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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘Is there anyone else at the Club that you know or recognise from here or the opera company?’ I questioned.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ He almost jumped at the thought. ‘You won’t tell them, will you? Especially Dame Gabriel. She is an utter martinet – terrifying woman. If she knew, it would be the end for me.’ He looked at me with round-eyed consternation.

  It was my turn to sigh. ‘Andrew, I’m not here to judge or tattle. I am here for Caroline’s wedding and casting a cool eye over Crispin’s death while I’m about it.’ That’s what I told him, anyway.

  ‘I’m not going anymore. Not now,’ he said, and forked the remaining sausage.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Black Cat Club. I told them last night, I can’t do it on my own – not without Crispin. My heart’s not in it, so I’m going to stick to opera.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘But it lacks fizz, you know. The crowd doesn’t sing along – well, they can’t really, can they? Awfully difficult to hit those sorts of notes … but yes, I miss the shouting and the clapping. The troops were always so happy to see us. I’m not sure I’m suited to opera.’ He sighed again and finished his meal. ‘But you will get him won’t you, Lennox? The blighter that did for Crispin – because he’ll still be after me. If it was me, and I think it was, because it would have been me if –’

  I stood up, cutting short his wittering, my patience and wits exhausted. ‘I’m going now, Andrew. Goodbye.’

  Underneath the brainless meandering, Andrew did have a point – why did anyone want to kill Crispin? Or Andrew for that matter – not that I thought they did. He was always a dramatist, needing to be the centre of attention even at school. No, I didn’t believe for a moment anyone had it in for Andrew, but Crispin? What had he done? And who had he done it to?

  Florence was coming in through the French windows from the garden as I was crossing the hall, lost in thought. The sight of her snapped me out of my cogitating. She was wearing a peach-coloured frock and looked a peach herself. Fogg raced up, tail wagging, for a fuss and a ruffle; I grinned like an idiot.

  ‘Greetings, old thing,’ I said, without managing to make a fool of myself.

  ‘Hello, Lennox, it’s a beautiful morning, I couldn’t resist a walk in the gardens and I picked some wild flowers. Adorable, aren’t they?’ She smiled and showed me a bunch of weeds.

  ‘Um, yes, very nice. There are proper flowers in the garden, you know.’

  Her smile faltered. ‘These are proper flowers. They are a gift, Lennox, from nature.’ She held them up.

  ‘Really? Well, thank you.’

  I took them from her, not sure what to do with them, but tried to look appreciative. She stared at me rather oddly.

  ‘I didn’t, um… Well, never mind. We’re having a dress fitting this morning. Caroline and I, that is. The other two bridesmaids are coming to join us. Bunty and Agatha from the hunt. Do you remember them?’

  ‘Erm, no. Don’t think so. Should I?’ In the bright sunlight I noticed Florence had freckles across her nose. I’d never thought of freckles being remotely appealing until that moment.

  ‘Yes, we all rode out with the local pack when we were youngsters, it was such fun.’ She looked up at me. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Erm …’ I cudgelled my brains. ‘I had a big-boned roan. Fifteen hands, wouldn’t shy from anything, just threw his heart into it and jumped. Had him for years, even after I outgrew him, he was called Red.’

  ‘I meant people, actually.’ A small frown formed between her brows. ‘Anyway, Caroline has organised a hack; we’re taking a picnic lunch with us. The stable boys are getting the horses ready and we wondered if you’d like to join in. Hiram and his father are coming too, it’s not only girls,’ she laughed lightly.

  ‘Yes, I’d be delighted. If they’ve still got the bay gelding called Toby, I’ll take him.’

  ‘I’ll ask them. And you’ll bring doggie?’ She bent to ruffle Fogg’s long ears.

  ‘Fogg, he’s called Mister Fogg.’ I wanted to talk to her further – tell her how delightful she was and pretty and something about lighting up this fine spring morning, but I seemed to have frozen to the spot again.

  ‘Well, see you later then, Lennox and Mister Fogg,’ and off she went, waving. I waved back with the weeds and watched her go.

