“Nothing in the garden, miss, but I am here on business. Your business. Miss Beryl will be wanting to hear it, too. She’s in the parlor cozied up next to the fire with a drink in her hand, I expect,” Simpkins said. He didn’t wait for an answer or even offer to carry the tray laden with crustless fish paste sandwiches and an assortment of pastries, but rather barged on ahead into the parlor where the other three were discussing the case. Although Edwina couldn’t help but notice Simpkins seemed a bit unsteady on his feet to be safely trusted with the tray. She knew he was getting on but hadn’t really given a great deal of thought to how much the passing of years might impact his balance. He had always seemed old to her, having been a member of her mother’s generation rather than her own. She felt a strange pang when she considered for the first time that the day might come when Simpkins would not be there to argue with her about the proper way to transplant lupines or how best to divide dahlias.
“Hello, Simpkins. Pull up a chair. Archie was just telling Charles all about the adventure he and Edwina had at the police station,” Beryl said.
“I only wish we had made more headway on the case. The constable bent my ear for an eternity and I don’t think we learned anything new,” Archie said.
“I wish the information I shared about Martin Haynes had been more useful,” Charles said.
“It’s a sort of headway we never would have made if you hadn’t made that sketch of Martin Haynes,” Beryl said. Edwina noticed that Beryl seemed to be looking at Charles with new admiration.
“Martin Haynes is what I’ve come to tell you about,” Simpkins said. “Constable Gibbs had to release him from custody. Someone gave him an alibi for the time of the murder. Two someones, as it happens.”
“Who?” Beryl, Edwina, and Archie all asked at the same time.
“A man by the name of Dennis Morley and his wife, Alice. They said he had dropped by for a bit of a chinwag that very morning. They said they invited him to breakfast and that after that the two men went off for a spot of fishing down at the river,” Simpkins said as he reached for a sandwich.
“So he isn’t in any trouble after all?” Edwina asked.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. It looks like Martin Haynes is likely to be out of a job no matter what.” Simpkins lowered himself gingerly into a nearby chair.
“Why would that be?” Beryl said.
“Because Martin Haynes isn’t his real name. It’s something altogether different. I just heard down at the pub from Douglas Gibb, that before the Morleys vouched for his whereabouts, Constable Gibbs had discovered his real identity while searching his rooms.” Simpkins smiled then reached out and helped himself to another sandwich. Edwina could not help but notice that his fingernails were still grubby from a day spent in the garden. She resolved to content herself with what food was already on her own plate rather than expose herself to whatever Simpkins might add to whatever he touched.
As far as Edwina could tell, Beryl paid no mind to such things. She reached for a sandwich and held it to her face, giving it a slight sniff before peeling back the bread and glancing at the filling. While she never complained, Beryl still had not become entirely accustomed to the differences in cuisine on the other side of the Atlantic from her own. Things that Edwina took for granted as common, everyday fare, struck Beryl as exotic on occasion. Edwina never would have considered a fish paste sandwich something to attract notice from anyone. She supposed it was one of the reasons she found her life to be so much more interesting now that Beryl had come to live with her than she had in the months preceding her friend’s arrival. It made one think, to see life with fresh eyes, when someone so different from oneself was in one’s orbit on a daily basis.
“Why did he need to use a false name?” Charles asked. “Was he in trouble with the law?” Of course Charles would be interested in the legal aspects of the case, Edwina thought to herself.
“According to Douglas, when the constable taxed Martin Haynes with it he admitted that he had been blacklisted from the mines in the north. He was concerned that he would not be able to get a job at the Hambley mine if Ecclestone-Smythe knew who he really was,” Simpkins said.
“He was probably right. I’ve heard the colliery owners oftentimes share the names of undesirable employees with each other all across the nation,” Archie said.
“I shouldn’t think that they could possibly keep track of all the undesirable employees,” Charles said. “I have trouble keeping track of the names of unsuitable parlor maids. How could they possibly keep all the miners straight?”
“They would have all heard about this one. It appears that Mr. Martin Haynes, or whatever it is that he calls himself, wasn’t just someone who didn’t give a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. He was a labor agitator and was involved with an incident that turned ugly up in the north. Constable Gibbs reckons that his was a name that the bosses would recognize,” Simpkins said.
“Considering the unemployment rate, I can’t say that I blame him for changing it,“ Edwina said. “I doubt very much he’s well suited to other work. A life in the mines does not translate easily to other sorts of industries, does it?”
“I’ve frequently used an assumed name,” Beryl said. “I find that it has often been of great use to me to travel in a way that attracted no attention. I don’t blame Mr. Haynes one bit for wanting to start over. As far as I can see, all the power belongs to the colliery owners and the other wealthy people. A man like Martin Haynes would have absolutely no chance of getting a job at Hambley mine if Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe had had any idea of his real identity.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Charles said. “After all, Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe seems to have enough troubles without having any labor agitation added to it.” He took another sip of his martini and leaned back in his chair with a creak. Edwina wondered if the martinis were having the same sort of effect upon Charles that the gin fizzes had had on her earlier. It wasn’t like Charles to be so expansive with his knowledge. He was one of the most tightlipped and cautious men she had ever met. And that was saying something as her own father had been cut from a similar cloth.
