Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “I can’t see how Cunningham’s disappearance is worth looking into. You’d be far better off looking into locating the club’s missing birds. And our missing money,” he said.

  “We are looking into that too, of course. Which is why I am here speaking with you. I understood from something mentioned by Mrs. Lowethorpe that you disagreed with the way Mr. Cunningham kept the club books. I wanted to verify that with you,” Edwina said. She pulled her investigation notebook from her pocket along with her tiny pencil and hoped it lent her an air of professionalism.

  “I did indeed. Cunningham may know about the way a big outfit like the Hambley mine keeps books, but it isn’t the way to organize a small concern like the racing club,” Mr. Scott said. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a wooden crate heaped with lettuces. He inclined his head towards his ledger once more. “The small businessman such as myself knows a sight more than any sort of rich man’s lackey ever will.”

  “How different can the sorts of bookkeeping the two of you are engaged in be?” Edwina asked. “After all, isn’t bookkeeping simply bookkeeping?”

  “My bookkeeping is meant to make things plain.” Mr. Scott crossed the small shop and pulled the ledger out from underneath the counter. “Take your account for example. For the longest time it was woefully overdue and I marked that fact with a red pencil every week when I tallied the accounts. Once the account was finally paid I marked it down in black. I do the same with all my accounts. At the end of every week it’s easy for me to see what is paid and what is still owing.” He gave Edwina a significant look and she felt her cheeks grow warm. It would never do to allow a suspect to put her on the defensive. She looked him boldly in the eye before proceeding with her questions. She stepped up next to him and ran her finger along the column of figures marking the page.

  “I see you have a similar system for the accounts you owe to others and the accounts you have settled,” Edwina said. “You must know at the end of the week how much you owe as well?” Mr. Scott cleared his throat and hastily closed the book. He quickly tucked it back underneath the counter.

  “Just so. At the end of every week I have a clear picture of the state of my financial affairs. And that’s how the club books should be kept as well, in my opinion.”

  “And they weren’t kept that way?” Edwina asked. Mr. Scott shook his head vigorously.

  “As far as I could see, Cunningham kept the books in such a way as to muddy the facts more than to reveal them. If I didn’t know better I would have said that he was doing it on purpose in order to make sure none of the rest of us had any real sense of what we had in the coffers.”

  “Was that the nature of your argument with Mr. Cunningham the night before he disappeared?” Edwina asked.

  “That amongst other things,” Mr. Scott said. His voice took on a guarded tone as he looked for the first time at Edwina’s notebook. In order to encourage him, she closed it and slipped it back into her pocket. Perhaps she would be better in future to make a note of things after she had concluded her interviews. The idea of being quoted exactly did not seem to put all interviewees at ease.

  “We were given to understand the two of you were also rivals concerning your birds’ prowess on the race course,” Edwina said. “Could your argument have had something to do with that as well?”

  “As a matter of fact it did. After I called his bookkeeping practices into question, he began spouting balderdash about my winning streak. But I am sure the man was not simply a sore loser. He was trying to turn attention away from whatever shenanigans he was trying to pull with the monies,” Mr. Scott said. “I resented the way he cast aspersions not only on my character but on the capabilities of my birds. Imagine if they’d heard him? I don’t know what it would have done to their confidence.”

  Edwina could see that he was truly offended by the insult to his racers. She had not thought much about the idea of honor amongst pigeons. While she did enjoy watching the birds that made their homes in her garden, she had not noticed any inclination on their part to acknowledge insults from humans. For the most part they seem to take very little notice of the comings and goings of the people strolling up and down between the garden beds and in the woods at the Beeches. Even Simpkins, for all his thrashing about the place, was someone to whom they paid very little mind.

  “What exactly did he say about your birds?” Edwina said.

  “He said he had no confidence that they could actually be as fast as they are,” Mr. Scott said. “Not with their pedigrees at least, according to him.” While pigeon racing was not an area in which Edwina would claim expertise, she did happen to know a little something about pedigree. Her mother had been deeply interested in the subject, especially as it pertained to the local families. She could understand with ease how Mr. Cunningham’s words would have stung.

  “You wouldn’t have any idea where Mr. Cunningham could have gone off to, would you?” Edwina asked.

  “Why would you think I’d have any idea where he’d be?” Mr. Scott said. “It isn’t as if we were mates.”

  “I had understood from your comments, and that of others, that you were anything but friends. You weren’t even friendly. But as a bird fancier yourself I thought it possible you would know where someone with a basket full of prized birds might successfully hide himself away for several days without detection,” Edwina said.

  “I see. Well, not being a criminal myself I am sure I can’t speak for Cunningham,” he said.

  “I had assumed if there was something Mr. Cunningham would know about caring for birds in any situation then you would as well,” Edwina said. “But I suppose even the most enthusiastic hobbyist cannot be expected to have an encyclopedic knowledge of his pursuits.” Edwina hoped to appeal to the delight so many gentlemen seemed to take in being experts at obscure bits of knowledge. She turned slightly away as if she planned to take her leave of him.

