Mrs Butters hurried in as soon as she had closed the front door behind the inspector. ‘Forgive my interruption, my lady, but are you alright? I heard shouting.’
‘Shouting? I could scream!’
‘I’ll… I’ll be in the kitchen if you require anything.’ The housekeeper scurried from the room.
Back in her bedroom, Eleanor was shaking with rage. ‘How can the police be so utterly, utterly dumb? Or is the corruption really on such a grand scale that it goes all the way to the top? Maybe even to the inspector. Perhaps even Clifford is caught up in it… and…’ She stopped pacing, her eyes widening. ‘Maybe my uncle.’
Perhaps that explained why he’d kept her at arm’s length all those years? Eleanor realised just how little she’d known about her uncle. What a fool you’ve been, Ellie. The Hall can never be your home!
She looked around at the books, marionette and doll’s house. Her room seemed as stifling as it had the day she first arrived at the Hall. Jumping up, she ran down the stairs and out into the gathering dusk.
To begin with, Eleanor walked in silence, letting her legs take her wherever they would. She tried to block out her thoughts until she’d calmed down at least enough to control her breathing. Slowly in… slowly out. Her breathing was as ragged as… an elderly bulldog?
‘Gladstone!’
The puffing dog caught up with her and collapsed at her feet, looking up at her with a look of devotion.
‘I can see why dogs make better companions than people!’ she muttered. ‘Coming to the Hall has been the biggest mistake of my life… and I’ve made some monumental blunders before this. I mean, what was I expecting to find? A home? A new family? Love? Pah!’ She shook her head. ‘What a wretched mess.’
The only fleeting silver lining had been Lancelot, but he’d made no attempts to take things any further, in spite of his initial attentions. She decided he’d been toying with her like everyone else. ‘Gladstone, I feel I’m the biggest fool that ever walked this earth.’
She stopped and shouted, ‘Why, oh why, did I trust anyone again? Why, oh why, Ellie, will you never learn!’
Looking around, she realised she was halfway to the quarry where all this had begun. She shuddered. ‘No more walking into the middle of nowhere. If we get caught up in any more murders, Gladstone, I’m going to pack us both onto the first steamer out of here and never come back.’
She spun round and set off towards the village with a lump in her throat. More murders or not, perhaps that was the best course of action. Were her dreams of finding a place to call home just that ‒ dreams?
She let the steep descent carry her briskly into the centre of the village, past the sign welcoming her to Little Buckford. At the village pond Gladstone drank noisily while a gaggle of ducks quacked angrily at having their evening ablutions disturbed.
Eleanor’s fury at the inspector’s news hadn’t diminished by the time she reached the small high street. Coming to, she realised that the last thing she wanted was to meet anyone. A street led off to the right, disappearing into the fading light. ‘Perfect, that looks deserted. Come on, Gladstone. Help me stomp out all this anger before I explode.’
They turned up the street with Eleanor forging ahead, and Gladstone straggling behind her. But a few minutes further on, the road stopped, with a stone wall blocking their way. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, how hard would it have been to indicate this was a dead end back on the main road?’
On her right a narrow lane wound through some outbuildings and looked like it might lead back to the shops. ‘This way, Gladstone!’
However, the lane was steeper than it had first appeared. ‘Cobbles! How quaint and impossible to keep one’s footing on.’
Twenty yards further, the rays of the setting sun blinded her. She shielded her eyes and tried to avoid turning an ankle on the uneven surface.
And that was when she heard it.
‘Gladstone, shhh!’ The bulldog stopped and pricked up his ears. ‘Footsteps?’ she whispered.
Looking around she could see only the blinding shafts of evening sun and inky patches of darkness in between. She set off again. ‘I’m sure I…’ Suddenly the shadows moved. A dark figure towered in front of her, with a weapon held aloft.
‘Clifford!’
She dropped to her knees, defeated not by fear but by despair at the betrayal.
It isn’t supposed to end like this!
She covered her head with her hands, but the blow never came. Instead, she heard a loud thump followed by a sharp groan. She sprang to one side and jumped up ready to defend herself.
