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

‘Oh, Flo, do leave off, there’s a dear. Let poor Emily sleep.’

‘No, my lady, you have to get up. The police are here.’

‘The police?’ she mumbled. ‘What, all of them? Whatever do they want? I hope they wiped their feet.’ Her eyes closed.

I sighed and shook her again. ‘No, my lady, just Constable Hancock. But he needs to speak to us both and I think it has something to do with The Grange.’

‘If it’s about the missing brandy, tell him I’ll buy them a case of the stuff and then invite him to come back tomorrow.’

‘I really don’t think it’s about the brandy, my lady, and I really do think you need to get up. This instant.’

‘Have I ever told you how much of a bully you are, Florence Armstrong?’ she said, groggily. ‘Can’t a girl lie in bed with a hangover once in a while without puritanical maids and officious policemen intruding on her slumbers?’

‘You tell me all the time, my lady. Please get up.’

‘Very well, very well,’ she said, sitting up at last. ‘Tell him I’ll be down presently. Make tea. And eggs. Scramble eggs for me. With toast.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

I left her to get up in her own time and returned to the kitchen where I found Constable Hancock making small talk with Miss Jones.

‘Lady Hardcastle will be just a few moments,’ I said.

‘Very good, miss. Thank you.’

‘Miss Jones is making some breakfast for Lady Hardcastle, would you like some eggs?’

‘Thank you, miss, yes, please. You’re very kind. Is that fresh bread I smells?’

‘It is, but it’s still proving. I was hoping to have it ready for lunch. I have some left over from yesterday that will be perfect for toast, though. I do love to bake my own bread. It’s very relaxing. Do you know anything of baking?’

He laughed the heartiest laugh I’d ever heard him give. ‘Me, miss? Baking? You are a caution. Whoever heard of such a thing? No, our Ma always used to make her own bread, mind.’

‘Most professional bakers are men, are they not?’ I said.

‘That they are, miss. But most professional bakers are not policemen. Quite aside from it being a woman’s work to bake around the house, I doesn’t have time for no baking shenanigans. Baking.’ He chuckled again. ‘I shall have to tell the sarge about this.’

‘Unless he thinks it such a great idea that he has you baking bread for his breakfast.’

His cheery laughter erupted again.

‘Gracious, you two seem happy,’ croaked Lady Hardcastle from the doorway.

‘Good morning, m’lady,’ said the constable, standing up straight and looking for somewhere to put his teacup. ‘I’m sorry to call so early.’

‘Nonsense, Constable, it’s already . . .’

‘Ten o’clock, my lady,’ I said, nodding towards the large clock on the kitchen wall.

‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘Plenty late enough to be calling. So what can I do for you, my dear constable?’

‘It seems we only ever meets when there’s bad news, m’lady,’ he said apologetically. ‘There’s a to-do up at The Grange.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, accepting the glass of water Miss Jones had just poured for her. ‘What sort of to-do?’

‘Seems one of the musicians died, m’lady.’

‘Oh no, how sad. Was he ill? Was it unexpected?’

‘I don’t suppose as how he expected to be clouted round the back of the head with something heavy, no, m’lady.’

She sipped slowly at her water. ‘Gracious me. Is there anything I can do?’

‘That’s more or less why I’m here, m’lady. Inspector Sunderland has already arrived and asked if I’d come and fetch you both so as how you could give witness statements and such.’

‘Of course, of course.’ She looked more than a little fragile. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she began with unaccustomed tentativeness, ‘you have transport of some sort.’

‘I’ve got my bicycle,’ he said, with a wink in my direction.

‘Oh,’ she groaned.

‘Only teasing, m’lady. Sir Hector sent me in his motor car. Bert’s waiting outside.’

‘Oh, thank goodness. You’re a wicked man, Constable Hancock. I think Armstrong is a bad influence on you.’

‘Me, my lady?’ I said. ‘I am a paragon of virtue, I’ll have you know.’

Constable Hancock began to chuckle but looked suddenly embarrassed.

‘Relax, Constable,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I think we can safely say by now that you’re among friends.’

‘Lady Hardcastle,’ said Inspector Sunderland, ‘thank you for coming. I’m sorry to have to summon you so early on the morning after a party, but you can understand the urgency, I’m sure.’

Lady Hardcastle had taken aspirin as well as sweet tea with her light breakfast. She was already more like her normal self. ‘Please think nothing of it, Inspector. I’m only too pleased to help.’

The inspector was tall and slightly angular, with a fluid grace that hinted at athleticism despite his slight build. He might have been a sportsman in his youth – a long-distance runner, perhaps. He had a briar pipe which he kept within reach, or clamped between his teeth, at all times. He never, to my knowledge, actually lit it.

‘Thank you, my lady. And thank you, too, Miss Armstrong.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector,’ I said.

The Farley-Strouds had given the inspector the use of the large Georgian dining room at The Grange for his interviews and we were all seated at the enormous table. The room was airy and bright, with large windows that looked out onto the drive. My attention, though, was caught not by the view from the window but by a picture hanging beside the stone fireplace. The Farley-Strouds seemed to favour rustic scenes and this particular one featured a pair of gun dogs with quite the soppiest looks on their faces. I was smiling at the comical image as the inspector continued.

‘I gather you were both here last evening,’ he said.

‘Yes, Inspector,’ I said. ‘I arrived at The Grange just before four in the afternoon and spent most of my time below stairs until around seven o’clock when the guests started to arrive. Lady Hardcastle and I left together at around one o’clock.’

‘Seven? Isn’t that rather early for a ball? I thought these things began around ten.’

‘They do, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘in fashionable society. But out here in the country they prefer an early start and early to bed. To be fair, it was more of a soirée than a ball.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘And you, Lady Hardcastle? When did you arrive?’

‘At around a quarter past eight, I should say.’

‘The invitations say “Seven o’clock”.’

‘They do, Inspector. But, really. Who arrives on time at a party?’ She often played the dizzy socialite when she was unsure of people. She found it kept them a little off guard. Give it a while and she’d be giggling and calling him ‘darling’. The usual result of this feigned giddiness was that people were apt to dismiss her as a fool, which, of course, was all part of the game. Once they were taken in by her empty-headed act they tended to give away far more than they had planned. I’d seen it many times before.

‘Who indeed, my lady?’ he said. He’d met her before and was clearly not taken in.

‘Would it be altogether against the rules to let us know exactly what happened? Constable Hancock said that one of the musicians was dead.’

‘Indeed it might actually help for you to know,’ he said. ‘I often find that knowledge of the events can jog the memory. A certain look comes into people’s eyes when they have the events spelled out to them and they say, “Oh, so that’s why So-and-so said that to What’s-her-name.” So then, let me see . . . Mr Wallace Holloway, the trumpet player with . . .’ he consulted his notebook, ‘Roland Richman’s Ragtime Revue – whatever happened to a good old sing-song round the piano, that’s what I’d like to know? Mr Holloway was found in the library this morning at about six o’clock by Dora Kendrick, the housemaid, when she went in to open the shutters and tidy the room which had been used by the band during the evening before. Thinking him still drunk, she went to rouse him but on approaching his recumbent form, she found him “stiff and cold” with a “deathly pallor” and “lying in a pool of blood”, whereupon she screamed the house down and has had to be sedated by Dr Fitzsimmons.’