Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “And his mother’s nose,” added Pemberley.

  “Definitely his mother’s snout.”

  “I don’t know where he gets his chin from, though.”

  “Perhaps it skipped a generation?” Churchill drained her cup. “What I want to know, Pembers, is what he’s doing here.”

  “He’s en route to Monaco. Isn’t he?”

  “That’s what he said, but I’m not sure whether to believe it or not. Does he regularly come back home to Mummy and Daddy?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen him for two or three years. He wasn’t even around for his mother’s mayoral campaign.”

  “He just wired her the money instead, by the sound of things. There’s something fishy about all this, I feel sure of it. Hark! Is that someone coming up the stairs?”

  There was a timid knock at the door.

  “Enter!” Churchill called out.

  She was surprised to see Mr Smallbone step into the room, his moustache bristling nervously. She hadn’t thought he would be brave enough to talk to her again after the confrontation over his spell in jail.

  “Mr Smallbone! To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “I’ve come to find out ’ow you’s copin’ with all that noise downstairs.”

  “That’s uncharacteristically thoughtful of you, Mr Smallbone. It has been rather a nuisance at times, but this afternoon has been fairly… Oh no, there we go. More hammering.”

  “It’s loud up ’ere, ain’t it?” said Mr Smallbone. “It’s bad enough ’aving to listen from ’cross the road.”

  “I’ve coped with worse, Mr Smallbone. While you’re here, I have something to ask you. A wig and a pair of spectacles were left inside Mr Bodkin’s bakery yesterday. I was wondering whether the items belonged to you.”

  “No, what would I want with them things?”

  “Perhaps you like to disguise yourself with them.”

  “I don’t go in for them sorts of things no more.”

  “You used to disguise yourself, then?”

  “I did once ‘pon a time. Shortly before me Isle of Bute days.” He gave an awkward cough.

  “Of course, those Isle of Bute days. And you haven’t disguised yourself since then?”

  “No. Why’d I wanna do that?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Smallbone. It was just a thought.”

  “Ain’t you been wonderin’ where Bodkin found the money to do up ’is bakery?”

  “As a matter of fact I have, Mr Smallbone. You know me too well. I asked the baker himself, and he told he had a little capital set aside.”

  “He’s come into a bitta money,” replied Smallbone.

  “Has he indeed? Lucky Mr Bodkin.”

  “D’you wanna know where it’s came from?”

  “Well, it’s not in my nature to pry, but if you’re willing to volunteer the information, Mr Smallbone, I’ll gladly hear it.”

  “Come from Mrs Furzgate, it did. She left it to ’im in ’er will.”

  Churchill was momentarily taken aback. “We are talking about the same Mrs Furzgate, aren’t we? The one who fell down the stairs at Piddleton Hotel?”

  “Yep. That’s the one.”

  “She left Bodkin all her money?”

  “Yeah, they ’ad a love affair. Ain’t you remembered?”

  “I hadn’t forgotten. On the other hand, I can’t say I care much for remembering it either. But that was rather generous of Mrs Furzgate, was it not?”

  “It can’t have been much,” said Pemberley. “She was a woman of modest means.”

  “Just enough to refit a bakery, I suppose,” said Churchill.

  “Nope,” replied Mr Smallbone. “There was loads of it.”

  “What? Loads of money? But how?” she probed.

  Mr Smallbone shrugged. “Dunno. Family money, p’rhaps. But I knows it were a lot ’cause Bodkin’s been boastin’ about it down the Wagon and Carrot. He bought everyone in there a drink.”

  “A shame we missed that one, Miss Pemberley, isn’t it? Did Bodkin say how much she had left him?”

  “Nope. Just said it was loads.”

  “How unfortunate that he didn’t feel the need to be more specific. And it was definitely Mrs Furzgate’s money?”

  “Yeah. Verney’s has been lookin’ after it. ‘E’s her lawyer, an’ ’e’s proberly taking a cut for his fee an’ all.”

