A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Including stirring up fear and prejudice against them? Against me?’

  She hadn’t anticipated being put on the defensive, and she didn’t seem pleased about it. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘You must be used to having people turned against you,’ she said. ‘There was an outcry after you stole Aaron Orum’s story, for instance.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said coolly. ‘Miss Armstrong told us you’d been keeping company with Aaron. How is he? Well, I trust? I do hope your . . . “relationship” hasn’t compromised your – what do they call it? – “journalistic integrity”. The people of Bristol have a right to expect honest objectivity from the press.’

  Miss Caudle blushed crimson but chose to ignore his barb.

  ‘But you don’t deny that you stole his story and that public opinion turned against you,’ she said.

  ‘I deny both of those things. The Witch’s Downfall is entirely my own work and the only opinion turned against me was that of my former friend Aaron Orum.’

  ‘Will you be withdrawing your stolen picture now that it has inspired murder?’ she said.

  He appraised her silently for a moment. ‘I don’t think we have very much of any use to say to each other, Miss Caudle. Thank you for calling. Miss Armstrong, would you show her out, please?’

  I opened the door while Miss Caudle hurriedly stuffed her notebook and pen back into her handbag. She left without another word.

  Mr Cheetham had nodded his thanks and taken himself back off to the morning room with the two ladies. Lady Hardcastle felt that she ought to be doing something useful, so I was sent to the attic to fetch the blackboard and easel – her infamous ‘crime board’.

  We set it up in the dining room as usual and she started work on her sketches.

  ‘From what we know already,’ she said as she put the finishing touches to her drawing of the victim, ‘Newhouse was killed by someone who was familiar with Mr Cheetham’s moving picture. The murder was carefully planned and neatly staged to leave no doubt about the connection to the story.’

  ‘Last night was the first public showing in the whole of Gloucestershire,’ I said, ‘so we can safely rule out our friends and neighbours – they would never have had time to plan and carry out such an elaborate crime.’

  ‘Just so.’ She began scribbling notes on a piece of scrap paper as she talked. ‘Let’s see, then . . . We have Cheetham himself, of course.’

  ‘An ambitious man,’ I said. ‘He likes to be in control, I think. And he likes to put on a show. But why would he kill one of his own cast? It’s not quite killing the goose that laid the golden egg, but it’s just making work for yourself to kill your own staff.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘The same thought has saved your life more than once. There may be circumstances of which we know nothing, though. They might have quarrelled. There might be some long-standing grudge. Or debts. There could be any number of reasons for wanting to bump someone off. We’ll put him on the list. The two actresses?’

  ‘For completeness, yes. It’s not like we’ve not met our fair share of murderesses lately, so we can’t rule them out simply because they’re women. And there was something I overheard on Monday afternoon. I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Euphemia Selwood was arguing with Mr Newhouse. I couldn’t hear clearly, but her parting shot was something like, “You want to watch out, Basil. You could find yourself dead.” It could be construed as a threat. And then there was her comment about “danger” just before they all came out of the morning room.’

  ‘They very well could be threats,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But she’s such a charming, lovely young woman. It’s difficult to imagine her wanting to kill anyone, much less a man she regarded so fondly.’

  ‘She’s an actress, though,’ I said. ‘You can’t trust them.’

  She laughed as she jotted down their names. ‘Very well. There would be others involved in the production, of course. Backstage chaps or whatever they call them in the moving picture business. And the young actor who played George.’

  ‘I suppose we should consider them. But we’ve seen no sign of any of them yet, so perhaps we ought to stick to people that we know are here.’

  ‘Very well. Aaron Orum.’

  ‘He comes across as a thoroughly obnoxious egomaniac,’ I said. ‘He seems to have a very high opinion of himself and a correspondingly low opinion of everyone else. He was extremely unpleasant when we encountered him in the pub.’

  ‘Unpleasant enough to commit murder?’

