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

by Verity Bright

  She picked up the notebook and pen Clifford had placed beside her plate. She turned to the page where she’d copied down the list of all those who were at the table on the night of Aris’ death. She’d originally started a list called ‘suspects’ on another page with a doodle for each suspect. She briefly thought of redoing the doodles in this new list, but decided for once to do without. There were more important matters to get on with.

  ‘Right, Clifford, let’s quickly go through everyone at the table the night of Aris’ death, not just our suspects, and then see if we’ve got the same suspect list at the end as we started with? Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, my lady.’

  ‘Right, Mr Oswald Greaves.’

  ‘Aris tried to have Mr Greaves imprisoned and his party disbanded.’

  ‘And he lied to us, Clifford. He told us he wasn’t angry at Aris, yet Mrs Aris told me he turned up on their doorstep in a fearful temper.’

  ‘Certainly enough to keep him on our suspect list, my lady.’

  ‘Now, Ernest Carlton. The man had come second to Aris forever and was about to be deselected by his party, according to Mrs Brody. That’s good enough reason to kill Aris, for me. With Aris out of the way, he had a much better chance of winning. There’s no prize for coming second, as they taught me all too brutally at St Mary’s School. Honestly, every test, every sports event, was like a caged bout.’

  ‘Little did you realise what good training it would be for your forthcoming political career, my lady.’

  ‘It was hell and I’m not a wallflower when it comes to getting what I want. Carlton also seems to be universally disliked, and a known womaniser, although as you pointed out, neither seem relevant to Aris’ murder. Last on our suspect list, Blewitt.’

  ‘Mr Blewitt heads a cabal intent on replacing Mr Aris’ liberal women’s right’s policies with a candidate of a very different persuasion. Cause enough for murder?’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘I met the man and he threatened my health if I carried on investigating Aris’ death. He struck me as the kind of man who’d kill his own grandmother if she boiled his egg too long!’ She looked back down at her list. ‘That pretty much covers our chief suspects. Everyone else at the table seems to have no motive to want Aris dead.’

  Clifford nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s cross Lord and Lady Langham off as they didn’t even attend.’ She did so with a certain satisfaction. One down, eight to go, Ellie. She ran down the list. ‘Lord and Lady Farrington.’

  Clifford cleared his throat. ‘Aris was supporting Lord Farrington’s bid to get a large housing estate built on land owned by Farrington Manor. Since Aris’ death, it now seems this deal might be in jeopardy, and the Farringtons’ finances too. Hence, it seems that both Lord and Lady Farrington had no motive to murder Mr Aris, rather a motive to keep him alive, at least until the deal had gone through.’

  ‘The complication?’

  ‘The complication is that Lady Farrington forced the staff to lie to the police, seems to have destroyed evidence, id est the remaining fudge, and has asked you to look into the murder without telling Lord Farrington.’

  ‘Your thoughts?’

  ‘It seems Lady Farrington is either covering her own tracks, or covering the tracks of another, but who, and why, I really have no idea at the moment. There is also the rather curious matter of her ladyship asking you to investigate Mr Aris’ death, and yet to keep your involvement a secret from her husband.’

  Eleanor sighed. ‘Indeed. However, we still can’t find a motive for either of them wanting Aris dead, and to kill him at their own table, that just seems too unbelievable. Now, Miss Mann. She is head of the very party, the Women’s League, that Aris supported. I can’t see what she would gain from having him dead. Next is Stanley Morris, the Liberal Party candidate. Apparently, his wife had an affair with Carlton, not Aris, so there’s no motive there. Vernon Peel… Now, Carlton told us that he had issues with Aris. But one, I don’t trust anything Carlton says, and two, he could have been trying to incriminate Peel to hide his own guilt.’

  Clifford nodded. ‘I agree, my lady. However, when we interviewed Mr Peel, I felt he was definitely holding something back. It certainly isn’t enough, yet, to place him on our suspect list.’

  ‘Once again, Clifford, I agree.’ She cast her eye down the page:

  Lord Farrington – no known motive – needed Aris’ support for a housing project on his land – possible bankruptcy if not?

