Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1)

by Benjamin Ford

  ‘Well, that was a complete waste of time,’ said Lord Castleford irately as he came back downstairs. He had excused himself part way through the constable’s visit to change out of his still damp clothes. He picked up the telephone and made a call to St James’, speaking briefly to the headmaster before replacing the receiver. ‘There’s still no news from the school.’

  Philippa wrung her hands anxiously. ‘What are we to do, Arthur?’

  ‘Clearly our local constable is unable to help. We must therefore go over his head to his superior. I’m going to take the car to Lympton-on-Sea to have a word with our Chief Inspector. We might get more joy from him regarding Henry.’

  Philippa nodded approvingly. ‘You can also speak to the Chief Inspector about your pigeons. Something really must be done about their senseless slaughter, Arthur. Do you think the two events are related?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ The Earl kissed his wife affectionately. ‘Try not to worry yourself, my dear. I’m sure Henry is absolutely fine.’

  Philippa watched her husband as he left the house, hoping against hope that he was correct. She wasn’t so certain herself. Arthur wasn’t exactly well liked amongst the villagers. She wouldn’t put it past any one of them to have kidnapped Henry. With even more certainty, she was sure someone in the village had been arbitrarily taking the lives of the pigeons.

  Not knowing what else to do with her time whilst Arthur was gone, Philippa returned to the library. She slumped down into the wingback chair facing the fireplace, revelling in the fire’s radiant warmth. On the small table to the side of the chair, abandoned earlier by Jackson, lay the copy of the Times. To take her mind off her worries she half-heartedly picked it up, flicking through the pages. Several advertisements for apparel, footwear and hosiery caught her attention on various pages, interspersed with news reports from around the world. There was far too much going on that made her feel even more disheartened.

  Upon reading a little local news concerning the continued jewellery thefts attributed to Pegasus, she managed to raise a brief smile. The owners of those nearby Big Houses would do well to speak to Arthur about their security arrangements, she thought, before putting the news from her mind. What did even her own jewellery matter when placed in the context of her son’s safe return? Henry and his sister were all that mattered to her. She would gladly give up all the trappings of the luxury that being the Countess of Castleford afforded her if it would guarantee the continued wellbeing of her children.

  Making a snap decision, she put down the newspaper and left the library, calling for Jackson. When the butler appeared, she fixed him with a stern glare. ‘What were you going to tell me earlier?’

  *

  Having passed through the entrance of Castleford Manor into the leafy lane beyond, Constable Denham paused to drag the heavy wrought iron gates closed behind him, but scrambled off his bicycle to push them back open when he saw the cobalt blue Bentley approaching down the long drive.

  He tipped his helmet to the driver as the Bentley passed him, but Lord Castleford paid him no heed. It was clear that His Lordship was a man on a mission. Through the windscreen Constable Denham could see the steely resolve etched upon his face. The man was angry; that much was evident. Constable Denham couldn’t really blame him: his own performance had been tempered by awe of the surroundings in which he had found himself.

  He had been a police constable for eleven years, and in all that time he had never once been summoned to any of the Big Houses. That sort of thing was usually left to Chief Inspector Lennox from Lympton-on-Sea, who could be on the scene faster by car than he himself could be on his trusty bicycle.

  When the call had come at his home to pay a visit post-haste to the estate of Lord Castleford, he had at first thought there must be some mistake. Upon discovering that the Chief Inspector was otherwise engaged he was secretly pleased. He had hoped that this case, whatever it may be, might be his stepping stone to better things.

  He had blown his chances and castigated himself repeatedly for his stupidity. The Manor might be grand, but it was still just a house; its occupants might be a Lord and Lady, but they were still just parents whose son was missing. In his overawed excitement at seeing the inside of Castleford Manor, Denham hadn’t adequately performed his duties as a police constable. He knew that much only too well, but there was little he could to redeem himself – except find the missing boy.

