by T E Kinsey
With that, a lamp flared by the bar and the room was suddenly illuminated.
The scene that greeted us was at once shocking, astonishing and comically disappointing. Around the table, everyone’s hands were joined as instructed, except for those of Madame Eugénie and Lady Hardcastle who each had their left hands somehow free. I looked closer at Lady Hardcastle and saw that Mr Snelson was grasping her right wrist as instructed, but that she was using the same hand to hold Madame Eugénie’s right wrist. Madame Eugénie had pulled the same trick and was glaring menacingly at Lady Hardcastle. In Madame Eugénie’s left hand was a short fishing rod and hanging from the end of the line was a white leather glove, stuffed to make it appear fleshy and full, and which was now clasped firmly in Lady Hardcastle’s free left hand.
Daisy turned up the lamp on the table and I turned to my left to see that what we had taken to be the ghost of Emmanuel Bean was actually a small young woman in a white suit and wearing ghoulishly white makeup on her otherwise rather pretty face. She made to scamper for the door to the stairs, but Constable Hancock appeared in the doorway to block her escape.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Lady Hardcastle once chatter had died down a little. ‘I’m sorry to spoil the show, but I hope the news I bring will make up for any disappointment you might be feeling at having been so expertly hoodwinked by Madame Eugénie here.’
Madame Eugénie placed the fishing rod carefully on the table but said nothing, continuing to glare murderously at Lady Hardcastle.
‘Madame Eugénie, you see,’ continued Lady Hardcastle, ‘is more properly known as Queenie Huggins from Birmingham. I had a most marvellously illuminating conversation this morning with a stage magician I’ve been introduced to by a mutual friend. You all remember Colonel Dawlish from the circus? He knows all manner of fascinating people, including my new conjurer friend.
‘As well as letting me in on a few tricks of the trade, he was also able to tell me a little more about Queenie Huggins. It seems she worked for a few years as a magician’s assistant on the music hall circuit where she picked up a few of the magician’s secrets and realized that she could make a much better living for herself gulling the lonely and vulnerable by pretending to put them in touch with their departed loved ones. She recruited an assistant, Miss Lizzie Bean – whom you see before you in her ghostly garb – and together they travel the land, rooking the desperate and bereft with their thoroughly convincing spiritualist show.
‘But she spoke to my uncle John,’ said Mrs Spratt. ‘No one here knew I had an uncle John ’cept our Daisy.’
‘Did she?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do you remember what she said? She said she had someone with her called John, and John is the most common man’s name in England. It was Daisy who suggested that it was your uncle.’
‘But what about Dr Fitzsimmons’s wife,’ said Mrs Spratt, defensively. ‘She said his June wanted to speak to him.’
‘She did indeed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘In the end. Did you notice how many names she tried before she hit upon June? There was Jane, Jennifer and Juliet before June appeared.’
‘But the spirits is sometimes hard to hear,’ said Mrs Spratt, with somewhat less conviction. ‘All she could make out was the J.’
‘The J, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Have you ever glanced at the signet ring that Dr Fitzsimmons wears on his wedding finger, Mrs Spratt?’
‘Can’t say as I have, no.’
‘It’s a rather beautiful thing. I asked him about it a few days ago. It’s rather unusual for a man to wear a wedding ring, but he wears his as a reminder of his lost love. If you look carefully you can see the letters C and J entwined on the face. Charles and June. A good charlatan pays attention to such things. A man she had been told was a widower, the initial J on his ring… it wasn’t too much effort for her to work out that J was probably his late wife, and then all she had to do was to try a few names and see which one worked. We all wanted to believe, so we all forgot the three wrong guesses and only noticed when she got it uncannily correct.’
There were frowns and scowls around the table.
‘How did you get your hands free?’ I asked when it seemed that no one else was going to bother.
‘When the lightning struck and we broke the circle in shock,’ said Lady Hardcastle. We simply rejoined our hands in the manner you saw, leaving us free to rap on the table and for Queenie here to manipulate her fishing rod.’
