A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  Her companion seemed to be finding her woes dull – his keen lollop had become more of a slow shuffle, his head bent forward. He’d even stopped chasing after imaginary rabbits.

  There was, however, another reason for the dog’s increasing lack of enthusiasm, one that now suddenly struck Eleanor. ‘Gosh, I’ve been so lost in my own silly thoughts I hadn’t noticed the rain.’

  It had picked up and was now a harsh curtain of cold spite, causing Gladstone to shake his head every few minutes. Lacking any expertise on the saturation tolerance of elderly bulldogs, she worried the poor dog might catch a chill. Or worse, his genetically stiff legs might seize up altogether if the damp got into his joints.

  A crash of thunder made her jump like a startled springbok. Gladstone ran to her legs and cowered under her skirt. ‘Sorry, old chap.’ She slid her scarf off and tied it to the dog’s collar, fearful that the next clap might make him bolt. Just then a flash of lightning followed instantly by a loud crack showed the storm was nearly overhead.

  She wrestled her uncle’s fob watch from her pocket. Ten ten. They’d been walking for close to forty minutes and she had no idea where they were. ‘Shelter, Gladstone. There must be somewhere we can hole up until this blows itself out.’

  Her soaking hair stung her eyes as the wind whipped it across her face, and her drenched clothes clung to her body. As the boughs of the trees thrashed back and forth, she caught a glimmer of light through the thick hedge. A gust pulled her sideways, dragging the bulldog along with her. But it also parted the branches just enough to reveal a patch of brightness again.

  ‘Come on, boy. Salvation!’

  She struggled through the thick undergrowth and squinted through the deluge. The light was coming from some sort of shelter. ‘I’ll bet you a week’s worth of dog snacks, Gladstone, that whoever is in that building will have coffee for me and a blanket for you.’ She tried to chivvy the soaked bulldog along, but he was close to mutinying.

  Finally she was near enough to see the building was a large, wooden workman’s hut. But between her and the hut was a wire fence, and a wretchedly high one at that.

  With shivering fingers she tied Gladstone to one of the posts, plopping her hat on his head to keep the worst of the rain out of his bloodshot eyes. ‘I’ll let them know we need help and come straight back for you, boy.’

  He stared dolefully after her as she scrambled up the fence. As she reached the top and pulled herself over, her heart skipped a beat. On the other side of the fence was a sheer drop. That must be forty foot or more, Ellie! Just her luck, a quarry! A thin line of trees had hidden the sheer chalk and flint escarpment that dropped to a pool of inky-black water directly below her. Sparse bushes clung to the deep sides of the hewn-out ravine. On the far side, the ground had been levelled out into an area large enough to accommodate quarry lorries turning and the workman’s hut.

  She started to struggle down, tearing her dress as she did so. As another streak of lightning ripped the sky apart, and a booming clap of thunder rolled away, raised voices came from the shelter. Through the window of the dimly lit hut, she made out a man inside, his arms above his head as if in surrender.

  She shook her head and blinked hard trying to clear the rain from her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but… wasn’t there something about the man that was familiar? How could she attract his attention? Waving would be more effective than shouting but before she could do either she froze, suspended high on the fence, as a flash and a crack rang out. Lightning? No, that was a shot! To her horror, she saw the man fall backwards.

  She scrabbled back down and dropped to the ground, winding herself in the process. It took her over a minute to untie Gladstone, as her fingers were numb with cold. She ducked behind a hawthorn bush, dragging the bemused dog with her. ‘Don’t you dare make a sound!’ she hissed. Eleanor’s mind was racing. ‘Gladstone, that man might need our help. We have to find a way round this fence. There has to be an entrance somewhere. Come on!’

  Keeping low to the ground, she returned to the road, which was now flooded. A car appeared out of the gloom, the headlights blinding her. She hastily stepped off the road, pulling Gladstone with her. The car passed by and disappeared into the darkness.

