A Quiet Life in the Country (The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries Book 1)

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One - The Body in the Woods

  Two - The Circus Comes to Town

  Three - The Case of the Missing Case

  Four - The Half Death of Günther Ehrlichmann

  The End

  A QUIET LIFE IN THE COUNTRY

  T E Kinsey

  Copyright © 2014 T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  For my family and friends.

  For all the missing evenings and weekends.

  Thank you for your love, patience, help and indulgence.

  ONE

  The Body in the Woods

  A quiet life in the country, that was what my mistress had wanted when she moved us from the smart apartments in London to the newly-built house just outside Littleton Cotterell in the summer of 1908. Life in Gloucestershire, she had said, would be peaceful and uneventful. Bristol was just a short train journey from the nearby market town, she had promised, so we’d not be cut off entirely from civilization, but she had also assured me that there would be calm after the years of adventure (and occasional terror). She would finally be able to relax. And to rest. To take it easy. No more rushing about.

  And so it was that we were up shortly after dawn on our third day in the village, walking the lanes and the fields, energetically exploring our new home. We’d already met Toby Thompson, the scarlet-faced, curly-haired, barrel-chested dairy farmer. His curiosity at seeing a “lady from up London” striding across his lower pasture with her lady’s maid in tow had caused him to stop driving his herd towards the milking shed and come over to speak to her. The cows, indignant at this interruption to their routine, began lowing irritably. Some plodded towards their usual morning destination, drawn on by the promise of the relief of milking, while the others milled around, leaderless and lost. Mr Thompson was oblivious, keen instead to make the acquaintance of his new neighbour.

  Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged but my own attention was entirely held by the confused and disgruntled cows so I heard nothing of their conversation until I saw him pointing to the woods about half a mile distant and saying, in his unfamiliar West Country burr, ‘I reckon they woods’ll be a nice walk this time o’ the mornin’, m’lady. It’s a beautiful day. I often goes into the woods for a bit o’ peace and quiet of a summer’s mornin’ once the milkin’s done.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thompson,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I believe I shall do the same.’

  ‘Right you are, then. You ’ave a good day, m’lady, and don’t forget to drop by if you needs anythin’. Our ma’d be ever so pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

  Lady Hardcastle expressed her delight and thanks and we set off across the pasture towards the dense stand of trees.

  As we entered the woods, I looked back across the field we had just crossed at our tracks through the dew-damp grass. I had a sudden jolt of panic at leaving such an obvious trail, but just as quickly I remembered that we no longer had to worry about such things. No one had wanted us dead simply for being English for a number of years now. Indeed, here in Gloucestershire “English” was rather a desirable thing to be, but “old habits...” and all that.

  Ahead of me, Lady Hardcastle stepped nimbly over a patch of mud and turned back to me. ‘Keep up, Armstrong,’ she said with a smile, ‘and watch out for the mud.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady,’ I said in my best approximation of the local accent as I hopped across the miniature mire. I checked behind us again as we made our way farther into the dimness of the wood.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, ‘do stop acting like a blessed bodyguard, you’ll upset the natives. You’ve been looking for pursuit since we left the house.’

  ‘Sorry, my lady. It’s just...’

  ‘I know, dear.’ She reached out and touched my arm reassuringly.

  The morning sun was struggling to have much of an influence on the world beneath the canopy of rich green leaves. The dark ground beneath our boots was soft and damp and the air was surprisingly chill; I began to wish I’d thought to put on a jacket, or at least to have brought my shawl.

  Lady Hardcastle resumed her enthusiastic descriptions of the local plant and animal life. She had a passion for the natural sciences which she never tired of trying to share with me, but I confess that despite her best efforts I was still unable to tell a beech tree from a beach hut. There were the obvious difficulties one might have in getting into a bathing costume in a beech tree, of course – at the very least there would be issues of balance and of being poked by errant limbs. Though thinking about it, an errant limb can be a problem in a shared beach hut, too. My laugh brought a questioning look and I was was about to share my observations when we broke through into a beautifully sunlit clearing.

  ‘And in the centre of the clearing, my dear Armstrong,’ 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 20s, 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 and 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 Armstrong 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, and 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.

  Perspiring gently, and slightly out of breath, I reached Sergeant Dobson’s house within just a few minutes. 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.

