She took her own shot, which disappeared over the hill along the same line. Grinning, she dispatched the eager dog to fetch the balls. I didn’t share her confidence that the Dalmatian was capable of understanding the need to retrieve three balls, but we had nothing better to do, so we stood around discussing our golfing exploits while we waited.
Five minutes had passed before we decided that the dog almost certainly wasn’t going to come back, and that we should probably move our game to the other side of the grassy hillock. We gathered up the golf bags and Miss Titmus’s tee, and set off in the direction of our shots.
We all looked about as we crested the small hill, trying to see what had happened to the dogs and the golf balls. We saw the Dalmatians about fifty yards down the hill. One seemed to be resting, as though the effort of trotting over the hill had exhausted her. It was when we heard the other one whining that we knew something was wrong.
‘Oh, good lord,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘Electra! I think we must have hit the poor girl with one of the golf balls. She’s unconscious.’
She quickened her pace towards the stricken dog, and we followed. As she reached it, she bent down and examined it.
‘There’s no sign of anything,’ she said. ‘We’d better get her back to the house, though. Do you think we could carry her?’
‘We might be able to,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But if she’s injured, we should probably be a little gentler. Flo, dear, pop back to the house and see if you can find a handcart or something.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Betty. ‘I think I know where they keep one.’
‘And a blanket,’ called Lady Hardcastle as we set off back towards the house.
I left Betty to find and deliver the handcart while I went into the house to see if Lord Riddlethorpe had returned. I’d never owned a dog, but I was certain that if I had, I should have liked someone to let me know when it had been floored by an errant golf ball.
I found him in his study.
‘Why, Miss Armstrong,’ he said as I peered round the door. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sorry to interrupt, my lord,’ I said, ‘but Electra has been in an accident.’
His face whitened. ‘Oh, good lord,’ he said quietly. ‘Can this dreadful week bring any more tragedy? What’s happened?’
‘We’re not sure,’ I said, ‘but it looks as though she was hit by a stray golf ball. She’s out cold.’
He relaxed. ‘Is that all?’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Stupid creatures get into all sorts of scrapes. I’m sure she’ll be fine.’
‘Miss Buffrey is taking a handcart out to fetch her back. Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus are looking after her.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she’s in good hands. I’ll telephone the vet, just in case. He lives just this side of the town. He can have a look at her.’
‘Right you are, my lord. If you don’t mind, I’d better be getting back to them.’
‘Of course. Thank you for letting me know.’
By the time I’d made my way back through the house and out towards the racing track, the stretcher party was already heading in. Miss Titmus was pushing the handcart, with Betty comforting the stricken dog, and Lady Hardcastle walking behind with a morose-looking Asterope.
I waited for them and helped manhandle Electra into the hall, where we gave her into the care of her master.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘The vet’s on his way.’
‘I’m so sorry, Fishy,’ said Miss Titmus. She was in some distress. ‘It’s all my fault. She was still fetching a ball when we sent a couple more over the hill. I should have waited. I do hope she’s all right.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Helen. There’s nothing you could have done. She’s had worse, haven’t you, old girl?’ He crouched down and gently stroked the dog, who had come round and was now wrapped in a blanket. She looked dreadful. She spasmed and then lay still. ‘Don’t worry, old thing. We’ll have you back to your old self in no time.’
Lady Hardcastle caught my eye and signalled that she wished to speak to me in private. We slipped away and went back through the house to the terrace.
She examined the area around the table.
‘The dog wasn’t biffed on the head by a golf ball, was she?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said, still searching. ‘You saw the state of her. She was poisoned. Something like strychnine, if I remember my poisons correctly.’ She picked up a small piece of half-chewed sandwich that had been missed by the household servants when they tidied up. ‘Luckily, she barely ate any of it. Saved by piccalilli.’
‘You think so?’ I said. ‘It was deliberate? That means someone was after Miss Titmus.’
‘It really does look that way, doesn’t it,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop in and give Fishy the bad news. Perhaps the vet will be able to do something for her if he knows what’s wrong. I rather suspect that country vets might have to deal with accidental poisonings rather more often than one would hope.’
‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said. ‘Is it worth my while asking around in the kitchens, or do you have a master plan?’
‘That sounds like the best we can do for the moment. But keep it to Mrs Ruddle and her kitchen maid. I can’t see that a cook would be so foolish as to poison her own food – she’d be the first to fall under suspicion – but I wouldn’t like anyone else down there to know that we’re on to them.’
Finding Mrs Ruddle was never a problem – I’d never known her not be in the kitchen. Unfortunately, being confined to the kitchen meant that neither she nor Patty had seen anything.
‘I put ’em out on the table in the servants’ hall,’ said Patty. ‘Then I come straight back in here.’
‘Who ordered them?’ I asked.
‘Alfie come down from Miss Titmus.’
‘He’s one of the footmen?’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I called out that they was ready and just left them.’
‘So everyone knew they were there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And who knew about the ham and piccalilli? Who knew they were for Miss Titmus?’
Patty and Mrs Ruddle both laughed. ‘Everyone did, dear,’ said Mrs Ruddle. ‘Every time she comes down here with her ladyship, we has to make sure we gets piccalilli in special. No one else likes it. If there’s piccalilli in a sandwich, it’s bound for our Miss Titmouse.’
This was no help at all. Almost every member of the household would have had reason or excuse to be in the servants’ hall before lunch, and if all of them knew whose sandwich was whose, there was no way to narrow things down.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ I said, and made to leave.
‘Was there something wrong with the sandwiches, then?’ asked Mrs Ruddle. ‘Something wrong with the piccalilli? It was fine when it left my kitchen.’
‘Nothing at all, Mrs Ruddle,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Just something Lady Hardcastle was wondering. You know what “them upstairs” are like.’
She nodded sagely, and I took my leave.
I found Lady Hardcastle strolling along a path in the formal garden at the rear of the house, kicking at the gravel as she walked.
‘You’ll ruin those boots,’ I said as I caught up with her.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ she said without looking up.
‘How’s Electra?’