Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “But how would I successfully get in through the window if I couldn’t get out through it?” asked Churchill.

  “Perhaps you got a better angle on the way in. Even if you didn’t get in, you showed intent, and that’s a crime, Inspector Mappin.”

  “I have to agree that a crime has been committed,” said the inspector.

  “Then you must arrest her, Mappin.”

  “Now hang on a minute,” said Churchill. “Don’t you need to corroborate my story with Miss Pemberley first?”

  “There is that,” said Inspector Mappin.

  “She’s just trying to buy time,” said Mr Trollope. “Arrest her please, Inspector. She should not be on my premises.”

  “I wonder what our mutual friend, Lady Worthington, would make of this matter, Mr Trollope,” ventured Churchill.

  His eyebrows lifted. “You know Lady Worthington, do you?”

  “Yes, she’s a very good friend of mine.”

  “I think she would be rather disappointed in you if she knew what you’d been up to,” said Trollope.

  “Oh no, she knows me too well for that. This sticky little situation would come as no surprise to her whatsoever. She would laugh the whole affair off. That’s one thing you can say about the upper classes; they’re so good at laughing things off. Have you ever noticed that?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Does Lady Worthington know you and your lady wife well?”

  “Quite well, yes.”

  “How well?”

  “Are you still trying to buy more time, Mrs Churchill?”

  “I only asked how well Lady Worthington knows you, Mr Trollope. Does she know your son well?”

  “My son? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “Does Lady Worthington know him?”

  “No, I don’t believe she does.”

  “Perhaps it’s just as well he’s in the Bahamas, in that case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you wouldn’t wish to risk Lady Worthington finding out about him.”

  “She knows he exists, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Ah, but that’s not all though, is it? She would take a dim view of his predilections, I imagine.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Embezzlement, bribery, blackmail… that sort of thing.”

  “Now hang on! What’s this all about?”

  “Lady Worthington wouldn’t like to hear about such matters, would she?”

  “And you’d tell her, would you?”

  “Only if it were absolutely necessary.”

  Mr Trollope put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me that if I press charges in response to your breaking into my office you’ll tell Lady Worthington all those dreadful lies about my son?”

  “Are they lies, Mr Trollope?”

  “Would you be prepared to tell Lady Worthington about them whether they are or not?”

  “Only if my hand were forced.”

  “Then you’re even more despicable than I first thought, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Am I to arrest this lady or not, Mr Trollope?” asked Inspector Mappin.

  Mr Trollope waved his hand dismissively and took a seat behind the largest desk. “Do what you like, Inspector. I came here to do some prep for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “I think Mr Trollope’s just saved you a heap of paperwork, Inspector,” said Churchill with a stifled sigh of relief.

  Chapter 33

  “What happened to you last night, Pembers?” asked Churchill the following morning.

  “I hid in the broom cupboard.”

  “I didn’t know there was a broom cupboard in Mr Trollope’s office.”

  “Neither did I until I knocked against the door and fell inside it. I spent three hours in there with the broom, the mop and a box of carbolic soap. Luckily, I had the little police torch with me.”

  “Mr Trollope remained in his office for three hours?”

  “It was probably about two and a half, but I remained there a while longer just to be certain the coast was clear.”

  “Oh dear, Pembers. I think you did marvellously well considering you don’t like cupboards. And at least you escaped the long arm of the law.”

  “So did you, Mrs Churchill. I heard everything from inside the cupboard and I thought you talked your way out of it rather well.”

  “I did, didn’t I? However, it’s not all sweetness and light, Pemberley. The fact of the matter is that Mr Trollope discovered me in his office. My card is marked.”

  “And we didn’t really discover any of Mr Trollope’s secrets.”

  “No. We don’t have much to show for our labours, do we? Nothing other than the name Pierre.”

  “But Pierre sounds like he could be crucial.”

  “You’re right, Pembers, he does. Unfortunately, I think we’ll need to visit our clown-suited friend Mr Crumble at Piddleton Hotel again to ask him about Pierre.”

  “Will he even speak to us?”

  “Not willingly, I wouldn’t have thought, but we’ll do what we can.”

  Churchill and Pemberley stepped into the foyer of Piddleton Hotel and lingered beside a pedestal upon which stood a cheap plaster imitation of the Venus de Milo.

  “Where do you think we’ll find him?” whispered Pemberley.

  “Oh there’ll be no need to find him,” replied Churchill. “It’s a bit like standing in a field with a bull in it; he’ll come charging over soon enough. And here he is!”

  Mr Crumble had a dark look on his face as he marched across the foyer in a turquoise plaid suit.

  “Out you go!” he ordered. “You two are banned from the premises, remember?”

  “We remember, Mr Crumble,” replied Churchill, “and we’d only be too happy to oblige, but unfortunately business necessitates our presence here today.”

  “You have no business with me. Now leave before I set the dogs on you!”

  “Oh no. Not that threat again, Mr Crumble. I think your guests would be quite distressed to witness two defenceless old ladies being torn apart by a pack of hounds. You would lose custom, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “It would be on the front cover of the Compton Poppleford Gazette,” added Pemberley.

