A Quiet Life in the Country (The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries Book 1)

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Right you are, m’lady,’ he said, somewhat uncomfortably. ‘Is this fellow dangerous?’

  ‘Extremely dangerous, Constable,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. Right. Do you need a carriage? I think Ned’s back from taking those two lads to the station earlier.’

  ‘Oh, Constable, that would be marvellous,’ said Lady Hardcastle, and within ten more minutes we were on our way to Chipping Bevington.

  FOUR

  The Half Death of Günther Ehrlichmann

  I was born on the 23rd of March, 1877, in Aberdare in South Wales, the youngest (by 20 minutes) of seven children born to Gwilym Armstrong and his wife Marged (whom everyone knew as Meg). Ours was a happy childhood, on the whole. We had little, but we had enough, and amid the chaos and the rough-and-tumble, the hand-me-down clothes and the making-do, we enjoyed a carefree life.

  Aberdare was a mining town and my father, my six uncles (on both sides of the family) and two of my brothers all worked in the pits. My father lost his left leg in an accident in 1873, but he had a quick mind and a facility with numbers which, combined with his long experience at the coal face, made him a useful man to have in the office, and so by the time I was born he worked above ground. My mother, meanwhile, somehow managed to raise seven children as well as working long days in the grocer’s shop. She had been a housemaid when she met my father, so she was no stranger to hard work, and she always managed to keep us clean and happy with a smile on her face. There was always food on the table, clean clothes on our backs, and laughter filling the little house that we all somehow managed to cram into.

  We played on the street whenever we could, but my favourite summers’ days were spent exploring. With my twin sister Gwenith and as many friends as we could round up, we would make our way to our mother’s home village of Cwmdare where “Mamgu” (our grandmother) would give us a greaseproof parcel filled with Welsh cakes to sustain us on our adventures on Craig Rhiwmynach, the mountain above the village. The climbing was never arduous but it was the highest and most exciting part of our young world and we felt like gods as we looked down the valley to the town, the villages, the railway, and the mines below.

  I loved school. Most of my friends merely tolerated it, and Gwenith positively hated it, but I found something magical even in the mundane and boring work of copying letters and working out sums. But those tedious tasks enabled me to do something that really captured my imagination: to read. I read everything I could find, which in Aberdare wasn’t much. There was no public library in the town and so, with my parents’ reluctant permission, I would regularly walk the seven miles over to Merthyr Tydfil and spend the day in the library there. The librarian came to know me well and occasionally even let me borrow books, even though I wasn’t strictly allowed to.

  At thirteen years of age, my schooling was done. There was little work for girls in a mining town, but my ambitions lay further afield anyway. I loved the town, I loved the mountains, I loved the valley, but I knew there was more, and I wanted to see it. We had been on a day trip to Cardiff once, and in my young mind, that bustling city was the height of sophistication and glamour.

  I knew that my mother had worked in service and in my naïveté I thought that it would be an excellent way to see more of the world than just what was visible from the top of the mountain. My mother, of course, well knew how misguided my romantic ideas of life in the big city were, but she also knew that there was little for me at home and that there was more of a chance for me to make something of myself if she indulged my fantasy.

  ‘You can try it, my love,’ she had said. ‘And if it’s too awful we’ll have you home quick as a wink.’

  And so, with the help of one of her old friends, I managed to secure employment as a scullery maid to a well-to-do family by the name of Williams in a prosperous area of the capital. I begged Gwenith to come with me. I couldn’t imagine life without her and tried desperately to convince her that we would have the most wonderful adventures together in Cardiff, but she was adamant that there was more than enough adventure for anyone in Aberdare and steadfastly refused to budge.

  And so I went alone. I missed my family, most especially my sister, but there were other young children among the servants and I soon made friends.

  The hours were long, the work was hard – and most often dull – but as well as teaching me to read, school had also taught me a tolerance for drudgery that saw me through. I did as I was told, learned my duties well and managed to stay out of trouble. For the most part. There were the usual tellings-off and chastisements, but on the whole I got on pretty well.

  Theirs was a mining family, but unlike my own they didn’t work in the mines, they owned them. The house was large and lavishly appointed and it was possible, when they were away, for even the junior servants to explore. Mr Evans, the butler, would huff and bluster if he caught us, but we were careful enough and managed to get away with it for the most part. One girl was fascinated by the music room and would try to sneak in to play the piano whenever she could, and the boys, of course, loved the billiards room. But for me there was only one room worth the risk of being at the wrong end of one of Mr Evans’s lectures on correct behaviour: the library.

  When the family was away, I would spend every possible moment of my spare time (of which there was, admittedly, precious little) hidden away in the library, working my way through their impressive collection of books. The best possible times were when one of my rare days off coincided with the family’s absence and I would manage to spend a whole day reading. I would usually sneak into the library, snaffle a couple of choice volumes and spend the rest of the day in my room, making sure to sneak back and return them later that evening.

