‘I believe the driver of the car is dead. Quite fortuitous, your coming along like this, Dr Gillespie. Could you take a look?’
Constable Denham hastened off up the lane, closely followed by the doctor. Gertrude and Glenda trailed some distance behind, both thinking it wise to stay out of the way.
‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Glenda, clutching her sister’s arm as they approached the crashed car. Dr Gillespie was already leaning inside the car inspecting the driver.
‘I recognise that car,’ Gertrude whispered, more to herself than to her sister. The cobalt blue Bentley was most distinctive. When she had been cook to Professor and Mrs Rushbrook up at Templemead Hall, this Bentley had often been parked outside, its owner a regular dinner guest. ‘It belongs to Lord Castleford.’
‘Lord Castleford?’ gasped Glenda. ‘The poor man. Geoff and I were only discussing him with a lady visitor of his at the Tea Room this very lunchtime.’
‘Really?’ This fact piqued Gertrude’s interest. Was it possible, she ruminated silently, that the mysterious lady visitor had been the rider of the motorcycle? ‘Do you know who she was?’
Glenda shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen her before. She introduced herself as Clara Hendon, an old friend of the Earl and Countess of Castleford. She’d lost her way, so she said.’
‘I don’t suppose she was riding a motorcycle by any chance?’ queried Gertrude.
Glenda shook her head. ‘I doubt it. She was wearing a long Oriental dress.’ She thought back to her brief encounter with the mysterious Clara. ‘She was quite plain really, which makes it rather odd that she was wearing such a striking dress. Wore far too much make-up too.’
‘Perhaps she wanted to be noticed?’
‘Maybe. She’d also twisted her ankle on the step outside the Tea Room, poor thing.’
‘Really? That was rather clumsy, considering there’s no step outside the Tea Room!’
Glenda frowned, realising her sister was correct. ‘But why should she lie?’
‘To cover up the fact that she possessed an existing limp, perhaps? Was it her left ankle she claimed to have twisted?’
Gertrude’s mind was racing. She remembered something from the past; a particular dinner party where Professor Rushbrook had somewhat unusually come down to the kitchens. He had wanted Gertrude to go up to the dining room to receive well deserved praise from the guests. She had been mortified, wishing to remain the silent cook, but had dutifully followed the Professor upstairs. The Earl and Countess of Castleford had been in attendance that evening. Lady Castleford had worn a bright ornately decorated dress from the Orient, and Lord Castleford had stood up to shake her hand, thanking her for such a delicious meal.
Gertrude recalled quite clearly the cane Lord Castleford had used to support himself: ebony, with a silver pigeon as the cane head. He had walked with a pronounced limp, favouring his right side as it was clearly less painful.
Glenda disturbed Gertrude’s reminiscences with a shriek. ‘My God, it’s Clara!’
Gertrude glanced at her sister, and then at the blonde haired figure who wore a familiar looking Oriental dress and who was slumped over the steering wheel of the crashed car. She could see Dr Gillespie shaking his head sadly. Obviously the driver was definitely dead.
‘That’s not Clara Hendon,’ Gertrude said with confidence.
‘Of course it is,’ responded Glenda sharply. ‘She’s still wearing the same dress she wore at lunchtime.’
‘I’m sure she is, and I’m sure it’s the same person, but her name isn’t Clara Hendon!’
‘Then who is it?’
Dr Gillespie and Constable Denham turned to the two women. ‘It might be best if you ladies stayed there,’ said the constable. ‘There’s quite a bit of blood.’
‘Is he really dead?’ asked Gertrude.
Glenda sucked in her breath. ‘What do you mean, he?’
‘Haven’t you worked it out yet, Glenda?’ Gertrude turned to her sister. ‘The car is Lord Castleford’s. Who do you think is at the wheel?’
‘His chauffeur?’
Gertrude shook her head. She turned back to Constable Denham. ‘It’s Lord Castleford, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER TEN
Brigadier Barrington-Smythe stood staring at the gun case in disbelief. As if finding the dead pigeon wasn’t bad enough, he had hoped he might just conceivably be wrong about the gun, only to now find out he really did know the sound of his Enfield.
