Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  BENJAMIN FORD

  DEATH ON SWIFT WINGS

  Death on Swift Wings

  Copyright © Benjamin Ford 2016

  First published 2016

  All rights reserved

  Novels by Benjamin Ford

  The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles

  Master of the Scrolls

  The Master of Prophecy

  The Master of Time (coming soon)

  Portrait of Shade

  The Five Tors

  The Gertrude Harrington Mysteries

  Death on Swift Wings

  Murder by the Book (coming soon)

  For Dad

  Always in my thoughts

  CHAPTER ONE

  i know what you have been doing

  if you do not want the village to know your secret you will pay £2000

  further instructions will follow

  Henry Arthur Clarendon, 13th Earl of Castleford – Arthur to friends and family – stared at the note, a feeling of distaste rising like bile in his throat. The words swam before him as he tried to comprehend that someone knew his secret.

  He reasoned that if the note had been handwritten then he might perhaps have been able to recognise the scrawl; as it was, the letters were individually torn from newspaper headlines, and not even neatly. His pristinely regimented mind couldn’t help but utter a mental snort of derision at the slapdash manner in which the note had been fashioned. Whoever had sent it clearly had neither pride in themselves, nor any value in the opinion of others.

  Well, that much is obvious really, since they’re trying to blackmail me, Lord Castleford thought bitterly.

  Blackmail was an ugly word, but he had no regret in his actions: Lord Castleford wasn’t about to give in to the imbecile. Did he – she? – really think he was going to pay them two thousand pounds to remain silent?

  Even though what he was doing might be frowned upon in some quarters he had good reason for his activities, so he wasn’t about to permit some shallow-minded guttersnipe to disrupt his routine.

  But how had the blackmailer found out his little secret? He’d been so careful – perhaps too careful. Had he been recognised? Had he uttered an unwary word in the village, or murmured a careless thought aloud in front of a member of the staff?

  He cast a suspicious glance at the passing maid as she cleared away his breakfast things. He didn’t know her name. He made a point of not dealing with the staff: that sort of thing he left to his wife, who was much better at dealing with other people than him.

  Just over a decade ago, quite late in the war, Lord Castleford had been invalided out of the army. Severe injury caused by flying shrapnel from an exploding shell had altered his personality as well as his physical appearance. So much physiotherapy had followed his six month stay in a military hospital that reliance on a walking cane and his wife’s support had crippled his self-confidence.

  Indeed, he’d only stopped using his walking cane a few months ago, and even now his left leg caused constant discomfort. He had felt so unable to deal with anyone other than his wife that he had withdrawn to a point of near seclusion from the outside world – although perhaps not for very much longer since his course of action seemed to be a resounding success… blackmail aside.

  ‘Good morning, Arthur. I trust you slept well?’ Philippa Clarendon, Countess of Castleford, smiled as she kissed her husband with a calm aloofness upon entering the breakfast room. She walked on past him down to the far end of the table, knowing full well that he would utter little more than a cursory greeting. ‘Just apple juice please, Mr Jackson,’ she said as the butler hovered beside her.

  Steadfast soul that she was, Philippa Clarendon put up with her ill-mannered husband in silent mortification. It wasn’t that he was actually rude to the staff; he just ignored them. She was forever apologising for his behaviour, though Lord Castleford pretended to be unaware of this. It prevented any unnecessary unpleasantness on all fronts.

  ‘Good morning, my dear,’ Arthur muttered. ‘I didn’t get to sleep till gone two this morning. Those blasted foxes kept me awake again.’

  Philippa pushed her auburn hair away from her face as she settled into her chair. ‘Well when Parkes arrives, I’ll get him to shoot the blessed things.’ She sipped her freshly poured juice. ‘Thank you, Mr Jackson; that will be all.’

  The butler bowed his head. ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ he said and left the breakfast room to go about his other daily duties.

