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

‘They’re daffodils, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I pointed out some of the unknown greenery. ‘They’re your country’s national flower. Surely you can tell a daffodil.’

‘Could be a tulip,’ I said, slightly sulkily. ‘Or a hyacinth. Bluebells. Crocus.’

‘Well, it isn’t. It’s a daffodil.’

We walked on.

‘I got a letter from George yesterday,’ she said.

‘Did you, my lady?’ I said. ‘Is he well?’

Colonel George Dawlish was an old friend whom we had met the previous autumn when the circus he was managing had visited the village. There were ‘murders and mayhem’, as the press had put it, but he had left in good spirits with the circus in fine shape, despite the carnage.

‘Very well indeed, it seems,’ she said. ‘I told you he was thinking about buying the circus?’

‘You did, my lady.’

‘He tells me that the sale has been completed and that he’s now the proud owner of Bradley & Stoke’s Circus.’

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ I said. ‘He’s keeping the name?’

‘He’s not sure. He says that the name was part of the sale and he thinks “Dawlish’s” is too difficult to say, so he might well hang on to it.’

‘Does this mean we get free tickets?’ I asked. I love to be around circuses.

‘I should bally well hope so,’ she said. ‘I’ll have stern words for the boy if we don’t.’

‘Perhaps you could ask him for his schedule?’

‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘I shall see what I can do. If he’s visiting anywhere nice, perhaps we could arrange to spend a few days nearby.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.

‘Speaking of visits, I wonder if Gertie would like to come over for lunch.’

‘Would you like me to take a note up to The Grange, my lady?’ I said.

‘No, let’s think about it,’ she said. And then, after a pause, she continued, ‘Actually, yes, I really rather think I would. She’s a dear old girl and over these past few months she’s been comfortingly . . . what’s the female version of “avuncular”? Avunculus and . . . amita? Amitular? No, that can’t be right. I always was a duffer at Latin. But anyway, she’s been perfectly lovely and I should like to repay her kindness.’

‘Very well, my lady, you draft the perfect note and I shall carry it bravely up the hill.’

‘You’re a little trouper. But not today, I think – it’s Thursday.’

‘Can we not write perfect notes on a Thursday, my lady?’ I said.

‘I shall have you know that I can craft the perfect note for any occasion upon any day of the week, but Thursday is market day so she’ll not be at home. Tomorrow, definitely.’

‘Very well, my lady, I shall brush my best hat in preparation.’

‘You would wear your best hat to deliver a note, but not to take the air with your mistress?’ she said haughtily.

‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘Why would I waste my best hat on an old trout like you? Lady Farley-Stroud, on the other hand, is a proper lady.’

‘In very many ways,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I really rather think she is.’

We reached home just as the postman was walking back down the path and we exchanged cheery ‘good mornings’. Inside, I picked up the letters from the mat and made way for Lady Hardcastle to come in and remove her hat and coat.

‘It’s quite the week for keeping in touch,’ I said, handing over the letters. ‘I believe one of those is from Skins.’

‘The redoubtable Skins Maloney,’ she said, taking the letters with a smile of thanks. ‘Either bragging of the band’s continuing success or on the earhole for cash, I shouldn’t wonder.’

It seemed our adventures of the previous summer had made quite an impression, not only on us, but on the others involved. Skins was the drummer in the band who had become embroiled in the affair at The Grange. We had been following his progress after striking up a friendship one drunken, musical evening back at the house after everything had been wrapped up.

‘Ah,’ said Lady Hardcastle, who was reading the letter. ‘It’s all good news. He and Dunn have a new band. He says he told us they were the best rhythm section in London. They have dates all over England. Some in Paris . . . dah-de-dah . . . would we like to come and see them in London next month . . . oh, “and give my love to Flo”. Well, that’s all very nice. What do you think? A couple of days in London in April? We could call it a late birthday celebration for you – I haven’t forgotten it’s coming up. A night in a seedy club with the boys? Perhaps one of those silly shows you like?’

‘Silly shows, my lady? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What was that thing you and Harry dragged me to just after Christmas? “Whoops! Oh Crikey! I’ve Fallen in Love with the Flower Girl Again”? I love my brother dearly, but he’s got the most appalling taste in . . . well, in most things, actually.’

‘You, my lady, are a frightful old snob,’ I said, and went to get Miss Jones to make us a pot of tea.

The doorbell rang as we sipped our tea in the drawing room. I answered it to see an ashen Lady Farley-Stroud on the doorstep. Ordinarily a lively lady with a mischievous glint in her eye, the glint was gone, replaced by a look of distress.

‘Oh, Armstrong,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. Is Lady Hardcastle at home?’

‘She is, my lady. Please come in. You look like you could do with a sweet tea. Whatever’s the matter?’

She stepped in, looking curiously about at our somewhat Spartan decor. I took her hat and coat and conducted her through to the drawing room.

‘Who’s that at the—?’ said Lady Hardcastle as I opened the door. ‘Oh, Gertie, what a delight. Do come in, I was just—’

Lady Farley-Stroud fainted. I managed to get my shoulder under her arm to stop her from falling to the ground, but I was having trouble manhandling her towards a chair. Lady Hardcastle leapt up when she saw her guest falling, and winced visibly as the wound in her stomach gave a twinge.

We got the older lady into an armchair and she began to return to her senses.

‘I was just about to offer sweet tea, my lady,’ I said. ‘For the shock.’

‘Sweet tea be beggared,’ said Lady Hardcastle firmly. ‘This lady needs brandy.’

‘Very good, my lady,’ I said, and I went to fetch both.

I returned with a tray of tea, cognac and biscuits to find Lady Farley-Stroud returned to consciousness, but looking little better. Lady Hardcastle was fussing around her friend.

‘Here you are, dear,’ she said. ‘Flo’s brought some tea and brandy. Let’s get some of that down you and you can tell me all about it.’

Lady Farley-Stroud sipped at the proffered glass and began to look a little embarrassed.

‘So sorry, m’dear,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what came over me. Haven’t swooned since I was a girl. Feel very foolish.’

‘Nonsense, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You look like you’ve had a terrible shock. Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Oh, Emily, it was terrible. Went to the market on my own. Left Denton behind – she had things to be getting on with back at The Grange. Having lunch in The Hayrick, chatting to Mr Caradine about the cattle he bought from us last week. Poor old chap was looking very ill but he said it was just a spring cold. He looked jaundiced to me, though, I’ve seen that before. So I took pity on the old chap and was just about to offer him a drink when he keeled over, face down in his pie.’

‘Gracious!’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.

‘They tried to revive him, but he was dead as a door knocker.’

‘Gracious!’ we said again.

‘We called the doctor, and he said it looked like . . . like he’d been poisoned!’ said Lady Farley-Stroud before she fainted again, tipping the remains of the brandy over her dress.