  Dicks had been left in charge of the kitten so I didn’t feel the need to return to my rooms just yet. I headed off with Fogg for a walk through the sprawling formal gardens at the rear of the house, heading for the chantry. I knew Swift would want to visit the Dower House when he arrived and interview the opera troupe, and before that tedious event, I thought I’d take a quiet look around.

  I strode through fragrant flower gardens, then took a path between avenues of tall yew hedges and followed on through squared plots of medicinal herbs edged with lavender, still dormant in the cool of early spring. The chantry was set on a hill; it was very old, pre-dating the house by a number of centuries. Some sort of monastery had stood here once, but the greed of monarchs and men had stolen the lands and buildings away until all that remained was the simple structure where the monks had once chanted to God. It was tall and narrow, as these places were, being only as wide as the length of the joists that had been used to span the roof. Slim windows fitted with leaded glass were cut into the rough stone walls. The only decoration on the building was around the arched doorway, where ancient hands had carved a frieze – now eroded away to indecipherable knots and loops. The door was on the latch; it squealed as I pushed it open. I entered quietly and walked to the front to sit in a pew. Fogg was always well behaved in church, and he sat at my feet as I bowed my head and sent a silent prayer for my parents and the many friends and comrades who lay in the rich soil of Flanders’ fields and beyond.

  Squat candles flickering with flame were fixed to a stand near the altar, which was covered with a white cloth embroidered with the Bloxford family crest. I laid the posy Florence had given me at the foot of a gleaming brass cross set on a high stone window sill. There were more candles in a box and I picked one up, lit it from another and placed it in the wrought-iron candlestick with a half dozen others, then turned to look around. It was a spartan building: high wooden roof blackened with age, plain white walls, various marble and brass plaques in memory of the family dead, an ornate bust of a plump lady, another of a Cavalier wearing a plumed hat at a jaunty angle, and a recumbent medieval knight carved from yellow Cotswold stone. It was dust-free and smelt of candles and beeswax and the scent of fresh flowers, which were prettily arranged in vases around the nave. Exquisitely embroidered kneelers hung from the ancient pews. I imagined it was Miss Busby caring for it all, as she’d mentioned that Jarvis wasn’t doing his duty by the place.

  The rectory was down a meandering path, set beyond a hill bearing a mausoleum, standing in lost grandeur amidst an overgrown graveyard awash with bluebells. Fogg chased pigeons in the copse behind the house as I raised the knocker to rap on the door. No one answered, I rapped again, very loudly, and then tried the handle. It was locked. The rectory was little more than a two-storey cottage with an elevated title. Thatched roof turned green with moss, whitewashed walls peeling and faded to grey, it looked unkempt and unloved. I peered through a small lattice window: dirty dishes were piled up and empty bottles strewn about the kitchen. I walked around the side through a tangled garden of weeds and looked through grimy windows into the sparsely furnished living room. A cloth-draped canvas was propped on an easel; there was a low table next to it laden with brushes, a palette and contorted tubes of oil paints. The paraphernalia was set up in the far corner, where the brightest light was to be had. Jarvis was obviously an artist as well as a man of the cloth. I tried the door again, then gave up and retraced my steps.

  ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down …’

  The sound of prayer reached my ears. It was muttered in a low tone – a man’s voice, coming from the direction of the graveyard. The hairs rose on the back of
my neck. Fogg suddenly froze. One paw held off the ground, nose sniffing the light breeze drifting down from the hill, he stared towards the soft murmuring amongst the headstones. Then he turned and ran, ears and tail down, racing full tilt back towards the house and no doubt the safe sanctuary of his basket and the kitten.

  An old man, dressed in a long dark cloak and leaning on a shepherd’s crook, was softly reciting the prayer, almost as hymnal music. It was plaintive and lilting, haunting in the quiet of the ancient graveyard. His back was towards me but his black and white collie dog turned its head to stare for a moment, then went back to watching whatever held the attention of its master.

  The shepherd reached the end of the prayer and finished with, ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ I echoed.

