CHAPTER SEVEN

Mrs Brockhurst put the tray on the small table that habitually sat just outside Miss Phelps’s door and knocked once, then reached for the handle. Unusually, it didn’t turn.

For a moment, the housekeeper hesitated, then knocked again. Although the lady of the house had never locked her door before, somehow Jane Brockhurst wasn’t particularly surprised to find it locked now. Ever since Miss Phelps had fallen down the stairs, she’d been acting in a very marked manner. She’d become far more wary, and not her usual assertive self. It was as if she’d been expecting something to happen – something unpleasant – and had been determined to safeguard herself against it, and the locked door now was just more evidence of that. As had been her asking Mr Swift to spend the night ‘ghost-watching’ again.

‘Miss Phelps, it’s only me,’ she said loudly. ‘I have your morning tea,’ she called through the door and waited. In normal circumstances, she would now expect to hear the turning of a key in the lock, or maybe Miss Phelps’s voice calling out for her to wait.

Neither event occurred.

She rapped harder and called out more loudly. So sharply, in fact, that in a few minutes she found herself joined at the door by Arbie, with Val close on his heels.

‘Trouble?’ Arbie asked, feeling a shade foolish asking such a silly question. It was clear that some sort of trouble was in the offing. ‘Can’t wake Miss Phelps up, eh?’ he asked nervously.

‘No, Mr Swift, I can’t,’ the housekeeper said, beginning to look a little pale. ‘And she’s always been a light sleeper.’

Arbie nodded and hammered a bit harder on the door, but after waiting for a few seconds longer, and hearing nothing, he shook his head. ‘Do you have a spare key to this door?’

‘No, sir, I don’t. It’s never usually kept locked. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever found it so,’ the housekeeper said, trying to keep her voice steady and mostly succeeding.

Arbie shot Val a quick look and saw that she was as uneasy as he was. He quickly turned back to the housekeeper. ‘Isn’t there a general pass key or anything that you keep somewhere safe for emergencies and things?’

‘No, sir, and I don’t believe someone else’s door key will fit this lock either. I know in some houses, internal keys are all the same and interchangeable, but the Old Forge is so higgledy-piggledy I imagine each door would have come with its own lock. The Phelpses, as you can imagine, created and forged all their own ironwork in the house on an individual basis. They’d never have bought standard goods from an ironmonger, such as keys.’

Arbie could well imagine that such a thing would amount to treason in a family of smithies, and he sighed gloomily.

‘And Miss Phelps was always careful about keys – she didn’t hand them out willy-nilly as some like to do. She and I are the only two to have keys to the external doors to the house for instance,’ the housekeeper swept on, made more loquacious than usual by her evident nervousness.

‘Then there’s nothing else for it – you’ll have to break the door down, Arbie,’ Val said urgently. ‘Put your shoulder to it!’

Arbie eyed the stout oak door, with its even stouter, hand-forged (of course!) iron hinges and sighed. ‘My dear Val, if I did that, I should no doubt dislocate every bone in my upper torso. But there must be an axe or something I can use. In the old tool shed?’

Jane Brockhurst coughed drily and ventured, ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to climb a ladder to her window and crawl in that way?’

Arbie blinked and mumbled humbly, ‘I imagine it would, yes. Do you know if there’s a ladder about?’

‘There’s sure to be one in the shed, sir,’ she said helpfully and with admirable patience.

Arbie nodded. ‘You stay here and wait, Mrs Brockhurst. I’ll let you in once I gain admittance. Val …’ But before he could finish, Val was already headed off towards the stairs.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, unnecessarily.

They rushed down the stairs and across the hall and found a ladder eventually in one of the gardener’s outhouses. It was one of the extendable types, and once they’d fixed it to its full height, Arbie rammed the two sturdy legs into the earth of the pristine flowerbed beneath what he thought must be the right window and began to climb.

‘Hold her steady, old thing,’ he said, clambering up with the nimbleness of a monkey. He’d been too lazy to do any real rowing at Oxford, but he’d played cricket all his life, and made short work of the climb to the window. Once there, however, he found it firmly shut and locked, which was a bit of a facer. A quick peek inside showed him a large bed, with a slight bump in it that must be the inhabitant. She was not moving.

