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

It wasn’t something I was likely to do, though, and my gaze shifted instead to a banjo with a Mississippi riverboat painted on its resonator. I picked it up and examined it closely.

Towards the rear of the shop, a bespectacled man wearing a long velvet jacket and a matching smoking cap was talking to a gentleman wearing a rather new-looking Harris tweed suit and a matching trilby.

‘. . . without losing any of its original charm,’ said Velvet Jacket.

‘It’s very much the sort of thing I was looking for, certainly,’ said Harris Tweed. ‘Just not in that colour. But I see you have other customers to attend to. I’ll just take this for now and be on my way.’ He gestured to a model of Stephenson’s Rocket which was lying on the counter. It seemed to have been fashioned from matchsticks and was quite realistic save that its boiler had been painted with the Union Flag.

‘Certainly, Mr Snelson, certainly,’ said the shopkeeper. He wrapped the tiny steam locomotive and took his customer’s money.

Mr Snelson turned to leave. In doing so, he noticed for the first time who the new customers were.

‘Why Lady Farley-Stroud,’ he said. ‘Good morning to you.’

‘Good morning, Mr Snelson. Decorating your new home?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. It was looking a bit dowdy so I thought I might enliven it with a few interesting pieces.’

‘You’ve certainly come to the right place for that,’ she said. ‘Emily, dear, I don’t believe you’ve met Mr Snelson. He moved to Littleton last month so you’re no longer the newest resident of the village. Mr Snelson, allow me to introduce m’good friend Lady Hardcastle.’

‘How do you do?’ they said, almost in unison.

‘I do hope they’re treating you well,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Who?’ said Mr Snelson.

‘The villagers. It can be frightfully hard to be the new bug.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he said. ‘Yes, they’ve welcomed me with open arms, as it were. It’s a fine place. Full of gossip, too. I hear you’ve been unwell. I do hope you’re recovered.’

‘I am, thank you, yes. Much better.’

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Well, I must take my leave, I’m afraid. Good luck with your shopping.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We shall meet again, I’m sure.’

He tipped his hat and left.

The shopkeeper approached. He was short, round and apple-cheeked, with a mischievous twinkle in the smiling eyes that peeped out through the tiny, round, blue-tinted spectacles.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hubert Pomphrey at your service. How wonderful to see you again, Lady Farley-Stroud. And with a friend. I don’t believe I’ve met . . .’

‘Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, turning to my mistress, ‘allow me to introduce the proprietor of this splendid shop, Mr Hubert Pomphrey.’

Lady Hardcastle nodded and Mr Pomphrey bowed.

‘And this is my maid, Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Welcome, my lady,’ said Pomphrey. ‘And welcome to you, too, Miss Armstrong. I see you’re admiring the banjo. You have a good eye. This fine instrument was once played by Mr Zachariah Duchamp, one of the most accomplished exponents of the banjo ever to sail on the riverboats that ply the mighty Mississippi. Do you play?’

‘A little,’ I said.

‘Then, please,’ he said, with a grand sweep of his chubby arm. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pomphrey,’ I said. ‘But not just now.’ I replaced the banjo in the display.

‘As you wish, miss,’ he said with a smile. ‘Has anything else caught anyone’s eye?’

‘Actually, Mr Pomphrey,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I was admiring the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand in the window. Reminds me of m’days in the Raj with Sir Hector, what?’

‘And what a good eye you have, my lady,’ he said. ‘Sadly, though, I ought to say in the name of honesty that it’s a mere reproduction. Cast in plaster.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘But then again, perhaps not so sad. Perhaps a three-legged elephant would be a sadder sight. Would you like to take a closer look?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said, and he reached over the panel that backed the window display to grab the umbrella stand. It seemed heavy, and with the ornately handled umbrella still in it, also rather cumbersome. He struggled back to us and placed it on the counter for her to inspect.

‘As you can see, my lady, it’s in most excellent condition. Very often these plaster replicas are chipped and cracked, but this one . . . well . . .’

‘It does look remarkably convincing,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I’m just a little disappointed it’s not the real thing.’

‘Oh, Gertie, no,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s exactly like the real thing, a perfect imitation. This way you get an intriguing objet and the poor elephant gets to walk free. I agree with Mr Pomphrey – there are few sadder sights than a three-legged elephant.’

‘Do they really just chop one leg off?’ asked Maude innocently. Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged a glance but said nothing.

‘I know from personal experience that there is a roaring trade in elephantine prosthetics on the Subcontinent, miss,’ said Mr Pomphrey earnestly. ‘My brother has a very successful company out there: “Pomphrey’s Perfect Pachyderm Peg Legs” . . . of Pondicherry.’

‘I say,’ said Maude. ‘Really?’

‘He’s teasing you, Denton,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Take no notice.’

Maude looked crestfallen.

‘My apologies, miss,’ he said. ‘Just my little joke.’

‘She’ll live,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Now, how much do you want for it?’

Some fierce haggling ensued. Lady Farley-Stroud was not one to be trifled with over matters of money. Within minutes she had reduced the asking price by three-quarters and had persuaded Mr Pomphrey to throw in the umbrella. I had no doubt that he was still making a handsome profit, but he made a good show of gracious defeat while she clearly judged herself to have secured quite the bargain.

By the time we emerged once more onto the street with the umbrella stand wrapped neatly in brown paper and tucked under Maude’s arm, the rain had ceased and the wind had eased to a more tolerable level.

‘That was splendid fun, Gertie dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. What say we take you up on your generous offer of lunch? Where do you recommend?’

‘Denton and I usually head for The Hayrick round the corner,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Don’t we, Denton?’

‘We do, my lady,’ said Maude, somewhat less enthusiastically than was her custom. We set off once more up the High Street.

‘Hah!’ roared Lady Farley-Stroud delightedly. ‘Misery guts. It’s hearty grub, Emily. Good, honest, English nosh in a good, honest, English pub. It’s where all the farmers end up after market. Love the place. Are you a cider drinker, m’dear?’

‘I’ve been known to tipple,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though I prefer a brandy.’

‘At lunchtime? Well I never.’

‘Oh, but darling, you should. It’s never too early for the eau de vie.’

‘I still insist you try the cider, m’dear. When in Rome, eh?’

‘Very well, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I shall try the cider.’

‘And the pie. They do a cracking beef and mushroom pie,’ said the portly older woman, all but salivating as we rounded a corner into a side street and approached the pub.

Lady Farley-Stroud pushed open the door and we were almost overwhelmed by the cacophonous roar of the busy inn.

Pipe smoke. Noise. Smells of stale beer, cider, food. Laughter. Prodigious swearing. Extraordinary beards. We had entered the world of the farmers.