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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘How odd. He did seem rather taken with it, though, didn’t he? Perhaps it was the cricket. Germans are baffled by cricket.’

  ‘Austrians,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Hungarians,’ I corrected.

  ‘Just so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But that must have been it. Cricket. Fascinating game. Roddy played, you know.’

  ‘Roddy?’ asked Miss Titmus.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, dear. Roderick. My late husband.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Jake did tell me. When did you lose him?’

  ‘Ten years ago,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘In Shanghai.’

  ‘An illness?’

  ‘If only it were that mundane, dear. No, he was shot by a German agent. They thought Roddy was a spy, you see. Only he wasn’t. It was me.’

  ‘How do you know it was a German spy?’ asked Miss Titmus, now clearly enthralled.

  ‘Oh, we caught him, Flo and I.’

  ‘You caught him? I say. What happened to him?’

  ‘I shot him.’

  ‘Gracious.’

  ‘Quite. I’m sure he wouldn’t have understood cricket, either.’

  The mood of the conversation rose steadily as the level of wine remaining in the two bottles fell. By the time the sandwiches had gone and the bottles were empty, Miss Titmus was a great deal less concerned about the prospect of her own imminent murder. Her mental energies were, instead, entirely focused on trying to remember the words of a vulgar song she had learned at school.

  I told Lady Hardcastle where Miss Titmus’s room was and she steered her back there while I waited in Lady Hardcastle’s room.

  ‘I’ve taken her boots off and settled her on the bed,’ said Lady Hardcastle when she returned. ‘Remind me to pop back and wake her in time for dinner.’

  ‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said. ‘First things first, though: how did you come to rip this?’ I held up her tennis skirt. I’d been checking her clothes to make sure she had a dress clean for dinner when I noticed the damaged skirt.

  ‘Heaven only knows,’ she said. ‘One moment it was whole, the next moment rent in twain. I never saw the doing of it.’

  I sighed, then sat in the armchair and began to sew up the rip. ‘Is Miss Titmus all right?’ I asked.

  ‘She was just a little unsettled, that’s all. We gave her just what she needed.’

  ‘By getting her sozzled and letting her sing filthy songs?’

  ‘Just so. And she didn’t actually sing the filthy song – she couldn’t remember the filthy bit.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘Did she tell you anything useful before I arrived?’

  ‘Helen? She doesn’t know anything about anything, bless her. Did you gather any useful titbits below stairs?’

  ‘Not really. Betty told me that Mrs Beddows didn’t make it back to her own room in time not to be noticed. Then she filled in some details about Mrs Beddows’s marriage.’

  ‘Not an entirely happy one, by all accounts.’

  ‘Can you honestly imagine Mrs Beddows being happy with anyone?’ I said. ‘Actually, that’s not fair – I’ve no idea what might make her happy. But I can’t imagine her being able to bring herself to show that she’s happy. It’s against her religion.’

  ‘To be perfectly truthful, I can’t imagine anyone finding happiness in being with her, either. She’s not the warmest of creatures.’

  ‘All of which means that I wasn’t at all surprised when I found that she and her husband didn’t get along. But I was stunned to my boot buttons that someone else found her appealing in any way.’

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ she said. ‘Although she is rather attractive in a cold sort of way. And for all we know, she might be a tigress in the boudoir.’

  ‘A praying mantis, more like,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that the one who eats their mate? I can imagine her doing away with her lovers.’

  Lady Hardcastle laughed, but made no comment. She sat at the writing desk and opened her journal.

  ‘We need to elevate ourselves above social gossip and make a proper effort at working out what’s going on in this blessed house. We’ve been drifting about like a couple of . . . of . . .’

  ‘I’ve told you before about recklessly setting off on these similes and just hoping for the best,’ I said. ‘But you’re right. If we imagine ourselves worthy of the name “interfering busybodies”, we need to be a sight better organized.’

  ‘I prefer “amateur sleuth”, dear, to be honest,’ she said. ‘But we do need a plan. What do we know?’