‘Blast,’ he muttered, then gave a little yelp as right below him a voice said, ‘What?’

He looked down to see Val, her face about level with the bend in his knees. It had, he thought resignedly, been too much to expect Val to have stayed safely on the ground, anchoring the ladder. Oh well, if the ladder began to list and they both took a header into the rhododendrons she’d have only herself to blame!

‘The window’s not only shut, it’s locked from the inside,’ he said flatly. ‘I’d have thought it being summer they’d be wide open.’

‘Not everyone is a fresh air freak,’ Val said tensely. ‘And older women feel the cold. It still does get chilly around dawn, you know.’

Arbie sighed. ‘We’ll have to break a pane of the glass,’ he said, eyeing the sash window without much pleasure. ‘Don’t suppose you thought to bring a rock up with you or anything, did you?’

‘Funnily enough, no,’ Val said icily. ‘Just pull your shirtsleeve over your fist and smash the glass, man.’

Arbie eyed the glass with even less pleasure. ‘Thanks, but people only do that in books and in the cinema and things,’ he informed her with lofty distaste. ‘In real life, a boddo knows that if you do something so bally silly, you’re likely to get your hands shredded for your trouble.’ He thought for a few seconds, then lifted his right foot. ‘Just slip off my old shoe, will you, and hand it up to me, do you mind? It’s got a good stout heel on it.’

Muttering something about ‘babies’ and ‘lily-livered something-or-others’, which Arbie pretended not to hear, Val did as he asked, and a moment later, he was poised to strike.

‘Turn your head down and well away, Val, there might be some falling glass,’ he warned her. But when he tapped a pane, strategically placed just over the catch on the inside, most of the glass fell helpfully inside. He carefully smashed out the whole pane with his shoe heel, then gingerly reached inside to slip the catch, congratulating himself on not getting so much as a scratch from the shards of glass remaining in the opening. That done, he used his shoe to brush the glass off the sill, where it fell on the floor inside the bedroom, then slid the window up to the extent of its reach. That gave them plenty of room to clamber in.

It wasn’t until they were fully inside, and Arbie was hastily slipping his shoe back on, that he took a more detailed look around the room. It was large and pleasantly furnished, with a small skylight in the roof at the far end allowing in a little more daylight. A woman’s bedroom was not his usual habitat, but he was surprised by the lack of feminine fripperies. He was about to walk to the door to allow the waiting housekeeper into the room, but then saw that Val was already making her way to the bed.

‘Miss Phelps,’ she called as she approached, but there was no movement of her head lying on the pillow. She reached out and tentatively touched the woman on the shoulder. If she really was only sleeping very soundly, she didn’t want to frighten her by being too abrupt. But the lady’s shoulder felt so stiff and unnatural that she quickly took her hand away. She put one knee lightly on the mattress and with one hand steadying herself on the night table beside the bed, leaned over to get a better look at her face.

What she saw made her freeze in shock. She must have made some little sound of distress for Arbie, who was halfway to the door, suddenly diverted and dashed over to her. As he did so, he saw Val go very pale and begin to sway. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Val!’ he called out in warning and was just in time to pull her away from the bed before she fell on top of its current resident. He carried her, half-fainting, away from the bed and over towards the window where there was sunlight and cool fresh air. There he sat her down on a delightful Queen Anne chair and left her bent forward with her head between her knees and fighting back tears of shock.

‘You all right, old thing?’ he asked anxiously.

It wasn’t like Val to get all wibbly-wobbly on him, as she usually prided herself on her stiff upper lip and fortitude, and he was therefore very much reassured when she waved an imperious hand in the air and a moment later said groggily, ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. Just went a bit light-headed for some reason. I’m already feeling much better. Oh Arbie, she’s dead!’

‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ he muttered glumly.

Unwillingly, he went towards the bed himself, looking anywhere at first rather than at Amy Phelps. He saw that the bedclothes weren’t in much disarray, and beside the bed that her slippers stood waiting patiently on the floor, ready to provide their usual service. Arbie turned his attention to the bedside table. It was a large, walnut pie-crust table, and on it was a burnt-down candle in a brass candlestick, a hairbrush and a pair of spectacles with its arms unfolded. A book also lay facedown on its opened pages, as if its last reader had just put it down temporarily, intending to pick it up again and continue reading. Underneath was a washbasin set in an attractive blue-and-white willow pattern. Nothing else.

