The Black Cat Murders: A Cotswolds Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox Book 2)

by Karen Menuhin

  The

  Black Cat

  Murders

  Karen Menuhin

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen Menuhin

  First edition March 2019

  ISBN: 9781096199687

  For Jonathan, Laura,

  Scarlett & Hugo

  Baugh.

  With Love

  Chapter 1

  Spring 1921

  ‘Rather an unlikely murder weapon,’ I remarked. ‘A soprano.’

  ‘Well, yes, yes, Lennox,’ I heard Cyril Fletcher bluster, despite the crackles on the telephone line, ‘the circumstances were peculiar. Actually, the whole damn event was peculiar — although earls are like that.’

  I had sympathy with the sentiment, but Cyril Fletcher, our family doctor since before I saw the light of day, wasn’t making any sense at all.

  ‘Why were you there, Cyril?’ I asked, not unreasonably. ‘You hate opera as much as I do.’

  ‘Invited, of course.’ His voice rose in indignation as he recounted the incident. ‘Virtually ordered to go by the Earl. Forced to sit through three hours of Tosca, with all the bells and whistles. Then just as the soprano burst into some sort of tortured lament over Crispin Gibbons, the trap-door collapsed under their combined weight and they vanished from sight with an ear-shattering shriek. And it had already been uncommonly ear-shattering up to that point, let me tell you.’

  ‘Well, at least it put an end to the whole palaver,’ I said.

  ‘If only it had! There was the usual call for a doctor in the house and everybody immediately looked at me, so I had to go and officiate. The lady had landed on Crispin and was only shaken. He, on the other hand, was flattened and quite dead.’

  ‘I assume said soprano is built on traditional lines, then?’

  ‘Dame Gabriel Forsyth – and yes, very much so. Crispin was no beanpole either. Rotund sort of chap, bit like an overgrown cherub actually,’ Cyril replied.

  ‘But what on earth makes you think this could be anything other than an accident?’

  ‘Because they’d been prancing about on the stage all week, having rehearsals and dressing up and what have you. The full show was put on in the evening for invited guests, me included, and it was only at the very end of the whole rigmarole that the trap-door failed. At first I took it for a simple misfortune and told the police so in no uncertain terms, but now I’m having second thoughts…’ His voice trailed off in doubt.

  ‘Well, it probably failed because they’d been bouncing around on it, Cyril.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what everyone says, and I’d agree with you if it wasn’t for the strange commotion with the cat just before it all happened. And I was the one who picked up the body.’ He let out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘What cat?’

  ‘Black cat. It rushed on stage, then raced off across the orchestra. At the time I thought nothing of it. After the accident, the police tried to persuade me that there was malicious intent, which I argued was poppycock. But now I am not so sure. It’s been troubling me.’ He paused. ‘Lennox, I think there’s mischief afoot.’

  ‘But Cyril, the chances are too random.’ I mused over the run of events. ‘The lady could have landed first and he’d have just bounced off.’

  ‘Exactly! So nobody would know who was to be killed,’ Cyril exclaimed – as if this were somehow rational. ‘You have to go, you know, Lennox.’

  ‘Cyril, I am most certainly not going to gatecrash the Earl’s country pile and snoop on his guests. Particularly based on such a hare-brained notion as you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Lennox, don’t you ever read your correspondence?’ Cyril retorted snappily. ‘You were invited ages ago – it’s Caroline’s marriage.’

  ‘Good Lord, really?’ I’d heard some vague rumours about Caroline, but I had better things to do than listen to tattle about weddings and whatnot.

  ‘The nuptials are next weekend and the Earl has laid on another full-blown production on the eve of the ceremony.’

  ‘What? It sounds appalling. Why the devil is he inflicting opera on people?’

  ‘Because he’s determined to hand over his only daughter in style – and the bridegroom is obsessed with opera.’

  That raised my eyebrows. ‘Nonsense. I can’t imagine Caroline marrying someone who even likes opera.’

  ‘Well, there you are. No accounting for the tender heart, is there?’ Cyril said.

