A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  The butcher’s shop was, as I had been warned, already shut by the time I got there. There was light peeping round the blinds, though, so I took Daisy’s advice and rapped sharply on the door. After a short delay, the blind was pulled aside, and an angry face peered out at me. Either it was an inherited trait or Eunice Spratt had taught her daughter the ‘you’d better have a good reason for interrupting me’ scowl because the face looking through the glass of the shop door was nearly identical to the one that had glared at me across the bar a few minutes earlier. It softened just as quickly into the same welcoming smile when she realized it was me.

  She fussed with the bolts and opened the door.

  ‘Evenin’ m’dear,’ she said warmly. ‘We’ve packed up for the day but I dare say we could find a little sommat, seein’ as it’s you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Spratt,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t after meat.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then. Our Daisy’s up the pub.’

  ‘I wasn’t after her, either. Actually, I’ve just been talking to her. It was you I wanted to see. May I come in?’

  She opened the door and stood aside. ‘Come on in, my lover. Me and Fred’s just doin’ the books. I wants to get ’em done early so’s we can go to the picture show again. We a’n’t ’ad this much fun in the village since I don’t know when. Even with the tragedies, an’ all. I mean, I don’t want to sound callous nor nothin’, but I do love a kinematograph show. What is it they say? The show must go on? And it’s been so popular since the murders. Loads more people is comin’ now than they did when it started. I wonder if we should have a collection or sommat? You know, raise a few bob for their families and that. What do you reckon, my lover? Is that a good idea? I don’t know what sort of people they was. Do they do that sort of thing? We usually does round y’ere, don’t we, Fred?’ She paused momentarily, as though gathering breath for another bombardment but seemed to be overcome by an uncharacteristic moment of self-awareness. ‘But listen to me gabblin’ on,’ she said. ‘What can we do for you? More meat, is it?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No, thank you. I think we have enough to be getting on with. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘You’re no trouble. Is she, Fred?’

  Fred looked up from scrubbing the heavy wooden block behind the counter. ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘I said, Miss Armstrong i’n’t no trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ he said. ‘Can we get you anythin’? I made some lovely sausages today, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘She don’t want no meat,’ said Mrs Spratt impatiently. She turned to me. ‘I’m sure he’s goin’ a bit deaf, you know.’ And then louder. ‘She wants to talk to me.’

  I could have sworn that they’d all been concerned that she was the one who was going deaf. Perhaps I’d misremembered.

  He returned to his scrubbing. ‘I’ll let you get on with it, then, my little apple blossom.’

  ‘What is it you wanted to ask?’ she said as she settled back to her bookkeeping. ‘You don’t mind me carryin’ on with this, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I was just in the Dog and Duck talking to Daisy—’

  ‘She could talk the hind legs off a donkey, that one. Chatters on nineteen to the dozen for hours on end, she does.’

  I could see where she got it from. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘she does like to talk. We’re trying to help Inspector Sunderland with the murders—’

  ‘Terrible business, that,’ she interrupted. ‘Mind, I can’t say as I’m surprised. I mean, I likes a good scary story as much as the next woman, but when you messes with the supernatural like that, well, sommat bad’s goin’ to ’appen, i’n’t it?’

  I frowned.

  ‘It were witchcraft what done for him,’ she said, as though this constituted a complete explanation. ‘And for poor Euphemia Selwood. Dark forces was summoned. And so close to All Hallows’ Eve. That’s when they’s at their most powerful, see?’

  ‘I think we ought to keep an open mind about the cause of death,’ I said. ‘At least until the police have completed their investigation.’

  ‘You keep your open mind, m’dear,’ she said. ‘But I’s tellin’ you it’s witchcraft. You mark my words.’

  ‘Consider them marked, Mrs S,’ I said with a wink.

  ‘You just be sure to tell your Inspector Whatshisname. He might be goin’ off on entirely the wrong track.’

  ‘He might at that,’ I said.

