A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  She decided to go for a different tack. ‘I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Mr Cartwright.’

  The farmer’s bushy brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

  ‘When we last met I thought I saw you with someone I… recognised,’ she lied. ‘He seemed to be handing you some sort of package.’

  Cartwright folded his arms and stared at her coldly. ‘My business is my business, Lady Swift, and I’ll thank you to keep yourself out of it!’

  Eleanor smiled sweetly. ‘I absolutely agree, Mr Cartwright. It’s just that some people, Mr Penry, for instance, might disagree.’

  Cartwright’s eyes flashed. ‘That damned sanctimonious Welsh fool! He’s a fine one to talk! You ask him where he really gets his meat from and see how high and mighty he is!’

  ‘From our mutual friend, perhaps?’ It was a stab in the dark, but it seemed to hit home. Cartwright’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent. Unabashed Eleanor tried again. ‘It’s just that I could swear I knew the gentleman from somewhere. Is he a quarry worker, perhaps?’

  Cartwright took a step forward. A cough interrupted his reply.

  ‘Perhaps we should be getting along to your other appointment, my lady?’ said Clifford.

  Reluctantly, Eleanor could see that they weren’t going to get anything more out of Cartwright. ‘I suppose so. Goodbye, Mr Cartwright.’

  Clifford nodded at the farmer. ‘Mr Cartwright.’

  ‘Mr Clifford. Lady Swift.’ Cartwright leaned back against the wall watching until they were both aboard and Clifford had eased the Rolls back out onto the road.

  Nineteen

  ‘What an obstructive fellow,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Farming stock have their way.’ Clifford slowed to take a long left-hand bend. ‘And we were contemplating trespass.’

  Eleanor harrumphed. ‘But he was being deliberately obtuse.’

  ‘Forgive the directness of my observations but I rather fear he felt the same way about us.’

  ‘Point taken, Clifford. However, for some reason that man riles me. He’s definitely hiding something. And did you see how he reacted when I mentioned the man on the motorbike supplying meat to Penry?’ She frowned. ‘Do you think that Cartwright is involved in some illegal farming activity? Maybe he’s supplying sub-standard meat or similar?’

  ‘Perhaps, my lady. Possibly Mr Atkins stumbled upon it?’

  Clifford pulled the stop brake on the car and watched the small biplane that had circled the field dip below the hedge as its engine puttered to a halt.

  ‘Lancelot!’ Eleanor muttered. She instinctively patted her curls and straightened her hat.

  ‘Shall we see if young Lord Fenwick-Langham can back up the alibi he gave you on your last visit? We can discuss Mr Cartwright’s veracity back at the Hall, if that would suit?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Eleanor stared forward. ‘And I could look more closely at his motorbike to see if it resembles the one from the quarry road. I didn’t think to look when I rode into Chipstone with him.’

  ‘I suspect your mind was on other matters.’

  She spun round. ‘Clifford?’

  His face remained expressionless. ‘Such as hanging on, my lady. Young Lord Fenwick-Langham has a reputation for riding his motorcycle with great… gusto.’ He adjusted his driving gloves and gestured towards the gate. ‘Shall we?’

  Clifford suggested they wait until Lancelot was on his way to his motorbike. That way they could pretend to be admiring the machine while surreptitiously checking it for similarities with the one from the quarry road. However, the sight of Lancelot waving as he strolled across the field scuppered their plan.

  ‘Hey, Sherlock!’ he called.

  ‘Hey, Goggles!’ she shot back.

  ‘Goggles! I love it.’ He swung them on his wrist. ‘They are quite the image, aren’t they?’ Standing close to her, he ruffled his hair. ‘Ah, Mr Clifford. Good day.’ He gave Clifford a mock salute.

  ‘Good day, Lord Fenwick-Langham.’

  The wind rippled Lancelot’s loosely tucked white shirt across his chest. He grinned at Eleanor. ‘So how’s it going? Are the delights of Little Buckford keeping you up at all hours?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, for what should win sleepy village of the year award, there has been a lot to occupy my time.’

  ‘Oh, what have I missed? Have you dreamed up the ultimate wheeze and not invited me in as your accomplice? Shame on you!’ He waggled a leather-clad finger close enough to brush her nose, which she couldn’t help giggling at.

