A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Planned?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Yes, I presume that’s why the side door was still unlocked when Flo let our servants in later on. He would have intended to come back, let himself in through the unlocked door, and lock it behind him before stealing upstairs to bed. The door remained unlocked, so I think he used his alternative entrance.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The morning room window,’ I said as the realization dawned. ‘That explains why they were always closeted in there. He was in and out through the window whenever he needed to get to the cottage, and we were discreet enough to leave him to it. None of us actually saw him come downstairs that morning – he was just “there”. I assumed he’d come from his bedroom rather than the morning room.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Anyway, the “mortuary men” arrived promptly and took Euphemia’s unusually rigid body away. We should have noticed then that something was amiss.’

  ‘The stiffness, you mean?’ said Dr Gosling. ‘I’d always wondered about that. I asked you to talk to me about it, as I recall. But, yes, it’s probably a side effect of the fish toxin.’

  ‘The next “death” needed all their theatrical skills,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Aaron Orum was eating his pie and started screaming about demons. He ran out into the street in front of a dozen witnesses, including us, and tore across the green to the church. He let himself inside. This is speculation, of course, but my guess is that at that point they administered the powder and laid him out on the ground. Meanwhile, one of the others – I’m assuming one of the “mortuary men” – dressed in the same clothes and wearing a wig, made his way to the top of the tower. He put on a show so that we all saw him and then jumped, apparently to his death, but in reality on to an old cart filled with hay.’

  ‘That’s some jump,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘A foot out in any direction and they’d have had a real corpse on their hands.’

  ‘I knew a chap in the circus who would dive from a high platform into a water barrel,’ I said. ‘Hitting a cart is nothing if you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Exactly. They wheeled the cart out of the way and the chap changed back into his mortuary uniform in time to collect the body.’

  ‘What about the mushrooms in the pie?’ asked Dr Gosling. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I doubt the mushrooms were anything other than common or garden edible mushrooms, after all. When I thought the deaths were genuine, it made sense that Orum would have been dosed with something to make him hallucinate. But now we know it was an act, it’s much more likely that he was just eating a tasty pie. He didn’t need to be drugged if he were a conspirator.’

  ‘We have to assume that the stories of the enmity between Cheetham and Orum were fabricated,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Our only sources were the two men themselves with some corroboration from other members of the troupe. They needed someone who appeared to be on the “outside” to reel in Dinah Caudle and the Bristol News. Someone who could make sure she was fed all the details to generate as much sensation as possible and who could become part of the story without being obviously part of the gang.’

  ‘And that leaves the burning of the witch and the “death” of Nolan Cheetham,’ said the inspector. ‘You said you found a mechanical dummy in the cottage, so I presume that was the witch.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was an ingenious thing. We saw the plans among some papers in the cottage. The arm was worked by a cable. Probably one of the gang round the back of the bonfire.’

  ‘With nitrocellulose to make it burn,’ said Dr Gosling. The inspector looked at him quizzically. ‘Miss Armstrong told me,’ he said. ‘Stage trick. Apparently.’

  ‘Right,’ said the inspector. ‘Then Cheetham collapses after taking a small dose of the powder and the “mortuary men” arrive as if from nowhere to take him away.’

  ‘That was the only thing that nearly went wrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Basil Newhouse and Euphemia Selwood were there disguised as a doctor and his daughter to make sure Cheetham was declared dead and taken away. They beat a hasty retreat when they realized that the police surgeon was already in attendance.’

  ‘That seems to cover almost everything,’ said the inspector. ‘How did you know to look for the cottage?’

  ‘Our housemaid’s husband’s broken leg,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I feel foolish for asking. And the motive for all of this?’

  ‘The publicity,’ she said. ‘I had that part entirely wrong. Or right but then wrong. We suspected that publicity might be at the heart of it, but we were assuming that the deaths were real so I discounted it. It never made any sense. I could see that with all those deaths associated with the moving picture, theatre attendances would be guaranteed but until I tumbled to the fakery I could never see it as a reasonable way to get increased business. But it’s all falling into place now. They’ll have some way of getting at the money, some holding company or something. Then, with everyone dead, they could flee their debtors and set up in America. A fresh start.’

  ‘Using the picture’s takings as starting capital.’

  ‘Exactly so. And the takings from this week alone would cover their fares, not to mention the collection that the villagers took up. By the time all the company’s affairs had been settled, they’d have been living in New Jersey making moving pictures under new names.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the inspector, after taking a moment to consider this new version of events. ‘It’s certainly all very plausible. Let’s see what they say when I put it to them that I know exactly what’s been going on.’

  ‘Do, for heaven’s sake, sit down, m’girl,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

  ‘Sorry, my lady,’ I said. ‘Sitting now.’

  I sat.

  We were in the library at The Grange. We had arrived just as the Farley-Strouds were finishing their lunch. They had invited us to join them in the library for a ‘post-prandial livener’.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ asked Sir Hector as he waved a decanter at us. ‘Scotch? Brandy? A pink gin, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, Hector, it’s too early for that,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You ought to sit down, too.’

