Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “Of course I do. One mustn’t worry too much about the niceties in the course of an investigation,” Beryl said. The corridor was dimly lit and carpeted in a decidedly mangy brown runner that silently begged to be put out of its misery. A steep staircase filled the left side of the hall while a long narrow table clotted with souvenir spoons, ceramic figurines, and an unopened pile of post took up the right side. Beryl found herself in the unpleasant position of needing to turn sideways to continue along the corridor. She silently assured herself that she had not spent the winter becoming stout. It was surely the hallway that was sadly undersized.

  The sound of a woman’s voice issued forth from behind a closed door at the far end of the hallway. Despite the difficulties, Beryl squeezed doggedly towards the occupied room.

  She knocked upon a wooden door, which even to her tolerant eye was in need of a fresh coat of paint, and waited for a response from within. Edwina stood just behind her, Beryl suspected hoping she would not be seen. The door opened and standing in front of them was a round dumpling of a woman well into her fifties and perhaps a bit older.

  “Miss Helliwell, what brings you to my humble establishment?” the woman asked. Beryl was well acquainted with the experience of total strangers recognizing her wherever in the world she traveled. It did put one at a bit of a disadvantage much of the time. Especially considering Beryl had enormous difficulty remembering names. It rarely seemed worth the bother when one met so many people one would most likely never meet again.

  Fortunately there were no strangers in Walmsley Parva, at least as far as Edwina was concerned. If asked, she likely could have reeled off not only the names of all her fellow villagers but the names of all their forebearers as well as their addresses and occupations. She likely even knew any grievances and grudges they clutched as jealously as dragons to their breasts. Yes, she had been right to name such a large figure when valuing the worth of Edwina’s time.

  “Hello, Mrs. Plumptree,” Edwina said, stepping out from behind Beryl’s shadow. “I hope we aren’t disturbing you.”

  “Not in the least. In fact I am glad of the company. I was just having a bit of a chinwag with Cyril but his conversation tends to be rather limited. Although that’s not to say I don’t appreciate his companionship.” Mrs. Plumptree took a step back and waved the newly minted pair of sleuths into the room beyond her. “Cyril, say hello to our guests.” Beryl looked into the corner where a scarlet macaw with an even more disheveled appearance than the hallway carpet perched on a wooden swing hanging from the low ceiling by a thick brass chain.

  “Quick, give me a kiss,” the bird called out. Even for Beryl, a proposition of this sort was a first. The bird lurched forward and blinked lecherously. Edwina let out a tiny squeak Beryl interpreted as terror. Beryl did not dare to look at Edwina for fear she would burst out laughing. She was absolutely certain Edwina was not in the least amused by any of it.

  “Did you teach him to talk yourself?” Beryl asked, taking a seat that placed her between the offensive bird and Edwina who had sensibly placed herself as far from the feathered menace as possible. Beryl could not fail to notice here and there, dolloped about, were traces of Cyril’s flight path around the room. She discreetly eased herself into the chair, angling her backside to avoid contact with what Cyril had left behind. As she looked around the room it put her in mind of those parts of the world that had been bombed in the war.

  “I can’t teach him a thing. He belonged to Mr. Plumptree—at least he did before that husband of mine snuck off in the night leaving me to fend for myself in the world. He left a note pinned to Cyril’s perch telling me the bird would be a better companion for me than he had been. I’ve never seen hide nor hair of him since.” Mrs. Plumptree clucked her tongue and sank down into the depths of the worn velvet settee facing her visitors. “At the time I was sad to see him go, but all things considered I’m happier left with the bird now that I’ve grown accustomed to him.”

  “Mr. Plumptree isn’t the only bird-fancying gentleman you’ve had go missing from your boardinghouse though, is he?” Beryl asked. “You’ve had it happen quite recently, haven’t you?”

  “Imagine you knowing a thing like that. How could you possibly?” Mrs. Plumptree’s face broke into a wide smile. “Is it some sort of a magic trick?”

  “No magic but rather finely honed detective skills.” Beryl lowered her voice and gingerly leaned forward in her creaking chair. “Miss Davenport and I have been asked to look into the disappearance of Mr. Lionel Cunningham.”

