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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Sack him?’ I suggested.

  He laughed. ‘That would solve my problems,’ he said. ‘But not his. He’s a troubled lad.’

  ‘I should say he is. Why on earth do you keep him on?’

  ‘We sort of took responsibility for him,’ he said kindly. ‘His father died at Spion Kop, mother drank herself to death a year later. She worked here as a housemaid, but there was nothing we could do to save her from herself. We took care of the lad as best we could, but he fell in with a bad lot. They led him astray. He was up before the beak last year for fighting in the town, but his lordship vouched for him and offered him a job here to keep him out of the gaol. So we try our best, and in return he tries our patience.’

  I was about to say something much less tolerant and understanding when the young man returned.

  ‘His lordship’s newspaper, Mr Spinney,’ he said with a mocking bow.

  ‘Put it on the tray,’ said Spinney. ‘And then get to your duties.’

  ‘At once, Mr Spinney, sir,’ said Evan with a click of his heels, and walked out, laughing.

  ‘Trouble is,’ said the butler, ‘he’s the only spare footman we’ve got, and I’ve had to give him the job of valet to the gentleman guests.’

  ‘Crikey,’ I said. ‘I can see how one might be concerned.’

  ‘Concerned doesn’t begin to cover it, Miss Armstrong. Not even close.’

  ‘I’ll be about above stairs looking after Lady Hardcastle. I can keep my eyes and ears open, if you like.’

  ‘It’s a kind offer, but you’d have your work cut out. He’s . . . ah . . . He’s . . .’

  ‘Taken against me?’ I suggested. ‘I rather thought he might have.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He told me so in almost as many words.’

  Spinney looked embarrassed. ‘Please accept my apologies on behalf of Codrington Hall,’ he said. ‘We pride ourselves on our hospitality, even to visiting servants. Especially to visiting servants.’

  ‘Please, Mr Spinney, think nothing of it. I anticipated that my decision to dine alone might cause some friction. It’s my own fault.’

  ‘It’s not the opinion of us all, Miss Armstrong. We’d all welcome the chance to do the same, as I said to you before. He’s got no place being rude to a guest.’

  ‘I’ve had nastier people than he being more than rude to me in the past,’ I said. ‘You leave him to me, I’ll keep a watchful eye on him and make sure he does you proud.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate it, miss,’ he said. ‘But it really shouldn’t be something a guest has to do.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’ll be no imposition at all.’

  ‘I must say it would be a help. I can’t be everywhere at once, especially not above stairs. I’ve already got Chanley looking out for him—’

  ‘Chanley?’ I asked.

  ‘His lordship’s own valet. He’ll be showing him the ropes, but another pair of eyes can’t hurt. We wondered if the extra responsibility might be the making of him, but with his attitude this morning, I’m beginning to have second thoughts.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll introduce myself to Mr Chanley, and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Please don’t feel you have to, Miss Armstrong, but every little helps.’ He put down his half-finished tea. ‘I’d better get the newspaper up to the dining room after making all that fuss about it.’

  As arranged, I waited for Lady Hardcastle in her room. As well as teaching me the piano, she had been trying to teach me to draw since just after Christmas, so I took a sheet of notepaper and a pencil from the desk and began to attempt to sketch the view from the window. I worked hard, trying to remember everything I had been taught, carefully judging perspective and shading, and before long I had produced quite the most childlike and disappointing scribble anyone had ever seen. I was about to screw it up and throw it in the wastepaper basket, when Lady Hardcastle returned.

  ‘What ho, Flo,’ she said as she entered. ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting too long.’ She crossed the room to the desk. ‘I say, have you been drawing? Let’s have a look.’

  I tried to cover the sketch, but she slid it out from beneath my hand and inspected it, frowning.

  ‘The thing is, Flo, dear,’ she said after a few moments’ contemplation, ‘I know that one is supposed to encourage one’s students, to see the positive aspects of their work and offer praise for even the slightest hint of improvement . . .’

