by Emily Organ
“You must be extremely disappointed.”
“I am, if truth be told. And it’s a double disappointment given that the money has gone to the least deserving man in Compton Poppleford!”
“Oh, Mr Cavendish, I don’t know what to say.”
“Inspector Mappin needs to arrest the man. Bodkin must have known she had money, and that he’d been named in her will. To think he even sent you a note confessing his guilt! And then the French waiter disguise was found in his shop! All the evidence is there, Mrs Churchill, yet that hapless inspector refuses to do his job. He’s probably asleep at his desk again as we have this conversation.”
“I’m sure he is, Mr Cavendish. He really is useless. My dear husband would have wiped the floor with him. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write up my final report on this case and present it to him. If he fails to act on that we’ll take it up with his superiors. Does that sound like a suitable plan to you?”
“It sounds like an excellent plan.”
“There is only one matter outstanding, and that’s the identity of the elusive French waiter, Pierre, who Bodkin may have paid to administer the final shove to your unsuspecting godmother. But I have an idea, Mr Cavendish. Just leave it with me.”
“Thank you, Mrs Churchill. I admire your relentless nature. You never give up on a case, do you?”
“Absolutely not! Give up isn’t even in my vocabulary.”
“It must be,” interjected Pemberley. “You just said it.”
“Said what?”
“Give up.”
“What?”
“You said the words give up aren’t in your vocabulary, but you just said them.”
“Which words?”
Pemberley groaned and rested her head in her hands.
“See, Mr Cavendish? Not even in my vocabulary.”
“What’s your idea about Pierre?” asked Pemberley once Mr Cavendish had left the room.
“Well, a thought darkened my mind when I first set eyes on that young Timothy Trollope. Remember how he used several French expressions?”
“It’s him!” Pemberley leapt up from her chair.
“It’s merely an idea at the moment. But with a wig and spectacles on I bet he’d make a suitable Pierre, don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes, yes! It’s him! It’s Timothy Trollope!”
“We need to gather a little more evidence first, Pembers. A little digging around into his past won’t do us any harm. Can you get Harrow School on the telephone? Tell the headmaster I’d like to speak to him about one of his former pupils.”
Chapter 41
“How many houses have you narrowed it down to now?” Mr Greenstone asked Churchill as they stood beside the hydrangea and tried not to watch Zeppelin cleaning between his legs.
“Well, there’s still this street and the neighbouring one, but the row of houses on the other side of the duck pond has been ruled out.”
Mr Greenstone sighed. “Progress seems rather slow.”
“To be honest with you, Mr Greenstone, the cat has a tendency to stay put whenever I come to observe him. If I had a shilling for every time I’ve stood here watching him lick his—”
“I’d say you already have. I paid you ten pounds, didn’t I?”
“You did, Mr Greenstone. That almost covers it, I should think.”
“Perhaps I should have said this sooner, but you may be better off trying to follow him in the evenings. That’s when I think he’s mainly being fed by someone else.”
“Evenings. Righty-ho. Perhaps we should have established that at the outset. No wonder this case has taken so long.”
“Well there’s that, and then I think you’ve been rather distracted by the Furzgate case.”
“To be honest with you a second time, Mr Greenstone, I have been. But let me assure you that the Furzgate case is almost solved.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes. There are only a few pieces of the puzzle to fit into place now.”
“You’ve found the time to do a jigsaw as well?”
“I was speaking figuratively, Mr Greenstone. A case is much like a jigsaw puzzle, don’t you see?”
“Not particularly.”
“Never mind.”
“What if there’s a piece missing?” he asked.
“There’s invariably a piece missing, but at the very end it all comes together rather nicely.”
“Oh, that’s encouraging news. What about Zeppelin’s jigsaw puzzle?”
“I have every confidence that it will become a tidy and complete picture in due course.”
“I see.”
“Now where’s that mischievous cat gone?” asked Churchill, aware that the space beneath the hydrangea suddenly appeared empty.