  “I’m sure he has, Mr Smallbone. I’ve yet to meet a poverty-stricken lawyer. That might explain what Bodkin was doing at Verney’s office the other day, Miss Pemberley. He’s been helping himself to the loot.”

  “It’s all above board,” said Smallbone. “He was named in ’er will.”

  “Well, thank you for visiting us and explaining this, Mr Smallbone. It does shed light on the matter.”

  “An’ it means he done it, don’t it?” said Smallbone.

  “Done what?”

  “Murdered her! He pushed Furzgate down the stairs so he could get his ’ands on ’er cash!”

  “But there would be no need, would there, if he knew he’d be getting the money some day?”

  “I reckons ’e got impatient!” replied Smallbone. “‘E kept thinkin’ about what his nice new bakery’d look like, and afore long the thought of all that money got turned into murderous intent.”

  “I must admit that’s quite a compelling motive, Mr Smallbone. I had no idea you possessed the skill to turn your mind to detective matters.”

  “I were on the Isle of Bute for ten years, weren’t I?”

  “You were indeed, Mr Smallbone. There’s nothing quite like a stay on the Isle of Bute to acquaint oneself with the way the criminal classes operate.”

  “They say as it takes one to know one, Mrs Churchill.”

  “That they do, Mr Smallbone. Thank you for this excellent piece of intelligence. Can you update the incident board with it, Miss Pemberley?”

  “I’d be only too happy to.”

  “And once you’ve done that we must hoof it over to Piddleton Hotel to gather a little more evidence. We’re nearly there!”

  “Come along with us please, hotel manager. I think we’ve found your Pierre.”

  Mr Crumble sat behind his desk in the familiar turquoise plaid suit and glared at Mrs Churchill.

  “This isn’t a convenient time.”

  “It may not be for you, Mr Crumble, but it certainly is for us. This may be the moment we ensnare the culprit!”

  “But I’m in the middle of something.”

  “We’re all in the middle of something, Mr Crumble. Now come along, there’s no time like the present. The sooner we get you there the sooner you can return to whatever you’re in the middle of.”

  “I consider this a great imposition!”

  “Do I need to remind you that the private little arrangement you have with the Compton Poppleford Gazette could very easily become public knowledge?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Come along, then. Off we trot.”

  Mr Crumble sighed and got up from his chair.

  “Mr Bodkin?” asked Mr Crumble as they stood outside the bakery. “What’s the baker got to do with anything?”

  A new sign saying Bokdin’s Bakery hung proudly across the top of the shop.

  “Yes, Mr Bodkin the baker. Or should I say Bokdin?” Churchill chuckled. “There he is, shouting at that workman over there. I’m assuming he’s the man who put the sign up.”

  The workman seemed rather relieved at the interruption as the baker turned to Churchill with a face that reminded her of an angry tomato.

  “I do hope we’re not interrupting anything, Mr Bodkin,” she said brightly. “Would you mind calming yourself a little and facing Mr Crumble here? You do know Mr Crumble from the Piddleton Hotel, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we were at school together. But this is not a convenient time!” he fumed.

  “It never is, is it?” replied Churchill. “Mr Crumble said much the same thing, so let’s get this over and done with. If you two g
entlemen could spare a moment of each other’s time, perhaps Mr Crumble you could tell us if the baker is, in fact, Pierre.”

  “Not a chance,” said Mr Crumble.

  “Who’s Pierre?” asked Mr Bodkin.

  “I can see that we’re somewhat hampered here by the lack of wig and spectacles.” Churchill looked around for suitable replacements. “Ah, Miss Pemberley! Perhaps you can lend Mr Bodkin your spectacles.”

  “But I need them to see with.”

  “Of course you do, dear, and I’ll hand them back in a jiffy. Just pass them to Mr Bodkin, will you please?”

  Pemberley did as she was told.

  “I’m not wearing ladies’ spectacles!” protested Mr Bodkin.

