by T E Kinsey
‘I don’t think you’ve met anyone yet who has left the encounter doubting your batty eccentricity,’ I said.
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ she said.
The conversation soon returned to the murders, but as far as I could make out we were just rehashing the same observations and arguments. There are only so many times one can hear the phrase ‘But why on earth would he do such a thing?’ before the mind begins to wander towards thoughts of lunch.
I was saved by the arrival of Edna bearing a sturdy pot of stew and dumplings.
‘Thank you, Edna,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
‘My pleasure, m’lady. Though it was Miss Jones what did all the work – I just carried it through.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘your hard work is always appreciated. Oh, and Miss Armstrong told me about the cigars. Do take as many as you’d like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, m’lady,’ said Edna. ‘Though I’m havin’ trouble findin’ the Ther . . . the “humidor”. I thought it was on Mr Newhouse’s nightstand, with his cufflinks and collar studs, but I’m beggared if I can find it now.’
‘How odd,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You had a jolly good look, I take it?’
‘I searched the room from top to bottom,’ said Edna. ‘But it i’n’t there. There’s not much else in there, and it’s a big old box, so there’s nowhere for it to hide.’
‘Perhaps Mr Cheetham removed it,’ I suggested. ‘Or even Zelda Drayton. She was very fond of Mr Newhouse – perhaps the smell of the cigars is a comforting reminder.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Edna slowly. ‘But don’t forget I cleans their rooms as well and I a’n’t seen the box in neither of them.’
‘Most peculiar, indeed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Have you noticed anything else missing?’
‘No, m’lady, just that. But I don’t want to take up your time. I’m sure it will sort itself out. I just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’
‘Of course, Edna, of course,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you for letting us know.’
Edna bobbed a curtsey and left.
‘If it were any other household, I’d tell you one of the servants had pinched it,’ said the inspector. ‘Then again, in my experience there’s usually a perfectly mundane explanation. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called upon to investigate the theft of some treasured possession only to find it had fallen behind a tallboy or been buried beneath a carelessly discarded coat.’
‘You’re almost certainly right,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Let’s not worry about it for now, though. Let’s tuck in to this stew. I’m famished.’
Immediately after lunch, Inspector Sunderland received a telephone call from the Bristol CID requesting his urgent attendance at the interview of a suspect in another case. Lady Hardcastle and I were left, once more, to our own devices.
‘What now, my lady?’ I said as I began to tidy the dining table.
She sighed. ‘I do feel as though we ought to go hunting for clues, or questioning more witnesses, but I confess to being more than a little stumped. I wonder if a change of mental focus might give my poor addled brain a chance to regroup and come at the matter afresh in due course. Perhaps from a different angle.’
‘It often helps,’ I said. ‘What will you do?’
‘I still haven’t reviewed that film we shot for the villagers. I thought I might go into the orangery and see what gems we ended up with. I’m sure I shall be able to show something at the village hall to lift everyone’s spirits and remind them that moving pictures aren’t all bad.’
‘That sounds like a splendid plan,’ I said. ‘I’ll get on with some mending.’
‘Right you are, dear. See you back here at . . .’ She consulted her wristwatch. ‘Shall we say half-past two for a cup of tea?’
‘Half-past two it is,’ I said, and carried the dishes out to the kitchen.
I fetched my mending basket and yet another unaccountably ripped skirt – I had long suspected that Lady Hardcastle damaged her clothes on purpose just to keep me out of mischief – and settled at the kitchen table. The light was good, the room was warm, and I had Miss Jones to chat to while I worked.
We covered the disappointingly poor availability of fresh fish in the village – it always felt like a terrible risk to order it sight-unseen from the fishmonger in Chipping Bevington. We moved on to how much her mother’s spirits seemed to have been lifted by having to fend for herself a lot more – Miss Jones didn’t know whether to be pleased about this, but certainly felt that it brought her own ambitions within reach. And then we discussed her ambitions. There was no doubt that she was a marvellously talented cook, and I was delighted to find that she had no intentions of hiding her light under a bushel.