  Lord Castleford cleared his throat. ‘Let us hope Parkes turns up on time for once. I have been recently informed of our gardener’s increasing tardiness. How the man can be late when he has that bloody motorcycle is beyond me.’

  Philippa sighed. Her husband was always moaning about one member of staff or another, yet never did anything about it. He really was most frustrating at times.

  Her keen eye travelled to the piece of paper still clutched in her husband’s hand. ‘Has someone been writing to you?’

  Lord Castleford folded the note and set it to one side, fixing his wife with a steely glare. ‘No one of consequence. I gather nothing awoke you last night then?’

  ‘Only the sound of your snoring, my dear. Really, if that carries on it’ll be more than mere separate beds. There are plenty of other rooms in which I can sleep.’

  Lord Castleford nodded absentmindedly. ‘Indeed, indeed.’ His mind had wandered back to the threatening note and he drummed his fingers on it, wondering whether it would be prudent to report the blackmail attempt.

  Not to his wife, that was for certain. It wasn’t that he was mistrustful of her; he just had no desire to burden her with such unpleasantness. She was his rock, the only one who would put up with him. Besides, it would mean letting her in on his secret – and he wasn’t yet ready for that, even though he felt certain she would understand.

  He would definitely not report it to the police. There was no way he wanted the local constable poking his nose into a private affair that would undoubtedly very quickly then become public knowledge. He didn’t dare think of the ridicule he would be forced to endure from the villagers.

  And he would certainly not talk to the staff about such a private matter.

  Sighing, he picked up the note and placed it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Are you quite all right, darling? You seem… preoccupied.’

  ‘Hmm...?’ Lord Castleford stared down the length of the table at his wife. She really was the most astute woman he had ever met. It was one of the many favourable attributes that had first attracted him to her. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really, just a small business matter.’ He cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘Do you have any of your charity functions today, my dear?’

  Philippa shook her head. ‘Time for myself, today.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to visit some of your ladies for lunch?’

  Philippa chuckled. ‘What are you up to, Arthur? Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  Arthur harrumphed, pushed his chair out and stood up, his voice sharp. ‘I’m going for a drive. I shall see you later, my dear.’

  Lady Castleford watched her husband shrewdly as he limped from the breakfast room. Something was quite clearly amiss, but she knew better than to press him for details. If it was of consequence to her then he would divulge the information in due course. If not, then it was of no importance and she shouldn’t worry herself about it.

  But really – a small business matter? Did he really think her that naïve? Philippa knew her husband well enough to understand that to him there was no such thing as a small business matter. All business was important, and all business
was huge where Arthur was concerned. He certainly would deem it beneath his standing to indulge in any small business affair, of that she was certain.

  And going for a drive, when he so seldom left the estate grounds nowadays?

  He was most definitely hiding something from her, and it was up to Philippa to find out what troubled him – without his knowledge of her snooping.

  Arthur wouldn’t stand for that. Sneaking about; engaging in nefarious dealings to find out a person’s secrets? Such conduct was beneath anyone with whom he would fraternise, and if he found out that his beloved wife had such notions – well, divorce was an ugly enough thought without actually uttering the word aloud.

  Finishing her juice, Philippa left the table in haste, swooping down the grand hall with her silk dressing robe billowing behind her. She peered out through the window to the left of the solid oak front door in time to see her husband climbing into the driving seat of the Bentley. So, not only was Arthur going out of the grounds, but he was apparently driving himself. It was all so very odd, especially when Arthur kept reminding her of how painful his leg was. Were his injuries less severe now than he led her to believe?

  ‘Mr Jackson?’

  The butler hastened from the dining room adjacent to the hall, smoothing down his apron having just started to polish the silverware. ‘You called, Your Ladyship?’ He glanced through the window as Lady Castleford gestured out to where the Bentley was pulling away. ‘Ah, you wish to know where His Lordship is going?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jackson. Does my husband often take the car out himself?’

