by T E Kinsey
We stopped for a moment beside a bed of rose bushes, while Miss Titmus crouched before one particularly impressive specimen, apparently trying to capture its likeness with her camera.
‘I know it’s all the rage these days to photograph people,’ she said as she stretched forwards to position herself more propitiously, ‘but I do like to snap “things” when I can. You know, buildings, motor cars . . . flowers.’ She finally stood. ‘I just wish colour photography was more practical for the amateur. Wouldn’t these look glorious in full colour?’
‘It would be a treat, indeed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Is this new, all this photography lark?’
Miss Titmus looked at her curiously as we walked on. ‘No, not really. I believe the first photographs were taken in the 1820s.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. It was a terribly badly worded question. I meant is it new to you? Have you been interested in photography for long?’
‘Ohhh,’ said Miss Titmus with a laugh. ‘A couple of years. But I’ve been fascinated by the whole thing since . . . Well, since school, really. That photograph of the cricket team entranced me. I could scarcely believe that our images had been captured by that box – a moment frozen forever. It’s quite magical, don’t you think?’
‘I rather think it is, when you put it like that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I dabble with moving pictures myself, you know.’
‘Really?’ said Miss Titmus. ‘How marvellous.’
‘You must come down and see us. I’m sure you’d enjoy the studio, even if our little village is a tad quiet.’
‘I should absolutely love that. Do you process your own film? I’m about to turn the spare bedroom of my London flat into a darkroom, but it’s a bit of a palaver. Until now, I’ve been imposing on a friendly professional photographer to do it for me. He’s an old friend of my brother’s.’
‘I do it all at home,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ve had a darkroom installed at one end of the studio. Do say you’ll come.’
‘I should be delighted. I sometimes think about taking it up professionally, you know? Portraiture and suchlike. I think it might be quite a hoot.’
‘And why don’t you?’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly. Whoever heard of a ninny like me doing something like that?’
‘Hmm,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a frown. As far as I’d been able to establish from all that I’d heard so far, the two ladies were very similar in age, but here on the freshly raked gravel of the garden path, Miss Titmus did indeed seem like a naive young girl when measured against my worldly-wise employer. ‘If you want it, dear,’ she continued, ‘you should do it. I’ve never let the fear of people thinking me a ninny stop me from doing anything.’
‘Good thing, too,’ I said. ‘Or you’d never have done anything at all.’
They both laughed. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ve come a cropper more times than I care to recall, but I carry on undaunted. I tell you what, I hereby commission you to come to Littleton Cotterell and photograph the house and the two ninnies who live there. Oh, and our beloved motor car. How about that? I shall pay your expenses and any fee you care to name. Then you shall be a professional and you’ll have to go into business.’
Miss Titmus laughed again. ‘We shall see,’ she said. ‘But perhaps you should take a look at some of my work before you make such an offer. I might be an absolute duffer, for all you know.’
‘Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’
‘As it happens, I always travel with an album of my favourites. I shall bring them down after lunch.’
Lady Hardcastle’s eager agreement was cut short by a loud clattering some short distance away. We turned, and saw that a sizeable flock of doves had taken to the air.
‘There’s a dovecote as well,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How lovely.’
‘Wonderful birds,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I’ve thought of getting some.’
Lady Hardcastle frowned. ‘You have?’
‘I have. Well, not doves, exactly. Homing pigeons.’
‘Well I never. Would you race them?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Miss Titmus, becoming suddenly animated. ‘I read an article in a photographic journal about a German chap who has designed a special harness and camera that he attaches to homing pigeons. They photograph whatever they fly over on the way home. Isn’t that just utterly utter? I’ve got a copy of the magazine indoors. I’ll show you later. That would set my photographic business apart, wouldn’t it?’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘It would be a sin not to start a business like that. I say, you could photograph country houses from the air. I’m sure some of the more adventurous families would pay handsomely for the privilege.’
By now, we had left the formal garden and were walking around the edge of a rolling lawn, sticking close to the neatly trimmed hedge that formed the garden’s outer border. From a little way ahead, we heard the sound of voices, then a woman’s laugh. We came eventually to what might best be described as an ‘alcove’ cut into the hedge, where there sat a handsome Palladian stone bench. And upon the bench were Lady Lavinia and Harry, apparently deep in conversation.
‘What ho, Harry,’ said Lady Hardcastle breezily. ‘And Jake, too. How are you both?’
‘Passing well, sis, thank you. Anything we can do for you?’
‘No dear, thank you,’ she said.
‘Well, don’t let us detain you.’
‘Righto, dear,’ she said.
We carried on walking, holding our silence until we were out of earshot.
‘About time, too,’ said Lady Hardcastle when she was sure we couldn’t be heard.
‘What is?’ asked Miss Titmus.
‘Those two. You must have seen the way he’s been looking at her these past couple of days.’
‘No?’ said both Miss Titmus and I together.
‘Tch,’ sighed Lady Hardcastle, and we strolled on.
Our walk eventually led us to the stable yard. The coach house doors were open, but we could see no sign of Morgan.
‘Hello!’ called Lady Hardcastle. ‘Anyone about?’
