“I’ll take it from here, Constable Wilkes,” Beryl said. “I’m sure you’ve already heard this man’s sorry tale as many times as you’ve any interest in.”
“That’s for certain. I’ll be out front when you’re finished,” Wilkes said. He pulled the door closed behind him, and Beryl felt a frisson of fear as she heard the tumblers of the lock click back into place. She reminded herself she was on English soil, and calmed herself with a deep breath.
“Well, Frank, you seem to be in a bit of a pickle,” she said.
“You’re that woman what’s been in all the magazines and newspapers, aren’t you?” Frank said. “The one my boy Jack goes on and on about every chance he gets.” Frank sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bunk.
“I’m an admirer of Jack’s too,” Beryl said. She gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bunk closest to the door. She crossed one long leg over the other and leaned back against the stone wall behind her. “As a matter of fact, Jack is the reason I am here.”
“Jack sent you?” Frank asked.
“Indirectly. He has hired my partner, Edwina, and myself to prove your innocence. From the preliminary investigation we have conducted, that will prove to be a difficult thing to do,” Beryl said.
“He shouldn’t have wasted the money,” Frank said. “It’s not as though there is enough to go around as it is.”
“We have no intention of taking Jack’s money. But we are committed to helping to find the guilty party, whether it was you or someone else,” Beryl said. “Which leads me to ask, Did you do it?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember much after leaving the pub last night. I certainly don’t remember whether or not I hit Hector Lomax over the back of the head with a shovel,” Frank said.
“The consensus around Walmsley Parva is that if anyone was likely to bear Hector ill will, it was you,” Beryl said. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything at all?”
“I remember stumbling out of the pub and feeling angry. After that things get very hazy,” Frank said.
His shoulders sagged. Beryl wished Jack had a better example as he was growing into a man himself. She could see what Mrs. Prentice might have found attractive years earlier, though. Once, he must have been a fine-looking man. With his jet-black hair and bright blue eyes, he would have cut an alluring figure. Now his eyes were deeply bloodshot, and there was a bit of grey speckling his temples. Although, that might have little to do with his age. She remembered hearing stories of people during the war going entirely grey, or even white, almost overnight.
“Let’s start with something simple. Do you remember going to the churchyard?” Beryl asked.
“Vaguely. Although, I can’t be sure if it was last night I’m remembering or some other time.”
“Do you often end up going to the churchyard after a bout of drinking?” Beryl asked.
“Let’s say I spend an awful lot more time in the churchyard than I do in my own home,” Frank said.
“Even though you were let go from your duties as the sexton?” Beryl said.
“What can I say, I like it there. The residents don’t have a lot to say,” he said. Beryl noticed the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. She saw the hint of a pair of dimples and thought once more she understood why Mrs. Prentice had once found him charming. She could even see a bit of Jack in his face.
“If you spend so much time there, perhaps you could help clear up a different mystery. Have you ever seen who’s responsible for the vandalism that’s been going on there?” Beryl asked.
Again, Frank smiled ever so slightly. He shook his head. “Have I seen the person that’s done it? No,” he said. Beryl caught a teasing note in his voice.
“That sounds like you are slicing things finely. Do you know who’s been vandalizing the churchyard?” she asked.
“Is it likely to help me if I say that I do?” Frank said.
“I suppose that depends on who it is and whether or not they had been seen threatening Hector Lomax right before his death,” Beryl said. “Do you know?”
“I already told you I don’t remember anything that happened last night, after leaving the pub. How could I possibly tell you who had been seen with Hector just before he died?” he asked.
“Are you the one who’s been vandalizing the churchyard?” Beryl said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if you had. After all, few would blame you if you thought the vicar was being unfair in relieving you of your duties. He knew you needed the job and had a bunch of mouths to feed,” Beryl said, hoping her appeal to his sense of outrage would bear fruit.
“So what if I was? It doesn’t mean I killed Hector,” he said.
“Let’s say you are the one who has been damaging headstones and scrawling obscenities on the walls of the church. I suppose if you are willing to do things like that, you wouldn’t stop at using a headstone as a place to tap out your pipe, now would you?” Beryl said.
“If I was the person vandalizing the churchyard, I’m sure that a little thing like that would in no way bother me,” he said.
“So did you tap out a pipe on the headstone near where Hector was found?” Beryl said.
“I most assuredly did not,” Frank said.
“I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything after leaving the pub,” Beryl said. She felt the shiver of excitement she always experienced when she thought she was making progress on an investigation. Then she remembered she did not want Frank to be guilty, and her heart sank.
“I may not remember where I was, but I most assuredly remember the fact that I don’t smoke a pipe,” Frank said. “I never have and don’t have the money to start doing it now.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’re sure about that?” Beryl asked.
“Ask anyone in the village. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I have never been one to smoke a pipe. Before I joined up, I’d smoke a cigarillo now and again, but not since,” Frank said. He tapped his chest with an open palm.
“Gas?” Beryl said.
“My lungs aren’t any good anymore. If I want to stay above ground long enough to see my little ones grow up, I need to steer clear of smoking.”
