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

by Verity Bright

  ‘Goodness, sitting in front of a mistress of the house is bad enough but drinking tea with your ladyship, I couldn’t!’

  ‘Well, I’m absolutely parched,’ Eleanor lied, trying to put the obviously flustered woman at her ease. ‘Besides, the walls of this kitchen might have seen me sharing tea with the ladies on more than one occasion but no one has found out yet, so we should be fine.’

  ‘Very kind, m’lady, but I do beg your pardon for even being here without your permission and all, it ain’t right.’

  ‘Really, don’t worry about it.’ Eleanor nodded to Clifford to pour them all tea. ‘Mrs Pitkin, am I right in thinking that you are a friend of Mrs Trotman’s?’

  ‘Oh yes, m’lady, she’s been a ducky to me since forever. She was very good to me years back, you see, when my mother got taken into the mental asylum, God bless her, and we’ve been friends ever since.’ She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘That’s why I came here…’ Her head fell to her chest with a sob. Gladstone gave a soft whine and padded round to her side. He laid his head in her lap. She ran her hand down his back, a tear plopping onto his nose.

  Eleanor pushed a cup of tea closer to Martha. ‘Now, now, take a sip and have a bite of shortbread, I insist.’

  Mrs Pitkin accepted her tea with a trembling hand and gave a wan smile. ‘Bit more together now, m’lady, so sorry.’

  ‘Good, but there’s no need to apologise. Firstly, any friend of Mrs Trotman’s is welcome at Henley Hall, it is home to all of us, after all.’

  ‘Mrs Trotman has said many times as how kind-hearted you are.’

  ‘Thank you, and I have to say the same about Mrs Trotman and all the ladies. Secondly, though, you seem to be struggling with something. Did you come to ask for my help?’

  ‘Oh no! Goodness me, that would be a fine thing. A ragged old cook approaching a lady of the house like yourself for help, especially a domestic who’s gotten herself into such trouble. Oh, lummy!’ This brought on more tears and sniffling in the handkerchief. ‘I came because I didn’t know where to go and Mrs Trotman—’

  Clifford gave a quiet cough. ‘Perhaps I might assist, Mrs Pitkin?’

  She nodded gratefully and took a gulp of her tea.

  ‘Very good.’ Clifford turned to Eleanor. ‘Mrs Pitkin has been the cook at Farrington Manor for a number of years.’

  The woman stifled a sob. ‘They had to let me go, Mr Clifford. I understand. ’Tis no blame on the lord and ladyship, though I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear I didn’t.’

  ‘Farrington?’ Eleanor said. ‘What a coincidence! I shall see Lord and Lady Farrington tomorrow at a luncheon.’

  Clifford nodded. ‘Indeed, my lady. Perhaps I should explain that Mrs Pitkin has been “released” from their service following the demise of Mr Aris.’

  A quiet groan came from Mrs Pitkin. She put her hands on the table and peered dolefully up at Eleanor. ‘M’lady, I swear on my mother’s grave I didn’t do it.’

  Eleanor tried to choose her words carefully. ‘Didn’t do what?’

  ‘Kill him!’ Her shoulders began to shake.

  Eleanor looked helplessly at Clifford and mouthed, ‘Kill?’

  He nodded. ‘Mr Aris was deemed to have died after ingesting peanuts, my lady.’

  ‘And that was a known allergen for him?’ she asked, quite sure she’d already guessed the answer.

  Mrs Pitkin jerked upright, making Gladstone shuffle back round to lie at Eleanor’s feet. ‘But that’s just it, m’lady. I’m always careful and I know the Manor’s kitchen inside and out. I couldn’t have done it wrong. I can make chocolate and peanut butter fudge, with or without peanuts, blindfolded. The recipe’s my own. And I took out all of the peanuts from the larder myself and asked Mr Clements to lock them in the butler’s pantry so as to be sure of no accidents happening. And I made doubly sure all surfaces and hands were scrubbed. It’s such a hassle when that Mr Aris comes to eat, I don’t understand why their lord and ladyship invite him, I’m sure I don’t.’

  ‘Quite.’ She remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the village. ‘And yet Mr Aris’ pudding was found to have peanuts in it?’

  ‘His fudge, m’lady. The police said so. The poor gentleman passed away, with his face down in his dessert bowl. Oh, what a way to go and in front of all the other fine ladies and gentlemen! God rest his soul.’

