by Emily Organ
“But she fell!”
“I know, but Mr Cavendish believes she was murdered.”
“The chap’s a fool.”
“You may be right about that. But do you really think her death was an accident?”
“Of course it was.”
“Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to cause her mischief?”
“Quite a few, really. She wasn’t universally liked.”
“I noticed you ran away from her when she visited our office last week. Why was that, Mr Bodkin?”
‘“I didn’t want to see her.”
“Why not?”
“We’d had a falling out.”
“About what?”
“It was a trivial matter, but the long and short of it was that I had called for an end to the affair.”
“What was her reaction to that?”
“She was upset!”
“In what sort of way? Weepy upset or angry upset?”
“Oh, angry upset! She threatened to tell everyone. Even my wife!”
“And did she do so?”
“No, thankfully she died before she had a chance to tell her.”
“Thankfully, Mr Bodkin?”
“I didn’t quite mean that I was thankful for it; I was dreadfully upset, as you can imagine. But I can’t deny the grief was accompanied by a slight relief that my wife would be none the wiser.”
“So it was a rather convenient death for you, Mr Bodkin?”
“That would not be a fair way to describe, it Mrs Churchill, but it did put an end to a potentially sticky situation. I miss Thora, though; I really miss her. She was a damned attractive woman.”
Churchill recalled the short, myopic woman in the tweed coat and wondered for a moment whether they were discussing the same person.
“My wife and I have slept in separate bedrooms for thirty years,” he added.
“Mr Bodkin, I have no wish to hear about your domestic arrangements.”
“I felt the need for—”
“Tra la la!” Churchill began to sing a tuneless song as loudly as she possibly could. “I don’t wish to hear about it, Mr Bodkin!”
The baker stopped talking and sighed.
“Were you at Piddleton Hotel when Mrs Furzgate fell down the staircase?” asked Churchill.
“No, of course I wasn’t. I was working here.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
“Bodger will tell you I was here. If he can remember that is; the man has a mind like a sieve. But why would I need an alibi? You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you? Anyway, you’re just some woman who bought Atkins’ business. You’re not even a police officer. I don’t have to answer to you!” He squared his jaw.
“Very well, Mr Bodkin, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, really. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? My dear husband used to say it a lot.”
“If you think someone murdered Thora you should speak to those awful bridge-playing women. Mrs Trollope bore Thora a grudge after she scuppered her plans to become mayor of Compton Poppleford.”
Churchill caught her breath on receipt of this new piece of information. “I happen to know the bridge ladies quite well,” she said. “But I didn’t know Mrs Trollope had made a bid for mayor. That is most interesting to hear.”
“You won’t tell my wife, will you?” asked Mr Bodkin.
“About Mrs Trollope’s bid to become mayor?”
“No! About me and Thora.”
“No, I won’t. But I think you should tell her yourself.”
“Never! She would leave me for good.”
“Would that be such a bad thing Mr Bodkin? After sleeping in separate bedrooms for thirty years it would free you up to dust your flour wherever you wished.”
Chapter 18
Churchill spent a pleasant afternoon updating her incident board and reading through Atkins’ files. As she worked, she basked in the gratifying realisation that her humble detective agency was beginning to take off. It’s all working out rather well, she envisaged writing in her next letter to Lady Worthington. I have a number of extremely important clients.
The important clients hadn’t contacted her yet, but she felt sure they would once the news of her impending success with the Thora Furzgate case spread like wildfire.
Pemberley returned to the office shortly after four o’clock.
“What perfect timing, Pembers! You’re just in time for tea, and I’ve been reading about the most fascinating case in Atkins’ files. It’s the one where his train got stuck in a snowdrift in Yugoslavia and some boorish American chap got stabbed to death in the night. Atkins was trapped on the train with the murderer and a whole host of eclectic travellers!”
“Ah yes, I remember that one,” said Pemberley as she sank down into the chair behind her desk. “He was detained on the continent for a good few days on that occasion.”
