Taking a deep breath, the Brigadier began regaling her with the saga of his guns, and about his suspicions concerning Herbert. He clearly didn’t enjoy casting aspersions about the young man and so chose his words carefully. When he had finished he awaited Lady Castleford’s response.
Philippa pursed her lips. Whilst household staff answered to her, the outdoor staffing was her husband’s domain, and although she couldn’t say she knew Herbert very well she did know that he only worked the gardens on a temporary basis. Since temporary seasonal gardeners were hired and fired by the head gardener, she decided he was the best person to speak to. ‘If you could wait a few minutes, I’ll get Mr Jackson to find Parkes and we can ask him about Herbert. Perhaps you’d like to stay on for dinner now that you’re here?’
‘That’s most kind, Philippa. I’d love to accept, thank you.’
The Brigadier waited on the settee as Lady Castleford disappeared from the room. Boredom set in rapidly, and within five minutes he was up and wandering the room, picking up and inspecting the gilt photo frames. One in particular caught his eye. It was of Lord Castleford, seated in a wheelchair shortly after the war, with one of his pigeons sat on his head.
The Brigadier smiled. In his mind he imagined the pigeon pooping on Arthur’s head moments after the photo was taken. Since he considered Lord Castleford a friend, he felt a little churlish with the imagined scenario. Out of all the villagers, he felt that he alone could count Arthur as a friend. He knew from the Chinese whispers he often heard in the Royal Oak that his friend was not well liked locally, yet whenever Philippa threw one of her lavish dinner parties, there seemed no end to the list of guests who claimed to be friends of Earl and Countess of Castleford.
The Brigadier couldn’t understand the animosity directed towards his friend. True, he had only known Lord Castleford since purchasing the adjacent estate shortly after the war, but he had seen the effects of the debilitating injuries suffered by Arthur and the way Philippa had nursed him back to health. Never had two people deserved one another more, so far as the Brigadier was concerned. Their love shone through any unwarranted hostility from outside the walls of Castleford Manor, and the Brigadier couldn’t help wondering what Arthur’s mental state would be right now without his beloved wife.
Arthur lived for his family above all else. If anything should happen to Philippa or the children, he would most likely die of a broken heart. No one in Upper Castleford knew Lord Castleford like the Brigadier; no one had bothered to get to know him.
Certainly, Lord Castleford was aloof when it came to others: that was down to his upbringing.
Arthur Clarendon, on the other hand, was a family man through and through, as anyone would have found out had they bothered to look past what his war injuries had done to his state of mind.
Arthur’s mental frailty hadn’t been helped by the local hostility. He’d withdrawn more into himself with each passing month, with only his family and friends to see him through those dark times. His enduring affection for his beloved pigeons had certainly played its part in helping.
The Brigadier’s concern for how several deliberate killings of those pigeons might have affected Arthur was very real, which was why he had persuaded his friend to venture out into the local villages. He believed, as Arthur had, that somebody local was responsible for the killings and sooner or later, either directly or indirectly, they would let slip their guilt.
If nothing else, Arthur was an excellent listener. When he had been first bedridden and subsequently wheelchair-bound, his new neighbour visited on a regular basis. Their friendship was cemented the moment the Brigadier had first regaled him with stories from his youth, and Arthur had listened to every word. It seemed he loved hearing of the exciting exploits from the Brigadier’s colourful past.
When Arthur in turn confided certain facts about his own unorthodox youth, the Brigadier suggested he adopt a disguise to infiltrate the neighbouring villages without attracting too much attention. Arthur’s slight build and delicate features had certainly helped, and until now the plan appeared to have gone well enough. For three weeks the delightful Clara Hendon had visited Clyst St James, Upper and Lower Castleford, Kingworthy St James and Little Sleeping, and no one it seemed had rumbled her true identity – not even the Brigadier, initially.
