Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “Have you ever told Edwina any of this?” Beryl asked.

  “It seemed disloyal to her mother to tell her secrets. If Mrs. Davenport didn’t see fit to tell her daughter about her wanton ways when she was a girl, it certainly wasn’t for me to speak up about it,” Simpkins said. “I think too much of her memory to do that.” Beryl was not quite sure what to say. She had little practical experience with mothers and felt the silence stretch out between them. The two men that had been sitting at the table with the bookie scraped back their chairs and got to their feet. It was the opening she had been looking for.

  “Are you going to introduce me or not?” Beryl said.

  “I’ll head on over to Chester’s table while you fetch another pint,” Simpkins said. She slid out of the booth and sidled up to the bar. She looked over her shoulder and watched as Simpkins took a seat at Chester White’s table. She asked the publican for another round for Chester along with another pint for Simpkins. She carried the glasses to the table and Simpkins turned his gapped-tooth grin in her direction. She placed the drinks in front of the two men and sat in the chair next to Simpkins without waiting for an invitation.

  “I was wondering if I was ever going to get around to meeting you,” Chester said. “As it happens, I’ve been a little offended that you haven’t placed a bet with me before now. Rumor has it that you’re quite a gambler.”

  “Mostly I bet on card games because I prefer a sure thing. I’m a very good card player,” Beryl said. Chester arched an eyebrow.

  “So what brings you to me? I’m not in the business of setting up card games. I take bets on sporting events,” Chester said. He turned to Simpkins. “I thought you said she was interested in doing a little business.”

  “I am. But as I said, I’m only interested in sure things. Simpkins tells me that placing a bet on Gareth Scott in the upcoming pigeon race is certain to pay off,” Beryl said. “Or have I been misinformed?” Chester ran his finger along the column of the ledger in front of him. He paused about a third of the way down the sheet.

  “You can place a bet on Gareth Scott. It’s a pretty safe bet. It doesn’t pay off very well though,” Chester said. “You know that’s how it works, right? The more certain the bet, the lower the payoff?”

  “I am familiar with the concept of odds. Which wager has the best ones? I understood that there might be a change in the favorite for second place now that Mr. Cunningham won’t be participating in the race,” Beryl said. Chester nodded slowly up and down, the low light in the pub bouncing off the gleaming baldness of his head.

  “You’re well informed. There has had to be some adjustment this week over the previous ones. Dennis Morley is the favorite now for second place. That would be a pretty sure thing, too,” Chester said. “The odds aren’t as good as they might’ve been last week but they’re better than putting your money on Gareth Scott.”

  “Are you suggesting that might be a good course of action?” Beryl asked.

  “I never make suggestions, missus. I’m not in the business of helping you to win big. There must be something in the air,” Chester said. He threw back the rest of the whiskey then banged the glass on the table. “That’s why I don’t like doing business with new people. You all ask the same foolish questions.” Beryl signaled to the publican for another round for Simpkins and Chester.

  “Have you had a lot of new customers lately?” Simpkins asked. “I shouldn’t have thought that was too likely.”

  Chester paused long enough that Beryl feared he wouldn’t answer. At length he cleared his throat. “I’ve had a lot more new customers since the Hambley mine started employing all those men for the pits. To tell you the truth, I feel a little bit guilty every time I take their money. They’re so poorly paid and they all seem to have multiple mouths to feed,” Chester said.

  “I think of you as more of a man who provides a friendly service than somebody who helps people get in over their heads,” Simpkins said. A serving girl with a cascade of blond curls tumbling down her back arrived at the table and placed the fresh round of drinks in front of them.

  “That’s just it. That’s how I think of myself. I make a little money at this business but mostly it’s for the fun of it. It’s not my only job after all,” Chester said.

  “Chester here is a farrier during the day. He just does this of an evening as a way to pass the time,” Simpkins said.

