‘The stone? Was I right about it being a garnet?’
‘Quite right, my lady.’ Clifford pulled the polished, semi-precious gem from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table. Eleanor picked it up and held it to the light, turning it in her fingers.
‘It’s almost as pretty as a ruby.’
‘To the untrained eye, yes. But you might be surprised to find out one of its more common applications.’
‘It’s a bit early for twenty questions but I’ll give it a bash. It’s too big for an engagement ring, that would be positively gauche. Earrings, brooch or bracelet?’
‘Cold!’ Clifford smiled.
‘Belt buckle or Indian headdress?’
‘Way colder!’ He sighed.
‘Necklace.’
‘Warm.’
She rubbed her forehead. ‘How about a decoration of some kind? A medal?’
‘Hot, with a little largesse.’
‘Err, a ceremonial chain?’
‘Bingo!’
Eleanor slapped her forehead and instantly regretted it. She waited for the throbbing to go down. ‘Mayor Kingsley!’ She shuddered. ‘But he didn’t strike me as a murderer. He was so… helpful.’
‘A result of your self-professed shortcomings in judging character when it comes to men, perhaps?’
Eleanor ignored the remark. ‘Mind you, the garnet could easily have been planted by Cartwright or Sergeant Wilby to throw suspicion on Mayor Kingsley.’
Clifford nodded. ‘Very true.’
‘And anyway, even he wouldn’t be vain enough to wear a mayoral chain when hiding that box and its contents in the quarry, would he?’
‘No, my lady, but the stone could easily have been dislodged elsewhere and fallen into a pocket or fold of Mayor Kingsley’s clothing, only to be dislodged again by him retrieving the said box.’
‘True, and he accused you of being the murderer. Surely proof enough?’
‘Again, not, necessarily, my lady. Your uncle and Mayor Kingsley never saw eye to eye.’ At her look he continued. ‘It is a long tale, perhaps best left for another time.’
She thought of the garnets she’d discovered hidden in his room. Might that be part of the tale? Now she was convinced Clifford was on the side of truth and justice, there was obviously an innocent explanation, but she wasn’t about to confess to searching his rooms. That would have to wait until after they’d caught the murderer and she’d worked out how to broach the subject. Instead, she shrugged. ‘If you say so, Clifford. So it’s possible Kingsley was just trying to get back at my uncle?’
Clifford nodded. ‘Or indeed, he might even have believed what he said. Maybe Mr Cartwright or Sergeant Wilby have been spreading rumours unknown to me? There was a certain amount of… mystery surrounding your uncle’s death. That I fear, again, may have to wait until we have concluded this current business.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘There is a lot I need to discuss with you, but for now we need to keep our focus.’
Clifford nodded. ‘Well said, my lady. And Mayor Kingsley is not the only person who could have used Mr Cornell. There is also the possibility that Sergeant Wilby was the one putting pressure on him. In Sergeant Wilby’s position, it would be easy to have Mr Cornell sent back to jail. As you observed, the head of police in these small rural communities holds as much power as anyone.’
‘Absolutely, Clifford. Not forgetting, of course, that our man Cartwright is still up there with Kingsley and Wilby as a suspect. He is the only person we can directly link with Jack Cornell. I saw them together with my own eyes the day after the murder.’ She looked down at her, now rather congealed, bacon. Still, waste not and all that. She popped it in her mouth. ‘So who’s our murderer, assuming, of course, he is even among our suspects?’
Clifford cleared her plate. ‘That, my lady, is what we need to ascertain next.’
Eleanor jogged up the stairs, brimming with excitement. Gladstone had caught her mood and bounded up beside her. Catching her foot in the hem of her robe, she fell up the last few steps, banging her head against the bannister, and ended up spreadeagled on the landing. To express his concern, Gladstone offered several slathers of his tongue to her nose.
She had hoped her clumsy enthusiasm had gone unnoticed, but she peeped up and saw Polly’s giraffe legs jiggling in front of her.
‘You alright, your ladyship?’ the maid whispered, blushing as she bent down to offer her mistress a hand up.