  “Well, you could just knock me down with one of Cyril’s feathers,” Mrs. Plumptree said. “Are you detectives now like some of those men I’ve seen in the pictures?”

  “We are private enquiry agents,” Edwina said, with a darting glance at Cyril. “What we do is nothing whatsoever like the pictures.” Beryl noticed that Mrs. Plumptree appeared disappointed by Edwina’s proclamation.

  “Perhaps it is a bit like the pictures. After all, we are trying to get to the bottom of a mysterious disappearance and that is something straight off the silver screen.” She took another stab at eliciting information from their host.

  “Why are you investigating instead of Constable Gibbs? Is it on account of your work for the king?” Mrs. Plumptree asked. Out of the corner of her eye Beryl noticed Edwina’s impeccable posture stiffen to an even more irreproachable degree. Edwina had not approved of a rumor Beryl had put about Walmsley Parva when she had arrived back in the autumn implying that the two of them worked in His Majesty’s service in a covert investigative agency. Clearly Mrs. Plumptree had been one of the many villagers to whom the deliciously outrageous tale had been carried. What was more, apparently she had believed it. Beryl knew an opportunity when one reared up on its hind legs to greet her.

  “Our investigative work takes us along narrow country lanes just as frequently as it does broad city avenues. I am sure you will understand if we cannot share more details than that with members of the public,” Beryl said. Mrs. Plumptree nodded and pantomimed locking her lips together with a tiny key. “I knew you were just the sort of person to understand such matters. I hope you will entrust us with all the information I feel certain you have concerning Mr. Cunningham.” Beryl tugged off her ruby red kid gloves and laid them in her lap to signal she planned to stay for some time.

  “I should say I did know him about as well as most here in the village. What is it you want to know?”

  Cyril piped up with a comment of his own. “Lies, all lies,” he said before tucking his head beneath his wing and appearing to drift off into a deep sleep.

  “Do you know anything about what might have happened to Mr. Cunningham? Any reason he might have had for leaving without notice to anyone?” She noticed Edwina once again pulled a small notebook and pencil from her handbag. Beryl approved. She thought it gave their venture an air of credibility.

  “I am as baffled as anyone. Unlike Mr. Plumptree, I never had a word of complaint from him. He was a model tenant. If I could have had a dozen more like him I wouldn’t be up to my ears in work all day long, run right off my feet as I am now.” Beryl noticed Edwina shooting a glance at Mrs. Plumptree’s feet, which were tucked comfortably up on a small stool placed in front of the settee. From the look on Edwina’s face it was easy to surmise she was decidedly unimpressed with the landlady’s idea of hard work. While Beryl had recognized Edwina’s superior knowledge of the clergy, she prided herself in being far more versed in the ways of rooming houses and their motley assortment of tenants, both human and avian. It was clear that Mrs. Plumptree, and Cyril, were best left to her.

  “A likable man then, was he?” Beryl asked, hoping her tone would invite confidences from the landlady. Not that there was much to fear on that front. Mrs. Plumptree was starved for conversation if Cyril’s dubious company was as valued as she claimed.

  “That he was,” Mrs. Plumptree said, patting her grey hair. “Never a cross word to anyone and always such a gentleman. I don’t mind telli
ng you that if he would have made me an offer of marriage I would not have thought twice about accepting. If I weren’t still married, that is.” Mrs. Plumptree crossed her hands over her bulging midsection and nodded sagely at Beryl. Edwina coughed discreetly into her gloved fist, a maneuver Beryl interpreted as an admonition to move things along before Mrs. Plumptree felt compelled to share any further intimate details of her wild imaginings. As the hopes and dreams of a boardinghouse landlady were not of interest to the investigation, Beryl resisted the urge to dig for details.

  “I suppose the best thing to do would be to take a look at his room,” Beryl said, getting to her feet. Edwina rose too and looked down at Mrs. Plumptree as she struggled up from the depths of the sagging settee. Cyril pulled his head from beneath his wing and let out another raucous comment.

