Old Moorhen's Shredded Sporran: The Belchester Chronicles Book 4

by Andrea Frazer

  Unexpectedly, a blood-curdling scream rent the air, and all activity within its range ceased, as minds cast about for a simple explanation of such a phenomenon. Perhaps one of the ladies had encountered a particularly muscular spider. Maybe a huge moth had flown out of some long-undisturbed curtains. Maybe one of the many ghosts said to haunt the place had put in an appearance.

  Whatever had caused it, the cry had definitely come from the music room, but the hired help left it to the residents to investigate. None of them wanted to get caught up in anything unpleasant when they were only paid by the hour, and hired by the day.

  When Lady Amanda entered the room, having overtaken Hugo in the corridor and espied Tabitha lurking in the recess under the stairs, she found Beauchamp already there, waiting for her with a grave expression on his face.

  ‘What is it, Beauchamp? Whatever’s happened?’ Really, she was out of breath yet again. How hurried everything seemed since Hugo’s sister’s arrival under her roof.

  ‘I’m afraid there has been a fatality in the ranks of the temporary staff, your ladyship,’ he replied apologetically, as if the occurrence were his fault.

  ‘No good! You’ll have to try again; this time in English.’ She never minced her words, and had no intention of starting now.

  ‘One of the cleaners has been murdered, your ladyship,’ explained the manservant, in easier to understand terms.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you just say so? Where? And how?’

  ‘Behind the sofa, and with the A flat clarinet, in my opinion.’

  ‘And, no doubt, by Colonel Mustard. Blast! That was a really good instrument’ expostulated Lady A, heading towards the named piece of furniture to take a quick peek. ‘Yes. See what you mean. The thing’s broken in two, with bloodstains on some of the keys.

  ‘That’s definitely beyond the skill of a repairer. And it was such a pleasure to play. On the other hand, thank the good Lord whoever it was didn’t use the E flat. That’s irreplaceable.’ Not a word did she utter about the corpse that also lay there on display.

  ‘Better get those police johnnies back again, with all those other chaps that have to go round after them to make sure they haven’t made a mess.’ She understood perfectly well the job of a SOCO team, but occasionally liked to play the ignoramus, just for fun.

  Beauchamp bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of her instruction, turned on his heel and left the room, just as Hugo and Tabitha were arriving. ‘Hello, you last-minute-Larries. Got here just in time not to be involved in sorting out what should be done and what exactly happened, haven’t you? Cowardy, cowardy custards! Can’t cut the mustard!’

  It must have been Tabitha’s presence that had thrown Lady A straight back to the playground and the insults of childhood. ‘Really, Manda!’ Hugo admonished her, ‘Tabitha is your guest, not a fellow schoolgirl. Where are your manners?’

  ‘In the dim and distant past, I fear, Hugo. I’m just a little rattled.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Not only has one of the cleaners gone and got herself murdered, but whoever did it clubbed her to death with my favourite A flat clarinet. They could at least have had the consideration to use the ratsy old C one. I hardly ever play that in church, and it’s a bit of a cheap and nasty dog, anyway.’

  ‘Manda! I’m ashamed of you. You seem to feel more for the instrument than you do for the victim,’ replied Hugo, scandalised.

  ‘Well of course I do. I really loved that clarinet. I didn’t know the cleaner from Adam. Or Eve, I suppose I should say. She’s just a woman from Belchester; but the clarinet has been in my possession for decades.’

  As he was thus upbraiding her, Enid came bustling in, and headed straight for the sofa, peering behind it with trepidation. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Lady A. ‘It was absolute heaven to play’

  ‘I meant the woman, Amanda. Really, sometimes I can’t understand how your mind works,’ replied Enid, horrified that her friend’s first thoughts had been for the inanimate object rather than the person.

  ‘Sorry. Do you know her?’ asked Lady A.

  ‘It’s poor old Florrie Searle,’ she replied. ‘We went to school together. She was ever so good at impressions – used to have us all in fits of laughter, doing all the teachers and our parents.’

