‘Good evening, Chief Inspector,’ Gertrude said politely. ‘I do hope this nasty business hasn’t interfered with your plans for the evening?’
Lennox offered an insincere smile. ‘Of course not. You know that I don’t have a life outside of the force.’
Gertrude chuckled wryly. ‘Sarcasm is so unbecoming, Chief Inspector,’ she said. She could tell from his manner that the Chief Inspector clearly had plans for an evening’s entertainment with his wife, who most likely was now sat patiently at home awaiting his return. Gertrude felt a little pity for Adele Lennox, who always seemed to have her plans put on hold by some crime or other that needed her husband’s attention. ‘Were you planning on taking Adele out for a birthday meal?’
The Chief Inspector’s eyes lit up with delight. ‘How nice of you to remember Adele’s birthday, Gertrude.’
Gertrude’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, she shares her birthday with Juliet and me, so I could hardly forget, especially after what happened three years ago on our birthday.’
Lennox nodded solemnly, vividly recalling the slaying that had blighted his wife’s fortieth birthday. It had been the one time poor Adele had wished with all her heart that she hadn’t married a policeman. True love prevailed, and with that unpleasantness put behind them they had continued their matrimonial bliss unimpeded.
‘So, was it a meal?’
‘We had tickets for the theatre and a meal after,’ Lennox sighed sadly. ‘Still, we can always do it another night. Adele’s very understanding.’ He indicated the crashed car, where his subordinates were removing the Earl’s body. ‘Poor Lord Castleford here won’t be visiting the theatre any time soon.’
‘Such a tragedy,’ whispered Gertrude as the body was transferred to the ambulance. ‘It’s always sad when a life is cut short so wastefully like this. He was shot, you know?’ She pointed to the car, indicating the tyre marks on the road. ‘At first it looks as though he swerved to avoid something, and that’s why he crashed.’
Lennox nodded. ‘Constable Denham told me about the motorcycle.’
‘Well you can tell from the tyre marks that for whatever reason, Lord Castleford slammed on the brakes. I’d say the motorcyclist had stopped in the road. Rather than swerving to avoid him – or her – Lord Castleford tried to stop the car. Whoever it was then shot him, and it was his body slumping over the steering wheel that drove the car into the tree.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Chief Inspector, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘That might explain the damage to the front of the car. What do you think is going on with his attire?’
‘Now that’s a little tricky. I think perhaps a quiet word with Lady Castleford might answer that question. On the face of it, I’d have said he was going to a themed party of some sort. Glenda, however, tells me that dressed like that, Lord Castleford called himself Clara Hendon.’
Lennox turned to Glenda, who clearly wished she was somewhere warm and dry. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Geoffrey and I were taking a light lunch with the ladies at the Tea Room in Clyst St James,’ Glenda muttered, feeling a guilty blush suffuse her cheeks as she responded. It didn’t matter that she had done nothing wrong: whenever she found it necessary to speak to a police officer, she couldn’t help but react in a guilty manner. She hated being confronted by authority. It reminded her of the nuns who taught her at school – not one of whom had been pleasant. She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Clara Hendon came in today whilst we were there and said she was on her way to visit friends at Upper Castleford.’
‘Her friends being?’
‘The Earl and Countess of Castleford,’ sighed Glenda, not wishing to name drop the deceased.
Lennox stared at Glenda incredulously. ‘Did none of you actually recognise him? I mean, it’s not as though it’s a particularly effective disguise.’
Gertrude could see the corners of her sister’s mouth beginning to quiver. It was clearly the precursor to tears. It was bad enough being this close to a dead man, without the investigating officer reacting in a disparaging manner because she hadn’t recognised the fact that Clara Hendon was actually a man. ‘Really, Chief Inspector, I think today has been quite trying enough for my sister. Perhaps you might allow Dr Gillespie to take her home?’
Lennox nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, of course, Gertrude. Your sister isn’t a part of this investigation.’ He motioned the physician over. ‘Dr Gillespie, there’s nothing more for you to do here this evening. Would you please take Glenda back to her house?’
