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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Bert?’ said Lady Hardcastle, looking up from her notebook.

  ‘You heard?’ I said, and set the diaries down on the table. ‘He brought the rugby club diaries.’

  ‘So I gather,’ she said, grinning. ‘Here’s a plan then: we decamp to the drawing room, I’ll have a tinkle at the old Joanna – I do find I think better when I’m playing the piano – and you can scour the diaries for… for… lumme, I have no idea what you might scour them for. Background information, I suppose. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds rather pleasant, actually, my lady,’ I said, and began clearing away the supper things. ‘Coffee?’ I called from the kitchen a few moments later.

  ‘At this time of night?’ she called back. ‘I’m pouring brandy, you silly thing.’

  We settled in the drawing room and as I listened to Lady Hardcastle’s beautiful interpretation of a selection of Chopin nocturnes, I leafed through the diaries. For the most part they seemed to contain accounts of matches (which Littleton Cotterell almost invariably lost) and notes of the more interesting decisions from otherwise rather dry committee meetings. This rather prosaic fare was interspersed with tales of some of the more entertaining goings-on at the club, usually involving jolly japes and drunken adventures. Throughout the late-1890s, one name seemed to crop up more than the others, former club president and benefactor Jonathan “Jester” Dunleavy. He had, I learned, been a scrum half of considerable skill in his day, and after his retirement from the field had continued to help with the running of the club and seemed to have contributed to the cost of much of the club’s furnishing’s from his own pocket. But his principal contribution to club life beyond chairs and tables had been the many pranks he had played or instigated both on his teammates and upon their opponents. His favourite had been the theft of trophies from the teams whom Littleton visited for away matches, which had then been proudly displayed in the club’s own trophy cabinet as “spoils of war”. They were always returned eventually, but in the meantime none of the victims had ever been able to work out what had happened, nor find any trace of the missing loot.

  Lady Hardcastle reached the end of a particularly moving piece and sat for a few moments in contemplative silence before picking up the music and leafing through her collection for another piece. ‘Something more cheerful next, I think,’ she said. ‘How are you getting on, pet? Anything helpful in the annals?’

  ‘Not really, my lady,’ I said, and recounted some of the tales I had just read. ‘So there’s a history of trophy-related mischief, but nothing that might give us any clues to current events.’

  ‘I feared as much,’ she said, opening one of the ragtime pieces that she had bought the previous summer after meeting the boys from Roland Richman’s Ragtime Revue.

  ‘How about you, my lady? Has the music loosened your cogitations?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not certain one should enquire as to the state of a lady’s cogitations, pet. It seems impertinently personal. But give me a moment with this delightful looking two-step and we shall see if anything develops.’ She began to play.

  ‘Like castor oil for the soul, my lady,’ I said.

  She stopped abruptly and turned around. ‘I’ve been such a dunderhead,’ she said. ‘That’s it. Come, we must retire at once; we’ve an early start in the morning.’

  I frowned confusedly.

  ‘Quick sticks,’ she said, scooping up the music and closing the lid of the piano. ‘We need to be at the rugby club by six in the morning at the latest. To bed!’

  And she bustled off, leaving me to pick up the brandy glasses and lock up for the night.

  We were awake at five o’clock on Tuesday morning. I was an habitual early riser so I found it no hardship at all to be washed, dressed and ready for the walk before six, but Lady Hardcastle clearly found it a struggle. Her enthusiasm for her scheme – whatever it was – carried her through, though, and at the appointed hour we arrived at the deserted club. The early morning sunlight glinted on the dew-damp grass and mystery birds sang in the hedgerows.

  ‘Here we are, then, my lady,’ I said as we walked up to the pavilion. ‘Just after dawn at the rugby club, the dew still wet on the grass.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, waving her finger in the air. ‘Exactly so.’

  Intrigued, I followed her round to the side of the pavilion, obeying her exhortation to remain as close to the wall as possible. As she reached the corner, she motioned me to join her and we both peered round together.

