by T E Kinsey
‘It’ll be our way of honouring them,’ said Veronica. ‘They lived for the circus and ended up giving their lives for it. We’ll put on another show and give the punters an evening’s happiness in their name. It’s right and proper.’
‘My apologies,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I hadn’t thought. In that case, Armstrong, you and I had better get out of the way. Good luck to all of you.’
She rose to leave and I stood, too.
‘Thank you for your help, dearest Ems,’ said Colonel Dawlish. ‘We owe you as much as we owe the sergeant for sorting out this mess.’
‘Oh, pish and fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘As always we did nothing more than simply be here while everything happened around us. If we’d thought more clearly and more quickly, more lives might have been saved.’
‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘you helped me to hold things together and it was your plan that brought an end to it all.’
‘Think nothing of it, dear boy,’ she said, kissing him fondly on the cheek. ‘May I return the favour and invite you for elevenses tomorrow?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you. Eleven o’clock?’
‘I believe that’s when we have them, these days,’ she said, and after saying our goodbyes to the others, we left for home.
The next morning I was up with the lark’s more energetically conscientious cousin, taking care of domestic matters and attempting to outshine Babble with the quality and selection of cakes and pastries on offer, when Colonel Dawlish came to call.
Lady Hardcastle had joined me in the kitchen and was chattering inconsequentially as I worked. At exactly the moment that the hall clock began to chime eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang. It was our guest, Colonel Dawlish.
‘I think George is a good enough friend that he won’t mind if we stay in the kitchen, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m growing rather fond of the informality of it.’
‘I say,’ said colonel Dawlish. ‘Eating in the kitchen with the servants? How common. Whatever will our friends say?’
‘Watch yourself, mush,’ I said, ‘or I might have to slosh you one.’
‘She will, you know,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘She’s a terror when her dander’s up.’
‘I can quite believe it. Calm yourself, my dearest Florence, we shall eat together as equals. I say, did you make all this nosh?’
We had arrived in the kitchen and he had seen the plates heaped with treats that I had spent all morning preparing.
‘With my own, delicate hands,’ I said, curtseying.
I served the coffee and we sat together at the oak table.
‘How’s the circus today, Georgie?’ said Lady Hardcastle as I poured the coffee.
‘It might take a while for us all to settle back to normal,’ he said. ‘But last night’s show was another triumph and the troop send their warmest regards. With extra thanks from Addie for saving her life.’
‘I think we rather endangered the poor girl’s life,’ she said. ‘But I’m pleased she’s well.’
‘Ronnie and Wilf haven’t said much since they left my tent yesterday afternoon, so I still don’t quite know what happened. How did you come to be trussed up in the middle of the ring?’
‘Oh, it was sheer stupidity. I was full of my own cleverness and sent Mickey off to scout round while we bowled merrily into the backstage area, imagining that we could conceal ourselves behind props or furniture before Grafton got there. It never crossed my mind for a moment that he might be working with someone else and would already be there. He heard us bumbling about and sneaked in while we were trying to hide. He managed to cosh Wilf and overpower me before Veronica fainted and we were out of the game. I presume Mickey wisely thought discretion the better part of valour and awaited reinforcements. I came to on the floor in the ring just as Sabine was pointing a pistol at Flo and dismissing the rest of humanity as worms beneath her Goddess-like feet.’
‘Might I just point out,’ I said, ‘that this is the second time since you moved to Gloucestershire that a madwoman has pointed a revolver at me. I shall have to insist on a rise if this sort of thing carries on.’
‘Duly noted, pet, duly noted. I’d wager my Derringer-in-the-hat idea is starting to look a good deal less risible now, though, eh? What?’
‘Your Derringer what?’ said Colonel Dawlish, laughing.
‘Don’t encourage her,’ I said.
‘Nuff said, my curiosity is duly stifled. Mickey, as you say, was waiting for us to get there rather than trying to take them on on his own.’
