Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “You take that back!” shouted Mr Smallbone, leaping to his feet.

  “Please sit down, Mr Smallbone,” said Churchill. “There’s still a lot for us to get through. Now, Mrs Furzgate had bought a telescopy thing from Mr Smallbone—”

  “A nineteenth-century telescope with a two-and-three-quarter-inch objective lens and an equatorial mount, it were,” Mr Smallbone interjected.

  “What on earth is an equatorial mount?” asked Mr Trollope.

  “It’s when the mount is fitted with a polar axis that can be lined up to point at the north celestial pole,” Pemberley clarified. “In layman’s terms, it means the telescope can follow the stars as they move across the sky.”

  “Thank you for the explanation, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill impatiently. “Mrs Furzgate demanded a partial refund for the item, and also called Mr Smallbone a whole host of names.”

  “She called me a crook, an’ a thief an’ a miscreant an’ a reprobate an’ a wastrel.”

  “Which you were understandably upset about, Mr Smallbone. It might even have led to you arranging to have her pushed down the staircase to exact your revenge.”

  “I ain’t never stooped to summat like that!”

  “But you are a convicted murderer, are you not, Mr Smallbone?”

  A collective gasp rose from everyone in the room. All eyes were suddenly fixed on the shopkeeper.

  “You said as you’d never mention it!” he cried out.

  “But you’ve served your time, haven’t you, Mr Smallbone?”

  “I ’ave. An’ ’e ’ad it comin’!”

  “Well that settles it, then,” said Mrs Trollope. “Smallbone is surely the only person in the room who is capable of murder.”

  “It’s him!” announced Bodkin, pointing at the bric-a-brac shop’s owner.

  “Actually, it isn’t,” said Churchill.

  “So why’d you go tellin’ everyone me darkest secret if I ain’t the murderer?” asked Smallbone.

  “I must press on. Mr Bodkin, you had a love affair with the late Mrs Furzgate, did you not?”

  “Well, it was an affair. I wouldn’t really say it was love, though.”

  “She threatened to tell your wife about it, I believe.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “But despite being jilted by you she still left you a large sum of money in her will, am I right?”

  “Furzgate had money?” asked Mrs Trollope with an astounded expression. “But she lived in that little hovel!”

  “Yes, it came as a surprise to me too, Mrs Trollope.”

  “She left it to him?” asked Mrs Trollope, pointing at Bodkin.

  “Yes, she did,” said Mr Cavendish bitterly.

  “You poor young man,” said Mrs Trollope to Cavendish. “You were the closest thing to family she had, and she left everything to the baker.”

  “Please don’t remind me!” wailed Cavendish.

  “She was in love with me,” replied Bodkin. “She told me I made her feel like a real woman.”

  “Did she indeed?” said Churchill, experiencing a slightly unpleasant taste in her mouth. “Throughout most of my investigation, Mr Bodkin, you have been the prime suspect in the case. I received a note purporting to have been written by you in which you seemingly confessed to having committed Mrs Furzgate’s murder. And a disguise believed to have been worn by the mysterious French waiter, Pierre, was found in your shop.”

  “Why would I send letters and leave disguises lying around if I was guilty?” asked Bodkin.

  “As a bluff,” said Inspector Mappin. “Or a double bluff. Did we decide which in the end?”

  Churchill ignored the question and pressed on. “Mr Bodkin, you were worried that Mrs Furzgate was planning to tell your wife about the affair. You also knew that she had decided to leave you a large sum of money in her will. Therefore, you had two reasons to orchestrate her untimely despatch.”

  “Yes, I had two reasons, but I didn’t do it!”

  “We know that you couldn’t have disguised yourself as Pierre because your old schoolfriend Mr Crumble would have recognised you.”

  “Pierre was about two inches shorter and three inches narrower than Piggers. And about twenty years younger,” said Mr Crumble.

  “Thank you for that, Mr Crumble,” said Churchill.

  “And about three stones lighter. I forgot to mention that at the time.”

  Bodkin glared at him.

  “So who is this Pierre?” asked Churchill, pausing for dramatic effect.

