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

‘Watch your tongue, girl. That’s no way to talk about anyone, most especially not women like them two. They’s worth two dozen of you. Each.’

Dora, it seemed, was undaunted. ‘And don’t think we’re gonna be takin’ none of your old nonsense, neither,’ she said. ‘We works for the Farley-Strouds and you a’n’t got no business bossin’ us about. We gots our instructions. We knows what to do.’

I’m not usually given to looming. Obviously my diminutive stature precludes a properly intimidating physical loom, but, even so, I’m not fond of it as a leadership technique. In my early days as a scullery maid in Cardiff, the other girls and I were letting off steam one day, grumbling about the way one of the more senior housemaids treated us, when one by one, the others all fell silent. I turned to see Mrs Llewellyn, the housekeeper, looming over me. We were all scolded for our insolence, but it was the stomach-crampingly awful moment when I looked up and saw her angry face that stayed with me. If I were ever in her position, I vowed, I would never loom. It’s an awful thing to do.

Dora, though, had never been one of my favourite people in the village and was, I thought, in dire need of a bit of looming. I signalled Miss Jones to stay quiet and tiptoed to the door of the ‘boot room’ – our rather grand name for the little cubby where the conversation was taking place. Edna had her back to me, standing between the newcomers and the kitchen. For once, my size might make for a more effective loom.

I approached stealthily, getting up as close as I could behind Edna and using her to shield me from Dora’s view. She was still in full flood, listing my and Lady Hardcastle’s inadequacies and our general unsuitability for life among decent country folk.

I peered slowly round from behind Edna’s shoulder.

It took Dora a couple of seconds to notice me before her voice trailed off with an unconvincingly defiant, ‘Yes . . . well . . . ’ She blushed a shade of red I’d last seen on a lobster served at a banquet hosted by the Italian ambassador in Paris.

‘Hello, Dora, fach . How lovely to see you again,’ I said. ‘Has Edna explained the arrangements?’

She glared at me for a moment, but she couldn’t hold it for long and was soon staring at her own boots.

‘There’s a lot to be done over the coming week,’ I continued, ‘but I suggest that you pay close attention to Edna’s instructions and things will run as smooth as clockwork.’

Throughout all this, Dewi hadn’t said a word. To his credit, though, the lanky Welsh lad looked embarrassed at the way his fellow Grange servant was conducting herself. He nodded his assent while Dora continued her close inspection of her boots.

‘And, Dora,’ I said to the top of her head, ‘if I ever hear even the vaguest rumour that you’ve spoken like that about Lady Hardcastle again, I will spend the rest of my life making the rest of your life more miserable than you can possibly imagine. You can say what you like about me and the worst it will get you is a smack in the chops if I can be bothered. But one word against her – one word, Dora Kendrick – and you’ll wish your mother had never taught you to speak. Do I make myself abundantly clear?’

‘Yes, miss,’ she mumbled.

‘Splendid. I shall leave you to it, Edna,’ I said. ‘I need to get into the village to order a few things. See you all in a little while.’

I put on my overcoat and slipped out through the back door. By a colossal effort of will, I managed not to slam it.

I had calmed down a little by the time I reached Weakley’s greengrocers – ‘Visit Weakley’s Daily for the Best Fresh Veg’. I gave Mr Weakley our order and he all but squealed for joy when he saw how much extra we wanted.

‘Is your mistress hosting a banquet, Miss Armstrong?’ he asked.

‘She has unexpected houseguests for the week,’ I said.

‘I hope it’s not too much bother for you, but I can’t pretend I’m not glad of the extra business. Oh, is it the people who were going to be staying with Lady Farley-Stroud? We heard about the fire. Terrible business. They say no one knows how it started, but Mrs Weakley says one of the scullery maids reckons they regularly sees a ghostly figure with a lantern walking the halls that night. The lantern glows blue, she said. There i’n’t no natural lantern flame as glows blue – none as I’ve ever heard of, leastways.’

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘But being a scullery maid can be terribly boring sometimes. They make things up to help the days pass more quickly. One girl I worked with in Cardiff when I was young swore blind that the ghost of the master’s dog flew in through her bedroom window in the night and performed the Dance of the Seven Veils, polished her Sunday boots, and gave her a tip for the next day’s race meeting at Chepstow.’

‘Did it win?’ he asked.

‘It was called Aunt Jemima and it finished fourth. It was later disqualified following a stewards’ enquiry. But my point is that she made it all up. And I’m sure the girls at The Grange are making things up, too.’

‘But Mrs Weakley i’n’t gullible. She reckons—’

My own grandmother had ‘the sight’, as she called it, and I always thought of myself as having an open mind when it came to the supernatural, but this was getting out of hand. A ghost at The Grange? I decided to derail this particular train of thought.

‘Still,’ I said, ‘at least no one was hurt in the fire. But we do have some extra houseguests.’

‘They’re the ones from the moving picture show?’ asked Mr Weakley, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change back to the original topic.

‘That’s them, yes,’ I said. ‘Lady Hardcastle stepped into the breach and they’re staying at . . . ’ I was once again struck by the fact that the house had no name. ‘. . . at the house,’ I concluded limply.

‘Well, you just leave this with me, miss, and I’ll get the boy to deliver it as soon as possible.’

I left him clucking over his good fortune and wondering if he had enough potatoes and carrots.

Mr Holman, the baker, was similarly chuffed with the extra business and offered me a deal on his famous pork pies. I accepted, of course, and he wrapped them for me while making promises about the early delivery of all our other needs.

Mrs Pantry, the general grocer, was as sour as ever and managed to make the sale of many shillings’ worth of goods (which she otherwise would definitely not have sold) seem like the most dreadful inconvenience.

It was with some relief, then, that I made my final call of the morning. I was always afforded a reassuringly warm welcome at the sawdust-strewn shop of F Spratt, Butcher.

Even the bell above the door – which I’m sure came from exactly the same factory in the Midlands as Mrs Pantry’s – seemed to give a more cheerful tinkle as I entered.

The Spratt family were in full attendance.

Mr Spratt looked every inch the butcher in his blood-stained apron, and most of those inches were round his middle. His face lit up when he saw me. I like to imagine that it was just for me, but I rather suspected that he was pleased to see everyone.

‘Good mornin’, m’dear,’ he said as he put down his huge knife and wiped his hands on the cloth that hung from his apron string. ‘How lovely to see you.’

‘Good morning, Mr Spratt,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely to see you, too.’

Mrs Spratt was tying a package for delivery. Her chubby fingers were surprisingly nimble and she had the meat wrapped more quickly than I could ever have managed. ‘Call ’im Fred, my lover,’ she said as she put the package to one side. ‘Everyone does. “Mr Spratt” sounds far too grand for a great lummox like him.’