Murder in a Cathedral City: Agnes Bell Murder Mysteries, #1

By Roger Butters

Murder in a Cathedral City

The First Agnes Bell Murder Mystery

Early in the morning of the last day of 1842, in the middle of the small midland community of Churchfield, nominally a city because of its impressive cathedral, there is found the body of a murdered stranger, shotgun by his side, a finger clutched around the trigger in an attempt to suggest suicide. Nothing of the sort has occurred within living memory.

The enquiries of Constable Buckingham lead him to the household of Elijah Lightfoot, respected banker and pillar of the local community. It soon becomes clear that not only Lightfoot himself but most of his family and their acquaintances have guilty secrets to conceal: adultery, fraud, blackmail, even a taste for pornographic pictures. Which of them knew and had reason to fear the dead man?

Yet not every member of the Lightfoot household is corrupt. The exception is their young governess, Agnes Bell, despised by her employers, reduced to despair by the antics of their monstrous children, and grieving over the recent death of the man she loved. As a means of partial excape from her misery she sets herself the task of uncovering the truth.

Physically delicate and agonizingly shy, Miss Bell is nevertheless a more formidable young lady than she appears. As the cosy and complacent world of the Lightfoots disintegrates into a nightmarish scenario of financial ruin, social disgrace and violent death, it is Miss Bell, steadfast in her pursuit of the truth, unafraid of death, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to Anne Brontë, who finally succeeds in her perilous and near-fatal quest for the murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Butters
• Release date: Oct 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393573920

Roger Butters

Roger Butters is a native of Stafford, where he still lives. At various times, he has tried his hand at aviation, owning racehorses, and Shotokan Karate. Altogether he has published over a dozen novels.

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The First Agnes Bell Murder Mystery

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Roger Butters

Copyright © 1995 Susan Coffey, © 2019 Roger Butters.

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The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of research or private study, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, with the prior permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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ISBN

Cover design: Andy Gibson

Principal Characters

The Lightfoot Family and Household:

Elijah Lightfoot, a banker

Gertrude Lightfoot, his wife

Rosamund Lightfoot, their elder daughter

Arthur Lightfoot, their elder son

James Lightfoot, their 8-year-old son

Betsy Lightfoot, their 6-year-old daughter

Joan Martindale, Mrs Lightfoot’s sister

Godfrey Martindale, her husband

Millicent Ashton, her daughter

Agnes Bell, a young governess

Saggers, the butler

Big John, a footman

Shorthouse, coachman

Peggy, housemaid

Their Friends and Acquaintances:

Captain Montague Curzon, Midshire Yeomanry

Edward Ferris, Curate of St Mark’s Church

Mrs Ferris, his mother

Richard Tyrrell, solicitor

Churchfield City Police:

George Buckingham, constable

Robert Shenton )

Ferneyhough  ) his assistants

Treadwell  )

Dobson  )

Others:

Hurst, Tyrrell’s senior partner

Josiah Bartlett, factory worker

Marshall, coachman

Dr Rowley, physician

Harper, landlord of the Duke of York Inn

Lumley, shopkeeper

Wood, landlord of the King’s Head Inn

Moses Downing, Rockfast Insurance Company

I

EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Master James Lightfoot must have been the most loathsome child in England. At least, so thought his long-suffering governess, Miss Bell. Not only did he embarrass her at every opportunity by pulling faces, spitting, breaking wind, and generally behaving in the most anti-social manner imaginable, but his language was the worst she had ever heard, from child or adult. In this respect Miss Bell, brought up in an industrial village in the West Riding, was somewhat less innocent than many Victorian young ladies, albeit equally easily shocked. Worse still, his principal form of amusement seemed to be the infliction of pain upon any creature weaker than himself. Within days of Miss Bell’s first arrival there had been a particularly sickening incident when she had had to kill a nest of young blackbirds herself to save them from his clutches.

Just when she had thought his behaviour impossible of further deterioration, he had devised for her the nickname of ‘Ding-dong.’ Not content with this witticism, he frequently added the word ‘dung,’ the meaning of which he had only recently discovered.

His six-year-old sister, Betsy, was almost equally impossible, responding to any attempt to instruct her by flinging herself to the floor and collapsing like a rag doll when Miss Bell tried to raise her to her feet. Fruitless attempts to enforce discipline were met with howls of tearful protest and resort to her parents, who invariably sided with their offspring against their increasingly desperate employee.

