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

She fitted the tiny pistol into the tailor-made compartment at the rear of the hat, and put the hat on.

‘There,’ she said. ‘How do I look?’

‘Deadly,’ I said.

She reached up casually with her right hand, as though to adjust the fit of the hat, and the hand returned bearing the derringer.

‘I can’t count the number of times when something like this would have saved us an awful lot of messing about,’ she said. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She grinned. ‘Although it probably doesn’t speak well of us that we buy each other weapons for Christmas.’

‘It’s not always weapons,’ I said. ‘You bought me a brooch with picklocks in it for my birthday.’

‘That’s true.’ She took off the hat. ‘This is absolutely wonderful,’ she said. ‘And I promise not to accidentally shoot you.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said. ‘And I promise not to accidentally whip out my bejewelled knife and throw it into your heart in retaliation.’

‘Then we’re safe.’

‘We are. Shall I draw you a bath?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘We’d better shake a leg if we’re going to get up to The Grange in time for elevenses.’

* * *

The weather was crisply cold as we made our way up the hill with the frost crunching beneath our boots. The skies were clear and the low sun made the frosted trees sparkle. The downside of the cloudlessness was that it dashed all hopes of a white Christmas.

‘To tell you the truth,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I’ve never quite understood the attraction of snow. It’s beautiful for the first hour or so, but it soon degenerates into a filthy grey slush. Then it grimes up the hem of one’s dress or freezes overnight and turns even the shortest walk into a treacherous expedition across an arctic hell.’

‘Hell has ice now?’ I said.

‘Mine does,’ she replied. ‘And bagpipes.’

‘You’re not a fan of the skirl of the pipes, then, hen?’ I said in a bad Scottish accent.

‘No one is, dear. They say they were banned by George II, you know. They claim it was to suppress Scottish nationalism, but if it’s true – and, as a matter of fact, I don’t believe it is – I’m sure it had less to do with saving the Union from Highland insurrection and more to do with saving everyone’s hearing from the screech of that infernal instrument.’

I hummed ‘The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond’ as we passed through the gates to the drive. I’d moved on to ‘I Love a Lassie’ by the time we reached the great front door of the house.

‘That’s a new one, isn’t it?’ she said as we waited for someone to answer.

‘Harry Lauder,’ I said. ‘It’s a few years old now. It’s been doing the rounds in the music halls.’

‘It’s jaunty,’ she said. ‘I bet it sounds bally awful on the pipes, mind you.’

Jenkins, the Farley-Strouds’ butler, opened the door.

‘Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, warmly. ‘Miss Armstrong. Do, please, come in. Let me take your coats.’

‘Good morning, Jenkins,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘And a merry Christmas to you, too, my lady,’ he said. ‘Lady Farley-Stroud has asked me to take you straight through to Sir Hector’s study. She’s waiting for you there.’

Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged puzzled looks but followed him down the passageway to a heavy oak door. He knocked and entered.

‘Lady Hardcastle and Miss Armstrong, my lady,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ came the familiar voice from inside. ‘Show them in.’

‘Very good, my lady,’ said Jenkins. He ushered us into the room and closed the door behind us.

‘Sit yourselves down,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, indicating the two armchairs beside the window. She perched herself on the edge of Sir Hector’s ornately carved desk as we made ourselves comfortable. The desk was of a dark wood, decorated with elephants and peacocks. A souvenir of India, I presumed.

‘Merry Christmas to you both,’ she continued. ‘Thank you for coming last evening. I had the jolliest time.’

‘We did, too,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you for inviting us.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you for inviting me, especially.’

‘Think nothing of it, m’dears,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Cook tells me there have been some unexpected deliveries to the kitchen, too. And Jenkins is clearing room in the wine cellar to store an uncommon amount of grog. You’re a very naughty girl, Emily, and I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Entirely my pleasure, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘But that’s not why I’ve closeted you here, away from the others,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I rather fear we’re in a bit of a bind again.’

‘Again?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Much as the last time I drew you away from company and brought you in here. Do you remember?’

‘I do indeed. Someone had stolen your emerald . . . I say, it’s not gone missing again, has it?’

Not long after we had first arrived in Littleton Cotterell, we were helping the police solve a murder while simultaneously trying to recover a stolen gemstone for the Farley-Strouds.

‘No,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘But something is missing. Last night someone broke in through the window of one of the bedrooms and helped themselves to a pearl pendant on a gold chain.’

‘Goodness me,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Whose room? Where? Are they all right? Were they hurt? Have you called the police?’

‘Hattie Beaufort – my niece. Or niece-in-law, if that’s a proper term. You met her last night. She’s in a room on the first floor, at the back of the house. She’s unharmed. Didn’t even know anyone had been in the room. And no, we don’t want the police involved for now. We – that’s to say Hector and I – would quite like to settle this amongst ourselves without involving the official police. It’s tiresome enough being at the centre of yet another robbery ourselves, but it will do poor Cornelius’s reputation at the bank no end of harm if it gets out that his wife was robbed.’

I didn’t follow this particular line of reasoning, but I’d never been particularly sensitive to scandal, so I was almost certainly missing some subtle nuance of the situation.

Lady Hardcastle pressed on. ‘Was anything else taken?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Were any other rooms searched?’

‘No.’

Lady Hardcastle paused a moment in thought. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said at length. ‘You’re telling us that someone stole in through the window of an upstairs bedroom in the dead of night. They picked up a valuable necklace, leaving no indication that they had searched for anything else. And then they left again without troubling to snoop around the rest of the house. Oh, and they moved so silently that the occupant of the room was undisturbed.’

‘It sounds rather queer when you put it like that,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Doesn’t it just?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well, I do love a puzzle. What say you, Flo?’

‘It beats playing Sardines as a way of passing Christmas morning,’ I said.

‘It does, rather, doesn’t it?’ She stood. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Lay on, Mac-Gertie. Show us the scene of the dirty deed.’

We trooped out of the study and set off upstairs.

* * *

The Grange was a beguiling hotchpotch of architectural styles. It had started its life as a Tudor manor house. A Georgian owner had added a Palladian section which became the main body of the house and gave it its elegant, symmetrical, front aspect. Shortly before the Farley-Strouds bought it, the last owner had added yet another new wing, this time in the Gothic Revival style, complete with turrets and towers.