Death Around the Bend (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 3)

by T E Kinsey

  ALSO BY T E KINSEY

  The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries

  A Quiet Life in the Country

  In the Market for Murder

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503940109

  ISBN-10: 1503940101

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  ‘What do you think, Flo: the red scarf or the green?’

  Lady Hardcastle held up the two silk scarves for my inspection.

  ‘Why not take both, my lady?’ I suggested as I continued to pack the rest of her clothes.

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to avoid overpacking. We’re only going for a week.’

  ‘I don’t think a single silk scarf is going to make a great amount of difference at this stage,’ I said, indicating the already well-crammed trunk on the bedroom floor and the accompanying collection of cases and bags.

  She looked around. ‘I see what you mean. Honestly, Flo, do we really need all this paraphernalia?’

  ‘This “paraphernalia”, as you so testily describe it,’ I said, ‘constitutes the bare minimum required for a week at a country house, and you very well know it.’

  She sighed. ‘I know, I know. But. I mean. Really. How will we ever fit it all into the motor?’

  It was my turn to sigh. ‘I thought we’d settled this, my lady. Dr Fitzsimmons is lending us his trap, and his man, Newton, will take us to the station. We are not taking the Rover.’

  Several hectic, summery weeks had passed since we had accepted an invitation to spend a week at Codrington Hall in Rutland, home of Lord Riddlethorpe, during which time we had discussed the matter of taking the new motor car with tedious regularity.

  On the one hand, the long drive up to Riddlethorpe from our home in Gloucestershire had the potential to be really rather entertaining. Seeing the beautiful towns and villages of the heart of England as we swept through, the last of the harvest in the fields, the livestock munching in the meadows . . . We had quite the most romantic idea of England in late summer, and the long drive would let us enjoy it at its finest.

  On the other hand, there seemed to be at least a hundredweight of ‘paraphernalia’ to be transported, as well as a widow and her maid. August had been blissfully warm and summery. All the signs were that the good weather would continue into the first week of September, but one can never be certain with the English weather. I decided to pack for warm weather, but also to include her raincoat, galoshes, and at least two tweed suits in case the Rutland mornings were a little chilly.

  The thought of spending many hours crammed inside the tiny motor filled us both with unease. And that was if we could even work out a way of loading the trunk, cases, and bags in the first place. We had dithered between the alternatives for many days until we had finally decided, or so I had thought, that taking the motor was far from practical and that the train was a much more sensible choice.

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly, still fiddling with the scarves, ‘I know we said that . . . but it would be rather handy to have a motor while we’re there . . . You know, for exploring and suchlike . . .’

  ‘I’m sure Lord Riddlethorpe will lend us one of his many motors,’ I said. ‘He and his pals will probably be glad to see us pootling off into the village so they can get on with whatever it is that chaps get up to when the ladies aren’t around.’

  The invitation to Rutland had come second hand from Lady Hardcastle’s brother, Harry. He had known Lord Riddlethorpe (‘Fishy’ to his friends – the family name was Codrington) since they had been up at Cambridge together. He had written to his sister to ask if she (and I) would like to be his ‘do feel free to bring a friend’ at a small gathering that Lord Riddlethorpe was arranging to celebrate the launch of his new racing car company. There would be a party attended by local dignitaries, and a few days of racing for the chosen few on Lord Riddlethorpe’s newly-built personal racing track. It all seemed terribly exciting, and Lady Hardcastle had accepted at once.

  ‘Do you think Lord Riddlethorpe will let you race?’ I asked, taking the scarves and folding them for packing.

  ‘I should bally well hope so,’ she said. ‘I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t invite you to have a go, too.’

  ‘Is he a progressive sort, then?’ I asked. ‘He won’t think such pursuits unsuitable for women?’

  ‘From what I remember of him, he’s not too bad. I don’t suppose he’s writing cheques for Mrs Pankhurst and her suffragettes, but I do recall him having a set-to with some of the insufferable oafs who tried to make life unpleasant for we women students at Girton. I think he has a refreshingly open attitude towards us.’

  ‘You’ve known him since you were at Cambridge, then?’

  ‘Only to say good day to. He was at King’s with Harry, so our paths occasionally crossed. He’s a likeable enough fellow. I remember him being rather an eager puppy sort of a chap in those days. Friendly, cheerful, desperate to please – you know the sort. And boundlessly enthusiastic about pretty much every new idea that came along. He might have grown up since then, mind you; that was twenty years ago.’

  ‘Then we shall have to hope that he’s still keen on the idea of women doing inappropriate things,’ I said. ‘I’ve acquired quite a taste for motoring since we got the Rover. I should love to try something a little more powerful.’

  ‘Me too, Flo, me too.’ She stood for a moment in thought, and then walked round the bed and towards the door, where she stopped and turned. ‘Oh, I’ll tell you what, though, I gather the grounds are rather pretty, too. Will there be room in the luggage for my watercolours?’

