‘But it isn’t about money.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, darling fruit. I’d give up inheriting the stately pile in a heartbeat. And the title, all a total pain in the behind. But poor old mater would positively expire on the spot if I ever said so, bless her.’ He held her shoulders. ‘Look, I’ve told you I like you until I’ve nearly run out of air, but you’re so impossibly independent and busy and all those other wonderful things that reel me in and frustrate me equally. But…’ he tilted his head, ‘you’ve got something important to do. And a murder to solve. I can see that. So, I say, we make the most of the time we have.’ He took her hand and tied a gold satin ribbon with a tiny charm at each end around her wrist.
‘Goggles! That’s so sweet.’
‘I pictured you the minute I saw it. Now, Florence has had to sit through enough gushing. Poor girl’s probably feeling quite nauseous. What say you we go and have that picnic I planned to take you on?’
‘Ooh, are we going by plane?’
‘Sorry, not today, Florence is lame in her hind quarters. Like all women, she’s high maintenance and susceptible to a fit of the vapours at any moment. Don’t want to land you in a hedge on our inaugural date.’
She caught her breath. A date, Ellie! ‘Oh, hang on though, you’re not suggesting we picnic here?’
‘Absolutely.’ He looked around at the dusty, cobwebbed surroundings. ‘It’s positively dripping in romance.’
‘It’s dripping in something! Tell me you’re joking?’
‘Of course, I’m joking. It’s totally rank, but Joe is a top egg for letting me do whatever I please here.’
He jumped deftly down backwards from the plane and held his arms up to take her round the waist.
‘So gallant! Thank you, kind sir.’
‘My pleasure, madam, only stop wriggling for heaven’s sake!’
They landed in a heap, with Eleanor on top: ‘See, women can be top dog! Now, where are we going?’
‘It’s my secret place. Come on, Sherlock.’ He winked and grabbed her hand, yanking her to her feet.
They burst out into the sunshine, Eleanor wincing at the brightness of the afternoon. ‘Hey, the rain’s completely gone.’
‘I arranged that.’ Lancelot grinned and looped his arm around her shoulder, the picnic basket swinging from his other hand.
She glanced around. ‘Where’s Joe, by the way? I haven’t seen him for ages. Even for a car yard, it’s looking a bit rundown, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Haven’t noticed, old girl. But the poor chap is struggling to juggle everything. Mrs Joe has been pretty poorly by all accounts. He’s spending more and more time at home looking after her.’
‘Gosh, whatever is wrong with her?’
‘How on earth would I know? Chaps don’t go into details about things like that.’
Eleanor’s mind skipped from Mrs Joe to Mrs Aris. She knew she needed to interview her about her husband’s death, but was putting it off, not savouring the idea of asking a recent widow about her husband’s possible murder. She bit her lip, then realised Lancelot was looking at her quizzically.
‘You’re not going to go all dull and earnest on me, are you?’ he asked with a hint of a whine.
She shook her head. ‘I was thinking about poor Mrs Aris and her husband’s mu— , death.’
‘Dash it, what does a chap have to do to be more interesting than a fellow who’s gone toes up?’
‘Goggles, that’s awful!’
‘No, darling fruit, it’s just the truth.’ He jiggled the charms on the end of the ribbon around her wrist. ‘Not good for a chap’s ego, you know. Now are we going or have you suddenly done that mysterious girl thing of needing to dash off and do something frightfully important?’
‘No. I need to talk to Oswald Greaves but he can wait, especially as he isn’t even expecting me.’
‘Greaves? As in the chap held up before the beak for having the wrong sort of affiliations?’
‘No idea. He’s just a name to me at the moment. What do you mean, he was held up before the beak?’
‘Pater used to be a JP, a Justice of the Peace. Laughable really, he’s such a softie. He was hopeless. But I remember him saying he swung his gavel over a man called Greaves.’
‘Gracious, what was Oswald Greaves in court for?’
‘That Aris fellow tried to get him imprisoned for being a communist.’
‘Then I definitely need to see him.’ She held her head high. ‘There are some women JPs now, you know. That’s some progress for equality.’
