by Emily Organ
“Ah, Mr and Mrs Trollope,” he piped up. “They’re probably behind it somehow.”
“Do you think so Mr Greenstone? Have you any evidence to suggest they may have been involved?”
He shook his head. “No, although my niece once did some secretarial work at the Compton Poppleford Gazette and there are a lot of secrets in that place, let me tell you.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Secrets are secret, aren’t they? But Veronica, that’s my niece, told me that Mr Trollope is sitting on a big stack of them.”
“Is he really?” said Pemberley. “That must be jolly uncomfortable.”
“I should like to meet with Mr Trollope,” said Churchill.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” said Pemberley. “He’s not a nice man at all.”
“No, he’s not,” agreed Mr Greenstone.
“I see. Well perhaps there’s another way of finding out what he knows. I feel a plan formulating, Pembers.”
“What about Zeppelin?” asked Mr Greenstone.
“There’s no need for your cat to concern himself with Mr Trollope,” replied Churchill.
“I didn’t mean that,” Mr Greenstone replied. “I meant when are you going to find the time to work on Zeppelin’s case? It seems to me that you’re rather distracted by this Mrs Furzgate business.”
“Don’t for one minute think we’ve forgotten about dear Zeppelin, Mr Greenstone. A professional detective always solves her cases. Just you wait and see.”
Chapter 26
“We didn’t manage to elicit a confession from Mr Greenstone about that letter, did we, Pembers?” The two ladies walked down a lane toward the high street.
“Can we be sure it was him who sent it?”
“He admitted that his spelling wasn’t up to scratch, but other than that there’s nothing to suggest he’s behind it.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“I don’t think Bodkin would be stupid enough to send it, unless he’s double bluffing as Inspector Mappin suggested. I’m inclined to think the letter may be from the murderer himself.”
“Or herself?”
“Indeed, or herself. And he or she is trying to pervert my investigation by shining the spotlight on someone else.”
“Clever.”
“Not that clever, Pembers, seeing as the culprit can’t spell properly.”
“But sometimes people can be clever in different ways. While they may not seem too clever on the face of it, they may be clever in another respect.”
“Hmm, I sort of see what you mean, Pembers. Let’s pass by the Compton Poppleford Gazette’s offices shall we?”
“I hope you’re not planning to speak to Mr Trollope. He can be rather cantankerous, and he’s quite scary, too.”
“I’m not going to speak to him directly; I have a more subtle plan. We need to conduct some surveillance.”
“Why are there so many flies about this evening?”
“Stop flapping, Pemberley, you’ll get us noticed.”
“But they’re not bothering you; it’s only me they’re interested in.”
“You must have sweet-tasting skin, Pembers.”
“Why does everybody say that? What does it actually mean?”
“Shush. Here comes someone now.”
The two women ducked behind the shrubs in the yard as the door of the Compton Poppleford Gazette offices opened. A miserable, hatchet-faced man in brown tweed with bicycle clips around his trousers emerged.
“Is that our man Trollope?” Churchill whispered to Pemberley.
“Yes, that’s him.”
Mr Trollope glanced around before walking over to a brick outhouse, unlocking the door and disappearing inside.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Churchill.
Her question was answered when Mr Trollope emerged a few moments later wheeling a bicycle out. He leant it against the wall, locked the door of the outhouse and went back inside the office building.
“Now what’s he doing?”
Just a short while later Mr Trollope appeared again, this time carrying a briefcase, which he placed in the basket at the front of the bicycle. Then he locked the office door, climbed onto his bicycle and cycled away.
“Ah ha!” said Churchill, trying not to wince from the pain in her knees as she stood up straight.
“What do you mean by that?”
“We’ve identified his routine. What I want you to do, Pembers, is hide behind this bush for the next week and ascertain whether this routine of his is one he carries out every evening.”
“But what about the flies?”
“Tell them to buzz off.” Churchill chuckled at her own joke as they headed off.
Chapter 27
The bell above the door of Mr Smallbone’s shop gave a pleasing tinkle as Churchill stepped inside. He looked up immediately.
“I ain’t permittin’ you in ’ere if you’s gonna ask me questions about ’er again,” he warned.
“Who’s ’er? The cat’s mother?”
“Mrs Furzgate.”
“Oh, her. No, I’m not. I thought I’d come in here for a little peruse instead. I don’t often find the time for a little peruse.”
Churchill began inspecting the piles of bric-a-brac around her while Mr Smallbone regarded her warily.
“You’s makin’ me suspicious,” he said.
“Me?” Churchill laughed. “You don’t need to worry about me, Mr Smallbone.”
“Reckons I do. If you’s in ’ere to cause mischief you can go on an’ leave now.”
“You’re willing to turn away a paying customer?”
“You’re gonna buy summat are you?”
“I might do if I see something that catches my eye.”
“Like what?”
“A paperweight. I’m looking for a paperweight so that when Miss Pemberley opens the window the papers don’t get blown off my desk.”
“That can be right annoyin’.”
“Can’t it just?”
“The paperweight section’s over ’ere,” he said.
“Oh, you have a dedicated section for paperweights. How perfectly charming.”
