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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Thank goodness that’s all it was,’ said Miss Titmus.

  ‘I shouldn’t think there’s anything else to worry about,’ said Harry. ‘I say, do you think Mrs R might be persuaded to fry me a couple of eggs? I’m partial to a fried egg, but she seems keener on boiling the blighters.’

  ‘I’ll pop down to the kitchens and have a word, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Strong Arm, you’re a marvel. She’s a bally marvel that one, sis. You hang on to her.’

  ‘Yes, Harry, I shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Jake, dear, what did they give him?’

  ‘Something for the pain,’ said Lady Lavinia, ‘but I don’t know precisely what. He’s been babbling like this all the way here.’

  Miss Titmus had agreed to meet us in the library after breakfast to show us her photographs from the previous week. We clustered around the desk by the window, which provided a good natural light.

  ‘Look, Emily, here’s one of you and Armstrong,’ said Miss Titmus.

  ‘Gracious,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I had no idea you’d taken this one. I think you might be on to something with these, you know, dear. Photographs always look so stilted and formal – everyone in their Sunday best, staring at the camera. In these . . . Well, you seem to have caught us just being us. Flo never looks like that in photographs – that’s how she looks in real life. You have a gift, dear, a true talent. You really should try to do something with it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I really think I shall.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Lady Hardcastle continued leafing through the small pile of photographs. ‘I say,’ she said suddenly as one caught her eye. ‘Look here. What do you see?’

  Miss Titmus and I craned a little closer. It was a photograph taken on the day of the crash. The motor cars were lined up on the starting line. Lady Hardcastle and I had turned towards the camera as we heard Miss Titmus and the others approaching. Lord Riddlethorpe was leaning over Number 1, adjusting something under the bonnet. Morgan Coleman was sitting in Number 4, grinning, and clearly very aware of how dashing he looked in the sleek racing car. Mr Waterford was standing with a spanner in his hand.

  ‘What are we looking at, my lady?’ I said.

  ‘Poor Dawkins was killed in Number 3,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Inspector Foister’s story is that Monty tampered with the brakes when the motor car was on the starting line. He had any number of witnesses, myself included, saying that we’d seen Monty working on one of the motors.’

  ‘And you were right,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘There he is in his overalls with a tool in his hand.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, when I realized. ‘He’s behind Number 2. He’s nowhere near Number 3.’

  Miss Titmus looked again. ‘So he couldn’t have tampered with Number 3,’ she said.

  ‘Well, let’s not get carried away,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘All this shows is that the inspector’s version of events is incorrect. It doesn’t prove that Monty didn’t tamper with the brakes in the coach house. Which is where we believe it actually happened.’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘But still. I’m going to tell Fishy to telephone the inspector at once. We’ll have them out in no time.’ She picked up the photograph and hurried out.

  ‘It’s hardly conclusive proof of his innocence,’ said Lady Hardcastle when Miss Titmus had gone.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But the inspector had no conclusive proof of his guilt, either, other than some statements from witnesses. And the photograph makes it very clear that the witnesses didn’t see Mr Waterford working on Number 3.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘I suppose if we stick around long enough, everyone will be killed, or removed from suspicion by some random piece of evidence, and the only one left standing will be the killer.’

  ‘Detection by attrition,’ I said.

  ‘Well, quite. And that’s all very well, but the trouble is that the people who’ll be killed will be our friends. The killer has already taken a swing at Helen and Harry. Who’s next?’

  Helen returned a few minutes later, flushed with excitement.

  ‘I told Fishy what you found, and he’s thrilled. He telephoned Inspector Foister straight away. He was being terribly firm with him when I left. I think Roz and Monty will be home before lunch. Should we send the motor car for them? We should, shouldn’t we? They’ll need a lift, won’t they? Or will the police bring them?’

  Before Lady Hardcastle could answer, Lord Riddlethorpe appeared at the door.

  ‘Well done, ladies,’ he said. ‘Thanks to your eagle eyes, I persuaded Foister to let them out on bail. I need to drive over at once to make the arrangements and bring them back. I owe you a bottle of something splendid. Each.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Fishy, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘All part of the service.’

  He waved a cheery goodbye and closed the door behind him.

  It opened again almost immediately.

  ‘Clean forgot,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, poking his head round the door. ‘Chap on the telephone for you, Emily. Inspector Middlesbrough, or something. Toodle pip.’

  ‘Sunderland!’ called Lady Hardcastle, but he was gone. ‘Best not keep the poor chap waiting any longer,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and see what he wants. Could you be a poppet and get us some coffee, Flo? You’d like some, wouldn’t you, Helen?’

  ‘We could just ring for it,’ said Miss Titmus.

  ‘We could, but we can also send Flo. Six of one and the square root of thirty-six of the other.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Titmus,’ I said. ‘I’ll nip down to the kitchens. I’ve a couple of things I need to do down in the Netherworld anyway.’

  ‘Might I trouble you for a pot of coffee for the library, please, Mrs Ruddle?’

