The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  "Over here!" I called.

  Uncle Tristan ran towards me with giant prancing steps, the Victorian cape trailing behind like a dragnet and far too heavy for such a bright and sunny day.

  "Uncle, I'm here for you," I cried, fearful of the worst. I'd let him tell me all about the gold mine being nothing more than a mirage, or that they'd only discovered dust or a thousand and one other ways that Sir Sandoe's investment had turned out to be a worthless sham. Then when things seemed to be at their bleakest, I'd tell him of our new contract with Bagington Hall. Uncle and I might not be dining like royalty, but gruel would at least be off the menu.

  As Uncle Tristan drew closer, I noticed his expression. His eyes were wide, nostrils dilated, and lips curved upward.

  He was smiling.

  "Maggie, ha-ha-ha, Maggie!"

  He came to a full stop and made a bow. Visibly hot and out of breath, he said, "Oh, darling Maggie, if only you knew what wonders await us. Not next year, not next month, not next week, but right here and now!"

  That was not what I was expecting. Nor did I expect Uncle Tristan to gather the cape above his skinny knees and cavort in circles with more energy than Hilda Ogbern's new puppy, Dobbin.

  "Hooray, ha-ha-ha, hooray!"

  Before I could protest, he swept me up in his skinny arms, and we twirled around the tombstones.

  Dancing at a funeral might have been reasonable in some exotic foreign land, but here in Cromer, it was not the done thing. And I didn’t want to draw the attention of Sir Sandoe.

  "Uncle! Have you lost your mind? This isn't a London dance hall. Remember, today is about Miss Antoinette's send-off."

  The words had the intended effect. Uncle Tristan stopped, doubled over to catch his breath, and said, "Miss Antoinette didn’t mind a bit of dancing now and then. She had a good voice too and was a lot of fun." He rubbed his chin. "I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been?"

  "With Lady Herriman," I said with a hint of annoyance.

  "Another audience, huh?"

  "Her Ladyship has reviewed our papers and finds them acceptable. Uncle, Bagington Hall is Tristan's Hands first client."

  Uncle clapped his hands. "Now all we have to do is find people to fill Her Ladyship's staffing needs, and everything will be tickety-boo."

  I said, "Did you speak with Sir Sandoe?"

  "Only a few snatched minutes."

  "Is everything lost?"

  Uncle placed his hands on his hips. "This damn gold business has me disturbed."

  "The money, Uncle, is it all gone?"

  "I asked for my initial investment back."

  "So there is nothing left?"

  Uncle Tristan spoke as if to himself. "Sir Sandoe is old fashioned, but a gentleman in an oddly Victorian way."

  I wasn’t so sure. "But did Sir Sandoe agree to give your money back?"

  "No."

  Rattled, I gulped. "I'm sorry."

  It didn’t come as a shock. The London newspapers were full of reports of investment scandals in the Americas where investors lost everything. It seemed gold mining in Peru was just another of those empty treasure troves. What I couldn’t understand was why Uncle Tristan had a big grin on his face.

  I said, "There is more. Please do tell."

  "Sir Sandoe has discovered another mine in Peru and is selling shares in that also."

  "There are two mines, now?" I gave Uncle Tristan a grim look.

  "It is so new he hasn't yet informed his backers in London."

  "The gold mines are multiplying like bunny rabbits," I said acidly.

  Uncle Tristan said, "Sir Sandoe has opened investment in the second mine to locals. That's why he was selling shares today."

  "Do you think," I said, speaking with care, "that a man who tries to sell shares to gravediggers at his daughter's funeral can be fully trusted?"

  Uncle Tristan tilted his head back and let out a belly laugh. "That is why I asked for my money back."

  "But you said he refused to return your original investment."

  "That's right." Uncle Tristan was still grinning. "Maggie, Sir Sandoe insisted on returning my money with an additional ten per cent on top!"

  For once in my life, I was speechless. I just stared at Uncle Tristan, mouth agape, eyes wide.

  Uncle Tristan said, "I almost told Sir Sandoe to keep some money back and invest in both mines, but I fear I may have put too many eggs in a single basket."

  "The man is returning your original investment plus ten per cent?"

