Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 13

  Physical pain was nothing compared with what poor Philippa Clarendon had gone through yesterday, though. He had stayed with her until Dr Gillespie had arrived to sedate her, and then the good doctor had brought him home, offering him something for his own discomfort. He had declined, preferring to have something to remind him of his own mortality.

  It was only a matter of time before the papers got hold of the story, and then the village would be crawling with reporters. Lord Castleford might not have been well liked locally, but he was a well-known national figure thanks to the exploits of his pigeons during the war. The Brigadier wanted to be around to support Philippa in her time of need. Her husband’s death was bad enough, but to have a missing child as well was just too much.

  It certainly put a little sciatica into perspective.

  He also hadn’t wanted to burden her with his initial thoughts when he’d learned of Henry’s disappearance from his school, and now he’d put the notion right out of his mind.

  ‘Good morning, Brigadier,’ said Mrs Grainger as she passed him on the stairs. ‘How’s the leg this morning?’

  It was her usual refrain upon seeing him for the first time each day. The Brigadier liked to think it was because she cared about him, but he knew there was also a degree of delight whenever he replied that his joints hurt. After her admonitions about shooting birds, he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing of his suffering.

  He thumped his legs heartily. ‘Not too bad this morning, Mrs Grainger,’ he said.

  ‘Is it true what I’ve heard about Lord Castleford?’

  It never ceased to amaze the Brigadier about the speed with which bad news travelled locally. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. How did you hear?’

  ‘My Jack told me; said he’d heard it from someone in the village on his way home from the pub last night. Poor Lady Castleford. She had so much to put up with whilst he was alive. Heaven knows why she stayed with him. She loved him I suppose, bless her. She must be distraught.’

  The Brigadier scowled at his housekeeper. ‘That’s quite enough, Mrs Grainger. I know you disliked His Lordship, but don’t you dare speak ill of the dead. I shall be heading over to Castleford Manor later this morning – I’ll pass on your condolences. I’m sure Lady Castleford will be pleased to receive them.’

  As he stiffly marched off, Brigadier Barrington-Smythe wondered whether it was time to start the search for a new housekeeper. The only trouble was, if he disposed of Mrs Grainger’s services, he would have to also look for a new head gardener as well. Perhaps Herbert would like the job, if he eventually showed up and proved his innocence?

  It was dashed inconvenient, this business concerning Arthur. First the killings of his pigeons; then his son disappearing from school; now his death. Something odd was going on in the village: that much was obvious. It would be a long time before things returned to anything resembling normality. There would no doubt be a police presence around the village until the mysteries were solved.

  Even then things would be far from normal: the Earl of Castleford was dead; murdered, and his killer still at large. Who knew which of the villagers was next? If there was one thing the Brigadier felt for certain it was that a murderer seldom stopped at one killing. One death would lead to another as surely as one day led into the next. It was just a matter of when, and who was next.

  I’ve had a good innings, he thought as he descended to the hallway. If the killer’s going to take another, let it be me. The younger generation have their lives ahead of them. It’s not fair to cut their future short.

  Was it fair to poor Arthur, to have had his own life curtailed so brutally? Certainly not. And what sort of life did Philippa have ahead for her now? A dead husband. A missing son. Undesirable suitors would spring from the woodwork in an attempt to woo her, probably without allowing her an appropriate period of mourning.

  I should be there for her, the Brigadier thought sadly as he entered the breakfast room.

  Gone, suddenly, was his desire to be the next victim in order that someone younger should be given a chance at life. He realised he actually had much to live for, not the least of which was his friendship with those left behind by Arthur’s death.

  He ate his breakfast quickly, knowing he’d probably regret it later when indigestion struck, and when he was done he put on his coat and called for Jasper.

  With his faithful Retriever at his side, he made his way to Castleford Manor, taking the short cut through the copse. More than once he regretted taking the route as his booted feet squelched in the mud, sucking him down several inches at a time. It would have been a much better idea to have gone the long way, which would have avoided boggy ground.