Eleanor held her finger to her lips and winked, making Polly giggle. ‘More haste, less falling over,’ she whispered back. Together they got her up off the floor and installed in her room in front of the mirror. ‘Marvellous!’ Eleanor peered forlornly at the bruised egg blossoming on her forehead. ‘Very fetching, not!’
Back downstairs, Clifford was waiting for her in the morning room. He passed her a small tube of ointment and nodded, gesturing to her forehead.
‘I can’t get away with anything when you’re around,’ she grumbled good-humouredly. ‘There really are no wasps on you.’
‘Flies, my lady. I believe the Americanism you are alluding to is “There are no flies on me.”’
She peered at the miniscule writing on the label.
‘It’s arnica, my lady. Best applied as soon after the cause as possible. I thought you might like to reduce the swelling.’
After applying a dab of the cooling salve, she clapped her hands together.
‘Thank you, Clifford. Now all we need to catch our killer is to find out who among our suspects bites. And then once we’ve got the blighter—’
‘Find some actual evidence that would hold up in court, my lady? Assuming we could get it to court, given that the local constabulary seem to be either in the killer’s pay, or number the killer among them.’
Eleanor threw her hands up in frustration. ‘Mere details, Clifford. We need to get a move on before there’s another murder!’
‘Perhaps two, my lady, if we are insufficiently prepared?’
‘Agh! I understand your natural caution, Clifford. That doesn’t stop me wanting to bang your head against this walnut dresser.’
‘Oak, my lady. And if we are to defeat such a ruthless opponent as the murderer has proven to be, I believe we need to act as a team.’
Clifford’s words made Eleanor forget her frustrations. She’d never been part of a team before. Not really. Even in her job she had always acted independently or led the way. She relented. ‘You’re right, Clifford. Sorry for wanting to wallop your head against something very hard and unforgiving.’
‘Apology accepted.’ Clifford nodded. ‘I understand, and admire your desire for action, but I also promised your uncle to keep you safe.’
‘Okay, Clifford, as a newly initiated team player, I’m willing to be persuaded.’
‘Thank you. Now, what we need is a plan that combines the best of both of us. Your flair for the… unexpected.’ Clifford frowned at Eleanor’s mismatched wardrobe choice. She was wearing a turquoise cashmere sweater fitted over blue twill trousers and brown satin pumps with a silver beaded silk scarf finishing the ensemble.
‘What?’ she huffed, looking herself up and down.
‘And,’ Clifford continued unabashed, ‘my flair for the logical.’
‘It could work, Clifford. The killer seems so arrogant I’m sure he’d underestimate a mere woman and…’ Eleanor thought back to the mayor’s words.
‘A mere butler, my lady?’
‘Yes, Clifford. A mere woman and a mere servant. Two classes undervalued and underestimated for generations, joining together to make a formidable team.’
Clifford tilted his head. ‘I see you have the beginnings of an idea, my lady.’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Yes, Clifford, one you’ll love as much as the killer will hate it. It’s time to turn the tables!’
Thirty-Seven
‘Around a dozen meat pies, you say? Let’s see…’ Mrs Trotman thought for a moment. ‘Fifteen minutes to prepare, forty in the range an
d ten to cool. What does that make?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘How about an hour and a bit, my lady?’
‘Perfect, thank you. Sorry it’s such short notice.’ Eleanor beamed. ‘Oh, and, Mrs Trotman, if you could wrap them well, I’ll be taking them in my bicycle basket.’
On her way back through the hall, Eleanor bumped into Clifford, who was looking grave.
‘What’s wrong?’ She frowned.
‘My lady, I have a doubt. On reflection, I fear this plan is too dangerous.’
‘Nonsense, Clifford, we’ve already discussed this. As a seasoned campaigner I’m sure my uncle would have recommended attack as the best form of defence.’
‘He was also known to observe that “the better part of valour is discretion”, my lady.’
Eleanor continued on her way upstairs. Leaning over the balcony rail she called down, ‘Dickens?’
‘Shakespeare,’ he replied as she disappeared.
With the wind behind her, Eleanor flew down the road from the Hall and on into Little Buckford. Unfortunately, she also ended up flying into Mr Penry. Yanking on her ineffectual brakes, she skidded into a parked van, dropped her bike and ran over to him. ‘Mr Penry, I’m so sorry!’
