A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  Reaching the town’s outskirts, she paused at the first grocery store. After looking up at its smart green-and-white-striped awning with a sceptical expression, she pedalled further down the high street. The next food store she reached was more of a general supplies outlet. On the pavement, sacks of potatoes mingled with bottles of paraffin. Brooms and carpet brushes hung next to long strips of lard and a selection of pigs’ trotters. This was more like it. Eleanor rested her bike against the rough brickwork and stepped inside.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she greeted the couple behind the counter. The wife nudged her husband in the ribs. He stared at Eleanor but seemed unable to speak.

  ‘Oh, you great lummock!’ the woman tutted. To Eleanor she gave a warm smile and tugged at the wilder strands of her grey hair. ‘Good afternoon, madam, how can we be of service today?’

  Eleanor spotted the fruit scones on the counter. ‘A dozen of these. They look delicious.’

  ‘Ten, eleven, twelve… and one for Saint John.’ The woman deftly swung the corners of the bag over themselves, securing the ends.

  ‘Saint John?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘The last one’s free for friendship.’ The woman smiled. ‘Saint John, Patron Saint of friendship, you see. May you never eat alone, my dear.’

  ‘Gracious, thank you very much.’

  ‘Twelve buns, that’ll be half a shilling, madam.’

  Eleanor peeped into the bag. ‘Did you bake them yourself?’

  ‘No.’ The woman laughed and pointed at her husband. ‘He’s good for a few things. Baking is one of them, thankfully.’

  Eleanor giggled. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me with something else. I need to find someone. Maybe you might know them?’

  ‘We’ve been stood behind this counter for twenty-seven years, hasn’t we, Frank? There’s not many folk we don’t know. Who is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘A young boy, well he’s probably about ten or so.’ Eleanor stumbled on her words, realising how vague she sounded. ‘He’s called Alfie, I believe.’

  ‘Alfie Sullivan?’ The woman looked to her husband with concern.

  ‘Ida’s lad? He’s a good kid, usually.’

  ‘Oh lummy. He’s never been in trouble before. Must have got in with the wrong crowd. It’ll break Ida’s heart.’

  Eleanor wondered what on earth she’d said to give them the impression the boy was in trouble. Then it dawned, why else would a ‘lady’ be asking the whereabouts of a simple, working-class boy? What business would she have if it wasn’t to accuse him of a snatched purse or pickpocketed jewellery?

  She beamed. ‘Young Alfie is a most delightful child. He’s not in any trouble.’

  The woman sighed. ‘Well, there’s a relief, isn’t it, Frank? Our Alfie’s been a diamond to his mum, she’s always saying so. Especially since his dad passed away.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t have doubted the little fellow.’ He looked up at the shop clock. ‘Now then, given the time, I would say he’ll be in one of two places. Either at Barnes’ paint factory, or up at the blacksmiths stoking the fire and stacking up the old horseshoes for melting down.’

  His wife interrupted, ‘Or I’d bet he’ll be setting up tin cans to wallop over with pebbles.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘Me and Frank used to do that when we was kids his age. Row of empty tobacco tins snaffled from behind the pub, all lined up for pelting. Remember, love?’

  They gazed fondly at each other.

  Eleanor cleared her throat. ‘Barnes’ and the blacksmiths are both at the other end of town?’ They nodded in unison. ‘And if he’s playing tin-can tumble?’

  Frank smiled. ‘Over at the kids’ den, I suspect. They’ve got themselves a right little camp in the woods. Past Barnes’ chimney and just up the slope a way. You’ll see a fort made of sticks, proper moat they’ve started digging and all.’ He chuckled at the thought.

  ‘Thank you for all your help, and for the buns. And for Saint John’s blessing.’ Eleanor hurried out to her bicycle.

  Jumping into the saddle she couldn’t help but feel her plan hadn’t allowed for the delightful but slow pace of rural life. She was seriously behind schedule. Barnes’, the blacksmiths or the woods? She plumped for the woods.

  She rounded the far end of the high street, negotiated the cobbles past the brewery and kept on going up the slope. And then she carried on some more. And some more again.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ she groaned, pulling her bicycle wheel out of yet more fallen branches.