  ‘Unpleasant and flamboyant enough, yes. I shouldn’t let my prejudices get the better of me, but even the way he was dressed made him look like the sort of person who would murder someone like this.’

  ‘But why?’ she asked as she jotted down his name. ‘What would he gain by killing Newhouse?’

  ‘He hates Cheetham. You should have heard him.’

  ‘Yes, but if he hates Cheetham, why kill Newhouse?’

  ‘To ruin him?’ I suggested. ‘By linking the death to the new moving picture, he could kill the project before it properly set sail. He mentioned how expensive it all is. Losing the audience might bankrupt him.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘But it’s a bit indirect.’

  ‘I’ve never quite understood the idea of killing someone who upsets you. They can’t be sorry once they’re dead. And even at the moment of their death they might not know it was you who killed them, or why. Far better to ruin them, to make their lives a misery.’

  ‘Remind me never to upset you,’ she said.

  ‘I’d be without a billet and a salary if I were to ruin you, my lady,’ I said. ‘You’ve been saved more than once by that knowledge.’

  ‘Touché. So how about this journalist character? Deborah Crundel?’

  ‘Dinah Caudle. She seems clever in a superficial way, but she’s not . . . wily. She came in with a half-baked plan to unnerve Mr Cheetham and get her story, but she let him run rings around her. She’s not a strategic thinker. I don’t know if she could plan a murder.’

  ‘But she had a plan of sorts when she came here. She only stumbled when things didn’t go as she thought they would. If everything went the way she imagined it, she’d be capable?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  ‘It would help to make her name in the newspaper world if she were the one to break a big murder story. And what better way to be the first to report on a murder than to commit the murder yourself? You don’t really need to get any sensational quotes if you already know the whole story, so maybe her interview wasn’t planned at all. Perhaps she just needed to speak to him so she could say she had.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’m putting her on the list. Inspector Sunderland wants as complete a roll call as we can muster. Which leaves us with the Hugheses.’

  ‘Wet blankets and spoilsports,’ I said. ‘But very competent ones if the vicar is to be believed.’

  ‘Mr Bland is a man of principle and honour. I think we can take him at his word on most matters.’

  ‘In that case, it would appear that they are professional troublemakers. I wouldn’t put it past them to murder someone to stir up a little controversy and further their cause.’

  ‘It’s a big step,’ she said.

  ‘If they feel strongly enough about their cause, who knows how big a step they might be prepared to take? He seemed quite the zealot when I bumped into him outside the tobacconist’s.’

  ‘Well, quite. Of course, if we’re including everyone who knew about the plot of the moving picture, the vicar needs to be on the list, too, you know.’

  ‘A wise old woman once told me that Mr Bland was a man of principle and honour and that I could take him at his word on most matters. I think that might extend to assuming that he’s not a deranged murderer.’

  ‘I’m forty-one.’

  ‘Forty-two on Sunday,’ I said. ‘See? Old.’

  ‘Cheeky wench. I’ve a goo
d mind to—’

  I was saved from whatever her good mind had conjured up by the ringing of the telephone.

  ‘I’ll just answer that, my lady,’ I said, and scooted from the room.

  ‘Take a message, would you?’ she called. ‘I’ll get on with these sketches.’

  ‘Righto,’ I said.

  ‘Unless it’s Gertie.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Or anything particularly urgent.’

  I sighed and picked up the telephone. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three,’ I said loudly and clearly. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Flo?’ said a man’s voice. ‘Blimey, is that really you?’

  ‘As far as I can make out,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s you.’

  ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. But you have the better of me, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said the voice.

  I said nothing. This could go on for days.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said again. ‘Skins. Remember?’

  Ivor ‘Skins’ Maloney was the drummer in the ragtime band that had been mixed up in the business at The Grange when we had first arrived in the village. He and his bass-playing friend Barty Dunn had stayed with us briefly when everything had been settled and we had spent an entertainingly musical evening together. Of course I remembered him.

  ‘Of course I remember you, Mr Skins,’ I said. ‘How wonderful to hear from you.’