  ‘Doesn’t happen to have a lot of money, does he, this groom?’ I suggested.

  ‘Of course he does, and the Earl needs every penny of it. Now get a move on, Lennox, you should be there already. I’m surprised you haven’t been reminded – you know what the old man is like. Not to mention Caroline.’

  I knew exactly what they were like. Lord Neville, Earl of Bloxford, known to the commonality as ‘His Lordship’, Brigadier Bloxford had never really left Army life behind him. His only daughter, Lady Caroline, was a no-nonsense country girl whom I had known virtually since the cradle. Neither of them beat about bushes.

  ‘Oh very well, I’ll go if I must, and you had better be there to point the way, Cyril, because your idea of murder by opera singer sounds absurd,’ I warned him.

  ‘Ha, not a chance. I’ve got better things to do than have my ears scourged by any more caterwauling. I’ve already passed my regrets to the wedding party – I’m off to Tuscany. See you after Easter. Good luck, old chap.’ He rang off.

  I placed the receiver back on its candlestick stand and stood, irresolute, with my hand to my chin. Doctor Cyril Fletcher had been our family physician since before I was born and I’d just passed my thirtieth year. He’d done his best to prevent my lamented parents from falling off their respective twigs – although in the end, they’d both succumbed. Nevertheless, I considered it entirely infra dig to call me up and demand that I go off and detect a murder, especially since no one thought it was a murder, and then declare he was shoving off to Italy.

  It’s not that I wasn’t keen on detecting – quite the reverse, actually. I’d developed a certain taste for sleuthing last Christmas when I’d been accused of murder by Chief Inspector Swift – a man whose path I hope never to cross again – and had to track the murderer myself. That had taught me the rudiments, and I’d invested in a couple more volumes of Sherlock Holmes to expand my knowledge. But I had no desire to go anywhere near a society wedding – even if the bride was a childhood friend.

  It had been a long cold winter but spring had finally sprung and I wanted to make the most of the bright sunny days fishing and shooting here at my home, the Manor, near Ashton Steeple. I’d already been out every day for almost a week shooting pigeon in the woods with my dog, Mr Fogg. I admit, I may have been rather slow to pick up my correspondence and might have overlooked the odd missive, but I really did have more interesting things to do.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets, and, with my thoughts perturbed, went off to my library. It was looking particularly spruce today as the maids had been spring cleaning and all the leather-bound books gleamed; they smelt of lanolin and neats-foot oil, and I could barely make out the usual whiff of damp, mould and must. The grate had been swept out, the fire set but not yet lit, for in spring we only had fires in the evening. I rifled through the pile of papers the maids had stacked in a wicker basket on my desk and found a telegram that must have arrived a few days ago.

  To Major Heathcliff Lennox. STOP. Where are you? STOP. Come immediately. STOP. Brigadier Bloxford. Bloxford Hall. STOP.

  Must say, it was hardly the sort of invitation
you’d expect to a wedding.

  Just as I was quietly contemplating the turn of events, my aged retainer walked in with the dinner gong. He bonged it three times, then turned to leave. He’d taken to doing that of late and it was becoming quite annoying.

  ‘Greggs, will you stop that and come back here,’ I called after him.

  He returned slowly and stood in the doorway – straight-backed, paunch to the fore, togged in his usual butlering outfit of black tails, dickie, starched shirt and collar, with an expression of weary patience, as though I were being entirely unreasonable.

  ‘Why don’t you just announce the meal as usual?’ I asked.

  ‘I am saving my voice, sir. For the singing,’ he intoned.

  ‘What singing?’

  ‘Gilbert and Sullivan, sir. I have joined a group. I am a tenor,’ he said with some pride.

  ‘Good God, not you too, Greggs? What is this passion for opera?’

  ‘Operetta, sir. It is amusing, sir.’

  ‘Unlike the real thing?’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  ‘Greggs?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Seems I should be at some wedding beano. Didn’t happen to see an invitation, did you?’

  He looked meaningfully at the mantelpiece, where a fancy gold-lettered envelope rested against the clock. ‘I placed it in plain sight, sir.’

