T Kinsey - Death Around the Bend (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 3)

ALSO BY T E KINSEY

The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries

A Quiet Life in the Country

In the Market for Murder

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2017 T E Kinsey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

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ISBN-13: 9781503940109

ISBN-10: 1503940101

Cover design by Lisa Horton

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Chapter One

‘What do you think, Flo: the red scarf or the green?’

Lady Hardcastle held up the two silk scarves for my inspection.

‘Why not take both, my lady?’ I suggested as I continued to pack the rest of her clothes.

‘Well, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to avoid overpacking. We’re only going for a week.’

‘I don’t think a single silk scarf is going to make a great amount of difference at this stage,’ I said, indicating the already well-crammed trunk on the bedroom floor and the accompanying collection of cases and bags.

She looked around. ‘I see what you mean. Honestly, Flo, do we really need all this paraphernalia?’

‘This “paraphernalia”, as you so testily describe it,’ I said, ‘constitutes the bare minimum required for a week at a country house, and you very well know it.’

She sighed. ‘I know, I know. But. I mean. Really. How will we ever fit it all into the motor?’

It was my turn to sigh. ‘I thought we’d settled this, my lady. Dr Fitzsimmons is lending us his trap, and his man, Newton, will take us to the station. We are not taking the Rover.’

Several hectic, summery weeks had passed since we had accepted an invitation to spend a week at Codrington Hall in Rutland, home of Lord Riddlethorpe, during which time we had discussed the matter of taking the new motor car with tedious regularity.

On the one hand, the long drive up to Riddlethorpe from our home in Gloucestershire had the potential to be really rather entertaining. Seeing the beautiful towns and villages of the heart of England as we swept through, the last of the harvest in the fields, the livestock munching in the meadows . . . We had quite the most romantic idea of England in late summer, and the long drive would let us enjoy it at its finest.

On the other hand, there seemed to be at least a hundredweight of ‘paraphernalia’ to be transported, as well as a widow and her maid. August had been blissfully warm and summery. All the signs were that the good weather would continue into the first week of September, but one can never be certain with the English weather. I decided to pack for warm weather, but also to include her raincoat, galoshes, and at least two tweed suits in case the Rutland mornings were a little chilly.

The thought of spending many hours crammed inside the tiny motor filled us both with unease. And that was if we could even work out a way of loading the trunk, cases, and bags in the first place. We had dithered between the alternatives for many days until we had finally decided, or so I had thought, that taking the motor was far from practical and that the train was a much more sensible choice.

‘Well,’ she said slowly, still fiddling with the scarves, ‘I know we said that . . . but it would be rather handy to have a motor while we’re there . . . You know, for exploring and suchlike . . .’

‘I’m sure Lord Riddlethorpe will lend us one of his many motors,’ I said. ‘He and his pals will probably be glad to see us pootling off into the village so they can get on with whatever it is that chaps get up to when the ladies aren’t around.’

The invitation to Rutland had come second hand from Lady Hardcastle’s brother, Harry. He had known Lord Riddlethorpe (‘Fishy’ to his friends – the family name was Codrington) since they had been up at Cambridge together. He had written to his sister to ask if she (and I) would like to be his ‘do feel free to bring a friend’ at a small gathering that Lord Riddlethorpe was arranging to celebrate the launch of his new racing car company. There would be a party attended by local dignitaries, and a few days of racing for the chosen few on Lord Riddlethorpe’s newly-built personal racing track. It all seemed terribly exciting, and Lady Hardcastle had accepted at once.

‘Do you think Lord Riddlethorpe will let you race?’ I asked, taking the scarves and folding them for packing.

‘I should bally well hope so,’ she said. ‘I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t invite you to have a go, too.’

‘Is he a progressive sort, then?’ I asked. ‘He won’t think such pursuits unsuitable for women?’

‘From what I remember of him, he’s not too bad. I don’t suppose he’s writing cheques for Mrs Pankhurst and her suffragettes, but I do recall him having a set-to with some of the insufferable oafs who tried to make life unpleasant for we women students at Girton. I think he has a refreshingly open attitude towards us.’

‘You’ve known him since you were at Cambridge, then?’

‘Only to say good day to. He was at King’s with Harry, so our paths occasionally crossed. He’s a likeable enough fellow. I remember him being rather an eager puppy sort of a chap in those days. Friendly, cheerful, desperate to please – you know the sort. And boundlessly enthusiastic about pretty much every new idea that came along. He might have grown up since then, mind you; that was twenty years ago.’

‘Then we shall have to hope that he’s still keen on the idea of women doing inappropriate things,’ I said. ‘I’ve acquired quite a taste for motoring since we got the Rover. I should love to try something a little more powerful.’

‘Me too, Flo, me too.’ She stood for a moment in thought, and then walked round the bed and towards the door, where she stopped and turned. ‘Oh, I’ll tell you what, though, I gather the grounds are rather pretty, too. Will there be room in the luggage for my watercolours?’

I sighed theatrically. ‘I expect so, my lady, and if not we can put them in my bag. I don’t mind going without clean clothes. I’m just a humble lady’s maid.’

I dodged a flick aimed at my ear as she left.

It took me another half an hour to pack the rest of her things. I didn’t close any of the bags, knowing from long experience that, despite her protestations about how we always took too much, there would still be one or two last-minute ‘Oh, I really can’t do without this’ items to be packed before we were finally ready to leave the following morning.

I went downstairs. Miss Jones, the cook, and Edna, the housemaid, had already left for the day – for the week, in fact, since Lady Hardcastle had given them the time off – so I was intending to put the kettle on for a relaxing cup of tea. My progress was halted by an unfamiliar and insistent ringing. It wasn’t the doorbell and, unless Lady Hardcastle had been tinkering again, I was sure it wasn’t one of the room bells.