A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  ‘They’re the ones from the moving picture show?’ asked Mr Weakley, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change back to the original topic.

  ‘That’s them, yes,’ I said. ‘Lady Hardcastle stepped into the breach and they’re staying at . . . ’ I was once again struck by the fact that the house had no name. ‘. . . at the house,’ I concluded limply.

  ‘Well, you just leave this with me, miss, and I’ll get the boy to deliver it as soon as possible.’

  I left him clucking over his good fortune and wondering if he had enough potatoes and carrots.

  Mr Holman, the baker, was similarly chuffed with the extra business and offered me a deal on his famous pork pies. I accepted, of course, and he wrapped them for me while making promises about the early delivery of all our other needs.

  Mrs Pantry, the general grocer, was as sour as ever and managed to make the sale of many shillings’ worth of goods (which she otherwise would definitely not have sold) seem like the most dreadful inconvenience.

  It was with some relief, then, that I made my final call of the morning. I was always afforded a reassuringly warm welcome at the sawdust-strewn shop of F Spratt, Butcher.

  Even the bell above the door – which I’m sure came from exactly the same factory in the Midlands as Mrs Pantry’s – seemed to give a more cheerful tinkle as I entered.

  The Spratt family were in full attendance.

  Mr Spratt looked every inch the butcher in his blood-stained apron, and most of those inches were round his middle. His face lit up when he saw me. I like to imagine that it was just for me, but I rather suspected that he was pleased to see everyone.

  ‘Good mornin’, m’dear,’ he said as he put down his huge knife and wiped his hands on the cloth that hung from his apron string. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Spratt,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely to see you, too.’

  Mrs Spratt was tying a package for delivery. Her chubby fingers were surprisingly nimble and she had the meat wrapped more quickly than I could ever have managed. ‘Call ’im Fred, my lover,’ she said as she put the package to one side. ‘Everyone does. “Mr Spratt” sounds far too grand for a great lummox like him.’

  ‘I calls him “our dad”,’ said Daisy. ‘So does Wilf.’ Wilf was Daisy’s older brother. He was a junior rating in the Royal Navy and I’d never met him but the whole family was proud of him.

  ‘But Miss Armstrong can’t call him “our dad” because he’s not her dad,’ said Mrs Spratt. ‘Anyway, ignore Daisy, she’s all of a tizzy because this Cheetham fella and his – what did you call ’em, Dais? His troupe? – they’s all coming to the village.’

  ‘Is that right, Daisy?’ I said. ‘Then you’re going to love my news.’

  Daisy looked up from the ledger where she was carefully totting up her father’s takings.

  ‘They’re staying with us,’ I said.

  ‘They’s never!’ she said. ‘That’s so excitin’. I don’t suppose you needs an extra maid? I could do the books. Or sommat. I won’t get in the way. I’d love to meet ’em. Introduce me.’

  I laughed. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to put in a good word for you? I might be able to get you a part in his next picture.’

  She all but swooned. ‘Wouldn’t that be the best thing that ever was, though? Me . . . in a picture . . . ’

  ‘You’ve been in a picture before, my love,’ said Mrs Spratt.

  ‘What, that bloke down at Weston?’ said Daisy.

  ‘’S right.’ Mrs Spratt turned to me. ‘Few years ago it was, mind. We all went down to Weston-super-Mare on the train. A proper village outin’ it was. And while we was there, we saw this bloke with one o’ they cameras, like. You know . . . ’ She mimed cranking the handle on the side of a moving picture camera. ‘We larked about when he pointed it at us – dancin’ and that. Then his assistant comes over and gives us these flyers sayin’ that if we comes along to a church hall off the promenade at four in the afternoon, we could see ourselves.’

  ‘Course,’ said Mr Spratt, ‘we could’a seen ourselves anyway, just by lookin’. Not like we was difficult to spot, all paradin’ up and down in our Sunday Best.’

  ‘So anyway,’ continued Mrs Spratt, undeterred, ‘a few of us troops along to this church hall they was on about, pays our ha’penny each, and sits down. Afore long, in comes the bloke we seen with the camera. He sets up this magic lantern thing and starts turnin’ the handle. And there we are, larger than life on this huge white sheet he’s got stretched on the wall.’

