Death Around the Bend (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 3)

by T E Kinsey

  The room’s furniture was the traditional country house hotchpotch of styles. The aristocracy didn’t really go in for buying furniture; they inherited most of it, and bought only the individual items they felt they lacked. So the bed (a monumental construction of carved mahogany) didn’t match the wardrobe (delicate and fussy with an inlaid flower motif), which didn’t match the writing desk and chair (Louis XVI with fiddly gold bits). The tallboy looked newer, and the washstand might have been bought that year. Somehow, though, when it was all set against the wonderful green wallpaper, it didn’t seem at all wrong. I got closer to the wallpaper to take a better look.

  ‘William Morris,’ said Lady Hardcastle, who had noticed my perusal.

  ‘I thought it might be,’ I said carelessly.

  ‘Don’t fib,’ she said. ‘It’s called “Larkspur”, and I’m surprised to see it here, to be honest. Someone in the Codrington line must have had artistic ambitions.’

  ‘You’ve seen it before?’ I said.

  ‘A tutor at Cambridge had it in his drawing room. His wife was a rather gifted artist herself. She was very proud of her William Morris paper, but it’s not the sort of thing earls buy.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad someone did,’ I said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Me too.’ She finally put down her pen. ‘What’s it like below stairs?’

  ‘Huge and surprisingly quiet, but that might just be because I didn’t see the busy parts. The butler seems friendly.’

  ‘Spinney,’ she said absently, as she looked out of the window.

  ‘The very same. How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Fishy – I suppose I ought to get used to calling him that; everyone else does – Fishy gave me all the gup on the staff.’

  ‘The “gup”, my lady?’

  ‘The gup, the gossip, the tittle and, what’s more, the tattle.’

  ‘I’ve never heard the word before,’ I said, folding a shawl into a drawer.

  ‘Really? My father used it all the time.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it.’

  ‘Old-fashioned, you think?’

  ‘A tiny bit, my lady. Upon whom else were you vouchsafed “the gup”?’

  ‘Goodness, Flo, I was pleased enough with myself for recalling the name of the butler. You expect me to remember everyone else as well?’

  ‘Sorry, my lady. I sometimes forget that your poor old mind is ravaged by creeping senility.’

  ‘Indeed it is, dear, indeed it is. There was something about the cook, who’s an absolute poppet, apparently, but don’t ask me her name. Young Morgan Coleman has made quite an impression with his chauffeuring and mechanic-ing, but I’d surmised as much for myself. He mentioned the housekeeper . . . Mrs . . . Mrs . . . Mrs McSomething, I think.’

  ‘You’ve done well, my lady,’ I said. ‘And you’ve remembered many of their names into the bargain.’

  ‘As fly as ever, me, dear. He did also say when dinner was, but I’ve quite forgotten.’

  ‘Eight, my lady. Informal.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said forlornly.

  ‘You don’t like black tie, my lady?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care what everyone wears,’ she said. ‘I was just dismayed that it’s such a long way off – I’m starving.’

  ‘Shall I see if I can get cook to knock up a sandwich for you?’

  ‘It’s tempting, but then I shan’t want dinner. I shall have to endure.’

  ‘You’re a brave little trouper, my lady.’

  ‘I bally well am, at that,’ she said, finally deciding to pitch in and help with the unpacking. ‘Shall you be eating in the servants’ hall?’

  ‘I’ve been offered supper in my room,’ I said.

  ‘Have you, by crikey? Will you avail yourself?’

  ‘I rather think I shall, my lady. I quite like the idea of a peaceful evening in with a hearty meal and an edifying book.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ she said, making such a thorough pig’s ear of hanging up a dress that I gently took it from her and gestured for her to resume her seat by the window.

  Once everything was put away, it was time for Lady Hardcastle to ready herself for dinner. Having ensured that she was shipshape and fully Bristol fashion, I took my leave and vanished once more into the maze of servants’ stairs and corridors.