  He didn’t move, just stood with lowered head. I went to join him and we both looked down upon the body of the Reverend Geoffrey Jarvis. He lay sprawled, crucifix-like upon the grave of someone long dead. A sentinel sword pierced the ground at his head. His black cassock was stained with a bloom of dark blood across the chest and his glazed eyes gazed unseeing at the clear blue sky of the fresh spring morning.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Dead,’ the shepherd informed me.

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘No, I were looking for me ram. ‘E’s not got nought to do and the lambs is being born, so I weren’t watching him as close as like. ‘E’s gone searching for new pastures, 'e has. They be like that – rams,’ he told me in voice heavy with the burr of the Cotswold Hills. ‘And it’s going to rain, tha’ ken.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ay. Yon cows be lyen’, don’t tha’ see.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, not entirely comprehending what he was talking about. ‘Didn’t happen to see anyone else around, did you?’ I asked. ‘The blighter who murdered the Chaplain, for instance?’

  ‘Nary a soul.’ He shook his head. ‘The Reverend were like this when I found 'im, not but a short while ago. Thought I should say a word, ‘im being of the cloth an’ all.’ He looked up at me – a bent old man; beneath the cloak he was clothed in ancient tweeds, tied at the waist and gaiters with thick twine. He had a long nose, thin and crooked, straggling eyebrows like brambles over the brow, and eyes blue as the sky, that watched me closely as we spoke. ‘Weren’t you as did it, were it?’

  ‘No, it was not,’ I replied briskly, although I only had my dog as witness, but then, so too did he. ‘I think he’s been dead for some time, actually.’ I moved forward to take a closer look. Jarvis was frocked in the usual chaplain’s garb: long black cassock, somewhat grubby dog-collar, and two-tone Oxford brogues – rather raffish for a chaplain, in my view.

  The blood had seeped around a wound to the man’s chest and spread in a wide stain. By the slightly charred hole in the fabric, I’d have wagered it was caused by a bullet at fairly close range. Quite a large bullet, actually, and it had probably gone right through him. I glanced at the old gravestone behind him, but there was nothing to be seen other than mottled moss and lichen.

  The sword had been struck into the ground just a couple of inches above his head. It was a rapier, rather a handsome one, and judging by the blazon on the pommel it came from Bloxford Hall – I recognised the family crest of swans and lions rampant.

  I ran my hand through my hair, somewhat nonplussed.

  ‘Didn’t hear a whisper,’ the shepherd said.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘No gun shot. This mornin’, I didn’t hear owt, but then the wind be blowin’ down to the woods, an’ I was up of it.’ He indicated the direction with his crook.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I snapped out of my momentary reverie. ‘I doubt anyone would have heard it, unless they were near the Rectory.’

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll be away, then. Ram’ll be catched in a hedge or ditch if I don’t garner ’im up.’

  ‘Very well.’ I nodded to him. ‘Didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Seth,’ he replied, and left with a steady tread along a slim track between the bluebells and leaning gravestones, his dog silent at his heels.

  I straightened up, hand on chin, and took a walk around the body. Other than the blood on his chest, there wasn’t much to see. There was no apparent injury to the hands or face and I wasn’t going to lift his frock. From his expression you’d think he’d found it a joke because his face wore a distinct smirk – the same expression he’d worn last evening; not so amusing now, I thought.

  I felt under his chin: no pulse of course – his skin was stone cold and slightly damp, there was a layer of dew on him, and his jaw had already started to stiffen. I lifted one arm and let it drop. It was flaccid, so he’d been dead at least two hours, but not much longer as rigor mortis was just creeping in. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but I withdrew my fob from my waistcoat pocket and noted the time at eight twenty hours. Swift could check the dead man’s clothing – the police were better suited to that distasteful task, in my view. I turned towards the house in search of the Inspector.

  There was another argument in the hall, I heard it as I approached, could hardly miss it actually.

  ‘I can go wherever I consider necessary. I do not need your permission,’ Swift was shouting at Dawkins.

