Clasping tightly onto the handlebars to steady the light, Glenda asked Gertrude what she was looking for.
‘I want to try to work out the order of events,’ said Gertrude. The skid marks on the road indicated that the Earl had slammed on his brakes sharply, and only afterwards had the car swerved. The windscreen of the Bentley was smashed, the glass shards littering the dashboard, both front seats and the foot-well.
Returning to the car once more, having asked Glenda to adjust the bicycle so the light was shining directly at the open passenger door, Gertrude peered at the interior. Her keen eyes darted all around, swiftly taking in every minute detail. A crumpled Five-Pound note on the floor of the car by the Earl’s left foot instantly caught her attention. Lord Castleford struck Gertrude as being meticulously tidy, and a crumpled banknote seemed out of place in what would otherwise have been an immaculate car.
On the back seat and rear floor of the car lay his ordinary clothes, along with a small holdall, in which Gertrude noted his supply of makeup and what appeared to be another set of woman’s clothing.
She could see another piece of paper sticking out of the glove compartment beneath the steering wheel. Reaching over the dead man’s body she snatched it up before moving back over to the bicycle. She unfolded two notes, both composed of letters that were crudely torn out from newspaper headlines.
The first read:
i know what you have been doing
if you do not want the village to know your secret you will pay £2000
further instructions will follow
The second read:
bring a bag with £2000 in £5 notes to the junction of
high street & church lane at 5pm today
leave it at the base of the war memorial
depart immediately and tell no one
you will be watched
fail to comply & i will tell everyone your secret
Was it possible that someone had discovered the true identity of Clara Hendon? It certainly seemed so to Gertrude. It was a potential motive for blackmail, certainly, but was it really a motive for murder?
No, thought Gertrude, her mind racing. Although there was no doubt that Lord Castleford was being blackmailed, the motive for his was not so clear cut. He had obviously been on his way to pay the blackmailer, but the money was missing. Was that the motive for his murder? Had the killer known he had such a large amount of cash in the car? Why else would he have been murdered if they hadn’t known about it?
There were too many questions to rule anything out for the moment.
‘So, what do you think happened?’ Glenda asked as Gertrude replaced the notes and came back to stand beside her.
Gertrude appraised the crashed car thoughtfully, barely aware that her sister had spoken. ‘We must wait for Inspector Lennox. I have a few things to say to him, and then we’re going home.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lady Castleford sat at her dressing table, flicking through her personal wedding album. Arthur had never been one for looking at photos. He didn’t like to be reminded of his past: there was little that he wished to remember. Philippa on the other hand loved old family photos, and not just her own. Her vast album of family photos went way back to her grand-parents from the end of the last century, but her husband possessed very few photos of his family. If it hadn’t been for Philippa’s insistence there would be no photos of their wedding, nor of their children.
She sipped from her glass of water as she looked through the wedding photos. The pictures invoked such wonderful memories of that happy day – the happiest day of her life. The only days that came close to producing such vivid memories of joy were when she gave birth to her two children: Henry and Henrietta. They were her pride and joy, yet equally such a disappointment.
Henry was a bully, which was why Arthur had agreed to send him to the St James’ School for Boys. They had both wanted to stamp out his thuggish tendencies before they became too deeply rooted.
Henrietta was academically challenged, and realising her precious daughter might not amount to much, Philippa had arranged for her to spend a couple of years at an exclusive Young Ladies School nearby where she could learn etiquette and deportment in order to better land herself a husband of class: being the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Castleford on its own was not enough.
Henrietta was due back in just a few weeks. Philippa could barely believe she hadn’t seen her daughter since Christmas, and she could only just contain her excitement. Henrietta had decided not to visit at Easter. She’d told her mother that she wanted to spend the holidays in Scotland at the home of one of her new friends, and whilst Philippa thought it great that her daughter had made some new friends, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at not seeing her. She’d insisted that Henrietta spend at least part of the summer holidays with family, and her daughter had begrudgingly agreed to spend part of September at home before returning to school.
Philippa touched the photo of the family, taken at Christmas. It was the last time they had all been together, and it hadn’t ended happily. Philippa would never forgive Jack Grainger for turning up at the house inebriated, revealing in front of her dinner guests that Henry had killed a stray cat from the village back in the summer. Why Brigadier Barrington-Smythe’s gardener had felt the need to vent his spite in such a manner, on Christmas Day of all days, was something Philippa felt she would never understand. The Brigadier, who had told them of the incident months earlier, had been most embarrassed by the incident at the time and had not mentioned it since.
Neither had Arthur.
Philippa wondered whether they would ever reunite as a happy family. Would Henrietta actually come home from her friend’s house in Scotland? Would Henry return home now he had absconded from St James’? She hoped they both would, but didn’t want to raise her hopes so high that they would be shattered beyond repair when dashed. She also fleetingly wondered whether her husband would open up enough to share in his secret life.