  ‘Need a hand, lady?’ called a boy’s voice.

  ‘Alfie!’ She spun round with a relieved smile. ‘Oh, you’re not…?’ She looked at the small freckled, red-headed boy who was facing her.

  ‘He’s not here, miss. But whatever it is, he didn’t do it.’

  ‘What a good friend you are, standing up for him. But there’s been no trouble. I have a… job for him.’

  ‘Job! Five minutes, miss.’ He started off down the slope then pointed off to the right. ‘Meet you at the fort.’

  With the incredible speed of youth, he was gone. Eleanor peered up to where he’d pointed. A tattered red flag fluttered in the light breeze between the trees.

  Leaning her bicycle against an old beech tree, she unhitched the basket, noting that its contents had miraculously survived intact.

  Wobbly handwriting greeted her as she walked up to the fort: ‘Fort Chippers. Nock furst!’ This was scrawled on a rag and tied to a home-made gate of whittled saplings.

  Beyond the sign, a bunch of enthusiastically built hazel shelters followed the vaguely circular defences along the perimeter of the camp. In the centre, there was a circle of logs with a taller one at each of the four corners.

  ‘Aha, this must be the council chamber,’ she mused, perching on one of the lower logs. To the right were a stack of cans, a heap of pebbles and some home-made bows and arrows. She put the basket on the ground and waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that! Ladies don’t go tramping about in the woods. Fancy sending her up to the fort, you turnip!’

  ‘Well, she was almost there. She’d have found it anyhow.’

  A few scrambling noises followed and two curious faces peeped between the last trunks hiding the entrance to their camp. Eleanor was relieved to see she recognised one of them.

  ‘Hello, Alfie!’ Eleanor waved. ‘I knocked, but there was no one to report to.’

  Alfie slapped his friend on the arm and swung the gate open, whispering, ‘I told you it had to be her.’ He pulled his cap off and nodded to Eleanor. ‘Afternoon, miss. Are you lost again?’

  ‘No, Alfie, I’m hoping you can help me.’

  ‘Course we will. If it ain’t rude to ask though, the sarge did say as you had a job.’ Alfie chewed his bottom lip.

  Eleanor was confused. ‘The sarge? I don’t think I’ve met…’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ Alfie pointed to the other boy: ‘That’s Billy. I’m the cap’n, he’s the sergeant.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Billy, er, Sarge, for fetching the captain, much appreciated.’

  Billy nodded, rooted to the spot like a star-struck rabbit. ‘No trouble, I knew he was at Barnes’.’

  Eleanor stood up. ‘I do indeed have a job for you. And I wish to pay you for your help.’

  ‘A penny!’ The boys chorused to each other.

  ‘And something to keep you going while you’re helping me.’ She pulled off the chequered linen cloth that covered the basket and tilted it forward so they could see inside.

  Their eyes widened. ‘Are those meat pies, miss?’

  ‘For your families, and fruit scones as an extra thank you.’ She’d guessed that some of the young lads’ families would rarely be able to afford such luxuries.

  ‘Whatever it is, we’re your men!’ Alfie cried. They stood to attention and saluted.

  Eleanor saluted back. ‘Thank you, Captain and Sergeant. Our alliance is now officially formed.
I trust you have more troops though, and reliable ones? Around a dozen ought to do it.’

  Alfie seemed to do some complicated arithmetic in his head. ‘Not a problem, miss.’

  Eleanor took twelve pennies from her purse and dropped them into Alfie’s hand. Then she dropped another in muttering to herself, ‘And one for friendship.’

  Handing the basket to Billy, she leaned in. ‘Now, Alfie, you’ve just come from Barnes’ so this should be right up your street. First of all, though, the most important thing to remember is this: If anyone catches you or your companions, you are to tell them that Lady Swift forced you to do it. I threatened to go to the police with a story that you stole my valise, okay?’

  They both nodded vigorously.

  ‘Right, I wouldn’t normally encourage such behaviour, but these are exceptional circumstances. Now, gentlemen, here’s what I need you to do…’

  Mrs Butters trotted down the steps of the Hall to meet Eleanor as she dragged her bicycle up the last section of the drive.

