“We were back at the mining village again yesterday,” Edwina said to Alice. “Your Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe was very generous in his contribution to the May Day celebration festivities.”
“He isn’t generally known to be particularly generous. How did you manage to charm him out of a donation?” Alice asked.
“It was Beryl’s doing, of course. She just has that effect on people, especially gentlemen,” Edwina said, passing a relish tray to Alice.
“Is he a mean man, Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe?” Beryl asked. “The wealthy ones so often are I have found.” Beryl reached for a cheese and pickle sandwich. She still was not in the least used to the sorts of fillings that were so favored on this side of the Atlantic. In fact, she wasn’t even sure that what she was tasting was a pickle at all. It was more of a brown jam sort of substance both sweet and sour at the same time and filled with unidentifiable chopped vegetables. Or were they fruits? Beryl had made a habit throughout her life of adventure of not scrutinizing the comestibles too closely. When wandering the desert or a dense jungle it simply wasn’t the done thing to offend a gracious host because one assumed she would not like the taste of camel or beetles.
“That’s his reputation,” Alice said. “He hasn’t been willing to part with a shilling for safety gear or to replace broken equipment. In fact it’s causing quite a stir amongst the miners, and if he isn’t careful he may end up with a strike on his hands.” Beryl placed her half-eaten sandwich on her plate and gave Alice her full attention.
“Are there signs of agitation amongst the workers?” Beryl asked. She met Edwina’s searching gaze. Trouble at the mine could have something to do with Mr. Cunningham’s murder.
“Someone has been leafleting the entire village. I hate to say it but the language and the images on the pamphlets are really very disturbing. I spoke to my Dennis about it. I said it wasn’t the sort of thing that children should ever have to see,” Alice said.
“Do you have any idea who is responsible for the leafleting?” Edwina asked.
“I don’t. There are always rumors of course about who happens to be the most dissatisfied with the working conditions. But I have never seen anyone actually in the act of passing out the leaflets,” Alice said.
“Why is the information so disturbing?” Beryl said.
“They’re inciting violence. They call the workers to rise up and to do whatever it takes to make conditions fairer for those going down into the mines. They rail against the upper classes and the elevation of profit over people. There are line drawings showing someone who looks a good deal like Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe dangling from a rafter in a mine shaft by his necktie,” Alice said.
“That does sound worrisome,” Edwina said. “What’s the reaction from the miners? Are they in agreement with the sentiment? Is Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe really so unpopular with his employees?”
“The men are glad of the work. Jobs are so hard to come by that they’d be foolish not to be. But they don’t like working for a man who so blatantly does not care one whit about their safety. The mines here in Kent are notoriously unstable. They flood easily and the shafts are liable to collapse without warning. Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe could make things safer for the workers if he were of a mind to, but he shows no sign that he is,” Alice said. She shook her head. “As a nurse at the village I can tell you some of the injuries are quite severe. We’ve had men crushed, others have lost limbs. Coughing and chest complaints are simply a way of life.”
“It’s the same as all over the country,” Edwina said. “The unrest has been popping up from one region to the next ever since the men came back from the war. They were supposed to be coming back to a nation worthy of them, one filled with good jobs and opportunities for those who had done so much for their country. Instead, men who spent so long fighting the enemy are finding their own government is an enemy fighting them.”
“Is there a sense that things really are going to turn violent at the mine?” Beryl asked. “Or do you think it’s all talk, just a way to let off some steam?”
“At first I thought that’s all it was, but now I don’t know. The leafleting has gotten to be more frequent and the tone is more aggressive. I’ve even mentioned to Dennis that perhaps we should consider moving on to another mine if he can find the work. But Dennis says it’s not likely there will be any openings anywhere else,” Alice said.
Beryl heard the distinctive sound of Simpkins’ hobnail boots coming along the hallway. The elderly gardener poked his head round the corner of the dining room door, his hat in his hands. In recent weeks Simpkins had developed the habit of stopping in with a question or a concern right around lunchtime. Somehow he always managed to join them for the rest of their meal. Beryl quite enjoyed his company but it had to be said that Edwina did not. She certainly would be unlikely to welcome Simpkins and his muddy boots into her dining room while they had a visitor.