  ‘No, you fatuous thing. I mean the murder I saw.’

  ‘Oh, that old chestnut. You still up to that amateur detective lark? And dragging poor Clifford round the county interviewing suspects, I suppose.’ He paused for a second. ‘Hold on a tick, isn’t this a social call?’ His voice showed a hint of vexation.

  Eleanor wondered if it was disappointment. ‘It is, and it isn’t.’

  He patted the top of her head and grinned. ‘Well, start with the non-social bit and get the dull stuff out of the way pronto.’

  ‘Right, so tell us again where you were the night the murder happened in the quarry.’

  He looked at Eleanor with his steel-grey eyes. ‘Oh my! So now I get it. You’re accusing me of the murder.’

  ‘Gosh no, Lancelot! But you rent the field next to the quarry where I saw the murder. I am merely trying to establish those who might have seen anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s something of a shame. I wouldn’t mind the notoriety.’ He chuckled. ‘Was that the night before you scandalously pursued me across a muddy field and then accosted me in the cockpit?’

  ‘Well, if one were to remove the words “scandalously”, “pursued” and “accosted”, yes.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, old fruit, but, as I told you before, I was at a masked ball in Oxford.’

  ‘Where in Oxford exactly?’

  ‘The Goat Club. It’s quite fabulous.’

  ‘What time were you there?’

  ‘I don’t usually keep track of these things, you know.’ He thought for moment. ‘I suppose I arrived around nine, but I’ve no idea what time I left. I was far too pickled.’

  ‘Can anyone else vouch for that?’

  ‘Probably a fair percentage of the hundred or so of us who were there.’ He smiled and folded his arms.

  ‘But weren’t you in a mask?’

  He tutted and put a gentle arm around her shoulder so he could whisper conspiratorially into her ear. ‘That’s kind of the point of a masked ball. The clue really is in the name.’ Standing straight he laughed. ‘I’d say you might want to work on the easier aspects of sleuthing first. Perhaps you’ve jumped in too deep, too soon?’

  His patronising tone provoked Eleanor but the feel of his arm around her shoulder did so even more strongly. She groaned. This wasn’t supposed to happen…

  ‘So, were you with your “Bright Young Things” crowd? I suppose they can vouch for you?’

  ‘Sherlock, you’re hilarious! “Bright Young Things” is just some sensationalist moniker, dreamt up by an embittered newspaper hack in a back office somewhere dreadfully dreary. It has caught on though.’

  ‘Yes, it has. I gathered it was your sort of thing.’

  ‘Ah! Perhaps you’re better at this snooping lark than I realised.’ He leaned in sideways. ‘Or, you just can’t stop talking about me.’

  Eleanor ignored his comment. ‘But were you with whatever you would call the gang you hang out with or not?’

  ‘Of course, some of my friends were there. The usual lot.’

  ‘I’d like to meet them sometime. None of them were at the lunch yesterday, were they?’

  ‘No, the parentals aren’t that keen on my “Bright Young Things Gang”, as I shall call them from now on. They don’t mind them in small doses at the balls and suchlike, but not at more intimate social gatherings.’

  ‘The parentals?’

  Lancelot laughed. ‘Mater and Pater. They’ve got very set ideas about wha
t I should be doing and who I should be seeing. It’s all for my own good and blah, blah, blah…’ He shook his head. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Eleanor laughed and swallowed hard at the same time. ‘I don’t think I was ever really old enough to get up to anything my parents disapproved of while they were around.’

  ‘What a pity. But to answer your question, none of my friends are murderers. Mind, there are a couple of them who might not be above that kind of thing if the opportunity arose. Anything to enliven a dull evening.’ He grinned at her shocked look. ‘Now, spill the beans, old girl. Who bought it in the quarry?’

  ‘Spencer Atkins,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  Lancelot whistled. ‘Really? No wonder you were asking all those questions about him at luncheon. Now, are we done with the interrogation stuff? Because I have to be off. Got to see a man about a duck.’

  ‘A duck?’ She glanced at Clifford who raised an eyebrow, signifying Lancelot was teasing her again. Despite her irritation at Lancelot’s mockery, Eleanor was disappointed he had to go. ‘Absolutely, yes, quite done. I’m running late myself,’ she said.

