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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ I said, and I put the earpiece down on the table.

  I found Lady Hardcastle in the study.

  ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  I went upstairs and began unpacking.

  An hour later, I’d put away everything that could be put away, and had presented Edna with a large pile of laundry.

  ‘I’m not sayin’ as I minds, dear,’ she said. ‘But you’d-a thought a big house like that would offer to do some laundry for their guests, wouldn’t you? They’ve got the staff for it, a’n’t they?’

  ‘They have, and they did,’ I said. ‘This is just the stuff that we couldn’t get done before we left. It’s only a couple of days’ worth.’

  She shook her head disbelievingly. ‘She don’t wear this many clothes at home,’ she said. ‘How many times a day was she changin’?’

  ‘At least three outfits a day,’ I said. ‘Usually four or five. It’s a tough life among the toffs.’

  She laughed. ‘We don’t know the half of it, do we? The worst we has to think about is workin’ our fingers to the bone from dawn till dusk. We should think ourselves lucky we only has one dress each to worry about.’

  I decided it would sour the mood to mention that she only worked half-days, and that I’d often seen her out in a variety of rather nice dresses. Instead, I chuckled politely and went to see if Lady Hardcastle needed anything.

  ‘Ah, Flo, there you are,’ she said when I finally tracked her down in her studio in the orangery. ‘I was thinking of coming to find you. Do you have any plans for this evening?’

  ‘I was thinking of collapsing in the drawing room with some of your best brandy and an improving book,’ I said.

  ‘Then you shall have to send your apologies to the decanter and the bookshelves,’ she said. ‘Tonight, we dine with the Farley-Strouds.’

  ‘Both of us again?’

  ‘Both of us. Gertrude has learned of our return and is keen to hear our tales.’

  ‘News travels as fast as ever.’

  ‘I suspect it was your telegram to Edna that alerted the entire village. As for our having tales to tell, it seems we made the newspapers.’

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ I said. ‘I know Lord Riddlethorpe was keen to minimize the scandal, but he was never going to keep the press away from a story like that.’

  ‘Well, quite. And in return for supper and a raid on their wine cellar, Gertrude expects a first-hand account.’

  ‘Will Sir Hector also want a solution to his go-cart mystery? What are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘I’ve had the solution to that since Thursday. Simple, really, and yet ingenious and fascinating at the same time.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, dear. You heard the answer as clearly as I did. You’ll just have to wait until dinner.’

  ‘They’ll never find your body,’ I said. ‘You’ll just disappear one day. “Where’s Lady Hardcastle?” they’ll say. “I’ve no idea,” I’ll say. “She didn’t even leave a note. But she always was a little peculiar.” “Yes,” they’ll say. “A very odd fish. Still, good luck. Let us know if she contacts you, won’t you.” And that will be that.’

  ‘You’re quite frightening sometimes, dear. Is there any coffee?’

  There was something comforting about the unfashionable shabbiness of the Farley-Strouds’ home after the classic elegance of Codrington Hall. Where Lord Riddlethorpe’s furniture had been in the family for generations, Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud had had to furnish their home from scratch when they returned unexpectedly from India. They had a few family pieces, but most had been purchased brand new thirty years ago. Where Lord Riddlethorpe’s furniture was old, the Farley-Strouds’ was merely old-fashioned. Some items would be rare and valuable antiques in a hundred years, but for now they were just out of date. And I liked it like that. Theirs was a home, not a museum with bedrooms.

  ‘Bring your drinks through to the dining room,’ said Sir Hector when Jenkins announced that dinner was served. ‘Pretty certain it would make a sommelier faint, but I always find that gin goes with everything, what?’

  We entered the dining room. Mrs Brown had done herself proud again, and the meal was wonderful. Jenkins had done well with his wine choices, too, and my gin and tonic was forgotten as I indulged my palate with the clever combinations of food and wine through five delicious courses.

  With less than her customary level of embellishment, Lady Hardcastle recounted the events of the past week. With less than their customary level of interruption, Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud hung upon her every word.

