by T E Kinsey
‘It’s a cottage,’ I said as the building came more clearly into view. ‘Long abandoned, by the look of it.’
‘But not, I suspect, unused,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a little poke about.’
‘Are you armed?’ murmured Lady Hardcastle as we trod stealthily through the grass leading towards the old cottage.
‘You didn’t say anything about needing to be armed,’ I said.
‘Oh, sorry, did I not? I brought this.’ She produced a tiny automatic pistol from her coat. ‘It’s a Browning pocket pistol. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’
‘It’s adorable,’ I said. ‘You’ve had it for ages and you demand that I admire it every time you whip it out. But you didn’t mention the possibility of violence when you suggested this little trip.’
‘I thought you always carried something deadly,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’ve got an antique musket concealed under my skirts,’ I said tetchily, ‘but I’d struggle to get it out in a hurry if things cut up rough.’
‘There’s no need to be like that, dear. Just cower behind me. I’ll protect you.’
The small cottage had once been whitewashed but was now a dirty grey. Some of the window frames had rotted, some lacked glass, and the white paint that had once brightened them all was flaked and peeling. Where there was still glass, it was grimy and uncared for. But where glass panes were missing, someone had put up brown paper on the inside to keep out the worst of the wind. Someone was living there.
I stood back and allowed Lady Hardcastle to peer cautiously in through the nearest ground floor window – she was the one with the gun, after all.
‘Someone’s definitely been here recently,’ she said. ‘There are enamelled mugs and plates on the table – half a loaf of bread, too.’
‘Any signs of life?’ I asked. I was keeping an eye on the track through the trees so that no one could take us unawares.
‘None that I can see. It’s quiet, too. I count five plates. Five people make quite a racket just going about their daily lives. I’d say there was no one at home.’
‘Shall we look inside?’ I said. ‘We’ve come all this way, after all.’
‘You read my mind. I imagine the door will be locked.’
She was right. The old door had no visible keyhole, but someone had fitted a shiny new hasp and staple, and had secured it with a substantial padlock. I unclipped my brooch and removed the picklocks concealed within.
‘My employer might have neglected to tell me that our outing might place us in peril of our lives,’ I said, ‘and for future reference I would have slipped a knife up my sleeve if she had, but I don’t go anywhere without my picklocks.’
‘Which I bought for you,’ she said.
‘For my birthday, yes. I’m profoundly grateful. Now get out of my light.’
I always loved big padlocks. They were heavy and sturdy. They gave the impression of invulnerability and protection. And I could open them in seconds.
‘Once we’re inside,’ I said as I lifted the lock from the hasp, ‘there’s no way for us to re-lock this. If anyone comes along while we’re inside, they’ll know something’s up.’
‘There’s not a great deal we could do to escape if that happens anyway. Let’s just hang the lock on the staple and hope they think they forgot to lock up.’
‘Unless . . .’ I said slowly. ‘Do you think any of these windows will open?’
‘That kitchen window looks as though it might,’ she said.
‘In that case, you nip inside and open it. I’ll re-lock the door and hop in through the window.’
‘We’ll still be stuck inside if someone comes back.’
‘We will, but we’ll get an extra few seconds while they fiddle about opening the door. That’ll give us time to . . .’
‘To what, dear?’ she said.
‘To think of something,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps there’s somewhere in there to hide. If we leave the door unlocked, they’ll tumble us as soon as they arrive. At least this way we give ourselves a chance of remaining undiscovered.’
‘You make a good case,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to it, though. I don’t fancy our chances either way.’
A few moments later we were both inside the cottage with the door securely locked.
To the left of the front door was the kitchen. As Lady Hardcastle had already attested, it contained evidence of recent occupation. As well as the bread and cheap tableware, the trestle table also held a chunk of cheese, a jug of milk, a handful of apples, and a tin of tea.