“If you want to stay alive long enough to see your children grow up, we need to find a different suspect in Hector’s murder. You haven’t been much help,” Beryl said.
“You can’t be more sorry about that than me, can you?” Frank said.
Chapter 11
Crumpet heard the door before Edwina and went tearing off down the corridor, barking. She hurried after him, wiping her wet hands on her pinafore. She had barely finished filling the sink with hot, soapy water in order to do the breakfast dishes when she heard the commotion. At this rate, she would never get a meal on the table before Beryl returned from her visit to the police station.
She pulled open the door and was surprised to see her friend Charles Jarvis standing on the front step. He was accompanied by another man, attired in a similar manner. Both gentlemen wore suits and hats. The stranger carried a gleaming leather briefcase.
“Hello, Charles,” Edwina said.
“Hello, Edwina,” Charles said. “I am very sorry to have disturbed you, but my friend and fellow solicitor, Arthur Pettigrew came down by train from London and was most insistent that we pay a call here at the Beeches. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Certainly not. Do come in.”
She motioned for them to follow her and hurriedly removed her pinafore as she walked down the hallway. She stuffed it into a large porcelain vase as she crossed the threshold into the parlour. As she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hung over the mantel, she reached up and patted a few stray hairs into place.
Although it was in her nature to be hospitable to guests, she vastly preferred to expect them rather than to be surprised at their arrival. She motioned to two upholstered chairs and perched at the edge of the sofa, one neat ankle crossed over the other.
“What brings you by
, Charles?” Edwina said. “I’m sure you are not looking for a game of bridge at this early hour.”
Charles had partnered with Edwina many times at the bridge table to modest success. In the past several weeks, however, he had played with Beryl on several occasions. Edwina had noticed his game improved considerably when matched with her friend rather than with herself.
She had always thought Charles a rather conservative and even dull player, until she had seen him partnered with Beryl. She had been surprised to consider that he had in fact been adjusting his own manner of play to meet hers.
Beryl had suggested on multiple occasions that Charles was interested in partnering with Edwina for more things than bridge. Edwina felt flustered by the notion and dismissed it out of hand every time her friend brought it up. She couldn’t help but hear Beryl’s words rattling around in her head as she sat patiently waiting to hear the reason for the lanky solicitor’s visit.
Charles held his hat in his hands and looked uncomfortable. She noticed he shifted his weight in the chair and cleared his throat several times.
“I’m not here about bridge, and as much as I wish we were, we are not actually here to speak with you,” he said.
“I am afraid Beryl is out at present,” Edwina said. She wondered momentarily if even Charles had fallen prey to Beryl’s considerable charms. She certainly could not blame him. He would not be the first man to do so and surely would not be the last.
“Actually, Mr. Pettigrew is here to speak with Simpkins,” Charles said.
“Simpkins?” Edwina repeated. It was as though she was now running a boardinghouse, like Mrs. Plumptree over at Shady Rest.
“That’s right, Miss Davenport,” Mr. Pettigrew said with a deep, rumbling voice. “I urgently need to speak with Mr. Simpkins on a matter of great importance.”
“I suggest you call in at his cottage. Charles, you know where it is, don’t you?” she asked, making to rise to her feet.
“We already tried at the cottage. Someone left a note pinned to the door, saying he could be found in the garden at the Beeches. Which brings us to you,” Charles said.
Edwina felt her cheeks begin to flame. Had she not ushered Simpkins back to his own home just a few hours earlier? Was it not enough for the people of Walmsley Parva to know he had taken up residence on her property? Would the residents of London need know it too? He must be spoken to at once. She shot to her feet.
“Then I suggest you present yourselves at the potting shed. Despite my best efforts to send him home, it seems he is determined to remain here,” she said. She hoped she had managed to keep the trembling from her voice, but she rather thought she had not.
“I think it would be best if you accompanied us to deliver Mr. Pettigrew’s news, Edwina,” Charles said, struggling to his feet. “I really haven’t the least idea of how he will take it.”
Mr. Pettigrew nodded silently, his small dark eyes crinkled with concern. Really, it had been a most disconcerting day, Edwina thought as she led the pair of men to the garden and rapped sharply on the door to the potting shed.
She was embarrassed to be in the position of needing to knock on her own shed door, but she had no intention whatsoever of encountering Simpkins in a state of undress ever again in her life and certainly not in front of a pair of gentlemen. The mere thought of it made her feel a bit faint. When there was no answer, she rapped again and called out.
“Come now, Simpkins, I know you are within. I have it on good authority that you left a prominently displayed note announcing your intention to return. There is no use pretending you are elsewhere.”
She heard a shuffling, banging noise, followed by a spate of low-toned expletives, which she decided to ignore. If Charles felt there was reason she was needed, it was likely he was correct. Charles was not a man who made controversy where none need exist.
The door creaked open, and Simpkins peered out through the crack with a sheepish look on his face. Edwina placed her small hand firmly upon it and pressed it open farther. Simpkins looked no better than he had when she and Beryl left him earlier that day at his cottage. She doubted very much that he had taken a nap or even had a noon meal.
“Mr. Jarvis has brought a man to see you. He is a solicitor and has come down especially from London on urgent business that involves you in some way,” she said.
