CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Arbie and Val relived the events of that unpleasant morning, Mrs Brockhurst stepped outside the village shop, her wicker basket packed with that day’s food shopping. She wasn’t in the least surprised to find herself accosted almost at once by a curious villager.

Enid Richardson was an old acquaintance of some years’ standing, so Jane had no choice but to stop to chat. She knew the news about her late employer was all over the village by now, and as a resident of the Old Forge, she had to expect that everybody was keen to know first-hand the latest doings. As such, she doubted she would get home before being stopped at least half a dozen more times by her neighbours wanting to ‘pass the time’.

But at least Enid would be kind about it, Jane supposed, and it would certainly give her kudos to be the one with the latest gossip.

‘Oh, Jane, I was hoping to see you. How are you, dear? It must have all been such a shock for you? The doings up at the Forge?’

Jane put down her basket on the street (no point in having to bear its weight whilst having her brain picked, she thought) and turned to sigh at her friend.

‘I’m all right, Enid. It’s all come out of the blue, as you can imagine. And as you said, such a terrible shock too.’ She spoke the platitudes expected of her with weary patience.

‘And you found her, they say?’ Enid asked avidly. A few years older than Jane, she was wearing her usual skirt with the sagging hemline, and a starched white blouse with a rounded collar. Her long iron-grey hair was in a massive bun held somewhat insecurely at the back of her head with copious amounts of hairpins. It always seemed in danger of collapsing down her back, but somehow never did. A widow of some years, she vied with the shopkeeper for position of village sage.

‘Not quite,’ Jane corrected her wearily. ‘Technically, that was young Mr Swift. Of course, I had to lay her out afterwards. We had no idea then that there was anything wrong, you see. We just thought the poor thing had an episode of some kind in the night, and died in her sleep,’ she added, trying to hide her impatience. She had to get back and set about preparing lunch. It was very well for the likes of Enid to spend all day gossiping, but she had a house full of people who needed watching.

‘Ah yes, your last sad service for her,’ Enid said portentously. ‘I hope she looked … peaceful?’

Seeing the avid expression in her friend’s face made Jane inwardly shake her head. People! They were all the same. Sensation-mongers all of them. Well, there was nothing for it but to give the old gossip what she wanted in the hopes of getting away sooner.

‘Y-yes,’ she said uncertainly. ‘The poor lady would be appalled at all this trouble though. You know Miss Phelps, she was always such a private person. She’d hate being the subject of so much scandal.’

‘Oh yes,’ Enid said, with a sniff. ‘You’d think she had something to hide, the way she was so close-mouthed all the time. Mind you, she probably had, come to think of it. She was no saint, was she?’ Enid looked over her shoulder to make sure that nobody could hear her speaking ill of the dead. ‘Just look at the way she treated you after that little bit of trouble you had. My mother said it was a downright shame the way she …’

Jane felt herself go hot, then cold, and knew she had to shut this silly woman up before anyone else did overhear them. ‘Oh, that old story isn’t still doing the rounds, is it?’ she asked with what she hoped was just the right amount of world-weary amusement. And then, putting a gentle hand on the other woman’s forearm, she added softly, ‘Besides, that was all so long ago now. Why, it must be nearly thirty years if not more. And I always think the past should stay in the past, don’t you?’

Enid nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said, but she was looking at Jane oddly now. ‘Do the police have any idea who might have …?’ She trailed off delicately. ‘It was poison, they say?’ she added avidly.

Jane had immediately been aware of the danger she was in, once the method of death had been established. Overseeing the kitchen from whence all the food and drink was served at the Old Forge, who was in a more dangerous position than herself? The police had already taken away every scrap they could find of the remains of that last dinner party. She had also been thoroughly questioned about the preparation of the food. So far though, she had the impression that the police didn’t suspect her more than anyone else who’d been in the house at the time, but how long would it be before the villagers started to say there was no smoke without fire, and began whispering about her behind her back?

Not long, if she knew village life. And Jane Brockhurst did. Knowing the residents of the village could make her life very uncomfortable if they put their mind to it, she quickly cast around for a sacrificial lamb and didn’t have to think very hard. As she moved a little closer to Enid and lowered her voice, the other woman’s eyes lit up with the expectation of something juicy.

‘Yes, the police have already asked me if I saw anyone hanging around in the vicinity around dinner time that shouldn’t have been there, and I had to tell them that I had.’

‘No! Who was it?’ the woman asked, practically clinging onto the housekeeper’s arm.

‘Who do you think?’ Jane asked, looking around quickly. ‘Who do you know who’s been coming to the house when she shouldn’t, having no legitimate business there anymore, save for making trouble?’

