A Quiet Life in the Country (Lady Hardcastle Mysteries #1)
T E Kinsey
For my family and friends.
For all the missing evenings and weekends.
Thank you for your love, patience, help and indulgence.
ONE
The Body in the Woods
A quiet life in the country, that was what my mistress had wanted when she moved us from the smart apartments in London to the newly-built house just outside Littleton Cotterell in the summer of 1908. Life in Gloucestershire, she had said, would be peaceful and uneventful. Bristol was just a short train journey from the nearby market town, she had promised, so we’d not be cut off entirely from civilization, but she had also assured me that there would be calm after the years of adventure (and occasional terror). She would finally be able to relax. And to rest. To take it easy. No more rushing about.
And so it was that we were up shortly after dawn on our third day in the village, walking the lanes and the fields, energetically exploring our new home. We’d already met Toby Thompson, the scarlet-faced, curly-haired, barrel-chested dairy farmer. His curiosity at seeing a “lady from up London” striding across his lower pasture with her lady’s maid in tow had caused him to stop driving his herd towards the milking shed and come over to speak to her. The cows, indignant at this interruption to their routine, began lowing irritably. Some plodded towards their usual morning destination, drawn on by the promise of the relief of milking, while the others milled around, leaderless and lost. Mr Thompson was oblivious, keen instead to make the acquaintance of his new neighbour.
Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged but my own attention was entirely held by the confused and disgruntled cows so I heard nothing of their conversation until I saw him pointing to the woods about half a mile distant and saying, in his unfamiliar West Country burr, ‘I reckon they woods’ll be a nice walk this time o’ the mornin’, m’lady. It’s a beautiful day. I often goes into the woods for a bit o’ peace and quiet of a summer’s mornin’ once the milkin’s done.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thompson,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I believe I shall do the same.’
‘Right you are, then. You ’ave a good day, m’lady, and don’t forget to drop by if you needs anythin’. Our ma’d be ever so pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’
Lady Hardcastle expressed her delight and thanks and we set off across the pasture towards the dense stand of trees.
As we entered the woods, I looked back across the field we had just crossed at our tracks through the dew-damp grass. I had a sudden jolt of panic at leaving such an obvious trail, but just as quickly I remembered that we no longer had to worry about such things. No one had wanted us dead simply for being English for a number of years now. Indeed, here in Gloucestershire “English” was rather a desirable thing to be, but “old habits...” and all that.
Ahead of me, Lady Hardcastle stepped nimbly over a patch of mud and turned back to me. ‘Keep up, Armstrong,’ she said with a smile, ‘and watch out for the mud.’
‘Yes, m’lady,’ I said in my best approximation of the local accent as I hopped across the miniature mire. I checked behind us again as we made our way farther into the dimness of the wood.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, ‘do stop acting like a blessed bodyguard, you’ll upset the natives. You’ve been looking for pursuit since we left the house.’
‘Sorry, my lady. It’s just...’
‘I know, dear.’ She reached out and touched my arm reassuringly.
The morning sun was struggling to have much of an influence on the world beneath the canopy of rich green leaves. The dark ground beneath our boots was soft and damp and the air was surprisingly chill; I began to wish I’d thought to put on a jacket, or at least to have brought my shawl.
Lady Hardcastle resumed her enthusiastic descriptions of the local plant and animal life. She had a passion for the natural sciences which she never tired of trying to share with me, but I confess that despite her best efforts I was still unable to tell a beech tree from a beach hut. There were the obvious difficulties one might have in getting into a bathing costume in a beech tree, of course – at the very least there would be issues of balance and of being poked by errant limbs. Though thinking about it, an errant limb can be a problem in a shared beach hut, too. My laugh brought a questioning look and I was was about to share my observations when we broke through into a beautifully sunlit clearing.
‘And in the centre of the clearing, my dear Armstrong,’ she was saying, without apparently having broken her conversational stride, ‘we have... I say.’
‘A dead body, my lady?’ I said.
‘I was going to say, “a magnificent English oak”,’ she said, somewhat distractedly, ‘but the body is definitely the more arresting sight.’
We stepped forward to take a better look. There, in the centre of the clearing, was a magnificent oak tree; a rather old one to judge from its girth. Hanging by its neck from one of the elderly tree’s lower limbs was the body of a man.
We approached. It was a youngish man, perhaps in his late 20s, dressed in a neat, dark blue suit of the sort that might be worn by a clerk. And he was most definitely dead. Even without Lady Hardcastle’s scientific education I knew that being suspended by the neck on a length of sturdy rope wasn’t conducive to long life.
A log lay on its side beneath his feet and I immediately had the image of the poor despairing fellow teetering on it with the rope around his neck before kicking it aside and bringing an end to whatever troubles had tormented him.
Lady Armstrong interrupted my thoughts. ‘Give me my bag, dear, and hurry back to the village. Rouse the sergeant and tell him we’ve found a body in the woods,’ she said, calmly but firmly. ‘We’re not too far from the road,’ she said, pointing. ‘That way, I think.’
I took the canvas bag from my shoulder and passed it to her. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, my lady,’ I said as I struck out in the indicated direction.
Lady Hardcastle was right, and the road back into the village was just a few hundred yards through the trees. My sense of direction has never been the best but I managed to make the correct choice when I reached the road, turning right and heading at a brisk trot down the hill.