A Witness to Murder: An unputdownable cozy murder mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 3)

by Verity Bright

  In the breakfast room, she lifted each of the three silver-topped salvers on the sideboard: sausages, eggs, scalloped potatoes and toast. Just what was needed to get the brain going to separate genuine clues from ill-founded gossip and hearsay.

  A hesitant tap sounded at the door.

  ‘Come in, Polly.’

  The maid shouldered the door open and wobbled in, red-faced and breathless, bearing a tray with another salver and two round silver pots. The spoons that had left the kitchen smartly set in the pots now seesawed on the rims, threatening to flick a mess of sauce everywhere.

  Eleanor blanched. ‘Good gracious, Polly! Did you trip on the way here?’

  ‘No, your ladyship, I’m as right as sunshine, thank you.’

  ‘Rain, Polly.’

  ‘Oh, your ladyship, that will be a shame. Rain today, is it? Mind, Mr Wendon will be chuffed, he said the flowers is crying out for a drink.’

  ‘No, Polly, the expression you were looking for is… anyway, it doesn’t matter. What have you got there?’

  The young girl slid the tray awkwardly onto the sideboard.

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. ‘More sausages! Is Gladstone planning on joining me for breakfast?’

  Polly looked confused. ‘Beg pardon, your ladyship, but Mrs Butters said most definitely he was to stay in his basket. He’s snoring by the range, burning his nose again, I shouldn’t wonder. He doesn’t like it when we ties a cold compress on, but he won’t learn.’

  Suddenly the young girl clammed up, her hand over her mouth. Between her fingers, she whispered, ‘I got it wrong again, didn’t I? Why do I always forget?’ Banging her forehead with each word, she finished with, ‘Not. Allowed. To. Chat. To. Her. Ladyship!’

  Eleanor jumped up from the table and put her arm around the young girl. ‘Of course you’re allowed to talk to me, Polly. After all, I asked you a question, didn’t I?’

  Polly looked up, relieved, but she still gave a long, loud sniff. ‘’Tis confusing, your ladyship. I’m trying to follow the upstairs–downstairs rules, honest.’ She bobbed a curtsey and scuttled from the room.

  ‘So am I, Polly,’ Eleanor said softly after her.

  Having decided to cycle, the buffeting wind made hard work of the few miles into the village, despite it being downhill almost all the way. It did, however, burn up a fair proportion of the enormous breakfast Eleanor had eaten and the views of the valley, in its full autumnal glory, made it worthwhile.

  As she entered the tiny high street, she let out a groan. How had she ended up trying to further women’s rights and at the same time trying to solve a murder? The only bright spot was that after the revelations about Lady Farrington forcing the servants to lie and the disappearance of the leftover fudge, she and Clifford were both convinced of Mrs Pitkin’s innocence. And, conversely, sure of the guilt of one of the guests around that table. Guests and hosts, Eleanor reminded herself.

  Despite it being Thursday, Clifford’s day off, he’d offered to help her campaign in Little Buckford. Much as she appreciated his offer and his unwavering loyalty and support, she didn’t relish the idea of anyone peering over her shoulder as she attempted her first campaign.

  She resolved to sound out a few villagers’ political allegiances before weaving in some artful questions about Aris’ death. And Carlton’s possible motive for killing him. Even though she still needed to go through the rest of the guest list with Clifford, the two men rowing in public was at the forefront of her mind.

  She paused by the village green, clutching at her lucky emerald scarf as it threatened to blow off across the county.

  Not that she thought she needed luck. Everyone knew her in Little Buckford, so were bound to support her stand. At least, that was the reason she’d given Clifford when she’d told him to meet her in two hours and they’d go together to tackle Chipstone. A town like Chipstone was likely to be a very different proposition to Little Buckford.

  She glanced at the pamphlet in her, now properly repaired, basket. Miss Mann had given her some literature to ensure she was prepared, but Eleanor’s eyes had glazed over on reading. She wasn’t convinced she could use any of it and sound, well, natural, or genuine. Or yourself, Ellie.

