by Emily Organ
There was no reply. Perhaps he is actually asleep, she thought to herself. Not daring to say his name again, Churchill rummaged in her handbag for something she could prod him with. She happened upon a crochet needle and used it to give him a gentle poke in the chest.
The effect was immediate.
“Orff!” yelped the man, springing up from his position and clasping his ribs. His hat fell from his head and he emitted a string of curse words, which Churchill surmised were Anglo-Saxon in origin.
The pub fell silent again and the man examined his shirt as if he expected to find blood.
“Did you just… stab me?”
He was about forty with a heavy brow, sharp blue eyes and rough stubble on his chin.
“No, I merely gave you a soft prod with this,” said Churchill, holding up the crochet hook.
“Is that so? In that case I hope I’m never on the end of a hard prod,” retorted the man, retrieving his hat from beneath the table and pulling it back onto his head.
“I believe you were expecting me,” said Churchill. “I’m the detective who bought Atkins’ business.”
“Yes, I was expecting you,” he replied, wincing as he rubbed at his ribs.
“So it’s safe for me to assume you are—”
“Don’t say the name!” he interrupted.
Churchill smiled knowingly. She was beginning to enjoy this clandestine meeting. It made her feel as though she were a proper private detective.
“What can you tell me about Trollope?” she asked. She lifted her tankard to take a sip of scrumpy but paused when she noticed unidentifiable flakes floating about in it.
“Mr or Mrs?”
“The latter. Actually, let’s begin with the son.”
“Nasty piece of work, Timothy Mervyn Trollope. About twenty-eight years of age now, thirty tops. Educated at Harrow. Dropped out of Sandhurst.”
“Dropped out? Oh dear.”
“Kid took a job with Hobart and Hampden in the City of London.”
“Ah yes, the bank.”
Nightwalker nodded. “Summarily dismissed two years later for embezzlement.”
“Was he imprisoned for the offence?”
Nightwalker shrugged. “Should’ve been, but word is he had some dirt on the chairman.”
“Goodness! I wonder what the dirt was.”
“Got into customs after that.”
“Working for the government?”
“Yeah, until he started taking backhanders off his old friends in the City.”
“Young Timothy Trollope sounds like quite a sort. Would you excuse me for a moment while I go and exchange my drink? It’s got things floating in it.”
Nightwalker leaned forward and peered into her tankard.
“Supposed to be like that.”
“These bits are intentional?”
“Never had scrumpy before?”
“No, I can’t say I have. I’m from London. Originally the home counties. Do you think these bits are pieces of apple?”
“Guess so.” Nightwalker pulled a pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket. Churchill took a tentative sip and discovered that scrumpy tasted far better than it looked.
“I hear young Timothy moved to the Bahamas,” she said.
“Yeah, the kid accumulated so much grubby cash he didn’t know what to do with it. A friend from his Harrow days got him set up with a shell company in Nassau.” Nightwalker sprinkled a neat line of tobacco into a cigarette paper and began rolling it.
“And Timothy’s dodgy money funded his mother’s mayoral campaign.”
Nightwalker nodded. “That’s what they say. Folks got suspicious when they saw the size of her campaign team. And she didn’t just rent an office; she hired out an entire building. Her hospitality bill must have been through the roof. Seems every businessman from here to Blandford Forum was wined and dined.”
“She must have spent a lot of money on the campaign.”
Nightwalker nodded again. “This is Compton Poppleford we’re talking about. You can’t get showy round here or people start gassing.”
“Is it possible that Mrs Trollope used her own money? Or her husband’s, perhaps?”
Nightwalker lit his spindly cigarette and puffed out a cloud of smoke.
“Not a chance. She was the daughter of a teacher; there was no wedge in that family. And you don’t get too much dough as the editor of a small-town newspaper neither. Whatever money they had they spent on the kid’s education. Whole lotta good that did him.”
“I’ve always considered Harrow to be overrated. I’m assuming the large house the Trollopes own was also bought with the son’s ill-gotten gains.”
“Most likely,” replied Nightwalker. “Furzgate put paid to Trollope’s mayoral plans, though, didn’t she? The local busybody done good.”
“Do you think she paid for it with her life?”
“Might have done.”
“Mrs Furzgate’s godson thinks she was murdered and has asked me to investigate.”
“Cavendish?”
“The very man.”
“Watch you don’t go upsetting no one.”
Churchill laughed. “It’s too late for that, Mr Nightwalker! I’ve already upset plenty of people, I’m afraid.”
He grimaced and sucked hard on his crooked cigarette.
“Tread carefully, Mrs Churchill. You don’t want to be going the way of Furzgate.”
“Does Mr Trollope publish any of your articles in the Compton Poppleford Gazette?”
Nightwalker gave an empty laugh. “No chance of that. My work’s too close to the truth for the likes of him. The CP Gazette ain’t a newspaper, lady. It’s a propaganda machine.”
“So I’m beginning to discover. Who’d have thought such skulduggery existed in a little old place like Compton Poppleford?”
“The little old places are the worst, Mrs Churchill, that’s why I’m here.” He grinned for the first time, revealing a crooked row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Crooks come to villages like this thinking they can hide from the big wide world. Take Smallbone, for instance.”
