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

by Verity Bright

  A few minutes later, something glinted far off to the right. Mystified, she stared at it intently. Ah, the River Thames! As they reached it, Lancelot turned Florence and followed the river’s course. As they flew along it, she could make out clusters of tiny white dots that must have been the many families of royal swans. Six of the famed Oxford University’s rowing teams sped past, the water shimmering off the swift blades of their oars. A little further on, a small flotilla of the renowned Salter’s tent boats chugged along, the tourists aboard waving up at the plane. Eleanor waved back, feeling every inch the queen enjoying a spectacular birds-eye view of her kingdom.

  A few minutes later, he pointed to a cluster of fairy-tale spires on the horizon: ‘Oxford town! We’ll be there in—’

  Suddenly, the plane veered wildly. She braced herself. What was going on?

  Lancelot appeared to be wrestling with the controls. ‘That field!’ He waved frantically. Unable to see, she nodded anyway. But then her stomach lurched up and seemed to hit her throat. Surely they were falling out of the sky? Up front, Lancelot had obviously lost his battle of wills with his errant controls. ‘Might… get… bumpy. HOLD ON!’

  She looked over the side of the plane and then wished she hadn’t as the ground rushed up to meet them.

  When the impact came, it was softer than she’d expected. The wheels bumped along the cut grass of the field before a small haystack slowed them enough for the plane to slide gracefully into a lake.

  Lancelot cheered as they floated to a stop. ‘Best landing ever! Impressive what, Sherlock?’

  Eleanor stared at the back of his head. She’d met some dangerous characters on her travels, but this one was in a league of his own. She peered over at the water. ‘Will she float?’

  ‘Of course!’ They both scrambled out onto the narrow fuselage. He held her hand and looked at her with concern. ‘Darling fruit, your hands are shaking! You weren’t scared, were you? You always seem so tough, so capable, like nothing ever fazes you.’

  She let out a deep breath. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. It’s just that the plane I took from Cape Town to London to get back to England after my uncle died crashed three times. The first time I thought I’d die from the impact, the second from thirst and the third from wild animals. On none of these occasions was there the luxury of a lake to land on.’

  For once, Lancelot looked serious: ‘Was it a flying boat?’

  ‘No.’

  He grinned. ‘Then it would have sunk, anyway.’

  She punched him on the arm.

  ‘Ow!’ He rubbed the spot. ‘You hit hard, for a girl.’ He moved out of range. ‘Only kidding! Poor old Florence, though, she’ll have soggy underparts for a good while, that’s for sure.’

  She shuffled across to him. ‘As will we, you oaf! What are we going to do?’

  ‘Enjoy the picnic?’

  Still sitting on top of the plane, and even though she wanted to push his grinning face into the lake for being so flippant about, well, everything, she found his childish delight infectious. They were soon tucking into a delicious feast of scotch eggs, fine cheese and cucumber sandwiches, all washed down with generous amounts of champagne.

  She turned her glass in her hand and looked out over the water. For no apparent reason, it reminded her of evenings sitting with her parents, looking out over the small lake at the back of their hut in Peru.

  ‘Lancelot, do you ever feel bad about how much you’ve got when others have so much less?’ She sighed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to get earnest, but campaigning in Little Buckford and Chipstone has been a real eye-opener.’

  He shrugged. ‘What’s the sense in not enjoying what you have? That strikes me as ungrateful and, if I’m honest, being a martyr doesn’t suit you.’

  The remark stung. ‘I’m not being a martyr.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  Suddenly, he jumped up, waving both arms like a shipwrecked sailor. ‘Ahoy!’

  Across the field, a small tractor was trundling towards them, a scowling, stocky man at the wheel. He stopped next to the edge of the lake.

  ‘’Tis private property, this.’

  Lancelot grinned and reached for his wallet. ‘Most observant of you! Trouble is,’ he winked at the man, ‘I was trying to impress the lady, and, like a damned idiot, overdid it. Let me compensate you for the inconvenience of you being so kind as to pull us out. And any damage, of course.’

