A Witness to Murder: An unputdownable cozy murder mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 3)

by Verity Bright

  She stopped, surprised by the bright flush to her housekeeper’s cheeks. Perhaps Stanley Wilkes hadn’t been far off with his description of the doorstep milk order being a billet-doux?

  She fell into a daydream about a certain young gentleman writing her billets-doux. Since her parents’ disappearance, withdrawing into her own world had become her way of coping. The staff had got used to it and waited patiently for her to emerge again. After a moment or two, she realised Mrs Butters was looking at her quizzically.

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘Speaking of sausages,’ – which no one had been – ‘where is our oh-so lazy bulldog? He greeted me when I came in, but now he’s abandoned me!’

  Mrs Butters shook her head. ‘He’s trotting round the orchard, helping Joseph collect the apples.’

  ‘Oops, no apple jam this year then!’

  ‘Don’t worry, my lady, there’ll be plenty spare and, of course, we’ll have to purchase some from the village.’

  Eleanor was confused. ‘Will we? But why? We’ve a whole heap of our own apple trees.’

  ‘’Tis the way, my lady.’

  ‘Ah, yes, naturally.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘I’m trying really hard to get the hang of how things are done here, but sometimes…’ She held her hands up.

  Mrs Butters gave her a reassuring smile. ‘And doing a wonderful job, seeing as you was brought up abroad, my lady. Country ways can be mighty confusing for folk who aren’t from round these parts. Although,’ she added hastily, ‘the few times they let you out of that boarding school, you spent the summer here at the Hall, so I think that makes you an honorary local lass.’ She turned to leave and stopped. ‘Oh, by the by, Mr Clifford mentioned that he has some papers for you, my lady, something that needs your attention.’

  ‘Sounds frightfully dull, but please do send him along when ready.’

  Eleanor jumped as a quiet cough came from the doorway.

  ‘Mrs Butters, please add one essential item to my next shopping list,’ she said good-humouredly.

  ‘Of course, my lady, what will it be?’

  ‘A large cowbell for Mr Clifford.’

  After a quick curtsey, Mrs Butters ducked out of the room, avoiding her gaze, her chuckle echoing down the hall.

  Eleanor turned to him.

  ‘I see you come prepared with a raft of letters and the household accounts, Clifford. How large is the heap of ugly tripe I must wade through this morning? Maybe I should have worn my wellington boots?’

  He gave her that look she had yet to fathom, the one that made her doubt if he did have a sense of humour. She suddenly remembered the overheard gossip from the shop.

  ‘Before we start, I heard something distressing in the village this morning.’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘It—’

  The chime of the doorbell interrupted her.

  Four

  The drawing room’s gilded mantelpiece clock struck the quarter hour as Eleanor entered. Her visitor, sitting stiffly in a high-waisted blue wool suit, jumped like a scalded kitten. In her late thirties, she patted her mouse-brown hair, tucking a stray strand back into the tight chignon at her neck.

  ‘I am sorry to call unannounced, Lady Swift.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Eleanor said. ‘Ah, here is the tea. Please do pour, Clifford.’

  Whilst Clifford engaged her visitor in deciding on milk and sugar, Eleanor stole another glance at the woman’s calling card: ‘Miss Dorothy Mann, Women’s League’ was handwritten in neat but spiky strokes.

  With the ceremony of tea serving done, Clifford melted into the rear of the room, correctly interpreting Eleanor’s nod as ‘stay here, I may need rescuing!’

  Eleanor wiggled backwards into the deep seat of the button-backed cream and silver striped settee, balancing her cup. ‘So, Miss Mann, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘No, the pleasure is mine, Lady Swift. You see, I am here officially, as it were, as a, er… representative of the Chipstone area Women’s League. I’ve been sent along with a… a proposition.’

  A proposition? Eleanor blinked. ‘I’m confused, but intrigued. Please do continue.’

  Miss Mann took a deep breath.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, your local Member of Parliament was Mr Aris.’

  ‘Indeed. I met him and his wife recently at a dinner and was saddened to hear this morning of his passing.’

  Miss Mann took a sip of her tea. ‘Well, since Mr Aris’ recent, and—’

  ‘Oh gracious, are you alright?’

