by T E Kinsey
The conductor came over to us.
‘You must have had quite a shock, madam,’ he said to Lady Hardcastle. ‘You should sit down. The constable will be over to talk to you soon.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but we're quite all right. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Help, madam?’ he said, with genuine surprise. ‘I i’n’t certain there’s anything a woman can do here. Best leave it to the men while you have a sit down.’
She rolled her eyes at me, but we neither of us said anything, instead plonking ourselves down on the open platform at the rear of the tram.
‘No, madam,’ he said patiently as though to a dull-witted child. ‘Not there. You get back inside the tram and make yourself comfy on one o’ they nice seats in there. The constable shan’t be long. On you go, now.’
Lady Hardcastle said nothing, but nor did she make any attempt to move. He regarded her sympathetically and seemed to make up his mind that she would never understand, and left her to it. He whispered something in the constable’s ear and nodded in our direction. The constable approached.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ he said, solicitously. ‘The conductor seems to think you might be in shock.’
‘I know, Constable. He seems really very sweet.’ She stood and I lifted myself off the low platform, too. ‘How do you do,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘I am Lady Hardcastle, and this is my maid, Miss Armstrong.’
The constable seemed a little nonplussed by her forwardness, but took her hand and said, ‘How do you do, m’lady. Constable Richardson.’
‘Well, Constable Richardson,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than any of the witnesses on the ground, but Miss Armstrong might have seen a little more than I did. I was watching the world go by.’
She recounted the last part of our journey while the constable made notes in a little notebook. When she had finished he turned to me. ‘And you, miss? What did you see?’
Taking my cue from Lady Hardcastle, I described the events as accurately and succinctly as I could. Once again he made copious notes and, after accepting Lady Hardcastle’s calling card to confirm our home address, said we were free to go.
‘Would you like our telephone number, too, Constable?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid we’ve only just had it installed and I haven’t had the opportunity to get some new cards printed yet.’
‘Your telephone number?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Well, I suppose for completeness…’
She dictated the new number which he wrote on the back of her card before tucking the card into his notebook. With that, he knuckled his forehead, bade us good afternoon and moved over to the remaining onlookers before any more of them could slope off, never to be seen again. He began speaking to them one at a time, and I remarked silently to myself upon the broad cross-section of society that one might meet on a typical English pavement in the middle of a summer’s afternoon. There was a man who looked to be a clerk, a nurse from the nearby hospital, a labourer in his work clothes, a lady and gentleman who had been standing together earlier on but who were now separated by some distance and were acting as though they didn't know each other. And there, at the back, was the young man I had seen running towards the tram as he tried to warn the driver of the impending calamity. He seemed to be concentrating very intently as though desperate to overhear the constable’s conversations with the other witnesses.
‘I do rather think someone ought to stay with the body,’ said Lady Hardcastle, nodding towards the unattended casualty lying on the tram tracks. ‘There’s nothing we can do for the poor fellow, I know, but someone ought to keep watch over him until help arrives for Constable Robertson.’
‘Richardson, my lady,’ I said, automatically.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Why, what did I say?’
‘Something else, my lady,’ I said, looking around to see whether help were any nearer. The constable had chanced upon the scene of the tragedy but any additional help would have to come from farther afield and I wasn’t altogether hopeful that reinforcements would be arriving soon.
It was another twenty minutes before a black police motorcar drew up, followed shortly afterwards by an ambulance from the Bristol Royal Infirmary
To our surprise and delight, one of the policemen in the motorcar was Inspector Sunderland. We agreed not to go and bother him since he was obviously working, but as soon as he noticed us loitering near the ambulance, he came quickly over.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What an unexpected and pleasant surprise to see you.’
‘You too, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Not the most convivial of circumstances, though, I fear.’
‘Not at all, my lady,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s a bad business.’
‘Do you know who the victim is?’ I asked.
‘I’m surprised that you don’t,’ he said. ‘With connections like yours I’d have thought you’d know all the local dignitaries. That’s Nathaniel Morry, a leading light on the city council.’
‘Is it, by crikey?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I confess we’re not as well up on local politics as we ought to be.’
‘What was a city councillor doing up there?’ I asked.
‘Budget cuts, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Times is hard up at the council, he was clearly having to moonlight as an electrician for the tram company to make ends meet.’
‘Very droll, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘Truth is, I don’t know yet. I’d wager it’s nothing good, though.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
The inspector took a second or two to answer, as though he were trying to find the right way to express his reply.
‘I know I can rely utterly on your discretion, my lady,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m afraid this is one time when I’m going to have to respectfully insist that you don’t involve yourself. I strongly suspect that this might be related to another case I’m working on and I’m under a lot of pressure from very high up indeed to keep as tight a lid on this one as I can.’
‘That’s quite all right, Inspector,’ she said, kindly. ‘I quite understand.’
