A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  I had already been squinting at the signs but I couldn’t quite see them clearly enough.

  ‘There’s something about “the Devil’s work” and “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to . . .” something or other.’

  ‘To live, I expect,’ she said, still cranking the camera. ‘I do believe they’re displeased with our Mr Cheetham’s moving picture.’

  As we watched, the vicar – Reverend James Bland – emerged from the church door. He walked briskly along the pathway and out through the lych gate towards the assembled protesters. Clearly he wanted to know what was going on as much as we did.

  There was a muttered and very un-churchlike oath from Lady Hardcastle. Another roll of film was required, it seemed, and she was singularly unimpressed by the timing of this interruption to her filming.

  We swapped the rolls of film. This was, in my humble opinion, an unnecessarily complex and tedious procedure. Surely it wasn’t beyond the wit of man to devise a simpler way of carrying out such a necessary, and regular, part of the moving picture process. By the time we were done, Mr Bland’s conversation was over and he was hurrying towards us across the grass.

  Lady Hardcastle took a moment to snatch a few feet of film of the urchin pulling faces at the protesters before the vicar arrived.

  He was panting as he drew up in front of us.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Hardcastle,’ he wheezed. ‘I do hope our visitors haven’t ruined your efforts. I gather you’re making a portrait of the village for the moving picture show.’

  ‘I am, Vicar,’ she said. ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘A murmur here, a whisper there,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t take long for interesting news to spread. Fortunately, the Good Book proscribes only damaging indiscretions and the spreading of falsehoods or I’d never hear anything.’

  ‘We’ve had cause to remark more than once on the reliability of the village news network. It has helped us a lot.’

  ‘Sadly, though, it has let us all down this time. No one knew anything about Mr and Mrs Hughes and their band of spoilsports.’

  ‘Spoilsports?’ I said. ‘Do you disapprove, sir?’

  ‘I most certainly do, Miss Armstrong. Mine is a loving God who takes delight in the achievements of His creation. He’s sophisticated and wise and understands the subtleties of Man’s ingenious inventions. Mr Cheetham is a respectful and godly man. He sent me a thorough description of his moving picture to make certain that I should have no objection to its being shown in the church hall. I pointed out that it’s the “village hall” but that I would have no objections even if it were under my direct control. The picture is modern, it’s even a bit racy, but it doesn’t go against the teachings of our Lord.’

  Lady Hardcastle frowned. ‘But these . . . these . . . ’

  ‘Hughes, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, dear. These Hughes people think it does?’

  ‘Such is their claim,’ said Mr Bland. ‘I’m not certain whether they believe it to be unchristian or whether they’ve manufactured a plausible religious objection to bolster their complaint. I do very much get the impression that Mr Hughes has managed to turn complaining into his life’s work, you see. I don’t mind so much – heaven knows there is much in the modern world that I should like to complain about had I the time to devote to it – but I do wish people like Hughes wouldn’t involve the Lord quite so recklessly in their endeavours. One has to admire the resourcefulness they exhibit in their careful selection of scriptural texts to support their small-mindedness, but it doesn’t always sit well with the Christianity I preach.’

  ‘Can they be stopped?’ I asked. ‘Lady Farley-Stroud will be terribly disappointed if they spoil her “festival”. Not to mention the other villagers. Daisy will be devastated if it doesn’t go ahead.’

  ‘There’s not a great deal I can do, I don’t think,’ he said. ‘I should have something to say if they were on Church land, but they’re on the public highway. Perhaps Sergeant Dobson can give some advice on the matter, but I fear that among the many freedoms we enjoy as citizens of the Empire is the freedom to be a blessed nuisance.’

  ‘I could rough them up a bit if you like,’ I offered with a wink. ‘There’s only, what, a dozen and a half of them? They all look a bit flabby. They wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  He frowned quizzically. ‘I’m sure we can resolve matters without resorting to fisticuffs, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. He leaned in more closely to us both and continued conspiratorially: ‘To tell the truth, I did wonder about setting my wife’s dog on them.’

  Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘Hamlet?’ she said. ‘He’s a big softy. They might die laughing at his antics, mind you.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the vicar, smiling for the first time. ‘But they wouldn’t know that. Until you’ve met him properly, he seems like a fearsome hound.’

  ‘He’s huge,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I’ll give you that. Perhaps you should get Mrs Bland to bring him for a walk and see how they react.’

  ‘I might well do. In the meantime, though, might I prevail upon you to contact Lady Farley-Stroud by telephone? We still haven’t managed to persuade the bishop to have one installed at the vicarage and I should like her to know well in advance so that she’s not too discomfited when she arrives and sees them all standing here.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Vicar,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry too much about Gertie – she’s made of the sternest stuff.’

  Back at the house, Lady Hardcastle telephoned Lady Farley-Stroud, who reacted, as I was told after the call had ended, ‘with a “pfft” and a “silly ass” and an assurance that she will be carrying her heavy-handled umbrella when she arrives for the show tonight.’

  Mr Cheetham, on the other hand, seemed altogether more anxious.

  ‘This is just exactly the sort of palaver we don’t need,’ he said when Lady Hardcastle had recounted the arrival of the Hugheses and their followers. ‘They’ve been dogging my every move for months. At first it was calmly reasoned letters to parish councils describing the evil nature of my picture. When that had no effect, they took to writing directly to the local vicar. Still they were ignored so they went to the bishops. It so happens that I’m on very good terms with the Bishop of Rochdale – he was an army chaplain as a lad and I got to know him in my militia days. He got one of Hughes’s letters. Delivered by hand, it were. And written in green ink. It started out nice and calm, like, but as it went on, detailing the blasphemies I was committing, listing in detail the hellish torments that would be visited upon all who saw the work, it became increasingly rambling and incoherent.’

  ‘What did the bishop do?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘He wrote back that he had seen the picture himself and that there were nothing in it that constituted blasphemy of any sort. He said it portrayed magic and superstition, but in a way so as to tell an extremely moral tale. He pretty much told Hughes to get lost.’

  ‘Which presumably didn’t amuse Hughes.’

  ‘He were livid. Wrote to the archbishop. When nothing came of that, he went quiet for a few weeks, but it seems he were keeping his powder dry for one last attack. He’s come here to cause trouble.’

  ‘There’s not really very much they can actually do, though,’ Lady Hardcastle reassured him.

  ‘Standing there with their banners, and their hymns, and their shouting? They’ll put people off. Intimidate them.’

  ‘I think you underestimate the fine people of Littleton Cotterell, Mr Cheetham. It takes a good deal more than a few hymns and a bit of pseudo-religious chanting to stop them from having a good time. My worry would be that some of the local lads might find sport in roughing them up a little. The Hugheses clearly believe they have right on their side, but I know who my money would be on in a scuffle. And then it would be the village boys who would end up in chokey.’

  ‘Aye, that would be a shame. But I can’t pretend there’s not a part of me as wouldn’t be tempted to join ’em if they decided to give the old p
rudes what for.’

  ‘I’m sure it shan’t come to that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There may be a little argy-bargy and some name-calling, but it won’t spoil anyone’s fun. And with the vicar on our side, no one’s going to be swayed by all their misquoted bible verses and threats of eternal damnation.’

  ‘’Appen you’re right, Lady ’ardcastle, ’appen you’re right.’ Mr Cheetham’s accent had become less and less refined as he became more and more distracted by his troubles. ‘But it’s not going to be quite the carefree evening of thrills and excitement we planned for them.’

  Lady Hardcastle returned to her study to catch up with some urgent correspondence while Mr Cheetham and his actors gathered in the morning room, presumably to finalize their plans for the evening. I decided to check that all was well ‘below stairs’, or ‘behind the stairs’, since the house wasn’t large enough to have a subterranean servants’ area. And it was a good thing, too; all was not cheerfulness and contentment in the kitchen.