To the right of the door was a parlour. There were two army cots leaning against the wall, with their bedding rolled up neatly beneath them. Three folding chairs like the ones around the table in the kitchen were set up facing the fireplace.
There was a body on the floor.
‘Well, that’s unexpected,’ said Lady Hardcastle, crossing the floor to examine the corpse.
‘She is dead, I take it,’ I said.
‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘She’s certainly not alive, but then again, she never was. It’s a dummy.’
She turned the dummy’s head towards me and I saw its wax face for the first time.
‘Zelda Drayton,’ I said.
‘I would say so, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That’s even more unexpected.’
She put the dummy back as we had found it and we scouted around.
There was nothing much of any interest in the parlour, and an examination of the kitchen table provided only evidence that mice had been at the bread, fruit, and cheese.
There were two rooms upstairs, each being used as a bedroom. Each room contained two more army cots, though only three of the four beds appeared to be in use. We split up.
I went into the room above the kitchen. Two people had been sleeping here, and from the clothes lying in untidy heaps on the floor I could tell that it was two men. At least one of them enjoyed cigars, which he kept in a travelling humidor bearing a brass plate engraved with the initials BN.
‘You ought to come and take a look at this,’ I said.
‘I probably ought,’ replied Lady Hardcastle as she crossed the landing. ‘There’s little to remark upon in there. There are two sets of ladies’ clothes, though only one of the beds is in use. Other than that, it’s as neat as a pin. What have you . . . ?’
I held up the humidor.
‘That’s most unexpected,’ she said. ‘What’s in the wardrobe?’
I opened the door and looked inside. It contained two suits of different sizes, a hat, and two wigs.
‘A couple of suits,’ I said. ‘A couple of wigs.’
‘A couple of what?’
I stood aside to let her look. ‘See for yourself.’
‘I’d say it was unexpected, but with quite so many surprises I’m beginning to expect them.’
‘That probably sounded better in your head,’ I said.
‘I talk a lot, dear – you can’t expect every utterance to be a perfectly crafted work of genius. What’s that on the nightstand?’
I stepped over to where she was pointing. On the nightstand was a jar labelled MADAME THIBODEAUX’S PUFFERFISH POWDER, a small bottle labelled POTASSIUM CYANIDE, and an empty syringe with a hypodermic needle attached.
‘Nothing good,’ I said. I lifted the jar of ‘Pufferfish Powder’ to examine the papers it was standing on. ‘Although these look interesting.’
Lady Hardcastle joined me and we looked at the documents together.
Our reading was interrupted by the sound of an approaching motor vehicle.
‘Damn and blast,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Time to hide. Put that back and come with me to the other bedroom. There’s space enough for us both in the wardrobe in there – it’s bigger than this one.’
Within moments I had replaced everything as I had found it and we had silently crammed ourselves into the nearly empty wardrobe.
We waited.
With no rugs or curtains to deaden the sound, we could hear
everything quite clearly, even from our cramped hiding place. Van doors slammed and two men chatted cheerfully. We heard the clatter of the padlock being lifted and unlocked.
Once they were inside, we heard the clump of their boots on the stone floor. They continued talking. They sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.
‘I’ll be glad when this lot’s over,’ said Voice One. ‘I’ve stayed in some lousy drums in my time, but they usually come with a landlady and a fresh pot of tea in the morning. This place ain’t fit for human habitation.’
‘We’ll be out by tonight,’ said Voice Two. ‘Just one more show and we can clear out.’
‘Won’t come a moment too soon, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Voice One.
‘Is this cable long enough?’
‘Not a clue, mate. Just don’t forget that bag – it’s got all his clobber in it.’
Some thuds and thumps followed as they heaved something outside. A van door opened and, a few moments later, closed again. The men returned to the parlour.
‘Where’s the whatsitsname?’ asked Voice Two.
‘The stuff?’ said Voice One with a chuckle.
‘Don’t mess about. The jar. I can’t remember its stupid name.’