“Mr Smallbone who runs the bric-a-brac shop?”
Nightwalker nodded. “Not many folks know this, but he was detained for ten years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.”
“Whatever for?”
“Murdering his business partner.”
“Smallbone murdered someone?”
“It was some years back, and the partner was as bent as a two-bob note. Ask Smallbone about the missing years and he’ll tell you he was working at his uncle’s whisky distillery on the Isle of Bute. But some of us know better.”
“And to think I bought a vase from that man! Not to mention the desk!”
“He’s served his time. I’d say he was a reformed character if he wasn’t passing off junk as priceless antiques.”
“That’s exactly what Mrs Furzgate accused him of!”
“She was no fool, that woman.”
“It seems not, though it’s a shame she acted like one. Who do you think might have been behind her murder? Mrs Trollope? Or Mr Smallbone?”
“No idea. I’ll leave that for you to find out. You’re the detective, Mrs Churchill.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about Bodkin the baker? I hear he had a love affair with Furzgate.”
“One word. Ruthless. Ask yourself why he owns the only bakery in the village.”
“Why does he own the only bakery in the village?”
“Ask yourself that question.” He squashed the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray.
“I could ask, but I don’t know the answer yet.”
“You’ll find out, Mrs Churchill.” He handed her a folded slip of paper. “Don’t read this till you need to speak to me again.”
“What is it?”
“The code you’ll need for our next meeting, should you ever need one.”
“We’re finished already?”
“I never stay too long in one place, Mrs Churchill. Good
luck. And mind what you do with that crochet hook!”
Chapter 23
“I’m extremely pleased with our incident board now, Pembers.” Churchill stood in the centre of the office to admire it. “I like all the pins and lengths of string we’ve added; it looks pleasingly elaborate. That’s a flattering picture of Mrs Trollope. Where on earth did you find it?”
“I cut it out from her advice column.”
“She has an advice column? Don’t tell me… in the Compton Poppleford Gazette?”
“Yes. It’s called ‘Ask Mrs Trollope’.”
“Of course it is. And what sort of advice does she dish out?”
“General housekeeping advice. How to clean silver and when to treat the dog for fleas; that sort of thing.”
“Invaluable, no doubt.”
“Oh, it is. I’ve picked up some very useful tips from it.”
“I was being sarcastic, Pemberley. Does our moustachioed bric-a-brac friend over the road ever talk about a stint at his uncle’s whisky distillery on the Isle of Bute?”
“He does! Says they were the best ten years of his life.”
“Does he really? It seems the man is an accomplished liar.”
“Really? How so?”
“He was in prison, Pembers.”
“Prison?”
“That’s what Mr Nightwalker told me.”
“It’s just Nightwalker, Mrs Churchill; it’s a code name. You don’t need to say the Mr.”
“Well this night-walking chap told me Smallbone murdered his business partner and served a ten year sentence for it.”
“Good grief! He never mentioned that!”
“He’s not going to, is he, Pembers?”
“I thought I knew this village so well, but it seems as though everyone has dark secrets.”
“It seems so.”
“Oh, while I remember, some post has arrived for you, Mrs Churchill.” Pemberley rummaged through the clutter on her desk to find it.
“Some post for me? I do believe this is the first piece of official post sent to me since I became a private detective, Pemberley.”
“It’s quite a moment, isn’t it? Here it is.” Pemberley held out the envelope. “The first piece of official post for Churchill’s Detective Agency.” She smiled proudly.
“You can go ahead and open it, Pembers.”
“Can I?”
“Of course you can. You’re my secretary, and before long I shall be receiving so much post I’ll need you to open it for me. Didn’t you open Atkins’ post?”
“Yes I did.”
“There you go, then. You may open my post too. There are no secrets between us, Pemberley.”
“Thank you, Mrs Churchill.”
Pemberley eagerly ripped open the envelope and pulled out a letter.
“Oh, it’s one of those,” she said as she read it.
“One of what?”
“One of those letters where someone’s cut out each letter from a newspaper and stuck them onto the page to form words.”
“How terribly laborious. Why’ve they done that?”
“To remain anonymous.”
“It’s an anonymous letter, Pemberley? A tip-off, perhaps? Let me see it.”
Churchill snatched the letter from her secretary’s hands.
Dear Mrs Churchill
It was me what pooshed Mrs Furzgate down the stairs.
Mr Bodkin
“Good grief, Pemberley!” The letter trembled in Churchill’s hand as she read it. “This is more than a tip-off; it’s a confession! Mr Bodkin claims to have murdered Mrs Furzgate!”
“It must have taken him ages to cut out all those letters,” said Pemberley. “Why did he bother when he could have just written the letter himself?”
“He obviously wanted to disguise his handwriting.”
“But why? He’s put his name on it.”
“You’re right, Pembers. Perhaps he did so out of habit.”
“If he’d wanted to remain anonymous he wouldn’t have done it. He would have just put ‘Anonymous’ or something like that.”
“Perhaps he couldn’t spell anonymous,” suggested Churchill. “His spelling isn’t exactly top notch, is it?”
