Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  Churchill walked over to the librarian’s desk and rang the little bell.

  “Do they man this place, Pemberley? Hullo! Anybody here?”

  She rang the bell again.

  “That’s enough!” scolded a voice from behind a bookshelf. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed you walking in here?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” replied Churchill, glancing around to find out where the voice had come from. “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  A lady with a square face and long grey hair stepped out from behind the shelves.

  “Oh, you made me jump!” Churchill’s heart sank as she realised who the librarian was.

  Mrs Higginbath.

  Churchill smiled obsequiously as the librarian walked over to the desk and positioned herself behind it.

  “Mrs Higginbath!” she began. “May I apologise once again for the small misunderstanding I had with your nephew, Mr Crumble, at Piddleton Hotel? It was such a small incident that I’ve practically forgotten all about it. I do hope he has done the same.”

  Mrs Higginbath said nothing.

  Churchill turned to Pemberley in the hope she might add something to the conversation and ease the awkward atmosphere, but Pemberley was absorbed in Ghosts of the West Country and Other Terrifying Tales.

  “I’d like to apply for a reading ticket, if I may,” Churchill said.

  “A reading ticket, Mrs Churchill?” replied Mrs Higginbath. “Ah yes, that’s quite simple. All you need is a letter of recommendation.”

  “Jolly good. That sounds easy enough, then.”

  “I should add that the person recommending you will need to have been a resident of this parish for at least eight years.”

  “Excellent, well I should think Miss Pemberley would be perfectly qualified to recommend me.”

  “And needs to have known you personally for at least ten years.”

  “I’m sorry… For a moment there I thought you said ten years.”

  “I did.”

  “Really? A resident of this parish who has known me for ten years? But that’s impossible! Miss Pemberley has only known me for ten days!”

  Mrs Higginbath shrugged.

  “This library is a valuable asset for me in my detective work,” continued Churchill. “I imagine Mr Atkins had a reading ticket, didn’t he?”

  “He did, yes.”

  “Can’t I just piggyback on his ticket? I bought his detective agency, didn’t I?”

  ‘“I’m afraid not, Mrs Churchill. We don’t allow ticket piggybacking here.”

  Although Mrs Higginbath’s face remained impassive, Churchill felt sure the librarian was enjoying every moment of this standoff.

  She took her purse out of her handbag. “Would a shilling or two see my way?” she asked quietly.

  “Are you trying to bribe me, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Bribe? No!” Churchill shoved her purse back into her handbag. “You see, I’m not quite sure how things are done down here in Dorset. In London there’s often a fee for these things. That’s why it’s such an expensive place to live. Miss Pemberley!”

  Her secretary looked up from the ghoulish book.

  “Help!” Churchill mouthed silently.

  Pemberley sauntered up to the desk.

  “Have you any bright ideas about how I can get a reading ticket for this place, Miss Pemberley?”

  “You could borrow mine.”

  “Ah yes, there’s a thought.” Churchill turned back to face Mrs Higginbath. “I shall borrow my secretary’s reading ticket.”

  “The borrowing of reading tickets is forbidden, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Righty-ho, I’m bored of this conversation now. Where might I find back issues of the Compton Poppleford Gazette, Mrs Higginbath?”

  “You’re not permitted to find them, Mrs Churchill. You don’t have a reading ticket.”

  “Let me rephrase my question. Where might Miss Pemberley find back issues of the Compton Poppleford Gazette?”

  Mrs Higginbath sighed. “In the newspaper cupboard next to the fireplace.”

  “Right then, Pembers,” said Churchill, her head buried in the newspaper cupboard. “When did all this business with the Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption march occur?”

  “It was last autumn. November, I think.”

  Churchill leafed through the papers and pulled out all the relevant copies.

  “Here we are,” she said, laying them out on a nearby table. “Let’s have a look at how the corruption allegations were reported.”