  ‘Once or twice a week, Your Ladyship. But alas, I don’t know his destination.’

  Lady Castleford turned to face the butler. ‘Why do we employ a chauffeur, Mr Jackson, if His Lordship is going to drive himself around all the time? I always believed my husband to be rather thrifty with his money. It seems rather a waste to keep Wilkins on if he’s of no apparent use anymore.’

  Jackson smiled warmly, his blue eyes twinkling beneath his greying brow. ‘Would Her Ladyship prefer to drive herself into town to meet with her lady friends? If so, then letting Wilkins go might be a wise option.’

  Philippa chuckled. ‘My word you’re astute, Mr Jackson. No wonder Arthur doesn’t want you to retire.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Ladyship. I believe Lord Castleford would be quite lost without me.’

  Angus Jackson had been employed as head footman by the 12th Earl of Castleford – also named Henry – prior to his death, and made such a good job of it that when Arthur inherited the estate he kept Jackson on, quickly promoting him to butler when his predecessor passed away. Jackson was now approaching seventy, but had no intention of abandoning his position. He enjoyed working for the Earl of Castleford, and he admired the Countess perhaps even more than he respected her husband.

  Arthur had, on more than one occasion, insisted that Jackson should retire only when he felt the time was right. Angus liked to think that this was because he had done such a good job over the years; that Lord Castleford wanted to repay him kindly by not working him into an early grave.

  Philippa knew full well that Jackson worshiped her husband, and that he adored her. There could be no question of the butler retiring any time soon, and she made it a mission in her daily life to ensure Jackson remained in good health. Neither Arthur nor Jackson himself would admit that retirement might be an option if the time approached. Lady Castleford, therefore, would be Jackson’s benefactor when that time finally arrived.

  Until that time, he was quite the astute observer of all that went on within the walls of Castleford Manor, and as such, if anything should be troubling Arthur then Jackson would know.

  ‘Mr Jackson, my husband received a letter this morning. Was there no post for me?’

  Jackson frowned, and then shook his head. ‘Your Ladyship, the morning post has not yet been delivered.’

  ‘How queer. Was the letter hand-delivered?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am at a loss to answer, Your Ladyship. I know nothing of this letter to which you refer. Perhaps someone delivered it by hand; slipped it under the door and His Lordship spotted it when he came down for breakfast? Or maybe it came with yesterday’s mail?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Distracted momentarily by movement in the distant trees bordering the estate, Lady Castleford sighed absent-mindedly. ‘It was probably nothing important anyway.’ She returned her attention to Jackson, reverting back to the subject of her husband’s secretive departure. ‘So, Arthur didn’t tell you where he was going?’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘No, Your Ladyship. When he takes the Bentley, Lord Castleford says nothing to me of where he’s going, and I do not ask. It’s none of my concern. Wilkins knows better than to question His Lordship when he returns with the car as well, even when it’s all covered in mud.’

  Lady Castleford arched an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Mud, you say? Does Lord Castleford also return covered in mud? Perhaps he is not quite as able to drive the Bentley with his war injury as he believes?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Your Ladyship. I rarely see the return of His Lordship personally. He always manages to sneak back into the Manor when I’m not around.’

  Philippa chortled at the notion of her husband sneaking anywhere, but then her smirk ceased. Wasn’t that, after all, what he was doing now – sneaking off in the Bentley without the chauffeur, not telling anyone where he was going?

  ‘Mr Jackson, it would seem to me that my husband is behaving in a most peculiar manner. Are you certain you don’t know where he’s going?’

  ‘Quite certain, Your Ladyship!’ Jackson couldn’t quite manage to keep the tone of righteous indignation from his voice at the insinuation that he was deliberately misleading the Countess in the matter.

  Philippa pursed her lips. She knew Jackson well enough to know that if he knew of anything troubling her husband then he wouldn’t keep it from her if asked to reveal it. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry Mr Jackson.’

