It was the sound of a gunshot.
And not just any gunshot: it was one of his pistols.
In his mind, the Brigadier was of no doubt that it was one of his own guns. He had fired them so many times over the years that the sound they made took on a comforting familiarity. Their reports were, to him, unique.
Another gunshot echoed around the leafy lane. This time Jasper barked.
The Brigadier reassured his faithful Retriever, reaching in his pocket to hand the dog a treat in order to calm him. Had he been younger, he would have ducked into the shrubbery at the side of the lane and gone in search of the perpetrator. He couldn’t tell where the gunshots had come from, but they sounded close. He was unsure whether someone was shooting at him. If they were, then they were a rotten shot, for which he was grateful.
A third shot rang out, and this time the Brigadier knew with absolute certainty that it was his trusty Enfield. Some blighter was taking seemingly random pot-shots, probably at trees within Partridge Woods. Anyone with an ounce of gun-knowledge would use a shotgun for shooting game.
Moving as swiftly as his stiff aching limbs would allow, the Brigadier marched in the direction from which he felt the shots emanated. Such was the force of the rain beating down on the treetops overhead that autumnal leaves were falling in abundance, and even his trained ear had difficulty locating the exact source of the shots. The tunnel of overhanging branches caused the sounds to echo around him; wind and rain and animal noises, coupled with his laboured breathing as he staggered along made it difficult to listen out for further shots, but one more indeed sounded out, much closer than before.
With anger, he realised the shots came from the copse that bordered his estate with that of Lord Castleford. Was it possible that it wasn’t someone from his household who had used the guns? Could it have been an intruder from the Earl’s staff?
The thought of an intruder in his house increased the Brigadier’s fury. He knew he ought to calm down for the sake of his blood pressure, but the sheer impudence of the blaggard was astounding.
‘Come on, Jasper,’ he hissed, his hands clenched tightly into fists, ‘we might catch the scoundrel red handed.’
Finding his bearings, the Brigadier pushed his way through a gap in the bushes, and found himself on the outermost boundary of his estate. He could see the house in the far distance, lights blazing against the rain-darkened skyline, and to his left, about two hundred yards away, the copse – beyond which lay Castleford Manor.
He squinted, peering through the rain, wiping away the water that dripped into his eyes as he made out a shadowy figure lurking on the edge of the copse. He couldn’t tell from this distance whether the figure was a male or female, but they were certainly skulking in a suspicious and inappropriate manner, and to the Brigadier it seemed patently clear that it couldn’t be a member of his own household.
The Brigadier stifled a gasp as he saw the intruder point something skywards: definitely a gun; and when he heard the report as the intruder fired, there was no question that it was his Enfield.
‘Hey, you there!’ he shouted. Moving forward, he brandished his shotgun in what he hoped was a menacing manner. In fact, he was a little scared that the intruder would turn the handgun on him, and he hadn’t the time to load cartridges into his shotgun before any shot might be fired in his direction.
The intruder seemed to have either heard or seen him. They scarpered off, stooping to collect something from the ground before disappearing into the copse. leaving the Brigadier breathless by the time he reached the spot where they had been standing.
The Brigadier peered into the gloomy trees, but could make out nothing from within. He called Jasper back as the Retriever made to follow the intruder in through the trees. There was no sign of the gun, and the Brigadier didn’t trust the mystery figure enough not to shoot at his dog.
As Jasper came loping back towards him, shaking rain vigorously from his black coat, he suddenly lurched forward at something on the ground nearby. ‘Jasper, leave!’ The dog responded to his master’s command obediently, and the Brigadier bent to scoop up what the dog had found.
It was a pigeon, shot down from the sky.
The Brigadier recognised the coloured band around the bird’s ankle, and felt intense anger and immense pity for the bird, even though he had the intention of shooting some of the poor creature’s cousins. It was one of Lord Castleford’s birds, and the Brigadier knew full well the ancestry of those pigeons. He wasn’t alone in the knowledge: everyone in the village knew the history of the famous pigeons from the war, and surely none would have the discourtesy to kill them?
