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

‘And in the centre of the clearing, my dear Florence,’ she was saying, without apparently having broken her conversational stride, ‘we have . . . I say!’

‘A dead body, my lady?’ I said.

‘I was going to say, “a magnificent English oak”,’ she said, somewhat distractedly, ‘but the body is definitely the more arresting sight.’

We stepped forward to take a better look. There, in the centre of the clearing, was a magnificent oak tree. A rather old one to judge from its girth. Hanging by its neck from one of the elderly tree’s lower limbs was the body of a man.

We approached. It was a youngish man, perhaps in his late twenties, dressed in a neat, dark-blue suit of the sort that might be worn by a clerk. And he was most definitely dead. Even without Lady Hardcastle’s scientific education I knew that being suspended by the neck on a length of sturdy rope wasn’t conducive to long life.

A log lay on its side beneath his feet. I immediately had the image of the poor despairing fellow teetering on it with the rope around his neck before kicking it aside and bringing an end to whatever troubles had tormented him.

Lady Hardcastle interrupted my thoughts. ‘Give me my bag, dear, and hurry back to the village. Rouse the sergeant and tell him we’ve found a body in the woods,’ she said, calmly but firmly. ‘We’re not too far from the road,’ she said, pointing. ‘That way, I think.’

I took the canvas bag from my shoulder and passed it to her. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, my lady,’ I said, as I struck out in the indicated direction.

Lady Hardcastle was right: the road back into the village was just a few hundred yards through the trees. My sense of direction has never been the best but I managed to make the correct choice when I reached the road, turning right and heading at a brisk trot down the hill.

I crossed the village green to the baker’s shop, which was the one place I was certain would be open at this hour. Mr Holman, the baker, directed me to a cottage a few doors down and told me that I’d be certain to find Sergeant Dobson there. I hurried back out into the morning sunshine.

A few moments later, perspiring gently, and slightly out of breath, I reached the two cottages on the village green which belonged to the Gloucestershire Police. One of them served as both the village police station and the home of Sergeant Dobson. The large, cast-iron knocker on the dark-blue door made a pleasingly loud bang as I rapped it firmly, and soon there were sounds of activity from within. The portly sergeant recognized me as soon as he opened the door and his gruff rebuke for disturbing the constabulary slumbers died on his lips when he saw me standing there.

‘Why, Miss Armstrong,’ he said solicitously, ‘whatever’s the matter? You look all of a pother.’

As succinctly as I could, I told him what we had found. Within just a few moments he had fetched his hat, finished fastening his tunic and was leading me to the door of the smaller cottage, which adjoined his own.

‘Young Hancock will be fast asleep like as not, so just you keep knocking till he wakens. Tell him what you told me, then say I said he’s to fetch Dr Fitzsimmons. They’re to come up to the old oak in Combe Woods in Dr Fitzsimmons’s carriage so we can bring back the body. Begging your pardon, miss.’ He blushed slightly at speaking of such things in front of a woman, then turned hurriedly away and mounted his black, police-issue bicycle.

He turned and waved as he rode off towards the woods, and I began knocking on the door.

It was, as Sergeant Dobson had suggested, something of a task to awaken the sleeping constable. Almost five minutes had passed before a bleary-eyed young man in a long nightshirt opened the door.

‘What the bloomin’ ’ell do you—’ Once again coherent speech was extinguished by the sight of an unexpected woman at the door. ‘Sorry, miss, I thought you was . . . No matter. Miss . . .?’

‘Armstrong,’ I said. ‘I’m Lady Hardcastle’s lady’s maid.’

‘So you are, so you are,’ said the tall young constable. He yawned impressively and scratched at his beard. ‘What can I do for you, miss?’

‘Lady Hardcastle and I were walking in Combe Woods and we found a man hanging from the old oak in the clearing.’

‘Dead?’

No, I thought to myself, he was in remarkably fine spirits, actually, despite the rope round his neck. His face was purple and his breathing a little . . . absent, but he seemed frightfully well, considering. I decided not to say that, though. Be polite, Flo, I thought.

‘Yes, Constable, quite dead. Sergeant Dobson asks that you fetch Dr Fitzsimmons and bring him and his carriage to the clearing. He wants to bring back the body but I imagine the doctor might want to certify death, too.’

‘He might at that,’ he mused. He stood awhile in thought before making up his mind what to do, then stepped brightly out of the door. But when his bare feet touched the cold, dewy grass, he became suddenly aware of his state of dress. ‘Oh. Oh,’ he said, slightly flustered. ‘Give me a few moments to make myself decent and I’ll be with you.’

‘Thank you. Might I prevail upon you for a lift back to the woods? It was quite a run to get here.’

‘You ran?’

‘I did indeed.’

‘But you’re a—’

‘Yes, I’m one of those, too. It’s remarkable the things we can do when we think nobody’s looking.’

He looked briefly puzzled before hurrying back inside and slamming the door. I heard his footsteps running up the stairs and waited patiently for his return.

Dressed, behelmeted and ready for duty, Constable Hancock reappeared at his front door a few minutes later. We made our way across the green to Dr Fitzsimmons’s house.

‘Might I ask you a question, Constable?’ I said.

‘Certainly you may, miss.’

‘This seems like a very small village to me. Why does it have two policemen? And such luxurious accommodation?’

Hancock laughed. ‘We’re not just here for Littleton Cotterell, miss. This is just where we have our headquarters. We serve several villages for miles around.’ He seemed to inflate with pride as he said it. ‘It’s quite a responsibility, and one that the boys in the towns tend to underestimate.’

‘Well, I’m glad we have you to ourselves this morning. I don’t know what I should have done if I’d had to get all the way to Chipping Bevington for help.’

‘You’d’a been disappointed when you got there, an’ all, miss,’ he said. ‘Them’s idiots over there. You could have used the telephone, mind. We’ve got one now.’

I’d been wondering about that. We took the telephone for granted in London, but I had no idea if such conveniences had made it all the way out here. It seems that the police stations had them, at least.

We reached the doctor’s house and knocked at the door. It was answered very promptly by a middle-aged woman dressed from head to toe in black.

‘Hello, Margaret, is the doctor in?’ Hancock said.

‘Whom shall I say is calling?’ she asked.

‘It’s me, Margaret, Sam Hancock.’

‘I know who you are, you fool, don’t be so impertinent. But the . . . lady?’

Hancock was losing his patience. ‘Is he in or not? We are here on urgent police business and I don’t have time for your tomfoolery. I’ve a good mind to—’

Dr Fitzsimmons appeared behind the suspicious housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Mrs Newton, I’ll take care of this.’

Margaret reluctantly shuffled back into the hall and went about her business.

‘My apologies for the welcome, Constable. How may I help you?’

Hancock introduced me and I ran once more through my brief account of the finding of the body.