  ‘What am I looking at, my lady?’ I said, feeling more than a little foolish to be sneaking up on what appeared to be nothing more than a locked door.

  ‘The grass, pet. Look at the grass.’

  I did as she said and looked down at the grass in front of the big double doors that led into the storeroom. The oily bootprints were still visible, just as they had been on Saturday morning, and they still faded away where the grass had brushed the oil from the soles of the boots. But now, in the low sunlight making the dew shine as though the grass had been dusted with jewels, I could see that the footprints continued. Although the oil wasn’t dark enough to see, there was still enough of it to repel the dew and it was possible to trace the tracks beyond the door and, finally, to see where the burglar had gone. Moving my head this way and that to best catch the light on the grass, I followed the line of the prints as it moved away from the pavilion towards the hedgerow and then, to my astonishment, looped round and returned to the door.

  ‘He didn’t go anywhere,’ I said. ‘He turned round and went back inside.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ she said with a grin of triumph.

  ‘Whatever made you think of this?’ I asked as we continued to examine the prints.

  ‘It was when you mentioned taking castor oil last evening,’ she said. ‘I thought about how the water runs off when one tries to rinse the spoon. Then I wondered about making the grass wet to see the tracks and realized that just after dawn it would be lightly damp without our having to contrive anything ingenious at all.’

  ‘You’re a genius,’ I said.

  ‘Hardly,’ she laughed. ‘But sometimes a little inspired. Come on, let’s get back for some breakfast, then we can call on Sergeant Dobson to see if they still have a key to the storeroom; I think we need a proper look round in there.’

  Despite our impatience to get into the storeroom and have a proper snoop around, we forced ourselves to have a proper breakfast back at the house. We knew from experience that neither Sergeant Dobson nor Constable Hancock would be on duty until at least eight o’clock, and possibly later if there was nothing in particular for them to attend to, so there was nothing to be gained by skipping a meal.

  Eventually, replete and refreshed, we walked back into the village and knocked upon the police station door. The sergeant answered and was eager to accompany us once we had explained our quest. He had been given a set of keys to the club so that he might continue his investigations, and a mere twenty minutes later we were back at the club and letting ourselves in through the front door.

  We went through to the storeroom and threw open the double doors to let the daylight in so that we might begin our search.

  ‘What are we looking for, my lady?’ I said as we split up.

  ‘Well, the trophy would be nice,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘In here?’

  ‘Perhaps. But anything, really. We’ll know when we find it. Something that’s not supposed to be here.’

  ‘Right you are,’ I said and began my search.

  We clattered about, moving groundsmen’s tools, old rugby balls, spare parts for the lawnmower, broken furniture waiting to be repaired, all the while looking for “something that’s not supposed to be here”.

  After about ten minutes of fruitless search, Sergeant Dobson let out a cry of triumph. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘And what do we have here?’

  I looked over to see him holding a pair of large, well-worn, black boots. He sniffed the soles.

/>   ‘Oil,’ he said. ‘I reckon these is our thief’s boots.’

  ‘I say, Sergeant, well done,’ said Lady Hardcastle. She took them from him and examined them closely. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, folding down the tongue of the left boot. ‘How very obliging of our thief to write his name in his boots.’

  The sergeant looked at the name. ‘I’ll get down to the bakery and arrest Lofty Tredegar,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit irregular, but you can come up the station later and have a word with him if you likes.’

  ‘If it won’t get you into trouble,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I should like that very much.’

  An hour later we returned to the police station to be greeted by Constable Hancock. He called Sergeant Dobson and together they led us to the back of the cottage where the prisoner sat in the “cell”. It was a bare room with a bed, a chair, a stout door and bars on the window, but it still resembled the back parlour of a cottage more than a gaol cell. Tredegar was sitting forlornly on the edge of the bed as Lady Hardcastle and I entered. He made to stand up, but Lady Hardcastle waved him back down and sat in the chair. I stood in the corner of the room and the sergeant lurked in the doorway, listening intently.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Tredegar,’ she said. ‘Are they treating you well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ he said, without resentment. ‘I’ve been in worse cells.’