  I sighed theatrically. ‘I expect so, my lady, and if not we can put them in my bag. I don’t mind going without clean clothes. I’m just a humble lady’s maid.’

  I dodged a flick aimed at my ear as she left.

  It took me another half an hour to pack the rest of her things. I didn’t close any of the bags, knowing from long experience that, despite her protestations about how we always took too much, there would still be one or two last-minute ‘Oh, I really can’t do without this’ items to be packed before we were finally ready to leave the following morning.

  I went downstairs. Miss Jones, the cook, and Edna, the housemaid, had already left for the day – for the week, in fact, since Lady Hardcastle had given them the time off – so I was intending to put the kettle on for a relaxing c
up of tea. My progress was halted by an unfamiliar and insistent ringing. It wasn’t the doorbell and, unless Lady Hardcastle had been tinkering again, I was sure it wasn’t one of the room bells.

  ‘Are you going to answer the telephone or not?’ shouted Lady Hardcastle from her study.

  The new telephone. Of course. It had finally been installed after weeks of delays and what Lady Hardcastle had impatiently referred to as ‘a great deal of frankly unnecessary palaver’. I still wasn’t entirely certain we needed such a thing, but I was unable to deny the convenience of not having to traipse to the post office to send a wire.

  I went through to the hall and picked up the earpiece from the wooden box mounted on the wall. I was still unsure of the etiquette of using the thing, but we had agreed that if I were to treat callers in the same way I would treat unannounced visitors to the house, I couldn’t go far wrong.

  ‘Hello,’ I said loudly and clearly. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three.’

  ‘Hello?’ said a strident, female voice. ‘Hello? Is that you, Emily? Hello?’

  I recognized our caller as Lady Farley-Stroud, the wife of the local landowner. ‘No, Lady Farley-Stroud, it’s me, Armstrong.’

  ‘Armstrong?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ I said. ‘Shall I fetch Lady Hardcastle?’

  ‘I say, would you mind awfully fetching Lady Hardcastle for me? I’d like a word.’

  I put the earpiece on the hall table and went to fetch Lady Hardcastle, but she was already on her way out of her study. ‘Is that Gertie on the telephone? I swear she’s getting a little deaf. Did she say what she wanted?’

  I shook my head and left her to it.

  By the time Lady Hardcastle had finished on the telephone, the tea was brewed and I was sitting down in the morning room for what I felt was a well-deserved rest. I put down the newspaper and raised an eyebrow enquiringly as she joined me.

  ‘Did Miss Jones plan anything for dinner?’ she said, helping herself to a cup.

  ‘Nothing special, my lady,’ I said. ‘She suggested we might finish off that ham pie with a bit of salad from the garden. She didn’t want to cook anything new that might result in leftovers, what with you and I going away for a week and all.’

  ‘She’s a good girl, that one. In that case, how do you fancy dinner at The Grange?’

  ‘Me, my lady? Not just you?’

  ‘No, both of us. Gertie specifically requested your presence.’

  ‘Gracious,’ I said. ‘I’m moving up in the world.’

  ‘So it would seem. She’s developed quite a fondness for you since the farm poisoning. And respect, too.’

  ‘How very flattering,’ I said with a smile. ‘Did she offer any explanation for this sudden invitation?’

  ‘Sir Hector has a problem for us to solve, apparently. Something “suitable for your unique talents, m’dear”, or so she said.’

  ‘Unique talents, eh?’ I said.

  ‘We are uniquely talented.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, and poured her a cup of tea.

  ‘Oh, come on, Flo, we are. Fake suicides, murderous circus folk, bludgeoned trumpeters, poisoned farmers, haunted pubs, missing trophies . . . We’ve solved them all. Who else around here can say the same?’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, dunking a triumphant shortbread biscuit in her tea. ‘And the next mystery we have to solve is what on earth’s bothering Hector so much that he feels he has to enlist the help of the local weird widow and her maid.’

  I chuckled into my teacup. ‘The Case of the Disobedient Dog?’ I suggested. ‘The Missing Cufflink Affair?’

  ‘I do agree – it’s hard to imagine anything especially exciting happening in their lives. I adore them, but life for them does seem to be something that happens to other people.’

  ‘Although they did have a dead trumpeter in their library after their daughter’s engagement party.’

  ‘And Gertie was at The Hayrick when old whatshisname snuffed it and fell face-first into his pie,’ she added.

  ‘So death is something that happens to other people when they’re around, too.’

  ‘I say,’ she said, looking up suddenly. ‘I do hope no one’s died.’

  ‘I should have thought she’d have been round here already if they had, my lady. It’ll be local kids scrumping apples or a misplaced set of fish knives, more than likely.’

  ‘I think you’re probably right,’ she said, and put down her cup. ‘But dinner and company will be most welcome, and a splendid way to begin our break.’