‘Probably fancy themselves in all the gear.’ He dodged her swipe at his head. ‘Sherlock, promise me you won’t lose your sense of humour if you become an MP?’
She nodded. ‘Show me this “special place” and I’ll go as far as promising not to be earnest this afternoon.’
‘Deal.’ He pretended to spit on his palm and shook her hand before kissing it and linking fingers with her.
As they left the yard, she saw a young woman hurrying across the road away from them. She entered the small doctor’s surgery on the corner of the road. Eleanor thought back to the conversation in the butcher’s shop in Little Buckford and Johnny’s mother who couldn’t afford the seven-shilling doctor’s fee or the medicine for her son. Eleanor wondered if the young woman she’d just seen enter the doctor’s surgery could afford to pay for her treatment or prescription.
And what about Mrs Joe? With her ill in bed and her husband neglecting his business to look after her, how would they afford the cost of medicines if Mrs Joe’s illness was a long one? She sighed to herself, wondering just how long she could keep her promise to Lancelot not to be earnest.
They strolled down the lane, before turning up a narrow, grassy track. Lancelot pointed to the low forest of orange-brown bracken. ‘Watch out for late-hibernating adders. They could be grabbing some last sun before they tuck up for a few months.’
‘I had no idea you were such a wildlife expert.’
‘Pah! It’s called growing up as a boy. Even us rich kids grubbed about in the dirt for a while. How else would I have found this place?’
‘Whatever were you doing out here on your own? Langham Manor is miles off.’ She turned in a circle, trying to get her bearings.
‘Three and a half, actually. I had a governess who secretly fancied herself as a watercolour artist. She used to drag me out here on the ruse to my parents that I was getting geography lessons. She’d paint the day away, and I’d have a ball making dens and scrambling up the rocks. Best time of my life… until today.’
Looking through the gap in the branches, she could see flint hamlets clinging to the rolling Chiltern Hills, framed by the misty blue horizon. Lancelot’s ‘special place’ had turned out to be a treehouse, hidden high up in the crook of an ancient English oak. The tree was in full autumnal glory and Ellie paused as she climbed to marvel at the golden, russet and yellow leaves.
‘I bet you never imagined you’d be sitting here with girls when you made this all those years ago.’
‘Girls! Yucky!’ Lancelot held his nose and grimaced.
‘We all thought the same of you boys, then. Horribly icky and sticky!’
‘Whereas now, some of us are irresistibly dashing and manly, and give you vertigo just looking into our eyes.’
‘Good job I don’t get vertigo, you oaf! You didn’t check before you dragged me up here.’ She turned the gold ribbon he’d tied round her wrist.
‘Not sure “dragged” is quite the word.’ He pointed to the wicker basket. ‘Picnic time. Peel her open, Sherlock.’
Eleanor fought with the buckles. ‘I hope there’s more than champagne in here, otherwise I seriously doubt either of us will make it back down this tree.’
‘Well, we’ll have to spend the night staring at the stars and cuddling up for warmth.’
She tingled at the image, but then frowned. ‘Yes, and blow me if Clifford wouldn’t come blundering up halfway through the evening, having miraculously
tracked me down. And all to tell me that it wasn’t wise to sleep out without a suitable bedcover and I’d thrown the meal schedule out entirely.’
Lancelot roared with laughter and took the bottle of champagne she held out to him.
‘Hauling it up here fizzed it up good and proper.’ He uncorked it and held it to her mouth so she could suck up the bubbles, which gave her instant hiccups.
‘What was it you were saying, old girl?’
‘Well, I was wondering if you’ve, you know, made up to many girls up here?’ she blushed.
Why, oh why, did you ask that, Ellie?
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Darling fruit, how many girls do you imagine I would have managed to entice up here? I haven’t found anyone game enough to try until today. Now, pass the fizz and the pâté, and let’s celebrate just how deliciously peculiar you are.’
Thirteen
The following morning, the Rolls stopped outside a narrow, wooden-fronted building that had all the hallmarks of an old mill despite being nowhere near a river. Clifford gestured towards the steep stairs up to the windowless door.