  Constable Denham resolved that this was precisely what he would do. Despite appearances back at the manor he had in fact taken note of everything that the Earl and Countess of Castleford had said. Taking notes was something he did without even thinking. All the ostentatious distractions of the impressive library could not prevent him from performing that most rudimentary of police procedures.

  He patted his breast pocket where nestled his notebook. Once back in the warmth of his own home he would go through those notes, perhaps make a few more, and then tomorrow he would travel to Lympton-on-Sea to speak with Chief Inspector Lennox.

  Pushing off, he headed in the direction of Clyst St James, mulling over in his mind the facts that he had been told. He tried to put himself in the shoes of the distraught parents. Had they behaved as the parents of a genuinely missing child would? Was it possible the boy had been taken out of the school rather than just wandered off? Could he perhaps have gone off with someone he knew? Could a ransom note already be on its way to Lord and Lady Castleford? More likely, from what Constable Denham had heard of the strict school, the boy really had simply run away.

  He resolved that, once he had gone over the facts with the Chief Inspector in the morning, they should travel up to the St James’ School for Boys to see whether the lad had been in trouble. They had to look for a reason for him to have run away before they could discount the possibility, whilst also keeping open the option of kidnap.

  So deep in thought was he that Constable Denham failed to hear the car coming up behind him up until its exhaust backfired, closely followed by the headlamps lighting the trees ahead. It passed by at a reckless speed, forcing the constable to a halt at the roadside. He opened his mouth to shout uselessly after the rapidly disappearing car, but closed it again when he recognised the bright blue car.

  It was Lord Castleford’s Bentley.

  Constable Denham scratched his head in confusion. Lord Castleford had driven off ahead of him as he was leaving Castleford Manor, so how was it possible that the car was now passing him in the lane?

  Further back along the lane, the constable had passed the gated entrance to a field. It’s highly likely, he thought, that for whatever reason, Lord Castleford pulled into that field and waited me to pass by.

  Why would he do that?

  A mystery indeed, Constable Denham mused. It was something to ask His Lordship another time.

  As he set off once more, watching the Bentley disappearing off into the distance and around a bend in the lane, Constable Denham became aware of another headlamp coming towards him. A few seconds later he heard the distinct sound of the car backfiring again.

  The approaching single light indicated the other vehicle was a motorcycle. Constable Denham kept his bicycle to the edge of the lane, waiting for the motorcycle to come around the bend, but it didn’t. He could tell from the light pattern that the rider had turned the motorcycle around and was now heading away from him once more, closely following Lord Castleford’s car.

  A peculiar occurrence, the constable thought. Perhaps the motorcycle rider recognised the car and wanted to speak with His Lordship?

  Constable Denham continued on his way, aware that the ever darkening sky heralded the forthcoming arrival of yet more rain. He wanted to reach home before getting too wet. He became aware of the single headlamp coming in his direction once more, and seconds later the motorcycle roared around the bend in the road, hurtling past him and almost knocking him from his bicycle.

  The constable stopped and yelled a mild profanity after the rapidly disappearing vehicle. He blushed
as he cursed: he wasn’t used to swearing, but damn-it he had almost been killed – again.

  Regaining his composure, he continued on his way once more. As he finally pedalled around the bend, he was greeted by a tableau ahead of him that would remain with him for a very long time.

  The Bentley had clearly swerved off the road. It was difficult to tell from this distance whether it had been forced off the road or whether Lord Castleford had swerved to avoid something. The car was lodged on the grass verge to one side of the lane, its front end rammed up against the thick trunk of a tree, steam coming from the radiator. The front passenger door was open.

  Constable Denham forced his legs to peddle faster, and as he reached the rear end of the car he threw himself off his bike and hastened over to the open passenger door. He leaned inside to ensure Lord Castleford was all right, and recoiled in shock.

  Lord Castleford was not at the wheel of the car.

  In the driver’s seat was a blonde haired woman wearing a high necked brightly coloured oriental styled dress. She was slumped forward over the steering wheel, not moving.

