He had attended every baptism, wedding and funeral in the parish for over fifty years. He alone had officiated, in a wavering and mumbled way, in the services during the war. His absent mindedness was renowned. His home, presided over by the efficient and officious Mrs Aggers, was a decent sized yellow brick Queen Anne house at the far end of the village. It was to this house that he and Miss Lavender made their way after the church service. His study was a large, square, sunny room, overcome by books. They made for a comfortable backdrop, but were exceedingly dusty and faded as he never opened any of them.
‘Sherry, my dear?’
He put the glass down by Miss Lavender, spilling a little on the table. She quietly mopped this up with her hankie, as he had not noticed.
‘Now. You tell me that there has been a murder.’ His eyes were bright as a blackbird. ‘That is a very terrible thing.’
‘Indeed. Yes, indeed.’
‘But not so very unusual. The sin of Abel continues.’
‘The family is a good one,’ said Miss Lavender. ‘Sir Tempest Harrington has been a friend of mine for quite a number of years now although I am not really acquainted with his family. I was very close to his first wife Mildred. She passed away twenty years ago.’
‘And how did you come to be involved now?’
‘With the murder, you mean?’
‘Quite. Were you staying with Sir Harrington at the time?’
‘No. But he phoned me that evening and requested I come to lend support. He seems to think because I have written a few successful Whodunnits, I can be of some assistance,’ she added with a wry smile.
‘Well, I wouldn’t rule out that having someone who is not an immediate member of the family might be rather more of a support.’
He settled into his well worn armchair and took a large sip of sherry.
‘So. Fill me in. Who exactly was murdered?’
‘A Mr Wittering Shapley of Shapley, Shapley and Orde, the Antiquarian booksellers in London.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Gregory Honeybun, ‘I know the shop well. By the British Museum, isn’t it.’
‘He was down at Lower Wallop assessing the worth of the library. An assistant of his was supposed to have gone, but he took ill, and so Shapley replaced him.’
‘Did anyone know he was arriving?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘He was poisoned that afternoon. Something in his tea. The daughters and son of Sir Tempest were present and two members of staff. His sister was out in the glasshouse.’
‘I see. Do go on.’
‘There is a work in three volumes which has considerable value. A son, Simon, and daughter Caroline became aware of this before Mr Shapley was killed. I am unclear as to whether Sir Tempest is aware they are valuable. There is a door in the library that opens to the sidewalk which leads both ways - to the garden and to the house front. There is also a back door. Keys to these doors are kept in a garden shed, the key of which is kept by the kitchen pantry.’
‘Mr Shapley was killed in the library?’
‘Yes. Sir Tempest’s younger daughter Edie, found the body. They had been taking afternoon tea in the conservatory. Seddon, the butler, brought three trays from the kitchen, with the tea. Two were left in the hall on a table for some minutes. One of those was for Mr Shapley.’
‘Mmmh. So at that point, someone could have slipped in the poison?’
‘This is where we come up against a difficulty. No one admits to having left the conservatory. However the witness of someone else declares otherwise.’
‘Do you believe them?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Family rivalry?’
‘Let’s just say, there is rather more to the relationships in the Harrington family than might meet the eye. Simon and Edie’s mother died in most suspicious circumstances some years ago. Prudence Harrington.’
‘Ah yes, I recall reading about it in the papers. Very sad business. I saw her on the stage once. Beautiful dancer. The Bluebird in Sleeping Beauty at Drury Lane.’
‘But we come up against a further difficulty.’
‘Oh, yes?’
Miss Lavender picked up her bag and produced a number of pages of mint green notepaper. She smoothed the most crumpled one out on the table.
‘There have been more than one person who has considered that there was a marked resemblance between Mr Wittering Shapley and Sir Tempest Harrington.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Gregory Honeybun softly. ‘A complication indeed.’
