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

by Karen Menuhin

  ‘The bluebells?’ I returned her gaze. ‘Yes. Stupid of me to take so long really. Who else could have understood their significance. Ford and Hiram, and probably even Ruth, would know nothing of our wild flowers. Florence does, and she had good reason to shoot Jarvis and von Graf, but she’d never met Bartholomew. That left only you, Caroline and the Brigadier. Caroline had an alibi for the time Jarvis was shot.’ I smiled. ‘I suppose you may have done it, Miss Busby, but the Brigadier had the greater motive.’

  She managed a weak smile in return. ‘He had a great sense of honour,’ she said. ‘He would have considered it his sworn duty to protect the Beauties.’

  ‘And I was quite aware of that,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘He will join Grace now. He was never the same after she died, you know.’

  I nodded in silence.

  She continued. ’They’re going to inter Kalo in the mausoleum, along with the Brigadier. I discussed it with Caroline and Hiram.’

  ‘Good,’ I replied. The brandy was warming my blood; I raised my glass. ‘Kalo Biralo. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Black Cat,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what it means – Kalo Biralo is Nepalese for Black Cat. The Brigadier told me once. They found him, lost and wounded; he was a young man and he didn’t even know his own name, or perhaps he wouldn’t tell them. But he was a killer, silent and stealthy as a cat in the night. So they called him Kalo Biralo.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said softly. That would explain it.’

  Epilogue

  Around midnight I went down to the ballroom and stopped the orchestra, which brought the merry dancing to a halt, and addressed the audience with a few chosen words. I informed them that the Brigadier had fallen ill and the bride, her groom and attendant family would remain at his side. This gave them the cue to end the celebrations and wend their way home. I should have told them the old man had died, but I didn’t have the heart to speak the words out loud.

  The rectory containing the rancorous corpse of von Graf burned down in the night. I don’t know who did it. It wasn’t me, but I thought it was a damn good conclusion.

  The next day we gathered in the morning room. It was a poor wedding breakfast but it brought us comfort as tears were shed and soft words uttered. Benson was utterly confused. Miss Busby took matters in hand and had him put to bed while a cottage in the grounds was prepared for his future retirement. Hiram quietly gave an order for Dicks to be fitted for a new butlering uniform.

  Mr Tubbs and Foggy seemed to sense my grief and sat on me whenever they had the opportunity. Must say, there isn’t really enough room on a chap’s lap for both dog and cat however small, but they were a warm consolation during a bleak time.

  Swift went doggo – none of us saw him for three days. I assume he was battling with his conscience. There was not much we could do other than console a forlorn Florence.

  Two coffins were ordered. The undertaker quibbled at this, but Lady Ruth dealt with them at her haughty aristocratic best and they delivered them as demanded.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ I asked Hiram, dressed for the funeral, as we all were.

  He shook his head and drawled in a low voice. ‘No sir, and nor has Florence. Guess he’s hurting.’

  We were walking down the stairs as we spoke. The festoons of flowers had been taken away and the house swept clean of the wedding bunting. The coffin was placed on a long refectory table in the middle of the hall. We men, being myself, Hiram and Ford plus a group of old friends and neighbours from the locality, assembled quietly around it. The ladies came slowly down from the drawing room to join us. They wore their mourning weeds with dignity, backs straight and veils falling across their faces.

  Just as we were preparing to heave the simple oak coffin onto our shoulders, Swift arrived. He too was in mourning garb, and walked quietly and slowly to the coffin and stopped in front of it. He made a short bow, then stood and paused for a few moments as though in silent prayer before turning toward the ladies. He presented himself to each one and kissed their hands.

  ‘Swift,’ Hiram called to him as he made to stand at the rear. ‘We’ll be needing your help, my friend.’

  We carried the Brigadier on our shoulders up the hill to the chantry and the old graveyard. The ladies followed holding handkerchiefs crumpled in their gloved hands. Behind them, the servants formed a procession in spruced uniforms; Benson was heavily supported by Dicks; Dawkins mooched along at the rear. As we approached the chantry a large crowd fell silent as a single bell tolled a plaintive note.

  Many of the villagers had seen military service, following the Brigadier to war as part of his regiment. They had dug out their uniforms, brushed them off, buffed up leather and brass and now formed a guard along the pathway. They lowered their heads and held their caps in their hands as the Brigadier’s coffin passed by.

  After a sad and solemn service, a trumpeter played the ‘Last Post’. We men once again took the old soldier on our shoulders and carried him to the mausoleum. We laid him to rest next to the mouldering coffin of Lady Grace. The Gurkha, Kalo, had been deposited in his own coffin the evening before, and Hiram, Ford and myself had already placed him in the mausoleum in the quiet of the night. He now lay at the Brigadier’s feet and there he would remain until time rendered them to dust.

  Miss Busby told me that Inspector Watson and the rest of the country’s constabulary were apparently in hot pursuit of Von Graf. There was quite a large price on his head, which was understandable, as he was believed to have murdered two chaplains and Sir Crispin Gibbons, a respected patron of the arts, who was tragically missed by the local operatic community.

  We waved the Chisholm family off in an open-topped car to catch the White Star ocean liner the morning after the funeral. Swift disappeared again, and with considerable regret, I dropped Florence off to catch the train north to the Highlands of Scotland.

  I hadn’t had a chance to ask Swift about the safe deposit box, but I had searched through the ledger and found no mention of where it might be located. I doubted he’d discovered its whereabouts either as I’m sure he’d have made it known to us.

  I returned to my quiet home at the Manor, Ashton Steeple, with dog at my side and my kitten in a wicker basket. In those peaceful surroundings, the days and weeks turned softly from spring to summer.

