by Emily Organ
“They’re all out on the lawn,” replied Mrs Duckworth sourly. “Follow the path along the side of the herbaceous border and enter beneath the ornamental arch at the end.”
“Thank you, Mrs Duckworth.”
Churchill and Pemberley did as they had been instructed.
“Mrs Trollope has a resplendent herbaceous border, doesn’t she, Pembers?” said Churchill. “And what a lovely display of delphiniums. It’s a bit of luck that the bridge club is meeting here today. It means we can ask them all what they remember of that fateful day at Piddleton Hotel.”
They reached the ornamental arch. “Oh, look! There they all are on the lawn.” Churchill felt the need to whisper. “And what an extensive lawn. Mrs Trollope must have a man who comes in to cut it. In fact, she must have a team of gardeners for this place.”
They walked across the lawn toward a group of ladies who were sitting about on deckchairs. Somehow Mrs Duckworth had got there before them.
“She wasn’t going to let us take the shortcut through the house, was she?” Churchill whispered.
She fixed a grin on her face as they drew near the group of mature ladies, all of whom were staring at them, stony-faced. The tension of the moment reminded Churchill of her first day as a new girl at Princess Alexandra’s School for Young Ladies.
“This is Mrs Cranster, Mrs Goggins, Mrs Higginbath, Mrs Murgatoss-Bynes and Mrs Fazackerly-Bowes-Grant,” said Mrs Duckworth.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” said Churchill, keen to break the ice. “And what lovely weather we’re having. I’m sure I read that the forecast this afternoon was for rain. They never can get it right, can they?” She glanced hopefully at a nearby table, upon which sat a jug of lemonade, a large bowl of strawberries, a jug of cream and a cake stand straining beneath the weight of iced fancies.
“Welcome to my home, Mrs Churchill. I have heard a lot about you.”
Startled by the voice coming from behind her, Churchill spun round to see a slightly built lady of about sixty wearing a floral summer dress and a large straw hat. She had sharp green eyes and her lips were stained a dark red.
“How lovely to meet you, Mrs Trollope. You’ve heard about me, have you? Goodness! Should I be worried?”
The old lady walked past her without answering and sat down in a striped deckchair.
“Do take a seat,” she said when she was settled. “You don’t want to make the garden look untidy.”
“Of course not!” laughed Churchill nervously. “That wouldn’t do at all, would it?” She approached a deckchair, which appeared worryingly low-slung. “If I sit myself in this one I might never get out of it again!”
“Nonsense, Mrs Churchill. If we can get out of them again, so can you. It’s all in the hips.”
“My hips are what concern me,” said Churchill as she carefully lowered herself into the chair. Once she was seated her knees were level with her bosom.
“Goodness, Pembers,” she whispered to her secretary, who had taken the chair next to her. “My derrière is well and truly jammed now. You’ll have to get behind me and push me up out of this thing once we’re done.”
“Everything all right, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mrs Trollope as she placed a cigarette in a silver holder and lit it.
“Perfectly fine, thank you, Mrs Trollope. What a pleasant afternoon it is and what a delightful garden you have here! And what a pretty dovecote. How many doves do you have roosting in there?”
“Just the two.” Mrs Trollope puffed out a large cloud of smoke. “They tell me you come from London.”
“Yes, latterly. Although I originally hail from the Home Counties.”
“And now you’re a private detective, I believe.”
“That’s right. I bought the detective agency from the late Mr Atkins.”
“And you have already been tasked with your first case.”
“Indeed! I’m currently working on two investigations.” Churchill realised, with a lurch in her stomach, that she hadn’t been following Zeppelin for several days. She hoped Mr Greenstone hadn’t noticed that she had neglected his case.
“London, you say? Whereabouts did you live?”
“Richmond-upon-Thames.”
“I don’t suppose you came across my good friend Lily there? Known in wider circles as Lady Worthington.”
“What a small world! Yes, I’m extremely good friends with Lily. In fact, I mentioned her to Miss Pemberley only recently, didn’t I, Pemberley?”