‘Wise man. Have there been any official developments?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Is Sergeant Dobson all right?’
‘He seems fine,’ said Colonel Dawlish. ‘I went to see him first thing and it looks as though he’ll get a stiff talking-to from HQ, but with everything wrapped up so neatly he doesn’t think the coroner will cause any further trouble. He did have some news, though.’
‘Oh?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yes, he told as much of the story as he could to Bristol CID and a chap there – Sunderland, I think he said his name was – made a few enquiries. There was a flurry of international cables overnight and it seems that the late Sabine Mathieu has been of interest to the French, German, Belgian and Dutch police for some years.’
‘Gracious,’ I said.
‘Quite so. Apparently there have been several murders in circuses across the Continent while she was there. There was never even a hint that she had committed the murders, but after a couple of incidents in Germany people began talking and she acquired a reputation as an “angel of death”. I told you that circus folk were a superstitious lot and though they never actually suspected her of anything, she found it increasingly difficult to get work in the European circuses. That was when she came over here and got the job with us. Your Dr Fitzsimmons was at the station and he said she sounded like a “psychopath” I think he said. Some sort of brain doctor word for stark raving barmy if you ask me.’
‘Well I never,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Still, it’s all done and done with now,’ he said. ‘No point in dwelling. I say, Flo, these scones are quite the most delicious–’
There was another ring at the doorbell. I rose to answer it and it was the postman with two letters. One appeared to be a bill from Lady Hardcastle’s dressmaker, and the other a letter from her brother Harry. I returned to the kitchen and handed them to her.
‘Oh, it’s from Harry,’ she said, having discarded the bill with an impatient huff. ‘Do you mind, Georgie? I wonder what he has to say. He’s been writing rather a lot lately and I fear there are developments afoot.’
‘Please, darling, go ahead. Florence and I shall indulge in one or two more of these delightful pastries.’
Lady Hardcastle read in silence.
‘Oh that’s a relief,’ she said at last. ‘I rather feel that things might be improving. He says that his contacts in the British embassy in Berlin report that Ehrlichmann has returned to Germany.’
‘That is good news,’ I said. ‘You must be relieved.’
‘I am, pet, I am.’
‘Ehrlichmann?’ said Colonel Dawlish through a mouthful of biscuit.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ll tell you another time. You enjoy your cake.’
THREE
The Case of the Missing Case
Life had settled into a rather comfortable summer routine since the circus had left. We had had dinner with Liu Feng and his acrobats where we had enjoyed genuine Chinese cooking for the first time in many years. Colonel Dawlish had called round for lunch, too, before they all left, but all too soon they had packed up and gone from our lives.
We’d been tied up for a week or so with police interviews and other official matters and had presented our evidence to the Coroner’s Inquest, which had then been adjourned pending the results of investigations by the police surgeon. We had received a stern talking-to from Inspector Sunderland of the Bristol CID for attemp
ting to take matters into our own hands, but the Coroner himself had praised our efforts and had said that in view of Jonas Grafton’s obvious mental instability there was nothing that we, Colonel Dawlish, the local police, nor even the Bristol CID had they been called in, could have done to prevent any of the deaths.
And once all that was over, there had been a blissful period of summery calm. Lady Hardcastle had been on a few trips to Bristol and had engaged the services of a firm of solicitors there to take care of assorted business and legal matters for her. There had also been a fair amount of shopping, and the house in Littleton Cotterell was finally beginning to feel like home.
Lady Hardcastle had been welcomed into village life. That was terribly important to her, I think. The story of the capture of the “Killer Clown” (as the papers had rather unimaginatively dubbed Jonas Grafton – I preferred “Perilous Pierrot” or even “Utterly Terrifying Murderous Red-Nosed Madman”, but perhaps that’s why I never managed to get a job with the press) had spread as rapidly as any story ever did in a small village, and she was regarded with increasing awe and respect as a result. I fared similarly well, it should be said, and found that my trips to the village shops took much longer than expected for a while as everyone, shopkeepers and customers alike, pressed me for details on the case and congratulated me on my part in the adventure.
