T Kinsey - In the Market for Murder (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 2)

Stallholders and shoppers alike greeted Lady Farley-Stroud with a cheerfully informal warmth. There was deference and respect, but a good deal of affection – she was clearly well liked.

The rain was cold; the wind was harsh. I was keen to have everything over and done with so that we could get indoors out of the weather, even though that would mean being in uncomfortably close proximity to a large collection of beef on the hoof.

We ducked down a small side street which led us to the livestock market. In times gone by this had been held at the bottom end of the High Street around the market cross, but there was now a purpose-built yard with covered pens and a large auction hall.

We finally made it under cover, and Lady Farley-Stroud looked around.

‘Can’t see Mogg,’ she said absently. ‘Estate manager. Supposed to be here. Denton, go and see if you can track him down, would you.’

With a bob and a ‘Yes, my lady’, Maude was off into the growing throng.

‘I say, Gertie,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘this is fun. It’s like the markets in Shanghai or Calcutta.’

‘Much colder, though, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I remember when Hector and I were in Madras in the sixties. Oh my word, the heat. There was one day—’

Maude had returned with a middle-aged man in farmer’s tweeds.

‘Found him, my lady,’ said Maude.

‘Mornin’, m’lady,’ said the man.

‘Ah, Mr Mogg,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘There you are. How goes it?’

‘Not bad, m’lady. We got just ten head in today from the dairy herd. Tryin’ to sell ’em as one lot. Second up. Shouldn’t take long. Got a few folk sniffin’ round. Caradine from up Top Farm looks interested. Ackley from over Woodworthy was lookin’, too. Should be some biddin’.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Let’s hope we make a few bob, eh?’

‘Hopin’ so, m’lady. Would you ’scuse me, m’lady? Got a few more things to sort.’

‘Of course, Mr Mogg. Thank you for all your efforts.’

Mogg knuckled his forehead and disappeared into the still-growing crowd.

I should like to report the details of the auction, which I’m sure were thrilling beyond measure for those in the know, but for me things were a little less clear. Some sheep were led in. A man in a flat cap jabbered incomprehensibly – I could make out numbers here and there – as other men nodded and signalled. Within less than a minute, the sheep were led back out again and a deal had, apparently, been struck.

Before the last of the sheep had left the sawdust-strewn arena, Mogg came in, leading the first of the ten cattle he was selling. The rest obediently followed. After a few words of barely intelligible introduction, the flat-capped man began his sing-song, ‘Her-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah-her-ba-da-HEY-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah . . .’ A skinny man who appeared to be in his fifties, with an impressively bushy beard and a slight squint, seemed to be competing with a taller and altogether more solid man on the opposite side of the arena.

Once again, before I had fully worked out what was going on, the auctioneer let out a loud ‘Sold!’ and the skinny man began making his way towards the cashier’s counter.

‘Oh, I say, how splendid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It absolutely couldn’t have gone better.’

‘It couldn’t?’ said Lady Hardcastle with a frown. ‘How could you tell?’

‘What do you mean? Oh, I see. I suppose it is all a little arcane. Just as Mogg predicted, there was a bidding war between the two local rivals, Caradine and Ackley. Caradine won. The splendid thing was that their silly rivalry pushed the price way beyond what we were expecting to achieve. I couldn’t be more delighted.’

‘Well, that is good news, darling. I’m very pleased for you,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Thank you, m’dear. Luncheon, I should say, is on me.’

‘That’s extremely generous. But what shall we do until then? Are there any more lots you’d like to see?’

‘No, m’dear,’ said the older lady. ‘It’s only really fun when it’s your own stock that’s on the block. Unless you want to find out what happens to this next collection of malnourished milkers I rather think we’re done.’

‘At least the rain is abating, my lady,’ said Maude.

‘Somewhat, Denton, somewhat,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You’ve never been to Chipping before, have you, Emily?’

‘No, I never seemed to get round to it what with one thing and another. We usually go into Bristol for shopping.’

‘Well, we’ve nothing quite so grand as they’ve got in Bristol, m’dear, but I’m sure we could while away an entertaining hour or more on the High Street. There’s a charming dress shop I’d love you to see. Oh, and quite the most splendid bric-a-brac shop. Do you care for antiques?’

‘I’m sure it will be delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

I could see why Lady Farley-Stroud favoured the dress shop. It seemed to cater for robustly built country ladies of a certain age but it had little to offer Lady Hardcastle. While never a slave to fashion, she nevertheless maintained an elegantly up-to-date wardrobe, something that this out-of-the-way shop seemed unable to manage.

There was a silk scarf she quite admired, but despite many ‘oooh’s and ‘ahh’s, and even one ‘Oh, Emily, you’d look absolutely smashing in this’ from her friend, she remained largely unmoved.

The bric-a-brac shop, however, was a completely different kettle of fish. It was the last in a small row of shops set slightly back from the rest, giving it the appearance of being hidden away in a darkened corner. The shop front was curved, and several of the small, slightly grubby panes were of dimpled glass, giving it a very old-fashioned look. But it was what was on view behind that glass that captured my attention.

I’m not a great fan of old things usually but there was a romantic quality to the mismatched collection of near-junk in the window that made me desperate to get inside and explore. Amid the usual collection of chipped china figurines, glass vases of doubtful practicality, and tarnished silverware there was an elephant’s-foot umbrella stand, a brass diving helmet and a stuffed and mounted warthog head with wax oranges on its tusks. Next to that was a fish kettle, which served as a mount for a large stuffed trout.

‘We’re not buying it,’ said Lady Hardcastle, who had noted my interest.

‘Oh, but I might,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. I glanced across and saw that she was admiring the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. ‘Come on, Emily, let’s see if we can strike a bargain.’

She opened the door and we trooped in.

Inside was a cavern of infinite delights. I have travelled the world, seen the teeming markets in Shanghai and Calcutta, wandered the flea markets of Paris, and conducted more than my fair share of clandestine meetings in the back rooms of seedy little shops in London’s East End, but there was something altogether new and magical about the collection on display inside Pomphrey’s Bric-a-Brac Emporium. There’s junk, and then there’s a lovingly curated collection of surprising and interesting junk. And this was definitely towards the more entertaining end of the scale. There was a moose’s head mounted on the wall wearing a topi and with the mouthpiece of an ornate hookah between its lips. Below it was a forest of candlesticks. There was a musical instrument section which, of course, included the usual selection of battered trumpets and euphoniums as well as a violin with faded lacquer, and a tarnished flute. But lurking among the everyday instruments were two crumhorns, a serpent and an ornate lute. One could, should one choose, start one’s own Renaissance chamber group.