The Spirit Is Willing (The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries Book 2)

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Hopin’ so, m’lady. Would you ’scuse me, m’lady? Got a few more things to sort.’

  ‘Of course, Mr McGuire. Thank you for all your efforts.’

  McGuire knuckled his forehead and disappeared into the still-growing crowd.

  I should like to report the details of the auction which I’m sure were thrilling beyond measure for those in the know, but for me things were a little less clear. Some sheep were led in. A man in a flat cap jabbered incomprehensibly – I could make out numbers here and there – as other men nodded and signalled. Within less than a minute, the sheep were led back out again and a deal had, apparently, been struck.

  Before the last of the sheep had left the sawdust-strewn arena, McGuire came in, leading the first of the ten cattle he was selling. The rest obediently followed and after a few words of barely intelligible introduction, the flat-capped man began his sing-song, ‘Her-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah-her-ba-da-HEY-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah…’ Once again, before I had fully worked out what was going on, he let out a loud, ‘Sold!’ and a man in a battered bowler hat began making his way towards the cashier’s table.

  ‘Oh, I say, how splendid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It absolutely couldn’t have gone better.’

  ‘It couldn’t?’ said Lady Hardcastle with a frown. ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘What do you mean? Oh, I see. I suppose it is all a little arcane. Just as McGuire predicted there was a bidding war between the two local rivals, Carmichael and Alford, and Carmichael won. And their rivalry pushed the price way beyond what we were expecting to achieve. I couldn’t be more delighted.’

  ‘Well that is good news, darling. I’m very pleased for you,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Thank you, m’dear. Luncheon, I should say, is on me.’

  ‘That’s extremely generous. But what shall we do until then? Are there any more lots you’d like to see?’

  ‘No, m’dear,’ said the older lady. ‘It’s only really fun when it’s your own stock that’s on the block. Unless you want to find out what happens to this next collection of malnourished cows I rather think we’re done.’

  ‘At least the rain is abating, my lady,’ said Maude.

  ‘Somewhat, Denton, somewhat,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You’ve never been to Chipping Bevington before, have you, Emily?’

  ‘No, I never seemed to get round to it what with one thing and another. We usually go into Bristol for shopping.’

  ‘Well, we ain’t got anything like they’ve got in Bristol, m’dear, but I’m sure we could while away an entertaining hour or more on the High Street. There’s a charming dress shop I’d love you to see. Oh, and quite the most splendid bric-a-brac shop. Do you care for antiques?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle and we pushed our way through the crowd and back down the side street to the High Street.

  The rain had, indeed, abated and was now more of a shower than a torrent and we all four stepped carefully through the puddles on the glistening pavement.

  I could see why Lady Farley-Stroud favoured the dress shop which seemed to cater for more robustly-built country ladies of a certain age but which had little to offer Lady Hardcastle. There was a silk scarf she quite admired, but despite many “oooh”s and “ahh”s, and even one, “Oh, Emily, you’d look absolutely smashing in this,” from her new friend, she remained largely unmoved.

  The bric-a-brac shop, however, was a completely different kettle of fish. It was the last in a small row of shops set slightly back from the rest, giving it the appearance of being hidden away in a darkened corner. The shop front was curved and several of the small, slightly grubby panes were of dimpled glass, giving it a very old fashioned look. But it was what was on view behind that glass that captured my attention.

  I’m not a great fan of old things usually, but there was a romantic quality to the mis-matched collection of near-junk in the window that made me desperate to get inside and explore. Amidst the usual collection of chipped china figurines, glass vases of doubtful practicality, and tarnished silverware there was an elephant’s foot umbrella stand, a brass diving helmet and a stuffed and mounted warthog head with wax oranges on its tusks. Next to that was a fish kettle which served as a mount for a large, stuffed trout.

  ‘We’re not buying it,’ said Lady Hardcastle who had noted my interest.

  ‘Oh, but I might,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. I glanced across and saw that she was admiring the elephant’s foot umbrella stand. ‘Come on, Emily, let’s see if we can strike a bargain, what?’