Summer walks in the woods and fields continued, complete with more nature talks from Lady Hardcastle and my continuing inability to tell the difference between male, female and juvenile Great Spotted Woodpeckers (it has something to do with the red feathers on their heads, but I’m dashed if I can remember what). Our own walled garden flourished, and we often enjoyed our afternoon tea in the shade of the apple tree there. Actually, when I say “flourished”, I mean “ran wildly out of control”, but Lady Hardcastle assured me that the fashion was for “natural” country gardens. It seems that what I thought of as something akin to the jungles of Burma – an impression aided by the abundance of wildlife that seemed to be living there – was actually quite the most fashionable plot in all of England. I begged her to employ a gardener.
Lady Hardcastle had even entertained once or twice, hosting visits from her London friends who were as enchanted as we were by the chance to get completely away from society and hide out in a small house in the country for a weekend.
But society could not be avoided completely and so when the engraved card had arrived from The Grange, inviting Lady Hardcastle to celebrate the engagement of Miss Clarissa Farley-Stroud and Mr Theophilus Woodfield, she had responded immediately. She wrote by return to Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud, saying that she should be delighted to attend and asking that they convey her warmest congratulations to their delightful daughter and her charming beau.
Her enthusiasm was genuine – she had always been fond of parties – though her admiration for Clarissa (whom she regarded as a vacuous ninny) and Theophilus (who was equally witless and who was possessed of slightly less charm than a blocked drain), was entirely, if politely, feigned.
A few days later, another letter had arrived from The Grange which had caused a strange mix of amusement and irritation in Lady Hardcastle.
‘Well, of all the...’ she had said as she read it at the breakfast table.
‘What is it, my lady?’ I asked.
‘Gertrude Farley-Stroud asks ever so sweetly, and if it’s not altogether too much trouble, whether I might see my way clear to letting her hire your services for the evening of the party. She says she’s having some minor, temporary staffing difficulties – which as anyone in the village will tell you means she hasn’t got the chink to pay for all the servants she needs – and would be so terribly grateful if she could make use of my “most excellent lady’s maid” – that’s you, pet – as part of the serving staff, etc, etc. Oh this really is too much.’
‘I don’t mind, my lady. It’s a chance to be at the party, after all.’
‘Yes, but I mean, really. It was a chance for you to have a night off,’ she said, indignantly.
‘It’s not as though I could go to the music hall or anything. Village life is wonderfully peaceful, but the nightlife is the Dog and Duck. I would just have been sitting here reading. This way I get to listen to the music, eavesdrop on the conversations, have a sneaky secret dance in the corridors when no one’s looking. I really don’t mind.’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up for a handsome fee, mind you.’
‘Then I shall have to make sure I eat more than my fair share of canapés and swig a few glasses of champagne–’
‘Cheap, sparkling wine, I should think. Poured in the kitchens so no one sees the bottles.’
‘We shall see. But it’ll be fun. And it’ll help them out; they’re not bad people.’
‘They’re not. Very well, you shall be hired out like some agency skivvy and I expect as much below-stairs gossip as you can glean.’
And so it was agreed. Lady Hardcastle replied at once and, over the next couple of weeks, the arrangements were made. My own uniform was deemed suitable (‘Which means,’ Lady Hardcastle had said, cattily, ‘that she can’t afford to have one of her own shabby maids’ uniforms spruced up and adjusted to fit you’) and I was to report to the kitchens by four o’clock on the day of the party.
The day of the party eventually arrived and I was dressed in my very best uniform, cleaned, pressed and generally dandified as I helped Lady Hardcastle with her own preparations for the evening. She wasn’t the sort of lady who was incapable of getting herself ready without help, but it seemed a shame not to do a few maidly things for her before I left.