  A short cut should take a length of time off a journey; the Brigadier was beginning to think the short cut through the copse was a misnomer after the rain.

  Out of view up ahead, Jasper growled and barked, and then yelped as though in pain. ‘What’s up, boy?’ the Brigadier called in concern. Jasper was well trained and usually only made noise if something was wrong. The dog started whimpering, and making a valiant effort against the pain and the sticky mud, the Brigadier finally freed his feet and lurched forward. ‘Here boy.’

  The Brigadier leaned on his stick as he made his way through the undergrowth, and burst out onto the lawn alongside the driveway leading up to Castleford Manor. He glanced around, looking for Jasper. He saw a bundle of black fur lying not too far away, and with a cry he hobbled over. Jasper looked up at him whimpering, his front right paw held awkwardly in the air as though in pain. ‘Oh my poor Jasper, what’s happened?’

  He bent down, ignoring the discomfort in his legs as he lowered himself to Jasper’s level. The Retriever tried to stand as his owner brought his face close, but the Brigadier restrained him gently. ‘Easy boy, stay there.’ He smiled as Jasper licked his hand, but pushed the dog back, carefully inspecting the wound on his leg.

  It looked like someone had hit Jasper, or kicked him. The Brigadier felt anger rising within him. ‘Who did this, boy? I’ll kill whoever hurt you!’

  He sensed movement over to his right and looked up to see a figure disappearing into the trees at the other end of the copse. Whoever had attacked Jasper must have been waiting on the edge of the trees, watching the manor house. Jasper had disturbed them. Being a friendly dog, the Brigadier could imagine Jasper jumping up to lick the intruder’s face affectionately. With a mouthful of lethal looking teeth, the lunging canine would have looked threatening to the intruder, who had clearly lashed out in alarm.

  Jasper tried to stand, limping a little as he waited for the Brigadier to lever himself back up using his cane. ‘Can you walk, boy?’ the Brigadier said softly, relieved that Jasper didn’t appear badly injured. ‘Come along then, let’s get up to the house.’

  As dog and master limped and hobbled across the lawn to the driveway, a car approached from the road. With gravel crunching beneath its wheels, the car pulled to a halt adjacent to the Brigadier, and Gertrude stepped out of the passenger side.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, allowing the old soldier to lean on her.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I’m fine. Just a touch of sciatica. I shouldn’t have come through the trees – the ground is somewhat boggy.’ The Brigadier indicated his Retriever. ‘Jasper here found an intruder at the edge of the copse. The scoundrel seems to have kicked my poor dog.’

  From the driver’s side of the car, Chief Inspector Lennox appeared, his face filled with concern. ‘An intruder, you say? Did you get a good look at the fellow?’

  Brigadier Barrington-Smythe shook his head, waving his stick towards the copse. ‘I just caught a glimpse of him disappearing into the trees. I didn’t get a look at his face.’

  ‘Would you say the man was around six foot?’

  The Brigadier shook his head. ‘Good lord no, the intruder was more like five foot, I should say, and quite stocky in build.’

  Gertrude glanced across at Lennox. ‘That could be the motorcycle ri
der, Chief Inspector.’

  Lennox nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like it, from the description given by Constable Denham and your good self.’ He stared over the top of the car at the Brigadier. ‘Any idea what this intruder was doing here?’

  ‘I didn’t see, Chief Inspector. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was after more of poor Arthur’s prized pigeons.’

  Lennox inclined his head. ‘Ah yes, Constable Denham has appraised me of this situation.’ He glanced across at Gertrude. ‘Someone has apparently been taking pot-shots at the pigeons Lord Castleford breeds.’

  ‘So I hear. Such an awful thing to happen. But tell me Brigadier, what’s so different between shooting Lord Castleford’s pigeons and shooting wild birds for sport?’

  The Brigadier frowned at Gertrude’s comment. ‘Are you telling me, Miss Harrington, that you don’t approve of shooting for sport?’

  ‘Heavens no, Brigadier, far from it. I’ve cooked enough game in the past up at Templemead Hall to know the virtue of shooting partridge, pheasant, even pigeons. I just wanted to know your opinion of shooting domesticated birds?’

