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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Not a trace,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘We’ve searched the house from top to bottom. Spinney has done the same in the servants’ rooms. She’s not in the house.’

  ‘She’s not in the coach house or any of the sheds or outbuildings, either,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘We must have missed her,’ said Mr Waterford. ‘She can’t simply have vanished.’

  ‘Was the Rolls still in the yard?’ asked Harry.

  ‘It was,’ I said.

  ‘Then she’s still on the estate somewhere. There’s no other transport.’

  ‘Is there anywhere we haven’t looked, Fishy?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Any other outbuildings?’

  ‘Or barns?’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Didn’t you used to have hay barns out on the other side of the estate?’

  ‘We did,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, ‘but we had them torn down when we sold the last of the horses. No need to store food for the beasts any longer, so we got rid of them.’

  ‘Then she’s somewhere else on the estate,’ said Lady Lavinia. ‘Acres and acres of parkland with your blessed racing track running through the middle of it. We’ll never find her.’

  The middle of it, I thought. There’s something in the middle of it. ‘The rotunda,’ I said suddenly. ‘On that first day, my lord, when you were showing Lady Hardcastle the racing track. We had lunch by the lake. In the rotunda.’

  ‘By George, you’re right,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Fishy?’

  ‘It’s the only place we haven’t looked,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘The Rolls would be the quickest way to get us all there.’

  Leaving a bewildered Mr Spinney, a frustrated Harry, and an anxious Lady Lavinia to hold the fort, the rest of us raced back towards the stable yard and the waiting Rolls-Royce. There was a bowl of fruit on the sideboard beside the door, and I paused to grab the small fruit knife that sat beside it. You never know when such a thing might come in handy if things cut up rough.

  Mr Waterford all but barged Lord Riddlethorpe out of the way so that he could drive.

  ‘She’s my . . . She’s . . . I . . . I’ll drive,’ he said as he jumped into the driving seat.

  Lord Riddlethorpe cranked the engine, while Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus clambered into the back.

  With the engine now purring smoothly, Lord Riddlethorpe jumped in beside Mr Waterford.

  Betty came haring into the yard.

  ‘Don’t leave me behind,’ she panted. ‘She might be a hateful old harpy, but if I can help stop her from being a dead old harpy, I will.’

  The Silver Ghost comfortably seated four. There were now six of us. Somehow, we managed to squeeze Betty into the back seat between Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus.

  I wasn’t going to be left behind for want of somewhere to sit, so I jumped on the running board on the left-hand side and clung on for dear life.

  Mr Waterford was an experienced racing driver, but the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost was not built for speed. Nevertheless, he managed an impressive pace as he shot out of the stable yard and turned on to the road that ran towards his racing track.

  As we neared the circuit, I imagined he would head out across the parkland towards the lake. Instead, he turned sharply to the right and on to the racing track itself.

  ‘We need to get to the middle, Monty!’ yelled Lady Hardcastle from the back of the motor car.

  Lord Riddlethorpe turned in his seat. ‘No, he’s right,’ he called. ‘This is quicker. Rotunda’s on the other side of the lake. Quicker on the track than on the grass.’

  We sped on.

  On the racing track he had helped to design, Mr Waterford showed great confidence. He knew every twist and turn, every bump, every rise, every dip, and although the Rolls-Royce was nothing like the sleek racing cars he usually coaxed around the circuit, he knew exactly how to get the greatest possible speed from it.

  I was beginning to wish he didn’t.

  The first turn wasn’t too bad – it was to the left and threw me into the motor car. The turn that followed was to the right, though, and pushed me outwards. It was only Lady Hardcastle’s quick thinking and strong grip that prevented me from flying off into the grass beside the track. She held on to me from then onwards.

  Abruptly, Mr Waterford turned left, off the track and on to the grass. I’d thought that speeding along the track was hairy, but this new, rough, uneven route across the park was an altogether new form of horrible. The Silver Ghost’s suspension was designed for comfort, to smooth out the imperfections of the road. But out here on the undulating grassland, it seemed to amplify the bumps and, once again, it was only Lady Hardcastle’s strength and our combined determination that kept me from ending up lying in a bruised and undignified heap while they sped off without me.

