“It’s not easy for women alone, you know. It gets lonely sometimes. Friends are so important. She was a lot younger and far more educated than I am, but she was no snob. Anything she taught me, she made it sound like we were discovering it together. Those children were lucky to have her in their lives.”
“The children of Lord and Lady Norrance?”
She nodded.
I didn’t dare share how disrespectfully the Grant children had spoken about Mrs. Beckwith, if they acknowledged her at all. Rupert had referred to her as “the old girl,” and Jemma had called her a “poor old thing.” Kip, the earl’s heir, hadn’t uttered one word about the death of his former governess. And their parents hadn’t expressed any sorrow either, at least not in front of George and me. Instead, I asked another question. “Had your friend been ill lately?”
“Goodness, no. She was the picture of health. Perhaps a little too thin.” Hazel looked down at her own round middle. “She felt the cold keenly.”
I almost told her that I had found Mrs. Beckwith’s body, but I thought better of it. The information would only make her even unhappier.
“Flavia was planning to take a trip to Spain,” Hazel said, rising slowly from her chair and going to unplug the electric teakettle. She poured water into a strainer of tea set over a cup. “Much warmer there. Said she’d saved up a bit of money and might use it to travel.”
“It’s sad that she didn’t get that opportunity. Was she a widow, too?” I wondered if perhaps a former husband had died recently and mentioned her in his will.
“Never met him if there was a Mr. Beckwith,” she said, sitting again. “She didn’t speak of him. She was a very private person in her way.”
“When did you two first meet?”
“Oh, let me see. Must be at least twenty or twenty-five years now. I didn’t know her when she was first hired on when the earl’s first countess was expecting, but of course that job fell through.”
“Why was that?”
“Flavia was to have been the infant’s nurse, but the countess and her babe died in childbirth.”
“Oh, my. You don’t expect to hear about a woman dying in childbirth in a modern country like England. And the baby, too. How awful!”
“Well, it was a terrible tragedy.”
“Of course. What did your friend do?”
“Went to live with her sister up north. Didn’t come back until His Lordship was remarried with another child on the way. Then they both moved here, Emmie and Flavia, and Emmie’s son, Colin. That’s when we became friends.”
“Were the sisters close?”
“They used to be. Had a falling out a month or so ago. Flavia wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but I know it grated on her. I feel terrible for Emmie. It’s awful to lose someone when you haven’t made it up with them, isn’t it?”
The sleigh bell in the front room sounded, and a masculine voice I recognized called out. “Halloo, anybody here?”
“That’s my friend,” I told Hazel. I went to the hall and called out, “We’re in the back, George.”
“This is cozy,” he said, coming into the kitchen.
I introduced George to Hazel, and she offered him tea.
“Wish we had the time,” he said. He looked at me. “You and I have to meet Detective Sergeant Mardling in an hour. If we hurry, we can walk. Otherwise, we’ll have to call for a taxi.”
“Given a choice, I vote for walking,” I said, gathering my things. “I need to work off that lunch.”
Hazel thanked me for keeping her company, and she gave me one of the souvenir dish towels as a remembrance.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” I said, winking at her. “I haven’t finished browsing yet.”
Chapter Ten
With the prospect of meeting with Detective Sergeant Mardling on our minds, our walk back to the castle wasn’t as leisurely as the one we’d taken into town. Dodging the postholiday shoppers, George took long strides down High Street. I had to move quickly to keep up with him. He was setting a swift pace, until I tugged on his sleeve to remind him that I was not a gazelle and needed a breather now and then.
“Sorry, Jessica.” George slowed to a walk, but in no time, his long legs had picked up speed again.
I couldn’t afford a blister with the heels I planned to wear with my evening gown. Thank goodness I’d packed a good pair of walking shoes, but I didn’t want to press my luck by jogging in them.
“If you take it a little easier, I’ll be able to keep up with you,” I said as we reached the outskirts of town and entered the country road that led back to Castorbrook.
“My apologies, Jessica.” George took my arm and ambled to the middle of the road, making an effort to match his steps to mine. “I wasn’t thinking, or sorry to say, I was, but not about you.”
“Is something bothering you, George?”
“Not bothering me exactly, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m concerned about the timing of the inquest. I trust Mardling has enough sense not to barrel about like a wild bull and will tread carefully around the staff, not to mention the earl and his countess.”
“They need to understand that he has a job to do as well. I can’t imagine that a few minutes for an interview will throw off the whole evening affair.”
“Perhaps not. I only hope that he can manage with just a few minutes.” George pursed his lips and shook his head. “He struck me as a bit plodding yesterday.”
I could feel myself rising to Mardling’s defense and suppressed that reaction right away. There was something about the inhabitants of Castorbrook Castle and the death of Mrs. Beckwith that made me testy, and this time I couldn’t blame my feelings on hunger.
