by Emily Organ
“We did it!” enthused Churchill as she stretched her arms above her head.
“What was all that business in the doorway?” asked Pemberley. “You should have let me go first. I was in front of you!”
“But you were moving too slowly; I had to get past.”
“And then you jammed us in! We should have maintained our positions and stayed one behind the other. Imagine what might have happened if we were in the military!”
“Military precision isn’t really a skill of mine, Pembers. What’s important is that we did it!” Churchill gestured around the room and chuckled. “It’s an Aladdin’s cave!”
“Do you think so? There doesn’t seem to be much in here.”
“It’s an office, so it’s a functional, comfortless space. But there are filing cabinets and cupboards here, Pembers, all holding a multitude of secrets, no doubt. And to think we have all night to explore them!”
Pemberley’s face fell. “We have to stay here all night?”
“Not if we discover the full hoard of secrets before then. Let’s get on with it.” Churchill pulled a paper bag out of her handbag. “I brought provisions. Can I interest you in an Eccles cake, Pemberley?”
“Thank you.”
“Isn’t it marvellous that Mr Trollope didn’t see us? He had no idea!” Churchill chuckled again and bit into her cake.
“I’m still worried he might have seen us,” said Pemberley, holding her uneaten Eccles cake in her hand. “What if he’s cycling home at this very moment with a nagging thought that he heard or witnessed something suspicious? It might be enough to make him turn around and come back.”
“Nonsense, Pembers, if he’d noticed anything he would have lingered here and perhaps looked under the desks. He wouldn’t have left as he did and locked the door behind him.”
“That’s another thing that’s bothering me.”
Churchill sighed. “What now, Pembers?”
“The locked door. How do we get out?”
“I’m sure it’s the sort of door one can open from the inside.” Churchill strode up to it and examined the lock. She tried the handle and the door remained steadfast. “Or perhaps it isn’t.”
“Oh no!”
“Shush, Pembers, the door’s the last of our worries. There must be another door somewhere or, failing that, a window we can climb out of.”
Churchill walked up to the windows, which overlooked the high street, and peered closely at them.
“Yes, I thought so. These are straightforward sash windows. It’ll be easy to clamber out.”
“They don’t look big enough,” commented Pemberley.
“Big enough for what?”
Pemberley didn’t reply, but gave Churchill the same look she had when hiding under desks had cropped up.
“You’d be surprised what I can fit through, into and under, Pembers. Now, enough of this procrastination. We need to start looking for secrets.”
“What if all the drawers and cupboards are locked?”
“Try one of them. Have a go on that one over there.”
Pemberley walked over to one of the filing cabinets and pulled out a drawer.
“Does that look locked to you, Pembers?” asked Churchill.
“Not especially.”
“Good. Luckily for us, Mr Trollope doesn’t seem to be too particular about security. It shows how confident he’s become that no one will ever find him out. Let’s stop fretting and get to work. I’ll begin with A,” said Churchill, walking over to the first drawer of the filing cabinet.
“Why A?”
“Because it’s the first letter of the alphabet!”
“Why not try F?”
“F? Why the devil would I start with F?”
“F for Furzgate.”
“Oh, I see what you mean! We should think of the names of people Trollope may have done some mischief to and look them up first. Excellent idea. In which case, you do G for Greenstone.”
“But G is just beneath F. We’ll be bumping into each other as we did when we got stuck in the door.”
Churchill sighed. “Try S for Smallbone, then, or B for Bodkin. Just get on with it. I’ll do G in a moment.”
She began rummaging through the drawer of the filing cabinet marked F.
Chapter 31
An hour later Churchill opened her handbag and brought out a flask.
“Tea, Pembers?”
“Thank you. A flask? That’s very organised of you, Mrs Churchill.”
Churchill produced two tin cups from her handbag, set them on a desk and poured.
“I suppose we shall lose the light soon,” said Pemberley glancing through the window at the lowering sun.
“We still have an hour or so before we need to worry about that,” replied Churchill.
“And then what will we do?” asked Pemberley. “We can’t put the lights on or that will draw attention to us.”
“I have a little police torch my husband used in the Met.”
“It’s not a bullseye lantern, is it? Those things can get terribly hot.”
“No, Pembers. Now I’ve already told you there’s no need to fret. Just leave these little matters to Churchy.”
Pemberley choked and almost spat out her tea. “Goodness! What sort of tea is this?”
“It’s got a little drop of whisky in it. Drink it up; it’s fortifying.”
“Are you sure it’s just a drop?”
“Yes. A wee dram, as our Scottish friends like to call it.”
“I know you told me not to fret, Mrs Churchill, but aren’t you concerned that we haven’t discovered any of Mr Trollope’s secrets after an hour of searching?”
“Not concerned, Pemberley, but it does bother me a little. It seems his filing system is more complicated than we first thought. You’d think that a search under the letter F would reveal a file for Mrs Furzgate, wouldn’t you?”
“Perhaps he has his own system.”