  Clifford stepped forward with a glass of water to ease the woman’s sudden and violent spluttering as Eleanor slapped her back.

  Red-eyed and flame-cheeked, the woman gulped air as if she’d been locked in a box for a month. ‘Oh dear, how unladylike! I do apologise, Lady Swift. I fear my tea went down the wrong way.’ She sat up straight, coughed and swallowed hard. ‘I’m fine now, thank you. Er, where was I?’

  Eleanor handed the water back to Clifford. ‘Mr Aris’ recent demise?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Due to Mr Aris’ recent, and unexpected, demise, there will be a by-election shortly. Mr Aris was an independent MP, and quite sympathetic to our cause. We now have the opportunity to put forward an independent candidate ourselves.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘I see.’ She recalled the snippets of conversation she’d heard in the village.

  ‘Lady Swift, times are changing. Only this month the first women were admitted to study for full degrees in the hallowed halls of the University of Oxford, no less.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘I know, I read that the ladies who studied previously but weren’t permitted to receive degrees have recently been allowed to do so retrospectively.’

  Miss Mann nodded back. ‘Exactly, but change is slow and unequal. The Representation of the People Act two years ago may have given some women the right to vote, but the true legacy is a greater divide between men and women.’ Her pale cheeks flushed. ‘How can it be correct that women need to be of thirty years of age, yet men over twenty-one are eligible? It is disgraceful!’

  ‘Naturally, I agree. Despite inheriting Henley Hall, I myself do not have the vote for that very reason, but change takes time,’ Eleanor said. ‘And with ladies like yourself dedicating yourselves to the cause…’

  Her visitor put her cup down. ‘Oh dear, my apologies, but unless our candidate is successful, there will be no one who will champion women’s issues in the area.’

  ‘Absolutely! And you could count on my vote, only as I said, I’m not allowed to vote. Rather ironic. Who, by the way, is your candidate?’

  Miss Mann leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘That’s just it, Lady Swift, we know we have found the perfect person. We are all very excited about it. It will be a landmark event.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, I wish you every success. What name shall I look out for in the canvassing literature I am sure will soon flood in?’

  ‘Lady Swift.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No, I mean, Lady Swift. Or gracious, perhaps you prefer to be addressed differently?’

  Eleanor scratched her head. ‘Miss Mann, forgive me but we may have our wires crossed?’

  Behind her, Clifford gave the softest of coughs. Eleanor stared at him and then back at her visitor perched on the edge of her seat, expectation consuming her face. The penny dropped.

  ‘Me! You want me to stand?’ Eleanor sat back in her chair, feeling winded.

  Miss Mann nodded vigorously. ‘Why, yes! Forgive the directness of my observation, but you are considered to be a progressive woman. Just imagine what that would do for the local population and women’s rights. The first female MP in the Chilterns and Cotswolds. Indeed, the first British-born woman MP!’

  Eleanor’s mind jumped to the euphoria she had felt at the end of her ride. Hadn’t she only recently decided that on the anniversary of her parents’ disappearance she needed to follow in their footsteps? But politics! Eleanor shuddered. It would be lik
e putting a chicken in a fox pen, if there was such a thing.

  Miss Mann was right, she was a progressive woman for 1920. She had cycled around the world (although she wasn’t the first), and earned her living working in South Africa as a trailblazer for Thomas Walker, the foremost travel company of the day. She prided herself on being fearless in the face of wild animals, belligerent officials and treacherous terrain because she was in her element.

  Since returning to England and polite society, however, she’d found herself completely out of her depth. Entering politics with its back-stabbing, double standards and archaic traditions would undoubtedly see her sink without a trace. She needed help, and fast. She stared at Clifford, but he pretended to be busy examining his cuffs.

  Her words tumbled out. ‘But I can’t be an MP, I’m titled. Surely that precludes such things? Clifford, you’re a walking encyclopaedia, please back me up.’

  He stepped forward again. ‘Apologies, my lady, but you may stand despite your title. Nobility of the Irish Peerage have always been able to sit in the House of Commons. The 1801 Act of Union creating the United Kingdom did not give them the right to sit in the House of Lords, but did not exclude them from sitting in the Lower House. The well-known prime minister from the 1800s, Lord Palmerston, was such a titled Irish lord who sat in the House of Commons.’