  As she began leafing through the newspapers she noticed Mrs Higginbath glaring at her.

  “On second thoughts, Pemberley, you look through the newspapers seeing as you’re the one with the reading ticket. I’ll peer over your shoulder. We don’t want to rile Medusa over there.”

  Half an hour later Churchill had read all she could about Mrs Trollope’s mayoral bid. The Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption march had received only a two-sentence mention.

  “Are you sure you’re correct about this wayward son and money laundering business, Pemberley? Everything I’ve read about Mrs Trollope is complimentary; in fact, one of the editorials states that the Compton Poppleford Gazette is ‘saddened’ that she was unsuccessful in her bid. And why was so little written about the march? I think you may have your wires crossed.”

  “There’s no doubt that Mrs Trollope’s son Timothy escaped to the Bahamas with a pile of dirty money. The funds were channelled in various ways, meaning the paper trail became so confused it was lost altogether. Everyone said that profits from those same funds were used to fund Mrs Trollope’s mayoral campaign.”

  “And you’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, everyone was talking about it, and it’s the reason her bid was unsuccessful. Mrs Furzgate was especially vocal, as you know, and the march was the nail in the coffin for Mrs Trollope’s aspirations.”

  “So the Compton Poppleford Gazette was simply selective in its reporting at the time?”

  “It seems to have been.”

  “You think there was some sort of cover-up?”

  “It seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  “The plot thickens, Pemberley. I think I need to speak to the editor of this newspaper and find out what he knows.”

  “Mr Trollope? I’m not sure how much he’ll be willing to tell you.”

  “Did you just say the name Mr Trollope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any relation to Mrs Trollope?”

  “Yes, he’s her husband.”

  “You mean to tell me the editor of the Compton Poppleford Gazette is married to Mrs Trollope?”

  “Yes.”

  Churchill groaned. “Well that explains the newspaper’s biased reporting of the affair!”

  She folded the newspapers angrily and crammed them back into the cupboard.

  “You could have told me this sooner, Pemberley, and saved us an entire morning!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Churchill. I didn’t realise exactly what you wanted to look up in the library. Perhaps if you’d—”

  “Told you sooner? Yes, I take your point, Pemberley. Next time I’ll explain my plans in advance so we can avoid any profligate use of time.” She folded her arms and sighed. “Marvellous. So what’s the next step?”

  “You could try speaking to Nightwalker.”

  “Mr? Mrs?”

  “Neither. Just Nightwalker.”

  “Nightwalker? That’s the unfortunate individual’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who is this Nightwalker?”

  “A contact of Mr Atkins’. He’s some sort of investigative journalist.”

  Churchill felt a smile spread across her face. “Excellent! An investigative journalist is just what we need. This Nightwalker fellow presumably knows all about Mrs Trollope and the dodgy money.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Perfect. Let�
��s get straight back to the office and telephone him.”

  “Oh no, you can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Churchill hissed exasperatedly. “Isn’t that what Atkins did?”

  “No. To contact Nightwalker you must place an enigmatic message in the classified section of the Compton Poppleford Gazette.”

  Churchill groaned again. “Why is everything as difficult as swimming through mud?”

  “It’s not so very difficult, Mrs Churchill. I placed several messages for Nightwalker on behalf of Mr Atkins.”

  “Did you, Pembers? Oh good. Then let’s go and do it now before my patience leaves me completely and ends up on the next train back to London.”

  Chapter 21

  “Hello, pussy cat! Why don’t you show Auntie Churchy where you fetch your extra meals from?”

  Zeppelin did nothing but stare back at Churchill from beneath the hydrangea in Mr Greenstone’s garden.

  Churchill popped a butter toffee into her mouth and wondered when she would hear from the mysterious Nightwalker. Pemberley’s obscure message had been printed in the classified section of the Compton Poppleford Gazette the previous day.

  Will Lady who took wrong umbrella from Butcher’s Shop, Tuesday afternoon, kindly return?