  One such Sunday I had done exactly that and was just about to leave when a copy of Emma caught my eye. I had discovered Jane Austen earlier that month and I couldn’t help opening up the book and reading the first few pages just to give myself something to look forward to the next time I was free.

  I sat down on the floor by the tall bookshelves and crossed my legs. It wasn’t long before I was completely engrossed and lost track of time so that I was still there, avidly devouring page after page of Austen, when the door swung open and in walked Mr Williams.

  There was a moment of mutual shock, but then to my immense relief, he began to laugh.

  ‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ he said. ‘It’s Florence, isn’t it. We don’t see much of you up here.’

  I stammered an apology and hurried to put the book back on the shelf.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he said kindly, taking the book from me. ‘Ah, Austen. A girl of impeccable taste. I find her a little fussy at times, but she sees the truth of people. A keen observer, don’t you think?’

  I wasn’t completely sure what he meant, but as he gently coaxed answers from me, I found myself beginning to gabble excitedly about not only Jane Austen, but all the books I’d read. He seemed both amused and impressed and invited me to come to the library any time I wanted to, as long as I treated the books carefully and always put them back in the correct spot.

  I was dumbfounded. When he had first walked in I had been sure that my illicit reading would be my undoing, but it turned out that it was an important turning point. Over the months that followed I had many more conversations with Mr Williams about literature, poetry, history, politics… everything, in fact, that his library contained. I was, I now think, his pet project, an attempt to make something of the poor little waif from the Valleys. Whatever his motives, though, I shall be forever in his debt.

  Life in Cardiff had settled into a comfortable routine and before I knew it, two years had passed since I first left home. I had visited Aberdare at Easter during my first year away and it was wonderful to see them all, but even at fourteen I already knew that my life was going to be elsewhere.

  I had taken to reading the newspapers as well as Mr Williams’s books, and on the 12th of July 1892 (I still have the clipping) I saw an advertisement for an age
ncy at London. London! Cardiff had much to offer, but… London. I applied at once.

  Mr and Mrs Williams wrote me the most excellent references and within a month I was on a train bound for Paddington.

  Lady Hardcastle kicked the sole of my boot.

  ‘Daydreaming, pet?’ she said.

  ‘Actually, yes, my lady. Just reminiscing about the first time I was on a train to London.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your first big adventure. Actually, the start of the whole big adventure, if you think about it.’

  I was still lost in thought.

  ‘Any regrets?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Oh, no, none. Well, there are the death threats, obviously. And the drudgery. And the years of running for our lives in strange countries. And the other death threats. And your complete inability to put on a corset without choking yourself. And being chased from my home by a dead man. Other than that, it’s been wonderful.’

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed genuinely dejected.

  ‘You goose!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. In fact you and Sir Roderick gave me the world.’

  ‘Thank you, pet. I couldn’t have done any of it without you. But I could really do without the being-pursued-by-a-dead-man part of it myself. He really is dead. I saw him.’

  ‘I did, too, my lady. Could Harry have made a mistake? Is it really him?’

  ‘We shall find out soon enough. Is this Reading?’

  It was, indeed, Reading. We’d soon be at Paddington and Harry should be waiting for us. I’d not seen Harry for a few years and, despite the unnerving circumstances, I was rather looking forward to it. He had been in London when we first returned from India in 1901 and we had seen him often for the first six months. He had been the most excellent fun to be around but then he had been posted abroad somewhere (I never did find out where). He and his sister shared a mischievous sense of humour and a sideways view of the world which never failed to amuse me and I don’t remember ever having laughed so much as I had when the two of them got together. I didn’t imagine there would be a great deal of laughter this time, though.

  The London suburbs seemed to stretch out much farther along the railway line than I remembered, which made the last part of the journey seem to crawl by. I felt that by the time we reached the built-up areas we should be just moments from our destination, but it took an absolute age before we were finally drawing into Brunel’s magnificent Paddington Station.

  With only a single bag each, we had no need of a porter and we were already making our way hastily down the platform while others were still gathering their traps. I had had an eye open for pursuit since we boarded the branch line train at Chipping Bevington, but there had been no obvious signs there, nor at Bristol Temple Meads. If anyone had boarded the train between there and London I judged they would have been among the first to alight and would now be loitering on the platform so as to catch sight of us. But there were no obvious candidates and everyone I saw was simply going about their business, completely oblivious to the two women heading towards the station concourse, carrying their own bags.

  Harry was waiting for us next to W H Smith, exactly as planned. If you were casting the role of Dashing Spy for a play, you’d pick Harry. Tall, as dark-haired as his sister, and with a way of carrying himself which somehow conveyed authority. He also had a smile which could brighten anyone’s day and he turned it upon us as we approached.

  ‘What ho, Emily,’ he said, reaching out to take her bag. ‘You found the place all right?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘Apparently the train drivers all know the way. It’s as though they come straight here.’

  ‘Good-oh. Oh lord, I see you brought that blessed servant again. I thought you said you were going to get rid of her.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Featherstonhaugh,’ I said, with a curtsey. I made my usual point of mispronouncing it as “Featherston-huff” which in turn drew his usual raised eyebrow and rueful smile.