‘But there weren’t no lightning last time,’ said Mrs Spratt, still desperate to cling to the possibility that it might be true, despite the props on the table and the embarrassed accomplice standing before her.
‘That’s true, Mrs Spratt. That was a lucky opportunity for me, I must say. I’d planned to slip off my chair, but the thunder gave me much more convincing cover. No, last time, if you remember, Queenie sneezed and blew her nose extravagantly once the lamp was out. That was her chance.’
‘That’s all very well and good,’ said Mr Holman, the baker. ‘But what’s all that got to do with Mr Snelson here?’
‘Ah, now that’s altogether more convoluted,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And potentially a great deal more lucrative for our Queenie. Perhaps Mr Arnold would be good enough to pour us all a drink while I tell you the tale.’
While Joe poured fresh drinks for everyone, Constable Hancock led the ghost to a chair and sat her down. Madame Eugénie still hadn’t said anything, but she had made no move to flee and so Sergeant Hancock seemed content to leave her be. If anything, she seemed resigned to her fate, as though this sort of thing were an occupational hazard.
Once we were all settled and had taken a sip or two of our tipples, Lady Hardcastle motioned for silence.
‘Thank you,’ she said once we were all paying attention. ‘I can’t take credit for all the information I’m about to share, much of the hard work was done by my solicitors who scoured company records, birth records, and probate records.
‘Now, the more attentive of you might have noticed that the young lady so ably playing the part of the ghost here, shares a surname with the ghost she has been portraying. It’s not a spooky coincidence, though, she’s his daughter. Mrs Bean left her husband twenty years ago, taking young Lizzie with her, and neither of them ever saw him again. Lizzie is Emmanuel Bean’s “estranged daughter” as the press so melodramatically say.
‘When Mrs Bean knew him, Emmanuel was a rather lacklustre businessman, with a string of failed ventures behind him and she brought her daughter up to believe that he was an abject failure. It was with some surprise, then, I should imagine, that when she heard of her father’s unfortunate death, she learned that he was a partner in a successful timber business in Gloucester. She would have learned, also, that the beneficiary of the considerable insurance policies on the business, the premises which were destroyed in the fire, and the life of her father himself, was his business partner, Mr Nelson Snelson. There wasn’t a penny in the late Mr Bean’s will for his former wife, nor for the daughter he hadn’t seen in all those years. He left his considerable personal fortune to Mr Snelson as well.
‘Now the next part is pure speculation on my part, but I imagine that events proceeded thusly. Miss Bean approached her employer, Mrs Huggins, with news that she had missed out on a substantial inheritance, and between them they hatched a plan to try to get the money for themselves. They reasoned that if they could implicate Mr Snelson in the torching of the factory and the manslaughter of Mr Bean, that he would no longer be entitled to the insurance money and that, once Bean’s rightful heir had come forward, the rest of Mr Bean’s estate would be theirs.
‘And then our dear friend Daisy gave them just the opportunity they needed to sow the seeds of suspicion when she booked Madame Eugénie to appear in the very village where they had learned that Mr Snelson now lived. Madame Eugénie duly arrived and booked in to her room at the pub, never letting on that she was accompanied by her assistant. Lizzie was smuggled in through the back door, I imagine, and with no one
ever entering the room, no one would know that there were two women staying there. If needs be, she’s small enough to hide in the wardrobe.
‘So they put on their show – which as we’ve just seen was pure theatre – and over the ensuing nights, Lizzie would sneak downstairs, wreak a little havoc, and reinforce the accusation of murder by leaving messages on the skittle alley scoreboard. They nearly came unstuck three nights ago when my maid, Miss Armstrong, spent the night in the pub, but by careful use of a spare key to leave her locked in her room and some rather clever misdirection from Queenie who kept everyone busy and out of the way while Lizzie crept back to their room, they were able to leave their message, the one which led the Gloucester police to the evidence in the farm. I have no idea what that evidence was – letters, perhaps, spelling out the plan, or a forged confession – but whatever it was, it was enough to convince the Gloucester detectives that Mr Snelson should be arrested and that they should investigate further.