  Lady Farrington – same as Lord Farrington, but told servants to lie. Why? Protecting someone? Who? Why?

  Oswald Greaves – Communist Party – Aris tried to get him imprisoned and his party banned.

  Ernest Carlton – Labour Party – lost to Aris three times. Could be dumped by his party if lost again. Also fell out with Aris over a woman.

  Arnold Aris – Independent – Dead (poisoned by peanuts).

  Miss Mann – Women’s League – no known motive – Aris’ main supporter of Women’s League and women’s rights in area.

  Stanley Morris – Liberal Party – no known motive.

  Duncan Blewitt – Councillor – head of cabal that wants to put anti-women’s rights candidate in seat Aris held. No known motive.

  Vernon Peel – Aris’ partner in law firm – no known motive but definitely hiding something.

  Lord and Lady Fenwick-Langham (cancelled)

  ‘So, we still seem to have the same suspects as before. Greaves, Carlton and Blewitt. And the same puzzle that the murderer needed to know beforehand that Mrs Pitkin would serve that fudge, and yet it seems no one at the table did.’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘Except Lady Farrington. Mrs Pitkin would certainly have informed the lady of the house of the menu for the evening.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Good point. So maybe we should look more closely at Lord and Lady Farrington as well as Greaves, Carlton and Blewitt.’

  Clifford cleared his throat. Eleanor looked up and caught his eye. ‘Yes. yes, I know. I’m putting off interviewing Blewitt like I did Mrs Aris, but for very different reasons. My one meeting with Blewitt made my flesh crawl, and that was out in the open. I have no wish to meet the man again, let alone in some confined space like his office.’ She stared at the scribblings in her notebook. ‘Why on earth did I think I could solve this?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What are we going to do, Clifford?’

  He seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Firstly, I would note that your crime-solving skills are considerably sharper than you are crediting yourself with. You have beaten the police to the punch on several most complex murders.’

  ‘Thank you, but we solved them. Without your infuriating methodicalness in analysing and dissecting every clue, the killers would still be running around free.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. Might I therefore suggest that we adopt the same approach here?’

  She laughed. ‘Maybe we should go into business?’ She swept her hand through the air as if reading a sign. ‘Swift and Clifford, Private Investigators.’

  Clifford waited, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

  A thought struck Eleanor. ‘You know, we should be adding Mrs Brody as well. She was vociferously scathing about Aris.’

  ‘But Mrs Brody was not at Farrington Manor that night, my lady.’

  ‘Actually, she was. Briefly, it seems. Mrs Aris told me Mrs Brody turned up at Farrington Manor bent on causing mischief. Lady Farrington had her removed.’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘And yet she is not on our list for the evening?’

  ‘No, that list is just the seating plan for the table. As she was never officially invited, she was never on the plan. The only trouble is, as she was never at the table and had left before Aris died, I can’t see she had the opportunity, whether she had a motive or not.’

  She added the name ‘Pearl Brody’ to the bottom of the list. ‘I think we’ll keep an eye on her.’ She laid down her pen and sighed. ‘I don’t know what state of mind poor Mrs Pitkin is in at this
precise moment. I do, however, know we need to find Aris’ killer and prove her innocence as soon as possible before she decides to do something foolish.’

  Nineteen

  ‘Watch out!’ a disembodied voice yelled.

  Eleanor skidded to a halt on her bicycle as a rosy-cheeked woman shot through the hedge. ‘Sorry, but can you help? They’ve escaped again, the little rascals!’

  From the chequered apron, wellington boots and piglet under her arm, Eleanor deduced the woman was a farmer’s wife. She leaned her bicycle against the gate. ‘Yes, of course. How many are there?’

  ‘Thirteen, but I’ve got the runt here.’ An indignant grunt emanated from the wriggling pink bundle. ‘Hubby’s way up on the top field, we’ll have to catch them ourselves.’

  ‘No problem.’ Eleanor took off her scarf and made a loop at one end. A particularly chunky piglet whom the others seemed to regard as the ringleader ran towards her. She bided her time and looped the scarf around its neck as it barrelled past.

