Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “Have you ever fired it?” Edwina asked. Beryl was quite certain Edwina would have been embarrassed to realize her mouth was hanging open slackly like an adenoidal parlour maid finding herself in the presence of a member of the royal family.

  “Only when absolutely necessary,” Beryl said. “Unless you would like to be in the position of advertising for an additional lodger, I suggest we visit the vicar posthaste. Besides, I would have thought helping a vicar would be the Christian thing to do.” Two spots of color appeared on Edwina’s cheeks. Beryl felt grubby reminding her friend of her duty, but appealing to her sense of morality was the most expedient way to reach an agreement.

  Edwina turned back towards Simpkins, lifted her chin, and squared her shoulders.

  “Did the vicar happen to say when he would be available to meet with us?”

  Chapter 2

  It could not be said that Vicar Wilfred Lowethorpe was a prepossessing man under the best of circumstances. His sermons did not inspire flights of spiritual ecstasy. His singing voice cracked under the pressure of leading the congregation in a closing hymn at the end of Evensong. What few bits of hair still clung to his head staunchly refused to obey the laws of gravity. Edwina surmised the vicar was not experiencing anything that could be categorized as the best of circumstances if his agitated demeanor was anything to judge by.

  He had been peering from behind the vicarage’s starched net curtains when she and Beryl had arrived promptly at two in the afternoon as Simpkins had indicated they should do. Before Edwina had raised her gloved hand to the gleaming brass knocker, the vicar had yanked open the front door and beckoned them in with a furtive look up and down the street.

  Even before she crossed the threshold, Edwina detected those dual scents of housekeeping virtue—cleaning solvent and laundry starch. The vicar’s wife was sure to be somewhere about, ferociously upholding her usual tyrannical standards of cleanliness. Edwina liked a clean home herself, but as the sterility of the vicarage washed over her, she felt sorry for the untidy vicar and found herself more eager to help him with his troubles.

  Beryl and Edwina followed the agitated man down a tight but spotless hallway and on into his study. He pointed to chairs for his guests to sit in, but rather than taking his own behind the desk, he paced the carpet with his hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight streamed through the long windows and Edwina noticed small puffs of dust lifting from the carpet with each step the vicar took. Clearly his wife’s ministrations had not been allowed to extend to the vicar’s private study. Beryl gave Edwina a significant look as if to say Edwina should take the lead in questioning their potential client.

  “We understood from my gardener, Simpkins, that you had a matter you wish to speak with us about in a professional capacity,” Edwina said with more authority in her voice than she felt. In fact, if she were to be honest, she was surprised her words were not drowned out by the sound of her loudly thumping heart. What would her mother say if she could see her now? Edwina was sure she already knew. Her mother had very strong opinions about the place of women in society, and running a private enquiry agency would certainly not have been something of which she would have approved.

  In fact, if she had not already passed on to her eternal reward, surely the shock of seeing her daughter engaging in such a form of commerce, or any form of commerce for that manner, would have sent her to her grave. As she paused to consider it, Edwina realized it gave her enormous satisfaction to know she was taking exactly the sort of risks her mother would never have permitted. While she had been quite lonely after her mother’s death and before Beryl’s arrival, it was becoming most clear that there were advantages to being an orphan.

  “I have a matter in mind that I would like sorted out but would not like to have the entire village speculating upon,” the vicar said. “Are you able to go about the business of investigating whilst keeping to yourselves the exact nature of things?” Edwina noted a sheen of perspiration clinging to the grey stubble above the vicar’s upper lip.

  “Sensitivity and discretion are qualities for which our enquiry agency are best known,” Edwina said.

  “As well as guaranteed results,” Beryl said with what Edwina assumed was meant to be a reassuring wink. The vicar halted his pacing. While Beryl was far more adept at handling most manner of gentlemen than Edwina ever hoped to be, she had much to learn about village vicars. At least those with wives as determinedly devoted as Mrs. Lowethorpe. The vicar would, quite correctly, find winks, especially from famous adventuresses like Beryl, utterly paralyzing. Not to mention, with only one successful case under their belts, she did not believe Beryl should offer any sort of guarantee.