‘Truth is, I should love your help,’ he went on apologetically. ‘The whole business is right up your street. But there’s one or two in the Force who are already a bit put out about what they call your “interference” and I know I’ll get it in the neck if I bring you in on another case.’
‘Think no more about it, Inspector, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve caused you any trouble and we certainly wouldn’t want to cause you any more.’
‘No, indeed,’ I said.
She rummaged in her handbag and produced a calling card and a pencil. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, scribbling on the back of the card and handing it to him, ‘if you ever need anything, even if it’s just a chance to gossip with a couple of silly women, do telephone.’
He laughed. ‘Silly women, indeed,’ he said.
‘I'd wager that’s what your superiors think,’ she said, shrewdly.
‘That and worse, I’m afraid, my lady,’ he said. ‘But thank you. I appreciate your understanding as well as your offer.’
‘Entirely our pleasure, dear,’ she said. ‘Now off you trot, and we’ll look suitably contrite as though you’ve put fleas in both our ears for being interfering busybodies.’
With a smile and a nod of thanks, he went to rejoin his colleagues.
‘I suppose we ought to continue our journey on foot,’ said Lady Hardcastle once he had gone. ‘I shouldn’t imagine there’ll be any more trams along for a while.’
‘On foot, my lady?’ I said. ‘Like a couple of medieval peasants? I’m afraid I shall have to rethink my position if I’m going to be required to walk to places. I'm sure Lady Farley-Stroud’s maid doesn’t have to walk.’
‘It’ll do us good. Come on, pet, best foot forward.’
We set off in the direction of Colston Aven
ue and the docks.
As we rounded the corner, and the stranded tram and its unfortunate victim disappeared from view, I heard running footsteps behind us. Touching Lady Hardcastle’s arm in warning, I half turned to face whoever it was. It was unlikely to be an attacker in the middle of the city in broad daylight, but habits born of years of professional caution are hard to break.
It was the young man who had caught our attention twice already. He appeared to be in his late-twenties, smartly, though inexpensively dressed, wearing spectacles and a neatly brushed bowler hat. I would have said he was a junior bank clerk if I’d been forced to guess.
He drew alongside us and slowed to match our pace. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Hardcastle, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, breathlessly, as he tipped his hat.
‘You seem to have the advantage of us, Mister…’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said. ‘My name is Christian Brookfield. I’m a reporter for the Bristol News.’
‘How do you do, Mr Brookfield,’ she said. ‘And how may we help you?’
‘I wonder if I might have a word or two,’ he said. ‘I saw you on the top deck of the tram, and when the inspector told me who you are I thought we might be able to help each other.’
‘Help each other how?’ she said, still not entirely warmly.
‘Would you let me treat you both to a coffee,’ he said, indicating a nearby coffee house, ‘and allow me to explain myself?’
Lady Hardcastle regarded him for a moment and then turned to me with her eyebrows raised in mute enquiry. I gave the slightest shrug in reply, intending to indicate that I had no objections and that it was up to her.
‘Very well, then, Mr Brookfield,’ she said. ‘Let us talk.’
Bristol was home to many coffee importers who brought the precious beans from the West Indies and the Americas and roasted them in their warehouses, ready for onward shipment to England’s coffee drinkers. One or two of the importers had opened coffee houses where they not only sold their wares by the pound, but brewed some of the freshest, most delicious coffee available anywhere in the country. It was to one such shop that Mr Brookfield led us.
We sat at a table by the window and Mr Brookfield confidently ordered a pot of Mexican coffee.
‘It’s from Chiapas,’ he explained. ‘These are the sole importers. It’s absolutely delicious. You’ll love it, I promise.’
‘I’m sure we shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said with the smile of a little boy who’s been praised for his schoolwork.
‘And how is it that you come to know who we are?’ said Lady Hardcastle after the waitress had brought our pot of coffee and set it on the table with cups, sugar and cream.
‘As I said,’ he replied, ‘the inspector told me.’
‘You did say, yes. But I’d wager he told you only our names. Your manner would seem to indicate that you attach some significance to those names.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye your exploits in the newspaper since you solved the Frank Pickering murder last summer. Then there was the murderous mayhem at the circus, and the death at the Farley-Strouds’ place. And then some sort of scandal in London that ended with you being shot. I never did get to the bottom of that one. Government business, was it?’
Lady Hardcastle smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t quite remember. It was a traumatic time.’
He returned her smile. ‘I’m sure it was. But that’s how I came to know your names, and that’s why I was interested in speaking to you.’
‘Because we have a certain local notoriety?’ she said.
‘Because you have an unusual reputation for the solving of mysteries and you give the impression of being the sort of women who would fight for justice, no matter what the consequences for the rich and powerful. In short, you seem like decent folk and, as far as I have been able to ascertain, you have no involvement in local politics. You might work for His Majesty’s Government for all I know, but you’re above the cesspit of petty squabbles and grubby corruption that calls itself our “city council”.’