“He clearly does, Pembers. That’s rather typical of a man, I’m afraid. My husband often had his own complex system for things that should otherwise have been straightforward. But there’s nothing for it other than to keep looking. We have all night.”
Pemberley shuddered. “I have a horrible feeling in my waters.”
“About what?”
“That someone’s going to come back here. What if they find us? How would we even begin to explain ourselves? I don’t think there’s anything here that might be of use. I think we should leave while we still can. I should hate to be discovered; I couldn’t bear it. We would be in ever so much trouble. They’d put us in a police cell!”
“That’s enough, Pemberley! There’s nothing to worry about. Mr Trollope hasn’t the slightest intention of returning this evening, I’m absolutely sure of it. He’s left for the day and taken his briefcase with him. I expect he and his lady wife, Mrs Trollope, are currently enjoying a comfortable evening at home. I wonder what the Trollopes do in the evenings at home.”
“Play dominoes?”
“I imagine they hatch evil plans to take over the village.”
“Over a game of dominoes, perhaps?”
“If you insist. Now let’s get back to work.”
Churchill drained her cup and prepared herself for another search through the files. Although she had been quick to reassure Pemberley, she was quietly worried about their lack of progress. Even worse was the concern that someone could discover them here.
“I think it’s time for the little police torch, Pemberley,” said Churchill as the room darkened. She rummaged around in her handbag.
“Can’t we just leave?” protested Pemberley. “We’ve been here for almost three hours. I don’t think Mr Trollope keeps any secrets in his office.”
“Patience, Pembers.”
“I’m afraid I’ve run out of patience.”
“Here’s the torch,” said Churchill, turning it on. “Now we can crack on.” She shone the torch into the filing cabinet. “Now, what’s left to
look at? More hieroglyphics, by the looks of things. I don’t understand all these pieces of paper with wild scribblings on them.”
She held a sheet of paper up to show Pemberley.
“That’s shorthand,” her secretary replied.
“Gobbledegook, more like. There are notepads filled with the stuff on that shelf behind you.”
Pemberley reached up and grabbed one.
“This one belongs to Smithy Miggins,” she said.
“That reminds me to give the chap a piece of my mind when I meet him. Fancy not returning my call! It’s the height of rudeness.”
Pemberley began to leaf through the notebook.
“You’ll make neither head nor tail of it, Pembers,” continued Churchill. “I’m au fait with a few languages, but this one is completely beyond me.”
“It’s not a different language; it’s English in a shortened form.”
“It could be double Dutch for all I know.”
“This looks quite interesting,” said Pemberley. “It’s about Piddleton Hotel.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can read shorthand.”
“How?”
“I learnt it at St Hilda’s Secretarial College.”
“Did you indeed? But that’s one of the most prestigious secretarial schools in the country!”
Pemberley shrugged.
“I see. So what does the shorthand say about Piddleton Hotel?” Churchill handed Pemberley the torch.
“I think it’s the interview with Mr Crumble.”
“Oh dear. Dreadful man.”
“There’s some discussion here about a man named Pierre.”
“Pierre? Who’s Pierre?”
“It looks as though there is an agreement in place not to mention him.”
“I don’t understand. Let me look at that, Pembers.” Churchill peered closely at the notebook. “Oh it’s no use, I can’t understand it. What do you mean about this Pierre chap?”
“It seems he was dismissed for dropping the teacake at the top of the stairs.”
“And so he should be. Hang on a moment! Pierre dropped the teacake?”
“Apparently so.”
“On purpose or accidentally?”
“It doesn’t say. But Mr Crumble was keen for it not to be mentioned.”
“Why ever not?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want it to become common knowledge that a member of his staff was responsible for Mrs Furzgate’s death.”
Churchill considered this for a moment. “So Pierre is our murderer.” She thought some more. “But only if he dropped the teacake there with every intention of having Mrs Furzgate slip on it. If he dropped it by accident then it would merely be negligence.”
“But he’d still be in trouble. Perhaps Mr Crumble could be sued for negligence.”
“He’d probably be culpable whether Pierre dropped the teacake intentionally or accidentally. Do you know what, Pembers? It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Crumble greased Trollope’s palm to keep this out of the newspaper.”
“He did. I can see the sum of one hundred pounds written down here.”
“The scoundrel!”
“Do you think Inspector Mappin knows about this?”
“If not he soon will. We’ll show him that notebook, Pembers, and then everything will be out in the open. What a scandal!”
“Uh oh, someone’s coming!” hissed Pemberley.
“Where?”
“I saw a light out in the yard. There’s someone out there with a torch!”
A ball of panic rose up into Churchill’s throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“But why would someone come here at this hour?”
“I don’t know, but they have!”
Pemberley turned the torch off.
“Pembers, we need to get out of here. Let’s escape through the window!”
She picked up her handbag and dashed over to the window, which opened onto the high street. Fortunately, she was able to push it open quickly and quietly.
“Out this way Pembers!” she hissed.
She heard the sound of keys jangling outside the door.
