I thought for a moment. It had been in early 1903, shortly before we finally returned to England, that a seemingly unconnected series of scandals, sabotage and, eventually, murder had been linked and laid at the door of a secret society comprising businessmen, bankers and politicians which had, as we were later told, been lurking in the shadows of English society since the seventeenth century.
It had begun when the prominent owner of a tea plantation was publicly accused of having improper relations with his houseboy. His reputation was destroyed and his business backers abandoned him, leaving him no option but to sell his plantation and return to England in shame.
Next came a violent attack on a party of bearers bringing a large shipment of tea down from a hill station to the port at Calcutta. Ten men were killed and the entire shipment stolen, with just one badly wounded survivor left behind to tell the tale.
In the following weeks, another tea trader was accused of embezzlement, yet another of cheating at cards. Meanwhile there were two further robberies, and a clipper was sabotaged at anchor in the harbour. It was becoming clear that these events were linked but the local police were at something of a loss. It was when the wife of another plantation owner was kidnapped and murdered that our masters in England made contact with us through the Viceroy’s office and shared their own knowledge of the people they believed to be involved.
Autumn Wind was a society founded in 1666, shortly after the Great Fire of London, to protect the interests of London merchants. They enjoyed a brief period of popularity among the trading classes, but slowly their public profile diminished until by the mid-eighteenth century it was believed that the society must surely have been disbanded. But rumours continued to circulate at every level of society that “they” were up to something. Unexplained shady business dealings, political shenanigans, and public scandals were often blamed on “the Wind”, but most thought it a myth. Most people, apparently, except those in a tiny room hidden away in Whitehall who had been keeping a close eye on the activities of suspected Autumn Wind members and who in 1903 felt obliged to share some of their knowledge with Lady Hardcastle and me. Like most societies, secret or otherwise, which dealt in power and influence, Autumn Wind was a strictly all-male affair and so our involvement could be safely ruled out even before the exhaustive background checks they had carried out upon us.
‘There are one or two parallels, certainly, my lady,’ I said at length.
‘Indeed there are, pet, indeed there are. Scandals involving company officials, sabotage, and now murder. It would be easy to believe that someone has it in for the tram company, and equally easy to see a conspiracy involving Autumn Wind.’
‘Although, to be fair,’ I said, ‘it’s just as easy to see a series of coincidences.’
‘But you know how I mistrust coincidences.’
‘I also know that you’ve told me how very readily we see patterns where there are none,’ I said.
‘Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t pay so much attention to the things I say,’ she said with a smile as she sipped the last of her cognac.
‘I’m more than happy to ignore you, my lady. You do talk such tosh most of the time.’
‘That might be wise,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Now, what shall we do before bed? Cards or music?’
‘Cards, please,’ I said. ‘Shall I bring the brandy?’
‘Always,’ she said, and we went through to the drawing room.
The next morning I had cleared away the breakfast things and had started work on the pastry for one of my celebrated pies. We had visited our new acquaintance Mr Halfpenny in the woods a few days earlier to thank him once again for his help with the Carmichael murder, and he had offered us a quantity of venison. We had tried to refuse but he insisted that there was too much for him to eat and that selling it openly might “cause some problems”, so without asking any further questions we had relieved him of a few pounds of rather delicious meat, some of which was now simmering in the oven with onions, herbs and a few juniper berries. An unfamiliar and insistent ringing interrupted my patient pastry folding. It wasn’t the doorbell and, unless Lady Hardcastle had been tinkering again, I was sure it wasn’t one of the room bells.
‘Are you going to answer the telephone or not?’ shouted Lady Hardcastle from her study.
The new telephone. Of course.
I went through to the hall and picked up the earpiece from the wooden box mounted on the wall.
‘Hello? Chipping Bevington two-three,’ I said slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece.
‘Good morning,’ said a nearly-familiar male voice. ‘May I speak to Lady Hardcastle, please?’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’ I asked.
‘It’s Christian Brookfield,’ he said. ‘We met yesterday.’
Although I was quite used to telephones by now, I was still a little unsure of the etiquette and decided that I should treat callers in the same way one would treat unannounced visitors to the house.
‘Just one moment, Mr Brookfield,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if she’s at home.’
I left the earpiece on the hall table below the telephone and went through to the study.
‘Mr Brookfield on the telephone for you, my lady,’ I said when she looked up from her writing.
‘See, pet? I told you he’d be back.’
‘I never doubted you for a moment, my lady,’ I said. ‘Well, only for a few moments, at any rate.’
‘Very wise, pet. I am only right half the time, after all.’
She beckoned for me to follow her as she walked out to the hall. She picked up the earpiece and moved closer to the hinged mouthpiece.
‘Mr Brooksworth?’ she said. ‘…I’m so sorry, Mr Brookfield. What did I say?… I do apologize. How may I help you?’
The rest of the conversation was carried by the journalist, with Lady Hardcastle offering only occasional agreement and a brief question or two. His voice was too distorted and squawky for me to be able to make out what he was saying so the only impression I was able to gain of his comments were the comically exaggerated expressions of Lady Hardcastle as she listened patiently to him. Eventually the call was over, pleasantries exchanged, and the earpiece hung back on the hook, severing the connection.
‘Well?’ I said, impatiently, when she seemed to be showing no sign of telling me what had transpired.
‘I’m so sorry, pet,’ she said. ‘Could you not hear?’
‘Not a word, my lady.’
‘Ah, we shall have to remember that. Well, it seems that Mr Brookfield has forgiven me my bourgeois apathy – his own rather colourful words – and asks that in my turn I forgive his intemperate outburst and that a state of mutual respect be restored.’
‘So you were right: he wants something,’ I said.
‘So it would appear. He says he’s going to interview Oswald Craine, the husband of the lady with whom the late Mr Morry was conducting his affair. He has arranged the interview on some some pretext or other – seeking information about the coffee business or some such – and wishes us to accompany him to see if we can determine whether he might be involved in the murder.’
‘And how does he propose to explain our presence?’ I said.