“This is what he does, you see,” said Mr Greenstone. “One moment he’s there, then he sees an opportunity and he’s off.”
“That’s cats for you. I’d better go and find him. I do hope he hasn’t squeezed himself under the garden gate at number thirty-five again. The last time I poked my bean in there I got a hosepipe turned on me for my trouble.”
“Oh dear, really?”
“They did apologise. Thought I was someone they’d been having a bit of bother with.”
“There’s always so much bother these days, don’t you find?”
“There is, Mr Greenstone, there really is. Allow me to go and look for your cat now. Every moment spent yapping allows him to get further and further away from me.”
Churchill stepped over the low hedge and marched down Muckleford Lane. She turned the corner to find a short, smartly dressed man bending down to stroke the cat.
“Mr Verney!” she declared. “It’s not you who’s been feeding him, is it?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Churchill. No, I don’t carry edibles for cats about my person as a general rule.”
“Oh, good. Does he ever visit your home?”
“This one? Oh yes! He’s a greedy beggar, but the wife shoos him away with a blast from the shotgun.”
“That’s a rather extreme strategy, Mr Verney. She might kill him!”
“Oh no, there’s no danger of that. She loves cats as a rule, just not this one. She only fires blanks at him.”
“I see. Well, I’m trying to find out who’s feeding him, as his owner is most upset about it. Mr Greenstone would no doubt be even more disturbed if he knew your wife regularly brandished a shotgun in his vicinity.”
“Perhaps we could agree not to inform him?” said Mr Verney with a smirk, which Churchill realised was probably the closest his face ever came to a smile.
“I won’t mention it for now, Mr Verney, but I must encourage you to dissuade your wife from frightening him with a gun again.”
“I’ll have a talk with her, but old habits die hard where Mrs Verney is concerned. Actually, Mrs Churchill, it’s rather fortuitous that I’ve bumped into you. There is something I should inform you about regarding Mrs Furzgate’s case.”
“Are you about to breach client confidentiality for me, Mr Verney?”
“No, I don’t think so. I merely wanted to inform you of a visitor I’ve been receiving in recent weeks. Quite a regular visitor, in fact.”
Chapter 42
“Pemberley, I wonder if you could arrange for Bodkin, Crumble, Smallbone, Mappin and all three Trollopes to gather in the same place? Oh, and I suppose we should probably invite Cavendish too.”
“Are you planning a dinner party, Mrs Churchill?”
“It does sound like the perfect guest list, doesn’t it? But this is rather more exciting, in actual fact. The time has come to announce the key suspect in the Furzgate case.”
Pemberley clapped her hands together in excitement. “Oh, goody! I always liked it when Atkins got to this part.”
“I’m sure you did, Pembers, and now Churchy has got to this part herself. Where would be a good venue, do you think?”
“Piddleton Hotel?”
“Where it all began! Of course, Pembers,
that’s perfect.”
“Do you need all of them there, Mrs Churchill?”
“Absolutely!”
“But what if some of them refuse to turn up? You heard what Timothy Trollope said about you. He called you personne indésirable.”
“Timothy Trollope needs to be put over someone’s knee and spanked with a slipper,” replied Churchill. “If anyone expresses any reluctance about attending, tell them that the murderer’s identity is about to be unveiled.”
“Why does that sound so familiar?”
“I don’t know, Pembers. Does it?”
“It also sounds rather intriguing. Will you let interested bystanders attend?”
“Why not? The more the merrier, I say. And tell Inspector Mappin to bring his handcuffs, as an arrest will need to be made.”
“Oh, marvellous!” Pemberley clapped her hands again. “So who is it?”
“Who is what?”
“The murderer?”
“You’ll have to wait for the announcement at Piddleton Hotel, Pembers.”
Her secretary’s face fell. “I don’t get to find out before then?”
“No, Pembers. Enjoy the suspense.”
