Ти Кинси - Christmas at The Grange - A Lady Hardcastle Mystery (Kindle Single)

‘It’s the only way.’

‘Bags not me,’ I said.

‘You’re the one who knows so much about shoes.’

‘But I did it last time. They already think you’re a clumsy eccentric. You do it. It won’t be convincing if it’s me – I have a reputation for grace and agility.’

‘Which is why you’ll manage it without hurting yourself. Come on, let’s get it over and done with before the show starts.’

I sighed. ‘Very well. But we only get one shot, so let’s make it count.’

I scouted around. Mr Goodheart was talking to Hilda Beaufort. Baden Beaufort was on his own and on the way to fetch another drink from his brother-in-law. Dr Fitzsimmons and Sir Edward were standing together. They were our target – we could eliminate two at once.

I indicated them to Lady Hardcastle and we began walking towards them. When I was a little over a body’s length away, I feigned a trip, then a stumble, and fell flat on my face directly at their feet. From this prone position I was able to check the soles of both their shoes for the tell-tale notch before they hurried to help me up.

‘Ups-a-daisy,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Are you all right, Miss Armstrong?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said. ‘I must have tripped on the carpet.’

‘No harm done, though?’ he said.

‘None at all, thank you.’

‘Good-oh. You managed to keep hold of your glass, too. Got your priorities straight.’

The doctor’s priorities were slightly different. ‘Wrists all right?’ he said. ‘Elbows? Knees? Can you bend them for me?’

I demonstrated that all my limbs were working exactly as designed.

‘Are you feeling dizzy at all?’ he continued. ‘It’s most unlike you to be clumsy. This is the young woman who brought down a fella outside a pub in Chipping Bevington when he was trying to outrun the law, you know. Very stable on her feet – usually.’

I gave Lady Hardcastle an ‘I told you so’ look. ‘It must be the shoes,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to them.’

Sir Edward smiled. ‘More likely to be the fizz, what? Damned good idea if you ask me. I fully intended to get at least half-swizzled to see me through the show, but we didn’t get here in time. Have to watch the bally thing sober, now.’

The gong sounded from the hall, indicating that it was time for us to take our seats.

‘Come on, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Let’s get you sitting down before you fall down again.’

I glared at her, but followed anyway.

We had to pause for a moment at the door to wait for some others to get through. Julius Goodheart went first, followed by Hattie Beaufort, then it was finally our turn.

As we walked through the hall, she said, ‘Well? What did you see?’

‘Feet and carpets,’ I said. ‘Oh, and my employer implying that I’m a slush.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And the soles of their shoes were in perfect order.’

‘Well, that’s two eliminated, at least.’

‘Assuming they only have one pair of shoes each,’ I said.

‘You’re a glass-half-empty sort of girl, aren’t you, dear?’

We found our seats and sat down.

The entertainment proved to be a good deal better than Sir Hector and Sir Edward had led us to believe. The curtains below the minstrels’ gallery turned out to be concealing a small stage. Cast members sat in the audience when not performing, which added a pleasingly chaotic feel to the proceedings as they dashed for the wings in time for their cues.

Septimus Holman, the village baker, opened with a dramatic monologue of uncertain provenance, expounding the unknown poet’s thoughts on the true meaning of Christmas. Eunice Spratt and our housemaid, Edna Gibson, sang a duet. There was Daisy’s promised excerpt from Twelfth Night , followed by a surprisingly clever cross-talk act performed by the vicar and Joe Arnold, the pub landlord. Joe’s toothless delivery added a pleasing low-comedy contrast to the slightly-too-highbrow wordplay from the vicar. There were more poems, more songs, and a comedy skit which presented the outgoing year’s events in the form of a Gothic horror story, featuring our own cook, Blodwen Jones, as me. The show closed with a rousing rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ performed by the cast and the audience, accompanied by Jagruti Bland on piano, Fred Spratt on violin and Constable Sam Hancock on trumpet.

We stayed for quite a while after final curtain. Conversation was informal and friendly, with family and villagers chatting like old friends. I saw for the first time what an important part the Farley-Strouds played in village life.

By the time we left, I genuinely was more than a little swizzled. Fortunately, so was Lady Hardcastle, and our mutual need to see the other home without letting them pitch headfirst into a hedgerow sobered us a little.

* * *

‘We should have a cup of cocoa before bed,’ said Lady Hardcastle when we finally reached the front door. ‘Stave off the hangover a little.’

‘I’ll get the milk on,’ I said.

Once it was ready, we sat together at the kitchen table.

‘We don’t do this enough anymore,’ she said as I set down the cocoa.

‘Get drunk and drink cocoa?’ I asked.

‘No, silly. We used to have adventures and then come home and sit at the kitchen table setting the world to rights. We’ve talked about a lot of things at kitchen tables.’

‘It’s the centre of the house,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure it is, you know. The geometric centre would be somewhere on the first-floor landing outside the bathroom. Near the ceiling.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘What do you make of this pendant business now?’ she continued. ‘What have we got?’

‘We’ve got every man in the Farley-Strouds’ social circle wearing blue worsted,’ I said. ‘And we’ve got both Sir Edward and Dr Fitzsimmons wearing impeccably maintained shoes.’

‘But we’ve got so many clues. So many. We’ve never had this many clues before and we’ve managed to solve much more convoluted mysteries.’

‘We’ve solved this one already, though, haven’t we?’

‘We have, but it’s really not terribly satisfying, is it? It’s obviously Julius Goodheart.’

‘It can’t be anyone else,’ I said. ‘It’s not any of the servants or villagers because the thread is from an expensive cloth of the sort they would never wear. Nor would they go a-burgling in smooth-soled dress shoes. It’s none of the women because it was a man’s shoe.’

‘Agreed,’ she said.

‘It can’t be Sir Hector, or Baden Beaufort – even if we could conjure up a motive, neither of them could climb that wall. It’s not likely to be Sir Edward Chambers because his left shoe doesn’t match the print – although we can’t completely rule out the possibility that he has brought more than one pair of Oxfords with him. That only leaves Mr Goodheart.’

‘The cigar-smoking, blue-worsted-wearing Julius Goodheart,’ she said. ‘He’s the only one it can be. He’s not a family member, he only has Sir Edward to vouch for him, and although we’ve not seen his shoes, I’d lay a tenner that the left sole has a notch cut out of it.’

‘I confess I’ve suspected him all along,’ I said.

‘Me too. So why doesn’t it feel right? What’s wrong? What are we missing?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘Might I respectfully suggest that we turn in and approach it fresh in the morning?’

‘It’s a splendid suggestion. They say that the unconscious mind can unravel the most complex mysteries. A good night’s sleep might be just what we need to help us make sense of this one.’

FOUR

By the time I arrived in the kitchen the next morning, Edna and Miss Jones had already arrived and begun work.