  "And the bank cheque will be in my hands on Friday. I shall pick it up from him personally at Bagington Hall." Uncle Tristan placed a hand on his cheek. "Maggie, I have thought it all through very carefully, nothing out of place, nothing left to chance. When Sir Sandoe announces the discovery, I'll rush in and buy. Until then, I'll keep the cash in my pocket."

  There was nothing I could say, so I continued to listen.

  Uncle Tristan glanced warily over his shoulder. "Even better news, Sir Sandoe has agreed to advance your wages in full for the next year. The days of gruel for breakfast, lunch, and dinner are over before we've taken our first bite!"

  I gave Uncle Tristan a big hug. Things had taken a turn for the better, and at a funeral of all places. But I didn’t mention the faint trace of concern about Miss Antoinette's death that nagged at me: soft but persistent like the first drops of a spring thunderstorm. Whatever the outcome of the gold mining in Peru or Tristan's Hands, I would use every opportunity to dig into her death, leastways as a thank you for our good fortune, and because she deserved justice.

  Chapter 35

  We travelled down from Cromer in Uncle Tristan's motorcar that Friday. By the time we got to Bagington Hall, the sun was shining low in a clear blue western sky. But the air, chilled by the sea, came salty and stinging like a sudden hard slap across the cheeks.

  Gone were the tablecloths; red, white, and blue bunting; and flags of my earlier visit. Four women huddled under an oak tree. A dozen cloth-capped men, hunched with heads down against the wind, marched in a tight circle in front of the gates. They carried signs demanding fair pay for fair wages and let out the occasional shout. I recognised none of the demonstrators, but they looked like local farmhands.

  "There's no telling how long this strike will drag on," said Uncle Tristan, pulling the motorcar to a stop on the verge. "I shall speak with a few of the men. When this is all settled, they'll want work, and Tristan's Hands needs people. And in case things turn very sour, I shall cash Sir Sandoe's cheque as soon as he delivers it to me this afternoon."

  I stayed in the car, sinking deep into the soft seat. The gatekeeper, hands on hips, spoke with two police officers. The taller, I recognised as Sergeant Pender. The other was a weedy, young constable, in a dingy uniform frayed at the elbows, shiny in the knees, with shabby, heavy boots that were once black.

  "Afternoon, Sergeant Pender and Constable Lutz." The gatekeeper's deep voice carried in the still, frigid air. "Things have been quiet all day."

  I closed my eyes and tried not to think back to the last time I'd visited this place. But I couldn’t shake the image of the desiccated body of Miss Antoinette nor the feeling that something was off about Bagington Hall.

  The upcoming dinner with Lady Herriman caused the acid to bubble in my stomach. I doubted the menu would be to my tastes. The woman was odd. But as Uncle had said, "We have to appease her until we get new clients. Then we will be home free."

  An irate tapping on the side window caused me to bolt stiff upright.

  "Hullo, luv!" The roguish face of Hilda Ogbern peered in through the side window alongside Dobbin, her puppy. "Saw your uncle and thought you'd be nearby." She tugged the motorcar door open. "Since you're here, you may as well join us. I'll introduce you to a few ladies; they are good workers."

  Despite the chill, I cheerfully followed her to the group of women who stood shielded from the wind under an oak tree. Tristan's Hands needed domestic workers, and I needed a diversion from my
thoughts about Lady Herriman.

  After introductions, Hilda said, "My Harold's come out on strike, on account of Sir Sandoe. Don't know how long we'll last without his money, but the whole village is up in arms."

  I said, "About pay and conditions?"

  Hilda said, "Miss Antoinette!"

  "Pardon?"

  "First, His Lordship's wife goes missing, now the daughter. And what have the police done?"

  "Nothing," the gathered women said as one.

  Hilda jabbed a pudgy finger in the air and repeated the cry of the crowd. "A big fat zero, as far as we can see. The men work this land hard for next to nothing, but when His Lordship's wife goes missing, and a young woman is murdered and nobody is arrested, we draw the line. There is only so much wickedness we'll let Black Shuck get away with."

  "Black Shuck is the devil's dog, and Sir Sandoe is the devil himself," added a large woman with a thin face and broad nose. She turned to face me. Her eyes narrowed. "Down from London, ain't ya? Well, someone's been doin' witchcraft and unleashed a curse on Bagington Hall. Ain't over yet, neither."