  After less than ten minutes’ wandering, I managed to find my way back to the hall, which was by now a hive of activity. Mr Spinney saw me milling about, and took a break from instructing a junior footman on the best way to remove a spot from the sleeve of his jacket to come over to see me.

  ‘Is everything to your mistress’s satisfaction?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘It is, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Splendid. Is there anything else we can do for her?’

  ‘No, I think everything is in hand,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you might send someone up later to put her trunks and cases into your luggage room?’

  ‘Of course, of course. And how about you? Is there anything we can do for you?’

  ‘You’re most kind. Are you absolutely sure about your kind offer of supper in my room, though? Would the rest of the staff think me too rude? I shouldn’t want anyone to think that I didn’t want to eat with you, but the luxury of an evening entirely to myself seems too good to pass up.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ he said with a smile. ‘They’re a welcoming lot, but dinner can get a bit boisterous, and I can perfectly understand that you might not want to have to deal with that after a long day’s travelling. I’ll have someone bring you a tray when we’ve finished serving upstairs. Have you been shown to your room?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure it can’t be difficult to find. I’ll just keep heading upwards until I find a room with my case in it.’

  ‘That’s the ticket. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to young Billy and his grubby sleeve.’

  I smiled my thanks, and set off back the way I’d come and up the stairs. This time, though, I passed by the first floor landing and carried on upwards towards what I presumed were the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. I finally emerged into a plainly decorated, yet oddly cosy corridor, and walked towards the only open door, at the far end, on the left. Sure enough, there was my suitcase next to a sturdy iron bedstead by the window. Another bed stood nearer the door, and both had been made up with crisp fresh linen and warm-looking blankets.

  I unpacked my things and settled into the armchair in the corner with my copy of H G Wells’s The Time Machine, which I thought was well overdue to be reread.

  Chapter Three

  I slept like a countess. If a countess had fallen on hard times and had taken to working as a lady’s maid, that is. My accommodations were at the more luxurious end of the servants’ scale, though, so I had no cause to grumble or gripe – I had slept a great deal more comfortably than many.

  I readied myself for the day, and set off down the secret stairway to see if I could scare up a pot of tea for Lady Hardcastle. The approved procedure in most country houses would be for me to make my way to the servants’ hall and wait for her to ring for me, but Lady Hardcastle was unimpressed by such ostentatious displays of status, and preferred a cuppa and a chat while she gathered herself together.

  The kitchen, once I found it, was alive with efficient industry, and I introduced myself at once to the cook.

  ‘Good mornin’ my dear,’ said the cheerful, plump queen of the kitchen. ‘I’m Mrs Ruddle. Welcome to Codrington. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did, thank you, Mrs Ruddle. And thank you for the delicious supper you sent up. I don’t know when I’ve been so well looked after. I hope no one thought me above my buttons for not joining you all down here.’

  She laughed. ‘Not at all, my dear. We’d all take the chance if it was offered, wouldn’t we? So long as you’re comfy, we don’t mind at all. ’S not like you won’t be pullin’ your weight while you’re here, is it? Might be a nice little holiday for your mistress, but your work won’
t stop, will it, eh?’

  ‘You’re very kind. And speaking of my work, I don’t suppose there’s any water on the boil for a pot of tea? I’d like to take a tray up to Lady Hardcastle, if I can.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ she said, bustling back to work. ‘I’ll get the girl to put it all together for you. Would your mistress like some toast? I bet she’d like a round of toast. I’ll get Patience to put a round of buttered toast on the tray for you. And how about you? You must be ready for somethin’. Just you help yourself at the table in the hall, and Patience will bring the tray out when she’s done.’

  I sat at the table in the hall and helped myself, as instructed, to eggs, bacon, and toast. I was going to ask about the delicious tomato sauce I’d just tried when a woman of about forty, dressed in black, swept into the room. The housemaid I’d been going to interrogate suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere and all but evaporated from the table. The woman sat down.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, in an incongruously plummy voice. ‘You must be Miss Armstrong. I’m Muriel McLelland, Lord Riddlethorpe’s housekeeper.’