“Yes, Simpkins?” Edwina said. Beryl was surprised at the pleasant tone of Edwina’s voice. She would have expected her to be quite curt. “Is there something you require?”
“I wanted to ask if you had decided on the bedding flowers you’d like me to put out in the pond garden.” Simpkins said. “I’ll need to get a start on that soon if you’re to have a decent display come summer.” He took several steps into the dining room and turned his head to give Beryl a wink.
“We can discuss it after lunch,” Edwina said. “Won’t you join us?” Beryl fought back a gasp. Then she realized Edwina might not wish to appear class conscious in front of their guest. Or perhaps she was simply grateful to Simpkins for helping them to get started on their business. Either way she was delighted by this change in her friend’s attitude. Edwina indicated the fourth chair at the table and Simpkins took a seat. She then hurried to the china cabinet and pulled out a plate and some cutlery and placed it before Simpkins.
Simpkins helped himself to several sandwiches and tucked in with gusto. He would certainly not have any trouble accepting hospitality in the desert or the jungle. Beryl very much doubted he would be concerned about the contents of his meal, even if he were to be served beetles.
“Mrs. Morley, please allow me to present Albert Simpkins, the gardener here at the Beeches. Simpkins, Mrs. Morley is employed at the Hambley colliery as a nurse in the infirmary and has agreed to help promote the May Day celebration to the rest of the mining village,” Edwina said.
“Mrs. Morley and I are already acquainted through her husband and the pigeon races,” Simpkins said. “How did the three of you happen to meet? I don’t think of you ladies as spending a lot of time over in Hambley.” He took a massive bite of one of his sandwiches. Beryl was relieved to see he remembered to chew with his mouth closed. Edwina might become accustomed to servants at her table but Beryl could not imagine her ever tolerating a complete lack of manners.
“We met at a pigeon race during the course of our investigation into Mr. Cunningham’s disappearance,” Beryl said. “The whole thing was rather exciting.”
“Long-distance pigeon racing is bound to get even more exciting still now that Mr. Cunningham’s out of the sport,” Simpkins said after swallowing.
“Why is that?” Edwina asked.
“Well, now that Mr. Cunningham is dead, there’s no real certainty as to who will be coming in second place,” Simpkins said, taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Was there ever certainty as to who came in first, second, third, or whatever in the races?” Beryl asked.
Simpkins bobbed his head. “Sometimes Mr. Cunningham would beat Gareth Scott, the greengrocer, but not often. He generally came in second. Now that Cunningham’s gone and gotten himself bumped off, there’s no telling if second place will go to the vicar or to Dennis Morley. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Morley?” Simpkins asked.
“That’s what my Dennis says. He was remarking on it last night at tea. It’s causing quite a stir amongst the club members, especially those who like to place a wager on the race results,” Alice said.
&nb
sp; “Why is it that Gareth Scott keeps coming in in first place so frequently?” Edwina asked.
“Dennis says Mr. Scott is convinced it’s the diet of fruits and vegetables that he gives to his pigeons that accounts for his incredible results on the course,” Alice said. “Would you agree, Mr. Simpkins?”
“I can’t rightly say,” Simpkins said. “Maybe it’s just luck and maybe it’s his technique. All I know is that Gareth Scott’s pigeons have been pretty much a sure bet for either first or second place since I don’t know when.”
“You don’t happen to know where I might be able to place just such a bet, do you, Simpkins?” Beryl asked. Simpkins shot a look at Edwina whose left eye twitched alarmingly.
“If you’re looking to place a wager in Walmsley Parva you’ll want to go down to the pub,” Simpkins said. “That’s where all the betting is done before race day. You can place wagers on the day of the race with people at the starting point too but my advice is to head down to the pub and get your wager in early.”