“I imagine he was! How did you get on with the cat?”
“No sign of him,” she replied wearily.
“No sign? But you were gone for five hours!”
“I know! I walked the length and breadth of Compton Poppleford looking for that pesky cat.”
“Did you check to see if he was inside Mr Greenstone’s home before you began? Zeppelin may have been asleep on the armchair in there the entire day.”
“I didn’t think of that. Perhaps he was. Why do you have white powder all over your erm, your…” Pemberley cleared her throat awkwardly. “Your, ahem, thorax.”
“Thorax, Pembers?”
“I should have said chest area.”
Churchill looked down. “Oh, my bosoms, you mean? That’s nothing. It’s just flour from when I went to see Mr Bodkin.” She tried to brush it off again.
“What on earth did he do to you?” asked Pemberley with a horrified expression on her face. “He didn’t try to…?”
“Oh no, Pembers, the man’s quite harmless. But it seems impossible to pay him a visit without finding oneself covered in flour. He denies having anything to do with Mrs Furzgate’s death, but then again he would, wouldn’t he? I’d say the chap has a strong motive for murdering her, as he didn’t want her telling his wife about their fling. He did, however, mention that Mrs Furzgate ruined Mrs Trollope’s bid to become mayor. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes, I remember it well.”
“It would have been a useful bit of background for me to have had in advance of our meeting with the bridge ladies.”
“Would it?”
“Indeed it would, Pembers! It gives Mrs Trollope a motive for wanting poor Thora to be bumped off. Having cleared the lady of all suspicion I now have to consider her a potential suspect. It’s quite a time-consuming endeavour having to unpin and then repin her picture to the incident board.”
“I would leave her up there until you can be absolutely certain.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I plan to do now. Thank you, Pemberley. Now, explain all this business about Mrs Furzgate ruining Mrs Trollope’s dreams of becoming mayor.”
“It was something to do with corruption.”
“Mrs Trollope is corrupt?”
“Allegedly. But only according to Mrs Furzgate.”
“It’s no wonder Trollope refused her entry to the bridge club! I feel terribly narked that no one dared breathe a word of this scandal to me. Corrupt in what manner?”
“She is said to have received money from disreputable sources.”
“Really? Which sources?”
“Mrs Trollope’s son, Timothy, was caught up in a bit of bother. He’s escaped to the Bahamas now.”
“If you’re going to escape anywhere then the Bahamas is probably the best place to go. What sort of bother?”
“Some sort of counterfeiting or smuggling; I can’t remember exactly which. I think there may have been a bit of blackmail thrown in as well.�
��
“Mrs Trollope’s son, eh? Who’d have thought it? He didn’t receive any mention during our bridge match, did he? I wonder why. I still don’t understand what all this has to do with Mrs Furzgate.”
“Apparently, Mrs Trollope’s mayoral campaign was funded by a rather nefarious friend of her son’s. The allegation was that this friend used the funding as an opportunity to launder money.”
“Did he, indeed? I can’t say I’m up to comprehending all the detail of that, but is it safe to say that Mrs Trollope received some dodgy cash?”
“Yes. Her mayoral campaign was muddied by laundered money, allegedly. Nothing was ever proven, but Mrs Furzgate enjoyed making rather a song and dance about it all. She raised a petition and organised a march along the high street: Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption!”
“Good for Thora. Much as I used to like Mrs Trollope, I must take Furzgate’s side on this one. And the painted piece of tea chest we saw at her home makes perfect sense now: No More Dirty Money. It must have been a sign she made for the march, Pembers! The next time you hold a wealth of information about someone you will tell me about it, won’t you?”
“Oh, I hold a wealth of information about a lot of things. I just don’t always know when it’s relevant to begin spouting about it.”
“Well I’d say this piece was relevant about two days ago, and now I feel there’s a good deal of catching up to do. But never mind; at least I know it now. Update the incident board with it, will you? I need a custard tart and some thinking time.”