She stepped to the side to make room for Mr. Pettigrew, who had placed a large, expensively shod foot in her delphinium border. She supposed he could not help a lack of horticultural sensitivity, considering his city origins. As she surreptitiously inspected the plants for signs of damage, she felt a little sorry for someone for whom the delights of the herbaceous border were so alien a thing.
“Is it correct to assume you are Albert Simpkins, only son of Orelia Judd Simpkins?” Mr. Pettigrew asked.
“That’s me. But I can’t for the life of me guess why you would want to know,” Simpkins said. “Am I in some sort of trouble?” He turned his watery gaze first on Charles and then on Edwina. She hoped fervently that he was not.
“No, nothing of the kind,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “In fact, I hope you will find what I have to impart to be extraordinarily good news.”
Edwina was surprised at the tension she felt in her neck and shoulders. She noticed she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale slowly and silently. Charles turned his head to look at her and gave her a reassuring nod. Perhaps he understood how she felt about surprises and about unexpected news.
She could not say she had survived the war years and the flu epidemic with her previous love of the unanticipated intact. She wasn’t sure that anyone had. Those years had been like an extended period where the hand of fate turned the handle on a jack-in-the-box with excruciating slowness. One clung faithfully to hope, awaiting the barest scraps of news, but there simply wasn’t any to be had. And then, out of nowhere, the lid flew off your world, and a burst of dread broke free and laughed in your face.
No, Edwina assuredly did not like surprises. From the guarded look on his face, neither did Simpkins. She saw his posture stiffen, and he gripped the doorjamb, as if to brace himself for whatever was coming.
“Well, best let me have it, then,” he said. Edwina thought he sounded rather like a young boy about to take a few lashings from his father for some misdemeanor or other.
“I have the very great privilege of informing you that you have been left a substantial inheritance.” Mr. Pettigrew paused for effect, and Edwina felt her nerves stretching even more tautly. He cleared his throat and continued. “In fact, it could be considered a fortune.”
Simpkins looked at Charles and then over at Edwina, as if to ask if some sort of jest was at hand. “You’re having me on, aren’t you, sir?” he asked Mr. Pettigrew.
“Indeed I am entirely in earnest. I am here on behalf of the estate of Colonel Kimberly, who has left you controlling interest in Colonel Kimberly’s Condiment Company,” Mr. Pettigrew said. He popped open the latches on his dispatch case and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which he attempted to pass to Simpkins. Simpkins waved his hands in front of them, as if to ward off the documentation.
“That can’t be right,” Simpkins said.
“I assure you, it is correct. Colonel Kimberly himself had me draw up this, his last will and testament, and you are named as his primary heir. He has left almost everything, with the exception of a few small legacies, to you,” Mr. Pettigrew said.
Edwina felt overcome by a wave of dizziness. In fact, she had trouble catching her breath. Simpkins had grown decidedly grey in complexion, and Edwina was quite certain that had she been able to see her own face, it would have looked much the same.
“Simpkins, have you ever heard of this Colonel Kimberly?” she asked.
“Well, I have a bottle of his brown sauce on my kitchen table and a pot of his rutabaga chutney in the cupboard, but beyond that, I can’t say we’re well acquainted,” Simpkins said.
“Then why in the world would he have left his co
mpany to you?” Edwina asked. She turned to Mr. Pettigrew.
“I suppose it’s because Mr. Simpkins was known to the colonel in some significant way,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “When he asked me to draw up the will, Colonel Kimberly mentioned disbursing an obligation to Mr. Simpkins’s family.”
“That can’t be right,” Edwina said. “Simpkins’s parents were residents of Walmsley Parva. Simpkins grew up here, right along with my own mother. They had no relationship with a London-based mustard monger.”
“I assure you that the inheritance is genuine and that you, Mr. Simpkins, will be a very wealthy man as soon as the estate clears through the courts,” Mr. Pettigrew said.
Simpkins took one last look at each of the people standing before him, then stumbled from the potting shed and hurried as quickly as his elderly and unsteady gait would allow in the direction of the wood at the edge of the property. Edwina started to follow, but Charles laid a restraining hand on her upper arm.
“I expect it’s been a bit of a shock for the poor fellow. He might just need some time to let it all sink in,” Charles said. “As, I’m sure, do you. To tell the truth, Edwina, you look almost as shocked as he did.”
Edwina felt ashamed of herself at the number of thoughts that had run through her head when Mr. Pettigrew mentioned Simpkins’s windfall. The idea that her jobbing gardener was now a very wealthy man beggared belief. This was just one more proof that the social order had completely collapsed. It was utterly unimaginable.
As she watched Simpkins disappear between the trees, she wondered whom she was possibly going to get to help out in the garden now.
Chapter 12
Beryl walked home from the village, lost in a fog of thought. So far, things looked very black indeed for Frank. His wife did not feel she could vouch for his character or his whereabouts. He himself remembered nothing of the time in question. The only clues that pointed at other possible motivations for the crime were a bit of pipe ash and Hector’s flaming disputes with other residents of the village not long before he died.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 8