Murder on Bonfire Night

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘Yes, it’s a hamper of food, isn’t it?’

  ‘A huge one, m’lady, filled with such delicacies as you never did see. Some of it comes from Fortnum & Mason.’ Edna giggled. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t say no to winning one of those hampers myself.’

  The day being bright and particularly mild for the time of year, the walk to the village of Sedgwick was a pleasant one. When Lady Belvedere and her maid came to the village itself, they found there were ample signs that Bonfire Night was soon to be upon them. Boxes of fireworks adorned shop windows and various groups of children, some of them with their faces blackened to represent Guy Fawkes and his failed gunpowder plot, congregated on street corners around an ill assortment of effigies showing varying degrees of skill and refinement. Some had been very crudely constructed from nothing much more than old rags, and only vaguely resembled the shape of a man if an observer were to use a very vivid imagination. Others were dressed splendidly and took on lifelike forms. The guys had been stuffed with whatever filling had come readily to hand, mostly straw or old newspaper. Some were half sitting, half lying, on the ground, while others had been propped up against a wall. One enterprising group of boys had even acquired an old wickerwork pram in which to prop their guy and proceeded to tear up and down the streets, dodging pedestrians, wheeling their effigy and singing at the tops of their voices: ‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot; I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.’ They were being hotly pursued by one or two gallant shopkeepers who were attempting to shoo them away and make the pavements safe, lest shoppers be deterred from crossing the thresholds of their shops for fear of injury.

  Edna made to cross the road to avoid a particularly large group of street urchins assembled on one street corner. The lads themselves had mucky faces and ragged trousers to rival any effigy. They were crowded around a rough, unsophisticated guy that had the air of having been hastily put together. Rose, however, called her lady’s maid back and made a point of stopping to admire every effigy she encountered and to bestow on each a monetary gift. Bending down to inspect the guys, Rose noticed that each, without exception, had pinned to its chest a piece of paper on which was written in crudely scribbled words: ‘A penny for the guy’. Some of the boys even chanted the words at each passerby, and thrust out a cap or tin in their eagerness to secure some loose change.

  ‘You’re too soft by half, miss, if you don’t mind my saying,’ admonished Edna. ‘Some of them guys are no more than old tatters. They don’t deserve any money, they don’t. Those young scallywags won’t spend it on dressing no guy.’ She sniffed and appeared to relent a little. ‘They’d do better spending it on something to eat; did you see how some of them were little more than skin and bones? Poor little mites.’

  ‘Yes. Times are hard for many. It’s easy to forget,’ said Rose with a sense of guilt. It occurred to her that her recent elevation in society had brought with it a sense of having been removed from the plight of ordinary people struggling to make a living and feed their families. ‘I will speak to Lord Belvedere and see what we can do.’

  ‘It’s common knowledge that the family does a great deal,’ replied her maid. ‘Rents have been lowered and in some cases done away with altogether, least that’s what Mrs Farrier says.’

  ‘What a great authority our housekeeper is,’ muttered Rose, though her thoughts had been considerably lifted by the news. Really, she would have expected nothing less of Cedric. Her thoughts returned to the gunpowder plot and the resulting festivities. ‘You do see, don’t you Edna, that as regards the guys, I must be seen to be impartial. I can’t give money to some groups of boys and not to others. That would never do. Remember, I shall be judging the effigies on Bonfire Night.’

  ‘Rather you than me, miss,’ said the young lady’s maid, who was herself only a few years older than some of the boys. ‘They give me the creeps, they do, those guys, least them as is lifelike.’ She gave a shudder. ‘It gives me ever such a fright to see them in the dark on Bonfire Night. It doesn’t seem right, does it? To throw them on to the fire, like. It’s almost like throwing a body on to the flames, and everyone cheering and laughing.’

  ‘Well, I suppose how it all came about is rather awful,’ said Rose. ‘Guy Fawkes and his foiled gunpowder plot, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll say, m’lady!’ said Edna with relish. ‘Fancy them trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Yes. In 1605, if I remember my history lessons correctly. It was a rather theatrical attempt to assassinate the Protestant king, James I, because he had gone back on his promise to show religious tolerance to the English Catholics.’