  She opened the door and we trooped in.

  Inside was a cavern of infinite delights. I have travelled the world, seen the teeming markets in Shanghai and Calcutta, wandered the flea markets of Paris, and conducted more than my fair share of clandestine meetings in the back rooms of seedy little shops in London’s East End, but there was something altogether new and magical about the collection on display inside Pomphrey’s Bric-a-Brac Emporium. There’s junk, and then there’s a lovingly curated collection of surprising and interesting junk. And this was definitely towards the more entertaining end of the scale. There was a moose’s head mounted on the wall wearing a topi and with the mouthpiece of an ornate hookah between its lips. Below it was a forest of candlesticks. There was a musical instrument section which, of course, included the usual selection of battered trumpets and euphoniums, a violin with faded lacquer, and a banjo with a Mississippi riverboat painted on its resonator. But lurking among the everyday instruments were two crumhorns, a serpent, and an ornate lute. One could, should one choose, start one’s own Renaissance chamber group.

  I was examining the banjo when a bespectacled man wearing a long velvet jacket and a matching smoking cap appeared from the back room. He was short, round, and apple-cheeked, with a mischievous twinkle in the dark blue eyes that peeped out through the tiny, round, blue-tinted spectacles.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hubert Pomphrey at your service. And how may I… Lady Farley-Stroud! Good morning, my lady. How wonderful to see you. And with a friend. I don’t believe I’ve met…’

  ‘Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, turning to my mistress. ‘Allow me to introduce the proprietor of this splendid shop, Mr Hubert Pomphrey.’

  Lady Hardcastle nodded and Mr Pomphrey bowed.

  ‘And this is my maid, Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. Lady Farley-Stroud appeared slightly puzzled by the notion of introducing a servant, but said nothing.

  ‘Welcome, my lady,’ said Pomphrey. ‘And welcome to you, too, Miss Armstrong. I see you’re admiring the banjo. You have a good eye. This fine instrument was once played by Mr Zachariah Duchamp, one of the most accomplished exponents of the banjo ever to sail on the riverboats that ply the mighty Mississippi. Do you play?’

  ‘A little,’ I said.

  ‘Then please,’ he said with a grand sweep of his chubby arm. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pomphrey,’ I said. ‘But not just now.’

  ‘As you wish, miss,’ he said with a smile. ‘Has anything else caught anyone’s eye?’

  ‘Actually, Mr Pomphrey,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I was admiring the elephant’s foot umbrella stand in the window. Reminds me of m’days in the Raj with Sir Hector, what?’

  ‘And what a good eye you have, my lady,’ he said. ‘Sadly, though, I ought to say in the name of honesty that it’s a mere reproduction. Cast in plaster.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘But then again, perhaps not so sad. Perhaps a three-legged elephant would be a sadder sight. Would you like to take a closer look?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said, and he reached over the panel that backed the window display to grab the umbrella stand. It seemed heavy, and with the ornately-handled umbrella still in it, also rather cumbersome. He struggled back to us and placed it on the counter for her to inspect.

  ‘As you can see, my lady, it’s in most excellent condition. Very often these plaster replicas are chipped and cracked, but this one… well…�
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  ‘It does look remarkably convincing,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I’m just a little disappointed it’s not the real thing.’

  ‘Oh, Gertie, no,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s exactly like the real thing, a perfect imitation. And this way you get an intriguing objet, and the poor elephant gets to walk free. I agree with Mr Pomphrey – there are few sadder sights than a three-legged elephant.’

  ‘Do they really just chop one leg off?’ asked Maude, innocently. Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged a glance but said nothing.

  ‘I’m given to understand that there’s a roaring trade in elephantine prosthetics on the Subcontinent, miss,’ said Mr Pomphrey, earnestly. ‘My brother has a very successful company out there: “Pomphrey’s Perfect Pachyderm Peg Legs”… of Pondicherry.’

  ‘I say,’ said Maude. ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s teasing you, Denton,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Take no notice.’

  Maude looked crestfallen.

  ‘My apologies, miss,’ he said. ‘Just my little joke.’