  Constable Denham reached across and touched her neck, noticing as he did the blood trickling from a wound on her head. He snatched his hand back sharply.

  Whoever she was, the woman was dead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As she soaked away her aches and pains in the bath, warming up from her travails in the rain, Gertrude remembered too late her intention to drop in on Constable Denham to report the dangerous driving of the motorcycle rider.

  Would it keep until the morning? Probably, but she decided to cross the village green to have a word with him anyway. It couldn’t be much after four: the dwindling daylight outside was still some way off dusk, so she wouldn’t be disturbing his evening.

  Once dried off and dressed in clean warm clothing, Gertrude greeted her brother and sister in the parlour, where they were sat enjoying a pot of tea and some of Gertrude’s own homemade scones. ‘I’ve just remembered that I was going to have a word with Constable Denham,’ she said, taking a couple of grateful sips of the tea Glenda had poured for her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Geoffrey.

  When Gertrude told the pair of her brush with danger, her siblings were adamant that the motorcycle rider should at the very least be reprimanded for dangerous driving. ‘What would we have done if you’d been killed?’

  ‘Gone hungry, probably,’ sighed Gertrude with a gentle smirk.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Glenda irately. ‘You really could have been killed.’

  Gertrude nodded. ‘I am well aware of that. That’s why I must speak with the good constable.’

  Not wanting to put on her soaking wet cape, which was still draped over the chair in the hall, she grabbed Glenda’s gardening coat from the hooks behind the parlour door. ‘I won’t be long. When I get back I shall start preparing dinner.’ She was gone from the cottage before either Glenda or Geoffrey could utter another word.

  Gertrude was pleased to find the rain had ceased, however temporarily. In the encroaching darkness other cottages were already illuminated from within, whilst the four street lamps at the corners of the village green had just started to glow orange. Spring Cottage had been the last house in the village to be connected to the electric supply: it had been the first thing Gertrude had arranged after purchasing the property.

  Although Gertrude was pleased that the green had finally been blessed with electric lighting, she couldn’t help feeling that the lights outside had spoilt the ambiance of the village. She wasn’t altogether fond of the orange glow, which she felt far too artificial for the countryside; however, it did mean the villagers no longer had to carry hurricane lamps as they went about their business after dark.

  She walked along the footpath leading off from the green, turned right at the churchyard and crossed to the house opposite the adjacent Vicarage. She rapped sharply on the door, awaiting an answer. The door was eventually opened by an elderly woman, her face creased with frown lines that made her look permanently angry.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Denham,’ said Gertrude, smiling warmly. ‘Is your son home?’

  The old woman shook her head, leaning heavily on her walking stick. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Harrington. He’s up at the Manor.’

  ‘Oh. Nothing too serious, I trust?’

  Mrs Denham shrugged. ‘Constable Denham don’t tell me his business; Official Secrets and all that malarkey.’

  Gertrude thought it odd that Mrs Denham should refer to her son as Constable Denham; probably due to the fact that it was official police business. Perhaps it was her way of keeping her son’s work separate from their home life? Most secrets were ill-kept within the village: she knew her sister would most likely know the facts concerning the constable’s business at the Manor by tomorrow’s end.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know how long he’ll be?’

  Mrs Denham shook her head. ‘Couldn’t say. No way of telling with his job.’

  ‘I suppose not. Well, thank you anyway. Would you tell him I called by and that I shall catch up with him in the morning?’

  As she walked away from the house, she was rather taken aback at the loud slamming on the door behind her. Had she interrupted something else in the house? She turned, and smiled. It hadn’t been Mrs Denham slamming her door after all; it was Dr Gillespie next door.

  ‘Hello, Gertrude,’ he said with a smile. ‘Were you looking for our lovely constable?’

  Gertrude nodded. ‘Yes. His mother says he’s up at the Manor.’

  ‘Well I could give you a lift if you like? I was actually on my way to see your brother, but I could take you up there and bring you back again first.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Dr Gillespie,’ said Gertrude with a smile, knowing full well the doctor’s business with Geoffrey. She nodded. ‘Yes, all right, let’s go.’

