‘I have some news of my own,’ she said, breaking into her own train of thought. ‘I have all this cooking knowledge and experience, and it would be a crying shame to waste it. I intend to put it to excellent use in the village by taking over the Tea Room.’
‘Are you serious, Gertie?’ Surprise at Gertrude’s news could be hidden on neither her sister’s face, nor her niece’s.
Their faces were suddenly inscrutable, and Gertrude wasn’t sure whether they thought her mad or whether they indeed thought it was a great idea. Were they happy or dismayed at the notion of her taking control of the Tea Room in Clyst St James? It had been threatened with closure because Isabella Langton had decided to hang up her apron and opt for a quiet life of retirement a few miles south in Lympton-on-Sea.
Suddenly the truth occurred to Gertrude. ‘You already knew, didn’t you?’
Grace laughed cheerfully at her eldest sister’s confusion. ‘Well of course we already knew. Mrs Braithwaite at our Post Office let it slip. She’d been told by old Mrs Kennington, whose brother lives next door to Isabella Langton in Clyst St James.’
‘So yet again gossip between our two villages spreads more rapidly than the Great Fire of Old London Town! Well, there is something I didn’t tell Isabella Langton, which means you won’t know either.’ Gertrude took Juliet’s hands in hers and looked her niece directly in the eye. ‘The Tea Room is for you, Juliet my dear.’
‘What?’ Juliet couldn’t disguise her surprise.
‘I know from your mother that you enjoy cooking as much as I do, and you enjoy meeting people, so I thought it would be an ideal way for you to earn a living. You can work as much or as little as you want, helping me out to begin with but eventually taking over, leaving me to enjoy my eventual retirement.’
‘Are you serious, Auntie?’
Gertrude nodded, and suddenly found herself under a jumble of arms as both Juliet and Grace embraced her. ‘Enough,’ she said, laughing as decorum resumed
‘It’s a very kind gesture, Gertie, but really, it’s too generous.’
‘Gracie, I’ve no children of my own to leave things to once I’m gone, so it makes sense.’
‘Well, we can discuss it at length later, just to make sure you’re certain it’s the right thing to do. Anyway, you’ll never guess what else Mrs Braithwaite told us.’
Gertrude arched an eyebrow inquisitively. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. It would seem that Lord Castleford, whom Herbert is currently working for, has lost some of his pigeons.’
‘He hasn’t lost them, Mother,’ sighed Juliet. She returned her gaze to her aunt. ‘Someone has been shooting the poor things out of the sky and leaving their bodies for him to find.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘and Mrs Braithwaite told us to warn you – in case someone tries to sell you cheap pigeon meat for pies when you take over the Tea Room!’
CHAPTER FIVE
When Lord Castleford returned to Castleford Manor just before two, driving the Bentley a little erratically, his wife witnessed his arrival from the window of the library. She peered out into the diminishing daylight as the rain that had been threatening for the past hour finally descended in great torrents. Even from this distance she could see the mud caked onto the tyres of the car before it was washed away.
She finished tidying away the papers through which she had been rummaging, replacing them somewhat haphazardly in the drawer of her husband’s desk, and then returned the drawer key to its hiding place beneath the large vase of ornamental grasses that sat on the deep windowsill, before hastily leaving the library.
Philippa had found nothing in her husband’s desk to indicate where he had been, nor anything relating to the mysterious ‘small business matter’ of which he had earlier spoken. It wouldn’t do to question him directly, so she realised she would have to be rather more circumspect in her probing.
She greeted him downstairs as he was going through the post that was laid out on the table in the middle of the entrance hall, water dripping from his hair. ‘You didn’t time that very well, did you darling?’
‘At least I only had to come from the car. I’ll dry off in no time.’
Making no comment as she noticed her husband pocket one of the envelopes, Philippa followed him into the drawing room. ‘Did you manage to sort out your small business problem?’ She could tell from his expression as he poured himself a cognac that he knew she was fishing for answers. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,’ she added gently, ‘but if it has something to do with your pigeons, then you should know that Parkes found another two dead today down by the copse.’
Arthur set down his cognac sharply. ‘Another two dead? Were they shot like the others?’
Philippa nodded. ‘Parkes said so. How many does that make now?’
Arthur pushed his hands through his hair in anguish. ‘Eight. Eight pigeons killed in the past three weeks.’
Each one of Lord Castleford’s pigeons had been bred from ten carrier pigeons who had served their country during the war. They had ferried secret messages back and forth from Occupied France, and one had even won the Dickin Medal. Having survived the war almost unscathed, the pigeons were retired to a life of luxury in their own dovecote in the grounds of Castleford Manor, whilst their offspring continued to be trained as carrier pigeons between England and Europe – just in case war broke out again.
That their ancestors had survived flying through skies filled with gunfire and fast planes made the killings of the latest brood all the mare galling. Lord Castleford still could not understand why someone was killing his beloved birds and leaving their bodies where they fell.
Had it been someone shooting them to cook and eat then he could perhaps have found a little understanding of their motives, if not forgiveness. As it was, the killings seemed somehow arbitrary – almost as though the killer was trying to send him some kind of message, particularly in light of the blackmail note.
