The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Read online

  The Tomb

  of the

  Chatelaine

  Karen Baugh

  MENUHIN

  Copyright © 2021 by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  Published by Little Dog Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Front cover: Shutterstock : Scotney Castle by Frank Parolek

  First paperback and ebook edition March 2021

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  A little about Karen Baugh Menuhin

  Chapter 1

  Autumn, season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

  October 1922.

  ‘There’s been a murder, sir! Really, it was a murder.’ Tommy Jenkins called to me as I swung the axe down to split another log.

  ‘What?’ I tossed the wood onto a pile next to me, then straightened up to regard the lad. He’d come running up the hill from the house with one hand on his school cap and a slip of paper in the other.

  ‘Miss Persi telephoned, and you wasn’t there and neither was Mr Greggs, so I wrote it down!’ He waved the paper again, an excited grin on his face. ‘Some bloke died an’ it was supposed to be an accident, but it wasn’t because of the gun.’

  I leaned the axe against the nearest tree trunk, it was late afternoon, we were up in the woods behind my old manor house. Now that autumn was upon us I’d thought to cut logs for winter and there were fallen trees ready for splitting. I’d been enjoying the exercise under a clear blue sky with my little dog and the trill of birds for company.

  ‘Persi rang?’ That caught me by surprise.

  ‘Yes, and she asked if you was home, but I said you was out with Mr Fogg. It was a terrible crackly line, I couldn’t hardly hear what she was sayin’.’ He passed me the ink-spotted paper.

  I straightened it out. He watched with brown eyes, bright with enthusiasm. Tommy was the boot boy; a scruffy lad in grey school uniform, skewed tie and thick dark hair under a crumpled cap.

  I read the message, written in his straggly handwriting.

  Miss Persi said Lord Sinclair’s chauffeur was killed at Lanscombe Park yesterday. It was supposed to be an accident, but she didn’t think it was, on account of the parcel with the gun in it. It caused great constirnashion worry for Auntie and Uncle St George and everyone. I’d like you to come to Lanscombe and investigate.

  ‘How can St George be Miss Persi’s uncle?’ Tommy pushed his cap back from his face. ‘Wasn’t he the knight who killed a dragon?’

  ‘This is a different knight, one of the ordinary sorts.’ I hadn’t actually met Sir Bertram St George but was pretty sure he hadn’t clashed with any mythical creatures.

  ‘It’s a good name though, ain’t it.’ Tommy fidgeted. ‘I’d like to be a knight an’ have armour an’ a sword. I’d go fightin’ monsters and…’

  ‘Where was she calling from?’ I interrupted his excited chatter. Persi lived at Hope House and I didn’t understand why she would ask me to come to Lanscombe Park.

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’ Tommy continued. ‘It must be a long way off. It sounded like it on the telephone.’

  ‘Sussex.’ I muttered, staring at the message. ‘She doesn’t actually mention murder.’

  ‘Aye, but then she said the gun was for Lord Sinclair. I asked her what she meant, but it was all garbled, on account of the cracklin’.’ He was irrepressible. ‘I think it’s jolly suspicious an’ it stands to reason that, if it wasn’t an accident then it must be murder, mustn’t it? That’s why she wants you to go, so you and Inspector Swift can find the murderer, like you always do. An’ it’s better than choppin’ wood, and fishing ‘cause that’s not really doin’ anything and…’

  ‘Swift’s an ex-Inspector now and this hardly warrants a trip from the Highlands.’

  ‘But he’ll want to go, just like always.’ Tommy was almost hopping, a flush to his freckled cheeks. ‘Can I come too, sir, can I?’

  ‘No, and I’m not going either.’

  ‘But… but…’ The grin fell from his face. ‘You have to…’

  ‘I can’t go to Lanscombe Park without a proper invitation,’ I tried to explain. ‘And the local police will have already made investigations, there’s no reason for me to be there.’