‘Politics is a murky world, Mr Brookfield, and it always has been.’
‘I’m not so naive as to think otherwise,’ he said, slightly defensively. ‘But that doesn’t mean we should accept it. It doesn’t mean that we should allow the venal, the power-hungry, and the privileged to feather their nests at the expense of the honest working man.’
‘It happens that I agree with you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though I wonder how you manage to square your disdain for privilege with your desire to seek my help. Surely a titled lady with a private income is entirely the sort of person whom you despise.’
‘You imagine yourself privileged, my lady?’ he said. ‘For whom did you vote in the last general election?’
‘Touché,’ she said. ‘Well, then. Are we right to assume that the late Mr Morry was the subject of one of your investigations into council corruption?’
‘I have investigated many members of the council,’ he said. ‘I have uncovered the illicit dealings of a great many rogues, but I found that Mr Morry was not one of them. He was certainly no saint, but he was that rarest of creatures, the honest and principled politician. Wealthy, generous, respected, and now very dead.’
‘It was murder, you think?’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was listening to the witnesses as they gave their accounts to the constable. One of them said they saw a scuffle on the flat roof of the building and then saw Morry pushed off. He was somehow caught on the top of the tram wire post and must have thought himself saved. But you saw for yourselves that he was far from safe.’
‘Whom do you suspect?’ I asked.
He turned to look at me, seeming slightly surprised that I had finally spoken. ‘During the course of my investigations I found that he had many enemies, Miss Armstrong, any of whom might have wanted him dead. For the past six years, for instance, he had been conducting a discreet, but not-so-secret love affair with the wife of Oswald Craine, the coffee importer in whose shop we’re drinking; perhaps he finally tired of playing the cuckold and had the councillor bumped off. He had lent the Honourable James Stansbridge, third son of the Earl of Keynsham, many hundreds of pounds to pay off gambling debts; perhaps he or his family had tired of being beholden to a mere councillor and decided upon a drastic means of cancelling the debt. Council elections are coming up in June; perhaps Redvers Hinkley, his bitter rival, found a way of guaranteeing his own victory and finally securing a seat on the council.’
‘Quite a list,’ I said.
‘And not an exhaustive one,’ said the young journalist. ‘Morry might have been an adulterer and a friend of fops and dandies in his private life, but he was noisily ethical in his political dealings. He voiced his opposition to a number of lucrative, but exploitative schemes; a number of businessmen and local politicians would benefit from his passing.’
‘But,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘why not take your suspicions and such evidence as you have already collected directly to the police? Surely they are best equipped to deal with such matters.’
‘I approached the inspector shortly after he had spoken to you,’ he said. ‘But he refused to speak to me. He was perfectly civil about it, but he left me in no doubt that I should leave this one alone. He saw me looking over towards you and said that you’d been told the same thing.’
‘We were indeed.’
‘And do you intend to do as you’re told?’ he said, belligerently.
‘You know,’ she said after a moment’s thought, ‘this time I thought we might. I have great respect for Inspector Sunderland, and if he thinks that our involvement in the case will cause more problems than it solves, then I for one trust his judgement. My plan was to stroll to the bottom of Park Street, order a new hat, and then go home. I was hoping to be able to read about the case in the newspaper tomorrow.’
Mr Brookfield’s manner changed abruptly.
‘And that’s all?’ he said. ‘I’ve told you it’s a murder, I’ve told you I have a list of suspects – all with excellent motives – and you’re just going to buy a hat?’
‘And possibly some gloves,’ she said, calmly.
‘You were right,’ he said, getting up. ‘You are just a pampered, privileged idler. I thought you a woman of principles, a fighter for justice, but you’re just another one of them.’ He all but spat the last word. ‘You can pay for your own coffee.’ And with that, he stormed out.
‘Charming,’ said Lady Hardcastle, taking another sip of her drink. ‘Still, at least it’s coffee worth paying for.’
With our coffee drunk, we set off once more in the direction of Park Street and the milliner’s shop that Lady Farley-Stroud had recommended. Away from the scene of the tragedy, life carried on as usual and the people obliviously passing us by would be quite unaware of the incident until they read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper.
‘Did you mean what you said, my lady?’ I asked.
‘About what, pet?’
‘About keeping our noses out of the murder.’
‘Well, now, there’s a quandary,’ she said. ‘On the one hand I do love a mystery; on the other hand, I value our friendship with dear Inspector Sunderland. On the other hand–’
‘You have three hands?’ I suggested.
‘We have four between us, Clever Clogs. On the other hand, Mr Brimstone…?’
‘Brookfield, my lady.’
‘That’s the fellow,’ she said. ‘Mr Brookfield seemed like a chap with a conscience and a fair amount of knowledge, I do wonder if joining his crusade might be for the greater good.’
‘We parted on bad terms,’ I said.
‘He did turn on us rather sharply, didn’t he. A mercurial fellow, certainly.’