Lord Castleford fingered the envelope he had just placed in the pocket of his jacket, wondering whether he ought perhaps to reveal its existence to his wife. He hadn’t yet read its contents, but he had recognised the pale cream typewritten envelope and knew it contained another blackmail note. It would not be easy to tell Philippa about the blackmail attempts without revealing his secret. There was no need to involve her in that side of things unless it became an absolute necessity – an eventuality which Lord Castleford could not envisage. He could feign ignorance about the motive for the blackmail: it wouldn’t be the first time a person had been blackmailed without knowing the motive, he reasoned, and it would most certainly not be the last. Deniability was therefore justifiably plausible.
But he was at a loss to see the connection between the blackmail and the killings of his beloved pigeons. The two incidents just didn’t seem to marry up.
‘You’ve really upset someone,’ said Philippa. ‘Are you certain it has nothing to do with your business matter? If you can see no connection, perhaps you should tell me what you’ve been up to so I might make some link.’
The ringing of the telephone beside him saved Lord Castleford from responding. ‘It’s all right, Mr Jackson, I’ve got it,’ he said as the butler appeared from the library.
‘Yes, Your Lordship.’
‘How long have you been in the library, Mr Jackson?’ asked Lady Castleford softly, sidling over to the butler as her husband answered the telephone.
‘Long enough, Your Ladyship,’ said Jackson gently. ‘If I might make a suggestion?’
The Countess stared hard at the butler, blanking out her husband who stood a scant few feet away speaking on the telephone. She wondered whether she wanted to hear what Jackson was about to say. He had clearly seen her going through the contents of her husband’s desk drawer. Could he perhaps know what she was looking for, even though she herself did not? ‘How did I not see you in there, Mr Jackson?’
‘I’m afraid I must confess that I was sat in th
e wingback chair reading His Lordship’s copy of the Times,’ Jackson muttered, eyes cast downward in embarrassment. ‘I’m glad that you didn’t see me in there. I just wish I hadn’t come out to answer the telephone, and then you would never have found out.’
Lady Castleford was a little surprised at the hard working Jackson’s admission of slacking on the job but decided to ignore the misdemeanour. ‘Well, if you can keep a secret then so can I.’
Jackson looked Lady Castleford squarely in the eye and inclined his head in understanding. ‘Of course, Your Ladyship.’
‘Now, what was the suggestion you were going to make?’
Jackson took a deep breath, but before he could respond they both heard Lord Castleford curse loudly and slam down the telephone.
‘That was Henry’s Headmaster.’ Lord Castleford’s voice was strained with fury.
Philippa felt her heart suddenly start to beat erratically. With all that had been going on at Castleford Manor, a telephone call from the Headmaster of the St James’ School for Boys did not bode well. Had something happened to their son? Was he in some kind of trouble?
Fourteen-year-old boys cause all sorts of disruption, even at boarding school. The Earl had selected the school in Kingworthy St James, a hamlet some five or so miles south of the Cathedral town of Kingworthy, purely on its reputation for stamping out trouble before it started. Clamping down on wrongdoing was what each Headmaster there had excelled at through the past five decades. The teachers were strict to the point of torture, their regimen ruthless and remorseless. Lord Castleford felt it would be the making of their son, who had begun to show a wayward tendency in the past couple of years.
Philippa knew that Henry wasn’t happy at the school. She had pleaded with her husband to let Henry come home to finish his education under private tutelage, but Arthur had been adamant: Henry would complete his education at St James’ and then go on to do his National Service. Such stricture of freedom maketh the man, as Arthur had told her on numerous occasions.
‘Is Henry all right?’ Philippa asked anxiously.
‘I don’t know,’ her husband responded frostily. ‘Your son has absconded from St James’.’
‘What do you mean, absconded? And why is it that whenever he’s done something wrong he’s my son not ours?’
The Earl glowered at his wife. ‘When he’s transgressed the rules he’s your son because no son of mine would ever do anything wrong,’ he said, as though such information should have been obvious and that it was beneath him to have to explain it. ‘And by abscond, I mean that he has left the school grounds without permission and disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Philippa cried, aghast. She covered her mouth, determined not to give in to the tears that threatened to spill. The thought of her poor little boy all alone, wandering country lanes or roaming the countryside in search of shelter or food, was more than she could bear. Had he left the school of his own volition or had he been forcibly removed? Could there be a ransom note on its way? She cast her thoughts to her daughter, Henrietta, away at a friend's house in Scotland, and hoped she was safe.
‘Yes, disappeared. He went to bed last Sunday, and failed to show up when the morning roll call was taken. No one knows where he is.’
Philippa was appalled. ‘He’s been missing all that time, and they’re only now informing us! That’s disgraceful.’
‘I agree. The Headmaster said he had no wish to worry us. He thought his teachers could find Henry, but they have been unable to do so.’
‘We must call the police, Arthur. For all we know our boy could have been kidnapped. He could be lying dead in a field somewhere between Kingworthy and here.’