  “I was speaking with somebody over at the mining village today about the pigeon races and the conditions of the pit,” Beryl said. “It sounds as though those guys really are having it rough. I can imagine that some of them would be desperate enough to put all the money they could get their hands on down on a sure bet.”

  “You were over at Hambley?” Chester said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Beryl said.

  “You said you were talking to them about the pigeon races. Did you pick up any hot tips? Is that why you’re in here for the first time asking to place a bet?” Chester asked.

  “Maybe. I was over there speaking with Dennis Morley,” Beryl said. “He had some very interesting things to say about getting the best out of his birds.”

  “You sure do get around, don’t you?” Chester said. He whistled. “Anything you like to tell me about what he said?”

  “I suppose that depends on whether or not you have anything to share with me.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Chester asked. “I can’t go giving out the sort of information that would give you an edge on my other customers.”

  “I just wondered if you had any reason to believe there might be something a little fishy about how sure these bets were,” Beryl said. Chester’s eyes widened and he drained his glass in one fell swoop once again. Beryl wondered how long he’d been at it before she arrived at the pub.

  “Constable Gibbs was in here asking the same question earlier this evening,” Chester said. “Why are so many women interested in wagering all of a sudden?”

  “I suppose the police think Mr. Cunningham’s murder may well be connected to his participation in pigeon racing. If anything is not on the up and up with the betting, it might help to explain what happened to him,” Beryl said.

  “I don’t want to have anything to do with something like that,” Chester said. He got to his feet. “I gotta go see a man about a horse.” Beryl watched him as he staggered towards the back of the pub and disappeared through a small door. She reached across the table and started to pick up the ledger.

  “Don’t let anybody else see you looking at that,” Simpkins said. She nodded and slid it across the table towards herself without lifting it. She spun it around and quickly perused the list of names and the bets placed written in small neat handwriting in the ledger.

  “It looks like Gareth Scott likes to bet on himself. So did Mr. Cunningham. I don’t see Dennis Morley’s name anywhere,” Beryl said. She turned back to an earlier page in the ledger. Look at this.” She pointed to an entry dated the day of Mr. Cunningham’s disappearance.

  “What’s so special about that bet?” Simpkins asked.

  “It’s placed on the day Mr. Cunningham disappeared. Does Chester only take bets at the pub in the evening?” Beryl asked.

  “As far as I know. Like I said, he works as a farrier during the day and wouldn’t have time to do it unless he happened to run into somebody, while he was shooing a horse, who wanted to place a wager. I suppose that’s possible,” Simpkins said.

  “Would he have been likely to be taking bets first thing in the morning? Would he have been taking them before Mr. Cunningham would have been heading off to the race?” Beryl asked.

  “Not bloody likely,” Simpkins said. “You see the way the man drinks. You’re lucky to see him away from his cottage before noontime any given day. I’d never be willing to bet on him being awake and on the move as early as Lionel Cunningham would have gone missing. Why does it matter?”

  “This bet is for the exact amount that’s gone missin
g from the pigeon racing club treasury. And it was placed on the day Lionel Cunningham disappeared,” Beryl said. “And look who is the one who placed it.” She placed her finger beneath the name written neatly in the ledger.

  “Martin Haynes,” Simpkins said. “Who’s that?”

  “Martin Haynes just happens to be the man seen arguing with Lionel Cunningham down by the river the day before he died. He’s one of the miners over at the Hambley pit,” Beryl said.

  “That doesn’t look too good for him, does it?” Simpkins asked. “Most miners wouldn’t have that kind of money.” Beryl shook her head and then another thought occurred to her. She flipped back through the ledger quickly and spotted other bets placed for much smaller amounts by Martin Haynes. She felt her heart beginning to pound and her ears beginning to buzz. Excitement always made her feel as though a hive of bees had taken up residence in her skull. She turned the ledger towards Simpkins and called his attention to Martin’s wagers.

