A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

‘Well done, Dewi,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, who had also been paying rapt attention. ‘Knew we could count on you.’

  ‘He’s a very reliable fellow,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we approached. She addressed Dewi directly. ‘Your help has been greatly appreciated. Thank you.’

  He looked pleased. ‘My pleasure, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘Are we all set, then, Mr Cheetham?’ she said.

  ‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ he said. ‘All things considered.’

  ‘What things?’

  He glanced nervously at the door. ‘That lot out there, for one.’

  ‘Don’t give them a moment’s thought. They’ll soon grow bored of standing out there in the cold and being ignored. It’s all going to be simply marvellous. And you, Gertie? Is there anything you need from us?’

  ‘No, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It’s all in hand. Blessing in disguise, this wretched kitchen business. Servants unexpectedly free. Got Dora helping with the refreshments.’

  I felt a moment’s churlish glee at the news that Dora didn’t have the night off after all. The feeling was accompanied by a tiny amount of guilt, but not enough to taint the pleasure.

  The Ladies Hardcastle and Farley-Stroud drifted off towards the kitchen at the side of the hall, deep in conversation. Dewi was engrossed in the workings of the projector. Daisy was in her element, lording it over the two muscular lads.

  I was left, contrary to custom, with nothing to do.

  I read the parish notices on the board. Users of the hall were reminded that it was their duty to leave the premises in the condition in which they would hope to find them. Mr Easton was desirous of starting a chess club and asked that anyone interested call on him at home. Mrs Butler had dropped a sixpence at last week’s embroidery class and asked that the finder return it to her at once as she needed it to pay for medicine for her beloved cat, Alphonse.

  Time passed slowly.

  The lamps in the hall were dimmed. On the lectern in front of Mr Cheetham, an oil lamp flared. The assembled villagers fell silent.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Cheetham, his voice now refined and his words meticulously enunciated. ‘Welcome to Nolan Cheetham’s Moving Picture Theatre. I’m so glad that so many of you were able to join us on this exciting night where we shall be presenting, for the first time anywhere in Gloucestershire, our thrilling new moving picture, The Witch’s Downfall.’

  He extinguished the lamp on the lectern, plunging the hall into what felt like complete darkness. There were gasps from one or two of the more sensitive souls in the audience.

  This sudden darkness was evidently Dewi’s cue to bring up the lamp on the projector and begin cranking.

  A title glowed on the screen, white letters against a black background: THE WITCH’S DOWNFALL. A rumbling bass chord rolled from the piano in the corner of the hall where Lady Hardcastle had been persuaded to sit to provide a musical accompaniment to the picture.

  Mr Cheetham’s voice rose above the sound of the piano. ‘The witch is a dastardly creature,’ he said. ‘Harnessing the forces of black magic to serve their own evil ends . . . ’

  It seemed he was intending to narrate the story. I’d seen, or rather heard, the same sort of thing at a picture show a few years earlier, but I got the impression that the practice had fallen out of fashion. Mr Cheetham was clearly too much of a natural performer to let something as trivial as fashion stop him from being part of the show.

  The scene cut to an image of Zelda Drayton, almost unrecognizable in her makeup, standing over a bubbling cauldron in her witch’s hovel. She cast a few sprigs of herbs into the pot, which smoked menacingly. All the while, Mr Cheetham kept up his commentary, telling us about the witch and her bitter jealousy of Phoebe, the beautiful young village girl.

  The scene shifted to an image of a young girl in seventeenth-century clothes, pouring a tankard of ale for a handsome young man in a tavern. The girl was played by Euphemia Selwood, who was made up to look as innocent and comely as Zelda had been made to look evil and haggard. The young man was handsome, if a little vapid-looking, and from the love-struck glances he was getting from Phoebe, it was clear that he was everything the simple tavern wench had ever dreamed of. He returned her affectionate gaze as Mr Cheetham told us that the witch, too, was in love with this insipid man, whose name turned out to be George.

  Back at the hovel, the witch produced an apple from the smoking cauldron, and cackled maniacally in close-up.

