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

by Karen Menuhin

  I laughed. ‘Yes, and so has everybody in the house. And if not, they’d certainly have access to one.’ I eyed him closely. ‘Come along, Swift, you know what it's like. This country is awash with guns brought back from the war.’

  His shoulders sagged a fraction. ‘Yes, I am quite aware of that.’ He stared me in the eye. You didn’t do it?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I turned to Dicks, busy setting the table whilst listening to our conversation. ‘Dicks, what time did you come in this morning?’

  ‘Six thirty-five, sir,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Just as I was leaving for breakfast,’ I said.

  Swift nodded. ‘Very well. Any idea who did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you did?’

  That gave me pause. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Is that a sword, sir?’ Dicks came and stared at the wrapped rapier. ‘Was the Chaplain shot and stabbed?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Swift said.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘No,’ Swift snapped. ‘It’s evidence in a murder case.’

  ‘Dicks,’ I reminded him, and nodded at the table where the kitten had clambered up and was sniffing the contents of the milk jug. Dicks moved smartly to grab the little cat.

  Swift was still in a black mood, and confronted me. ‘You and the old lady, Miss Busby, removed something from the rectory. The piece of art Jarvis was working on at the easel.’

  I regarded him quietly, wondering how he’d discovered that piece of news.

  ‘You’ve got paint on your sleeve,’ he said. ’It’s the same colour as the wet oil paint I saw on the palette.’

  ‘Ah,’ I replied, with a smidgeon of guilt.

  Fogg went to sit next to the reading table where Dicks had finished spreading a tablecloth and had set two places with plates, coffee cups and saucers and the usual whatnots. He was now standing with a white napkin over his arm, like some ginger-haired French waiter from a bistro.

  I checked my sleeve as Swift went to sit in the chair. The damn paint wouldn’t come off – well, at least it was green. I sat down and thanked Dicks, telling him we didn’t need him any further.

  As there was just the two of us, I opened up over coffee, and spilled the beans about Lady Grace and my conversations with Miss Busby and the Brigadier. Swift responded reasonably but he wanted to see the painting, so I lied and told him I’d left it in Miss Busby’s hands.

  ‘Later,’ I told him. ‘And we’ll need to track down the other Bloxford Beauties. The Brigadier said they were in the Long Gallery. But, Swift, I have to warn you, it’s a sworn secret held by an ancient and honourable family — there will be hell to pay if it gets out.’

  He regarded me silently for a long moment, taking in my words. Then asked, ‘what’s the Long Gallery?’

  ‘It’s usually a large room built under the eaves, at the very top of the house. All the fashion in Elizabethan days; designed as an indoor skittles alley originally, and somewhere for the children to play and run off steam when the weather forced the family indoors.’

  ‘Pretty much thought of everything, didn’t they. The nobs, anyway,’ Swift replied, unable to resist a dig.

  ‘Oh, cut the chip off your shoulder, Swift. It’s churlish and unwarranted,’ I told him. ‘That was then and this is now. Owning a place the size of Bloxford Hall is one long headache and don’t pretend you don’t realise that.’

  ‘Humph,’ he muttered, helping himself to a generous slice of shortbread.

  ‘If one of these Beauties is by Gainsborough, it’ll be extremely valuable,’ Swift commented.

  ‘All the paintings are by leading artists,’ I replied. ‘Each one of them will be valuable. But it’s a private family collection — they’re the mothers, grandmothers and great grandmothers of this house. None will ever be sold, whatever the circumstances.’

  He regarded me unblinking for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘What’s the story on the rapier?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sure you recognise the crest. You know it’s from here,’ Swift said. ‘I’ll search the house shortly, see if I can discover where it’s missing from.’

  I laughed, he scowled at me. ‘Swift, there are almost a hundred rooms in this place and every one of them is packed. How many gewgaws, souvenirs, and war booty do you think the family has accumulated over three hundred years. Take a look, by all means, and if you don’t return in the next couple of months, I’ll send out a search party.’

  He didn’t seem to think that was amusing.

