CHAPTER EIGHT

Dr Beamish stayed until the body was taken to the local hospital where ‘further examinations’ would be made. Phyllis and Cora said nothing as they stood by the door watching the vehicle depart, but both were looking very pale. Mrs Brockhurst seemed to Arbie to be rather pensive or distracted, and after making a few scoffing remarks about how unnecessary all the fuss was, Murray Phelps made no further comment and took himself off into the depths of the house.

If the nephew of the dead woman was unduly worried about what the medical men might find, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

With the sad departure of the lady of the house, the others drifted listlessly into the morning room, where Murray was already ensconced and reading the morning papers. Phyllis sat down in a chair opposite him and pretended to do the same. But every now and then she cast her cousin quick, troubled glances.

Arbie, not quite sure what was expected of him now, hovered uneasily on the fringes. It had been Miss Phelps who’d asked him to stay, and with her absence, he was feeling distinctly de trop and was thinking up the best way to withdraw tactfully from the scene.

‘Do you think I should leave?’

Again it was Reggie who spoke, making Arbie wonder for a moment if the man could possibly have psychic abilities with which to read his very thoughts. Then he realised that Reggie was addressing his fellow summer house guest, Cora Delaney. ‘I mean, this is a house of mourning now, and …’ He broke off and gave a wry smile. ‘My own place is rented out until September, but there are plenty of guest houses, one supposes, where I could lay my head. Perhaps one of those Mr Swift recommended in his splendid book will have a vacancy,’ he added, suddenly catching sight of Arbie and managing a brave smile.

At this, Phyllis stirred herself. ‘Oh, I’m sure Aunty Amy wouldn’t have wanted that, Reggie. You’re practically our honorary uncle and you’ve always spent your summers here. I’m sure we have no objection to you staying on, do we, Murray?’ she asked, a shade sharply.

Murray looked across the top of his newspaper and gave a brief smile. ‘Of course you must stay, old fellow. You as well, Cora, if you like,’ he said indifferently.

‘Oh, I’m not sure …’ Cora murmured. Unlike Reggie, she could go back to her own home anytime, but she was not so sure that she wanted to. Not yet, anyway. ‘If you’re certain that you don’t mind, dear?’ she asked Phyllis. ‘I mean, there’ll be the funeral and everything and you might need help … er … with things,’ she added vaguely. ‘So I’d be happy to stay, if I’m needed. But I don’t like to intrude and with Amy not here …’

Suddenly it became clear to Arbie why everybody was feeling a bit nervy. It was because nobody was totally sure of the terms of Miss Phelps’s will and who, now, was legally owner of the house. Who had the right to say who could stay or had to leave? Presumably, as the last male heir, Murray Phelps would come into the lion’s share, if not everything? He could see from the self-satisfied smile that played around that gentleman’s mouth that he was confident that that was so. And probably with some justification, Arbie mused unhappily. A lady with Amy Phelps’s sense of family responsibilities and the inalienable rights of male primogeniture would hardly be likely to have left a contentious will behind.

And yet … Arbie wondered. It was now common knowledge that Miss Phelps had stated she was going to make some changes to her will. That could have been the removal of a codicil, or the addition of a small benefice to someone or other. On the other hand, it could have involved major re-writing.

‘Thank you, Cora, that would be most kind.’ Phyllis accepted Cora’s offer with a smile. ‘It’s horrible to think of such things now, but at some point we’ll have to sort out Aunty’s things. Not that she kept many trinkets and such like,’ she added casually. ‘She wasn’t a trinket sort of person. And Reggie, it’s always nice to have a man about the house at times like this, so please don’t feel you’re imposing.’

Reggie sighed with not very-well concealed relief. ‘Well, if everybody’s sure. I’ll stay then too.’

‘Well, I think if nobody needs me …’ Arbie took this golden opportunity to extricate himself, and was already turning to the door in anticipation of his freedom when it was rudely snatched from underneath him.

‘You’ll be coming back tonight though, old man, I’m sure?’ It was Murray who spoke, and when Arbie met his mocking gaze with one of genuine puzzlement, the other man’s grin widened. ‘I mean you’ll want to hold another vigil, won’t you? For your next book? That was what Amy wanted, after all. And from your point of view, it could hardly be a better time, could it? I mean, won’t the emanations or whatever you call them be extra strong or something now?’

Phyllis gasped, and Cora gave a shocked exclamation. Reggie turned angry eyes on him. ‘That’s an atrociously disrespectful thing to say, young man. Your aunt would be appalled.’

