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

‘It’s all very impressive,’ I said, when she had finished her note-making. ‘But how does it help us?’

‘It shows us the patterns,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘The connections, the coincidences. It helps us to keep track of what we know.’

‘And does it tell us who murdered Frank Pickering?’

She sighed. ‘No. Not yet. But if solving murders were easy, any old fool could do it.’

‘My favourite old fool is certainly having a go,’ I said.

She sat down at the table once more. ‘We’ve got two men who might have a reason to kill Mr Pickering if their jealousy of him were strong enough. Both of them seem to have an opportunity to do so. Mr Tressle seems to have had access to a handcart that would be perfect for transporting the body to fake the suicide, but Mr Lovell could easily have taken it from outside the cricket pavilion where the rowdies left it. We still have no proof that either of them did it, nor any idea how they might have managed to get the body up into the tree. I fear we’re getting nowhere, Flo.’

‘We know more than Inspector Sunderland already.’

‘Perhaps. But let’s leave it for now. I feel the spirit of Chopin coming upon me.’

‘I love it when that happens,’ I said.

‘Then come, servant, let us repair to the drawing room and I shall play.’

‘I’ll tidy these things away and make some cocoa.’

‘Very well. Don’t be long. The spirits are restless. Dear Frédéric might be elbowed out of the way by Franz Lehár at any moment.’

‘Lehár is still alive.’

‘He is? That hardly seems fair. Well, such is the sickly power of his sentimental spirit that even life cannot stop him. Hurry, girl, or it’ll be The Merry Widow for you, and that never ends well.’

‘One merry widow in the house is quite enough for me, my lady. I shall be as swift as I can.’

The piano turned out to be a charming instrument and only slightly in need of tuning after its journey. It was nearly midnight by the time we retired.

Thursday morning saw us both engaged in mundane domestic matters, with me continuing to organize our household and Lady Hardcastle catching up with correspondence at her desk in the small study. Things were actually running rather smoothly. Edna, Miss Jones and I had fallen into a nice routine and had more or less settled on a mutually agreeable division of labour.

While I was more than happy to leave the cleaning to someone else, and was utterly delighted not to be responsible for breakfast or lunch, I did miss having complete control of dinner. I felt a little guilty at the thought of restricting young Blodwen Jones to the more mundane duties and from showing off her considerable skills, but when I broached the subject of my taking a little more responsibility for the main meal once in a while, she was delighted.

‘I didn’t like to ask, miss,’ she had said. ‘Our Ma can’t cook for herself and our Dad . . . well, he’s a man, i’n’t he? What can he do?’

I chuckled. ‘So not always having to think about two main meals a day would actually be a blessing of sorts,’ I suggested.

‘Well, I’d not have the lovely ingredients that Lady Hardcastle has,’ she said. ‘Our Ma can’t afford much. But it’d make things a lot easier. And if you’d enjoy it . . .’ She smiled shyly.

‘I’ll check that Lady Hardcastle is agreeable,’ I said. ‘But I think it would work well for all of us.’

At eleven, I took Lady Hardcastle’s coffee and cake through to the study along with an envelope which had been hand delivered some time after the rest of the post.

‘Thank you, Flo,’ she said, as I set down the tray. ‘Will you join me? I do enjoy keeping up with everyone, but I could do with a break from endlessly describing our move.’

‘I took the precaution of bringing a cup for myself to cover just that eventuality,’ I said.

‘Then pour, sit, and tell me the news of the day.’

‘There’s little to report, my lady, aside from the arrival of this rather luxurious envelope.’

‘I say, someone’s pushed the boat out,’ she said, taking the heavy, cream-coloured envelope from me. She opened it and read the engraved card that had been enclosed. ‘I am cordially invited,’ she said, ‘to celebrate the engagement of Miss Clarissa Farley-Stroud and Mr Theophilus Seddon at The Grange on Saturday, the twentieth of June, 1908. Seven o’clock. Carriages at one. I say, how lovely to get a proper invitation for the mantel. Gertie said she’d already sent them. She is a dear. When’s the twentieth?’

‘This coming Saturday, my lady,’ I said.

‘Then I must send my acceptance right away. And my warmest and most formal congratulations to the happy couple.’

‘Do you know the happy couple at all?’

‘I met Clarissa on Saturday at dinner. Quite the most vacuous ninny ever to struggle into a fashionable frock, but sweet with it. She’s been living with a family friend in London while she pursues her dreams of being a society columnist or some such. You know the sort of thing: “Lady Evangeline Dullard of the Hampshire Dullards was seen dining out with the Honourable Tarquin Jackanapes.” She’s made quite a name for herself by all accounts. Knows all the right people, goes to all the right places. She just giggled altogether too much for my taste.’

I chuckled.

‘As for Teddy, you’ve seen him yourself,’ she said.

‘I have?’

‘You have. He was the sullen youth at the Seddons’ lunch table on Tuesday.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I saw him. Tiresomely rude to his aunt over the matter of the butter.’

‘Quite. He’s as witless as his affianced but without her fizzy personality, possessed as he is of slightly less charm than a blocked drain.’

‘I wonder what Miss Clarissa sees in him.’ I said.

‘Love really does seem to be blind.’

‘What does the note say?’ I asked, indicating the folded paper that had accompanied the invitation.

‘Ah, yes, the note.’ She opened it and read. ‘Oh, how disappointing.’

‘What is it, my lady?’

‘Dear old Gertie asks ever so sweetly, and if it’s not altogether too much trouble, whether I might see my way clear to letting her hire your services for the evening of the party. She says she’s having some minor, temporary staffing difficulties. She’s so sweet. Money’s a bit tight up at The Grange but she’s too proud to say that she can’t afford the extra staff she needs. Anyway, she would be so terribly grateful if she could make use of my “most excellent lady’s maid” – that’s you, dear – as part of the serving staff, reporting to Mr Jenkins the butler, etc., etc. I don’t want to turn the old girl down but it was supposed to be your night off.’

‘I don’t mind, my lady. If you want to help an old family friend, how can I refuse? It would be a chance to be at the party, after all. And I might be able to find out some more gossip to help with the Pickering affair.’

‘You’re very kind. But still . . .’ she said.

‘It’s not as though I could go to the music hall or anything. Village life is wonderfully peaceful, but the nightlife is the Dog and Duck. I would just have been sitting here reading as always. This way I get to listen to the music, eavesdrop on the conversations, have a sneaky secret dance in the corridors when no one’s looking. I’d really rather go.’

‘I’ll pay you myself, though – I can’t let her pay you.’

‘No need, my lady. I shall have to make sure I eat more than my fair share of canapés and swig a few glasses of champagne.’

‘Don’t expect the finest vintage.’

‘We shall see. There’ll not be cider, either, I know that. Joe was most put out. But it’ll be fun. And you seem to have taken to them, so it’ll be nice to help your new friends.’