  Eleanor stared at her butler. Had he lost his senses? ‘That’s all very splendid, Clifford, but I don’t happen to be Irish nobility.’ She smiled apologetically at her visitor, who seemed suspiciously unmoved by the information.

  Clifford coughed gently. ‘Actually, my lady, your late uncle, Lord Henley, held a second title, which has also passed to you. That of a small baronetcy in West Ireland which would permit you to enter Parliament, although you may have to renounce your English title.’

  ‘Right, I see…’ She wasn’t that surprised. Since coming to Henley Hall, Clifford regularly informed her of some strange legacy of her late uncle that he hadn’t seen fit to make her aware of before. Her brow furrowed. Clifford was a veritable library on legs, but even for him that reply had suggested a degree of research before the fact. And to give up her title? It wasn’t that she cared much for titles, but carrying the family name of Swift gave her a connection to her parents she didn’t want to lose.

  She looked back at Miss Mann. ‘Well, that, er… obstacle seems to be surmountable.’ She took a deep breath. ‘However, I’m really sorry, but I am not in any way sure I am the woman for the job. I am not designed to be a political animal. I truly fear that I would do you, and your cause, a disservice if I said yes.’

  Her visitor’s face fell. ‘But, Lady Swift, we are counting on you.’

  ‘And so you may for anything I can do to help. Except actually stand as a candidate in this by-election.’

  She rose.

  Miss Mann rose too. ‘Please reconsider. The future of womankind in this area is in your hands. We have until tomorrow afternoon to register a candidate. Please, at least consider it until then?’

  At the back of Eleanor’s mind a small voice was telling her she was about to break her recent promise to herself. She sighed. ‘Alright, I’ll consider your offer and give you my answer tomorrow.’

  By the time Clifford returned from showing Miss Mann out, Eleanor had worn a clear path in the deep-pile patterned rug.

  ‘How curious!’

  ‘Curious, my lady?’

  ‘No, you’re right.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That was dashed peculiar.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Oh, come on! Surely you didn’t wake this morning imagining I wonder if her ladyship will choose to stand for Parliament today?’

  ‘Not on first arising, my lady.’

  She scanned his face, but infuriatingly, his expression gave nothing away.

  ‘However, you seem to have spent the morning reading up on obscure laws to facilitate just such an eventuality!’

  Clifford coughed. ‘Actually, my lady, you are correct.’

  She spun round. ‘Clifford! Don’t expect me to believe that you anticipated Miss Mann’s visit?’

  ‘Naturally not. I rang her and suggested it after you left to run your errands.’

  She collapsed back onto the sofa and fixed him with a questioning stare.

  Clifford ran his finger along his starched white collar. ‘This morning, I learned of Mr Aris’ demise. Too late, unfortunately, to pass on the news.’ That explained it, thought Eleanor. Clifford continued: ‘I knew that a by-election would be called and that Mr Aris was the only man of any standing in the area who was sympathetic to the issue of women’s rights. Therefore, I deduced that the Women’s League would have to look to a woman as a candidate. If you’ll excuse my presumption, my lady, you were the obvious choice.’

  Eleanor threw her hands up. ‘Clifford, I know we’ve only known each other for a little under a year, but I thought you understood me fairly well. How can you suggest that I am “the obvious choice”?’

  Clifford coughed gently. ‘Perhaps you are right. The young lady who first arrived at the Hall would certainly not have been an obvious choice, but…’ He cleared his throat. ‘When you returned from your ride to the village earlier, your usual enthusiasm was infused with such animation, I concluded that you had, perhaps, been considering a… change?’

  ‘Clifford… I…’ She blushed. ‘I didn’t realise you could see the inner workings of my mind as clearly as you understand the mechanics of the Rolls.’

  An awkward silence hung in the air. Clifford adjusted his cufflinks. Eleanor straightened the buttons on her cardigan to line up with each other. ‘Oh, dash it!’ she burst out. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  He nodded. ‘I was hopeful. Given the date, of course.’