‘I wants to study at the Ritz,’ she said earnestly. ‘Or the Carlton. With someone who’s been taught by Escoffier. Or Escoffier hisself. Can you imagine that? The things I could learn. And then I’d find a hotel and turn it into the place where everyone wanted to eat.’
‘I’ve never met a female chef de cuisine,’ I said. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Yes, well,’ she said sadly, ‘that’s where my plan falls down, isn’t it? You a’n’t never met one cause women i’n’t allowed in the big kitchens. Not to cook, leastways. We’re good enough to wash pots and chop onions, I shouldn’t wonder, but no one’s going to let me cook.’
‘You’ll have to dress as a boy,’ I said. ‘Sneak into their citadel in disguise.’
The back door opened abruptly and Lady Hardcastle hurried in.
‘Who’s in disguise?’ she said.
‘Miss Jones is going to dress as a boy to get a job in the kitchens at the Ritz.’
‘Oh, I say, how thoroughly splendid. Good for you.’
‘I i’n’t goin’ to do it really,’ said Miss Jones. ‘It was one of Miss Armstrong’s flights of fancy.’
‘Ah,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘She’s prone to those. But if you need any tips, she’s your girl. She’s disguised herself as a boy on more than one occasion.’
‘You’ve never!’ said Miss Jones.
‘No, she’s right,’ I said. ‘It got me out of many a tricky situation.’
‘And into a good many more,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘What’s life without a bit of jeopardy?’ I said. ‘But the trick is baggy clothes to hide your shape and a big cap to hide your hair. Then you just make a few lewd comments to passing girls and challenge someone to a fight. There’s really nothing to it.’
‘Well, I reckons I’m going to have to become a great chef some other way,’ said Miss Jones.
Lady Hardcastle thought for a moment. ‘I think I might know one or two people who could help,’ she said. ‘If you’re serious. I’d hate to lose you, but I’d hate to trap you here when you could be mistress of your own kitchen with the world beating a path to your door.’
‘You’re very kind, my lady,’ said Miss Jones. ‘But I’s happy enough here, really.’
‘For now, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘For now. But when those feet start to itch, you just let me know. We’ll sort something out for you.’
Miss Jones smiled.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘now that you’ve seen to your cook’s career, what can we do for you? It’s not time for tea yet – you said half-past two.’
‘I know I did,’ she said, ‘but I want you to come and see something on that film we shot. We really do need bells in this place.’
‘Or some sort of internal telephone system,’ I said.
‘Even better,’ she said. ‘I shall look into it when we’ve got the current mess sorted out. But for now there is film to be examined. Chop-chop.’
I put down my sewing and stood up.
‘Is that my skirt?’ she asked.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘How did you manage to . . . ?’
‘There was a pair of fire tongs, as I recall. And a pok
er. And a recalcitrant fire. One thing led to another and the results are as you see them.’
I sighed. ‘Let’s go and look at your film,’ I said.
Lady Hardcastle had very few household rules. She made very little fuss about routine matters and simply expected that, between us, Edna, Miss Jones, and I would keep everything running smoothly. I’d had fifteen years to get used to it, but it came as a bit of a surprise to the other two, who had both worked in strictly regimented houses where their every move was controlled and monitored. Edna had initially been very disdainful of Lady Hardcastle and her laissez-faire approach to running a home, and I overheard her complaining to Miss Jones more than once in the early days. After a while, though, they both found that they rather enjoyed being trusted with the responsibility of doing whatever needed to be done to keep things jogging along smoothly. The quality of their work improved noticeably. Neither of them had ever been shirkers, but once they realized that they were being treated as competent, experienced staff, they began to take pride in doing their jobs to the very highest standard.