  ‘The sergeant told you why you’ve been arrested?’ she asked.

  ‘Sommat to do with a pair of me old boots.’

  ‘Old boots?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, lifting his legs to show off the handsome pair of boots he was wearing. ‘I ain’t worn they old ’uns for months. I used to wear ’em to trainin’, save gettin’ these new ’uns scuffed up on the path, like, but they disappeared one week and I ain’t seen ’em since.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The lads used to take the mickey sommat rotten, said they was a disgrace, said they was going to chuck ’em. So one day when they wasn’t there after trainin’ I assumed they’d got rid of ’em and went home in me rugby boots. Truth is I didn’t need ’em no more since I got the new ones, so I thought I’d just go along with the joke, like.’

  The sergeant snorted disbelievingly from the doorway.

  ‘It’s the truth, Mr Dobson, I swears. I ain’t seen they boots since February.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well this puts a whole new complexion on things. There’s nothing we can do to get you released for the moment, Mr Tredegar, but sit tight and don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.’ And with that, she rose and swept towards the door. The sergeant stepped aside and I followed her.

  After locking the cell door, the sergeant and the constable joined us in the main office.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,’ said Dobson. ‘But what’s goin’ on? We got this fella damn near red-handed. Red booted, at least. Are you sayin’ he didn’t do it?’

  ‘It just doesn’t make any sense, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Why would a man use his own old boots to commit a burglary and then hide them where he could be sure they’d eventually be found? What would he gain from it? Why not wear his ordinary boots? If he were using his old boots to throw us off the scent – “No, look here, my boots are oil-free” – why hide them? Why not take them home? No, I think there’s more going on here. I think someone is trying to pull the wool over our eyes on this one.’

  ‘You’re sayin’ someone else wore his boots?’ said Sergeant Dobson. ‘Someone’s tryin’ to make it look like Lofty pinched the trophies?’

  ‘Or at least to make it less obvious who really did it,’ she said.

  ‘Well, ’t wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been led down a false trail,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘But I can’t just let him go.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But be kind to him; I really don’t think he did it.’

  ‘Right you are, m’lady,’ he said. ‘But please be quick. It’d be nice to get this one sorted before the Gloucester detectives change their minds and come sniffin’ around. I don’t like them, not one bit.’

  ‘We shall move heaven and earth, my dear Sergeant,’ she said with a smile, and after saying our goodbyes, we left.

  As we made our way around the green, we heard the parp of a motor horn and looked up to see Sir Hector’s motor coming along the road. It pulled up alongside us and Sir Hector poked his head out of the window.

  ‘What ho, ladies,’ he said with a cheerful grin. ‘Sorry for gettin’ Bert to make such a racket but I didn’t want to miss you. Would you care to join me up at The Grange for elevenses?’

  Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged looks, but neither of us gave any sign that it seemed like a bad idea, so she returned his grin and said, ‘Why thank you, Hector dear, that would be delightful.’

  And so we hopped into the motorcar and set off for The Grange.

  Sir Hector had asked Jenkins to bring us tea and cake in the library and we had settled ourselves in comfortable chairs clustered around a small occasional table. He seemed pleased to have company and had been chattering almost continuously since we had climbed into the motor with him. As the refreshments arrived, he finished his account of the replanting of the rose beds and switched the points to divert his train of thought towards the rugby club.

  ‘Still reelin’ from the goings-on at the rugby club,’ he said as Jenkins poured three cups of tea. ‘Bad business, what? Were the diaries any help? Any clues in the background?’

  ‘They were fascinating, Sir Hector,’ I said before Lady Hardcastle could reply. ‘It seems to have been a lively place in the past.’

