Beryl had not considered that Mr. Scott might have helped himself to the club funds. It was possible, she supposed, considering he was in a position of leadership in the organization. She would have to ask Edwina what she thought of that possibility. Surely she would have an opinion as to the quality of Mr. Scott’s character and the likelihood that he would take money that did not belong to him. Another thought occurred to her.
“Do you think it’s possible that not only did Mr. Scott take the money and make it appear that Mr. Cunningham had stolen it, but also that he killed Mr. Cunningham to cover up the theft?” Beryl said.
“I wouldn’t put anything past Gareth Scott. I haven’t liked him since I first laid eyes on him. I know he’s cheating somehow and I know he’s eager to be in charge of the club. I met guys like that during the war. People who just couldn’t get enough of bossing others around and being in charge. As the war went on, people who never would have been considered for leadership in the early days ended up promoted. Some of them were able to rise to the occasion and lead the men beneath them in ways that everyone appreciated. Then there were others, like Gareth Scott, who made things worse for everybody,” Mr. Morley said.
Beryl had heard things like this from other soldiers. But she had also heard that leadership was often inept at the beginning of the war, too. So many things were different before the fighting had broken out. The old class structures automatically made people of the upper classes favored by those in charge for leadership positions. Many of them had no qualifications whatsoever outside of the accident of birth. While Beryl was willing to believe most had the best interests of their men at heart, she had no illusions that meant they were capable of seeing to those interests. There were no two ways about it; the entire war had been hell on earth. It was no wonder Mr. Morley had no patience with reminders of those dark days. Beryl had things she’d rather forget herself and her own memories of people of a sort she’d never like to encounter again.
“It sounds like you really despise Mr. Scott,” Beryl said.
“He doesn’t like me either. He made it very clear from the beginning he thought my presence in the club was bringing the whole thing low,” Mr. Morley said.
“What do you mean? I should’ve thought the club would benefit from having an expert of your caliber as a member,” Beryl said.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I’m not the right sort. I come from a workingman’s background and that’s just not good enough to mix with the likes of him,” Mr. Morley said.
“You’re not good enough to mingle with the man who sells turnips and potatoes to his fellow villagers?” Beryl said. Truly, she would never understand the nuances of the English class system. How anyone would come to the conclusion that being a shopkeeper was more worthy of respect than helping to keep the country fueled with coal she would never understand. She certainly would have thought Mr. Morley’s service to his country would have leveled the social playing field.
“No, I am not, according to him. Nor the pinched-faced woman at the post office neither,” he said.
“Prudence Rathbone?” Beryl asked. Mr. Morley nodded and rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have thought she would have had anything to do with racing of any sort. She doesn’t strike me as the sporting type.”
“Nor me, but she has the most important job of anyone in a race as far as some people are concerned,” Mr. Morley said. “She’s the keeper of the keys.”
“The keeper of the keys? What a romantic-sounding title for such a pedestrian sort of woman,” Beryl said. “What does she do for the club?”
“It’s all right there in the name. Miss Rathbone keeps charge of all the keys to the pigeon clocks. She makes sure no one can fiddle with the time their birds arrived back at the loft.”
“I see,” Beryl said. Although, truthfully, she did not. But she heard an edge slipping into Mr. Morley’s voice, and he kept darting glances at the door. She might need to speak with him again and it would not do to be remembered as someone who droned on and on for too long. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I appreciate your time.” Beryl held out the flask a final time. Mr. Morley shook his head.
“It’s the middle of the day and I’ve reached my limit. I hope you find out what happened to Lionel. He may have been one of the bosses, but he was always good to me.” Mr. Morley stood and Beryl took the hint that it was indeed time to go.
She got to her feet and gave a final glance round the small shed. Mr. Morley kept things tidy. Bins with lids and bales of clean straw stood neatly pressed back against the far wall. A wooden workbench ran along the end that had been behind Beryl’s back while she had been seated. A tin lunch pail and a pocketknife sat on the bench. Next to them she spotted what looked to be a stack of leaflets.
Hoping not to appear too curious, she took a step forward to get a better look at what was printed upon them. Sure enough, there was a line drawing on the front of a man hanging by his necktie from a rafter in a mine shaft. It was just as Alice Morley had described. She wondered if Mr. Morley had collected the leaflets to help ease his wife’s concerns and had simply not disposed of them. Or, she wondered, was he the one responsible for passing them out in the first place?
Mr. Morley cleared his throat loudly and startled the birds that fluttered and flitted about the room. She was quite certain he had done it on purpose. He yanked open the door and held it for her. His expression was just a touch less friendly than it had been only moments before. She headed back to her automobile with a great deal more to think about than when she arrived.
Chapter 23
Beryl had taken her usual spot in the comfortable chair closest to the drinks tray. Edwina sat on the sofa with her knitting needles clicking soothingly through some smooth soft wool. She found that the rhythm of the knitting helped her to think. And the conversations of the day had given her a great deal to think about.