  “Just put them on and stop making a fuss.” Churchill surveyed his bald pate. “It’s rather hard to imagine you with hair, but perhaps the spectacles will do trick. What do you think, Mr Crumble. Does this man bear a resemblance to Pierre now?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “You’ll have to imagine a mass of dark curly hair, of course. Can you imagine that? Does it ring any bells?”

  “None at all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Pierre is about two inches shorter and three inches narrower. And at least twenty years younger.”

  “Fine,” retorted Churchill, feeling deeply unsatisfied with the outcome of the exercise.

  “Have you quite finished?” asked Mr Bodkin. “Can I get back to shouting at my workmen?”

  “Do you speak any French, Mr Bodkin?” she asked.

  “No. Now will you please leave me alone?”

  “I should think Pierre will have returned to his motherland by now,” said Mr Crumble.

  “I don’t think he has, Mr Crumble. You see, I think your Pierre was wearing a disguise.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you put Miss Pemberley’s spectacles on Mr Bodkin? You think Bodkin disguised himself as Pierre?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Mr Crumble gave a loud laugh and slapped his thigh. “What, old Piggers here?”

  “Piggers?”

  “That’s what they called me at school,” Bodkin replied disdainfully.

  “Mrs Churchill,” said Mr Crumble as he wiped the tears of mirth away from his eyes. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t recognise Piggers in a wig and spectacles?”

  Churchill felt distinctly foolish. “I didn’t realise how well acquainted you were with Piggers.”

  “We weren’t that well acquainted,” stated Bodkin. “Pip here was best friends with Bruiser.”

  “Let me guess,” said Churchill. “Bruiser was the school bully.”

  “He was indeed,” replied Bodkin.

  “Why Pip?” she asked.

  “Pip, pippin, Cox’s orange pippin, apple, apple crumble,” explained Mr Crumble without pausing for breath.

  “Bruiser used to put a cricket ball in his pillowcase and thwack fellows over the head with it after lights out,” said Bodkin.

  “Pleasant chap then, eh?” said Churchill.

  “I wonder what he’s up to these days,” mused Bodkin.

  “He’s a high court judge,” replied Crumble.

  “What else?” replied Churchill. “Come on, Miss Pemberley, let’s leave these chaps to reminisce about their school days while we get back to the important business of solving crimes.”

  “I need my spectacles back from Piggers,” said Pemberley.

  “But I can see better with these on,” said Bodkin.

  “Then get your own,” retorted Pemberley, snatching them off his face.

  Chapter 40

  “Oh, help! I’m so embarrassed, Pemberley!” said Churchill once they were back in their office. “I should have assumed Crumble and Bodkin already knew each other. Everyone knows everyone here, don’t they?”

  “They do, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you know that Crumble and Bodkin went to school together?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Perhaps you could have mentioned it to me.”

  “They’ve both changed a lot since then. There was a slight possibility that Crumble wouldn’t have recognised him.”

  Churchill sighed. “Well, we know now that Bodkin was not Pierre. But what about all this money he’s come into? He’s certainly enjoying spending it. I’d say he was trying to blow it all before anyone cottons on to the fact that he’s the one behind Mrs Furzgate’s death.”

  “But how can he be?”

  “I don’t know, Pembers; really I don’t. He was the only one who stood to gain from her death as she left everything in her will to him. Besides, she had threatened to tell his wife about their love affair, so he had a lot to gain by pushing her down those stairs.”

  “Perhaps he asked Pierre to do it for him.”

  “He may well have done. He may have asked the person who disguised himself as Pierre to do it. But who is Pierre?”

  “A hitman, I imagine.”

  “I suppose he must be if he was paid to murder someone.”

  “Why did Smallbone come and tell us about Bodkin’s windfall?” asked Pemberley.

  “I assume he was just being helpful.”

  “Smallbone isn’t known for being helpful.”

  “You’re right, Pembers. It’s the first time I’ve ever known him to be helpful.”

  “I wonder if he was trying to influence proceedings.”

