we don’t have two whole days to waste with polite letters asking to visit, and hopefully a pleasant response saying, ‘Yes, how delightful, come for tea.’”
“I am quite sure the Glenn family would understand if we were to arrive unannounced on official business, m’lady.” Mrs. Jackson was already searching through her desk drawer for a Bradshaw’s Guide. She thumbed through the pages. “Unfortunately, our train journey just to Cheltenham would take the better part of today, that is if we caught the twelve-fifteen from Cryer’s Breach and there are two … no, three changes of train.”
“Train, Jackson, why would we take a train? Lord Haversham will drive us—there and back—in the Daimler. He can manage to drive it quite well with one hand. It will take only a few hours and I am quite sure this most useful and necessary Private Glenn will be at home when we get there.” Lady Montfort had returned to her earlier mood of triumph, and she clapped her hands together, her face beaming out from under the shadow of the wide brim of her hat. “Now, call in Corporal West and tell him to bicycle over, fast as he can, to Iyntwood. No, on second thought, tell Corporal West to drive me home in Major Andrew’s motorcar, and then he can go on to Lord Haversham while I change. Lord Haversham and I will come over and pick you up in about an hour.” She stopped for a moment. “I will have to leave Lady Althea and Hollyoak in charge of the harvest supper, I am afraid. Goodness only knows what they will come up with together. Would you ask your cook and scullery maid to offer their help, Jackson? If I am not there to restrain him Mr. Hollyoak can be somewhat grandiose, in which case he will need more than a few helping hands.” And with that she was on her way, leaving Mrs. Jackson to hurry to the kitchen to give last-minute instructions to Cook.
* * *
“What do you have there, Jackson? Oh my goodness, sandwiches, how sensible of you, and what’s in that?” Lady Montfort asked as Mrs. Jackson stowed away the cumbersome metal thermos flask somewhere near her feet.
“I thought we had better take some tea, m’lady,” she said as if this were the rarest of commodities in England, not to be found anywhere outside of Iyntwood. They couldn’t possibly make any journey without supplies.
Clementine leaned forward and slid open the glass window that separated the front of the Daimler from the back. “All right then, Harry, off we go,” and her son, immaculate in his RNAS uniform, touched the brim of his hat with his right hand before he pulled out through the gates of the hospital.
“How long will it take to get there do you think?” Clementine asked for the second time as they swung down the east drive to the village at the sort of speed that Corporal West had probably employed a
s an ambulance driver in Boulogne. “If the roads are clear, probably a little under a couple of hours,” her son answered just as patiently as he had the first time. But as they left the village of Cryer’s Breach he had to slow the motor down to a walking pace not once but several times.
“Oh not another cart—how maddening. We will never find a place to get around it on this narrow stretch. The wretched thing is taking up the entire road!” Clementine exclaimed, and then stopped herself, as she knew she must not give way to despair quite so readily.
“Mama, half the countryside is bringing in the last of its harvest. I am afraid until we are on the other side of Market Wingley it will be slow going. But the road from there will be good to Oxford, and from Oxford we will take the Grand Trunk Road west to Cheltenham.”
Clementine sat back and made herself relax. There was no point in badgering her son to drive more quickly, he was doing his best. She turned to Mrs. Jackson, who was looking marvelously official in her navy-blue VAD dress uniform. “If uniforms still stand for anything in Private Glenn’s life, I am accompanied by a very smart and official-looking pair,” she said and settled herself down to wait.
* * *
“I haven’t been to Cheltenham in years, such a pretty spot—a Regency spa town, Jackson, and Gloucestershire is a lovely county. We used to come over here before the war to Lord Worley’s house, the Worleys threw such lively house parties.” She leaned forward to look out of the window at the quiet, tree-lined squares and terraces of houses. They drove down Montpelier Terrace and out of the town to a suburb on its western side.
Balaclava Street was on the outskirts of Cheltenham, part of a series of drab streets of meanly built Victorian domiciles built to house the working people of the town. “I am not terribly sure I can get the Daimler down Balaclava Street.” Lord Haversham, nervous about little things like scratches on the coachwork, pulled the motorcar to a halt at the top of the narrow street. Their arrival immediately attracted the attention of several small boys who gathered around them as Harry peered anxiously down a street they evidently inhabited, or at least considered part of their territory. He leaned out the window. “Hullo there, I am looking for number ten Balaclava Street.”