  Reflecting that this was turning out to be a most extraordinary day, Eleanor looked across at Martha, who was stirring her tea once again, repeatedly sniffing and wiping her eyes.

  Helping people doesn’t have to mean getting embroiled in another potential murder case, Ellie. You can leave this to the police. But Martha’s next words threw that thought to the floor.

  ‘Mr Aris had been to Farrington several times afore. Why would Lady Farrington think that I would cook dishes for him so carefully all those occasions, but this last time go and finish him off with an apprentice’s error? Because he made a comment afore about what I’d served? If I’d taken umbrage every time critical words had come back from the table, I’d have an entire dinner table’s worth of murder to my name.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve worked as a cook all my life, m’lady. Anyone could stick a blindfold on me and a peg on my nose and make me taste just a morsel of anything. I’d tell them exactly what was in it, how fresh it be and likely even if it came from the estate or outside of it. I know my business inside and out. I’ve licked a thousand spoons in my time and there weren’t no peanuts in that fudge.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘Mrs Pitkin, have there been any other incidents of perhaps a mix-up of ingredients before?’

  The cook straightened. ‘Never, m’lady. Ask Trotters, oh beg pardon, Mrs Trotman, she knows how I work. Had the pleasure of sharing a kitchen with her once years back when I was at Wendlebury Estate and the only daughter, Lady Margery, was having her coming-out ball. Mrs Trotman got called in temporarily like, on account of the number of guests. Never seen the like afore nor since, mind. But that was in 1906 when food was easier to get, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Eleanor agreed, trying to marshal her thoughts. ‘At the risk of asking an indelicate question, what will you do now, Mrs Pitkin?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, m’lady. A cook what’s been dismissed on account of having killed a gentleman… why, even if the police don’t charge me with Mr Aris’ death, I’ll never work again. I’ve no wish to live out my days in the workhouse, if they’d even take me, m’lady. Or huddled under a bridge, scouring the rubbish for a mouthful if they won’t.’

  Eleanor leaned forward and put a hand on the woman’s arm. ‘Good Lord! There’s no need to think like that! Have you no family who can help?’

  Mrs Pitkin pulled her shawl closer round her neck. ‘None. That’s why I came to see Mrs Trotman, she’s the nearest to family I’ve got.’

  Eleanor had heard enough. ‘Mrs Pitkin, despite being a lady, the staff here at Henley Hall, including Mrs Trotman, are the nearest thing to family I also have. I would never forgive myself if you were punished for something you never did.’

  Unexpectedly, Mrs Pitkin rose and snatched up the felt hat from the chair beside her. ‘Thank you for your time, m’lady, I do appreciate it, but the likes of me is going to get punished whichever way and no matter what the truth is. I got dismissed, which I understand they had to do to save themselves from the scandal. That’s the way of a life in service. But a woman on her own, at my age, from the lowest classes with no family to take her in?’ She gave a thin smile. ‘She’s better off dead and no mistake.’

  Eleanor rose and held her hand up. ‘Mrs Pitkin, wait! I’m sure we can find employment for you here. If not, I know—’

  ‘So kind, but I won’t take up any more of your time, only to thank you for listening and for your hospitality. It’s heartening to see Mrs Trotman working in such a splendid home as this. Good day, m’lady.’ She bobbed another stiff curtsey and hurried out of the back door before Eleanor or Clifford could stop her.

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nbsp; Eleanor turned to Clifford. ‘We should go after her. Suppo—’

  ‘Mrs Pitkin will be fine, my lady. Mrs Trotman has just emerged from the kitchen garden, where I suggested she wait in case of such an eventuality.’

  Gladstone pottered back to the table, having followed after Mrs Pitkin, his stumpy tail as downcast as Eleanor’s mood.

  She sat down heavily. ‘Oh, Clifford, what a terrible state of affairs! The poor woman appears to be genuinely distraught but, without wishing to be uncharitable, part of me is wondering if it might have been purely over her situation. And that would be with excellent reason, Clifford, she’s destitute.’ She glanced up at him sharply. ‘Do you think she’s…?’

  ‘Telling the truth? Like you, my lady, I find my own judgement to be vacillating. I am, however, reminded of the words of Voltaire, if I may paraphrase: “It is better to risk saving a guilty cook than to condemn an innocent one.”’