  ‘I say!’ said Lady Farley-Stroud when the tale was done. ‘Emily, you do live a far more exciting life than we. And how lucky your friends are that you were there. It doesn’t do to think of what that dreadful woman might have done if you hadn’t been there to stop her. That’s why we never have attractive young women working at The Grange, dear. They’d never be able to resist Hector. Trouble waiting to happen.’

  I declined to mention Dora, the extremely attractive young housemaid. Sir Hector’s look of bewildered pride that anyone might find him a temptation was a treat.

  ‘Very wise,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And how has everything been here while we’ve been away? How’s your cart coming along, Hector?’

  ‘Slow goin’, m’dear,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Tryin’ my damnedest to keep it secret from Jimmy. Makes it hard to get anything done. Poor Bert is tryin’ to work in secret, but without knowin’ how Jimmy’s cheatin’, we can’t take too many chances.’

  ‘I think I can help you there,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘You can? I thought you’d have been far too busy tryin’ to catch murderers to give any thought to my little problems.’

  ‘I can, indeed. I think you said that Jimmy races pigeons.’

  ‘He does, yes. Got a few little beauties. Champions. Races ’em all over the country.’

  ‘And what exactly does a pigeon race entail?’

  ‘You take all the birds off to a spot miles from home, and the first bird to get back to its owner is the winner. Simple enough. Damn clever birds, pigeons.’

  ‘They are,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘They have an uncanny knack for flying home. No one knows how they do it.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ he said.

  ‘Now, my new friend Helen Titmus – charming woman, by the way – takes the most exquisite photographs. She’s setting up a business. You should get her to photograph the house. And the family. How is dear Clarissa? And her new husband . . . ? Adam, that’s it. How are they? Are you feeling better about it all now?’

  ‘It was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Especially after the business with the Seddon boy. But they do seem happy. And she’s expecting their first child in February. Telephoned the other day.’

  ‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What wonderful news. Congratulations, Grandmama.’

  Lady Farley-Stroud beamed proudly. Sir Hector’s pleasure was slightly dimmed by his frustration at having his explanation interrupted.

  ‘Knows a lot about pigeons, then, this Helen Titmouse of yours?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Hector, I’m sorry. I do get distracted. But it’s wonderful news, don’t you think? Your first grandchild?’

  ‘Spiffin’,’ he said. ‘As long as it doesn’t inherit its father’s looks, it’ll be fine. Or its father’s brains. Or its mother’s brains, for that matter.’

  ‘Hector!’ said Lady Farley-Stroud in her sternest voice.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Couple of buffleheads, the pair of them. I’ll bet your Helen Titmouse isn’t a bufflehead.’

  ‘Titmus, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And no, she’s as sharp as a hedgehog’s overcoat, that one.’

  ‘And she solved my riddle?’ he persisted. He really was a patient old chap. I was on the verge of snocking her one.

  ‘Not
quite, dear,’ she said, and he almost sighed. ‘But she did tell me about a gadget invented by some German fellow. She was quite excited about it. She showed me an article in a magazine.’

  Sir Hector raised his bushy eyebrows expectantly.

  ‘I rather think that your pal Jimmy has made himself a pigeon camera.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘This German chap, I forget his name. Neubronner, or some such. He was using pigeons to deliver medicine, and he thought, “I know what. If I put a camera on the pigeon instead of the medicine, it will photograph whatever it flies over. Wouldn’t that be splendid?” So he did.’

  ‘And you think Jimmy has done somethin’ like that?’ said Sir Hector.

  ‘It all fits. It’s impractical, it’s convoluted, it’s extremely silly, and it suits your pal Jimmy down to the ground.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll say. So what does he do?’