  ‘You might not think so when you find out why I’m callin’,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve done bloody murder and you’re looking for a place to lie low until the rozzers lose the scent?’

  ‘More like we’re on our way to Gloucester and the train’s broken down at Chipping Bevington. But we do need a place to lie low. Or lie down at any rate. Any chance of us kippin’ down at your gaff?’

  ‘Us?’ I said. ‘The whole band?’

  He laughed. ‘No, just me and Barty. Best rhythm section in London. We’re in demand. Sittin’ in with some bunch of yokels up Gloucester way. What do you say?’

  ‘It’s not my place to say anything, I’m afraid. Can you hold the line while I speak to Lady Hardcastle?’

  ‘Certainly can, my little Welsh cake,’ he said. ‘But be quick. There’s an old dear here wants to use the telephone and I’m not sure I can fight her off for long.’

  I placed the earpiece on the hall table and scooted back into the dining room. I recounted Skins’s request.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How delightful. I don’t see why not. We’ve got the room. More so now that Mr Newhouse is no longer with us. And if the film folk are out tonight, it would be fun to have company.’

  ‘We’re not going to the picture show?’

  ‘You can if you like,’ she said. ‘But they’re going to be showing The Witch’s Downfall again and I’m afraid I really do still think it’s in terribly poor taste. It feels less like a tribute to Newhouse’s talents as an actor and more like a ghoulish celebration of his murder. I was planning an early night, but an evening with our musical friends would be quite refreshing.’

  ‘I’ll tell him the good news,’ I said, and returned to the telephone.

  A few minutes later, we received another telephone call, this time from Inspector Sunderland. He was tied up with work on his two other cases and wouldn’t be able to return to Littleton Cotterell that afternoon, but he was grateful for our list of possible suspects. Lady Hardcastle held the earpiece so that we could both hear.

  ‘Just keep an eye on things for me,’ he said. ‘Dobson and Hancock are decent chaps if they’ve got someone around to nudge them in the right direction, so just do whatever nudging is required and I’ll come up to the village as soon as I can.’

  ‘Did Simeon do his autopsy?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘No, the mortuary van broke down on the way back to town. He was called out on another case so he missed them. He’s planning to spend the day tomorrow catching up with his “slicing and rummaging”, as he calls it.’

  ‘That sounds like Sim,’ she said. ‘Solemn and respectful.’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t bother his patients, not in their present state, but I do hope he manages to rein it in if he ever has to deal with relatives and loved ones.’

  ‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about there – he’s not quite the idiot he likes to pretend to be. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Inspector.’

  ‘I shall call on you before I do anything else.’

  The call ended with the usual exchange of goodbyes.

  ‘How long do we have before the boys get here?’ asked Lady Hardcastle once she had replaced the earpiece on its hook.

  ‘It depends how quickly they can arrange transport from Chipping,’ I said. ‘Skins expressed an intention to “have a swift half” in the pub while they waited, though, so I’d not expect them within the hour. Longer if halves turn to pints.’

  ‘Plenty of time, then,’ she said.

  ‘For . . . ?’

  ‘For popping into the village and kicking some wasps’ nests.’

  ‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘I fancy doing a little kicking.’

  ‘Then button up your boots and let’s go,’ she said. ‘You fetch hats and coats and I’ll tell the film folk we’ll be back in time for tea.’

  Mr and Mrs Hughes and their devoted acolytes were chanting half-heard slogans outside the village hall. The placards were familiar from the previous day, all save one. It read: ‘Romans 6:23 “For the wages of sin is death . . . ”’

  ‘Well, really!’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I think we need to have a word with these Hugheses.’

  ‘It does seem a little crass,’ I said. ‘The poor man’s not been gone more than a day and they’re busy blaming him for his own demise.’

  ‘Come then, tiny one. Let’s go and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’

  We were halfway across the green when the vicar emerged from the great oaken doors of St Arild’s, accompanied by his diminutive wife. And her dog.

