A Picture of Murder Read online

  I laughed. ‘It’s not like they’ve asked us to do much. You’re always saying we should have houseguests.’

  ‘Oh, I know. I’m not complaining. I was just musing on the idea that when Lady Whosit throws a party in London, she doesn’t expect all her neighbours to pitch in. We just turn up in our best frocks and frolic the night away. When it’s time to go home, carriages are summoned and we all depart, leaving her household to clean up the mess. Out here, though . . . ’

  ‘Out here they ask ever so nicely if you wouldn’t mind helping them out of a spot of bother. Then they offer you the use of their own servants to make sure that they’re putting you to as little trouble as possible. I’m not sure I don’t prefer the country way.’

  ‘When you put it like that, young Flo, I’m not sure I disagree with you.’ She took another sip of her brandy. ‘Does village tittle-tattle have anything to say on the subject of our houseguests? Gertie has been very unforthcoming.’

  ‘Daisy is my main source of gossip, as always,’ I said. Daisy was the butcher’s daughter who spent her mornings in her father’s shop and her afternoons and evenings behind the bar in the local pub, the Dog and Duck. She was giddy and foolish, and quite the best friend I had in the village. ‘She says that the Cheetham fellow has a bit of a reputation as a charismatic showman, but his – how did she put it – “his star is on the wane”.’

  ‘Unusually poetic for dear Daisy.’

  ‘She read it in one of her magazines. She lent me her copy.’ I indicated the magazine on the table between us. ‘They have a “kinematograph” section sometimes. He was widely regarded as the Great Panjandrum of the English moving picture world, she says. There are others snapping at his heels, but by all accounts his new picture is set to reassert his supremacy.’

  ‘And he’s bringing it here?’ she said with some surprise. ‘How exciting.’

  ‘“Bringing the kinematograph back to everyday folk”, or some such. Daisy said something about him thinking that his fellow producers concentrate too much on the big cities and not enough on rural communities, so he’s going to continue the premiere tour of his new production right here in Littleton Cotterell. I’m sure you can cross-examine him closely while he’s here.’

  ‘There’s usually no need – showmen do love to talk about themselves. And what of his cast? Does Daisy know anything of them?’

  ‘Two actresses and an actor,’ I said. ‘She told me their names, and rambled at length about the ups and downs of their careers, but I’m afraid my attention wandered. I can’t remember a thing she said.’

  ‘Then it shall be part of the fun to meet them and find out all about them,’ she said. She poured us both another measure of brandy. ‘Now then, what do you say to a little music before bed? That poor piano looks like it could do with a bit of exercise. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Do you have something spooky, my lady?’ I said.

  ‘“Spooky”? Why “spooky”?’

  ‘It’s All Hallows’ Eve,’ I said. ‘The night when the spirits are abroad. Edna is convinced they’ve been stealing her dusters.’

  ‘We’ll have to nip that nonsense in the bud,’ she said. ‘Gertie informed me in hushed tones – well, as hushed as she could manage while she was bellowing into her telephone – that her own servants have been muttering about supernatural forces being responsible for the kitchen fire.’

  ‘You city folk forget how seriously your country cousins take this sort of thing.’

  ‘Ghoulies and ghosties. And long-leggedy beasties?’

  ‘The very same. And witches and monsters. Nos Galan Gaeaf, my mother used to call it. The night before the first day of winter. She taught us all the old customs. When we moved back to Aberdare some of the families there still observed them. They were good chapel folk all year round, but the old ways came out one night a year.’

  ‘How exciting. Were there ceremonies? Rituals?’

  ‘There was Coelcerth,’ I said, shamelessly adopting the hushed tones of a storyteller at the most chilling part of the tale. ‘The women and children would dance around a huge bonfire. Each of them in turn would write their name on a stone and place it in the fire. As the fire burned down, everyone would scatter and run for home. The last one out in the dark risked being caught by Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta – a fearful black sow with no tail – and the headless woman that walked with her.’

  ‘Gracious me,’ she said with a smile. ‘And I thought Wales was a cheerfully friendly land of poetry and song.’