‘It’s upstairs. Himself wanted to keep it safe once he got here. I’ll fetch it.’
Heavy boots clumped up the wooden stairs and into the other bedroom. ‘Do we need anything else?’ called the boots’ owner. He sounded frighteningly close.
‘No, that’s the lot,’ came the more distant reply. ‘Come on, we can’t hang about. We’ve got to get this lot set up.’
The boots clumped back down the stairs and the two men left, locking the door behind them. We waited until we heard the van clatter to life and drive away before we tumbled out of the wardrobe and straightened ourselves out.
‘Most—’
‘—unexpected.’ I finished her sentence for her. ‘Yes, wasn’t it just?’
We got out of the cottage by reversing the procedure for getting in – I hopped out the kitchen window and unlocked the front door while Lady Hardcastle closed the window and checked that we’d not left any traces.
‘If all goes well,’ she said as I refastened the padlock, ‘we’ll have them banged up before night’s end. But if it all goes cock-eyed, it’ll be as well to leave things as we found them so as not to tip our hand. Then again, I’m not sure they’d notice anything out of place,’ she said. ‘If they’re doing a bunk tonight, they’re going to stumble around by candlelight picking up everything they can find and packing it into their van.’
We set off back through the trees and down the field.
‘They’re well funded if they have a van,’ I said. ‘Who on earth has a van? Our shopkeepers are all doing well and they send out a lad on a bike with deliveries.’
‘Who, indeed?’ she said. ‘Who has a van?’
‘The mortuary men,’ I said suddenly. ‘They’ve been backwards and forwards with a van all week. We’d have noticed if there were any other.’
‘Would we, though?’
‘Of course. We very often draw a crowd of children shouting, “Poop-poop!” and calling you Mrs Toad when we drive by in the Rover. Imagine the effect another van would have.’
‘But the mortuary van?’
‘I thought I recognized the voices. I’ll lay ten to one it’s because we’ve twice met the men from the mortuary.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘As certain as I can be.’
‘Well, that’s—’
‘Please don’t say it. But you’re right, it is unexpected.’
‘I was going to say, “That’s good enough for me”, Miss Clever Clogs. Come on, don’t dawdle. We need to get back to the village.’
‘My turn to drive?’ I said hopefully.
‘Not on your puff. We’re in a hurry. We haven’t got time for you to peer cautiously round every bend in case there’s a cow in the road.’
‘In case there’s a person in the road,’ I corrected her. ‘Although cows are always a worry. Terrifying creatures.’
‘Moo!’ she said, and tried to race me to the gate.
I beat her easily but held the gate for her and allowed her to board the Rover. I cranked the starting handle and jumped in beside her.
‘What were you expecting to find out here?’ I asked as we set off.
‘Evidence that Hughes hadn’t been staying at the Seddon house at all, and that he’d been hiding out up here.’
‘To what end?’
‘To make it easier for him to get in and out of the village to murder Basil Newhouse and Euphemia Selwood. And to poison Aaron Orum with those mushrooms. We’ve no actual proof that he was staying at the Seddon house, after all. He admitted he went about by bicycle, and Dan Gibson was injured by just such a machine up there in Toby Thompson’s top field. I simply put two and two together.’
‘To get three,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘perhaps three and a half. I was right that there’s something going on up there. And I’ve an idea I know what. But we need to get to a telephone, and then we need to get to the Bonfire Night celebrations before there’s another murder.’
We sped on.
Having only terrified one old lady, two horses, and a pheasant, we arrived at the house relatively unscathed. Lady Hardcastle left me to manoeuvre the little Rover into its stable while she dashed in to make her telephone call.
‘What news from the forces of law and order?’ I said as I divested myself of the heavy driving coat.
