A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  ‘You may, and the answer is yes. Doctor Browning attended to me most thoroughly. He asked how my head felt, enquired as to my shoulder pain and then asked how many fingers he was holding up.’

  Clifford turned back from checking the sausage salver. ‘And did you guess correctly, my lady?’

  Before Eleanor could answer, Clifford placed a heartily filled plate in front of her. ‘Yum! See, nothing wrong with my appetite,’ she said, adding salt and pepper to her eggs. ‘What news from Miss Abigail?’

  ‘None yet, but the next snippet of information is already out and widely about.’

  ‘How so?’

  Clifford retrieved a newspaper from the occasional table by the door and passed it to her. ‘Page two, my lady.’

  Eleanor read the headline. ‘Accidental Death of Whitehall Minister Now Known to be Murder.’ She scanned the first few paragraphs. ‘The killer, Jack Cornell… Is that a name you know?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, it is one I am familiar with. He is an ex-con. He was a… guest here at one time. Your uncle helped him onto the straight and narrow. I would have found it hard to believe that he would have fallen back into his old ways, but even if he had, he was no killer. And to kill such an upstanding man as Mr Atkins, why?’

  Polly knocked and popped her head around the door. ‘Excuse me interrupting, your ladyship. Mrs Butters said Mr Clifford is wanted on the telephone.’ With a flick of her apron she disappeared like a jittery sprite.

  Clifford left Eleanor to devour more egg and toast and returned, soundlessly, a few minutes later, making her jump and crack an egg.

  ‘Was it about the Rolls?’ Eleanor was in the middle of restocking her plate from the salvers. She definitely needed to put a bell on Clifford.

  ‘No, my lady, it was Mr Sandford. Miss Abigail has sent word to her uncle of further developments.’

  Eleanor reluctantly lowered her fork.

  ‘It seems the suicide note contained further details. And it reveals more than the newspaper. Jack Cornell did indeed give a reason for the murder.’

  Eleanor nodded for Clifford to continue.

  ‘It seems Mr Atkins was… blackmailing him.’

  Eleanor picked her fork back up. ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘Categorically, no. I believe Mr Atkins was incapable of using such underhand tactics.’

  ‘As I thought.’ She paused in spearing another mushroom. ‘I am sorry, Clifford, I do appreciate this is difficult for you. Whilst Mr Atkins was a friend of my uncle’s and I have fond memories of him from my childhood, you were clearly fond of him too.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. He was, as I have said, an upstanding gentleman and was a familiar part of your uncle’s life for many years.’

  ‘Then he was obviously a very fine fellow and we must defend his name, albeit posthumously. And Jack Cornell’s, of course. I am sure my uncle would have moved heaven and earth to see justice done for both men, and so shall we. Agreed?’

  Clifford nodded. ‘Agreed, my lady.’

  Eleanor studied the photograph in the newspaper. ‘You know I simply didn’t see the man on the motorcycle clearly enough. It could be him, but then again…’ She shrugged, then drew her breath in sharply. ‘Wait a moment. Cornell was one of the motorcyclists’ names that the sub-postmistress in West Radington gave to me. Oh gosh, Clifford! I forgot to mention them to you at the time. And then we had the crash and I’ve only just remembered.’

  ‘Can you still recall them, my lady?’

  ‘I think so, unless that bump on the head has knocked them out. One was Lancelot, I remember that, but we knew that already seeing as I’ve actually ridden pillion on his motorbike. One was this Jack Cornell character. Who else was there? Ah, yes! Mr Jonas T-Tr-Trundle and Mr… Mr? It began with a B? Blount! Mr something Blount, that’s it. Do you know either of those two?’

  ‘Mr Trundle is known to everyone, my lady. He was the captain of the Chipstone cricket team for almost thirty years and only retired when he reached the admirable age of seventy-five. I don’t believe he’s actually ridden his motorbike for many years.’

  ‘Well, he’s definitely not the motorcyclist from the quarry then. And Mr Blount, is he someone you are familiar with?’

  Clifford nodded slowly. ‘Yes, but I fear that is another dead end, my lady. Mr Bartholemew Blount is a younger gentleman, but he would never have been able to drive a motorbike in such a wild fashion without crashing.’