  ‘We know that Ellis Dawkins died in a car crash on Wednesday,’ I said, ticking the points off on my fingers. ‘We know that the car was sabotaged. We know it was sabotaged in the coach house. And we know that happened in the early hours of Wednesday morning after the party.’

  Lady Hardcastle began writing a list in her journal.

  ‘We know that Herr Kovacs was clubbed to death in the coach house shortly after two on Saturday morning.’

  ‘So those are our two mysteries,’ she said. ‘We shall assume that they’re related.’

  ‘That seems fair, my lady.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain that the sabotage was intended to kill anyone, but if it was, we know that Dawkins was the target.’

  ‘Because the runners and riders were drawn at the party, and the race card was left in the great hall for all to see,’ I said.

  ‘Just so,’ she confirmed. ‘And we know that Viktor was lured to the coach house by a note, signed “R B”.’

  ‘Of which the police are unaware because it was pinched before Inspector Foister turned up.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said as she wrote. ‘We know that Viktor wanted to buy the motor racing team, and that Fishy wasn’t interested.’

  ‘We know that Mr Waterford wasn’t interested, either – Evan heard him say so.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did, didn’t he? And now we know that Roz is romantically entwined with Monty Waterford. It’s looking black against Monty, as Inspector Sunderland might say. How about this? Viktor wasn’t giving up on his takeover plans, and was becoming a nuisance. Monty wanted to have a stern word with him. Stern enough that there might be fisticuffs. He couldn’t do it in the house, so he needed to get him alone somewhere. He got Roz to write a note to lure him out to the coach house in the dead of night.’

  ‘And he was prepared for violence because he knew Herr Kovacs was a desperate man, who had already sabotaged one of the motor cars,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not bad, but it’s not terribly convincing, is it?’ she said dejectedly.

  ‘It’s not. We still have no proof that Herr Kovacs really did sabotage Number 3. We have no real proof that Mr Waterford or Mrs Beddows were doing anything other than what one might expect them to be doing . . . Oh, oh.’

  ‘What? What?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. Mrs Beddows’s outdoor tweeds are missing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Betty asked me about the body and about blood. Then she said that Mrs Beddows has a tweed skirt and jacket of which she is particularly fond. The clothes are missing.’

  ‘And she has assumed the worst,’ she said. ‘They’re in a bin somewhere waiting to be burned because they’re covered in Viktor’s blood.’

  ‘That seemed to be her fear,’ I admitted.

  ‘It would be convenient, but there are still too many holes. We need more facts. More observations. It’s a frightful cheek, but I think it might be worth telephoning Inspector Sunderland and asking him to get one of his minions to do some research for us. I want to know a little more about this motor racing business. And a great deal more about Viktor Kovacs.’

  ‘And about the school, please, my lady.’

  ‘The school?’

  ‘The school that Lady Lavinia and the others went to.’

  ‘I can’t see what that has to do with anything, dear, but I’m sure they’ll be able to dig som
ething up for you.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘And we both need a word with your agent, the boy Evan Gudger.’

  ‘We do. I’ll see if I can arrange a discreet meeting. In the meantime, do you fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘I’m absolutely gasping. What was it that Gertie said the other day? “I could drink a muddy puddle through a farmer’s sock.”’

  ‘A colourful lady,’ I said. ‘But they have a china tea service for guests here. I’ll be back in two shakes.’

  I was in the bedroom passage, about to step through the door leading to the servants’ staircase, when I heard a commotion downstairs. I closed the door, and made my way instead to the head of the main staircase.

  ‘. . . your hands off me, you clodhopping oaf. My husband knows the Chief Constable. You’ve not heard the last of this.’

  It was Mrs Beddows’s voice.

  Mr Waterford was more conciliatory.

  ‘Calm down, Roz, darling,’ he said. ‘We’ll get all this sorted out in a jiffy. You’ll see.’