There was no one about.
‘Come on, ladies,’ she said. ‘Let’s take a look at the scene of the crime.’
‘The crime?’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Is this where it was done, do you think?’
‘I can’t think of a better place. The motor car was guaranteed to be here. It’s out of the way. One can work in private. An ideal place for a spot of sabotage.’
‘Gracious!’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Do you really think we ought? Shouldn’t we leave things as they are? Isn’t snoopery best left to the police?’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘Snoopery is our stock-in-trade, dear. As for the police, you heard what that frightful detective from Leicester said. It was a tragic accident and there’s nothing else for him to do here.’ She led the way through the open doors. ‘I think it’s our duty to have a bit of a poke about.’
We stood in the centre of the large coach house. The horse stalls had been removed to make way for workbenches. The three motor cars stood in line abreast, gleaming even in the dim light. The rightmost was horribly dented and scratched where it had struck the tree. Lady Hardcastle stood stock still for a few moments, looking keenly about.
‘Is that a door over there in the gloom, Flo?’ she said, pointing to the far corner of the stable. ‘Be a dear and have a dekko for me, would you?’
Had we been alone, I might have invited her to look for herself if it were that important to her. We were in company, though, so I walked towards the indicated corner.
‘It is a door,’ said Miss Titmus just as I reached it. Again, I bit my tongue. Instead, I tried the handle. It was locked.
‘It looks as though the lock is oiled and in regular use,’ I said as I trudged back to the middle of the room.
‘Do you know where it opens, Helen?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
>
‘On the outside?’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Let me see . . . The kitchen garden, I think.’
‘Easy to get to from the house, then. Someone who knew their way about could slip out here, snip the brake cable, and nip back indoors before anyone even knew they were gone.’
‘Who knows their way about well enough to do that?’ I asked.
‘Everyone apart from us, I should think,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Most of the party guests got lost on their way to the WC,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘But the staff would all know where the door is. And the family. Fishy’s friends practically live down here, of course. I suppose I could have found my way down here. Roz, too.’
‘Let’s do your trick, Flo, of putting ourselves in the mind of the villain,’ said Lady Hardcastle, walking purposefully towards the door.
Miss Titmus and I followed. Still I said nothing about my repeated walking of the length of the stable. I was thinking of nominating myself for a sainthood.
‘She was absolutely marvellous, Helen dear,’ she continued. ‘We were trying to find a stolen emerald, you see. Flo had the simply cracking idea of standing in the room and imagining herself as the doer of the dastardly deed.’
We arrived back at the locked door and began looking around. Miss Titmus seemed excited, but clearly had no idea what was expected of her. Lady Hardcastle, as focused as ever, was concentrating on a minute examination of the workbench along the wall.
I, meanwhile, did as she had suggested. I was the dastardly saboteur. I had let myself into the stable through the side door. It was pitch black. I had a candle. I lit it. Good guess, Flo, I thought – there’s some spilled wax on the workbench. I looked around. The motor cars were in a line. I wanted to cut the brakes. I went to the end of the . . .
‘Why did the saboteur not disable the nearest motor car?’ I said. ‘He passed two perfectly nobbleable racers and snipped the brakes of the one farthest from the door.’
‘He wanted to tamper with a particular vehicle?’ suggested Lady Hardcastle.
‘Seemingly,’ I said. ‘But why?’
‘He knew who would be driving it?’ said Miss Titmus tentatively.
‘The race card!’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.
‘Dawkins was going to be in Number 3,’ I said.
‘And Number 3 was at the end of the row,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I put myself back in the saboteur’s shoes, and once more tried to imagine his actions. I could see the numbers painted on the sides of the motor cars. I found my target. Did I know exactly what I was going to do? Had I already decided on the brakes? I must have. I’d come down here with a key and a candle; it was unlikely that my plans stopped there.
So I needed a tool. I might have brought one with me, but I was on my way to a workshop. There were tools aplenty there. Why run the risk of being caught with something incriminating on my person when I could just lift something from the bench?
There was a row of hooks on the wall holding spanners, screwdrivers, and an assortment of other, well-kept tools. One hook was empty. So that was where I took my . . . my whatever-it-was. I imagined myself going to the motor car and getting down on my hands and knees. I couldn’t see the cables. Flat on my belly. The brake cable. Cut. I stood. I’d forgotten where I’d taken the tool from. What to do? I dropped it and kicked it under the workbench. Better a lost tool than a tool out of place.
I got down on my hands and knees for real now. I felt about under the workbench. At first, nothing. Then my fingers brushed against something metallic. I managed to get hold of it. I got back to my feet.
‘Pliers, my lady,’ I said, holding up my treasure with my fingertips. ‘I’d wager these are the murder weapon.’
‘I say, Flo, well done,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Yes, well done, you,’ said Miss Titmus excitedly.
‘Whoever it was would have been rather dusty,’ I said. ‘He’d have been flat on his belly to get to the brakes.’
‘So we’re looking for a grimy man who knows how to use a pair of pliers,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘One who had seen the race card you drew up at the party,’ I said.