  The farmer’s shoulders relaxed as Lancelot pulled several notes out of his wallet. ‘Well, it don’t appear too much damage done, sir.’ He climbed out of his tractor and gave a wry smile. ‘One question first, though.’

  Lancelot slid from the fuselage into the waist-high water and waded ashore. He nodded as he handed the money over.

  The farmer covered one side of his mouth and whispered, ‘Was the lady impressed?’

  Rising from her seat, Eleanor called out, ‘Yes, she was!’

  Both men stared in surprise, and then Lancelot’s laughter rang out across the Oxfordshire countryside.

  The evening light was ebbing as Lancelot tucked his wet jacket around Eleanor’s shoulders. By the time they had got themselves and Florence out of the lake, they were both soaked and covered in weed and wet hay. The farmer had towed the plane into a nearby shed and Lancelot had flagged down a coal lorry and repeated his tale of woe in exchange for a lift. From up front, the driver repeatedly turned to peep at them, as they sat on the open tailgate, their legs dangling, water dripping from their socks and stockings.

  Eleanor held her battered bouquet of yarrow flowers and one shoe, the other lost in wading ashore. Her limp curls stuck to her coal-dust-streaked face. Lancelot slipped her hand into his and wrapped his fingers round hers, whistling nonchalantly and looking straight ahead. She felt utterly content.

  ‘Sherlock?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Will you come up with me and Florence again?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Only if you stock up on parachutes, lifejackets and spare clothes.’ She nestled into his shoulder. ‘And most importantly, more champagne.’

  Twenty

  Mrs Butters was still fussing as the hall clock struck twelve noon the next day. ‘But, my lady, you had a nasty dunk, swimming about in goodness only knows what. Another spoonful couldn’t hurt.’

  Eleanor stopped fiddling with her Women’s League rosette and stared at her housekeeper in the mirror. ‘Yes, it could. It could take the rest of the lining off my throat and I need my voice to carry loud and clear at this afternoon’s debate.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady. You don’t feel feverish at all?’

  Eleanor turned and took Mrs Butters by the shoulders. ‘Do you realise how much of a blessing you are?’

  ‘Tsk, tsk, I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’

  ‘I know. As usual, you were trying to take better care of me than I am myself. Now, wish me luck because I fear I may need it.’

  Chipstone High Street seemed to have an air of expectancy to Eleanor’s mind. As Clifford stopped the Rolls as near to the Town Hall as possible she stuck her head out of the window and stared at the sizeable crowd gathered outside.

  ‘That’s odd. I rather thought our audience would be mostly reporters, and a few retired chaps who have tired of cribbage. Everyone else should be busy getting on with life and yet there’s quite a group waiting.’

  ‘There is a lot of uncertainty over events in Whitehall, my lady. The coalition government is causing significant alarm with its very public and repeated disagreements. I suspect the local populace are seeking reassurance that things on their doorstep will be considerably more stable.’

  ‘Well, if they vote for me, they will be.’

  ‘A bold promise. Might one enquire if that is to be the thrust of your message today?’

  ‘Actually no, it isn’t. But you’ll have to wait like everyone else to find out what it is.’ As she stepped out of the car, she muttered, ‘And so will I.’

  Inside the Town Hall
, the air felt thick and stuffy. A movement at the far end of the corridor caught Eleanor’s eye. Hoping it was Miss Mann, she was disappointed to find it was Mrs Brody striding towards her.

  ‘Lady Swift, excellent! I wanted to see you. Thursday evening, seven o’clock in the Reading Room, you are invited to our next meeting.’

  Eleanor tried to sound non-confrontational. ‘Mrs Brody, I truly appreciate you and your ladies’ support, but I cannot condone the tactics you used at the last debate. I learned that it was your group who drowned out Mr Blewitt and the other candidates as they tried to address the public? And then incited the crowd to storm the stage? I realise how well-intentioned your group is, but—’

  Mrs Brody burst into laughter. ‘Can you really be that green that you imagine, as a woman, you can win this election without those sorts of tactics? And worse!’

  Eleanor bristled. ‘I do not believe the use of underhand tactics will further our cause.’

