*
Millicent Carter had worked as a maid to the Earl and Countess of Castleford for six years. In all that time she had worked hard whilst keeping her eyes and ears open. Her brother Herbert was already employed as a gardener, and although she had always thought of her brother as being a bit of a layabout, when she had seen him working nothing could be further from the truth.
They both worked long hours, rising at dawn and not going to bed until after eleven most days. Herbert seemed to thrive on the hard graft. He always maintained to Millicent that he enjoyed working outside, even when the weather was so inclement that Millicent felt she might drown just by stepping outside the house. Nothing seemed to faze Herbert, and Millicent admired him for his work ethic.
Millicent herself, on the other hand, hated her life of drudgery and often day-dreamed of a life away from Castleford Manor. At times she felt there was nothing she wouldn’t do to make a better life for herself and her mother. Herbert would keep working as a gardener until he died, from what Millicent had seen. She didn’t begrudge him this: if he enjoyed working all hours, digging soil, planting seedlings and pruning shrubs, well then he could carry on doing so – she wouldn’t stop him.
She, however, had no intention of remaining a slave to the high-and-mighty Earl of Castleford for the rest of her life.
Millicent didn’t like her employer. He might be a Lord, but his attitude towards the staff left a lot to be desired. He barely spoke to any of the servants in his employ, and Millicent wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that he didn’t even know any of their names.
But then, why should he know her name? She was just a common little maid, paid to do a job quietly and efficiently, and so long as she did that then she received her wages. His Lordship had no reason to speak to her: after all, he had Jackson to deal with the rest of the household staff.
Lady Castleford was another matter altogether. Certainly she had her petty moments when she could be a little vindictive towards others, but that was usually in response to the behaviour of the person to whom she displayed her spite. It was usually well deserved, and quickly forgotten.
Millicent found it easy enough to like Lady Castleford, not having done anything to personally incur the ire of the Lady of the Manor. When she saw Lady Castleford enter the library following Lord Castleford’s departure she had waited for Jackson to disappear. She sidled over to the library door, pressing an ear gingerly to the wood, straining to listen. It was a foolhardy move, she realised. There was no telephone within the library, and since Lady Castleford was alone on the room there was nothing to listen for.
When Lord Castleford had gone on one of his previous occasional expeditions out into the world beyond the confines of Castleford Manor, Millicent had a good idea what he was doing, if not precisely where he was going. She’d suspected for the past month that His Lordship had a mistress, and she knew just how to prove this supposition. She could hear noises from within the library. Her Ladyship must be of the same opinion, for it seemed clear to Millicent that Lady Castleford was searching the room for something, and she knew what Lady Castleford was looking for.
Most of the staff knew that His Lordship kept a secret diary. Several times she herself had stumbled upon him writing in it. He was always swift enough to hide it from view whilst she went about her work around him, so although she wasn’t altogether certain of the subject matter of his writings Millicent guessed that it involved his mistress. Why else would His Lordship hide the book from her whenever she came into the room?
Could there be some other reason for his secrecy though? Might the diary potentially reveal some further secrets she could use? She needed to find out where His Lordship kept it, so she stealthily opened the door, hoping to see Lady Castleford discovering the whereabouts of the book.
‘What are you doing, Millicent.’
Jackson’s voice behind her caught the maid off guard. She pulled the door closed, hoping Lady Castleford wouldn’t hear the soft click of the latch. ‘Sorry, Mr Jackson. I was just going to tidy up in the library.’
She could tell from Jackson’s body language that he didn’t believe her. She realised she should have known better than to try to pull the wool over his eyes. He was sharp as a nail and as shrewd as Lady Castleford.
‘What are you doing?’ Jackson asked for the second time. His tone was one of quiet accusation.
He really didn’t have to say anything else. Millicent could feel the blush of guilt rise up on her cheeks and she couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his. Her mouth had turned so dry that she couldn’t even clear her throat to answer.
‘I suggest you go and do what you are supposed to be doing, my girl,’ Jackson said softly. ‘You are not paid to spy on Lady Castleford. The dining table will not lay itself.’
Millicent managed to clear her throat heartily. ‘Yes, Mr Jackson,’ she whispered, backing away slowly. She knew full well that when the butler spoke in the soft tone reserved for questioning a misdemeanour then his ire had been seriously incurred by the miscreant. The quieter his tone the angrier he was: she hadn’t heard him speak this softly for many a month, so there was little doubt in her mind that he had watched her every move.
Still, things would be different once Herbert returned from his lunch date. Millicent only hoped he had carried out her instructions and ended his brief foolish relationship with that silly girl from the village.
*
Lady Castleford stopped reading her husband’s journal, her mind reeling at the revelations contained therein. How could she have been so blind as to have not seen the signs?
Arthur had always been so immaculately turned out, right back from the time they started courting long before the war. When he returned from the Front a broken man, he had lost his grace and vigour. It had been such a long process getting back the man she had married that she had almost forgotten what he had once been like.
