Her travels across the globe had taught her that the most powerful position in the room was a place where one could watch everyone else. As she traversed the smoky low-ceiling space, patrons seated at several tables closer to the center of the room invited her to join them, but she shook her head firmly and continued on. As she approached, Simpkins abruptly shoved back his chair and towered over the second man. He made a fist and shook it in the other man’s face.
“Say that again and you won’t live to say it a second time,” Simpkins shouted.
The voices in the pub fell silent as heads turned to stare at Simpkins. Beryl could feel the anger pulsing between the two men like a live thing. The second man grabbed his pint of beer and stood. He shrugged and gave a little laugh before turning slightly to make sure he could be overheard.
“You must be going soft in the head if you think you could inflict any damage on me. Stick to what you know, old man,” he said, pointing at Simpkins’s nearly empty glass. He turned his back and strode across the room to the bar.
“Who the devil was that?” Beryl asked, handing Simpkins the drink she had brought him before taking a seat.
“No one,” Simpkins said. He lowered himself into his chair and sent a blistering scowl towards the younger man’s back.
“Come now, Simpkins, from what little I heard of your conversation, I assume that you at least know his name,” Beryl said.
“More’s the pity,” Simpkins said. “Aye, you could say that he and I have an acquaintance of long standing.” Simpkins leaned back in his chair and took a long tug on his whisky.
“I confess, Simpkins, I’m surprised to hear you speak of anyone derisively. You’re usually such an affable fellow,” Beryl said. “Do tell.”
“I’m very sorry to say that man is my brother-in-law Hector Lomax,” Simpkins said.
“That’s Hector?” Beryl said. She had heard of Hector Lomax from other people in the village. She even knew that Hector and Simpkins shared a cottage on the outskirts of Walmsley Parva. But what she did not know was that they had had a falling-out.
“I thought you were quite close to your wife’s brother,” Beryl said. “Has something happened to cause a rift?”
“You could say that,” Simpkins said.
Before she could ask for the cause of the familial discord, the publican called for everyone to quiet down. He turned up the wireless, and the results of the Derby were dutifully read aloud.
“Have you made a killing?” Beryl asked Simpkins when the results were in.
“I believe I’ve made a tidy sum, but I am content to wait here until some people have cleared off before I collect my winnings,” Simpkins said. He lifted a knobby finger towards a table in front of them, where Chester White, the local bookie, held court at the center of the room. Men of all types clambered around Chester’s table. Chester sat facing the door, with a well-worn leather ledger spread out before him. One by one, men approached the table to check on their winnings. With no concern for the queue, Hector muscled his way to the head of the line. The pub seemed to hold its collective breath as Chester ran his finger down a column in his ledger.
“Better luck next time, Hector,” Chester said.
“I followed your advice, and look where it got me,” Hector said.
“You know I never hand out advice, at least not where betting is concerned,” Chester said. “Your bets are your own responsibility.”
“I don’t know how you live with yourself, taking money from an honest workingman like me,” Hector said.
“No one is forcing you to place a bet,” Chester said. “Everyone here knows how this works, and with the number of bets you place, you know better than most.” Chester leaned back and looked behind Hector. He motioned for the next person in line to step up to the table. A bearded man with a limp, whom Beryl knew to be Frank Prentice, moved up next to Hector. Hector turned to him and gave him a sour look.
“Everyone also knows you aren’t exactly an honest workingman either,” the bearded man said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hector asked.
“It means exactly what it sounds like. You aren’t above spreading lies to get what you want,” the man said.
Beryl thought she detected a slight wobble in Frank’s gait. Not that she was surprised. Frank was known to have trouble with drink. It was an all-too-common state of affairs and one she attributed to memories of the Great War. Frank was said to drink up the grocery money, but she had never heard he was at all violent. She had made a point of asking around about him after having formed an unexpected attachment to his young son Jack, the paperboy. If she had caught wind of Frank laying a hand on that likable child, she would have made quick work of sorting him out one way or another.
Although she could not blame him for seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle, as so many others had done in the years since the war began, there was no denying that men like Frank were just the sort the temperance movement had used as examples to convince Congress to pass the Eighteenth Amendment, enacting Prohibition. And while Frank was English rather than American, it was not stretching the facts to say men just like him back home were Beryl’s reason for seeking sanctuary in Great Britain until what she considered America’s collective madness was repealed.
Frank reached out and placed a hand on Hector’s back. In the blink of an eye, Hector batted away Frank’s hand and sent him sprawling onto the floor. All the men in the line took a step back and looked away from Frank except for one. She saw several different men elbowing each other or furtively lifting a finger and pointing in Hector’s direction as a bald man with round cheeks leaned over and helped Frank to his feet with one powerful tug of his hand.
“Up to your old tricks, then, are you, Hector?” the bald man said. “Knocking a man down without warning.” He crossed his bulging arms over his broad chest and glared at Hector.
“Do you want to have a go at me too?” Hector said. “We can take it outside as soon as you say.”
“I’ve a mind to finish my drink, but I may just take you up on that once I’ve collected my winnings. Unlike you, I know how to back a winner.” The bald man turned his back on Hector and bent over Chester’s ledger.