  ‘How exciting,’ I said.

  ‘Course, it weren’t nothin’ we’d not seen before, mind. But it’s a bit more fun when it’s you what’s on the screen, i’n’t it?’

  ‘I imagine it is,’ I said. In truth, I’d seen myself captured in moving pictures when a friend of Lady Hardcastle’s in London had brought a camera to a party a few years before, but I wanted Mrs Spratt to have her moment.

  ‘I reckon folk round here would get a thrill from it. You think your Colonel Cheetham could do sommat like that for us?’ she said.

  ‘We can lose nothing by asking him. What do you reckon, Daisy? We could get you in one of his pictures that way.’

  She tutted. ‘’T i’n’t the same, is it? I fancies bein’ one o’ they actresses. All glamorous, like. I reckon movin’ pictures is gonna see the music hall off.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Mr Spratt with a laugh. ‘Can’t no flickerin’ shadows on a wall replace proper performers. Where’s the songs? Where’s the jokes? Can’t walk out of a kinematograph show hummin’ the tunes. It’s a fad. Nothin’ more.’

  ‘You’re such an old fogey, Dad,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I might well be,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘But I’m right. You mark my words. Now, then, enough of all this chatter. We’re keepin’ Miss Armstrong from her business. You’ve got things to be gettin’ on with, I’ll be bound. Can’t be standin’ here jabberin’.’

  ‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘after visiting Mrs Pantry’s, it’s a relief to find myself welcome in a village shop.’

  ‘I don’t know how she gets away with it,’ he said. ‘I s’pose there i’n’t nowhere else for folk to go. But what can we get you now you’ve escaped her? I got some lovely pork chops.’

  ‘I have a list,’ I said, and handed over the last of my scraps of paper.

  He took it and looked at it for a moment before laughing explosively. ‘Well, blow me down. How many did you say you’ve got comin’?’

  ‘Just four,’ I said. ‘But Lady Hardcastle is keen that we should present them with a groaning board.’

  ‘It’ll groan, all right,’ he said, still chuckling. ‘It’ll take me a little while to get this little lot together. I’ll send the lad over later.’

  ‘No rush,’ I said. ‘We’ve enough for tonight.’

  ‘Between these kinematograph people and Mr Hughes and his merry men and women . . . ’ began Mrs Spratt.

  ‘Mr Hughes?’ I asked.

  ‘The leader of that motley bunch outside the village hall with their placards,’ she said. ‘With one lot here to promote their kinematograph show, and this Hughes bloke rollin’ into the village to preach the evils of the kinematograph show, I’d say we was goin’ to ’ave a profitable week. Mr Holman has already ordered more meat to make pies for them all.’

  ‘I’m glad to be the bearer of glad tidings, then,’ I said with a smile. ‘And meat orders.’

  I left another Littleton Cotterell shopkeeper to contemplate the unexpected benefits of a visit from the moving picture people.

  Back at the house, all was calm. Edna was bustling about, and chattered inconsequentially when I arrived as though nothing were amiss. She was very much inclined towards inconsequential chatter and I should have thought nothing of it, but it was also obvious that Dora was keeping out of my way, so I suspected that all was not fully resolved.

  Dewi, bless his little cotton socks, did his best to be polite and friendly. When I first met hi
m at The Grange, he was lazy and surly. One day he had sworn colourfully at our friend Inspector Sunderland in Welsh and I took him by surprise when I admonished him in the same language. As I got to know him, I found that his cantankerousness was born of a dismaying lack of self-confidence. He wasn’t always quick to understand what was going on and had managed to convince himself – no doubt with plenty of unkind prompting from others – that he was ‘just a stupid mutton-head’.

  He dealt with his imagined inadequacies in the traditional way by adopting an aggressive and antagonistic manner. It kept people at arm’s length, which helped to protect him from further mockery, but also prevented all but the most determined from offering him friendship. For some reason, though, he was never quite as brusque with me and we always got along passably well. Perhaps it was a Celtic thing.