  ‘It’s a lively place now, m’dear,’ he said with a grin. ‘Quite the liveliest.’

  ‘But you can’t have any characters to rival Jester Dunleavy,’ I said. ‘He seemed to have been quite a card.’

  ‘Dear old Jester,’ he said, wistfully. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll see his like again. He’ll be sadly missed.’

  ‘He’s no longer with us?’ I said.

  ‘No, poor chap was working at the Hackney Empire when he slipped on something an elephant had deposited on the stage and fell headfirst into the orchestra pit. Head stuck in a euphonium. They rushed him to the hospital, of course, but he’d broken his neck in the fall.’

  Lady Hardcastle struggled to contain herself but let out such a bark of laughter that she set me off and soon all three of us were giggling fit to burst.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Hector,’ she said. ‘I meant no disrespect to your friend’s memory.’

  ‘Nonsense, m’dear,’ he said, kindly. ‘It’s exactly the reaction he would have wanted. Very fitting that a man who filled the club with so many practical jokes should still be making people laugh even after he’s passed. The inventor of the disappearing cash box and the self-pouring beer tap should be remembered with a laugh or two.’

  ‘He was quite the inventor, then?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly. It’s how he made his living. Invented… “gags” he called them… invented gags for stage conjurers. Magic cabinets and whatnot. Jolly clever chap. Best scrum half the club ever had, too.’

  ‘Magic cabinets?’ said Lady Hardcastle, her interest suddenly piqued. ‘Of the sort that might make things disappear?’

  ‘Exactly that sort,’ he said, enthusiastically. ‘Once saw him make a lady vanish – vanish completely, mind you – right before me eyes. Man was a genius.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Flo, dear?’ she said.

  ‘Probably not, my lady,’ I said. ‘I was thinking that I could do with a cabinet like that from time to time.’

  It was Sir Hector’s turn to guffaw. ‘Me too, m’dear, what?’

  I winked.

  ‘What I was thinking,’ she continued, affecting to ignore us, ‘was that we ought to get back to the committee room and have another look round.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ she said.<
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  ‘I say, said Sir Hector. ‘Would you like to go now? We could go together. I’ll ring for Bert.’

  ‘I shouldn’t want to put you out, dear. We can easily make our own way.’

  ‘Nonsense, m’dear. Bored witless here. Nothin’ to do and no one to talk to with Gertie away. Love to get m’teeth into one of your mysteries, what?’

  ‘Then that would be splendid,’ she said with a smile. ‘Let’s just finish our tea and Mrs Brown’s delicious cakes, and we can trot off and be proper detectives.’

  ‘What are you lookin’ for?’ asked Sir Hector as Lady Hardcastle peered closely at the trophy cabinet.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she said, running her hands over the frame. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those things I’ll only know when I’ve found it.’

  We had been driven back to the pavilion in Sir Hector’s motorcar and he had accompanied us to the committee room, barely able to contain his curiosity. He had been bobbing about, trying to see what Lady Hardcastle was up to as she opened the cabinet, closed it, opened it again, examined the shelves, studied the hinges and the lock, and was now pressing firmly on one of the abstract decorations carved on the front. It seemed to move inwards, but nothing else happened.

  Abruptly, she dropped to her knees and then lay on her stomach in front of the cabinet, trying to look underneath it. With an “Ah-ha!” of triumph, she got quickly to her feet and stood once more in front of the cabinet with one hand on the moving decoration, and the toe of her boot in the gap between the cabinet and the floor. She pushed the ornament and moved her foot to one side, and with a click and a rattle the panels at the back of the cabinet began to slide up and out of sight. As they did so, the shelves concealed behind the panels began to slide forwards and there, exactly as I had imagined them from the descriptions, were the shield, jersey, penny and cup. Not stolen, but hidden from view.

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Fancy that. Not missin’ at all. Here all the time, what?’