Unable to put it off any longer, he glanced at the woman’s blue face and swallowed hard. There was something ghastly in the open, horror-filled eyes and the gaping mouth that made him quickly turn away.

As he moved he felt his head begin to swim, and his throat seemed to close up, leaving him feeling as if he was battling for air. Before the sensation could get any worse he got up and walked towards Val, desperate for the fresh air of the open window. Not for anything short of torture would he admit to having a fit of ‘the vapours’ as well!

‘You feeling better now, old thing?’ he said, hoping his voice wasn’t as shaky as he felt.

Val groaned but nodded gamely. ‘I didn’t make a mistake. She is dead, isn’t she?’

‘As the proverbial door nail, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh Arbie, I have a bad feeling about this. What with everything that’s been going on – I’m sure she must have been murdered!’ Val wailed.

At this, Arbie shied away from her like a startled horse. ‘I say, Val old girl, that’s putting the cart before the horse, isn’t it?’

Val shot him one of ‘those’ looks. ‘You think so too,’ she accused him shrewdly. ‘I know you do. I can tell.’

Arbie bridled. ‘Fat lot you know then,’ he responded weakly. ‘I wasn’t thinking any such thing,’ he lied. ‘The most obvious answer is that she had a weak heart or something. She was getting older, after all. Old folks die blamelessly in their bed all the time.’ But even as he spoke, he couldn’t quite convince himself – let alone Val – that this was one of those times.

‘You just want to brush it all under the carpet and bury your head in the sand like an ostrich,’ Val said furiously, ‘and don’t tell me I’m mixing my metaphors or what have you,’ she put in as Arbie opened his mouth to do just that. ‘As ever, you just want to take the easy way out. But for once, I’m not going to let you.’

‘For once?’ Arbie squeaked. When had Val ever let him off the hook?

‘You and I, Arbuthnot Swift, are going to get to the bottom of this,’ Val said firmly. ‘We owe it to poor Miss Phelps. Didn’t she ask for our help? Your help, specifically,’ she corrected, fixing him with a glare.

Feeling like a butterfly specimen pinned firmly to a piece of card, Arbie could only nod miserably. She was right, of course. If someone had helped Miss Phelps into the great hereafter they couldn’t let it slide.

‘Righty-oh then.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll just have to join the ranks of amateur sleuths, like that Belgian chap with spats.’

‘Who?’ Val asked, momentarily sidetracked.

‘You know, the one in the books. With his grey cells.’

Val sighed. ‘Arbie, do stop waffling. Just give me your solemn word, we’re going to get to the bottom of this, no matter what people say, and no matter what we have got to do.’

Arbie solemnly crossed his heart with a finger, and as he did this, there was a firm knock at the door. He had forgotten all about Jane Brockhurst waiting outside. She must have been able to hear their voices and knew they’d gained entry minutes ago. Feeling contrite at leaving it so long, he moved quickly over to the door, and saw with relief that the key was firmly in the lock. If it hadn’t been, and he’d had to search for it, he wasn’t sure his nerves would thank him! He turned the key and heard it unlock the mechanism and opened the door, allowing the housekeeper inside.

She looked at his face intently for a moment, then said hesitantly, ‘Is she … gone?’ She glanced quickly at the bed and then away again.

‘Yes, I’m afraid she is, Mrs Brockhurst,’ Arbie said gently.

‘It must have been her heart then,’ the housekeeper said firmly. ‘I’ll see about getting the doctor.’

Arbie nodded vaguely and watched her leave with a thoughtful look on his face. Had it been his imagination or had the housekeeper been rather overemphatic about the probable cause of the death of her mistress?

Val, showing no signs of moving from her chair, remained ominously quiet.

Arbie wandered vaguely over to the far side of the room and looked up at the skylight. It was small and square and shut. He doubted that anyone except a very small child could have fit through it anyway. And even then, it would have first had to clamber over the roof and …

He wondered, abruptly, why he was thinking of an intruder. An older woman, one who’d been under some stress and strain lately, had died in her bed. The door was locked from the inside. The windows the same. The only other means of entry was a skylight in a roof that would have been useless even to Raffles, that famous cat-burglar and jewel thief. Surely Miss Phelps had simply died in her sleep, and most likely from heart failure, as the housekeeper had said.