“But I want to know now. After all, I did help, didn’t I? I’ve helped you every step of the way. I’ve been your trusty assistant. Your right-hand woman. Your second-in-command. Your auxiliary. Your Girl Friday, if you will. Your sidekick. Your henchwoman. Your dogsbody. Call me your poodle, if that’s what you prefer. Without me you couldn’t have done it. I deserve to know!” Pemberley’s eyes filled up with tears.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Pemberley? What nonsense. Of course I could!”
“I feel left out,” wailed Pemberley. “I was always left out of things at school, but I hoped when I reached adulthood those days would be behind me. But nothing’s changed. I still get left out, even at the age of—”
“A lady never reveals her age, Pemberley!” Churchill interrupted.
She watched the tears roll down her secretary’s face and felt a strong pang of sympathy. “Oh dear, I wish you would stop that crying nonsense. I’m no good with public displays of emotion.” She cleared her throat. “All right, Pemberley, you win. On reflection, I have decided that you’re quite right. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
The sobbing secretary sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with her balled-up handkerchief.
“That’s it. Dry your eyes, calm yourself down and I’ll tell you who the culprit is. But if you breathe a word to anyone—”
“I won’t, I swear it!”
“Good. Now, from one lady who was always left out of things to another, let me share my findings with you.”
Chapter 43
“I never did care for the decor in this place,” said Mrs Trollope disparagingly as she settled into an armchair in the morning room of Piddleton Hotel. The wallpaper was canary yellow, and the velveteen chairs were a brown and olive check.
Churchill refused to show any sign of agreement with Mrs Trollope’s sentiment. Instead, she paced the floor, riffling through some papers as though they were important documents.
Mr Trollope sank down into a chair next to his wife, while Timothy Trollope stood at one of the windows overlooking the grounds, his hands fidgeting about in his trouser pockets.
Churchill had been surprised to see that the Trollopes were the first to turn up. Other than offering a breezy “Good morning” she hadn’t made any effort to converse with them. Her moment would come.
Pemberley perched herself on a carved oak chair close to the door. She wore a smart red cardigan and had her notebook and pen at the ready. She had told Churchill she would take minutes of the proceedings so they could be added to the case file before it was passed to the police.
Mr Bodkin was next to arrive, followed shortly after by Mr Smallbone.
“Will this take long, Mrs Churchill?” asked Bodkin. “I’ve left Bodger in charge and I don’t like to leave him in a position of responsibility for too long.”
“Least you got someone to leave in charge,” Mr Smallbone retorted. “I’ve had to shut up shop completely. I ’ope I ain’t missing out on no payin’ customers.”
“I shouldn’t think there’s any danger of that, Mr Smallbone,” said Mrs Trollope.
“Tomorrow is print day,” said Mr Trollope. “I should be in the office proofing all the copy. This appointment is a blessed nuisance. Remind me why we’re here again?”
“Apparently, Mrs Churchill is about to tell us who murdered Mrs Furzgate,” his wife said sceptically, lighting a cigarette.
“I thought it was an accident,” he replied.
“The suggestion is that it wasn’t, but it’ll be interesting to see how she plans to explain it.”
“Good morning, Inspector Mappin,” said Churchill as he entered the room. “Handcuffs at the ready?”
“They are, although I almost didn’t bring them as I couldn’t find the key. It’s been so long since I last used them. Are you sure I’ll be needing them?”
“Yes, Inspector, because I’m about to tell you who the murderer is.”
“What, one of this lot?” he asked, eyeing the meagre assembly.
“All will be explained in due course.”
“I hope so,” he replied, plonking himself down in the armchair next to Mr Smallbone. “Oh, hello!” he exclaimed. “My knees are almost higher than my chin. Have the springs gone in this one?”
“Is everyone here?” asked Mr Crumble chirpily as he poked his head around the door.
“Almost,” replied Churchill.
“Do we all have coffee?” he asked.
“No, nobody has coffee.”
“Oh.”