  Hilda nodded and said, "Mark my words; this strike will grow like a snowball and be about as nasty as a Scottish winter."

  There was a murmur of agreement, and we fell into a stilted silence.

  Just then, I noticed George Edwards leaning against the stone wall, a little way off from the entrance. Besides the raised collars on his jacket, his body posture yielded nothing to the biting wind. In his hand, he carried a small brown paper bag from which he plucked a cobnut. He cracked the shell, popped the nut into his mouth, then became very still as if the temperature suddenly dropped below freezing and he'd turned into a block of ice.

  "Like a cat watching a mouse," I muttered, following his gaze to the gatehouse.

  A small man walking briskly waved at the gatekeeper. He wore a tweed jacket with matching trousers, a white shirt with heavy-starched collars, and a brown fedora hat. He walked with authoritative strides, head held high, despite the biting breeze.

  "Sir Sandoe!"

  It hadn’t been yet a week since we'd met on the train to Cromer. I'd hope to dine with Lady Herriman and slip in and out of Bagington Hall unnoticed. His arrival complicated matters. I turned to look for Uncle Tristan. If he saw Sir Sandoe, he'd be sure to introduce me to the man, and then the game would be over. But Uncle was nowhere to be seen.

  The large woman with the broad face and narrow nose whispered, "Look, it's Black Shuck himself on two legs!"

  Sir Sandoe stood at the gate entrance, hands on hips, wide owl eyes taking in everything at once. Then his eyes settled on our small group of women, and in particular, me.

  Oh bother!

  Chapter 36

  In a movement almost too fast to follow, George Edwards spat the remains of his cobnut into the brown bag and scuttled over to Sir Sandoe, jabbed him on the shoulder and boomed, "I'm 'ere on behalf of Tommy."

  Sir Sandoe turned his gaze from me to the man, a bemused expression on his face.

  "Tommy who?"

  "Crabapple," replied George in a soft voice. "The young fellow lost his feet working your land last harvest."

  "Never heard of the lad."

  George's mouth opened wide then closed. "But the boy almost died gathering the crops. You must remember him."

  "Crabapple, you say? Ah, yes!" There was a trace of crimson around Sir Sandoe's peculiarly arched nostrils, and he stared at George Edwards with large, unblinking eyes. "Damn drunken fool."

  George said, "Tommy doesn't drink, never has. His whole family are teatotallers."

  Sir Sandoe's jaw tightened. His glance darted from George to the police officers, the gatekeeper and back again. He hesitated, clearly calculating his response.

  "He'd been drinking brandy," he said sourly.

  "You ordered your men to give it to him after the accident."

  "Then the boy is an idiot," snapped Sir Sandoe. "Now what is it you want?"

  George removed his cloth cap, gave a little bow, and said, "Sir, me name's George Edwards, with the agricultural union. But I'm 'ere today to speak with you man to man about compensation for Tommy. He can't work the land anymore."

  "Come, come, man, he'll find another job."

  "The boy ain't got no feet. Who would hire him?" There was a touch of frustration in George's voice.

  Sir Sandoe placed a hand on his cheek as if in deep thought. A devious little smile touched the corners of his lips. "Well, I'd offer him a job in the house—"

  "Very kind of you, sir," said George with another little bow. "I'll let the lad know at once."

  Sir Sandoe's lips curved into a full-out grin, and he put on a mocking local accent. "But I don't trust nothin' with no feet." He let out a wild laugh, wiping a tear from his eye. "Now be off with you. We've had our fun."

  George stood his ground. "The boy is living like a beast."

  "Slithers about like a snake, does he?" Again, Sir Sandoe let out a laugh, this time doubling over. "I hear the circus is hiring."

  "Sir, 'ave a little heart for the child. If it happened at the Blackwood Estate, they'd 'ave given 'im compensation."

  Sir Sandoe's lips twisted into a snarl. "Compensation! He knew what he was getting into working the land. Everyone does. You get injured; that's your lookout."

  This was too much for George. He grabbed Sir Sandoe by the collars, but the solid truncheon of Sergeant Pender knocked his rough hands away.

  "Any more of this nonsense, and I'll have you arrested," said the sergeant.

  George backed away.