Though the rules were few, there was one which could never be broken. No one was to tidy or clean the orangery. At first glance, this made a certain amount of sense. There was expensive equipment in the studio that might be damaged. There were half-finished projects that, should any of the parts be knocked or moved, would be ruined. There were dangerous chemicals for developing film. It was only when one considered Lady Hardcastle’s personality and habits that the rule began to seem somewhat foolhardy.
Lady Hardcastle was untidy. She moved about the world surrounded by an invisible cloud of disorder and disarray. She could walk into a room, have a conversation with someone, and then leave without apparently having touched anything. Once she was gone, the room would be in a state of chaos, as though a storm had passed through.
The combination of these two things – the no-tidying rule and Lady Hardcastle’s innate talent for mayhem – meant that the orangery resembled the site of a recently ended, and extremely violent, battle. The blinds were drawn and the room lit with two oil lamps, but the state of bedlam was still evident. Every available surface was piled high with . . . things. Some things were unidentifiable, some things were clearly rubbish, some things could be grouped with other things and be put away in a drawer or cupboard where they could be more easily found when needed.
She went to the projector and fussed about with the film.
‘Sit down, dear,’ she said. ‘This is going to take a couple of moments. The blessed thing keeps getting stuck.’
‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘But where . . . ?’
She turned to see me gesturing at the chair and stool, both of which were stacked with boxes and papers.
‘Either,’ she said, as though I had asked the most dunderheaded question ever uttered.
‘And where should I put the . . . things?’
‘On the floor will be fine. Just be sure to put them back where you found them when we leave. I have a system.’
I bit my tongue and did as I was bidden. Having decided on the stool, I moved a surprisingly heavy wooden box, a quantity of felt, some twine, two meat skewers, and a tin of moustache wax on to the floor. I perched on the stool and waited.
‘There we are,’ she said at last. ‘Shutter those lamps for me, and let’s have a look.’
With the room in darkness, she lit the lamp in the projector and began cranking the handle.
‘I can’t help but feel that some sort of properly regulated clockwork mechanism would be a better solution,’ she said as the images twitched and stuttered on the screen.
‘What am I looking for?’ I asked.
‘It’s just coming up in a few moments,’ she said. ‘I’d have left the film in the right place, but this lamp is hot enough to set the film ablaze even when it’s doused . . . Ah, here we are. What do you see there?’
‘It looks like a bicycle leaning against the churchyard wall,’ I said.
‘Yes, so it does. That’s not what I was thinking of, but remember that you saw it . . . Blast, it’s gone now – I’ll have to wind it back.’
I was treated to the comical sight of villagers walking backwards as she found the part she wanted to show me. ‘There,’ she said as the camera rotated towards the church again. ‘Just disappearing up the hill beside the butcher’s.’
It was a small cart, laden with hay. It appeared to be being pulled by a donkey, which was led by a hunched man wearing a short, dark coat.
‘That looks like the cart we saw in the churchyard. If it carries on up the hill and turns left, that will take it to the lane that runs past the back of the church.’
‘My thoughts exactly. I’d assumed that the cart and donkey were part of the fixtures and fittings, but it seems they only arrived on Tuesday morning, before the first show. Keep watching.’
There was a jump where the camera had stopped and we had moved it for another shot. The bicycle was still visible against the churchyard wall. The cheeky little lad whom Lady Hardcastle had persuaded to pose for us by the church looked awkwardly towards the camera. The Hugheses’ charabanc came into the picture from the right, filled with their followers. They all began to debus.
‘Ignore the protesters and keep your eye on the bicycle,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I did as I was asked. A few seconds later, a hunched figure wearing a naval peacoat and a cap came into view from behind the bus. He mounted the bicycle and rode off.
‘That’s the chap with the donkey,’ I said.
‘It certainly looks like the same man,’ she said. She began to wind the film backwards on to its spool. ‘Unshutter the lamps for me, would you? I’ll just get this packed away.’
‘You see some significance in the hunched bloke?’ I asked as the room came back to life.