  ‘Lord Castleford’s birds are of particular significance, Miss Harrington, as I’m sure you’re aware?’

  Gertrude nodded. ‘Of course. Everyone knows Dickin Lane in Upper Castleford was so named after the Dickin medal awarded to the Earl of Castleford’s pigeons. People hereabouts might not like His Lordship, but they respect what his pigeons achieved during the War. But why does Lord Castleford breed his pigeons now? Are they for racing? For homing? For hunting?’

  ‘Arthur breeds them for homing. He keeps them trained in case of another war. With world peace being still so fragile, he hopes – hoped – to maintain a fine stock of them to win more medals.’

  ‘So his birds won the medals that he never won due to his injuries, and if another war breaks out, he wanted to win more?’

  The Brigadier nodded. ‘That’s about the sum of it, Miss Harrington. Each new generation of pigeons are trained to fly the English Channel, and then back again.’

  ‘Well you have to admire that,’ said Lennox. ‘I have enough trouble training my Spaniel not to chew the furniture.’ He nodded to Jasper, who stood beside the Brigadier still holding his injured leg slightly off the ground. ‘Is your hound badly hurt?’

  ‘I believe not. Jasper has been known to exaggerate at times to get treats. I shall get the vet to check him out later today.’

  ‘So what are you doing here this morning, Brigadier?’

  Brigadier Barrington-Smythe stared at the Chief Inspector as though he’d asked the most ridiculous of questions. ‘I wanted to see Philippa, to see how she’s bearing up. I’ve been friends with the Clarendon family for a number of years. I also wanted to see if she’s any news of her son, Henry.’

  ‘Her son? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Really, Chief Inspector, do you not keep up to date with the missing persons reports?’ said the Brigadier in mild exasperation. ‘Lord and Lady Castleford’s son has disappeared.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lady Castleford awoke in a fevered state, her bed sheets rumpled and soaked with sweat. Even though Dr Gillespie had given her a mild sedative to help her sleep, her night had been restless with anguish and her grief woke her in the early hours. She had lain sobbing in the moonlight, ill-equipped to deal with the tragedies that seemed to have befallen her all at once.

  She could still not comprehend that her beloved Arthur was dead. There were plenty of people in the village who disliked him, but Philippa couldn’t bring herself to believe any one of them would wish him harm. She liked to think she knew many villagers by name. Unlike her husband, she had made a point of trying to integrate into the community over the past couple of decades. It wasn’t difficult: she was born and bred in Lower Castleford, just the other side of the River St James.

  An only child, she had long since lost both parents, and though she still had some contact with old family friends, many had moved away or died. It fell to those who maintained contact to offer support in her time of need, but none had thus far come to pay their respects.

  It’s only to be expected, she reasoned. They would only have found out about Arthur’s death late last evening, or perhaps early this morning. They’ll come, given time. They’ll all want to show their support.

  Philippa was so convinced that people would pay their respects due to their affection for her that she felt the beginnings of an inner peace. It didn’t last for long as her mind wandered to thoughts of her son.

  Fresh tears welled as she imagined how afraid poor Henry must be, wandering alone somewhere out there. With all the rain over the past few days, she hoped he’d been able to find shelter somewhere. She wondered how he was managing for food. If he had any sense he’d have taken some food from the school when he absconded: she’d sent a huge supply of tuck with him when he’d returned for his second year at St James’ in mid-August – enough to last him until Christmas. What he could conceivably carry probably wouldn’t last him a week though.

  St James’ might have a reputation for strictness, but they still allowed the luxury of a tuck box. If she was honest, Philippa was surprised he’d lasted for the whole of his first year without trying to make a bid for freedom. During the brief summer recess Henry had made overtures towards changing schools, but Arthur had informed him he would have to complete his three years at St James’, followed by his National Service.

  Henry had been angry and upset by this, and Philippa realised she should have known there and then that he would try something of this nature. She liked to think he had the wherewithal to make it home, but if he had truly been gone from the school for almost a month then he would surely have made it home by now.