  Turning to leave, Lancelot squeezed her wrist. ‘How about more of the social stuff instead, next time? Make it soon, okay?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten your promise of a flight,’ Eleanor called after him.

  With a cheery, ‘Happy sleuthing,’ he roared off, leaving the gate swinging on its hinges.

  As they walked back to the Rolls, Eleanor felt rather lost. Had that conversation come to anything? What had they learned? More importantly, was Lancelot just teasing or did he like her too?

  Clifford held the passenger door open for her as she climbed in. ‘Do you think the conversation moved us on in our investigation, Clifford?’

  ‘Well, my lady, we can at least now check out young Lord Fenwick-Langham’s alibi for the evening of the murder. I am acquainted with the doorman of The Goat Club, so if it suits you, I will make some enquiries.’

  Eleanor climbed into the Rolls. ‘Of course, Clifford, that would be splendid.’

  As Clifford eased the car out on the lane, he turned and coughed. ‘But if I may say so, I’m not sure it was entirely prudent to mention your theory about Mr Atkins to young Lord Fenwick-Langham.’

  Eleanor gasped. ‘You really do suspect Lancelot, don’t you?’

  ‘At this stage, my lady, I fear everyone must remain a suspect. Everyone.’

  ‘Including you?’ Eleanor prickled.

  ‘I would fall in the collective of “everyone”, so in that respect, yes.’

  ‘Well, if your theory holds water, I must be a suspect too. Maybe I killed the man and then made up the story? How fiendish of me! We should both hand ourselves over to the authorities.’

  Clifford seemed to consider the suggestion. ‘It would save his majesty’s overstretched police force a lot of time and trouble.’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘I think we can rule ourselves out of the list of suspects.’ But she did have a twinge of doubt. Except I’m not absolutely sure about you, Clifford.

  Twenty

  As the Rolls rolled on through the lanes, Eleanor turned to Clifford. ‘You know it was a dashed shame we couldn’t check Lancelot’s motorcycle more closely.’

  ‘Indeed. Although…’

  ‘STOP!’ She pulled at the passenger door handle. ‘Grab him!’

  Eleanor was out of the car before it stopped.

  ‘Excuse me, young man!’ She ran across the road.

  A van emblazoned with the slogan Chiltern Provisions. Delivering the Best screeched to a halt only feet from her. The van itself looked as if its best was well behind it. A concerned face stared out of the driver’s window. ‘What the… oh, goodness, excuse me, madam.’ The man glanced across at the Rolls and grinned. ‘Are you in trouble? Is this gentleman bothering you?’ He winked across at Clifford still sitting in the Rolls.

  ‘Not at this precise moment, but I’m sure the time will come. I do apologise though for my rather dramatic way of accosting you.’

  ‘That was a little close for comfort, madam, do excuse me. The van’s brakes, well they don’t get tested like that too often, thank goodness.’

  ‘No, it is for me to be excused. I startled you and now I’m going to cap it all by asking for a favour.’

  ‘A favour? Have… have we met?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied breezily. ‘Lady Swift, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Good afternoon… m’lady. I’m Pete.’ He hesitated. ‘And… I’m sorry about your uncle.’

  Eleanor started. ‘You knew my uncle?’

  ‘Not personally, of course. Highly respected throughout the area, without a doubt.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Once more she was surprised at the level of respect her late uncle seemed to have aroused, even in the tradesmen of Chipstone.

  Clifford walked up, having found a spot where the car wouldn’t become stuck in the mud left by the passing tractors.

  ‘Clifford, this is Pete. But wait, you probably both know each other already?’

  ‘Of course we do. Morning, Mr Clifford.’ Pete nodded as he touched his cap.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sturgess.’

  Pete looked back to Eleanor. ‘So has your fancy car broken down? Is it a lift you’re after?’

  ‘Not today, thank you, Pete. I flagged you down to pick your brain.’

  ‘Well, I’d have to wish you good luck with that, m’lady, not sure my brain’s going to do you much good. I’ve never been much of a thinker. Most I do is try and stick to the delivery schedule and offload the right boxes at the right place.’