  ‘Well, the pigeons always fly straight home. He just has to take the camera-bird to some spot out in the country, a place where your house is on the route home, and let it go. Flap-flap goes friend pigeon, fluttering homeward. As it flies over your stable yard, snap-snap goes the camera, and Jimmy has photographs of what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Preposterous,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Sir Hector. ‘I’ll get Bert to put up a tarpaulin or somethin’, so the blighter can’t see into the yard. We’ll beat him, by George. We’ll beat him yet.’

  The race took place a couple of weeks later, on the last Sunday in September. As promised, Sir Hector had invited a number of friends, and quite a few villagers had also turned out to join in the fun.

  ‘Why didn’t we know about this?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we walked past the onlookers. ‘It seems as though most of Littleton Cotterell and more than half of Woodworthy are here. It’s quite the local festival.’

  ‘You were indisposed this time last year,’ I said. ‘Bullet in the belly.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Yes, that would account for our absence.’

  The course ran from the gates of The Grange, down the hill and into Littleton, with the finishing line just beside the village green. There was a festival atmosphere on the green. Holman the baker and Spratt the butcher had set up stalls to supply the crowd with food, while Old Joe from the Dog and Duck was selling beer and cider from a table outside the pub.

  The crowds thinned out as we climbed the hill, with little knots of onlookers on the more dangerous-looking bends. The Farley-Strouds’ friends were gathering on the lawn in front of The Grange.

  ‘What ho, Emily, old girl,’ said Sir Hector as we walked through the gates.

  ‘Don’t call her that, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘She’s easily half your age.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Term of affection, what?’ said Sir Hector, as unfazed as ever by his wife’s remonstrations. Lady Farley-Stroud left to welcome some newcomers.

  ‘How go the plans?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Is your wingèd chariot fully fettled and poised for victory?’

  ‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Not seen Jimmy’s go-cart yet, mind you. It’s over there on that wagon. Covered up.’

  He pointed down the drive to where a delivery cart stood, its horse munching contentedly in a nosebag. A tarpaulin covered its cargo.

  ‘Must say, though,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t seem his usual cocksure self. Might be in with a chance this time.’

  Dora the housemaid was circulating with a tray of drinks. She offered one to Lady Hardcastle, and made to walk off. Lady Farley-Stroud strode over and called her back.

  ‘I think Miss Armstrong needs one of those, Dora,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘But there’s really no need.’

  ‘Nonsense, m’girl. Don’t remember my history lessons too well, but I’m sure the gladiators got a tot of something before going into battle.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’

  ‘What? Has Hector not asked you yet? He’s a buffer, he really is. Hector!’

  ‘What, dear?’ said Sir Hector.

  ‘I thought you were going to ask Miss Armstrong something.’

  ‘I was, dear. Just getting round to it. Give a chap a chance.’

  ‘Ask me what, sir?’ I said.

  ‘Well, you see, m’dear, the thing is, Jimmy and I aren’t nearly so young as we once were, so we’ve had to change the rules a bit this year. We used to race the go-carts ourselves, but at our age . . . You know how it is. Reactions not what they used to be. Joints not what they used to be, either. Eyesight’s a bit shabby, too, to tell the truth. So this year, we decided we ought to nominate someone to drive for us. A champion, d’you see?’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘And I chose you. Spoke to Emily about it. She said you were disappointed you couldn’t drive the racin’ car at her pal’s place. So we thought this would be the next best thing.’

  ‘Oh, Sir Hector, that’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘But I’m not dressed for it.’ I indicated my uniform.

  ‘We thought of that,’ he said. ‘See the memsahib and she’ll kit you out in some overalls. Might be a bit big for you, but I’m sure everything will roll up. Will you do it?’

  ‘I’d be honoured, Sir Hector,’ I said.

  Jimmy Amersham had picked a young lad from Woodworthy as his champion. They both smirked when they saw me in my ill-fitting overalls, battered leather helmet, and goggles. Their smirks faded when Bert and Sir Hector wheeled the go-cart out of the old stable yard and onto the drive beside Jimmy’s horse-drawn wagon.