  ‘Nonsense, my little buttercup. The sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the Empire.’ He waggled the decanter at her.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said again.

  ‘Right you are, light of my life.’

  He sat. He grinned at me, and winked.

  ‘Well, then, m’dears, what brings you to our humble abode?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It’s not more bad news, I hope. Do please tell me that no one else is dead?’

  ‘No one is dead at all, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘We’ve had the vicar round here saying much the same thing,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I know he was trying to be comforting, but I’m really not in the mood for metaphysics.’

  ‘I mean it literally,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Basil Newhouse, Euphemia Selwood, Aaron Orum, Zelda Drayton, and Nolan Cheetham are all alive and well. They’re being held in the cells by the Bristol police.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ said Sir Hector. ‘How the dickens . . . ?’

  Lady Hardcastle told the story as she’d outlined it to Inspector Sunderland earlier. Together we added the details of our discoveries at the cottage. When we were done, our audience sat in thunderstruck silence for a few moments.

  Eventually, Sir Hector said, ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ again. And then, ‘I think we really do need a drink after all that.’

  ‘Make mine a large one,’ said his wife.

  ‘I’ll have a brandy if you’re offering,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Certainly, m’dear,’ said Sir Hector, who was already on his way to the drinks globe. ‘What about you, Miss Armstrong?’

  I was trying to decide between my usual brandy and the pink gin that Sir Hector had previously suggested. It s
eemed I hesitated for just a second too long.

  ‘She’ll have a brandy, of course,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Always has a brandy, this one. Do pay attention, Hector.’

  ‘As you command,’ he said, and poured four generous measures of brandy.

  ‘We must tell the village,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud once the drinks had been served.

  ‘I’d be very surprised if the news hasn’t already spread,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Inspector Sunderland will have wired or telephoned Sergeant Dobson by now. And while I have nothing but admiration and respect for our village sergeant, he’s not the most tight-lipped of fellows, is he? He’ll have told Constable Hancock first, of course, but only in as much detail as he could manage before he hurried to the Dog and Duck to tell ‘Old’ Joe Arnold. If Daisy Spratt were working behind the bar, the news would be all the way to Woodworthy before Wally Dobson had finished his first pint.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you’re right,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud with a chuckle. ‘What do you suggest we do, then?’

  ‘We do what the English always do, dear: we carry on. Did you let off the fireworks last night after we left?’

  ‘No, there wasn’t any appetite for it with two deaths on the field. We packed everything away and sent everyone home. Most of them went to the pub.’

  ‘Then let’s give them a Saturday night to remember,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  We returned home via the pub, where I was dropped off to make further use of the village gossip network. I told Old Joe, Daisy, and Daisy’s mother, Eunice, about the plans for the evening and asked them to spread the word. When I arrived home and let myself in through the front door, I was accosted by Edna.

  ‘Is it true what they says about all them film folk not being dead?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re alive and well and contemplating the failure of their plans,’ I said.

  ‘Well, carry me upstairs!’ she said.

  ‘It is rather astonishing, isn’t it?’

  ‘And you and the mistress fathomed it all out?’

  ‘Mostly her,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose I helped a little. As did your Dan.’

  ‘My Dan?’

  ‘If he hadn’t fallen over that bicycle in Toby Thompson’s top field and broken his leg, we’d never have found their hideout.’

  ‘I needs a cup of tea,’ she said after spending a quiet moment trying to absorb all this. ‘Want one?’

  ‘I never say no, Edna. Can you bring a pot through to the dining room, please?’

  ‘I’ll be there in two shakes,’ she said, and bustled off.

  I confess to having been slightly disappointed that she hadn’t followed up by requesting confirmation of that evening’s festivities. But it would have taken real witchcraft for the news to get back to the house before I did.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon tidying away the crime board. I transcribed the notes on to paper and carefully filed them, together with Lady Hardcastle’s sketches, in a manila folder. I made a few notes of my own in case anyone ever wanted to refer to the case again. I had done the same with the notes from our previous investigations. One never knows when these things might come in useful.

  While I busied myself with these administrative duties, Lady Hardcastle re-checked and packed the things she needed for the evening.

  ‘I dreads to think what the cricket club will say,’ said Constable Hancock as the first skyrocket went off.

  ‘I imagine they’ll be delighted,’ I said. ‘They’ll say, “What a splendid use of the village green. How thoughtful of them not to let off the fireworks on the wicket.” Don’t you think?’

  ‘I hopes you’re right,’ he said. ‘Arthur Tressle don’t even like people walkin’ across it.’

  ‘The esteemed captain of the cricket club can go to blazes,’ I said. ‘And the bicycle he rode in on.’ I might have had a couple more drinks by this point.

  ‘You’re not the first to have said it,’ he admitted. ‘I must say I loves a firework.’

  ‘Me too. Ooh, look. That was a pretty one.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘There you are, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

  ‘I’ve been here all along,’ I said.

  ‘Are you having fun?’

  ‘More fun than gunpowder and assorted chemical whatnots ought to inspire,’ I said. ‘It might be the brandy, mind you.’

