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

‘We know the truth though, eh, Flo?’ she said.

‘We do, my lady. Finest police officers in the county we’ve got here.’

‘You’re both very kind,’ said Hancock, taking the tea that I’d poured for him. ‘Don’t suppose you’d mind if I helped myself to one o’ they biscuits? I’m famished.’

Lady Hardcastle invited the constable to help himself to biscuits and invited me to take a look at the report from the Bristol detectives. She picked up a small notebook and a mechanical pencil from the table and made some notes while I read the file. The notebook and pencil had been a ‘get well’ gift from Inspector Sunderland after the shooting. He was never without his own trusty notebook and she took it as a sign of his approval of her detective skills that he had chosen to give her a notebook of her own.

The pub had been packed, as was usual for a Thursday, and Inspector Sunderland’s men had interviewed them all. Dismayingly though, not one of the several dozen witnesses had witnessed anything at all. No one was behaving oddly, there were no arguments, no one was seen with a bottle made of dark glass with a label bearing a skull and crossbones and the word ‘Poison’ in shaky writing. No one knew of anyone with a particular grudge against Spencer Caradine. There was, though, a carefully written note to the effect that the detectives couldn’t be sure that this was definitely the case. ‘It is usually noted in cases of recent death that no one cares to speak ill of the deceased nor to suggest that there might be any reason for anyone to dislike him. In cases of murder, no one wishes to say anything which might be construed as an accusation.’ They made a good point. Unless folk had grudges of their own to be settled, most people would tend to keep mum.

‘Well,’ I said when I’d finished reading. ‘That doesn’t tell us much.’

‘No, not really,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There are a few names to follow up, I think, but I do wonder if it’s just because I’ve heard them before. Gertie pointed out a few of them to us, do you remember? They were all neighbours, though, so perhaps it might be worth speaking to them. And the widow . . . what’s her name?’

I looked at the file. ‘Audrey,’ I said.

‘Audrey,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s it. It will be awkward, but I think we ought to start with her.’

‘Should we clear it with the Chipping Bevington police?’ I asked.

‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you, miss,’ said Constable Hancock. ‘They’s a bunch of idiots and they’ll only give you a hard time if you tries. You’ve got the go-ahead from Inspector Sunderland so I suggests you just does what you wants and treads lightly round they Chipping lot. That Sergeant Boyce is a right one. I’d give him a wide berth if I were you.’

‘Very well, Constable, we shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There’s just one problem we need to overcome.’

‘What’s that, my lady?’ I said.

‘Transportation,’ she said dejectedly. ‘How the devil do we get to all these blessed farms?’

‘Aha,’ said a triumphant Constable Hancock. ‘I have the answer to that one.’

‘You do?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Indeed I do, m’lady,’ he said, and he produced a letter from his tunic pocket.

Lady Hardcastle read the note.

‘Oh, what a splendid woman dear old Gertie is,’ she said, beaming. ‘Bert and the motor car are at our disposal. She’s sending him over at noon and I am to treat him as though he were my own. Well, that’s just perfect. We shall go and visit the Widow Caradine first, then call on Lady Farley-Stroud on the way back.’

Without Lady Farley-Stroud in the motor car, Bert was a far more adventurous driver and we made much more rapid progress than I had been expecting. The hedgerows rushed by and I was rather enjoying the sensation of speed.

As we rounded a bend and began to climb the hill to Top Farm we caught sight of a man leaning against a gate and watching the progress of the motor car.

‘I say, Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Who’s that?’

‘That’s Lancelot Tribley, m’lady. He owns Bottom Farm.’

‘Just down from Top Farm?’ she said.

‘You got it, m’lady,’ he said with a smile.

‘Can you stop the car, please. I’d like a quick word with him.’

‘He’s not on the list, my lady,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t at The Hayrick when Caradine died.’

‘No, I know. But he’s their next-door neighbour. He might have seen something.’

Bert had stopped as soon as he’d been asked and had already reversed the car back down the road to the gate. We climbed out and Lady Hardcastle introduced herself.

‘There aren’t many people around here who don’t know who you are, my lady,’ said the short, powerfully built man at the gate. He was in his forties, I estimated. His flat cap and rumpled jacket gave him the appearance of a farmer, but something about his manner suggested that he might be more comfortable in blazer and flannels.

‘You might be right, actually,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m not certain whether fame becomes me, but it does save time on introductions.’

‘I can see it would be an advantage,’ said Tribley. ‘And what can I do for you?’

‘You’ve heard about the unfortunate death of Mr Caradine?’

‘I have at that. Though I’d be hard pressed to think of many who might think of it as “unfortunate”.’

‘No?’ she said.

‘No. He wasn’t well liked, our Spencer.’

‘Oh? And why was that?’

‘No one likes to speak ill of the dead, but in the case of old Spencer Caradine, it’s pretty much all that’s left you: there aren’t a great many nice things one can say about him. He was a miserable old codger who never had a good word for anyone. Well, actually that’s not true. He had plenty of good words for most of the people he met, but not ones I can repeat in front of ladies. He could start a fight in an empty room, that one.’ He seemed almost wistful at the memory.

‘I see,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘The thing is, there’s a suspicion that he might have been murdered. The Bristol CID have asked us to ask around and see if we can find out a little bit more about him and what might have happened to him. Did you know him well, even though you didn’t get along?’

‘Well enough, I suppose.’

‘Did you see him often? Speak to him?’

‘We passed the time of day. You know how it is.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Early in the week, I believe,’ he said, after a pause. ‘It would have been Monday or Tuesday.’

‘What did you talk about?’ she asked.

‘This and that, you know. Nothing of any consequence.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And you didn’t see him again?’

‘No, that was the last.’

‘You weren’t at The Hayrick the day he died, were you?’

‘No. I didn’t have cause to be at the market last week and I had matters to attend to elsewhere.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Just a small business matter in Gloucester.’

‘That must have made a nice change.’

‘Anything to get away from this place for a bit,’ he said, looking round at the field behind him.

‘You’re not keen on the farming life, then?’

He laughed bitterly. ‘I inherited this wretched place from my brother when he passed away five years ago. I’ve been trying to get shot of it ever since.’

‘Oh,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What did you do before that?’

‘I’m a chef by training. I’ve worked in some of the finest hotels in Europe. Now look at me. Instead of roasting pigs I’m chasing round after the little blighters. I ask you.’

‘Surely there must be people willing to buy a profitable farm, Mr Tribley,’ I said.