Slowly he wandered over to Val. ‘You know, old girl, if we start poking and prying into this, we might, er, get more than we bargain for. There’s something really nasty about this setup.’

‘I feel like that too,’ Val whispered. ‘Oh Arbie, did you see her face?’

‘Yes. I saw it.’

‘Didn’t she look … terrified to you? As if she’d seen a …’ Val couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. But then, she didn’t need to.

‘Yes. But look here, Val, nobody really believes in ghosts and things. Not really. Not even my readers,’ Arbie said, then sighed. He shook his head. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see what the doctor has to say. You ready to go home, old thing?’ he asked softly, looking down at her woebegone, bent fair head.

Val lifted her pale face to him. ‘Oh yes, Arbie. Please take me home. I thought it would be fun, a bit of a lark, this nonsense of Miss Phelps’s,’ she said, gulping a little. ‘But it’s all turned beastly. And I hate this room. It’s as if I can’t breathe in it!’

Arbie knew what she meant. His own chest still felt tight with tension and nerves. With more haste than dignity they left the room and made their way back to the hall. There they met the housekeeper just turning away from the door.

‘I’ve sent the kitchen maid to fetch Dr Beamish,’ she said simply.

Arbie nodded in relief. The village doctor, at least, could be relied upon to be here within minutes, he knew. ‘I’m going to take Miss Coulton-James home,’ he said. And then, seeing the mute look of appeal in the older woman’s eyes, smiled tiredly and added, ‘And then I’ll come back, of course. Anything I can do to help.’

‘Thank you, Mr Swift,’ the housekeeper said.

Arbie nodded and along with Val, passed on out of the house.

Val’s parents weren’t happy to find their daughter being brought home in a state of some distress after spending an unexpected and unscheduled night away from her home, but once they heard Arbie and Val’s slightly stammering explanation, things changed quickly.

Val’s mother agreed to go at once to ‘help’ Mrs Brockhurst with the laying out and the arrangements. The vicar agreed to come along a little later to give succour to the poor lady’s relations and friends, who had yet to be told of the tragedy. One thing about the Old Forge’s rambling layout and feet-thick stone walls was that it had meant that everyone had slept through the morning’s events, which was a blessing of sorts.

Arbie popped next door to his own place to tell Uncle of the latest events and missed the worried and speculative look his relation gave him as he left.

Making his way back to the Phelps residence, his thoughts turned rather dire. His sense of self-preservation (which was always reassuringly robust) was telling him to do the bare minimum required and then make a graceful exit. The less involved he was, the better. That had always been one of the mottos that he lived by. Unfortunately for Arbie, he had somehow or other acquired along the way both a conscience and a healthy sense of fair play, which, frankly, were nothing but a damned nuisance.

Right now, for instance, they were insisting that he couldn’t let the death of Amy Phelps pass by without being thoroughly investigated. Which meant interfering in a family’s private business, and no doubt incurring the wrath of all concerned. And Arbie was a man who liked to avoid incurring wrath wherever he could.

Moreover, if the worst came to the worst, and the police had to be called in and something untoward was discovered, resulting in a scandal of some kind, he was miserably aware that that would be the last thing the lady herself would want. She’d always been fiercely protective of the family name – especially now there were so very few Phelpses remaining.

Perhaps he was worrying about nothing though?

The doctor, Arbie surmised a few minutes later, must have hotfooted over from his own place, for though he had arrived at the Old Forge, his car was absent from the drive. He was talking quietly to Mrs Brockhurst in the hall, and from the open door to the kitchen, Arbie could hear the reassuring voice of the vicar’s wife speaking gently but firmly to the daily girl, who was prone to tearful outbursts.

Dr Beamish greeted Arbie with his usual warmth mixed with the solemnity that the occasion called for. A man in his early forties, the village physician was a plump, pleasant man with a brisk but competent air that greatly reassured his many patients. He saw these patients either at his house, a portion of which had been dedicated to a surgery, or in their own homes. Visits to the local hospital, both doctor and patients agreed, were best avoided.