  “He didn’t, generally. Not only that, there is something else that is different about this particular bet.” Beryl pointed at the name on all his previous bets. “Until his last bet he only wagered on Mr. Cunningham.” She turned the ledger back to the page with Martin’s most recent bet.

  “His last one is on Dennis Morley,” Simpkins said.

  “What do you think made him switch? He had done fairly well over time by betting on Mr. Cunningham.” Beryl asked, “You don’t suppose he knew Mr. Cunningham’s racing days were over when he put down his money, do you?”

  “If he was the one who killed him it would explain it,” Simpkins said.

  “That’s just what I am thinking,” Beryl said. “But we still have no idea why he would have reason to want to kill Mr. Cunningham in the first place. Surely not to steal from him and place a safer bet?”

  “A man with the type of financial trouble most of the miners face might be sorely tempted over such a sum. I can’t say no one would do such a thing. Besides, a lot of these young fellers came back from the war with a different outlook on right and wrong. And even more of them have temperaments that have been severely altered. He may have simply lost his temper over something and lashed out violently. He wouldn’t be the only one.” Simpkins elbowed her in the ribs and Beryl noticed Chester staggering back towards them, tucking his shirt into his trousers. She quickly turned the ledger around to face Chester’s chair and slid it across the table.

  “So are you ready to place your bet?” Chester said, easing into his chair. “I have other clients waiting.” He gestured towards a group of men clustered around the bar.

  “I should like to put five pounds on Dennis Morley to win,” Beryl said. She was gratified to see the look of surprise upon his face. She had always believed in making grand gestures.

  “Five pounds? Are you sure you want to do that?” Chester asked.

  “I thought you weren’t in the business of giving advice,” Beryl said.

  “It’s your money. I’ll put you down for five pounds,” Chester said. Beryl reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the bills. She slid them across the table and watched as he added them to his greasy envelope already bulging with cash. She got to her feet and Simpkins followed.

  When they were out of earshot Simpkins took hold of her elbow and leaned towards her ear. The smell of his beer breath reached her nose and made her glad she had a great deal of practice in encountering a wide variety of harsh conditions.

  “You’re not going to tell Miss Edwina what you just did, are you?” Simpkins asked.

  “Why would I not?” Beryl asked.

  “Miss Edwina doesn’t think much of wagering under any circumstances. Even in a friendly game of bridge she only wagers with matchsticks. She won’t be any too happy to find you’ve spent so much of your company’s earnings on something so foolish as a bet on a pigeon race,” Simpkins said.

  “I would not dream of keeping something like this from Edwina. Besides, Simpkins, like I said, I only place bets on sure things,” Beryl said. “I have a feeling before the next race, Mr. Scott will find his comeuppance, leaving Mr. Morley in a fine position to win.”

  Chapter 25

  Edwina still was not used to the sound of the telephone ringing in the front hallway. It happened rarely, and to her ears it seemed very shrill. Her father had refused to have one installed during his lifetime and it wasn’t until after he had passed away that her mother had found the one consolation for her grief by having it put in. She hurried towards the source of the ringing and found Beryl had gotten there first.

  “Certainly we can do that. Where would you like to meet?” Beryl asked. “Ten o’clock it is. We’ll see you there.” Beryl replaced the receiver and turned to Edwina.

  “Who was it?” Edwina asked.

  “Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe. She would like a status update on the case. I agreed to meet her this morning on the village green. She would prefer that it looks as though we simply ran into each other there,” Beryl said.

  “But that’s out in the open. Won’t she be concerned about her husband hearing that she was meeting with us?” Edwina asked.

  “That’s the genius of it. Who would expect us to be conducting a secretive meeting in public view?” Beryl said. “Our client is far cleverer than I have given her credit for.”

  “I suppose I could take my marketing basket and Crumpet as though I were going about my usual business,” Edwina said. “I had intended to stop in to do a little shopping this morning anyway.”