Beryl looked over at Edwina who was doing her best not to appear shocked. “Then that is exactly what I shall do this very evening. I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me, Simpkins?” Beryl asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Simpkins said. “It would be even more so if you are buying.”
“You can be sure of it, my dear man. I would consider it fair payment for a good tip,” Beryl said. “Shall we say seven o’clock?”
Chapter 21
“I’ve been thinking, Ed, about Mr. Scott the greengrocer,” Beryl said as she applied her usual slapdash methods to drying the lunch dishes after Alice and Simpkins had departed. Edwina sometimes wondered if Beryl had had any sort of maternal influence in her life whatsoever. She was aware, more from what Beryl had not said, rather than what she had, that Mr. and Mrs. Helliwell had displayed a notable lack of interest in their only child. In fact, Edwina was inclined to suspect Beryl’s desire for celebrity grew from a deep desire for someone to notice her. Still, one would have thought a governess or housekeeper might have fostered some sort of domestic skill during Beryl’s formative years. Her friend’s complete lack of housekeeping knowledge or ability never ceased to amaze.
“And where have your thoughts taken you?” Edwina asked before realizing that that sort of open-ended question was likely to take Beryl into places Edwina did not wish to travel.
“The greengrocer, shopping in any form really, is far more your purview than mine. I suggest we split up this afternoon. You could take your shopping basket to the high street and interrogate Mr. Scott on the subject of vegetables while I drive over to the mining village and make some enquiries about the dissatisfaction amongst the workers,” Beryl said, clattering a plate down onto a stack in the cupboard. Edwina worriedly cast a glance at the crystal glasses. They had belonged to her grandmother and she had no intention of seeing them smashed to bits. She had started using them as everyday dishes rather than saving them for best as it seemed unlikely she would have a daughter of her own to pass them along to. Even so, that didn’t mean she welcomed Beryl’s rough treatment of one of her prized possessions. When her finances had gotten into a shocking state the previous autumn she had been humiliatingly forced to sell off many of the bits and bobs previous residents of the family home had collected over the years. Grandmother’s goblets were amongst the few treasures she had not considered parting with.
“That seems a very fine idea which plays to each of our strengths. Since it’s farther to Hambley than it is to the greengrocer, why don’t you head out straightaway? I’ll finish up here on my own and depart as soon as I have completed the washing up,” Edwina said, relieving Beryl of her kitchen towel. “We can meet back here in time for tea.”
Beryl seemed as pleased to be relieved of her kitchen duties as Edwina was for her to desist with them. She rushed down the corridor and Edwina heard the door banging behind her before she had slipped the last goblet into the soapy water.
* * *
Crumpet was delighted to finally be allowed to accompany her on the investigation. He pranced about Edwina’s feet with such vigor, she had difficulty attaching his lead to his collar. He continued to display enthusiasm all along their walk by rushing ahead to sniff at clumps of flowers or to bark at frisking squirrels. Edwina felt a cheerful, positive glow as she made her way along the high street towards Gareth Scott’s establishment, her wide wicker shopping basket dangling from her arm. As she waited for Crumpet to finish sniffing the peeling bark at the base of a river birch she noticed Gareth Scott exiting his own shop and making straight for the local teashop owned by Minnie Mumford.
She gave Crumpet’s lead a gentle tug and corrected course for the Silver Spoon Tearoom. She tied the dog’s lead to a lamppost just outside Minnie’s eatery and went inside. The heady scent of cinnamon filled the air. Edwina generally did not hold with snacking between meals, but as this was in service of the investigation she decided to make an exception. With a nod to Minnie she brazenly approached the table where Gareth Scott was seated.
“Do you mind if I join you, Mr. Scott?” Edwina said, laying a gloved hand on the back of the chair nearest her. “I do so hate to eat alone.” Edwina noticed Minnie’s ears lengthening with every word she uttered. While Prudence Rathbone was the biggest gossip in the village she did not outpace Minnie by a great distance. In fact, it was remarked about the village, that the two of them had a friendly rivalry as to who would be the first with any juicy bits of news.