  James and Jagruti Bland had met while he was serving as a missionary in India. She had worked as a teacher in the small village school he helped to set up, and as the years passed pleasantly by they fell in love and were eventually married. When the time came for Mr Bland to return to England, Mrs Bland, of course, came with him.

  They met with a certain amount of mockery – the tall, gangly priest and his tiny wife did, to be perfectly honest, present an endearingly comical image. But they also encountered an unpleasant amount of hostility – the English priest and his Indian wife made a lot of small-minded people extremely angry. They had served many parishes around the country before the villagers of Littleton Cotterell took them to their hearts and they found a place where they were finally accepted.

  More or less.

  Mrs Bland (‘Jag’ to her friends, of whom there were many) was a woman possessed of many fine qualities. She was intelligent and witty, kind and generous. She played the harmonium. Without fanfare or folderol, she fed and clothed her husband’s parishioners when they fell on hard times. But she had one failing. She was utterly devoted to the world’s most preposterous dog.

  Hamlet was a Great Dane. At the very least, as Prince of Denmark, he was an important Dane. But in this instance, Hamlet was one of those improbably large dogs formerly known as the German Boarhound and which we now know as the Great Dane. He was blueish-grey in colour, with white socks on his forelegs, and stood just shy of three feet tall at the shoulder. He weighed in on the heavy side of twelve stone. This meant that the top of his head was roughly level with Mrs Bland’s armpit and that he weighed about twice as much as she did. He was friendly, playful, inquisitive, and was possessed of that most terrifying of animal attributes: a mind of his own.

  Hamlet was often to be seen taking Mrs Bland for a walk around the village and, unless you took the trouble to engage her in conversation, you might imagine that the only English words she knew were ‘Hamlet! No!’ He was generall
y genial and well meaning, but his size, exuberance, and wilfulness, coupled with his mistress’s inability to curb his more boisterous excesses, meant that he spent a lot of time tied to fences and gate posts – he was no longer welcome in many of the homes and shops of Littleton Cotterell.

  Sometimes, though, a colossal, disruptively ill-disciplined dog is just what the doctor ordered, and this was precisely one of those times. As Mr Hughes, the leader of the protesters, spotted the Blands, he gave a sneeringly self-satisfied smile. This was their chance to act. He signalled to his cohorts and, as one, they rounded on the vicar and his wife. The chanting, which until this moment had been reasonably good-natured – one might even have called it ‘jolly’ – took on a sinisterly aggressive tone. Things seemed to be getting ugly.

  Mr and Mrs Bland seemed inclined to ignore the small crowd and stepped out into the road in order to get round them rather than trying to push their way past. Unfortunately, there’s a mystical force that takes control of crowds and turns a collection of perfectly reasonable individuals into an intimidating mob, no matter how benign the intentions of those individuals might be. One of the women took a step towards the Blands. It looked to me as though she was merely trying to regain her balance after leaning over too far, but the mystical mob force took her step as its cue to impel the rest of the group to also take one step forwards. For no readily discernible reason, the volume of the anti-cinema chanting increased as they did so.

  Whether he saw it as an opportunity for play, or for mischief, or whether he perceived the movement as a threat to his own beloved humans, Hamlet was certain that something was afoot – or a-paw, at least. He barked. A loud, sonorous bark. The sort of bark that would make even an enterprising burglar stop a-burgling and abandon his felonious little plans. The woman whose stumble had precipitated the crowd’s collective step screamed in fright. The man next to her took another solo step and brandished his placard at the dog, yelling something unintelligible as he did so.

  Now Hamlet knew for certain that the game was on. He gave another full-throated bark and lurched forwards, yanking the lead from Mrs Bland’s tiny hand. He caromed exuberantly into the man who had stepped towards him, knocking him flying into the woman who had started it all. Both protesters fell to the ground but Hamlet carried on, bounding through the group and barking gleefully all the while. Within seconds he had knocked everyone on to their backsides and was still bouncing around the fallen, barking and wagging his tail.