  ‘No one as given me no orders, so’s ye can’t do nuffink,’ Dawkins retorted. ‘More ’an my job’s worth, doing somethin’ without orders.'

  I sighed. ‘Dawkins, what the devil do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Major Lennox, sir.’ Dawkins’s shoulders drooped as he saw me. ‘I was just sayin’ –’

  ‘Don’t.’ I held up my hand and then pointed in the direction of the boot room.

  He shuffled away, muttering, ‘Dogsbody, I am. Nothin’ but a dogsbody, no one tells me nothin’ ’cept do this, do that …’

  I nodded at Swift, who yanked the belt of his trench coat tighter and fell into step with me.

  ‘We need to interview the opera group,’ Swift stated.

  ‘Not now, Swift. Something more important.’

  A silent footman swung the French windows open for us.

  ‘I’m not answerable to you or anybody in this house, Lennox. Nor am I going to be chaperoned about the place.’ He swung round to face me. ‘I am an officer of the police and I am investigating this incident as I see fit.’ He raised his voice. ‘ON MY OWN. Is that clear?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied, turning away as he headed in the direction of the theatre and the Dower House. ‘I’ll telephone the local constabulary about the body.’

  He stalked a few more steps along the gravel path, then stopped and swung round. ‘What?’

  I carried on towards the distant hill beyond the walled gardens; he had to break into a trot to catch me. I walked in silence for a while, then told him about the expired Reverend.

  Irritating as Swift was, he knew how to listen without breaking in with pointless questions, so as we strode uphill I briefed him on the conversation I’d had last evening with Miss Busby about who was missing on the occasion of Crispin’s death. I chose to omit Andrew Dundale’s wittering nonsense until I’d given it a little more thought myself.

  We were a touch breathless as we reached the corpse stiffening in the sunshine behind the chapel.

  Seth, the old shepherd, was gone and I hadn’t mentioned his role to Swift as it would only complicate matters; Miss Busby on the other hand was fully present and staring with consternation at the bloodied body.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Major Lennox.’ She turned to me with a tight smile. ‘It seems we have a tragedy.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to witness this, madam,’ Swift said, and introduced himself.

  ‘Perhaps we should let the Inspector do his job, Miss Busby?’ I suggested, and moved away a few steps. She followed whilst keeping a close eye on Swift’s examination of the extirpated Jarvis. He was very carefully surveying the body with a magnifying glass in one hand while poised with a pair of tweezers in the other. I would rather have
liked to be doing the same, but hadn’t brought my whatnots with me and also felt I should be on hand to support Miss Busby in case she were suddenly overcome.

  ‘I visited the chantry earlier this morning,’ I began, ‘there were lit candles. I thought it may have been your work?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, ‘I come here most days.’

  ‘Would you like to wait in there?’ I asked. ‘I can escort you.’

  ‘No, really, Major Lennox.’ She smiled. ‘It isn’t necessary. I nursed injured soldiers here at the house during the War – it was given over to convalescence. I have seen worse.’ She looked back at the body. ‘He wasn’t a nice man, you know.’

  ‘Can’t say I took to him either.’ I would have used stronger language in other circumstances.

  Swift looked towards me. ‘Nothing to be found.’ He pocketed the glass and tweezers. ‘We’ll turn him.’

  I went to help and we heaved the Chaplain over. It wasn’t easy, as he was stiffening up quite rapidly. There was little to be seen other than more dried blood, although something flickered into my brain and flew out again before I could register it. I straightened up as Swift continued to search the body.

  ‘Bullet went all the way through,’ he remarked. ‘We’ll have to search the area for it.’

  ‘It looks like he was killed here,’ I remarked.

  Swift glanced at the Chaplain’s shoes. ‘Yes, there are no scuff marks, so he wasn’t dragged. He could have been carried, I suppose.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ I remarked. ‘The killer would have been covered in blood and the blood would have run down the man’s cassock.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swift agreed, cooly, ‘he was either standing on this spot, which seems unlikely, or he was ordered here at the barrel of a gun.’