“Months ago I never would’ve suspected Gareth Scott of being involved in anything more nefarious than passing off produce that was days older than he said it was,” Edwina said. “Now I feel much more jaded about the character of all my neighbors. The events of last autumn pulled my rose-colored glasses from my eyes and crushed them underfoot.”
“So you agree it’s possible that Gareth Scott stole the club’s funds as well as the birds and then murdered Mr. Cunningham?” Beryl asked. She took a sip from her half-empty glass.
“I’m sorry to say that I think we must consider him a suspect. And a strong one at that. During my conversation with him at the teashop I came to realize he is a fairly accomplished liar. And it sounds as though your conversation with Mr. Morley sheds an even more unflattering light on his character and his motivations,” Edwina said.
Crumpet raised his head and bolted from his wicker basket and ran down the hall barking loudly. Edwina started to get up but Beryl waved her off and headed out the door to see what the fuss was about. She returned a moment later with Miss Chilvers in tow. Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe’s secretary looked far less sure of herself standing in Edwina’s parlor then she had ruling the roost at the colliery office.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Miss Davenport, but I felt as though I couldn’t sleep tonight if I didn’t speak with you and Miss Helliwell,” Miss Chilvers said as she took a seat in the second overstuffed chair. Crumpet seemed to sense Miss Chilvers was not Edwina’s favorite person and he came to sit by his mistress’s feet. Edwina reached down and patted him on his loyal head. Then she took her knitting needles back up, determined to look at ease.
“It is our business to expect the unexpected,” Edwina said. “How can we help you?”
Miss Chilvers cleared her throat and looked down at her lap as though looking for the answer in her clasped hands. She lifted her gaze and directed it at Edwina.
“I have not been entirely honest with you about the relationship between Mr. Cunningham and myself. The fact is we were utterly and completely, hopelessly in love. Only two days before he disap
peared he asked me to marry him and I accepted. I could not let him go to his grave without doing everything in my power to assist with finding who killed him,” Miss Chilvers said. She gave a sniff and fished a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket. She dabbed daintily at her eyes before glancing at Beryl.
“The last few days must have been very difficult for you,” Edwina said. “You have my condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you very much. You are the only ones who know and it’s been very difficult keeping up the pretense that we were nothing more than colleagues,” Miss Chilvers said.
“Do you have any information to share with us that you think may identify who killed him?” Beryl said.
“I should not like to cast suspicion unnecessarily but I feel that it would be wrong for me to withhold something I know,” Miss Chilvers said. “You see, the fact is, Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe lied to you when he said that he and Lionel were on good terms.” She dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief.
“So Mr. Cunningham and your employer did not get along as well as we’ve been led to believe?” Edwina said.
“They had been on very good terms when I first came to work at the colliery. But in the last month or so things have become very tense. The two of them would lower their voices or stop talking altogether whenever I came into the room,” Miss Chilvers said.
“Did they seem to be arguing?” Beryl asked.
“As they were whispering, it was difficult to make out the content of their conversation. But from their facial expressions and hand gestures I would say the exchanges could not be described as friendly. There was definitely a change in the atmosphere in the office,” Miss Chilvers said.
“Did you ask Mr. Cunningham about the alteration in their relationship?” Edwina asked.
“I hated to do so at first because I thought perhaps I was imagining things. When I finally did ask, Lionel became quite cross with me and said he didn’t like to discuss work during what little time we had to spend together outside of the office. But the day before Lionel disappeared he and Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe had a tremendous argument right there in the office. At that point it was impossible to ignore that something was wrong,” Miss Chilvers said.
“Why was it impossible?” Beryl asked. “Did the argument take place in front of you?”
“No, they were both in Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe’s office with the door closed. But their voices kept escalating to the point that I heard the last thing Lionel said to Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe.”
“And what was it they were arguing about?” Beryl asked.
“I don’t know what the argument was actually about because as I said the door was closed. But I did hear Lionel shout just before he came out of Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe’s office. There was a banging noise too although I’m not sure which man was responsible for that. When Lionel came out of the office he slammed the door behind him. I asked him what was wrong but he refused to tell me. He said he didn’t want to put me in an uncomfortable position by sharing what he knew,” Miss Chilvers said.
“So you have no idea what was said between the two of them,” Edwina asked.
“All I know is that when I asked Lionel if he thought he was likely to lose his position on account of the argument, he just laughed. He said Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe could not possibly get rid of him because he knew where all the bodies were buried.”
Beryl looked over at Edwina and cocked an eyebrow. It seemed their suspect list was growing by leaps and bounds. Considering what happened to Mr. Cunningham, she wondered if it was possible any of those bodies were literal rather than figurative.
“You certainly did the right thing in coming to us. I’m sure it was very difficult to cast suspicion upon your employer,” Edwina said. “We will take your concerns into consideration as we pursue our investigation.”
“You won’t let Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe know that I’m the one who told you they didn’t get along, will you?” Miss Chilvers said.
“We make it our policy not to share the source of our information unless absolutely necessary,” Beryl said. “People would hardly continue to come to us if we went squealing every time we discovered something new. Isn’t that right, Edwina?”
