Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “Steady on, Mr Cavendish. I’m more inclined to believe the letter was sent to me by someone wishing to frame Mr Bodkin. It may even be from the murderer himself!”

  “Or herself,” interjected Pemberley.

  “Or herself.”

  “So how do we find out who sent it?” asked Mr Cavendish, sitting down again.

  “That’s what I’m working on at this very moment. Unfortunately, Inspector Mappin is in possession of the letter. He seems to think he’s in charge of the whole thing now. However, I plan to visit him to ask how his investigation is progressing. Perhaps you would like to accompany me.”

  “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more. When are you planning on going?”

  Churchill consulted her desk calendar and then looked at her watch.

  “How about now?”

  “I’m ready when you are, Mrs Churchill.”

  “We’re off to the police station, Miss Pemberley,” said Mrs Churchill, picking up her handbag. “I shall have my cup of tea on my return. Woman the fort, if you please.”

  Churchill sank down into the passenger seat of Mr Cavendish’s car and rested her handbag on her lap.

  “Well, this is all rather swanky,” she said. “And it’s surprisingly comfy, too. Those dials look rather complicated. You can understand them all, can you?”

  “One or two of them. I think the others are decorative.”

  “Oh dear, really? Don’t you think you should —”

  The engine started with a loud roar.

  “Chocks away!” Mr Cavendish shouted over the noise.

  “Chocks? An automobile requires chocks, does it? I thought that was just for aeroplanes.”

  “Hold on to your hat!”

  Three minutes later Churchill staggered out of Mr Cavendish’s car beside the police station. Her legs felt weak and her head spun.

  “Oh dear,” she said, patting her hair. “My shampoo and set is quite ruined.”

  “You go on in and see Inspector Mappin,” said Mr Cavendish. “I’ll jog back and fetch your hat. I did warn you to hold on to it.”

  “I held on to it as best as I could, Mr Cavendish! Was there any need to go around the corners like that?”

  Churchill walked into the police station slowly with the sensation of extreme speed still coursing through her veins.

  Everything was peaceful inside. So peaceful, in fact, that Inspector Mappin had fallen asleep behind his desk. Churchill stood and watched him for a moment; his head was tilted back against his chair and his mouth wide open. He wasn’t an attractive sleeper.

  “Inspector Mappin?” she ventured. He stirred slightly, smacked his lips together, then resumed his snooze with his mouth open.

  Churchill rummaged in her handbag for her crochet needle and found it just as Mr Cavendish stepped into the room with her hat in his hand.

  “Voila, Mrs Churchill,” he said. He presented it to her then glanced at Inspector Mappin. “Good heavens! The chap’s fallen asleep on the job.”

  “He certainly has. A prod to the ribs with my crochet hook should sort him out.”

  “No wait, don’t,” said Mr Cavendish, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We can have some japes! Let’s put something in his mouth. Come on, what have we got here?” He searched the desk. “How about a paperclip?”

  “I have no time for your schoolboy humour, Mr Cavendish,” scolded Churchill.

  “Or I could roll a piece of paper into a ball and bowl it in! Come on, help me find a scrap of paper.”

  Inspector Mappin stirred and his eyes flickered open.

  “Wh-what?” He shook himself awake. “When did you get here? And what are you doing with that paperclip, Cavendish?”

  “Nothing, Inspector Mappin.”

  “And the metal implement, Mrs Churchill?” asked the inspector, eying the crochet needle warily.

  “I was about to prod you with it, Inspector Mappin. You shouldn’t be sleeping on duty.”

  “I wasn’t asleep! I was merely deep in thought.”

  “Pitiful excuse.” Churchill placed the crochet hook back in her handbag and sat down.

  “Mr Cavendish and I are here to find out what progress you’ve made in identifying the sender of the mysterious letter.”

  “Oh, that. What’s it got to do with Cavendish?”