“But you won’t fit!” exclaimed Pemberley in a squealed whisper.
“Nonsense!”
With her heart thudding in her ears, Churchill threw her handbag out into the deserted high street and leant forward onto the windowsill. She swung her right leg up and pushed her knee out through the window at the same time as her shoulders. She pushed herself forward and prepared to meet the ground on the other side.
But then she stopped.
Her heart raced, knowing the door would open at any moment. She tried to shove her shoulders forward, placing her hands on the wall beneath the window for added leverage, but her right knee remained wedged against the window frame, as did her left shoulder. She couldn’t move forwards and she couldn’t move backwards. Her skirt and petticoat had ridden up high on her left leg, which remained in the room, while her handbag lay on the pavement beneath her.
“What on earth!” came a man’s voice from behind her.
His voice startled her so much that her hat fell off and rolled a short distance along the street. The lights flickered on and Churchill let out an enormous sigh of disappointment.
She began to think of a plausible explanation.
Chapter 32
“It was a drunken dare,” Churchill explained to Mr Trollope as she sat on a chair in his office nursing her bruised knee and shoulder.
She smiled at the lean, hatchet-faced man who stood before her and felt her cheeks redden as she recalled how improperly close she had been to the editor as he stood astride her and forcibly dislodged her from his office window.
“But you’re not even drunk!” he fumed.
“Not now I’m not. The argument with the window sobered me up very quickly indeed. But my secretary,” she glanced around the room, wondering where Pemberley had got to, “told me she would pay me two pounds if I could climb through the window of your office. You shouldn’t leave it unlocked, you know.”
“That’s all the temptation you need, is it? An unlocked window?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr Trollope. It’s extremely childish, isn’t it?” She giggled.
“I don’t find it funny, Mrs Churchill, and what’s more I don’t believe your foolish story. You broke into this office with the intent of stealing something, and when Inspector Mappin arrives I’ll have him search your handbag.”
“You may have a look in my handbag yourself, Mr Trollope. I have nothing to hide.”
“It’s my rule never to look inside a lady’s handbag. I’ll leave that to an officer of the law.”
“You’ll soon discover that I have taken nothing from your office, Mr Trollope, so there’s really no need to make a big song and dance about all this.”
“You may not have found the chance to steal anything, but you broke in and entered.”
“I didn’t actually enter; I got no further than the window. You can vouch for that yourself as you had to release me from it.”
“You still broke in.”
“But I didn’t actually break anything. The window was unlocked. You admitted that yourself, Mr Trollope.”
The door flung open and Inspector Mappin dashed in, breathless and perspiring. He was wearing his house slippers and a cosy cable-knit jumper. As soon as he saw Churchill his face assumed a deep scowl.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What are you doing here, Mrs Churchill?”
She attempted to convince him with the same drunken dare story she had used on Mr Trollope.
“It’s a feasible story, I suppose,” said the inspector when she had finished.
“No it’s not,” said Mr Trollope. “It’s piffle!”
“If it could be corroborated by Miss Pemberley the story may have legs,” said the inspector. “Where is Miss Pemberley, Mrs Churchill?”
“I should think she’s probably gone home,” replied Churchill, co
ncerned that she would have to get to Pemberley before Inspector Mappin did. She still couldn’t understand how her secretary had managed to disappear.
“She went home, leaving you stuck in the window?” Inspector Mappin asked.
“I think she got nervous when Mr Trollope arrived. She’d heard he can get incredibly cross.”
“I can indeed!” Mr Trollope boomed. “It makes no odds whether you find this Pemberley woman or not, Inspector. The fact is, I found this woman jammed in my window, and I highly suspect she was sniffing about in my office!”
“Were you, Mrs Churchill?” asked Inspector Mappin.
“Was I what?”
“Sniffing about in here?”
“Do I look like a bloodhound, Inspector? Actually, don’t bother replying to that, it would give you an excuse to be offensive. I don’t sniff about places; I conduct my work with absolute professionalism. This unfortunate situation I find myself in has nothing to do with my work. It was merely a drunken dare, as I have explained.”
“Search her handbag please, Inspector,” said Mr Trollope.
“Of course.”
Churchill watched as the inspector looked through her belongings.
“A flask of tea?”
“I always carry one with me.”
“A paper bag with an Eccles cake in it?”
“You never know when you need one.”
“A crochet hook? Ah yes, I’ve come across that before. Well, there don’t appear to be any stolen items in the handbag, Mr Trollope.”
“No secret documents?”
“No secret documents,” confirmed the inspector.
“That’s something, I suppose.”
“Do you have secret documents, Mr Trollope?” asked Churchill innocently.
“You know I have. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Churchill laughed. “If only I knew what you were talking about half the time, Mr Trollope!”
“She may not have stolen anything, Inspector,” said Mr Trollope, “but I wish to press charges against this woman for breaking into my property.”
“We’ve already discussed this,” said Churchill. “I got no further than the window.”
“So you say. But perhaps you had already been inside and were on your way out again.”