  Mr Sprat looked up and rolled his eyes – his seemed to be selective deafness. It also seemed that the supernatural was clearly a recurring theme in the Spratt household, and one which he had no great patience with.

  I decided to try to return us to less occult ground. ‘Daisy said you were talking to Basil Newhouse on Tuesday night after the show.’

  Mr Spratt gave a little snort of laughter.

  ‘I was,’ said Mrs Spratt. ‘And you can shut your gob, Frederick Spratt. He’s been teasin’ I sommat rotten. I was only chattin’. He was a lovely bloke, that Basil, God rest his soul. Charmin’, he was.’

  ‘“Basil”, eh?’ said Mr Spratt, still amused.

  ‘You show a bit of respect,’ she snapped.

  ‘And you were still talking to him when Aaron Orum came over?’ I asked.

  ‘I was, yes. He’s a nasty piece of work, that one.’

  ‘Orum?’ I said. ‘How so?’

  ‘Basil told us all about how he fell out with that nice Mr Cheetham, and then he comes over, bold as brass, as if they’d never had a cross word, and starts chattin’ to Basil like they was still best pals.’

  ‘It was a cordial conversation, then?’

  ‘As cordial as you please,’ she said. ‘They talked about some mutual friends from the old days, about the kinematograph – Orum was very complimentary about that. Then Orum asks him where they’s all stayin’, and was it far, and was it nice? And then he asks him what time he was plannin’ to head back to Lady Hardcastle’s and maybe . . . they . . . should . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Spratt?’ I said.

  ‘It was him, weren’t it?’ she said. ‘He read all they books on witchcraft when he was workin’ with Cheetham. He knows the spells as good as anyone. He was tryin’ to make sure Basil would be on his own so he could lure him to the old rowan and murder him. Powerful magic, they are, rowan trees. And in the churchyard, an’ all. Magnifies the power, it does.’

  I was happy to let her have her witchcraft fantasy, but she had managed to make Orum’s actions sound very suspicious. If she’d remembered correctly, then he’d gone to a great deal of trouble to find out about Basil Newhouse’s movements. At best it was a little impertinent, even for an old friend. At worst it was downright sinister.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure there’ll be no more witchcraft to worry about. Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘No, my lover,’ she said. ‘That was it. Fred and I left soon after that and we never saw poor Basil again.’

  ‘Righto,’ I said cheerily. ‘I’ll leave you to your work. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Always happy to help Lady Hardcastle.’

  I left the shop and walked back up the lane to the house. I briefly wondered how someone who was so convinced that the moving picture had unleashed a terrible evil could be contemplating going back to the village hall to see it again. But that was a fool’s errand. If people were easy to fathom, there’d be nothing for the likes of us to do.

  Back at the house, Lady Hardcastle was still in the dining room, staring at the crime board.

  ‘That was quick,’ she said as I entered.

  ‘I’ve been gone an hour,’ I replied, slightly puzzled.

  ‘Have you, by jingo? Well I never. How time flies when you’re . . .’

  ‘Completely baffled?’ I suggested.

  ‘Like His Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet on manoeuvres.’

  ‘All at sea?’<
br />
  ‘All, as you so perspicaciously say, at sea. Two bodies in two days and no earthly idea what’s going on.’

  ‘Apart from witchcraft,’ I said.

  ‘Well, there’s that, of course.’

  ‘Eunice Spratt is convinced of it.’

  ‘I yield to no man in my admiration of dear Eunice Spratt. Fred might have mastered the arcane arts of butchery, but everyone knows that his shop would have floundered decades ago without Eunice’s guiding hand upon the tiller. But while I am in awe of her business acumen, I’m less than impressed by her . . . How shall I put this without sounding like a thoroughgoing snob?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘When it comes to matters of science, her wits seem to fail her,’ she continued. ‘If an unscrupulous trader should try to swindle her husband with sub-standard beef, she’d see through him in an instant and send him packing. But one mention of ghosties, ghoulies, or long-leggedy beasties and she turns into the very worst sort of credulous ninny. Look how she fell for the nonsense that medium was peddling in the spring.’