‘Clifford! Get away from me, you monster!’ Her gaze dropped to his feet. ‘Oh!’
Clifford half-bowed. ‘Good evening, my lady.’ He indicated the crumpled figure. ‘He won’t give you any more trouble now.’
‘What the—?’
Clifford smiled. ‘I admit it was a gamble that you would duck sufficiently before this gentleman succeeded in his intended task of cracking your skull with this.’ He bent down and picked up a cosh that had rolled from the unconscious man’s hand.
Eleanor gasped. ‘Oh, Clifford, what a fool I’ve been. I thought you—’
‘No need to apologise, my lady, an understandable error. Might I suggest, however, that we remove ourselves and this gentleman from here as quickly as possible? His associates may be close by.’
‘Remove him? You can’t take this thug back to the house, are you insane?’
‘I believe he is merely an instrument of the real villain behind all this. However, with a little persuasion we may be able to loosen our captive’s lips. The Rolls is parked nearby if we can just get him to it.’
‘But we should go to the police. This man tried to kill me!’
‘Actually, I believe his remit was only to render you unconscious, then kidnap you. As to the police, who do you suggest? The eminently trustworthy Sergeant Wilby?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘You’re right, but it’s too dangerous to take him to the Hall. What about the staff?’
‘I think you’ll find the staff are more used to unexpected visitors than you might imagine. Mrs Trotman will see to him.’
Eleanor opened her mouth to object, but Clifford held up a hand.
‘Really, we need to move. Now, my lady.’ His voice was commanding.
Eleanor’s natural survival instinct kicked in. She could discuss his un-butler-like tone later.
‘There!’ She ran over to a battered two-wheeled handcart, which was abandoned by the side of an outbuilding.
Clifford threw the cosh into the nearby bushes and joined her.
After a quick inspection, she said, ‘It might make it to the bottom of the lane.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Let’s give it a whirl anyway. What’s so hard about pushing an unconscious would-be kidnapper through the streets on a dilapidated handcart without alerting anyone to our presence? Tonight can’t get any more ridiculous, after all.’
‘That’s the spirit, my lady.’ Clifford grunted as he hoisted the man from under his limp arms. Eleanor steadied the cart with one hand and grabbed a stray leg with the other. Once the man was onboard, Clifford took off his coat and wrapped it round the sprawled figure.
‘Passable.’ Eleanor grinned. ‘But this is going to make a heck of a racket on these cobbles.’
‘Fortunately, they finish a few yards before the houses begin. And there is a path we can take that will lead us straight to the car.’
‘Gladstone!’ Eleanor remembered the bulldog had been with her. ‘Boy, where are you?’ she whispered.
A snuffling came from behind her.
‘Gladstone, it’s alright, friend. It’s only Clifford, come on. Got to be silent though.’ She slid off his collar and tied his lead securely around Clifford’s coat to tether their captive.
‘Let’s go!’
With Clifford pulling the cart and Eleanor steadying their comatose captive they made it down the steep slope. The only casualties were
a few run-over toes and a large rip in Eleanor’s coat as it snagged under the wheels.
‘Right here, my lady. This is the back alley that will take us to the Rolls. It is a dirt path though.’
‘Quieter than the cobbles at least,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Good boy, Gladstone, keep going.’ She patted his head.
The wonky cart’s wheels struggled even more over the rough ground and threatened to collapse before they reached the end of the path.
When Eleanor finally saw the glint of the Rolls’ silver-lady mascot, she sighed with relief.
‘How can we get him in without being seen?’ she hissed.
‘If you can hold the cart still, I shall reverse the Rolls up the lane as if I am turning around. I’ll jump out and we’ll throw him in the back together.’
Eleanor did so while Clifford started the car. In a moment he had reversed the Rolls so it was adjacent to the end of the alleyway. Between them they heaved the man into the boot. Shutting the lid silently but swiftly, Clifford spun round.
‘Evening, Mr Clifford,’ a voice called out in passing.
‘Lovely evening, Mrs Jones.’ Clifford’s voice was impressively measured.