  ‘Why ever not? Is he grotesquely overweight or something?’

  A slight frown crossed Clifford’s brow. ‘No, my lady, he is somewhat deficient in the leg department having lost one in an accident several years ago.’

  ‘Poor chap! How on earth does he ride a motorbike then?’

  ‘Considerably more carefully than the night he rode into the old oak tree by the vicarage and consequentially lost his aforementioned limb.’

  ‘Fair enough, we’ll rule him out as well. You know, I definitely saw a motorbike in Cartwright’s outhouse, but Miss Green never mentioned his name.’

  ‘Perhaps it is an old motorcycle and not currently licensed? However, there is an element we may have overlooked altogether. The motorbike may have been a stolen machine.’

  ‘True, or… the person I saw at Cartwright’s was Jack Cornell and it was his motorcycle?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Possibly. There is another potentially tricky point. Alibis might be hard to find, and test this time.’

  ‘Why particularly this time?’

  ‘Miss Abigail passed on the information that, given the state of the body, the police believe Mr Cornell died somewhere between eleven thirty in the evening, when a neighbour saw him returning home to his flat on Old Kiln Lane, and eight the following morning, four hours or so before his body was discovered by the postman at twelve fifteen. As rigor mortis had set in, he must have been dead at least four hours before the police examined him. There is little way to narrow down the time of death any further at the moment. In the case of Mr Atkins, you saw him shot, so we can pinpoint that.’

  Eleanor sighed. ‘It’s not going to be easy to verify anyone’s alibi for that time, is it? I imagine they’ll all say they were in bed. It could all be a wild goose chase.’ She shivered at the word ‘goose’. She thought about this new twist in the case. ‘You know, if Mr Atkins wasn’t blackmailing Jack Cornell, and Jack Cornell didn’t kill him, then we are dealing with a monster!’

  ‘Certainly a very calculating individual.’

  ‘With the morals of a jackal!’

  ‘I should say that the jackal has been much maligned as a species. They are actually—’

  ‘Not now, Clifford. Monster or not, it seems this man – or woman – has killed twice, and may again. What could be their motive?’ Eleanor drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I do think it is more likely this latest setup was to provide an open-and-shut case for the police. Or the police were in on it.’

  ‘Indeed, person one murders person two who is blackmailing him and then kills himself. Case closed, as you say, my lady.’ Clifford picked up the empty teapot. ‘As I said, it takes a brilliant mind to conceive and execute such a plan.’

  ‘And as I said, a ruthless, cold-blooded one.’

  ‘However…’ Clifford turned back from refilling the teapot ‘… the killer did not allow for the intervention of a thoroughly modern woman.’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘You know, Clifford, if you pay me any more compliments, I might think you are actually an old softie under that gruff exterior.’

  Clifford merely bowed. ‘Whatever you say, my lady.’

  Twenty-Six

  The news next day that the Rolls was not yet back from the repair shop did little to ease Eleanor’s sore head.

  ‘I have been informed it should be returned before lunch,’ Clifford offered by way of consolation. Eleanor gritted her teeth. ‘All this waiting is infuriating. I really can’t eat any more or I shall explode. We’re wasting time while the murderer is running around free!�
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  ‘Sir Isaac Newton would disagree, my lady.’

  Eleanor scowled.

  ‘He once said, “If I have ever made any valuable discoveries, it has been owing more to patient attention, than to any other talent.”’

  ‘Why is it that all this talk of patience makes me want to scream?’

  ‘Perhaps it might be a good moment to review where we are with the case and where we need to go next, as it were?’

  Eleanor huffed. ‘Okay, I suppose you’re right. You start, Clifford.’

  Clifford cleared his throat. ‘Well, my lady, you saw a man, as yet unidentified, shoot Mr Atkins at around ten fifteen in the evening at the disused quarry on Saturday, the night of the storm. The following day Mr Atkins’ body was discovered by his housekeeper at his house half a mile away. Mr Atkins’ murder had been made to look like an accident. As the police agreed with this, it seemed the murderer had got away with the crime.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘And then, confusingly, Jack Cornell’s body is discovered the following Saturday morning in his flat on Old Kiln Lane. By his dead body is a suicide note confessing to killing Atkins, his reason for killing Atkins being that Atkins had been blackmailing him.’