  “He just happens to be Mrs Furzgate’s godson, and he’s also my client. Besides, the letter you have in your possession was sent to me, so it’s actually my letter.”

  “I need to hold on to it for now, Mrs Churchill.”

  “You do that, Inspector. How are your investigations going?”

  “Well, Mr Bodkin, the man the letter was supposedly sent by, denies sending it.”

  “Of course he does!” said Mr Cavendish. “But the chap has already incriminated himself, so how can he deny it? Why hasn’t he been arrested, Inspector? Why is he not in your police cell at this very moment?”

  “Because there’s no proof he sent it,” replied Inspector Mappin.

  “Of course he sent it!” retorted Mr Cavendish. “The fellow signed his name!”

  Churchill began to suspect that what she had known for a long time was true: Mr Cavendish wasn’t especially bright.

  “The fact Bodkin’s name is on the letter suggests that he didn’t send it,” she explained.

  “What?” Mr Cavendish’s brow crumpled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why would he send such a letter were he guilty of the murder?” Churchill asked him. “Why confess at all?”

  “Because he feels guilty.”

  “But why go to the trouble of cutting out all those little letters?” asked Churchill. “Why not just write the letter in his normal handwriting? Or why even go to the trouble of writing a letter at all? Why not just walk into this police station and confess?”

  “That’s a good point well made,” said Inspector Mappin, “for a meddling busybody.”

  “I knew that it would be too much to expect unadulterated flattery from you Inspector,” said Churchill.

  “Ah, but I am being complimentary, Mrs Churchill,” he replied. “Perhaps you have your head screwed on the right way after all.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Having carried out my own investigations,” continued the inspector, “I can wholeheartedly say that this strange letter is merely a clumsy attempt to frame Mr Bodkin.”

  “You and I are in agreement, Inspector, but the question remains, who sent it? Have you found out yet?”

  “No.”

  “So that’s the stumbling block. The letter is not from Bodkin, but we have no idea who it is from. Have you dusted it for fingerprints, Inspector?”

  “I have, but that’s of little use to me unless I take the fingerprint of every man in this village.”

  “And woman.”

  “I suppose so. That would double the workload, wouldn’t it?”

  “So what now, Inspector?”

  “Well, that, I suppose. The fingerprints.”

  “It’s not terribly feasible, is it? What if someone refuses to allow you to take their fingerprints?”

  “Then they must be the guilty party!”

  “And what if five people refuse? Does that make them all guilty parties?”

  “Well, it would suggest they’d all been up to no good and had something to hide, so they’re probably guilty of something. It might give me the opportunity to clear up a few cold cases.”

  “I think it’s a flawed plan, Inspector. Surely people have the right to object to you taking their fingerprints.”

  “But if they do there’s got to be something fishy about them. They should respect law and order!”

  Churchill sighed. “In the meantime I shall continue with my own investigation.”

  “I don’t think you should, Mrs Churchill. This is a police matter now.”

  “Since when? You didn’t even believe Mrs Furzgate’s death was murder until a few days ago
!”

  “Investigations often undergo a sudden change, and I am viewing matters differently now. I adapt my approach according to the evidence that presents itself.”

  “Good.” Churchill got to her feet. “Well, I think it was rather a waste of our time coming here, Mr Cavendish. Inspector Mappin clearly hasn’t made any progress.”

  “I’ve ruled Bodkin out,” said the inspector indignantly.

  “Good. Well that’s a start, I suppose. I don’t know about you, Mr Cavendish, but I’ve heard enough.”

  “So have I!” he agreed. “Besides, the culprit is quite clearly Bodkin! You’re ruled out the wrong man, Inspector!”

  “Leave the detective work to me, Mr Cavendish,” said Inspector Mappin.

  “No, I’ll be leaving it to Mrs Churchill. She knows what she’s doing. Would you like me to drive you back to your office, Mrs Churchill?”

  “No thank you, Mr Cavendish. I’d prefer to walk.”