“Assuredly that is the case,” Edwina said. Miss Chilvers stood and took her leave of them. As she laid aside her knitting and watched Miss Chilvers depart, Edwina felt a vague sense of disquiet. She could not help but wonder about the young woman’s story. She was not sure if her hesitation in accepting it was founded in her excellent skills at detecting lies or in her dislike of the woman for other reasons. She was still pondering when Beryl returned with her coat draped over her arm.
“It’s been quite a day for adding to our list of suspects,” Beryl said.
“Did you believe her story?” Edwina asked.
“About which part of it?” Beryl said. “That she and Mr. Cunningham were in love? Or that he and Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe were on the outs?”
“About any of it,” Edwina said. “It may have been the truth. And then again she may be interested in pointing suspicion elsewhere. As Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe’s secretary she would be in a position to know a great deal about his business. I’m having trouble believing Mr. Cunningham was more acquainted with any irregularities than she was.”
“We shall have to do some more digging. Which is what I’m about to do right now.” Beryl glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece then slipped her arms into her coat. “If I leave immediately I’ll be just in time to meet with Simpkins.” Edwina reached for her knitting once more. The idea of Beryl spending time at the pub was hard to accept. The notion that her friend intended to go out carousing with the gardener was best not to even consider.
Chapter 24
While Beryl had found many things about the slow pace of life in Walmsley Parva difficult to adjust to, she found that a walk to the pub was not one of them. The investigation had invigorated her no end and as she found herself filled with restless energy, she decided to walk into the village rather than to take her automobile out for an evening of gallivanting. Besides, while she intended to keep a clear head, she was well aware that Edwina had momentarily abandoned her knitting and was peeping out the window at her as if not convinced of her good intentions.
As she strolled into the village, she felt a certain connectedness to her surroundings she still found startling. After all the years she’d spent gallivanting round the globe looking for adventure, she was surprised to find the one that had eluded her for so long, the adventure of being part of the community, was finally within her reach. Although it had been a strange adjustment, she was very glad she had made it. Just as she was beginning to chafe a bit at the mundane routine in Walmsley Parva, the opportunity to begin a detective business provided an effective antidote for any restlessness stirring up inside her.
She pushed open the door of the pub and stepped inside. The low ceilings with their darkened beams and the long bar with the brass rail along its front proclaimed this to be an English country pub to anyone who entered. It was the purview, by and large, of men, and Beryl had long flourished in such environments. She looked around the room for Simpkins. He sat in a far corner tucked up in what she assumed was his regular booth. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment and lifted his mostly empty glass. She strode up to the bar and ordered a pint for Simpkins and a half pint for herself.
She carried the glasses to the table and slid in beside the elderly gardener. He took a long swig before wiping the foam that clung to his mustache with the back of his hand.
“So, is your bookie here?” Beryl asked. Simpkins glanced around the room and his gaze landed on a completely bald, wiry man sitting at a table close to the bar. Two other men sat at the table with him and Beryl noticed one of them pushing an envelope across the table.
“That’s him. Chester White. He’s not all that keen on doing business with strangers, but if you bought him a drink and told him your name he might make an exception,” Simpkins said.
“I don�
�t suppose you could make the introduction?” Beryl said. “After all, that’s what I thought I was meeting you here for, to make things easier.” Beryl reached over and tapped on Simpkins’ glass of beer.
“So you weren’t just being friendly-like when you invited me here?” Simpkins said.
“I’m always friendly with you, Simpkins, but business is business. And as this business was your suggestion in the first place, I should think you would be eager for us to succeed.” Beryl took a tiny sip of her beer. She did her best not to pull a face. An ability to choke the stuff down was an asset in many circumstances and she had trained herself to do it. But beer had never been one of her pleasures.
“Of course I want you to succeed. There’s nothing I’d like more than for Miss Edwina to be happy. That one’s always had a fine head on her shoulders and it’s been a crying shame to see her shut up in the house, cleaning, cooking, and taking care of her mother. It’s one of the reasons I argue with her about the garden. It riles her up and gives her something to think about. As soon as I heard about this problem of the vicar’s I immediately thought it was just the sort of puzzle that the two of you could get your teeth into,” Simpkins said.
Beryl noticed that his face looked a bit flushed as he took another long draw on his beer. She knew that Simpkins had a heart of gold underneath his grimy and wizened exterior. She just hadn’t realized that he knew it, too.
“I see we are in complete agreement, Simpkins,” Beryl said. “I’ve long thought it a travesty that someone like Edwina has been so discouraged from exercising her gifts and talents.”
“Her mother and I, rest her soul, always got along on every subject except that of Miss Edwina. Mrs. Davenport treated me more like a friend than like a servant. We grew up together, you see. My father worked as a gardener before me at the Beeches and he’d take me with him to work. I knew Mrs. Davenport long before that was her name. That girl could climb trees like nobody’s business. The things she got up to before her mother sent her off to finishing school would inspire admiration from even you, Miss Beryl.”
Murder Flies the Coop Page 16