  At last, the rotunda came into view. Mr Waterford’s own desperation seemed to communicate itself to the Rolls-Royce, which managed to find an extra burst of speed to serve its anguished driver.

  The brakes squealed. The wheels locked. The motor car slid to a stop beside the rotunda, and we all piled out.

  There was a ragtag shambles of uncoordinated scrambling to get to the entrance to the rotunda. The wide, double doors were thrown open, as they had been on that first day, but the sight that met us was very different.

  Where we had first seen a table set for a magnificent lunch, there was now a tall, wooden stool.

  Standing on the stool, a rope around her neck, her hands tied behind her back, was Mrs Beddows.

  Beside her, a shotgun in her hands, stood Mrs McLelland. She raised the gun to her hip and pointed it towards the doors.

  ‘That’ll do,’ she said. ‘You can see perfectly well from there.’

  ‘Rebecca,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You don’t need to do this. Let her down.’

  ‘Rebecca?’ said Mr Waterford. ‘Who’s Rebecca? I thought Mrs McLelland was called Muriel. She’s Muriel, Fishy, isn’t she? You hired the blessed woman.’

  ‘It is Rebecca, though, isn’t it?’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle. ‘Rebecca Burkinshaw.’

  ‘The amazing Lady Hardcastle and her famous detective skills. Brava. Took you long enough to work it out, though, didn’t it, Emily.’ She stressed Lady Hardcastle’s Christian name, pouring on as much discourtesy and disdain as she could muster.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ said Mr Waterford angrily. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘Poor Monty. Poor, confused, stupid Monty. Is your popsy in peril? Tell him, Helen. Or are you still too timid to stand up for yourself?’

  Mr Waterford turned to Miss Titmus.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he said.

  ‘I think Emily’s right,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I think this is Rebecca Burkinshaw.’

  ‘So everyone keeps saying,’ said Mr Waterford. ‘But who—?’

  ‘Her big sister Katy was at school with us,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t a happy girl.’

  ‘She was a perfectly happy, wonderful girl until you evil shrews made her life a misery,’ said Mrs McLelland.

  Miss Titmus pressed on. ‘She took her own life one evening at school,’ she said.

  ‘At sunset,’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘Not long to wait now.’ She gestured with the shotgun.

  We all turned to see that the sun had almost reached the horizon.

  I tugged on Lady Hardcastle’s sleeve, and she bent slightly towards me.

  ‘Keep everyone moving around a little,’ I murmured. ‘There are too many of us for her to keep track of everyone if we don’t stand still.’

  ‘Righto,’ she said. ‘Watch for your signal?’

  ‘You’ll know when to go,’ I said.

  She nodded.

  I stepped slowly to my right as Lady Hardcastle turned to mutter something to Lord Riddlethorpe. As I took another step, I could just about hear him whispering to Mr Waterford. They both had the aggrieved look of men-of-action who have been asked to wait for someone else to take the lead, but they seemed to be complying f
or now. They shifted about, calmly, naturally.

  Another step took me to the very edge of the stone steps leading to the doorway as Betty crossed in front of Miss Titmus. I could see that Lady Hardcastle had already reached the opposite side of the steps, so that the six of us were now spread out across Mrs McLelland’s entire field of view. She could still see us all, but she couldn’t focus on all of us at once.

  As instructed, the other four continued to shuffle about while Lady Hardcastle began to speak again.

  ‘We know you blame Katy’s friends for what happened, Rebecca. But this isn’t the way to settle things.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘And how do you propose we “settle” it? How do you propose we “settle” the vile bullies who hounded my sister to death? They destroyed my father, too. Drink. Gambling. He lost everything. Why do you think I came to be working as a governess? How did I end up here, cleaning up after this undeserving shower of titled nonentities?’

  ‘How did you end up here, Rebecca?’ persisted Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘That oaf Kovacs suggested it.’

