Murder in the Rough by Otto Penzler

Author:Otto Penzler [PENZLER, OTTO]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780446543880
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2010-03-27T04:00:00+00:00

Bendix lived in a cottage down the River Deben estuary. There, folk frolic in yachts. The pubs are always full of talk about force nine gales and compass bearings, all very nautical. I got a lift from the vicar’s wife. I said I was visiting an old friend’s grave. She offered to help me find it. I told her no, ta, I’d manage.

“I do understand. Spiritual solace.” She went all misty. “How sweet.”

Which left me within a hundred yards of Bendix’s place. I found him sitting on his veranda watching the water. Punts glided by. It was sickeningly serene.

“Wotcher, Benny.” I plonked myself down. He didn’t even turn his head. “Tranquillity like this gives countryside a bad name.”

He turned to inspect me. “Countryside’s the land’s breath, Lovejoy. Vandals throttle it.”

“Never seen you without your bowler,” I said, surprised by his thin wispy hair, gray-white. “What was that crack about golf?”

“It’s on the parlor wall, son. Bring it.”

Apart from a broken mirror there was only a small watercolor painting. I lifted it down and took it to him.

“I knew you’d come, Lovejoy. Recognize it?” As I tilted it for more light he cautioned, “Shade it from sun,” as if we were in torrid desert heat.

“I know, I know,” I said, narked, examining the painting.

Somebody had done it in the style of Victorian watercolorists, highlighting with pastels. The artist must have admired the Rowbothams, a family of old artists. Do the painting, then pick out the areas you need to show more brilliantly. Purists see this technique as cheating, but even great artists used the trick. It showed a landscape, a manor house in the distance, nearby a clump of trees and a small mound. So?

“Only worth maybe a week’s wages, Benny.”

“Any good?”

“No. Want to sell? I’ll talk Shipshape into flogging it at some auction, if you like. Get you enough for a holiday weekend.” I smiled at the thought. “Be waited on, instead of serving others, you being a butler and all.”

He didn’t speak. Squinting, I guessed, “The old De Haviland place at Horkesley?”

He nodded, watching a rowing boat slide through the reeds. Two ducks flew up angrily. The young couple saw Bendix’s cottage, us both on his veranda, and decided to find somewhere else to snog. I waved sympathetically. They ignored us. The ducks settled down, miffed.

“When I worked there,” Benny ruminated, “we had eighteen gardeners, thirteen full-time resident household servants, grooms.”

Funny what a word does. You can’t say the word “servant” now without getting neck prickles, because it proves you’re fascist or something. The word’s only legitimate use is in historical novels, “Ho there, Milady” and all that. But these old servants (sorry) don’t have any such compunction. On the wall near London’s Kings Cross Station is a small plaque recording the lifetime slog of an old Victorian geezer, nominating him as A Trusty Servant of the Company. He was Lord Somebody, no less. See? Prickles and all, I cleared my throat.

“Quite a crowd, Benny.”

“Three months short of fifty years I served the family, from being fourteen.

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