T Kinsey - A Quiet Life in the Country (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 1)

‘Sleeping it off?’ I said.

‘Or hiding out, racked with guilt,’ said Daisy venomously.

‘You think he murdered Frank Pickering?’ I asked.

‘Well, it certainly weren’t my Bill. There’s no way he could do an awful thing like that. No way on earth. And that Arthur Tressle . . . well, I don’t trust him is all. He’s too . . . he’s too . . . prim. That’s what it is. I reckon he thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us. And he loves being in charge of the cricket club. I reckon he’d do anything to protect that.’

Like everyone else in the village, they were keen to talk about Clarissa Farley-Stroud’s engagement. Joe was dismayed not to have been asked to supply beer and cider.

‘’T’i’n’t a party without a few barrels of cider,’ he said.

‘Different world, Joe, different world,’ said Daisy affectionately.

We chatted for a few moments longer before I rose and said my goodbyes.

I walked off towards the main road and home. I’d gone a few yards before I had a sudden thought and went back to the yard to take a look at the handcart. It was old and weathered, but sturdy enough, with large, iron-bound wheels about two inches wide and set about a yard apart. It was about six feet long, easily big enough to accommodate a man, but it showed no obvious signs of having carried one recently. To be truthful, I wasn’t sure what form such signs might take – a fragment of torn cloth, perhaps, or a smear of earth from the victim’s shoe – but I thought it only right and proper that I take a look and report my findings, or the lack thereof, to my mistress.

I set off once more for home.

Lady Hardcastle was in the hall, taking off her hat.

‘Ah, splendid, it’s you,’ she said.

‘It is I indeed, my lady,’ I said, closing and bolting the door.

‘I do wish you’d relax a little,’ she said. ‘I’m quite sure there’s no need for bolts and bars out here.’

‘One can never be too careful, my lady,’ I said, unmoved. ‘When I’m certain there’s no danger, then I’ll leave all the doors and windows open as much as you like. Until then, the simple act of sliding a bolt will make me feel much safer.’

‘Very well, have it your way. But come. Make tea. Tell all.’

Removing my hat and gloves, I went through to the kitchen and began to make a pot of tea. As I worked I recounted my conversation with Mr Arnold and Daisy Spratt as closely as I could.

‘You’re terribly businesslike,’ said Lady Hardcastle when I had finished. ‘No small talk? No gossip? No servants’ chatter to tease out the sordid secrets of the village? I thought you’d have been hours yet.’

‘No, my lady. I’m not completely sure they trust me yet. But I thought I was under instructions to collect facts, anyway.’

‘Facts, dear, yes. But what about your impressions? Who are these people? What do they think? What are they like?’

‘Well, then. From her manner, I suggest that Daisy is an attention-seeking little tease who had been stringing Frank Pickering along and is devastated to have been caught out. I don’t trust her further than I can spit your piano – is there any word on when that’s being delivered, by the way? – but beyond desperately trying to cover her tracks and make out what a pure and wholesome girl she is, I don’t think she’s hiding anything important. Her belief in Bill Lovell is genuine.’

‘Gracious. Remind me never to ask you for a character reference.’

‘“Emily, Lady Hardcastle, is a bossy, overbearing, flippantly glib woman with a fine mind, a remarkable education, a breathtaking talent for music and drawing, and absolutely no common sense, nor any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Without me to look after her she would have long since starved to death, been strangled by her own corsets (the fitting of which continues to baffle her, despite her advanced years), or have been set upon by thugs, footpads and garrotters as she made her giddy way about town.” Will that suffice, my lady?’

‘You’re a cheeky wench and I shall have the carpet beater to your backside,’ she laughed. ‘What of Joe the publican?’

‘Mr Joe Arnold,’ I continued in the same style, ‘is a charming and toothless old soul of indeterminate years. He’s honest, hardworking and rather too fond of the locally brewed cider, which is the preferred tipple in these parts. He likes to avoid arguments when he can and is slightly intimidated by women, most especially Miss Daisy. I suspect there’s a Mrs Arnold waiting upstairs of whom he is inordinately fond and profoundly afraid. He seems to have a keen sense of justice and, like Daisy, is steadfast in his belief that Bill Lovell is not the murderer.’

‘No, indeed, they both seem to favour this Arthur Tressle fellow.’

‘They do, and I’ll allow that the case against him is stronger than against Bill Lovell. But I can’t quite shake the feeling that they’re charging in as blindly as Inspector Sunderland. They don’t want it to be Lovell so they’re pointing the finger at the next person they can think of. But there doesn’t seem to be any proof for either of them beyond a bit of shouting.’

‘I say, you do seem to have picked up something of the scientific method, my girl. My giddiness hasn’t prevented me from passing that on, at least.’

I curtseyed.

‘That handcart,’ she went on, ‘seems to be just the sort of thing to have made those tracks in the clearing. And the cricket lads seem like just the sort of fellows to have pinched it for a lark.’

‘I’d not be out on the street proclaiming their innocence if they were banged up for that, my lady. But pinching a handcart and doing a chap to death are two completely different matters. Joe and Daisy don’t seem to have linked any of the goings-on to the handcart, though. I think he was aggrieved that it had gone missing, that’s all.’

‘Then we shall have to see what proofs we can come upon.’

‘Even if that means proving it was Bill Lovell all along, my lady?’

‘Even so. I’m more than happy for a guilty man to hang, but as yet I remain unconvinced that Bill Lovell is guilty of anything more than being humiliated by that flighty girl, Daisy.’

‘Did the constable have any more news?’

‘Not really. We talked about the events of that night in the pub as he understands them. I came to much the same conclusion as you did about Daisy; she’s well known around the village for being something of a flirt. I expect she thought she might be able to paint herself in a more flattering light to a newcomer.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I confirmed my initial impression that Constable Hancock is an absolute poppet.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

‘Like a big, eager puppy.’

‘You could keep him in a kennel in the garden and he could guard the house for us. Maybe that would make you take security seriously.’

‘I’ll keep you in a kennel in the garden if you keep going on about “security”. But I had a delightful little chat with the good constable; he’s been quite diligent in his researches.’

‘Anything more of our victim? Any rivals? Any other romantic entanglements?’

‘No, sadly, despite his heroic efforts he knows nothing more.’

‘We’re really not very good at this, are we, my lady?’

‘We have to be, Flo, we have to be. But let’s leave it for now. I confess I’m not really in the mood for dinner. Would you be a dear and make some sandwiches?’

I made the sandwiches with the ham that Miss Jones had cooked for us. We ate them together in the sitting room, reading until bedtime.

On Wednesday it rained, a beautiful summer downpour that made me thankful we’d had time for the laundry on the previous day. Confined to the house, Miss Jones and I instead rearranged the freshly stocked pantry.