On the airless fourth floor, Oswald Greaves sat bent over a long table strewn with papers and bottles of ink.
Eleanor knocked on the open door. ‘Afternoon.’
The hunched figure was so rapt in concentration that he continued muttering, fervently scratching his pen across the paper in front of him.
‘Mr Greaves?’
He nodded to himself and re-dipped his fountain pen without taking his eyes from his work.
With a shrug to Clifford, Eleanor stepped forward. ‘Mr Greaves!’
The man spun in his seat, his hand clasped to his heart. ‘What? What a fright… oh, hello! Wasn’t expecting students today. What day is it?’ His voice was surprisingly rough, given his soft boyish face and bright green eyes.
‘It is Friday, but we are not students.’
‘Ah! Then apologies, I’m caught up with all this, right now.’ He waved at the papers on the table.
Eleanor walked over to his side. ‘Mr Greaves, we are colleagues of sorts. Perhaps you have heard of me? I’m standing under the banner of the Women’s League.’
He looked up. ‘I have a terrible memory for faces. Have we met? I don’t…’
She squatted down to his eye level. ‘I joined after the Town Hall debate on Monday, so we haven’t met. Until now.’
He peered at her and then reached for a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Monday, Monday… ah yes, the debate.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s a terrible habit, but I tune out entirely at those wretched things. But they’re usually well-attended events and I always end up with some interested would-be converts afterwards.’ He tapped his chin with his fountain pen, oblivious to the splatters that dotted his face and shirt collar. ‘Which candidate were you there supporting again?’
Eleanor frowned. Was he being deliberately obtuse? ‘No one, Mr Greaves. I am standing for election, just as you are.’
‘Really? Well, good luck and all that, but I must be cracking on.’ He slapped a hand on the papers, wafting a large sheaf to the floor in the process.
‘Mr Greaves, I wanted to stop by and make your acquaintance. I imagine we will be seeing rather a lot of each other at the forthcoming debates.’
He turned, now chewing on the end of his pen. ‘But does that mean we have to become acquainted? I don’t see the need myself. Too busy.’
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes, me too. Frightfully caught up in all the stuff. Especially since Mr Aris’ passing.’
At the mention of Aris’ name, he put down his pen. ‘Aris, of course. A shame and all that. Can’t say we saw eye to eye on anything, but that doesn’t mean the world’s better off without him.’
‘Really? You surprise me.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘Oh, only because I had heard that you and Mr Aris had a rather public argument? And that Mr Aris tried to have you arrested and imprisoned?’
Greaves chuckled. ‘Yes, the stupid old goat!’
‘You seem very calm about his efforts to destroy you and your party, Mr Greaves?’
‘You think so? A word of advice, if you fancy it.’ He spread his delicate, white hands wide. ‘Fear not those who disagree with you, but those who disagree with you and are too cowardly to let you know.’
‘Karl Marx?’
‘Napoleon, well, the second part, but close.’
‘And Mr Aris, I take it, was never too cowardly to let you know he disagreed with you?’
‘Exactly.’
Already knowing the answer, she asked airily: ‘Perhaps you were at the fundraising dinner where poor Mr Aris died?’
‘Hmm… Aris was always sucking up to the rich and titled. Might as well have been one of them, the way he went on. Disgusting display it was.’
‘Forgive my confusion, but what display are you talking about?’
‘The wealth. The privilege. The status. Disgusting!’ He thumped the desk.
Eleanor thought he probably wasn’t much fun at parties and wondered why the Farringtons had included him. ‘Er, yes, but did you see anything suspicious?’
‘What would I possibly have seen! Lord Farrington called him up to speak and Aris nosedived to the table before he could.’ He let out something close to a snort. ‘I saw Carlton make such a great show of trying to revive him, like the charlatan he is.’
‘Whereas you on the other hand seem to bear Mr Aris no malice at all?’ Eleanor gave him a cordial smile. ‘Well, Mr Greaves, thank you for your time. I’ll leave you to work on your, er… cause.’
‘It’s Oswald. I’m not one for formality of any kind.’