  ‘But you see none?’

  ‘Well, not “none”, exactly . . .’

  ‘But very little?’

  ‘Have you ever considered photography?’ she asked with a grin.

  ‘You’re a mean one, my lady,’ I said, snatching the sketch back and throwing it in the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Quite possibly.’ She looked at my uniform and boots. ‘Have you got any outdoor togs with you?’

  ‘I have,’ I said.

  ‘Good-o. Run and pop on something a bit more practical. Fishy wants to show us round the estate. Nothing too warm, mind you. I’ve been told we can expect another glorious day.’

  We chatted a little more while I laid out her own outdoor clothes, and then I raced off to prepare for our tour.

  We waited, as instructed, on the terrace at the rear of the house, overlooking the well-tended formal garden. Despite having long since learned the folly of her efforts, Lady Hardcastle was attempting to teach me the names and habits of the various birds that alighted on the low wall that formed the boundary of the terrace. Her doomed, but well-meaning lecture was cut short by the arrival of her brother, Harry.

  ‘What ho, sis,’ he said as he rounded the corner and saw us there, contemplating the lifestyle of the pied wagtail.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle absently, still watching the little black-and-white bird. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Like a log, old thing,’ he said. ‘Woke up with a bit of a sore head, mind you.’

  ‘You and me both,’ she replied ruefully. ‘I blame you, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t expect anything less. And good morning to you, young Strong Arm. I haven’t seen you in aeons. How the devil are you?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you, Mr Featherston-huff,’ I said with a smile. I had known him for many years and always made a point of mispronouncing his surname. ‘Though last winter is hardly an aeon ago.’

  ‘Is that all it is? Well, well. One day I shall get you to say “Fan-shaw”, you know,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to try, sir,’ I said. ‘I enjoy a challenge.’

  ‘So you do, so you do. I’ve been telling Fishy all about you and your love of challenges.’

  ‘I gather you have.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t want to embarrass you, but you do lead such an exciting life. I thought he might enjoy hearing about it.’

  ‘My life isn’t exciting enough, then?’ said Lady Hardcastle indignantly.

  ‘Hardly, sis. You just swan about looking posh and gormless. It’s Strong Arm here who does all the dangerous stuff.’

  ‘I’ve been shot at.’

  ‘In a drawing room in Dribblington St Nowhere, or wherever it is you live these days. It’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘It was the dining room, and I nearly died. I should say I’m every bit as exciting as Flo.’

  It was true, she had nearly died, and Harry and I had shared the anxious vigil at her bedside while we waited for her to recover.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting his hands up. ‘My little sister leads just as exciting a life as her maid. I know when I’m beaten.’

  ‘Beaten again, eh, Fanners?’ said a jovial voice from behind us. Lord Riddlethorpe had emerged silently from the house through the large French windows and had joined us in admiring the view.

  ‘What ho, Fishy,’ said Harry.

  ‘What ho, what ho,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Good morning, Emil
y.’

  ‘Morning, Fishy,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘And good morning to you, Miss Armstrong,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe.

  ‘Good morning, my lord,’ I said with a smile and a hint of a curtsey.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll get you to call me Fishy before the week’s out, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘Best of luck, old chap,’ said Harry knowingly.

  Lord Riddlethorpe frowned in puzzlement, but pressed on enthusiastically. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I called you all here this morning,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to give us the tour, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You want to show off your new racing track.’

  ‘I say. Am I that transparently vain?’

  Lady Hardcastle sighed. ‘We arranged it all last evening, dear. At dinner.’

  He frowned again. ‘I say, you’re right you know, we did, didn’t we. Quite a night, what? I’ve already had Spinney tutting at me over the amount we put away. No wonder some of the details are foggy.’

  The other two reflexively clutched at their heads, while I hid my serves-you-right smile behind my hand.

  ‘Come then, my fine friends,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, pointing, somewhat oddly, skywards and striding off purposefully across the terrace. ‘Let us explore the new and exciting world of motor racing.’