  ‘I haven’t touched your bloomin’ polish,’ said Miss Jones. ‘What would I want with polish? To give my pie crust a nice shine? You’ve run out. You was tellin’ everyone as would listen this mornin’.’

  There was a brief pause while Edna reviewed her memories of the day. The antagonistic mood seemed to evaporate before my eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, m’dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s gettin’ into me lately. Of course I’ve run out. I’d best get into the village and get some more.’

  I scuffed my feet as I walked in, a technique I’d learned from a butler I once worked with. I found it a better way to announce my arrival than clearing my throat.

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’ I asked. ‘I can pick up some polish from Mrs Pantry.’

  ‘Are you sure, m’dear? It’s not the sort of thing you ought to be doin’.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘We all pitch in together here. And, besides, I’m at a bit of a loose end so another stroll into the village might be rather nice. If I stay here I’ll only be repairing yet another rip in one of Lady Hardcastle’s skirts.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ said Edna, ‘that would be grand. I can get on with cleanin’ the fireplaces while you’re gone.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ I said. ‘Do you need anything, Miss Jones?’

  ‘No, ta,’ she said. ‘Oh, unless you gets a chance to pop into the greengrocer’s. I needs another marrow. That one he sent over t’other day was rotted through when I cut it up this mornin’.’

  ‘Polish and marrow,’ I said. ‘Righto. I’ll not be long.’

  I put on my coat and left by the side door.

  As I walked around the village green I saw that the protesters appeared to be settling in for a long innings. A couple of hampers stood open on the path and several of the group were sipping something from tin cups. Something warm, I hoped – it was a bitterly cold day.

  I was so intent on getting to Mrs Pantry’s before I froze to death that I was almost bowled over by a man exiting the small tobacconist’s shop next door. He was moving at some speed and it was only my own lightning reflexes that kept me from being knocked into the road. At least that’s how it would be when I recounted the incident later. In reality I was saved from the ignominy of being knocked on my bum by the fact that he barely brushed my shoulder as he crossed my path. Nevertheless, he stopped to apologize.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, miss,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re all right.’

  ‘Right as rain, sir, thank you,’ I said. He wasn’t a villager, but he seemed familiar. He was a man of unremarkable appearance. His eyes were the colour of dishwater and were separated by a long, narrow nose. His thin lips were topped by an equally thin, wispy moustache. He looked like the sort of downtrodden schoolmaster who never wins the respect of his pupils and maintains order by the liberal use of spiteful comments and unfair punishments.

  ‘Are you with the group who arrived earlier?’ I asked, nodding towards the cluster of protesters outside the village hall.

  ‘My wife and I are privileged to call ourselves its leaders,’ he said. ‘Hughes is the name.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Noel Hughes.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Hughes?’ I said. ‘Florence Armstrong. I work for Lady Hardcastle.’

  ‘I’ve seen her name somewhere,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘She has been mentioned in the newspapers,’ I said. ‘Perhaps there?’

  ‘No . . . no . . . something more recent.’ His face darkened into a scowl as the memory came back to him. ‘She has a moving picture in that wicked abomination of a “show” that Nolan Cheetham is attempting to pass off as entertainment.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said with a smile. ‘It’s about mice.’

  He harrumphed. ‘There’s no need for you to sink to their level, you know. You’re an employee, not a slave. You don’t have to condemn yourself to eternal damnation out of a misguided sense of loyalty.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.

  ‘Join our protest,’ he continued. ‘Show them that this ungodly so-called “entertainment” will not be tolerated in our Christian country.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘But to tell you the truth, I’m really rather looking forward to the show.’

  He shook his head and set off briskly to rejoin his fellows. After a few steps he stopped and turned back towards me. ‘This will all end badly, you know,’ he said. ‘No good can possibly come of meddling with demonic forces like this.’

