‘Not at all, dear,’ said our hostess. ‘Glad to see you. Jenkins? Coffee for three, please. And some cake if Mrs Brown has any.’
‘Certainly, my lady,’ said Jenkins, closing the door behind him as he left.
‘So sorry about yesterday, Emily,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud when he had gone. ‘Don’t know what came over me.’
‘You’d had a shock, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Perfectly natural. Think nothing of it. How are you feeling now?’
‘Much better, m’dear, much better.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. You had us quite worried.’ She picked up the gift that had been lying on the sofa beside her. ‘We brought you a little something to cheer you up.’
She handed over the brown-paper package which Lady Farley-Stroud opened eagerly.
‘You shouldn’t have, m’dear,’ she said as she struggled with the string. ‘But thank you. Much appreciated. Don’t get many presents.’ She finally freed the framed picture from its wrapper and laughed delightedly. ‘Oh, I say. How wonderful. You’ve quite captured me. You’re a very clever lady. Thank you. We’ll have to put it in the hall where everyone can see it.’
She carried on examining the sketch, beaming with pleasure.
‘Sorry to have made such a fuss, Emily dear. Not like me, not like me at all.’
‘Pish and fiddlesticks,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’d be more worried if it hadn’t affected you. It must have been awful.’
‘Oh it was, m’dear, it was.’
‘What happened, exactly? Had you been at The Hayrick long?’
‘Got there early, about eleven, I’d say. Found a table with McGuire–’
‘The chap we met last week, your estate manager?’
‘That’s the fella. Ambrose McGuire. Salt of the earth. He was bringing me up to date on the cattle herd. Dour chap, little dry, but witty when he wants to be.’
‘You said yesterday you were sitting with Mr Carmichael,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘“Sitting near” would be more like it,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You remember those long tables in the public bar? McGuire and I were opposite each other at one end, Carmichael was a little farther down, on McGuire’s side.’
‘Was he with anyone?
‘Carmichael was never “with” anyone, m’dear. Not a popular man.’
‘So we gathered.’
‘Oh?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud with a raised eyebrow.
‘We’ve just come back from talking to the Widow Carmichael,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘That poor woman. Can’t say I ever spent much time with her m’self,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, finally setting the picture down on a side table. ‘She never came to market.’
‘No, I don’t suppose she did. She gave us quite an unexpected picture of her late husband, I must say.’
‘Spencer Carmichael was an unpleasant old goat. Doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead, I know, but it can’t be helped. Man could start a fight in an empty room.’
‘You’re not the first person to say that today, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘No, heard it in the pub one day. Thought it apt. Not kind, but it did make me chuckle at the time.’
‘Which is why he sat alone, one presumes.’
‘Exactly so, m’dear. Difficult man to be with.’
‘Did he look well?’
‘Not really, dear, no. Quite peaky.’
‘But you talked?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘Briefly. One minute he was grumbling about his new cows, the next minute he was dead.’
‘Just like that?’
‘He shuddered a bit, then fell forwards into his pie.’
‘He didn’t clutch his throat at all? Did he struggle for breath?’
‘Choking, you mean? No, just an almighty spasm and then gone.’
‘And was there anyone near him? Had anyone spoken to him?’
‘Not as far as I recall, dear, no. Solitary man. No friends that I know of. Always wondered about the wife, how she ended up with him. Well liked as far as I know. And beautiful, too. Turned more than a few heads in her day, I can tell you.’
‘She’s rather striking even now,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was wondering: did she have any admirers?’
‘I should jolly well say so.’
‘Noah Lock?’ suggested Lady Hardcastle.
‘Oh, I say, you are good, aren’t you,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, appreciatively. ‘How on earth did you reach that conclusion?’
‘Oh, just the way she stumbled over explaining why he “popped round” a couple of times a week “to be neighbourly, like”.’
‘It’s been an open secret for years, m’dear. But she’s devout. “Till death us do part,” it said in her vows and she was never going to break a promise she’d made before God.’
‘But if Carmichael were suddenly to die, she’d be free to marry Lock. Interesting.’
‘You think she killed him herself?’ asked Lady Farley-Stroud, excitedly.
‘I’d not rule it out,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But she wasn’t at the pub, so how could she have poisoned him?’
‘So it was Lock?’
‘Again, possible. He was certainly at the pub that day. But so were several other people. Dick Alford, for instance.’
‘Oh my gosh, yes,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘They hated each other. Lots of tension over the cattle sale.’
‘And the prize bull,’ I said.
‘The prize bull,’ she said. ‘Completely forgotten that. Yes. It has to be Alford. He could have slipped something into Carmichael’s cider at the pub and no one would have noticed.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘Steady on, Gertie darling. We can’t go accusing them all. What about Morris Carmichael?’
‘The wet lettuce son?’
‘He’s a wet lettuce?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Of the very limpest sort,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Don’t mind a chap not wanting to get his hands dirty on the farm if his heart lies elsewhere, but he’s so spineless about it.’
‘How do you mean, darling?’
‘Never stood up to his father. Just went along, looking droopy and miserable. Dashed good painter, by all accounts. Could give you a run for your money, Emily, what? But he never said, “Papa, I am moving to the city to be an artist, and to the Devil with your blessed farm.” No, he just sullenly accepted his lot.’
‘Was he afraid of his father?’ I said. ‘Was he bullied by him?’
‘Spencer Carmichael tried to bully everyone, m’dear. But yes, Morris got the worst of it.’
‘They always say poison’s a woman’s weapon,’ said Lady Hardcastle, thoughtfully. ‘But perhaps it’s a wet lettuce’s weapon, too.’
‘Oh, dear lord, it could be any of them,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud with a slight chuckle.
‘What do you know about their other neighbour, darling?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Laurence Dougal. We met him this morning on the way to Top Farm.’
‘Funny chap, Dougal,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, thoughtfully. ‘Made a lot of fuss about a year ago about how he was selling up and moving on. Big plans for a business venture in Gloucester, I think. Twelve months on and he’s still here. Dreamer. Head in the clouds.’
I had a sudden thought. ‘No one’s mentioned Toby Thompson,’ I said.