It was clear he’d only just arrived, for he now set off upstairs to perform his last sad service for one of his oldest and most respected patients, whilst Arbie and Mrs Brockhurst looked at one another a bit blankly.

‘I suppose we should tell everyone,’ Arbie said at last. ‘I take it nobody’s up and about yet? Ready for breakfast and that sort of thing?’

‘No, Miss Phelps was always an early riser, and I always took her morning tea long before most people wanted to be disturbed. Miss Phyllis is usually a late riser, as is her cousin. Miss Cora is usually up and about by now though, and Mr Bickersworth will soon be coming over from the studio for his breakfast.’

‘The studio’s separate from the house?’

‘Oh yes, it’s a separate annexe. Miss Phelps’s mother had it converted into a sort of studio flat.’

‘Does Mr Bickersworth have a front door key to the house itself?’

‘Oh no. He usually leaves the house after playing bridge or what have you and then only comes over in the morning when he’s sure everyone else is up and about.’ If the housekeeper wondered why Mr Swift was so curious about the arrangements of her household, she didn’t show it.

‘And Mr Phelps and Miss Thomas – the nephew and niece. Do they often stay the night?’ Arbie pressed on.

‘They’re regular visitors, but they only stay overnight on occasion.’

Arbie nodded. ‘And they definitely don’t have a key to the house?’

‘No,’ Mrs Brockhurst said carefully. ‘Miss Phelps liked to ensure her privacy,’ she added. ‘She wouldn’t have liked it if she knew that Miss Phyllis used to—’ She stopped abruptly and then blushed. ‘Oh sir, please forget I said that,’ she begged him. ‘I’m that upset, I don’t know what I’m saying.’

Arbie wasn’t as slow on the uptake as most people assumed. So for some reason, the niece wasn’t above going into her aunt’s room on the sly. He wondered why. Then gave a mental shrug. It was probably for totally innocent reasons – to borrow some stockings if she’d found a ladder in her own perhaps, or to indulge in a dab of expensive perfume or some other feminine requirement like that. No, he mustn’t let himself be distracted.

Arbie rocked back a bit on his heels and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Oxford bags. ‘Mum’s the word, Mrs Brockhurst. I won’t say a thing,’ he reassured her. ‘So Miss Cora …?’

‘Has no key either,’ Mrs Brockhurst confirmed firmly.

Arbie nodded. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better get on with telling everyone then?’ he muttered without enthusiasm. ‘I suggest I tell the men, and you inform the ladies?’

Mrs Brockhurst nodded acquiescence, and together they mounted the stairs, separating on the first of the landings and going their separate ways, after the housekeeper had given him directions to the location of the gentleman’s room.

Murray Phelps answered the knock at his door half-dressed and looking impatient. He was surprised to see Arbie at his door, as well he might, and his face went totally slack when Arbie rather stutteringly, broke the news of his aunt’s demise. For a moment or two after that, Murray neither moved nor said anything, then he seemed to give himself a little shake and pull himself together. Avowing that he’d be down once he’d finished dressing, he started to shut the door. Arbie nodded and turned away before he could get the door actually slammed in his face.

Outside in the cobbled courtyard, the haphazard collection of outbuildings was being visited by a few white doves, courtesy of the nearby dovecote. Arbie followed the sound of a wireless to track down the ‘studio’ and saw that this had once been a two-up two-down building, probably used for forge workers back in the old days. It was built of ironstone, with grey slate roofing, and when he knocked on the door, a window above opened and Reginald stuck his head out. His hair stood out in tufts and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Clearly, he’d not long risen and hadn’t set about his personal toilette yet.

‘Oh, hallo there, young Arbie Swift! I wondered who could be knocking on my door at this hour. Not seen the ghost at last, have you?’ he asked with a grin.

‘No, sir. I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ he said solemnly. ‘About Miss Amy Phelps.’

‘Not taken another fall, has she? It’s often the way, you know, when you get to our age in life. The first fall you have seems to set off a whole lot of others. I had a great-uncle once who—’

‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that, old man,’ Arbie said regretfully, cutting into what seemed likely to be a long-winded reminiscence. Looking up at the cheerful face above him, he was sorry to have to see the grin falter and fade. ‘I’m afraid Miss Phelps passed away in the night,’ he said gently. ‘We found her dead in bed a little while ago.’

