‘I kn-n-now who you are,’ he stammered. ‘What do you w-w-want?’
‘May we come in, please, Mr Carmichael?’
‘C-c-can I s-s-stop you?’
‘Of course you can, but I’d rather you didn’t. We just want a few words and then we’ll leave you in peace.’
‘You’d b-b-better c-c-come in, then,’ he said, and stepped aside so that we could enter.
‘Is your mother at home?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we made our way towards the kitchen.
‘N-n-no, she went out with N-N-Noah Lock.’
‘Did she, indeed? Good for her,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.
He looked blankly at her.
‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea if there’s one going,’ she said, continuing to smile warmly. ‘How about you, Armstrong?’
‘I never say no to a cup of tea, my lady,’ I said.
He meekly set about preparing tea for us all.
‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s been a long day and I find I still tire easily.’
He waved to the kitchen chairs and we sat in silence while he continued with his tea making. He seemed thoroughly absorbed in his task and it was plain that he would be too distracted to answer any questions. At length, he banged the teapot on the table, where he had already placed three cups, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. He sat down and stared at us.
‘Will you pour, please, Armstrong?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I stood and took care of the pouring while she addressed Morris.
‘You have our utmost sympathies on the loss of your father,’ she began.
He snorted.
‘I understand that you were not especially close,’ she continued. ‘But I know from a lifetime’s experience of such things that you will feel the loss nevertheless.’
He continued to stare blankly.
‘My friend Lady Farley-Stroud tells me that you’re a talented artist,’ she said.
‘I paints a bit. N-n-nothing you’d like, I don’t s’pose.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I have quite catholic tastes when it comes to the visual arts. I might surprise you.’
He stared.
‘Now that your father has gone, I suppose you’ll be taking over the running of the farm.’
His stare changed to a quizzical frown, and then his face split into a broad grin.
‘Th-th-that’s where you’d be wrong,’ he said. ‘As s-s-soon as we s-s-sell this place I’m off to L-l-ondon. I’ve got a p-p-place at art college.’
‘Good for you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And your mother?’
‘Our Ma’s going to marry Noah.’
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘But how are you going to sell the farm? I understood from Mr Dougal that he couldn’t find a buyer for his place.’
‘G-g-got it all sorted out,’ he said, proudly. ‘N-n-nothing to worry about. Be g-g-glad to get out of the place.’
‘From all I’ve heard, I’m sure you will,’ she said. ‘But I’m intrigued. How have you managed to be so lucky when Mr Dougal can’t find a buyer? Is Top Farm so different?’
‘C-c-can’t say,’ he said. ‘Sworn to s-s-secrecy. But it’ll be fine, you’ll s-s-see.’
‘Well, I’m delighted for you. I’m sorry to have to bring the subject back to your father, Mr Carmichael, but do you remember anything odd happening in the days before his death?’
‘N-n-nothin’ I can think of,’ he said. ‘But then I s-s-stayed away from the house as much as I c-c-could when he was at home.’
‘So you wouldn’t have seen any visitors?’
‘N-n-no one visited Our Dad. He was a b-b-ba–’
‘Yes, dear, I gather he was.’
We all three sipped our tea, almost in unison.
‘What do you do about rats on the farm, Mr Carmichael?’ I said.
‘About what?’ he said, so surprised by the change of direction that it seemed to shock the stammer out of him.
‘Rats, sir,’ I said. ‘Which poison do you use to kill them?’
‘Oh, I s-s-see. N-n-no poison. Our D-D-Dad used to use traps. Sometimes he’d sh-sh-shoot them with an airg-g-gun.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said with a nod.
‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You make a smashing cup of tea.’
‘Oh,’ he said, nonplussed by yet another change of tack. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s surprisingly rare in a young man. In any man, come to think of it. My brother makes a simply revolting cup of tea, doesn’t he, Armstrong?’
‘I promised myself I’d never mention it, my lady – after all, he’s your brother and you must stand by him no matter what – but Harry’s tea is quite the most disgusting liquid known to man.’
‘You’d never know if he’d put poison in it,’ she said. ‘His tea could hide the taste of anything.’
Morris Carmichael simply stared again. It struck me at that moment that he wasn’t the wet lettuce that Lady Farley-Stroud believed, nor was he as dull-witted as I had thought him when he answered the door. He knew we were fishing and just decided to shut up.
‘Well,’ said Lady Hardcastle, putting her teacup in its saucer with a clink. ‘We ought to leave you to get on. We just wanted to see if there was anything you could tell us that might help us to work out who killed your father, and you’ve been most helpful.’
‘I h-h-have? I d-d-don’t feel like I’ve s-s-said anything. I don’t know n-n-nothing.’
‘And yet you’ve been most helpful, dear,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Give our regards to your mother, and I hope everything works out for you just the way you hope. You’ll love London. We were very happy there for many years. And when things are more settled I’d love to see some of your paintings if you’d care to show them to me.’
‘I sh-sh-should like that, I think,’ he said, and held out his hand.
We both shook it and took our leave.
Bert was asleep in the car but a sharp rap on the window from Lady Hardcastle’s ever-present walking stick woke him with a start and within a few minutes we were on our way back to the house.
It had been quite late by the time we returned from visiting Morris, and the rest of Saturday evening passed in a haze of Lady Hardcastle’s best cognac, a light supper, and some rather adventurous piano playing. Sunday had been… just Sunday – that melancholy day that seems to stretch out forever and yet still seems to be over too soon. There was no particular difference for me between any one day of the week and any other, but there was always something about Sunday that seemed to be different for the rest of the world, and somehow that difference managed to seep in through the cracks around the windows and doors, no matter how hard we worked to keep it out.
I was jolly glad when Monday came.
I was up with the robin. I had decided that not only did I have no idea when larks rose, but that I shouldn’t know a lark if it perched on my shoulder and sang in my ear. But the robin was an entirely different proposition; even I could spot our neighbourhood robin as he hopped proprietorially around the walled garden.