  ‘That clock hasn’t worked for decades, Greggs, what’s the point in putting it there?’

  ‘Because you never look at the papers on your desk, sir.’

  ‘Right, well, never mind that.’ I snatched the invitation up and tore it open, muttering to myself. ‘Brigadier Bloxford invites Major Heathcliff Lennox … Wedding … Lady Caroline … Mister Hiram Chisholm….What sort of name is Hiram? I mean, is it a name?’

  ‘American, sir?’

  ‘I suppose it must be,’ I ran my hands through my hair. ‘Right: packing required, Greggs. Load up the old trunk with the stiff rig would you, old chap, it’s going to be top hat and tails. And I’m told there may be some detecting involved, so I’m going to need jam jars, tweezers and a magnifying glass.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. May I remind you that your dinner is waiting to be served.’

  He turned and left as I looked after him. His lack of curiosity was out of character, and his usual hangdog demeanour held a hint of quiet amusement – he was hiding something. I followed briskly in his footsteps to the dining room, where he had raised the domed lid from a plate of roast spatchcock pigeon and waited for me to sit. Which I did, because it was the pigeon I had shot that very morning and it smelled delicious.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know why?’ I quizzed him as he spooned boiled sprouts onto my plate.

  ‘Would it be concerning the death of Sir Crispin Gibbons?’

  ‘How the devil did you know about that?’ I spluttered. ‘Were you listening in on the telephone again, Greggs?’

  ‘No, sir, I have received certain information. Excuse me, sir, I will commence with your trunk now.’

  He departed the room as he said this, leaving me to mull over his insinuation. I hastened through my dinner, excellent though it was, and skipped pudding to track him down to my bedroom, where he was inspecting the contents of the open wardrobe.

  ‘What information, Greggs?’

  He placed a couple of formal shirts into my packing case and straightened up to brush a few flecks of dust from his waistcoat.

  ‘My nephew, Richard Dicks, is the head footman at Bloxford Hall, sir,’ he intoned.

  ‘Is he indeed. Excellent! What did young Dicks say?’

  Ha! I thought: this could help me slay the doubts of the doctor before I’d even left the Manor.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Greggs. Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘The information was given in confidence, sir.’

  ‘Nonsense. If I do have to carry out any detecting, I’ll need all the help I can get.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, sir.’ Greggs carried on emptying drawers and folding shirts.

  ‘This is about that bottle of Jameson, isn’t it?’

  I received no reply. He slid my indoor shoes into a canvas sack, then wedged them tightly in the bottom of the trunk as he held me to ransom.

  ‘Damn it, man. That whiskey was a gift from my Uncle Charles,’ I argued. ‘I was saving it for the grouse season.’

  Nothing – not even a sniff of disdain. He carried on gathering up the small stuff and whatnots and stowing it in the side pockets of the trunk. We’d been through the Great War together, Greggs and I; he’d been my batman while I’d flown aeroplanes into battle against the Boche. We’d had spells on the front line too, which had gouged deep scars in our hearts and minds. It was mostly thoughts of this old place and the quiet country life here that had kept us going. We’d returned at the war’s end, two years ago, wearied and troubled. I had immersed myself in country pursuits and Greggs had taken a liking to good Irish whiskey – and I knew he’d had his eye on my bottle of Jameson.

  ‘I haven’t even taken a sniff of it yet,’ I objected, and sank onto the edge of my four-poster bed. Once he had something in his sights, Greggs could be as dogged as a bloodhound. And he’d probably help himself to the stuff once I was out of the door anyway.

  ‘Oh, very well, Greggs, it’s yours. Spill the beans – and it had better be good.’

  He stopped folding handkerchiefs and drew up his paunch in a dignified manner.

  ‘Sir Crispin was the head of the Noble House of Opera singers – an amateur group who perform renditions for gentlefolk at homes of distinction.’

  ‘You mean they troop around the country singing for their supper at upper-crust shindigs.’

  ‘Only in the Cotswolds, sir. There are sufficient estates surrounding Oxford to keep them fully engaged.’