The throb of a motor car’s engine interrupted her thoughts, prompting Pemberley to glance out of the window.
“Oh, it’s him again,” she said reproachfully.
“Him? Who’s him?”
“Our man about town, Cavendish.”
“Oh, him.”
“You’re not going to flirt with him again, are you?”
“Flirt, Pemberley? I’ve never flirted with anyone in my life. I don’t need to flirt. People are drawn to my natural grace like butterflies to pollen.”
“Or flies to—”
“Stop right there, Pembers! There’s no need to finish that sentence.”
Chapter 19
“Ciao, Mrs Churchill!” said Mr Cavendish as he breezed into the office leaving a trail of expensive eau-de-cologne in his wake.
Churchill felt a flutter in her chest as he grinned at her. His teeth were whiter than she remembered, and his thick blond hair had a pleasing lustre to it.
“Ciao indeed, Mr Cavendish! How very continental of you. I must say you’ve taken me quite by surprise. If I’d known you planned to visit us today I would have bought extra eclairs.”
“There’s no need for eclairs, Mrs Churchill, I am quite satisfied with your good self.”
“Are you really? Goodness, well that’s quite something then, isn’t it?”
“Indeedy.” He placed his boater on the hat stand and sat down opposite her.
“Some tea please, Miss Pemberley!” Churchill called out. “You must be here for an update on my investigation, Mr Cavendish.”
“That I am, my formidable detective. What have you managed to find out so far?”
“Well, Miss Pemberley was just telling me about the fine work your godmother did in organising the Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption march. That was extremely worthy of her.”
“Ah, yes. She was a lady with strong opinions.”
“You must have been very proud of her.”
“I was, yes. She was no pushover.”
“The only problem with taking a stand is that it can upset the applecart, and I fear her anti-corruption march may have angered one of the local mayoral candidates.”
“Oh, yes. That business with Mrs Trollope, you mean?”
“Yes. I have my eye on that lady. A possible suspect, if you ask me.”
“If that old fish murdered my godmother I’ll—”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mr Cavendish. I must say that when I first met the woman I had a favourable opinion of her, but now that I’ve heard about her dirty money my mind is less convinced on the matter. But let me look into it before you begin exacting your revenge on innocent parties.”
Pemberley placed a tea tray on Churchill’s desk.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Pemberley. I have also spoken to Mr Smallbone—”
“We,” interrupted Pemberley.
“I’m sorry, Miss Pemberley?”
“We both spoke to Mr Smallbone, didn’t we, Mrs Churchill?”
“Yes, my secretary is quite correct. We both spoke to Mr Smallbone and we both spoke to Mrs Trollope and her bridge ladies. Isn’t that right, Miss Pemberley? I can see that my secretary wishes to make that clear to you, Mr Cavendish. We spoke to Mr Smallbone, who told us about an altercation he had with your godmother about a telescope.”
“A telescope?”
“Yes, Mr Cavendish. It had an…”
“An equatorial mount,” said Pemberley quickly.
“What’s that?” asked Mr Cavendish.
“It’s fairly irrelevant to the investigation,” Churchill said.
“If that rickety old conman murdered my godmother I’ll shove that telescope—”
“There’s no need to do anything of the kind yet, Mr Cavendish! As I’ve already said, I need to look into it. Miss Pemberley, would you mind sipping your tea at your desk? I’m hearing a rather distracting slurping noise in my left ear.”
Pemberley walked over to her desk, her shoulders slumped.
“And then there’s Mr Bodkin the baker, of course.”
“What’s he got to do with it?” asked Mr Cavendish.
“Ah, now this is where the investigation becomes a little delicate. How equipped are you at handling delicate information, Mr Cavendish?”
“Extremely well equipped, I’d say. Hit me with it, Mrs Churchill.”