‘Quite. They were of much the same age, height, both smoked a pipe, were balding and wore similar types of clothing. Not only that - there was a note left on Mr Shapley’s teacup. It leads me to suspect that it was Sir Harrington who was the intended victim.’
She pushed the torn pieces of the note across the table, and her companion scrutinised them with care.
‘I fail to see the connection,’ he said after a moment.
‘The quote is from the Shakespeare play ‘The Tempest.’
‘Ah. Indeed. Indeed. And of those in the household, who would have the wit to use such a work?’
‘Quite. I have discovered that there are some of the family. We can rule out Simon - his is a very light taste in books and he hated Shakespeare at school. His father says he’s the sporty type. Not academic. As to Sir Tempest’s sister Fenella, I have no idea about her reading interests. Presumably seed catalogues would be high on the list. She is a very keen gardener. Caroline, his elder daughter I would think sticks to magazines. But Rupert, her husband is a reader, and certainly knows Shakespeare.’
‘So they could be working together,’ Gregory Honeybun mused.
‘Precisely. However it is extremely interesting to note that it is the younger daughter, Edie who has had a thwarted desire to go on the stage. She has not been allowed to pursue that by both her father and her aunt.’
‘There can be precious few budding thespians who would not have a good knowledge of Shakespeare.’
‘That brings me to the handwriting.’ Miss Lavender pointed to the notes. ‘It was written on paper and with pen and ink ready to hand on the library desk. If the note wasn’t written beforehand, then I think there would have been time to jot down the verse if it were well memorised.’
‘Quite.’
They scrutinised the writing together. Their conclusion was the same. Without a doubt it matched Edie’s calligraphic flow.
‘She has extremely idiosyncratic handwriting, doesn’t she. All those flourishes. Look at the curves of the crossed t’s. A most confident hand.’
‘I can see why Simon would have had difficulty at school,’ said Miss Lavender shaking her head. ‘Left handed. Obviously has struggled in this area.’
‘This seedsman’s name and address - whose writing is this?’
‘Fenella Harrington’s handwriting.’
‘But, it is all in capital letters. Hardly a help.’
‘I wonder what that means,’ Miss Lavender agreed.
Caroline’s note was writ large, with many loops. They agreed it could not be matched with the note found on Mr Shapley’s saucer.
It did not look good for Edie Harrington.
III
Mrs Aggers had left a large Shepherd’s pie, potatoes, peas and carrots in the Aga for lunch. They continued to discuss the mystery of the murder at The Court, in the kitchen. The large pine table, was covered with a red and white gingham cloth. The church cat, an ample ginger named Cyril took up the rocking chair by the fireside. This room was sunny too. In fact all the rooms were large and square in the house. A couple of rag rugs lay on the flagged floor, and the clock ticked on the wall by a large dresser filled with blue and white china. It was very nice to come away from the gloomy atmosphere at The Court, Miss Lavender decided as she took up her fork, ready to enjoy lunch.
Gregory Honeybun said a short grace.
‘It strikes me,’ he said, after a moment or two, ‘that the family has underlying tensio
ns. Second marriages, and step-siblings can produce any amount of problems if not dealt with in the right way.’
‘I am afraid Mildred spoiled Caroline most horribly. Oh, no doubt it would have been fine if she had lived and they had not been parted. But Caroline has been dealt a difficult hand, if you’ll pardon the expression. She was only thirteen when she lost her mother. By the time she was in her early twenties she had to cope with a step mother and a step brother and sister.’
‘Could her aunt not have been any support? What about her father?’
‘Neither Sir Tempest nor Fenella seem to have much time for her. Of course she is something of a forceful personality. Not many would warm to her immediately.’
‘Still, family is family, and she had lost her mother. How did Mildred die?’
‘Heart attack. Very sad. She was only forty-eight when she died.’
‘And the other wife. Prudence. The ballerina. But, of course, that was hypothermia, wasn’t it.’
‘It would appear the lady had a drink problem. And I would also suggest a drug addiction.’