Beryl kept her eyes moving over the scene in front of her. There was something in the room she didn’t like. She had met more men like Hector than she cared to remember, and they brought trouble with them wherever they went as surely as Edwina brought her knitting.
Sure enough Hector reached for a chair. He managed to lift it as high as his waist before Bill, the publican, made it out from behind the bar.
“Out,” he shouted. “And you too.” He raised a finger and pointed it at Frank and the bald man.
Hector turned and gave Simpkins a smile before heading out the door. Frank followed on his heels, and the bald man trailed after once he had concluded his business with the bookie. Even Simpkins seemed to have lost interest in his drink. To Beryl’s absolute astonishment, he shoved away his half-filled glass, stood, and shuffled out the door without stopping to collect his winnings.
She would not have believed it unless she had seen it with her own eyes. But there was no sense in letting good whisky go to waste. She finished off the contents of his glass. After all, considering the winner of the Derby, she had cause to celebrate.
Chapter 2
Beryl, as was her habit, was still asleep when Edwina heard the relentless pounding on the front door. Ever since Beryl had moved into the house several months earlier, Edwina had come to value her own lifelong habit of rising early. Back in the autumn she had been desperate for some company, her loneliness a burden almost as crushing as her financial woes.
But even though she found Beryl’s companionship the most agreeable she had enjoyed in all her years, she still valued a small measure of solitude on a daily basis. Beryl never made plans before midmorning if she could help it and often lolled about in her dressing gown until the middle of the afternoon if she had no pressing engagements.
As a result, Edwina had developed a morning routine that balanced her need for companionship with her desire to do as she saw fit without input from anyone else. Edwina needed at least a few hours each day when she wasn’t attempting to ward of some outlandish suggestion or another. While it was true that life with Beryl had proven exhilarating, there was only so much excitement a body could take without a few restorative moments to potter about the garden, read the newspapers, or even simply stare up at the ceiling.
She had just settled in to read the Walmsley Parva Echo at the kitchen table, with two slices of hot buttered toast and a cup of tea, when Crumpet sprang from his basket, dashed out of the kitchen and down the front hallway. Edwina gave her plate of toast a longing glance, then followed her little terrier to the sound of the knocking. She smoothed her hair and cast a quick glance in the hall tree mirror as she passed.
Edwina believed in being prepared for whatever the day might hold, and to her that meant properly dressing before leaving one’s bedroom. Although it was just before eight in the morning, she felt sufficiently presentable to receive a visitor despite the earliness of the hour. Edwina pursed her lips. It was simply not done to pay calls at this time of day. Whatever would her mother have said?
She coaxed Crumpet away from the door and pulled it open with a firm tug. Although her financial position had improved since Beryl’s arrival, she still did not have the necessary capital to make improvements to her beloved ancestral home. The doors that opened under protest, the patches of damp creeping along the ceilings, and the puffs of smoke backing out of the chimney continued to plague her. But perhaps one day she and Beryl would have sufficient clientele from the proceeds of their private enquiry agency to warrant spending the money on the long overdue repairs.
Although it could rightly be said that Edwina would not have welcomed any visitors so early in the day, she was even more displeased to see Constable Gibbs standing on her front step, an official scowl stamped upon her face. Her heart hammered in her chest as she considered the possibility that the constable wished to question her over the incident with the motorcar. Had she committed a crime by motoring around the property without being in possession of a driver registration?
“I know he’s here, so don’t bother denying it,” Constable Gibbs said. She took a step forward, as though she would enter the Beeches without an invitation. Without thinking of the way it would appear, Edwina placed one of her small hands on the doorjamb and created a barrier. Really, she thought to herself, Beryl’s shocking influence was having an effect on her.
“To whom are you referring?” Edwina asked.
Clearly, the constable was not there to discuss illegal piloting of the motorcar. Suddenly, an even more horrifying thought flitted through her mind. She had not seen Beryl return from the pub the evening before. Was it possible that Beryl had not come home unaccompanied? Was there any possibility that the snoring Edwina had heard coming from Beryl’s bedroom had not belonged to her friend?
While she did not like to entertain such spurious notions, the truth was that Beryl was not the most conventional of women. And her interest in and attraction for the opposite sex were legendary. Her string of ex-husbands alone brought a blush to Edwina’s cheeks whenever she considered the sheer number of them. It simply did not do to consider it.
“Simpkins, of course.” Constable Gibbs adjusted her uniform cap and deepened her scowl. “I need to speak to him immediately.”
Edwina swallowed dryly. As much as her upbringing did not allow her to approve of entertaining assorted gentlemen in one’s bedchamber, the idea that the man in question might be her own employee did not bear thinking about. For a moment, Constable Gibbs’s face seemed to fade out of focus, and the world went a bit swimmy. Edwina heard the blood swishing in her ears and felt her stomach grow cold.
A thing like this would be impossible to live down. She could just hear Prudence Rathbone, the local postmistress and sweetshop owner, crowing about Beryl’s escapades to every person in Walmsley Parva who came in to purchase a postage stamp or a pound of Turkish Delight. There was nothing for it. She would have to sell up and immigrate to New Zealand. Crumpet, sensibly, commenced to growl. His resolve snapped Edwina from her dark thoughts.
