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

by Verity Bright

  Just what I need, Ellie!

  ‘I say, what kind of a welcome is that? We’ve come to cheer you on throughout the show.’

  ‘Cheer me on? Show? This is a debate, not a round of gladiator games. I need to… to… Oh, dash it, Lancelot, I have to be professional and I can’t do that with…’

  Lancelot doubled up with laughter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Professional! Sherlock? You are nothing short of hilarious. Darling fruit, promise me you’ll never change.’

  ‘Promise me you will!’ she muttered.

  ‘Eh?’

  She scanned his face. ‘Lancelot, you really don’t get it, do you? I’m standing for election here.’

  ‘I know, old thing, dashed good wheeze, what? That’s why we’re here, silly.’

  ‘It’s not a wheeze. I really want…’ Eleanor stared at him in horror. ‘We?’

  He grinned and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘We what, feisty MP of my dreams?’

  She slapped his hand away. ‘Who is “we”?’

  ‘Oh yah, brought the gang along for the jolly.’ He waved an arm at five Bright Young Things, taking turns to swig from a bottle of champagne.

  Eleanor groaned. ‘No, no, no! Please leave and take your cronies with you.’

  ‘Cronies? Steady on old thing, you haven’t met them yet! Come and say hi, they’re dying to meet you. There’s Jules, Maitland and the very naughty Claude, he’s an absolute hoot. And the two minxes dripping in sparkly bits are Lavinia and Flavia. We’ve got some hysterical surprises planned for when the other candidates are droning on, just wait and see.’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘Just go, Lancelot. Frankly, I don’t care where, just as long as it’s far away from here!’

  She turned to leave, but he caught her arm. ‘But, Sherlock, I came to support you.’

  ‘No, you didn’t!’ At his hurt look, she softened. ‘Well, I know you did in your own way, but you also came to have fun and this is not the time. Can’t you see this means the world to me? I want to be elected so I can do something to genuinely help these people have a better chance in life.’

  ‘The only genuine thing you can do to help these people is to run along with this band of frivolous time-wasters.’ The voice that spoke was not Lancelot’s, but Blewitt’s. He stood in front of her and Lancelot. ‘Playtime is over. This is a stage for the big boys now, not rank amateurs playing at being politicians.’

  Eleanor scowled. ‘We’ll see who’s an amateur at the debate, shall we?’

  He grinned. ‘No need, dear girl. You’ve just shown the electorate your true colours by arguing with your boyfriend here in full view of everyone.’

  Eleanor spun round to find what seemed like most of Chipstone staring at her.

  She glared at Blewitt. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to take my place at the debate!’

  Blewitt grabbed her elbow: ‘The only thing you have any hope of wiping the floor with is a mop, Lady Swift!’ She shook him off and folded her arms as he continued: ‘Can’t you see you’ve brought nothing but shame to everyone in this town? You’ve made yourself a laughing stock. You are nothing more than a jumped-up, interfering, self-centred—’

  ‘You total cad!’ Lancelot’s blow was well-aimed. Blewitt lurched backwards, clutching his nose. The Bright Young Things whooped and cheered as Blewitt sat down heavily on the pavement, cupping his bleeding nose in both hands.

  The Town Hall clock struck 3 p.m. Clifford materialised at her side: ‘My lady, I can hear the ringing of the ten-minute bell heralding the imminent start of proceedings. You need to be at your place on the stage, if you intend to continue standing. Good luck.’ He gave a deferential half-bow and vanished as magically as he had come.

  Lancelot grinned. ‘Go get ’em, darling fruit! I’ll be cheering you on from the front row. We can celebrate at that fancy new restaurant they’ve opened on the river afterwards. It’s open till midnight.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t. We still haven’t found Mrs Pitkin.’

  Lancelot stared at her: ‘Who the devil is Mrs Pitkin when she’s at home?’

  ‘She’s the cook at Farrington Manor. Or was.’

  He frowned. ‘The one who put the peanuts in old Aris’ pie?’

  ‘Fudge… It was fudge. And it wasn’t Mrs Pitkin.’

  He shrugged. ‘You know I’ve said it before, you are most deliciously peculiar! Why on earth do you have to find some old woman rather than whooping it up with me and my friends?’

