John Dickens
Eleanor sighed. ‘We can cross Jenny Johnson off, as we know Canning argued with a man, but how can we narrow this down to just one?’
‘It is not as hopeless as it seems, my lady. Mr Singleton and Mr White are both well-known in Little Buckford, so I’m sure someone we’ve spoken to would have recognised them or their voice.’
‘It’s a start.’ She crossed off the two names.
Clifford’s brow furrowed, and then his eyes lit up. ‘If we are to assume that the man Mr Canning argued with three times is the same man, then that man must have also been in the race alongside him.’
‘Brilliant, Clifford!’
Clifford went in search of the list of those who had entered the race, while Eleanor gave Gladstone a tummy tickle.
A moment later Clifford returned, and they compared the two lists. Of the remaining four men on the first list, one, Albert Wainfleet, had not entered the race. Eleanor crossed off his name and looked at the remaining three.
John Singleton
Alvan Moore
Jenny Johnson
Conrad Canning (victim)
Stephen White
Hubert Wraith
Albert Wainfleet
8. John Dickens
She wrote the three names in her notebook under the rough timing they’d worked out earlier for Canning’s death.
‘So now we find out which of these three had a reason to quarrel with Canning and maybe we’ll have found our poisoner.’ She glanced at Clifford and looked back at the original list. ‘I know, it’s not likely to be that straightforward. And, anyway, we’ve forgotten the mysterious woman in the changing rooms. She could have been from Little Buckford or Chipstone as no one really caught sight of her.’
She added ‘Mystery Woman’ to her list.
‘So we have a mystery man from Chipstone and a mystery woman, also possibly from Chipstone, as our suspects. Who’s your money on?’
Clifford coughed. ‘Well, my lady, they do say poison is a woman’s weapon.’
Eleven
The white flakes swirling round in the evening air nipped at Eleanor’s face. The temperature had dropped dramatically in the last few hours and she swore she could see her breath freeze.
At least it wasn’t horizontal sleet, she comforted herself.
As the remaining villagers trotted down the lantern-lit front steps of Henley Hall, they called their final farewells and thank yous and waved exuberantly.
‘And thank you so much for coming. Merry Christmas!’ she called back as the darkness swallowed their retreating forms, the snow muffling their footsteps and chattering voices. Then the world fell silent as nature held her breath lest it spoilt the peace left behind.
Pulling the collar of her sage woollen jacket up round her neck, Eleanor leaned her head against one pillar of the central stone arch. She felt a wash of comfort that the day had gone well, at least in part. That Solemn Jon had discreetly removed Canning’s body to his undertaker’s yard unnoticed had been a great relief.
As if reading her mind, Clifford said, ‘A job well done, my lady. Keeping the news of Canning’s demise from the villagers.’
She straightened up. ‘But, Clifford, it will also hinder us. I mean, unless people know Canning is dead, it’s going to be devilishly hard to investigate his death, isn’t it? I think, on reflection, it will actually be a good thing when it’s out in the open. We’ll be able to tackle this investigation front and centre, as it were. It’s all very well trying to be circumspect and ask leading questions, but as you know, I favour a more direct approach.’
As she walked off, she was sure she heard him groan.
Four hours later, warmly wrapped for Midnight Mass, Eleanor sat on one of St Winifred’s hard wooden pews and wished she’d accepted Clifford’s suggestion to bring a cushion. Despite the chill, however, the small church had a cosy, familiar feel. Built in the twelfth century, the deep ribbed carving on the pointed early Gothic arch threw a long shadow down the stone nave to the simple altar.
She relaxed as she looked at the flickering candles through half-closed eyes and listened to the serene voices of the young choir ascend way beyond the tiny upper balcony. As clear as glass, the innocence and purity of their harmonies were at odds with the events of the day.
She’d trusted Clifford’s judgement and before the service had started, they had informed Reverend Gaskell of Canning’s passing. The reverend had artfully included a reference to Canning’s death in his sermon, without going into too much detail.
As they filed out at the end of the service into the moonlit churchyard, she caught whisperings about Canning and the reverend’s impromptu tribute to the dead man. It had been brief and, to Eleanor’s surprise, rather short on warmth. But Canning’s life had been honoured, however summarily, and respects paid, although she hadn’t noticed any tears being shed on his behalf.
Eleanor stepped to the side of the path to allow the rest of the congregation to shake the reverend’s hand before they set off home.
‘Is it terrible of me to feel something of a weight has been lifted, Clifford? I mean, now that people know Canning died at Henley Hall. If I’m honest, I think I’ve been dreading the news getting out. I so wanted to honour Uncle Byron’s memory and keep the tradition he started. Someone dying the first time I host the event isn’t a great start, is it?’
‘My lady, his lordship would have been proud of the way you ran the luncheon, games and race today. And, as you yourself said, the greatest honour we can afford his lordship, and Mr Canning, is to achieve justice for their passing.’
He gestured towards the reverend who was almost at the end of the line of his parishioners leaving the church.
Eleanor joined them and took both of Reverend Gaskell’s hands in hers as she greeted him. ‘What a wonderful job you did, Reverend. Not just with your uplifting service but in breaking the news of Mr Canning’s death and honouring his memory.’
The vicar’s face clouded slightly behind his round spectacles. ‘Good gracious, dear lady, it is what I am here for.’
‘Well, you’ve lifted my spirits enormously tonight.’ She tilted her head. ‘Christmas means different things to different people, I’ve found.’
The vicar clapped his hands together. ‘And yet we were all united at this special service. I suspect tomorrow, however, will be more material than spiritual based. But our local people work hard and richly deserve some unadulterated rest and recuperation.’
Something tugged at Eleanor’s thoughts. ‘Was Mr Canning a member of St Winifred’s flock when he lived in Little Buckford?’
Reverend Gaskell let out an uncharacteristic snort. ‘No, dear lady, he was not. Despite… well, that doesn’t matter now. But succinctly, no, he wasn’t.’
‘But will you permit the funeral service to go ahead here at St Winifred’s? I’m very happy to cover any costs.’
‘It is not a case of cost, Lady Swift, although I appreciate your kind and thoughtful offer.’
His words baffled Eleanor. ‘So, you’re saying no?’
The vicar sighed, then shook his head. ‘He will be buried here, I’ll see to it. All men have the chance to atone for their misdeeds. Whether they choose to do so or not is between them and their Maker. I am minded of Matthew, chapter four, verse forty-five: “For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.” If the Lord can treat men equally, so must I.’