The Burning Issue of the Day

by T E Kinsey

  ‘So far we have a burned shop, a dead man, and the most obvious suspect in the history of crime,’ she said. ‘It’s not much to go on, is it? So what are our immediate problems?’

  ‘We don’t know whether Mr Brookfield’s death was the reason for the fire or just a tragic consequence,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, making a note on the board. ‘It’s “felony murder”, isn’t it? Because Brookfield died in the fire and the fire was arson, it becomes murder – there doesn’t actually have to be any intention to kill him. Indeed, I get the impression from all that we’ve heard so far that no one imagines that the intention was to kill anyone at all. They’re all taking the suffragette connection at face value and assuming that Brookfield’s death was a tragic accident. But what if someone set the fire knowing he was up there?’

  ‘Did Lizzie Worrel have a motive to kill him?’

  ‘We shall have to dig deeper and find out.’

  ‘This could be our way in,’ I said. ‘If we can find someone who actually did want to do him in, we’ll have our real arsonist.’

  ‘Our real murderer,’ she said, making another note. ‘What else?’

  ‘Was the fire reported?’ I said. ‘When? By whom? Did the fire brigade attend? Were there any witnesses? Has anyone been questioned? Were—’

  ‘Steady on, old thing,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she hurried to scribble everything on the board. ‘Give a girl a chance.’

  I let her finish her note making.

  ‘We have quite a few things to ask Inspector Sunderland,’ she said. ‘I may have to take him up on his offer of private help sooner rather than later. What do you think he and Mrs Sunderland do on a Sunday? Would it be impolite to telephone him, do you think?’

  ‘Give them time to have their lunch,’ I said. ‘Perhaps in the afternoon? There’s nothing he can do about it until he gets to work on Monday, anyway.’

  ‘True, true. You take more notice of the minutiae of the newspapers than I. Do you have any recollection of what Mr Bedingfield—’

  ‘Brookfield, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘—any recollection of what Mr Brookfield wrote about? Did his name appear on any juicy articles I might have skimmed over?’

  ‘His name doesn’t ring any bells,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Miss Caudle will be able to tell us more about him.’

  ‘Yes, she may be quite an important contact after all. I just wish I didn’t find her so . . .’

  ‘Supercilious?’ I suggested. ‘Obnoxious? Arrogant?’

  She laughed. ‘I was going to say “abrasive”. She’s all those things and more, but she’s frightfully good at her job. And I’d rather have her with us than against us. I think we can come to some sort of accommodation.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ll have a go, at least. If I can’t talk her round to our side, you can take her into an alley somewhere and do those mystical things you do to our opponents in alleys.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ I said.

  ‘Your savage whatnot needs calming, I think,’ she said with a gentle laugh. ‘Music is the key to that, the poets say. Fetch your banjo, I feel some ragtime coming on.’

  Newly energized as we were by the arrival on our doorstep of a fresh ‘case’, Lady Hardcastle and I were a veritable blur of activity on Sunday morning. Breakfast was cooked, served, and eaten in record time and Lady Hardcastle retired at once to her study to clear the decks of correspondence and ready her mind for the labours to come. I’m fairly certain there was something in there about stiffening the sinews and conjuring up the blood, and possibly even something about closing up the walls with our English dead . . . I confess my concentration wanders a little when she comes over all Henry V.

  I was brushing Gloucestershire from our driving coats at around ten o’clock when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello.’ I said. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three.’

  ‘Hello?’ said a familiar female voice. ‘Armstrong? Is that you? I got it right this time, I’ll wager.’

  ‘Good morning, Lady Farley-Stroud,’ I said. ‘You did.’

  The Farley-Strouds were the local ‘gentry’ and had been our friends since we moved in. That is to say, they had been Lady Hardcastle’s friends since we moved in – it had taken them a little longer to accept me as part of the ‘team’, as it were, but there was mutual friendliness there by now.