  “Trying to frame Bodkin, you mean?”

  “Your initial thought was that he’d planted the disguise in Bodkin’s bakery, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, true. I did think that. He was in the shop just before I spotted it there.”

  “So Smallbone could have planted the disguise before coming to inform us about Bodkin’s motive for the murder.”

  “You’re right, Pembers. He’s either protecting himself or someone else. What’s his relationship with the Trollopes like?”

  “Quite friendly, I think.”

  “Isn’t it remarkable how that distasteful pair manage to be on good terms with so many people? How do they do that? I’ve often found the most popular people are the most unpleasant.” Churchill’s verbal musings were interrupted by the rumble of an engine from the street below.

  “My sprightly private eye!” enthused Mr Cavendish as he bounced into the room. “And her jaunty accomplice!” he added, giving Pemberley a wink.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Cavendish. You’re in better spirits than when we last saw you.”

  “Nothing keeps me down for long, Mrs Churchill,” he replied, tossing his boater onto the hat stand and taking a seat.

  “Indeed not. You’re like a frisky young puppy.”

  He grinned widely. “What a delightful comparison, Mrs Churchill. I like that very much.”

  “I hope he’s house trained,” Pemberley cut in. “Tea, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you.”

  “Did you have a nickname at school, Mr Cavendish?” asked Churchill.

  “Not one that I’m willing to share.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Is it rude?”

  “No, just embarrassing.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr Cavendish. What’s an embarrassing nickname between friends?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Nonsense! I don’t believe for one minute that you’ve ever sealed those lips of yours.”

  “You know me too well, Mrs Churchill.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Oh, okay then. If you must drag the information out of me… It was Mary.”

  “Mary?”

  “I know. Terrible, isn’t it?” He grinned.

  “And the logic behind it?”

  “Cavendish Square, square leg, leg of lamb, Mary had a little lamb, Mary. There you go, you see.”

  “That’s rather convoluted. There must have b
een some long, dull nights in your dorm to cook that one up.”

  “Oh, there were, Mrs Churchill. However, I must ask how the investigation is going. Surely you’re closing in on him by now.”

  “Him?”

  “Bodkin.”

  “Oh yes, him. Thank you for the tea, Miss Pemberley. Yes, well we have uncovered some rather damning news.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “The source of the funds he has used to fund the refit of his bakery.”

  “Ah.”

  “It seems your godmother wasn’t as hard up as she liked people to think. She left a tidy sum to Bodkin in her will.”

  “And the chap’s happily spending every penny of it by the sound of it.” Mr Cavendish sighed heavily and gazed down at the floor.

  “Did you know about the money?”

  “I only found out about it from Verney a day or two ago. I had no idea about it, of course. Hers was a meagre existence. But when I enquired about the contents of her will, I uncovered the same unhappy news. Every penny has gone to Bodkin.”

  “You had no doubt hoped she would leave a little something for you, Mr Cavendish?”

  “I did indeed when I learned about the money! Until a few days ago I hadn’t expected a thing, but when Verney told me about her nest egg my hopes did lift a little; only to be immediately dashed when he told me who would be netting the lot. What did Bodkin do to deserve that?” His eyes grew wide and damp. “The only family she had left was a nephew who swanned off to India many years ago. I don’t even know if the chap’s still alive. And then there was me, but it seems she overlooked her godson and left it all to that bald-headed baker with the caterpillar eyebrows. Do you know what I think, Mrs Churchill? I think he wasn’t even in love with her. She was just a little bit on the side to him. A little iced fancy, and nothing more.”

  Churchill struggled to picture Mrs Furzgate as an iced fancy.

  “Perhaps your godmother thought you were already catered for, Mr Cavendish?”

  “I can’t deny that the old flesh and blood provide me with a superficial stipend, but this isn’t about money, is it? It’s about affection! Until recently I had been labouring under the misapprehension that my godmother had held a modicum of fondness for me. I was sorely mistaken.”