  She laughed. ‘It might well be,’ she said. ‘When you’re done, can you come and give me a hand in the hall, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  The fireworks were finished all too quickly and I made my way to the village hall. The crowd that had assembled to watch was still milling about, chatting and drinking. The next part of the evening’s entertainment wasn’t due to start for a little while yet.

  Mr and Mrs Hughes and their faithful band were still standing sentinel.

  ‘Good evening, Hugheses and friends,’ I said.

  Mr Hughes reluctantly returned my greeting. His friends half-heartedly shook their placards.

  ‘You know that we’re not showing Mr Cheetham’s moving picture this evening, don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘You’re not?’ he said. ‘Well . . . we still need to make people aware of the wickedness that caused so many deaths,’ said Hughes.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re the only ones who don’t know,’ I said. ‘No one died. Cheetham and his friends are locked up in chokey.’ I left them to mutter confusedly among themselves before I added, ‘Why not come into the hall out of the cold tonight? We’re showing some pictures that Lady Hardcastle took in the village.’

  ‘Moving pictures?’ asked one of the band.

  ‘Moving pictures,’ I said. ‘You’re in some of them. Come and join us and have a look. We’ll be opening the doors soon.’

  That was all it took. After another brief, muttered discussion, they carefully stacked their placards against the wall and formed an orderly queue by the door. They were going to be the first ones in.

  Inside, I was delighted to see that there was nothing left for me to do. Dewi was in charge of the projector, Daisy was supervising the seating, and Ladies Hardcastle and Farley-Stroud were huddled conspiratorially in the corner. I approached.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  An awkward pause followed.

  ‘Did you want me for something?’ she said.

  ‘No, my lady, you asked me to come and give you a hand.’

  ‘Did I? Oh, yes, so I did. It’s all taken care of.’

  ‘So I’ll just . . . ?’

  ‘Do as you please, dear. The night is yours.’

  So I did as I pleased.

  I sought out Daisy and we sat together during the screening, making sotto voce comments about the antics of the villagers. So enthusiastic was the response from the audience that we had to watch it through twice more, and by the third time, no one’s comments were sotto voce as everyone piped up to mock their friends and neighbours.

  The evening ended with another screening of Town Mouse and Country Mouse, followed by a speech of thanks from Lady Farley-Stroud for everyone’s help and support during the first ever Littleton Cotterell Moving Picture Festival.

  First? I thought to myself. Surely there won’t be another one.

  Lady Hardcastle and I were chivvied out and told to leave the tidying up to the committee. We arrived back at the house to find two shivering vagabonds on the doorstep.

  ‘You’re a couple of idiots,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I unlocked the door and ushered everyone inside. ‘Why didn’t you come to the village and find us?’

  ‘We wouldn’t know where to look,’ said Skins. ‘So we just sort of waited here.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barty Dunn and Skins Maloney had left their instruments on the train to London when they hopped off at Chipping Bevington.

  ‘It was delayed,’ said Skins. ‘Leaves on the li
ne or some such old tosh. We’d been sittin’ there for ages waitin’ for . . . Actually, I never worked out what we was waitin’ for. Some bloke with a broom to clean the tracks, probably. So we said, “Why not go and cadge a bed for the night at Lady H’s gaff?” And here we are.’

  And there, indeed, they were.

  I managed to put together some bread and a cold collation, and we polished off the evening with gossip and songs around the piano. Both men turned out to be able piano players and they took it in turns with Lady Hardcastle to hammer out a few popular tunes. Between songs, we filled them in on everything they’d missed since they left for Gloucester on Thursday afternoon.

  ‘You two don’t do things by halves, do you?’ said Skins. ‘Anyone else would be content to watch a few pictures and polish off the night with a swift half in the local pub. But not you two. You have to get mixed up in murders what ain’t murders and get yourselves held prisoner at needle-point.’

  ‘To be fair,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘we didn’t invite Cheetham and his co-conspirators to the village, and we weren’t held prisoner for long.’

  ‘Although we were brought to heel by nothing more than a needle,’ I said.

  ‘Which we thought was on the end of a syringe loaded with cyanide,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Weren’t it?’ asked Skins.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was water. They weren’t real murderers.’

  ‘No, but we all thought they were,’ said Barty. ‘Because we all thought half of them were dead.’

  ‘Not entirely unlike your news of Günther Ehrlichmann,’ mused Lady Hardcastle. ‘We all thought he was dead, too.’

  ‘But he must be,’ I said. ‘You shot him. In the head.’

  ‘And yet . . .’ she said.

  The ensuing silence was broken by Skins’s cheerful voice.

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t exactly your typical Friday night, was it?’

  ‘It’s dismayingly typical of our Friday nights,’ I said. ‘But what about you two? How was Gloucester?’

  They went on to describe the horrors of sitting in for the rhythm section of a third-rate ragtime band ‘in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere’. I decided not to ask them where they thought they were now if a city like Gloucester could be dismissed as being in the middle of nowhere. The outer edges of nowhere, perhaps.