Enid screwed up her eyes for a moment, then gasped and nodded as understanding dawned. ‘Oh! You mean that little madam, Doreen Capstan? I can’t say I’m surprised,’ she said, with a judicial sniff. ‘Not maid material, I’d have thought. Those Capstans are a disgrace. I’m surprised at you for hiring her, Jane.’

‘Nothing to do with me, Enid, I assure you,’ Jane said. ‘It was Miss Phelps who had the final decision. I could have told her, with Mr Murray visiting so often, there was bound to be trouble. Say what you like, Doreen is a pretty little thing, and always happy to turn a man’s head.’

Enid sighed and nodded a woman-of-the-world nod. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘At least Miss Phelps had the sense to fire her when she saw which way the wind was blowing. And you’re saying she was still sneaking in and seeing him?’

‘Yes, I’ve caught her once or twice sneaking into the garden when Mr Murray was up. Including the time I was in the kitchen cooking for the dinner party,’ Jane said. ‘Oh, I quickly went out and shooed her off. But I was in and out of the kitchen, as you can imagine, seeing to a dinner party like that. And the kitchen door isn’t locked until bedtime.’ She nodded wisely.

‘Fancy!’ Enid said, wide-eyed. ‘Did you tell the police this?’

‘Oh yes,’ Jane said flatly. She’d told them all right. And now hoped that she could rely on Enid to spread the word around the village. And the fact that nobody much liked or trusted the Capstans would help.

But she should probably sow some more seeds of doubt around, and to this end, she pretended to look around worriedly, then lowered her voice to a mere whisper. This had the effect of making Enid stand even closer and instilled in her mind that she was about to receive even more pearls of wisdom worth knowing. ‘But the police always say, don’t they, in cases like this, that you should think of the money first. Who benefits the most? And I suppose that makes sense. Most of the horrible crimes you read about in the papers come down to money, don’t they?’

‘Yes, that’s true. So did they ask you about the will then?’ Enid asked, breathing a little heavily now.

‘They did.’ Jane nodded solemnly. ‘Not that I could tell them anything mind. I never talked about Miss Phelps’s business when she was alive and I won’t do it now she’s dead,’ she added firmly. ‘But you know as well as I do about Miss Phelps being such a stickler for tradition. And, what with the Great War, and the flu epidemic, she only had one close male relation left, didn’t she?’

And she felt more of her fear melt away as Enid’s face suddenly lit up with a knowing look. ‘Oh, you mean … he gets it all, I suppose? Her nephew?’

But Jane took the opportunity to pick up her basket and bring the distasteful conversation to a close. ‘I shouldn’t say any more,’ she said. ‘The police have asked me not to talk about things,’ she added, giving the false impression that the police trusted her and that she had their confidence. Seeing the other woman’s respectful look, she nodded and bid the gleeful woman a brisk good morning.

Before long, it would be all over the village that the nephew had killed the lady of the house to inherit her estate – perhaps with the connivance of the dismissed maid, Doreen. And people would be only too willing to believe it, Jane thought cynically. But at least, she would be left in peace.

Reggie had set up his ancient camera in a patch of gloriously flowering thistles in the hopes of getting a good photograph of some bees and butterflies. He was hoping to write and get published a modest but comprehensive volume of the fauna and flora of the Cotswolds (if he could find a publisher) with his own plates for illustration. Right now, he was glad to have something to take his mind off recent events.

With the thick black cover over his head, shoulders and the camera lens, he peered at the upside-down image of a gatekeeper butterfly and clicked the switch, counting down the exposure time. When he emerged from under the black-out material, however, he found himself face to face with an interested Arbie Swift and perked up. Just the man he wanted! An author like this was bound to know a publisher who might be interested in his natural-history project.

But before he could ask, Arbie spoke first. ‘I say, Mr Bickersworth, I had no idea you had a camera with you – and such a … er … beauty too,’ he said, looking at the Victorian contraption with a determined smile. It looked as if it came out of the ark and was nowhere near as good as his own Sico. Swiss made and only one year old, the camera’s unusual wooden casing had attracted him first, though he had quickly come to value it for its relatively compact form and reliability. It took 30 x 40 millimetre exposures with a 1-300 shutter speed, and he’d used it extensively to illustrate The Gentleman’s Guide.

‘It’s a total relic of course, but I’ve found it does produce marvellous plates,’ Reggie said, feeling a little ashamed of the horror. The truth was, the camera had been given to him by a friend clearing out his attic, and he was in no position to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. And at least he was of the generation that could still remember how to use one. Just!