  “It certainly would!” agreed Churchill. “It wouldn’t be good publicity for this establishment, that’s for sure. Although I suppose if you were to offer the editor of the Gazette the sum of one hundred pounds he might be persuaded to keep the story out of his paper.”

  The hotel manager glared at Churchill. “You’re the most tiresome woman I have ever met. Please leave my hotel before I lose my temper.”

  “Do you still plan to set the dogs on us?”

  “I said leave!”

  Churchill saw his fists clench.

  “Mr Crumble, we will happily leave your establishment as soon as you have told us who Pierre is.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone with that name. Now toddle off.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Churchill. “Perhaps you’d like to think about it again?”

  “There’s no need. I have never met anyone who goes by the name of Pierre in my entire life.”

  “That’s not what you told Smithy Miggins at the Compton Poppleford Gazette, Mr Crumble.”

  His face reddened.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mrs Churchill.”

  “On the day that Mrs Furzgate fell down the stairs, it was suggested that Pierre had dropped a teacake that appears to have been implicated in the case. He was a member of your staff, and you paid—”

  “Ssshhh!” hissed Mr Crumble, looking around anxiously. “Follow me.”

  He led them down a floral-carpeted corridor into a dingy, wood-panelled office that smelt of tobacco smoke.

  “Now, what’s all this about?” he fumed once he had slammed the door shut. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with Mrs Furzgate’s death? It was an accident; a pure accident! I can’
t tell you how much it’s consumed my daily life since she died here. I wish it had never happened!”

  “We all wish it had never happened,” said Churchill, “but you would make life much easier for everyone if you explained exactly how it occurred.”

  “How should I know? I wasn’t there!”

  “Tell us about Pierre and the teacake.”

  “And if I do, what next? Will you tell the police?”

  “Oh goodness me, no! Inspector Mappin is about as much use as a chocolate teapot.”

  “So what then?”

  “I’m a private detective, Mr Crumble, and I handle my investigations with the utmost discretion.”

  “Does that mean you won’t tell anyone?”

  “It all depends on how much of a bearing it has on the investigation.”

  “But if people know about Pierre they won’t come and stay at my hotel!”

  “I’m sure the matter can be handled with great delicacy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just tell us what Pierre did.”

  “I can’t. I’ll lose customers!”

  “If Pierre was involved in the death of Mrs Furzgate we need to do something about it, Mr Crumble. We can’t cover up for him any longer. If you’re not going to tell me anything more about him the public will most certainly find out what’s been going on here.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would, Mr Crumble. At the present time I only know some of the information. Tell me all of it and you will have my discretion. If I continue to know only some of it, I shall go around shouting rather loudly about it.”

  Mr Crumble groaned and rubbed his face with his hands.

  “Fine. Pierre worked here for a few days and then I fired him.”

  “Why did you fire him?”

  “Because he dropped the teacake which Mrs Furzgate slipped on.”

  “Accidentally or on purpose?”

  “That’s just the thing. I think he did it on purpose!”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He was quite a clumsy, hopeless fellow anyway, but then I have always struggled to recruit good staff here.”

  “Perhaps you don’t pay them enough.”

  Mr Crumble scowled. “Money is rather tight in the hotel trade these days.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, from what the staff tell me there was a slight to-do between Pierre and Mrs Furzgate, and when he saw her walking towards the staircase he rolled the teacake across her path. I’m quite sure he didn’t mean to kill her; I don’t see why he would have wanted to go that far. But he wished to do her some harm, that much is clear. As soon as I heard what had happened I dismissed him.”

  “And paid to keep his actions quiet.”

  “We had to. Can you imagine the impact on the business if it were discovered that my hotel was responsible for the poor woman’s death?”

  “I must say I’m pleased the truth is finally out, Mr Crumble. Now where might we find this Pierre?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He had curly brown hair and wore spectacles. He was French.”

  “Surname?”

  ‘I don’t know.”

  “Do you know of any Frenchmen in this village, Pemberley?”

  “I know of a French lady named Madame Bellegarde, but other than that, no.”

  “Does Madame Bellegarde have a son?”

  “She has three daughters.”

  “Do any of them happen to be married to a chap called Pierre?”

  “No, they’re all under the age of twelve.”

  “Does Madame Bellegarde have any brothers?”

  “No, only sisters.”

  “Does she have a husband?”

  “She’s a widow.”

  “I see. You seem to know quite a bit about Madame Bellegarde, Pembers.”

  “She’s my neighbour.”

  “Good. A neighbour with only female relatives.”

  “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would do any harm to ask her about this Pierre fellow when you get the chance, Pemberley. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a man matching his description at her property?”

  “Never.”

  “Did Pierre give away any information about himself, Mr Crumble? Anything at all that could help us in tracking him down?”

  “None at all. He spoke no English and I spoke no French.”

  “And never the twain shall meet,” added Churchill. “Thank you, Mr Crumble, for your eventual compliance. It’s a shame there had to be so much rudeness before we got to the crux of the matter.”