Once the coast was clear, Clifford eased the car out of the side turning and onto the high street. In a moment they were past the village pond and on the now dark run back up to Henley Hall.
Clifford held his fist up in triumph. ‘Made it!’
Eleanor laughed. ‘So is this what you and my uncle used to do to liven up your evenings? Assault and kidnap unsuspecting members of the criminal underworld.’ She shook her head. ‘And I thought I was going to be living the quiet life of a respectable country lady.’
She sat back in the seat, with the bulldog next to her. ‘Gladstone, what on earth have I let myself in for?’
Thirty-Four
‘Well, I have to say I am impressed.’ Eleanor smiled at Clifford as she adjusted the warm poultice on her shoulder.
‘Indeed, my lady. Mrs Butters’ potato, onion and herbal poultices are quite magical in their healing properties. I am, however, sorry I failed to consider your recent injury. Pushing a heavy handcart over rough ground was bound to aggravate the pain and stiffness.’
‘Actually, Clifford, the poultice is working wonders, but that’s not what I meant. The ladies haven’t batted an eyelid over all our goings on this evening. Mrs Trotman looked positively delighted to be charged with keeping our guest fed and watered.’
Clifford smiled. ‘Like yourself, my lady, the staff your uncle employed are made of stern stuff.’
The next morning the heart of the house was busy but serene. Mrs Butters stoked the crackling fire in the range, Mrs Trotman coaxed her dough into submission and Polly vainly tried to buff an array of silverware into sparkling perfection. Only Gladstone let the industrious team down, snoring in his quilted bed, with his nose pressed into a leather slipper.
Clifford held the kitchen door open and motioned Eleanor in.
‘Ladies.’ He nodded. ‘How is our guest in the cellar holding up?’
Eleanor started. ‘So, that’s what you meant when you said Jack Cornell was a former “guest” of my uncle?’
Clifford nodded.
Polly tittered and then blushed at Mrs Butters’ pointed look. Mrs Trotman dusted her floury hands on her apron. ‘Well, sir, there are no complaints so far.’ The ladies all laughed.
Eleanor was confused. ‘No complaints?’
Mrs Trotman answered. ‘The thing is, my lady, our current guest was kind enough to say he’s never eaten so well or been so well attended to.’
‘He’s supposed to be our prisoner!’ Eleanor said.
‘Quite so, my dear, quite so.’ Mrs Butters smiled. ‘And there’s no better way to break a man’s spirit than through his stomach. I reckon we could have him sitting freely up here with us and he still wouldn’t go nowhere.’ More laughter echoed round the kitchen.
She couldn’t help feeling they were all being rather casual about the prospect of having a dangerous criminal locked up in the cellar. ‘Has he confessed to who put him up to kidnapping me?’
‘The ladies wouldn’t presume to ask,’ Clifford said. ‘Not yet. They know these things take time. A lackey’s first thought is to remain loyal to his paymaster, notably to ensure the security of his kneecaps and loved ones. On this occasion, however, I fear we may not have the luxury of waiting for our velvet glove approach, and Mrs Trotman’s fine fayre, to loosen his tongue.’
He stepped across the kitchen and into the scullery. Behind him, Eleanor nodded at the door that led off into the larder. ‘I remember sneaking in here a lot.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘When you weren’t looking, of course.’
He paused with his hand on the handle. ‘It took a great many extra trips to the village, my lady, to keep up with your penchant for stealing sweets.’ He gave her a rare smile.
She watched with widening eyes as he opened the door of the store cupboard and pushed aside a cake tin. Taking a key from his pocket, he turned it in a hidden lock and swung the entire back wall forward to reveal a set of stone steps.
She stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck. ‘I can see that once this murder business is out of the way, I shall have to insist on a full guided tour of the house.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
At the end of the short flight of steps she could see an extra steel door had been fitted over an old oak one. The steel door, however, lay back against the wall, not closed and certainly not locked. She raised a questioning eyebrow.