  I took a few steps down the stairs, the better to see into the hall. I was in time to catch sight of Sergeant Tarpley leading Mrs Beddows and Waterford, both in handcuffs, out through the front door. Inspector Foister made to follow them, but he was hailed by Lord Riddlethorpe.

  ‘I say, Inspector!’ he called.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the inspector.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Where are you taking my guests?’

  ‘Mr Waterford and Mrs Beddows are under arrest for the murder of Mr Viktor Kovacs, my lord. They’ll be held at the station in Riddlethorpe until a motor car can be arranged to transport them to Leicester, where I can interrogate them properly. If charged, they’ll appear before the magistrate on Monday.’

  ‘Really, Inspector, I do think you’ve exceeded your authority in this matter. You can’t possibly have grounds for holding them.’

  ‘My authority has been clearly defined by Act of Parliament, my lord. And my duty in this matter is clear: I have grounds to suspect these two persons of involvement in a capital crime, and I must arrest them.’

  He turned defiantly towards the door.

  ‘But surely—’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, but the inspector was already outside with the door closing behind him.

  ‘Blast!’ said Lord Riddlethorpe as he stamped back into the house.

  Tea would have to wait – Lady Hardcastle would want to know about this. I returned to her room.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said when I’d finished my report. ‘That will never do. I know we reached the same conclusion only moments ago, but we dismissed it almost as quickly. I ought to go and talk to Fishy.’

  ‘Would you like some help getting changed?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see. No, hang it. Without Roz to look down her nose at us, we’ll all be free to wear the same clothes all the way to dinnertime.’

  ‘Right you are, my lady. Am I to come with you?’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes, but I think we need to divide our efforts for maximum efficiency. I should like you to winkle Evan Gudger out of whatever hidey-hole he’s secreted himself in. He must know something.’

  ‘Meet you back here at five, my lady.’

  Tracking Evan down proved to be no easy task. I started in the servants’ hall, but only because it was where I hoped to find someone who might know of his whereabouts. I had no real expectation of finding him there.

  Mrs McLelland was sitting at the table, cradling a cup of tea in both hands.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs McLelland,’ I said cheerfully.

  She looked up. It seemed for a moment as though she couldn’t quite fathom where she was, and I got the feeling I had dragged her back from some faraway place.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Armstrong. Have you heard the news?’

  ‘About Mrs Beddows and Mr Waterford?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. That such a thing should happen under his lordship’s roof. And with his own so-called friends responsible.’

  ‘We can’t be certain yet that they are,’ I said.

  She frowned. ‘What? Oh, “innocent until . . .”, and all that. But we both know that the police never risk this kind of scandal without being certain of their case. She’ll swing. And a good thing, too. Nasty, evil woman, that one.’

  I might have asked her what had happened to the ‘no gossiping about the guests’ rule, but I said nothing – I wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. I didn’t share her confidence in the police’s concern for avoiding scandals, but I decided to say nothing about that, either. And for all that I didn’t much care for Mrs Beddows, nor did I share Mrs McLelland’s desire to see her hang. Overeager policemen had been making mistakes ever since there had been policemen, and this particular policeman had an axe to grind. I’d seen the look in his eyes when he talked about what the ‘sinners’ had been getting up to. He strongly disapproved of Mrs Beddows and Mr Waterford.

  ‘I know I can rely on someone as experienced as you to keep the below-stairs gossip under control,’ she said, clearly back to her normal self. ‘It doesn’t do to let the younger ones get too far above themselves.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘That good-for-nothing Evan Gudger is the one most likely to stir up trouble. You seem to have quite a rapport with him – perhaps you could set him straight. Spinney won’t say anything.’

  ‘I could have a word with him now, if you know where he is,’ I said, trying not to sound too much as though this was exactly what I had been after all along.

  She frowned. ‘He’s a bad lot, that boy. He disappears for hours on end, and Spinney won’t do a thing about it. They both think we have no idea where he gets to, but when he’s not in the boot room larking about with the younger lads, or loafing in the kitchen yard, he’ll be hiding out in the wine cellar.’