The butcher heaved himself up and straightened his cap. ‘Heavens to Blodwen! A healthy pursuit they say, the bicycle, but I’m not so convinced, m’lady. Seems mighty dangerous for the pedestrians along the way.’
‘Gracious, Mr Penry, how can I apologise enough?’ She looked him over in concern.
‘Oh, no need for that. Save for my pride, there’s no harm done.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure, I will continue, but with more caution for those on two feet rather than two wheels.’
With a wink and a cheery wave the butcher continued across the street to his shop, calling behind him, ‘The guilty flee with no one chasing them, m’lady.’
‘Let’s hope so!’ Eleanor muttered as she remounted and tried to make up for lost time. As Clifford had taken the Rolls, she had been left with only her bicycle to complete the first part of their plan. At the edge of the village, she glanced at her watch.
Come on, Ellie! She stood on the pedals as the rise steepened. If you miss Lancelot, the whole plan falls apart.
With her legs and lungs on fire, she wobbled into Joe’s taxi yard. She had been informed that Lancelot had rented a barn there and moved Florence, his precious plane, in.
But there was no sign of him or Florence.
‘Anybody home?’ she called as she dismounted.
‘Over here, miss.’
She turned to see a well-rounded rump bent over an engine. Hurrying over, she got straight to the point. ‘Have you seen Lord Fenwick-Langham? Is he still here?’
The rump straightened up into a gnarly face with fewer teeth than gaps, but a warm smile. ‘Lady Swift. Apologies, I didn’t see it was you. I had me head stuck in this rascal of a motor. Driving me to distraction, it is.’
‘How… naughty of it. Forgive me changing topic, but I’m desperate to see Lance— Lord Fenwick-Langham. Is he here?’
‘Nope, afraid not. He left ten or so minutes ago as it happens.’
Eleanor groaned. ‘Did he say how long he would be?’
‘Said as how he was just popping into town and then he’d be back to have another bash at that sticky linkage on his plane.’
‘Mind if I wait?’
‘Help yourself.’ Joe smiled, pointing to a seat that had been ripped from a car and propped up against the wall of the nearest barn. ‘Tea?’
Before she could take him up on his offer, the unmistakable roar of a motorbike rang through the lanes.
‘Lancelot!’ Eleanor cried. She pulled her uncle’s fob watch from her jacket pocket. ‘Cutting it very fine, my friend,’ she muttered.
Lancelot turned into the yard and on seeing her, started unsteadily circling her.
‘Stop!’ she yelled over the din. ‘Urgent business.’
Lancelot stopped beside her.
‘What ho, Sherlock.’ He grinned, pulling off his helmet.
Eleanor was a little put out at his nonchalance. ‘Surprised to see me, Goggles?’
‘Not a bit, old fruit.’
‘What!’
Lancelot tapped his nose. ‘Sandford sent word you couldn’t make it through the afternoon without clapping eyes on me.’
‘Fibber! Stop distracting me.’
He ruffled his tousled fair hair. ‘I am quite the distraction, I know.’
‘This is serious, Goggles. I need your help. And somewhere quiet to talk to you,’ she whispered.
Lancelot gave a mock salute and swung his leg off the bike, making her sway as he nudged against her.
‘Come into my lair, my dear.’
She blushed, as she realised she was wishing he could stay right where he was, pressed up against her. Throwing his helmet on the motorbike’s tank and an arm around her shoulder, he spun her, and then paused. ‘Oh, the crash in the Rolls. Is your shoulder all fixed up now?’
‘Absolutely,’ she lied, enjoying the feel of his touch. Keep your mind on the task, Ellie.
At the door of a barn opposite the entrance to the yard, he stopped and gave the handle a sharp tug. ‘Bit rickety but it does the job.’ He gestured her inside.
She squinted into the gloom. ‘I can’t see a thing.’
‘Hold on a tick.’
Eleanor could just make out the shadowy outline of Lancelot as he jogged to the back wall. There was a rusty squeal and then a creak that should have heralded the fall of a mighty oak tree.
‘What the…’ Eleanor started, but then the barn filled with light as Lancelot secured the two enormous doors back against the outside wall.
