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

Maude, Lady Hardcastle and I trailed in the wake of Lady Farley-Stroud as she ploughed her way through the rambunctious market-day crowd to get to the bar. It wasn’t yet noon, but the majority of the assembled rustics were already well on their way to exuberant intoxication.

The landlord had his back to us and was fussing with something on the shelf behind the bar.

‘Morning, Ronnie,’ bellowed Lady Farley-Stroud.

The landlord jumped. Even above the noise of the pub, her voice was enough to terrify the most redoubtable of men.

‘Ah, good morning, m’lady,’ he said, turning round. ‘You gave me quite a start there.’

‘Thought so,’ she said. ‘Dream world, eh?’

‘Just keeping the place tidy, m’lady. It’s bedlam in here. Always is come market day. What can I get you?’

‘You have your famous beef and mushroom pies?’

‘Baked ’em fresh myself this very morning, m’lady. Two, is it?’

‘Four today, Ronnie. Brought some guests,’ she said and indicated Lady Hardcastle and me.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ said the landlord with a slight bow. ‘Ronald Towels at your service. Welcome to The Hayrick.’

‘Thank you, Mr Towels,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘A lovely, lively place you have here.’

‘Ronnie, madam, please. I’m glad you like it. Not quite what you’re used to, I don’t expect, but there’s always a welcome here for friends of Lady Farley-Stroud.’

‘I’m reasonably sure you’d be quite surprised by what we’re used to, Ronnie,’ she said with her warmest smile. ‘And I understand that your pies and cider are the finest in the county.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, Mrs . . . ?’

‘This is Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Is it? Is it, indeed? Well, I’ll be blowed. The one who helped you out with that business up at The Grange last year?’

‘The very same,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, proudly. ‘Found my jewel and helped catch a murderer.’

‘That’s right, I remember. Killed poor Frank Pickering, didn’t they? Terrible loss, he was. One of the best fast bowlers in the district. Littleton Cotterell will miss him this season.’

‘Quite,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘So mind you treat her well, m’lad.’

‘No special treatment here, m’lady,’ said Ronnie. ‘You knows that. It’s the finest cider, the finest pies, and everyone gets the very best there is. And a warm welcome to go with it. It’s a pleasure to serve you all.’ He paused and looked quizzically at me. ‘And are you the famous Florence Armstrong?’ he said.

‘I don’t know about famous,’ I said. ‘But I have my moments.’

‘I heard as how you broke a killer’s wrist with a single kick.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I did that. I bake nice cakes too.’

He laughed. ‘I bet you does, an’ all. Well, ladies, barge some o’ they ne’er-do-wells out of the way and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send the girl out with pies and cider in two shakes. Hey!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Spencer! Budge up there and make room for the ladies.’

The man looked up sullenly from his pie. I recognized him as Spencer Caradine, the skinny, bearded farmer who had bought the Farley-Strouds’ cattle. He was clearly about to offer his views on the idea of budging up for anyone at all when he noticed Lady Farley-Stroud. Instead, he nodded and grudgingly shuffled along the bench to make way for us, pulling his plate and his pint with him.

‘Thank you, Mr Caradine,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud as she made herself comfortable. ‘And I do hope the cattle will be to your liking.’

‘Them’s good milkers, m’lady,’ he wheezed. ‘Reckon I got m’self a good deal there.’

‘Good show,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Enjoy your pie.’ She turned back to the rest of us. ‘Well, Emily, what do you think? Isn’t market day a hoot?’

‘It’s a rich slice of country life, that’s for certain,’ said Lady Hardcastle, looking around the crowded bar. ‘Is it always this well attended?’

‘I should say it’s about average,’ said our hostess.

‘And do you know many people here? They seem to know you.’

‘I suppose I’m quite easy to remember, what? Lady of the manor and all that. But I know a few. Know a few. Over there, for instance,’ – she indicated a tall man with an ill-fitting hat – ‘that’s Dick Ackley who was bidding against Mr Caradine here for our prize cattle. And over there,’ – she pointed to a surprisingly handsome middle-aged man in a well-patched jacket – ‘that’s Noah Lock, one of Mr Caradine’s neighbours. And . . . let me see . . . ah, yes, there he is. Over there at the end of the bar next to the kitchen, short chap. That’s another of his neighbours, Lancelot Tribley.’

‘Quite the community,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Got to know one’s neighbours out here, m’dear. Rely on each other, d’you see?’ Lady Farley-Stroud raised her voice, ‘Don’t we, Mr Caradine?’

He looked up from his pie. ‘Beg pardon, m’lady?’

‘I say we look out for each other. It’s the country way. Stick together.’

‘Ar,’ he wheezed gravely. ‘That we do, m’lady. That we do.’

‘Who’s that tall chap covered in flour?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘He looks more like a baker than a farmer.’

Lady Farley-Stroud peered at the giant of a man by the dartboard.

‘Not sure, dear,’ she said. ‘Looks familiar. Not certain where I know him from, though. The rugby club, perhaps? Hector would know.’

Conversation was briefly halted by the arrival of ‘the girl’ with a huge tray bearing our pies and ciders. ‘The girl’ was all of forty years old and was missing more than one tooth, but her gapped smile was warm and her strength impressive as she heaved the tray with its heaped plates and pint jugs onto the table.

‘There you goes, m’dears,’ she said. ‘Four pies and four pints. Can I get you anything else? There’s some mustard around here somewhere.’

‘And some salt, please, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, picking up her knife and fork. ‘Come on, girls, tuck in,’ she said, and hungrily followed her own advice.

The pies, despite my reservations, didn’t disappoint at all. The beef was tender, the gravy rich, and I was sure that the mushrooms were chanterelles. Add to that a generous helping of mashed potato and it was a lunch fit for a farming king. The cider wasn’t bad, either, but the cider served by Old Joe at the Dog and Duck at Littleton Cotterell just had the edge there.

As we ate, the two ladies swapped stories about their respective times in India. Lady Hardcastle’s were certainly the more thrilling, being edited highlights of some of our less secret spying missions, but there was a mischievous glee in the older woman’s stories that served as an entertaining counterpoint. I’d always suspected that in her youth she’d been a bit of a girl. It turns out she had. And sometimes rather a racy one at that.

I was catching only some of the tales, though, now that Maude, enlivened by the food and cider, was regaling me with tales of her own. Life below stairs at The Grange was a great deal more interesting than I remembered from the day I spent there. We were chuckling together as we plotted the downfall of the bullying cook, Mrs Brown, when the end of one of Lady Farley-Stroud’s stories brought us both up short.

‘. . . and so she just dived straight out of the window. Still stark naked, of course.’

I nearly spat out my pie.

2

Now that Lady Hardcastle was emerging from her winter-long funk and the days were beginning to get longer, life seemed altogether brighter again. Birds were building nests, unidentifiable plants were poking blade-like leaves up through the soil, and spring was most definitely in the air. We walked every morning.