  Smoothing his silver hair rather vainly, Dr Gillespie opened the door of his five-year-old white Wolseley and Gertrude gratefully climbed into the passenger seat.

  When the doctor ran around to the driver’s side and climbed in beside Gertrude, he paused and turned to her. ‘Actually, I think we ought to just stop off at Spring Cottage to let your brother know where we’re going.’

  Gertrude said nothing. She knew what the outcome would be. A few minutes later she waited patiently in the car as the doctor spoke to Geoffrey and Glenda in the doorway of Spring Cottage, and sure enough Glenda followed Dr Gillespie to the car.

  ‘Couldn’t pass up the chance of a bit of gossip, eh, Glenda?’ she said as her sister climbed in to the back of the Wolseley.

  Glenda laughed gaily. ‘My life would be dull, dull, dull without my weekly dose of gossip. Think how exciting it’ll be if I get the scoop on something to tell the ladies at lunch on Friday.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I only want to tell the lovely constable about the motorcycle that nearly ran me off the road.’

  ‘Ah, but the good constable is up at Castleford Manor, so the doctor here says. It stands to reason, therefore, that something has happened up there; perhaps something gossip-worthy!’

  Dr Gillespie put the car in gear and drove off, smiling as he listened to the gentle sororal banter. ‘It’s perfectly lovely that you all get on so well,’ he said softly, ‘particularly where Geoffrey is concerned.’

  Gertrude knew what Dr Gillespie meant. ‘Well, he was there at our mother’s bedside, nursing her through her illness. He was there at the end even though she didn’t want him there.’

  ‘I know, Gertrude. I was with him in those final hours. I saw first-hand how deeply her loathing affected him, and back then there was nothing I could do to comfort him.’ The doctor’s voice was filled with sadness.

  Gertrude touched his arm tenderly. ‘We’re well aware of that, Charles. And how could we not forgive our dear brother after the sacrifices he made for our mother? We can forgive Geoffrey anything, but not Mother for the way she treated him.’
/>   ‘Not that there’s anything to forgive Geoffrey for,’ added Glenda.

  ‘Indeed.’ The doctor sighed deeply. ‘I wish I had known your family years ago. My life might have been so much easier.’

  ‘And perhaps our brother would not have had such a sad youth. But, such is life. We are all dealt our hand by the Good Lord, and how we choose to handle it is what defines us as people. Sometimes we must endure a lifetime of heartache and pain to realise our worth in this world, and eventually we are granted our reward.’

  Dr Gillespie nodded. ‘Indeed we are.’

  He slowed the car as the headlamps illuminated the figure of a man up ahead. He was waving them down to stop, clearly quite agitated, and as the car approached they could see it was Constable Denham.

  Dr Gillespie wound down the window. ‘My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Thank heavens,’ cried the constable as he approached. ‘I was beginning to think I’d be stuck out here all night.’

  ‘Having trouble with your bicycle?’ Gertrude added with a wry smile, peering across the doctor to where an agitated Constable Denham leaned down to rest his arms on the sill.

  ‘A bit more than trouble with the bicycle, Miss Harrington,’ the constable said, ‘although I’m lucky to have not been knocked off it by a motorcyclist!’

  Gertrude’s eyes lit up. ‘That could be the same motorcycle that almost killed me,’ she gasped. ‘That’s why I was coming to speak with you. The good doctor here obliged with a lift in his car.’

  ‘Well I’m damn glad you came in a car,’ said the constable. ‘There’s been an accident, and I need someone to telephone the station at Lympton.’

  Dr Gillespie opened his car door and stepped out onto the road. Gertrude and Glenda followed suit. ‘What sort of accident?’

  ‘A car crash. I think it must have been caused by the motorcycle. It happened around the bend ahead of me, so I didn’t actually see it happen.’

  ‘Good Lord, was anyone hurt?’ asked the doctor.