  Mrs Brody folded her arms. ‘Do you honestly think that all the other candidates aren’t doing this kind of thing all the time? And that this doesn’t happen all over the country? Because if you do, then you need our help more than I thought. Besides, my group has a lot more extreme tactics planned for the next debate. And so will your opponents.’ She shook her head. ‘Next, you’ll be suggesting that the best party should win only by fair and square means.’

  Eleanor tossed her red curls. ‘I wouldn’t suggest that, I would declare it. Politics might be a cut-throat game, but I won’t stoop to winning unfairly.’

  Mrs Brody’s exasperation was obvious. She spoke to Eleanor like a small child. ‘Don’t you realise the outcome is a foregone conclusion unless we intervene? As an independent and a woman, you stand no chance! I invited you to the next Firebrand meeting, not to support you, as you put it, but to drum some realisation into you. The Women’s League is a bunch of old women with little or no real concept of how to get a woman candidate elected. Especially with that man Blewitt…’

  Lady Langham’s words came back to Eleanor: ‘What is to become of this country if all the women are slandering and fighting each other in public and whoring and gambling in private like the men?’

  She raised her hand and voice. ‘Then, Mrs Brody, I’d rather lose. Don’t you see that by cheating and dirty-dealing, you are merely aping the men you claim to despise?’

  Mrs Brody’s eyes flashed. ‘So “stooping” to their tactics isn’t acceptable?’

  Eleanor shook her head this time. ‘I’m not passing judgement on some of the radical actions carried out by Mrs Pankhurst and other suffragettes, I know the poor lady is currently in prison on charges of sedition, of all things. I’m merely agreeing with the words of Miss Mann, that, in a rural backwater like Chipstone, such tactics will alienate the general voter. Including a lot of the women we’re trying to help.’

  Mrs Brody took a step closer. ‘You,’ she poked Eleanor in the arm, ‘are living in a dream world. You titled lot always are. Head in the clouds, the lot of you! Think you can get what you want without getting your hands dirty. Well, I will sully mine by doing whatever it takes. Any stains from fighting for our cause will not stop my conscience sleeping at night.’

  Mrs Brody stomped off, then turned back to Eleanor and smiled thinly. ‘I see your true colours now, Lady Swift. If you are not with us, you are against us.’

  A slight chill ran down Eleanor’s back. She remembered Oswald Greaves’ parting words. ‘You are the enemy!’ It seemed no matter what she did, she was indeed making enemies everywhere.

  Her eyes darkened. The more good her parents tried to do, it seemed the more enemies they’d made until… She shook her head. It was going to take more than a few vague threats to stop her keeping her promise to herself. Now, Ellie, you’ve a debate to win!

  She spun round smartly and collided with the woman standing in front of her.

  Miss Mann rubbed her forehead. ‘Lady Swift, I do apologise!’

  ‘No, it was my fault. Are you alright?’

  ‘I think so, thank you. The debate is about to start.’ Miss Mann hesitated. ‘Lady Swift, I owe you an apology.’ She paused, obviously struggling with some inner conflict. ‘I should never have asked you to stand. For… for I never believed you could win.’

  After her encounter with Mrs Brody, Eleanor wasn’t prepared for any more nonsense. ‘Whatever do you mean, Miss Mann? If that’s the case, why on earth did you ask me to stand for the Women’s League?’

  Miss Mann’s hands trembled as she clutched her papers to her chest. ‘I am sorry, honestly. We felt we didn’t have a choice.’ She seemed to gather courage. ‘Chipstone isn’t a rotten borough, Lady Swift, you can’t buy a few key votes and get elected here, not like you can in some areas. You’ve got to persuade people to vote for you, even if candidates sometimes do use questionable methods to get them to do so.’ She darted a look at Eleanor. ‘Oh, goodness, I don’t mean you! I only meant that the greater proportion of voters in this constituency are working class and they see you as… well, as far from their ken as foreign travel or caviar. And… and the reality is most wives will either vote as their husbands do, or not at all.’

  ‘But you were the one who worked so hard to persuade me!’ Eleanor’s thoughts whirled. Were Mrs Brody and Miss Mann right? Was she fighting a hopeless battle? She shook her head. ‘Please explain yourself. Why, for goodness’ sake, did you choose me?’