  He set off again before I could respond.

  I mentioned the encounter to Lady Hardcastle when I arrived home with the supplies. She was amused more than perturbed, and we returned to our respective tasks before reconvening shortly before six o’clock for our trip into the village.

  We arrived at the village hall early. Lady Farley-Stroud had asked that we be there to help with the final arrangements, but both Lady Hardcastle and I suspected that she rather wanted to have a friend on hand for moral support.

  We passed through the picket line without any difficulty. A dour-looking woman of late middle age delivered a brief homily on the evils of modern popular entertainment as we approached. I rather hoped we might simply brush past her and carry on into the hall, but Lady Hardcastle stopped and listened. At the end of her address – which had included one or two surprisingly inventive reinterpretations of scriptural texts to make them more appropriate for the new century – she held out a pamphlet. Once again, my own inclination was to ignore it and walk on, but Lady Hardcastle smiled warmly and took the proffered leaflet.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I do hope you don’t get too cold standing out here. It’s not really the weather for it, is it?’

  Indeed it wasn’t. The rain had cleared, but so had the skies, and there was a definite chill in the air without the warming blanket of cloud.

  The woman regarded us coldly. ‘Will you turn from the path of the ungodly? Will you join us in our vigil?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, my word, no,’ said Lady Hardcastle, still in the friendliest of tones. ‘I’m rather looking forward to this. I do love a scary story, don’t you, dear?’ She turned to me as she said these last words.

  ‘Very much so, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to come in and join us,’ she said to the stern-faced woman. ‘I’ll happily treat you and your friends to the price of a ticket each if you fancy some fun.’

  The woman might have looked less scandalized if Lady Hardcastle had invited her to attend a human sacrifice in the name of Beelzebub.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said primly. ‘We place a much higher value on our immortal souls than you seem to. We shall pray for you.’

  ‘How very kind,’ said Lady Hardcastle with yet another warm smile. ‘Well, come along, Armstrong, we need to get inside. Good evening, madam. Don’t get too cold.’

  We left the scowling woman to her picket duties and entered the hall.

  The village hall was filled with th
e sound of chairs being scraped across the floor. The stacks of bentwood chairs that usually stood along the rear wall had been hefted into position so that they could be set out in rows facing the large white sheet that had been stretched taut at the other end of the room.

  Daisy was in charge of the seating. This seemed to involve nothing more than standing with her arms folded, wearing a sternly authoritarian expression and directing a couple of young men I recognized from the rugby club to do the actual fetching and carrying. She returned my wave, but not my cheery hello. I didn’t mind – she was clearly trying to cultivate a reputation as an uncompromising martinet, and something as frivolous and casual as greeting a friend would do nothing for her image. I smiled and left her to it.

  Mr Cheetham was standing in the centre of the room with Lady Farley-Stroud and Dewi the footman. He and Dora had been given the evening off to enjoy the show, but it seemed he had been roped in to help and that his time was not really his own.

  ‘Have you got it, son?’ asked Mr Cheetham.

  ‘I think so,’ said Dewi slowly. ‘I light this lamp by here, then I crank this handle.’

  ‘That’s it. Do you know “Daisy Bell”?’

  ‘I know Daisy Spratt,’ said Dewi uncertainly. ‘She’s over by there, look.’ He pointed to where Daisy stood, arms still folded, marshalling the rugby players in their chair-setting endeavours.

  Mr Cheetham laughed. ‘No, the song. “Bicycle Built for Two”?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know that.’

  ‘Good. Sing that in your head as you turn the handle – it’ll help you keep a steady speed.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ Dewi was becoming more confident.

  ‘But keep your eye on the screen. You want it to look natural. If they look like they’re running through treacle, you need to sing a little faster. If they’re jittering about the place like they’ve got St Vitus’s Dance, slow it down a little.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good lad.’