“What sort of difficulties has Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe been having?” Edwina said.
“What I’ve heard is that the mine and the colliery both have been experiencing a large number of stoppages due to sabotage,” Charles said.
“Sabotage?” Beryl said. “We’ve been to the colliery several times lately and have heard nothing like that.”
“It’s not the sort of thing that Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe is eager to have get out. I expect that he would have dismissed any employee found to be the one carrying tales about what he considered to be damaging private business,” Charles said.
“How did you find out about it then?” Archie asked.
“One of my other clients happened to bring it up at a meeting. As it didn’t pertain to him, and as Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe has not seen fit to engage my services, it’s not a matter of client confidentiality, and I felt I could mention it to you to assist with your case,” Charles said. He looked at Archie over the rim of his glass. Edwina felt a frisson of tension crackle across the table. She was not sure exactly the source of it but would not be surprised to find it was Beryl herself. She did have a habit of acting as a lightning rod.
“What specifically did your nameless client say?” Beryl asked. “We would be very grateful for any help that you could give us. After all, your instincts were so good about Martin Haynes that I’m eager to hear what you have to say about this.”
“My client said he felt it was a miracle that the Hambley mine had managed to stay open as long as it has done. Between the difficulty in the actual structure of the shafts and the financial repercussions of all the stoppages, they have not yet turned a profit. My client is related to someone who is heavily invested and is frankly worried about his relation’s money.”
“That sounds serious,” Edwina said.
“Indeed it is. As a matter of fac
t, it’s my understanding that this is not the first time Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe has owned a business that found itself in dire circumstances. In fact, it is rumored that he is being investigated on account of his potentially unscrupulous practices,” Charles said. “Although I don’t know the specifics on that. It could just be stuff and nonsense or even wishful thinking on the part of my client.” Beryl turned to Archie.
“That’s just the sort of thing that would make a great newspaper article to sell to a London paper, isn’t it?” Beryl asked Archie. He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table.
“I could do some digging around. I don’t suppose you would be willing to lend me your fine motorcar to run up to London with in the morning?” Archie asked.
“I expect I could do that as long as you report back anything you find about Mr. Ecclestone-Smythe or the problems at the Hambley mine as soon as you find out anything,” Beryl said.
“It’s a deal. If you all will excuse me I’m going to head for my room and finish up the article on Constable Gibbs. I can drop that off tomorrow in London while I am there,” Archie said. “Unless there’s some reason you’d like me to stay?” Archie said, looking pointedly at Beryl. Edwina felt decidedly uncomfortable. Not only had she witnessed a scene she would not prefer to know about between the reporter and her friend, she was not altogether pleased with how such a question seemed to have affected Charles. His cheeks suffused with color and he seemed unable to stop blinking.
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your work,” Beryl said. “In fact, in order to make sure that you can get it all accomplished, why don’t you take the automobile this evening back to your room? You’ll get there faster tonight and be able to make an even earlier start in the morning,” Beryl said.
Chapter 32
Beryl caught up with Prudence Rathbone just where she was certain she would find her, in her shop. Prudence was scowling at a small sticky-looking boy who held out a half pence with an eager look upon his face. Prudence might have been in the sweets business but that did not mean she got on well with children. It was clear to Beryl that Prudence had never cared for children. From the way she scowled at the small boy who left his sticky finger mark on her glass case, it was simply not a match. It was most unfortunate that her parents had left a sweetshop to her instead of something more suitable like a vinegar dispensary or a medical supply store.
Beryl waited until the child had exited the shop before turning her attention to Prudence. She had busied herself keeping her hands behind her back, as not to leave any finger marks of her own, while the boy had finished up his shopping. Now that Prudence was the only one there she wished to extract as much information from her as possible in the least amount of time. Prudence Rathbone made her skin crawl.
“Back again so soon?” Prudence said. “My, my, my, you certainly do go through a lot of correspondence. Letters to your fans? Former husbands? Something about your current investigation?” Prudence asked.
“Actually, I’m here for a box of chocolates. I think there’s nothing like a box of chocolates to look forward to enjoying in the evening. Wouldn’t you agree?” Beryl asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t often indulge. I wouldn’t have been able to keep my svelte figure all these years if I made too much of a practice of eating sweets,” Prudence said, looking pointedly at Beryl’s robust figure. If Prudence had meant to aim a barb at Beryl it would not have worked. Beryl prided herself in her statuesque appearance and knew the value of laying down a reserve of fat for those times when one found oneself out in the bush with nothing whatsoever to eat. Not a tin of beans, not a box of biscuits. Beryl found from hard-won experience that she could in fact live for some weeks on what she had prudently stored upon her person ahead of time. It served her in good stead and she had never had any trouble attracting admiring glances despite a bit of well-placed excess.
Beryl leaned over the case and pointed, deciding she would in fact leave a finger mark on the glass. She was not in any way insulted but she was certain there were other women who would be and she told herself she was acting on their behalf. “Then I shall just have to have enough for the both of us,” she said. “I think I’ll take three pounds please.”