  The door swung open and Benson tottered in. ‘Policemen,’ he said through short breaths, ‘In the house, Major Lennox, sir. His Lordship is upset. Taken his shotgun to them, sir – he’s on the upstairs landing.’

  Chapter 10

  I jumped up and made for the door, Swift followed, tossing his napkin aside as the sound of a gunshot echoed through the house.

  ‘Brigadier,’ I yelled as we ran. ‘They’re ours, sir. Tommies. Don’t shoot.’

  He didn’t hear me and blasted another volley down into the hall, then caught sight of me.

  ‘Damn their eyes. Bloody Boche have got into the camp. Where are the guards? They’ll be court-martialled for this. Bring your gun, Major,’ he shouted back while reloading. Kalo was passing him ammunition from a leather cartridge case.

  There was the sound of running boots and shrieking coming from downstairs. I heard someone calling out that they’d been shot - it sounded like Dawkins, so it wasn’t all that bad.

  I shouted again. ‘They’re our boys, sir. We’ve driven the Germans back. Better call a ceasefire.’

  He fired off another blast. ‘What?’ he bellowed, ‘Speak up, man.’ I could hear him reloading as we reached the landing.

  ‘Call a ceasefire, sir. They’ve retreated,’ I shouted as best I could through sharp breaths.

  ‘Scarpered, have they? You’re sure? Very well.’ He stood up and bellowed over the balustrade: ‘Cease fire!’

  He handed his gun over to Kalo, who swivelled it expertly in his hands to bring it to rest at his side, then stood stiffly to attention while the Brigadier marched back to his rooms, before turning smartly about to follow his master.

  Swift and I leaned over the bannisters to see if there were any signs of bodies or blood; fortunately, everyone must have gone into hiding, as the hall was entirely vacant. We raced down to find Inspector Watson and his men sheltering behind the stairs and Dawkins leaning against the wall with a bloodstained handkerchief held to his ear. A bobby was fingering a hole through his helmet, and the Sergeant had fainted to the floor.

  ‘Watson,’ Swift yelled. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘That idiot there –’ Watson pointed at Dawkins ‘– started arguing about us going upstairs to see the Earl and then suddenly a gun goes off. I’ll have you in gaol.’ He made a sudden grab for Dawkins, who took to his heels, heading toward the kitchens.

  ‘Outside! All of you!’ Swift marched them out of the door as Dicks held it open.

  I watched them parade out of the house, then returned to my room and my notebook, somewhat irked by all these interruptions. The kitten had woken up and was playing with the pens on my desk, scooting them over the edge. I gave its ears a rub and put it in my pocket where it purred itself to sleep as I continued my jottings.

  Swift returned, red in the face and scowling.

  ‘I’ve sent them back to the station,’ he snapped. ‘They were only supposed to interview the servants.’

  ‘Did they discover anything useful?’ I enquired.

  ‘Apparently the family don’t use the old chantry anymore, apart from burials, but Jarvis comes every day to hold a service in the house chapel. Nobody ever attends of course, but the Chaplain is required to be there. He didn’t arrive this morning.’

  ‘What time was the service?’ I asked, my pen poised to note these vital pieces of information.

  ‘Seven o’clock every morning except Sunday when the main service is hel
d at nine,’ he said, grabbing another piece of shortbread from the abandoned table. 'I imagine he was on his way here when he was waylaid.’

  ‘Where were the servants? Between six and seven?’ I asked.

  ‘Mostly having breakfast or preparing it. A couple were in the morning room.’

  ‘So the staff are all accounted for?

  ‘They are,’ Swift confirmed. ‘Apart from that idiot Dawkins. The cook said he was probably ‘shirking as usual’. Her words, not mine.’

  I turned back to my book and wrote these snippets down.

  ‘Lennox,’ Swift began, and halted. I turned in my chair to face him. ‘Lennox, listen a moment, will you. I work alone, always have. Won’t have a sergeant, or a partner. But I admit –’ he paused again ‘– I don’t understand these nobs. This world of lords and ladies. And I will not allow my work to suffer because of my own shortcomings.’ He folded his arms and looked at the ceiling. ‘I would accept your help if you were to offer it.’