  The next shot was of Phoebe tucking in to the delicious, shiny apple, and we didn’t really need Mr Cheetham’s melodramatic narration to warn us of the dire consequences of her actions. Clutching her throat, Phoebe collapsed.

  Things were falling into place for the evil old crone, who now had only to feed George her love potion for her plans to be complete.

  But wait. An investigation was underway. The Witchfinder – played by Basil Newhouse in an enormously wide-brimmed hat – condemned the witch to death.

  She was arrested and clapped in irons, but as she was led away, a tiny doll fell from her hand. It was wearing a huge hat and had a pin through its heart.

  Inevitably, the next shot was of the Witchfinder clutching his heart and falling down dead.

  The next scene was slightly less easy to predict and did actually benefit from Mr Cheetham’s explanation. George, it seems, was so overcome with grief at the death of beloved Phoebe that his wits deserted him. In a fit of madness, he threw himself from the church tower. I confess I didn’t really understand the point of this scene and I might have advised Mr Cheetham to cut it if he were to ask, but it was dramatic enough as George wrestled with his inner demons before rushing towards the low parapet and jumping over it. Naturally we had to imagine the fatal consequences of the fall, but to judge from the gasps from the audience, the scene certainly proved thrilling, no matter how pointless I felt it to be.

  The closing shot was of the witch, lashed to a stake atop a pile of firewood, with villagers moving menacingly towards it brandishing burning torches.

  A final title card appeared, declaring that this was THE END.

  The whole thing had lasted less than ten minutes, but it brought the house down. There was applause, a few whistles, and one or two shouts of ‘Bravo!’ The lamps came up to reveal Mr Cheetham, now standing in front of the screen and grinning broadly. He was flanked by Zelda and Euphemia on one side, and Mr Newhouse on the other. He introduced them each by name and they took their bows. Lady Hardcastle, whose improvised piano part had added so much to the experience, was also encouraged to stand and take a bow of her own.

  As the tumult subsided, Mr Cheetham stepped forwards.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. Ordinarily, we would screen this particular picture at the end of our week’s stay, but we were so excited to show it to you that we couldn’t wait.’

  There were a few cheers, and one young woman shouted, ‘Thank you!’

  Mr Cheetham beamed. ‘Since you’ve enjoyed it so much, perhaps we can screen it again at the end of the week as well.’

  More cheering followed this announcement.

  ‘And, in the meantime, we have a packed programme of thrills and comedy to fill your evenings with the most magical modern entertainment known to Man.’

  He went on to list almost a dozen other titles that would be screened during the rest of the week. The next picture, by way of light relief, was to be Town Mouse and Country Mouse, by ‘your very own Lady Hardcastle’.

  Once again, the small crowd went wild as the gaslights dimmed and Dewi began cranking the projector. Lady Hardcastle started to play once more as the title appeared in her own strong, neat hand:

  Town Mouse and Country Mouse – a moving picture fantasy by Emily Hardcastle.

  The rest of the evening was an unqualified success. Lady Hardcastle’s film caused almost as much of a stir in its own way as had The Witch’s Downfall. There were ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s as the little toy figures
played out the well-known story, and she received just as warm a reaction when it was over.

  At the interval, while everyone was enjoying the tea and biscuits laid on by the Village Hall Committee, several people approached Lady Hardcastle to ask her what magic she had used to make the toys move in such a lifelike way. She enthusiastically explained the technique of stop-motion animation, but their expressions of goggling incomprehension meant that she may as well have been describing how to build a suspension bridge with hockey sticks, clotted cream, and a mermaid’s tears.

  By ten o’clock, the hall was empty once more and Ladies Hardcastle and Farley-Stroud were congratulating each other on the part each had played in making it such a wonderful evening.

  Most of the audience, as well as Mr Cheetham and his cast members, had decamped to the pub. We debated joining them.