‘The desk sergeant at Bristol says that Inspector Sunderland is out but that he’d be sure to pass on my message at the earliest opportunity. It was the surly one, so I don’t hold out much hope. He did tell me that Simeon is on his way out to see us, though. A social call, I think. Evidently, he said something about wanting to see a proper country fireworks party and set off about an hour ago.’
‘It’s probably more appropriate that we see him if the mortuary men are involved,’ I said. ‘Should we call Sergeant Dobson?’
‘That was to be my very next task,’ she said. ‘Yours is to see if Cheetham and Zelda are still here.’
I checked their habitual lair – the morning room – but they weren’t in residence. I ran upstairs to check their bedrooms. When I found both rooms empty, I went to the kitchen.
‘When did Mr Cheetham and Miss Drayton leave?’ I asked Miss Jones.
‘I couldn’t rightly say. Mr Cheetham came in the kitchen not long after you and the mistress went out. He asked if I’d seen Miss Drayton. When I said I hadn’t seen her since before lunch, he got all agitated. Said she was missin’. I offered to call the Sergeant but he said he’d deal with it and then went out.’
‘He left the house?’ I asked.
‘I certainly heard the front door slam.’
I swore colourfully.
‘Sorry, miss,’ she said, sheepishly.
‘No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done. I’m just worried that we might be too late. Thank you, Miss Jones.’
I hurried to sort out our overcoats.
In days gone by, the Guy Fawkes Night celebrations had been held on the village green. Following the rise in the fortunes of the village cricket team at the turn of the century, the club secretary had managed to persuade the Bonfire Committee that the damage they caused to the cricket pitch was unacceptable. The bonfire was now built in a small field at the bottom of the hill that led to The Grange, the home of Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud.
Bundled up in winter coats and woollen scarves, with our sturdiest boots on our feet, we hurried over to the field. A decent number of villagers were already there, chatting merrily in the chill air. Old Joe from the Dog and Duck had set up a makeshift stall and was selling mulled cider, which was being warmed over a small fire in something that resembled a witch’s cauldron. Mr Holman was doing a roaring trade in hot pies, while Mr Weakley, the greengrocer, was selling toffee apples from a trestle table.
All were lit by lanterns and the site had a cheerfully festive air. But we were in too much of a hurry to be able to enjoy it.
Lady Farley-Stroud spotted us and carved a path through the small crowd to reach us.
‘Evening, Emily,’ she said, warmly. ‘Wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Not seen much of you these past few days.’
‘Hello, Gertie,’ said Lady Hardcastle distractedly. ‘I’m so sorry about that. Our plates have been somewhat full, what with one thing and another.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Feeling a bit guilty about that, to be honest. Feels as though I dropped you in it a while. You wouldn’t have had nearly so much to worry about if our kitchen hadn’t burned down.’
‘Nonsense, dear. You weren’t to know that all this would happen.’
‘Suppose not. Still, things could have gone better. Not certain I’ll be inviting any more kinematograph shows to the village.’
‘I’m sure this week isn’t typical of moving picture festivals,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
Lady Farley-Stroud harrumphed.
‘Look, I’m sorry to cut things short,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but time is not our friend this evening. When do you light the bonfire?’
‘Seven o’clock sharp, dear. Why?’
‘Thank you. It’s just that I rather think something alarming will happen and I shouldn’t want to miss it.’
Lady Farley-Stroud already looked alarmed. ‘Shouldn’t we stop it?’ she said.
‘I’m not sure that would help us, to be truthful. I think things will go a lot easier if we let them unfold.’
‘As you wish, dear. You’ve never steered us wrong in the past.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle, and we hurried away together.
Once we were clear of the crowd that had gathered round the food stalls we had a better view of the bonfire, a stack of timber that stood about fifteen feet high. There were logs, fallen branches, carpenters’ offcuts, and even a couple of broken chairs.
‘Can you see what’s on the top of the bonfire?’ she asked.
‘Not in this light,’ I said. ‘I was expecting a Guy Fawkes figure, but I see just a black lump.’