Arbie was not, as some might suspect, totally insensitive, and saw that the old fellow was a little ashamed of his equipment and sought a way to be kind. And, as so often happened to Arbie – who had always had more than his fair share of luck – he came up with something that was also to his benefit. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you take some photographs of the Old Forge for me, could I?’ he asked craftily. For if he had to get on with writing another book (and it was beginning to look as if circumstances were so much against him that he just might), then why not farm out as much of the actual work as possible?

‘I’d be delighted, old chap, absolutely delighted,’ the older man said, for a moment forgetting his sorrows and actually beaming. ‘I say, does this mean you’re writing another Gentleman’s Guide? How exciting!’

‘Yes. I was thinking of concentrating on other tourist spots inland this time. The Peak District and the Lakes. And of course, right here in the Cotswolds. Oxford too has lots of ghosts, so I might go back to my old stomping grounds, what?’ In fact, as Arbie spoke, he was, almost, looking forward to it. ‘And I’ve just bought this rather super cine-camera too. A Hewit-Beaufort, an absolute pip, with a little folding frame finder. It even has an adjustable shutter. Who knows, if I’m lucky, I might actually catch something interesting on film, and give a little moving picture show. I might even branch out into giving lectures and things,’ he added vaguely, having no intention of doing any such thing. It would interfere with his fishing trips for one thing. And for another, it didn’t do to encourage Walter and his publishers, who would probably demand that he did such a lecture and tour as a way to boost book sales.

‘Splendid,’ Reggie said, manfully hiding his jealousy of such fabulous objects. ‘A man needs to be up and doing things, I say. Always trying new things. Take me,’ he nodded happily at his contraption on the tripod, ‘I’m going to write an illustrated natural history of the area. That’ll keep me busy.’

Arbie sensed that he was about to be asked if he could possibly persuade his publisher to take a look at the finished article when the time came. And knowing that Walter would definitely have something pithy to say to him should he bring Reggie’s no doubt worthy, but hardly gripping, manuscript to his attention, he sought a way to forestall him. ‘Sounds like a top-hole idea. But since you’re an artist too, why not sketch and paint your subjects yourself?’

As he’d hoped, the other man was duly distracted. ‘Oh, I’m not sure my little daubs are worthy of mass publication,’ he said sadly. ‘They’re more by way of a hobby of mine. A man must fill his days, that’s what I say, Mr Swift. Of course, when I was your age, my days were filled with much more physical and interesting pursuits. Believe it or not, I used to lead a troop of Boy Scouts!’

Arbie could well believe it, but of course was far too polite to say so. He himself, he recalled now, had been kicked out of the village troop in disgrace by his scout master for some minor piffling matter that had made his uncle roar with laughter and treat him to a chocolate cake in celebration.

‘And before that, I did a bit of mountaineering,’ Reggie went on, perking up as he saw that he’d managed to genuinely surprise the younger man. ‘Oh, not on any of the big mountains, you understand,’ he felt compelled to add truthfully. ‘But the cliffs and smaller peaks here in Great Britain – oh yes. Wouldn’t think of it to look at me now, would you?’ Reggie smiled. ‘It’s all right, you can admit it. I’m a bit of an old duffer these days.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ Arbie said gallantly. ‘I imagine you were a proper rip when you were my age, sir,’ he cajoled.

Reggie chuckled at the compliment, and Arbie, his good deed done for the day, nodded, bade him an amiable good day and went on his way. At least he’d managed to cheer the old soul up a bit.

As Reggie got back to trying to capture the buzzing and flying things that visited the thistle patch, Arbie headed back towards the village, his mind on other things. Although he’d taken quite a few photographs in his time, he was the first to admit that he was no expert and had always had his plates developed by a man he knew in town.

But didn’t photographers use poison during the process of developing? He seemed to have a vague memory that mercury and … yes … cyanide played a part in it somewhere. And he wondered – did Reggie too send out his photographs to a professional? Or did he do his own work in his artist’s studio? Did he have a dark room there? Because, if he did, it would certainly give him unlimited access to poison.

Was it possible Reggie had waited all this time to get his revenge on Amy for persuading her brother Francis to change his mind about leaving Reggie a comfortable nest egg for his old age? But if so, why wait until now? Francis had been dead for some years, after all. And Amy and Reggie seemed to have been mutually fond of each other.

Arbie sighed. It was almost impossible to see the lackadaisical Reggie bothering to lock up the place every time he went out. And since every member of the Phelps household probably knew all about Reggie and his hobbies – which the whole village would know as well – it was odds on that any member of the household could just have helped themselves to something lethal whenever the fancy took them.

Even a relative stranger could have picked up via the village grapevine that an amateur photographer had set up shop (as it were) in the artist’s studio, thus advertising the fact that there were likely to be poisons there, just begging to be pinched and used.

It was not, on the whole, a pleasant thought.