  We crossed the formal garden and cut through the kitchen garden to get to an arched doorway set into the boundary wall. On the other side was a flagstoned area that had clearly once been the stable yard. A coach house with large doors stood to one side. The doors were open, revealing not coaches, traps, or dog carts, but two gleaming, green single-seater motor cars. They had numbers painted on their sides. Motor Number 3 stood close to the wall to the right, while Number 2 stood in the middle. There was a space by the wall to the left. The old coach house clearly now served as his ‘motor stable’ and workshop.

  A third sleek, strangely aggressive-looking machine stood in the yard. Number 1. Morgan had one side of the bonnet up and was tinkering with the engine. Another man stood beside him. He was of average height, with an incongruously chubby face atop a slender body, which gave him the look of a small boy in his father’s overalls.

  ‘Morning, Morgan,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe jovially. ‘You’ve all met Morgan Coleman, haven’t you?’

  We nodded and offered our own greetings.

  ‘Morning, my lord,’ said Morgan. ‘Morning Lady Hardcastle, Mr Featherstonhaugh, Miss Armstrong.’

  ‘And this cherubic chap is Ellis Dawkins, driver extraordinaire. He’s the senior driver for Codrington Racing, and is a scoundrel, a cad, and quite the fastest chap on four wheels.’

  We murmured our how-do-you-dos.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Dawkins. ‘No one told me we was expecting such beautiful company.’

  I raised an eyebrow in response to his leering smile. Unabashed, he leered again before returning his attention to Lord Riddlethorpe.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Lord Riddlethorpe proudly.

  ‘Of the car, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Or of Morgan and Dawkins, if you prefer, but I was thinking of the car, yes.’

  Dawkins turned towards me and winked. I pondered the potential consequences of flooring an earl’s trusted employee with a sharp blow to the chin.

  ‘Well, it’s very long, isn’t it? It’s certainly bigger than our little Rover.’

  ‘Faster, too,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, patting the motor car and making Morgan flinch as the precariously balanced bonnet wobbled a little, threatening to close on his hands.

  ‘I’ll bet. Is it difficult to drive?’

  Lord Riddlethorpe smiled. ‘No more difficult than any other motor. But to drive it quickly? That’s another matter entirely. Fanners tells me you’re quite the driver yourself.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ said Lady Hardcastle, trying to affect an air of modesty.

  ‘Come now, I’m told you bomb along the country lanes like you’re in the Gordon Bennett Cup. You, too, Miss Armstrong.’

  ‘Not I, my lord,’ I said. ‘I like to take my time and enjoy the view.’

  He laughed. ‘So it’s just you, then, Emily, what?’

  ‘I confess I have been known to put on a turn of speed when the mood is upon me, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Harry suggested there might be a chance to race this week.’

  He laughed again. ‘Did he, by George! You’re awfully free with my motor cars, Fanners, what?’

  ‘I thought we were all invited to drive,’ said Harry, slightly defensively.

  ‘Just teasing, Fanners. Of course you may drive, Emily, dear. Everyone can. Whole point of coming to stay.’

  ‘You don’t mind ladies driving?’ she asked.

  ‘Plenty of gels in the motor racing world, old thing. We’re a truly egalitarian, twentieth-century sport.’

  ‘Egalitarian, as long as one has sufficient oof to fund the running of a thoroughbred motor car.’

  ‘Three thoroughbred motor cars,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, gesturing towards the old coach house.

  ‘Crikey, Fishy,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t know you had three of the bally things. What do you need three for? Surely you can only drive one at a time.’

  ‘Well, there’s me and young Ellis, so that’s one for each of us, and one for development.’

  ‘Development?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Trying to compete with the big boys,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Missed our chance in the Grand Prix in France last year, but now we’ve got a circuit of our own at Brooklands, this sport is going to take off, and I mean to be champion.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘And that’s why you have your own circuit?’