  Eleanor held his shoulders. ‘Because she’s been accused of manslaughter and is facing jail, or if she’s lucky, the workhouse, for the rest of her life. Which might not be very much longer if we don’t find her soon.’

  Impulsively kissing him on the cheek, she set off for the Town Hall, leaving Blewitt mumbling on the pavement.

  Through the open doors, Eleanor heard the bell ring again. Was that still the ten-minute bell or the five-minute one? Investigating Aris, and now Carlton’s murder, coupled with organising the search for Mrs Pitkin, had left her little time to prepare for the final, all-important debate.

  Before dashing out of her bedroom to jump in the Rolls, she’d remembered the Women’s League leaflets she’d failed to return to Miss Mann. They’ll help, Ellie. After all, you may not be supported by them any more, but you still believe in their cause. Opening the drawer of her dressing table, she’d grabbed them and run.

  Now inside the Town Hall, she slowed as the master-at-arms’ voice echoed down the long corridor towards her: ‘Candidates, please take your seat as your name is called. Mr Stanley Morris…’ A short, polite ripple of applause followed.

  She hurried on down the corridor, pulling the first leaflet out of her pocket. As she opened it to scan the first paragraph, a small paper note slid out and floated to the floor. ‘Mr Oswald Greaves,’ called the master-at-arms. More clapping and a few foot stampings greeted this.

  Despite herself, her feet slowed. Come on, Ellie, for goodness’ sake! Leave it. You need to get in there and win this thing.

  Her feet came to a stop. Something about the writing on the note reminded her of… what? She bent down and picked it up. On it, handwritten in neat but spiky strokes was a recipe for… chocolate and peanut butter fudge.

  Eleanor stood frozen to the spot, her mind racing. Why? It didn’t make any sense. Then everything fell into place.

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

  Thirty-Three

  For a moment neither spoke, then Eleanor’s mouth fell open: ‘Mrs Pitkin!’

  Eleanor hadn’t recognised her at first, for she wore an old black shawl that covered her head and shoulders.

  The woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Eleanor had flung her arms round her. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe! I… I thought. Oh…’ She stepped away. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pitkin. I was just so worr—’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Ain’t right you apologising to me, after all the trouble I’ve put you, and Mrs Trotman through.’ She hesitated and then looked into Eleanor’s eyes and smiled. ‘And that’s about the nicest greeting anyone’s ever given me, let alone a lady like yourself.’ Suddenly her face clouded over. ‘But there’s no time. There’s another needs help, even more than I do, and that’s saying something.’ She looked back up at Eleanor. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else to come to.’

  The final bell rang out. Eleanor shook her head: ‘I’m afraid I’m not that good at helping anyone. Maybe if I’m elected I could—’

  Mrs Pitkin grabbed both her hands in hers. ‘You don’t need a fancy title to help folk. You’ve already proved that with me, Lady Swift. But now, there’s another what needs your help, title or not.’

  Suddenly Eleanor understood: ‘Where is she?’

  With her chest burning, she ran on, leaving the older woman to shuffle a fair way behind. Please, please let this be the right choice, Ellie!

  Finally, the gates of St Peter’s C
hurch appeared. She stumbled on through the graveyard and into the church itself. In the interior, lit only by a few flickering candles, the smell of wax and incense hit her. There was no sound except her own harsh breathing. She hurried up the long nave and searched behind the altar.

  ‘Nothing!’ She dashed back to the other end where, in the corner, four stone steps led up to a wooden door. That must be it, Ellie! She shouldered her way through and scrambled up the steep, narrow stairs as they spiralled up the bell tower. Gasping at the top, she jerked to a stop.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ The woman’s voice was low and dispassionate.

  ‘Yes… yes, I should.’ Eleanor tried to catch her breath. ‘It doesn’t have to end like this.’

  ‘What would you know?’ Miss Dorothy Mann swayed on the narrow ledge that ran around the tower’s edge. As her hand clutched one of the stone angels adorning the spire, her face was sickly white, her eyes drained of colour.

  Eleanor peered down the shaft, past the ring of bells, and swallowed at the giddy distance to the flagstone floor below: ‘I know you didn’t mean to kill Aris. Or Carlton.’