  “He’s gotta be younger an’ shorter an’ narrower an’ lighter than what Bodkin is,” said Mr Smallbone.

  “Indeed he does,” said Churchill. “I must say that I was rather interested to meet young Timothy Trollope, having heard so much about him.”

  Chapter 45

  “You leave my son out of this!” bellowed Mrs Trollope. She tried to stand, but she succeeded only in wiggling her spindly legs about as she tried to get out of the low-slung chair.

  “Don’t worry about getting up, Mrs Trollope, I heard you,” said Churchill. She watched the young man, who had turned away from the window and was glaring at her with his narrow, mean eyes.

  “An acquaintance of mine told me quite a bit about Timothy Trollope’s past,” said Churchill. “And much of it is most unsavoury.”

  “Objection!” roared Mr Trollope.

  “We’ve already put a stop to that!” snapped Churchill. “This is the last bit, so just let me get on with it. Now, is it a coincidence that Mrs Furzgate, an enemy of his mother’s, is pushed down the stairs of this hotel by a young man disguised as a French waiter at the very same time Master Trollope is making a rare visit home to see his ma and pa?”

  “Yes, it is,” hissed Timothy Trollope.

  “Upon seeing the young man, I decided to make some enquiries at his old school, Harrow, and the resulting conversation shone some interesting light on my investigation.”

  “Who did you speak to?” demanded Timothy Trollope. “Mr Finkworth, or Old Fizzy as we called him? Or was it Hunkdown, the chap we called Stinkpants? He never liked me.”

  “You’re quite adept at French, aren’t you, Master Trollope?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It comes in rather useful when impersonating a French waiter. Mr Crumble, does Timothy Trollope fit the description of Pierre?”

  The hotel owner stared at the young man for a while, then bit his lip.

  “I hate to break the news to you, Mrs Churchill, but I’m afraid he doesn’t. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble putting your case together and everything, but looking at the man I honestly don’t think he could be Pierre. His chin recedes a little too much. It’s too weak.”

  “Oh dear, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Trollope with a sly smile. “You’ve been barking up the wrong tree! How do you feel now?”

  “I feel extremely well, thank you, Mrs Trollope,” replied Churchill, doing her best to remain unflustered. “Only I haven’t been barking up the wrong tree at all, have I, Mr Cavendish?”

  “I hope not, but it’s taking rather a long time to get to the point, Mrs Churchill.”

  “I’d say the point has now been reached, has it not, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Has it?”

  “Yes, Mr Cavendish. Or would you prefer to go by the name of Pierre?”

  “Pierre? Oh no, no. I’ve never called myself that name.” His face coloured. “Who would want to call himself Pierre?”

  “Wait a minute…” Mr Crumble stared at the young man. “Yes… With a dark curly wig and some glasses…” He squinted slightly. “Yes, Mrs Churchill, yes. That’s the man!”

  He pointed a fat finger at Mr Cavendish, who leapt off the arm of the chair and made a bolt for the door. But Pemberley was too quick for him. She turned the key in the lock and quickly dropped it down the front of her blouse.

  “Give me the key, woman!” he snarled.

  “Handcuffs, Inspector Mappin!” Churchill called
out.

  The inspector got to his feet and gave her a dazed look. “Him? But why him? And how?”

  Mr Cavendish tried to grab the front of Pemberley’s blouse, but the secretary responded with such a sharp slap to the face that Churchill winced. Cavendish recoiled, clasping his hand to his cheek.

  “Please restrain him, Inspector, and I shall explain all,” said Churchill.

  “Come here, young man,” said Inspector Mappin, trying to grab Cavendish’s arms.

  “Get off me!’ protested Cavendish. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” said Bodkin, locking a thick forearm around the young man’s neck.

  “Get off me, you thief!” cried Cavendish in a strangulated voice.

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “You stole my godmother’s money!”

  “She left it to me, and you must learn to accept it.”

  “I never will! I never will accept it, you big, fat—”

  “That’s quite enough from you, Cavendish,” said Inspector Mappin. “Now quieten down while Mrs Churchill explains how on earth she has come to name you as the culprit.”

