Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “Until then, ladies,” he said. He lifted his hat in salute and strode off through the crowd. Edwina turned to Beryl and put both hands on her hips.

  “What in the world were you thinking? We aren’t ready to give an interview for a newspaper. We’ve just barely taken on our first case,” Edwina said.

  “On the contrary, Ed. I’ve just secured for us the sort of publicity that any fledgling business would be overjoyed to have. Besides, Archie’s an old friend. He won’t put anything in the article that would do us anything but good,” Beryl said.

  “How can you be sure of that?” Edwina asked. “He sounds like a man desperate to carve out a new career for himself. A scathing exposé on Beryl Helliwell well might be just the sort of opportunity a man in his position is looking for.”

  “Archie would never do a thing like that. Not only has he always been more than a little in love with me, there are things about him he’d rather I didn’t go around telling to any other newspapers. I am quite certain he will not be eager to do us harm,” Beryl said. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that any publicity is good publicity.”

  Chapter 9

  With the exception of a few hours spent pottering about her garden there was nothing Edwina found more soothing than a trip to the Walmsley Parva reading room. As the garden was unpleasantly sullied by the sound of Simpkins loudly singing sea shanties, Edwina decided the reading room was exactly the remedy her jangled nerves needed. Yesterday’s trip to the pigeon race had proven nerve-racking on several levels. She had not anticipated spending a moment of her life at any form of race more sporting than a sack race at the church fete.

  Beryl’s decision to recruit Mr. Harrison to interview them well before she had any reasonable expectation of their success as detectives had made the outing all the more harrowing. She had slept poorly on account of recurring dreams that she and Beryl were the laughingstock of the nation. And other dreams in which they had been forced to open a cookery school at the Beeches. Just the idea of Beryl having anything to do with the kitchen was Edwina’s idea of a terrifying nightmare.

  It was far too early for Beryl to be out of bed as her tendencies were that of the night owl rather than the lark. For once, Edwina was glad to be on her own. She decided to forgo breakfast and hurriedly consumed nothing more than a cup of Darjeeling. Crumpet capered around her heels and insisted on accompanying her. She snapped on his lead, retrieved the books she needed to return to the reading room from her desk in the library, and slipped out the door as quietly as she could.

  The walk did her good. A fresh breeze carrying the spring scents of lilac and mock orange brushed her cheeks and filled her nostrils. As she walked along the narrow lane leading from the Beeches to a more traveled road, she felt her troubles fall behind her. By the time she reached the door of the reading room she felt more like herself than she had since Simpkins announced the vicar wished to hire them. She looped Crumpet’s lead around the iron railing in front of the modest stone building and admonished him to behave himself while he awaited her return.

  Edwina replaced her borrowed books in the stacks and turned her attention to the section wholly devoted to American Western novels. While Edwina found the idea of Beryl wielding a pistol quite unsettling, she was more than enthusiastic about the use of firearms when it was confined to the pages of a Zane Grey novel. She added Desert Gold to the towering stack of books she planned to take with her. Behind her she heard the door to the reading room open and then a shaft of sunlight ran along the floorboards.

  “Good morning, Edwina,” Charles Jarvis said. Charles, the local solicitor, was a long-term friend of Edwina’s. Although it could not be said she felt easy in his company of late, a state of affairs she attributed entirely to Beryl’s unsolicited observations. It was Beryl’s opinion that Charles took more than a friendly interest in Edwina, a possibility she had never considered. She found herself scrutinizing his every word whenever the two of them met. Still, despite her discomfort, she could not possibly make her concerns felt by Charles. It simply would not do to compromise their acquaintance with such foolishness. “What brings you out so early? Have you run out of things to read in your library at home?”

  “I found that I was eager for something different than what I have at home. Mother did not approve of books like these.” Edwina held up the copy of Desert Gold.

  “I think a rollicking Western adventure would have done your mother a world of good,” Charles said. “I happen to love those myself.” Charles always did say the nicest things. He had been the junior partner at her father’s firm for years before the older gentleman had passed away.