“Did you?”
“Yes, when I said I wouldn’t be recommending that dreadful Piddleton Hotel to her.”
“Ah yes, I remember now.”
“What’s wrong with Piddleton Hotel?” asked Mrs Trollope.
“It’s run by a terribly rude man. Dreadful manners. And sartorially challenged. What was that clown suit he was wearing the other day, Pembers? Terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Mr Crumble?” ventured Mrs Trollope.
“That’s the one.”
“He’s Mrs Higginbath’s nephew.”
Churchill glanced over at Mrs Higginbath, a broad lady with long grey hair. Then she turned back to Mrs Trollope again, her mouth hanging open all the while.
“Nephew?” she said in a weak voice. “Well what a coincidence! I see no resemblance at all.” The truth was that Churchill had now noticed an uncanny similarity between Mrs Higginbath and her nephew, who both had the same scowling, square face and hairy chin. “Perhaps I caught him on a bad day,” continued Churchill. “Maybe I should visit on another day when he’s in a better mood. Actually, on second thoughts he won’t let me.”
“What’s the problem with my nephew?” asked Mrs Higginbath.
“I’m not allowed in his hotel any more. It was my fault entirely; I angered him.”
“We like Piddleton Hotel, don’t we ladies?” said Mrs Trollope, puffing out another cloud of smoke. “We hold our monthly meetings there. Would you and Miss Pemberley like some refreshments, Mrs Churchill?”
“I would love a little refreshment. Thank you.”
Fortunately for Churchill, Mrs Goggins brought the lemonade and cake to her chair so she didn’t have to try and climb out of it. The conversation returned to Lady Worthington and much talk ensued about dinner parties, art exhibitions and the opera.
“I like to try and get up to London at least three or four times during the season,” said Mrs Trollope. “I adore Dorset, but it’s so terribly provincial isn’t it?”
“Terribly,” agreed Churchill.
“But you’ve only been living here for a week,” commented Pemberley.
“A week is plenty of time for one to decide whether a place is provincial or not,” retorted Churchill.
“Well, I like it here,” said Pemberley.
“I like it here too,” said Churchill. “We all like it here, but there’s no escaping the fact that it’s provincial.”
“What do you mean by that exactly?” asked Pemberley.
“Rather quiet. Sleepy,” replied Churchill, unsure what the word actually meant.
“Unsophisticated,” clarified Mrs Trollope, “and rustic. Can you believe I dined with a lady last week who spooned her soup towards her?”
“What a faux pas,” said Churchill. “She could have spilt it all over her blouse.”
“Poor breeding,” added Mrs Trollope.
“Perhaps she’d been brought up by wolves,” suggested Churchill.
“‘As all ships go out to sea, I spoon my soup away from me.’ Do you recall that rhyme from your childhood, Mrs Churchill?”
“I certainly do.”
“I don’t,” said Pemberley.
Mrs Trollope gave her a look of pity before clapping her hands together to attract everyone’s attention. “Right, ladies! It’s time to get our cards out!”
It took every bit of strength Pemberley, Mrs Goggins and Mrs Fazackerly-Bowes-Grant could muster to haul Churchill out of her deckchair.
“Rather unforgiving around the thighs those things, aren�
�t they?” muttered Churchill to Pemberley as she rubbed her sore hips. “And so unnecessarily low to the ground.”
They followed Mrs Trollope up to the house and were shown into a large, pleasant drawing room with a high ceiling and tall windows that looked out over the garden. Four green baize card tables had been set up in the room.
“Mrs Churchill, you and Miss Pemberley must come and join myself and Mrs Duckworth,” said Mrs Trollope. “We want to see what you’re made of. You do play bridge, don’t you?”
“Play bridge?” replied Churchill. “We barely do anything else, do we, Pembers? Apart from solve crimes, that is.”
“Nothing like a good deal to provide some respite from all that crime-solving, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Trollope.