‘As you wish, Chief Inspector. Come along, Glenda, let’s get you home.’ The doctor wrapped a protective arm around Glenda. Like Gertrude, he could tell she was becoming more upset with each passing minute. She wasn’t made of such stern stuff as her sister, and it was beginning to show. ‘You need a nice hot cup of tea, and a warm meal.’
Glenda wailed. ‘What about Gertrude? We can’t leave her here.’
Gertrude patted her sister’s arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I won’t be far behind you. I just have a few more things I need to tell the Chief Inspector, then I’m sure he’ll drive me home when we’re done.’ She turned to Lennox. ‘Won’t you?’
Realising he had little choice in the matter, the Chief Inspector concurred, acquiescing to Gertrude’s logic. It would do his reputation no good at all should it become common knowledge that he’d abandoned an elderly spinster more than a mile from her house, in the rain soaked darkness at the scene of a murder.
Dr Gillespie escorted Glenda over to his car, closing the door behind her as she settled into the passenger seat. Darting around to the driver’s side he scrambled behind the wheel, turned over the engine and then drove off in the direction of Clyst St James.
When the car had disappeared into the distance, Lennox returned his attention to Gertrude as they wandered back to the crashed car. Both felt a little better now the body had been removed to the ambulance, which was awaiting the Chief Inspector’s permission to depart. ‘Tell me what you know,’ Lennox commanded.
Gertrude told him about the blackmail notes, and about the crumpled Five-Pound note. ‘Obviously someone has taken the rest of the money,’ she said, poring over the blackmail notes with the Chief Inspector as he removed them from the glove compartment.
‘It’s very clever of the blackmailer to use torn up newspaper typeface so we can’t identify any handwriting. I’ll get one of my men to check the War Memorial to see if the money’s there. Of course it’s entirely possible that the killer struck after Lord Castleford dropped off the money.’
Gertrude nodded unwillingly, not entirely convinced by the Chief Inspector’s scenario. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘but I think not. His car’s still heading in the direction of Clyst St James, so it’s much more likely, I think, that he’d yet to reach the War Memorial.’
‘In which case, we also have a thief on our hands.’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector, but did the killer take the money, or was it someone else?’
Lennox rubbed his chin. ‘Two thousand pounds is a not inconsiderable sum of money. The person who took it will probably try to spend at least some of it. It would help to know what other denominations Lord Castleford used. He might have had some tens and twenties from before the war stashed away somewhere, perhaps in his safe at Castleford Manor?’
‘Are you going to tell Lady Castleford what’s happened this evening?’
‘Yes. She’ll probably start to worry and wonder where her husband is before long.’
‘Well you know what to ask of her, don’t you?’
Lennox instinctively knew that Gertrude was surreptitiously trying to tell him he should ask one thing in particular of Lady Castleford, but her subtlety was too clever by half. He didn’t want to make himself look foolish though, so he merely nodded.
‘Good. We wouldn’t want the killer to slip away because you asked the wrong things.’
Lennox reeled off a list of questions to ask Lady Castleford. ‘Does she know that her husband dressed as a wom
an, and who else did; does she know about the blackmail letters; does she know of anyone who bears her husband ill will; did she or her husband keep any substantial amount of money at the house, and if so how much is missing, and in what denominations?’
Gertrude nodded. ‘You must also find out who owns the motorcycle. They could be a witness or the guilty party to either the cause of the crash or the shooting of Lord Castleford.’ She indicated Constable Denham. ‘Are you going to make the young constable here tell Lady Castleford the dreadful news, or are you going to do it yourself?’
‘I think I ought to tell her myself. It’s too much to put on Constable Denham’s shoulders.’
‘Well, if you’re going to Castleford Manor, perhaps I could ride with one of your men back into the village?’
‘Yes of course.’ He motioned one of his men over. ‘Sergeant, I’d like to you take Miss Harrington home to Clyst St James. While you’re there, search around the area of the War Memorial for a bag containing two thousand pounds, just in case His Lordship had already dropped it off.’