It was likely that Arthur was out and about as Clara again. The Brigadier knew he’d been out earlier that day, but found it a little odd that he should be out again. Perhaps he had uncovered something to do with the pigeon slaying? The Brigadier couldn’t wait for his friend to return to learn what he had discovered.
Philippa returned, once more seating herself beside the Brigadier. ‘Mr Jackson says Parkes went out earlier and hasn’t yet returned.’
The Brigadier wondered whether he ought to tell Philippa about Clara. Arthur had asked him to tell no one, especially his wife, which the Brigadier could comprehend. He wasn’t sure whether even Philippa would understand, after all, she had never really understood her husband’s love for his pigeons. She saw them as his pets, but to Arthur they were part of the family. He knew each one by name, and could tell immediately if one of them was off colour.
‘Do you know where Arthur has gone?’
The directness of Lady Clarendon’s question took the Brigadier by surprise. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What do you know?’
Philippa sighed. ‘Everything. I found Arthur’s journal, so I know that you were in on it.’
The Brigadier wondered just how much Arthur had written in his journal. ‘You don’t seem too upset at the idea of your husband passing himself off as Clara Hendon.’
Philippa shrugged. ‘At the end of the day it’s helped to get him out of the house at last. I’m sure that once he has his confidence back completely then Clara will cease to exist. He’s been really upset about the pigeons, so if Clara helps him find the killer, then I’m not going to object.’
The Brigadier chose to ignore the fact that Lady Clarendon seemed not to know everything. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Philippa. So, do you think it could be Herbert?’
Philippa pursed her lips. ‘You seem to know the lad better than I, and if you think it unlikely then I bow to your superior knowledge, Brigadier. But then, I don’t like to think ill of anyone.’ Her bottom lip quivered slightly as she changed the subject. ‘Henry has disappeared from his school. I don’t know what to think about that. I sensed he was unhappy at St James’, but I let Arthur keep him there. I’ve always believed Arthur loves our children, that he only wants the best for them, but surely if he knew Henry wasn’t happy then he’d have let him come home? Now our boy is out there all alone, and I don’t know if he’s all right or not. I blame Arthur totally, and I hate myself for that.’
The Brigadier patted her arm. ‘I think you’ll find that Arthur really does have your son’s best interests at heart. You know as well as I what he did. St James’ would be the making of him, if he’d stayed there. I’m sure he’s all right, Philippa, but if anyone’s to blame it’s Henry himself. Not Arthur, and certainly not you.’
Philippa smiled. ‘Thank you, Brigadier, you always say the right thing.’
‘That’s because the right thing is always the truth.’
Their conversation was interrupted by an urgent knocking on the drawing room door, which opened to reveal Jackson, an anxious expression on his face. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Your Ladyship, but the police are here to see you.’
Philippa’s hand flew to her throat. ‘Oh my God, it’s Henry isn’t it?’ She turned to the Brigadier, her heart palpitating wildly. ‘Please tell me it’s not Henry!’
The Brigadier motioned her to remain calm. ‘It could be anything. They could have caught the pigeon slayer.’ He looked up at the butler. ‘Show them in, Jackson.’
The butler disappeared, returning a few moments later with Constable Denham and his superior. ‘Your Ladyship, this is Chief Inspector Lennox, and you know Constable Denham.’
Philippa remained on th
e settee. Courtesy disappeared as she felt her legs weaken with anxiety. ‘Good evening, Chief Inspector, Constable. Have you brought news of my son?’
Lennox shook his head solemnly. It was clear that he knew nothing of Henry’s disappearance. ‘Sadly not, Lady Castleford. I’m afraid I have the unpleasant task of informing you that your husband’s car has been involved in an accident. I’m afraid Lord Castleford is dead.’
Philippa Clarendon’s wail of despair only ended when she finally fainted.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Arriving back at Spring Cottage, Gertrude decided a few judicious words with Chief Inspector Lennox were in order concerning his choice of subordinates. Sergeant Callaghan’s behaviour left a lot to be desired. Having manhandled her quite roughly into the car, he had merely grunted in response to her questions on the way home. Thankfully it had not been a long journey to the cottage, and Sergeant Callaghan departed without so much as a farewell.