  Village life had proved quite a contrast to the bustling anonymity of London, and between our arrival at lunchtime two days ago and retiring for the night on the previous day, just about every inhabitant of the village, rich and poor, had paid a call on Lady Hardcastle. They had come to introduce themselves, to offer their services and, most of all, to goggle at the lady from London. The local landowner, Sir Hector Farley-Stroud, seldom had visitors it seemed, and a lady from London was by way of an exotic curiosity, especially once rumours about her past had begun to circulate. All of which meant that not only did I already know exactly which of the little houses on the village green belonged to the Gloucestershire Police, but also which one served as both the village police station
and the home of Sergeant Dobson. It also meant that I was known to the portly sergeant who recognized me as soon as he opened the door. 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 and 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 and 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 a slightly unfamiliar 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, yawning, and scratching 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, behelmetted and ready for duty, Constable Hancock reappeared at his front door a few minutes later and 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–’

  A well-dressed, elderly man – tall, balding, and with quite the longest nose I’ve ever seen – appeared behind the snobbish 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.

  ‘I’ll get Newton to harness the horse and we’ll be off in no time. Do come in in the meantime. Can I offer you anything while we wait? Tea, perhaps? Have you eaten, Constable? I’m sure Mrs Newton could find an extra helping of something.’

  We both accepted the offer of tea and sat in the doctor’s waiting room while Margaret’s husband prepared the carriage.

  By the time we reached the clearing, more than an hour had passed since we’d made our grisly discovery. Dr Fitzsimmons’s horse had been tethered by the side of the road and we’d walked to the clearing to find Lady Hardcastle deep in conversation with Sergeant Dobson some way from the dangling body. They seemed to be looking at some sketches.

  ‘Look at this, Hancock,’ the sergeant said with glee, ‘Lady Hardcastle has sketched the scene for us.’

  Hancock inspected the drawings and nodded gravely with what he imagined was professional approval. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Very good indeed.’

  ‘They’ll be a great help at the inquest, Lady Hardcastle,’ said the sergeant. ‘Thank you. Oh, and where are my manners? Lady Hardcastle, may I introduce Dr Fitzsimmons.’

  ‘We met yesterday, thank you, Sergeant. How are you, Doctor? It’s a shame our second meeting couldn’t be under more pleasant circumstances.’

  ‘It is indeed, my lady, it is indeed. Now what have we here? A suicide, it seems. Do we know who it is?’

  ‘Not quite yet, sir, no,’ said Dobson. ‘I’ve got the queerest feeling I’ve seen the gentleman before somewhere, but I just can’t place him. I can’t quite reach his pockets, neither, or else I’d have seen if he had a letter or something that might have identified him.’

  Constable Hancock had been staring at the body. He didn’t look too comfortable and I wondered if he’d seen many bodies in circumstances like this rather than laid out neatly in a coffin ready for the last respects of their loved ones.

  ‘I knows him,’ said Hancock, slowly. ‘That’s Frank Pickering. He’s from over Woodworthy but he plays cricket for us since their club folded last season. Or “played”, I should say. He worked in Bristol. It cost him to get in on the train every day from Chipping Bevington but he always said he’d rather that and live out here than live in the city. Nice bloke.’ His voice drifted off as he looked on, still mesmerized by the body.

  ‘That’s it, young Hancock,’ said the sergeant with a jolt of satisfied recollection. ‘Well done, boy. Yes, I seen him playing against Dursley a week ago last Sunday.’

  ‘Was he a melancholy fellow?’ the doctor asked Hancock.

  ‘No, sir, that’s just it. He was the life and soul, he was. Bright and bumptious, a
lways had a joke.’

  ‘It can often be the way that a jovial exterior masks the pain within,’ mused the doctor. ‘Shall we cut the poor fellow down? Then we can take the body back to my surgery and we can make the arrangements for the inquest.’

  Lady Hardcastle had been slightly distracted throughout all this. She was looking at the ground beneath the body and checking it against her sketches. ‘Might we test one or two of my ideas before we do, please, gentlemen?’

  ‘If we can, m’lady,’ said Dobson. ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘Would you say the ground was soft, Sergeant?’ she asked.

  ‘Passably soft, m’lady, yes.’

  ‘And so one might expect that this log, which had borne the weight of quite an athletically hefty man, should have left an impression in the ground beneath the tree.’

  ‘That seems reasonable, m’lady.’

  ‘And yet...’ She indicated the ground immediately below the body. It was trampled and bore one or two odd impressions, but there was no obvious, large indentation from the end of the log. ‘I wonder if I might trouble you to stand the log on its end, Constable, just as it would have been before poor Mr Pickering met his unfortunate end.’

  ‘Certainly, m’lady,’ Hancock said, stepping forwards and lifting the log. He positioned it on its end with its top some six inches below the toes of Frank Pickering’s boots.

  We looked at the newly-created tableau for a few moments before constable Hancock slowly said, ‘Wait a moment, if his feet don’t touch the log, how can he have been stood on it before he topped hisself?’

  ‘Upon my soul,’ said Dr Fitzsimmons.

  ‘Well, bugger me,’ said Sergeant Dobson.

  ‘And there, gentlemen, you see what’s been troubling me,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m not an expert in these matters, but I’d say the odds were somewhat against this being suicide.’