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

That earned her another glare.

‘There was no one else in the library?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘No one,’ replied Sylvia. Olive.

‘You noticed nothing out of the ordinary in there?’

‘Nothing. I’ve told you all this before. Just a big library with the band’s instrument cases at one end and absolutely no booze anywhere. I mean, really. Not a drop.’

‘I know,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing?’

‘It’s not like they couldn’t afford it,’ said Montgomery/Sewell.

‘Well, actually—’ Lady Hardcastle began.

The inspector ostentatiously cleared his throat.

‘Sorry, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do, please, continue.’

‘Thank you, my lady, you’re most kind,’ he said. ‘Mrs Sewell?’

‘What?’

‘You left the library, and—’

‘Oh, yes. Pretty much everyone was still in the ballroom so I took the opportunity to have a bit of a poke round upstairs. And . . . well . . . you know . . . one thing led to another—’

‘And Lady Farley-Stroud’s best jewels accidentally fell into your pocket as you walked past them?’ said the inspector.

‘In a nutshell.’

‘Except that it wasn’t quite the spur-of-the-moment thing you’re making it out to be, was it? You were here specifically to lift the emerald because Richman had arranged to smuggle it back to Paris. The other baubles were just a bit of freelance work to boost your own income from the job.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘I must say I do admire your brazenness in staying here so long. A lesser gang would have scarpered in the night after the robbery. Or last night once you knew the gem was lost. But here you are, calm as you like.’

‘It’s all about impressions, Inspector,’ she said, coolly. ‘If we’d done a moonlight, you’d have known something was up right away, but if we hang about there’s a chance you might not figure it all out. We’d be free to go without a stain on our characters and with no threats hanging over us.’

‘It’s just a pity you couldn’t have done it all without leaving a stain on the library floor.’

‘I swear I had nothing to do with Wallace. I’ve already said.’

‘We shall see,’ said the inspector, finishing making his notes and closing his little notebook.

‘Wait a moment,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What threats? Who might threaten you?’

Montgomery/Sewell gave her a most scornful look. ‘Oh, you know. Rival firms. It doesn’t do to be caught operating on someone else’s turf. One has to observe the proper etiquette.’

There was a knock at the door and the redoubtable Sergeant Dobson peered in.

‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘Ah, Sergeant, yes. Mrs Sewell here will be off to the cells soon, but she’s expecting a visit from Superintendent Witham of Scotland Yard first. Please keep her secure until he arrives.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Handcuffs, sir?’

‘No, Sergeant, that shouldn’t be necessary. Just take her shoes and don’t let her out of your sight.’

‘Very good, sir. I can take her down the cell in the village if you likes, sir.’

‘The superintendent is coming here. Find a quiet room somewhere and make yourselves comfortable until he arrives. We can arrange less comfortable accommodation later.’

‘Righto, sir. Come along, madam, if you please.’

Mrs Sewell rose from the table and followed the sergeant.

‘Just to be sure, Inspector,’ she said from the doorway. ‘I didn’t kill Wallace and I’d like five minutes alone in a room with whoever did. He was a good man, and a damn fine trumpeter.’

She closed the door behind her.

‘Another dead end,’ said Lady Hardcastle, staring dejectedly at the crime board.

‘Possibly, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘Although it’s also possible to look at it in a more positive light. Every dead end rules out another line of enquiry so that eventually there’ll be only one left. I really don’t fancy her for the murder, though. She’s a talented sneak thief who prides herself on leaving no traces. The sort where the victims don’t even realize they’ve been robbed until days, weeks, sometimes even months later. I’ve heard of cases where it’s been up to a year before someone notices that a special item of jewellery has gone missing. She’s not the sort to go clonking chaps round the back of the head. Too calm and cool, that one.’

‘And where do we go from here?

‘Well, I shall probably arrest Richman and Haddock for being accessories before the fact, and then return to Bristol to consider my next move. But I think we ought to take a closer look at those young chaps from the cricket club first.’

‘Will you stay for lunch? I’m sure Gertie won’t mind feeding us all.’

‘If you can swing it, that would be most welcome, my lady.’

‘I shall leave it to Flo. Apparently she shares a bond of comradeship with the lower orders which the likes of you and I, Inspector, shall never know.’

‘I’m flattered to be counted as the likes of you, my lady, but I think I’m more like the likes of them, if truth be told.’

‘Pish and fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘You’re a gentleman through and through.’

15

I had a quiet word with Mr Jenkins. He in turn managed to persuade Mrs Brown to prepare a light lunch for us: a deliciously summery cold collation with a fresh salad from the kitchen garden.

‘You’ll have to forgive my curiosity,’ said the inspector. ‘I’m afraid policemen tend to become very inquisitive about all things. But do you always eat together?’

‘Whenever we can,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘I must say that I find it very strange, and yet oddly refreshing. It feels both wrong and right at the same time.’

‘As long as we’re not making you too uncomfortable, Inspector.’

‘Far from it,’ he said with a smile. ‘Though I would wager I’m in the minority there.’

‘To some extent. But I sense a change in the air. The Labour movement is gaining supporters, after all. I’m not at all certain I should like to be overthrown by the proletariat in the way that Herr Marx suggested, but a little mutual respect between all classes would work wonders.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

We tucked into our meal.

‘It must be frightfully out of the ordinary for you to be out here so much, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘How do you mean, my lady?’

‘Well, two murders in less than a week? It’s all a bit much for a small village like this I should have thought.’

‘Well, now, my lady, that’s the funny thing. How are you on the subject of statistics and probability?’

‘I get by,’ she said, breezily. ‘I read Natural Sciences, but I like to keep up with new developments in mathematics, too, and I like to think I can hold my own if the subject should turn to statistics.’

‘I rather thought you might. You see there’s a funny thing about this part of Gloucestershire. There’s those as would say that London would definitely be England’s murder capital. Others are sure it’s Birmingham, or Manchester, or Liverpool. Some even suggest my own home city of Bristol. There’s a cluster of villages in Oxfordshire that regularly vies for the title, but have a guess where it really is.’

‘I should suppose, given the devilish twinkle in your eye,’ she said, ‘that it’s here.’

‘It is, as you suggest, my lady, right here. There are more murders per head of population in this part of Gloucestershire than anywhere else in the country. A person is more than twice as likely to be murdered here than anywhere else. It’s the reason we in the Bristol Constabulary are so often called off our own patch to help out – we have to share the load with the Gloucestershire boys or they’d be swamped.’