  “That’s very kind of you to say. And what brings you here? Some scholarly tomes for a client?” Edwina asked.

  “In fact, I was hoping to find some books on the art of cookery. I am without domestic help at present and I find I am ill-equipped to fend for myself,” Charles said. Edwina looked at him more closely. He did look just the slightest bit gaunt. She felt guilty that she had not noticed before and that she had not thought to ask after him several months earlier when he had suddenly, and dramatically, lost his household help. As his friend, she should have thought to inquire if he had needed anything.

  “Is there no one in all of Walmsley Parva you could hire to replace Polly?” Edwina asked.

  “I’m afraid the domestic help crisis is at a pinnacle in the village. You should count yourself exceedingly lucky to still find Simpkins willing to oblige you with your gardens,” Charles said. “I’m lucky to get a charwoman in to beat the rugs twice a year.”

  “I understand there are many newfangled gadgets available to help with all sorts of domestic chores. Perhaps it would be best to invest in something of that sort,” Edwina said. “So many women have turned into career women at this point that those sorts of devices have become extremely popular.”

  “I heard you have become just such a career woman yourself, Edwina,” Charles said. “Are the rumors true?” He took a step towards her.

  “Is the news all over the village?” Edwina asked.

  “Simpkins was boasting about you to everyone within earshot. He seems to think that you and Miss Helliwell are about to change the course of modern history with your new business.”

  “Well, it may not be as important as all that, but we are quite looking forward to our venture,” Edwina said, feeling a warm flush creeping up the back of her neck. What would her mother have said about it all? she wondered. Once again she was glad she could not ask her such a thing.

  “I wish I were as willing to take risks as you are, Edwina. I’ve always quite admired your verve. I wonder if I might be able to assist you in your search for Mr. Cunningham,” Charles said. He looked so eager that she hated to disappoint him. “As it happens, I actually saw him the day before he went missing.” Perhaps, Edwina thought, she would not need disappoint him after all.

  “You did? Where was he? What was he doing?”

  “I was painting, down by the river, and I saw him having a rather heated conversation with another man,” Charles said. “At least it looked heated from a distance.”

  Edwina felt a surge of excitement. “You don’t happen to know the name of the other man, do you?” Edwina asked.

  “In fact I think I do. The wind carried their voices a bit and I heard Mr. Cunningham shouting at the end. I believe he said the other man’s name,” Charles said. “Not that I would be willing to say so in court. I just cannot be entirely certain enough for something like that.”

  “But you could make an off-the-record statement to me, couldn’t you?” Edwina asked. Really, Charles could be quite maddening sometimes. “I won’t hold you to it in any way.”

  “Of course. Mr. Cunningham said something like ‘I don’t want anything to do with this, Martin,’ ” Charles said.

  “Do you have any idea what the something he was speaking of involved?”

  “No, I do not. But I can tell you that the other
man shoved an envelope into Mr. Cunningham’s hands before he stomped away,” Charles said. “It did not appear to be a friendly conversation. Not in the least.”

  “What did Mr. Cunningham do next?” Edwina asked, wishing she had not left her trusty notebook on her bedside table. She must develop the habit of keeping her notebook with her at all times if she wished to succeed in her new profession. Just the thought of embarking on something so deliciously forbidden as a profession sent shivers of pleasure up and down her spine. As much as she thoroughly disliked the idea of giving credit to Simpkins for anything besides mud upon her kitchen floor, she had to admit, at least in the privacy of her own mind, that he had really done her a service by urging Beryl and herself to open their own business.

  Not that she would tell him so. He was far too inclined to get above himself without any encouragement whatsoever. If she gave him the slightest compliment she was certain he would move right into one of the spare rooms without so much as a by-your-leave, hobnail boots and all. No, Edwina would keep her appreciation to herself, but perhaps as an acknowledgment of his help, she would allow him his head as far as the autumn cleanup of the gardens was concerned. That is if things were still going well by then.