  ‘Just a small one for testing, yes, but it does the job. We build ’em, test ’em, and before you know it, we’ll be racing ’em against the likes of Mercedes, Panhard, Benz, and all that lot.’

  ‘Aha. I’d heard about the new team, but I hadn’t fully fathomed what that might entail.’

  ‘All this and more,’ he said, gesturing around the yard. ‘And the official launch is tonight. I’ve invited a few Johnnies from the press, and I’m hoping to win over one of my rivals, see if we can’t join forces to take on the Europeans.’

  ‘This is all much more exciting than I was given to understand,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Harry, you really are a duffer sometimes. Did you know about all this?’

  ‘Sort of, sis,’ said Harry. ‘But it’s all a bit over my head. All I really understood was the bit about Fishy getting a few friends together to lark about in motor cars.’

  ‘There’ll be larking with pals tomorrow,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Jake’s coming down with some chums of her own, and we can all have some fun. Come on, I’m dying to show you what we’ve built.’

  He set off out of the yard towards what had once been magnificently landscaped parkland and was now a magnificently landscaped racing circuit. It took us nearly two hours to explore the twists and turns, the long straight, and the steep climb to the hairpin bend. It was probably the highest point in the unnaturally flat county, and when I asked about it, Lord Riddlethorpe explained that the original landscaper had used the soil dug from the ornamental lake to build an artificial hill, which he in turn had used to make his racing track more interesting.

  By the time we had returned to the little hut at the starting line, I was beginning to feel hungry again. I was hoping we would soon be making our way back to the house so that I might slip down to the kitchen to see what Mrs Ruddle had prepared for lunch. To my dismay, Lord Riddlethorpe led us instead towards the centre of the land bordered by the racing circuit. I had seen glimpses of trees and a tall, Palladian rotunda inside the circuit as we walked round, but I had been too interested in Lord Riddlethorpe’s enthusiastic descriptions of the track’s features to pay too much attention to the gardens. It was, then, something of a pleasant surprise as we crested a small, grassy bank to discover that the racing circuit had been built
around the lake. On the near bank stood the rotunda I had seen from the hill, which seemed to be some sort of summer house. As we came closer, I was further surprised to see that a picnic lunch had been laid out on the table inside. I was thoroughly delighted when it transpired that I was invited to eat with the rest of the guests.

  Lunchtime passed extremely pleasantly. At first, the conversation had been entirely about the new racing team and Lord Riddlethorpe’s plans to dominate the motor racing world within five years. He seemed determined enough, and there was ample evidence in the form of the three exciting motor cars in his workshop that he was prepared to make an effort to fulfil his ambition. I wanted to learn more about it, to find out about the motors and the ins and outs of running a modern racing team. But I was acutely aware of my position as social interloper and didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself by asking questions, lest Lord Riddlethorpe should suddenly remember that I was just a lady’s maid and politely but firmly invite me to return to the kitchens to eat with the other servants.

  I did manage to find out that Lord Riddlethorpe had been interested in motor racing since he had first seen it while on holiday in Ireland in 1903. The Gordon Bennett Cup had been held in County Kildare that year, and the sights and sounds had captured his imagination to such an extent that, on his return to England, he had set about learning everything he could about motor cars and their design and construction. Within four years, he had built and raced (and crashed) several motor cars before he met his current business partner, Montague Waterford. Between them, they designed the Waterford-Codrington ‘Diocles’ (which they named after a charioteer in Ancient Rome), and set about finding the engineers, coachbuilders, and other craftsmen needed to make their plans a reality. The resulting three vehicles, each with subtle differences in mechanical design that I had yet to fully understand, formed the basis of their new team, which they were to officially launch that evening.

  From there, talk had turned to reminiscences. Lord Riddlethorpe and Harry talked about their time at Cambridge, rendering each other helpless with laughter as they recalled assorted undergraduate pranks and the disreputable antics of some of their friends, one of whom was now a cabinet minister.