Mr Smallbone walked over to an old desk that had various heavy items resting on it. Churchill sauntered over and examined them.
“This is a pretty one with the flowers inside it,” she said. “How do glass-blowers achieve that effect? Quite marvellous. Shame about the chips, though.”
“You ’ave to expect wear and tear of antiques on account of ’em being so old.”
“Indeed. Now this one’s interesting. Is it a brass lizard?”
Mr Smallbone nodded.
“How much?”
“Five quid.”
“Good grief. Really?”
“It’s antique, Mrs Churchill.”
“Course it is. And here we have several more glass paperweights and an elephant. Is that real ivory?”
Mr Smallbone nodded again.
“And what’s this? It looks like a cog of some sort.”
“That there’s an antique cog.”
“Naturally. And I suppose that’s antique grease on it as well?”
Mr Smallbone peered closely at the dirty cog sitting among the paperweights. His moustache twitched. “Thinkin’ about it, the cog ain’t meant to be there. Must of been left over from when the boiler got replaced.”
Churchill gave a polite laugh. “Goodness me, you are funny, Mr Smallbone.” She glanced around the shop. “You must have been running this place for a long time given the amount of knowledge you have about antiques. Let me hazard a guess. Thirty years?”
“Almost forty.”
“Nearly forty years! What a thought that you’ve been in this very shop every single day for forty years.”
“Yeah, it’s been a long time.”
“Every single day? You must have missed one or two over the years?”
“Nope, I’ve been ’ere every day. Never missed a single one. Never been too
ill fer work.”
“Gosh, what a remarkable constitution you must have, Mr Smallbone, to never be ill and to have been in this shop every single day for forty years!”
“Yeah, ’part from a gap of a few years, that is.”
“A gap?”
“Worked at me uncle’s whisky distillery on the Isle of Bute fer a bit, I did.”
“Really? How interesting! What made you decide to do that?”
“Jus’ fancied a change.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Mr Smallbone. Doesn’t one feel much better when one has a change of scene?”
“Yeah.”
“Which distillery does your uncle own?”
“Eh? Which what?”
“Which distillery?”
“Oh, it’s got the family name, Smallbone.” He scratched at his moustache.
“Is it really? I don’t recall there being a Smallbone distillery on the Isle of Bute.”
“You’ve been there, ’ave you?” His eyes widened in alarm.
“Yes, I lived there for a few years. Like you, I fancied a change of scene.”
“Oh.”
“Which place is it near? Kerrycroy? Ambrismore? Glecknabae?”
“Dunno, it was ages ago now.”
“Perhaps it was Rothesay, with the castle.”
“There might’ve been a castle there.”
“Glenmore Bay is rather pretty, don’t you find?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Did you go to Glenmore Bay?”
“Proberly.”
“You should know whether you did or not because you surely can’t have missed the pier there, which is the longest in Scotland.”
“Oh yeah, longest pier in Scotland it is.”
“You walked along it, did you?”
“Yeah, can’t miss it, as you said Mrs Churchill.”
“Except that I was telling a porky pie.”
“A what?”
“I was fibbing, Mr Smallbone. There is no such place as Glenmore Bay on the Isle of Bute and I have no idea where Scotland’s longest pier is, but it certainly isn’t there.”
Mr Smallbone’s face turned pale.
“What are you playin’ at?”
“I could ask the same of you. Did you really spend ten years on the Isle of Bute?”
“How did you know it was ten years?”
“A little bird told me.”
“Miss Pemberley?”
“I never reveal my sources. But I don’t believe that you spent ten years on the Isle of Bute. Where were you?”
“None of your business. I knew you’d come ’ere to cause mischief. I told you! I said you was up to no good.” He poked his forefinger at her.
“I heard that you were serving time for murder.”
Mr Smallbone dashed over to the door and locked it. Then he turned to face Churchill, his eyes wide with horror and his moustache trembling.
“Ain’t no one, and I mean no one, in Compton Poppleford as knows about all that. If I ’ear you’ve breathed a single word—”
“Don’t panic, Mr Smallbone, my lips are sealed. As a private detective I know how to be discreet. As far as I’m concerned you’ve served your time.”
“I ’ave. I ’ave served me time. And he ’ad it comin’, you know.”
“Did he indeed?”
“Yeah, ’e were a crook. And a thief and a liar. ’E double-crossed me, ’e triple-crossed me, ’e—”
“Mr Smallbone, I don’t doubt you have an elaborate justification for putting an end to another man’s life, but I’m not here to be judge and jury all over again.”
“So what are you doin’ ’ere? I’m confused, Mrs Churchill. You said as you wanted to buy a paperweight and now you’re diggin’ up things you ain’t got no cause to dig up. What d’you want from me? Money, is it?”
“Do I look the blackmailing type, Mr Smallbone?”
“I dunno. But I want you to get out me shop and never come back. But you’re always knockin’ about, ain’t you? You works in that office just across the road so’s you can look outta your window and down to my shop any time you want. Woah, it gives me the shivers, it really does!”
“Mr Smallbone, I shall have to splash some cold water over you if you don’t calm down this very minute! Now take some deep breaths.”