  Even though she was soaked and freezing, Eleanor decided it was safer off the road. Pushing back through the undergrowth, she returned to the fence and followed it, dragging an increasingly reluctant bulldog in tow. Stumbling over the thick grass and snagging her coat on wildly waving branches, eventually the fence was broken by a set of open iron gates. She checked her uncle’s fob watch again. Ten thirty. She’d seen the man shot about five minutes after she’d first checked the time at ten ten, which meant he’d been bleeding for fifteen minutes or more… or was already dead. She crept through the gates and across the quarry yard as fast as she dared until she could see the lit hut in front of her. The noise of the storm had receded and she could hear her heart pounding in the eerie silence.

  Step up, Ellie! she chided herself. She’d been in similarly dangerous situations before but still had to force her legs to move. Perhaps it was just the icy rain running down her back, but she stopped and shivered at the entrance to the hut.

  No sound. No movement.

  Gladstone jerked her towards the door and then halted, sniffing the air. Inside there were a few wooden crates, a rough table and a handful of shovels leaning against the wall. Looking down at the dirt floor in the half-light, she could see a dark ominous pool.

  ‘Blood, do you think, Gladstone?’ she whispered. And given the amount of blood her instincts had been right. She’d seen a man get shot and die, of that she was sure. But like some kind of macabre magic-show trick, the body had vanished.

  Back at the Hall, peeling off her soaked clothes was no easy task. However, she’d been caught in the monsoon rains of India before and half-drowned, so she was happy just to have found her way back. And happy not to have got run down. As they’d been following the road away from the quarry trying to find their way back, a motorcycle had appeared out of the dark. The driver had seen them at the last minute and swerved wildly, narrowly missing them. Regaining control of the machine, he’d sped off into the night, leaving Eleanor’s heart thumping and her mind turning: why would anyone be riding so recklessly on a night like this? And on a road that, as far as she knew, only led to the quarry she’d come from and a few, widely spaced farms?

  Clifford hadn’t improved matters on her arrival back at the Hall, looking her up and down, lips pursed. ‘Perhaps on a night such as this, my lady, it would have been wiser to travel in the Rolls? Certainly,’ – he’d glanced at the sodden bulldog – ‘for Master Gladstone in his advanced years.’

  In fairness, she had resembled a tragic waif left to wander the moors, if there had been any moors to wander on in the Chilterns. But she had been in no mood for a lecture. Clifford seemed to be treating her as if she was a small child.

  ‘Are you alright, my lady?’

  ‘Oh, just dandy, Clifford. Not at all soaked, frozen or in need of a brandy after…’ She’d hesitated. Why tell him what she’d seen? He’d only drone on about the social incorrectness of a lady being at a murder scene or some such nonsense. ‘A warm brandy reviver would be most kind.’ She’d spun round and squelched up the stairs, distractedly towing Gladstone by her scarf. He’d plodded obediently behind her, happy to comply with any wish so long as it didn’t involve going back out into the rain.

  In the bathroom, she rubbed him down. He wriggled in delight and the mud coating his fur had soon transferred itself to the thick cotton towel.

  ‘Just look at the mess you’ve made! I’d be surprised if the housekeeper doesn’t scold you for the extra laundry.’

  The bulldog looked at her in disgust.

  ‘Well, you wanted to come.’ Still, maybe Clifford was right. She patted the dog’s head. ‘You deserve a little luxury for being such a stoic hero. And it’s your house as much as mine. More so, actually.’

  At that
moment the housekeeper, Mrs Butters, arrived with a warmed brandy and a thoughtful plate of thickly buttered toast. She didn’t mention the state of the towels, remarking only, ‘I’ll fetch a couple more, you’ll be needing a hot bath, I shouldn’t wonder,’ as she left.

  Once they were alone again, Eleanor discussed a thorny subject with her newly appointed sidekick. ‘The thing is, Gladstone, we witnessed a murder, so we’ll have to tell the police. You’re up to your ears in this as well.’ Gladstone seemed unconvinced about his part in the proceedings, so she hurried on. ‘Okay, I’ll have to go to the police and, well, you know my views on authority.’ She paused, but the bulldog seemed generally unimpressed. With a loud snort he collapsed on the remaining towels making it clear he would have no further part in the discussion.

  Undaunted, Eleanor continued. ‘You see, I’m not really one for running to the first uniform around. Not had the best experience. Give a man a badge and an official title and he thinks he’s the sole decider of right and wrong. Which would be fine if power didn’t corrupt.’