Lord Castleford nodded thoughtfully, thinking of his son and thinking also of his other problem. Should he tell his wife? Should he tell the police? He wasn’t sure he wished to do so, but perhaps the time was right to reveal his secret. After all, how could the blackmailer succeed in their quest if it was no longer a secret? ‘Yes,’ he eventually said, ‘perhaps the time has come to involve the authorities.’
CHAPTER SIX
Brigadier Barrington-Smythe sat in the saloon bar at the Royal Oak Public House in Upper Castleford, watching with irritation as the rain sluiced down the outside of the window panes. Today was the first day of the Partridge season, and after four days of rain it seemed it was a total washout. He had been looking forward to the shoot for a whole month, but around the bar other hunters drank beer, chatting and laughing with one another, seemingly at ease with the fact that no shooting would likely occur today.
The Brigadier wondered how they could be so blasé about it. Seriously, he thought, has not one of them been genuinely looking forward to today? Call themselves real huntsmen! A real huntsman would be out there no matter the weather. These new fair-weather hunters were all a bunch of pansies as far as he was concerned.
A great rain storm had never stopped the Brigadier in the past. He could remember a particular Pheasant season, a good twenty-or-so years ago, that started with an almighty thunderstorm. He had been out on one of the nearby estates that allowed Pheasant shooting, freezing cold and drenched to the skin even through his waterproofs, following behind the drivers as they forced the birds out into the open. Thunder had crashed overhead, while the inky sky lit up with frequent flashes of lightning. None of his hunting cronies back then had stayed home in the dry. They had all been out there together in each shooting season doing what they did best: killing game.
On that particular day he had been stood close to a willow tree, waiting for the drivers to do their thing, when a fork of lightning arced down, sizzling through the air and striking the willow with an almighty crash, sending flames and charred shards of bark and tree- innards up into the air.
It had barely fazed the Brigadier, and certainly hadn’t put him off hunting in foul weather.
And now he couldn’t even get the others out into what by comparison was a mere shower. Men nowadays have no stamina, he thought ruefully. Here I am in my seventies, in great discomfort from sciatica yet still hankering after a bit of excitement with a gun, and they don’t even want to get wet.
He finished his scotch, set down the glass and picked up his gun. Well, I’ll show them how we used to do it before the war! ‘Come along, Jasper.’ He patted his thigh to encourage his faithful companion out of his torpor beneath the table. The jet black Retriever yawned and stretched lazily, but followed the Brigadier obediently.
At the door, the Brigadier turned to the other patrons, most of whom had intended to come on the shoot. ‘Are any of you lily-livered lot actually going to join me up at Partridge Woods today?’
Several young men turned to look at him, their expressions clear enough. The Brigadier knew they thought him a bombastic old buffoon even before they uttered a word. ‘You must be joking, you silly old codger,’ one of them said in such a sarcastic tone that several of the others nudged him sharply and whispered recriminations in his ear. The young man remained unrepentant, turning back to his beer without another word.
‘Partridge Woods are well named, for sure, Brigadier,’ said the pretty blonde who was quite clearly accompanying the rude young man, ‘but that also means there will be plenty of pickings another day. We’re all quite happy to wait for drier weather.’
The Brigadier harrumphed loudly. The only time he had missed the first day of any shooting season had been during the wars. Not even a bout of influenza three years ago had stopped him, even though he had attended that particular first day totally against his doctor’s orders and had spent several long weeks afterwards battling pneumonia.
He left the pub without another word, almost slamming the door on his dog’s tail. ‘Come along, Jasper, we’ll show them.’ He shouldered his rifle and ruffled the appreciative hound’s head affectionately. ‘None of them has been shooting long enough to know that the first day of the season is always the most exciting.’
The Brigadier hobbled down the narrow tree-enveloped lane opposi
te the Public House, secretly thankful for the shelter that the canopy of trees afforded him from the downpour. At times he regretted his stubborn streak, but was far too proud to ever back down. Today would actually have been a good day to have curbed his stubbornness. His sciatica wasn’t doing his gait any favours, and he realised he’d left his cane back at The Royal Oak.
‘I’m a silly forgetful old bugger,’ he muttered to Jasper as they meandered down the lane. ‘Lucky I didn’t forget my gun!’
There was no chance of that. He was still furious that his pistols had been meddled with. It had been made clear to all the household staff on their respective first days that touching the guns was forbidden. How dare anyone use them! He might have forgiven the culprit had they cleaned the pistols after use and put them back in their correct places. But they hadn’t. If they had done so, he might reasonably have not even noticed – although he was secretly adamant that even then he would have known the pistols had been used.
The Brigadier wondered whether Mrs Grainger had solved the mystery yet. He would certainly not sleep well if no one admitted responsibility. He was a firm believer that should a person ever do wrong then they must own up and accept the consequences. If the culprit did that voluntarily then he might potentially overlook any misdemeanour – even the inappropriate use of his guns. If the truth had to be wheedled out of them then he would ensure that they were hauled over hot coals – or even dismissed.
A loud cracking sound interrupted his thoughts and caused Jasper to growl. For a moment the Brigadier mistook the sound for the beginning of a rumble of thunder, even though he knew precisely what the sound was.
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 4