  It dragged her a good fifteen feet before she brought it to a standstill. ‘Strike one to Eleanor!’ She grinned at the farmer’s wife. ‘Two down, eleven to go.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Let’s shove them in the empty chicken run just inside the gate.’

  Many fraught and exhausting minutes later, they secured the remaining piglets and left them squabbling over the chicken feed in the hen run.

  The woman brushed down her apron and smiled at Eleanor. ‘Goodness, I can’t thank you enough! I was so worried they’d get hit by the coal lorry or the milkman, charging about in the road like that.’

  ‘No trouble. I’m Eleanor Swift, by the way.’

  ‘What? Lady Swift!’ The woman put her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Goodness, I don’t get out enough! What must you think of me stopping you and asking for help in rounding up pigs?’ She glanced at Eleanor’s scarf and shoes and grimaced. ‘Please do come into the farmhouse and let me lend you something, although I’ve nothing fancy.’

  Eleanor pulled her uncle’s pocket watch out. ‘Thank you, but I’m a little late.’

  She looked down at her clothes. Saturday morning had dawned with the promise of being one of those rare autumnal days when the English countryside was at its most enchanting. She’d dressed accordingly in light colours. If she’d known she would be rounding up pigs, she wouldn’t have bothered.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll swish it off with, er… champagne.’ Realising how much of a princess this made her sound, she gave an embarrassed shrug.

  The woman laughed. ‘Then I won’t detain you any longer than it takes to say a most heartfelt thank you from me and my hubby. We’re the Atwoods, we own the farm yonder.’ She paused. ‘Your uncle was a wonderful man, Lady Swift. We owe him so much.’

  And with that, she left Eleanor to complete her journey.

  As she reached the airfield, she saw Lancelot standing on the roof of a lorry, scouring the roads like a captain on the ship’s bridge. He gave her an exaggerated salute, his silk scarf billowing behind him. ‘Ahoy there, Sherlock! I thought you’d been abducted by pirates.’ He closed up his imaginary telescope with a snap and deftly swung himself down.

  ‘I say!’ He held his scarf over his nose. ‘Don’t like to mention it but there’s a certain something dashedly disconcerting to the nostrils about you. New scent, is it?’

  Eleanor gave a haughty toss of her red curls. ‘Indeed, the latest from Paris, you know. It’s called Eau du Ferme.’

  ‘I can think of a better name for it. Truthfully, Sherlock, it could curdle the picnic!’

  She slapped his arm. ‘That “stink” as you so ungallantly put it is the result of my being a good citizen and helping to round up a bunch of escaped pigs.’

  Lancelot held her at arm’s length. ‘Darling fruit, remember I told you that you are deliciously peculiar?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Oh.’ She failed to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  ‘I’ve decided instead that you are dashedly and delightfully crazy!’ He winked. ‘Whoever heard of a lady of the manor rounding up pigs in the street like a labourer? I’ll just have to tell Mater. She’ll simply curl up and die with horror!’

  ‘You will do no such thing! I happen to be growing rather fond of your mother. She’s been an absolute dear to me, even before I saved your misbegotten life. Now, where’s this ride in the sky you promised me?’

  ‘Just over there, via the makeshift washing facilities.’

  At the far end of the airfield, Lancelot’s plane with its dragonfly-blue paint looked too dainty to carry them up into the cloudless blue sky. Especially as the airfield was no more than a rough meadow with a mown strip down the centre for a runway.

  Lancelot leaned into the cockpit. ‘There…’ He held out a bunch of delicate-scented, white yarrow, the tip of each flowering crown still tinged with a blush of pink. She ran her fingers along the tiny leaves.

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir. A handful of the finest weeds.’

  He flicked her nose. ‘Honestly, Sherlock, don’t you have any romance about you? They’re wildflowers, like you. Down to earth and dashedly uncontrollable.’

  She sniffed the flowers. Could she really have found a man who liked her for who she was? Oh, Ellie, best not hope for too much!