  He locked the handcuffs around Mr Cavendish’s wrists and the baker finally let go of him.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mrs Trollope. “How could the man who asked you to identify the murderer turn out to be the murderer himself?”

  “Baffling, isn’t it?” said Churchill. “Allow me to explain. Mr Cavendish has known for many years that his godmother had a stash of money hidden away.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Cavendish. His hair had flopped all over his face, which was scarlet with a mix of shame and rage.

  “Because you admitted it to her solicitor, Mr Verney. When your godmother died you wasted no time at all in demanding to see her will. During these visits you made it clear that you knew she had money and expected to be the recipient of it. It was a terrible surprise, was it not, Mr Cavendish, to discover that Mr Bodkin was to receive every last penny?”

  “She made a mistake!”

  “But if Mr Cavendish murdered Mrs Furzgate, why would he ask you to investigate?” asked Mr Trollope. “The coroner had already stated that her death was an accident, so surely he’d already got away with it.”

  “He had, but he hadn’t inherited the money, had he? The matter wasn’t as straightforward as he’d originally hoped. He’d carried out the murder but still hadn’t got what he wanted. So instead he arranged for his godmother’s death to be investigated as a murder so that he could frame Mr Bodkin. He wanted to take his revenge on the baker at the same time.”

  “So Cavendish sent the letter that was supposedly from me?” asked Bodkin.

  “I’m certain he did.”

  “And he hid the French waiter’s disguise in my bakery?”

  “He must have done. I suppose he hoped that by planting the evidence Mr Bodkin would be implicated.”

  “And I was!” said Bodkin.

  “He wanted to see you arrested,” added Churchill. “And no doubt he hoped that once you’d been found guilty of his godmother’s murder her estate would instead be passed on to the closest thing she had to family. In other words, to himself.”

  “But what did he want with Furzgate’s money?” asked Bodkin. “The man’s not exactly hard up.”

  “That has something to do with the man at the window over there,” said Churchill, pointing at Timothy Trollope. “When I telephoned Harrow I discovered that Timothy Trollope and Mr Cavendish had been good friends back then. Timothy was two school years above Cavendish, but they got on well.

  “It’s no secret that Timothy Trollope likes to raise funds for intriguing investment schemes, the legality of which it is not my job to speculate upon. However, I suspect that Timothy had cooked up another money-making scheme and had encouraged his old school friend to chip in. No doubt the promise of a significant return on his investment was promised. Am I right, Mr Cavendish?”

  “He told me I could triple my money within a year!”

  “Only it wasn’t your money, was it? It belonged to your godmother. And then it passed to Mr Bodkin instead of you. Did you know about all this, Master Trollope?”

  “He told me he would have the funds as soon as he came into his inheritance,” replied Timothy. “But I had no idea he planned to do his godmother in to get it. That’s below the belt. I admit to having committed some misdemeanours in my time, but to murder your own godmother to get at your inheritance? That’s a step too far.”

  “I didn’t murder her!” protested Cavendish. “She slipped!”

  “She slipped on the buttered teacake you threw across her path,” said Churchill, “and then you gave her a little nudge just to ensure the job was properly done.”

  “The attempt to frame Mr Bodkin was rather clumsy,” said Inspector Mappin. “A child could have done a better job with that letter.”

  “Mr Cavendish is a child,” replied Mrs Churchill. “And he thought I was a portly, gullible old lady from London who didn’t have a clue about life in a Dorset village. He was partly right of, course, but – more importantly – he was also partly wrong.”

  “He underestimated you, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley with a smile.

  “People often do, Miss Pemberley. They tend to underestimate both of us, don’t they?”

  “Well, it all sounds like a wonderful tall tale, but not a single word of it is true!” Mr Cavendish cried out.

  “I should never have employed the man,” said Mr Crumble sadly. “And I feel so foolish. To think that Pierre was merely Cavendish in disguise!”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mr Crumble,” said Churchill. “Mr Cavendish can be quite convincing.”