  “What Miss Helliwell means to say is that we can be relied upon to investigate thoroughly and discreetly. We also can be counted on to do so promptly and to make your difficulty our number one priority,” Edwina said, sending Beryl a chastising look before slipping a notebook and a pencil from her handbag.

  “How well you put things, Edwina,” Beryl said. “We are utterly at your disposal.” Edwina was relieved to see Beryl refrained from following up that comment with another wink. She was even more pleased to see the vicar take his seat on the opposite side of the desk and lean back in his chair. “However, we will need a bit of information to go on if we are to make a start of an investigation.”

  “Simpkins will have told you one of the parishioners here in Walmsley Parva has gone missing,” the vicar said. “He may even have mentioned that the man in question is Lionel Cunningham, a member of the pigeon racing club, of which I am the president.” Edwina watched as several beads of perspiration collected between the vicar’s eyebrows and threatened to race down the bridge of his hooked nose. He put her in mind of a pigeon himself.

  “He did tell us that but nothing more,” Edwina said. “I thought it very kind of you to take such an interest in your parishioners.” Beryl nodded in agreement.

  “While I am duty-bound to advocate for the safety of my flock it is not simply a matter of pastoral concern. I wish to speak with you in my capacity as president of the club. Lionel Cunningham is not only a member, he is also the club’s treasurer. Which is where the difficulties arise.” The vicar pulled a handkerchief from the depths of his tweed jacket and dabbed at his face.

  “Do I sense some financial shenanigans?” Beryl asked.

  “Unfortunately, that’s it precisely. Lionel appears to have absconded with the club’s entire treasury along with a number of other members’ prize birds,” the vicar said. Edwina watched as he gathered his handkerchief into a ball and squeezed it so tightly she thought she heard it squeak. Perhaps the vicar was not quite as mild-mannered as he seemed.

  “Which members lost birds when Mr. Cunningham went missing?” Beryl asked.

  “I did. So did Mr. Scott and the new fellow from the colliery,” Vicar Lowethorpe said.

  “And these birds were particularly valuable?” Beryl said.

  “Indeed. Mr. Scott was especially distressed as his bird, Silver Streak, is the best racer he has ever flown,” the vicar said.

  “Are you quite certain that Mr. Cunningham is responsible for taking the funds and the birds?” Edwina asked. “Is there some possibility that someone else helped themselves to both?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine anyone else could be responsible. Lionel offered to take a basket of our best birds to a race. Frankly, I was grateful for his offer as my wife had requested my assistance that morning. According to the race officials Lionel never arrived at the starting point. “

  “A basket of birds?” Edwina said. “I thought that the birds simply flew from their roosts or some such a thing.” Both the vicar and Beryl let out a muffled scoffing noise. The vicar looked at Beryl with new interest. It was no surprise to Edwina to discover that her friend was knowledgeable on the subject of pigeon racing. Beryl was knowledgeable about most forms of racing, from having been a participant herself or by having placed a wager upon the outcome of races at which she was
simply an observer.

  “I understand your confusion. You are thinking of short-distance pigeon racing, which is a pastime reserved for the working classes. People like myself race pigeons over long distances. Owners of long-distance racing birds converge upon in a previously agreed-upon site and at the starting gun release their birds. The first bird to reach their own loft is the winner,” the vicar said.

  “But isn’t that unfair given that some pigeons must be closer to their roosts than others?” Edwina asked.

  “Certainly that would be correct. I have not made myself clear. The time is divided by the distance, and the bird which covers the distance in the fastest actual time is the winner. I had high hopes for one of my birds at that race,” the vicar said. “And now I fear I shall never see Sunny Jack again.” The vicar raised his handkerchief to his face once more but this time Edwina was sure he was dabbing at an unshed tear. She felt quite moved by the vicar’s distress. She imagined how she would feel if someone had made off with her beloved dog, Crumpet. The notion was outrageous. If she had been a different sort of woman she would’ve reached forward and patted him on the back of his hand. As she was not, she contented herself with a quiet tut-tut.