“It would be a pleasure, Miss Davenport, to have some company,” Mr. Scott said, scraping his chair back and standing to pull out a seat for her. Minnie approached the table, a wide smile fixed on her eager face.
“I’m surprised to see you here at this time of day, Edwina,” she said. “Does anything special bring you into the village today?”
“It was such a lovely day I thought I would take Crumpet out for a stroll. We worked up such an appetite in all our ramblings that I thought I would stop in and enjoy some of your delicious refreshments,” Edwina said, hoping to cut off any hope Minnie might have concerning choice tidbits of gossip.
“I’m surprised to see you out of the company of Miss Helliwell. The two of you aren’t on the outs, are you? A new business venture can certainly put a strain on any relationship. I remember when I started the tearoom, Mr. Mumford was not always as supportive as he might have been,” Minnie said, a small furrow appearing between her greying eyebrows.
“Beryl and I are always in complete accord,” Edwina lied. “As a matter of fact, we have found our partnership makes our investigations all the more thorough and efficient. But even the best of friends need not spend every moment of every day together. Have you already ordered, Mr. Scott?” With that Edwina steered the conversation back to the business of the tearoom, placed her own order, and waited for Minnie to disappear into the kitchen before turning the conversation to Mr. Scott’s success with his pigeons.
“Speaking of my business venture, it has come to my attention during the course of our investigation that you are extraordinarily successful at racing your pigeons. I had absolutely no idea you were so famous,” Edwina said. She noticed Mr. Scott’s posture improve under the glow of her praise.
“Well, it’s very kind of you to say that, although I shouldn’t like to brag. It’s true that I’ve had quite a bit of luck over the last few months,” Mr. Scott said.
“My gardener, Simpkins, says that it’s rather difficult for anyone to beat you,” Edwina said. “He said the amount of success you’ve had has been remarkable.”
“There have been others who’ve acquitted themselves nicely on the course as well,” Mr. Scott said. “The unfortunate Mr. Cunningham and Dennis Morley both managed to oust me from first place now and again.”
“Mr. Cunningham won’t be jockeying for position anymore though, will he?” Edwina said.
“I suppose not. Although we didn’t see eye to eye in all matters, I shall miss the thrill of racing against him,
” Mr. Scott said, shaking his head.
“It’s rumored that you attribute your enormous success to your feeding regime,” Edwina said. “I’ve always believed that a healthy diet can work wonders on all manner of creatures.” There was a pause in the conversation as Minnie approached the table with a tray laden with a teapot, cups, and an assortment of teacakes and scones. Edwina assumed Mr. Scott was no more eager for Minnie to eavesdrop upon their conversation than she was herself. Edwina poured tea for the two of them and noticed Mr. Scott waited until an elderly pair of women entered the shop, diverting Minnie’s attention, before speaking again.
“What you say is entirely true. Access to a diet rich in fresh produce has made a world of difference in the performance of my birds. It’s almost unfair really that I have such an abundance of fruits and veg because of my business, but I suppose one cannot make the field of combat entirely level for all the racers,” Mr. Scott said, helping himself to a teacake. “Not that either Cunningham or Morley were all that interested in my technique, as it happened.”
“They don’t believe that diet makes all the difference?” Edwina said, selecting a currant bun from the pastry plate. All this talk of fruits and vegetables was making her feel even guiltier for her between-meal snacking. Still, she told herself, it was all for a good cause. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought as she reached for the jam pot and slathered her already-decadent treat with some of Minnie’s deservedly renowned preserves.
“Cunningham seemed very resistant to the idea that diet could improve the performance of the birds. He felt it was all about the breeding.” Mr. Scott took a noisy slurp of his tea before clattering his cup back into the saucer. Edwina noted the topic impassioned her dining companion. Her fingers itched to take out her notebook and jot down her thoughts but she resisted the urge, deciding any such formality might stem the flow of conversation. It would also draw the already bothersome Minnie back to the table like a wasp to a pitcher of lemon squash.
Murder Flies the Coop Page 14