  ‘How do you do?’ I said. ‘Florence Armstrong. People call me Flo.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she said, and sat at the table next to me.

  By any objective standard, she was extremely attractive, with a fine-featured face topped with honey-blonde hair and set with eyes of such a dark shade of blue that they might have appeared black in some lights. It was obvious, too, that in a more flattering dress than that typically worn by a housekeeper, she would have a striking figure to match the beauty of her face. Her only adornment was a delicate brooch set with tiny pearls.

  ‘It seems you have a hectic few days ahead,’ I said. ‘What with hosting a party this evening as well as houseguests for the week.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing we can’t deal with,’ she replied, helping herself to eggs and bacon from the recently replenished platter. ‘I’d much sooner be busy than idle. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Actually, I do. And speaking of which, there’s Patience with Lady Hardcastle’s tray. I’d best be off, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said as I stood. ‘If you fancy some company later, I take my break at around eleven. We could have a cup of coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘If I can get away, I should like that very much. I can’t promise, though – Lady Hardcastle might have other ideas.’

  ‘I quite understand. I take coffee in my room – just ask one of the juniors, they’ll point you in the right direction.’

  I smiled my thanks, and took the tray from an already weary-looking Patience.

  ‘Good morning, my lady,’ I said as I set down the tray on the writing desk and drew the curtains.

  A croaky mumble issued forth from beneath the covers.

  ‘I brought you some tea and toast,’ I said breezily. ‘They were just starting to take the breakfast things up to the dining room when I left the kitchen.’

  There was another forlorn, slightly self-pitying groan, muffled by layers of sheet and blanket.

  ‘Did we overdo it a little at dinner, my lady?’ I said with a grin.

  As she struggled out from her linen cave and sat up, I saw that she had, indeed, overdone things a little.

  ‘It’s my stupid brother’s fault,’ she croaked.

  ‘Of course it is, my lady,’ I said as I poured a cup of tea. ‘A big boy did it and ran away. That’s always the excuse I used.’

  She harrumphed, but smiled gratefully as she clutched the saucer and lifted the cup for her first reviving sip. ‘You’ve had dinner with Harry,’ she insisted. ‘You know what he’s like. “Have another glass,” he says. “Come on, sis, don’t let a chap drink alone.” And then, “I say, Fishy, this port’s excellent. Isn’t it excellent, Em? Here, let me pour you another.” And then, “If there’s one thing I’ve always loved about staying with you, Fishy, it’s your excellent cognac. Where do you get it? Em loves a drop of brandy, don’t you. Shall I top you up?” By the time I stumbled up here, the three of us had demolished half poor Fishy’s cellar.’

  ‘Politely declining never crossed your mind?’

  ‘I should bally well say not,’ she said, slowly recovering herself. ‘If there’s one thing Fishy’s famous for, it’s his cellar. It would be an absolute crime to pass up the chance to sample it.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m pleased you enjoyed yourself, my lady.’

  ‘I really rather did,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see Harry again, and Fishy turns out to be really rather splendid company.’

  ‘Good-o,’ I said. ‘So the party this evening should be fun.’

  She took a tentative bite of the toast. ‘I think it might be,’ she said. At least, I think she did. She said it with a mouthful of buttered toast, so she might have said ‘I stink of night fleas’, for all I know, but my interpretation made slightly more sense. She swallowed her mouthful. ‘You were quite the topic of conversation, you know.’

  ‘Me, my lady?’ I said with some consternation. ‘Why?’

  ‘Talk mainly revolved around two subjects: motor cars and the competitive racing thereof, and the heroic exploits of one Florence Armstrong.’

  I goggled.

  ‘No, really,’ she said. ‘I’d have thought Harry would be a bit blasé about it all by now – he’s known about mine and Roddy’s exploits for donkey’s years – you know how Foreign Office types like to gossip – but apparently, they are as nothing compared with a few punch-ups and some knife-throwing antics from a diminutive Welsh maid. His tales of your derring-do made quite an impression on Fishy, and he’s determined to make your acquaintance.’