  “Excellent. I’ll join you as if we were simply out running errands. But we should hurry if we are to arrive on time. It’s nearly nine-thirty already,” Beryl said.

  They arrived on the village green a few minutes before the appointed time. Edwina had had the foresight to add some dried bread to her marketing basket. She and Beryl stood scattering crumbs for a flock of ducks that made the pond in the center of the green their home when Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe approached, appearing to be surprised to encounter them.

  “Good morning, ladies,” their client said. “What a lovely day to take a stroll. Would you care to join me for a walk around the pond? I see a little bench on the other side.” Edwina picked up her basket and she and Beryl accompanied Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe to the far side of the pond. They were still within sight of everyone who might pass by, but Edwina was pleased to note they did not seem to be conducting an assignation.

  Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe dropped onto the bench impatiently. “What news do you have about my jewelry?” she asked.

  “We have searched Mr. Cunningham’s desk drawers at the office and found nothing. The jewels were not found upon his person according to Constable Gibbs. We also know that they were not in his boardinghouse room,” Edwina said. “Additionally, we thoroughly searched Mr. Cunningham’s pigeon loft. The jewels were not there either.”

  “So what you’re telling me is you know all the places my jewels are not?” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe said. The scowl on her face said it all. They were not making a favorable impression on their new client.

  “What we have done is to eliminate the obvious possibilities,” Beryl said. “We have also turned up some interesting bits of information as the investigation has gotten under way. We have a possible lead on someone who may have either harmed Mr. Cunningham to take money from him, which could indicate that person also helped himself to your jewelry.”

  “Who is this person?” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe said.

  “It would not be in your best interest to be burdened by such knowledge. If this person is not involved in any wrongdoing it could make your interactions with him quite uncomfortable in the future,” Edwina said.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe said. “Are there any other leads you are following? I’m getting quite desperate to retrieve my property. I’m sure that my husband is going to be wondering what happened to the jewelry before long. He’s not the sort of man who doesn’t take notice of such things.”

  “Are you in the habit of
wearing them all the time?” Edwina asked. “I should think jewelry that is worth as much money as yours is would be something one saved for special occasions rather than for trips to the market or the bookshop.”

  Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe shook her head. “I’m not in the habit of wearing them on a daily basis. In fact, I find them a bit cumbersome and ostentatious. But Ambrose is rather obsessed with them. If I believed in such things I would think he’d been a jewelry designer in a former life.” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe slumped slightly on the bench and looked a bit defeated. “I hate to consider the scene that will ensue if he discovers that they are missing.”

  “Aren’t the jewels something that you brought into the marriage?” Beryl said. “Does he really have the right to be so upset about what you do with your property?”

  “My husband thinks of himself as an extremely savvy businessman and someone who would never be caught being taken advantage of. If he discovers that the jewels are missing I shall have to fake a robbery. There is absolutely no way I could admit what I’ve done,” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe said.

  “Surely falsifying a crime is a bit extreme,” Edwina said. She wondered if Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe was one of those nervy, high-strung women. In Edwina’s opinion, if there could be said that there was any upside to the tragedies the war had wrought it was that the fashion for fainting spells at the least sign of emotional distress had faded out of favor. She much preferred the more modern approach to life in which women appeared capable of shouldering their burdens as stoically as men, even in the upper classes.

  “You don’t understand at all. Ambrose values loyalty above all else. He’s quite a maniac about it. In all honesty, I fear for my safety should he find out. That’s why Lionel and I were sneaking off instead of telling him that I was unhappy and asking for a divorce. He can be somewhat violent when he loses his temper,” Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe said.

  Edwina noticed dark circles had appeared under their client’s eyes since the last time they had met. Truly, the woman did not look well. Edwina’s heart went out to Mrs. Ecclestone-Smythe. She well remembered the nights she’d spent tossing and turning in her narrow bed thinking about how to pay the accounts that had become shockingly past due at all the village shops.