  ‘I think I’ve done all I can for now, Miss Armstrong,’ he said as he came into the kitchen a little while later.

  I was making a pot of tea while Miss Jones carried on quietly and efficiently preparing the brace of pheasants we were planning to cook for dinner.

  ‘The gentlemen’s rooms are ready, then?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve checked the wash stands and put out fresh towels,’ he said. ‘Dora made the beds. The wardrobes is cleaned out and we’ve opened the windows to give the rooms a bit of an airing. I’ll close them up in a bit, I reckon, and one of us can light the fires if they needs it, like.’

  ‘Splendid. Then you’re just in time for a cuppa and a sit-down. Miss Jones has made some scones, too, if you fancy one.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said, sitting down at the new table. We’d spent more than a year without a kitchen table because, apparently, we didn’t need one. Except, of course, that they really are terribly useful. After I’d put up with altogether too much grumbling from Edna, I had finally persuaded Lady Hardcastle to buy one.

  I put the teapot on the table and sat opposite him.

  ‘How are things up at The Grange after the fire?’ I said as I poured three cups.

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said. ‘I reckon they was all more shocked than anythin’. When you get in there, there’s not really that much damage. Could have been much worse.’

  ‘They could have lost the whole house,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose they could,’ he said slowly, as though this were the first time the thought had occurred to him. ‘I suppose that’s why the mistress is so shook up about it. And Mrs Brown, too.’

  I had my own thoughts about Mrs Brown using the fire as an excuse to take some time off, but I wasn’t about to disparage her, no matter how much of a lazy, bullying old trout I thought her.

  Miss Jones put down the second freshly plucked pheasant with a satisfied sigh and wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘Come and join us, Miss Jones,’ I said. ‘I’ll butter you a scone.’

  ‘That would be most welcome,’ she said. ‘I loves pheasant, but I hates pluckin’ the little perishers.’

  I was about to tuck into my own scone when the front doorbell rang. According to the large clock on the kitchen wall it was just past twelve.

  ‘I think that might be our guests,’ I said, standing up and straightening my uniform. ‘As we used to say in the circus, “It’s show time.”’

  I opened the door.

  Arrayed before me on the doorstep were two men and two women. I had only a moment to take in their appearances before deciding who to greet first. As leader of the group, I thought Colonel Cheetham should receive the welcome on their behalf, but which one was he?

  He wasn’t either of the women, obviously. The older of the two looked to be in her early fifties. She had lost none of the beauty of her youth, though it had been softened somewhat by the passing years. Her days as a leading lady were behind her, and I would have said that she was what our theatre friends called a ‘character actress’. But not a dowdy one. Her light-brown hair was greying slightly where it peeped out from beneath her fashionable hat, but her blue eyes still held a twinkle that must have broken many young men’s hearts along the way.

  The younger was in her twenties and was a beauty by any standard. Her hair was jet-black and her eyes seemed almost black, too. Helen’s face might have launched a thousand ships, but this girl’s face could launch a thousand more and persuade them to fetch her a ha’p’orth of chips on their way back.

  So it obviously wasn’t either of them. But the two men . . .

  The younger of the two wore a dapper suit and a well-brushed bowler hat. He had a boyish face and could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years of age. He must be the actor, I thought.

  So presumably it was the older gentleman in the unfashionable overcoat and top hat. He had the lined face of a man who had spent years in the sun, and a moustache of impressively military proportions. This must be Colonel Cheetham.

  All these thoughts passed through my head in a couple of seconds and I was about to greet the older gentleman when the younger one tipped his hat and said, ‘Hello there. I’m Nolan Cheetham. Is Lady Hardcastle at home? I believe she’s expecting us.’

  He had a northern accent. I was never particularly good at judging which side of the Pennines accents came from. I know they get terribly cross when you get it wrong, as though the Wars of the Roses really were fought between their two counties and not between two Plantagenet families bearing their names, but I was going to plump for Lancashire. Manchester, probably. We’d employed a safe-cracker in 1902 to get some papers for us from a certain European embassy in London. He was the best in the business, and he sounded just like this Cheetham fellow.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said with a little curtsey. ‘She is, as you say, expecting you. Please come in.’ I stepped aside to let them pass.