‘Neither am I, so please call me Eleanor.’
He sprang up from his chair as Clifford handed him the sheaf of papers collected from the floor. ‘Where the devil did he come from?’
Eleanor blinked. ‘He’s been here the whole time. Surely, you must be the only person alive who doesn’t know Clifford, my uncle’s, well, my butler?’
Greaves shook his head. ‘Butler!’ He looked from Eleanor to Clifford and back. ‘Who the deuce are you, really?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Swift. My name is all over the campaigning material. It’s no secret.’ She held out the leaflet Clifford passed to her.
Greaves peered at it and then pulled off his spectacles to look again. ‘Lady Swift. Lady, as in entitled? Privileged?’
‘Mmm, it seems so.’
He handed back the leaflet. ‘Then you are the enemy!’
Fourteen
‘It’s midday. No time like the present, Clifford. What do you say?’
‘Let us hope Mr Carlton is ready for us, my lady.’ He adjusted the cuffs of his leather driving gloves and eased the Rolls out onto the road towards the farthest end of Chipstone. ‘If I might offer my congratulations on your successful questioning of Mr Greaves.’
‘Thank you. I’ve already added him to our suspect list. As we’ve eliminated Mrs Pitkin, thank the Lord, we’ve now got three suspects: Lord and Lady Farrington, I’m counting them as one, labour candidate Ernest Carlton, and now Oswald Greaves.’ She closed her notebook and sighed. ‘Dash it! Somehow Greaves has left me feeling that unless I can become a mind reader, I shall never know if he is telling the truth.’
She stared out of the window at the start of the long rows of basic terraced housing which gave this end of Chipstone a whisper of the forlorn. Clifford braked hard for the scruffy brown dog which limped off the pavement in front of the car. A woman with her hair knotted in a scarf glanced up at them from her apathetic beating of a rug hung on a makeshift washing line. With a huff, she turned her back and continued to beat the rug in a desultory fashion.
Eleanor bit her lip. ‘I’ve got a long way to go to understand these ladies, Clifford.’
‘Possibly, my lady, but it is my belief that almost everyone’s most heartfelt wish is to be safe and to see justice done. If we solve Aris’ m
urder, you will achieve that for one woman, Mrs Pitkin, at least.’
‘To work then! Perhaps Carlton will make it easy and break down and confess?’
‘That would certainly be a help, my lady. We might even return to the Hall in time for luncheon.’
‘Lady Swift, forgive me, my secretary failed to inform me of your intended visit.’
‘Well, don’t chide her too much, I failed to call ahead.’
Ernest Carlton offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She studied his face, pitching a guess he was in his mid-to-late forties. He was also incredibly handsome to some women, she imagined. He gestured to a worn button-backed chair in dark green velvet in the plain white study.
‘I see… Well, I imagine perhaps a pot of tea will be required?’
‘So kind, if that doesn’t constitute fraternising with the enemy?’ She remembered Greaves’ parting words.
‘Not at all.’ He called out. ‘Mr Jones, visitors! Fifteen minutes!’
Unsure if the fifteen minutes referred to the time she was being granted for an interview or the time before tea arrived, Eleanor decided she’d best jump straight in.
‘What a delightful working space.’ She waved an arm towards the only window which gave onto the rear wall of the public house next door.
‘This is just my operations office. You were lucky to find me in.’
‘Yes, lucky me. This is Clifford, my—’
Ernest nodded. ‘Mr Clifford.’
Eleanor sighed. ‘You’ve met?’ It seemed everyone in the known universe was acquainted with her late uncle’s butler.
Carlton looked up at the blue china mantelpiece clock. ‘Lady Swift, your late uncle was a prominent resident of the constituency. Condolences on your loss.’
‘Thank you. He does appear to have left quite an impression.’
‘And a fine legacy. Are you enjoying life at Henley Hall?’
‘Absolutely! Now, if you don’t mind me asking, what line of business are you in?’
‘Property.’
‘How splendid! In what capacity, pray?’
A Witness to Murder: An unputdownable cozy murder mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 3) Page 11