Sergeant Callaghan nodded. ‘Yes of course, sir.’ He guided Gertrude towards the car. ‘Come along, Miss. I’m sure you’d love to be home in the dry.’
‘Yes, quite,’ said Gertrude. ‘Will you stop by in the morning, Chief Inspector?’
‘Certainly.’ Lennox turned sharply and hurried over to the second police car, motioning the ambulance driver to go. ‘Come along, Constable, you can accompany me to Castleford Manor. We must inform Lady Castleford that her husband has met with an untimely death.’
The Chief Inspector and Constable Denham drove off in the direction of Upper Castleford, whilst Gertrude allowed herself to be manhandled roughly into the other car. The sergeant then drove her back home.
As both cars departed the scene of the crash, and the lane was plunged into darkness, the silence that fell was suddenly broken by the cracking of twigs underfoot. A figure appeared from the depths of the trees that bordered one side of the lane, stepping out into the clearing.
The figure wiped tears from his face, grubby with streaks of mud. He walked over to the crashed car, taking a deep faltering breath as he approached. The body, thankfully, had now been removed. The figure stared at the smashed windscreen, and the blood that coated the driver’s seat.
‘Dear God,’ he whispered, ‘what have I done?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brigadier Barrington-Smythe decided to walk over to Castleford Manor. It had stopped raining, and although the wind chilled him he decided the fresh air would clear his mind.
He had grown somewhat befuddled by the various thoughts and ideas going through his mind concerning the figure he had seen with the gun. All the while there remained uncertainty surrounding any potential guilt then he couldn’t besmirch Herbert’s good name. With no proof, it wasn’t fair to the lad. Circumstantial evidence and hearsay meant nothing. What he needed was proof of Herbert’s guilt, or preferably his innocence: the Brigadier still didn’t want to believe that Herbert had been shooting Lord Castleford’s pigeons, no matter how it looked.
Leaning heavily on his cane as he moved through the copse that separated Castleford Manor from his estate, the Brigadier couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Of course, there were plenty of eyes within the trees: the blasted owl that kept him awake some nights for one; foxes and badgers, crows and much other wildlife also lived in the branches and in the underbrush.
What the Brigadier felt upon him though were human eyes; he was sure of it. He had been a hunted man in numerous situations. During the war, when he had seen action in Occupied France, more than once he had found himself moving stealthily through trees, aware that the German soldiers trailing him could shoot to kill at any moment. What the Germans hadn’t realised was that he was a decoy, and that they themselves were being stalked by his own men.
He had felt every eye on him following his every move back then, and he felt the same sense of unease now. He was confident his stalker wasn’t a German this time, yet had no clue as to who was following him.
Against every piece of Army training, he called out: ‘Who’s there?’ He cursed his stupidity. Naturally no one would respond. Whoever stalked him was doing a sterling job: he could hear no breathing, no footsteps other than his own.
He emerged from the copse and made his way across the manicured lawns to the gravelled driveway which led up to the Manor House. Light blazed from every window in defiance of the encroaching darkness. The ominously blackened sky was darker than it should have been even for the time of evening. It didn’t seem that there would be much of a let up in the rain any time soon.
The Brigadier was greeted at the oak front door by Jackson, who had obviously seen him approaching. He made it to the front door just as the heavens opened once more. ‘Good evening, Jackson. Is Lord Castleford at home?’
‘Good evening, Brigadier. His Lordship has not yet returned from his trip, but Lady Castleford is here, if you wish to see her instead?’
The Brigadier arched an eyebrow and chuckled as though in response to some private joke. ‘Lord Castleford has gone on a trip, eh? Well, that’s a new one!’
Jackson’s expression betrayed his belief that the Brigadier accused him of misleading him. It didn’t bother him in the slightest whether the Brigadier believed him or not: he was telling the truth. He had been in service long enough to know that if Lord Castleford was at home and declined to receive visitors then those same visitors would be told that His Lordship wished to see no one, not that he was out of the house.