‘So far, so good, and their plan was proceeding well. Mr Snelson was arrested, there was fresh evidence which might secure his conviction, and it was only a matter of time before they were “in the money” as the saying goes.
‘Even if a word of that were true,’ said Queenie Huggins, a harsh, Black Country twang replacing the dreamy voice we were used to, ‘we ain’t done nothink illegal. Snelson still set that fire, and he still murdered Lizzie’s pa. All we done is help out by speaking the truth.’
‘Ah, well, I’m afraid there’s one extra little part of the story that you don’t know, and which a rather excellent investigator employed by my solicitors managed to dig up for me when I suggested what I thought might have happened. You see, Mr Snelson can’t have killed Mr Bean, because Mr Emmanuel Bean is alive and well and living in Manchester under the name Isaac Goldstein.’
There was a minor uproar and Mr Snelson, who had up to that point been looking rather relieved that things were finally going his way, slumped in his chair and held his head in his hands.
‘Not dead?’ said Queenie. ‘But there was a body in the timber yard. Of course he’s dead.’
‘No, Mrs Huggins, I’m afraid not. I confess I rather let my prejudices get the better of me, and I never trusted you from the start. Once the nonsense about murder started coming out, I set about trying to think of an alternative explanation. Of course, the story might have been true, and Mr Snelson might somehow have managed to get to Gloucester to torch the timber yard with his partner still in it and still get back to Birmingham in time to give himself an alibi. But what if he hadn’t? What if he had been in Birmingham the whole time? So it was either an accidental fire, or an arson attempt by Bean himself which went tragically wrong. But what if it wasn’t either of those things? The only thing that identified Bean’s burnt body was his signet ring. What if that wasn’t Bean at all, but some unfortunate derelict whose body they had chanced upon and which had given them both an idea. The business, we know, was in difficulties, but the insurance premiums were up to date. Bean had been salting away money and had a substantial policy on his own life. What an opportunity this would be to rid themselves of the failing business, to claim on the insurance policies and live a comfortable retirement. And so Snelson was sent to Birmingham to make sure he couldn’t be implicated in any wrongdoing, while Bean put his ring on the tramp’s corpse and set the fire that destroyed everything. All Bean had to do then was to disappear and wait for Snelson to give him his half share of the proceeds.’
‘Well I never,’ said Mrs Spratt.
‘You could say that the spirit was willing,’ said Mr Holman. Faces remained blank. ‘The spirit made a will, you see. He… oh, never mind.’
‘Quite,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a friendly smile.
‘You still ain’t got nothink on us,’ said Queenie, belligerently.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure there’s taking money under false pretences, not paying for a room for Lizzie, some criminal damage to Joe’s pub. Oh, and my solicitors also told me about a rather splendid piece of eighteenth century legislation. They tell me that under the Witchcraft Act of 1735, it’s an offence to claim that one can produce spirits. I gather that the two of you can look forward to at least a year in gaol if convicted. And,’ she indicated the assembled throng, ‘we’re not exactly short of witnesses.’
‘Right,’ said Sergeant Dobson, taking this as his cue for action. ‘Mr Nelson Snelson, I am arresting you on suspicion of making fraudulent insurance claims and of… well, I’m sure there’s some offence of falsifying someone’s death and of not properly disposing of a body, too. Meanwhile, Mrs Queenie Huggins and Miss Lizzie Bean, I am arresting you two under the… what was it, m’lady?’
‘The Witchcraft Act of 1735, sergeant dear.’
‘Under the Witchcraft Act of 1735, for making false claims of being able to produce spirits. I’d also like a word about you roughing up Joe’s bar.’
‘I do hope you’re not too disappointed, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle the next morning at breakfast.
‘No, my lady, not at all,’ I said. ‘The more frauds that are exposed, the more credibility it gives to all the genuine mediums out there.’