Astonishingly, Mr Smallbone did as he was told. Churchill realised the man had become putty in her hands.
“I gather this man you despatched was an unpleasant character,” she said.
Mr Smallbone nodded.
“Now I have no desire to go into the detail of how you carried out the deed, but I think that if it was possible for you to do away with a crook who was more than likely able to defend himself, it would have been even easier to push a defenceless old lady down the stairs.”
“Oh no,” groaned Mr Smallbone. “We ain’t back to ’er, are we? You don’t give up, Mrs Churchill.”
“She accused you of selling fake antiques.”
“That she did.”
“And the accusation must have annoyed you. In fact, it was probably more than mere annoyance; there was a very real risk that she could have ruined your business of almost forty years.”
“She could ’ave.”
“And a little shove down the staircase at Piddleton Hotel would have easily put an end to the problem.”
“I know what this looks like. I’m a convicted murderer who was bein’ pestered by the local busybody. It would of been easy to do away with ’er, and I can’t deny I didn’t consider it. But I didn’t do it! Not this time. Perhaps after another few months of it I might ’ave done, but it weren’t nothin’ to do with me.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Mr Smallbone.”
“Good.”
“Just one more question.”
“Oh, hell. What now?” Mr Smallbone stood, slumped and defeated, by the locked door.
“Did you send a letter to me claiming that Mr Bodkin had pushed Mrs Furzgate?”
“No. Why would I do summat like that? ’E murdered ’er, did ’e?”
“He says that he did no such thing.”
“Course ’e did.”
“Well, yes, he doesn’t wish to implicate himself any more than you do. How do you spell ‘pushed’, Mr Smallbone?”
“How do you spell it? Pushed? Why you askin’ me that for?”
“Just answer the question, Mr Smallbone. Then I’ll buy a paperweight from you and leave.”
“P-U-S-H-E-D.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 28
“What an interesting paperweight,” said Pemberley as Churchill placed the brass lizard on her desk. “Did you buy it from Mr Smallbone?”
“I did indeed, Pembers, and I talked him down to a pound from five. Thank you for finding The Isle of Bute Illustrated Guide Book in the library for me; it came in most useful. Mr Smallbone actually believed I’d been there!”
“Did he come clean?”
“Just about. He’s admitted to one murder, at least, but I can’t tell whether he is also responsible for Mrs Furzgate’s demise. He’s adamantly denying it, of course, and he knows to spell pushed with a ‘u’ rather than double ‘o’. He’s also terrified people will find out about his misdemeanour, so we’ve got a hold over him now, Pembers.”
“Poor Mr Smallbone.”
“What? Why would you feel sorry for him?”
“I really don’t know. I suppose I shouldn’t. It’s just that he looks rather sad most of the time.”
“He’s only got himself to blame. Now, how are you getting on with your surveillance of Mr Trollope?”
“I’ve observed him for two evenings now, and his routine has matched exactly that of the evening when we both watched him.”
“Good, good. He strikes me as a creature of habit, so continue watching him, Pemberley, and we’ll decide when to strike. Currant bun?”
“Thank you, Mrs Churchill. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
The throb of a
motorcar outside made the window panes rattle.
“There’s only one man with an engine that loud,” said Churchill.
A moment later Mr Cavendish breezed in through the door with his bright, bouncy hair and white teeth.
“Surprise, surprise, Mrs Churchill!” he said with a broad grin.
“It isn’t much of a surprise at all, Mr Cavendish. I heard your engine throbbing long before you set foot in here.”
“Oh dear. Is it really that loud?” He placed his hat on the hat stand.
“I’m afraid so, and that being the case you’ll need to try harder if you want to surprise me. I hope you’re not one of those menace drivers, Mr Cavendish.”
“Who, me?” He deftly unbuttoned his jacket with one hand and took a seat at her desk.
“Yes, you, Mr Cavendish. One of those chaps who races through the villages scattering chickens and blowing off young ladies’ hats.”
“Mrs Churchill, do I look like a chap who would do such a thing?”
“I think you do, Mr Cavendish.”
“You look ever so stern when you pull that face, Mrs Churchill. I feel like a naughty schoolboy.”
“And so you should, Mr Cavendish. So you should. I’ve a good mind to put you over my knee and—”
“Tea, Mr Cavendish?” Pemberley interjected.
“Thank you, Miss Pemberley. Do continue with your sentence, Mrs Churchill.”
“I forget what I was about to say now. I suppose you’re here for one of our little update meetings?”
“Indeed I am, Mrs Churchill. They are the highlight of my week!”
“Then you must have an extremely dull social calendar.”
Mr Cavendish laughed. “Not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Then I consider myself very flattered by your visit.”
“You should!” He winked. “So, has there been any progress with the case?”
Churchill told him about the letter purporting to be from Mr Bodkin. Mr Cavendish listened intently and sipped his tea.
“And Bodkin is the chap my godmother had a love affair with, is that right?” he asked when she had finished.
Churchill nodded.
“The man is clearly guilty, then!” Mr Cavendish stood to his feet. “I’ve a good mind to pop downstairs and punch his lights out!”