Chapter 14
The afternoon of bridge reached its conclusion at six in the evening. As the ladies got up to leave the room Churchill noticed something unusual about Pemberley’s gait.
“Why are you limping, Pembers?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but it might have something to do with you repeatedly kicking me in the shin.”
“I didn’t kick you that hard!”
“Perhaps not, but it had a cumulative effect and now I’m struggling to walk without pain. I couldn’t understand the need for it.”
“Some of those bids you were making were quite beyond the pale, Pembers!”
“We still won though, didn’t we?”
“By some miracle we did, but I can’t for the life of me think how or why.”
“And haven’t you forgotten something rather important?”
“What’s that then, Pemberley?”
“The reason we came here in the first place.”
“Goodness, you’re right! We completely forgot to ask them about Mrs Furzgate, didn’t we? I say, Mrs Trollope!”
“Yes, Mrs Churchill?”
“This is rather embarrassing, but I’ve been enjoying your hospitality so much I’d quite forgotten the purpose of our visit.”
“What might that be, Mrs Churchill?” The old lady lay her head on one side like an attentive dog.
“Mrs Thora Furzgate.”
A noticeable flicker of disdain passed across Mrs Trollope’s face.
“Did you know her well?” asked Churchill. “I understand you were at Piddleton Hotel when she fell down the stairs and tragically died.”
“Were we?” asked Mrs Trollope.
“Yes, we were,” said Mrs Duckworth.
“I remember her being there,” said Mrs Trollope, “but I thought she fell down the stairs after we left.”
“No, we were definitely still there,” said Mrs Duckworth. “Don’t you remember all the kerfuffle?”
“I definitely remember the kerfuffle, but there always seemed to be a lot of that whenever Furzgate was around. She also seemed to have a disagreement with one of the waiters while we were there.”
“Was she with your group?” asked Churchill.
“No, she wasn’t,” replied Mrs Trollope.
“She was trying to be,” Mrs Goggins piped up. “She was always asking to join the bridge club, wasn’t she?”
“She was indeed,” said Mrs Trollope.
“But she was no good at bridge?” asked Churchill.
“Oh, she was a reasonable enough player, but if we’d admitted her we would have ended up with an odd number of players, and that wouldn’t be right considering that bridge is played in pairs. We didn’t want anyone being the odd one out.”
“She did say she didn’t mind being the odd one out,” added Mrs Goggins.
“Was that your only reason for refusing to admit her to the bridge club?” asked Churchill. “Because you didn’t want an odd number?”
“That was the official reason,” said Mrs Trollope, “but unofficially it was because the woman was a pain in the rear end.”
“In what way?”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t need me to explain.”
“Did you speak to her when you saw her at Piddleton Hotel?”
“Yes. She was there on some misunderstanding. She seemed to think she was a member of the bridge club when, in actuality she wasn’t.”
“Were any cross words exchanged between you?”
“They weren’t particularly cross, were they Ducky?” she asked Mrs Duckworth.
“No. They were exasperated words,” confirmed Mrs Duckworth.
“Did you tell her to sling her hook?” asked Churchill.
“The conversation wasn’t quite that rude,” said Mrs Cranster, “but the implication was there.”
“And what was her response?” asked Churchill.
“She was rather argumentative about it,” replied Mrs Trollope, “but that was the woman’s nature, of course. It was never easy to be rid of her.”
“It wasn’t,” said Churchill. “I can vouch for that.”
“In the end I had to ask Higginbath to escort her from the table.”
Churchill glanced at Mrs Higginbath, who had refused to have much to do with her since the conversation about her nephew.
“Did you have to use much force, Mrs Higginbath?” asked Churchill.
“Not much,” the haughty woman replied. “She knew she couldn’t match my strength.”
“Things became physical, did they?”
“No, not really.”
“A shove didn’t accidentally turn into a tumble down the stairs?”
“No, it didn’t!” exclaimed Mrs Higginbath.
“No!” declared Mrs Duckworth.