  ‘That’s not all, my lady. In the morning, they would check the stones in the fire to make sure that they were all still there. If anyone’s name was missing, that person would die before another year had passed.’

  She laughed. ‘That all makes Nanny’s jack-o’-lantern seem rather tame. A clumsily carved turnip with a candle inside and a dire warning not to have anything to do with witches pales by comparison.’

  ‘You Londoners with your city ways,’ I said, still in the role of ghostly storyteller. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  She laughed again. ‘Saint-Saëns, perhaps?’ she said. ‘“Danse Macabre” should fit the bill nicely. Or Mussorgsky? I’m sure I have “Night on Bald Mountain” somewhere. Or perhaps both. Or neither. They’re both quite tricky.’

  I settled back into my armchair and closed my eyes, losing myself in the music. They were, indeed, both rather tricky, but she managed them with her usual accomplished ease.

  It was midnight by the time we retired and I took two lighted candles with me as I went to bed. One can never be too careful on Nos Galan Gaeaf.

  Chapter Two

  As is so often the way after a late night, I was awake at a disappointingly early hour. By the time Edna and Miss Jones let themselves in by the side door, I already had the range lit and the kettle on. I was setting the copper laundry tub to boil as they came in to the kitchen.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss Armstrong,’ said Edna cheerfully. ‘Y’ere, that’s kind of you, thank you. There’s not many lady’s maids as would get the washing goin’. Much appreciated, my lover, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ I said. ‘But I confess I do have an ulterior motive for wanting to get in both your good books.’

  She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘You remember our conversation yesterday?’ I continued. ‘You were saying you wouldn’t mind a little extra work.’

  ‘So long as it’s proper work,’ she reminded me. ‘I i’n’t no charity case.’

  ‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘Would four houseguests count as proper work, do you think?’

  ‘Four?’ said Edna and Miss Jones in unison.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘Lady Farley-Stroud was going to be putting up the visiting kinematograph people, but after the fire—’

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes. The fire. Our ma told us about that,’ interrupted Miss Jones, quite uncharacteristically. ‘In the kitchens. I’ve always been terrified I might accidentally start a fire in a kitchen.’

  ‘They says it was the spirit of a cook from the 1600s,’ said Edna.

  ‘Do they, indeed?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Cruelly treated by the son of the lord, she was. Died givin’ birth to his illegitimate son. Local story says she comes back this time of year to warn the servants to watch out and to take her revenge.’

  ‘On whom?’ I asked, fascinated in spite of myself.

  ‘The family what done her wrong,’ said Edna firmly.

  ‘But they’re long gone. The Farley-Strouds bought the place in the eighties.’

  ‘No one ever said ghosts had access to the Land Registry,’ she said. ‘All she knows is that she died in her kitchen and someone needs to pay.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, fortunately, no one had to pay. Although Mrs Brown was a little shaken.’

  ‘That lazy old trout,’ said Edna. ‘I heard as how she took one look at the damage and did a bunk to her sister’s.’

  The village gossip network was as efficient as eve
r, it seemed.

  ‘At Gloucester, apparently,’ I said. ‘But the lack of a fully working kitchen and the inconvenient absence of an experienced cook has left Lady Farley-Stroud feeling that she can’t entertain her guests. She’s asked if they can be billeted with us. Two gentlemen and two ladies, I understand. One of the gentlemen runs the company, the others are his actors.’

  ‘Actors?’ said Edna. ‘Can’t trust ’em. Our Dan’s sister used to work in the Theatre Royal down at Bristol. She could tell you some stories about actors.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be no trouble,’ I said. ‘And Lady Farley-Stroud has offered to send us Dora and Dewi to help out—’

  ‘That pair of useless articles?’ exclaimed Edna. ‘Tryin’ to get ’em out from under her feet, more like.’

  ‘She’s offered to send us Dora and Dewi to help out,’ I said again, trying desperately to regain control of the conversation. ‘We shan’t be shorthanded, but it will disrupt our usual routine.’

