She had been too worried and too busy on her earlier visit to notice the disarray. While it was true that the cottage had been untidy the day before, this morning it appeared absolutely ransacked. Edwina could not believe she had not noticed it before.
“You didn’t do this, did you?” Beryl said, pointing to a refuse bin in the kitchen that had been overturned and its contents spilled across the floor.
“Certainly not,” Edwina said. “As a matter fact, this is the first I noticed it.”
As Edwina looked around, she noticed that cupboard doors sagged open and items were strewn about haphazardly. She proceeded from the kitchen into the parlour, where the mess was also noticeable. Once again a wastepaper basket was tipped out. Ashes in the fireplace had been raked forward and spilled across the hearth, as though someone had been examining them for the remains of something burnt.
“How bizarre,” Beryl said. “You say the fire was in the bedroom?”
“Follow me,” Edwina said. She led the way into the small bedchamber and pointed at the brass bed, with its sodden heap of clothing piled in its center. She took a moment to glance over at the dressing table, where a photograph of a young woman and a young man wearing their Sunday best stood. She crossed the room and lifted the photograph in its frame for a closer look.
To her surprise, she was staring at the face of a far younger Simpkins. He had been handsome in a way, she had to admit, with his clear, steady eyes and strong jaw. The woman in the photograph looked up at him adoringly. This must be a youthful version of his beloved wife, Bess.
“This must be Simpkins’s room,” Edwina said, holding the photograph out to Beryl.
“Why would anyone want to deliberately set fire to this cottage?” Beryl asked. “And were they trying to send a message to Simpkins?”
Chapter 25
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Edwina said.
“I should have thought Hector would be the one more likely to have created enemies intent on ravaging his property,” Beryl said.
“Are you thinking of Clifford Hammond?” Edwina asked.
“He would be in the best position to start the fire without being detected, since all he had to do was cross the property line and sneak inside,” Beryl said. “And he would have been in a good place to observe whether or not there was anyone at home at the time of the break-in.”
“Do you really think he would have risked damage to his own property by lighting a fire on the neighboring one?” Edwina asked. “After all, if anyone would know how dangerously dry the conditions are, it would be Mr. Hammond.”
“He seemed concerned about a crop failure for this year as well as into the future. Do you suppose he subscribed to some sort of insurance scheme?” Beryl said.
“Surely you don’t think he would be likely to risk his own livelihood for the future by burning his property for an insurance payout?” Edwina asked. “Or that he would do something so unfeeling to all his plants.”
Edwina thought of her own gardens and the plants housed within them, and her heart gave a wrench. She could not bear to think of the hardship Mr. Hammond’s trees and bushes were forced to endure. Edwina had an intimate knowledge of each of her own plants and looked on them almost as members of her family. She could not imagine another gardener being so brutish as to consign his charges to wholesale slaughter. The very notion was barbaric.
“I am sure I cannot say, but from the looks of his plants, this year’s crop is unlikely to yield a profit. Men do any manner of unexpected things, should they become desperate enough.” Beryl turned her attention to the clothing on the bed. “If it wasn’t him, then who would have done it, and why?”
“We know it wasn’t Simpkins, because he was tucked up in the spare room at the Beeches all night. And there is no reason he should wish to destroy his own home that I can see,” Edwina said.
“Frank could not have done it, since he spent the night under the watchful eye of Constable Gibbs,” Beryl said.
“You don’t think it could’ve been one of Frank’s family members, do you?” Edwina asked. There was something quite mischievous about the whole situation. Could it have been the work of a child, like Jack?
“I suppose we cannot dismiss the notion that someone from the Prentice family was involved, but I can’t see what they would have to gain by setting a fire, can you?” Beryl asked.
“Who is to say anyone has to gain by what occurred here? Isn’t it possible that somebody was just venting their spleen?” Edwina said.
“Anything is possible, I suppose, but I prefer to work from the theory that unusual happenings connected to a murder are unlikely to be a coincidence,” Beryl said.
“I suppose we shall have to report this to Simpkins, at the very least,” Edwina said. “I suppose we ought to consider reporting to Constable Gibbs too.”
Beryl shook her head vigorously. “She would only arrest us for breaking and entering. She would probably accuse us of setting the fire as well. No, it would be far better simply to keep this to ourselves for now.”
“You don’t think we should tell even Simpkins?” Edwina asked.
“I can’t see how it will do him any good to know that someone has broken in while he was away from home. I thought we had agreed it would be best to keep an eye on him. If he hears about damage to his property while it’s empty, he might feel obligated to return to his cottage to protect it.”
“I suppose you’re right. After all, there is nothing that he needs to do in response to what has happened. At least not if we clear out these clothes and tidy up the wastepaper baskets,” Edwina said.
“I think that would be the best course of action. After all, Simpkins might be in danger out here on his own. We were assuming that whoever set the fire knew that he was gone overnight, but that may not have been the case. Someone may have been making an attempt on his life,” Beryl said.
That did it. Edwina was not about to send any employee of hers into harm’s way. What Simpkins did not know wouldn’t hurt him. She stepped up to the bed and gathered the sodden clothing into her arms. With Beryl’s help, she carried the lot of it outdoors and spread it out on the grass in order to inspect the damage. Those pieces that were simply wet, they pinned to a clothesline strung at the back of the house.
