A Picture of Murder Read online

  ALSO BY T E KINSEY

  The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries

  A Quiet Life in the Country

  In the Market for Murder

  Death Around the Bend

  Christmas at The Grange (Kindle Single)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046022

  ISBN-10: 1542046025

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  ‘Just hold it steady and try to keep your hand out of the shot,’ said Lady Hardcastle with only the tiniest hint of exasperation.

  I had been summoned to the studio in the orangery at eight o’clock that morning. It was half-past eleven now and we were both becoming only the tiniest bit impatient with each other.

  ‘Perhaps we should take a break, my lady,’ I said. ‘I’ll get Miss Jones to make us a nice pot of coffee. I think she had some biscuits on the go, too.’

  ‘Just . . . one . . . more . . . shot . . .’ she said, reaching across to the camera to flick the shutter release. ‘There. All done, I think. I just need to make up some nice title cards and then Town Mouse and Country Mouse will be ready for the viewing public. Or the villagers, at any rate. I’m not sure the wider public could give a fig one way or the other. But Gertie assures me that the village is abuzz – she really did say “abuzz”, you know – the village is abuzz with excited talk about “Lady Hardcastle’s moving picture”.’

  ‘Daisy speaks of little else,’ I said. ‘I was in the Dog and Duck at lunchtime yesterday while you were fussing about in here and she was holding court behind the bar. “That Lady Hardcastle,” she said, “she’s some sort of genius or sommat making them moving pictures and that.” A genius, my lady. And she’s actually met you. Your artistic endeavours may yet be the salvation of your shaky reputation.’

  ‘They may yet,’ she said distractedly as she continued to fiddle with the camera. ‘Did you say something about coffee?’

  ‘And biscuits. I’ll pop up to the kitchen and see what I can find.’

  ‘Bless you. I’ll just tidy up here and I’ll meet you in the morning room.’

  I left the orangery and walked the short distance to the back door. The house had been built a few years earlier in the modern style – all red brick and white-painted window frames. One concession to earlier fashion had been the inclusion of the orangery. Lady Hardcastle rented the house from her old friend Jasper Laxley. He had designed it with the intention of moving into it when he and his family returned from India. Events had conspired to keep them on the beautiful subcontinent for longer than expected and he was delighted to be able to rent the newly built home to a trusted pal. It seems Mr Laxley had anticipated bringing exotic plant specimens back from India and had created the orangery to accommodate them. When we moved in, Lady Hardcastle had immediately reappointed it for use as a photographic studio. It was not at all what Mr Laxley had in mind, of course, but the light really was rather splendid.

  I was only out of doors for a few moments but autumn was making its presence felt and I was glad to get in out of the chill.

  I found Miss Jones, the young cook, hard at work in the kitchen. She seemed to be preparing a rack of lamb for our Sunday lunch.

  Lady Hardcastle had employed her when we first moved to Littleton Cotterell. She was terribly young to be a cook. So young, in fact, that none of us could bring ourselves to call her Mrs Jones as tradition dictated. It seemed wrong, somehow. Despite her youth and inexperience, her cooking skills were a revelation. I’ve always thought myself a bit of a dab hand in the kitchen, but Blodwen Jones made me look like the worst sort of bumbling bungler by comparison.

  ‘Oh, hello, Miss Armstrong,’ she said as I stood by the range, warming my hands. ‘Edna’s been askin’ where you was. Somethin’ about her thinkin’ we needs new table linen for the dinin’ room. And she’s run out of beeswax. And her duster has worn out. Nothin’s going right for her today. I think you’ve been lucky keepin’ out of her way, to be honest.’

  I tried not to sigh. ‘I’d better go and have a word,’ I said instead. ‘Can you conjure up a pot of coffee while I’m gone, please? Lady Hardcastle will take it in the morning room.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘I made some shortbread this morning as well if you think she’d fancy that.’

  ‘You read my mind,’ I said.

  I set off to find the housemaid.

  ‘How stands the Empire, Edna?’ I said when I finally found her in one of the bedrooms.

  ‘I’ve been better, Miss Armstrong,’ she said wearily.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Everythin’ seems to be goin’ wrong. I’ve run out of polish, this blimmin’ duster’s seen better days’ – she held up a limp collection of ostrich feathers at the end of a battered handle – ‘I can’t get the table linen to come up nice . . . I’n’t nothin’ workin’ as it should. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put things down and can’t find ’em again.’

  ‘That’ll be the house ghost. It’s the time of year for it, after all.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ she said. ‘I knows you and the mistress don’t go in for things like that, but I takes it very serious. I’ve seen a ghost at our grandma’s house. I a’n’t never felt a chill like it. And the barrier between their world and ours is weakest at Halloween.’