  Pemberley had assured a sceptical Churchill that this was the message that had been agreed between Atkins and Nightwalker, and that she had used it successfully on many occasions.

  Zeppelin began to lick his right shoulder.

  “You’re looking rather too comfortable there, puss,” said Churchill with the toffee still in her mouth. “That’s the sort of cleaning a cat does when he’s preparing himself for an afternoon nap.”

  She watched Zeppelin for a while longer, then sighed as he curled himself into a ball and went to sleep.

  “Mrs Churchill?”

  She turned to see a lady wearing a large summer hat.

  “Hello, Mrs Trollope! What a pleasant surprise!”

  “What are you doing on Greenstone’s lawn?”

  Churchill was taken aback by the sharpness of the comment and the hostile glint in the old lady’s eyes.

  “Watching his cat, Mrs Trollope.”

  “Greenstone knows you’re here, does he?”

  “If you’re wondering whether I have his permission to stand on this lawn, then yes, I do. I’m currently conducting an investigation on his behalf.”

  “That’s all right, then. Just thought I’d check.” Mrs Trollope sucked on her silver cigarette holder and blew a plume of smoke in Churchill’s direction. “I hear you’ve been visiting the library.”

  “You heard correctly, Mrs Trollope. I’m not sure it’s a particularly interesting topic of conversation, though. Surely something more exciting than that must have occurred in Compton Poppleford since we last met.”

  “If only it had, Mrs Churchill. You took a keen interest in some back issues of the Compton Poppleford Gazette, I hear.”

  “Goodness! Next time I have something to broadcast to the village I’ll ensure that Mrs Higginbath knows about it first. Yes, Mrs Trollope, I perused some copies of your husband’s fine publication. Would you like a butter toffee?”

  “No, thank you. May I ask what you were researching, Mrs Churchill?”

  “You may ask, but please don’t take offence at my refusal to answer your question, Mrs Trollope. It was part of my investigative work, you see, and I must respect my client’s confidentiality.”

  “Mrs Higginbath told me there was some discussion between Miss Pemberley and yourself about the Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption march.”

  “Mrs Higginbath has the ears of a cocker spaniel, doesn’t she? I’m afraid I’m unable to comment any further, Mrs Trollope.”

  Churchill turned away, fixed her eyes on the sleeping cat and hoped Mrs Trollope would grow bored and saunter away.

  “Mrs Furzgate tried to discredit me, that’s for sure,” continued Mrs Trollope, “but if you think that gives me a motive for having her murdered you are sorely mistaken.”

  Churchill spun round in mock surprise. “Murder, Mrs Trollope? Motive? Whoever suggested such a thing? I fear you have put two and two together and made five. Forget five; fifty-five! Scratch that; five hundred and fifty-five!”

  “Good, well I certainly hope that’s the case. Suspecting I had anything to do with Mrs Furzgate’s death would be little more than tomfoolery, wouldn’t it, Mrs Churchill?”

  “It would indeed, Mrs Trollope. I can’t understand why anyone would even begin to consider it. It’s a daft idea. Preposterous. Farcical!”

  “Indeed it is. Well, it’s reassuring that we’re singing from the same songsheet, Mrs Churchill.”

  “We are, Mrs Trollope. And what a tuneful song it is.”

  “Good,” replied Mrs Trollope. “Let’s ensure that it doesn’t become discordant.”

  “Curse Mrs Trollope!” fumed Churchill as she returned to the office with a large box of custard tarts.

  “Oh dear,” replied Pemberley. “What’s she done now?”

  “Seen right through my investigation, that’s what! She knows that I suspect her. You haven’t spoken to her, have you?”

  “No, not since we played bridge with her the other day.”

  “Are you sure, Pemberley? This isn’t one of those moments where it transpires that you did speak to her and tell her everything about the investigation after all?”