  ‘You knew him, didn’t you? He had a letter from Lord Riddlethorpe’s father, the previous earl. They met in Vienna, along with your father. The earl was the one who introduced Viktor to his lordship. You must have met him when you were a little girl on trips with your father. Did he become a family friend? Did he look out for you when things went wrong?’

  Mrs McLelland laughed. ‘Only as far as it suited his own ambitions. He was sweet on my mother, mostly, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Once he got over that, he “looked out” for me. Didn’t want to actually help. No money. He wanted me “to stand on my own feet”. And then when he told me that “Fishy” was looking for a new housekeeper, he said I should come and work here. “It would be more money for you. Better prospects. A promotion. A grand family, too. And while you’re there you could perhaps keep me informed of his lordship’s progress with his motor cars.” The old fool.’

  ‘He didn’t know about Lavinia, Helen, and Roz, did he?’

  ‘He was an old fool who knew nothing. I came here. I did his sordid spying for him. But I had plans of my own.’

  ‘And they started to unravel when he saw a picture of the girls,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He knew Katy at once. He realized what you were up to. He tried to stop you. That’s why you met in the coach house. Did you mean to kill him?’

  ‘I had to stop him. He was going to ruin everything.’

  ‘But it’s over now, Rebecca. We can help you. There’s no need to make things worse than they already are,’ she said. ‘Another death isn’t going to make things any better.’

  ‘It’s not going to make things any worse, though, is it? Two useless articles already dead; a third won’t make them hang me any less. Might as well be hung for a—’ She noticed for the first time that everyone was moving slowly about in front of the doors. ‘What do you all think you’re doing? Stand still!’

  ‘But it won’t bring—’

  ‘It won’t bring Katy back? Please tell me you weren’t going to say that. The great Emily Hardcastle and her Big Girl’s Book of Clichés? Do please shut up, dear. Just a few more moments and the sun will go down. Then this useless, evil article can suffer the same way as my dear Katy. They say hanging is quite a horrible way to go without the hangman’s drop. And I do so want to make sure it’s as horrible as it can possibly be.’ Her maniacal grin was proof, as though any were needed, that she had passed beyond the point where appeals to reason might have any effect.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Waterford tense as he began to charge up the steps. Some people just won’t do as they’re told.

  Mrs McLelland saw him, too, and was swinging her shotgun round towards him.

  I had the fruit knife concealed in my hand. I had hoped to get into position for a better throw, but needs must . . .

  ‘Get down!’ I yelled. I flicked my wrist and sent the tiny knife flying towards her. It embedded itself in her left forearm an instant before she pulled the trigger.

  It was a risky stratagem. From where I stood, there was no way I could stop her from shooting. I couldn’t rush her, and with such a tiny knife, there was no way I could incapacitate her. My best bet was to disrupt her aim and hope that everyone had the good sense to obey my shout and follow me to the ground.

  A shotgun blast is terrifying when the gun is discharged indoors. The sound of shattering glass is always startling, too. The sight and sound of an ornamental stone pineapple falling from a door lintel ought to be comical, but when it crashes into the back of a heroically foolish man – even one who has ignored explicit instructions to wait for the signal to attack – that, too, is disturbing.

  Mrs McLelland had flinched as the knife struck her, and her shot had gone high, blasting the window above the door and dislodging the aforementioned ornamental pineapple. She was a game girl, though, and was already steadying herself for her second shot as I leapt up and charged towards her.

  She didn’t manage to level the gun before I cannoned into her, but she did manage to kick the rickety stool to one side. As I attempted to wrest the shotgun from Mrs McLelland’s grasp, Mrs Beddows screamed, fell, and then silently kicked as the rope tightened around her neck.

  I decided that I’d rather the heavy shotgun were only useful as a club, so as soon as I was sure it was pointed safely away from any of Mrs Beddows’s would-be rescuers, I squeezed Mrs McLelland’s trigger finger and forced her to fire it harmlessly against the wall. Harmlessly for us, at least. It proved to be Mrs McLelland’s undoing.

  Unbalanced by the recoil from the gun, she was easy to topple. An elbow here, a knee there, and a well-placed boot just so, and she was lying on the floor, disarmed and choking.