  At a safe distance, he raised his hand and pointed with a gnarled finger. "I'll not let you get away with treating the boy like that. The accident was on account of mechanical failure, not the boy's thoughtlessness."

  A purple bloom crept slowly from Sir Sandoe's arched nostrils to cover his entire face. "As far as I'm concerned, old man, Tommy No-Feet can slither back to hell, and you with him."

  "For the love o' God, sir," cried George. "Help the young boy to make a fresh start! He's... he's... been crippled working your land by your dangerous machines… Can't you see! You'll pay him compensation, or you'll regret it."

  Sir Sandoe, mouth shut very tight, turned away. With quick, little steps high on the tips of his toes, he hurried through the gate, past the gatekeeper, and back into the extensive grounds of Bagington Hall.

  Chapter 37

  Ten minutes later, Uncle Tristan appeared hot and out of breath.

  "Ladies, may I have your permission for my darling niece to take her leave, else she shall be late for an audience with Lady Herriman?"

  Hilda said, "Rather you than me, dear. The old nag is as batty as a fruitcake steeped in rum."

  The other women laughed in agreement.

  "She's lonely," I said in her defence. "And from another era."

  "Yeah, from ancient Rome," added the large woman with a broad face and narrow nose, "cos from what I hear, she works her house staff like slaves."

  There was no laughter at this comment. It rang too true.

  A few moments later, Uncle Tristan slid into the motorcar with a little smile on his lips. He glanced furtively over his shoulder. I followed his gaze towards a barren clump of hawthorn bushes. There was nothing to see, to the casual eye, and I wondered whether Lord Avalon, Man of Mystery, had spotted something I'd missed.

  I said, "What are you looking at?"

  "Lots of excitement about the place today," he replied, his voice as secretive as his glance.

  There was something. I knew it, but what? And where had he been? I didn’t see him in the gatehouse or amongst the men with the cloth caps. He'd simply vanished. But I knew better than to ask. If I were patient, he'd tell me soon enough.

  "Anything exciting happen while you were waiting, Maggie?"

  "Only Sir Sandoe," I replied in a casual voice. "His Lordship strolled to the gates to inspect things."

  "What! Damn. I missed him." Uncle Tristan slapped his hand on the dashboard
. Now I knew for sure that he wasn’t in the gatehouse or with the men. So where was he? I waited, biding my time.

  In a rather desperate voice, he said, "Did Sir Sandoe look like he was carrying my cheque?"

  "Oh yes," I replied, having a little fun. "His Lordship carried it high in the air like some trophy from an ancient war."

  "Maggie!"

  "And George Edwards shook him about a little, but there was no sign of your bank cheque."

  "What the blazes are you talking about?"

  I told him about George Edwards' request for compensation for Tommy Crabapple and Sir Sandoe's response.

  "My God! Why, Maggie, that's… that's absolutely depraved!"

  Then I told him about the scuffle and finished with a word-for-word rendition of George Edwards' threat.

  Uncle Tristan let it sink in. "Oooh. Big trouble is on the way. I can feel it. Discovery of gold or not, I'm not leaving this place without my cheque. From the grumblings I'm hearing, I wouldn’t be surprised if the villagers show up en mass with pitchforks, blazing torches, and gasoline."

  Unfortunately, I agreed. "That might be tonight!"

  Uncle Tristan gave another furtive glance over his shoulder and started the engine.

  "Better get a move on, then, else gruel will be back on the menu."

  The motorcar eased forward. The circle of cloth-capped men parted. Sergeant Pender gave a salute; the gatekeeper waved us on, and we headed along the gravel road towards the carriage house.

  Impatient to get to the bottom of where my uncle had been, I said, "With your powers of observation, you might have seen more than me when Sir Sandoe got into the scuffle, if you were here."

  Uncle chuckled. "Lord Avalon, Man of Mystery, had other rather urgent business."

  "Like what?"

  "Frank Perry. I saw him skulking around by the stone wall, a short distance from where you and the ladies were talking."

  "But I didn’t see anyone!"

  "Ah, that is because you were huddled together against the wind and facing the gatehouse. Almost missed the man, myself. Frank was crouched low against a hawthorn bush. He took off when he saw me, and I give chase. Nearly ran over Vicar Humberstone."