  A lump jumped into Eleanor’s throat. Her words came out close to a whisper. ‘You mean… you realised that today is the twentieth anniversary of my parents’ disappearance?’

  He nodded. ‘It has been on my mind for a great many weeks, my lady.’

  Lost for words, tears prickled behind her eyelids. ‘That means a great deal,’ she managed. ‘And perhaps, Clifford, perhaps one day you might tell me more about my uncle. I’ve always had such a jumble of thoughts, but so few memories of him to make any sense of things.’

  ‘With pleasure, my lady.’ He tidied the tea tray. More, she thought, for something to occupy his hands than to ensure the milk jug lined up with the teapot and the sugar bowl. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘a rather timely, if assisted, visit from Miss Mann, one might conclude? Perhaps, your ladyship, you might reconsider her proposal?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Clifford, I’d love to, but have you seen a fish hooked out of water and hurled three miles inland? Because that would be me trying to make it in the murky world of politics. Bad smell and all. You probably haven’t noticed, but I’m not brilliant at saying and doing the right thing.’

  She glanced at him.

  ‘No, don’t, that was a rhetorical question. I suspect, if I did say yes to the Women’s League, it would quickly end in an unladylike row. They would certainly end up disowning me, which would hardly further the cause of women in any form of a positive light. And, as I keep being reminded by all the faux pas I make, I’m still very much the new girl in town with little grip on how things work here. The few summers I spent here as a child don’t qualify me as being “local”. I have absolutely no clue what the good ladies of the area really want, or need. All in all, I’m convinced it would be a truly terrible idea to accept this proposition.’

  Clifford bowed his head. ‘Artfully won, my lady, if I may say so.’

  She frowned. ‘Won, Clifford?’

  ‘The argument with yourself. It is not often easy to find so many reasons against oneself.’

  Eleanor felt a flush of heat rush up her neck. Is that the real reason, Ellie? Are you just trying to wriggle out of being the one to step up?

  She stood up. ‘I’ll sleep on it. It’s the best I can do. I would never forgi
ve myself if I rushed into this and ended up making things worse for everyone.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady.’ Clifford picked up the tea tray and then turned back to her. ‘But there is a further complication whether you decide to accept Miss Mann’s offer or otherwise that I have not yet had time to inform you of.’

  Five

  Eleanor followed Clifford into the kitchen, where she was surprised to see a woman she judged to be in her mid-fifties, in a woollen shawl, sitting at one of the high-backed chairs. Salt and pepper hair that had slid out of the bun on top of her head framed her pale and puffy face like a broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘Ladies.’ Clifford nodded to Mrs Trotman, Mrs Butters and the mystery visitor, who had all jumped up as Eleanor entered the room. Polly let the saucepan she was scrubbing slide into the water and hastily dried her hands on her apron.

  Eleanor smiled round the kitchen. ‘Good afternoon, everyone.’ At the sound of her voice, Gladstone opened his eyes and lolloped out of his cosy bed and leaned against her legs so she could ruffle his ears. ‘Hello, my friend. Had a pleasant lie-in after helping Joseph collect all those apples?’ she whispered.

  ‘My lady.’ Clifford stepped forward and gestured to the stranger amongst the group. ‘This is Mrs Martha Pitkin.’

  ‘Delighted.’ Eleanor smiled cordially, noticing the red rims of the woman’s watery blue eyes.

  ‘Your ladyship.’ Mrs Pitkin gave a stiff-legged curtsey. ‘So sorry to disturb you.’ With a stifled sob, she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cotton blouse.

  Eleanor was at a loss and stared at Clifford, who gestured discreetly to the three staff that they should leave the room.

  Mrs Butters ushered Polly over towards the back door. ‘Fresh pot of tea and shortbread’s finished cooling, already on the table, Mr Clifford.’

  Mrs Trotman hung her apron on the hook by the range and gave Mrs Pitkin’s arm a squeeze on the way out to join the others. The door closed quietly behind her.

  Unsure of the correct protocol, Eleanor gestured to the chair Mrs Pitkin had risen from. ‘Please do take a seat. How about a cup of tea?’