  Chapter 29

  “Now then, my trusty assistant, run through Mr Trollope’s routine for me again. I want to make sure we have this right.”

  Churchill and Pemberley were walking along the high street toward the offices of the Compton Poppleford Gazette.

  “He leaves the office at six o’clock, then walks over to the outhouse and unlocks it,” said Pemberley. “Then he walks inside, retrieves his bicycle and wheels it out.”

  “How long is he in the outhouse for?”

  “It usually takes between ten and twenty seconds. Then he rests his bicycle against the wall of the office, walks back to the outhouse and locks the door. Once he’s done that he goes back inside the office to fetch his briefcase. He comes out with it, locks the door of the office and places his briefcase in the basket on the front of his bicycle. Then he climbs onto it and rides off.”

  “So we strike while he’s in the outhouse,” said Mrs Churchill. “We have a window of between ten and twenty seconds to get inside the offices. It won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible.”

  “Surely he’ll see us when he returns for his briefcase,” said Pemberley.

  “Is there a cupboard we can quickly dive into?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Have you not been inside the offices before?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, for some reason I thought you had. There must be a cupboard we can hide in while he fetches his briefcase.”

  “You know how I hate cupboards.”

  “That’s a good point. We don’t want to cause damage to any more doors. Perhaps we can dive under a desk.”

  Pemberley said nothing, but the manner in which she eyed Churchill’s portly figure suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by the idea.

  “You think me incapable of diving under a desk, Pembers?”

  “Diving under a desk in a matter of seconds requires nimble movements.”

  “I can be nimble. And quick,” retorted Churchill. “I can even jump over a candlestick.”

  “Why would you do that?” asked Pemberley with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “It’s just an old rhyme, Pembers. Are you sure Trollope is definitely the last to leave? There’s no one left in the office afterwards, is there? And no one else who leaves with him?”

  “No, my surveillance suggests otherwise on all counts.”

  “Good, then let’s get a move on. Mr Trollope will be fetching his bicycle soon, and we don’t want to miss our window of opportunity.”

  “I’m not sure about this at all,” said Pemberley. “I don’t think we have enough time to run into the office and hide ourselves. What if there’s nowhere to hide at all and he sees us?”

  “Then we play dumb. We tell him we saw the door had been left open and we wanted to check if there was anyone about in case the door had been left open by accident. We’re just two helpful citizens ensuring that everything’s all right. Does that sound like a good plan?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He’ll be snappy with us, of course, because he seems that type, but if we pretend to be two bewildered old women who aren’t really sure what’s going on I’m sure he’ll overlook the incident. I’ve used this ruse a number of times.”

  “I’m not so sure it would work on him,” said Pemberley.

  “How else are we going to find out all the secrets Trollope’s sitting on, Pembers? We may find evidence that leads us directly to Mrs Furzgate’s killer. We might uncover evidence of a whole host of other nefarious activities at the same time. Someone has to stand up to the Trollopes, and we know Inspector Mappin is hardly the man to do it.”

  “I don’t think I want to stand up to the Trollopes. I think I’m quite happy as I am,” Pemberley replied meekly.

  “Goodness, that’s no way to be. Where’s your backbone, woman? Think of dear Mr Greenstone and the way he was forced out of his business. And poor meddlesome Mrs Furzgate pushed down the stairs. I won’t pretend I enjoyed my brief meeting with Thora Furzgate, but do you think she deserved to die?”

  Pemberley shook her head.

  “Exactly,” said Churchill. “Of course she didn’t. There’s one thing I cannot stand, and that’s a bully. And we have two of them in the shape of Mr and Mrs Trollope. The sooner I get to the bottom of the hold they have over this village, the better. And unfortunately, Pembers, that means taking a risk now and again. As a dear old aunt of mine used to say, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.’ Are you with me or are you not?”

  “Of course I’m with you. This is what Churchill’s Detective Agency is all about!”