As an invalid who only had partial use of his left side he had let himself go somewhat. Most days he went without shaving, and bathing wasn’t really an option that he chose to maintain with any regularity. Was it any wonder that he seldom ventured out into the world beyond the walls of the Manor? Few people in the village liked him; most of the staff merely tolerated him. She alone was the only one who understood him, and now it seemed she hadn’t understood him at all.
In his journal Arthur wrote of his secret forays into other villages in County Kingworthy, where he would sit out in public places, listening to what strangers had to say about their own lives, about what they thought of others. It seemed Arthur loved to listen to gossip, and she hadn’t known anything about it.
His first trip had been a little over three months ago. Philippa realised that three months ago would be around the time Arthur stopped using his cane, the same time he started taking pride once more in his appearance. According to the journal it was also the same time he had started driving himself around in the Bentley.
He had greeted people they both knew on several of his sojourns outside, but they hadn’t recognised him – and it wasn’t because they hadn’t seen him for some considerable time. The only way he had been able to interact with anyone other than her had been by disguising his appearance.
The extra care he had suddenly started taking in close shaving each morning might well have been an indicator, along with moisturising his skin and shaping his eyebrows. She thought back to the fight they’d had a few weeks back when she found lipstick on his shirt. Arthur mentioned the incident in his journal. He had laughed it off because it had been her lipstick. She hadn’t realised at the time that he’d actually been wearing it himself.
It was all so obvious now: her husband, Arthur Clarendon, Earl of Castleford, had managed to overcome his reticence about speaking with strangers by masquerading as a woman – and quite effectively, it seemed.
She smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she told him she knew his secret.
She knew his s
ecret – but she didn’t care. What did it matter that dressing as a woman was what it took to allow his confidence to return?
She was just glad to have her husband back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was quite clear from Constable Denham’s demeanour that he didn’t have a clue what to do about Lord Castleford. Gertrude felt incredibly sorry for the young man, whose inexperience due to his relative newness to the job showed. One minute he could barely contain his excitement at having a proper crime to deal with, the next he was almost weeping with anxiety at not knowing the best course of action.
A decade ago crime had been almost unheard of in Clyst St James. In fact, life had been relatively dull much of the time for most of the villagers. The most exciting thing to have happened beyond the discovery that Miss Sanderstead the schoolmistress had been carrying on with Mr Allenby the headmaster was the news of several deaths up at Templemead Hall, and the mysterious desecration of the church crypt.
Gertrude would happily relinquish all that excitement and return to a life of boredom if it would bring back Mabel; but nothing could do that. Mabel had been murdered, and Gertrude had made it her mission to bring that killer to justice.
The village of Clyst St James at that time had little police presence: there had been no need for any. The main police station was some miles away in Lympton-on-Sea, and it had always sufficed. Following the murders at Templemead Hall, however, Gertrude had felt it only right to insist upon a new police presence within the village. She had thrown her weight behind the request, and the whole village, still reeling from those recent deaths, had fully supported her.
Chief Inspector Lennox had agreed with the suggestion and had done his utmost to help procure the desired result. Whilst Gertrude liked to think it was because she had been so instrumental in catching the killer, in truth Upper Castleford had already been in line for the appointment of a constable, and the Chief Inspector merely suggested a change to the location. Clyst St James was only two miles distant, after all.
Gertrude had always thought their new constable should have a car, but Constable Denham couldn’t drive and was adamant that a bicycle would suffice. Until now he hadn’t actually had need of a car: after the spate of murders that Gertrude had helped solve, a life of quiet calm had returned to the village, with little more than a few petty burglaries to take care of.
On more than one occasion Chief Inspector Lennox had been questioned about the need for a police presence in the village, inhabitants of Upper Castleford suggesting that their larger village might actually have been more suitable after all. But he stood his ground, and Gertrude was pleased – she believed that the instant they lost their constable was the day crime would return to Clyst St James.
The constable was still with them, but it seemed that crime had made an unwelcome return to their midst, and she now felt sadly vindicated in her original insistence that their police constable should have access to a motor car.
‘You must fetch Chief Inspector Lennox from Lympton,’ Gertrude said, immediately taking charge of the situation. She turned to Dr Gillespie. ‘Doctor, could you take Constable Denham in your car? It’ll take far too long if he goes on his bicycle.’
She turned to the police constable, who stood wringing his hands in agitation beside Lord Castleford’s car. She wished he would buck his ideas up. As much as she liked him, and as much as she felt sorry for his current predicament, with his limited experience he really was a wet sop and really he needed to take charge of the situation. She knew that wasn’t about to happen though. ‘Tell the Chief Inspector that I’m staying here with the body. He’ll come quickly enough.’
Constable Denham looked at her with an expression of disbelief. ‘You really want to stay out here in the wet, when night’s coming – with a dead body?’
‘And with a killer on the loose!’ added Glenda, clearly not too thrilled at the notion.
Gertrude smiled. ‘Don’t worry; Glenda and I will be fine. If you hurry it won’t take very long, and you’ll both be back with the Chief Inspector soon enough.’
‘You want me to stay here with you?’ gasped Glenda incredulously.