  Another groan escaped Eleanor’s lips. ‘Why do the wisest of words have to surface just when I had promised myself I was done with mysteries and murders?’

  ‘It is always possible to ignore wise words, my lady.’

  ‘Not,’ she stood up again, ‘if you have a conscience.’

  ‘Such a burden for the bearer, but a blessing for everyone else.’

  ‘Thank you, but I shan’t sleep tonight for worrying about what Mrs Pitkin is going to do if she isn’t cleared of responsibility for this tragedy.’ She closed her eyes but saw only an image of the distraught woman standing on the edge of Chipstone Bridge. She sighed. ‘Of course, you said Mrs Trotman is with her. I’m sure she’ll look after her. Tell Mrs Trotman, she’s welcome to let Mrs Pitkin stay in the spare room in the staff quarters and to repeat my offer of employment.’

  He nodded.

  ‘It seems, Clifford, that I, actually we, are once again caught up in investigating a potential murder. For that must be the first thing for us to ascertain. If it was murder or misadventure.’

  Clifford adjusted the perfectly aligned seams of his white gloves. ‘Indeed, it might be advisable before employing Mrs Pitkin?’

  Eleanor gasped. ‘I hadn’t thought of that!’ She shrugged. ‘But it seems she won’t take up my offer. The important thing is, either Mrs Pitkin made a mistake, or someone deliberately set out to kill Mr Aris. If Mrs Pitkin is to be believed, it seems that the only possible conclusion is one of murder.’

  Clifford pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps I should speak to Abigail and ask her to keep her ears open for any information that comes her way?’

  ‘Excellent idea, Clifford.’ Abigail was the niece of Sandford, the Fenwick-Langhams’ butler. She worked as a typist at Chipstone Police Station, the nearest town, and had helped Eleanor and Clifford solve a murder at Langham Manor earlier that year. ‘And I’ll see what I can learn from Chief Inspector Seldon. As the Farringtons are very influential, I assume the main investigation is being carried out from Oxford.’

  DCI Seldon’s office was in the town’s main police station. He’d been in charge of the investigation into the murder at Langham Manor. He also had a soft spot for Eleanor. As he’d arrested Lancelot Fenwick-Langham, Eleanor’s on-off beau for the murder, their relationship was rather cool at present, but Eleanor knew she’d need all the help they could muster to prove Mrs Pitkin’s innocence. She shook her head. ‘There is a raft of questions that need answers, however, before we can draw a conclusion.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady. We need to ascertain exactly when that fudge was made that led to Mr Aris’ unfortunate demise.’

  ‘And not only when it was made, Clifford, but also who, apart from Mrs Pitkin, would have had the opportunity to meddle with it. Although it could have been substituted for one with peanuts at the table itself.’

  ‘Assuming, of course, that the dessert item was responsible.’

  ‘What do you mean, Clifford?’

  ‘I wonder if the police are assuming that the peanuts in the dessert were the cause of Mr Aris’ death. Suppose, however, that Mr Aris was actually poisoned?’

  ‘And the fudge used to cover it up?’ She frowned. ‘That seems a tad unlikely, if you think about it. I mean, why go to all the trouble to put peanuts in Aris’ fudge and then poison him? Given his violent reaction to a mere suggestion of peanuts, it seems fairly certain that he would die anyway?’

  Clifford nodded slowly. ‘That is an excellent point, my lady.’

  Eleanor hesitated. ‘Do you think… you know, that Mrs Pitkin herself might have done it… deliberately?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady. And came here merely to ensure she acted the part of the desperate innocent. Her seemingly distraught state of mind may be nothing short of an act.’

  ‘Well, I hope for Mrs Trotman’s sake at least that I can find out something tomorrow.’ She groaned. ‘Lady Langham will be horrified if I turn her meet-the-Farringtons-for-luncheon into a full-blown murder investigation at the table. That can’t be the done thing at all!’

  Clifford cleared his throat. ‘I am sure, my lady, you will manage to do it discreetly.’

  Six

  The following morning, Clifford eased the Rolls along Langham Manor’s two-mile drive. Lined with aged maple trees, resplendent in their autumnal red, pink and burnt orange foliage, it led to the grand horseshoe entrance.