  “So you believe your treasurer made off with the money and your birds between Walmsley Parva and the start of the race?” Beryl asked. Edwina carefully wrote down the question in her notebook.

  “I can’t imagine what else may have happened,” the vicar said. His voice rose an octave and he thumped his hand holding the handkerchief against his desk with enough vigor to make his inkwell jump. Edwina did her best not to jump, too. Emotional outbursts of that sort always made her nervous. “You can’t mean to suggest that a grown man, a basket of pigeons, and the princely sum of ten pounds and four shillings have simply vanished into thin air.”

  “I should’ve thought that a man of the cloth would be more open to the idea of otherworldly occurrences,” Beryl said, her voice pitched low. Edwina shot her a sharp glance before flicking her gaze towards the vicar, who fortunately seemed so caught up in his emotions as not to have heard Beryl’s critical mutterings. Beryl folded her hands contritely in her lap. “I meant only to suggest that there was some possibility that your treasurer has met with foul play.”

  The vicar drew in a sharp breath and leaned against the leather back of his desk chair. He tented his fingers in front of his face and gazed heavenward. Edwina watched as his lips moved quickly without uttering an audible word.

  “Perhaps I have been guilty of misjudging poor Lionel. It had simply not crossed my mind that he might have been as much a victim in all this as the rest of the pigeon racing club. I feel quite ashamed of myself,” the vicar said.

  “It is curious that a man of faith and filled with the milk of human kindness as you so clearly are would jump to such a hasty and unflattering conclusion,” Edwina said. “It seems to me that perhaps your Mr. Cunningham had given you reason to mistrust him prior to his disappearance. Is that not the case?” She was quite gratified to see Beryl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise when the vicar slowly nodded his head.

  “Indeed I did have reason to think perhaps Lionel was not a man of sterling character. But as I have only more unpleasant suspicions I would rather not taint your investigation by mentioning the cause of my concerns. I would much rather that the two of you went about this without the burden of my prejudices,” the vicar said. “After all, I hadn’t even considered that Lionel had not left Walmsley Parva with the intention of swindling the club. Clearly the two of you are far more experienced investigators than am I.”

  Edwina felt a rosy glow warm her cheeks. Perhaps Beryl had been right to insist they were adequately prepared to hang out their own shingle. She busied herself once again writing things in her notebook, hoping her blush would subside before the vicar noticed it. Beryl seemed to have sensed her distress and continued the questioning herself.

  “Why have you chosen not to go to the police?” Beryl asked. “After all, the club’s funds have disappeared. Constable Gibbs would provide assistance free of charge.”

  “Long-distance pigeon racing, whilst currently considered respectable, has not always been viewed as such. It took an interest on the part of the royal family to elevate the sport to its current position in society. It would not do to tarnish its reputation in any way. I certainly would not wish it to be seen on the same level as the working man’s short-distance pigeon racing,” the vicar said. “Any whiff of scandal might irreparably damage both our local club and the sport overall. To that end, despite the monetary cost, I decided to appeal to a private agency to retrieve our missing birds as well as the club funds.”

  Edwina felt Beryl stiffen beside her ever so slightly. Her friend was generally affronted by the notion of class distinctions. It wasn’t her fault really as she had been burdened with the misfortune of being American. Edwina decided to jump in with a question, hoping to head off a tirade.

  “Why is short-distance pigeon racing the purview of the working class?” Edwina asked. “I should think one sport would be very like another.” The vicar snorted and shook his head from side to side slowly as if he pitied her lack of education.

  “It all comes down to money, of course. One needs to have sufficient funds to travel by train to far-off points from which one releases one’s birds. A workingman struggles to keep his birds fed let alone to find the extra money to transport them far from home,” Vicar Lowethorpe said.

  “Do you know anything about Mr. Cunningham’s life outside of the pigeon racing club?” Edwina asked.