  She shook her head. ‘It would be better if they got more women into the police, Gladstone. There are a few, I’ve heard, but I doubt if the local constabulary out here are sufficiently enlightened to employ female constables.’

  She paused, searching for an alternative plan and came up empty. She didn’t really know anyone in the village except Clifford, and that was a very tenuous relationship. And besides, there was something about the man who’d been shot. He seemed familiar and yet… Who could it be? She groaned.

  ‘Okay, the police it is.’

  Gladstone thumped his tail. Was that his way of agreeing, or code for ‘more toast’? Given that she had dragged him through a storm, he deserved a suitable apology. ‘There you go, boy, you have the last slice.’

  Mrs Butters returned to clear the plate and glass and check if more brandy was needed. She left a pile of fresh towels, and suggested that Gladstone might be better by the fire in the drawing room before leaving.

  Eleanor absentmindedly brushed toast crumbs off her new sidekick with one of the fresh towels.

  ‘Mrs Butters is obviously a far more sympathetic character than that over-stuffed shirt, Clifford. Us ladies will have to stick together!’

  ‘Tomorrow morning! What do you mean tomorrow? Why on earth would it wait until then?’

  Eleanor was staggered. It had taken her an age to get through to the police. All calls to Little Buckford’s only local law-enforcement officer, one Constable Fry, had been diverted to Chipstone. Apparently the constable’s wife had surprised him with the gift of triplets and he had been permitted a few days off. The thought of childbirth made Eleanor shudder. Bringing a new life into this world might be the work of God, but the mechanics of childbirth were surely the work of the devil. And triplets! What had the poor woman done to deserve that?

  A bored voice asked if she was still there.

  ‘Yes, Constable. The fact that the police force may have three new mini-recruits in the offing is of no consequence. I saw a man being murdered!’

  The voice came through the receiver with more force. ‘Miss, if there is no body, as you have assured me there wasn’t, and nobody but you saw it, there is no point in anybody coming out tonight.’

  The line went dead.

  Three

  The morning brought the clear calm that so often follows a storm. Perhaps it was just in contrast to the fury of the previous evening but the air was strangely still as if life itself was on pause. The shrubs bordering the semi-circular drive drooped forlornly, the London plane and lime trees that had stood proudly on the elevated lawns now hung low. Even the carpet of leaves and twigs that littered the grounds lay motionless.

  Eleanor slept fitfully. At 3 a.m. she declared, This is ridiculous, Ellie!, rose and spent the early hours rummaging through the books from her childhood.

  Breakfast should have been a relaxed affair as the police weren’t due until eleven. However, waiting had never been Eleanor’s chosen pastime and this morning the ticking of the clock was especially infuriating.

  ‘Can I bring you more tea, my lady?’ Clifford asked, seemingly for the hundredth time. He was bearing another plate of something she hadn’t the stomach for, despite her normally robust constitution. Was it the lack of sleep? Or seeing a man murdered? Yes, that was it, watching someone die could diminish one’s appetite. ‘More coffee?’

  She shot him a quizzical look. Was he playing games with her? ‘I’m sure you just asked me that?’

  ‘No, I asked if you wanted more tea, my lady. This is coffee.’ He glanced at her cup. ‘You have, it would appear, been drinking both.’

  She nodded distractedly. ‘I’m not too keen on breakfast right now, so I’m making up for it with liquid refreshment.’

  Clifford pondered for a moment. ‘Perhaps you might prefer breakfast at eleven? Although that will throw the elevenses schedule out. Or I could ask Mrs Trotman to serve breakfast at lunchtime and move lunch to suppertime? However, that would mean waking you up at midnight for supper?’

  She was flummoxed. Was that humour? Sarcasm? ‘Clifford, how did my uncle ever swallow your unwavering advice on his every daily action?’

  ‘With Darjeeling and lemon, my lady.’

  Despite herself, Eleanor smiled. Thankfully at that moment Mrs Butters arrived with news of a ‘gentleman policeman’ waiting in the hall.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: five minutes past eleven. ‘Please tell the constable I will be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’ Mrs Butters stayed rooted to the spot. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but the gentleman did say he was in a fearsome rush.’