  ‘Sir, sir,’ Tommy Jenkins shouted as he raced into my library.

  ‘What?’ I said as I put down the tangled fly lure I’d been trying to tease apart with my pliers.

  ‘Telegram, sir. Might be urgent, sir. The telegraphy boy delivered it just this minute.’ He held out a yellow card with closely typed lettering as he whipped off his cap; the late summer sun was tumbling through the windows, catching his tousled brown hair. ‘Mr Fogg chased him, sir.’

  I grinned a wry smile. ‘Very good, Jenkins. Did he come back in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sneaked in under your desk. Pongs a bit, sir. Rolled in somethin’ smelly.’

  I peered into the shadows beneath my feet and caught sight of two chocolate brown eyes looking back at me. Caught a whiff of him, too.

  ‘Uhum,’ I muttered, and read the telegram out:

  Major Lennox. The Manor. STOP. We’re home! STOP. Texas simply marvellous. STOP. Hiram says Howdy. He’s starting on the Library. STOP. Then the roof. STOP. See you at the wedding. STOP. Much to tell you. STOP. Caroline Chisholm. STOP.

  ‘You going to another wedding, sir?’ Jenkins said as I placed the card on my desk.

  ‘No, Jenkins, I am not. They’ve already had one wedding ceremony and that was complicated enough. I have no idea what she’s talking about,’ I replied tersely, although I was pleased to hear they’d returned home to Bloxford Hall.

  ‘I thought Cook said Mr Tubbs wasn’t supposed to drink milk, sir,’ Jenkins said. Tubbs stopped to look at us, wide blue eyes in a sooty black face, with ears too big for his small, rotund form.

  ‘What? Ah, yes.’ I scooped the kitten from my te
a tray where he’d been dipping his paw into the milk jug and licking it clean – a habit he’d acquired of late. ‘Well, Cook will have to explain it to him because he doesn’t listen to a word I say.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jenkins grinned.

  ‘Bathe Fogg, will you, Jenkins. I don’t want him coming down to dinner smelling like that.’

  The smile faded from his face. He sighed, dug Fogg out from under my desk, and despite the dog’s pleading eyes and drooping ears, carried him off in his arms.

  There wasn’t much peace that afternoon as Greggs came in shortly afterwards and fussed about, tidying up the tea tray and rattling cups. He was poised to carry it out when he turned to me.

  ‘You found the invitation, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘What invitation?’

  His eyes slid in the direction of the mantelpiece, where a gilded envelope stood propped against the old clock.

  ‘Greggs …’ I objected as I rose to fetch it. ‘How many times do I have to tell you …?’

  I slit it open with my letter knife and scanned through it.

  ‘Hector Gordon MacDonald Braeburn, Laird of Braeburn Castle requests the presence of Major Heathcliff Lennox on the occasion of the marriage of his only daughter, Lady Florence Braeburn to Mr Jonathan Swift. The ceremony will take place at Braeburn Castle …’

  I stopped with a sigh and dropped the card on my desk. ‘Another wedding shindig, Greggs. Really - what are they thinking?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir. I believe there is more on the back, sir.’

  I frowned at him: he’d obviously steamed it open and read it. There was a neatly written message in dark ink: ‘Lennox, Need a best man, appreciate it if you would accommodate, Swift.’

  ‘Your friend, sir?’ Greggs intoned.

  ‘No. He’s a detective.’ I stopped. ‘Actually, he was a detective, with Scotland Yard. But he resigned a couple of months ago, after Lady Caroline’s wedding.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Greggs asked with the hint of a hope that I might mention something of the mysteries of Bloxford Hall; but he was to be disappointed – that subject was a deeply buried secret. Greggs hadn’t even managed to extract a word from his nephew, young Dicks, now butler of the stately pile.

  ‘Hum,’ I replied without enthusiasm.

  ‘Will you be attending, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The nuptials, sir?’

  ‘Erm …’ I ran my hand through my hair. ‘Suppose I’ll have to. Greggs …?’ I began.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t happen to have any of that Jameson’s left, do you?’

  He adopted an air of innocence. ‘There may be a smidgen, sir.’

  ‘Couldn’t have a snifter, could I?’

  He looked at the ceiling as though he’d become suddenly very deaf.

  ‘I will replace it, Greggs,’ I added.

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ***

  From the Author…Karen Menuhin

  Book 3 is in progress. The first chapter of ‘The Curse of Braeburn Castle’ is free and available on the Karen Menuhin readers page here…

  https://karenmenuhin.com/

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  The Black Cat Murders is the second book in the Heathcliff Lennox series.

  Book 1 is Murder at Melrose Court.

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  A little about me;

  1920's, Cozy crime, Traditional Detectives, Downton Abbey - I love them!

  Along with my family, my dog and my cat.

  At 60 I decided to write, I don't know why but suddenly the stories came pouring out, along with the characters. Eccentric Uncles, stalwart butlers, idiosyncratic servants, machinating Countesses, and the hapless Major Heathcliff Lennox.

  A whole world built itself upon the page and I just followed along....

  Itinerate traveller all my life. I grew up in the military, often on RAF bases but preferring to be in the countryside when we could.

  I have 2 amazing sons - Jonathan and Sam Baugh, and 5 grandchildren, Charlie, Joshua, Isabella-Rose, Scarlett and Hugo.

  I am married to Krov, my wonderful husband, who is a retired film maker and eldest son of the violinist, Yehudi Menuhin. We live in the Cotswolds.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen Menuhin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  For more information, address: karenmenuhinauthor@gmail.com

  First paperback and ebook edition March 2019