  ‘We got a telephone chappie out and he worked some sort of wizardry on the thing. No idea what he did but I can hear everything clear as a bell now. Wonder if he can do the same for my ears, what?’

  ‘I think we could all do with that sometimes,’ I said. ‘A little tweaking here and there would do us all a bit of good. Would you like me to get Lady Hardcastle for you, my lady?’

  ‘No dear, don’t worry about that, just get Lady Hardcastle for me, would you?’

  I smiled and put the earpiece down on the table.

  ‘Lady Farley-Stroud on the telephone for you, my lady,’ I said, once she’d moved the pile of papers that was blocking the door and let me into the study.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Did she say what she wanted?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I decided not to ask. It was difficult enough getting her to ask for you, never mind pressing her for further details.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘I say, you wouldn’t mind sort of . . . tidying up in here a bit, would you? It got away from me, somehow.’

  Lady Hardcastle had the keenest mind of anyone I’d ever met. She was charming and funny, and quite the best company. She was kind and thoughtful. But she had to rank high in the list of Most Untidy Humans Ever To Have Lived. She could make a room untidy without seeming to have done anything at all.

  ‘Very few things would give me greater pleasure,’ I said. ‘I’ve been begging to be allowed to tidy this tip for months.’

  ‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘You make a start on that and I’ll see what Gertie wants.’

  I’d barely begun to sort through the first pile of assorted papers when she returned.

  ‘Sorry to spoil your fun, dear, but I’ve invited them round for lunch. I’m going to need you to tell Miss Jones that we’re four for lunch if she can stretch things, and then I’ll need a little sprucing up. Is my burgundy suit presentable?’

  ‘It is,’ I said, ‘but the white blouse will need pressing. It’s been crushed up in the wardrobe for a while.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind seeing to all that while I have a quick bath, that would be lovely,’ she said, and wafted off.

  ‘I’m going to have to steal young Blodwen Jones away from you, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud as she tucked into her third helping of roast potatoes. ‘Mrs Brown is an extremely capable cook, don’t get me wrong, but that young gel has a magical touch. Even a humble roast potato becomes a gastronomic masterpiece in her hands.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the memsahib,’ said Sir Hector with a wink. ‘The quack’s put her on a new diet. She’s been eatin’ plain fish, clear broth, and steamed vegetables for a week. Let her loose on a roast dinner and she’ll wax rhapsodic for hours.’

  Lady Farley-Stroud harrumphed. ‘It wouldn’t be nearly so hard to bear if my beloved husband would join me.’

  ‘He put you on a diet, my little sugar dumpling, not me. Don’t see why I should forsake my steamed puddin’ just because you’ve got a touch of the whatever-it-is. I’ll tell you what, though, she’s right. This is the best meal I’ve had in ages. How does she make even simple gravy taste like that?’

  ‘She is, as you suggest, something of a magician,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t like to enquire too deeply, though, in case I spoil it. Although, actually, I’m not sure I’d understand even if I did. The kitchen remains a place of arcane wonder, as far as I’m concerned. Flo, on the other hand . . . Our Flo could actually give Miss Jones for a run for her money. I’m sure you understand her mystical ways, don’t you?’

  ‘You flatter me,’ I said. ‘But
you’re right, I do understand what she does. I’d never have thought of most of it for myself, I have to say, but once she’s shown me, it seems like the only way to do it.’

  Everyone chomped in silence for a moment, enjoying the food.

  ‘But enough of all this idle chatter,’ said Lady Hardcastle at length. ‘You indicated on the telephone that you had news of great import to impart. The fatted calf was slain and the board was made to groan just so that I could hear it. So delay me no more. Let’s be having it.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky she’s given you this long before she blurts it out,’ said Sir Hector.

  Lady Farley-Stroud smiled almost girlishly. ‘I’m going to be a grandmama,’ she said. ‘I received a letter from Clarissa yesterday morning.’

  ‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle, raising her glass. ‘Congratulations. And to you, grandpa.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Congratulations to you both.’

  Glasses were clinked.

  ‘Never thought it would happen, to tell the truth,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Wasn’t sure she was the motherin’ type. Head full of fluff, that girl, never imagined she’d be capable of bringin’ up a child, but I can’t pretend not to be pleased.’

  ‘He’d fail if he tried,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘We’re both thrilled.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  Clarissa was the Farley-Strouds’ only child. We had met her only once, at her engagement party, but when that all went disastrously awry she had returned to London, never to be seen again. We heard through her parents that she had quickly married a more suitable gentleman – Adam Whitman, an engineer.

  ‘Thank you, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Can’t see the gel, though. We’d love her to come home to have the baby, but young Adam’s working for Monsieur Blériot just outside Bordeaux. We’ll have a French grandchild.’

  ‘The Louis Blériot?’ I said. ‘We read about his channel crossing last summer.’

  ‘The very same,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Adam’s a bit of a whizz with structural whatnots and materials somethin’-or-other. He’ll be helpin’ build aeroplanes.’

  ‘How exciting,’ I said, quite forgetting for a moment that we were supposed to be talking about babies and not aeroplanes.

  ‘When?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, saving me from embarrassing myself by asking more questions about the aeroplane factory.

  ‘When what, dear?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Oh, the baby. July.’

  ‘How wonderful. Will you be visiting her?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll take the boat train. Make a holiday of it. We haven’t been to France since we were young. Do you remember, Hector?’

  ‘How could I forget, m’dear?’ he said. ‘Beautiful food, beautiful wine, and my beautiful young wife. Who wouldn’t hold those treasured memories forever?’

  ‘Oh, Hector, you do talk such utter tosh,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘And at the table, too.’ But there was a smile in her voice and a twinkle in her eye. To Lady Hardcastle, she said, ‘You haven’t forgotten our beano next Saturday, have you?’

  ‘Never, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Not only is it in the diary, but the invitation stands in pride of place on the mantel as an additional reminder. Best bib and tucker already cleaned and prepared. Dancing shoes brushed.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. It was intended to be “just because” but we’re turning it into a bit of a celebration now.’

  ‘I’d not miss it for the world. Now, who’s for pudding? Flo, dear, would you do the honours? We really do need to get some bells in here.’

  I went to the kitchen to get Edna to help clear the dinner plates and to ask Miss Jones to serve her celebrated tarte Tatin aux poires.

  Chapter Four

  The up-and-at-’em spirit persisted into the next morning and we were on our way back to Clifton bright and early. Lady Hardcastle had telephoned Inspector Sunderland as promised on the previous afternoon and they had arranged to meet discreetly at a coffee house not far from the WSPU shop at eleven o’clock.

  ‘In which case,’ she had said after explaining the details of the call to me, ‘we can get a head start on the day by calling in at the shop first thing. We don’t have anything to tell them yet, but we can at least let them know we’re making a start.’

  And so, at half past nine on that brisk, sunny Monday morning, we drew up outside the shop and parked the Rover.

  ‘Are you sure it will be all right here?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we began removing our gloves and goggles. ‘It’s on a bit of a slope.’

  ‘The brake should hold it,’ I said. ‘And if it doesn’t, I shouldn’t think it will make it as far as Park Street before it hits something that stops it.’

  ‘You’re not nearly so comforting as you think you are, you know. But there’s nowhere safer so we’ll have to take our chances.’

  We entered the shop to find both Beattie Challenger and Lady Bickle behind the counter. They were working as a team, with Miss Challenger folding leaflets and Lady Bickle placing them into envelopes.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How are you both?’

  They looked up from their campaigning work.

  ‘Emily, dear,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘How lovely. We weren’t expecting you.’ She paused. ‘Were we?’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘you’ve not forgotten anything. We just thought we’d drop in.’