  I was finally able to turn my attention to saving Mrs Beddows, but that urgent matter was already well in hand.

  First to the scene had been, of all people, Betty Buffrey. Somehow, she had managed to get underneath her erstwhile employer and was supporting her on her shoulders. While Betty held her aloft like some victorious sportswoman, Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus worked to untie the rope, which had been thrown over a roof beam and secured to a sturdy sconce embedded in the stone wall.

  Lord Riddlethorpe was doing his best to steady Mrs Beddows as she swayed on Betty’s shoulders.

  Mr Waterford was out cold on the steps, but seemed to be breathing.

  At last, Miss Titmus managed to loosen the knot, and between them they laid Mrs Beddows on the stone floor, where they untied her wrists and comforted her as she began to weep uncontrollably.

  Lady Hardcastle brought me the rope, and we secured Mrs McLelland. I left the knife in her arm. It’s dangerous to remove a knife without medical supervision. And it would hurt like blazes if we left it there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It took two trips to get the wounded and the prisoner back to the house. Betty and Miss Titmus had accompanied Mrs Beddows (shaken and wheezing) and Mr Waterford (conscious but woozy). Lady Hardcastle and I had waited with Mrs McLelland (alternately angry and snivelling).

  Dr Edling arrived from Riddlethorpe shortly after we had unloaded the still-bound Mrs McLelland from the back of the Rolls-Royce. Lord Riddlethorpe directed him to take care of Mrs Beddows first.

  ‘French military doctors have a word, my lord: triage. It’s the name for the way we assess and prioritize the wounded for treatment. Your housekeeper’s wound is more urgently in need of attention than your guests’.’

  ‘The French have a great many wonderful words, Doctor,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Do they have one to describe the lack of concern a householder might have for the woman who has just tried to murder one of his sister’s oldest friends? It’s a rather specific situation, I grant you, so perhaps they do not. Treat Mrs Beddows first, then Mr Waterford. When they’re both settled, you may see to the moaning wretch in the corner.’

  ‘At least let me make her comfortable, my lord. You w
ouldn’t treat a dog this way.’

  ‘If a dog had tried to kill one of my friends, Dr Edling, I would have shot it. Suffering is good for the immortal soul, and hers needs as much help as it can get. Treat my friends.’

  With an almost theatrical display of reluctance, the doctor did as he was told.

  Mrs Beddows was pronounced free of any lasting damage. Her throat was badly bruised and there were abrasions on her wrists from the cord that had bound them, but ‘it could have been worse, old thing, what?’, as Uncle Algy said later. She was prescribed a sedative and told to rest, but she insisted on staying downstairs so as not to miss anything.

  The falling stone pineapple had only struck Mr Waterford a glancing blow, but it had bruised his back rather badly. The stone step that rose rapidly to meet him as he fell had raised a lump on his forehead to rival the bump on my own. It had also knocked him out cold for a while, but he, too, was pronounced fit for active duty.

  ‘You’ll have a sore head for a few days,’ said Dr Edling. ‘If you feel confused or giddy, or if you feel at all queasy, call me at once. But you should be as right as rain in no time.’

  He moved on to Mrs McLelland.

  ‘What manner of knife is this?’ he asked as he examined her forearm.

  ‘A fruit knife,’ I said. ‘Drop point blade, about two inches long. Not well balanced, but not really designed for throwing, anyway. Looks like it passed straight between the radius and the ulna. Good shot, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘You threw this?’ he said. ‘It’s buried to the handle.’

  ‘My father taught me,’ I said.

  ‘You could have severed an artery. This was most reckless. Very reckless indeed.’

  ‘It was that, or let her shoot one of us,’ I said. ‘Sometimes, one weighs up the risks and a madwoman gets a knife in the arm. Looks like I missed all the arteries, though – she’d have bled to death by now.’

  He glared at me, but he was forced to concede that I was right. He gave her a shot of morphia, and patiently eased the knife from her arm. As he was dressing the wound, the doorbell rang.