Murray Phelps regarded them all without any evidence of shame. ‘It was my aunt who believed in all that bunkum, if you’ll recall,’ he pointed out coolly. ‘And I think it would be very remiss of us not to let the old girl have the chance to get her message across from the “other side” to Mr Swift here. And if she’s going to do it, surely tonight would be the ideal time? Or perhaps it’s all a bit too “real” for our illustrious author now?’

Well, there was obviously nothing Arbie could do after having the gauntlet thrown down like that. Besides, he knew that Val would never forgive him if he didn’t take this chance to potentially help forward their own investigation into Amy’s death. He met the older man’s sardonic gaze and gave a stiff bow. ‘I’ll be here just before dark. Which means I really must get off now and catch up on some sleep.’ He caught Phyllis’s eye and bowed again. ‘My deepest condolences on your loss.’ He let his gaze include Reggie and Cora, and without looking at the insufferable nephew again, let himself out of the house, in high dudgeon.

Jane Brockhurst saw Arbie leave and sighed loudly. The shocks of the day’s events had left her feeling heavy-limbed and inclined to be tearful, and she was fighting off a sense of lethargy when she went to the stove to brew up a much-needed cup of tea.

As the kettle began to heat, she stared vacantly out of the window into the garden beyond. And when she saw the outer door that let into the garden open, felt a distinct sense of déjà vu as the familiar female figure slipped inside. Anger and alarm rose swiftly inside her, and in an instant, the housekeeper was out of the door and walking swiftly and firmly across the lawn to intercept the interloper.

The girl, who had been making her way towards the side of the house, spotted her and stopped dead, a flush of annoyance, perhaps tinged with shame, rising in her face. As well it might, the little madam, the housekeeper thought savagely. And today of all days too, creeping about, and up to no good.

‘Hello, Doreen, I’m afraid now’s not a good time. You may not have heard, but this is a house of mourning,’ she said stiffly. If the young minx thought that she was going to be able to have one of her little trysts with Mr Murray, the girl could think again. Her poor dead employer would have a fit if she’d known about what that pair got up to behind her back. And now she was dead and gone, it only made the girl’s presence here even more outrageous.

‘So it’s true then?’ Doreen said, her chin coming up defiantly as the housekeeper stood firmly in front of her, blocking her way to the house. ‘I heard in the village that the old cow had finally popped her clogs. I couldn’t believe it when Ma told me. But she got it from the milkman.’ She added the afterthought with a toss of her head.

The housekeeper ignored the crass language, guessing – quite rightly – that it had only been used to get under her skin. Not that she could expect anything better from a common little baggage such as this one. The Capstan family lived crammed into a tiny cottage, the father doing seasonal farm work, whilst the mother was a char for several of the more prominent families. The rest of their vast brood scraped a living as best they could. And although none of the family had ever gone so far as to fall actual foul of the law, everybody knew that they were poachers and probably petty thieves as well. The village constable was always trying to lay one or other of them by the heels, but they were one and all far too wily.

Doreen, however, was too clever to do anything that might risk imprisonment. Losing her job at the house meant that she’d been reduced to having to accept the drudgery of work at a hot, smelly biscuit factory in the nearest town, and she’d been spitting mad about it ever since. Not only about the fall such a move had made to her wages, but also about the reduction it meant to her social status. Doreen, Jane Brockhurst knew only too well, had always had ideas above her station, and was intent on using her beauty to make a better life for herself.

But the housekeeper, who knew much more about the ways of the world than silly Doreen Capstan ever would, could have told the little chit that luring Murray Phelps into matrimony was as likely as one of old Sid Cooper’s sows suddenly taking flight over the church steeple. Whilst Miss Phelps’s no-good nephew might enjoy dallying with a pretty girl, when it came to marriage, he was going to choose a bride with both money and breeding.

‘I told you last night, and I’m telling you now,’ the housekeeper said flatly. ‘For your own good, you keep away from this house.’

‘You can’t tell me what to do anymore, I don’t work here,’ Doreen shot back angrily, and tossed her magnificent Titian locks provocatively. ‘I’ve come to give my condolences to Murray.’

‘Mr Murray is busy,’ the housekeeper said flatly. ‘His aunt has just died. He has family obligations to see to, and arrangements to be made. He’ll not have time for the likes of you now. Better get along.’

Doreen cast her a nasty smile, but seeing that the housekeeper was not for moving, reluctantly turned on her heel. ‘Fine, but I’ll be back later,’ she warned, determined to have the final word.

She probably would be too, the housekeeper thought, with a mixture of anger and pity that left her feeling tired all over again. She trudged back to her kitchen where she had to rescue the boiling kettle from the stove and sat down heavily on a chair, her thoughts turning to the woman who’d just died.