Whereas Betsy drew the line at physical violence, Master James did not, and many times Miss Bell was forced to restrain him from kicking and striking her in his tantrums. Nor did she always succeed. Several times she had gone to bed nursing cuts and bruises from the day’s encounters with him. It would have been more than her job was worth to strike back, for the Lightfoots, like all liberal-minded parents, were firmly opposed to any form of corporal punishment.

Not surprisingly Miss Bell was a deeply unhappy young lady. On the penultimate afternoon of 1842 she was particularly so, not entirely on account of her sufferings at the hands of the Lightfoots. She had just returned from spending Christmas with her family, which normally would have provided a refuge from her troubles. Yet at this cheerless time of year, the bleak parsonage, with an ageing and ailing father, no longer provided Miss Bell with much solace.

Life there had not always been so desolate. For a young man had arrived two years ago, a new curate, who had brought sunshine into the often dreary lives of the villagers, and more particularly into that of Miss Bell. Then last September there had been an outbreak of cholera, and a marble slab in the parish church bore mute witness to what might have been.

Miss Bell had not cried for the young man, having been brought up to regard tears as a sign of weakness, and rebellion against the will of heaven. Her family had said nothing, evidently under the impression that to do so would aggravate her grief. Yet everything at home had contrived to remind her of him: the wild moorland he had walked, the church where he had preached, even her own dog, Floppy, whom he had got to know so well. Yet it was home for all that, and despite its melancholy associations vastly preferable to the elaborately decorated Trent Lodge, the Lightfoots’ country residence, with its paper-chains and lanterns, festive preparations, and, in keeping with the latest fashion, a Christmas tree in the living room.

‘Residence‘ was the right word for Trent Lodge. Certainly, according to Miss Bell’s definition of the word, it was not a home. If any member of the Lightfoot family felt much affection for any other, it was far from apparent. As for Miss Bell, reserved by nature, isolated as neither a member of the family nor a servant, she found herself with nowhere to turn for company but her diary and the occasional letter from her sisters. Even when replying to them she took care to conceal the full extent of her misery, for they had opposed her taking this post in the first place, and Miss Bell was obstinately determined neither to admit defeat nor even hint at the possibility by complaining of her lot.

There remained one final sanctuary, the church. Naturally devout, and raised by a father in holy orders, Miss Bell not surprisingly had increasing resort to prayer; and if she found this a less than totally satisfactory solution to her problems, she never failed to blame such lack of success upon her own shortcomings of character rather than the Almighty.

This evening, a Friday, the Lightfoots were giving a new year house-party for family and close friends. It was due to continue throughout the weekend, a prospect filling Miss Bell with dread. Loneliness on her own she had learned to cope with; loneliness in the company of others was intolerable. A small remission of her sufferings was provided by the imminence of the new year, Mr Lightfoot being required to work late at his bank, so that his guests had been asked not to arrive before mid-evening.

There was one other mitigating feature. The vicar of St Mark’s, the insufferable Reverend Augustus Podmore, and his even more tedious wife and children, had sent their apologies on the grounds of Mrs Podmore’s alleged ill-health: her ‘spasms’ as she called them. The normally tender-hearted Miss Bell found herself in less than total sympathy with anyone who made such a performance out of her sufferings. Born into a consumptive family in one of the most unhealthy parishes in the country, and prone to persistent and serious respiratory problems, Miss Bell had long since come to terms with the prospect of a total lifespan considerably shorter than that which the middle-aged Mrs Podmore had already enjoyed.

A few minutes before seven, a full hour earlier than expected, there came a knocking at the front door. Miss Bell felt her heart sink.

‘Ah, Tyrrell,’ she heard the affected drawl of Arthur, the Lightfoots’ elder son. ‘Come to see the guv’nor, have you? Not back yet, I’m afraid. Fancy a game of billiards while you’re waitin’ ...?’

It could have been worse. For Mr Tyrrell was not a guest, but junior partner in the firm of Hurst and Company, the Lightfoots’ solicitors. He had called at Trent Lodge twice before, first with his superior to take instructions for Mr Lightfoot’s will (anyone of such eminence not being expected to travel to his solicitors’ offices), the second time alone, to attend to its execution. Miss Bell had then been required as a witness, without knowledge of the will’s contents, which in any event were of not the slightest interest to her.

The voices receded towards the billiard-room, where from time to time she could hear Arthur’s voice braying in triumph or complaint. She found the sixteen-year-old Arthur the least objectionable of the Lightfoot children, largely because she had little to do with him. He was currently attending Rugby School, where he would return after the holiday, and eventually go on to Oxford, where if his mother was to be believed he was destined to become the foremost scholar of the age. In Miss Bell’s view he showed little propensity for anything save drink and gambling, but to judge from the example of her own brother, she imagined most young men of his age and station in life were inclined to behave similarly.

