T Kinsey - A Picture of Murder (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 4)

‘He’s fine. It’s just a broken leg. But we’ll miss his wages – Dr Fitzsimmons reckons he’ll be off work for six weeks or more.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Farm work for Toby Thompson, at the moment. Him with the dairy herd. He usually works for Noah Lock up the hill, but he goes where the work is. A few odd jobs here and there, you know. Dan-of-all-trades, I calls him.’

‘He’ll be scuppered with a gammy leg, then,’ I said. ‘Would it help to do a few more hours here? I can have a word with Lady Hardcastle.’

She looked up from her bed-making. ‘I must admit it would be a boon, my lover,’ she said. ‘But only if it’s real work, mind. I don’t want no charity.’

‘Of course not. Nothing was further from my thoughts. I’m sure we could find plenty to keep you busy.’

‘Then it would be much appreciated, I’m sure.’

‘And Dan can do without you?’

‘As long as he’s got his pipe and a couple of bottles of cider, he can see hisself through a couple of afternoons without me waitin’ on him.’

‘I shall see what I can do, then,’ I said.

‘Proper work, mind. Don’t forget.’

‘I give you my solemn word that we shall work you like a navvy, Edna. Don’t you worry about that.’

Reassured that there was nothing too much amiss, I returned to the kitchen. Miss Jones was just putting the pot and cups on the tray as I walked in.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Did you know about Dan?’

‘And his broken leg?’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t heard about nothin’ else. Is that why she’s all of a pother about every little thing?’

‘It seems so.’

‘They’ll miss his wages,’ she said. ‘He can’t work with a broken leg.’

‘No, that’s what she said. So I’ve offered to talk to Lady Hardcastle about doing a few more hours here.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Why ever should I mind?’ she said, sounding rather bemused.

‘Well, I’m not sure we can offer you any more hours. To tell the truth, I’ve no real idea what we’re going to find for Edna to do. But don’t tell her that. She’s determined not to accept charity.’

‘Mum’s the word,’ she said. ‘She’s a proud one, our Edna. But don’t you worry about me. I’m happy with my mornin’s. Suits me fine. I still needs to get back to our ma.’

‘Of course, of course. How is your mother?’

‘Ups and downs, you know,’ she said. ‘She has her good days and her bad. But we gets by.’

‘It must be hard. But don’t be like Edna. If you need help, you will say, won’t you?’

‘You’re very kind, miss. Do you want me to take this tray through?’

As usual, she had set the tray for two – both she and Edna had quickly accepted the idea of Lady Hardcastle and her lady’s maid eating and drinking together.

‘No, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it. You get back to working your arcane magic on that lamb. Tell Lady Hardcastle she said she’d meet me in the morning room if it seems as though she might have forgotten.’

‘Can you smell smoke?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as she breezed into the morning room, still in her overalls.

‘I asked Edna to light the fires,’ I said. ‘I thought we’d already been sufficiently stoic and hardy. It’s gone beyond “a bit chilly” and we’re well on the way to “brass monkeys”. Warmth was called for.’

‘You’re quite right, of course,’ she said, sitting down. ‘A stiff upper lip is much less impressive when its stiffness is caused by its being frozen solid. But I meant outside. There seemed to be quite a whiff in the air when we went out into the garden this morning, didn’t you think?’

‘Perhaps everyone lit their fires today?’

‘No, it smelled more . . . messy. Not like logs or coal.’

‘Bonfires?’ I suggested. ‘Burning the leaves and other garden detritus? One last tidy-up before winter?’

‘It’s bucketing down now, dear,’ she said. ‘Who would light a bonfire in the rain? Are you sure you didn’t smell anything?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ I said. I poured her a cup of coffee and offered her one of Miss Jones’s shortbreads. ‘I hope the weather cheers up for Friday. I love Bonfire Night.’

‘Me too. Father used to take us all to a big fireworks display on Guy Fawkes Night. There would be stalls selling food and drink. I had the most vivid memory of a Yorkshireman selling “bonfire toffee” – brittle black stuff that could break your teeth. But that was all right because you could also use it to stick them back together. I insisted that we had visited him every year and that I absolutely adored bonfire toffee. When I was older, Mother told me that we’d only seen him once and that I’d taken one splintered bite and then spat it out on to the grass, declaring it to be “the horridest thing in the whole Empire”. The fireworks were magical, though. Always.’

‘Guy Fawkes Night was our last show before we packed up the circus for the winter,’ I said. ‘We’d do the show and then lead the crowd out to the field. We’d put on fireworks like they’d never seen while the fire eater did his act by the light of a massive bonfire. I was quite disappointed when we moved back to Aberdare so Ma could look after Mamgu. The town couldn’t afford anything like what we’d seen growing up.’

‘Do you remember the fireworks in Shanghai? We ought to get those chaps to come over here and show us how it’s done. Still, they always make an effort in the village, even without Chinese expertise. I have high hopes.’

‘If Lady Farley-Stroud is organizing the moving picture show, though, who’s in charge of Bonfire Night?’ I asked. ‘Sir Hector?’

Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud were the local landowners. Lady Hardcastle had once described them as ‘the most charming old buffers ever to draw breath’, and over the past year or so they had all become firm friends.

‘Hector? Really? I love him dearly, but he couldn’t organize a bun fight in a bakery, bless him. No, I think there’s a committee of some sort with Gertie still at the helm. She can run the moving picture show and still keep a firm hand on the Guy Fawkes Night tiller. She’s a steam-driven marvel of capability, that woman.’

‘And a half,’ I said. ‘With ornamental brass knobs on.’

She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I say, it’s nearly lunchtime. Why did you let me eat biscuits? We should be pestering Miss Jones for pie.’

‘I wanted elevenses at eleven, but you wanted to get “just . . . one . . . more . . . shot . . .”,’ I said. ‘I’m a good girl, me. I always do as I’m told.’

This earned me a harrumph, but I was spared anything more stinging by the ringing of the telephone.

‘Who on earth can that be?’ she said.

‘I shall find out,’ I said.

I went to the hall and took the telephone earpiece from its cradle on the side of the wooden box screwed to the wall.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three.’

‘Armstrong?’ said a familiar lady’s voice. Talk of the Devil and all that. ‘Armstrong? Is that you, m’dear?’

‘It is, Lady Farley-Stroud,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to fetch Lady Hardcastle for you?’

‘No, m’dear, there’s no need for that. Just fetch Lady Hardcastle for me, would you?’

‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said. ‘Hold the line, please.’

We had a similar conversation nearly every time she called. I was beginning to wonder if it was me.

‘Who was it, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle when I went back into the morning room.