  She tutted aloud and shook her head. No matter, she was resourceful and determined. And she was genuine. Women deserved help and here she was, charging to the front to champion their cause. Miss Mann had arranged for her to attend the next meeting of the Women’s League, where they would discuss her standing. But as it wasn’t for a few days, Eleanor had foolishly, she now thought, insisted she’d be fine starting the campaign ball rolling on her own. Oh, Ellie, you and your big mouth!

  Pulling out her uncle’s fob watch, she calculated that the good village folk would shortly stop gossiping on their doorsteps and come into town to gossip on someone else’s. That would give her a captive audience. Small village life had taught her one thing: local news was spread by the village drums and gossip fuelled those drums like lit paraffin.

  She would simply inform the villagers she was standing as an independent candidate with the backing of the Women’s League. Then they would spread the word of her noble stand for women’s equality and those other bits in the literature she’d hopefully remember to tell them.

  Before she could decide whether to start at the nearest or furthest end of the high street, a waving hand distracted her.

  Eleanor waved back and the Reverend Gaskill, vicar of the local St Winifred’s Church, joined her.

  After exchanging some general chit-chat, Eleanor felt confident enough to broach the subject of her campaigning.

  ‘Reverend, I have something terribly exciting to share with you.’

  She announced her news with a flourish. Strangely, Reverend Gaskill seemed oddly underwhelmed.

  ‘Oh dear, dear, that is rather surprising.’ His tone suggested to her he really meant ‘disappointing’. He stared at the ground, shuffling his feet. ‘The thing is, Lady Swift, I am not convinced that forming divisions under political parties, or gender, will ever result in a great many good deeds being done.’

  Eleanor was taken aback. ‘But that’s exactly the opposite of what the Women’s League is trying to achieve. We want to unite, not divide. I rather thought I might count on your vote?’

  Reverend Gaskill gently shook his head. ‘Gracious, no! I am a vicar, dear lady. Surely you remember Romans 13, verses 1–7? “For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God”. Dear, dear! I shan’t be voting, merely praying that the best man, or woman, wins because he has an honest heart.’

  ‘Let’s hope that is the case, Reverend. Poor Mr Aris certainly seemed to have won the local people’s support.’

  ‘God rest his soul.’ Reverend Gaskell shook his head. ‘A fine example of compassion and generosity he was and, now, a great loss to us all.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Yes, he was one of the St Swithun’s flock. He was always willing to help those less fortunate than himself when the opportunity arose. I was delighted that he chose to celebrate something of a recent prosperity that came his way with our orphans’ fund. So kind! Good day, Lady Swift.’

  Determined not to be deflated by this early setback, Eleanor walked her bicycle to the first shop in the high street. As she walked, she wondered if Aris’ recent prosperity had played any part in his murder. Was it a payment from Lord Farrington for Aris pushing for this housing development to be built on his land?

  Through the open door of Brenchley’s Stores she could see a positive hubbub of people: the perfect audience.

  Walking towards the counter, she offered a cheery wave. ‘Mr Brenchley, an extra-fine good morning to you.’

  ‘Lady Swift, you seem in particularly fine spirits. How can I help?’

  ‘Actually, Mr Brenchley,’ she let her voice carry further round the shop, ‘I come with a request that you might further your already superb services to our wonderful community by displaying th
is poster.’

  Brenchley smiled. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. What event is it you’re holding?’

  From behind the shelves off to the right, Eleanor heard twittering voices and just caught a whispered, ‘Ooh, a garden party up at the Hall!’

  Wrong… but not a bad idea if, no, when, she’d won. She made a mental note to file that away for later.

  ‘Actually, Mr Brenchley, I am standing in the election as an independent. I hope to further the excellent work started by poor Mr Aris.’ She faltered for a second, then gathered her courage again. Facing deadly predators in the bush was a lot less nerve-racking than this! ‘So… so, yes, I would be most grateful if you could display this poster alerting people to the, er… exciting news.’

  Brenchley appeared flummoxed. So flummoxed, in fact, that he failed to move his arm sufficiently to take the poster.