‘Have you found out who’s taken the Enfield, Mrs Grainger?’ he asked as the housekeeper approached
Mrs Grainger’s face was stern with disappointment at her failure in the one task the Brigadier had set her. She shook her head, unable to meet the Brigadier’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I have spoken to each of the staff, and they all have said they’ve no idea who used it.’
The Brigadier indicated the gun case. ‘I’m not talking about when it was used before; I’m talking about it being gone now!’ He watched the housekeeper’s face intently as she looked at the case, and knew immediately that she knew nothing about the gun’s absence.
‘But that’s not possible, sir,’ Mrs Grainger gasped, crossing over to the case. She moved to touch the glass door, but snatched her hand away as though the case burnt it. She pointed at the cabinet. ‘The guns were all there earlier, I swear.’
‘Are you certain none of the staff has taken the Enfield?’
‘Positive, Sir. I questioned them all earlier, including Mr Grainger. I made it totally clear that anyone found to have interfered with the guns would be dismissed. I’m confident that not one of them is guilty.’
The Brigadier sighed. ‘I’m inclined to believe that.’ He’d had time to think more about the figure he had seen from a distance. He still wasn’t sure whether it had been male or female, but in his mind he pictured the figure once more. He couldn’t be certain, but he seemed to recall that they had been relatively short in stature. He remained convinced that the intruder must be Herbert, not only because Herbert had free access to both this estate and also Castleford Manor, but also because Herbert, from vague recollection, was not much over five foot.
It made sense on so many levels, except one: why would Herbert want to kill Lord Castleford’s pigeons? Had His Lordship upset Herbert in some way? Was it some kind of petty revenge?
‘Mrs Grainger, have you seen Herbert Carter today?’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘It’s his day off, sir. Mr Grainger says he’s up at the Manor today. Did you want him for something in particular? Perhaps Mr Grainger can help?’
The Brigadier remained silent for a few moments. Ought he to implicate Herbert by revealing his suspicions to the housekeeper? The Brigadier knew there was no love lost between Mrs Grainger and Herbert Carter. The old woman had warned him some weeks ago that she didn’t trust the lad. It was her husband who had given Herbert the job of assistant gardener. The Brigadier hadn’t questioned Mr Grainger’s judgment: the gardener had hired boys in the past to help him on a temporary basis in the gardens and nothing ill had come of it. Mrs Grainger hadn’t commented on any of her husband’s previous assistants, but she had felt the need to make her feelings known about Herbert from the outset.
‘What do we know about Herbert, Mrs Grainger?’ he said, hoping to choose his words carefully.
The housekeeper gasped audibly, her mouth agape as she realised the Brigadier’s intimation. ‘You think it’s him, don’t you sir? Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a shifty one, that Herbert. Didn’t I tell you right from the start that he wasn’t to be trusted? I told my Jack, too, but he wouldn’t listen. He says the boy’s a real hard worker, but that don’t mean anything. You can be a hard worker but still be untrustworthy. Besides which he works at Castleford Manor with that fellow Parkes, and you know my Jack’s feelings on him. If anyone’s less trustworthy than Parkes, then they’ll be banged up in Pentonville. If Herbert’s up to no good, you can be sure that Parkes is involved.
’
The Brigadier held up his hand to stop Mrs Grainger’s diatribe mid flow. ‘You can’t go around accusing other people of being untrustworthy without proof,’ he said sternly. ‘Just because your husband doesn’t like Parkes doesn’t make him untrustworthy, and just because you don’t trust Herbert doesn’t make it so.’
‘But you said –’
The Brigadier cut her off again. ‘All I asked was what we know about young Herbert. That doesn’t mean I suspect him of anything, and I don’t want to hear that you’ve been spreading rumours about him amongst the other staff.’
Chastised, Mrs Grainger bowed slightly. ‘Sorry, Sir, I meant no disrespect.’
‘So, what do we know about Herbert?’
