by T E Kinsey
‘It does seem unlikely,’ said Fitzsimmons, looking up at the body. ‘But how the devil did they get him up there? He’s not a featherweight, is he?’
‘Cruiserweight at the very least,’ said Dobson, appraisingly.
‘They could have just hoisted him up,’ said Hancock.
‘I thought that,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but take a look at the rope. See where it’s wrapped around the branch there? If one had hoisted him up from the ground, how would one then manage to wrap the rope five times round the branch and tie it off so neatly? It was made to look like Mr Pickering had prepared the rope before standing on the log, and if he’d been hauled up, the rope would have to be tied off down here somehow, by someone standing on the ground.’
‘But,’ said Hancock, still trying to puzzle things out, ‘why would he be out here in the woods in the middle of the night? And who would have wanted to kill him?
‘Luckily,’ said Dobson, ‘that’s soon to be someone else’s problem. We need to get him down, get him to the surgery, and then telephone the CID in Bristol. Murder makes it their case.’
‘Just one more thing I noticed before we go,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There are ruts in the ground running from the road to the tree, along the line you all walked to get here. Maybe two inches wide, about a yard apart. My guess, and I don’t want to be seen to be interfering in any professional work here, is that they might be from some sort of hand cart. It would be an ideal way to get a body here.’
‘If he were killed somewhere else, you mean?’ said Hancock.
‘As I say, gentlemen, none of this is within my area of expertise and I wouldn’t want to step on any toes.’
‘’Course not, m’lady, and we appreciates your help,’ said Dobson.
‘You’re most welcome, I’m sure. Gentlemen, it’s been quite a morning for me, would you mind awfully if I excused myself? You know where to reach me if you need me.’
‘Certainly, m’lady. You get yourself home and get a nice cup of hot, sweet tea for the shock. We’ll take care of things from here.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Come along, Armstrong, let’s get home.’ And with that, she strode off towards the edge of the clearing and I followed. Once we were on the road and safely out of earshot she said, ‘Hot, sweet tea, indeed! We shall have a bracing brandy and the devil take the blessed tea.’
We set off for home.
The next few days passed peacefully enough, though busily. There was a lot to do to get Lady Hardcastle settled into her new home and I spent my days arranging things just so. Clothes needed to be unpacked, furniture polished, curtains hung, rugs beaten and placed. And that was on top of my regular daily duties.
I’d been working for her for nearly fourteen years now. Fourteen years. I was just seventeen years old when she and her husband had tempted me away from my parlour maid’s job in London. They’d lured me with promises of travel and adventure. Promises upon which, as it turned out, they made good. There had been some terrible times during the adventures of those fourteen years but I wouldn’t have swapped a moment of that time for anything in the world. Now, though, I confess that I was more than ready for some peace in the countryside.
It wasn’t going to happen.
We had found Mr Pickering’s body on Wednesday and had both been interviewed by the detective in charge of the case on Thursday afternoon. It was now the following Monday and we’d heard nothing more of the murder from official sources in the intervening days. That’s not to say we’d not been asked to talk about it, mind you.
Sir Hector Farley-Stroud from the big house on the hill, The Grange, had invited Lady Hardcastle to dinner on Saturday evening, ostensibly to welcome her to the village. But she had been under no illusion about his true intention which had been to get a full account of the deadly goings-on, and she told me next day that she’d spent the evening being cross examined by Sir Hector, Lady Farley-Stroud, and their friends. Evidently they had been almost indecently excited by the idea of a real crime in their midst and had been determined to hear everything in the most scandalous detail possible.
I, meanwhile, had been closely questioned by every shopkeeper and tradesman we did business with. The butcher and baker had both kept me talking while I placed Lady Hardcastle’s orders, and if there’d been a candlestick maker in the village I’m sure he’d have done the same. As it was I had to make do with being interrogated by Mrs Pantry who ran the grocer’s shop. She did sell candles, though, so I decided that was good enough. It was a pity the conversation was so strongly biased towards violent crime, though; I was desperate to find out if Pantry was really her late husband’s name or if she’d changed it for business reasons, but the moment to ask passed before I got the chance, and now I may never know.