  ‘Her last impression seems to have been of a corpse, but it’s a jolly convincing one. I’m terribly sorry, everyone, but I think I’ll go and have a bit of a lie down before the police arrive again. I seem to be suffering from a terrible case of bad taste,’ admitted Lady A, who, for once, had actually listened to what she had just said.

  At that, she abruptly about-turned and marched out of the room, her head hung low and her shoulders hunched, apparently in shame, but Hugo could have sworn that her shoulders were shaking slightly, as if with laughter. She definitely needed a lie down, and some time to pull herself together. She looked slightly hysterical at all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  She must be in a severe state of shock, with the discovery of two corpses in the house, the access to the basement from the outside breached, and the loss of all the good plate, the Meissen and the Worcester collections, with goodness knows what else still to come; and to crown it all, the destruction of her A flat clarinet. That seemed to be the straw that had broken the camel’s back.

  Lady Amanda re-joined the others in the music room when she heard the police at the door, noticing, as she seated herself in an armchair, that the others had become less squeamish in her absence. There was not a lot of seating in this particular reception room, as it was mostly for practice and recital, and temporary seating could always be imported for the latter, when necessary, which was not often these days.

  When the two detectives were ushered in by Beauchamp, there were only two spindly upright chairs left unoccupied. DS Glenister immediately perched his slim frame on the furthest, then eyed his senior officer with interest. Moody was by no means of slight build; in fact he carried quite a paunch on him, and the thought of him perched on the fragile little chair brought a sly grin to the sergeant’s lips.

  Moody eyed up his hostess, considering that if the frail-looking construction were unlikely to support his weight, she would not countenance sitting by while he did so. It must, therefore, be strong enough to bear him, and he lowered himself delicately on to its tapestry-covered seat.

  A bright tinkling air immediately filled the room, and all eyes turned to Moody, as the music seemed to be issuing from his backside. Lady Amanda allowed herself a small smile as the inspector leapt from his dainty perch as if it were wired into the electricity supply.

  A little unbelievingly, he tried to take a seat again and, once more, delicate music filled the air. He rose again, muttering, ‘What the devil’s going on?’

  ‘Do take my seat, dear Inspector,’ purred Lady A, rising and crossing the room. ‘It would seem that you have, by chance, sat in the musical chair that belonged to a long-departed relative. I shall de-activate the mechanism and sit there myself. I feel that ‘Bluebells of Scotland’ is not a suitable accompaniment to what is to follow.’

  Moody’s face blushed like a huge, peeled blood orange, as he swapped seats with her, his dignity shattered, his authority non-existent, now. She’d done it again! Made him look a fool in front of potential witnesses! DS Glenister had to stuff his knuckles into his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Moody blustered. ‘I seem to visit this place more often than I visit the bathroom. You’re a one-woman crime-wave, Lady Amanda’ – the title nearly choked him – ‘and that goes for your doddering old boyfriend as well.’

  ‘I say!’ spluttered Hugo. ‘Steady on, there! I’m not her boyfriend: never have been and never will be.’

  ‘Hugo!’ exclaimed Lady A, sensing an insult where none was intended.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean,’ was all he said by way of explanation, but it seemed to do the trick.


  ‘Point taken!’ she observed, in a much calmer voice.

  Lady Amanda may never have found men to her liking, but then, never had she felt any attraction to women either, and she and Hugo were identical in this respect. Although neither of them had ever considered the idea, they were probably both asexual, and perfectly happy with their lot in life.

  After an awful lot of hot air, which the inspector would have called ‘questioning’, Lady A finally asked, ‘But who on earth would want to kill a cleaner? And who was that chap in the suit of armour yesterday? None of this makes sense.’

  Beauchamp returned to the music room at that moment and announced that one of the uniformed officers had been taking an e-fit of yesterday’s corpse round the staff, both the outdoor and temporary indoor members, and there was now a name for the man in the metal suit.

  ‘It would appear that he is, or was, a member of staff here, albeit a casual one, and his name was Victor Mangel. He used to work here full-time before he reached retirement age, then we kept him on for casual work as he was still desirous of continuing to work in the grounds.’