George and I had such limited time together. I wanted our interactions to be happy and fun-filled; it was the whole reason I had agreed to the New Year invitation to begin with. Yet, ever since we’d discovered Flavia’s body, I’d been irritable and on edge, arguing with his conclusions and doubting my own. Was our relationship not what I’d hoped it to be? Was I overthinking what should be a simple, pleasant vacation in each other’s company? Was I simply coming down with the flu?
The growl of an engine captured our attention. Behind us, a man on a motorcycle impatiently revved his machine until we stepped to the side of the road to let him pass. George gave him a mock bow and waved him on. The driver made a rude gesture and roared ahead. Another one impatient and short-tempered today, I thought. I looked up at the overcast sky. Some people attribute their mood swings to rising or falling barometric pressure. I wonder if it’s going to snow.
The narrow road snaked uphill and down between grassy meadows bordered by low stone walls. George and I found a gait that was midway between his lope and my stroll, and we continued companionably down the lane, hands held. To our left, cows grazed in the field, and off in the distance a farmer walked the stone wall perpendicular to the road, a rifle cradled in his arms. I nudged George and pointed my chin at the farmer. We watched as he raised his rifle and took two shots.
“Must be after rabbits,” George said.
“I think he’s probably hunting badgers.”
“Beg pardon.” George looked at me curiously.
“There was an article in the local newspaper. Lord Norrance and I were discussing it this morning. Badgers can carry tuberculosis, which the cattle catch.”
“Oh, yes. I remember reading about that, but it was several months back. The animal rights people raised quite a hue and cry when the cull was authorized.”
“Apparently the controversy continues. One of the earl’s neighbors is still killing badgers on his property. Two people were arrested trying to stop him.”
“Ah. You must have the right of it, then. I never connected the hunter with badgers.”
As we rounded a corner, the land rose up and a line of trees hindered our view, but they didn’t block the sound of more gunshots. A short way ahead, the motorcyclist stood in the middle of the
road, his vehicle propped against a stone wall. The man was pacing back and forth, cursing loudly.
“Are you all right?” George called out as we approached him.
“I was until that idiot farmer, Melton, took a shot at me.” He dragged off his helmet and ran his fingers through a thatch of dark hair.
“Stay here,” George instructed us. “I’m going to look for the hunter.” He climbed over the stone wall and clambered up the hill, shouting. “Halloo! Farmer Melton. Hold your fire.”
“Your friend a copper?”
“Scotland Yard inspector.”
“Good! Get him to arrest that bloke. Will save us all a lot of trouble, not to mention lives.”
“I’m sure the farmer wasn’t aiming at you,” I said.
“And I’m just as sure he was,” he shouted back.
A brawny fellow with tattoos showing through the open collar of his leather jacket, he was about the same age as the earl’s sons, I guessed.
“You seem to be in one piece,” I said. “Did a bullet strike your motorbike?”
“Came close.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard it whiz by. Struck that tree over there. See the broken branch?”
“From the speed you were going earlier, I would imagine you’d have been a quarter mile away from any branches hit by a bullet, even if you felt the breeze as it whizzed by. Were you stopped here?”
He kicked the dirt on the road. “I was waiting for a friend to meet me.”
I looked around. There was nothing but road and stone wall and grassy fields on either side. “Your friend was to meet you here? In the middle of nowhere? There’re no houses, no town, not even a signpost. How would your friend know where to stop?” I imitated his low voice. “‘Meet me at the seventh tree past the large rock.’”
He couldn’t hold back a chuckle, then looked at me in confusion. “Are you a copper, too?”
“No,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a guest at Castorbrook Castle.”
He paused, looking at my hand before accepting it. “Archer Estwich. I’m working the ball tonight.”
“You’re Clover’s son?”
“You know my mother?”
“We’ve met, but I doubt she’d remember me. Was it Maura Prenty who was to meet you here?”
“How do you know all this?” He shook his head as if trying to knock some water from his ear.
“I read about you in the newspaper.”
“Oh, no! Did my mother see it?”
“I don’t know, but Lord Norrance did.”
A stream of air escaped his lips. “I don’t care about him.”
“You’re working for him tonight.”
“Yeah, because my mother asked me. Otherwise I wouldn’t give the earl the time of day.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t you hear what he did? He demoted her. My mother. She’s been a cook up at the big house for twenty years, and the countess goes and hires a fancy dandy French chef, but they want her to stay on just the same, but for less money, of course, the cheap bas—”
“I get the picture.”
“Pleads poverty all the time, does the lord. Selling off land left and right to people who have no care for animals. Then what does he do with the money? Puts on a big show and hires a Michelin chef. And who suffers? My mother and probably others on the staff who’ve seen their salaries cut back.”
“If you feel so strongly, why did you agree to work at the ball tonight?”
“Well, it’s my mother’s show, too. Can’t let her down. We could use the extra bread. Besides, I’m hoping someone will hire away that Frenchie and the Grants will have to come begging on their knees for her to take over again.” He smirked. “I’d be happy to see that.”
George came over the hill with the farmer walking in front of him. Melton’s gun was open and hanging over his arm, the muzzle facing the ground. Archer looked up sharply.
“It’s not loaded,” George said.