Did that then mean the gun thief was an outsider? Perhaps someone from a neighbouring village was the pigeon assassin?
That didn’t make sense to the Brigadier. Why would someone from outside the village break into his house, steal his Enfield, and then shoot one of Lord Castleford’s birds?
That meant it had to be someone from the Earl’s estate; someone with a grudge against His Lordship perhaps?
It stands to reason it must be someone who also has access to my own estate, the Brigadier ruminated silently as he carefully carried the dead pigeon into his house.
There was only one person who immediately sprang to mind: Herbert Carter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gertrude had all but given up hope of meeting Herbert. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the roaring fire: it read five before three. Lunch had been finished for over an hour. Out of courtesy they had waited long enough for Herbert to make an appearance, but had eventually started the sandwiches, which were beginning to dry out, and the pot of tea had already been replaced.
Gertrude could tell that her niece had grown concerned for Herbert’s wellbeing, whilst Grace’s delight at the apparent lack of manners of her daughter’s fiancé grew by equal measure. A sharp glare from Gertrude had silenced her sister’s gloating statement before it even reached her lips, and Grace descended into a sullen inertia on the Chesterfield.
The only sounds within the cottage were the ticking of the clock, the log fire crackling in the hearth and the occasional clearing of throats, all accompanied by the incessant thrumming of the rain outside.
Every few minutes, Juliet leapt from the sofa, claiming to have heard something outside, only to sink back between her mother and aunt having peered through the window to see nothing but a passing car or some poor soul scurrying down the lane trying desperately to keep dry beneath a large umbrella.
Eventually Grace grew tired of her daughter’s constant rising and sitting and told her forcefully to remain seated.
Gertrude turned to her niece, gently touching the girl’s arm. ‘I don’t think he’s coming, my dear. I’m sure nothing bad has happened to him, though.’
Juliet smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Aunt Gertie, but in weather like this, accidents do happen.’
‘Would you like me to go up to Lord Castleford’s house to see if they have any news on his whereabouts?’
Juliet shook her head. ‘No, Auntie, don’t worry. I’m certain you’re right. I expect he’s just holed up somewhere sheltering from the rain. He’ll turn up I’m sure when the weather improves.’
‘Well, talking about the weather improving, I’m afraid I can’t sit here waiting for that to happen. I came for lunch, and I have plans for this afternoon that even weather like this won’t put on hold.’ Gertrude stood up, reaching for her cape from the hooks behind the parlour door.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Grace, indicating the rain sluicing down the window panes. ‘Couldn’t you stay a little longer until the rain eases?’
‘I came expecting rain anyway, so returning to Clyst St James in a downpour isn’t really a problem.’ Gertrude affixed her hat with a hatpin, and turned to Juliet. ‘Please try not to worry yourself unnecessarily about your young man. I’m quite certain he’s all right.’ She hugged her niece, kissing her on each cheek. ‘We shall arrange to meet him a
gain another time. Perhaps you could bring him to Spring Cottage? He could meet your Aunt Glenda and Uncle Geoffrey.’ Juliet nodded silently. ‘Good girl.’ Gertrude turned to her sister. ‘I don’t want to hear from Juliet that you’ve been unpleasant to her about Herbert. Just be happy for the pair. Surely happiness is what any mother wants for her daughter?’
Grace emitted a loud sigh of irritation but merely nodded, not wishing to become embroiled in an argument with her sister. ‘Of course, Gertie,’ she mumbled. ‘But just remember that you haven’t yet made Herbert’s acquaintance. I have!’
‘And I shall therefore reserve my judgment until I have met him,’ said Gertrude, her eyes narrowing as they fixed upon Grace.
Grace knew her eldest sister well enough to admit defeat on the matter – for the moment, at least.