  ‘’Straordinary names domestics have these days.’ This was Hugo, nipping back to live in the past for a few moments. ‘They used to be called things like Jones or Parker.’

  ‘Stuff that, Hugo!’ Lady Amanda had seen another side to this particular coin. ‘What the hell was he doing on the inside of the house and, in particular, actually inside a suit of armour? There’s something very fishy going on here. And now a maid’s been murdered. And with my darling A flat clarinet!’

  Her return to sadness was brought to an abrupt halt by a sudden yell of fury which reached their ears, albeit diluted by distance, and it acted as a summoning towards the kitchen, whence the cry of fury and despair had appeared to emanate.

  On arrival, they found Enid standing with her head in her hands, and a pot of soup, with large spilled pools all around it, on the kitchen table.

  ‘Whatever has happened, Enid?’ asked Lady Amanda, eyeing up the mess, devoid of ideas for a suitable explanation.

  ‘When I heard this weird noise behind me, I turned round and found it was those two feline monsters, their heads in the saucepan, licking away as if they hadn’t been fed for weeks. One of them even had a front paw in the pan. The soup’s ruined now – contaminated by their unhygienic tongues . God knows where those tongues had been last,’ she added, a moue of distaste on her face at the very thought.

  ‘I’m going to have to start all over again and make some more and, what’s more, I’ve got no idea whatsoever where they’ve disappeared to. They could be making all kinds of havoc anywhere in the house, for all I know. They might even have got outside,’ wailed Enid.

  ‘My poor babies – outside in the big, bad world,’ moaned Tabitha, in distress.

  ‘Poor babies, my bum!’ scoffed Lady A. ‘They’ll be somewhere inside smashing very expensive things, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Shoot!’ snorted Hugo, a hand up to his mouth.

  ‘What is it, old thing?’

  Hugo had turned a very fetching shade of crimson, and had to admit that, out of sheer vanity, he’d got his tartan trews out before he’d got dressed that morning, just to try them on again and have a look in his cheval glass, and he’d not put them away again.

  Aware that he was going to be late for breakfast if he didn’t get a wiggle on, he had merely draped them over the bed, to be attended to later, and the catch on his door was proving very temperamental at the moment. He said he’d put money on that being where the foul fiends were this very minute. The Law of Sod dictated it.

  The posse formed and made a beeline for his room, Lady A – who had paid for the afore-mentioned article of clothing – in the front, her face as grim as that of an avenging sheriff on the trail of his man.

  Hugo proved to be very good at guessing games, and the two tiny tartan terrorists were in the act of shredding the bottom of the right leg of said trews.

  Simultaneously, Hugo screeched, ‘Oh my God, no!’ Lady Amanda carolled, ‘I’ll replace them, Hugo!’ and Tabitha burst out with, ‘My poor darlings! Come to Mother,’ as she grabbed the two tiny bodies and held them protectively to her chest, turning to face the opposite direction to her hostess, whose face promised immediate execution, without benefit of trial.

  As she rushed the guilty parties from the room, Hugo turned a devastated face to Lady A, who reassured him they’d be replaced in no time then added, just to let him see this particular cloud’s silver lining, ‘Just imagine the indescribable mess they’d have made if you’d had a kilt, and there’d been a sporran for them to shred. We’d have been up to our eyebrows in fur and stuff.’

  ‘Can I have a kilt and a sporran this time, if I promise never to let her visit again?’ he pleaded, real longing in his eyes.

  ‘Of course you can, old chap. We’ll get you measured up, and I’ll get things underway as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Manda. I’ve always wanted one.’

  ‘You’ll have the whole rig-out: after all, you only live once, so you should have as much of what you really want, while you can.’

  ‘Oh, scrumptious, Manda!’

  Chapter Five

  While the two detectives liaised with the same SOCO team that had visited the day before, the members of which were becoming very familiar with the layout of Belchester Towers, uniformed officers had questioned the other staff who would only be here for the day.