  ‘She’ll live,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Now, how much do you want for it?’

  Some fierce haggling ensued. Lady Farley-Stroud was not one to be trifled with over matters of money and within minutes she had reduced the asking price by three-quarters and persuaded Mr Pomphrey to throw in the umbrella. I had no doubt that he was still making a handsome profit, but he made a good show of gracious defeat and she clearly judged herself to have secured quite the bargain.

  By the time we emerged once more onto the street with the umbrella stand wrapped neatly in brown paper and tucked under Maude’s arm, the rain had ceased and the wind had eased to a more tolerable level.

  ‘That was splendid fun, Gertie dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. What say we take you up on your generous offer of lunch? Where do you recommend?’

  ‘Denton and I usually head for The Hayrick round the corner,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Don’t we Denton?’

  ‘We do, my lady,’ said Maude, somewhat less enthusiastically than was her custom as we set off once more up the High Street.

  ‘Hah!’ roared Lady Farley-Stroud delightedly. ‘Misery guts. It’s hearty grub, Emily. Good, honest, English nosh in a good, honest, English pub. It’s where all the farmers end up after market. Love the place. Are you a cider drinker, m’dear?’

  ‘I’ve been known to tipple,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though I prefer a brandy.’

  ‘At lunchtime? Well I never.’

  ‘Oh, but darling, you should. It’s never too early for the eau de vie.’

  ‘I still insist you try the cider, m’dear. When in Rome, what?’

  ‘Very well, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I shall try the cider.’

  ‘And the pie. They do a cracking beef and mushroom pie,’ said the portly older woman, all but salivating as we rounded a corner into a side street and approached the pub.

  Lady Farley-Stroud pushed open the door and we eased our way into the crowded and very noisy inn.

  Pipe smoke. Noise. More smells: stale beer, cider, food. Laughter. Prodigious swearing. Extraordinary beards. We had entered the world of the farmers.

  Maude, Lady Hardcastle and I trailed in the wake of Lady Farley-Stroud as she ploughed her way through the rambunctious market day crowd to get to the bar. It wasn’t yet noon, but the majority of the assembled rustics were already well on their way to exuberant intoxication.

  The landlord had his back to us and was fussing with something on the shelf behind the bar.

  ‘Morning, Ronnie,’ bellowed Lady Farley-Stroud.

  The landlord jumped. Even above the noise of the pub, her voice was enough to terrify even the most redoubtable of men.

  ‘Ah, good morning, m’lady,’ he said, turning round. ‘You gave me quite a start there.’

  ‘Thought so,’ she said. ‘Dream world, eh?’

  ‘Just keeping the place tidy, m’lady. It’s bedlam in here. Always is come market day. What can I get you?’

  ‘You have your famous beef and mushroom pies?’

  ‘Baked ’em fresh myself this very morning, m’lady. Two, is it?’

  ‘Four today, Ronnie. Brought some guests,’ she said and indicated Lady Hardcastle and me.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ said the landlord with a slight bow. ‘Ronald Townsley at your service. Welcome to The Hayrick.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Townsley,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘A lovely, lively place you have here.’

  ‘Ronnie, madam, please. I’m glad you like it. Not quite what you’re used to, I don’t expect, but there’s always a welcome here for friends of Lady Farley-Stroud.’

  ‘I’m reasonably sure you’d be quite surprised by what we’re used to, Ronnie,’ she said with her warmest smile. ‘And I understand that your pies and cider are the finest in the county.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, Mrs…?’

  ‘This is Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

  ‘Is it? Is it, indeed. Well I’ll be blowed. We read all about you in the papers, m’lady. A celebrity in our midst. Seeing off Hun spies and all sorts by all accounts.’

  ‘Solved a murder up at The Grange, too,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, proudly.

  ‘I heard about that, as well, m’lady. And the circus. And young Frank Pickering. Terrible loss, he was. One of the best fast bowlers in the district. Littleton Cotterell will miss him this season.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘So mind you treat her well, m’lad.’