  ‘It’s “Fanshaw”, you silly girl, as you very well know,’ he said, indulgently playing along. ‘And how are you, Miss Strong-Arm? Beaten up any sailors lately?’

  ‘No sailors, sir, no. A couple of civil servants who got too lippy, but no sailors.’

  He laughed and motioned for us to follow him.

  ‘Let’s get a cab,’ he said. ‘Not too keen on hanging about in the open just now.’

  As we walked, I said, ‘But I thought you told us Ehrlichmann was on his way to Bristol.’

  ‘And so he is, dear girl, but friend Ehrlichmann is not a “lone wolf”, as they say. He is – or at least was – an agent of the Imperial German government and they, let me tell you, have people absolutely everywhere these days. We’ve got our eye on most of them, but you never know. Better to be safe than sorry.’

  There were three motor taxis waiting on Carriage Road in the station and Harry ushered us into the first. He gave the driver an address in St John’s Wood and we set off.

  Harry’s flat was on the third floor of a mansion building and once we were inside, he took a careful look out of the window at the street below. He seemed satisfied and at last seemed to relax. He asked if we’d like some tea and ambled out to the kitchen. I offered to do it, but he would have none of it.

  ‘It’s a fine state of affairs when a chap is incapable of making a simple pot of tea for his guests,’ he said.

  Lady Hardcastle had been examining the books on the shelf. She seemed to be still on edge, but she, too, was calming down a little now that she was back on familiar territory and in the company of someone who had some power to help.

  ‘So you’re still refusing to hire a valet?’ she said as she settled into one of the armchairs.

  ‘There’s a woman who comes in a couple of times a week and runs a duster over the place,’ he said, coming back in from the kitchen with a tray. ‘But it’s too much of a fag to go through all the hiring business. Will I like him? Will he keep out of the way? Will he be discreet? And then I might find that no matter how useless and annoying he is, I can’t get rid of the blighter.’ He winked at me and set the tray on a low table in the centre of the room.

  ‘I know how you feel, dear. I mean look at me,’ she said, pouring the tea. ‘I hired this one fourteen years ago and I’m still stuck with her.’

  ‘I can hear you, you know,’ I said.

  ‘And they’re always earwigging,’ said Harry.

  I harrumphed and sipped my tea.

  ‘Tell me, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What are your Foreign Office sources saying about this chap? This supposed Ehrlichmann. The real one really is dead. It was all in my statement. Even the German government confirmed it.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him myself, Sis, but I trust the chaps that have. Chaps that encountered him in the ’90s have reported seeing him large as life.’

  ‘What do Customs say? What’s on his passport?’

  ‘We’ve had a watch on him, but obviously he’s not using his own name. His passport says he’s Hans Schneider, a salesman from Düsseldorf.’

  ‘This is all most perplexing,’ she said.

  They began discussing all sorts of increasingly fanciful explanations for his reappearance but my mind began to wander.

  Work as a parlour maid in London was less grimy but no less arduous than work as a scullery maid in Cardiff. The hours were still long and the work was still hard, but I had a nicer uniform and I spent more time above stairs. And I had a room in the attic which I shared with one of the other parlour maids. I was moving up in the world.

  The family lived in Kensington so my afternoons off often included a walk in Hyde Park, and I found myself rather pleased with how things were turning out for me. Here I was, a fifteen-year-old girl from the Valleys, and already I was living in a big house in London and taking walks in one of the most famous parks in the world. Admittedly it wasn’t my own house and I only managed to get to the park once a fortnight, but it still seemed like an enormous step up the ladder from a mining tow
n in South Wales.

  I kept in touch with my family, writing at least once a week, and they seemed pleased that things were going so well for me. I missed Gwenith most of all and begged her to come to London and join me but she was working with Mam in the shop and was still, I think, at least partly convinced that I had lost my mind. Why would anyone want to move to somewhere so crowded and dangerous when they had the Brecon Beacons on their doorstep. And everyone “talked funny”, too. I knew for a fact that she’d never set foot on the Brecon Beacons, having never ventured farther from our house than the mountain above Mamgu’s cottage, but there was no persuading her.

  I was greatly enjoying my new life in London. My accent softened and I began to think myself quite the sophisticated girl about town. Time passed quickly and, once again, I found that two years had flown by without my really noticing. It was 1894, I was seventeen, and just as before I was getting itchy feet and beginning to look around for new opportunities.

  As a parlour maid, I not only had more frequent contact with the family, but occasionally with their guests, too. Sir Clive Tetherington, the owner of the house, was a Permanent Secretary to the Foreign Office which meant that a number of rather important people came to call. This, in turn, meant that as “the well-read one” I often found myself wheeled out when the family wanted to impress guests with the high quality of their staff. If I’d known a little more about the world I should probably have found it a little condescending, but as an ambitious seventeen-year-old, eager to impress, I relished the chance to show off.