With luncheon eaten, we asked Bert to take us back to The Grange where we gossiped for a pleasingly long while with Lady Farley-Stroud and invited ourselves to the cattle market with her on the following day. She had been delighted to have enthusiastic company for a change, saying that she appreciated Maude’s efforts but that it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it.
It was early evening by the time we had declined the offer of a lift home and we walked back down the hill to the house by the light of a glorious spring sunset. Neither of us had much of an appetite for supper so I made a few rounds of sandwiches which we decadently ate in the drawing room while we discussed arrangements for the following day.
By the time we awoke on Thursday morning it was raining heavily.
‘We’re jinxed, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle looking our of the kitchen window as we ate our breakfast. ‘We should warn the farmers whenever we intend to attend the market so that they can make appropriate wet weather arrangements.’
‘We shall be attending often?’ I said with ill-concealed dismay.
‘Of course. Poor Gertie could do with the company.’
‘But,’ I said. ‘Cows.’
She was still laughing at my disappointment when the doorbell rang.
It was the telegram boy, drenched to the skin but still as cheeky as ever. I gave him a few coppers and he skipped off back down the lane with a cheery, ‘Thanks, missus.’
I took the damp message through to Lady Hardcastle who read it with satisfaction bordering on glee.
‘It’s all coming together nicely,’ she said as I tidied away the breakfast things. ‘And just in time, too; Bert will be here very soon.’
I finished my tidying and we went to the hall to put on hats, coats and galoshes in readiness for Bert’s inevitably precise ten o’clock arrival. The clock began to chime and, just as it began to strike the hour, I opened the door to find a grinning Bert about to press the doorbell.
‘Caught you,’ I said.
He grinned even more broadly. ‘Good morning, miss. Good morning, m’lady. Are you all set.’
‘As ready as ready can be, Bert,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘To market, to market, to catch us a killer.’
‘Home again, home again,’ I said. ‘Er… to drink to our wonderful success with the delicious produce of a fine French distiller.’
‘Needs work, pet,’ she said. ‘But you can do it later. Let’s go before Bert drowns.’
We bundled ourselves into the car and were greeted enthusiastically by Lady Farley-Stroud who seemed rather excited at the thought of being in the thick of things.
‘Now Gertie,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we set off, ‘you’re not to get too giddy, darling. Inspector Sunderland and his men will be arriving at noon and I shall explain all then.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘How marvellous. A big theatrical dénouement like you did at The Grange last summer? Everyone gathered around and you explaining everything like a detective in a story?’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought of doing it like that, dear, but it might be fun. What do you think, Flo?’
‘I think you can’t resist showing off, my lady, so I’m sure some sort of performance is inevitable.’
She and Lady Farley-Stroud laughed at this and Bert, sitting beside me, tried decorously to conceal his smirk.
‘We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that we intend to apprehend a murderer, ladies,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘No, dear, quite,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘But you must admit that it is all rather exciting.’
‘I confess I do get something of a thrill from it,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But I think a more quiet and subtle approach might be more suitable this time.’
It took three-quarters of an hour to wind through the rain-soaked lanes to Chipping Bevington, and another ten minutes of tedious driving around trying to find somewhere to park amid the exuberant chaos of market day.
By the time we had disembarked and taken a stroll down the High Street and back (with some moments of mild terror occasioned by the ever present bovine menace) it was almost time for our rendezvous with Inspector Sunderland at The Hayrick.
The rain had finally stopped by the time we walked round the corner and saw a damp Inspector Sunderland waiting outside the pub. There was no sign of the police wagon or of any other officers.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we approached.
‘Good morning, my lady. Oh, “my ladies”, I do beg your pardon, Lady Farley-Stroud.’
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, brightly. ‘May I wish you joy of the day, sir.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Good hunting. Are your men here?’
‘Yes, I thought it might be best to keep them out of sight. Since you’ve been reluctant to tell anyone who he or she might be, I didn’t want to spook your suspect by having a load of coppers lounging about the place. But they’re here, and so’s the wagon. I’ll have a couple round the front and a couple round the back once we go in. No one will get in or out without our knowing about it.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well, I think it’s time we made our entrance, don’t you. Are you ready ladies?’
Lady Farley-Stroud and I both nodded and the four of us went into the pub.
As we’d seen a fortnight before, the pub was bedlam on market day, filled with raucous laughter and oath-filled conversation. But as we filed in, the noise lessened considerably as heads turned towards us and the loud chatter became a suspicious murmur.
We followed Lady Hardcastle to the bar where she leaned across to have a word with Ronnie, the landlord. He looked up, first at me, then at the inspector, then nodded and motioned us to follow him. We went through into the kitchen, with Lady Farley-Stroud bringing up the rear.
‘This is my sister Hilda, m’lady,’ said Ronnie, indicating the toothless serving girl who had brought us our pies and cider the fortnight before.
The woman eyed us nervously.
‘Good morning, Hilda,’ said Lady Hardcastle kindly. ‘Ronnie tells me you’ve been worried about something.’
Hilda’s eyes flicked anxiously to her brother and then back to the floor. Ronnie nodded his encouragement but she was still reluctant to speak.
‘You think you might be in trouble?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Stands to reason, don’t it.’ said Hilda.
‘How’s that, dear?’
‘He was poisoned with food I brung him. They’s all sayin’ it. But I ’a’n’t done nothin’, I swears.’
‘It wasn’t you?’
‘I swears it,’ said Hilda, a tear slipping down her pock-marked cheek.
‘So why are they saying it was you?’
‘Weren’t no one else in the kitchen last week. I told the coppers that. So now they all reckons I must-’a done sommat. They wouldn’t say nothin’ about Our Ronnie. But it weren’t ’im, neither.’
‘And nor was it last week’s pie that killed him,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘But he were killed right here in the pub last market day,’ said Hilda. ‘I saw him. Horrible, it was.’
‘No,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘he died here last Thursday. But he was murdered the week before. Everyone has been talking about last week, but I’d wager no one has asked you about the week before.’
‘No, missus, they hasn’t,’ hissed Hilda through her missing teeth.