The items that were singed beyond salvaging, Edwina bundled up and wrapped in a tablecloth she found in the kitchen. While Beryl took the load of clothing to the motorcar in order to dispose of it discreetly later, Edwina moved about the cottage, tidying those things she knew had been disarranged by the intruder.
In the kitchen she closed the cupboard doors and returned the rubbish to its bin. That task completed, she moved into the parlour and used the fireplace brush to return the ashes to the grate. She repeated the task of scooping up wastepaper and righting the basket next to a small table. Stacked on the table were several books she recognized as property of the Walmsley Parva reading room.
In fact, the one on top was a book she had been looking forward to reading. Edwina had a hidden passion for the romance of the American West, and the popular novels written by Zane Grey were amongst her favourite reads. She felt it her civic duty to return the volumes to the reading room without delay. She knew for a fact that Simpkins was not much of a reader, if one discounted accounts in the racing world news. She had no doubt that Hector was the one who had borrowed the towering stack of novels. He clearly had no use for them now.
She lifted the Zane Grey book from the stack and could not resist thumbing through it for a peek. As she did so, she noticed the edge of a piece of paper extending slightly beyond the volume’s pages. She turned to where the book had been marked, and realized that Hector had shared a habit with her. He had marked his place in the book by inserting a used envelope in it.
On the back of the envelope was written a list of groceries. Edwina did the same thing herself more often than not. She could not see wasting valuable paper on something that was destined only to be thrown away or burn
t up in the stove. The list included produce items and meat from Sidney Poole’s butcher shop. She turned it over and was surprised to see the name Albert Simpkins written on the front.
Hector had used Simpkins’s mail for his list making. Edwina noticed the handwriting on the front was quite distinctive and unfamiliar. The name of the cottage and its location—Daisy Brook Farm, Walmsley Parva, Kent—were clearly written on it in deep blue ink. Edwina clucked her tongue as she noticed the letter y in Daisy and in Walmsley were ill formed. Rather than the loop being formed on the left side of the stem, the writer had formed it on the right. Edwina imagined what Miss DuPont from her finishing school would have had to say about such a poorly formed hand.
Not only was the handwriting odd, but Edwina was also surprised to see that the envelope had been postmarked in the popular tourist town of Tunbridge Wells. While she did not claim to have a comprehensive knowledge of all Simpkins’s friends and relations, she had never known him to mention having any acquaintance from that town. She certainly thought it unlikely he would have failed to mention it if someone in his circle of acquaintance had traveled there for pleasure and had thought to send him a letter. It was one of the things that most annoyed Edwina when Simpkins was at the Beeches.
She supposed, upon reflection, that he was as lonely as she had been before Beryl had arrived and taken up residence in her home. She’d often noted that lonely people blathered on and on about the smallest of details concerning their lives whenever they had the opportunity. A letter from Tunbridge Wells would certainly count as an item of note that he would have been eager to share.
The postmark clearly displayed the name of the town, but the date had smeared, and Edwina could make out only that the letter had been sent in the month of May. The envelope did not look to be an old one, and as it was still only early June, Edwina wondered if it had been sent the month before.
She supposed it possible that this was the last grocery shopping list that Hector ever wrote. On a whim she carried the stack of books and the envelope to the kitchen. Beryl mounted the stone step in front of the cottage and arrived just in time to witness Edwina wrenching open the door of the icebox.
Edwina peered inside and spotted a partially eaten roasted leg of mutton, a carton of eggs, and the better part of a pound of butter. She consulted the list. All those items were written upon it. She made her way along the cupboards and opened them one by one, searching for the other items on the list. She found most still intact.
“What are you doing?” Beryl asked. “I hope you’re not planning to cook anything in here.”
“Certainly not. I was just wondering if the groceries on this list had been purchased recently. Considering most of them still seem to be here in the house, I would say that they had,” Edwina said.
“Why should that matter?” Beryl said.
“Because I think that we may be able to get a better sense of Hector’s movements during the last hours of his life from this list,” Edwina said. “I have a postmark date on the envelope and could consult Sidney Poole and the greengrocer about the approximate time these items were purchased. It may give us a better sense of what he was up to during his last days.”
“Are you sure it’s a wise idea to go to the greengrocer’s?” Beryl asked with an arched eyebrow.
Some weeks before, Edwina and Beryl had run afoul of local greengrocer Gareth Scott. Edwina had made a practice of avoiding his shop whenever possible.
“Perhaps we can rely on Simpkins to tell us all we need to know. After all, he might know when the groceries were purchased. It could save us a trip.”
“Excellent suggestion, Ed,” Beryl said. “Let’s jump in the old bus and head back to the Beeches. So long as he is out of bed, we can ask him right away.”
Chapter 26
By the time they returned to the Beeches, Simpkins had made his way downstairs from the guest room, where he had made himself thoroughly at home. Beryl was pleased to see he seemed more like himself than he had in the past twenty-four hours. The color had returned to his pale cheeks, and there was a spring in his step that spoke of soberness.