  “Give us a cuddle,” he said. Edwina positively scurried towards the door. Beryl followed closely behind her, and Mrs. Plumptree, with an effort, brought up the rear. Edwina and Beryl pressed into the corner to allow the landlady to lead the way. The formidable woman grasped the banister at the base of the stairs and heaved herself upwards. Cyril swooped low over Beryl’s and Edwina’s head then flapped up the stairs ahead of them. By the time they reached the door to Mr. Cunningham’s abandoned room Cyril was pacing the floor of the upstairs hallway.

  “Now if I can just remember which of these keys fits this lock, we should be all set,” Mrs. Plumptree said. Beryl noticed the landlady identified the correct key almost immediately. She wondered if Mrs. Plumptree had a habit of entering her lodgers’ rooms when they were not at home. As she watched Mrs. Plumptree move about the spare space touching a penholder on the desk and smoothing the coverlet stretched across the bed almost unconsciously, she decided it likely that was her habit. “You know I did wonder if perhaps something bad had happened to him. He wasn’t the sort of man to simply leave things behind like he was made of money. If he was he’d have no need of living in a boardinghouse.” She gestured towards the dresser. A brush, a pair of nail scissors, and a shoeshine kit lined up across its surface.

  “Do you know if there’s anything he did take with him?” Edwina asked.

  “Let’s take a look,” Mrs. Plumptree said. She opened the armoire and looked inside. A suit and an extra pair of trousers hung neatly inside along with five white shirts. A pair of brown leather shoes polished to a gleam sat on the floor of the armoire. On the top of the cupboard sat a hatbox, which Beryl reached up, pulled down, and opened. Inside she found nothing more than a wool hat in need of brushing.

  Edwina stood at the windowsill running her finger along a stack of books placed there. Mrs. Plumptree joined her and bent over the stack and read the titles aloud.

  “His pigeon rearing and pigeon racing books are not here where he kept them,” Mrs. Plumptree said. She crossed the room to the desk and pulled open each of the drawers. “They’re not in here either. Those were his prized possessions. Perhaps he left on purpose after all.”

  Beryl looked past Mrs. Plumptree at Edwina and arched an eyebrow. “I think we’ve seen enough for now. Thank you so much for your cooperation,” Beryl said.

  “Will you be sure to mention to the king how helpful I was?” Mrs. Plumptree said, her eyes aglow with hopeful expectation. “It would be the thrill of a lifetime to know he’d heard the name Edna Plumptree.”

  “I promise to tell him all about it the very next time I see him,” Beryl said.

  Chapter 4

  “While I do appreciate how much your tendency towards mendacity has assisted us in the past, I cannot approve of you promising to mention that poor woman to the king,” Edwina said as soon as the boardinghouse landlady was out of earshot. “It was most unkind of you to raise her hopes.”

  “I cannot agree with you, Ed,” Beryl said. “I will mention her eagerness to lend a hand to those around her the very next time I see him. It hardly seemed worth tarnishing her hopes by telling her I have no idea, however, when that will be.”

  “You are simply splitting hairs. You cannot deny you told her you would do it the next time, which clearly implies there has already been at least one occasion upon which you have met with His Majesty.” Edwina felt a flush of indignation burning at the back of her neck. In her opinion one did not make light of the royal family.

  “But I have met your George. Nice fellow. He once bent my ear for over an hour talking about his stamp collection,” Beryl said without a trace of amusement in her voice. Really, Edwina thought, one never knew what to believe and what not to when it came to her famous friend. It was far too well-known that George V collected stamps for Edwina to give real credence to Beryl’s claim. She decided rather than to press the matter she would be far better off in directing the conversation to more useful aspects of their investigation.

  “Where do you think we should turn our attention next?” Edwina asked.

  “You mean other than the pastimes of the monarchy?” Beryl said. Edwina bit her tongue and nodded. “I suggest we head to whichever colliery employed Mr. Cunningham.”