Jane had worked in her service for nearly all her adult life.

And had never much liked her.

Arbie returned home to find a stranger loitering with intent just outside his uncle’s studio door. Although his relative regularly sold ‘tourist’ pieces at several local galleries, they were hardly likely to attract the attention of a private buyer – or thieves. At least, he hoped not.

Right now, the last thing he wanted to do was to have to act the hero and defend the family seat from marauders. He was feeling dog tired and limp lettuce leaves had nothing on him. In fact, he was feeling far more inclined to simply let the stranger help himself to whatever loot he thought he could find in his uncle’s shed! But therein, of course, was the problem in a nutshell. Who could say what Uncle kept locked and secured in there? Knowing him, it could be anything from illegally produced bottles of booze to precious metals he was using in some experiment or other.

One thing was for certain – the very shifty-looking customer was making all his worries re-surface. One of these days, he couldn’t help but worry, his uncle was going to come a proper cropper. Although the village bobby was hardly the brain of Britain, he wasn’t as green as people in Maybury sometimes supposed. And whilst Arbie was very careful to make sure that he knew nothing about the mad money-making schemes his guardian occasionally got up to, he didn’t want to have to visit the silly duffer in the clink!

But he was not the only one less than pleased by the unexpected encounter. If anything, the stranger looked more uncomfortable and discombobulated by it than Arbie.

Arbie was just about to bite the bullet and ask the man his business, when his uncle stepped out of the studio door behind him and draped a friendly arm around his shoulder. At this sign of friendship, Arbie relaxed. Uncle spotted him watching and raised one eyebrow in query. This economical gesture was the older man’s way of asking if he needed anything.

Arbie hastily shook his head and dragged himself off into the house. His bed was calling to him with all the vigour of a siren luring a sailor to his doom on the rocks, and he really did not want to know what his uncle’s business was with the stranger.

Uncle watched his nephew slump away into the house and turned back to his friend. ‘Right then, Peter my old mucker,’ he said, addressing the Rt Hon. Peter Forbes-Bowright with all the easy familiarity of old school chums. ‘Like I said, I’ll have that Stubbs ready for you in a month or so.’

‘You’ve really pulled my fat out of the bacon this time, Streaky,’ he responded, using Uncle’s schoolboy nickname. Uncle couldn’t now quite remember how he’d come by it – unless it was for his ability to leg it so fast that the geography master could never lay a hand on him when he failed to come up with the proper name for a fjord or mountain. Not even if he chucked the cane at him, instead of his usual trick of trying to wop it across the back seat of his trousers.

‘If my wife ever found out I’ve had to sell it …’ His friend, who was a decent enough cove but with the backbone of a jellyfish, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and shook his head.

Uncle sighed in sympathy. ‘A fine gel, but a bit of a dragon, your good lady,’ he said, leaving his friend unsure whether his spouse had just been complimented or traduced.

But the honourable gentleman was so happy to have found a way out of his recent fix that he couldn’t be bothered to work it out. ‘If only Dog’s Breakfast had got his nose just a few inches further in front, I’d have won enough to settle the bill for the roof,’ he lamented, letting his old friend lead him gently down the gravel path towards the gate.

Uncle, who’d won enough pocket money off the Rt Hon. Peter in his youth to keep him in minor luxuries all through his public-school education, shrugged with genuine sympathy. Even as a child, his pal had been bitten by the gambling bug, willing to bet his last sherbet lemon on the outcome of a snail race, or who was the last down to breakfast on any given morning. Alas, he’d never been any good at it. So it hadn’t come as any surprise when his pal, whom he hadn’t seen in a good twenty years or so, had suddenly turned up on his doorstep with a painting, a tale of woe and a sheepish expression on his face.

‘Still, I suppose Stubbs would have approved,’ Uncle said, slapping him on the back and nodding to his studio, where that artist’s minor work of a minor racehorse was now safely ensconced.

‘Eh?’ said the Rt Hon.

Uncle grinned. His pal had never been the brightest of academic sparks in the minor public school where they’d passed their time learning, it seemed, very little about anything remotely useful. ‘Having to flog one of his paintings because of the leaden footedness of one of his subjects,’ Uncle explained.

‘Oh. Yes! Hah!’ His companion let out a humorous snort, but then subsided back into misery again. ‘I say, Streaky, nobody will notice it’s not the original, will they?’ he asked nervously.

‘Of course not,’ Uncle said, trying not to feel offended. ‘Nobody’s ever complained yet, have they?’ he asked, a little askance.

