It wasn’t going to happen.
We had found Mr Pickering’s body on Wednesday and had both been interviewed by the detective in charge of the case on Thursday afternoon. It was now the following Monday and we’d heard nothing more of the murder from official sources in the intervening days. That’s not to say we’d not been asked to talk about it, mind you.
Sir Hector Farley-Stroud from the big house on the hill, The Grange, had invited Lady Hardcastle to dinner on Saturday evening, ostensibly to welcome her to the village. But she had been under no illusion about his true intention which had been to get a full account of the deadly goings-on, and she told me next day that she’d spent the evening being cross examined by Sir Hector, Lady Farley-Stroud, and their friends. Evidently they had been almost indecently excited by the idea of a real crime in their midst and had been determined to hear everything in the most scandalous detail possible.
I, meanwhile, had been closely questioned by every shopkeeper and tradesman we did business with. The butcher and baker had both kept me talking while I placed Lady Hardcastle’s orders, and if there’d been a candlestick maker in the village I’m sure he’d have done the same. As it was I had to make do with being interrogated by Mrs Pantry who ran the grocer’s shop. She did sell candles, though, so I decided that was good enough. It was a pity the conversation was so strongly biased towards violent crime, though; I was desperate to find out if Pantry was really her late husband’s name or if she’d changed it for business reasons, but the moment to ask passed before I got the chance, and now I may never know.
But back to Monday. I’d finished helping my mistress dress and was just beginning to clear away the breakfast things when the doorbell rang. It was Constable Hancock.
‘Good morning, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, amiably. ‘Is Lady Hardcastle at home?’
‘She most certainly is, Constable,’ I said. ‘Won’t you come in, and I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Thank you, miss, Most kind.’
The drawing room opened off to the left of the entrance hall and I invited him to make himself comfortable in there while I went upstairs to find Lady Hardcastle. The house had been built recently by a friend of hers in preparation for his own family’s return from India. Business matters had compelled him to stay in the Subcontinent at least another year and so when he discovered that she intended to move out of London he had offered to rent the new house to her. This meant that a widow and her maid were living in a house built for a family of six, but even so “finding Lady Hardcastle” didn’t involve a lengthy search through a labyrinth of rooms and I found her exactly where I expected to: in her bedroom.
She turned from examining her clothes in the wardrobe. ‘Hello, pet,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to own anything that isn’t black. Do you think I ought to branch out a little, invest in something more fashionably colourful?
‘Black suits you, my lady.’
‘Thank you. I sometimes worry that people might think I’ve spent altogether far too long in mourning.’
‘My understanding was that you wear black because you imagine you look magnificent in it. Which, if I’m to be properly truthful, you actually do. And you always wear red corsets. They’re frightfully jolly.’
She laughed. ‘Well, yes, but I can’t really offer either of those as mitigation to the oh-so-solicitous ladies about town who insist I should brighten myself up lest I never find a man.’
‘No, my lady, I don’t suppose you can.’
‘Ah well,’ she sighed, closing the wardrobe. ‘I shall worry about that another day. Who’s that at the door?’
‘Constable Hancock, my lady. He’d like to see you.’
‘Oh, how exciting. Do you think there’s news?’
‘I’m not sure, my lady,’ I said. ‘To be honest, he looks as though there’s something troubling him.’
‘Then we mustn’t keep him waiting an instant longer. Lay on, McArmstrong, let us meet the steadfast watchman and see what’s bothering him.’
I led the way downstairs where we found Hancock standing in the drawing room, inspecting the bookcase.
‘My dear Constable,’ said Lady Hardcastle over my shoulder as I opened the drawing room door for her, ‘what a delight to see you. Has Armstrong offered you tea?’
‘Good morning, m’lady. No, I didn’t give her the chance, but I must say tea would be most welcome.’
‘See to it, dear, would you?’
I bobbed the little curtsey I used whenever we were in company and bustled off into the kitchen. I left the doors open, the better to hear their conversation as I boiled the kettle on the stove and prepared the tea tray.
‘Well then, Constable, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?’
‘It’s something of a delicate matter, m’lady,’ said Hancock, somewhat hesitantly. ‘I don’t really know how to broach it, to be truthful.’
‘Just be bold, dear boy. Out with it and hang my sensibilities. I’ve seen more than you’d credit in my long life; little shocks me.’
‘Oh, it’s not that it’s delicate in that way, m’lady. It’s more of a matter of it p’raps not being quite appropriate to be talking to someone outside the Force about it.’
‘Something to do with the murder of Mr Pickering?’
‘Exactly so, m’lady. See, the thing is, I don’t know you or nothing, and I wouldn’t dream to presume, but you seemed like a lady who knew what was what and I don’t know who else to talk to.’
‘Something is wrong?’
‘I think there very well might be, m’lady. It’s the detective from Bristol. Inspector Sunderland. You met him, I believe.’
‘I did. He seemed intelligent enough, but not very... interested. No, that’s not quite fair. But he gave the impression of having more important things to be getting on with.’
‘He gave me that feeling too, m’lady. He started interviewing people on Thursday after he’d spoken to you and Miss Armstrong.’ He paused for a short while as though still unsure whether to proceed, but then a look of resolution suddenly came over him and his thoughts tumbled out as though tipped from a bucket. ‘He went straight to the Dog and Duck and talked to old Joe Arnold there. It seems Frank Pickering had been in the pub on Tuesday night and got in a fearful row with Bill Lovell, one of the lads from the village, about a girl they was both sweet on. Seems Frank had been sitting there with some of his cricketing mates and this lad had come over and started a terrible to do. He said he was engaged to Daisy Spratt and how dare Frank be taking her out for a walk. And Frank said he could walk out with whoever he liked and Lovell could go hang. And Lovell had said he’d be the one who got hanged if he had anything to do with it and stormed out.’