  ‘But it’s Miss Persi, sir. She wouldn’t have telephoned if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Look, I’ll telephone her later, or write, or…’ I ran fingers through my hair. ‘Tommy, will you find Greggs and remind him it’s almost time for tea.’

  ‘Oh, sir…’ He was inclined to argue but noted my expression, so gave up and ran back to the house.

  I contemplated returning to chopping wood, but the message was as perplexing as it was unexpected and I had no idea what to make of it. Mr Fogg, my little golden spaniel, had been digging in the blackberry bushes. He broke off when called and came bounding through the trees. My house lay in a shallow vale amid the gentle Cotswolds hills. I wound down through long meadow grass, swallows swooping low about me as the sun dropped in the sky. Foggy raced ahead with ears flapping, he galloped across the stable yard and through the overgrown walled gardens. He was sitting panting on the stone flags outside the front door when I caught up with him.

  Greggs, my butler, wasn’t about, so I had to let myself in. I headed for the quiet of my cluttered library and warm fireside to contemplate the message from Persi, or rather, Persephone Carruthers. We’d had an unconventional courtship, if you could even call it that, various adventures had thrown us together where murder had featured more heavily than romance. I’d fallen for her before really getting to know her and now… and now she wasn’t even speaking to me. Or at least she hadn’t been until the telephone call. I sat down in my favourite chair and pulled out the crumpled note to read again.

  ‘Sir.’ Greggs arrived with a tray of tea and hot buttered scones. ‘There was a telephone message.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tommy gave it to me.’

  He poured tea into a china cup before depositing it on a low table at my elbow, along with scones on a plate. I noticed he had a smudge of dust on the sleeve of his butlering togs.

  ‘I have commenced packing, sir.’

  That made me look up. ‘What the devil for?’

  ‘The investigation, sir.’

  ‘Greggs, what are you talking about?’

  ‘The suspicious incident at Lanscombe Park,’ he intoned.

  ‘But it’s… we don’t… Persi doesn’t even live there,�
�� I objected. ‘I can’t just barge into a place like Lanscombe Park on some flimsy pretext.’

  ‘It was not Miss Persi, sir, it was ex-Chief Inspector Swift.’ His eyes moved to a distant spot above my head, a sign he thought I was being obtuse, or merely idiotic.

  ‘What? You mean Swift rang?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He sounded mildly exasperated. ‘He left information that he would arrive this afternoon.’

  ‘How could he possibly travel from Braeburn in an afternoon?’

  ‘He wasn’t in Braeburn, sir, he was in London. The message was quite clear, I left it by…’ He suddenly stopped and felt in the top pocket of his tailcoat. ‘I, ahem… I may have forgotten to…’ He turned pink and handed me a carefully written note.

  12.30 pm. Telephone Message received from ex-Chief Inspector Swift. “Persi sent a telegram to Braeburn about the death of the chauffeur and the gun in the parcel. Her Aunt and Uncle St George are distressed. She believes it is suspicious and wants us to investigate. I’m leaving London now, we must go to Lanscombe Park. Swift.”

  I read it twice, wondering what the devil was going on. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘He did not, sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I understood Lanscombe Park to be the home of Lord Sinclair.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the St Georges’ old family seat, Persi’s related to them.’ Persi had a great many relatives, as I’d recently discovered.

  ‘And they still reside there?’ He sounded surprised. ‘With Lord Sinclair?’

  ‘Well, it may be a little eccentric, but I’m sure it’s all perfectly amicable.’

  He sniffed, Greggs could be a bit of a stickler for protocol. ‘I believe Lord Sinclair made his fortune in the sale of weapons, sir.’

  ‘He develops them, Greggs. But you’re right, and the war was particularly profitable for him.’ There was an edge of distaste to my voice.

  ‘You encountered him when you were in Sussex, sir?’ He tidied a few books and whatnots I’d left on my desk.