Mrs Grainger thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Not a lot. You’d do better asking Mr Grainger.’
‘I shall do just that. Please fetch him, Mrs Grainger. I’ll be in the drawing room.’
The Brigadier watched as the housekeeper disappeared. Her words had only served to reaffirm his own suspicions about the young lad Jack Grainger had employed. Mrs Grainger was usually a very good judge of character, and if there was something she didn’t like about a person then there was usually a very good reason for it. Naturally it wouldn’t do to tell her that though. The Brigadier knew better than to pander to the whims of the hired help. They should always know their place, and his housekeeper was no different. She was there to ensure the smooth running of the household, nothing more. Idle tittle-tattle about other people should be left for her free time.
But still: Mrs Grainger didn’t actually like Herbert and the lad was missing, allegedly working up at Castleford Manor. As he made his way along to the drawing room, the Brigadier made a swift telephone call, and satisfied with the answer to the question he posed, he awaited Mr Grainger’s presence in the drawing room.
*
Jack Grainger was not at all happy at being summoned by his wife for the second time that day. It was bad enough being called into the house the first time for a grilling about the Brigadier’s blasted guns, but now the Brigadier himself wanted a word.
Jack knew it wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting, although he wasn’t sure what the Brigadier wanted to speak to him about. He could guess, of course: it was bound to be more questions about the guns.
‘Stay calm, Jack,’ he told himself. ‘You haven’t done nothing wrong.’
He knew he hadn’t touched the gun case, but there was no way of proving it. He knew where the key was kept; he was the only one other than his wife and the Brigadier himself who did know the key’s location. The culpability would therefore lie with him.
He rapped imperiously on the drawing room door, and when the Brigadier bade him enter he opened the door, trembling a little as he made his way into the room.
‘Thank you for coming in to see me, Grainger. I know you are a busy man at this time of year.’
Grainger came to stand on the faded Persian rug that was draped on the floor between the three settees in the drawing room. The Brigadier sat on the one that faced the fireplace as he leafed through the day’s newspapers. ‘Sorry your shoot was rained off,’ Grainger muttered.
The Brigadier glanced up at his gardener, removing his monocle as he did so. ‘Not as sorry as I am,’ he said stiffly. ‘First day of the partridge season, and not a shot fired. First time ever, to my recollection.’ He wasn’t about to admit that because of the pain in his joints, a part of him was glad to be back home.
‘Mrs Grainger said you wanted to speak to me, sir.’
The Brigadier fixed him with a penetrating stare. ‘Indeed. I want to talk to you about Herbert Carter.’ He indicated that Jack should sit opposite, but the gardener declined. ‘Do you know anything about his personal life?’
‘Not a lot, sir. I was introduced to him by Sally. She’s friends with Herbert’s sister, Millicent, who’s one of Lord Castleford’s maids. They’ve both worked for Lord Castleford for several years. I think they’re orphans. I seem to recall Sally saying their parents died when they were both very young. Sally says Herbert has a young lady in the village.’
The Brigadier nodded as he listened. ‘I’m hearing a lot of Sally this and Sally that. Do you actually know anything about him personally?’
Grainger thought for a moment, and realising the truth of the matter, shook his head. ‘All I know is that he’s a hard worker, and that’s good enough for me.’
‘And he’s not working today?’
‘No, sir. Today he’s working up at Castleford Manor. He’ll be back here tomorrow, if you want to speak to him.’
The Brigadier stood up, throwing the newspapers down on the low table between Grainger and himself. ‘No, Grainger, he’s not. I just telephoned Castleford Manor and Lord Castleford’s butler informed me that Herbert didn’t show up for work this morning. He hasn’t been seen all day, in fact.’
Grainger frowned. That didn’t make sense. Herbert had always been such a diligent worker. He had never missed an hour’s work here, much less a day, and there was no reason to suspect that his work ethic should be any different at Castleford Manor. He had been fine yesterday, so although it was possible he was sick, it was unlikely. He didn’t drink as far as Jack knew, so it was also unlikely that he was suffering the effects of a hangover.