  He gestured at the sky. ‘Come on, Florence is itching to fly. Poor old girl, she’s been cooped up for weeks whilst I sorted out her sticky throttle problem.’

  She stared at him. ‘Goggles, are you sure it’s safe now? Remember the last time you had the same issue?’

  He tutted. ‘That was a wonky steering linkage, completely different. And I was the one who had to wait for help whilst your inspector fussed over you like a…’ He trailed off and looked away.

  Eleanor smiled at the memory. Detective Chief Inspector Seldon had helped her solve two murder cases in the past and the detective had certain feelings for her she tried to deny. She shook her head. ‘I do believe you’re jealous, Lord Fenwick-Langham. Anyway, there will be no one to rescue me this time… except you.’

  Lancelot grinned. ‘So, you’re not baling before we’re even airborne? Because, honestly, I’ve only got one parachute.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Joke!’ He slapped his leg. ‘I haven’t got any parachutes.’

  Was that another joke?

  Sitting in the single passenger seat behind Lancelot, she realised he was absolutely serious about taking her flying. He leaned over and fumbled around behind her. In doing so, his shirt rode up out of his waistband, causing her to catch her breath at the glimpse of his taut, muscular stomach.

  ‘Here you go, helmet and,’ he pushed her curls out of the way and stretched a set of goggles over her head, ‘one set of bins. Very fetching!’

  ‘Bins?’ She peered through them at him.

  ‘You know, it’s cockney rhyming slang.’

  ‘How does that work? I can’t think what rhymes with goggles to come out as “bins”.’

  ‘Nor me.’ He grinned, but then waved his finger in her face. ‘Now, safety checks and important information. Sit up and listen, Lady Swift.’

  She gulped. The enormity of what she was about to do hit her. She was entrusting her life to a man who thought putting his shoes on the wrong feet was hysterical.

  ‘There is only one thing you need to know when flying in a two-seater like Florence.’ He lifted the leather flap of her helmet and spoke into her ear. ‘No opening the champagne below five hundred feet!’

  With that, he clambered out, kissed the plane’s nose cone and gave the propeller several sharp turns until the engine sputtered into life.

  ‘All aboard!’ he called, now back in the cockpit. She gave him a thumbs up and then gripped her seat as Florence started to move. The plane turned in a wide arc and came to a stop. Lancelot held a hand up and counted down on his fingers. ‘Five… Four… Three… Two… One… LIFT OFF!’

  Th
en they were bumping over the rough grass. The far hedge approached with alarming speed. Just when it seemed they would plough straight through it, the nose lifted and they were airborne.

  ‘Oh, my word, that is so beautiful!’ Her hands gripped either side of the rear cockpit as she peered over. The hedgerows and stone walls divided the fields into higgledy-piggledy squares, dotted with white, fluffy ewes, making her feel they were flying over a huge, handmade patchwork quilt.

  As they cleared the heavily wooded ridge, resplendent in red and gold autumnal colours, she caught her breath.

  ‘Henley Hall!’ Lancelot shouted over the drone of the engine. It lay below and to the left, like a delightful doll’s house. Next, Little Buckford appeared, looking for all the world as if it were a model village, with its quaint high street, tiny cricket ground and Norman church. Feeling she could reach out and pick up a row of the Lilliputian red-roofed terraced houses, she let the wind rush through her fingers. She raised her arms out like wings and yelled into the wind.

  ‘Sherlock! SIT STILL! You’re like a flailing squid!’

  ‘Sorry!’ She sat back in her seat. She’d been up in a plane before, but not one with an open cockpit for the passenger. It was exhilarating and the view was spectacular.

  ‘Langham Manor!’ Lancelot shouted over his shoulder.

  She gave him a double thumbs up as the huge mansion came into sight, the extensive formal grounds giving the scene the air of an old oil painting. The plane banked, and soon they were flying over a string of hamlets. She traced the winding grey ribbons of the country lanes with her finger, trying to place exactly where they were. Here and there, the movement of a person walking caught her eye. Surely this was a child’s toy cupboard come to life? A peep into the secret world of what happens when the door is clicked closed at the end of playtime?