  ‘No, it was his wife, Lady Penelope, who was there.’ I took a sip of tea.

  ‘You mean at the reception prepared for you and Miss Persi when you arrived back from Egypt, sir?’

  ‘You know very well it was, Greggs,’ I gave a sharp reply.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ He straightened up, his chins wobbling above his stiff collar. ‘If you will excuse me, I will complete the packing.’

  ‘No, I’m not going.’

  ‘But… but, sir.’ He stuttered, consternation on his face. ‘Inspector Swift is on his way and Miss Persi… she will expect…’

  ‘Greggs, I have no idea what she expects…’ I snapped, then felt ashamed of my bad temper. ‘I mean, well, she hasn’t replied to any messages I’ve left, or written, or, or…’ I blustered. ‘Look, we should wait until Swift arrives.’

  ‘Very well, sir. If you insist.’ He went off with an air of injured martyrdom. Greggs had been my batman during the war. Upon its end, we’d retreated to the quiet haven of Ashton Steeple where he’d developed a taste for amateur dramatics, operetta and good Irish whiskey. I’d taken to rural pursuits and more recently murder; uncovering it, I mean, not committing it.

  I picked up a scone and shared it with Foggy while contemplating the news from Sussex. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Persi, and I knew it was my fault. I’d tried to apologise, but she was so damn stubborn… and hurt. Recently I’d begun to accept that it really was over… but now this. Quite frankly, it all sounded rather histrionic, and that would be very unlike her. She was forthright, quite blunt actually, and she certainly wouldn’t have telephoned unless it were serious… so perhaps it really was murder?

  A sharp rap on the front door, followed by a shout from Tommy, broke into my musings. Foggy ran off and the hall echoed with joyful woofs and the boy’s eager greeting.

  ‘He’s in the library.’ The lad’s high voice rang out. ‘I reckon it was murder, you’ll make him go, won’t you, Chief Inspector?’

  Swift mumbled something indecipherable in return; various noises ensued, including the clunk of a suitcase being deposited on the tiles, then Tommy rushed in.

  ‘He’s here, sir!’

  ‘Lennox.’ Swift strode into the library, wearing a heavy wool coat over a natty city suit, his dark hair neatly combed above lean features. ‘Are you ready?’

  Typical of the man; always in a hurry.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ I countered.

  ‘Nonsense, it’s miles away, the clouds were barely above the horizon.’ Swift was dismissive.

  ‘The swallows were swoopin’ low, that means it’s goin’ to rain.’ Tommy broke in. ‘They hunt insects, but they can’t go high when there’s damp in the air. The gardener told me an’ I’ve watched them, an’ it’s true!’

  ‘There you are then, Swift.’ I told him.

  ‘It’s hardly…’ The sudden sound of rain pattering on the window panes undermined his objections. He frowned. ‘Right, fine. But we leave at the crack of dawn.’

  He tugged off his overcoat to toss over a chair.

  ‘Tommy,’ I told the lad. ‘Go and tell Cook we’ll have the trout for dinner.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he said, but didn’t go. ‘I’ve started on my Christmas list and I’ve asked for a magnifying glass and a fingerprint kit. Aunty said you can’t have fingerprint kits ‘cause it’s special and only the police have them. Could you get me one, Inspector Swift? ‘Cause I’m goin’ to be a detective an’ I’ll need to have everythin’ proper to find murderers…’

  ‘Tommy,’ I cut in. ‘Go.’ I pointed towards the door.

  ‘Will do, sir.’ He jumped off his chair. ‘But Inspector Swift – will you get it, will you sir?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Swift smiled at the lad. ‘But you’ll have to wait for Christmas.’

  ‘That’s just smashing, that is!’ Tommy skipped off, grinning with excitement.

  ‘No trench coat?’ I remarked.

  ‘Florence said it was becoming worn.’ Swift’s face fell. ‘And the buckle didn’t work.’