‘Oh, dear me.’ Gregory Honeybun shook his head. ‘Such a waste. But tell me, Miss Lavender, could you bring yourself to consider one of his own children would wish to do away with your friend Sir Tempest?’
‘There is a great deal of anger,’ she replied, laying down her knife and fork. ‘Resentment. It is bubbling away just below the surface. None of them have come to terms with Prudence’s death.’ She paused, looking out the window for a moment or two. ‘Vengeance is a terrible thing. Edie is, I would say, rather highly strung.’
‘Like her mother?’
‘Exactly. Then there is Caroline and her husband. Evidently Rupert is Colonel of the Regiment. They must have a good income. Although it is amazing how appearances can be deceptive. Perhaps they need the volumes. But to murder for them is surely not enough of a motive. Why not simply steal them, if one is as desperate as that.’
‘And Simon?’
‘Again, he is a very angry young man. I believe he actually hates his father. If he thought his mother had been murdered, I think he could have attempted to wreak vengeance on his own father. He is a very sullen youth.’
‘It is possible the brother and sister were in it together.’
‘Yes. I had thought of that too.’
‘And the sister. Fenella?’
‘She had been living with her brother for years. Perfectly happily, by all accounts. No. I cannot see any reason whatsoever why she should suddenly take against her own brother.’
‘Which leaves us with outsiders. Does Sir Tempest have any enemies? Anyone who would wish to kill him?’
‘None whatsoever. His finances are sound. He is a quiet landowner in a very quiet part of Hampshire, with few interests outside his immediate estate and family.’
‘And members of staff?’
‘Yes. I was coming to that. The gardener, Travers, has not been at The Court for long. He strikes me as rather a fish out of water. I shall be following him up tomorrow. The gardeners come on a Monday. His assistant is a young lad, Ben. Seems to think Edie is to be suspected, though did not give any particular reason.’
‘Edie again.’
‘Edie again. Quite.’
‘But one thing puzzles me, Miss Lavender. This thing about the teacup and the tea trays. Are we saying that someone, Edie, Simon, whoever, came from the conservatory into the hall and put the poison in the wrong tea cup? Intending it for the father, but making a mistake at that point? Are the cups all from the same tea set, or do the family members each have their own identifiable cups?’
‘Good point. I shall need to follow that up too.’
‘And I assure you I will pray about the matter and give it my closest attention. If and when anything else occurs to me I shall get in touch.’
IV
It had been of enormous assistance to Miss Lavender to be able to air her thoughts and share all the details with the curate. The case was indeed a most complicated one. She still did not have any answers but she was encouraged and greeted Opus cheerily as she opened her own front door.
There was a small pile of letters on the mat, which included the latest royalty cheque. She was gratified. The Loner was selling better than expected. It was her eighth thriller. She had got the whole enterprise down to a fine art. The usual pattern of chapters. But it was the dramatic twist at the ending that could still tax her imagination. The outline for her latest work, The Stranger at the Door lay on her desk. Perhaps, she thought wryly, she might be able to draw some ideas from the real murder at The Court.
She was pleased to see that Minnie had left the cottage in ship shape fashion. Miss Lavender would often leave the cosy comfort of Bramble Cottage for visits up to town, or for longer stays away in what she referred to as her research. These were normally taken at rather up market hotels. Usually in England, though sometimes abroad. Opus was happy enough with this arrangement as she placated him with the opportunity of using her second best patchwork coverlet to sleep on when she was away from home.
She drove back to The Court the following morning. Tangley Tarrant, its neat cottages lying in the late April sunshine, the village green, the duck pond, had all the bustle of an English village on a Monday morning. The children were flocking in twos and threes to the small Church of England primary school down Lovers Lane. A small car was being filled with petrol at the garage pump. Barrels of beer were being delivered at The Green Man. She passed the postman on his bicycle as she drove off down the narrow lane.