  It was Clifford’s turn to nod. ‘Exactly, my lady. Our remaining suspects for Mr Atkins’ murder, as we don’t believe Mr Cornell did in fact kill him, are Mr Cartwright and Sergeant Wilby, young Lord Fenwick-Langham’s alibi having been confirmed and him eliminated as a suspect.’

  ‘So now all we have to do is find out which one of them hasn’t got a verifiable alibi for the time of Jack Cornell’s death, find some incontrovertible evidence that they committed both murders, and have them arrested. Easy.’ She rose. ‘Unless, of course, Atkins’ and Cornell’s murderer isn’t actually one of our two suspects.’ She headed out of the drawing room, saying over her shoulder, ‘Please call me the moment the Rolls is returned. I’ll be in the garden.’

  Two hours later Clifford finally announced the car was back and waiting by the front steps.

  At that moment, Mrs Butters hurried out and informed Clifford that she needed some items from the village. Never one to miss an opportunity, Eleanor jumped up from the stone bench, whipped the list out of the housekeeper’s surprised fingers and headed for the Rolls.

  Eleanor paused at the door of Brenchley Stores, marvelling at the multitude of items neatly displayed on shelves, racks and hanging rails. Stepping inside, she was struck by the heady mix of wax polish and coal tar soap. She peeped round the trays of miscellaneous fixings and canned provisions expecting Aladdin to jump out and ask what on earth she was doing mooching about his cave.

  Huddled by a rack of tinned goods were two felt-hatted ladies twittering like sparrows.

  ‘You know, he was here again. I heard him asking questions.’

  ‘Who, dear?’

  ‘That detective fellow.’

  ‘That broad-shouldered young man in the blue wool overcoat? There’s a spectacle that would brighten the rainiest December day.’

  The women giggled like schoolgirls but froze on seeing Eleanor.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ She nodded politely.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Swift,’ they chorused.

  Eleanor sized up the square-shouldered man in the tan work coat behind the counter. She took in the greying strands at his temples and the crease in his forehead and decided he was a man who took his business seriously. His smile on seeing her, however, carried on up to his warm brown eyes.

  ‘Lady Swift, welcome to Little Buckford. And my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your uncle. I am Arthur Brenchley, owner of Brenchley Stores.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brenchley. Delighted to meet you. What a capital store you have here. You must be quite the centre of the village.’

  ‘Thank you, m’lady. And how may I help you?’

  ‘Mrs Butters has dispatched me with a list of errands.’ Well, it was only a small white lie.

  The two women clutched their hats and looked at each other, clearly horrified.

  ‘Dispatched, you say? By Mrs Butters?’ Brenchley rubbed his forehead. ‘I must be getting old, things aren’t quite as I expect some days.’

  A young man in a matching apron appeared behind him.

  ‘Your son, Mr Brenchley?’ Eleanor ventured.

  ‘A shrewd guess. Yes, this is John, my eldest and only son. Heir to the Brenchley emporium fortune.’

  They all laughed at this.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Swift.’ John hopped from foot to foot.

  ‘Likewise, John. Tell me, what do you do when you’re not busy working on building your fine inheritance here?’

  John looked at his father, seemingly tongue-tied.

  ‘John here’s got his head in a bicycle every hour he’s not working.’ Brenchley senior explained.

  Eleanor’s ears pricked up. ‘A fellow cyclist indeed! I have just purchased a bicycle of my own. Perhaps I might call on your expertise in the future?’

  John’s face lit up. ‘Why, I’d be most pleased to help you in any way I can, m’lady.’

  ‘Excellent! So, as a keen cyclist you must also know the best routes in the area. I saw a simply splendid road out past Henley Hall and then on to what looked to be a quarry near, I believe, Mr Cartwright’s farm?’

  Brenchley clucked his tongue. ‘John knows that road alright. Don’t you, son?’

  ‘Dad!’ John dipped his head.

  Brenchley leaned towards Eleanor. ‘He’s got a girl, up yonder of Cartwright’s.’

