The Spirit Is Willing (Lady Hardcastle Mysteries #2)

‘It’s just patience, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘If you wait long enough the solution usually presents itself.’

‘And what about you, Armstrong? D’you think she’s the cleverest?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, turning towards me.

‘Of course, my lady,’ I said. ‘I’ve always thought so.’

‘Quite right, too,’ she said. ‘Proud to be able to call you m’friend, Emily, dear. We should see more of you, you know. You really must come to dinner again soon. You promised last week that you would.’

‘Oh, that’s right, I did,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But perhaps you and Hector should come to the house. It’s my turn, surely. I came here during our first week at the house, do you remember?

‘I do, I do. After young whatshisname got himself hanged in the woods. We had a few people over. Lovely evening, as I recall. Didn’t you play for us?’

‘I might have done. Put me anywhere near a piano and I’m bound to play it eventually. But if that was the last time we dined together then it really is my turn. I’ve been very remiss.’

‘Nonsense, you’ve been recovering from wounds received in action, what?’

Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I suppose I have at that. But it’s still my turn.’

‘Very well, m’dear, if you insist. Shan’t argue with a free supper. Name the day and we’ll be there. Be good to get out.’

‘We’ll organize it soon, darling.’

They chattered inconsequentially for the rest of the meal, with Lady Farley-Stroud gamely trying to overcome her deeply ingrained social conditioning and include me in the conversation. I did my best not to make things even more awkward for her and kept my remarks as straightforward and polite as possible; I felt that my customary flippancy might have discomfited her altogether too much – best to get her accustomed to the real me by degrees. It’s one thing knowing that your friend’s lady’s maid is a little irreverent, but quite another to have to put up with it when she’s a guest at your lunch table.

At length Lady Hardcastle asked if she could ring for Bert, and there followed a brief and awkward discussion of payment for his services, or at the very least for the costs of running the motorcar. Lady Hardcastle insisted it was only right and proper and Lady Farley-Stroud wouldn’t hear of it. But it was a ritual exchange, intended to save face; the Farley-Strouds weren’t nearly as wealthy as the villagers believed and of course she would be only too grateful for any financial help, but it would be humiliating to say so. So they danced around the subject for a while before Lady Hardcastle wrote a generous cheque which Lady Farley-Stroud insisted was far too much before putting it in her bag while Lady Hardcastle discreetly looked the other way.

By the time they’d finished, Jenkins was at the dining room door announcing that Bert was ready whenever we needed him.

‘Thank you for lunch, Gertie darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she kissed her goodbye.

‘Entirely my pleasure, m’dear. Thank you for keeping an old girl company. Where are you off to now?’

‘We’re going to try to catch young Morris Carmichael at home.’

‘You think he did it, then?’

Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘For the moment, I think everyone did it. But revenge is a strong motive, so who knows.’

‘Well good luck, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Do let me know how you get on, won’t you.’

‘We shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle, and we were back outside and walking towards the waiting motorcar once more.





Bert took us to Top Farm by a new route along roads that we’d never traveled before. We passed through a small hamlet that I didn’t even know was there, with a chapel and a pub by a small stream. Clearly Lady Hardcastle hadn’t known it was there, either.

‘You see this is why we need a motorcar of our own, pet. We’ve lived here nearly a year and this is the first I’ve ever even heard of this place. There’s only so much exploring one can do on foot.’

‘Quite so, my lady,’ I said.

‘I say, Bert,’ she said, raising her voice so that he could hear her in the front.

‘Yes, m’lady?’ He said, looking up to regard us in the rearview mirror.

‘What sort of motorcar would you recommend for a country lady to go gadding about in?’

‘It depends on what you wants it for, m’lady.’

‘For gadding about in,’ she said.

He chuckled. ‘I means, does you want to impress people, or do you want something that’s easy to drive and will get you about the place with the minimum of fuss?’

‘Wouldn’t any motorcar impress people, Bert?’

‘I dare say it would, m’lady, but there’s, “Blimey, look, there’s a lady in a motorcar,” and then there’s, “Blimey, look, there’s a motorcar. Oh, and it’s got a lady in it.” Do you see what I means?’

‘Sort of. So if I just wanted to pootle around the countryside with my maid by my side, visiting, exploring, flitting hither and yon, with no need to impress the impressionable, what should I get?’

He looked a little surprised. ‘You intends to drive it yourself, m’lady?’

‘But of course, Bert dear. Why ever not?’

He gave a disbelieving chuckle. ‘If you say so, m’lady. In that case, I hear tell that the Rover 6 is a capable little motorcar and it’s small enough for even a lady to drive.’

‘Even a lady, eh?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Does it come in red?’

He laughed again, his doubts about the ability of women to understand the complex engineering of the motorcar no doubt confirmed. ‘I dare say they can paint it any colour you wish, m’lady.’

‘You hear that, Armstrong? We need a red Rover 6. Make a note.’

‘You have the notebook, my lady,’ I said.

‘I do? Oh, I do. Remind me to make a note.’

‘I shall do my utmost.’

‘Splendid, thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, I say, I think I know where we are now.’

‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Bert. ‘That’s Top Farm up yonder.’

‘So it is. Make a note of this route, Armstrong, we shall come out here in the new motorcar.’

‘You still have the notebook, my lady.’

‘And we shall get you a blessed notebook as well.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘You’re a kind and generous woman. I’ve always said so.’

‘Pish and fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘You’ve never said anything of the sort. Have you ever heard such tommyrot, Bert?’

‘No, m’lady,’ he said with a smirk.

With a squeal from the brakes, the car drew up in the farmyard and we stepped out into the mud.

Lady Hardcastle leaned down to speak to Bert through the window.

‘We might not be too long if Morris Carmichael isn’t in, but it’s worth a try. Don’t nod off.’

‘I shall remain alert and ready, m’lady,’ he said, touching the peak of his cap.

‘Good man,’ she said, and led the way up to the farmhouse door.

She rapped smartly on the black-painted door and we didn’t have to wait long before it was opened by a timid looking man in his mid-twenties. He was tall, and skinny, and very much resembled his late father. This was clearly Morris Carmichael.

‘Yes?’ he said with more than a hint of surliness.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m Lady Har–’