Upon leaving the cottage, Gertrude dashed across to her bicycle and clambered on, waving cheerily through the rain as she pedalled away.
Deep in thought with her own unspoken concerns regarding the whereabouts of Juliet’s paramour, Gertrude didn’t see the motorcycle heading towards her until it was almost too late. She heard its honking horn and swerved sharply to avoid a collision, swaying unsteadily as she brought her bicycle to a halt at the edge of the lane. She turned to shout furiously at the motorcycle rider, only to see the vehicle disappearing around the bend without even slowing down. It cruised through the puddle she herself had avoided with ease, spraying water up into the air.
‘Well really, how very rude,’ gasped Gertrude, catching her breath. Some people really should not be allowed on motorised vehicles. Although she herself had learned to drive just last year she had yet to buy a car. For the moment she was quite happy to stick with her trusty bicycle: it got her to where she needed to go if it was a little farther than she would like to walk, and if she needed to go further still then she was happy enough to borrow a car or accept a ride from any of the villagers who owned one.
Clearly the motorcycle rider wasn’t about to return to ensure her wellbeing. She would report it to Constable Denham when she passed by his house en-route to Spring Cottage.
*
Passing beneath the canopy of trees allowed a brief respite from the rain. Through the trees she caught brief glimpses of Castleford Manor and wondered briefly whether she ought to do what Juliet had said that she need not. Would anyone up at the house know where Herbert was and why had hadn’t come to lunch? More to the point, would anyone care?
As she approached the iron gates that marked the entrance to Castleford Manor, indecisiveness caused Gertrude to slow down. She dismounted and walked up to the gates, peering through into the grounds. A sweeping driveway led up to the manor house, with a wide expanse of waterlogged lawns and flowerbeds on either side. From this distance she could barely make out the occasional shadowy figure silhouetted against bright lights, moving around within the house.
A movement over to her left caused her to pause as she reached out to push open the gate. There was someone in amongst the trees, squeezing through the undergrowth and out into the lane ahead of her. The figure didn’t appear to have seen her, but Gertrude could see quite clearly that the man had a gun in his hand as he ran off down the lane. He thrust the gun into his coat pocket as he ran, and in his haste dropped something on the roadside without realising.
Gertrude would ordinarily have called after the hastily departing figure to inform him that he had dropped something, but the manner of his departure from Castleford Manor coupled with the presence of the gun caused her to rethink her actions. Whoever he man was, he had clearly been up to no good.
Making certain the stranger had indeed progressed far enough down the lane that he couldn’t see her, Gertrude pushed her bicycle along slowly and scanned the ground carefully to find what had fallen from his grasp. At the spot where the man had pushed through the trees she found a tiny cloth bag, fastened securely with a small length of thin cord. It was so small and dark in colour that in the encroaching gloom she almost missed it. Stooping, Gertrude scooped it up and in a single swift movement pocketed it, then settled herself comfortably back into the saddle and cycled off.
She expected to pass the man, and was a little surprised when she reached the junction at the end of the lane, having passed the next set of gates that led to the estate adjacent to Lord Castleford’s, without coming across him. It was therefore fairly clear to her that he had either entered the grounds of the other estate, or had found another gap in the undergrowth on the opposite side of the lane.
Turning left at the junction, Gertrude continued on to Clyst St James, grateful as the rain finally abated somewhat. As she passed the churchyard, she turned right into Main Street, and then left past the Post Office and Tea Room and on around the village green to where her own cosy cottage nestled in the far corner close to the War Memorial.
Originally two worker’s cottages, Spring Cottage had some years ago been converted into one home to accommodate a previous occupant’s ever-growing family, and most recently remained a single dwelling to give some personal space to Glenda and Geoffrey, with whom Gertrude lived.