  ‘Gracious, I…’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Lady Swift…’ He tailed off again. Beside him, his son John had appeared, unnoticed, and stood staring at the floor.

  A shadow crossed her brow. ‘Is something wrong?’

  He shot a look at his son and then shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his shopkeeper’s overcoat. ‘With apologies, my lady, I always remain neutral during the election season. It pays to stay out of such matters in my business. I am sorry.’

  ‘But if you were to display the campaign materials from any party who asked, that would be fair, wouldn’t it?’

  He sighed. ‘My sincere apologies again, it is not a battle I wish to saddle my horse for.’

  Eleanor was stunned, but quickly accepted this was just another hurdle to triumph over. She smiled warmly. ‘No matter, I understand your position. Shame, though, as I wanted to let all the ladies of our community, such as your dear wife, know they can rely on me in their fight for equality.’

  This drew a collective sharp intake of breath.

  A voice called from the door. ‘Lady Swift? Forgive my intruding on your audience, but I like to be abreast of political matters.’

  Eleanor stared at the woman, struggling to place her, although there was something familiar about her. Was this another case of everyone knowing who Eleanor was and yet she knew very few of her fellow villagers? Dash it, still the new girl in town! Aha! That thought sparked her memory. She took in the woman’s sensible navy cotton long-sleeved dress, thick white hair in a neat bun and round spectacles.

  ‘Mrs Linscombe!’ she said cheerily. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Luscombe. And sufficiently well, thank you, although I am potentially perturbed by someone waging a war on my behalf, without my knowledge or agreement.’ Her last words blew a chill through the shop.

  Eleanor kept smiling. ‘No one mentioned war, Mrs Luscombe. Let me explain… The Women’s League have asked me to stand, and should I be successful, I shall also take the opportunity to further the rights of women, not just locally, but nationally.’

  Mrs Luscombe’s lips set in a firm line. ‘Really? And have you asked the ladies of our happy community if they are seeking “equality”? Because I think you’ll find that we are very content with things the way they are.’ A tight-lipped smile flashed across Mrs Luscombe’s face. ‘Lady Swift, I’m sure Mr Brenchley won’t mind if the ladies let you hear their views right now?’

  Eleanor fought the urge to turn and run. She repeated the mantra her father used to say to her whenever she was faced with an unfamiliar creature in whatever exotic country or island on which they were currently stationed: ‘Come on, Ellie, it’s more afraid of you than you are of it.’

  Eleanor glanced at Brenchley, who had the look of a terrified rabbit outnumbered by a pride of hungry lions. That had been the problem with her father’s advice once she’d arrived in South Africa. Most of the creatures inhabiting that country were definitely NOT more afraid of her than she was of them. Brenchley returned her gaze with a sympathetic shrug of his eyebrows, then turned to Mrs Luscombe and held up his hands: ‘Go ahead, ladies.’

  Mrs Luscombe pointed to two of the other ladies in the shop. ‘Mrs Jenkins, Mrs Browne, would you like the opportunity to go to work from seven in the morning until eight at night, as your husbands do? And perhaps have them stay at home and raise the children and keep the house?’

  ‘Mercy, no!’ they chorused. The plumper of the two blushed as she nudged her friend in the ribs. ‘Can you imagine the mess, Ida? The chaos?’ A collective shudder ran through the assembled throng.

  Eleanor tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. ‘Well, that is just one example. Let’s start with you all having the right to vote at twenty-one like men. Why should you wait until you’re thirty to have your say?’

  From behind her, Eleanor heard a throat being cleared. ‘No disrespect, Lady Swift, I might have the vote now, but I’ve no time for wading through the newspaper when I’ve a home and family to see to. And most young ’uns trying to bring up a family don’t either.’ This brought a round of vociferous nodding. ‘I rely on my Tom to tell me what I need to know. If I vote, he’ll let me know who to vote for.’

  General hubbub of agreement and disbelieving cries broke out at the thought of any married woman voting differently from her husband. The consensus was summed up by a middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and soft brown curls under her grey felt hat. ‘First nugget of peaceful times and we’re looking to start a war between us and our menfolk!’