But back to Monday. I’d finished helping my mistress dress and was just beginning to clear away the breakfast things when the doorbell rang. It was Constable Hancock.
‘Good morning, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, amiably. ‘Is Lady Hardcastle at home?’
‘She most certainly is, Constable,’ I said. ‘Won’t you come in, and I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Thank you, miss, Most kind.’
The drawing room opened off to the left of the entrance hall and I invited him to make himself comfortable in there while I went upstairs to find Lady Hardcastle. The house had been built recently by a friend of hers in preparation for his own family’s return from India. Business matters had compelled him to stay in the Subcontinent at least another year and so when he discovered that she intended to move out of London he had offered to rent the new house to her. This meant that a widow and her maid were living in a house built for a family of six, but even so “finding Lady Hardcastle” didn’t involve a lengthy search through a labyrinth of rooms and I found her exactly where I expected to: in her bedroom.
She turned from examining her clothes in the wardrobe. ‘Hello, pet,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to own anything that isn’t black. Do you think I ought to branch out a little, invest in something more fashionably colourful?
‘Black suits you, my lady.’
‘Thank you. I sometimes worry that people might think I’ve spent altogether far too long in mourning.’
‘My understanding was that you wear black because you imagine you look magnificent in it. Which, if I’m to be properly truthful, you actually do. And you always wear red corsets. They’re frightfully jolly.’
She laughed. ‘Well, yes, but I can’t really offer either of those as mitigation to the oh-so-solicitous ladies about town who insist I should brighten myself up lest I never find a man.’
‘No, my lady, I don’t suppose you can.’
‘Ah well,’ she sighed, closing the wardrobe. ‘I shall worry about that another day. Who’s that at the door?’
‘Constable Hancock, my lady. He’d like to see you.’
‘Oh, how exciting. Do you think there’s news?’
‘I’m not sure, my lady,’ I said. ‘To be honest, he looks as though there’s something troubling him.’
‘Then we mustn’t keep him waiting an instant longer. Lay on, McArmstrong, let us meet the steadfast watchman and see what’s bothering him.’
I led the way downstairs where we found Hancock standing in the drawing room, inspecting the bookcase.
‘My dear Constable,’ said Lady Hardcastle over my shoulder as I opened the drawing room door for her, ‘what a delight to see you. Has Armstrong offered you tea?’
‘Good morning, m’lady. No, I didn’t give her the chance, but I must say tea would be most welcome.’
‘See to it, dear, would you?’
I bobbed the little curtsey I used whenever we were in company and bustled off into the kitchen. I left the doors open, the better to hear their conversation as I boiled the kettle on the stove and prepared the tea tray.
‘Well then, Constable, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?’
‘It’s something of a delicate matter, m�
�lady,’ said Hancock, somewhat hesitantly. ‘I don’t really know how to broach it, to be truthful.’
‘Just be bold, dear boy. Out with it and hang my sensibilities. I’ve seen more than you’d credit in my long life; little shocks me.’
‘Oh, it’s not that it’s delicate in that way, m’lady. It’s more of a matter of it p’raps not being quite appropriate to be talking to someone outside the Force about it.’
‘Something to do with the murder of Mr Pickering?’
‘Exactly so, m’lady. See, the thing is, I don’t know you or nothing, and I wouldn’t dream to presume, but you seemed like a lady who knew what was what and I don’t know who else to talk to.’
‘Something is wrong?’
‘I think there very well might be, m’lady. It’s the detective from Bristol. Inspector Sunderland. You met him, I believe.’
‘I did. He seemed intelligent enough, but not very... interested. No, that’s not quite fair. But he gave the impression of having more important things to be getting on with.’