“Are you sure, Mr Cavendish? Bear in mind this is your godmother we’re talking about. I wouldn’t be surprised if you feel rather uncomfortable about the whole aff—”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Mrs Churchill. Come on! The suspense has got me by the throat and is beginning to throttle me.”
“Well, it seems your godmother enjoyed a brief love affair with Mr Bodkin the baker.”
“Did she indeed?” Mr Cavendish raised his eyebrows. “That’s my gal!”
“Gal? This is your godmother we’re discussing, Mr Cavendish.”
“Was she not entitled to a love affair?”
“I suppose she was. I don’t see any reason why not, other than that Mr Bodkin is a married man.”
Mr Cavendish gave a lascivious laugh. “Well, well, what a pair. You seem rather disapproving of their fling, Mrs Churchill. Is a lady of advanced years not permitted to enjoy herself?”
“No, I mean yes. Of course she is permitted to do so.”
“Older ladies surely have passions as strong as their younger counterparts, am I right, Mrs Churchill?” Mr Cavendish grinned.
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied curtly, “which is silly, really, being one of those aforementioned ladies myself.”
“Do you not have passions yourself, Mrs Churchill?”
The uneasy silence was broken by Pemberley choking on her tea.
“Of course I have passions,” Churchill replied boldly, staring the young man directly in the eye.
Pemberley continued to splutter.
Mr Cavendish gave Churchill an appreciative smile. “Good,” he said, “and so you should. Now perhaps you understand my godmother a little better.”
“I do. Perhaps a little too well, but that’s important for the investigation, I suppose. Are you all right over there, Miss Pemberley? Your face resembles a strangled tomato.”
Her secretary nodded.
“Look what you’ve done to my staff, Mr Cavendish. Poor Miss Pemberley is quite incapacitated.”
“Oh dear! Please accept my apologies, Mrs Churchill. I�
�ve been told I have that effect on ladies.” He gave her a mischievous wink.
“I see.” Churchill turned her attention to drinking tea.
“I may jest, but on reflection I think the baker’s the guilty party. I’m sure of it, in fact.” His face reddened with anger. “I shan’t waste any time dashing downstairs and baking his doughy face to a crisp!”
“Please calm down, Mr Cavendish! This is all conjecture. I have merely identified three possible suspects, and there may be more to add to the list. If you’re going to get this het up about it all I shall have to desist from updating you on my progress.”
“Oh no, Mrs Churchill, please don’t desist. I like our updates.” Mr Cavendish pushed out his lower lip sulkily.
“Then behave yourself.” Churchill drained her tea. “Now, young pup, I must be pressing on with something else. You’re not my only client, you know.”
“You’re not throwing me out of here, are you, Mrs Churchill?”
“No, no, of course not, Mr Cavendish. But I do have work to be getting on with. See those filing cabinets along that wall? They’re crammed full of important cases that require my attention.”
“Naturally. I shan’t detain you a moment longer.” He stood to his feet. “And many thanks for all the hard work you’ve put into this investigation so far. Would another twenty pounds be suitable recompense?”
He removed his wallet from his pocket.
“Oh, Mr Cavendish, there’s no… Well, yes, I suppose it would. This is a substantial investigation.”
“It certainly is. And your help is invaluable.”
“Thank you, Mr Cavendish.”
“And thank you, Mrs Churchill. Adieu.”
“Adieu to you.”
“Adieu, Miss Pemberley,” he said as he picked up his hat.
“Goodbye,” she replied.
“That fellow is incorrigible, Pembers,” Churchill muttered as his footsteps descended the stairs.
Chapter 20
Compton Poppleford Library was a small, crooked building leaning up against the town hall on the high street.
“This is a cosy little place, isn’t it, Pembers?” said Churchill, glancing around at the well-stocked shelves. “I really should make more time for reading. Do you make time for reading? Actually, don’t answer that; it’s obvious you do given that you’re a walking encyclopaedia. I suppose I’d better go and sort myself out with a reading ticket.”