Glenda greeted her anxiously in the doorway. ‘We’ve been burgled,’ she gasped.
Gertrude hastened up the path to the front door. ‘What? When did that happen?’
‘I’m not sure. When Dr Gillespie brought me home, the front door was open and Geoff was missing. Dr Gillespie checked upstairs to make sure no one was lurking, and when he came back he said the dressing tables in all our rooms had been ransacked. All our jewellery has gone.’
Gertrude bristled indignantly. That someone had broken into the cottage was one thing, but the theft of the few pieces of jewellery that they possessed was sacrilege. Between them their collection of necklaces, rings and broaches amounted to very little, and few were of any significant value.
Gertrude had purchased a lovely string of pearls for Glenda following her departure from service at Templemead Hall, because her sister had always admired those worn by the well-to-do ladies she saw around town whenever they visited Kingworthy. They weren’t expensive, but they were exquisite, and she hated the thought of someone else wearing them if they’d been stolen.
‘Mother’s ring?’ she whispered, her thoughts moving to the sapphire ring that had once been her grandmother’s and which had passed first to their mother upon her engagement to their father, and then to Gertrude as the eldest daughter upon their mother’s death. She almost couldn’t breathe as Glenda unwillingly nodded. The ring was the single treasured possession Gertrude had. Everything else could be sold and replaced – but not that ring. More than a mere token reminder of their mother, it was not only a symbol of their grandparents’ love, but of their parents’ as well. It might have only been a simple gold band with a three modest sapphires, and as such not worth particularly much to anyone else, but to Gertrude it was of immeasurable sentimental value.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Gertrude whispered. ‘Where was Geoff?’
‘Someone was revving an engine out on the green, so I went to investigate,’ said Geoffrey as he appeared in the doorway behind Glenda. ‘I found a motorcycle on its stand near the War Memorial. Whoever owned it had left the engine running. I thought it might have been the one that almost ran you down earlier, so I switched off the engine and waited to see if anyone came back for it.
‘After twenty minutes waiting in the rain I decided to come back indoors. Whoever had been riding the motorcycle was obviously watching me, because moments after I returned to the house I heard the engine start up. I cut through the churchyard after him, but he still got away.
‘When I got back, Glenda and Dr Gillespie had returned, and that’s when we discovered we’d been burgled.’
‘It must have been the man on the motorcycle,’ said Glenda. ‘He must have recognised you and thought the cottage would be an easier target with you out of the way.’
Gertrude entered the cottage and added her coat to the pile already on one of the chairs. ‘You think it was a man?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘He moved like a man, and he had a stocky build.’
‘Can you remember anything distinctive about the motorcycle, Geoff? You switched its engine off, so you must have had a good look at it.’
Geoffrey thought for a moment. ‘Well it was black, except for the petrol tank which was red. I think it had the word Halcyon written on the tank.’
‘If it was someone who recognised you then that narrows things down a bit. It could be someone from the village, or perhaps someone who recognised me from when I cooked at Templemead Hall. I must do a little more investigating, because I’m certainly not letting that scoundrel get away with stealing mother’s ring and your pearls, Glenda.’
Gertrude sat down on the over-stuffed settee with a sigh. ‘The Chief Inspector is stopping by in the morning anyway. Perhaps together we’ll get to the bottom of this. It might be the same thief who’s been stealing from the Big Houses around the area.’
‘What thief?’
‘Really, Glenda, do you not read the papers?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Perhaps you should. Including Templemead Hall, there have over the past few months been almost a dozen separate burglaries at a number of Big Houses between Kingworthy and Lympton. The burglar has stolen a huge amount of jewellery, and they seem to know their way in and out without getting caught. They’re being referred to as Pegasus by the papers because of their ability to flee the scene seemingly on swift wings.’