  ‘So they decided to blow him up?’ Edna’s eyes had grown large. ‘And of course it failed and they were all put to death, but not till they’d been horribly tortured.’ She gave another shudder.

  ‘Yes. When you put it like that, Edna, it does seem rather awful that we celebrate it,’ said Rose. ‘Still, it does provide an excuse for the children of the village to have some fun.’

  Later, she was to remember her lady’s maid’s qualms and wonder how she could have dismissed them so flippantly. For she herself had felt no sense of foreboding, no premonition of wickedness. The village, with its picturesque appearance, had provided a comprehensive camouflage. But evil had still been present, she realised, looking back on the tragic events that followed, though then it might have still been in its infancy. Nevertheless, it had been there, lurking out of sight, hidden in the shadows, a half formed thing that would fester and grow. Someone would decide to follow in Guy Fawkes’ footsteps, to plot and connive to disastrous ends.

  Harold Whittaker of Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker solicitors, straightened the papers on his desk and stared despondently at his inkstand. He was a tall, lean man, though he had a tendency to hunch his shoulders as he sat crouched behind his desk. This was wont to give the mistaken impression that he was something of a small and insignificant figure. Only his eyes, almost black and very bright, looked alert, betraying a mind as keen and pedantic as it had always been. His face, unusually long in profile, had an odd hungry look, as if he were in need of a decent meal. Today his complexion was prematurely lined and grey, which added to the effect of a shrivelled old man.

  The reason for Harold Whittaker’s current morose state was simple enough. He had the worrisome feeling that he was about to engage in verbal conflict or, at the very least, was about to dip his toe into what was likely to become a difficult situation. The temptation, of course, was to let sleeping dogs lie, but that wouldn’t do at all, not with the major’s business only so very recently acquired. Had he but known it, his distaste at the prospect of confrontation was not so dissimilar to that experienced by his said client, when tackling his sister on a similar matter.

  He gave a heartfelt sigh. Oh, how unfortunate it was that it should all come to a head now. For he had thought that the sale of old Turner’s land might lead to further business. It was common enough knowledge that Spittlehouse employed a London firm to manage the majority of his affairs, but he had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the successful conclusion of the Tucker business would bode well for both him and the firm. And now young Archie had to go and put a cat among the pigeons!

  He was brought sharply back to the present by a knock on the door. The solicitor jerked himself upright in his seat but, even before he had time to respond, Archie Mayhew had entered the room, drawn up a chair and seated himself upon it in a comfortable, lounging fashion. Harold Whittaker might well have been forgiven for looking with not too kind an eye on this lack of courtesy and assumed familiarity on the part of his employee. However, instead, he did his best to conceal a smile.

  ‘Simmons said you wanted to see me, Uncle Harold,’ said Archie, a grin upon his face.

  ‘Miss Simmons,’ corrected Harold Whittaker, biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh.

  He looked upon his honorary nephew fondly. He would have frowned had any other employee or
indeed young man, come to that, displayed such a disrespectful attitude. But with Archie, of course, it was different. He knew that the manner was assumed, and that beneath that flippant exterior there lurked a well brought up young man. For had he not witnessed the boy grow up before his eyes, and assumed an almost paternal responsibility for him? That wasn’t to say that Archie did not give him cause for concern from time to time. It was true that the young man was bright and had shown a genuine aptitude for the law, much to Harold Whittaker’s delight. What was not quite so auspicious was the sad fact that this talent showed itself only when Archie applied himself to the task in hand, which unfortunately was not as often as it might have been. It had caused him the odd sleepless night when contemplating the young man’s future, as he was wont to do. The problem was …

  Harold Whittaker paused a moment to sigh inwardly, before allowing his mind to stray on to unpleasant thoughts. The issue was not the young man’s ability, but his very approach to work. Not to put too fine a point on it, he very much feared that Archie was rather idle.

  ‘I suppose you wish to talk to me about Miss Spittlehouse?’ Archie said.