  I laughed, then looked at him speculatively. It probably took quite some fortitude for a professional like Swift to admit he needed help, particularly from a rank amateur such as myself. And we’d been at daggers drawn last time our paths had crossed, too.

  ‘My hand, old chap, and I’ll do what I can to be of assistance.’

  We shook on it. I can’t say it was a gesture of friendship but it was an acknowledgement of a camaraderie of sorts. And pax.

  ‘I’ll take a look at this house chapel,’ he said,’ wherever it is.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll come with you.’ I took the sleeping kitten from my pocket, put it in the basket and led the way into the corridor. Swift gave me a curious look and muttered something under his breath about eccentricities.

  We took a couple of wrong turns because I hadn’t been there since the memorial service for Lady Grace, and had very little memory of it.

  The house chapel proved to be an ornate affair. The high ceilings were decorated with angels on clouds holding trumpets and golden harps. Tall stained-glass windows filtered sunlight in harlequin hues and richly carved saints stood poised in niches built into wood panelled walls.

  It should have been a peaceful sanctuary but today we found the place full of women. They were yanking rolls of white gauze and silky stuff out of boxes that had evidently not long arrived. Hiram’s mother, Lady Ruth, was barking out orders and pointing up at something or other while aproned maids ran about.

  She advanced on us with a tight smile. ‘Good day, Major Lennox. Who is this?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Swift,’ I told her. ‘Scotland Yard.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Major, I distinctly told you –’

  ‘Brigadier gave his permission,’ I cut in.

  ‘Really, well, I am most surprised.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, your Ladyship.’ Swift offered a brisk nod of the head. ‘I assume you are dressing the place for the nuptials?’

  ‘Yes, evidently, and you are detaining me, gentlemen. I have vital decorating to arrange and I will not tolerate interference.’ She pulled back the sleeve of her lilac tartan jacket and glared at her watch as she upbraided us. ‘We are expecting the Reverend Jarvis to arrive. He is late.’ She turned to stare at the door as though commanding Jarvis to appear.

  ‘He’s dead,’ I said.

  ‘Lennox!’ Swift cut in. ‘Leave this to me. I’ve had training to break news like that.’

  ‘Dead?’ Lady Ruth replied, brows raised. You’d think he’d done it deliberately from the air of annoyance she exuded.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Swift replied. He opened his mouth to carry on with whatever platitudes were deemed suitable to the occasion, but she interrupted.

  ‘Well, really. What are we to do now? The ceremony is in three days,’ she snapped. ‘And I believe this is the second chaplain already lost in the vicinity. As you insist upon being here, Inspector Swift, you can tell me what Scotland Yard is doing about it.’

  ‘They, um ... Well, I’m investigating,’ he muttered.

  ‘With the help of Major Lennox, I assume. Really, if this is the best the constabulary of this country can achieve I’d be surprised if the next chaplain lasts a week. I bid you good day, gentlemen.’ With that she turned and marched off, rapping out orders to maids as she went.

  I raised my brows at Swift who frowned and then we turned towards a closed side door. It was warped with age and Swift had to give it a good shove to open it. We walked into the vestry, a dusty room, high ceilinged, black beamed, with plain whitewashed walls and cobwebs in the corners. There was a small window allowing a shaft of light into the room, alleviating its cheerless aspect.

  Some of Jarvis’s clothes were hanging from pegs – a collarless shirt, trousers hooked with braces, and two pairs of shiny shoes. Swift rifled through the pockets and pulled out cigarettes, Vesta matches and a crumpled handkerchief. I took a look in the small desk drawers, pulling them out and laying papers on the desktop blotter. There were pens and pencils jumbled next to an ornate silver box, an empty ink-pot to match, a heavily chased goblet, an exquisite silver jug, a number of sculpted candlesticks and whatnots of similar ilk. Swift stopped to pick up an exquisite salt cellar. He turned it carefully in his hands, then raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Jarvis had expensive taste in silverware,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Should this be here?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, casting an eye over the items on the desk. ‘There will be altar-ware for the church services, but they would be kept locked in the ambry. I’d say those items are from the house.’