“I didn’t shoot at anybody,” Melton said, stepping on the wall and jumping onto the road with George following.
“Mr. Estwich here said a bullet whizzed by him and lodged in that tree.” I pointed to the broken branch.
The farmer spat on the road. “I was aiming at the ground. If a bullet bounced off a rock, I didn’t know it.”
It didn’t look to me as if he meant to apologize.
“Melton is through with shooting for the day,” George said. “He understands he needs to be more judicious when using a firearm, or the authorities will come down on him. He’s been cautioned.”
“How many poor defenseless creatures did you kill today?” Archer asked.
“None,” Melton replied.
“They’re onto you, then. You don’t credit them enough for brains and feelings.”
“I credit them with carrying disease—that’s what I credit them with.”
“Then pay to vaccinate your cattle. Don’t kill an innocent creature.”
“You pay for it. Why you crazies want to protect useless rodents, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much. They’re not rodents to begin with. They’re related to otters and weasels. They lived on this land way before you brought your cattle here. They’re a British institution, part of our culture and history.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ve heard all the arguments. But if your mother wants her milk from healthy cows, she’ll understand the need to get rid of these pests.”
“You leave my mother out of this.” Archer raised his fists and moved toward Melton.
George stepped between the two men. “That’s enough of the animal rights debate for today, gentlemen. Melton, don’t you have cows to milk?”
“I do.”
“And you,” George said, turning to Archer, “you were on your way somewhere, weren’t you, son? You were driving fast enough.”
Without another word, Melton climbed over the wall and trudged up the hill.
Archer put on his helmet and snapped the strap by his ear. “Sorry about the gesture earlier, Inspector.”
George waved him off. “No harm. Just do us all a favor and stay away from Melton. I don’t want to hear about any more bullets hitting rocks and then missing you.”
Archer pulled his motorbike to a standing position. “Thanks, Inspector, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Wait, Archer. What about your friend, the one you were supposed to meet here?” I asked.
“She knows where to find me. She’s my cousin. Her sister’s going to be working for the Grants, too.” He climbed on his bike, revved the engine loud enough for the farmer to hear even though he’d already crested the hill, and drove off.
George looked at his watch. “We’re going to be late for Mardling.”
“He’ll still be there when we arrive.” I took his arm.
George patted my hand. “I’m looking forward to toasting the New Year with you.”
“It’s going to be fun.”
“That it will, lass. I’m sure this kerfuffle will be our last misadventure for the day.”
But George was wrong. There were more misadventures to come.
Chapter Eleven
My mind was full of badgers, or, more precisely, the arguments for and against eliminating them. I hate to see any animal mistreated or killed for no reason. Here, the farmers claimed a very good reason: to keep their cows healthy. But if there was an alternative—and apparently there was, a vaccination for the cattle—then why kill an innocent animal going about its daily living? Of course, the reason always comes down to money. The cost and inconvenience of vaccination was placed on the balance scale against the ease and economic practicality of shooting a badger, or worse, trapping and shooting a badger, and the decision was made.
I didn’t know much about badgers. I remembered reading about them in The Wind in the Willows when I was a child. And a badger was the symbol of the Hufflepuff House in the Harry Potter books. It was
probably used because badgers are known to be peaceful animals until threatened, when they surprise their enemy by the fierceness of their defense.
I haven’t owned a pet in a long time. My travels get in the way. It would be unfair to a cat or dog—any pet, really—to put up with my being gone for weeks at a stretch. But I count myself an animal lover all the same. My sympathies in this case were with the badgers, although I wasn’t sure that Archer Estwich’s approach to defending them by harassing the farmer was the right way to go about it.
These were the thoughts occupying my mind while we walked up the long drive to Castorbrook Castle and saw several police cars parked in the gravel circle in front.
“Subtlety is not Mardling’s strong suit, I see,” George commented as we skirted the pond and made our way to the front entrance, where a uniformed officer stood at attention.
“Where is Detective Sergeant Mardling?” George asked.
“I believe he’s questioning the downstairs staff, sir.”
George’s expression was grim. “I told Nigel to ask Mardling to wait for us. Apparently, the detective thought it better to move ahead without interference. We’d better find him.”
“Whether or not Mardling accommodates us is only a matter of courtesy. Remember, George, we’re merely guests. You have no authority here.”
“I can have that changed if necessary.”
“Do you think that would be wise?”
“Let’s see what he’s up to before I answer that question.”
It seemed to me that George had taken a dislike to Mardling, and I wondered if I’d been wrong when I assumed that he hadn’t noticed what I’d perceived to be Mardling’s mocking tone the first time we’d met him. Perhaps George had been aware that the local man felt threatened by the presence of a Scotland Yard chief inspector, and he decided to ignore his behavior in the interests of peace and cooperation. But my dear friend was not about to tolerate continued rudeness, and while I didn’t blame him, we—really he—were on shaky ground when it came to jurisdiction. Even so, I was eager to find out what the coroner made of the death of Flavia Beckwith, if he was able to make a determination at all.
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