Free Murder on a Summer's Day by Frances Brody

my leave of Lydia Metcalfe, puzzling over the fact that the prince had used a go-between to bribe Lydia’s father into approving a marriage he abhorred.
    The sound of sobbing drew me to a room across the hall. The young chambermaid was huddled over the wash basin, splashing water on her face, and crying piteously.
    ‘Oh dear. Did that ashtray hit you? Let me see.’
    ‘N-o-o-o, it, it didn’t hit me…’
    ‘Then what’s the matter?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’
    Through her sobs, she choked out an explanation. ‘I had some bad news today.’
    I am sorry to say that where a polite person would pretend not to notice distress, a detective must perforce stick her oar in. It is not an entirely hard-hearted practice. The poor girl looked in need of comfort.
    ‘It’s the last straw her flinging the ashtray at me. I was keeping up well. I only cried a bit. I would’ve cried later, on my own time, except he’d hear me and be glad.’
    ‘Who on earth would be glad to hear you cry?’
    ‘My dad.’ She gave in to a fresh bout of tears and sought in vain for a handkerchief.
    ‘Here, take mine.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Sit down. Give yourself time to recover.’
    Whether this was the right approach, I had no idea. Perhaps the Bolton Hall servant had the better way, ordering her young workmate to snap out of it.
    I sat beside the girl as she cried. ‘What is your name?’
    ‘Rachel Simpson.’
    ‘Rachel, are your tears for Osbert Hannon?’
    She snuffled. ‘Aye, and for me an’ all. He should’ve married me. She snatched him from under my nose. They’ll see when she has the bairn. They’ll all know how she caught him.’
    And some of them may resent him enough to kill him. Love, hate, jealousy, they are all strong motives for murder.
    I filled a glass with water. ‘Take a sip, Rachel. You’ll feel better if you tell me about it.’
    I listened to the old, old story, at the same time following another train of thought.
    An old memory nagged at me.
    I had been at a dinner party at Aunt Berta’s. We ladies had withdrawn, ostensibly to play cards but really for a good old gossip. Someone had told a tale about a maharajah who worshipped a sixteen-year-old Spanish dancer. When she refused his advances, he wrote to her father three times, finally offering a hundred thousand pounds if the girl would marry him. It worked.
    Knowing of Mr Metcalfe’s animosity, it made sense for Prince Narayan to use a local man as go-between to offer money to Lydia’s father in exchange for his blessing on their marriage. The prince was used to having someone else take care of his business. Who better than his old school friend, Presthope?
    But what if that old school friend found another use for the money?
    Of course Presthope may have acted honourably and passed on the ten thousand pounds, or the offer of it, to Tobias Metcalfe.
    That may have been the final insult to an independent-minded farmer whose daughter was no better than she ought to be.

Nine

     
    A death and a disappearance. Was there a connection, I wondered, between the drowning of Osbert Hannon and the failure of the maharajah to return to the hotel? What if the crime, if crime there be, arose not because of a practical joke or foul play involving an Indian prince, but because the local Romeo had overstepped the mark, and somehow the maharajah had become entangled? Or because the offer of ten thousand pounds for the purchase of his daughter had enraged Mr Tobias Metcalfe?
    As I walked towards the stable to find Isaac Withers, a bulky, uniformed figure emerged from the police house.
    Even someone without my well-honed detection skills would have recognised the man as the local constable. Stupidly, I had not troubled to ask about him, or learn his name. He had a fleshy, not unpleasant face, with the drooping jowls and liquid black eyes of a boxer dog. His crooked buck teeth gave the unfortunate impression of an ominous smile.
    ‘Constable?’
    He