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

‘No need to be shy when it comes to asking me to show off, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘I can certainly get my equipment sent down if you think they’d like it. I’m sure we could find the time to make the film, but . . . ’

‘If time is a worry,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘perhaps I could do some of the work for you? I can certainly process the film here and, if you were to show me how to use your camera, I could capture some of the images for you.’

‘That would make it very possible. Very possible indeed. I do love watching people’s reactions when they see themselves on the screen. I just didn’t think anyone was interested any more so I’ve not allowed any time for it.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you mentioned it, Armstrong. What fun.’

I smiled.

‘Right,’ she said decisively. ‘Let’s take a look at the orangery before it starts to rain, and then we can leave you good people to rest. A long journey and a hearty meal should be enough to knock anyone out. Dinner shan’t be until eight, so there’s plenty of time to recuperate.’

We all rose to leave.

I left them to their tour while I returned to the kitchen to offer my help there.

A short while later, having had my offer of help politely declined, I was upstairs on the landing. I was on my way to fetch a dress from Lady Hardcastle’s wardrobe whose lace collar was in need of repair.

I had my hand on the bedroom doorknob but the sound of a heated conversation from one of the guest rooms made me stop. I was unable to make out the details of the exchange, but it seemed to be coming from Basil Newhouse’s room further along the landing. Mr Newhouse was arguing with a woman.

Mr Newhouse’s door opened and I hurriedly stepped into Lady Hardcastle’s room. Before I closed the door behind me, I very clearly heard Euphemia Selwood’s voice saying, ‘You want to watch out, Basil. You could find yourself dead.’

She slammed the door and stomped to her own room, where she slammed that door as well. I had no idea what it could all be about, but whatever it was I judged Euphemia’s reaction to have been as melodramatically actressy as Zelda’s had been earlier. Still, they livened up the place.

With the dinner preparations well in hand and the collar repairs done, I sneaked off to hide out for a few moments in the sitting room with a cup of tea and a book. I curled up on one of the comfortable armchairs and quickly lost myself in a copy of E Lynn Linton’s Witch Stories that I found lurking on the bookshelf.

I was skimming through the account of ‘Elspeth Cursetter and Her Friends’ when I heard light footsteps in the hallway. With a rattle of the doorknob, the door opened and Mr Newhouse peered tentatively round it.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disturb you, my dear.’

‘Not at all, Mr Newhouse,’ I said. ‘Please come in. I’m just taking a little break. I’m not sure the tea will be up to much, but it’s no trouble to make a fresh pot.’

‘Very kind. The truth is, I’m actually looking for somewhere to enjoy a cigar. Would here be all right?’

‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but Lady Hardcastle isn’t terribly fond of cigar smoke.’

‘No matter, no matter,’ he said affably. ‘Often the way in ladies’ houses. Quite understand. I’ll nip out into the garden.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling guilty that we were such unaccommodating hosts. I was also mindful of his recent falling out with Euphemia and wondered if he might be in need of a chance to settle himself a little. ‘But it’s raining. I’ll tell you what, how do you fancy a stroll to the village pub? I could do with having a word with my pal who works there and you can puff away on your cigar with no one to complain. I can introduce you to some of the villagers, too – I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet an actor.’

He laughed. ‘Always happy to meet my public,’ he said. ‘Though I doubt anyone will be too impressed. And’ – he paused for a moment – ‘won’t we get just as wet walking into the village as I would in your garden?’

‘True,’ I said. ‘But in the garden you just stand in the mud on your own. If we do it my way, I get to show you off to my pal Daisy.’

‘You make a good case, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Will you not be missed?’

‘Terribly,’ I said. ‘The place would grind to a shuddering halt were I away too long. But under the circumstances, I feel it’s also my duty to act as guide to the local sights and attractions.’

‘Aha, a “bear-leader” they used to be called,’ he said with a nod. ‘The Grand Tour comes to Gloucestershire. And the villagers shan’t be aghast at the sight of a young lady accompanying a disreputable old actor unchaperoned?’

‘Much of what I do and say leaves folk aghast,’ I said. ‘I tend not to take any notice these days.’

‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Now if you can help a chap find his hat . . . ’

I got up from the armchair and led him back into the hall. I was helping him into his overcoat when the telephone rang.

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

‘Hello?’ said a certain, familiar, loud, female voice. ‘Armstrong? Is that you again?’ It was Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Yes, my lady,’ I said. ‘If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll fetch Lady Hardcastle for you.’

‘Right you are, m’dear,’ she shouted. ‘Thank you.’

Her hearing seemed to be improving.

Lady Hardcastle, meanwhile, had already emerged from her study.

‘Gertie?’ she said.

I nodded as she took the earpiece from me.

‘My own coat is still in the boot room,’ I said to Mr Newhouse. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

I returned a minute or two later in hat and raincoat. I grabbed two umbrellas from the stand by the door and turned to catch Lady Hardcastle’s attention. She was reassuring Lady Farley-Stroud that Mr Cheetham and his associates were settling in nicely. She had to hold the earpiece away from her head to avoid being deafened by the reply.

‘Good show,’ shouted the crackly voice. ‘Might drop in later. Show my face. Will that be acceptable?’

While she was talking, I mouthed the word ‘Pub’ to Lady Hardcastle, who gestured her understanding and sent us on our way with a cheery wave. We heard her offer an open invitation to both of the Farley-Strouds as we left.

The Dog and Duck was a lively village pub. The landlord was ‘Old’ Joe Arnold, whose family had owned the inn for several generations. He was a generous soul with a heart uncluttered by malice and a mouth uncluttered by teeth. Lady Hardcastle and I had lived in the village of Littleton Cotterell for over a year and had yet to set eyes upon the woman whom Joe referred to as ‘our ma’. We presumed she was his wife, and that the honorific indicated that there might be junior Arnolds somewhere in the world, but we knew nothing of them, either.

We passed the door to the public bar and entered the snug. Through the open door between the two sections of the pub we could see the usual collection of local farmhands crowding the tables in the public bar. They filled the room with loud chatter, raucous laughter, and a thick fug of tobacco smoke. Old Joe was chatting to a couple of his regulars in one corner.