‘He gave me that feeling too, m’lady. He started interviewing people on Thursday after he’d spoken to you and Miss Armstrong.’ He paused for a short while as though still unsure whether to proceed, but then a look of resolution suddenly came over him and his thoughts tumbled out as though tipped from a bucket. ‘He went straight to the Dog and Duck and talked to old Joe Arnold there. It seems Frank Pickering had been in the pub on Tuesday night and got in a fearful row with Bill Lovell, one of the lads from the village, about a girl they was both sweet on. Seems Frank had been sitting there with some of his cricketing mates and this lad had come over and started a terrible to do. He said he was engaged to Daisy Spratt and how dare Frank be taking her out for a walk. And Frank said he could walk out with whoever he liked and Lovell could go hang. And Lovell had said he’d be the one who got hanged if he had anything to do with it and stormed out.’
‘Sorry, Constable, let me just check. Lovell was engaged to Daisy. Pickering walked out with Daisy. Lovell found out and threatened violence?’
‘That’s how it seemed, m’lady, but I knows them both and I knows it was just young lads squaring up to each other. You knows what it’s like. They might let fly with feet, fists and elbows if they had a chance for a good set to on the green, but there’d be no murdering. But that’s not how Inspector Sunderland sees it. He’s arrested Bill Lovell for murder and he’s holding him in a cell down in Bristol.’
‘Gracious me. Did he speak to anyone else?’
‘No, m’lady, that’s just it. Clear case of jealous murder, he says, and lays him by the heels.’
‘And you’re not convinced?’
‘No, m’lady, not by a long chalk. See, old Joe Arnold called me back in. He was right agitated. He says the Inspector didn’t give him a chance to tell him everything. He says there was another row that night. A row between Frank Pickering and Arthur Tressle, captain of the cricket team.’
‘What about?’
‘Something and nothing as far as I can make out. But he didn’t reckon Lovell had it in him to murder no one neither, and he says it could just as easy be Arthur as Bill.’
By this time, the tea was ready and I brought the tray through. I set it on the low table and stood to one side, not wanting to miss anything.
‘It all seems a bit perfunctory on Inspector Sunderland’s part, I must say,’ said Lady Hardcastle at length. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to speak to your sergeant? He seemed like a reasonable man.’
‘No, m’lady. I spoke to him myself but he says there’s nothing we can do. But would you mind sort of helping me get to the bottom of it all. Even round here where they’ve known me for years people puts up the shutters when they sees the uniform. That’s why the detectives get so much out of them, I reckons, but the detective in this case doesn’t seem like he cares overmuch.’
‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Detective work. How exciting. Isn’t it exciting, Armstrong? You can be Watson to my Holmes.’
‘But without the violin and the dangerous drug addiction, my lady,’ I said.
‘As soon as the piano arrives from London that will make an admirable substitute for the violin. And I’m sure we could both have a tot of brandy from time to time to grease the old wheels, what?’
Hancock seemed slightly nonplussed by Lady Hardcastle’s sudden flight of whimsy.
‘What do you know about the victim, Constable. Who was Mr Pickering? What did he do? Who were his friends? Where did he work?’
‘I can’t say I knows much about his private life, m’lady, ’cept to say he was a fine and well-liked fellow. Calm and quiet for the most part, jovial company and a demon on the cricket pitch. Finest pace bowler the village has ever known, by all accounts.’
Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged confused glances.
‘Sorry, m’lady, I forgets not everyone enjoys their cricket. He could bowl the ball very fast. Very useful for taking wickets.’
‘Thank you, constable. Roddy – Sir Roderick, my late husband – used to talk about cricket all the time and I tried so hard to be interested, but the game lacked excitement for me, I’m afraid and I never really picked up the argot.’ She paused in wistful contemplation as she often did when something reminded her of her husband. And then, just as suddenly, she came back to herself. ‘I’m so sorry, do carry on.’