  “That would be the Hambley mine. It’s just outside of Walmsley Parva.” Edwina knew that Beryl would be thrilled to hear their destination was not within easy walking distance. Beryl liked nothing better than to take her shiny red motorcar out for a rattling ride through the countryside. Edwina had yet to adapt to it herself. The jouncing up and down on the hard seat and the grinding noises all left her feeling thoroughly worn out whenever they arrived at their destination. But she could already see Beryl’s eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

  “I think we should drive over there immediately. I haven’t taken the old bus out for a spin in ages. It will do that magnificent machine a world of good,” Beryl said, tucking her hand through Edwina’s arm and hurrying the two of them along towards the Beeches.

  A harrowing half hour later Edwina found herself being looked up and down by a slim blond woman dressed from head to toe in a conservative blue frock. Edwina did not pay much mind to the latest fashions but she found herself looking approvingly at the modern, businesslike line of the younger woman’s ensemble. While Edwina generally considered herself to be a traditionalist, she had learned to appreciate the loosening of fashion constraints upon women brought about by the Great War.

  Her work with the Women’s Land Army had taught her how very practical trading long skirts for a pair of trousers could be. While the woman before her was not dressed in any manner that would provoke criticism, she was wearing a garment that could be considered simultaneously flattering and utilitarian. Edwina wished she were in the financial position to have a similar frock made up for herself immediately. Perhaps, she thought in a moment of unbridled hopefulness, if the enquiry agency became a going concern she could go ahead and do so.

  “Good afternoon,” Beryl said. “We would like to speak with the owner and anyone else who might have worked with Mr. Lionel Cunningham.” Beryl towered over the desk as if she had every right to expect her request would be granted. That was the thing about Beryl; almost all of her requests were granted. And quite willingly. Edwina did not attribute it simply to Beryl’s fame but rather to her overall expectation that life would turn out exactly as she wished it to. Sometimes it was most exasperating. If she were to be entirely honest with herself, she would admit that sometimes she entertained the notion of someone flatly refusing to do as Beryl asked. Surely that was not the imaginings of her best self but it amused her nonetheless.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe?” the woman asked.

  “Certainly not,” Beryl said, drawing herself up to her full height and peering down at the young secretary. “I am not a great believer in appointments. They never seem necessary in the least.”

  “And you are?” the severe-looking young woman asked. Could it really be that there was one person in all the world who had not heard of celebrated adventuress Beryl Helliwell? Edwina wondered.

  “Please let the owner know that Misses Edwina Davenport and Beryl
Helliwell would like a moment of his time,” Beryl said with her usual unflappable demeanor. After delivering a second withering head-to-toe survey of Beryl, the woman pushed back her chair and slowly made her way around the side of the desk. She approached a paneled wood door on the far side of the room and rapped firmly upon it before letting herself in and closing it behind her. After a moment she returned with a chilly look on her face. A tall, florid man who put Edwina very much in mind of the ringmaster of a traveling circus she had attended as a young girl followed in her frosty wake.

  “Miss Chilvers, why don’t you put the kettle on and fix us all a cup of tea. I’m sure a bit of refreshment would be most welcome,” the ringmaster said as he beamed a showman’s smile at Beryl. He caught sight of Edwina and turned to include her halfheartedly. “Ladies, if you will just follow me we can make ourselves comfortable in here.” He held open the door to the room he had just exited and stood in attendance as the two women took seats on the visitors’ side of a massive mahogany desk. Edwina was feeling a spot of déjà vu. Although this man was nothing like the vicar. Rather than pacing the floor and looking agitated, he immediately eased into his desk chair and gave them his complete attention.

  “Now it’s not that I’m not happy to receive a visit from such a celebrated woman as yourself, Miss Helliwell, but I can’t imagine you’re here simply to have a chat. Are you here to drum up sponsorship for one of your outrageous schemes? If so, I’m afraid you are out of luck,” he said. Edwina detected a steely tone beneath his jocular words.

  “For the record, sponsors of my adventures have always sought me out, not the other way round. In actuality, we are here looking for one of your employees,” Beryl said. “We have business with a Mr. Lionel Cunningham. We understood from his landlady that he is employed here and that this would be where to find him at this time of day.” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe shook his head slowly.