  “That’s the spirit! It certainly is what Churchill’s Detective Agency is about, and we’ll show Compton Poppleford that we’re a force to be reckoned with!”

  Churchill strode off proudly down the high street with Pemberley scurrying along beside her.

  Chapter 30

  “He’s taking his time this evening,” whispered Churchill as she leant against the wall of the Compton Poppleford Gazette offices, just around the corner from the door Mr Trollope was due to appear from.

  “It’s not quite six o’clock yet,” replied Pemberley.

  “Whisper, Pembers! Do you want him to hear you?”

  “Sorry,” whispered Pemberley. “It’s not quite six o’clock yet.”

  “I know it’s not; I heard you the first time!” hissed Churchill. Feeling uncharacteristically nervous, she could feel her heart thumping heavily in her chest.

  They waited a moment longer and then Churchill heard the unmistakeable sound of a door opening.

  “That’s the door!” whispered Pemberley.

  “I know, I heard it.”

  Pemberley peered carefully around the corner, trying to reveal as little of her head as possible.

  Churchill held her breath as she waited for the signal that it was time to move. Slowly, almost excruciatingly so, Pemberley’s arm raised up, and then she beckoned with her hand that the time had come.

  Churchill sprang up as if an electrical current had shot through her stout walking shoes. She barrelled around the corner toward the door. Unfortunately, Pemberley was standing in her way. She pushed past her secretary, heading for the open doorway as quickly as she possibly could. A quick glance at the outhouse reassured her that Mr Trollope was momentarily out of sight.

  As Churchill stepped into the doorway she realised Pemberley had done the same thing, only the doorway wasn’t wide enough for both of them at the same time. They were jammed in, stuck together and unable to move.

  “Step back!” Churchill hissed, flailing her arms and handbag helplessly in front of her.

  “I can’t! I’m stuck!” whimpered Pemberley.

  Churchill’s heart was pounding so heavily she feared it might stop altogether. Mr Trollope was about to emerge with his bicycle to find them stuck in his doorway.

  Churchill used all the strength she could muster to squeeze past the door frame, which gave a creak as she finally burst free like a cork from a bottle.<
br />
  The office was disappointingly small with just four desks inside. Each desk had a typewriter and a telephone on it. The briefcase was resting on the largest desk.

  Churchill headed for the desk furthest away from the door. She moved the chair and hurled herself beneath it, hitting her head on a drawer as she did so. She just had time to pull the chair back into position before two legs with bicycle clips around them came into view.

  Mr Trollope.

  Surely he had seen them, Churchill thought to herself. What had happened to Pemberley?

  Churchill’s chest felt fit to burst as she held her breath. Her head throbbed with pain from her altercation with the drawer.

  Mr Trollope’s feet paused beside the large desk and Churchill surveyed his polished brogues as she listened to the sound of rustling papers. She urged him to hurry up and prayed he wouldn’t notice her. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she reluctantly allowed herself to exhale and then quietly inhale again. She felt sure her knees would never forgive her for squashing them into such a position.

  What if he happened to peer under the desk and see her here? What excuse could she possibly come up with? She realised she would probably have to feign insanity.

  Churchill tried not to exhale too loudly in relief as she heard the briefcase snap shut and watched Mr Trollope’s brogues make their way towards the door. Once the door was closed and the key had turned in the lock, a grin spread across her face. She slowly pulled herself up from beneath the desk and tried to stretch out her legs, wincing with pain at the knees.

  She peered out from behind the desk, but there was no sign of her secretary.

  “Pemberley?” she whispered cautiously.

  A shuffle came from the far end of the room in reply.

  “Pembers?”

  Churchill was relieved to see her gangly secretary clamber out from beneath another desk. Her spectacles were crooked, but she appeared otherwise unscathed. She peered cautiously out through the window, which overlooked the rear yard and outhouse where Mr Trollope kept his bicycle.

  “All clear,” she said quietly.