“He would be. No farmer likes to have uninvited guests trampling his fields even if he’s got nothing planted,” Edwina said. “We’d best get going before Clarence Mumford changes his mind about giving us a lift. I confess, I just want to get home,” Edwina said.
Chapter 14
Clarence Mumford held the door of his motorcar for the two of them. Crumpet scrambled up into Edwina’s lap and pressed his warm body against her own. She wrapped her arms around him to hold him in place as well as for the comfort his solid frame provided.
“There’s a lap blanket in the boot if you’ve caught a chill,” Mr. Mumford said. Their faces must have told him all he needed to hear because without waiting for an answer he opened the boot and pulled out a woolen blanket. He flicked it open with a snap and reached in to spread it over them, taking special care to tuck it in round Beryl. Edwina never could understand how Minnie Mumford had married such a thoroughly nice man. Perhaps it was her baking. Say what you liked about Minnie’s snooping and her unbridled pleasure in gossiping with Prudence Rathbone, she did have a light hand with the pastry.
“It was definitely Polly Watkins you found?” Mr. Mumford asked as he climbed into the front seat and closed the door. “That’s what they were saying at the pub when the call came in.”
“I’m afraid it was,” Edwina said.
“How did it happen? Do you know?” he asked. Edwina and Beryl exchanged a glance.
“Constable Gibbs is not sure as yet. I don’t think she wants to say much until she knows for certain and has spoken to Polly’s parents.”
“Of course. What a terrible thing this is. A terrible thing. Such a lovely young lady,” Mr. Mumford said.
“I didn’t realize you knew her particularly well,” Edwina said as the motorcar lurched forward and they jounced onto the hard packed surface of the road.
“She was the most regular customer the Palais had,” he said. “Sometimes she used to get to chatting to me at the ticket counter if I happened to be the one attending it.”
“Mr. Mumford owns the local cinema,” Edwina said. “Polly was a very great devotee of the cinema then?”
“She was there several times each week. She certainly saw every new picture we brought in. Lately she’s been there even more than usual.”
“We both saw her just outside the cinema last night,” Beryl said, turning to Edwina with a significant look. “You remember, Ed. It must have been the evening show since it started just after we’d finished our tea at the Silver Spoon Tearoom.” Edwina felt a stirring of intrigue. Did that mean Beryl thought, as she did, that there was more to Polly’s death than could be accounted for by an accident with an ill-placed rock?
“That’s right, we did. She was all dressed for an evening out but she wasn’t with anyone as far as I could see.”
“Nor I. She was all alone. I’m quite certain of it,” Beryl said. “You didn’t happen to see her meeting anyone inside the cinema, did you, Mr. Mumford?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t working last night. I have been participating in an amateur cinematographer’s troupe as a natural outgrowth of my cinema interests. We met last night for our weekly meeting. Then I went round the pub once I was done,” Mr. Mumford said. “You could ask the ticket seller, Eva Scott, if Polly was alone. Or the projectionist. Walter has a good view of the seats from his vantage point. He surely could have said who comes and goes. Not that he’ll want to talk to you though.”
“Why not?” Beryl asked.
“He was terribly disfigured in the war,” Mr. Mumford said. “He took the job because it is one he can undertake without having to see anyone. Or more to the point, not to let anyone see him. I almost never even see him myself.”
Edwina thought of the staggering number of such young men since the outbreak of war. Tin masks with cleverly painted facial features were better than the horrors disguised beneath them, but many, if not most, men found it difficult to interact with others while wearing them. A tin mask could not change expression and most people found it difficult to converse with those wearing them. She could well understand why a young man with such an injury would choose an occupation that would shield himself and those around him from the inevitable awkwardness that would arise.
They travelled the rest of the way in silence, only the occasional crunch of something beneath the tires making any noise. Crumpet got to his feet and pressed his nose against the window as Mr. Mumford pulled up in front of the Beeches, right next to the door. The light over the front step shone brightly and Edwina was glad of that small sense of security it afforded. Beryl hurriedly pulled the blanket from their laps and nearly knocked poor Crumpet over.
“Such a shame,” Mr. Mumford said again as he held open the door and took the blanket from Beryl’s outstretched hands. “Do let me know if there is anything either I or my wife can do for you ladies.” He lifted his hat and waited until they had let themselves into the house before reversing the motorcar.
* * *
The fire had burnt down to cinders but with a bit of prodding on Beryl’s part a good flame licked the inside of the fireplace in just moments.
“Just something I picked up during my travels,” Beryl said, standing back to survey her handiwork. “I don’t suppose either of us has much of an appetite after what we saw, despite all the traipsing round?”
“I promised Crumpet that bone from the leftover roast. And I could do with a cup of cocoa,” Edwina said. “Shall I fix one for you, too?”