“I say, Pip, have the springs gone in this armchair?” asked Inspector Mappin.
“No, it’s just low-slung. I’ll ask Griselda to bring some coffee.”
“Don’t worry about the coffee for now, Mr Crumble,” said Churchill. “We need to press on. Come and take a seat.”
Churchill cleared her throat and felt her heart begin to race. This was the first case she had ever solved. Everyone in the village of Compton Poppleford would judge her on it. This was the case that would either make or break her fledgling detective agency. Her legs felt uncharacteristically wobbly as she stood to address the room.
Chapter 44
“As you all know, I was asked by Mr Cavendish, who will be joining us very shortly, to investigate what he believed to be the murder of his godmother. Mrs Thora Furzgate sadly passed away after a fall down the staircase inside this very hotel. The coroner ruled her death an accident, but Mr Cavendish rightly believed otherwise.”
“Sorry I’m late!” said Mr Cavendish in a loud whisper as he breezed into the room. He perched on the arm of Inspector Mappin’s chair and gave Churchill a wide grin.
“Good morning, Mr Cavendish. You haven’t missed much; I’ve only just started.”
“Let’s hear the rest of it, then,” Bodkin piped up.
She glared at the baker and continued. “From the outset I was intrigued by the report of a buttered teacake at the scene of the crime. Members of the hotel staff confirmed to me that there had, in fact, been a teacake at the top of the stairs, and it was widely believed that Mrs Furzgate had slipped on it. So how did the teacake get there?
“The answer lay with a mysterious French gentleman named Pierre, whose presence at the crime scene was suppressed in the reporting of the incident. This was due to an agreement made between the editor of the Compton Poppleford Gazette, Mr Trollope, and the manager of Piddleton Hotel, Mr Crumble. Mr Crumble insisted on this arrangement as he feared that adverse publicity could have arisen from the revelation that a member of his staff had somehow caused the accident.
“He has since confirmed to me that a young gentleman named Pierre worked here briefly, and had what he describes as an altercation with Mrs Furzgate. I believe, and I don’t think Mr Crumble would disagree with me here, that Pierre purposefully placed the te
acake at the top of the staircase and most likely gave Mrs Furzgate a bit of a shove to ensure that she slipped on it.”
“Where’s Pierre now?” asked Smallbone.
“We’ll get to him. First of all, I’d like to explain what Mrs Furzgate was doing at this establishment in the first place. At the time of her fall the Women’s Compton Poppleford Bridge Club was having a get-together here, as it does every month. Mrs Furzgate was keen to join the bridge club and had made one of her many attempts to gain acceptance on that fateful day.
“However, she would never have been successful in her endeavours, as months earlier she had organised the Compton Poppleford Village People Against Corruption march. She had done so in response to claims that Mrs Trollope’s mayoral campaign had been funded by ill-gotten gains.”
“Objection!” Mr Trollope called out. “There is no evidence to support that accusation!”
“I’m not putting you on trial, Mr Trollope,” replied Churchill. “I’m merely explaining why Mrs Furzgate decided to organise her march.”
“Objection to the use of the word ill-gotten!” Mrs Trollope chipped in.
Churchill sighed. “Can I get on with it, please? Now, because Mrs Furzgate had organised this protest march, there was never any chance of her being admitted to the bridge club. Am I correct, Mrs Trollope?”
The lady nodded in reply.
“It could be argued that Mrs Trollope had a motive for wanting Mrs Furzgate to be pushed down the stairs. The woman had single-handedly ruined Mrs Trollope’s bid to become mayor!”
“Objection!” shouted Mr Trollope.
“And Mr Smallbone also had a motive,” continued Churchill.
“Objection!” shouted Smallbone.
“Can everyone please stop shouting that word out?” demanded Churchill. “It merely has the effect of slowing proceedings down. Mr Smallbone had been accused by Mrs Furzgate of selling fake antiques.”
“Well, I must say I agree with her on that one,” said Mrs Trollope.