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

I put the teapot on the table and sat opposite him.

‘How are things up at The Grange after the fire?’ I said as I poured three cups.

‘Not so bad,’ he said. ‘I reckon they was all more shocked than anythin’. When you get in there, there’s not really that much damage. Could have been much worse.’

‘They could have lost the whole house,’ I said.

‘I suppose they could,’ he said slowly, as though this were the first time the thought had occurred to him. ‘I suppose that’s why the mistress is so shook up about it. And Mrs Brown, too.’

I had my own thoughts about Mrs Brown using the fire as an excuse to take some time off, but I wasn’t about to disparage her, no matter how much of a lazy, bullying old trout I thought her.

Miss Jones put down the second freshly plucked pheasant with a satisfied sigh and wiped her hands on her apron.

‘Come and join us, Miss Jones,’ I said. ‘I’ll butter you a scone.’

‘That would be most welcome,’ she said. ‘I loves pheasant, but I hates pluckin’ the little perishers.’

I was about to tuck into my own scone when the front doorbell rang. According to the large clock on the kitchen wall it was just past twelve.

‘I think that might be our guests,’ I said, standing up and straightening my uniform. ‘As we used to say in the circus, “It’s show time.”’

I opened the door.

Arrayed before me on the doorstep were two men and two women. I had only a moment to take in their appearances before deciding who to greet first. As leader of the group, I thought Colonel Cheetham should receive the welcome on their behalf, but which one was he?

He wasn’t either of the women, obviously. The older of the two looked to be in her early fifties. She had lost none of the beauty of her youth, though it had been softened somewhat by the passing years. Her days as a leading lady were behind her, and I would have said that she was what our theatre friends called a ‘character actress’. But not a dowdy one. Her light-brown hair was greying slightly where it peeped out from beneath her fashionable hat, but her blue eyes still held a twinkle that must have broken many young men’s hearts along the way.

The younger was in her twenties and was a beauty by any standard. Her hair was jet-black and her eyes seemed almost black, too. Helen’s face might have launched a thousand ships, but this girl’s face could launch a thousand more and persuade them to fetch her a ha’p’orth of chips on their way back.

So it obviously wasn’t either of them. But the two men . . .

The younger of the two wore a dapper suit and a well-brushed bowler hat. He had a boyish face and could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years of age. He must be the actor, I thought.

So presumably it was the older gentleman in the unfashionable overcoat and top hat. He had the lined face of a man who had spent years in the sun, and a moustache of impressively military proportions. This must be Colonel Cheetham.

All these thoughts passed through my head in a couple of seconds and I was about to greet the older gentleman when the younger one tipped his hat and said, ‘Hello there. I’m Nolan Cheetham. Is Lady Hardcastle at home? I believe she’s expecting us.’

He had a northern accent. I was never particularly good at judging which side of the Pennines accents came from. I know they get terribly cross when you get it wrong, as though the Wars of the Roses really were fought between their two counties and not between two Plantagenet families bearing their names, but I was going to plump for Lancashire. Manchester, probably. We’d employed a safe-cracker in 1902 to get some papers for us from a certain European embassy in London. He was the best in the business, and he sounded just like this Cheetham fellow.

‘Of course, sir,’ I said with a little curtsey. ‘She is, as you say, expecting you. Please come in.’ I stepped aside to let them pass.

They each muttered their thanks and waited patiently while I took their hats and coats and hung them beside the door.

Dewi knew his duties well and had slipped out through the side door to give his colleague Bert a hand with the bags. As the motor car burbled off back down the lane, Dewi was hefting the bags into the hall. With the front door finally shut, he set about carrying them upstairs.

I was about to go and fetch Lady Hardcastle, but she emerged from her study and saved me the trip.

‘Ah, you’ve arrived safely,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad. Welcome to our home. I’m Emily, Lady Hardcastle. You’ve met Miss Armstrong, I see.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Colonel Cheetham. ‘We weren’t introduced, but her reputation precedes her. Nolan Cheetham at your service.’

This was happening more and more lately. I wasn’t sure I liked having a reputation, favourable or otherwise.

‘How do you do, Colonel Cheetham?’

‘Please, my lady, it’s more by way of an honorary rank. I volunteered in the Lancashire Militia, man and boy, and eventually found myself a colonel, but I’ve not mustered these past few years. And certainly not since they became the Special Reserve. Makes them sound like a vintage port. Call me Nolan.’

Lady Hardcastle smiled, and inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘And your companions?’ she prompted.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he said. He indicated the older of the two women. ‘Allow me to present Zelda Drayton, one of England’s finest actresses and the beautiful but wicked villain in my latest moving picture.’

Zelda smiled.

Cheetham continued. ‘Then we have Miss Euphemia Selwood, a rising star in the moving picture world. Our ravishing leading lady.’

The younger woman blushed a little, but seemed pleased with her introduction.

‘And this old reprobate is Basil Newhouse. He’s been acting on England’s theatre stages since before any of us were born, but he has chosen to share his gifts with moving picture audiences as our noble hero.’

Newhouse bowed deeply.

‘How delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Welcome all. Now, if we can find . . . ’

Dewi chose exactly the right moment to begin clumping down the stairs.

‘Ah, there you are, Dewi,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Perfect timing. Dewi will show you to your rooms, gentlemen. And Dora . . . ?’

‘She’s up here, my lady,’ said Dewi.

‘Splendid. Dora will help to make you ladies comfortable. They’ll take care of anything you need. If we get you settled in, you can rest a moment and shake the dust of your travels from your boots. Shall we say one o’clock in the dining room for lunch? We have so much to talk about.’

I left them to find their rooms while I returned to the kitchen to help Miss Jones with the preparations for lunch.

Chapter Three

The new arrivals came downstairs together. They’d clearly gathered somewhere – probably in Mr Cheetham’s room – to save arriving in dribs and drabs.

Lady Hardcastle was waiting for them in the dining room.

‘Do come in and make yourselves at home,’ she said as Zelda poked her head tentatively round the door. ‘I’m afraid it’s all rather informal here. I do apologize if you were hoping for the full upper-class experience. Lady Farley-Stroud does that so well, but I find that with just me and Armstrong here most of the time, it’s altogether far too much fuss.’

The four guests filed in.

‘Please sit anywhere,’ said Lady Hardcastle, indicating the places that had been set around the table. ‘Edna will be just a moment. I sent her to fetch some wine. Do you take wine with lunch? Don’t feel obliged, but I do like a glass with company.’

There were non-committal mumblings as the four of them shuffled around the dining table and found themselves a chair each.