She had negotiated with Lady Farley-Stroud for her chauffeur, Bert, to come and pick me up and I was just putting the finishing touches to her hair when the doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be your carriage, pet,’ she said. ‘Run along. Be good, pilfer as much free food as you can and, most importantly, gather gossip. I want to know the real story of the Farley-Strouds.’
‘I shall do my utmost,’ I said, and went to the front door.
Bert had already got back in the car and was waiting with the engine running.
‘Hello, Bert,’ I said as I got in beside him. ‘I hope this isn’t too much trouble.’
‘None at all, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Fact is, I’m glad to be out of the place for ten minutes. It’s bedlam up there, it is. Bedlam. Everyone’s running about the place, setting up this, tidying that, moving t’other thing. Cook’s shouting at the kitchen maid. Jenkins is shouting at Cook, the footman and the parlour maid. The mistress is shouting at Sir Hector. Sir Hector is shouting at the dogs. Miss Clarissa is shouting at Mr Woodfield. And I was thinking I’d be next in the firing line if I hadn’t had to pop over here to fetch you.’
‘Then I’m both grateful for the lift and delighted to have been of some help,’ I said as we set off.
‘I don’t suppose you needs to go over to Chipping Bevington to fetch something for your mistress? Bristol...? Gloucester...? London...?’
I laughed. ‘We should get up to The Grange, Bert. Maybe an extra pair of willing hands will lessen everyone’s need to shout quite so much. And perhaps they’ll all be better behaved with a stranger in their midst.’
‘Perhaps, Miss, perhaps. But don’t let them bully you into doing more than your fair share. There’s one or two of my fellow staff members who does as little as they think they can get away with and still complains about how hard done-by they are.’
‘I shall do my share and nothing more, Bert, I promise.’
‘I think you’ll be all right anyway, miss. I reckon a few of them are a little bit frightened of you after all them things you did.’
‘All what things?’
‘Catching them murderers. And there’s a story about how you threw that Irish prize fighter to the ground like he was a sack of straw. Did you really do that?’
‘Well... I...’ I stammered, bashfully.
‘I knew it,’ he said, with some triumph.
‘So that’s why them’s slightly afraid. Little thing like you chucking boxers about. Make anyone nervous.’
I laughed again and he smiled back.
It was only a few minutes’ drive to The Grange and we were pulling into the garage before I’d properly settled down to enjoy the ride.
‘If you go in through there,’ said Bert, indicating a door at the back of the garage, ‘that’ll take you into the servants’ passage round the back of the house. Go down the stairs and follow the sound of angry screaming and you’ll pretty soon be in the kitchen. I’ll be out here... er... adjusting the carburettor... yes, that’s it, I’ll be adjusting the carburettor if anyone asks.’
‘Righto, Bert. Thank you for the lift.’
‘My pleasure, miss. Good luck.’
I left him to his skiving and set off in search of the kitchen.
His directions, though vague, were uncannily helpful. The passageway was easy to follow and the sounds coming from ahead were, indeed, the sounds of pots and pans being clattered about and of Mrs Brown, the cook, screeching invectives at the top of her formidable voice. Someone in the kitchen was not having a happy time of it at all.
I decided that any show of timidity, even polite deference, would most certainly be my undoing and would see me badgered, nagged, hounded, and generally put-upon for the remainder of the day. The strict hierarchy generally observed among household servants could be all too easily forgotten if one failed to assert oneself. With that in mind I stood a little straighter, breathed a little deeper and opened the kitchen door with a confident flourish.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ I said, in my most self-assured, take-no-nonsense, Lady’s Maid’s voice. ‘How are we all today?’
Mrs Brown halted in mid-slam and stood with the pan in her hand, glaring towards the door as though her kitchen were being invaded. Rose, the kitchen maid, carried on with her chopping. She kept her head down and it was apparent that she was crying, but she glanced up and smiled gratefully at me for bringing her a moment’s respite from the yelling.