  “I trust you’ll keep this secret as we agreed, Mrs Churchill. Any time you wish to stay here as my guest you will be most welcome.”

  “I might consider it once you’ve updated the decor, Mr Crumble.”

  Chapter 34

  “Pierre,” mused Churchill as she and Pemberley walked back to the office. “Pierre, Pierre, Pierre. It sounds like he’s our murderer, Pemberley. But how can we find out who he is? Are you sure you’ve never come across him before?”

  “I’m very sure.”

  “We’re going to have to ask absolutely everybody. Someone knows something, Pembers, they have to. Why don’t you go back into the village and start asking people about this mysterious Frenchman? In the meantime, I’d better go and watch Zeppelin for a bit. If I’m not seen to be doing something Mr Greenstone may give the case to someone else. It’s rather boring watching a cat, but it’ll give me a chance to mull this one over. A little thinking time is what’s needed. I feel the need to allow everything to ferment in my head.”

  Two hours later Churchill was jolted awake by the rustle of a bush. Unaware that she had fallen asleep, she stumbled to her feet and dusted the leaves from her skirt. She hadn’t anticipated that the sunny spot beside Mr Greenstone’s apple tree would be so comfortable.

  To Churchill’s relief, Zeppelin was still present, and she suspected it was he who had woken her as he uncurled himself from beneath the hydrangea bush and stretched out his hind legs.

  Churchill popped a butter toffee in her mouth and quietly observed as the cat strolled over to the slate wall and hopped over it.

  “Where are you taking Auntie Annabel now, Zeppy?” she asked as he paused to watch a butterfly. He flicked the end of his tail, then trotted off down Muckleford Lane.

  “Not too fast, pussy cat!” she called out to him. “Auntie Annabel’s bunions haven’t quite recovered from the sprint to her office the other day. And she’s still got a dodgy knee from the… Oh, good afternoon, Mrs Trollope.”

  The sour-faced lady fixed Churchill with her sharp green eyes, which blazed out from beneath the brim of her summer hat. Her thin lips were stained with lipstick the colour of blood.

  “Would you please excuse me, Mrs Trollope? I’m following the cat who has just trotted past you.”

  “The cat can trot on for all I care,” she said, blocking Churchill’s path.

  “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Mrs Trollope.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Please may I pass? I don’t wish to lose sight of that cat.”

  “Oh, you’ll find it again soon enough, I’m sure of that. Just like you found your way into my husband’s office.”

  “There’s no need for us to discuss that, Mrs Trollope. I ironed the matter out with your husband and the inspector at the time.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “It was nothing more than a drunken dare, which I feel terribly ashamed about now.”

  Churchill moved to step past Mrs Trollope, but the stern-faced woman moved in the same direction and prevented her from passing. “Surely you must have carried out a few drunken dares you feel rather embarrassed about yourself, Mrs Trollope?”

  “I’ve never been drunk in my life.”

  “No, I can’t imagine you would have been.”

  “You threatened to te
ll Lady Worthington about our son.”

  “Only because your husband was about to have me arrested for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “You were in his office!”

  “Mrs Trollope, while it’s terribly pleasant to stop for a chat on a sunny afternoon, I feel this conversation is going around in circles somewhat. I thought we got on quite well when we first met, but sadly relations between us appear to have soured. I put it down to a clash of personalities, but I bear you no ill-will and am quite happy if you wish to be on your way. I do, in fact, need to be on my way myself as I have a cat to follow.”

  Mrs Trollope’s eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice to a threatening whisper. “You’ve got yourself into something that is way over your head, Mrs Churchill. So far over your head that even a tall ladder couldn’t get you out again.”

  “How about a tall crane?” asked Churchill.

  “No chance!” she hissed, shoving her face up close to Churchill’s. “You really have no idea what will happen to you if you continue on this fool’s errand, do you?” She gave an empty laugh. “No idea at all! Oh dear, Mrs Churchill, you have a lot to learn.”

  “Well, you need to choose a lipstick shade that matches your complexion, Mrs Trollope. Skin tone pales as you grow older, and red is just too harsh for you. It’d be all right on a twenty-year-old, perhaps, but not on the face of a mature lady.”

  “That’s supposed to be a put down is it?” Mrs Trollope sneered. ”Rather a weak one at that.” Her eyes narrowed even further. “Now how about you do the sensible thing, Mrs Churchill, and keep your nose out of matters that don’t concern you? If you persist with this nonsense someone is going to get hurt. Seriously hurt.”

  “Hospitalised, perhaps?”

  “It would be beyond the capabilities of medical assistance.”

  Chapter 35

  “I’ve been wondering what Mrs Trollope might actually do to hurt someone,” Churchill said to Pemberley as they each enjoyed a cream bun in their office the following morning. ‘If you persist with this nonsense someone is going to get hurt,’ is what she said. Who will get hurt? And how? I detest empty threats.”

  “I think it all sounds rather menacing, and not particularly empty,” replied Pemberley.