‘I wouldn’t have thought anything of him,’ she said. ‘But when I saw that he was connected with both the donkey and the bicycle, I began to wonder. There could be a perfectly mundane reason for there being a donkey in the churchyard, and bicycles are extremely commonplace. But bicycles do seem to keep cropping up, and now they’re niggling at me.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Dan Gibson broke his leg falling over a bicycle out on Toby Thompson’s top field,’ I said. ‘And didn’t Aaron Orum say he tripped over one outside the pub?’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Orum seemed a little embarrassed by it, but he definitely mentioned a bicycle.’
‘So did Hughes,’ I said. ‘He rode back from the Seddon house on one, and he mentioned seeing someone else riding one as he went home.’
‘Just so. I feel an idea forming. Just the tiniest seedling of a notion at the moment, but an idea nonetheless. How do you fancy a drive out to Toby Thompson’s top field?’
‘I’ll fetch our driving togs,’ I said.
Chapter Fifteen
As we made our way along the lanes in Lady Hardcastle’s little red Rover 6, I was glad of the protection afforded by the heavy driving coat, gauntlets, hat, scarf, and goggles I had put on before we left home. It wasn’t at all warm out.
‘I really rather think,’ I shouted above the noise of the engine, the wind, and the whooshing of the tyres on the road, ‘that our next motor car ought to have some sort of enclosed cabin for us to sit in.’
‘It is a bit parky, isn’t it?’ shouted Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ll have a word with Fishy – see if he can design us one.’
As we rounded a corner on two wheels, I began to doubt the wisdom of owning a car designed by her friend Lord Riddlethorpe, the racing driver. She was bad enough in the little Rover with its top speed of twenty-four miles per hour. I could scarcely imagine the danger she would pose to the citizens and wildlife of Gloucestershire in a more powerful machine.
I was saved from having to make further comment by our arrival at our apparent destination. We had pulled up alongside a gate leading into a steeply sloping field. Down the hill to our left were the rich pastures farmed by Toby Thompson. Up
the slope to the right was a patch of rough ground leading to a stand of trees. Lady Hardcastle pointed to the dried mud beneath the gate.
‘As I suspected,’ she said.
I looked at the spot indicated and saw the narrow tracks of bicycle tyres.
‘Up towards the trees, I think,’ she said, and led the way.
The small copse seemed to form a natural boundary to Toby Thompson’s top field. It could scarcely be described as a ‘wood’, but the trees still grew several deep, making it impossible to see what was on the other side.
Lady Hardcastle pointed to the ground again. ‘Ha!’ she said triumphantly. ‘I’ll wager that’s where Edna’s husband tripped over the bicycle and injured himself.’ A broad circle of the long grass was trampled flat. There were faint traces of tyre tracks in the exposed mud. ‘I’d say he comes up here to hop the wag. He can sit among the trees, have a smoke, perhaps read the paper. He has a perfect view down across the fields in case his boss is about. If he were careful, he could be out the gate and back down the hill before he was spotted. No one would have tumbled to his scrimshanking if he hadn’t tripped over the bicycle and broken his leg.’
It seemed a reasonable assessment. Most of the farm was laid out below us and Dan would have had a great vantage point from the tree line, while remaining out of view himself.
‘That much we gleaned from his confession to Edna,’ I said. ‘But what’s got you all hot and bothered? Why have we traipsed all the way up here?’
‘Patience, tiny servant. If I’m right, all will be revealed on the other side of the trees.’
We trudged up the hill and my opinion of the heavy driving coat began to change. In the motor car it had been a welcome bulwark against the bitter wind as we sped along the lanes. Here it was a bulky encumbrance, and was starting to make me perspire in a most unladylike way.
Breathing heavily, we cleared the tree line and walked for another minute through the small, but dense, stand of trees. As we progressed, we caught glimpses of what lay beyond.
‘Ha!’ said Lady Hardcastle again. It was a day for small triumphs. ‘What do you see?’