‘Yes, m’lady. I made some enquiries, spoke to a few people and it seems there weren’t nothing remarkable about him apart from that. He grew up at Woodworthy, about three miles east of here, and when he left school he got hisself a job with a shipping agents at Bristol: Seddon, Seddon and Seddon. He moved on down to the city and found hisself cheap diggings nearby the office. He worked hard. Damn good at his job, they say, and he done very well for hisself. But he was homesick, see, so when he got his latest promotion last year to Chief Clerk, he come back out to Woodworthy to be with his friends and family, like. Like I said t’other day he rode his bicycle into Chipping Bevington every morning and caught the train into the city.’
‘He sounds like an admirable fellow,’ said Lady Hardcastle at length. ‘I think the least we can do for the poor chap is to find out the truth of his murder.’
‘Would you be willing to help, then, m’lady?’ he said. ‘I mean, I don’t like to impose and it’s all highly irregular, but apart from Dr Fitzsimmons you’re the cleverest person I knows. They say you went to university. And I can’t see a lad from the village hanged for shouting the odds in a pub just because a city detective thinks as how he’s got more important things to do.’
‘It sounds like exactly the sort of fun I’ve been missing, Constable,’ she said. ‘But we need to be discreet. If I start asking the locals all manner of questions I’ll draw unwanted attention and possibly even get you into trouble. Would you allow Armstrong to help, too? She can be my eyes and ears around the village. No one notices a lady’s maid, they’re invisible.’
‘It all sounds grand, m’lady. If you don’t mind, miss?’
‘No, Constable, I don’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘I’d be delighted to help.’
We chatted inconsequentially while the constable finished his tea and he left looking much more at ease than he had been when he arrived.
‘Gracious me, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle once Constable Hancock had gone, ‘we seem to have become embroiled once more. What a pair we are.’
She would never have dreamed of calling me anything but “Armstrong” in company, but alone in the house she tended to call me by my first name. Somehow, though, I could never quite bring myself to call her anything but “my lady”. I think I only ever called her Emily once, in China, when we were sure we were about to die.
‘We do seem to be something of a pair, my lady,’ I said. ‘At the very least, you’re a one. I distinctly remember being promised a quiet life in the country, and yet here I am about to equip myself with thumbscrews and cosh and slink into the murky village underworld on your behalf.�
��
‘“Murky village underworld” indeed! You do have an overdeveloped sense of the melodramatic, Flo. And when have you ever needed a cosh to protect yourself?’
‘It’s just for show, my lady, just for show. But are you serious? Shall we really investigate this murder? I really thought we’d left all the skulduggery and intrigue behind us. And, be honest, what do we really know of detective work? It’s not as though we have any experience. We were always involved in more... direct action.’
‘It’s true, it’s true, but I really think we need to get involved and try to do something to help. Neither of us would be happy to see a lad hanged for something he didn’t do.’
‘Surely it would never come to that,’ I said. ‘Surely the truth will come out during the trial, at least. And if we mess things up, we might make it worse for him. Or for constable Hancock. We don’t really want our first act in Gloucestershire to be to upset the Bristol Police Force.’
‘Oh, we shall be most circumspect, pet, don’t worry. I’m sure that Inspector Sunderland will come to the truth in the end, but just in case, let’s have a dig around and see what we can come up with. What can it hurt? And poor Constable Hancock is so sweet, how can we refuse him?’
‘Hmmm. Very well. Let’s imagine, then, that we really are detectives and that we have even the first idea how to conduct a murder investigation. Where shall we start?’
‘We need to be methodical. We must start at the beginning, we must start with our victim. We need to find out all that we can about him–’
She was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.
‘Excuse me, my lady,’ I said, and went to answer it.
It was the boy from the local Post Office with a telegram.
‘Telegram for her ladyship,’ he mumbled quickly, holding it out for me to take.
‘My lady doesn’t sail,’ I said.
He looked blankly at me.
‘She doesn’t have a “ship”,’ I tried to explain. ‘She’s a knight’s widow so she’s “Lady Hardcastle” or “my lady”.’