‘I’m not wholly convinced that I follow your reasoning, dear, but I almost see your point. As long as you don’t feel that I’ve mocked you and your beliefs, all is well.’
‘You’re utterly blameless on that score, my lady,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m only disappointed that you didn’t let me in on your suspicions a little sooner.’
‘Where would be the fun in that? I do like to spring my little surprises. And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was belittling something you clearly believe in.’
‘You’re very thoughtful,’ I said, ruefully.
‘I am, pet, I am. Now, what shall we do today?’
‘Well, the weather’s cleared up again, how about a drive? I could drive us up to Berkeley and we could look at the castle.’
‘You could drive, Flo? I think you’ll find it’s my turn to drive.’
‘But how would it look if we drove into the village with you at the wheel? What if we met the Berkeleys? We’d never be invited in if they thought you were the sort of wanton woman who drives a motorcar.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never met the Berkeleys, pet, they don’t know me from Adam. And “wanton woman”? How dare you. I’ve got my strength back, you know, and I know where we keep the carpet beater.’
I harrumphed. I was just thinking of a comeback when the doorbell rang.
‘Off you trot, you demon of the speed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Go and earn your keep by impersonating a servant and answering the door.’
I narrowed my eyes, but did as I was asked.
There on the doorstep was a veritable gang of workmen. One by one they announced themselves and explained their intentions for the day. The builders had arrived to resume work on the garage for the motorcar, two men from the telephone company announced that they would be putting up poles in the lane and connecting the house to the telephone system, and one man in a bowler hat and a shabby serge suit proclaimed himself the telephone engineer and asked if he might come inside to install the “instrument” itself.
I set them all to work and went to the kitchen to make the first of many, many pots of tea.
THREE
The Trophy Case Case
To escape the army of craftsmen and other horny-handed sons of toil who were infesting our home, Lady Hardcastle accepted just about every invitation that came her way, and out of kindness and consideration, she always took me along with her. Sometimes this proved to be a soul-crushingly tedious chore (the afternoon we spent with the Guild of Littleton Cotterell Military Button Collectors springs immediately to mind) but some of the other events, like today’s, were the most thrilling fun.
It was Saturday and the rugby season was almost over with only one important match to go. Against all expectations, plucky little Littleton Cotterell had beaten Clifton in the
semifinal of the Wessex Challenge Cup (whose name I was now very easily able to remember) and today was the day of the final. After the other semifinal had resulted in another surprise upset, our village team was playing against North Nibley in the final which was being hosted, rather conveniently, by Chipping Bevington RFC.
We had arrived at the club in plenty of time and had been greeted by our host, Sir Hector Farley-Stroud, who had once been the president of Littleton Cotterell RFC and had recently been appointed Grand Eternal Poobah, a purely ceremonial title which nevertheless granted him certain hospitality privileges at local rugby clubs and entitled him to wear a splendidly outrageous blazer in the club colours of blue and gold.
‘Good afternoon, Emily old sport,’ he said, shaking Lady Hardcastle warmly by the hand. ‘And the redoubtable Miss Armstrong, too; welcome to you, my dear.’
I smiled, and nodded my thanks.
‘It really is most kind of you to invite us,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Roddy used to play in our youth and I do enjoy watching a game of rugger.’
‘Not at all, m’dear, not at all,’ he said, genially. ‘The memsahib usually likes to come, but she’s visiting her sister in Hertfordshire and she suggested you might enjoy the match.’
‘Well thank you very much,’ she said. ‘We’ve been really rather looking forward to it, haven’t we, Flo?’
‘We have, my lady,’ I said. ‘Very much.’
‘You like rugger, then, Miss Armstrong?’ he asked.
‘It’s our national game, sir,’ I said. ‘My brothers all played, and they even let me and my twin join in their practice sometimes.’
‘Did they, by jingo!’ he exclaimed with a chuckle. ‘Where did y’play?’
‘On the wing,’ I said. ‘Small and fast, see? Some of the lads wanted us to cut our hair and pretend to be boys so we could play in matches, but it never happened.’