  ‘No special treatment here, m’lady,’ said Ronnie. ‘You knows that. It’s the finest cider and the finest pies and everyone gets the very best there is, and a warm welcome to go with it. It’s a pleasure to serve you all.’ He paused and looked quizzically at me. ‘And are you the famous Florence Armstrong?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know about famous,’ I said. ‘But I have my moments.’

  ‘I heard as how you broke a killer’s wrist with a single kick and decked a prize fighter ’fore he even knew what was happening.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I did that. I bake nice cakes, too.’

  He laughed. ‘I bet you does, an’ all. Well, ladies, barge some o’ they ne’er-do-wells out of the way and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send the girl out with pies and cider in two shakes. Hey!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Spencer! Budge up there and make room for the ladies.’

  A tall, skinny man in his fifties, with an impressively bushy beard and a slight squint, looked up sullenly from his pie. He was clearly about to offer his views on the idea of budging up for anyone at all when he noticed Lady Farley-Stroud. Instead, he nodded and grudgingly shuffled along the bench to make way for us, pulling his plate and his pint with him.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carmichael,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud as she made herself comfortable. ‘And I do hope the cattle will be to your liking.’

  ‘Them’s good milkers, m’lady,’ he wheezed. ‘Reckon I got m’self a good deal there.’

  ‘Good show,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Enjoy your pie.’ She turned back to the rest of us. ‘Well, Emily, what do you think? Isn’t market day a hoot?’

  ‘It’s a rich slice of country life, that’s for certain,’ said Lady Hardcastle, looking around the crowded bar. ‘Is it always this well attended?’

  ‘I should say it’s about average,’ said our hostess.

  ‘And do you know many people here? They seemed to know you.’

  ‘I suppose I’m quite easy to remember, what? Lady of the manor and all that. But I know a few. Know a few. Over there, for instance,’ she indicated a short man with an ill-fitting hat. ‘That’s Dick Alford who was bidding against Mr Carmichael here for our prize cattle. And over there,’ she pointed to a surprisingly handsome middle-aged man in a well-patched jacket. ‘That’s Noah Lock, one of our neighbours. And… let me see… ah yes, there he is. Over there at the end of the bar next to the kitchen, that’s another of our neighbours, Lau
rence Dougal.’

  ‘Quite the community,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Got to know one’s neighbours out here, m’dear. Rely on each other, what.’ Lady Farley-Stroud raised her voice, ‘Don’t we, Mr Carmichael?’

  He looked up from his pie. ‘Beg pardon, m’lady?’

  ‘I say we look out for each other. It’s the country way. Stick together.’

  ‘Ar,’ he wheezed, gravely. ‘That we do, m’lady. That we do.’

  ‘He’s our other neighbour,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, at a more conversational level.

  Conversation was briefly halted by the arrival of “the girl” with a huge tray bearing our pies and ciders. “The girl” was all of forty years old and was missing more than one tooth, but her gapped smile was warm and her strength impressive as she heaved the tray with its heaped plates and pint jugs onto the table.

  ‘There you goes, m’dears,’ she said. ‘Four pies and four pints. Can I get you anything else? There’s some mustard around here somewhere.’

  ‘And some salt, please, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, picking up her knife and fork. ‘Come on, girls, tuck in,’ she said, and hungrily followed her own advice.

  The pies, despite my reservations, didn’t disappoint at all. The beef was tender, the gravy rich, and I was even sure that the mushrooms were chanterelles. Add to that a generous helping of mashed potato and it was a lunch fit for a farming king. The cider wasn’t bad, either, but Old Joe at The Dog and Duck at Littleton Cotterell just had the edge there.

  As we ate, the two ladies swapped stories about their respective times in India. Lady Hardcastle’s were certainly the more thrilling, being edited highlights of some of our less secret spying missions, but there was a mischievous glee in the older woman’s stories that came as something of a pleasant surprise. For reasons I can no longer put my finger on, I had always imagined Lady Farley-Stroud as something of joyless frump, but here in a less formal setting she was letting her hair down a bit and revealing that in her youth she’d been a bit of a girl. And sometimes rather a racy one at that.