  She felt it best to leave the dying foliage as a sort of a natural cover for the crowns of the plants slumbering beneath them. A sort of counterpane of their own making to see them safely through the winter. Simpkins, quite wrongly, supported the notion that any such leavings harbored fungal diseases and did more damage than good. Perhaps by the autumn she would be too busy with a steady stream of intriguing cases to concern herself with such matters, one way or the other.

  Charles said, “He waited until Mr. Haynes was well out of sight and then headed in the opposite direction. I wondered at the time if he had wished to avoid encountering him anew.”

  “What did he do with the envelope?” Edwina asked.

  “I seem to remember him tucking it into his jacket pocket. Well, he must have done so unless he chucked it away because he took out a cigarette and began smoking. He couldn’t have done that with his hands still filled.” Charles cocked his head to one side as he always did when concentrating. Edwina felt a slight shock as she noticed how much grey had slipped in amongst the brown hair at his temples. “He didn’t have it in his hands when he passed me either.”

  “Did he pass quite near to you?” Edwina asked.

  “Yes. We spoke briefly. He looked a little embarrassed to see me but I gave no indication I had noticed anything other than the play of the light upon the river as I painted. It was easy enough to pretend I had just noticed his arrival.”

  “He didn’t happen to mention any plans to leave town, did he?” Edwina asked without any real expectation that Mr. Cunningham’s whereabouts would be so easily discovered.

  “We spoke very briefly and only about our respective hobbies. He complimented me on my painting. When I asked if he was an artist too he laughed and said his only pastime involved his devotion to rearing and raising pigeons. I asked if he might be amenable to me sketching his birds sometime and he encouraged me to do so whenever I wished.”

  “Did he mention the race the next day?” Edwina asked. “Any suggestion he and his birds might not be around for you to sketch in the near future?”

  “None whatsoever,” Charles said. “I was very surprised to hear he had gone missing. From the way he spoke of his hobby I can’t see him leaving the birds still left in his loft locked in to fend for themselves.”

  “Maybe he believed a fellow member of his club would tend to them once they discovered his absence,” Edwina said.

  “Perhaps, but I shouldn’t have thought he would be willing to leave any of his birds’ well-being to chance,” Charles said. “Even from our brief conversation I’d say he seemed far too concerned with their welfare for that.”

  “Did he seem agitated in any way? Upset or flustered?” Edwina asked.

  “I can’t say that he did. But then, I hardly know the man,” Charles said.

  “I wish there was more information than a possible given name for the other man. He might have a better idea of Mr. Cunningham’s state of mind or his upcoming plans,” Edwina said.

  “I made a quick sketch of the two of them as it happens. They were so animated and it gave me a wonderful opportunity to try my hand at sketching unguarded anger. I tucked it out of sight when Mr. Cunningham headed my way.” Charles glowed with the memory of his artistic endeavor. Edwina knew he was an avid watercolorist and he had once mentioned he spent many of his happiest hours far from his chambers and out in the fresh air pottering about with his paint pans and brushes. “Besides, it is not every day that one is able to observe a miner away from the pits.”

  “How did you know he was a miner?” Edwina asked.

  “He was shouting something or other about the colliery. Besides, I pride myself on having an observant nature. The man in question was decidedly encrusted with coal dust.”

  “Do you still have the sketch that you made of him?” Edwina asked.

  “I keep all my sketches,” Charles said. “Do you think it would be possible to identify the man with Mr. Cunningham from it?” Edwina asked.

  “I flatter myself that the likeness was quite a good one, if that is what you are asking,” Charles said. Edwina hurried to smooth any ruffled feathers.

  “I am quite sure it is. I simply meant to ask if the subject was represented with his face showing in the image or even if the figure was drawn at close enough quarters in your sketch to make his identity known,” Edwina said with what she hoped was a soothing tone.

  “I see, of course. I believe it could aid you in your enquiries. If you would like, I would be more than happy to stop in at the Beeches to give you the sketch. You could use it as you see fit in your investigation.” Charles leaned forward eagerly.