  ‘Credulous, yes, but reliable when it comes to the mundane. She says that Newhouse and Orum got on like old pals, and that Orum was especially interested in Newhouse’s movements – where he was staying, when he was coming back here, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And she thinks he was trying to fathom where and when best to attack him with witchcraft?’

  ‘It is a little fishy,’ I said.

  ‘It’s also the perfectly ordinary curiosity of an old friend. I don’t think we can draw any conclusions from it.’

  ‘Actually, I agree. But it does make me want to go to the show again this evening to see if we can keep an eye on him and find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘Oh, I say, what a wheeze,’ she said. ‘Shall we dog him like in the old days? I’ve not forgotten the old tricks, you know. I quite fancy a bit of cloak and dagger.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I said slowly, ‘. . . we can if you wish. But I had it in mind that we’d just go to the show, watch the pictures, and then tag along when everyone went to the pub afterwards. I’m not sure we’ll need any advanced espionage techniques.’

  ‘I suspect you’re right, as always,’ she said. ‘It means we’ll have to dine early, though.’

  ‘Or late.’

  ‘That may be preferable. To tell the truth, I’m still rather stuffed from lunch. Can you alert Miss Jones to our new plans, please? I’ll consult the film folk.’

  ‘What’s left of them,’ I said.

  ‘I know. One feels partly responsible. They were staying under our roof, after all. We offered them our hospitality and two of them ended up dead as doornails.’

  ‘We offered them a room for the night and a few meals, not a bodyguard and around-the-clock protection from footpads and brigands.’

  ‘Or witches,’ she said.

  ‘Especially not witches,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t have the training.’

  ‘I think you’d make a rather splendid little witch.’

  I frowned.

  ‘You’re wily. Cunning. Agile . . .’

  ‘Sounds more like a fox than a witch,’ I said.

  ‘Ooh, yes. With a big bushy tail. I think you should abandon your witchy ambitions and consider a career as a fox. Or a badger. I do love badgers.’

  ‘I’ll make the arrangements for supper, shall I?’

  ‘Right you are, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll be upstairs. I think I ought to change.’

  ‘If I were a witch,’ I said as I left the room, ‘I could change you into a sane woman.’

  ‘Now where would be the fun in that?’ she called. ‘You’d tire of me in no time.’

  I think I probably would, too.

  Chapter Twelve

  Miss Jones agreed to lay on a help-yourself supper for our return so I went up to help Lady Hardcastle get ready for an evening at the ‘cinema show’.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said as I entered the bedroom. ‘Just in time. Do you think you might be able to work some of your magic on my hair, my little witch? It looks simply frightful.’

  ‘It does look a little . . . nestlike,’ I said. ‘I fear that nestiness may well be its natural state, though. We seem to be fighting a constant battle to maintain it in a presentable condition.’ I took up a hairbrush and began to ‘work my magic’.

  ‘Have you ever considered,’ I said as I tugged at a particularly obdurate knot, ‘simply embracing the chaos? You could cultivate your “batty old biddy” persona and allow your barnet to grow wild and free. It would save us hours.’

  ‘It’s not so much of a problem in the daytime when one can wear a hat,’ she said. ‘I used to wonder about cutting it all off and buying a selection of wigs to suit all evening occasions, but there’s a degree of maintenance required there, too. No, for now I think I shall rely upon my faithful handmaid.’

  ‘Very good, my lady,’ I said, and continued brushing.

  ‘Is Miss Jones amenable to our dining plans?’

  ‘She is,’ I said. ‘And the film folk?’

  ‘I knocked upon the morning room door, but answer came there none. When I opened the door, I found the room empty and our guests flown. They must have gone out while I was pondering.’

  ‘You do get lost in your ponderings.’

  ‘It takes a great deal of mental energy to ponder with such intensity,’ she said. ‘There’s none to spare to pay attention to the comings and goings of houseguests. But no matter. We shall take their departure as an indication that they had no desire for an early dinner. We can give them the good news about Miss Jones’s late supper when we see them at the village hall.’