  I didn’t know much about the mechanics of wheeled vehicles, but I could tell that there was something clever about Sir Hector’s go-cart. The shell was of beaten tin, and looked sleek and modern, of course. But there was something going on with the wheels. They weren’t the wobbly wheels that kids pinched from abandoned prams; they were sturdy, with thick tyres. And the chassis looked like something Mr Waterford would have designed for one of Lord Riddlethorpe’s racing cars.

  ‘What do you think, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘D’you think I’ve got a chance this year?’

  ‘Never give up hope, m’boy,’ said Jimmy, with a great deal more cheer than his expression might have predicted.

  ‘Let’s see whatcha got, then,’ said Sir Hector, who was clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

  Reluctantly, Jimmy and the village lad manoeuvred a couple of planks to serve as a ramp at the back of the wagon. They lifted the tarpaulin to reveal their go-cart. Superficially, it appeared very similar. The hammered tin shell was suitably modern, and just different enough from Sir Hector’s so as not to be a direct copy. It was obvious where its inspiration had come from, though. The real differences were in the wheels and the chassis. Jimmy had used much thinner wheels mounted on a much flimsier frame.

  ‘We tried somethin’ like that a month or so ago,’ said Sir Hector with a grin. ‘Had to abandon it. Wheels kept comin’ off.’

  Jimmy was not best pleased.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘Did my pigeon-proofin’ spoil your spyin’?’

  ‘Put the kibosh on it good and proper,’ said Jimmy ruefully.

  ‘Put up a tarpaulin to stop your camera pigeons seein’ into the yard.’

  Jimmy laughed delightedly. ‘You cunning old buffer. How on earth did you fathom that? I thought we’d definitely got you on that one. Pal of mine put me on to it. You remember Tug Wilson? Commanded the HMS Whatchamacallit. Lives in Cheltenham now. He read about it in some journal or other and thought it would be just the job for beating you.’ He chuckled. ‘Ah well,’ he said at length. ‘Cheats never whatnot, and all that. Can’t be helped. You tumbled me, then?’

  ‘Knew somethin’ was up when you kept beatin’ me. M’friend Emily suggested camera pigeons, so we put up the tarpaulin.’

  ‘She’s a we
e bit too clever, your pal,’ said Jimmy. ‘Cleverer than Tug and me, at any rate. Come on, then, old boy, shall we race?’

  ‘We can’t let our public down, old chap. Are you ready, drivers?’

  We nodded.

  The rules were simple. We started on opposite sides of the road. We were to be given a shove to get us going. If we came off the road, we were allowed to enjoin such spectators as were willing to help get us going again.

  I sat in the cart and waited for the starter’s signal. The steering seemed simple enough, as did the brakes. I thought of poor Ellis Dawkins, and double-checked that everything was properly connected. The starter raised his flag. We were off.

  A heavy cart is a fast cart in gravity racing, and the substantial farm lad in Jimmy’s go-cart should have had the advantage. Fortunately, my own diminutive size was offset by the bulk of the chassis that Sir Hector and Bert had built. We were neck and neck as we arrived at the first bend, but that was where Sir Hector’s new design really came into its own. My opponent forced me to the outside of the turn, but even so, I managed to keep pace with him. His wheels looked a little shaky, but mine were firmly planted, guiding me exactly where I pointed them.

  I gained a little ground on the straight, but it was the next bend that saw his undoing. I was on the inside as we approached, and had confidence enough in my little machine that I decided not to brake. John had begun to slow on the approach, but when he saw that I wasn’t bothering, he laid off the brakes, and we both hit the bend at full pelt.

  I took it easily, holding my line as the little go-cart shot round the curve. John wasn’t so lucky. Despite his brave efforts, he couldn’t control the cart, and biffed sideways into the hedge. A barrage of colourful curses was followed by urgent entreaties to the assembled crowd to give him a push. And what a mighty push they gave him.

  I could hear him thundering up behind me as we neared the home straight. One last little bend and we’d be home. But he was gaining. The push had really given him an extra burst of speed, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see his front wheel drawing level with my back wheel.