“Business must be very good then,” Prudence said. “Chocolates are very dear now, you know.”
“They certainly are and business assuredly has been brisk. We have investigations rolling in every minute of the day. It’s no wonder I need to feed myself with chocolates in the evening,” Beryl said. “It’s a miracle I have time to tear myself away in order to do a bit of shopping.”
“I know just what you mean. A competent woman’s work is never done. So many people find things to fill her time, do they not?”
“Indeed they do. Actually, I had recently heard that you have a very important job that you’ve been doing as a volunteer here in the community,” Beryl said.
“Which job is that?” Prudence asked. Her voice was tinged with a bit of restraint and wariness had crept in.
“I heard from Mr. Dennis Morley, over at the Hambley village, that you’ve been entrusted as the keeper of the keys for the long-distance pigeon racing club. What an honor that must be,” Beryl said.
Beryl noticed Prudence’s shoulders slowly slip back down from around her ears. The woman positively glowed with pride.
“Well, I shouldn’t like to put on airs about it but it is a position of some trust,” Prudence said.
“Have you been doing it for long?” Beryl asked.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been doing it for several years,” Prudence said, lifting a white box from beneath the counter and lining it with tissue paper.
“Tell me, exactly how does it work? I feel a bit uncertain as to how the results of the race are tallied,” Beryl said. Prudence lifted chocolates into the box as Beryl pointed at each sort she desired.
“It’s really very simple. Each of the racers has a wooden clock box in their loft.” Prudence paused from her box filling to turn all of her attention on Beryl.
“I noticed a strange wooden box with a clock on its face at Mr. Cunningham’s pigeon loft. I wondered what it was for,” Beryl lied. She could not remember seeing any such thing in the pigeon loft but Prudence needn’t hear she had missed what could prove to be a vital piece of information.
“Did you see it the day that you found his body?” Prudence asked. She practically goggled with her desire for the lurid details. Beryl could see her longing etched on her face. It might be best to toss her a tiny little bone.
“Yes, that was it exactly. I found the clock just before I noticed an unpleasant smell coming up from below the loft,” Beryl said. Prudence’s mouth flapped open and then snapped shut once more. Beryl could see the wheels turning in Prudence’s mind as she considered how she would spread that bit of knowledge around the village. “So what does the clock do exactly?”
“It serves as an official timer. When the pigeon flies into the loft the racer removes the band from its pigeon’s leg and slips it into the hole at the top of the box. The cylinder of the band stops the clock at exactly the moment they placed the band into the box,” Prudence said.
“How does that make you the keeper of the keys?” Beryl asked.
“The box is locked so that the owner does not have access to the interior and cannot tamper with the time the clock was stopped. As the person with the keys I am the only one who can open it, retrieve the bands, and reset the clocks after the results from the race are registered and verified,” Prudence said.
“Do you go to them or do they come to you?” Beryl asked.
“They all bring their clocks to the village hall. I have no intention of traipsing about to every one of the lofts and I certainly don’t want them bringing their pigeon boxes into a place that sells food,” Prudence said. “I bring my ledger to record the official results along with all the keys to the village hall and mark down everyone’s time.”
“So it really is a job that is
prestigious,” Beryl said.
“I shouldn’t like to put on airs, but I will admit you are not the first to say such a thing,” Prudence said. “I am responsible for calling in the official results to the racing board as well. They tally them from all the different districts and determine the overall winner.” Prudence resumed filling the chocolate box. Beryl took that to mean she felt she had divulged as much information about her importance as she had to share.
“Is it at all possible that someone could tamper with the clocks and cheat?” Beryl asked. Prudence paused, her hand holding a chocolate hovering above the box. Without thinking she popped the chocolate into her mouth and began to chew, gazing at the ceiling in a thoughtful way. So much for not indulging in sweets, Beryl thought to herself. Beryl watched as Prudence swallowed hard.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Prudence finally said. “Unless someone had a second set of keys to their own box. That would be able to do it I suppose. What makes you ask such a thing?” Prudence leaned across the counter. Her gossip detection was in full force. Beryl wasn’t sure if Gareth Scott deserved what was about to happen to him, but solving the case was more important than maintaining his reputation. Besides, she told herself, other people were already speculating as to his extraordinary winning streak. Prudence was unlikely to do much more harm than had already been done. In fact, given her propensity for spreading malicious gossip, it might do him some good. People might be inclined to disbelieve the rumors if Prudence was the one who was spreading them.
“In the course of our investigation it has come up that Gareth Scott almost always wins the races. I wondered if there might be another explanation for that extraordinary set of circumstances outside of his claims that he feeds his birds a superior diet of fruits and vegetables,” Beryl said.
“I shouldn’t think Mr. Scott would be the sort of man who would cheat,” Prudence said. “Although I would say I’ve noticed from time to time that the vegetables he sold me seem to be a few ounces lighter than the price he has charged me. Sometimes I wonder if a pound is not quite a pound at Mr. Scott’s establishment.” Prudence drummed her long bony fingers on the glass counter, leaving a few finger marks of her own.
Murder Flies the Coop Page 21