  Miss Mann took a deep breath. ‘After Mr Aris’ tragic death, we had to field an independent candidate to try and stop that awful man Blewitt getting his anti-women’s rights candidate elected. But the truth is, the chance of our candidate, whoever we chose, winning in such a traditional area was always slim to none.’ For the first time, she looked Eleanor in the eye. ‘But I assure you that isn’t a reflection on yourself, Lady Swift. We just wanted to keep whoever Blewitt chose out.’

  By now, Eleanor had gone from shock to dismay, to frustration. ‘Hold on! If you were all so sure I wouldn’t be accepted by the majority of working-class voters, why didn’t you choose, say, Mrs Brody, as your candidate instead of me? Maybe she would have had at least a slim chance. She was a supporter of Mr Aris for years, I believe. She’s definitely working class and certainly has more than enough to say on the subject of women’s rights!’

  ‘What, that woman!’ Miss Mann patted her tightly clipped chignon. ‘She is banned from even setting foot near an election or the Women’s League.’

  Eleanor remembered Mrs Aris saying something similar. ‘But why ever was that necessary?’

  ‘Why? Because the woman is impossible! She wanted to be our candidate at one point, but even we couldn’t accept her. She rowed with every member of every party, especially Mr Aris and Mr Blewitt. They hated her equally.’ Miss Mann looked around and lowered her voice. ‘Mr Aris tried to have her Reading Room closed down because she was using them to indoctrinate local women into railing against their situations. He said that was not the usage for which the money had been granted for it to be set up. When Mrs Brody heard he had lodged a formal complaint to the Parish Council, she went round to his house and threw bricks through his windows. She—’

  They were interrupted by the call for candidates to take their place in the hall.

  Miss Mann flashed her an apologetic smile. ‘Good luck, Lady Swift. And don’t worry about Mrs Brody and her group, the master-at-arms has put extra security on the door and around the building. Have you your speech prepared?’

  Eleanor pulled out a folded card and waved it with more confidence than she felt. ‘Perfectly prepared, thank you, Miss Mann.’ She turned and took her seat on the stage.

  It’s showtime, Ellie!

  Twenty-One

  On the raised platform, Eleanor looked out over the crowd of expectant faces, pleased to see that Clifford had found a discreet spot where she couldn’t see him watching her intently. Most of them appeared to be men in their late thirties and forties, with a few middle-aged women sat at the back. She sighe
d to herself, Mrs Brody and Miss Mann’s recent words eating away at the last of the confidence her silent pep talk in the intervening minutes had mustered.

  She looked along the row of other candidates, catching Carlton’s mocking eyes and glanced away, only to meet Duncan Blewitt’s scornful look. She reminded herself that one of the men sitting up on stage with her was likely to be Aris’ murderer. Suddenly she had an overwhelming urge to flee the building. Flee and forget all about the election and the murder investigation, the two becoming more and more entwined in her mind.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath and count to ten.

  Come on, Ellie! If you were going to quit, you should have done it before when you had the chance. You’re committed now.

  She took another deep breath and reached into her pocket for the card she had waved at Miss Mann.

  What the…? The card she pulled out wasn’t the one she’d written her carefully prepared notes on. One side was blank, whilst on the other in beautiful copperplate lettering were the words:

  ‘Be yourself, everyone else is taken.’ Oscar Wilde.

  She gasped. Clifford had hidden this in one of her unfashionable walking shoes when she was going out on her first proper date with Lancelot months ago. The note had sat on the base of her bedside lamp ever since. He’d obviously switched it surreptitiously for her notes whilst she was in the Rolls. She stared at the quote for a moment, and then mouthed the words, ‘Thank you, Clifford.’

  On stage a succession of candidates were called to the lectern. The crowd quickly switched from anticipation to boredom as each started speaking. With no chance of a repeat of the disarray at the first debate, the public felt cheated out of their entertainment. Quiet mutterings turned into loud heckling.

  The master-at-arms banged his gavel repeatedly.

  ‘Silence! I will have order or I will have the room cleared!’ Reluctantly, the crowd complied.