“But that wouldn’t be a reason to include his name, would it? If he couldn’t spell anonymous he could have put ‘Anon’.”
“Perhaps he’s wishing he had now.”
“There’s something not quite right about that letter.”
“Well, there’s only one thing for it. We’ll just pop downstairs and ask him about it.”
“No! You can’t do that!” said Pemberley.
“Why not? The man works just beneath our feet. In fact, I don’t know why he went to such great lengths in paying postage for this letter. He could have just pushed it under the door. Perhaps he can explain that as well.”
“No, Mrs Churchill, the man has admitted to committing a criminal act. You must involve the police!”
“Inspector Mappin? Over my dead body!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Churchill, but you must. The letter you hold in your hand is legal evidence.”
“But this is my investigation, Pembers. I’m not handing it over to some lazy policeman who hasn’t done an ounce of work on this case and will take all the credit for it!”
“It’s what Mr Atkins would have done, Mrs Churchill.”
“Would he indeed?”
“Yes, and he was extremely professional.”
“Well, professionalism is a common trait among us private detectives. We’re certainly much more professional than the police force.”
“So you’ll show Inspector Mappin the letter?”
“Well, I suppose it is legal evidence, Pembers. I’d better take it down to the police station.”
“Hmm, interesting,” said Inspector Mappin as he examined the letter from Mr Bodkin. His shiny walnut desk was positioned beneath a poster offering a three-pound reward for a stolen plough. The poster next to it was a reminder for people to cover their mouths and noses while sneezing.
“Envelope?” He held out his hand.
“Envelope please,” corrected Churchill as she reluctantly handed it to him.
“Hmm.”
“Well?” asked Churchill impatiently.
“I wondered if I would recognise the handwriting on this envelope, but I don’t think I do.”
“It’s Mr Bodkin’s, Inspector. He signed his name in the letter.”
“If Bodkin wrote this,” said Inspector Mappin, “why is there no flour on the letter or the envelope? Have you been to his bakery? There’s flour everywhere.”
“I can vouch for that, Inspector. Perhaps he wrote it at his home.”
“Have you been there? His house is also covered in flour.”
“Do you suspect that Mr Bodkin isn’t the author of this letter, Inspector?”
“I can’t say either way, but it’s important that we keep an open mind.”
“Absolutely. That’s what I always say.”
“There’s only one thing for it, and that’s to put it to the chap himself. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mrs Churchill. Leave it with me.”
“Leave it with you, Inspector? But the letter was addressed to me.”
“It’s a confession to a crime, Mrs Churchill. I will take it from here.”
“But you’ll require my assistance, Inspector Mappin.”
“No, I shouldn’t think so.”
“You can’t just push me off my own case!”
“I’m not pushing you off anything, Mrs Churchill, tempting though that may be.”
“What did you just say?”
“I shall keep you informed, Mrs Churchill.”
“That wasn’t what you just said. It was about pushing me off something.”
“It was you who said that. Goodbye, Mrs Churchill. I need to bicycle over to Bodkin’s and have a word. Having confessed to the crime, he may be considering his escape and I’d like to catch him before he gets aw
ay.”
Inspector Mappin got to his feet and put on his helmet.
“Very well, Inspector, but you’d better keep me informed. Or else.”
“Or else what, Mrs Churchill?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Chapter 24
A short while later Churchill arrived back at her office, gasping for breath.
“Is his?” She couldn’t finish her sentence, having to keep her mouth open in order to get as much air as possible into her lungs.
“What’s happened, Mrs Churchill?” Pemberley leapt up from her chair, her eyes wide with concern.
Churchill held up a hand as a signal for her to wait. She had never been so exhausted in her entire life.
“Inspector Mappin,” she said quickly before taking in another big gulp of air.
“What has he done to you, Mrs Churchill?”
“Nothing. Is his bicycle?”
“Are you having a heart attack? Shall I fetch Doctor Norris?”
Churchill shook her head. “His bicycle. Is it outside?”
Pemberley peered out of the window.
“No.”
“Lemme know when it’s there.”
Churchill collapsed onto her chair and tried to slow her breathing. Still unable to close her mouth, her heart was pounding in her head.
“I took a shortcut,” she explained to Pemberley between gasps. “He told me he would speak to Bodkin, so I ran through the park. I beat him!”
“Well done Mrs Churchill, but at what cost? I’d better make you a restorative cup of tea.”
“While I remember, Pembers,” puffed Churchill. “Can you visit the library for me,” she paused to get her breath, “and borrow all the books you can find about the Isle of Bute?”
“Of course.” Pemberley got up from her desk, looking out of the window as she did so. “Oh, Mappin’s here now. He’s just leant his bike up against the lamppost.”
Churchill staggered to her feet and felt a dizzying rush to her head. “I need to get down there.”
“I think you need to rest, Mrs Churchill. You look very unsteady on your feet.”
“No, no. I must be there when he speaks to Bodkin. It’s my case, Pembers. I’m not letting him steal it!”
Churchill lurched out of the door and stumbled down the stairs. She burst through the door of the bakery to find Inspector Mappin standing at the counter. Mr Bodkin stood behind it with a concerned expression on his face.