His friend’s worried brow cleared at this and he nodded. Streaky was right. He’d got it off Lord Horace Cough-Brough why and how Streaky was the fellow to go to when you got in a tight spot and needed to generate some cash, and he should know! And nobody in the Cough-Brough household had ever questioned the veracity of any of his Reynoldses and whatnots.

‘Well, once again, thanks a lot, old boy,’ Peter Forbes-Bowright said, vigorously pumping Uncle’s hand. ‘Oh, by the way, is that lad of yours I saw just now the author of that ghost book thingy? Old Buffers at the club told me you’d taken a relative under your wing, and that he’d come up trumps with that jolly useful little book.’

‘The Gentleman’s Guide to Ghost-Hunting, you mean? Yes, he is,’ Uncle said, his chest swelling with pride.

‘Jolly good read that. Made me laugh out loud a couple of times, I can tell you. And my butler, apparently, stayed at one of his recommended spots in Margate. Or was it Minehead? Well, somewhere anyway,’ he added vaguely. ‘And very happy with the place he was too.’

Uncle beamed, and with that, both men were left feeling very happy with their morning’s work.

As his friend toddled off to his chauffeur-driven Bentley, Uncle heard the postman’s bicycle wheels coming along behind him on the gravel, and he hung around to wait for his post. But it was clear from the look of glee on the postie’s face that he had more news to impart, and of better quality than whatever might be contained in the envelopes he handed over.

‘Mornin’, Uncle,’ Fred said cheerfully. If the postman had ever once addressed Uncle by his given surname he could not now remember what it was. ‘Have you heard? About the goings-on up at the Old Forge?’

Uncle nodded, his cheerfulness over Peter’s commission abruptly fading. ‘Yes. Bad news. She was a bit of an institution around the place.’

The postie sighed. ‘I can’t say she was the easiest of people to get on with, but you’re right – there’s been Phelpses at the Old Forge for centuries. Who’s to say if they’ll still be there next year?’

‘You don’t think the nephew will move in then?’ Uncle asked, generally curious about the mood and the latest speculation in the village.

‘Not him!’ Fred said scornfully. ‘He’s practically a townie now. And too interested in building up the garage side of things and expanding. He only ever comes to the village in the first place to keep the old girl sweet. He never had no feeling for the old days.’

Uncle nodded. ‘Still, horses will always want shoeing, and people will always want ironwork mended. He’d be a fool to let that side of the business go. His aunt, for all her faults, was adamant that all the forges stay in business.’ Apart from the first and original one right beside the family home, of course! After all, nobody wanted all the noise and heat where they resided.

‘Ah, she was a hard-headed woman, God bless her,’ the postie said reverently.

Clearly, it hadn’t got around the village yet that she had called in his nephew to deal with a pesky ghost, Uncle mused, but he was sure it wouldn’t take long. Still, it would be good publicity for his second book.

‘She’ll be missed in the village,’ Uncle said piously. He’d never had anything to do with Amy Phelps on a personal level, and wouldn’t miss her in the slightest, but you had to pay lip service to things in a small community, or you’d never hear the end of it. ‘A fine woman. But a bit of a tartar,’ he couldn’t help but add.

The postman grinned. ‘True. You’d never have thought she’d been a bit of a goer in her day, would you?’

Uncle turned truly astonished eyes on him, making the other man all but glow with pride. If there was one thing the post office worker really liked, apart from winning at darts, it was being privy to knowledge that no one else had. And imparting it. ‘Really?’ Uncle enticed.

‘According to old man Verney, and he should know.’ The postman nodded emphatically. ‘Back in the Old Queen’s time, she cut a bit of a figure, so they say. Oh, nothing truly scandalous – you know what the Victorians were like. But there were rumours that she was a bit of a one, for all that. Knew what she wanted and made sure she got it, if you know what I mean?’ And he knowingly tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mind you, according to old man Verney, she came a cropper somewhere along the way. There were definite rumours in the county about one of her promising romances going sour on her for some reason or other.’

‘Well I never,’ Uncle said, wishing he hadn’t dismissed Miss Amy Phelps so thoroughly.

The two men gossiped happily for a while longer, then the postman had to get off on his rounds to spread the news in the next village, and Uncle retired to his studio to study Peter’s minor Stubbs with a clinical eye.

Finding an old canvas of just the right age would present him with no problem. He regularly attended country-house sales and bought up dire amateur works of the right vintage for such purposes as this. But he’d have to be careful when it came to the paints. Although his old school pal would quietly sell the original abroad, the copy Uncle would make for him to hang back on his wall would have to be as flawless as possible. You just never knew when some arty type with more knowledge than was good for him might be invited to a house party and want to show off his skills!