  ‘It… it was a mistake,’ Miss Mann whispered. ‘They both were.’

  Eleanor’s voice wavered. ‘Please. Come down.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Miss Mann spat. Then her voice softened again. ‘We can’t change our destiny. I tried so hard, I really did. But that woman… I never meant for her… When the policeman told me they were searching for her to arrest her for what I…’ She broke into low sobs.

  Eleanor tried to keep Miss Mann talking. ‘Listen, it was Mrs Pitkin who told me where you were. Who told me you needed help.’

  Miss Mann looked round. ‘I… I don’t believe you. Why should she?’

  ‘Because she recognised another woman who needed help.’ As she spoke, Eleanor edged forward.

  ‘Stop!’ Eleanor froze. Miss Mann ’s voice quivered. ‘If only I hadn’t been such a fool. It could have worked out with Arnold, but I had to ruin it, didn’t I? If only I hadn’t thrown away my one chance of happiness. If only I hadn’t been so pitifully naïve! He… he said he loved me. And I believed him.’

  Eleanor tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Ari—, Arnold told you he loved you? But he’s a married man!’

  ‘It was before he married, but no, not Arnold… it was Ernest told me he… he loved me. I’d never felt anything but plain, useless and invisible. Arnold was always so busy, he was never very attentive. I believed… oh, it doesn’t matter now.’

  Eleanor took a step closer to Miss Mann, trying to keep away from the yawning shaft that dropped to the floor, forty feet or more below. ‘Yes, it does. Ernest lied to you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He told me Arnold didn’t really love me and had been bragging about a woman he was carrying on with. One who would be a suitable wife for a politician. I believed him. I… I left Arnold.’

  Eleanor took another step. ‘But then you realised Ernest was lying to you, didn’t you? You realised that he was just a womaniser.’

  Miss Mann picked up a loose piece of stone edging and hurled it out over the side. ‘Just thinking about him makes my blood boil, and my flesh crawl. He used me and… and…’

  Eleanor caught her breath. ‘Oh, my goodness, you were…?’

  Miss Mann nodded. ‘Pregnant, yes. But I knew the baby wasn’t Ernest’s, it was Arnold’s.’

  ‘You must have felt so alone.’

  ‘I dreamed of ending it right there and then. But I couldn’t take the life of my baby.’ She clung to the stone angel as she sobbed.

  Even though she had crept nearer, Eleanor was still too far to reach out and grab her – she had to keep her talking: ‘So, you returned to Arnold?’

  Miss Mann’s voice was a whisper. ‘Yes. But he wouldn’t have me back. What sane man would? Soiled goods and the shame of being with child out of wedlock.’ Miss Mann shook her head. ‘He said I’d betrayed him with his friend. But Ernest had never been his friend. He lured me away on purpose just to get at Arnold. Even knowing that, Arnold wouldn’t help me, even though it was his child I was carrying. His words that day have eaten me up for sixteen long years.’

  Eleanor inched forward. ‘So, you stayed here in the town all the time you were with—’

  ‘With child? No, I was sent away by an organisation I contacted that helped women in my… my situation. Whilst I was away, I heard that Arnold had married. And after a suitable period, I was brought back and everyone was told I had had consumption. But I wish it had been consumption. I wish it had taken me then, right after the baby was born, because I wasn’t allowed to hold it. I never got to cuddle it or kiss its little face. To stroke its cheeks. And that’s what’s eaten me up all these years. That’s why I wanted Arnold to suffer. If he had only helped me and my… his… child. This election would have been his fourth landslide win. It was rumoured he might have been offered a post in the Cabinet. I… I wanted to deny him that by making him too ill to stand. I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear on my life.’

  Eleanor wanted to rush up and hug her, but she dared not move any closer. ‘It’s not your fault. Arnold never told anyone except a few people how severe his allergy was. You weren’t to know it would kill him. But Ernest found out about you poisoning Arnold, didn’t he?’

  Miss Mann nodded slowly: ‘Ernest said he’d seen me switching Arnold’s fudge for the one I’d made. I thought he’d been too distracted to notice. Then he told me he had evidence I’d killed Arnold. When I went to his house, he showed me a piece of the fudge left over. He said it would show that the other fudge didn’t have peanuts in it and someone must have added them just to his piece.’