  “I would be most grateful for the loan of your sketch if it is not too much trouble. When do you think it would be possible for you to make it available?” she asked.

  “I would be delighted to bring it by this very morning. In fact, I’ll take my leave of you and return home to look for it amongst my stack of drawings. I’ll plan to meet you at the Beeches within an hour if you will be at home by then.”

  “I shall make a point to be there,” Edwina said. Charles hurriedly selected two books from the shelves lining the reading room and headed out the door.

  Edwina added another book to her own towering stack before thinking better of it. She realized with a surge of excitement that there was every possibility she would have little time for reading until Mr. Cunningham was found.

  Chapter 10

  Ever the faithful retainer, Charles Jarvis dutifully arrived at the Beeches with a sketch of a man who might be a miner. Beryl found interactions with Charles most refreshing. It was a rare treat to be in the company of a gentleman who seemed to value Edwina so highly. In fact, he reminded her of Crumpet in that way. So eager to caper round Edwina’s heels awaiting her decisions. So much did the image ring true and delight her as it bubbled to the surface of her imagination that she had to stifle a giggle as she watched him take his leave of the Beeches after Edwina assured him she and Beryl were perfectly capable of visiting the mining village without an escort. He gave her exactly the same look Crumpet did moments later when Edwina told him he must stay home while she and Beryl attended to business elsewhere.

  “I do hope you will manage to act more seriously when we arrive at the mining village, Beryl,” Edwina said, pulling the front door closed behind her a little more firmly than strictly necessary. “It is hard enough for women to be taken seriously in this business without one of us giggling like a schoolgirl every time we stand within five feet of an eligible man.”

  “I was simply laughing to myself at the way you completely ignore poor Mr. Jarvis’ dogged devotion,” Beryl said, setting herself into another fit of giggles. She managed to get herself firmly in hand before climbing into her shiny red automobile and backi
ng down the driveway. By the time they reached the mining village of Hambley, only a few miles away, Beryl felt she had been forgiven. She had resolved to drive sedately by way of apology and was gratified, and a little surprised, to see her passenger relaxing into the seat and allowing her hands to remain in her lap rather than in her customary motoring position of clutching the door handle with one hand and her hat with the other.

  In fact, Edwina seemed to actually enjoy the ride. She kept pointing out passing bits of scenery and remarking on the weather. Beryl wondered if her friend might like to learn to drive herself. She resolved that when the moment seemed right to do so she would suggest it.

  Beryl slowed down even more as she turned off into the entrance to Hambley. Kentish coal may have given rise to hopes in the region, but she had no desire to end up in the bottom of the pit for lack of local knowledge. Besides, there were miners everywhere about and her rather vast, even if she said so herself, experience of men of every class, informed her that the men in Hambley would not be able to resist a look at her automobile. There would be plenty of locals to ask for directions. She rolled to a stop in front of a building with a sign hanging in front declaring it to be the grocer. Before she and Edwina could exit the vehicle, five men and seven boys had clustered about the automobile.

  Whereas Edwina looked as though they had been descended upon by an unwelcome flock of seagulls whilst picnicking at the beach, Beryl saw an opportunity. She put on her brightest smile and pushed open the driver’s door.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I see you have an eye for beauty,” Beryl said, pointing at the automobile. “What do you think of her?”

  “You’re Beryl Helliwell,” one of the men said as he peeled his gaze from the vehicle’s reflective scarlet finish and gave her an equally appraising look.

  “That’s right. I am,” Beryl said, sticking out her hand. “And you are?”

  “Jim Noyes,” he said, stepping forward and gripping her hand firmly and pumping her arm up and down with enthusiasm. “I’m a devoted admirer, Miss Helliwell. I’ve followed all of your exploits in the newspapers. I was down in the dumps for I don’t know how long when it looked like you had turned up your toes in the African desert. Chewed up by lions I thought probably. But here you are right as rain.”