  ‘It might be fun,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but I’m absolutely done in. You go if you want to, though – I’d hate to spoil the fun.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I could do with an early night myself. And I can’t let a poor, bewildered old lady like you go wandering abroad on her own. It’s still close to All Hallows’ Eve – there might be witches about.’

  ‘There might, indeed,’ she said. ‘Not to mention Mr and Mrs Hughes and their miserable band of prudes.’

  ‘I don’t think we have anything to fear from them. I’m pretty certain I could handle them all on my own if it came to a barney. And Daisy said she saw Mr Hughes sneaking into the hall as the show started, so there’s even a possibility that he might have realized there’s nothing to protest against and slung his hook back to whatever dreary rock he crawled out from under.’

  ‘We can but hope, dear,’ she said, and we left the hall together.

  ‘Did you enjoy Mr Cheetham’s picture?’ she asked.

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘The stuff with handsome George was a bit on the superfluous side but other than that and the witch burning, it was great fun.’

  ‘What was wrong with the witch burning?’

  ‘In England, convicted witches were hanged, not burned at the stake,’ I said.

  ‘Were they? Were they, indeed? I am, as so often, in awe of your historical knowledge, dear. I wonder where we got the idea they were burned.’

  ‘They burned a few in Scotland,’ I said. ‘And on the Continent. Never in England.’

  ‘I shall recommend you as historical consultant to Mr Cheetham’s next project.’

  ‘And you shall advise him on matters scientific,’ I said. ‘It can be our new business venture.’

  ‘Certainly a lot safer than most of our previous joint ventures,’ she said.

  We walked on.

  The protesters were long gone so we were spared the tedium of a further encounter.

  We could hear the sounds of laughter and merriment from the Dog and Duck as we passed the pub on our way around the green.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go in for a quick one?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as she caught sight of me looking in through the window.

  ‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘I’m done in, too, to be honest.’

  ‘Although I might fancy a quick brandy back at the house before we turn in.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ I said.

  We carried on around the green and up the lane to our home.

  Chapter Five

  I was awoken the next morning by the ringing of the front doorbell, accompanied by insistent hammering on the door itself. I stumbled blearily downstairs, tying my dressing gown as I went.

  It was Sergeant Dobson from the village police station.

  ‘Good mornin’, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, knuckling the brim of his helmet. ‘I’m sorry to waken you so early, but these days you’re my first port of call when somethin’ untoward ’appens. Doubly so under the present circumstances.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Sergeant,’ I said, stifling a yawn. I had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark outside. ‘Would you care to come in out of the cold and tell me all about it? I think I’m the only one up. I’m not even certain whether Edna and Miss Jones have arrived yet, but I’m sure I haven’t forgotten how to put the kettle on.’

  ‘Thank you, miss, that would be most welcome,’ he said.

  The sturdy little sergeant settled at the kitchen table. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, yet another military man in our midst.

  Meanwhile, I set about lighting the range and making a pot of tea. The kitchen clock proclaimed it to be half-past five.

  ‘I’ve got some very bad news, I’m afraid,’ he began. ‘One of your houseguests has been found dead over by the rowan tree in the churchyard.’

  I turned away from teapot-related activities to give him my full attention. A dozen questions swirled in my mind, but I said simply, ‘Who?’

  He consulted his notebook. ‘Mr Basil Newhouse,’ he said. ‘One of the actors from the moving picture.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling rather shocked. I sat down. ‘I liked him. I liked him a lot. But am I to assume from the urgency of your visit that it wasn’t natural causes?’

  ‘We thought so at first, but, on closer inspection, it seems not.’

  We heard footsteps on the stairs and a moment later Lady Hardcastle arrived, yawning.

  ‘Make one for me, too, dear, would you?’ she said, indicating the teapot.

  The sergeant had stood when she entered, but she waved him back to his seat. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early, m’lady,’ he said.

  ‘It sounds quite justified,’ she said, sitting next to him. ‘I overheard much of what you said as I came down the stairs. Poor Mr Newhouse. Quite a charming fellow. Would you mind starting from the beginning for me?’