  The cook looked up from her mixing. ‘Of course, dear. Patty will see to that for you. You could have just rung down for that, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I like coming down here and seeing everyone.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart for saying so, dear, but most of us would stay upstairs if we could. Patty! Make up a tray of coffee for the library.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Ruddle. You know, I—’

  I was pulled up short by the sound of a kerfuffle in the servants’ hall. Mrs McLelland was giving someone what-for, and she wasn’t concerned about being overheard.

  ‘. . . ungrateful, evil, lying, deceitful, THIEF!’ This last word was shouted with such force that it seemed to overcome her and render her momentarily incapable of further speech.

  Mrs Ruddle slammed her mixing bowl down on to the work bench with unaccustomed passion. ‘She’s gone too far this time,’ she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I don’t care what’s gone on, but that ain’t no way to deal with it.’ She started towards the hall, but I gently held her arm and stopped her.

  ‘Leave it to me, Mrs Ruddle,’ I said. ‘We’ll be gone soon, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. I’d hate to see you burn any bridges.’

  She was still fuming, but she allowed me to ease her back towards her work. I went through to the servants’ hall, where I found a tableau vivant worthy of a theatre show: ‘The Astonishment of the Servants’. There were two parlour maids, a footman, a boot boy, and a laundry maid standing in mute horror at the outburst. The only movement was the retreating back of Evan Gudger as he stomped out of the room. Mrs McLelland looked around sharply.

  ‘Get on with your work, all of you,’ she barked. ‘And what do you think you’re looking at?’ she said when she saw me. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you never to address me like that again, for starters,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, just get out of my servants’ hall, you jumped-up housemaid,’ she said, and she stalked off in the direction of her room.

  I shrugged, and went back to the kitchen to fetch the coffee.

  I delivered the coffee tray to the library, where Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus had made themselves c
omfortable in two of the armchairs. They had arranged three of them around a low table, upon which I placed the tray.

  ‘Sit down and join us,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You don’t mind, Helen?’

  ‘I never mind, Emily; I’ve told you that. You’re always welcome to sit with us, Armstrong.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and sat down.

  ‘The reason I double checked,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘is that I’ve had some news from our inspector friend in Bristol, and I rather need to ask you some questions. About your schooldays.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I see. Well . . . No, go ahead. You probably should know.’

  I raised an eyebrow enquiringly, but Lady Hardcastle signalled that now was not the time.

  ‘You see, dear,’ she said, ‘we’ve been working on the assumption that all the dreadful things that have happened this past week were somehow connected to Fishy’s motor racing team. The sabotage of one of his motor cars, the attack on his rival, Viktor.’

  Miss Titmus nodded. Her customary shy smile had vanished to be replaced by a look of . . . sadness? Regret?

  ‘That is to say,’ continued Lady Hardcastle, ‘that I assumed that. Florence, on the other hand, was inclined to look in another direction. Where I was insistent that all the clues we needed were to be found in newspaper stories about motor racing and in the minutes of board meetings, Flo kept on asking about your schooldays.’

  Miss Titmus nodded again.

  ‘And so when I said I was going to ask Inspector Sunderland to look into the affairs of the motor racing team, Flo pleaded that I also ask about Evanshaw’s School for Girls. It seems her instincts were better than mine, as usual. Obviously, I can’t rule out business intrigue, but I think the events of the past week are probably part of a much more human story.’

  Miss Titmus simply sat, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor.

  ‘The inspector found a newspaper report from June 1883.’

  ‘Emily, don’t,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I can’t bear it. I’ve never been able to bear it. Please don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, but I believe that somehow the events of that summer are tied up with the events of this summer, and I really do need to hear your side of the story.’

  ‘The newspaper story was broadly correct,’ said Miss Titmus.

  I didn’t want to break the spell by galumphing in with idiotic questions, but this obliqueness was beginning to become a little wearing. I raised an enquiring eyebrow once more.

  ‘Forgive me, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘This must be terribly frustrating. You remember when we first saw the photograph of the cricket team? There was a rather beautiful girl with dark hair. We asked who she was.’

  ‘Katy Something-or-other,’ I said.

  ‘Burkinshaw. We asked for details, and Lavinia said it was a story for another day. It’s another day now, I’m afraid. You see, the newspaper story that Inspector Sunderland found was a report of a tragedy at Evanshaw’s School for Girls. A young lady, just sixteen years old and soon to leave for Switzerland to complete her education, was found hanged in the folly in the grounds of the school one evening. It was Katy Burkinshaw.’

  A tear ran down Miss Titmus’s cheek.

  ‘Poor Katy,’ she said quietly. ‘It was my fault. I should have stopped her. I should have seen what was going to happen.’

  ‘You can’t stop someone when they’ve made their mind up, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle kindly. ‘Once someone has reached that level of despair . . .’

  ‘Not Katy,’ said Miss Titmus, with some surprise. ‘I meant Roz. I should have stopped Roz.’

  Lady Hardcastle and I both goggled. ‘Roz killed her?’ we said together.

  It was Miss Titmus’s turn to goggle. ‘What? No! No, good heavens. Well, not like that. In a way, though. You know Roz. She’s a . . . She’s—’

  ‘She’s a bully,’ I said.