  ‘Well, I did ask for proper work,’ said Edna with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I should be careful what I wishes for.’

  ‘What about food?’ asked Miss Jones anxiously. ‘We’ve not got enough in – I never thought to order more. And I can’t work all day. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got our ma to think about.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘I can order extra groceries and we can work something out between us. I’m not a complete duffer in the kitchen, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know, miss. I didn’t mean . . . But it’s not part of your duties. You’ve got enough to be getting on with, lookin’ after the mistress.’

  ‘It was just her and me for quite a while before we moved here. We were never in one place long enough for her to employ other servants so I ended up doing most things.’

  ‘I’d love to hear some of your stories some day,’ she said. ‘Never mind no gossip about actors. I reckon you’ve had some adventures.’

  I laughed. ‘More than a few. And there’s more than a few of those I can never tell. State secrets and all that.’

  She goggled at me.

  ‘Take no notice, my lover,’ said Edna. ‘She’s teasin’ you.’

  It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

  ‘No, Edna, I believes her,’ said Miss Jones. ‘She and Lady Hardcastle has got stories to tell.’

  ‘If you like, dear,’ said Edna. ‘But stories’ll have to wait. When are these actors arrivin’?’

  I smiled sheepishly. ‘Bert is picking them up from the station in Chipping Bevington . . . at lunchtime,’ I said.

  ‘Today?’ they said in unison.

  I told Edna that I’d be asking her to take charge of Dewi and Dora while the three of them readied the house for our visitors. She seemed pleased. She had been in service for a long while and had been housekeeper in a medium-sized house in her younger days. She enjoyed the easier life of part-time work for Lady Hardcastle, but I got the impression that she was looking forward to showing what she was capable of. I left her to make her plans.

  Meanwhile, Miss Jones and I discussed some menu ideas for the rest of the week and reviewed the state of the larder.

  It belatedly occurred to me that we had never asked how long our houseguests would be staying, but I estimated that we’d have to feed them until at least breakfast-time on Saturday. The ‘Travelling Picture Extravaganza’, as Lady Farley-Stroud’s committee had enthusiastically named it, was due to end on Thursday, with the visitors being invited as guests of honour at the village’s Bonfire Night celebrations on Friday. It seemed likely that they’d want a night’s rest before they got on their way to their next engagement, so we would need to provide food for four extra mouths for up to fifteen meals. The local shopkeepers were going to be pleased to see me.

  I heard a knock at the side door. Edna was nearby and answered it. It was probably a delivery. I thought briefly about catching whichever lad it was and sending him back to his employer with our revised order but I decided that a personal appearance would be better. I paid no further attention until I heard my own name and realized that the voices I could hear were not those of Edna and a young butcher’s boy, but of Edna and another adult.

  Edna was speaking. ‘. . . and Miss Armstrong has asked that you two—’

  ‘Stuck-up little madam,’ said Dora.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Edna.

  ‘Your “Miss Armstrong”. Thinks she’s better than the rest of us because she pals around with that batty old gimmer Lady Hardcastle. Comes in the front door at The Grange, she does. The front bloomin’ door! And all because her soft-headed mistress managed to solve a couple of puzzles.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, girl. That’s no way to talk about anyone, most especially not women like them two. They’s worth two dozen of you. Each.’

  Dora, it seemed, was undaunted. ‘And don’t think we’re gonna be takin’ none of your old nonsense, neither,’ she said. ‘We works for the Farley-Strouds and you a’n’t got no business bossin’ us about. We gots our instructions. We knows what to do.’

  I’m not usually given to looming. Obviously my diminutive stature precludes a properly intimidating physical loom, but, even so, I’m not fond of it as a leadership technique. In my early days as a scullery maid in Cardiff, the other girls and I were letting off steam one day, grumbling about the way one of the more senior housemaids treated us, when one by one, the others all fell silent. I turned to see Mrs Llewellyn, the housekeeper, looming over me. We were all scolded for our insolence, but it was the stomach-crampingly awful moment when I looked up and saw her angry face that stayed with me. If I were ever in her position, I vowed, I would never loom. It’s an awful thing to do.