There remained Arthur’s elder sister, Rosamund, who had attained her eighteenth birthday earlier in the month and thus been removed from Miss Bell’s nominal authority. A pretty, trivial-minded, spiteful girl, thoughtful of little but her supposedly devastating effect on the opposite sex, she would occasionally condescend to allow Miss Bell to teach her accomplishments which might be of advantage to a well-bred young lady, such as music, French, or sketching. But since she would never accept the smallest correction, however moderately expressed, her progress was lamentably slow. Seeing her talents so inadequately manifested, her parents naturally cast the blame on Miss Bell.

Several times she had thought of giving notice. It was not monetary consideration that stopped her, the wage of twenty pounds a year being derisory even for an impoverished vicar’s daughter. Rather it was an obstinate refusal to admit failure, in the eyes of her family or herself. Both her sisters had given up when similarly placed; she was determined not to do so. And it being her first post, she had no means of knowing whether the Lightfoots were better or worse than the average employer. For their part they had no scruples about informing her repeatedly that she was far and away the least satisfactory governess they had ever had. Deeply hurt the first time she had been told this, Miss Bell had recently taken to consoling herself with the reflection that they were evidently unable to obtain anyone better for the same money.

Mr Lightfoot did not return until after eight, by which time his son had departed for an undisclosed destination, in moderately ill humour at having lost half a sovereign to Mr Tyrrell at billiards. Whether he intended to incur his father’s wrath by absenting himself for the evening meal Miss Bell could only surmise. So far as she was concerned the fewer persons present the better.

It was a quarter past eight by the time Mr Tyrrell was summoned to his client’s study. Within five minutes Miss Bell heard her employer’s voice raised in anger; another five saw the visitor on his way. ‘Saggers!’ she heard as the front door slammed to. ‘Inform all the servants that Mr Tyrrell is on no account to be admitted in future. Should he try to obtain entry, he may be removed by force.’

Having met Mr Tyrrell but once in her life, and then for less than two minutes, Miss Bell knew nothing about him, but could not resist a twinge of satisfaction that for once there was someone in even lower standing with the Lightfoots than herself. Guilt for this unworthy sensation was soon replaced by a measure of fellow-feeling for the recent visitor, who presumably now found her employers as dislikable as she did.

Miss Bell hurried to the bow window and knelt on the seat, watching the lawyer’s slim figure striding along the drive to the gatehouse without a backward glance. What could the trouble have been? However crass a blunder by one’s legal adviser, one did not usually respond by barring him from the house and threatening him with physical violence. A personal matter seemed more likely, for according to Miss Lightfoot, on the occasion of his first visit Mr Tyrrell had fallen passionately in love with her. It might be something to do with that, a possibility  lessened, however, by the fact that Miss Lightfoot claimed as much for the majority of young men of her acquaintance.

A quarter of an hour later came another knock at the door. Miss Bell glanced at the watch she wore at her waist. Seventeen minutes to nine. Her ordeal was about to begin.

II

FIRST to put in an appearance was Captain Curzon of the Midshire Yeomanry, primarily a friend of Arthur’s, though at home in any company so long as he was assured of plenty of attention, which he attempted to achieve by arriving resplendent in full dress uniform. Miss Bell, who in any case did not consider the yeomanry real soldiers, mentally classed him as the male equivalent of Miss Lightfoot: flashily handsome, and over-confident of his appeal to the opposite sex. He treated Miss Bell much as he did everyone else, dominating any dialogue in a manner he was perfectly welcome to do so far as she was concerned. At least there was never any danger of a conversation with him foundering in a silence of mutual embarassment.

Arthur returned soon afterward, Miss Bell speculating that he might have accompanied his friend upon some nefarious activity, returning separately to allay suspicion. He received black looks from his father, but no overt comment.

Twenty minutes later arrived Mrs Lightfoot‘s sister, Joan Martindale, and her husband Godfrey. Mrs Martindale was a few years her sister’s junior; a small woman, plain of face but trim-figured, hair carefully curled and dyed, and much given to discussion of the latest fashions and feminine trivia. In this she differed profoundly from Miss Bell, who, faced with the simple choice between two dresses of plain governess-grey, had never really wished for much else.