“Only if by cocoa you mean a double Scotch, neat.” Beryl said.
“I am not even sure exactly what you mean by neat. I assume it is some sort of Americanism. You know where to find the drinks cupboard.” Edwina returned a few moments later with a steaming mug in her hands. Beryl had taken the opportunity to change into a marabou-trimmed dressing gown and velvet turban. Her feet, propped on the ottoman in front of the fire and clad in a pair of thick socks did little to finish off the ensemble in style. Beryl swirled the glass in her hand and took a long sip before acknowledging Edwina’s return.
“You’ve got that look on your face, Ed, that you used to at school every time you were wrestling with whether or not to confess your sins to the headmistress. What’s wrong?”
“Besides stumbling upon a dead girl?”
“That goes without saying.” Beryl raised one wool-covered foot and pointed it nimbly at Edwina. “It’s no sense denying it. You’ll tell me in the end and we are both too tired to dance round it.”
“I can’t help but think that if we hadn’t put out the story that we were investigating something amiss in Walmsley Parva Polly would not be dead.”
“You can’t go blaming yourself for what happened to Polly.”
“Why not? Aren’t we in agreement that it is far less likely that Polly died as a result of an accident than that she met with someone who wished to do her harm?”
“Certainly we are. Constable Gibbs’ assertion that she hit her head on that rock is utterly absurd,” Beryl said. “But that doesn’t mean her death has anything to do with you or me.”
“But how else would you explain it? You arrived. We started a rumor. Someone tried to strangle me and then no sooner did you hire Polly to work here than she’s killed.”
“Those things are all true and some of them may even be connected but there is nothing to say one led to the next and then to the next. And even if it did, you aren’t at fault for what happened to Polly.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?” Edwina asked.
“It’s just your nature. I actually think you have an overinflated sense of your own importance. There could be dozens of unrelated reasons that someone wanted her dead. Dozens of suspects could be lurking about your beloved village as we speak.”
“Like who?” Edwina shifted in her seat in the wingback chair.
“Norman Davies springs quickly to mind,” Beryl said. “After all, he was her jilted sweetheart who just happens to live a stone’s throw from where her body was
found.”
“A very poor choice of words, Beryl.” Edwina blew with a bit more vigor than necessary on her cocoa, slopping a bit of it over the side and down onto her lap.
“But telling, wouldn’t you agree? Simpkins says young Norman was determined to win Polly back. Do you think it was him calling to her last night from the shadows outside the theatre?”
“I suppose it could have been,” Edwina said. “Do you really think it might have nothing to do with us asking around about Agnes?”
“I won’t insult you by saying there is no chance we’ve opened a can of worms but I will say there are a couple of other possibilities that spring to mind.”
“Besides Norman?”
“Certainly.” Beryl held up her hand and began to count off on her fingers. “There’s anyone who had something to hide at the Wallingford Estate, there’s anyone whom she cleaned house for as she’d have access to secrets hidden in their homes, and let’s not forget Sidney Poole who was righteously angered on behalf of his nephew Norman. Lastly, I have a bad feeling about that oily Mr. Mumford.” Beryl bushed her fingertips against her dressing gown as if to wipe off something distasteful.
“Mr. Mumford is a very pleasant man.” Edwina was shocked. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.”
“I found nothing the least bit pleasant about his octopus impression he rendered while adjusting that lap blanket of his.”
“Octopus impression? What are you going on about?”
“His hands were absolutely everywhere at once. I have never been so thoroughly and unsolicitedly tucked in in all my life.” Beryl took a long swallow of her drink. “And that, my friend, is saying something.”
“Are you implying he took liberties with your person?”
“I’m implying nothing. I am flat-out saying that he used his pleasant demeanor to put his mitts where he shouldn’t have. In my experience men who do that so boldly to one woman are doing it to a great many of them.”
“I’ve known Mr. Mumford for years and have never been the recipient of such unwanted attentions,” Edwina said. She was shaken to the core. First a dead girl and now a hero shown to have feet of clay. What was the world coming to?
“I expect he thinks too much of your good opinion to disrespect you in such a way, Ed. Consider yourself lucky to be armed with such shining character.”
Edwina was not entirely sure she had been complimented. Beryl meant it as such but there were times, especially since so much had changed during the war years, that she felt a restless urge to throw off convention and have a few adventures of her own. Perhaps that was why she had been so easily convinced that Beryl had not done such a very bad thing in lying about their involvement with a fictitious intelligence agency. The more she thought about it the more convinced she became that she had been led off the straight and narrow by the call of adventure. She was surprised and even a bit proud of herself as the thought took hold. She was lost in such surprising thoughts when Beryl spoke once more.
“Why do you think Constable Gibbs was so disinclined to believe Polly’s death was anything other than an accident?”