  Lady Hardcastle’s husband, Sir Roderick, had been in the diplomatic corps in the eighties and nineties, which meant that his wife was in a perfect position to indulge in a little discreet espionage on behalf of Her Britannic Majesty’s government. She had been recruited before she had left Girton College, and her reputation in the upper echelons of the Foreign Office was well established by the time she employed me as her maid and eventually drew me into her world of snooping and skulduggery. In her position, I’d be a bit miffed at having my own contribution to national security downplayed in favour of a Johnny Newcome like me.

  ‘I’ve not said anything to him, I promise,’ I said. ‘I really am most dreadfully sorry.’

  To my immense relief, she laughed. ‘You goose,’ she said. ‘I told him. I’m just delighted that someone else realizes what a tiny marvel you are.’

  ‘Phew,’ I said.

  ‘You really are a ninny sometimes.’

  ‘I just don’t like people thinking I’m getting above myself, that’s all,’ I said defensively.

  ‘No one thinks that,’ she said. ‘But expect to be cornered by his lordship at some point, and grilled at length.’

  ‘I shan’t crack, my lady. You can rely on me.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘But why not bask in the attention and glory for a while? You deserve a bit of recognition before you return to your life of drudgery.’

  ‘And hardship, my lady.’

  ‘Quite so. Just let Fishy chat to his new heroine and you can return to feeling like you’re a member of the downtrodden masses.’

  ‘I am a member of the downtrodden masses, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘You are, Flo, dear, you are. Now let’s get me ready for breakfast, and I’ll see what Fishy has in store for me today.’

  I left a vaguely presentable Lady Hardcastle to make her own way to the dining room, having helped her to dress in the first of the day’s many outfits: an elegant grey linen day dress. I also supplied her with a couple of fortifying aspirin. Meanwhile, I disappeared into the servants’ warren and returned the tea tray to the kitchen, where Patience took it from me and magicked it away to be cleaned.

  Evan, the footman I’d met when we arrived, was sitting at the table in the hall, reading a newspaper.

  ‘Good morning,
Evan,’ I said brightly.

  He mumbled a greeting of sorts, but did not look up.

  ‘Is everything in hand for the party this evening?’ I continued, doing my best to be sociable.

  ‘You’d-a known if you’d deigned to come down and sup with us last night,’ he said, noisily turning a page in his (or, as was more likely, his master’s) newspaper.

  ‘I dare say I would at that,’ I said. It clearly wasn’t worth the bother.

  Mr Spinney entered with a silver tray.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing there, boy?’ he barked.

  Finally, Evan looked up from the newspaper. ‘Readin’,’ he said insolently.

  ‘Highly amusing,’ said Spinney. ‘I can see for myself that you’re reading, and you know full well that I was asking why you’re reading his lordship’s newspaper rather than ironing it for him.’

  ‘Already ironed,’ said the young footman. ‘Seems a shame to waste the opportunity to better meself, learn what’s goin’ on in the world.’

  ‘Well, you can go and iron it again.’

  ‘No point,’ said Evan. ‘Ink’s already been dried. Be a waste of time.’

  ‘I shall decide what’s the best use of your time,’ said the butler angrily. ‘And I say that his lordship will receive his daily newspaper not only with dry ink, but with crisp, fresh pages, unread by the junior staff.’

  ‘Can’t unread the newspaper, Mr Spinney,’ said the footman, standing up. ‘All them posh words and dangerous new information’s already up here.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Can’t get it out now.’

  Spinney sighed. ‘Just iron the newspaper, boy. And be quick about it.’

  Evan grinned as he took the newspaper and left the room.

  Spinney sat wearily down and reached out to test the weight of a large teapot on the table.

  ‘Feels like there’s at least a couple of cups in here if you want one, Miss Armstrong,’ he said.

  I sat down opposite him. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Lady Hardcastle has just gone down to breakfast, so I have a few minutes.’

  He poured two cups of tea and offered me one. ‘I’m sorry you had to see us not at our best,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what we can do about that lad.’