  ‘It might be a good idea to mark his card for him,’ I said. ‘You’re quite right – he’s definitely the sort to stir up gossip just to make mischief.’

  ‘I dare say he is. If the wine cellar key isn’t on the board, it’ll be in his pocket. And his pocket will be sitting on a barrel in the far corner of the cellar reading a penny dreadful by candlelight.’

  I left her to return to her musing. She still hadn’t set the cup back in its saucer.

  There was no sign of the wine cellar key on the huge board outside Mr Spinney’s room. This was good news – it meant I had a fair idea where Evan might be. It was also bad news – I had no idea whatsoever where the wine cellar might be.

  It took a fair few minutes of trekking through the labyrinthine corridors to track it down. I went back to the servants’ hall to ask Mrs McLelland for directions at one point, but she had gone, and I was wary of asking anyone else. I had no business being in the wine cellar, and I would have had to concoct some sort of story to explain my interest. I tried a few doors and discovered a store cupboard, a passageway of some sort, and two laundry maids gossiping while folding a pile of bed linen.

  Eventually, I worked out which door I needed – it was the one with a wooden sign screwed to it that read: WINE CELLAR.

  I tried the door, but it was locked. I muttered an oath in Welsh. If only I had some discreet means of breaking in . . . But then I remembered. For my birthday in March, Lady Hardcastle had bought me the gown I wore to dinner with the Farley-Strouds. But she had bought me another special gift as well, an ornate silver brooch. I wore it all the time and had quite forgotten its little secret: concealed within was a pair of picklocks. I pulled on the edge of the brooch and the tiny burglary tools fell into my hand.

  The simple lock succumbed in seconds.

  I opened the door as quietly as I could, and slipped inside. With the door closed behind me, there was precious little light to help me find my way – just the faint glow from the gap at the bottom of the door. This wasn’t the first time I’d explored a darkened cellar, though. My eyes became quickly accustomed to the gloom, and I was able
to feel my way around the racks of wine bottles without too much difficulty. As I moved deeper into the room, I became aware of another source of light off to my right. Flickering candlelight.

  ‘Evan?’ I said quietly. I didn’t fancy a struggle if I startled him. It’s not that I couldn’t best him, but we were surrounded by many very breakable bottles of extremely expensive wine.

  I heard the rustle of a book closing. ‘Miss Armstrong? Is that you?’ said Evan.

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d come down for a chat.’

  I rounded the final rack and found him, as Mrs McLelland had said, perched on a small barrel in the corner of the cellar. He’d made himself quite a pleasant little nest, with a larger barrel as a table to hold his candle and his books. He’d even brought himself a cup of tea.

  ‘Don’t go givin’ me away now, will you,’ he said as he put his book down on his makeshift table.

  ‘I’ll not say anything,’ I said. ‘But I think that ship may already have sailed. It was Mrs McLelland who told me where to find you.’

  ‘That interferin’ old trout,’ he said. ‘I might have known she’d have stuck her beak in.’

  I wasn’t at all convinced that trout had beaks, but I didn’t want to antagonize him. ‘Have you been down here long?’ I asked instead.

  ‘Since the lunch that never was,’ he said as he stretched extravagantly. ‘Lovely little break.’

  ‘But you spoke to the inspector?’

  ‘I did. But don’t worry, I never tell coppers nothin’. We’ve reached an understandin’, see, me and the local law. They don’t like me, and I don’t like them. It keeps things nice and simple.’

  ‘Right you are,’ I said. ‘So you’ve not heard what’s happened?’

  ‘No? Has someone else been done in?’

  I laughed. ‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘But almost as interesting. Inspector Foister has arrested Mrs Beddows and Mr Waterford on suspicion of murdering Herr Kovacs.’

  He gaped at me. ‘He’s never,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. What did he do that for?’

  I outlined the case that Lady Hardcastle and I had built up against them.