  ‘I was teasing,’ I said. ‘I think we’re safe. This house is less than ten years old – it’s not been here long enough to acquire any ghosts.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make fun of them,’ she said earnestly. ‘You never know what went on here in days gone by.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood. It’s not like you to be so downhearted over a few minor setbacks. Is there something else wrong?’

  She looked up from making the bed. ‘Oh, it’s sommat and nothin’, m’dear,’ she said with a fleeting smile. ‘My Dan was hurt t’other day at work. He’ll mend, but it’s a worry, though.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Is it serious? Should you be looking after him?’

  ‘He’s fine. It’s just a broken leg. But we’ll miss his wages – Dr Fitzsimmons reckons he’ll be off work for six weeks or more.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Farm work for Toby Thompson, at the moment. Him with the dairy herd. He usually works for Noah Lock up the hill, bu
t he goes where the work is. A few odd jobs here and there, you know. Dan-of-all-trades, I calls him.’

  ‘He’ll be scuppered with a gammy leg, then,’ I said. ‘Would it help to do a few more hours here? I can have a word with Lady Hardcastle.’

  She looked up from her bed-making. ‘I must admit it would be a boon, my lover,’ she said. ‘But only if it’s real work, mind. I don’t want no charity.’

  ‘Of course not. Nothing was further from my thoughts. I’m sure we could find plenty to keep you busy.’

  ‘Then it would be much appreciated, I’m sure.’

  ‘And Dan can do without you?’

  ‘As long as he’s got his pipe and a couple of bottles of cider, he can see hisself through a couple of afternoons without me waitin’ on him.’

  ‘I shall see what I can do, then,’ I said.

  ‘Proper work, mind. Don’t forget.’

  ‘I give you my solemn word that we shall work you like a navvy, Edna. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Reassured that there was nothing too much amiss, I returned to the kitchen. Miss Jones was just putting the pot and cups on the tray as I walked in.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Did you know about Dan?’

  ‘And his broken leg?’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t heard about nothin’ else. Is that why she’s all of a pother about every little thing?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘They’ll miss his wages,’ she said. ‘He can’t work with a broken leg.’

  ‘No, that’s what she said. So I’ve offered to talk to Lady Hardcastle about doing a few more hours here.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Why ever should I mind?’ she said, sounding rather bemused.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure we can offer you any more hours. To tell the truth, I’ve no real idea what we’re going to find for Edna to do. But don’t tell her that. She’s determined not to accept charity.’

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ she said. ‘She’s a proud one, our Edna. But don’t you worry about me. I’m happy with my mornin’s. Suits me fine. I still needs to get back to our ma.’

  ‘Of course, of course. How is your mother?’

  ‘Ups and downs, you know,’ she said. ‘She has her good days and her bad. But we gets by.’

  ‘It must be hard. But don’t be like Edna. If you need help, you will say, won’t you?’

  ‘You’re very kind, miss. Do you want me to take this tray through?’

  As usual, she had set the tray for two – both she and Edna had quickly accepted the idea of Lady Hardcastle and her lady’s maid eating and drinking together.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it. You get back to working your arcane magic on that lamb. Tell Lady Hardcastle she said she’d meet me in the morning room if it seems as though she might have forgotten.’

  ‘Can you smell smoke?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as she breezed into the morning room, still in her overalls.

  ‘I asked Edna to light the fires,’ I said. ‘I thought we’d already been sufficiently stoic and hardy. It’s gone beyond “a bit chilly” and we’re well on the way to “brass monkeys”. Warmth was called for.’

  ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ she said, sitting down. ‘A stiff upper lip is much less impressive when its stiffness is caused by its being frozen solid. But I meant outside. There seemed to be quite a whiff in the air when we went out into the garden this morning, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps everyone lit their fires today?’

  ‘No, it smelled more . . . messy. Not like logs or coal.’

  ‘Bonfires?’ I suggested. ‘Burning the leaves and other garden detritus? One last tidy-up before winter?’

  ‘It’s bucketing down now, dear,’ she said. ‘Who would light a bonfire in the rain? Are you sure you didn’t smell anything?’

  ‘Not that I noticed,’ I said. I poured her a cup of coffee and offered her one of Miss Jones’s shortbreads. ‘I hope the weather cheers up for Friday. I love Bonfire Night.’

  ‘Me too. Father used to take us all to a big fireworks display on Guy Fawkes Night. There would be stalls selling food and drink. I had the most vivid memory of a Yorkshireman selling “bonfire toffee” – brittle black stuff that could break your teeth. But that was all right because you could also use it to stick them back together. I insisted that we had visited him every year and that I absolutely adored bonfire toffee. When I was older, Mother told me that we’d only seen him once and that I’d taken one splintered bite and then spat it out on to the grass, declaring it to be “the horridest thing in the whole Empire”. The fireworks were magical, though. Always.’