  Either something had happened to him – which Philippa prayed was not the case – or he had gone someplace else. Perhaps he had fled the school with a friend? If that was the case, perhaps he had returned to that friend’s house?

  Philippa reasoned that it was a possibility she hadn’t previously considered. She’d have to deal with the fallout from Arthur’s death first, before turning her attention to her son.

  Rising from her bed, she made her way to her washstand and poured a bowl of cold water, which she splashed onto her face to invigorate full wakefulness. As she did so, she heard voices from outside.

  Crossing to the window, she peered down to the driveway where she could see Brigadier Barrington-Smythe talking with a man whom she recalled from last night as being Chief Inspector Lennox, and an older woman who looked vaguely familiar. The Chief Inspector climbed back into his car, driving it up to the front of the house, whilst the old woman helped the Brigadier along. Philippa noted absentmindedly that the Brigadier’s dog was limping, but the thought vanished as she fussed about what she should wear to greet her visitors.

  Arthur might be dead, but that was no reason to let standards slip: she wasn’t about to greet the Chief Inspector of the County in her peignoir. That simply wouldn’t do. Word of any such lack of decorum would be around the village quicker than news of Arthur’s death.

  A little under ten minutes later Philippa descended the grand staircase and entered the drawing room gracefully, her heart pumping with anxiety as she wondered what terrible news the Chief Inspector had come to impart on this otherwise fine morning.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Lomax,’ she said, managing a wan smile.

  ‘It’s Lennox, actually.’ The Chief Inspector waved a hand dismissively as the Countess began to apologise. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Lady Castleford. Apologies are unnecessary.’

  Philippa sighed. ‘Thank you. Please, do be seated,’ she said, indicating the settees as she took her own place in the chair once favoured by Arthur. She stroked the arm of the chair absentmindedly.

  ‘Thank you. This is Miss Gertrude Harrington,’ said Lennox.

  ‘Ah yes, of course. I thought I recognised you. You are the cook up at Templemead Hall, are you not? I seem to recal
l that you make the most delicious desserts. What are you doing here?’

  Gertrude smiled, genuinely touched that Lady Castleford remembered her. ‘Thank you, Your Ladyship. I’m here to assist Chief Inspector Lennox today.’

  Philippa arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d have had enough of death after what happened at Templemead Hall.’

  Gertrude faltered, slightly surprised that Lady Castleford knew of those events. ‘It was – difficult, I must confess. I don’t believe that I’ve yet fully recovered from that ordeal. However, since leaving the employ of Lavinia Rushbrook and her husband I have helped the Chief Inspector on several occasions. I find it somewhat cathartic, helping to bring miscreants to justice.’

  ‘I was unaware that you had left Templemead Hall. That would explain the slight drop in the standard of food served by Lavinia. Well then, if you’re as good a detective as you are cook, let us hope that you can help catch Arthur’s killer.’

  Gertrude frowned. ‘Arthur?’

  ‘That would be Lord Castleford,’ said the Brigadier. ‘His full name is Henry Arthur Clarendon.’

  ‘Arthur’s father was also called Henry, so most people called him by his middle name to avoid confusion. It continued after my late father-in-law’s death because our son is also named Henry.’

  Gertrude nodded. ‘I see, Lady Castleford. Well, I certainly hope we can catch His Lordship’s killer too.’

  ‘Bring some tea will you please, Mr Jackson,’ said Lady Castleford.

  The butler, who had been hovering in the doorway, bowed. ‘Yes, Your Ladyship.’

  ‘We’ll wait until Jackson has brought the tea,’ said Lennox solemnly, ‘and then we won’t be disturbed while we talk.’

  When the butler returned some minutes later he set down the tray on the low table between the settees and chair. ‘Would you like me to pour, Your Ladyship?’ he asked, clearly hoping to catch snippets of the private conversation. He could barely disguise his dismay at being dismissed from the room with a cursory wave from Lady Castleford.