Clifford reappeared, saving Eleanor the need to elaborate for a moment. He placed a silver tray bearing two glasses of Christmas mead, a small carafe of coffee and a plate of warmed mince pies on the onyx table. A sumptuous smell of spiced cinnamon and citrus peel wafted up.
Seldon’s stomach rumbled.
Eleanor waved a hand at the long Wedgwood blue settee designed to fit the exact curve of the tower. ‘Why don’t I tell you what happened first and then you can examine the body on a fuller stomach.’ She paused midway onto the opposite settee. ‘Unless that’s the wrong way round? Maybe an empty stomach is better for inspecting a dead man?’
Seldon tore his eyes from the plate Clifford had placed on the side table next to him. ‘I am rather afraid that after eleven years as a detective my constitution has rather accustomed itself to death.’ He grunted. ‘It’s my thoughts that bear the struggle, however.’
Eleanor rubbed her temples. ‘I feel terrible about it having happened. If I hadn’t decided to hold the race, he would possibly still be with us.’
‘Possibly?’ Seldon reached into his jacket pocket for his leather notebook. He flipped open the cover. ‘Can we start with the basics?’
She looked to Clifford for help.
He stepped forward. ‘Mr Conrad Canning, previous resident of Wendover Lane, Little Buckford, latterly a resident of Chipstone, street unknown to me, regrettably. Age, I would hazard forty-five to fifty?’
Eleanor recounted the afternoon’s events, ending with Doctor Browning’s reserved assessment of the body.
‘There you have it all, Inspector.’
He finished writing, closed his notebook and downed the last of his coffee. He looked at his watch and rose. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me towards where the deceased fell so I can examine the body?’
Eleanor cleared her throat. ‘Ah yes, well, he isn’t exactly where he fell. We, err… might have moved him.’
Seldon pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Lady Swift, I understood that you instructed Constable Fry to call Oxford Police because you felt a doubt lay over the manner of Mr Canning’s demise and yet you moved the body?’
Eleanor blushed. ‘He was lying in the mud, sleet and snow. It seemed awfully wrong to leave him like that. Not much in the spirit of Christmas and all that.’
Seldon shook his head and gestured towards the door. ‘Please, can we just go to wherever you have put him?’
Out in the garage where the undertaker’s wagon had been parked, Seldon lifted the sheet that covered Canning’s body. He checked the neck, wrists, calves and torso. Then he lifted the eyelids in turn. ‘You mentioned that Doctor…’ He referred to his notes. ‘Browning said this man had an ongoing condition and had been advised against running in the race?’
Eleanor nodded.
Clifford appeared at her side, holding a soft, wool picnic rug retrieved from the boot of the Rolls. She gratefully draped it round her shoulders and tried to rub some warmth into her hands.
Seldon snapped his notebook shut. ‘There are no evident signs of foul play, Lady Swift. I’m sorry, but I cannot justify requesting the coroner investigate his death. I’ll make sure his doctor is notified. He can issue a death certificate.’ He pulled the sheet back over the body.
‘But, Inspector…’
He held up a hand. ‘However, if Canning’s doctor has no objection and the coroner has no cases to investigate, I’ll ask him to take a look if he’s amenable. I must warn you that even if he agrees, it will take longer than I’m sure you’d wish. The department has suffered staff and budget cuts in recent months. Politicians seem to think that they can have an efficient, motivated police force on no more than empty promises and empty purses.’
Eleanor stepped forward. ‘Please, hear me out. Something definitely doesn’t add up in how he died. The doctor was ruffled by what he saw… and so was Clifford.’
Seldon scanned her face, his gaze straying to her frost-pinked cheeks. He placed his bowler hat on his head. ‘Unfortunately, an investigation can only be set up based on a piece of evidence, an eyewitness report or—’
‘Clifford and I were eyewitnesses.’
‘Indeed you were. Witnesses to a man falling down dead during an exertive race he’d been told by a doctor not to participate in. Whilst I don’t know the man’s medical history, I suspect he had a heart attack. Until his doctor, or the coroner, verifies anything to the contrary, there is nothing more I can do.’
Eleanor opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. She knew he was right.
Seldon glanced again at Canning’s body. ‘As the deceased has been placed in the undertaker’s wagon, perhaps you’d be kind enough to ask if he could keep the body for the moment?’
She nodded.
‘Lady Swift.’ He turned on his heel. Clifford opened the door and as the inspector strode out, an icy blast pushed its way in and swirled around Eleanor.
She pulled the rug tighter around her shoulders.
Seven
Clifford appeared at Eleanor’s side by the undertaker’s wagon, straightening the sheet over Canning’s body at each corner to smooth out any wrinkles. Fry’s bulky frame loomed in the doorway.
‘Forgive my intruding, m’lady, but Detective Chief Inspector Seldon has left and Solemn Jon has said as how he’ll look after the body until it is collected.’
Eleanor looked at the sodden, mud-splattered policeman. ‘Constable, you have performed your duties admirably and I am very grateful. I would be delighted if you would return to the house and avail yourself of the entertainment and refreshments on offer. Perhaps a warming glass of Christmas mead or two and some hot mince pies?’
Fry’s face lit up. ‘If them’s your wishes, my lady. Mrs Fry and the little’uns are all having such a wonderful afternoon, I could join them. Thank you kindly.’
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open,’ Eleanor added lightly.
‘Ever watchful, my lady, that’s my middle name.’ With the heavy stomp of boots, he set off back towards the house.
Once the constable had left, Eleanor put her face in her hands and shook her head. ‘Clifford, we can’t leave this alone. The inspector’s hands are tied until… no, that is, if the coroner even looks at the body.’
‘Are you proposing we make our own enquiries into Mr Canning’s demise?’
‘No, I’m proposing we stick our noses into every crevice and turn over every stone and find out the truth about what happened this afternoon. A man has died, here at Henley Hall, on Christmas Eve of all days. It may end up being a heart attack but, if we’re correct and Canning was murdered, whoever did it is probably still inside the house.’
‘If you will forgive my offering a contrary opinion, it is more commonplace for murderers to flee the scene once their evil deed has been committed. I doubt many loiter waiting to be caught.’
‘Yes, alright, but someone here might have seen something. Maybe the murderer escaping just before, or after, Canning’s death?’
‘Point taken, my lady.’
She shook her head. ‘And I’m still reeling from what you said about Uncle Byron.’ She winced at his drawn expression. ‘As I know are you, even all these months later. But I do wish I had known earlier.’ She held up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak. ‘Please don’t apologise. I merely meant that I’ve probably unwittingly encroached on your grief time and time again. Like dragging you into several murder investigations for starters.’