  “He’s a bit of a charmer,” said Pemberley. “You almost fell for his charms, didn’t you, Mrs Churchill?”

  “No, I did not, Miss Pemberley,” replied Churchill, although she could feel her face reddening. “I was merely playing along. It’s called rapport.”

  “I can’t say that I agree with any of your methods, Mrs Churchill,” said Mr Trollope. “They are dreadful methods, in fact. Appalling. But I do applaud you on the outcome of your sleuthing.”

  “Thank you, Mr Trollope. Coming from you I know that is praise indeed.”

  “Not a bad job,” conceded Mrs Trollope.

  “I take that to be even higher praise, Mrs Trollope. Thank you. Now then, Miss Pemberley, can you please hand Inspector Mappin the case file? It contains everything you need for the prosecution, Inspector. I’m sure a search of Cavendish’s home will yield further evidence. He’s not a particularly sophisticated criminal; he’s bound to have left something incriminating lying about.”

  “Come on then, lad, let’s be having you,” said Inspector Mappin. “Will you be joining us down at the station, Mrs Churchill?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll leave everything in your capable hands, Inspector. All this mental exertion has left me in need of a lie down. And then I must conclude another case. I’ve still got a mystery cat feeder to find.”

  Chapter 46

  As Churchill watched the sunset from beside the hydrangea in Mr Greenstone’s garden that evening she reflected on her disappointment at the fact Mr Cavendish had turned out to be a murderer. She had been quite fond of the young man until Mr Verney told her about his quest to secure his godmother’s money.

  Despite encountering a few unpleasant characters in Compton Poppleford she had found herself beginning to like the village with its pretty little lanes and timber-beamed houses. She enjoyed the peace and quiet of the place, which was at its best on pleasant summer evenings such as this. The scent of honeysuckle hung in the air, and she wondered what her late husband would have made of her sleuthing. She felt sure Chief Inspector Churchill was looking down on her from somewhere and feeling quite proud.

  Zeppelin got up from his usual resting place, stretched out his legs and hopped over the slate wall.

  “Where are you t
aking me now, wandering cat?” she asked. She stepped over the wall and followed him along the lane.

  “Perhaps you’re finally about to reveal who’s been feeding you?” she suggested.

  The cat turned right into Froxfield Row.

  “Now this is new,” commented Churchill. “I don’t remember you leading me this way before.”

  A row of small houses with brightly coloured window boxes lined the lane. Zeppelin stopped by the steps of one with a pea-green door. Churchill noticed the door was slightly ajar.

  In two quick jumps Zeppelin was up the steps and pushing at the door with his paw. It creaked open just wide enough for the cat to slip inside.

  “Ah-ha!” said Churchill under her breath. “Gotcha!”

  “Tilly!” came a voice from beyond the door. “You’ve come to visit your Auntie Doris! How do you fancy kippers tonight?”

  The voice sounded oddly familiar.

  Churchill climbed the steps and slowly pushed open the door.

  “Pemberley?” she said.

  There in the hallway, with Zeppelin rubbing up against her legs, stood Churchill’s trusty assistant.

  “Mrs Churchill!” she exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

  “Zeppelin,” replied Churchill, pointing at the cat.

  “This isn’t Zeppelin, it’s Tilly. Isn’t she lovely?”

  “She is a he, Pemberley. And he most certainly is Zeppelin. Where did the name Tilly come from?”

  “I came up with it. I think it suits her much better.”

  “He. She’s a he. If you doubt me, take a look at his—”

  “No, I’d rather not. He looks so much like a girl cat.”

  “Are you the one who’s been feeding him?”

  “It’s rather difficult to become accustomed to considering her a him. But yes, I’ve been giving the poor cat his supper each evening.”

  “Did you never suspect that it was Zeppelin?”

  “Of course not. I thought it was a female cat, didn’t I?”

  “Did you not give any consideration to Zeppelin’s owner?”

  “Mr Greenstone? No, because I didn’t think for a moment that it was Zeppelin. And I assumed the owner wasn’t feeding this poor cat properly as he was always begging me for food.”