Eleanor gasped. ‘No! Lancelot, what have you done to your plane?’
‘No need to worry, old girl.’ He pulled off his jacket. ‘It’s just the steering linkage.’
‘But she’s in pieces.’ Eleanor groaned, staring in dismay at the array of parts laid out on a smart picnic blanket beneath the engine bay.
She’ll be fine, Florence’s come through worse. Why the theatricals, Sherlock? That’s not like you.’
Eleanor whipped round on her heel, fuelled with agitation. ‘But I need…’ However, she lost track of her words at the sight of Lancelot’s white shirt streaked with oil, which had soaked through in parts, leaving it almost transparent. His sleeves were rolled up tight, and his sun-kissed arms were exposed.
‘You need…?’ he said softly, stepping in close.
‘I need… to keep my mind on the job,’ she heard herself say, even though she was yearning for the exact opposite.
‘Bally shame that, Sherlock,’ Lancelot whispered as he tucked a few of her stray curls behind her ear. He gazed into her eyes. ‘Romantic spot and all that.’
‘Romantic?’ She caught her breath. ‘Lancelot, this is a dilapidated old barn.’
‘True, but I haven’t had you to myself anywhere so private. I’ve been thinking about you ever since you accosted me in old man Cartwright’s field.’
‘He prefers Thomas… Really, you’ve been thinking about me?’ Eleanor said dreamily.
‘Sherlock.’ He took her arms gently. ‘What does a man have to do to let a girl like you know how he feels? You’re an impossible creature! Chocolate boxes and flowers aren’t going to cut it with you, are they?’
‘Aren’t they?’ Eleanor was quite partial to chocolates. Flowers she could take or leave, although it did rather depend on who gave them to you, but that was beside the…
‘I’ve never met a girl like you before. You’re… well, you’re… peculiar.’ He laughed. ‘Irresistibly so. Every time I meet you, you’re splattered in mud, or your hair’s stuck to your face… Or you’re chasing murderers.’
She looked down at his arms holding hers. ‘It’s funny. I came here to leave all that craziness behind and… and it sounds awfully gushy but, I came to find myself. My life. My roots. I’ve been wandering ro
und the world trying to make sense of what this odd life is all about.’ She looked into Lancelot’s eyes. ‘I used to think it was love, but that hasn’t gone so well, if I’m honest.’
Lancelot grinned. ‘Know all about that, old thing. And I guessed when you told us about your short-lived marriage at luncheon the other day that there was more to it than that.’
She nodded. ‘I was young and foolish, what can I say?’ She looked into his steel-grey eyes. ‘Maybe I still am. Foolish, that is.’
In the distance she heard a church clock strike the hour. Dash it! Time was running out. She wrenched herself back to the present. ‘Look, Lancelot, I know who the killer is. Well, okay, not yet, but I will by tonight!’
Lancelot stepped back. ‘Right, ho! I say, top-notch sleuthing! What’s the next move?’
‘We need to stop him. He’s already killed twice, maybe more, and tried to kidnap me, to boot.’
Lancelot put his hands on her cheeks. His eyes smouldering with anger. ‘Did he, by Jove! Then I think it’s time he had what’s coming to him.’
Eleanor ignored the emotion in his voice and the way it made her feel inside, and glanced at the plane. ‘I shouldn’t have relied on Florence being available.’
Lancelot’s eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t worry, Sherlock, what’s one more trip with haphazard steering?’
‘Lancelot no, that sounds horribly dangerous!’
‘Perhaps, but what’s your alternative? You don’t happen to have a spare plane about your person, do you?’ He pretended to search her, patting his hands gently down her sides to her hips.
Eleanor felt light-headed. It was all she could do to keep her focus. ‘If you’re sure, but promise me two things?’
He stopped and cocked his head.
‘Don’t fly if it’s really dangerous… and… oh dash it, Goggles, can we finish that other conversation when this is over?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Honestly, Sherlock, I can’t wait.’
Thirty-Eight
The scenery en route to Chipstone passed in a rural blur, as Eleanor’s mind was so fixated on Lancelot.
A Very English Murder Page 23