Arthur’s secret life did intrigue her, but it also worried her. There was only so long in a closed community like Upper Castleford that such a secret could be contained, and when that truth finally revealed itself she didn’t like to think about how the villagers might react. Whether they reacted badly or not was quite immaterial: there would be a lot of ridicule, and Lady Castleford was unsure how her husband might respond. He could withdraw back into himself if he thought himself the subject of ridicule. Perhaps he should have thought of that before masquerading in public as a woman, but Philippa was not about to judge him: she loved him too much.
She glanced up at the tentative knock on the bedroom door. ‘Come in,’ she called, turning in her chair to see Jackson stood in the doorway looking rather sheepish.
‘Pardon the intrusion, Your Ladyship, but I thought you ought to know that Lord Castleford has not yet returned. It’s six o’clock, and Cook was wondering whether she ought to hold off on dinner.’
Lady Castleford frowned. She set aside the wedding album and checked her watch. It wasn’t like Arthur to be late for dinner. He was regimented in maintaining his schedule. No matter what he might be doing, six until seven was relaxation time before drinks at half-past-seven and dinner at eight. During that relaxation hour baths would be drawn and taken, evening clothes laid out for dressing, and then at seven o’clock, Lady Castleford would go down to the kitchen where the staff would be eating their own dinner to ensure all was well with them.
That was also when Arthur would enjoy a pre-dinner smoke. He didn’t smoke a cigar every day, but when he did Philippa insisted he did so outside. Pipe smoking was permissible within the house: Philippa’s father and grandfather had been habitual pipe smokers and the smell of the aromatic tobacco brought back many fond childhood memories. Cigarettes she wasn’t so fond of, and had allocated a single room in the house where guests could smoke them. Cigars, on the other hand, were absolutely banned from within Castleford Manor: the smell of cigar smoke made Phil
ippa feel positively sick. Even from outside, the smell seemed to waft in on breezeless air to find her wherever she was.
It was unfortunate that along with regular cigarettes, it was the occasional cigar that Arthur enjoyed rather than a pipe.
Whether he chose to smoke a cigar on any given evening or not, Arthur had never once been late for dinner.
‘Tell Cook to carry on,’ Lady Castleford said, rising from her chair. ‘There’s still time for His Lordship to return home.’ A part of her wondered whether her husband had been waylaid by someone in the village with some juicy piece of gossip or other, or perhaps he had been rumbled by someone who’d recognised him through his disguise.
She remembered what Jackson had said earlier about the possibility of Wilkins knowing the whereabouts of Lord Castleford. The journal only revealed where he had been upon his return when he wrote of his escapades, not where he planned to go next. ‘Perhaps you would find Wilkins and have him meet me in the library, Mr Jackson?’
Jackson bowed. ‘Very good, Your Ladyship.’
He departed, leaving Philippa alone in a state of escalating worry. Something had happened to Arthur. She had sensed it earlier, but hadn’t wanted to panic unnecessarily. It was why she had suddenly been drawn to the photo albums: a slowly mounting sense of dread that something bad had happened to someone dear to her.
Since she hadn’t yet undressed in readiness for her undrawn bath, Lady Castleford left her room and made her way down to the library, where she found Wilkins awaiting her.
Wilkins’ thinning hair was unusually unkempt, as though he’d been out in the wind and rain earlier. His chauffeur’s uniform was somewhat creased and his shoes soiled. Had she not been so worried about her husband, Lady Castleford would certainly have chastised him for his tardy appearance. As it was she made little more than a cursory mental note to speak to Jackson in the morning about staff etiquette.
‘You wished to see me, Your Ladyship?’ gasped Wilkins, clearly out of breath.
Lady Castleford was pleased to note that he had obviously rushed into the house upon being summoned by the butler. ‘Indeed I do, Wilkins,’ she said, trying to gauge how best to broach the subject matter discreetly. ‘It has been brought to my attention that Lord Castleford goes out alone.’
Wilkins nodded slowly, as though wondering where this conversation was heading. ‘He has taken the Bentley out on several occasions, Your Ladyship.’
‘I’m not sure whether you’re aware of this or not, as Lord Castleford doesn’t like to make such matters public knowledge, but since he was invalided out of the War he has had problems being in public places. He has a lack of confidence when meeting people.’
Wilkins nodded again, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. ‘I am aware of this, Your Ladyship.’
‘Clearly he has made some progress in overcoming these inhibitions, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to go out in the car on his own.’
‘Indeed, Your Ladyship.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where His Lordship has gone today, do you? He has yet to return, and I’m a little concerned about him.’
‘He did once mention that he drives up to Kingworthy. With the weather we’ve had today, some roads might be difficult to pass. If he’s had to double back on himself and find another route, it’s no wonder he’s a bit late.’
Lady Castleford stared hard at Wilkins, whose gaze remained fixed to the floor. ‘So you don’t think I should be unduly concerned?’
‘No, Your Ladyship. If you’re worried, I can always take you out in one of the other cars, so we might see if we could find His Lordship?’
Lady Castleford was half inclined to take Wilkins up on his offer, but if his supposition was correct then there was no way to tell which of the roads Arthur might be using. She smiled thinly. ‘No, it’s all right, Wilkins. I shall give His Lordship another half hour before considering any course of action. Thank you for your time. You may return to your duties.’