  ‘That’s such a relief. I’m not nearly so scatter-brained as people like to imagine, but one never knows. I feel sure I would have remembered that you were visiting, though, so I’m glad I haven’t completely lost my marbles. Well, not all of them, at any rate.’

  ‘We’ve no real news, I’m afraid. Not yet, at least. But I wanted you to know that our friend in the police has offered his support. He’s not able to help in an official capacity – he confirmed what you said, that the police have their arsonist and have closed the investigation. And he won’t break any confidences – he’s a very principled officer and loyal to the Force. But he doesn’t like to see an injustice done and he’ll steer us in the right direction whenever he can.’

  ‘Oh, that is good news,’ said Lady Bickle.

  ‘Sounds like typical police laxity to me,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘Arrest the first person they find, then put their feet up. Pretending to turn a blind eye while one of their own “helps” a pal is just a way to keep the case tightly shut.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re being entirely fair, Beattie, dear,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘It sounds like this Inspector . . . ?’

  ‘Sunderland,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘. . . like this Inspector Sunderland is doing this off his own bat. You make it sound as though they’re covering things up.’

  ‘Doesn’t it look that way to you?’ said Miss Challenger.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘You vouch for the integrity of this inspector, Emily?’

  ‘We’ve known him for almost two years. He’s a remarkable man,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘One you said was loyal to the Force,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘You think he’s going to put the rights of a suffragette to a fair trial over the reputation of his beloved police force?’

  I was wondering about the best way to give this Beattie Challenger character a good tanning and make it look like an accident. Lady Hardcastle was a good deal more self-possessed.

  ‘I can personally vouch for Inspector Sunderland’s integrity and his unshakable belief in justice,’ she said evenly. ‘He’ll be beside us in our search for the truth, no matter where the path takes us, even if it leads to the knowledge that the police have it wrong and Lizzie Worrel is innocent. I should warn you, though, that Armstrong and I will continue to search for the truth even if it means finding that Lizzie Worrel is guilty. We’re taking you on trust and we’re starting from the assumption that she’s not the arsonist, but we’ll not conceal the truth to free a guilty woman.’

  Miss Challenger glared at us both
while Lady Bickle shuffled the pile of envelopes on the counter in front of her. She was about to speak when the shop bell rang behind us. We all turned to see who had saved us from the awkwardness and I was slightly dismayed to see that it was someone who was more than capable of bringing her own supply of awkwardness with her. A woman in an expensively tailored suit, wearing an achingly fashionable hat, and with a leather satchel slung across her shoulder stepped into the small shop.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ said the visitor. ‘I wonder if I might . . . Oh.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Caudle,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘My presence often provokes that reaction. And that expression, too. I’ve come to accept it. How the dickens are you?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Miss Caudle.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being very remiss – I ought to sort out the introductions. Lady Bickle and Miss Challenger, allow me to introduce Miss Dinah Caudle, a journalist with the Bristol News. Miss Caudle, this is Georgina, Lady Bickle, and Miss Beatrice Challenger of the Bristol branch of the WSPU.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lady Bickle brightly, ‘so you’re Lady Hardcastle’s reporter chum? She mentioned you yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I’d hardly say we were ch—’ began Miss Caudle.

  But Lady Bickle was oblivious. Or determined not to let another conversation turn unpleasant. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ she asked. ‘Were you at the Royal Infirmary’s Christmas Ball? I’m sure you were. You gave it such a jolly write-up in your newspaper.’

  ‘I was certainly there,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘My fiancé is training to be a doctor and I thought I’d kill two birds with one st—’

  ‘I knew it,’ interrupted Lady Bickle again. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Welcome to our humble shop. How may we help you?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Miss Caudle, still evidently baffled by this good-natured barrage, ‘I rather thought I might be able to help you. Or help one of your friends, at least. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?’ She eyed Lady Hardcastle and me without affection.