  ‘Guy Fawkes Night was our last show before we packed up the circus for the winter,’ I said. ‘We’d do the show and then lead the crowd out to the field. We’d put on fireworks like they’d never seen while the fire eater did his act by the light of a massive bonfire. I was quite disappointed when we moved back to Aberdare so Ma could look after Mamgu. The town couldn’t afford anything like what we’d seen growing up.’

  ‘Do you remember the fireworks in Shanghai? We ought to get those chaps to come over here and show us how it’s done. Still, they always make an effort in the village, even without Chinese expertise. I have high hopes.’

  ‘If Lady Farley-Stroud is organizing the moving picture show, though, who’s in charge of Bonfire Night?’ I asked. ‘Sir Hector?’

  Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud were the local landowners. Lady Hardcastle had once described them as ‘the most charming old buffers ever to draw breath’, and over the past year or so they had all become firm friends.

  ‘Hector? Really? I love him dearly, but he couldn’t organize a bun fight in a bakery, bless him. No, I think there’s a committee of some sort with Gertie still at the helm. She can run the moving picture show and still keep a firm hand on the Guy Fawkes Night tiller. She’s a steam-driven marvel of capability, that woman.’

  ‘And a half,’ I said. ‘With ornamental brass knobs on.’

  She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I say, it’s nearly lunchtime. Why did you let me eat biscuits? We should be pestering Miss Jones for pie.’

  ‘I wanted elevenses at eleven, but you wanted to get “just . . . one . . . more . . . shot . . .”,’ I said. ‘I’m a good girl, me. I always do as I’m told.’

  This earned me a harrumph, but I was spared anything more stinging by the ringing of the telephone.

  ‘Who on earth can that be?’ she said.

  ‘I shall find out,’ I said.

  I went to the hall and took the telephone earpiece from its cradle on the side of the wooden box screwed to the wall.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three.’

  ‘Armstrong?’ said a familiar lady’s voice. Talk of the Devil and all that. ‘Armstrong? Is that you, m’dear?’

  ‘It is, Lady Farley-Stroud,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to fetch Lady Hardcastle for you?’

  ‘No, m’dear, there’s no need for that. Just fetch Lady Hardcastle for me, would you?’

  ‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said. ‘Hold the line, please.’

  We had a similar conversation nearly every time she called. I was beginning to wonder if it was me.

  ‘Who was it, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle when I went back into the morning room.

  ‘Lady Farley-Stroud,’ I said. ‘I think she’d like a word.’

  She was gone for a fair few minutes. I could hear only snippets of her side of the conversation but there were sufficient ‘oh my goodness’-es and ‘I say, you poor things’-es for me to be able to surmise that all was not well at The Grange.

  ‘All is not well at The Grange,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she returned.

  ‘I surmised as much,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That smell of smoke I remarked upon when I came in was from their kitchen.’

  ‘Mrs Brown has ruined their Sunday lunch?’

  �
��Much worse,’ she said. ‘The whole kitchen has gone up in flames. Someone forgot a candle, they think. It caught a cloth and, well, one tragic thing followed another.’

  ‘Heavens,’ I said. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘Thankfully, no,’ she said. ‘Nor was the rest of the house affected. They’re just without a kitchen.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’

  ‘That was the reason for her call. They were supposed to be hosting the visiting kinematograph people – Colonel Something-or-other and three actors.’

  ‘Colonel Cheetham,’ I said. ‘Nolan Cheetham.’

  ‘That’s the chap. She asked if we could put them up.’

  ‘You agreed, I hope.’

  ‘In a flash. They can have a room each – it’s not like we’re short of space. The only thing I worried about was whether you’d be able to cope.’

  ‘Not on my own,’ I said. ‘But it happens that Edna wants to work a few more hours while her husband is on the sick list. I’m not so sure about Miss Jones, but she might be persuaded. She’s very eager to please, but she likes to be at home to look after her mother.’

  ‘I think Gertie Farley-Stroud knows her mother – I believe they’re on a couple of village committees together – she might be able to persuade her to encourage young Blodwen to get out a bit more and get on in the world. And Gertie has offered us the use of Dora and Dewi for the duration.’

  Dora Kendrick was one of the housemaids at The Grange. We didn’t get on. Dewi Rees was the footman. He was a plodder and was given to swearing at people in Welsh when he was under pressure, but he was a good sort.

  ‘I think we’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘When is everyone arriving?’

  ‘The servants will be here tomorrow morning, the guests tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Oh. Edna and Miss Jones have already gone for the day. I’ll have to tell them tomorrow.’

  ‘Did Miss Jones leave us any lunch?’

  ‘Rack of lamb,’ I said. ‘I’ll just put on the finishing touches.’

  Later that evening, Lady Hardcastle and I were drinking brandy together by the fire in the sitting room.

  ‘I do love village life,’ she said, shifting a little in the armchair to make herself comfortable. ‘But it does seem to involve a great deal more commitment and effort than living in the city.’