  ‘Well …’ For a moment Harold Whittaker found himself at a loss for words. He had spent the better part of the morning contemplating how best to broach the subject. Not for a second had it occurred to him that Archie might raise the matter of his own accord. He took a deep breath and said: ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  ‘I meant to tell you earlier. I knew you would be pleased, Uncle Harold.’ Archie beamed at him. ‘You’ve always wanted to see me settled.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Harold Whittaker. ‘Are you intending to marry the woman?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Archie, a touch of coldness to his voice. His smile had not quite disappeared, but hovered rather undecidedly upon his lips. ‘I thought you of all people would want to see me marry well.’

  ‘Well, of course I do,’ his honorary uncle answered quickly, suddenly finding himself rather inexplicably at a disadvantage. ‘But Major Spittlehouse’s sister?’ He wondered whether he should raise the matter of the woman’s age, but on reflection thought better of it. Instead he said: ‘Any man would of course be happy to have you as a member of their family, Archie, you can’t think I doubt that. But the Spittlehouses? The major’s rich, and his sister too. He’ll expect her to wed a wealthy man with a private income.’ He stared down at his papers. ‘I daresay you’ll think me rather harsh and unfeeling, but there’s also the matter of the firm to consider. Major Spittlehouse’s business will be very good for Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker. His sister is of age and I daresay he can’t forbid your marriage, but he can decide not to do business with us.’

  ‘I thought a London firm dealt with most of his legal affairs?’

  ‘They do. But after that bit of business we did for the major regarding Tucker’s Wood, well, it stands to reason that’s just the start of things. He was testing us to see what our work was like. I don’t doubt we’ll get the rest of his business in time. For one thing, we’re a damn sight less expensive than those London chaps.’

  ‘I doubt if we will,’ replied Archie rather dismissively. ‘His sort like to use a London firm. The likes of us are all right for buying a bit of land but not much else. I expect that’s how he sees old Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker.’

  Harold Whittaker made to protest. He viewed Gribble, Hebborn & Whittaker solicitors in very much the same way he would have done a favoured child. Archie, however, forestalled him. It was possible the young man had grown bored with the way the conversation was turning, or perhaps he had reached the conclusion that to upset his uncle unnecessarily was not quite the sport he had taken it for. Whatever the reason, he held up his hand. The self-assured smile had returned to his face.

  ‘You’ve no need to worry, Uncle. I was just having my bit of fun. The major’s as pleased as punch at the prospect of having me as a brother-in-law.’ He threw his head back and laughed at the look of astonishment which had appeared on Harold Whittaker’s face.

  Chapter Eight

  The Earl of Belvedere sat in the library at Sedgwick Court regarding the man seated opposite him with a mixture of nervousness and apprehension. Major Spittlehouse had been a particular friend of his father’s, one of only a few, and in the late earl’s absence he seemed to radiate a paternal air that made the young man feel like a schoolboy again. Their surroundings did nothing to allay this feeling, for from floor to ceiling rows upon rows of books were arranged in great Georgian mahogany bookcases giving something of the impression of an ornate schoolroom. The two men themselves were seated around a carved oak, octagonal library table, with a ledger book of sorts, and one or two plans spread out open before them, though it was only Cedric who was making a show of consulting them.

  The major appeared to have committed the contents to memory; certainly he was giving forth most eloquently and without any recourse to notes. Not that Cedric was paying much attention to what he was saying. As far as he was concerned, the major had summarised the main preparations for Bonfire Night succinctly enough at the very beginning of their conversation a full half hour ago. He had listened diligently enough then, but now he allowed his attention to drift and wander as the major regaled him with the finer details of the arrangements in true military fashion. His attention, however, was unexpectedly drawn back to the speaker by an unexpected change of tone, which had itself been preceded by a clearing of the throat.