  “Perhaps I spoke a touch hastily,” he said. “I’m sure now that I’m putting my mind to it I can give you a few ideas where to have a look for him. He’d need to water and feed them of course, but in order to keep them from returning to their loft he would need to keep them secured.”

  “Would the basket he used to transport them to the race serve the purpose?” Edwina asked. Mr. Scott shook his head vigorously.

  “No pigeon fancier worthy of the name would keep his prized birds, or any birds come to mention it, in such close quarters. Even if it didn’t suffocate them, they would likely go mad from the experience.” Mr. Scott shuddered and his sad, basset hound eyes bulged out of his head slightly. Edwina imagined how she would feel if Crumpet were closed in somewhere confining for several days in a row. She was startled to find the sting of tears pricking at the back of her eyes. “No, he would need to have prepared a loft for them in some manner or other wherever he took them.”

  “It sounds as though he would have needed to plan his disappearance,” Edwina said.

  “You know, you must be right. The scallywag would have known for some time what he was about. Considering his stance on feeding his birds, I knew I was right not to trust that man an inch.”

  “It sounds very complicated. I can’t help but feel that it would do the investigation a great deal of good if I had a better sense of the world of pigeon racing,” Edwina said.

  “That it would, I’m sure,” Mr. Scott said. “Why don’t you and your friend Miss Helliwell plan to attend the next race?”

  “Are you going to have one considering the missing birds and the lack of funds?” Edwina asked.

  “It would take a lot more than that to keep our club from putting on a good performance at this week’s competition. I never race all my best birds the same week so I have a few waiting in the wings, so to speak.” Mr. Scott chuckled at his own joke. “I know the others have said the same. It would be a right treat to have the pair of you in attendance.”

  “I shall have to consult with Miss Helliwell and with my diary. When is the race to be h
eld?” Edwina said, rather hoping the date was already engaged.

  “Tomorrow, in fact. You are just in time. We start the race from the village of Pershing Magna. It should be a festive occasion as it is one of the best attended races of the season,” Mr. Scott said. “There is sure to be coverage by the local press and maybe even the national papers, too.”

  “Is it possible to arrive by train?” Edwina asked, thinking of the terrors riding all that way with Beryl would surely mean. Her mind cast back to a harrowing trip she and Beryl had taken to London in the autumn. It was an experience she did not wish to repeat.

  “It certainly is. As a matter of fact many of the railway lines offer special train fares to racers and those attending the races. Pigeon racing is practically a national pastime these days. You really ought to see it for yourself.”

  Fortunately for Edwina, before she could answer, Minnie Mumford, the owner of the local tearoom, entered the shop with a large wicker basket slipped over her arm. Minnie was almost as much of a gossip as her close friend Prudence Rathbone. If there were any hope of keeping the investigation a secret, at least for the time being, she would need to keep news of her questions, or her possible attendance at the race, from Minnie and Prudence. She quickly thanked Mr. Scott for his time and hurried out the door before Minnie could wonder why she had not made any purchases.

  Chapter 7

  “See, Ed, I told you we needed to see a race for ourselves. There is no substitute for firsthand experience in any number of things,” Beryl said, looking out at the throng streaming past them on their way to the release point. “Races are no exception.”

  “I am still not convinced we could not have done just as well by consulting a book on the subject,” Edwina said as she dodged out of the way of a passing cyclist whose sight line was obscured by a stack of crates strapped to a rack on the front of his conveyance.

  “We need to get a feel for the milieu, Ed. We must get a sense of what makes these people tick if we are to imagine where Mr. Cunningham might have gone and what he might have done with the birds.” Beryl felt her spirits soar as the crowd around them swelled. She felt caught up in the excitement of the crowd in a way she had not been in some months. Surely the time she had spent in Walmsley Parva with Edwina had done her real good. She actually felt herself looking forward to the excitement of the race. She just wished Ed were also inclined to enjoy herself.

  Men carrying tightly woven baskets filled with the sound of gentle cooing shouldered their way past the onlookers and approached the starting line. Edwina stood erect and alert, her left hand holding her second best hat firmly in place while her right clutched tightly at Beryl’s arm. If she didn’t know better, Beryl would have said that Edwina was not enamored of crowds. She also doubted her old school chum had ever attended a sporting event the likes of a long-distance pigeon race in her life. Her heart went out to Edwina for all the moments of excitement she must have missed out on over the years. Not that Beryl thought a late start was the same thing as a failure to succeed. She was a great admirer of those women who kept trying new things throughout their lives and Edwina was turning out to be just such a woman.

  Beryl would have expected nothing less from her girlhood friend. Even during their school days Edwina had exhibited a steely spine that surprised those who dismissed her as a rule-abiding good girl inevitably headed down a predictable path. Those who had not been paying close attention would have expected Edwina to marry a respectable and conservative gentleman with good, though not ostentatious, prospects in life. They would have anticipated two or three children from such a marriage; any more would be vulgar. Her casual acquaintances and teachers would have guessed she would spend her spare time reading improving literature, and volunteering for worthy causes. Certainly none of them would have expected her to remain unmarried and to be a partner in a successful private enquiry agency. It was, however, exactly the sort of thing Beryl would have expected of her friend.