  “Quite sure, Mrs Churchill. Why would I do that?” Pemberley asked, her brow crumpled.

  “Very well. Please don’t take offence, my trusty assistant. It simply means that Mrs Trollope is good at deducing things. And can you believe that Mrs Higginbath reported every detail of our library visit to her? She even knew which articles we’d been looking at!”

  “You do have a rather loud voice, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that Mrs Higginbath could hear every word you said. Sometimes a little discretion is required.”

  “I can assure you that I am extremely discreet, Pembers!”

  “I’m talking about quiet discretion. The sort of whispered discretion people can’t overhear in libraries.”

  “Point taken, Pembers. I’m aware that subtlety isn’t always my strong point.”

  “I think we need to create our own code language, which only you and I understand.”

  “Not a bad idea, Pemberley, albeit a rather time-consuming one. I’ll just whisper when needs be and hopefully that will suffice. Would you like a tart?”

  Pemberley took one and Churchill followed suit.

  “What colour is your pullover, Pembers? I can’t decide between mustard and butterscotch.”

  “Cream.”

  “Cream? What nonsense. It’s undoubtedly a shade of yellow.”

  “That’s because I accidentally washed it with a brown skirt. Anyway, let’s forget about that. Nightwalker will be at the Pig and Scythe pub at eight o’clock this evening.”

  “You’ve heard from him? How wonderful! Thank you, Pembers. Would you like to accompany me? I’ll need your help in identifying the man.”

  “I have no idea what he looks like.”

  “You’ve never met him? Oh, I see. Well perhaps you can accompany me anyway, seeing that I don’t know where the Pig and Scythe is.”

  “You won’t find me setting foot in that place.”

  “Why not, Pembers?”

  “It’s full of rustic types.”

  “Oh, come now. The great unwashed are quite harmless.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. You’d better be careful in there.”

  “Don’t you go worrying about me, Pembers. The clubhouse at the Richmond-upon-Thames Ladies’ Lawn Tennis Club can also be a nest of vipers, but I have lived to tell the tale.”

  Chapter 22

  Situated next to the village’s abattoir, The Pig and Scythe was a beamed building with mullioned windows. Churchill pocketed the map Pemberley had drawn her and ducked her head as she
stepped in through the low-slung door.

  The dingy bar fell silent as she entered. She felt sawdust beneath her feet, and an odour of stale hops and urine hung in the air. Each face she glanced at was sunken and lined, and every cap and jacket was coated in a layer of grime.

  She forced a bright smile and walked toward the bar, where a wizened man with an eye patch had just spat onto a tankard and was polishing it with a filthy cloth.

  “Good evening!” she said brightly before leaning forward to whisper the code words to the barman in the discreet tone Pemberley had advised. “I hear the express left Wimborne Minster fifteen minutes late.”

  The barman raised an eyebrow, then moved his one visible eye to the extreme left, indicating the direction in which Nightwalker sat.

  “Marvellous,” replied Churchill. “I’ll take a drink with me, if I may. A glass of Richebourg Grand Cru, please. Twenty-three if you have it.”

  “Scrumpy?” replied the barman.

  “Is that all you have?”

  “Yep.”

  “I suppose a glass of that will do instead.” Churchill grinned self-consciously, wondering when the locals around her would resume their conversations.

  Carrying her greasy tankard, Churchill walked between the tables in the direction of the barman’s indicative gaze. Her bosom attracted stares from all angles, and she realised she was the only woman in the entire establishment. Churchill deduced that most of the men present were labourers or members of the criminal class. But somewhere there had to be an investigative journalist. She hoped his appearance would make his identity obvious.

  Slumped in the corner of the room was a man with a loosened tie and a shabby felt hat tipped over his face. He appeared to be asleep, but she assumed this was a clever ruse.

  Churchill perched herself on the rickety wooden stool across the table from him and felt relieved to hear the background chatter start up again.

  “Nightwalker?” she whispered.