‘And who wasn’t afraid to kill someone to get what he wanted. We’d better get back to the house.’
Chapter Nine
We arrived back at the house in plenty of time to get Lady Hardcastle changed for lunch. It was a little early for the white, delicately embroidered tea gown we chose, but she declared that she wouldn’t ‘dashed well get changed again for tea so they’ll have to lump it’.
I rushed to the attic to change into my indoor uniform so that I might report to the servants’ hall for instructions. Lunches at Codrington Hall were informal, though, and so my services weren’t required. Mr Spinney suggested I return later in the afternoon to help with tea, but gave me leave to disappear. There were a few things I needed to sort out for Lady Hardcastle, including a little mending, so I went up to her room.
Sitting alone at the window, expertly (if I do say so myself) repairing an unexplained (and, frankly, inexplicable) rip in one of Lady Hardcastle’s evening gowns, I allowed my mind to wander. On Sunday, we had been packing our bags, anticipating a week of motor racing and jollity. Now it was Thursday, and we were up to our ankles in the unexpected. Again. A car had been sabotaged and a man was dead. We had no idea if his death was deliberate, or whether it was some sort of attempt to undermine Lord Riddlethorpe or his new motor racing team. Half the people in the house seemed to have a motive, almost everyone had an opportunity, and anyone who could find a pair of pliers in a darkened stable had the means.
A tiny, selfish part of me wished we could just pretend we didn’t know that the crash was the result of malicious mischief and leave things alone. It would be wonderful to say our farewells and head for the seaside. We could take a proper break, eat winkles, walk by the sea, find a nice café for a cream tea, make up stories about the strange-looking locals . . .
Lady Hardcastle interrupted my reverie by bursting exuberantly through the door.
‘What ho, Flo,’ she said, somewhat surprised. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you’d be downstairs, interrogating the lower orders.’
‘I wasn’t required for lunch service, so I was given leave to come and see to my regular duties.’ I held up the gown. ‘I fixed the rip,’ I said. ‘How on earth did you manage to do that?’
‘What rip?’ she said, looking at the gown. ‘Ohhh, that rip. It was at the party on Tuesday. I was chatting to a lady from Leicester, wife of . . . Actually, I’ve no idea whose wife she was. She wasn’t terribly impressed with her husband’s behaviour, though. I remember that. A few glasses of wine had loosened her tongue, and she was unburdening herself to yours truly about his promiscuity and profligacy. I must have that sort of face. Do you think I have that sort of face?’
‘What sort of face, my lady?’
‘The sort of face that makes strangers take me into their confidence and throw caution and discretion to the wind by exposing me to the excruciatingly embarrassing details of their private affairs.’
‘Oh, yes, you have that sort of face. I always thought that was what made you such a good spy. But what about the frock? Did you both rend your garments while lamenting the tragedy of her failing union?’
‘If only it had been that dramatic. We were in the billiards room for some reason. I think I was looking for Harry and she was looking for her better half. Or her worse half, as I rapidly found him to be. Viktor Kovacs was playing at the table with Monty Waterford, chatting about . . . Oh.’
‘Oh?’ I said, having resigned myself by now to never learning the fate of the frock.
‘They were talking about their motor racing teams. Something about how much money Monty and Fishy had tied up in their prototypes, and how any sort of setback would be disastrous. Viktor said something about being happy to talk about a merger if they wanted to, and Monty said they hadn’t had any setbacks yet.’
> ‘Yet,’ I repeated. ‘And so Kovacs sneaks out in dead of night and ensures that one of their motor cars does have a little setback, and if their senior driver gets hurt – or even killed – in the process, then so much the better.’
‘It does all seem rather plausible now, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘We’ve not a shred of proof, mind you.’
‘Then we get some, my lady. We search his room, scour the house and grounds for clues, watch the black-hearted devil day and night until he betrays himself somehow. We haven’t been away from the spying game for so long that we’ve forgotten how to do it.’
She laughed. ‘Very well. It’s all we have to go on at the moment, after all. And the worst that can happen is that we’ll prove him innocent and find that we’ve wasted our time.’
‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘the worst that can happen is that he’ll catch us in the act and try to bludgeon us to death with a heavy wrench. I’m reasonably sure I could give him what for if he doesn’t get the jump on us, but if he did . . .’
‘You’re right, of course, but I doubt it will come to that. It’s a pity young whatshisname is serving as his valet – a more biddable servant might have been persuaded to keep an eye open on our behalf.’
‘It could be worth sounding Evan out anyway, my lady,’ I said. ‘He might be eager to lend a hand if he perceives it as an opportunity for a spot of mischief. He can watch Mr Waterford while he’s about it – two birds with one stone, and all that.’
‘I shall leave it up to you. Perhaps you should disappear to the netherworld of infernal servitude and see what the lad has to say for himself. We shall formulate our plans and stratagems while we prepare for dinner.’
‘I’ll get down to the servants’ hall at once. Do you want anything while I’m down there?’
‘Not for me, dear, I’m stuffed.’
‘One more thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘The rip.’
‘Oh, yes, the rip. I caught it on the rack thing they store the billiard bats in.’