  ‘Just one other thing, my lord,’ Major Spittlehouse was saying. ‘The Committee has received a number of complaints from local landowners. The usual problems with boys trespassing on property and causing damage, breaking branches off trees and trampling crops underfoot, that sort of thing. Looking for sticks for the bonfire, of course, but it won’t do. Gives the Committee a bad name. People think we’re encouraging them, you see.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see that there is very much we can do about it,’ said Cedric, stifling his frustration. He had thought the major was about to say something interesting and tried to ignore the stab of disappointment he felt on being proved wrong. ‘And really, it only happens once a year. I must say, though, I thought that most of the sticks were taken from my woods and my gamekeeper’s used to turning a blind eye. Who has complained, do you know? Jenning for one, I’ll be bound, he likes to kick up a stink about everything. Perhaps I could speak to him, try to appease him?’

  ‘As it happens, my lord, my woodland has been trampled,’ said Major Spittlehouse rather quietly. He looked a little ill at ease, as if he had been caught off guard by the other’s flippancy or the directness of his question.

  ‘Your woodland?’ Cedric looked at him in surprise, before comprehension dawned. ‘Ah, yes, now you come to mention it, I think I did hear something about you buying old Tucker’s bit of wood.’

  The major coughed. ‘I’ve asked my gardener to erect a fence around it for next year to keep the little blighters out.’

  ‘I say, is that really necessary?’ Cedric was struck by a sudden thought and gave the major a suspicious look. ‘Surely you’re not telling me that you have lodged a complaint?’ The major nodded, though to his credit he looked a trifle embarrassed by the admission. ‘But you’re on the Committee!’ Cedric exclaimed.

  ‘It doesn’t do to be too lenient with the little rascals, my lord,’ said the major, sounding a little indignant. ‘Found that out to my cost in the army. Give a man an inch and he’s liable to take a mile.’

  ‘Well, we’re not at war now, Major,’ Cedric said a trifle coldly. ‘And we’re talking about boys, not grown men. But to complain to a committee of which you yourself are chairman … Good God, man, what were you thinking? Do you want to see an end to the Bonfire Night festivities in the village?’

  Major Spittlehouse lowered his head and looked abashed and perhaps a little nettled. Cedric himself averted his gaze for it occurred to him that he had rather let his surprise and annoyance get the better of him; certainly he had the feeling tha
t he had spoken out of turn, rudely even. An awkward silence ensued, which neither man seemed predisposed or able to address. Cedric’s own inclination was to end the interview, thank the major for overseeing the arrangements for Guy Fawkes’ Night, and bid him a hasty farewell. He was reluctant, however, to part from his father’s friend with a feeling of ill will or unpleasantness between them, particularly as he felt that he had been rather tardy in fulfilling his own role on the Committee that year. Naturally of a kindly disposition, he was acutely aware of the major’s own discomfort at the situation, which appeared to be increasing with every passing minute.

  Cedric reminded himself that Major Spittlehouse had been used to dealing with his father. Last year, due to the tragedies that had occurred at Ashgrove House, Cedric had been too busy with estate matters to participate in the Bonfire Night arrangements. This year their paths had rarely crossed and it occurred to him that the present situation must appear odd to the older man, having to show deference to a man young enough to be his son, but in fact his social superior. It was bound to stir up sad memories too, reminding him of a friendship that had come to an abrupt end following the untimely death of the old earl. The current Earl of Belvedere wondered whether the major would consider him a fair substitute. Certainly they did not have the years of companionship to fall back upon to quell any dispute. He sighed; he had made a mess of things and it was up to him to remedy it.

  If that in itself was not sufficient to spur him into action, ever present at the back of his mind loomed the promise that he had made to his wife to raise the subject of Daphne Spittlehouse’s marriage. So far, he had not even touched on the matter, having intended to mention it casually, just as the major was about to take his leave. And now perhaps it was too late. Major Spittlehouse was unlikely to be in a receptive frame of mind to permit a relative stranger to intrude on what he would undoubtedly consider to be a private matter, particularly as he had endured something of a sermon from that person already. Still, Cedric was blowed if he’d let Rose down. It might not come naturally to him to pry into the personal affairs of his father’s friends, but his wife was depending on him to fulfil her promise to the major’s sister.