He knew he’d made it sound more peaceful and natural than it all felt, and he hastily supressed an image of the woman’s blue, frightened face as it tried to force its way to the forefront of his mind. But he felt it would be far kinder to the man to leave him with a false but comforting impression than regale him with a more factual account. When you’d just lost someone that you’d known all your life, it was bound to take it out of you, and you needed it broken to you with a little kindness.

As it was he saw the other man’s lower lip begin to tremble, before he had time to pull himself together. Then the thin shoulders showing through the window frame visibly straightened, and he coughed slightly. ‘I see. Oh my. That’s terrible. I’ll … er … I’ll be down in a jiffy.’ As he spoke and turned and looked across the way to the main house, Arbie, following his gaze, realised that the annexe was connected to the original forge itself, which, in turn, abutted the smallest side of the main house. But Reggie had no direct line of sight with Miss Phelps’s bedroom, which was a mercy.

The last thing the poor chap needed was to look on at the place where his old friend now lay lifeless.

Arbie tactfully turned away and wandered up and down a little, kicking the odd stone about and waiting for him to appear. Reggie emerged about five minutes later looking pale and shaken and even a little shrunken. Something of Arbie’s shock must have shown in his eyes, for Reggie managed a small smile. ‘Sorry, but this has rocked me a bit. One somehow thought of the Amys of this world as indestructible, do you know?’

But Arbie didn’t, not really. Reggie could see that at once. Which was only right, he supposed. The young have no idea about mortality. Why would they? ‘I remember her when she was your age, you see. My word, she was a sight to see in those days,’ Reggie muttered as they walked slowly and reluctantly back to the house. ‘Spirited and full of life and determined to take the world by the horns and master it. That was Amy.’

When they stepped back into the hall, it was just in time to hear Dr Beamish finish saying something. In the hall, Phyllis Thomas now sat in a chair, silently weeping. Cora, sat beside her, kept patting her hand somewhat half-heartedly. Murray Phelps was on his feet, standing beside the doctor and listening intently.

‘It was her heart I take it then, doctor?’ Murray said.

‘Like I just said, Mr Phelps, I think it must have been sudden. The bedclothes were in very little disarray, so I don’t think she suffered unduly.’

Arbie, thinking of that blue face, thought that the good doctor was sparing the family’s feelings.

‘So a heart attack then? Or a stroke?’ Murray pressed.

The doctor, however, did not seem to want to be pressed. ‘Most likely,’ he contented himself with saying.

Arbie, hearing his cue and not liking it, was just building himself up to approaching the doctor, and privately informing him that he thought a little more investigation was warranted, and was astounded – but very pleased – to find himself forestalled.

‘I think you should do an autopsy.’

It was, astonishingly enough, Reggie – dear, bumbling, mild-mannered Reggie – who spoke, and spoke with a, for him, surprising firmness. It was not only Arbie who looked at him in some consternation. Dr Beamish stared at him intently but didn’t appear particularly startled by the request. Perhaps the canny doctor had already had some medical doubts about the cause of death? Mrs Brockhurst blinked and said nothing. Phyllis was shocked into taking a short break from her weeping, then commenced again. Murray made some vague exclamation and appeared the most likely to rain angry words down on the older man’s defiant head.

But it was none of these who reacted first.

It was Cora who shot to her feet, her face flushed in outrage. ‘Oh no! No! Amy would have hated that!’ she said fiercely. ‘To be cut up by strangers and inspected on some cold slab like a piece of cod. No!’

As this vivid piece of imagery floated ethereally in the morning air of the Old Forge’s hall, it was perhaps only to be expected that Phyllis Thomas fainted. It was not a spectacular faint; she simply made a little sound and slipped from the chair, landing in a ladylike puddle on the floor.

The housekeeper went to her at once, as did the doctor. Reggie tut-tutted and flapped helplessly on the fringes.

Arbie alone kept his face fixed on that of Murray Phelps, who looked … surprised. Which in turn surprised Arbie, who’d been expecting to see a totally different emotion on the other man’s face.