The lady’s husband, a former clerk in the Lightfoot bank, seemed something of a nonentity. Arrived in Churchfield a few years ago from down south, he had wasted no time in courting and marrying his employer’s widowed sister-in-law. To his financial advantage, for Mrs Martindale was originally a Woodhouse, one of the best county families, and her deceased husband, Colonel Ashton, had been, to say the very least, extremely comfortably off.

In other words she had married beneath her, nor did she ever allow her husband to forget it. One thing married couples should not do, in Miss Bell’s opinion, was contradict one another in public. Joan Martindale did so all the time, usually accompanied by the thinly-veiled suggestion that her spouse could not approach the merits of his predecessor.

For whatever the relations between Mrs Martindale and her first husband during his lifetime, following his death he had become in the eyes of his relict a nonpareil. After distinguishing himself as a young lieutenant with the 18th Hussars at Waterloo, he had later shone not only as a hunter, traveller and explorer, but a diplomatic éminence grise, being a particular friend of the Duke of Wellington.

With this Mr Martindale could not compete, though he seemed to have worthy enough qualities of his own. According to servants’ gossip, which Miss Bell could not help but occasionally overhear, he had been an invaluable aid to Mr Lightfoot before unexpectedly leaving his employ and going to work for his arch-rivals, Parker and Grattage. There he had obtained a junior partnership within the year, so evidently the new post had held better prospects of advancement.

There seemed however no animosity between him and his former employer, who never ceased to compare his abilities favourably with those of the present inept incumbent of his office. When meeting, they appeared as friendly as their reserved natures permitted, though given to the exchange of opinions upon business and financial affairs beyond the understanding of Miss Bell. For this she was grateful, for no-one expected ladies to join in discussion of such topics as bank rates, note issue, reserve funds, taxation and similar fiscal matters.

The Martindales were accompanied by Colonel Ashton’s daughter Millicent, a podgy, charmless fifteen-year-old, whose main preoccupations in life seemed to be horses and grumbling about her step-father’s meanness. Last time Miss Bell had seen her, she had been swaggering about the stable-yard in breeches, slapping her thigh with a riding-crop and expressing herself in the most unladylike manner. This evening it must have taken some effort on her mother’s part to prevail upon her to wear a pinkly feminine party dress which did little for her dumpy figure.

The absence of the vicar resulted in his curate, Edward Ferris, being invited in his stead. Last to arrive, having been delayed by choir practice, he was accompanied by his widowed mother, whose sober dress belied her foolish, gossipy nature. In contrast to his voluble parent, Mr Ferris was to remain practically mute with shyness all evening.

The dining-room table was laid for thirteen, amidst an intimidating array of cutlery and a plethora of paper decorations. The butler Saggers, a couple of maids and the footman John, pressed into service as a waiter, hovered about in an obsequious manner better suited to a civic banquet than an informal family gathering. Mrs Martindale had the honour of being escorted in to dinner by her brother-in-law, whilst any suggestion of a snub to the church was avoided by his wife accompanying Mr Ferris. Captain Curzon wasted no time in squiring Miss Lightfoot. Arthur was obliged to look after Milly Ashton, abandoning her as soon as they got to table to fawn on his friend the captain, flattering his vanity, laughing as his feeblest witticism, and altogether conducting himself in what Miss Bell considered a remarkably sickening manner. This left a morose Mr Martindale to cope with Mrs Ferris’s torrent of conversation by the simple expedient of ignoring her. For her part Miss Bell found herself fully occupied with the children, who as she had feared proved disastrously inclined to show off in public and render the futility of her attempts at discipline only too apparent.

‘Either eat your pudding, James, or leave it,’ she said. ‘But don’t play with it like that.’

James responded with a disgusting noise made by blowing between his lips and tongue, whereat Captain Curzon, who was sitting next to him, laughed heartily. Miss Bell momentarily warmed to Mr Martindale as she intercepted a glance of the deepest loathing pass from him to the boy.

‘That’s very vulgar, James,’ she said. ‘I never want to hear you do that again.’

‘Not as vulgar as this,’ said James. For one ghastly moment she feared infringement of the ultimate social taboo, and was positively relieved when he confined himself to pulling a hideous grimace, crossing his eyes and dragging down the corners of his eyes and mouth with his fingers.

‘And stop that too. It’s not the least bit funny.’

‘I’d like to see you stop me, Ding-dong. You’re nothing but a hired governess. All governesses are pathetic. No man wants anything to do with them, so they finish up as Old Maids.’

‘That’s quite enough of that, James,’ said his father, breaking off a one-sided conversation with the uncommunicative Mr Martindale about the government’s rumoured intention to continue the insupportable practice of an income tax. ‘Apologize to Miss