  Jackson hung his head slightly. ‘No, it is I who should be asking your forgiveness, Your Ladyship, for my tone. I meant no disrespect.’

  Lady Castleford offered the butler one of her most pleasing smiles. ‘Think nothing of it.’

  ‘If I might make a suggestion, Your Ladyship?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It is possible, though unlikely, that His Lordship has in the past told Wilkins of his destination; perhaps to placate him for bringing the Bentley back in such a sorry condition.’

  ‘So you think I should have a word with Wilkins?’

  ‘A discreet word, Your Ladyship. If he should know the information, then I think perhaps Wilkins might be a little tight lipped. I know, however, that he is fond of a tipple now and then. Scotch, I believe.’

  Lady Castleford smiled appreciatively. ‘Understood, Mr Jackson. Thank you.’ She turned and walked towards the grand sweeping staircase. ‘Oh, and Mr Jackson,’ she said, casting a backwards glance to him.

  Jackson pressed a finger to his lips. ‘I shall tell His Lordship nothing of your concerns, Your Ladyship, and should any pertinent information come to light, I shall of course divulge it forthwith.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jackson.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gertrude Harrington dismounted her bicycle, more than a little out of breath following the two-mile ride from her home in the neighbouring village of Clyst St James. She propped it against the hedgerow opposite the white-washed cottage topped with faded thatch, and turned to greet the teenage girl who came sailing out through the front door.

  ‘Juliet, you’re looking well my dear.’

  ‘Thanks, Aunt Gertie,’ replied the girl, flashing a winning smile of joy. ‘Happy Birthday.’ She hugged the older woman affectionately, pecking her lightly on the cheek. ‘You really don’t visit nearly often enough, Auntie.’

  Gertrude appraised the eighteen-year-old through horn-rimmed spectacles, her mouth a thin line of mild disapproval at the amount of makeup visible
on her niece’s face. ‘My, the world is changing so very fast,’ she murmured almost to herself. ‘It seems like only yesterday that I was helping your mother to change your nappies and now here you are, a grown woman.’

  She reached into the wicker basket that adorned the front of her bicycle, withdrawing a parcel wrapped in colourful paper, which she handed to the girl. ‘And Happy Birthday to you too, my dear.’

  Juliet pulled her black hair back into a pony tail, fastening it with a ribbon that she pulled from her trouser pocket, and then took the proffered gift. ‘Aunt Gertie, you really shouldn’t have.’

  Gertrude chuckled without humour. ‘I think I have enough money to spare to buy a birthday gift for my favourite niece.’ A hint of sadness tinged her voice. She really shouldn’t have favourites amongst her nieces and nephews, but –

  Juliet interrupted Gertrude’s train of thought, touching her aunt’s arm. ‘You’re thinking of cousin Mabel, aren’t you? It’s all right to feel sad you know, even now. Mother didn’t stop crying for months. She still cries sometimes.’

  Gertrude thought back to the tragic death of her young niece Mabel. Was it really five years ago? It seemed like only yesterday. Her niece’s life had been brutally cut short at the age of sixteen. She would forever feel guilty that it was because of her that Mabel had been employed as a maid at Templemead Hall, and it brought her precious little relief that she had played her part in helping to solve the murder.

  ‘Let’s not dwell on the past, Auntie,’ Juliet whispered. ‘Not today of all days. Our special day. My eighteenth birthday, and your –’

  Gertrude silenced Juliet. ‘Don’t you dare say another word. We might share a birthday but I don’t need to be reminded of my advancing years.’

  Juliet grasped her aunt’s arm. ‘I have other news.’

  Gertrude nodded. Her sharp eyesight had spotted the ring upon the third finger of Juliet’s left hand. ‘I guessed as much actually from your telephone call. Sometimes child you just cannot hide the excitement in your voice.’ She took a hold of her niece’s hand, appraising the thin gold band with its single diamond. ‘This is quite beautiful.’