Wilkins bowed. ‘Thank you, Your Ladyship.’
When the chauffeur had disappeared, Lady Castleford crossed to the door and locked it. She didn’t want to be disturbed as she read through more of her husband’s journal. Something Wilkins had said lodged in her mind. Although she hadn’t read Arthur’s journal thoroughly, having only skimmed through the more recent contents, she didn’t recall reading about any trips to Kingworthy. It was possible she’d missed such references, but if not then something wasn’t quite right.
She withdrew Arthur’s journal from its secret compartment and flicked through it, scanning each page for any mention of her husband’s destination. Like most things in his life, he had been methodical in his layout of each entry: date and location at the top, then a description of events of the day, followed by a list of people he’d met and what they’d talked about. Checking to see if he’d been to Kingworthy was therefore relatively easy.
From what she read, he had not been to the Cathedral town, at least not dressed in the guise of Clara Hendon. A wry smile played across Lady Castleford’s face as she realised the name of her husband’s female persona was an anagram of his initials and surname. ‘Very clever, Arthur,’ she muttered beneath her breath, wondering whether anyone else might have arrived at his true identity by writing down the name.
There could be no doubt that Clara Hendon had not visited Kingworthy, which meant that either Arthur had visited as himself, or that he had misled Wilkins about his destination – perhaps deliberately to prevent discovery?
There was of course also the possibility that Wilkins had lied to her. But why would he lie? What possible motive could he have?
Philippa thought the former explanation most likely. Clever again, Arthur. She allowed herself the briefest of smiles, but faltered when she realised that if her husband had lied to Wilkins then there was no way of finding him. With no discernible pattern to his village visits, there was no way of plotting where he might have gone today.
Philippa realised she would just have to hope nothing had happened to her husband.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gertrude and Glenda stood on the grass verge with Dr Gillespie, watching as the police car and ambulance from Lympton-on-Sea pulled up alongside Constable Denham and Chief Inspector Lennox, who were talking in an animated manner over by Lord Castleford’s car.
The doctor and Constable Denham had returned with the Chief Inspector in double quick time. Upon their arrival, Dr Gillespie smugly commented that he hadn’t known it was possible to get to Lympton-on-Sea and back in such a short space of time, but whilst the Chief Inspector chastised him for driving so recklessly, Constable Denham had thanked him for getting them back in one piece.
Upon hearing this exchange, Glenda was quite glad that she hadn’t been in the car. She was never a good passenger at the best of times, which was why it didn’t bother her that neither her sister nor their brother had a car.
Gertrude, on the other hand, thought it all sounded tremendously exciting and wished she’d been a passenger too. This was one of the rare occasions when she wished she could drive, and thought that maybe the constable should learn. Today had been proof, if any were needed, that he should have a car rather than a bicycle.
Not that it would necessarily have made much of a difference. He might have been able to catch up with the motorcycle, but Lord Castleford would probably still be dead.
‘Why can’t we go home?’ groaned Glenda, clutching her arms to her chest and scrunching her shoulders in a vain attempt to gain warmth, having long since given up hope of remaining dry.
‘Because I need to speak to the Chief Inspector,’ Gertrude whispered, motioning her sister to keep her voice down. ‘I must tell him what I found.’
‘Don’t you think the police will find it anyway? They’re the professionals.’
Dr Gillespie looked at the pair. ‘What are you two whispering about? What have you found?’ He narrowed his eyes at Gertrude. ‘You haven’t meddled with the crime scene, have you?’
The doctor wagged his finger at her. ‘You have that guilty look about you, Gertrude Harrington,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Not that I blame you for snooping,’ he added softly. ‘Constable Denham all but gave you permission to do a little investigating when he told you not to touch anything.’
Gertrude turned to her sister sharply. ‘You see, Glenda. Even Dr Gillespie understands unspoken requests.’
The doctor chuckled as Glenda muttered something unintelligible in recrimination. ‘You really are incorrigible, Gertrude. So, what did you find out?’
‘Yes, Miss Harrington, what did you find out?’
The sudden deeply masculine voice by her ear caused Gertrude to jump a little. She turned to find Chief Inspector Lennox looming over her, his handsome face inscrutable as to whether or not he approved of what he suspected she’d been doing.
Lennox straightened his sharp suit beneath his unbuttoned overcoat. He’d been in the process of getting ready for an evening out with his long suffering wife, Adele, when Constable Denham had hammered on his front door. He hadn’t been amused at the interruption, but when appraised of the situation he’d offered a heartfelt apology to Adele and jumped into Dr Gillespie’s waiting car.
Lennox hadn’t been particularly surprised to learn that Gertrude Harrington was watching over the body. He’d have been more surprised if she’d not been somehow involved. She had an increasing knack of turning up when a crime occurred. On more than one occasion since their first encounter she’d offered her insight at her observations, and he’d learned to trust her sharp intuition. She’d been a valuable asset to him, helping to solve several crimes, and had indeed proved particularly indispensable in trapping the killer of her young niece. Sometimes he wished she was a little younger and in the police force: she was a demon to be reckoned with.
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 9