  ‘Your break, my lady,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, pish and fiddlesticks. You’ll be taking a break, too, as well you know.’

  ‘Sleeping in the attic in a shared room,’ I mumbled. ‘Eating in the servants’ hall.’

  ‘Oh, shush. You know you’ll be able to tag along with me, and we’ve already spoken about trying to get you a ride in one of the racing cars. And you do so revel in the below-stairs gossip. You’ll have a fine old time, and you know it.’

  I smiled. ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  ‘Quite so. Now we’ve a couple of hours before we need to dress for dinner, so I think a little piano practice would be in order.’

  ‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said breezily. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘No, dear, for you. You really do need to put some effort in if you’re ever going to master the instrument. I shall read the newspaper.’

  She had been trying to teach me the piano on and off for many years, and had become quite zealous in her attempts of late. If I’m properly honest, I should have to say that I really quite enjoyed it, and was secretly rather pleased with my progress. Unfortunately, there was something about the idea of having to ‘practise’ that turned the whole endeavour into a chore. I’m afraid I exhibited a childlike reluctance to knuckle down.

  ‘But I’ve still got packing to do, my lady,’ I said. ‘I haven’t even made a start on my own things yet.’

  ‘Pish and fiddly fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Go now. Play.’

  ‘Righto, my lady.’

  She picked up the newspaper and squinted at it. ‘I say, would you be an absolute poppet and fetch my reading whatnot for me? I left it on my desk.’

  She had recently abandoned her reading glasses and had taken to using an old-fashioned lorgnette, which she seemed to be unable to manage to keep with her. The lens frame folded and swivelled into the handle, forming a rather intriguing silver pendant, which, as was the designer’s intention, could be worn around the neck on a chain. For reasons unknown, Lady Hardcastle eschewed such conveniences.

  I tutted, sighed theatrically, and set off in search of the errant eyewear.

  Having retrieved the lorgnette, I went obediently to the drawing room and sat at the piano. I played for the best part of a mostly pleasurable hour and only threatened to punch the instrument once. Herr Mozart, on the other hand, was lucky he was already dead, or I’d have been on the next boat train to Vienna to give him what for.

  According to our strictly-observed rota, it was my turn to drive, and so we at least appeared to be mistress and servant when we arrived at The Grange. My attire, though, ruined the effect. Lady Hardcastle had arranged for her favourite dressmaker in Bristol to fashion me a gown as a birthday gift, and I had decided to wear it to dinner. It was of dark-green silk (‘It would complement your colouring beautifully, miss’) with a richly embroidered bodice. There was sheer green silk covering my shoulders and forming loose sleeves, and more sheer silk falling from the high waist (‘High waists are all the rage this season, miss’), though this time decorated with beads and sequins. It was quite the most exquisite thing I had ever worn.

  Most of my experiences of dressing for dinner had been while we were on Crown business, where I had been playing the part of a society lady while I kept an eye on Lady Hardcastle. That night, though, I had no role to play,
no fictitious title to hide behind. I was just Florence Armstrong, a lady’s maid in a smart frock, and I was feeling decidedly exposed.

  The house was a pleasingly ramshackle mishmash of architectural styles from Tudor to Gothic Revival, with a bit of Georgian thrown in for good measure. It entirely suited the delightfully eccentric present owners, the Farley-Strouds.

  At the time, I felt distinctly uncomfortable about entering The Grange as a ‘guest’. I’d been to the house many times before. I’d even entered through the front door before. I’d had lunch with Lady Farley-Stroud. And I’d been in many situations over the years where I had played the part of everything from street girl to earl’s daughter. But somehow, being invited for dinner seemed distinctly odd. I wondered if perhaps it was because the Farley-Strouds knew me first as Lady Hardcastle’s maid before they had come to see me differently, but they were always so charming and friendly that I decided that couldn’t really be what bothered me.

  When Jenkins, the Farley-Strouds’ butler, answered the door and, with a smile and a bow, bade us enter, I realized what it was. The servants. The household servants knew I was ‘nothing more’ than a lady’s maid, and although I got on well enough with all of them (even the domineering cook, Mrs Brown), I knew there would be one or two (most especially Dora, the housemaid) who would think me to be getting altogether above myself.

  It was a warm evening and we were without coats, so Jenkins led us straight through to the comfortable library, where Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud were already sipping pre-prandial drinks. They had spent the early years of their marriage in India (though I never did quite find out what Sir Hector’s line of business actually was), and gin and tonic was still their favourite sundowner. Sir Hector was helping himself to a glass as we entered, and immediately set about making two more.

  ‘Good evening, m’dears,’ he said warmly. ‘Wonderful of you to come, what.’

  ‘Entirely our pleasure, Hector, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Gertie, you look lovely. Is that a new frock?’

  Lady Farley-Stroud beamed delightedly. ‘How kind of you to say so, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to get Hector to notice it for the past half an hour.’