Gertrude fixed her sister with a most disparaging look. ‘Well you didn’t really think I’d stay here on my own, did you?’
Dr Gillespie stared at the two women. Gertrude knew instinctively what he was going to say, and she held up her hand. ‘Don’t argue, Charles. Glenda and I are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves. Besides, someone has to stay here with the body whilst the constable fetches the Chief Inspector.’
Dr Gillespie, realising he was not about to win against Gertrude’s cool logic, turned to Constable Denham. ‘Come along, son, we’d best do as Miss Harrington suggests.’ He faced the two women once more. ‘If someone comes along that you don’t know or don’t trust, I don’t want you doing anything foolish. Do you understand?’
Gertrude smiled winsomely. ‘Perfectly, Charles. Now I really think you ought to go. The sooner the Chief Inspector comes, the sooner the rest of us can return home. Poor Geoff will be getting concerned before much longer.’
‘Don’t worry. It shouldn’t take much more than a half hour to get to Lympton and back,’ said the doctor as he returned to his car with the constable close behind him.
‘Just stay near the car and make sure no-one interferes with the body,’ the constable called over his shoulder. He paused at the car. ‘Please remember not to touch anything yourself, Miss Harrington. This is a crime scene after all.’
Gertrude forced herself to remain detached. She didn’t need the young constable telling her how to behave. If anyone knew what was expected around dead bodies it was her – she’d had experience, after all. ‘Of course, Constable Denham, I’m well versed in such matters.’
The doctor and the constable climbed into the car and with a rumble the engine turned over, followed by a wrenching of gears, before the doctor drove off at speed.
Gertrude watched Dr Gillespie’s car disappear around the bend in the road, its tail lights fading into the dark shroud of trees. When she was certain the car wasn’t about to reverse back towards them she turned to Glenda, who stood shivering on the grass verge.
‘Come on, Glenda, we’ve got about half an hour before they come back with reinforcements.’
She crossed the lane and reached out to open the car door, but was stopped by her sister’s squeal of disapproval. She turned and offered Glenda one of her looks that indicated she was going to do what she wanted no matter what her sister thought.
‘Listen, Glenda, when Constable Denham told me to touch nothing, what he really meant was to do a bit of investigating. You keep watch. Let me know if anyone is coming.’
Gertrude ignored her sister’s continued mutterings of disapproval. Constable Denham might not have actually meant for her to do some investigating, but Gertrude had a past with Chief Inspector Lennox. He had led the investigations into the murders at Templemead Hall five years ago, and he’d said at the time that his gratitude for Gertrude’s assistance could never be repaid. She’d helped him with several investigations in various parts of the county in the intervening years, and he would want her help now since she was on the scene; of that Gertrude was confident.
She walked over to the blue Bentley, crossing herself as she gingerly approached the Earl’s body. He was still slumped face down over the steering wheel. Gertrude pondered on the reason for his disguise. Why had he created a separate persona in the guise of Clara Hendon?
She didn’t really know that much about the Earl of Castleford, except the whispers she had heard from time to time. She knew he had suffered appalling injuries during the war and had withdrawn into himself. If he’d developed an aversion to contact with others as himself, perhaps his fake female persona was his way of overcoming that sensibility? She could see the logic in his thinking if that was the case, particularly in light of the success of his disguise. Since no one had apparently recognised him he could pass himself off
as Clara Hendon without any fear. The fact that he was so successful indicated to Gertrude that this was far from the first time he’d masqueraded as a woman, and she wondered whether his wife knew of his idiosyncratic predilection?
Gertrude focussed her mind on the task in hand. She knew she had to pay careful attention to ensure she didn’t disturb any evidence. She leaned into the car, peering at Lord Castleford’s head wound. She frowned, tilting her head slightly. She pushed her spectacles down her nose slightly, peering myopically over the rims at the drying blood that had trickled down the victim’s head. In the dwindling daylight it wasn’t clear, but something didn’t seem quite right. If the head wound had been inflicted by Lord Castleford hitting his head on the steering wheel, there should be less blood.
Gingerly she reached out and gently pushed the deceased man back lightly in his seat, taking extra care not to disturb anything too much. She gasped, the bullet wound perfectly evident, yet equally unexpected. Constable Denham had said nothing about a gunshot.
‘What’s the matter,’ Glenda asked, having heard her sister gasp.
‘He’s been shot.’ Gertrude carefully replaced Lord Castleford’s head on the steering wheel. She stepped back slightly to reappraise the position of the car, trying to work out whether the man had been shot first, or whether he had crashed the car and then been shot. It would have been made easier had they brought a torch with them as the darkening sky, black with yet more rain, made visibility increasingly difficult.
She suddenly thought of Constable Denham’s bicycle. He more than likely had a light fastened to the handlebars. Hastening over to where the bicycle was propped against a tree, she manoeuvred it into the lane, snapping the light on as she did so. She directed the light at the road surface behind the car, looking for tell-tale skid marks, and then moved it closer to the car, asking her sister to hold the bicycle in position so it illuminated the crashed vehicle.
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 8