Clifford lowered his voice. ‘It is a psychological phenomenon your late uncle shrewdly observed, my lady. The man interned will respond positively to the subtly reduced confinement measures. That is, he will note that after a few days of his incarceration, only the standard household door stands between him and his freedom. He begins to feel trusted and in turn begins to trust his captor. Unfortunately, given we have little time, I have speeded up the process by leaving the steel door unlocked from the outset.’
She frowned. ‘What happens if he doesn’t respond and makes a dash for it?’
He waved vaguely. ‘It is a risk, but there are certain hidden measures in place for such an eventuality. None of our “guests” have escaped yet.’
Ellie lowered her voice. ‘This all sounds very sophisticated. I thought we were just going to slam into him with threats unless he squealed on whoever set him up to kidnap me?’
He patted the pockets of his morning-suit jacket. ‘Thankfully I appear to have left my blackjack and knuckleduster upstairs, my lady. Shall we?’
Her eyebrows rose as he knocked on the oak door before turning the key. ‘Good morning,’ he called out.
‘Hullo?’ a deep voice answered back.
She stepped into the room which had been plainly furnished but, in her opinion, over comfortably so for a homespun cell. In a reupholstered wingback chair by the fireplace, a giant of a man spilled out over the sides. On seeing her, he lumbered to his feet and doffed a non-existent cap.
In the dark and pandemonium of the night before, she’d had no chance to really see her attacker. Now he was standing in front of her, she couldn’t help thinking whoever had moulded this man’s features had done the bulk of it with a boxing glove. And finessed the edges with a heavy plank of wood. His nose spread sideways, flattened out of shape and his brow dominated the entire top half of his perfectly square face. This left his deep, brown eyes buried under heavy lids and his protruding jaw, somewhat hidden by sagging jowls.
‘Miss.’ He nodded at her, then looked to Clifford. ‘What’s going to happen to me, guv?’ The man spoke in a deep voice with a broad cockney accent.
‘Well, one of two things actually.’ Clifford turned to Eleanor and gestured towards two chairs arranged so that they faced the first. ‘Either you will be polite enough to answer our questions or—’
‘Or you’ll dob me into the bluebottles.’ The prisoner had been waiting for Eleanor to sit and now he slumped in hi
s chair, his gorilla arms hanging over the sides.
Clifford turned to Eleanor again. ‘The police. Where this gentleman comes from they are often referred to as “bluebottles”.’
Their guest grunted. ‘Busy beaks in blue uniforms, always swarming about causing trouble.’
She sat straighter. ‘I rather thought “trouble” was your remit, Mr…?’
He eyed her sideways. ‘Oh alright, seems I ain’t got no choice.’ He slapped his chest with a thud that echoed round the room. ‘Cooper, Ambrose Cooper.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Cooper. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? How about you give us the rest of the gen on why you tried to kidnap me?’
Clifford nodded. ‘And mind your Ps and Qs, a lady is present.’
Ambrose shifted awkwardly in his seat, staring at his enormous hands. ‘It weren’t meant to come to that, honest. Kidnapping ain’t normally my game.’
She snorted. ‘You hardly expect us to believe you, a hardened criminal, do you?’
The man frowned. ‘I was a Joe. But that was before.’
Clifford leaned towards her. ‘Cockney rhyming slang, from the heart of London: Joe Rook – Crook.’
‘Of course.’ She flapped a hand as if this was old news.
Clifford leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. ‘Mr Cooper, kindly explain why you tried to kidnap her ladyship and on whose orders?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Ambrose ran his hand across his bull neck. ‘I got told I needed to do a job or else…’ He faltered. Clifford raised one eyebrow. Ambrose sighed again. ‘Or else people I know, good people, would suffer.’
‘You were threatened? Is that what you’re saying?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Yeah. I got threatened that I had to do the job or the others would go down for a long time.’ A flash of anger crossed his face. ‘And they’d done their time and was going straight. We all were.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t speak lah-di-dah, otherwise I’d say it different, wouldn’t I?’
‘We understand you perfectly,’ Clifford said. ‘You are suggesting that your friends would be implicated for a crime, or crimes, which they did not commit but would be held as guilty for. Am I right, Mr Cooper?’
A Very English Murder Page 21