  Dora, though, had never been one of my favourite people in the village and was, I thought, in dire need of a bit of looming. I signalled Miss Jones to stay quiet and tiptoed to the door of the ‘boot room’ – our rather grand name for the little cubby where the conversation was taking place. Edna had her back to me, standing between the newcomers and the kitchen. For once, my size might make for a more effective loom.

  I approached stealthily, getting up as close as I could behind Edna and using her to shield me from Dora’s view. She was still in full flood, listing my and Lady Hardcastle’s inadequacies and our general unsuitability for life among decent country folk.

  I peered slowly round from behind Edna’s shoulder.

  It took Dora a couple of seconds to notice me before her voice trailed off with an unconvincingly defiant, ‘Yes . . . well . . . ’ She blushed a shade of red I’d last seen on a lobster served at a banquet hosted by the Italian ambassador in Paris.

  ‘Hello, Dora, fach. How lovely to see you again,’ I said. ‘Has Edna explained the arrangements?’

  She glared at me for a moment, but she couldn’t hold it for long and was soon staring at her own boots.

  ‘There’s a lot to be done over the coming week,’ I continued, ‘but I suggest that you pay close attention to Edna’s instructions and things will run as smooth as clockwork.’

  Throughout all this, Dewi hadn’t said a word. To his credit, though, the lanky Welsh lad looked embarrassed at the way his fellow Grange servant was conducting herself. He nodded his assent while Dora continued her close inspection of her boots.

  ‘And, Dora,’ I said to the top of her head, ‘if I ever hear even the vaguest rumour that you’ve spoken like that about Lady Hardcastle again, I will spend the rest of my life making the rest of your life more miserable than you can possibly imagine. You can say what you like about me and the worst it will get you is a smack in the chops if I can be bothered. But one word against her – one word, Dora Kendrick – and you’ll wish your mother had never taught you to speak. Do I make myself abundantly clear?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Splendid. I shall leave you to it, Edna,’ I said. ‘I need to get into the village to order a few things. See you all in a little while.’

  I put on my overcoat and slipp
ed out through the back door. By a colossal effort of will, I managed not to slam it.

  I had calmed down a little by the time I reached Weakley’s greengrocers – ‘Visit Weakley’s Daily for the Best Fresh Veg’. I gave Mr Weakley our order and he all but squealed for joy when he saw how much extra we wanted.

  ‘Is your mistress hosting a banquet, Miss Armstrong?’ he asked.

  ‘She has unexpected houseguests for the week,’ I said.

  ‘I hope it’s not too much bother for you, but I can’t pretend I’m not glad of the extra business. Oh, is it the people who were going to be staying with Lady Farley-Stroud? We heard about the fire. Terrible business. They say no one knows how it started, but Mrs Weakley says one of the scullery maids reckons they regularly sees a ghostly figure with a lantern walking the halls that night. The lantern glows blue, she said. There i’n’t no natural lantern flame as glows blue – none as I’ve ever heard of, leastways.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘But being a scullery maid can be terribly boring sometimes. They make things up to help the days pass more quickly. One girl I worked with in Cardiff when I was young swore blind that the ghost of the master’s dog flew in through her bedroom window in the night and performed the Dance of the Seven Veils, polished her Sunday boots, and gave her a tip for the next day’s race meeting at Chepstow.’

  ‘Did it win?’ he asked.

  ‘It was called Aunt Jemima and it finished fourth. It was later disqualified following a stewards’ enquiry. But my point is that she made it all up. And I’m sure the girls at The Grange are making things up, too.’

  ‘But Mrs Weakley i’n’t gullible. She reckons—’

  My own grandmother had ‘the sight’, as she called it, and I always thought of myself as having an open mind when it came to the supernatural, but this was getting out of hand. A ghost at The Grange? I decided to derail this particular train of thought.

  ‘Still,’ I said, ‘at least no one was hurt in the fire. But we do have some extra houseguests.’