  ‘In a rush, you say? In that case tell him I will be twenty-five minutes. He may wish to take tea on the settle in the hallway.’

  Mrs Butters nodded and left. Clifford tilted his head in Eleanor’s direction.

  ‘I have waited precisely,’ she checked the clock on the mantelpiece again, ‘twelve hours for our “gentleman policeman”. A small wait on his part is a fair exchange I feel.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  She swore she saw the flicker of a smile pass over his face.

  The clock ticked on. Clifford tidied the sausages in their salver. Eleanor straightened her cardigan buttons to line up with each other. Helpfully, the pleats of her striped tweed skirt proved more of a challenge, the bolder green lines refusing to match up with the stiffly creased folds. Her single string of pearls slid through her fingers as she counted the jewels, and then recounted twice again. She stole a glance at the mantle clock: twelve minutes past eleven. Only seven minutes had gone by. You really must learn the art of doing nothing, Ellie, especially now you’re a lady of leisure.

  ‘How fast time flies,’ Clifford observed, offering her a get-out clause.

  She took it gratefully and sprang up from the table. ‘It seems unlikely I will be back for elevenses, Clifford. Perhaps Mrs Trotman could hold over her eleven o’clock delicacies until afternoon tea and move afternoon tea to suppertime as you suggested?’ Having chalked up this childish point, she swept from the breakfast room.

  ‘Constable, shall we?’ Eleanor indicated the front door.

  ‘Sergeant, if you don’t mind, miss, Sergeant Wilby.’ He tapped the stripes on his left shoulder with a gloved finger. Wisps of his moustache caught in his top lip.

  She pinned her hat straight in the mirror. ‘Lady Swift, if you don’t mind, Sergeant. Shall we?’ Oh dear, Ellie, you’re turning into an abominable snob after less than twenty-four hours back in England!

  Outside, the sergeant’s fresh-faced assistant opened the door of the Model T Ford waiting by the steps.

  ‘Thank you, Constable…?’

  ‘Lowe, m’lady. But I’m working hard to alleviate myself up the ranks of the force.’ The young constable’s accent was even more broad Buckinghamshire than his sergeant’s, elongating ‘a’ to ‘ah’ and ‘o’ to �
�ohw’.

  ‘Well, jolly good luck to you.’

  As Lowe cranked the engine into life with embarrassed difficulty, she spoke to the back of the sergeant’s head.

  ‘Is there anyone else coming down? Maybe a detective?’ She hadn’t meant it to sound so cutting.

  ‘Until we are aware of what we’re dealing with, Lady Swift, I saw no reason to waste precious police time,’ Wilby said. ‘Detectives and the like are highly trained and required on more serious cases.’

  ‘More serious! This is murder we’re talking about!’

  Wilby turned in his seat. ‘Then I suggest we proceed to find out about this here “murder”. Drive on, Lowe.’

  As the Hall’s driveway met the road out of the village, Wilby spoke without turning around. ‘Which way, Lady Swift?’

  She consciously put her irritation on hold. A killer was on the loose after all. ‘Right, up and over, right at the broken road sign, then it should appear.’

  ‘What will appear?’

  ‘The quarry, Sergeant.’ She tried not to show her exasperation. ‘Did you read over the notes you took last night during our call? It was you I spoke to, I believe?’

  ‘Quarry?’ He swivelled his eyes towards her without moving his head, or answering her question. ‘I do hope you can identify the correct one. This area has a great many diggings.’

  A few minutes later she rather imagined she could. ‘There! There’s the road junction. Turn right here.’

  Trees came and went. Hedges continued about their quiet business. Verges verged. However, since turning right she’d recognised nothing from the night before.

  ‘Lady Swift,’ an exasperated voice enquired, ‘is it much further?’

  ‘The track is a little hard to spot, Sergeant. A moment, please.’ It wasn’t easy trying to get her bearings while they were motoring at such speed. ‘I know, drive at walking pace, Constable Lowe.’ Eleanor heard something muttered from the passenger seat but chose to ignore it. ‘Now then, that untidy copse of undergrowth looks familiar.’