The local hospital was not the largest in the county, nor did it attract the cream of the crop when it came to its surgeons and physicians. Likewise, its pathologist was now approaching retirement age, and hadn’t kept up with all the latest medical advancements. Moreover, pathology was a thankless job with no kudos attached to it at all, which meant that very few doctors went into that field. And those that did found themselves in the role because they’d been ‘gently encouraged’ by the rest of the medical establishment who deemed that their attentions were probably best spent on those already safely dead.

But not even the greenest tyro could fail to spot the signs of an unexpected substance in the corpse of Amy Phelps. It wasn’t a rare substance and finding traces of it wasn’t that complicated. In its many forms it had been known to man for many years. Widely used to exterminate pests and vermin in houses and ships, it also had many other uses.

It was cyanide. And somebody had used it to help Miss Amy Phelps leave this mortal realm.

The pathologist had a little skip in his step as he set about making up his report for the police. Having little work on that morning, he’d made his initial examinations of the woman’s body his first and top priority and was proud of his speed in finding results so quickly, and was expecting high praise for it. At any rate, it made a very nice change from his usual diet of mundane coronaries, accidental deaths due to falls or industrial mishaps, and the occasional drowning.

And when this report landed on the desk of Cheltenham-based Inspector Bernard Gorringe, and he was told by his superintendent to ‘sort this out, will you?’ the first thing he did was get out his maps and find the tiny dot in the middle of the Cotswolds that was the little village of Maybury-in-the-Marsh.

The second thing he did was hope that it had a decent pub.

When Arbie awoke from his much-needed six hours of sleep, it was still barely three o’clock. Knowing that Mrs Privett, the daily woman who looked after them, would probably have finished her morning’s work and wouldn’t be back until later to cook their supper, he foraged for scraps in the kitchen, finding a cold chicken leg and a hunk of cheese, to which he added a slice off the loaf. He then set off in his trusty (for the most part) black Alvis saloon and made his way to the nearby boatyard, where his uncle’s birthday present was currently being overhauled.

The boatyard consisted of a wet and dry dock, a large, corrugated iron building and three old men and one boy who looked bored to death. The young boy eyed him pityingly when Arbie introduced himself and told him that he’d just bought a small craft which was being ‘geed-up a bit’ here, but he led him obligingly enough to the dry dock. There Marcus Finch was busy scraping something unspeakable off the hull of the small white craft that Arbie recognised as his recent purchase.

‘Ah, hello there, Mr Finch? I’m Mr Swift. We’ve been corresponding over this.’ He nodded at the boat in question. ‘I’ve come to see how things are progressing.’

‘Eh?’ the old man said, but clambered down off the craft obligingly, wiping his hands on a rag. Again Arbie introduced himself, quickly realising that the old man was hard of hearing, and during the next ten minutes, found himself quite literally shouting to make himself understood.

Nevertheless, when the two men had finished their consultation, Arbie was pleased enough about how things were going. He might have a sore throat from all the bellowing, but he was happy with his colour choice for the new paintwork and was satisfied that the small river craft’s extra windows allowed in plenty of light to suit his uncle’s painterly needs. Shaking hands, and promising that he’d be in touch when he’d thought of a new name for the vessel (he didn’t think his uncle would want to keep the rather twee name of Rambling Rosie somehow), Arbie took off, feeling pleased with himself.

For once, when it came to thinking up a present that his guardian would appreciate, he was confident that he’d come up trumps. Consequently, when he got back home he was whistling happily to himself. That is, until he saw the identity of the visitor waiting for him in the front garden.

‘Hello, Val,’ he said with forced cheerfulness as he climbed out of the car. ‘Feeling better now?’

Val shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said shortly. ‘I can see you haven’t heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘It was murder after all. So we are going to have to find a killer.’

‘Huh?’

‘Miss Phelps. Oh, Arbie, there’s a police inspector come already, and he wants to see us all. Isn’t it terrible?’

‘Huh?’

‘Miss Phelps – they’re saying she was poisoned!’ Val wailed.

‘Huh?’

‘Oh, Arbie, can’t you do anything else but stand there looking like a stunned mullet?’ Val said crossly, all but stamping her foot. ‘And can’t you say anything else but “huh” like a … like a … like some idiot who just stands there saying “huh” all the time?’

Arbie swallowed hard. ‘I say, Val. This is all getting rather serious, isn’t it?’ he managed feebly. Although he’d let Val persuade him they needed to investigate and all that sort of thing, the thought that someone really had killed the old girl after all made him feel slightly sick.

Val looked at him resignedly and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Come on. You’d better come over to the vicarage. Father wants a word with you,’ she added ominously.

At this, Arbie swallowed. Hard. But at least he managed not to say ‘huh?’ again.