“Now hold on!” protested Mrs Trollope.
Everyone began talking at once and Churchill realised that she had pushed her questions a little too far. She held up her hands in resignation.
“Sorry, ladies, I do apologise! I know you had nothing whatsoever to do with Mrs Furzgate’s fall down the staircase. Forget that I said anything about it.”
The room had fallen quiet and the glances she was receiving were mainly hostile. She decided to explain matters in greater detail.
“Mrs Furzgate’s godson, Mr Cavendish, thinks his godmother may have been killed because she knew something she shouldn’t have.”
“That’s a fair enough assumption,” said Mrs Trollope. “She was an exceptionally nosy woman, and it was only ever going to be a matter of time before her curiosity got her into trouble.”
“After all, it killed the cat, didn’t it?” said Mrs Goggins.
“Which cat?” asked Churchill. “Mr Cavendish didn’t mention a cat.”
“It’s a saying,” said Mrs Goggins. “You could say now that curiosity killed Mrs Furzgate.”
“Did it indeed?” said Churchill. “So you agree with Mr Cavendish’s theory? What could Mrs Furzgate possibly have known that she ended up paying for with her life?”
The women shrugged.
“What sort of matters was she gossiping about at the time of her death?” asked Churchill.
“You would receive a quicker answer if you were to ask what sort of matters she wasn’t gossiping about,” said Mrs Trollope.
“I see. So what sort of matters was Mrs Furzgate not gossiping about shortly before she died?”
Everyone turned to look at one another with blank faces, and Churchill wondered whether she was encountering what she had often heard described as a wall of silence. Having found the bridge ladies so welcoming that afternoon she was rather baffled by their lack of assistance.
“There was the business with Mr Smallbone,” said Mrs Goggins, causing everyone to turn and look at her.
“Mr Smallbone who runs the bric-a-brac shop?” asked Churchill.
“I’m so terribly glad to hear you call it that,” said Mrs Trollope. “The chap is so insistent that he only sells antiques. Have you seen the clutter in there?”
“I have indeed,” replied Churchill. “Dreadful tat. But what’s the connection with Mrs Furzgate? Was she gossiping about him?”
“S
he was,” piped up Mrs Goggins again. “She had accused him of selling fakes and forgeries.”
“Did she tell him this directly or was it something she only said to other people?”
“Both,” said Mrs Duckworth.
“It was hardly an original accusation,” said Mrs Trollope.
“That’s one thing you could say about Mrs Furzgate,” said Mrs Cranster. “She had a habit of saying what everyone else was thinking.”
All the bridge ladies except Mrs Trollope nodded in agreement.
“I can only assume Mr Smallbone was upset by the allegation,” said Churchill. The ladies nodded again. “Let’s imagine that he was so upset he decided to murder Mrs Furzgate as an act of revenge. It’s possible she had evidence he was selling fake antiques, and that would have strengthened his motivation to silence her even further.”
Mrs Trollope nodded vehemently. “I like this theory, Mrs Churchill.”
“Did you see him at Piddleton Hotel on the day Mrs Furzgate died?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well that scuppers our latest theory. If he wasn’t at the hotel that day he can’t have pushed Mrs Furzgate down the stairs.”
“Unless he was in disguise,” said Miss Pemberley.
“Disguise?” replied Churchill. “You think Mr Smallbone would go to the trouble of disguising himself so he could push someone down the stairs?”
“He could have disguised himself as a guest, or a waiter or even as a lady,” said Pemberley.
Churchill laughed. “I should think his rather distinctive moustache would have given him away, Pembers. These ladies would have recognised him in an instant.”
“Then you can’t treat him as a suspect,” said Pemberley sulkily. “We’re back to square one.”
“Oh dear. How I hate square one,” said Churchill.
“Perhaps he hired an assassin,” suggested Mrs Murgatoss-Bynes.
“He might have done!” said Mrs Trollope.
“Did you see anyone who looked like an assassin when you were at the hotel that afternoon?” asked Churchill.