  They each muttered their thanks and waited patiently while I took their hats and coats and hung them beside the door.

  Dewi knew his duties well and had slipped out through the side door to give his colleague Bert a hand with the bags. As the motor car burbled off back down the lane, Dewi was hefting the bags into the hall. With the front door finally shut, he set about carrying them upstairs.

  I was about to go and fetch Lady Hardcastle, but she emerged from her study and saved me the trip.

  ‘Ah, you’ve arrived safely,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad. Welcome to our home. I’m Emily, Lady Hardcastle. You’ve met Miss Armstrong, I see.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Colonel Cheetham. ‘We weren’t introduced, but her reputation precedes her. Nolan Cheetham at your service.’

  This was happening more and more lately. I wasn’t sure I liked having a reputation, favourable or otherwise.

  ‘How do you do, Colonel Cheetham?’

  ‘Please, my lady, it’s more by way of an honorary rank. I volunteered in the Lancashire Militia, man and boy, and eventually found myself a colonel, but I’ve not mustered these past few years. And certainly not since they became the Special Reserve. Makes them sound like a vintage port. Call me Nolan.’

  Lady Hardcastle smiled, and inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘And your companions?’ she prompted.

  ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he said. He indicated the older of the two women. ‘Allow me to present Zelda Drayton, one of England’s finest actresses and the beautiful but wicked villain in my latest moving picture.’

  Zelda smiled.

  Cheetham continued. ‘Then we have Miss Euphemia Selwood, a rising star in the moving picture world. Our ravishing leading lady.’

  The younger woman blushed a little, but seemed pleased with her introduction.

  ‘And this old reprobate is Basil Newhouse. He’s been acting on England’s theatre stages since before any of us were born, but he has chosen to share his gifts with moving picture audiences as our noble hero.’

  Newhouse bowed deeply.

  ‘How delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Welcome all. Now, if we can find . . . ’

  Dewi chose exactly the right moment to begin clumping down the sta
irs.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dewi,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Perfect timing. Dewi will show you to your rooms, gentlemen. And Dora . . . ?’

  ‘She’s up here, my lady,’ said Dewi.

  ‘Splendid. Dora will help to make you ladies comfortable. They’ll take care of anything you need. If we get you settled in, you can rest a moment and shake the dust of your travels from your boots. Shall we say one o’clock in the dining room for lunch? We have so much to talk about.’

  I left them to find their rooms while I returned to the kitchen to help Miss Jones with the preparations for lunch.

  Chapter Three

  The new arrivals came downstairs together. They’d clearly gathered somewhere – probably in Mr Cheetham’s room – to save arriving in dribs and drabs.

  Lady Hardcastle was waiting for them in the dining room.

  ‘Do come in and make yourselves at home,’ she said as Zelda poked her head tentatively round the door. ‘I’m afraid it’s all rather informal here. I do apologize if you were hoping for the full upper-class experience. Lady Farley-Stroud does that so well, but I find that with just me and Armstrong here most of the time, it’s altogether far too much fuss.’

  The four guests filed in.

  ‘Please sit anywhere,’ said Lady Hardcastle, indicating the places that had been set around the table. ‘Edna will be just a moment. I sent her to fetch some wine. Do you take wine with lunch? Don’t feel obliged, but I do like a glass with company.’

  There were non-committal mumblings as the four of them shuffled around the dining table and found themselves a chair each.

  I, meanwhile, was standing quietly by the sideboard.

  ‘Now,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I do have to mention this one because it bothers some people. Miss Armstrong here has been working for me since ninety-four and for a lot of that time it’s just been the two of us, so we’re in the habit of eating together. I’ve asked her to join us.’

  There were more self-conscious mumblings from the assembled actors. None of them, I felt sure, had the first idea where a lady’s maid ought to be eating and were probably more uncomfortable now than they would have been if I’d simply joined them without comment. I decided it wasn’t really my problem and just sat down at the last remaining place.