They found him in the kitchen, clad in a pair of carpet slippers and one of Edwina’s aprons. Beryl had not gotten quite used to Edwina referring to an apron as a pinny. Nevertheless, he was wearing one with tucks and frills and a bit of embroidery.
After the goings-on at Hector’s cottage, they had not attempted to salvage the breakfast Edwina had brought. Beryl found that she was starving, and was more than pleased to see Simpkins was showing off one of his best skill sets at the stove.
The smell of crisp bacon and grilled tomatoes filled the air. While Beryl was not enthusiastic about tea or many of the other culinary choices she had encountered while in the British Isles, she felt quite pleased with their notion of a traditional breakfast. If she had to start her day earlier than she preferred, she liked to do it with a full English fry-up.
Edwina had made several pointed comments about the injurious effects of the daily consumption of such things, but Beryl had wisely ignored her. She and Simpkins shared an enthusiasm for eggs and sausages and little cooked mushrooms. Edwina waited until they had all settled at the kitchen table, with steaming plates of food before them, before she broached the subject of the groceries at Hector’s cottage to Simpkins.
“I wondered if you happen to remember when you got this letter?” Edwina asked, removing the envelope from the book she had taken from Hector’s cottage and sliding it across the table to him.
Simpkins lifted it and inspected both the front and the back. “I’ve never seen this before in my life. Where did you find it?”
Beryl and Edwina exchanged a significant glance. Fortunately, Simpkins would not be surprised to hear that his brother-in-law had been up to more incidents of unsavory behavior. After all, if he was willing to steal and sell his dead sister’s wedding ring, what would it matter to him to pilfer the post?
“Edwina found it at your cottage. It was tucked inside a book she assumed Hector borrowed from the reading room,” Beryl said, reaching for her steaming cup of coffee.
It could be said that her morning routine would be vastly improved if Simpkins remained in charge of the coffeepot. As much as she appreciated Edwina’s culinary skills, her friend could not seem to get the hang of brewing a decent cup of coffee, no matter how hard she tried.
Her efforts always ended up like a watered-down version of tea or something so strong and gritty, it stripped the enamel off one’s teeth. Beryl should not have been surprised that Simpkins would be the one to produce a quality cup of strong drink. After all, it was his specialty.
“Any books in the cottage were sure to have been Hector’s,” Simpkins said. “You say that he used my post as a bookmark?”
“Yes. At least I think he did. It was tucked inside, with the grocery list written on the back,” Edwina said.
“Are you quite sure that you did not read the letter that was inside it and simply leave the envelope lying around for Hector to use?” Beryl asked.
“I am sure I’ve never seen this before,” Simpkins said.
“Do you know anyone who lives in Tunbridge Wells?” Edwina asked. “Or someone who would have been likely to be visiting there?”
Simpkins shook his head slowly. “I had some cousins who visited there once when I was a young man, but no one more recently that comes to mind.”
“What about businesses or seed merchants or memberships in some sort of a club whose headquarters might be located in Tunbridge Wells?” Beryl suggested.
Simpkins reached for a pot of gooseberry preserves and fished around in the bottom of it with his knife. “What the devil do you think Hector was doing reading my post?”
“I have no idea. The reason we brought it to your attention was not to upset you about his invasion of your privacy but to try to ascertain when that letter arrived at the cottage. We inspected the larder and noticed that most of the foodstuffs listed on the back of the envelo
pe are still present in the house,” Edwina said.
“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?” Simpkins asked.
“We thought perhaps it would make it easier to trace Hector’s movements over the last day or so of his life if you were aware of the letter and when he might’ve had the opportunity to get ahold of the envelope,” Beryl said.
Simpkins looked at the postmark and tapped it with a gnarled, grubby finger. Beryl hoped that Edwina was not taking note of the condition of his fingernails, but then she feared that Edwina had as she watched her friend push her plate away from her slightly. Edwina was far too fastidious to enjoy meals cooked by someone who could plant potatoes under their nails.
“I haven’t seen it, so I would assume that he took it as soon as it came in. I was here at the Beeches most of the time over the last couple of days of his life, so if it came in recently, he would’ve had plenty of opportunity to help himself to my post without me noticing. I really can’t be more help than that,” Simpkins said.
“Then I shall just have to go down to the village and make enquiries. I’ll return the books to the reading room and then stop in at the butcher shop to ask Mr. Poole when the last time was that he saw Hector,” Edwina said.
“I think I’ll accompany you into the village. I have an errand I’d like to do myself,” Beryl said.
Edwina arched an eyebrow at her, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Beryl wanted to stop in and inspect some of the other models of typewriting machines on display at the local stationer’s. She wondered if some of them might have more widely spaced apart keys than the model she had purchased. Even with her upcoming lessons with Geraldine Howarth, she wasn’t sure there was much cure for her troubles if she didn’t find something that better accommodated her hands.
But there was no need for Edwina to know that. She had not been as supportive of Beryl’s enthusiasm for writing her adventure guide as she would have liked. There was no reason to give Edwina the satisfaction of knowing she had been right to caution Beryl about the venture.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 16