  That made me grin. ‘Come on, Swift. Sit down. Why were you in London?’

  ‘I had a meeting about the whisky.’ He dug about in his inside pocket to pull out a small bottle and handed it over. ‘The Braeburn Malt.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I unscrewed the cap and breathed in the fumes.

  ‘Yes, and I must thank you again, Lennox. Your idea to sell our whisky to the London merchants has turned everything about.’ He smiled and dropped into the wing chair opposite me. ‘The distillery has never been so busy and we’re employing more men. Florence is thrilled, even the Laird is impressed. It’s… it’s marvellous.’

  Swift had married Lady Florence Braeburn and given up Scotland Yard to move to the Highlands. It hadn’t been an easy transition for any number of reasons, but the new enterprise seemed to have helped.

  I poured two fingers of malt into tumblers and handed one to him. ‘Is this all you brought?’

  ‘I hadn’t intended coming here until Florence called and told me she’d received the telegram.’ He sounded tetchy.

  I sipped the whisky, it was superb. I leaned back in my chair, Tubbs, my little black cat, emerged from a cozy nook to jump onto my lap, demanding to have his ears rubbed.

  ‘How’s the baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Growing!’ Swift chattered on with news of Braeburn and his and Florence’s baby boy, Angus. I wasn’t particularly listening, but talk of Scotland made him happy. He stopped abruptly, possibly having noticed that my eyes had glazed over.

  ‘What happened in Egypt?’

  ‘What?’ That brought my gaze back into sharp focus.

  He sipped his whisky and waited.

  ‘I… um… we,’ I spluttered, then pulled myself together. ‘Well, we came back together. It was supposed to be a leisurely cruise across the Mediterranean, but the weather was appalling.’

  He cut in, ‘I meant, what happened between you and Persi.’
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  ‘I proposed to her, of course.’ I finished my whisky and poured another. ‘I had to travel the length of Egypt to find her. It was worse than Damascus – unbelievably hot, sand got into everything and nobody spoke a damn word of English until I tracked down the consulate…’

  ‘Lennox,’ he broke in again. ‘Did she accept your proposal?’

  ‘Yes, why wouldn’t she.’

  ‘So, you’re actually engaged?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘No.’

  His dark brows furrowed further. ‘Lennox…’

  I hadn’t wanted this conversation. I took another gulp of whisky. ‘I proposed, she said yes, then she said I should meet her family, because I might want to change my mind. I thought it was nonsense…’

  ‘And…?’ he prompted.

  ‘When we docked in Marseille, she sent a telegram to her parents, telling them the news. We caught the Train Bleu to Paris, which was…’ I paused, recalling the pure joy of travelling in luxurious comfort after the camels and carts of the Middle East, not to mention the heaving ship.

  ‘Was what?’ Swift cut across my dreaming.

  ‘Sublime. The food, the service, the champagne….’ Memories of Persi and I dining together, as the world flew past the carriage, flooded my mind. I sighed again, because it had been rather magical. ‘Anyway, we arrived at Hope House just after dark to find hordes of them waiting for us… it never occurred to me…’ I stuttered to a halt at the memory.

  ‘You’d just become engaged to Persi. Her family were bound to want to meet you.’ Swift remarked dryly. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Just her parents, of course, and I can’t say I was even ready for them. As it was, half the damn county seemed to be there.’

  He seemed more interested in the myriad relatives than my tirade. ‘Persi is a Carruthers, where do the St Georges fit in?’

  ‘Her father is a Carruthers, her mother is a St George.’ I took another drink. ‘Sir Bertram St George is the oldest of eight siblings, Persi’s mother is the youngest. There are dozens of cousins, second cousins and the like and they all…’

  ‘And what about Sinclair?’ he interrupted.

  I tried to recall what Persi had told me about her family while we were travelling through Europe. ‘Sir Bertram’s only son and heir, Randolph, was killed in an accident. His widow Penelope married Sinclair.’