“Simpkins? Here? I assure you that you are mistaken,” Edwina said. She stood up a little straighter and looked Constable Gibbs directly in the eye. Surely, her suspicions about Beryl and Simpkins represented a brief flight of unbridled and sordid imagination. She really did need to stop reading so many crime novels. It made her unduly suspicious of everyone.
“I have it on good authority that Simpkins has been living here,” Constable Gibbs said.
At that, Edwina felt herself well and truly rally. Beryl might have committed indiscretions and even shown an occasional lack of judgment. She might have even returned home from the pub the night before slightly squiffy, but she certainly would not have moved Simpkins into the Beeches without at least talking it over with Edwina first.
“Whose authority is it that you have it on exactly?” Edwina said. “Simpkins is a jobbing gardener, as well you know. He does not live here on the property, as the gardeners did in my grandfather’s day. Besides, today is not his day to work, not that he does much work, anyway.”
“Half the village informed me that he has been living in your potting shed for the past several days,” Constable Gibbs said. Edwina was so stunned that she took a step backwards, as if to ward off the police officer’s words. Constable Gibbs took this as an invitation and shouldered past Edwina and proceeded down along the hall. Crumpet commenced to bark ferociously once more. He advanced upon Constable Gibbs and clamped down loyally on the back of her sensible leather boot.
Suddenly, Beryl appeared at the top of the stairs. Her dressing gown flowed out behind her, and an eye mask perched on her forehead. Edwina looked up and felt inordinately pleased to find Beryl was alone.
“What is all the ruckus?” Beryl said. “I had rather a long night of it and have yet to catch my forty winks.”
Beryl often claimed never to suffer the ill effects of overindulgence, but Edwina did not agree. While she had yet to notice Beryl complaining of a headache or a sensitivity to noise after an evening bent on merrymaking, she could say without equivocation that excess drink made Beryl snore.
“Constable Gibbs claims that Simpkins has been living in the potting shed. Did you know about this?” Edwina asked. She felt her hands sneaking up to her hips, a vulgar stance but an effective one. From the way Beryl snapped her mouth shut, Edwina realized with discomfort that there was truth to the constable’s claim. “You did know, didn’t you?”
Beryl nodded unapologetically as she sauntered down the stairs. “I knew I had seen him rather less dressed than he ought to have been yesterday morning, when we were having our driving lesson. I knew it would upset you terribly, so I didn’t point it out,” Beryl said.
“You’d best call off your dog before I’m forced to have him put down as a vicious creature,” Constable Gibbs said, shaking her leg with considerable force.
Edwina swooped forward and gathered up Crumpet into her arms. With her head held high, and without a backward glance either for the police officer or for her friend, she led the way through the kitchen and out the scullery door. The morning dew soaked her shoes as she crossed the velvety green lawn. The charming twitter of songbirds refused to gladden her heart as she approached her potting shed.
It had been on her mind for some time to relieve Simpkins of his duties. Not that it would be much of a relief, considering he was hardly burdened by them. The man spent far more time with his hobnailed boots stretched out under her kitchen table, guzzling countless cups of tea, than he did pruning roses or double digging the vegetable beds. This was one outrage too far.
She reached out and depressed the latch on the potting shed door, flung it forward, and stepped inside. There, curled up on a bedroll consisting of burlap sacks and a grubby counterpane, lay her elde
rly gardener. A shaft of light passed through the door, over her shoulder, and onto Simpkins’s stubble-covered face. He blinked twice, then creaked up into a seated position. Edwina was horrified to discover, as the counterpane slid away from his torso, that Simpkins did not bother himself with pajamas.
“Please make yourself presentable. Then join me in the garden. Constable Gibbs requires a word,” Edwina said, then withdrew from the shed and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
It seemed an effort to remember to breathe. She was not sure with whom she felt most angry. The constable, for bringing her news of public humiliation; Beryl, for keeping secrets from her; or Simpkins himself, for abusing her trust in such a flagrant manner. Crumpet let out a slight squeak, and she realized that she had been squeezing him rather too tightly. Refusing to make eye contact with either of the other two women, she bent forward and gently placed her dog on the crazy paving path in front of her. She felt rather than saw Beryl attempting to attract her attention. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on a prized Fothergilla bush that was putting on a quantity of new growth.
Behind her she heard the door of the potting shed opening once more. She spun around to face her errant employee. Before she could open her mouth to question his presence, Constable Gibbs stepped forward and shook her beefy finger in his face.
“Albert Simpkins, I am here to question you in the murder of your brother-in-law Hector Lomax,” she said.
Chapter 3
Beryl had had an uneasy feeling something like that might happen. After all, the scene in the Dove and Duck the evening before had not boded well. And while she was not entirely shocked to hear that Hector had come to a very bad end, from the look on his face, it was clear that Simpkins was stunned.
“Hector’s dead?” he said in a quavering voice. His usually tanned complexion had instantly gone the color of cold breakfast porridge. And although Edwina had built up quite a head of steam, and rightly so, even she seemed to have deflated visibly.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 2