‘Something must have happened to him,’ he said to the Brigadier through clenched teeth. He could tell what was going through the Brigadier’s mind, and although he didn’t want to believe it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Brigadier might have stumbled onto something.
Could it be Herbert, he wondered? Did the boy have it in him to steal the Brigadier’s gun? What did he want the gun for? To shoot someone – or something?
‘You think he’s the one who’s been shooting Lord Castleford’s birds, don’t you?’ said Grainger sullenly.
The Brigadier turned to him, his face inscrutable, as if trying to gauge his gardener’s opinion from his reaction. Grainger nodded in response to his own question.
‘Well, it seems to me that you have made your own decision concerning his guilt,’ said the Brigadier softly. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think about him. I’ve barely spoken to him since you’ve had him working here anyway. The big question is: if he’s been killing the birds, what else is he capable of?’
‘Are you thinking he’s planning on shooting a person?’
The Brigadier grunted in a non-committal manner. ‘I can’t think of any other reason for the killing of Lord Castleford’s birds, can you? I would say it’s clear enough. Herbert bears a grudge against someone, and has stolen my gun to exact his revenge. He’s been using Lord Castleford’s pigeons for target practice.’
Grainger nodded. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. If you’re not used to using a gun and intend on killing someone, it’d be best to practice first. But who do you think his intended victim is, Brigadier.’
‘Well, you and I both know that there’s no love lost between the villagers and the Earl of Castleford. It’s no stretch of the imagination to include Herbert in that mutual dislike now, is it?’
Grainger remained silent for a moment, pondering the Brigadier’s supposition. Using Lord Castleford’s pigeons as target practice before turning the gun on His Lordship himself was a little twisted, but it did make a kind of sense to the gardener. ‘If that’s the case, then don’t you think we ought to let His Lordship know all this?’
‘Yes. I shall go to see Lord Castleford later this evening. In the meantime, Grainger, I thank you for your time. You can get off now.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lady Castleford stood in the centre of the library at Castleford Manor, staring at the desk in front of the window. She had been in search of her husband’s journal, which Jackson had told her he had seen Lord Castleford writing in on more than one occasion, secreting it away whenever someone entered the library.
Jackson didn’t know where the little leather-bound book was h
idden, but he was certain it was in the library. He had been so adamant that Lady Castleford firmly believed she would find the book quickly since there were only so many places the book could be easily hidden. She had checked all the bookshelves, pushing the books backwards to ensure nothing was hidden behind them. She’d even had the drawers out and rifled through the contents, all to no avail.
When Jackson brought her in a hot cup of tea she questioned his certainty that the book was in the library, but there was no doubt in his mind which could only mean one thing: there was a secret compartment somewhere in the room.
Philippa moved to the desk and sat in the mahogany Captain’s Chair, relishing the feeling of the leather upholstery beneath her. Reclining to get comfortable she tried to put herself in her husband’s shoes. She closed her eyes and pictured him, seated at the desk scribbling away in his secret journal. She imagined the door opening and Jackson entering. In her mind she could see Arthur closing the book and surreptitiously slipping in into its secret hiding place. Eyes still closed she leaned forward, reaching under the kneehole, feeling along the underside of the desktop. Her delicate fingertips located a small indentation. She pressed it and a small flap opened, dropping a black leather book into her lap.
Smiling, Philippa opened her eyes and placed the book on the desk top, thrilled at her success but a little wary about actually reading a secret diary belonging to her husband. Did she really want to learn the innermost workings of Arthur’s mind? Would it reveal the mystery of his ‘small business affair’? Would it tell her of her husband’s true feelings for her?
She wasn’t altogether sure whether reading the diary was a good idea, but something was certainly troubling her husband and she was concerned for his wellbeing. If she could find out what it was that troubled him so, then surely it was worth also potentially finding out a few extra truths, no matter how unpalatable they might be?
She tapped the journal thoughtfully with her index finger. Taking a deep breath, she opened the book and started to read.
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 7