  ‘Of course, m’lady. Young Hancock was out on routine patrol first thing when he spots somethin’ odd over by the old rowan tree. He thought at first it might be as someone had dumped some rubbish there, but as he got closer, he sees it’s a man. His next thought was that it might be a tramp sleepin’ out. We has ’em passin’ through here sometimes on their way between Bristol and Gloucester.’

  I was glad I was facing away from them while I saw to the tea. My involuntary smile at the news that Constable Hancock undertook a ‘routine patrol’ wouldn’t have been appropriate. But then I suppose that ‘Young Hancock was sneakin’ back to the cottage in the small hours after a night on the ale with his mates’ wouldn’t have been entirely appropriate, either.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Sergeant Dobson, ‘he goes over to rouse the hedge-bird and move him on. Fella doesn’t respond so Hancock checks his vitals and it turns out he’s dead as a doornail.’

  ‘He thought it was natural causes, you say?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘No signs of violence as far as he could tell in the dark. But when he does one last check, feelin’ under the bloke’s jacket to check his heart, his hand comes away slightly wet. Sticky, like. He knew it was blood straight off.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘So he comes and gets me, and I checks an’ all. He was dead, all right, and there was blood under his jacket.’

  ‘But not on it?’

  ‘Still too dark to tell for certain,’ said the sergeant. ‘Even with my lantern. But it didn’t even feel damp.’

  ‘And you’re certain it was Mr Newhouse? Even in the darkness?’

  ‘Sure as eggs. I saw him yesterday with Miss Armstrong, and again last night at the picture show. It was Newhouse, all right.’

  ‘What a terrible shame. I don’t think there’s much to be gained by waking his friends. We shall tell them in due time. I presume you’ve informed the Gloucester CID, though?’

  ‘It was my first call,’ said the sergeant. ‘They gets right uppity when we talks to Bristol. Didn’t do me no good, though. Duty sergeant up there says they’re too busy and I should call Bristol after all. They’s sendin’ someone up.’

  ‘Good show,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Have you moved the body?’

  ‘Bri
stol asked us to leave it where it was for their detective. Clues and whatnot. I left young Hancock on guard.’

  ‘Right you are,’ she said. ‘And is there anything you’d like from us?’

  ‘Tell the truth, m’lady, I’m not sure. I s’pose I just wanted to talk to someone afore the detective shows up. See if there’s anythin’ I might have missed, if you knows what I means. They city detectives looks down on us, see? I’d like to look like we knows what we’re doin’.’

  ‘I’ve always found you to be more than competent, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘I’m not at all sure I’d have anything to add at all. When is the detective expected?’

  ‘They said they’d get someone to come up as soon as they could, but that there weren’t no point in him gettin’ here till after first light.’

  ‘We have a little while, then,’ she said. ‘How would it be if we were to get ourselves dressed and come over to have a quick look before he gets here?’

  ‘That would be most welcome, m’lady.’

  ‘We shan’t find anything you’ve not already thought of, of course.’

  ‘It’ll put my mind at ease, though,’ said the sergeant gratefully. ‘I’d be obliged to you.’

  By the time we were dressed and had made our way across the green to the church, it was half-past six. Dawn was still about half an hour away, but a dishwater light was beginning to rob the darkness of its power.

  We found the two village policemen just inside the lych gate, at the edge of the churchyard, close to what I knew from our conversation with the sergeant to be ‘the old rowan tree’. Sadly, and despite Lady Hardcastle’s patient instruction on the noble art of arboreal identification, without this clue I should still have been unable to tell a rowan tree from any other.

  The sergeant acknowledged us with a polite nod.

  Lady Hardcastle smiled in return (though I doubt he saw it in the gloom). She turned to the younger policeman. ‘Good morning, Constable,’ she said warmly.

  ‘Mornin’, m’lady,’ said Constable Hancock.

  We approached the tree, and the two policemen stepped aside to give us our first glimpse of Mr Newhouse’s body. He was sitting upright, with his back against the rowan’s trunk. His head lolled on his chest and he could easily be mistaken for a drunken vagrant.