  ‘Nonsense, Pete, I have learned the world over that delivery drivers are the ears and eyes of the road.’

  ‘We are, m’lady?’

  ‘Indeed, you know your routes inside and out. If anything is out of place, it strikes you immediately.’

  Pete nodded but his brow was furrowed.

  Clifford took half a step forward. ‘I believe Lady Swift is asking if you have seen anything unusual in the last few days while making your deliveries in the Little Buckford area.’

  ‘Ah, thanks, Mr Clifford. That’s plenty clearer.’ The delivery driver scratched the front of his shirt. ‘Well, now you come to say, there’s one of them guests up at Langham Manor as has got a terrific appetite for canned shrimps. I’ve taken I don’t know how many trays of them up there.’ He paused. ‘Can’t think of much else unusual.’

  ‘What about on the evening of the storm? Did you, perhaps, see a motorcyclist around say ten and eleven thirty anywhere in the vicinity?’

  Pete rubbed his chin. ‘That was a real blind-man’s holiday, that was!’

  ‘A dark night, my lady,’ Clifford translated.

  Pete nodded and grinned. ‘Come to think of it, there was something. Not a motorcyclist but—’

  Eleanor leaned forward eagerly. ‘What?’

  Pete instinctively stepped back. ‘It’s probably nothing, but a car drove clean off the road from Chipstone to Radington that evening and got well stuck. Them verges were well soft that night what with the storm and all the rain we’ve been having. Took some heaving with Cartwright’s tractor the next morning to pull it out.’

  ‘Where exactly? Before the turning to the old quarry, or after?’ Clifford asked.

  Pete thought for a moment. ‘Funny you should say that, ’cos it was on the junction with the quarry road itself.’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange it should get stuck there. Unless it was coming from the quarry road onto the main road at speed and misjudged the turn in the dark.’

  Pete shrugged. ‘Could be, but what would anyone be doing up that road on a night like that? Don’t lead anywhere except to the quarry and there haven’t been any workings going on there for a while.’

  ‘Do you have any idea when it got stuck?’

  Pete frowned. ‘Not really. I saw Cartwright dragging it back on to the road in the morning and he told me it got stuck t
he night before, but I never asked him when.’

  Eleanor jumped in. ‘Did you by any chance see the driver? Or ask Cartwright who owned the car?’

  Pete grinned. ‘I only saw old Cartwright there. Never thought to ask about the driver. If I’d known a lady would be interested, I’d have asked.’

  Eleanor digested this information. ‘No matter, you have been most helpful, Pete.’

  ‘Really? Why, thank you, m’lady. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d better be getting along. I’ve a full list of deliveries today.’

  ‘Absolutely, I am sorry we’ve detained you for so long.’

  ‘No problem.’ Pete pulled his cap back on and swung himself up into the van.

  ‘Oh, one last thing.’ Eleanor couldn’t restrain her natural directness. ‘Maybe you could ask your colleagues if they saw anyone with… a body, a dead person that is, perhaps being loaded into a van?’

  Pete frowned. ‘None of us could carry a body, m’lady, not in with foodstuffs. ’Tis against regulations. Most folk use a horse and cart round here for funerals. Old Clackett did once use his lorry when one of his horses went lame in coffin season.’

  ‘The undertaker, my lady,’ Clifford said.

  Pete crunched his van into gear and leaned out of the window. ‘I hear that in London, fancy folk use a Rolls for funerals, Mr Clifford. City folk!’ He waved and lurched away.

  Clifford and Eleanor walked back to the car.

  ‘You know, Clifford, we need to find out more about the car that got stuck the night of the murder. And why Cartwright never mentioned it.’ She stopped by the Rolls and stared at it for a moment. ‘You know though, I’m not sure I agree with Pete. The Rolls would make a great vehicle for a funeral.’

  Clifford bent down on the other side and spoke through the window. ‘Is that how you would like to go, my lady, “lying in state” in the Rolls?’

  Eleanor laughed, still peering into the rear of the car, imagining the looks on the faces of the villagers as the unorthodox funeral procession passed. ‘Sadly not. I shall be cremated.’

  ‘Cremated, my lady?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eleanor tapped her chin. ‘However, I fancy it might still be illegal here.’