  Eleanor had heard enough. That was the second mention of war. Even she recognised when it was time to retreat. ‘Thank you, ladies! And you, Mr Brenchley, for the kind usage of your marvellous shop for our enlightening discussion, I really am most grateful. If anyone has any questions or would like to discuss any, er, issues, you all know where to find me.’

  Pausing only long enough to nod to Mrs Luscombe, Eleanor escaped out into the fresh air, ignoring the riotous clamouring that broke out behind her.

  Well, she conceded to herself, the villagers were a little more traditional in their opinions than she’d assumed. This afternoon, with Clifford, she would likely fare better in the bustling metropolis of Chipstone, surely more radical territory?

  That Chipstone was a small market town, inhabited by folk with much the same mentality as Little Buckford, Eleanor chose to ignore. After all, her only other option was quitting, and she had no intention of letting herself, or the Women’s League, down.

  Or Mother and Father, Ellie.

  Eleven

  It felt good to have someone with her this time, Eleanor admitted to herself. Nothing wrong with fancying a bit of sympathetic company when campaigning and solving a murder. She peered sideways at Clifford at the wheel, his impeccably brushed bowler hat almost touching the headlining of the Rolls.

  He broke into her thoughts: ‘Where shall we start, do you propose, my lady?’

  Cheered by the ‘we’ in his question, she opened her mouth and then stared out of the window with the realisation that she had set off without a plan, again. She had only visited Chipstone in the past to get items she couldn’t buy in Little Buckford. Oh, and to visit the fabulous Winsomes Tea Rooms with its award-winning fruitcake. Making a mental note to reward her and Clifford with several slices once they’d won the town over, she weighed up her options.

  She knew no one except the local police, who she’d recently accused (rightly) of corruption, and a gang of urchins not old enough to vote, neither an excellent starting point. So, stop people in the street? Clifford knew almost everybody, but she couldn’t fall back on him too much. After all, she was the candidate. She needed to present herself front and centre. So, Ellie, approach those with a prominent window to display a poster? Or ease in and drop a few leaflets through letterboxes?

  ‘How about we start at the far end, Clifford? I’ll take the left side of the street and you take the right?’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Once parked, with a respectful lift of his bowler hat, Clifford crossed the road with a neat sheaf of leaflets in his leather-gloved hand.
/>   Right, who will be your first target, Ellie?

  To her left, a puff of pipe smoke billowed out from a moustached, elderly gentleman in a heavily-decorated military uniform. He was leaning on a walking stick and given his advanced years, she concluded he was unlikely to be sympathetic to her cause. In any case, she’d have to bellow into the ear trumpet hanging from a leather strap on his shoulder. Not the best way to ease in.

  Looking at the first row of shops, Eleanor decided that the watch mender, the cobbler and the china emporium were as good a set of places to start as anywhere. But then a sign down a side alley caught her eye: Reading Room. All Welcome.

  Of course, that’s where the enlightened types will hang out, Ellie.

  A few minutes later, as she moved on to the next shop, she saw the woman ripping the leaflets up and dropping them into the wastepaper basket by her desk.

  Needing a fresh approach, Eleanor paused by the watchmakers. Perhaps she’d do better if she played down her involvement? Now that was a plan! Distribute the campaigning literature without highlighting the fact that the Women’s League had clearly lost their minds in proposing her as a candidate. She looked across at Clifford as he doffed his hat to a group of ladies on the opposite pavement. Perhaps she ought to send him back to the Rolls?

  You’re not quite feeling that brave yet, Ellie!

  Instead, she stepped into the watchmakers and beamed a hearty ‘Good morning!’

  ‘Supposed to cloud over presently and rain soon enough, though,’ came the reply. ‘With you in a moment.’ White hair and wrinkles topped off the extraordinarily large spectacles on the near-fossilised face that appeared. As he parted the curtain partitioning the front of the shop from the rear, it revealed a poster for the Labour Party filling the entire wall behind him. ‘Yes, miss?’

  She stared at the badge he sported on his apron: ‘Vote Labour’.