  They were very lucky to have been able to carry out this activity out of view of Lady Amanda, who would, no doubt, have given them a protracted lecture on wasting the time of members of staff who were paid by the hour, and who would not be present tomorrow. She would have declared most vehemently that she was not made of money, and didn’t have funds to cover time spent chatting with officers of the law.

  As it was, they were able to carry out this task in relative peace, and now reported back to Inspector Moody.

  ‘Whom have you interviewed?’ asked the inspector, showing a sensitivity to correct grammar with which Lady A would not have credited him.

  ‘In the grounds, Evergreen the head groundsman, and Drake, Darke, and Darle.’ This was followed by a facial expression of incomprehension, but no one questioned it, so the speaker didn’t explain it.

  ‘That must be fun when it comes to making up the pay-packets,’ observed the senior officer.

  ‘All paid into their bank accounts automatically,’ Lady A informed him, pouring cold water on his weak witticism.

  ‘Obviously. And what are the first names of these four individuals, PC Spouph?’ What a silly name, he thought. It didn’t ought to be allowed in the force, to have a silly name like that.

  ‘For the last three, Ed, Edds, and Eddie. Evergreen wouldn’t even admit to having a first name, sir.’

  ‘What? Would you mind elaborating on the first three. They must be contractions, and as for Evergreen, how did he explain himself?’

  ‘Edgar, Edmund, and Edward.’

  ‘Making?’

  ‘Edgar Drake, Edmund Darke, and Edward Darle, and Evergreen said to treat him like Inspector Morse orf the telly. He wasn’t admitting to even having a first name, sir.’

  ‘Put him down as Endeavour Evergreen, then. His wish is granted. How the hell have you let this situation occur?’ he asked, spearing Lady Amanda with a beady eye.

  ‘I don’t care what they call themselves, as long as they do their job satisfactorily, and provide me with enough information to pay them and, as a matter of fact, his initial is E. I had to get that out of him to make regular payments into his bank account, so for all I know your facetious suggestion may even be correct,’ she informed him, in a somewhat haughty manner.

  How was it, he thought, that she always managed to make him feel small and inferior, socially? It happened every time he came into contact with her, and he had to go home and work on raising his level of self-confidence again before he could do anything else. Glenister seem
ed to be totally immune to it, and seemed to get on with her very well, damn and blast his trendy paisley socks.

  ‘Well, come on then; what did you learn about the dead man?’ snapped Moody, not caring who he took out his bad temper on.

  PC Spouph took out his notebook and consulted it with all seriousness. ‘He had been a permanent gardener here until a few years ago,’ he intoned in a monotonous voice. ‘When he retired, he was kept on the casual and emergency staff, able to be called in when there was a particular clear-up to do, or when a new project was planned, or even storm damage. And stuff like that,’ he finished, rather lamely.

  ‘Personal details, Constable! Was he married? Where did he live? Come on, come on!’

  ‘He was widowed,’ Spouph informed the inspector, the colour draining from his face at the ferocity of the senior officer’s manner. That posh woman must have really got to him with whatever she said. ‘He lived in a cottage in Plague Alley …’

  ‘Enid must have known him, then. That’s where she lives,’ interrupted Lady A, not adding ‘for now’ so as not to arouse any curiosity in those not already in the know about her impending move to the big house.

  ‘He’s got no kids, but he is on police records for petty theft, although that was some years ago, now.’

  ‘I know about that,’ the woman interrupted him again. ‘I took him on to give him another chance in life, as it’s not easy to find work if you’re an ex-con, as Inspector Moody will well know.’

  ‘Very generous of you, I’m sure,’ that individual snarled sarcastically.

  ‘I never had any trouble with him the whole time he worked here. That’s why I let him stay on as casual labour after retirement age, with Evergreen’s blessing, of course. It is after all, his garden, and he must be allowed some say in who works in it with him, don’t you think?’

  She was proving all too magnanimous for Moody’s liking, so he turned his attention, once more, to PC Spouph. ‘Anything else?’