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

We brought Lady Farley-Stroud round with some old smelling salts that I found at the back of Lady Hardcastle’s dressing table. We let her sit quietly while I went to talk to Bert who was sitting outside in the motor car. I asked him to drive up to The Grange to fetch Maude, and to stop off in the village on the way back and collect Dr Fitzsimmons.

Back inside, I freshened the tea while we waited for Bert to return. Lady Farley-Stroud was slowly restored to her usual self (I was firmly convinced it was the tea and not the cognac that did the trick) and was soon admonishing us for making such an unseemly fuss. We were wary of distressing her again so we had to keep our curiosity in check, but it was a hellish task. How did they know it was poison? What sort of poison was it? When was it administered? Who could have done such a thing? Why would they do it?

By the time the doctor had examined her and given her into the care of her maid, I for one was definitely beginning to struggle to find things to say that weren’t connected to the sudden death of Spencer Caradine. But we wished her well, promised to visit the next day, and sent them all on their way.

‘Things are definitely back to normal now,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we settled back in the drawing room to finish off the tea.

‘Murder and mischief, my lady?’ I said, brushing biscuit crumbs from my pinafore.

‘Mayhem and . . . and . . .’

‘Malarkey, my lady?’

‘Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it,’ she said.

‘Monkey business?’ I said.

‘You’re not helping, Flo,’ she said. ‘I think we shall have to settle for “misdemeanours”.’

‘Mucking about?’

‘Remember who protected you from the evil cows with her trusty walking stick, my girl,’ she said threateningly. ‘I might leave it at home the next time we face a terrifying bovine menace. But a mystery might be just what I need.’

‘Mystery, my lady.’

‘Yes, a mystery. Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. Mystery. Mayhem and mystery.’

We raised our tea cups. ‘To mayhem and mystery,’ I said.

The doorbell rang again.

‘Oh, who can this be?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was just about to indulge in some wild and ill-informed speculation upon the murder of Spencer Caradine when some inconsiderate soul comes ringing at the doorbell. Send them away with a flea in their ear for their impudence. Both ears, I say.’

The doorbell rang yet again.

‘Go!’ she said. ‘Be maid-like. Answer the blessed door.’

I went and answered the blessed door.

‘Ah, Miss Armstrong,’ said the bowler-hatted man on the doorstep. ‘Is your mistress at home?’

‘Inspector Sunderland,’ I said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Please, do come in.’

‘Thank you, miss,’ said the inspector. We had become friends during the investigation of the murder at The Grange. While I had a strong suspicion that his call was not a social one, it was still a pleasure to see him.

I led him to the drawing room and showed him in.

‘Inspector Sunderland is here, my lady,’ I said, somewhat superfluously.

‘I can see that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Inspector. How delightful to see you. Do please come in and make yourself at home. Flo, I think we might need another pot. Tea, Inspector?’

‘That would be most welcome, my lady,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re up and about again.’

‘I am, yes. And quite relieved to be so. One can’t stay moping about forever,’ she said.

‘No, indeed, my lady. But you were shot. And then there was that business in the autumn. I think that might entitle you to a little moping.’

‘You’re very kind, Inspector, darling,’ she said. She noticed I was still at the door. ‘Tea, dear. Quick sticks. The sooner you’re back, the sooner the inspector can tell us why he’s here.’

I hurried to the kitchen. I could hear them chatting in the other room, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying as I clattered about with the tea things. There were still a few biscuits left over from the batch Miss Jones had cooked that morning so I put those onto a plate and hurried back into the drawing room with the tray.

‘. . . with a grapefruit in his overcoat pocket,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I entered.

Inspector Sunderland chuckled. ‘You are a caution, my lady,’ he said. ‘Like a breath of fresh air you are. I must say it’s good to see you back to your old self.’

Inspector Sunderland was from Bristol CID. He had allowed us to join his investigation into a murder at The Grange when we had first arrived in the village.

He was a straightforward man who loved his work and he treated us with a level of respect it was hard to find in the rest of the world. Of course, people respected Lady Hardcastle’s title, but usually only that. Inspector Oliver Sunderland valued her opinion, too. And mine for that matter.

‘Florence, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘do sit down. You’re making the place look untidy.’

I sat in the other armchair.

‘Now then, Inspector, tell all,’ she said. ‘Would you think me altogether too grim if I were to confess that I do rather hope it’s to do with the murder of Spencer Caradine?’

‘Well I never,’ said the inspector with another chuckle. ‘Am I to add clairvoyance to the list of your known talents?’

‘Oh pish and fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘Gertie Farley-Stroud was here a little while ago, all at sixes and sevens and swooning like a mopsy in a penny dreadful. She told us everything. Well, everything she could manage between swigging my best brandy and passing out, at any rate. One would have thought she’d seen more than her fair share of sudden deaths over the years, but it seems to have affected her rather badly.’

‘Ah, yes, I gathered she’d been there. So you have the gist of it, then?’

‘Farmer collapses in his pie, local sawbones suspects poison,’ she said. ‘That’s all we have.’

‘That’s the essence of it,’ said the inspector. ‘Local doctor . . . doctor . . .’ – he consulted his ever-present notebook – ‘oh, it doesn’t matter for now. Local chap, anyway. Old fellow, bit of a dodderer. He reckons it must be poison, but it’s not like any poison I’ve ever seen. There’s something not right there, I’m sure of it. I’ve sent the pie and the cider off to be analysed anyway, though whether they’ll find anything, I don’t know.’

‘It’s absolutely charming of you to come all this way just to tell us,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sorry Lady Farley-Stroud stole your thunder, but the thought is appreciated.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come over just to tell you, my lady. No, I’m sorry, I should have explained myself. You see, I’m rather tied up at the moment – we’re on the trail of a gang of bank thieves in the city – and I . . . well, I was going to ask you for your help with the pie-eyed farmer.’

‘Oh, Inspector, you absolute poppet,’ she said. ‘We were just saying how we could do with a mystery, weren’t we, Flo?’

‘You were saying it, my lady,’ I said. ‘I was merely mocking your stumbling attempts to remember the word “mystery”.’

‘You see what I have to endure, Inspector?’ she said. ‘Derided by a tiny Welsh mop-squeezer. Well, really. I ask you. Is that right for a woman of my station and distinction?’

‘It seems most inappropriate, my lady,’ he said. ‘I could have a couple of the lads run her down the station, if you like. A night in the cells might teach her some manners.’ He winked at me.

‘You could try, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But they’d only get hurt. And who would bring up my breakfast tray?’

‘As you wish, my lady,’ he said. ‘But will you both help? I need someone I can trust to make the right inquiries while we’re busy trying to stop these lads from tunnelling under Corn Street, or whatever it is they have in mind this time. Someone with natural detective skills and a nose for crime solving.’