  ‘Very true,’ I agreed, knowing full well the place was awash with toffs.

  ‘The unhappy event happened during the recital the night before last. The trap-door gave way.’

  ‘Yes, Cyril Fletcher already told me. That bottle is not going to be forthcoming unless you’ve got something more enlightening, Greggs.’

  ‘There is more, sir. The staff were of the opinion that there was something peculiar about Sir Crispin.’ Greggs paused as he spoke, clothes-brush in hand, then recommenced carefully whisking dust from my best grey tailcoat.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  ‘If only it were, sir. There is lurid talk.’

  ‘Really? Lurid, eh.’

  ‘Sir Crispin had a habit of dressing up, sir, and not just for the opera. He was known to attire himself in frocks. Ladies’ frocks.’ He nodded for emphasis.

  ‘Good Lord. And this wasn’t connected to the opera?’

  ‘It was not.’

  ‘Why on earth would he want to dress in frocks?’

  ‘He had a penchant for such things, sir. The opera singers are currently housed on Brigadier Bloxford’s estate. Apparently, Sir Crispin would dress himself up, apply maquillage and rouge, and depart surreptitiously from one of the rear gates. Then later in the evening he would come back again. He was observed a number of times by the staff, sir.’

  Well, this did add another complexion to the story: perhaps he was murdered after all – most likely by someone who didn’t like men in frocks. Although it did seem rather extreme – a quiet word in the ear would probably have done the trick.

  ‘This investigation could be a touch on the racy side, Greggs.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Will you be requiring a hat?’ he asked, reaching to the top shelf of the wardrobe.

  ‘Yes, the topper and fedora.’

  ‘Not a deerstalker, sir?’

  ‘Very amusing, Greggs,’ I retorted, and strode off in the direction of my dog.

  Mr Fogg was curled up in the kitchen where he’d retired after our long day out. Fogg had an aversion to anything dead so I’d had to pick up my own birds while he gambolled in the green sprung woods.
An undersized golden spaniel, Fogg led a dog’s life of treats, walks and sleep and was my closest companion. I knelt beside him, gave him a half biscuit I’d saved, patted his head and ruffled his fur. He gazed at me with chocolate-brown eyes full of affection, and wagged his stump of a tail. It didn’t take much to persuade him to leave the comfort of his basket and join me for an evening stroll in the calm of my overgrown gardens, where strange puzzles, such as fellows in frocks and mischief and murder, are best contemplated.

  Chapter 2

  I’d exhausted my funds last year on a gleaming black three-litre Bentley tourer, a machine of beauty, power and indifferent reliability. It was stabled in the old coach house, a place of cold and damp, so starting the car required a great deal of cranking, bruised knuckles and quiet cursing to coax it into life.

  I motored around under bright sunshine to the front of the house and set the servants to work. Actually, it was the boot-boy, Tommy Jenkins, and I who loaded the paraphernalia, as Greggs was suffering a bad back as usual. But once packed with trunk, dog and various essential what-have-yous such as Fogg’s basket, balls, bowls and blanket, I set off for the hills and vales of the deepest Cotswolds.

  The Bentley ate the miles as I raced down highways and through country lanes. I wore my customary goggles, gloves, scarf and flying cap against the early spring chill. No doubt, I reflected, Greggs would be looking forward to my bottle of Jameson, though he’d have a task on his hands – I’d locked it in the tantalus and the key was snug and safe in my waistcoat pocket. It would take him hours to pick the lock.

  The sun petered out as I sped up-country, and a persistent drizzle set in to drench me and the car. I had to stop to close the roof as Fogg had become increasingly sodden and had been eyeing me with baleful looks.

  Some time later, as the rain gave way to fitful sunshine, I pulled up outside Bloxford Hall’s handsome Elizabethan facade. The enormous front door slowly opened to reveal a small man wearing a butler’s uniform that looked at least two sizes too large for him. It would have fitted him once, but little changed at Bloxford and a diminishing butler was seen as no reason to renew an outfit.