It had been useful to talk things over with Gregory Honeybun. It had cleared up several questions in her mind. However, the issue of the relationships within the Harrington family had only been touched on. It was difficult to portray all the nuances of jealousy and suspicion. Yet she was very aware that the answers would be found by delving deeper into these relationships.
Naturally it was not surprising that there would be friction in a family that included a second marriage and a second family, let alone the deaths of both mothers. Then there was the veil that had been cast over Fenella’s nervous breakdown. Families were most difficult things, thought Miss Lavender as she sped along and turned onto the A 343. Sometimes it was better simply to have a cat.
Chapter Seven
Edie Harrington was sitting in the dining room, wearing blue gingham pyjamas, her long dark hair loose about her shoulders, eating toast and marmalade.
‘Come back to haunt us? Thought you might have escaped for good,’ she said in a not unfriendly tone of voice.
‘Well, as a matter of fact Edie, I simply went home to check up on my cat.’
‘We had a cat once,’ said Edie, darkly. ‘I think a fox got it.’
‘Oh, how sad. Were you fond of it? Why don’t you get another?’
‘Aunt Fenella doesn’t want a cat. Says they ruin her garden. Dig up the plants, that sort of thing. But yes, I’d simply love a kitten.’
‘Your aunt Fenella has quite a say in things, doesn’t she.’
‘Rules the roost. Rod of iron. Don’t let that meek and mild stance fool you. Has Pops wrapped round her little finger. Same with Richard. Follows her round like a moon struck calf!’
‘Richard?’
‘The gardener - so called. Richard Travers.’
She reached out and took another piece of toast from the rack.
‘Why do you say that. Does he not strike you as a gardener, then?’
‘Oh, he’s certainly able to do all they ask of him, in the garden and all the odd jobs round the house. But - have you noticed his hands? Not used to too much hard manual work. More the office type. Still,’ she wriggled in her seat and gave a wicked grin, ‘I shall prise it out of him, see if I don’t.’
‘You think he might be here at The Court on false pretences, then?’
Miss Lavender sat down in the small armchair by the window and took out her knitting. She held it up for a moment, pleased with her progress. She had already worked an inch
along the foot.
‘Rather a fish out of water, I would say. City type. Would look amazing in a suit and tie. Perhaps he was caught money laundering.’
Miss Lavender laughed. ‘Now that takes a bit of imagination!’
‘You only have to look at his nails. Too well manicured. And wouldn’t you say he’s rather too well spoken for a jobbing gardener?’
‘Edie,’ said Miss Lavender severely, ‘I do hope you are not being a snob.’
‘Anyway,’ she said defensively, ‘I think he’s an absolute dream.’
‘I shall look into it,’ said Miss Lavender, busily on her next round.
‘Oh, would you!’ Edie, having finished her breakfast came round and sat on the window ledge by her companion. ‘You promise to tell me what you find out?’
‘Very well,’ said Miss Lavender calmly. ‘But only in exchange for some information.’
‘What?’
‘Not so much information. Rather filling me in on some background.’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘Your dreams of becoming an actress, tell me about it. I’d like to know.’
Edie’s face clouded. ‘It’s true. I wanted to go to RADA. If they would take me. Mummy was on the stage. The ballet. But that’s a form of theatre too. She always encouraged me. I believe if she hadn’t died I would have been allowed to go. We were always doing plays when we were younger, you know.’
‘Simon too?’
‘And Aunt Fenella sometimes too. And my friends from school. It was such tremendous fun.’
‘What did you act?’
‘All sorts of things.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘Well, a little, yes. But we didn’t have so many players. We adapted The Wind in the Willows one year. We had all the costumes. Why don’t I show you?’
‘I’d like that very much.’
She led the way, through the conservatory door and out across the garden. The dew had dried long since and it was a warm morning. Her slim delicate figure, in the blue pyjamas made a very pretty sight as she danced across the grass. Miss Lavender’s heart smote her. Could it really be possible that this beautiful girl could have murdered her father?
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