  ‘She is,’ she said. ‘Always has been. She’s reduced me to tears more times than I can count.’

  ‘Why on earth do you still knock about with her?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘She’s my friend,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I love her like a sister. She’s as fragile and insecure as the next girl, deep down. That’s why she’s so spiky. Her wretched marriage is no help. She needs her friends.’

  ‘What happened at school?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘You saw that photograph. Katy was a beauty. Roz was always pretty, but Katy had a radiance about her. Something inside shone out. Roz was horribly jealous. She did everything she could to undermine and belittle Katy. All the time, ragging her, getting her into trouble. Katy pretended not to care. But it got worse when she fell for a boy from the village. We weren’t allowed to go to the village on our own, but we often sneaked over the wall. Katy met a boy. She made the mistake of telling us she’d kissed him. That did it for Roz. Her attacks increased, getting nastier and more spiteful. Still Katy seemed unfazed, but when Roz threatened to tell Mrs Evanshaw that Katy and the boy had been seen in . . . amorous congress, she couldn’t cope any longer. She begged, she pleaded. But then Roz knew she had her. She kept up the taunting until . . . Until . . .’

  ‘Until Katy hanged herself in the old folly at sunset,’ said Lady Hardcastle quietly. ‘I think we might have been a bit reckless in telling Inspector Foister to release Roz Beddows.’

  After all that, I thought my news from below stairs would be a little anticlimactic – so much so that I very nearly didn’t bother to say anything. A light lunch was laid out in the dining room, to which the two ladies helped themselves before returning to the library to look at more of Miss Titmus’s collection of extraordinary photographs.

  The conversation drifted amiably on for quite some time before Lady Hardcastle casually asked if all was well in the dungeons. It was only then that I thought it worth my while telling the story of Evan’s dressing down. I was somewhat taken aback when she insisted that I should track Evan down without delay and get his side of the story.

  My first thought was to try the wine cellar. I ruled it out immediately – it was Mrs McLelland who had told me about it, so why would he hide from her in the one place she knew he might be? After fifteen minutes’ fruitless searching, I ruled it back in again – she was so furious with him that she wasn’t going to be looking for him anyway, so why not hide there? While I was still on my way, I ruled it out again – if she wanted to make trouble for him, she would complain to Mr Spinney, so there was no point in hiding where Mr Spinney would be sure to find him. Once Evan had been found, Mr Spinney would have no choice but to reprimand him, no matter how reluctant he might be to do so. And then . . . And then I just went to the wine cellar. It was the only place I hadn’t yet looked.

  I found Evan in his corner, sitting on his barrel and staring at the vaulted ceiling. Even in the flickering candlelight, I could see that he had been crying.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. I imagine that he had intended to sound belligerent, but the fight had gone out of him, and instead he sounded weary and defeated.

  ‘I came to see if you were all right,’ I said. ‘That was a disgraceful display from Mrs McLelland. She has no business treating anyone that way, but you’re not even her responsibility. You’re one of Mr Spinney’s footmen.’

  ‘Not for long, I don’t reckon,’ he said forlornly. ‘I was only doin’ what you asked, an’ all.’

  ‘What I asked?’ I said.

  ‘I was only doin’ it for you,’ he said. From beneath the pile of books on his barrel table he produced the cricket team photograph and two pieces of foolscap, each folded neatly in half. He handed them to me.

  ‘They was in Kovacs’s room,’ he said. ‘I thought you said they was important, so I took ’em before they got tidied away.’

  ‘Tidied away?’

  ‘Soon as the police is done, they’ll clear everythin’ out, won’t they? Only the old witch caught me comin’ out of the room.’

  The photograph
was quite familiar by now, but I was curious to find out why Evan had attached such significance to the papers. I unfolded the first. It was a familiar list, written in an even more familiar hand – the race order for the fateful motor race. The second was somethin’ new, somethin’ I knew would interest Lady Hardcastle very much.

  ‘Thank you, Evan,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling that Lady Hardcastle will want these. I think she’s on to something.’

  ‘Something worth losin’ my job over, I hope.’

  ‘It won’t come to that. I have them now, so Mrs McLelland has no proof that you’ve done anything. And I’ll make sure Mr Spinney knows you were working on our behalf, even if she complains. There’s nothing she can do to you.’

  ‘’Cept make my life a misery,’ he said.

  ‘She does her best to make everyone’s life a misery. We’ll soon settle her hash.’

  ‘His lordship won’t do nothin’. He reckons she’s the best housekeeper anyone ever had.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. I refolded the paper and placed it with the photograph. ‘Don’t do anything rash, like skedaddling out of here. We might still need your help.’

  He huffed dispiritedly, and I left him to pull himself together.

  I closed the wine cellar door behind me and made my way to the servants’ stairs, still clutching the purloined items. A few junior members of the household staff bustled past me as they went about their own business. I didn’t see anyone I knew until I rounded the last corner and was all but bowled over by Betty Buffrey, who was heading in the opposite direction. She was crying. It was clearly the day for that sort of thing.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Flo. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Betty, fach?’ I said.

  She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress.