The Castle Mystery

by Faith Martin

  And so it begins, Jenny thought sadly, and took the opportunity to excuse herself. She had a menu to prepare. And a trip to the village was definitely in order.

  First, however, she went to the kitchen and removed the coffee and walnut cake from the larder. She’d cooked it first thing, and it was just nicely cooled. She quickly transferred it to a silver platter, put the domed lid on top to keep any flies out, and left it on the sideboard.

  A moment later, Meecham returned carrying a pile of silver, which he dumped onto the sideboard with a small sigh.

  ‘Work’s by far the best thing, Mr Meecham,’ Jenny said gently. ‘Keeps your mind off things.’

  The butler nodded and went to get his cleaning things. After the incident with the dagger, he didn’t think he could clean anything unless it was out here in the open, with everybody watching him.

  Janice came in for the tea things Jenny had automatically prepared, knowing her ladyship would have ordered it for her — albeit unwanted — guests. Meecham saw Janice lift the tea tray from the sideboard, and quickly took control of it. ‘You know I always serve when there are guests, Janice,’ he chided.

  ‘There’s cake on the platter,’ Jenny said, already on her way out.

  Meecham retrieved the domed dish, frowning at the weight, and returned to the breakfast room.

  Over on the sofa, Lady Vee was fending off the vicar’s wife whilst agreeing how terrible it all was. Avonsleigh, obliged to give up his favourite chair, was now sitting by the table. Meecham put the tea things onto the small coffee table in front of Lady Vee and retired to the main table to cut the cake.

  He carefully put out the gold and navy Worcester plates and eighteenth-century silver cake forks and lifted the dome. And there, blinking up at him, was Henry. The tortoise opened its mouth as if about to ask the butler what he thought he was playing at, and without blinking an eye, Meecham quickly and neatly covered the reptile again with the domed lid and cast a hasty glance around. Her ladyship was still entertaining the vicar’s wife, and the vicar himself was still in his lordship’s usurped seat, roasting his toes in the hearth. Meecham glanced to his right, where Lord Avonsleigh was barely inches away, eyes twinkling. ‘The cook seems to have left the cherry off the top of the cake, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘I think perhaps I should retrieve it.’

  Avonsleigh nodded solemnly. ‘I think you better had, Meecham,’ he agreed, and wandered over to the fire to chat to the vicar about Sri Lanka’s chances in the next test match.

  Meecham sprinted back to the kitchen, resisting the urge to drop kick the tortoise out of the back door. On the sideboard was another domed platter, and this he lifted, spying a splendidly iced and nut-decorated cake underneath. He then sprinted back to the breakfast room, caught his breath, entered and proceeded to serve the cake with aplomb.

  * * *

  The village of Upper Caulcott was typical of North Oxfordshire, except that it had managed to keep a small post office-cum-general shop with a small butcher’s counter. There Jenny made the proprietor’s day by ordering prime venison and two brace of pheasant, and if he could source eight medium-sized freshly caught trout she’d have those too, to be delivered to the castle as and when possible.

  Mr Jenkins promised a timely delivery, and watched the new cook go towards the post office counter, wishing he’d had the gall to ask her about the murder. The wife would kill him when she heard about the visit but that he had no titbits of gossip to tell her. The whole village was positively buzzing. The trouble was, the new cook up at the castle was both beautiful and large, a combination which had always kept him tongue-tied.

  The lady behind the counter quickly sold her some stamps, and was able to give her directions to the house of Elsie’s mother.

  Jenny was not surprised to see that Miss Bingham lived in the poorest looking cottage in the village, a two-up two-down affair of badly rotted casements and paint-flaked doors. She knocked briskly at the front door and waited. A sound from around the back had her opening a rusty side gate and taking the garden path past rows of neatly cultivated vegetables.

  An old woman stood at the end of the garden, tying up runner beans. She had Elsie’s scowl and stooped, overworked stance. Jenny wondered how much the old lady relied on her daughter’s wages, and had a fair idea that she didn’t grow so many vegetables simply as a hobby. Jenny vowed to send Elsie home with something nourishing in a pot every day from now on.

  She saw the old lady notice her and stiffen. ‘What do you want then?’ she challenged gruffly.

  Jenny smiled and approached her, careful not to bruise any of the cabbages growing right up against a narrow grass path. ‘I’m the new cook up at the castle,’ she began, and saw the old woman pale in fright. ‘I just wanted to stop by and say hello, and tell you what a wonderful helper your daughter is, and what a good job she’s doing,’ she added hastily.

  Miss Bingham relaxed. ‘Ah, Elsie’s a good worker. Always was. Want a cup of tea?’

  Jenny accepted, knowing it would have been a gross insult to refuse. She followed the old woman into the dark, sparsely furnished cottage. The tiny kitchen held two hard-backed chairs and Jenny took one, watching the old woman as she set about making the tea. ‘Take milk?’ the old lady asked abruptly.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I suppose their nibs are glad to have another cook at last,’ Miss Bingham finally said, taking the other chair, which wobbled alarmingly. Looking down, Jenny could see where two of its legs had been crudely mended.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she responded mildly. ‘I must say though, it’s been rather awkward, starting a new job only to have something so awful happen.’

  The old woman’s hands closed around her mug in a compulsive movement that made Jenny’s eyes widen.

  ‘I daresay,’ she muttered, something so neutral in her voice that it had almost the opposite effect of making it sound furtive.

  ‘The police, of course, are being such a nuisance, questioning everyone,’ Jenny carried on carefully. She had an idea that once Miss Bingham clammed up, there’d be no prising the old lady’s lips apart again. So she mustn’t scare her. ‘They do keep on and on about things.’ She sighed heavily.

  ‘Well, we ain’t got nothing to worry about — Elsie and me, we’re all right,’ the old woman said firmly. And couldn’t have made it more obvious that she was almost sick with fright.

  ‘I know a little bit about the way the police work,’ Jenny said, then seeing the old woman’s eyes sharpen in alarm, added quickly, ‘We had a robbery once at a restaurant where I worked. They just poke and pry and dig into everyone’s backgrounds and learn things that don’t have a thing to do with the crime in question,’ she continued craftily. ‘I was so embarrassed I had to leave. Still, to be fair, I don’t suppose they can know what’s important and what isn’t, so they have to check out every little thing. Trouble is, all us innocent ones suffer too, just so they can get to the guilty.’

  Miss Bingham paled even further, but said nothing. Jenny took a sip of tea, desperately trying to think of a way to move things forward.

  ‘I daresay that’s so,’ Miss Bingham said heavily at last, and then glanced up at the cook, her eyes small and dark, reminding Jenny of a chicken. A chicken with a sharp beak — a chicken that would do anything, and tackle anyone, who threatened her chick. ‘You say you like my Elsie?’

  ‘Yes I do, I admire her very much,’ Jenny said honestly. ‘She’s a hard worker, which is rare these days, and I think she’s probably had a hard life. She confided in me about, well, how things haven’t been easy for you either.’

  ‘She did, did she?’ the old woman said, obviously surprised. ‘Well, I suppose it was bound to come out. There’s folks in this village old enough to remember . . .’

  ‘Remember what?’ she asked gently, holding her breath as the old woman seemed to hesitate.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, to remember who it was who got me into trouble all them years ago. He were a local lad, should have married me, bu
t he didn’t. He weren’t already married or nothing like that, and his dad was a farm worker, just like mine. But he had big ideas, did Basil. Even then. And I suppose you have to give the devil his due, he made all his big ideas come true.’

  The old woman sighed. ‘But it was terrible hard. Me dad threw me out when he heard I was in the family way, and I had to have our Elsie in one of them women’s shelters. Then his lordship, the old lord this would be, he let me have this cottage for a peppercorn rent. I used to work at Miltons, the factory in Bicester. Worked there for years I did, till it closed down. Just made enough to keep us both going. Then Elsie left school and they took her on as a kitchen maid up at the castle, and she’s been there ever since. But all this time, Basil was living it up in leaps and bounds. Did really well for himself without a wife and kiddie tying him down,’ she added bitterly. ‘But the thing is . . .’ The old woman suddenly reached across and grabbed Jenny’s hand in a fierce grip, her eyes wide with fear and begging for understanding.

  ‘Elsie took it all so very hard. She found out when she was working up at the castle who her dad was. I never talked about him, see. She was about twenty when she found out. I talked her out of going to see him — I knew he was a selfish sod, and wouldn’t want to know about a grown-up daughter — especially one who was nothing more than a skivvy. I told her it would do no good. Basil was always a hard man, even when he was a young ’un. Oh he was a charmer all right — I wasn’t the only girl he managed to sweet-talk into giving him what he wanted. But as he got older, I reckon he got meaner. You could ask Mr Meecham and his daughter about that,’ she added, making Jenny blink in surprise.

  Then the old woman shook her head. ‘But there, that’s not for me to talk about. I got troubles of my own,’ she said, dampening Jenny’s hopes of getting yet more information from her. ‘If them coppers find out who Elsie’s dad is, well, they might get the wrong end of the stick, mightn’t they? Then what’ll we do?’ she wailed, suddenly looking very old and frightened indeed. Instinctively, Jenny tightened her grip on the old woman’s hand comfortingly.

  But she needed to get things clarified. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt Miss Bingham when she was speaking, but now she had no choice.

  ‘But why should they get the wrong end of the stick, Miss Bingham?’ she asked gently. ‘What has Basil to do with the murder up at the castle?’

  Miss Bingham stared at her as if she was stupid. ‘Because Basil was her dad too.’

  And then, suddenly, Jenny understood. She felt a cold, nasty feeling in her stomach and swallowed hard. ‘You mean, Basil is . . . ?’

  ‘Basil Simmons,’ Miss Bingham said heavily and nodded. ‘Him that owns that fancy art gallery.’

  And Jenny could now see the old woman’s predicament. Ava Simmons’s father was also Elsie’s father. They were sisters — well, half-sisters to be precise.

  And Elsie would have known it. But had said nothing. Because Jenny was sure, looking back on her brief time spent with Ava when she was alive, that the governess had had no inkling that Elsie was of her own flesh and blood.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jenny began to puff as she climbed the hill. Above her, the castle towered and glowered, blocking out the light and casting her in its shadow.

  Miss Bingham’s words were still ringing in her ears. According to the old lady, the fact that ‘that girl who got herself killed’ was Elsie’s sister didn’t mean ‘my Elsie had gone and done it.’

  No, it didn’t, she mused. But it certainly gave her a motive, Jenny thought, pausing by the side of the road to catch her breath. Here, she took the opportunity to look around her. Spread out below her was Upper Caulcott. Beyond the village a winding river cut through meadows of wild flowers, planted barley, and grazing black and white cattle. Willows lined the river, and birds flitted and dashed, busy raising chicks. It all looked so beautifully pastoral, and the castle itself, so very British.

  And yet something, somewhere, was utterly rotten. Jenny sighed wearily and continued her climb, for the first time feeling reluctant to go back to the castle. The perfect job of less than three days ago was already becoming a burden on her shoulders.

  But it could all come right again — or so she hoped — with her usual optimism. Once this murder was solved, the castle would soon recover its warm, friendly atmosphere. Life would gentle itself down. The years would pass, and she could settle like sediment in the first truly permanent job of her career. It was probably time for her to settle down. But first things first. She sighed, and forced her mind back to the matters in hand.

  So Elsie had always known that Ava Simmons was her half-sister. But Basil Simmons had married Ava’s mother, whereas he’d rejected her own. Ava had had a fine education, and had become tutor to a lord’s granddaughter. She looked, spoke and acted like a lady of some standing. Ava got to call the kitchen maid Elsie.

  Elsie, on the other hand, had been labelled a bastard all her life. She would have been taunted by the children at the local school, and ostracized by their parents. When she left school she’d gone straight into her menial work at the castle. Elsie was old before her time. She had had to work like a horse, forced to call her own sister Miss Simmons. And a thing like that could eat at the soul. The injustices of life had been known to drive people to the brink of madness. How Elsie must have resented the new governess! Seeing every day in Ava Simmons what she herself had missed in life. What she herself could have been, had Basil Simmons married her own mother. People would have called her Miss Simmons. Instead she had to scrub the kitchen floor. Wait on everyone. Fill the slot of the lowliest maid in the castle. How could she stand it? And had she finally, in a burst of resentment and hatred, killed her own sister?

  Jenny hoped not. Jenny very fervently hoped not. But one thing was for sure: Inspector Bishop would just have to find out about Elsie’s parentage for himself. Until she had some genuine proof of guilt, she was not about to go and add to her kitchen maid’s misery.

  * * *

  When Jenny returned to the kitchen, Malcolm Powell-Brooks was washing out some little glass jars in the sink. Janice, Meecham and Gayle were all sitting down to their tea break and finishing off the walnut and coffee cake. No doubt the vicar and his lady wife had left, their curiosity finally satisfied.

  ‘I hope those are not oils, or anything poisonous, Mr Powell-Brooks,’ Jenny said sharply, watching bright azure-stained water slide down the drain. ‘I do have to prepare food here, remember.’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Malcolm assured her, rinsing out a mint-green stained jar and standing it on the sideboard. ‘It’s watercolour. See how easily it washes out? A good spurt from the tap’ — he demonstrated on a jar of sickly yellow — ‘and it’s gone.’ He presented the clean glass jar for her inspection.

  Jenny nodded dubiously. She didn’t approve of strange goings-on at her sink. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Janice, who glanced at the art tutor’s back and grinned.

  Leaning closer to the cook, she lowered her voice. ‘Don’t you believe it, Miss Starling. He washes out oils too. I saw him only last week cleaning out a jar so thoroughly he used an old knife to delve down around the bottom of the inside rim. He even used some bleach, and was cleaning it for a good ten minutes. No way that could have been watercolour.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘Well, whatever the old cook let him get away with, he won’t get away with it now,’ she said firmly, and resolved to keep a careful eye on the art tutor in future.

  Elsie chose that moment to come up from one of the cellars. She was carrying a huge sack of potatoes. ‘You said you was doing shepherd’s pie,’ she said, dumping them over by the sink, unceremoniously shoving the art tutor to one side. Her bulk and surliness meant Malcolm didn’t even sigh in protest. ‘Their nibs likes their pie with lots of spuds,’ Elsie added, grabbing a cup and sitting down heavily.

  Jenny, with her new knowledge, looked at her sharply, and what she saw gave her cause to think. Elsie’s eyes were re
d-rimmed and slightly swollen, so she’d obviously been crying. Crying for her dead sister perhaps? It had probably only just now hit her — she had lost a sister, and it wouldn’t matter that her sister had not even known that she, Elsie, was her own flesh and blood. Losing a relative, no matter what the circumstances, was bound to tell on you sooner or later.

  Jenny was glad to see the tears. But they proved nothing. ‘Well, I’d better take these back to the minx,’ Malcolm said, picking up the clean little jars and putting them in one of his painting smock’s many pockets. ‘Janice, did you get me that red paint I asked you for on—’ he broke off as he realized that it had been the day of the murder. ‘Oh, forget it. I’ll get some more myself. I have to go into Bicester later on.’

  Janice watched him go, biting her lip and fingering her ridiculous brooch. Then she too jumped up, muttering something about dusting, and gave the brooch a final tweak. Jenny wished she would stop it. It was getting on her nerves.

  When the door had closed behind her, Elsie too made a move. ‘I’d better go see old Seth. You want some tomatoes out of the hothouse?’ she asked.

  Jenny did. Tomatoes did wonders to pep up minced beef. The cook watched her go then turned to look at Meecham. ‘I went to see Miss Bingham this morning,’ she said quietly. ‘I think she’s worried about Elsie.’

  Meecham cut himself another slice of the delicious cake and wondered where Henry was. He worried when he couldn’t keep an eye on that reptile. One more incident like this morning’s and his heart wouldn’t stand it. Thank goodness only his lordship had noticed his blunder.

  ‘Oh?’ he murmured, vaguely aware that the cook was waiting for a response. ‘I don’t think she need worry.’ Suddenly he stopped slicing and looked across at the cook. He paled slightly. ‘You mean, does she think there might be another murder? That one of us might be killed?’

  Jenny quickly shook her head. ‘Oh no. Not that. No, I don’t think there’s a madman on the loose in the castle or anything. I think she was more worried that the police might get it into their heads to arrest Elsie.’