Embarrassed, the Brigadier cleared his throat. ‘Yes please,’ he mumbled. ‘If I might have a word with Lady Castleford I would be most grateful.’
Jackson stepped aside to allow the Brigadier into the entrance hall. ‘If you would care to wait in the drawing room, Brigadier, I shall let Her Ladyship know you are here.’
The grandeur of the immense drawing room never ceased to impress upon the Brigadier that inherited money was infinitely better than a self-made fortune. He had carved a career in the army to earn the money that allowed the purchase of his own modest country house for his well-deserved retirement. Castleford Manor, on the other hand, had been in Lord Castleford’s family for many generations, as the accumulation of antiques and collected paintings clearly attested.
Such extravagance could be considered vulgar amongst those of new found wealth, but in the right setting it was certainly not out of place. Castleford Manor dripped with old money, inherited and passed down over the centuries, along with several generations of wear and tear. New money could not replicate such familial history without artifice.
There was without doubt a sense of decay lurking beneath the grand surface of Castleford Manor, but it sat well with the additions made by the current incumbents. The Brigadier wandered around the drawing room, drinking in the glorious portraits that hung from the high walls. Many were Old Masters, but there were also several more recent compositions that seemed out of place, and yet felt oddly quite at home filling gaps amongst the older paintings.
Above the stone fireplace hung a particularly splendid portrait of the Earl and Countess with the impressive Taj Mahal in the background. The Brigadier admired it, nodding appreciatively at the exquisite brush strokes. He knew that Lord and Lady Castleford had honeymooned for two months in India, and had at one time contemplated settling over there, until the call of home lured them back to England.
He turned sharply at the footsteps approaching the drawing room to find Lady Castleford standing in the doorway, smiling at him. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Brigadier. Arthur and I weren’t expecting you until dinner tomorrow.’
Momentarily distracted from the purpose of his visit, Brigadier Barrington-Smythe pointed his cane at the painting. ‘This is new, isn’t it?’
Lady Castleford crossed the drawing room, coming to stand beside the Brigadier. They looked up at the painting together. ‘Yes. Arthur commissioned it from a photo taken on our hon
eymoon. It’s by the local artist Lucien Caradoc who lives in Little Sleeping.’
The Brigadier frowned and shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard that name before.’
‘He’s had a couple of small collections displayed at the Kingworthy Art Gallery in recent years, and Arthur was so impressed by his work that he commissioned this piece and another of the children, which Lucien is still working on.’
The Brigadier turned to face her. ‘Well, he’s most definitely a talented young man.’
Lady Castleford concurred, adding: ‘May I offer you a drink, Brigadier?’
‘A cognac would be most appreciated, my dear. Thank you.’
Lady Castleford moved to the drinks cabinet behind the settee that faced the fireplace. ‘Arthur’s not here at the moment.’
‘Jackson said as much. Has he started going out regularly? I’ve seen the car out several times, and on more than one occasion Arthur was at the wheel.’
‘Arthur has been somewhat secretive of late. Only this morning he spoke of a particular small business matter, shortly before leaving the house. When he returned, he didn’t stay long before going out again. It’s really most disconcerting considering his usual predisposition for staying at home.’
‘Indeed,’ the Brigadier concurred thoughtfully.
Lady Castleford passed the barely filled brandy balloon to the Brigadier, indicating that he should sit. She joined him on the settee, nursing a glass of sherry, which she sipped delicately. She decided not to mention her husband’s journals as she had no wish to involve anyone else until she’d had the opportunity to first speak with Arthur. ‘What brings you here this evening, Brigadier?’
Brigadier Barrington-Smythe smoothed his white moustache and cleared his throat nervously. ‘It’s a trifle delicate, and I’m not entirely sure what to say, my dear.’
Lady Castleford fleetingly wondered whether he was about to say something about Arthur, but instinct told her it was another matter altogether. She touched the old man’s arm tenderly. ‘You are clearly troubled by something, Brigadier. Why don’t you tell me what it is?’
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 10