‘It seems unlikely that a burglar targeting the Big Houses would turn his attention to us. We would scarcely be worth the effort.’
‘Tomorrow there will be bigger news than mere burglaries. The Earl of Castleford is dead, and that’s sure to make the headlines. When a local War Veteran dies it’s always big news in the local papers. When a War Veteran is murdered, that’s a scandal worthy of the nationals.’
Gertrude’s mind kept returning to the motorcycle. Despite what she had said to her sister, it seemed likely that there was some connection between the events. If someone had been burgling the Big Houses then they would need an escape vehicle, most likely one that would be easy to hide from plain view. Since a motorcycle was easier to hide in amongst trees and shrubbery than a car it was therefore logical to assume that such a mode of transport was a likely candidate for an escape vehicle.
The reckless manner with which the motorcycle almost ran her off the road could have been due to the adrenaline rush following a burglary.
It didn’t explain Lord Castleford’s murder, though. What was the motive? How could the motorcycle rider have known about the money he’d apparently been carrying? If the rider had been the blackmailer, then he would have waited at the War Memorial like the note instructed to collect the money. There would have been no need to kill the Earl.
Besides, if the burglar had stolen as much jewellery as the papers intimated, would he really need to blackmail anyone? Blackmail would have been an easier option to make a quick fortune rather than risking capture with each burglary. If someone had spotted and recognised the burglar, then that made him a prime candidate for blackmail.
Perhaps, rather than receiving blackmail threats, Lord Castleford had in fact been the blackmailer? Maybe he had been on his way to deliver the blackmail letters, and his disguise was to avoid being recognised when delivering them?
No, that didn’t make sense. For one thing, there were two distinct letters folded together in Lord Castleford’s glove compartment. If he’d been delivering them they would have been separate, most likely also enclosed within envelopes.
Gertrude drew several conclusions from the separate incidents:
The burglar and the motorcycle rider were almost certainly the same man.
The blackmailer had to be a second individual.
The killer must be a third person.
Gertrude looked up at her siblings, aware that she had been rambling aloud. ‘I think that perhaps tomorrow I shall have an in-depth conversation with the Chief Inspector about all the strange goings on. There’s more going on here than we think, so there must be a connection that I’m overlooking.’
I’m missing something, she thought as Geoffrey and Glenda disappeared to prepare the evening meal. There has to be something connecting me to these other crimes, unless our burglar is a fourth person.
Is that too much of a coincidence?
She realised that if she continued with her mental meanderings she would come full circle to draw exactly the same conclusions she already had. It was much better to try to put it from her mind for the rest of the evening. Sleep might awaken some other little clue she’d missed.
Besides, with the Chief Inspector coming in the morning, she at least had another sharp mind to talk things over with.
Taking a deep breath, she decided to make herself useful while the others prepared dinner. She picked up the pile of coats from the chair, taking them to hang on the hooks behind the parlour door, and as she did so something fell to the floor. Having hung up the coats, she stooped to pick up the fallen article. She recognised it at once. It was the small pouch dropped by the mysterious figure she’d seen running from the copse just after the incident with the motorcycle. In the furore surrounding the Earl of Castleford’s death she’d forgotten all about it.
Settling once more at the dining table, she unfastened the thin cord that secured the neck of the pouch and tipped the contents onto the empty plate before her.
Gertrude wasn’t sure she knew what to expect, but she certainly didn’t expect a small quantity of gemstones to spill out onto her finest white china dinner plate. They sparkled brilliantly beneath the electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. Gingerly, as though expecting them to burn, Gertrude pushed them around the plate. There were a dozen small diamonds glittering in amongst some larger emeralds. She knew just from their lustre that they were the real thing, not paste.
‘Glenda, Geoffrey, we have a bigger problem.’
Her siblings returned to the parlour to see what she was talking about. Geoffrey whistled when he saw the gems. ‘Where did they come from?’
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 11