  By this time, my work was almost done. ‘There,’ I said as I pinned up the last loose lock. ‘That’s the best I can do without the aid of scaffolding and heavy machinery.’

  She regarded herself in the glass. ‘It looks marvellous, dear, thank you. The green dress with the embroidered skirt, I think.’

  ‘Or the blue with the Chinese collar?’

  ‘Whichever you think best, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Blue it is, then.’

  Fifteen minutes later we were both dressed and ready for an evening out. Edna and Miss Jones had already set off for the village hall so I locked the doors and we made our way down the lane to the village green.

  It was another crisp, cloudless evening. There was a huge full moon high in the sky, which bathed the village in a pleasing pale-blue light. Dirtier, yellowish light seeped from the pub’s grubby windows on the eastern side of the green, and another pool of it spilled from the open doors of the village hall to the north.

  ‘You were out earlier, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we approached the green. ‘Is it still too muddy to walk on the grass?’

  ‘I should say so, yes. The going is soft-to-heavy.’

  ‘We should save our boots, then,’ she said, and began to follow the road.

  As we neared the Dog and Duck, we heard a commotion from within. Loud shouts and at least one scream were accompanied by the sound of furniture being hastily shoved aside and more than one glass breaking. We stopped on the pavement as the door ahead of us flew open and Aaron Orum came haring out.

  ‘Help me!’ he screamed. ‘The demons! Demons from Hell!’ He took off towards the church at the sort of pace that indicated that he really did believe he was being pursued by demons. A gaggle of bemused pub-goers followed him out on to the pavement, still clutching their drinks. They did not give chase.

  ‘I say!’ called Lady Hardcastle. ‘Mr Arnold?’

  ‘Old’ Joe Arnold, the toothless landlord, had accompanied his bewildered clientele through the door. ‘’Ow do, m’lady,’ he said.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘Couldn’t rightly say,’ he replied. ‘One minute he’s eatin’ his pie in the snug, next thing we know he goes roarin’ out through the public, screamin’ as how the demons is gonna get ’im.’

  Dinah Caudle, dressed far too glam
orously for a pie and a pint in a village pub, barged her way through the throng. The diamonds at her throat twinkled in the lantern light.

  ‘Out of my way, you useless articles,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t any of you try to help him? Where’s he gone?’

  By this time, Orum had reached the church and we could hear him hammering at the huge oak doors.

  ‘We ought to get after him,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Come on, Armstrong, before he does himself a mischief. You’d better come with us, Miss Caudle. You might be able to help.’

  With that, she hoisted her skirt and set off at a brisk trot towards the church on the other side of the green. I sighed and followed, with Miss Caudle not far behind me.

  Orum’s hammering had got him nowhere and he belatedly thought to try the door handle instead. The church door opened and he disappeared quickly inside.

  The commotion had attracted the attention of the Hugheses and their gaggle of protesters, who had no audience for their protest anyway – the few early-arriving moving picture lovers were diverting from the village hall towards the church gate.

  By the skilful deployment of her loud, commanding voice, and some of the rucking techniques she had learned from the Littleton Cotterell rugby team earlier in the year, Lady Hardcastle managed to get past the gathering throng, through the lych gate, and up to the door before any of them had a chance to object. She tried the handle.

  ‘It’s locked,’ she panted. ‘He’s bolted the door.’

  ‘I’d lock the door if demons were after me,’ I said, somewhat less breathlessly.

  ‘How is it that we’ve run the same distance but you’re not puffed?’ she said.

  ‘Because I’m ten years younger than you and don’t spend all day sitting on my ever-expanding backside?’

  ‘That’ll be it,’ she said distractedly as she stepped back for a better look at the church. ‘As long as there’s a satisfactory explanation.’

  Miss Caudle, similarly winded, had finally caught up with us.

  ‘Are you two just going to stand there chattering?’ she panted. ‘Or are you going to take this seriously?’