  ‘The ambry being a cupboard in the chapel,’ he stated.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘Jarvis was a thief,’ Swift asserted.

  I didn’t reply. Swift had a habit of making hasty accusations, although in this instance I suspected he was right.

  There were a couple of chairs and Swift and I each drew one up to read through the papers. They proved to be sermons and liturgies, copied out neatly from somewhere; they were well fingered and creased. There were seven sets, one for each day of the week. I imagine he rotated them.

  Swift put the papers back in the drawer and closed it firmly, shoving the small desk backwards as he did. It left it rocking on the uneven stone flags, so I bent down to reposition a torn piece of card that had been pushed under one of the feet. Rather than replace it, I turned it in my hand to read the lettering, then straightened up to hand it to Swift.

  ‘The Black Ca …’ He read the words from the torn section and looked at me. ‘Must be the Black Cat Club?’

  ‘Yes, and proof of a connection,’ I said, rather pleased with myself.

  Swift placed the card between pages of his notebook, silent and thoughtful. It was another clue to point us along the way, though we continued to search for another twenty minutes, just to be sure we hadn’t missed anything.

  We escaped through the chapel under the haughty eye of Ruth Chisholm and returned to my rooms, where Foggy jumped up to greet us and the kitten yawned.

  Swift unwrapped the sword and took a long look at it. ‘My father was a cavalryman,’ he remarked.

  ‘Then you’ll know the rapier was for fencing. Duels and all that.’

  ‘I do, and this is probably one of a pair,’ Swift said, feeling the sharpness of the slim blade. ‘I checked with Benson to ask if he recognised it, but he just said that the Bloxfords were a military family and there were enough swords in the house to arm a battalion.’

  I was about to say that I’d told him so, but then decided to move to neutral ground. ‘Which regiment did your father belong to?’ I asked.

  ‘Imperial Light Horse. South African. I was brought up there, Johannesburg. He was killed at the Battle of Ladysmith. Then my mother brought me to London.’

  ‘Considerable contrast,’ I remarked.

  ‘Johannesburg and London? I couldn’t say – we actually lived out in the country; there were lions, giraffe and zebras in the bush. It was extraordinary and very beautiful.’


  ‘You liked the animals?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Noble creatures, a damn sight less complicated than people,’ he remarked with a sigh.

  I smiled, realising he was another loner, more comfortable with a dog or even a cat for company than the strange paradoxes of the human race.

  He picked up the striped cloth, raised the rapier in salute and left, presumably to secure his evidence and report back to Scotland Yard.

  I returned to my jottings. I drew a simple line image of the sword and spent more time over the details of the hilt and insignia, then made an inky rendition of the torn card from the Black Cat Club while it was still in my mind. There wasn’t much point in trying to illustrate the squashed bullet so I merely noted the approximate calibre. I paused to stare at the empty jam jars in which I’d hoped to gather evidence. Swift had all the whatnots, and as he was the official in charge I suppose he would always commandeer the booty. I would have to make do with my inexpert drawings.

  The lunch gong sounded and despite the recent snack our activities had left me peckish. I turned into the morning room, where lunch was customarily served, to find the damn Prussian seated alone and already wearing a napkin under his chin. He was leaning over a plate of mash, liver and bacon. I started to back out, but he spotted me.

  ‘Ah, the famous aeronautical Major Lennox. Come – come. I would talk with you,’ he called out, waving a fork at me.

  Benson was tottering about, and fortunately Dicks had come down and was organising the servants serving the food. He lifted the domed lid with a flourish. ‘Would you like a napkin clip, sir?’

  ‘No, Dicks, I am not in my dotage yet.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ he grinned. He seemed to possess quite the chirpiest nature I’d come across. ‘I believe the Brigadier is resting now, sir, and will not be joining us.’

  ‘There were noises, I think, in the stairs. What was the cause?’ von Graf asked between mouthfuls.

  ‘Policemen, sir. In the hall,’ Dicks replied as he fussed around.

  ‘Is there a revolution? Ha-ha!’ von Graf laughed. He dyed his hair: I could see grey bits that he’d missed behind the ears; and he wore eau de cologne, I could smell the damn stuff from across the table.