  ‘I’d say you’ve had a busy day and no mistake, my lady.’ The housekeeper smiled and took the handlebars.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Butters, I’m getting too old for scrambling up hills and playing soldiers. And for having my heart wrung out, again.’ She sighed.

  Mrs Butters patted Eleanor’s arm. ‘You need a cup of tea and a plate of Mrs Trotman’s pastries. They’re just cooling now.’

  ‘Apricot?’

  ‘Oh, she’s been busy. There’s a tray full. Rhubarb and ginger, lemon curd and cherry chocolate.’

  ‘Sounds heavenly.’

  ‘Will you take tea here by the range, my dear?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, if I’m not in your way. My, those look amazing.’ Eleanor peered at the cooling pastries and then sunk into the chair and dropped her hat and gloves on the table.

  Clifford’s voice made her jump. ‘Your coat, my lady?’

  ‘Clifford! How many times. Please take up trombone lessons so that you can herald your arrival. I swear your ability to appear from nowhere will be the death of me one day.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, my lady. But perhaps a herald’s trumpet or a sackbut might be more appropriate?’ He smiled and caught her coat as she stood up and let it slide off her shoulders.

  ‘Mr Clifford, I’ve set you a tea place to join her ladyship here at the table. Mrs Trotman will be back on the hour and Polly and I have the linen to attend to. Will that suit?’

  ‘Perfectly, you’ve done more than enough. Thank you, Mrs Butters.’

  After hanging Eleanor’s coat, Clifford poured them each a refreshing cup from the fine china pot.

  ‘I need to make those calls,’ Eleanor said through the steam of her tea. ‘Is everything in place your end?’

  ‘Indeed it is, my lady. The recruits you arranged were hard at work when I arrived. I merely had to curb their natural over exuberance and focus them on the task in hand.’

  Clifford passed her the platter of pastries to choose from.

  ‘Excellent. I’ve been granted honorary membership into Chippers Fort as well, you know.’ She imitated Alfie’s accent, ‘The cap’n and the sarge gave the say so.’

  Putting her cup down, she picked a particularly chocolatey pastry.

  Clifford looked at her quizzically.

  ‘And yes, I did catch Lancelot.’

  ‘I can see.’ Clifford went to the sink and dampened a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. He held this out to her as he sat back down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your cheek, my lady.’

  She rubbed her cheek and then groaned as she looked down at the cloth streaked with oil. ‘Oh, dash it, Clifford! I’ve been pedalling round the county, asking for directions… oh no, the couple in the shop. They must have thought I was on a most peculiar errand going about covered in oil, asking for young boys.’

  ‘Perhaps, although they would have been correct.’

  Eleanor stared at the cloth. ‘You know, Clifford… I… I might be falling for Lancelot.’

  Clifford took the oily cloth. ‘Perhaps that could be our next plan.’

  ‘What, to snare Lancelot? Clifford, you’re too funny, that’s something one’s best girlfriend would come up with in sixth form!’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. But if we are to succeed in our present endeavour…’

  ‘Of course, enough of all that. I’d better telephone.’

  Revived by the magic of sweet treats and tea, Eleanor was primed and ready. Clifford informed the staff that her ladyship was not to be disturbed and joined her in the snug, closing the door behind him.

  Eleanor stared at the receiver, suddenly feeling less confident. ‘Clifford, do you think it will work? I mean…’

  Clifford turned towards her. ‘It’s a risk. There are a lot of variables that we cannot allow for. Will the killer believe that the man he sent to kidnap you, having failed, did not dare return to tell him for fear of his wrath? Did he see you talking to young Lord Fenwick-Langham today?’

  ‘Or young Alfie?’

  ‘Well.’ Eleanor picked up the receiver. ‘I suppose we’ll never know unless I ring. Here goes, fingers crossed!’

  Fifteen minutes later, she put down the receiver for the third time.

  Clifford gave a hearty round of applause. ‘Bravo, my lady! A fine performance.’

  ‘Thank you, Clifford. Let’s hope it was convincing enough.’

  ‘It only needed to be convincing enough for the three men you rang to believe that we are about to uncover irrefutable evidence that will identify the killer.’

  ‘I’m not so sure Cartwright believed my tale, though. I know he gets my goat, but I don’t underestimate him. Or Wilby. No one can really be that incompetent, surely it must be an act. And Mayor Kingsley seemed to waver towards the end.’

  ‘Possibly true, my lady, but given the conundrum we have presented them with, what choice do any of them have if they are the killer?’

  ‘Absolutely. Whatever happens we’ll be prepared.’

  ‘If I may be so bold as to suggest your efforts deserve a brandy?’

  ‘Or maybe two, Clifford?’

  As he poured the drinks in the sitting room, she tried to quiet the nagging doubt in her mind. Had she really been convincing enough? Had they covered all eventualities?

  For her and Clifford’s sake, and for the two men already murdered, she hoped so. As she took the proffered glass, she took a deep breath.

  There was no turning back now.

  Thirty-Nine

  The darkness would have been less disconcerting if it had been as inky black as it always was in the romantic novels she devoured. In them, the hero would inevitably be searching valiantly in the impenetrable blackness to find and rescue his lover. Yet here she was, in real life, trying to trap a murderer, surrounded by grey shadows that continually shifted and reached out to grab her. She shuddered and pulled her jacket closer round her shoulders. Get a grip, Ellie!

  The purr of a car broke the silence. She peered out as much as she dared. She could just see the outline of a vehicle. It didn’t look or sound like Cartwright’s tractor, but then again he’d hardly turn up on something so conspicuous, just as Kingsley would hardly turn up in the mayoral Rolls or Wilby in a police car.

  She stiffened as the headlights flashed across her hiding place. Tyres crunched to a stop. The engine died.

  Eleanor blinked hard trying to make out something, anything, in the gloom. The blood pounded in her ears. The sound of the driver’s door clicking open made her stiffen again. Soft footsteps walking… away from her.

  She slowly let out the breath burning in her lungs. Then she heard it… scratching and scraping, followed by the metallic clink of a spade.

  ‘Ah!’ whispered a familiar voice.

  Whatever happened now, they had their killer.

  She stepped forward, her legs trembling. She was no coward, but she wasn’t a fool either. Neither Clifford nor her were arrogant enough to underestimate their foe. Or to pret
end that their plan couldn’t go wrong, fatally wrong.

  ‘Looking for something?’ She silently cursed the waver in her voice.

  The man jerked upright. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ In a flash he regained his composure. ‘You’re supposed to be at the brewery, my dear, I was on my way to meet you.’

  ‘Really?’ She cocked her head and nodded at the damp sand stuck to the knees of his trousers. ‘And yet here you are scratching about in the dirt like a grubby urchin, just as I knew you would be.’

  It was a small lie. She’d told each of the three men she telephoned that she and Clifford had learned that there was an item hidden in the workman’s hut at the quarry that would prove that Atkins and Cornell were murdered by the same man. And, more importantly, who that man was. She had asked all three men to meet her at the old brewery in town. Whether they came or not, didn’t matter. What she and Clifford were counting on was only the murderer would know that the evidence was real. And even if they half suspected it was a bluff, they would have no choice but to go straight to the quarry and remove the evidence before she and Clifford unearthed it.

  She just hadn’t known who, if anyone, it would be. But now she did.

  Mayor Kingsley frowned. ‘Has no one ever told you that deception is most unbecoming for a lady?’

  ‘Often. Anyway, did you find what you were looking for?’

  A malicious grin split Kingsley’s face. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ He placed the metal box on the table.

  She nodded at it. ‘You’ve Gladstone to thank for finding that, you’d obviously forgotten where you’d put it. It’s still locked,’ she added innocently.

  He took a small key from his waistcoat. She watched with apparent disinterest as he took out the two small, red notebooks, followed by the bundles of money. He placed them in his pockets and reached into the box again.

  She recognised the last item, a Browning pistol, which was now aimed at her.

  She sighed. ‘How predictable and…’ From her pocket, she removed a handful of bullets and threw them out the door in to the dark. ‘… useless without these.’