  ‘Dad!’ John blushed as Eleanor jumped in.

  ‘John, perhaps you would be kind enough to act as my cycling guide? It would save me from getting lost on unfamiliar back roads.’

  ‘I… I usually cycle with the Chipstone Club, m’lady.’ John squirmed.

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Then I’ll join.’

  John’s eyes popped. ‘I… I don’t think they allow women, I mean… ladies.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m sure Chipstone is a more progressive town than that,’ she lied.

  ‘Mrs Butters’ list, m’lady?’ Brenchley senior reminded her while laughing at his son’s obvious discomfort.

  She handed it over and while he rounded up the items casually asked, ‘Tell me, Mr Brenchley, has Mr Cartwright been in recently?’

  Brenchley looked at her oddly. ‘Cartwright? He was in here a few days back buying some more cartridges. Like most farmers round these parts he gets through a fair few what with shooting pigeons, rabbits and the like.’

  ‘And he bought some new overalls, Dad, remember?’ John added. ‘Normally never get farmers like him buying new work clothes, they just wear them till they fall apart.’

  Eleanor’s imagination raced. Perhaps he burned his old ones? Perhaps they were covered in blood! She tried to keep her voice casual. ‘Has he made any other… unusual purchases lately?’

  Brenchley looked amused. ‘Well, that depends what you’d call “unusual”?’

  Eleanor shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, a shovel? Or a bag of lime, perhaps?’

  ‘Where are we exactly, Clifford?’

  Eleanor rather fancied she knew the way to Chipstone by now, and this was definitely not it. ‘I distinctly told you to head for Chipstone.’

  ‘Forgive my use of initiative, my lady, but an opportunity has presented itself this afternoon.’

  She clucked her tongue with irritation. ‘We’ve already been held up running errands for Mrs Butters and I wanted one more tilt at that buffoon, Sergeant Wilby.’

  Clifford raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, my lady, I fear this is not a jousting tournament.’

  ‘Shame! I would love to see him wriggling on the business end of a sharpened lance!’ A brief image of her former husband wriggling on the same lance popped into her head but she charitably shook it out. ‘Chipstone Police Station it is! And after Brenchley’s revelation about Cartwright’s purchases recently, I fancied another go with him as well. So, what is this unmissable opportunity
we’re driving to first?’

  ‘We will be there shortly. It is but a quick detour.’

  Eleanor’s miniscule supply of patience gave out. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Whilst I appreciate your solicitude, Clifford, I have no intention of following Doctor Browning’s laborious orders for rest and recuperation. So, any ideas for restoratives such as watching the newborn lambs gambolling on the hills or dying of tedium reading Coleridge poems by the babbling brook can go hang!’

  ‘Perhaps reading Alfred Lord Tennyson, my lady?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since there is no babbling brook in Little Buckford, or Chipstone for that matter, I rather thought you were referring to the poem “The Brook” penned by the eminent Mr Tennyson.’

  Eleanor slapped the dashboard of the Rolls in frustration. ‘Clifford, are you immune to sarcasm or does it merely sharpen your needle-like wit?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, my lady.’ Clifford stared straight ahead. ‘But to answer your question, our detour will indeed be quite the restorative for you, perhaps not one Doctor Browning would condone, however.’

  At this point they passed the entrance to Cartwright’s farm. The car rumbled on down the lane, up the rise and round a sweeping right-hand bend before Clifford swung into a gravelled driveway. With a deft flick of the wheel, he manoeuvred the Rolls under an arch of box hedging and let it roll to a stop behind a large flint outbuilding, in front of which was parked an Austin motor car. It seemed strangely familiar to Eleanor.

  ‘Where the dickens…?’ Eleanor started but then followed Clifford’s gloved finger, pointing to a distant row of now familiar ornate chimney towers. ‘That’s… Henley Hall on the hill. So this must be…’

  ‘Mr Atkins’ house, my lady.’

  ‘Top-notch initiative, Clifford!’

  Eleanor got out of the car and stared up at the charming, three-storey Georgian house. How compact and homely it looked after the sprawling rooms and endless corridors of Henley Hall. Their feet crunched on the gravel as they stole round to the back of the house, which overlooked a small orchard.