  Once there, Clifford pulled up at the base of the sweeping stone staircase and turned to Eleanor: ‘Happy investigating, my lady.’

  Keenly aware of her hostess’ firm views on punctuality, Eleanor was pleased to see she was the first to arrive. Sandford, their long-time butler, led her into the blue drawing room to await her hostess. Exquisite, powder-blue tapestry chairs were set against the backdrop of the finest embossed wallpaper in duck-egg and silver. Choice porcelain pieces dotted the walnut tables and a line of silver-framed photographs sat in a perfect circle on the grand piano. Her emerald silk dress with matching sheer sleeves seemed oddly loud in this tranquil space.

  ‘Her ladyship will be with you presently, my lady.’ Sandford picked up a silver tray and offered her a crystal flute glass. ‘Perhaps you might wish to partake of a soupçon of champagne whilst waiting?’

  ‘For fortification purposes only, thank you. You know me well, Sandford. I just hope I’m not in my cups before the fish course.’

  Sandford and Clifford had been firm friends for years and Sandford had always accepted Eleanor’s frequent etiquette faux pas with a twinkle of his hazel eyes. He gave a half-bow Clifford would be proud of and retreated backwards, closing the double oak-panelled doors in front of him.

  Eleanor felt a pang of guilt at deceiving her hostess over her real reason for being there. Although, she consoled herself, she always loved seeing Lancelot’s parents. And their French cook was a master of his craft!

  Whilst waiting, she thought back to the information they had been able to find out so far. Abigail had confirmed that the investigation into Aris’ death was being handled by Oxford Police, which they’d already guessed. With that settled, she’d rung the station and asked for DCI Seldon. She had his direct number, but was strangely unwilling to use it. At first, he’d been reticent about Aris’ death, especially as she refused to disclose why she was interested. She didn’t feel she could tell the police that she was trying to prove their main suspect innocent. Grudgingly, he’d finally admitted that he was leading the investigation. He assured her that, at the moment, the police were treating the case as death by misadventure. Whether the cook would be charged or not, hadn’t been decided. And that was all he’d been willing to say. After a couple of awkward pleasantries, he’d ended the call. A small part of her wondered what life would have been like if she and the inspector hadn’t found themselves on opposite sides of a murder investigation that involved Lancelot, her wayward beau?

  She sighed and forced herself back to the matter in hand: how to execute a murder investigation over luncheon without being thrown out on her ear. She sipped at her champagne, which gave her instant tummy gurgles.

&n
bsp; Oh, dash it, Ellie, you’re supposed to be a lady at a society luncheon!

  She jumped as the doors opened.

  ‘My dear, dear Eleanor, how are you?’ Lady Langham rustled into the room, arms outstretched, her lavender taffeta-silk skirt and matching jacket setting off her tight, greying curls and cornflower blue eyes.

  Eleanor had become firm friends with the Langhams even before becoming their darling, having helped clear their only surviving son, Lancelot, of a murder charge just three months before.

  ‘Augusta, what a treat to see you! I have to say you look positively radiant. Thank you so much for your kind invitation to luncheon.’ She wondered how she would bring up Mr Aris’ death. And which course would be most fitting to discuss murder? ‘Who will I have the pleasure of dining with this afternoon?’

  Her hostess took her arm. ‘To be brutally honest with you, my dear, I’ve asked you here partly for support.’

  Eleanor looked at her in surprise. It wasn’t often the formidable lady needed support. ‘But why?’

  Lady Langham grimaced. ‘The thing is, we are quite the small party today, which is why luncheon is in the second dining room.’

  ‘How wonderful, then we shall have the best view of your beautiful rose garden.’

  Roses were Lady Langham’s passion. ‘Absolutely! Now, two of our guests are a most delightful couple, I can’t wait for you to meet them. We’ve known Baron Ashley and his family for years. And he has a wonderful new wife, Baroness, Lady Wilhelmina.’

  Eleanor waited, knowing there must be more.

  Lady Langham spread her hands. ‘Well, Baron Ashley has married for love and not duty, which Harold and I totally agree with. However, our other guests, Lord and Lady Farrington, feel the Baron has married beneath his station and somewhat beneath his age! We had to invite them because Harold and I had to cancel dinner at Farrington Manor on Saturday night on account of Harold having an attack of gout.’