  Eleanor slid her hand along the back of the angel Miss Mann was leaning against. ‘And he said he’d tell the police it was you? Did he threaten you?’

  ‘Worse! He said if I didn’t become his mistress again, he would go straight to the police and make sure I hanged for Arnold’s death. I had no idea what to do. I tried to reason with him, but he flew into a rage. I was terrified. And… and then… he was lying on the floor and I was holding that trophy with his blood dripping off onto the rug beside him. I… I… don’t remember doing it, but I must have, mustn’t I?’

  A shout from below made Miss Mann and Eleanor peer over the ledge. A crowd was forming. More people ran in through the gates, pointing up at the tower. Miss Mann looked down and her grip on the statue loosened.

  Now, Ellie! Eleanor took a deep breath and took one more step. She was now only a few inches from Miss Mann. She reached out and gently entwined her fingers with Miss Mann’s: ‘I can help you, I promise.’

  Miss Mann cleared her throat. ‘All I’ve ever dreamed of is a man to love me, for me.’ She laughed hysterically. ‘And now it’s too late.’

  The crowd gasped below as the figure on the ledge seemed to lean out and let go… Someone screamed.

  At the top of the tower, Eleanor held Miss Mann’s hand in a vice-like grip. She might have let an election slip through her fingers, but there was no way in hell she was going to let Miss Mann suffer the same fate.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Oh, dash it, Mater!’ Lancelot stared across the dining table. ‘Surely Eleanor is allowed to finish telling how she was so unspeakably clever as to realise who the murderer was? She’s not known as Sherlock for nothing!’

  It was three days since Eleanor had held onto Miss Mann for dear life as the other woman’s weight had threatened to drag them both off the tower. Just when Eleanor thought she could hold on no longer, there had been the sound of hurried footsteps, cursing, and then strong arms had pulled her, and Miss Mann, back inside.

  As two police constables wrapped the distraught Miss Mann in blankets and led her out, Eleanor had found herself looking into the concerned eyes of the owner of those strong arms.

  She came to and realised Lady Langham was talking. ‘And how did that Inspector Seldon know you were up the tower with Miss Mann?’

  Lord Langham snor
ted. ‘I imagine someone alerted him to the fact that some woman was about to throw herself off a tower, Augusta!’

  Lady Langham rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, what was he doing there? I thought he was based in Oxford?’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘He is, but the organisers of the debate at Chipstone Town Hall were so worried about Mrs Brody’s women’s group starting a riot, they asked for help from Oxford.’

  ‘And a damned good thing they did too,’ Lord Langham said. ‘But none of that explains how you worked out Miss Mann was the guilty party. It’s been eating me up.’

  Lady Langham looked up from her plate: ‘No, dear, that will be your gout!’

  ‘Aha!’ He pointed at Eleanor. ‘Not any more, not with the wonderful Mrs Pitkin now safely ensconced in our kitchen.’

  Eleanor turned to Lady Langham: ‘And is your magnificent, but slightly precious French chef, Manet, really happy with you taking Mrs Pitkin on as second chef?’

  ‘My dear, he is positively over the moon! It has been nothing but rounds of unintelligible tantrums and huffy fits every time I asked for a lighter menu to save Harold’s gout from flaring up. Chef Manet now has free rein for dinner and when we are entertaining, and Mrs Pitkin cooks lunch when we aren’t.’

  Her husband nodded enthusiastically. ‘She’s quite the whizz at conjuring up delicious English fare without all that rich whatnot that makes the toes and knees burn like billy-oh.’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, I’m so pleased it’s turned out well for you and Mrs Pitkin. She told Mrs Trotman that she loves it here. At Farrington Manor, she had to make all sorts of continental dishes, whereas what she really excels at is good old-fashioned English cooking.’

  Mrs Pitkin had also confided in Eleanor that she was thrilled not to be in charge of the cooking when her employers were entertaining. All seemed well below stairs.

  Lancelot yawned. ‘Can we stop going on about the food and finally let our guest tell us how she found out how Miss Mann killed Aris and Carlton?’