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

I, meanwhile, was standing quietly by the sideboard.

‘Now,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I do have to mention this one because it bothers some people. Miss Armstrong here has been working for me since ninety-four and for a lot of that time it’s just been the two of us, so we’re in the habit of eating together. I’ve asked her to join us.’

There were more self-conscious mumblings from the assembled actors. None of them, I felt sure, had the first idea where a lady’s maid ought to be eating and were probably more uncomfortable now than they would have been if I’d simply joined them without comment. I decided it wasn’t really my problem and just sat down at the last remaining place.

Edna arrived with the wine, closely followed by Miss Jones with the first platters of food. We had agreed that Mr Holman’s pork pies would be just the ticket but I had been disappointed that salad season was long gone. Miss Jones, though, was not daunted. She had some ‘winter salad’ ideas involving cabbage and other raw vegetables. With bread and a selection of her delicious chutneys, it made a splendid autumn lunch. Even with Edna’s help, it took three trips to bring it all through.

‘This looks gradely,’ said Mr Cheetham. ‘But I hope you’ve not gone to too much trouble on our behalf.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s no trouble at all. And you’re doing our little village a great service by bringing your moving pictures to us. I remember seeing travelling shows everywhere a few years ago, but they seem to have rather fallen from favour. One has to go to the big towns now. It’s a rare treat for us to have such wonderful entertainment.’

‘Then I hope we shan’t disappoint,’ he said. ‘We gave a few private screenings of our new show to people in “the business” and it was quite well received. We’re hoping that the public will take to it just as enthusiastically. To tell the truth, we’re rather depending on it. It’s an expensive business, making moving pictures. We need to attract the paying public. But we have high hopes – it’s quite appropriate for the time of year.’

‘Oh? The coming of winter?’

‘No, my lady – witchcraft,’ he said, with a mischievous grin.

‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How wonderful. And you others are the stars?’

‘Yes, my lady,’ said Zelda. ‘I play the witch, young Phemie here plays the village girl, and dear old Basil is the Witchfinder General.’

‘Perfect time of year for it,’ said Basil Newhouse. ‘Halloween and all that. And the mysterious fire up at Lady Farley-Stroud’s place—’

Zelda reached out and grabbed a pinch of salt, which she threw over her left shoulder.

‘—we should be able to get quite an audience, I’d have thought,’ he continued.

Euphemia gave him an oddly disapproving look.

‘I can hardly wait,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Lady Farley-Stroud tells me that you’ve made a moving picture of your own,’ said Cheetham.

‘Oh, just a little experimental piece,’ she said. ‘We met Monsieur Méliès in Paris a few years ago at a special presentation of his A Trip to the Moon . I was quite taken with it and asked him about his techniques. Ever since then I’ve been dabbling. Just as an enthusiastic amateur, you understand.’

‘Nonetheless, I look forward to seeing it. We’ve left a spot for you in the show.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You have your own equipment, I take it?’ he said.

‘I keep a little studio in the garden,’ she said. ‘It was originally intended as an orangery, but the light is excellent and it serves me well.’

‘I should like to take a look before we leave. If you don’t mind, of course.’

‘It will be a pleasure to show it off to a professional.’ She turned to Euphemia Selwood. ‘Have you been acting long, Miss Selwood?’ she said.

‘Since I were a nipper,’ said Euphemia. ‘My old ma works the music halls. I was born to it, you might say.’

Whereas Zelda had the well-modulated tones of a classically trained actress, Euphemia’s voice was that of a stall holder from one of London’s less salubrious markets.

‘Your mother is Millie Selwood?’ I said with some surprise.

‘That’s right, miss,’ she replied. ‘You’ve heard of her, then?’

‘We’ve met her,’ I said.

Lady Hardcastle raised a querying eyebrow.

‘At the Hackney Empire, my lady,’ I said. ‘1903. The Portuguese Affair.’

Lady Hardcastle nodded. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said.

Euphemia’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘I knew I’d seen you two before,’ she said. ‘You come backstage, didn’t you? Oh my stars, that was the night Jimmy Brownlow got shot. I was there visitin’ me mother.’

‘I fear that was us, dear, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though to be fair, it was only a matter of time before someone shot Brownlow.’

‘They said he was a spy. It was in the papers,’ said Euphemia.

‘He was quite a good comedian, as I recall, but not an especially talented spy,’ said Lady Hardcastle dismissively. ‘More of a weaselly chancer, really. The stupid little man imagined he could make himself wealthy by playing both sides against each other in a game of international intrigue. He was in way over his head. Sooner or later someone was going to tumble to him – it just happened that we got to him first.’

‘And you shot him?’ said Basil, his astonishment making him drop a forkful of food. ‘I say.’

‘He left me no choice, I’m afraid. Armstrong had relieved him of his pistol but he had a derringer concealed in his sock, of all places. He levelled it at her. One simply doesn’t do that sort of thing and expect to get away with it.’

‘Oh my stars!’ said Zelda, fanning her face with her hand. ‘You didn’t really?’

‘Course they did, Zel,’ said Euphemia. ‘Saw it with my own eyes.’

‘In the theatre?’

‘You make such a fuss, Zel. You act like you’ve lived in a convent all your life, but you’ve seen more than all of us put together.’

Zelda harrumphed but said nothing further. I confess I tended to agree with Euphemia to some extent – Zelda’s reaction did seem a little . . . actressy.

‘There’s more to you than meets the eye,’ said Cheetham. ‘I thought we were the storytellers, but I’d wager you have a few tales of your own. I wouldn’t wish ill upon Lady Farley-Stroud and her household, but I can’t say as I’m disappointed to have ended up billeted with you, my lady.’

He steered us back to calmer conversational waters, and we all shared lighter anecdotes and memories as we demolished Miss Jones’s ‘winter salads’. By the time Edna brought in the coffee, things were wrapping up and Lady Hardcastle was offering Cheetham a tour of her orangery studio.

‘You’re all welcome, of course,’ she said. ‘Although I don’t suppose it will be particularly impressive after some of the places you must have worked.’

The actors politely accepted, though the glances they shared seemed – to me, at least – to indicate that she might be overestimating the glamour of the world of the kinematograph.

‘I think we’d all like that,’ said Cheetham. ‘I think it’s grand that people are getting interested in moving pictures again. It used to thrill everyone so. But not so much any more. Time was when I used to do shows up and down the country where I’d photograph folk going about their daily business in the morning, then I’d process the film in the afternoon and show it to them in the evening. It used to go down a storm. Not so much these days. Folk have got a bit blasé about it, I reckon.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you mentioned that – I’d been wondering how to broach the subject. I was talking to the butcher’s wife this morning and she was reminiscing about a chap doing exactly that in Weston-super-Mare a few years ago. I did wonder if we might be able to persuade you to do it for us.’