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

‘Lady Farley-Stroud,’ I said. ‘I think she’d like a word.’

She was gone for a fair few minutes. I could hear only snippets of her side of the conversation but there were sufficient ‘oh my goodness’-es and ‘I say, you poor things’-es for me to be able to surmise that all was not well at The Grange.

‘All is not well at The Grange,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she returned.

‘I surmised as much,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That smell of smoke I remarked upon when I came in was from their kitchen.’

‘Mrs Brown has ruined their Sunday lunch?’

‘Much worse,’ she said. ‘The whole kitchen has gone up in flames. Someone forgot a candle, they think. It caught a cloth and, well, one tragic thing followed another.’

‘Heavens,’ I said. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Thankfully, no,’ she said. ‘Nor was the rest of the house affected. They’re just without a kitchen.’

‘Is there anything we can do to help?’

‘That was the reason for her call. They were supposed to be hosting the visiting kinematograph people – Colonel Something-or-other and three actors.’

‘Colonel Cheetham,’ I said. ‘Nolan Cheetham.’

‘That’s the chap. She asked if we could put them up.’

‘You agreed, I hope.’

‘In a flash. They can have a room each – it’s not like we’re short of space. The only thing I worried about was whether you’d be able to cope.’

‘Not on my own,’ I said. ‘But it happens that Edna wants to work a few more hours while her husband is on the sick list. I’m not so sure about Miss Jones, but she might be persuaded. She’s very eager to please, but she likes to be at home to look after her mother.’

‘I think Gertie Farley-Stroud knows her mother – I believe they’re on a couple of village committees together – she might be able to persuade her to encourage young Blodwen to get out a bit more and get on in the world. And Gertie has offered us the use of Dora and Dewi for the duration.’

Dora Kendrick was one of the housemaids at The Grange. We didn’t get on. Dewi Rees was the footman. He was a plodder and was given to swearing at people in Welsh when he was under pressure, but he was a good sort.

‘I think we’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘When is everyone arriving?’

‘The servants will be here tomorrow morning, the guests tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Oh. Edna and Miss Jones have already gone for the day. I’ll have to tell them tomorrow.’

‘Did Miss Jones leave us any lunch?’

‘Rack of lamb,’ I said. ‘I’ll just put on the finishing touches.’

Later that evening, Lady Hardcastle and I were drinking brandy together by the fire in the sitting room.

‘I do love village life,’ she said, shifting a little in the armchair to make herself comfortable. ‘But it does seem to involve a great deal more commitment and effort than living in the city.’

I laughed. ‘It’s not like they’ve asked us to do much. You’re always saying we should have houseguests.’

‘Oh, I know. I’m not complaining. I was just musing on the idea that when Lady Whosit throws a party in London, she doesn’t expect all her neighbours to pitch in. We just turn up in our best frocks and frolic the night away. When it’s time to go home, carriages are summoned and we all depart, leaving her household to clean up the mess. Out here, though . . . ’

‘Out here they ask ever so nicely if you wouldn’t mind helping them out of a spot of bother. Then they offer you the use of their own servants to make sure that they’re putting you to as little trouble as possible. I’m not sure I don’t prefer the country way.’

‘When you put it like that, young Flo, I’m not sure I disagree with you.’ She took another sip of her brandy. ‘Does village tittle-tattle have anything to say on the subject of our houseguests? Gertie has been very unforthcoming.’

‘Daisy is my main source of gossip, as always,’ I said. Daisy was the butcher’s daughter who spent her mornings in her father’s shop and her afternoons and evenings behind the bar in the local pub, the Dog and Duck. She was giddy and foolish, and quite the best friend I had in the village. ‘She says that the Cheetham fellow has a bit of a reputation as a charismatic showman, but his – how did she put it – “his star is on the wane”.’

‘Unusually poetic for dear Daisy.’

‘She read it in one of her magazines. She lent me her copy.’ I indicated the magazine on the table between us. ‘They have a “kinematograph” section sometimes. He was widely regarded as the Great Panjandrum of the English moving picture world, she says. There are others snapping at his heels, but by all accounts his new picture is set to reassert his supremacy.’

‘And he’s bringing it here?’ she said with some surprise. ‘How exciting.’

‘“Bringing the kinematograph back to everyday folk”, or some such. Daisy said something about him thinking that his fellow producers concentrate too much on the big cities and not enough on rural communities, so he’s going to continue the premiere tour of his new production right here in Littleton Cotterell. I’m sure you can cross-examine him closely while he’s here.’

‘There’s usually no need – showmen do love to talk about themselves. And what of his cast? Does Daisy know anything of them?’

‘Two actresses and an actor,’ I said. ‘She told me their names, and rambled at length about the ups and downs of their careers, but I’m afraid my attention wandered. I can’t remember a thing she said.’

‘Then it shall be part of the fun to meet them and find out all about them,’ she said. She poured us both another measure of brandy. ‘Now then, what do you say to a little music before bed? That poor piano looks like it could do with a bit of exercise. What do you fancy?’

‘Do you have something spooky, my lady?’ I said.

‘“Spooky”? Why “spooky”?’

‘It’s All Hallows’ Eve,’ I said. ‘The night when the spirits are abroad. Edna is convinced they’ve been stealing her dusters.’

‘We’ll have to nip that nonsense in the bud,’ she said. ‘Gertie informed me in hushed tones – well, as hushed as she could manage while she was bellowing into her telephone – that her own servants have been muttering about supernatural forces being responsible for the kitchen fire.’

‘You city folk forget how seriously your country cousins take this sort of thing.’

‘Ghoulies and ghosties. And long-leggedy beasties?’

‘The very same. And witches and monsters. Nos Galan Gaeaf , my mother used to call it. The night before the first day of winter. She taught us all the old customs. When we moved back to Aberdare some of the families there still observed them. They were good chapel folk all year round, but the old ways came out one night a year.’

‘How exciting. Were there ceremonies? Rituals?’

‘There was Coelcerth ,’ I said, shamelessly adopting the hushed tones of a storyteller at the most chilling part of the tale. ‘The women and children would dance around a huge bonfire. Each of them in turn would write their name on a stone and place it in the fire. As the fire burned down, everyone would scatter and run for home. The last one out in the dark risked being caught by Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta – a fearful black sow with no tail – and the headless woman that walked with her.’

‘Gracious me,’ she said with a smile. ‘And I thought Wales was a cheerfully friendly land of poetry and song.’

‘That’s not all, my lady. In the morning, they would check the stones in the fire to make sure that they were all still there. If anyone’s name was missing, that person would die before another year had passed.’