Gertrude enjoyed her privacy, but was often pleased to have the company of her brother and sister. Spring Cottage was altogether more spacious than the old farm worker’s cottage in which they had spent their childhood. How nice it would have been to have had such luxury of space back then. Still, living in cramped conditions had done no harm to Gertrude or her siblings.
She thought of them often, even though not all of them were near enough for any regular visits.
Gerald, her eldest brother, lived across the Atlantic in New York with his American wife and her two grand-sons, whilst on the other side of the world, divorced Gretchen lived with her three daughters in Australia. Gladys had fled the area in scandalous circumstances some years earlier having become pregnant out of wedlock. She never spoke of the father, and a couple of months later gave birth to poor Mabel. Although none of the family had anything to do with Gladys it was not from their choice: Gladys herself chose to maintain her distance, even in the aftermath of the tragedy that befell her daughter. She revealed her reasons to no-one, but Gertrude knew it was because her sister had no desire to further scandalise her siblings.
Their long deceased brother George was persona-non-grata to them all.
Grace was the only sister outside the walls of Spring Cottage with whom Gertrude was in regular contact, but neither Glenda nor Geoffrey visited regularly. For their own reasons, the pair seldom left the safe environs of the cottage in Clyst St James for any length of time, and after the fate that befell Mabel up at Templemead Hall it was something Gertrude could to a degree understand.
She was somewhat surprised to find Geoffrey standing in the doorway of Spring Cottage, staring up at the sky allowing the rain to fall on his face.
‘Hello, Geoff,’ she called as she threw open the gate and wheeled her bicycle up the path towards the cottage. ‘Nice to see you enjoying the fresh air for once.’
Geoffrey lowered his head, sliding his fingers through his hair and wiping the rain from his face. ‘Hello, Gertie,’ he said with a smile. ‘The rain’s actually quite refreshing.’
Propping the bicycle to one side of the front door, Gertrude kissed her brother on the cheek. ‘We’ve been telling you for months to get out of the house. Perhaps now you’ll go one step further.’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘I already have,’ he said. ‘I went with Glenda into the village today. We had lunch at the Tea Room!’
Gertrude arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s good. What brought that about?’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘I suppose I just got fed up with all the constant nagging. It was quite liberating really.’
‘So you enjoyed yourself?’
‘Yes. I think I should have listened to you both and done it sooner. I know I need to keep quiet about – well, you know – but no one in the Tea Room judged me. I don’t know if they knew or not, but if they did then they didn’t seem to ca
re.’
Gertrude patted his arm. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone knows. It’s not something your sister and I go round telling everyone – not after what happened the last time.’
‘Gertie, you’re soaked to the skin,’ gasped Geoffrey, changing the subject as he realised just how wet his sister was. He helped her into the cottage, removing her cloak and throwing it over the chair in the corner of the hallway. ‘I’ve just drawn a bath, but I think it’d be better for you to take it. Get yourself warm. I’ll boil the kettle and make some cocoa for when you get out.’
‘Thank you, Geoff, that’s very thoughtful of you. And when I’ve dried off, you can tell me all about your trip into the village.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lady Castleford watched as Constable Denham departed, having decided him to be a rather inept policeman. He hadn’t been in the least bit interested in the fact that her precious Henry had vanished from his school. As Lady Castleford and her husband talked, all Constable Denham had done whilst making notes was stare about the vast library in awe. It was almost as though he had never seen such a magnificent collection of fine books before.
Lady Castleford wasn’t even certain he had actually listened to a single word spoken in the library. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find out he had been scribbling inane nonsense instead of notes relating to the case.
She slammed the door after watching the constable reach the gates, having waited in the vain hope that he might turn around and prove his worth with some insight into Henry’s disappearance. He was such a disappointment. His parting words had been for her to telephone if Henry turned up at the Manor.
There’s little chance of that happening, thought Philippa bitterly. St James’ was a good ten miles away, and she doubted her son had the wherewithal to make his way from his school to Upper Castleford.
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 5