  “He worked at the colliery in some sort of a professional capacity. I understood from Lionel that the owner relied upon him a good deal.”

  “Where does he keep his birds?” Edwina asked. “I assume he must have had some of his own if he was a member of your club.”

  “He most certainly does. He has a good-sized pigeon loft in the allotments,” the vicar said. “He kept his own birds there.”

  “Where does Mr. Cunningham live?” Beryl asked.

  “Last I knew he had a room at Mrs. Plumptree’s boardinghouse. I believe he has lived there for as long as he has been in Walmsley Parva,” the vicar said.

  Edwina got to her feet and extended her hand towards the vicar who took it with a look of surprise. She shook it firmly and said, “Then the boardinghouse is where we will begin our investigation. Shall we go, Beryl?”

  “We shall after the good vicar and I have come to an understanding on the small matter of our fee. As he is not a workingman I’m sure he will find the terms most reasonable,” Beryl said. She gave Edwina what she could only describe as a devilish smile before announcing a sum that Edwina found difficult to hear without gasping in surprise. “We will of course require a retainer in the amount of two pounds.” Much to her astonishment the vicar simply nodded morosely and opened a drawer in his desk. He withdrew a leather-bound check book and lifted a pen from its holder. He handed the check to Edwina who felt dizzy with excitement.

  “We will be in touch as soon as we have something to report,” Beryl said as she took Edwina by the arm and led her out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Beryl felt Edwina sag against her for support as they made their way down the hall and out the door of the vicarage. Beryl had always been of the mind that nothing ventured, nothing gained, and that extended to requests concerning money just as much as it did anything else. Edwina, of course, had not been raised to think of money as a topic a lady ever mentioned. Certainly not in mixed company or outside the walls of one’s own domicile, if one could possibly manage to avoid it. Edwina couldn’t help her reticence. After all, it was not her fault she had been born English. Beryl braced herself for the inevitable onslaught of recriminations and outraged questions from Edwina as soon as the vicarage door closed firmly behind them.

  “Whatever were you thinking asking for such an outrageous sum?” Edwina said. “Two pounds simply as a retainer? I am still light-headed simply even considering it.
” Beryl felt a quiver running its way through Edwina’s thin frame. This would never do. In Beryl’s opinion Edwina’s lack of confidence in terms of her worth was an even greater impoverishment than her economic state of affairs.

  “The worst he could have said was no. But he didn’t, now, did he? We must endeavor to value ourselves at least as much as others are willing to do,” Beryl said. She gave Edwina’s arm a squeeze and steered them both down the gravel path towards the street. “Now, which way to the boardinghouse?”

  * * *

  Shady Rest Boardinghouse sat halfway between the vicarage and the high street. It appeared neither dispiritedly shabby nor irreproachably well kept. It simply existed in that anonymously respectable place somewhere in between. The two-story rectangular building was utterly devoid of architectural finery. Flat white clapboards covered the outside. The windows were trimmed sparingly by a budget-minded carpenter. Try as she might, Beryl could not convince herself to approve of such a modest undertaking. It simply was not in her nature to endorse such things either out loud or in the privacy of her own mind. Still, despite its uninspiring appearance, as boardinghouses went, this one looked to be better than most.

  “The name always puts me in mind of bereavement,” Edwina said.

  “Perhaps that is what sent Mr. Cunningham on his unexpected jaunt. With a name like Shady Rest, I shouldn’t think it entirely out of the realm of possibility that residents are often found in the river with their pockets full of stones,” Beryl said. She stepped up to the door and rapped firmly upon it with her gloved hand. She waited for a couple of minutes then knocked again but no one appeared. “Maybe this is a self-serve establishment.” Beryl tried the knob and found it turned easily in her hand. She pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.

  “Do you really think we ought to just let ourselves in?” Edwina asked. Beryl could tell Edwina was hesitant to enter the boardinghouse. But she wasn’t sure if there was something about the place itself or simply an aversion to letting oneself in without an invitation that worried her friend. Either way, she was determined they would forge ahead.