  When it came down to it, Edwina had always been a person who knew her own mind. She might not kick up a lot of fuss about it, but she always managed to make her point, to stick to her principles, and to generally get her own way. Which is where Beryl thought she added the most value to their friendship. Beryl rarely allowed Edwina to cling to the familiar when she thought her friend would benefit from trying something new. Beryl was quite sure she knew Edwina even better than Edwina knew herself. Now if she could just convince her to enjoy the sporting life.

  “Look over there, Ed,” Beryl said. “We are making progress already in our investigation. Isn’t that Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe from the Hambley mine?” Beryl waved to a portly gentleman standing near the release point. He spotted Beryl and lifted his hat in greeting. Beryl took Edwina by the arm and steered her through the crowd.

  “Miss Helliwell and Miss Davenport, what a pleasure it is to see you here. Please allow me to introduce my wife, Lucretia,” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe said with a slight incline of his head towards a trim, well-dressed woman several years his junior who stood at his side. “You remember, my dear, me mentioning that these two ladies had visited me at the colliery just yesterday.” Beryl couldn’t say for certain, having just met Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe, but it looked to her as though the other woman had spent a great deal of time in the last few hours sobbing her eyes out. She couldn’t help but wonder at the cause.

  “I’ve read all about you in the papers. I can’t tell you how much I admire the way you take off for parts unknown.” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe gave Beryl a half-hearted smile. She turned to address Edwina. “And of course I’ve heard of you too, Miss Davenport. Your investigation into the murder that took place last autumn left me in awe of your achievements.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you too,” Edwina said. Beryl could have sworn she noticed a bit of color creeping up the back of Edwina’s neck. Beryl had become so accustomed to compliments herself that she took them as her due. Not that she felt arrogant about them in the least. They neither thrilled nor embarrassed her. They simply existed. For Edwina, on the other hand, such things were a novelty. Compliments for things other than her efficiency, commitment to the common good, and her gardens at the Beeches, that is. It was lovely to see Edwina having her chance at the spotlight.

  “These two fine ladies were there looking for that no-good Mr. Cunningham. You haven’t located him yet, have you?” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe said. Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe let out a small choking noise. Beryl decided the colliery owner’s wife most definitely had something to hide. She let her gaze drift sideways to include Edwina who appeared to have noticed Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe’s reaction as well. Beryl could see her slipping her hand into her pocket where she kept her trusty notebook.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t. In fact, it is in the pursuit of him that we have decided to attend the race here today,” Beryl said. “I assume from your question you have still not heard from him either.”

  “I most certainly have not. It’s a dashed nuisance the way that man has disappeared on me. I would have thought him a far more decent fellow than that.” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe jammed his beefy fists into his trouser pockets. “You never did say why it was that you were looking for him. I can’t imagine what business someone like you would have with a common clark.”

  Beryl decided it was time to poke at the hornet’s nest. She hoped Edwina would not be too put out with her for revealing information they had not agreed to disclose. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “Yesterday we were not in the position to share such information. However, in light of his continuing absence, we feel it best to be forthcoming with those who knew him well. We have been hired to investigate his disappearance by a concerned member of the community who has an interest in his whereabouts,” Beryl said.

  “You’ve been hired to investigate?” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe said, his eyes bulging from his florid face. “It’s utterly outrageous to consider ladies such as yourselves should be involved in such an unsavory sort of thing.” Edwi
na took a half step forward.

  “I’m quite sure you did not mean to be offensive. However, we take our work seriously and would appreciate you doing the same,” Edwina said. “As your wife mentioned only a moment ago we are experienced in matters of investigation and expect to be respected in our pursuit of justice.”

  “I meant no offense, ladies. It is just an extraordinary thing to think of women entering into such an unsavory field of endeavor. I hope I can rely on you to let me know if you do locate him,” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe said.

  “We certainly can make no such promise as the wishes of our client supersede all other requests,” Beryl said.

  “Who is your client?” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe asked.

  “I’m afraid we cannot divulge such sensitive information,” Edwina said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I believe we are being hailed by our friends the Fosters, my dear,” Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe said. He took his wife by the arm, lifted his hat, and sketched a slight bow. “I hope you will suspend your investigating long enough to enjoy the race.” Beryl watched as the pair of them wandered in the direction of another couple whose fine clothing marked them as members of the same class as the Ecclestone-Smythes.

  “Well, Ed, what do you think?” Beryl asked as Edwina pulled her notebook from her pocket.

  “I think I’m glad that Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe is not our client. Not that it’s likely that he would be considering his opinion of lady detectives,” Edwina said. Beryl noticed Edwina was pressing her pencil down on her notebook quite heavily. She hoped Edwina had a pocketknife in her pocket as well in case she managed to break off the tip of the lead in her fit of pique.

  “I spent most of my life dealing with men like him. The trick is to simply ignore them and go about your business as you see fit. What I meant was, do you think he knows more than he’s letting on?” Beryl asked.