“Doris Gibbs was one of the people who didn’t much approve of the girls from the Land Army. It was one of the reasons she didn’t put forth any real effort into the search for Agnes Rollins.”
“Why didn’t she approve of them? I would have expected as a rare female police officer herself, she would have been more supportive of other women in non-traditional jobs than most people.”
“I would have thought so too but that wasn’t what ended up happening. Doris felt that women had to be even more pristine in their character than men to earn the respect of their positions and she was not about to let immoral behavior from other women in uniform drag down her reputation or her chances of keeping her post when the war ended.”
“What sorts of immoral behavior was she concerned with?”
“Girls with khaki fever. She had an especial horror of girls known to put themselves in compromising positions with the soldiers.” Edwina felt herself blush even from mentioning such a topic. “She kept a list of girls in the town she thought were already of soiled character or those in danger of losing their reputations. She warned them off the streets and marched them back to their homes.”
“Was Agnes on her watch list?” Beryl asked. “Is that why she never investigated her disappearance thoroughly?”
“I suppose that could be the reason.”
“Do you think she may make no more effort on Polly’s behalf for the same reasons?” Beryl asked.
“I think it is quite possible. After all, she didn’t think much more of Polly than she did Agnes. She certainly wouldn’t have if she discovered Polly threw over a well-liked young man like Norman Davies. And started spending so much time at the cinema.”
“Your constable doesn’t approve of cinema attendance either?”
“She has mentioned her belief that excess time spent there leads to every sort of vice.”
“So there isn’t much chance she is going to give this a thorough look, is there?”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Did you notice Polly’s shoes?” Beryl asked, looking at her own feet. Really, the woman was quite obsessed with footwear.
“They matched her dress, wouldn’t you say?”
“They did,” Beryl said, draining her glass and thumping it down on the table beside her.
“Polly didn’t seem to me to be the sort of girl who would put her finery in jeopardy by tramping through a manured field with it.”
“So?”
“So if Polly had planned to walk home through that field, don’t you think she would have thought to bring a change of footwear to save her party shoes from being ruined?” Beryl asked.
“I suppose she would have done,” Edwina said. “But where were they? I didn’t see any boots or any other shoes lying around for that matter.”
“Exactly. Which means either her change of shoes went missing somehow or she didn’t go through that field by choice.”
“You think someone forced her to go through the field?”
“When we got into Mr. Mumford’s car I was surprised at how close the road was to where Polly’s body was found. Someone could have driven her as far as that and then carried her body to the spot where we found it.”
“Why should anyone want to do that?”
“Maybe to make it look as though Norman Davies were involved. Maybe to make you wonder if her death had something to do with your questions about Agnes and the Wallingford Estate. I think we should mention it to Constable Gibbs.”
“I’m not certain Doris would appreciate our interference,” Edwina said. “She didn’t take kindly to me questioning her about the way she handled the investigation into Agnes’ disappearance. It isn’t likely she’ll be any happier about suggestions when a body is concerned.”
“She didn’t prove to be an enthusiastic investigator in the past. If she declares Polly’s death an accident I think we ought to keep looking into it ourselves.”
“You mean you wish to investigate Polly’s murder?”
“I believe we should look into the whole of it, lock, stock, and barrel. We still don’t have any more of an idea who tried to strangle you than we ever did. Agnes is still unaccounted for and Polly is dead. If Constable Gibbs doesn’t launch into an enquiry of her own I say we dive right into the breach. What do you say?”
As sordid as it was, Edwina felt that faint tingle of anticipation once more. It was wrong. Very wrong indeed of course to find any pleasure whatsoever in a tragedy that befell another. Especially one so young as Polly. Then again, what was life if you found little reason to climb out of bed in the morning? If you felt numb to the song of sparrows and the smell of wood smoke curling from a neighbor’s chimney on a crisp autumn morning? Was it really so awful to wish to feel alive again?
“All right, I agree. But only if we find Constable Gibbs has decided not to investigate.”
/>
“How will we know if she has determined Polly’s death was an accident?” Beryl asked.
“The way everyone finds out anything in Walmsley Parva. We visit Prudence Rathbone’s shop tomorrow afternoon.”
Chapter 15
Prudence Rathbone was in her element. Never in all her born days had she experienced a week filled with such excitement. Not when war had been declared. Not when the armistice had been announced. Not even when beloved King Edward VII had passed on. First Beryl Helliwell appeared without notice in her shop and now there was the news of the death of Polly Watkins.
Prudence felt her position in the community acutely at such times of crisis. Especially when waves of information broke across Walmsley Parva like the wake from a great battleship. It was her duty, she knew, to put her fellow villagers’ minds at ease by providing them with the answers to the questions they hadn’t even known to ask.
As one would expect from a gentlewoman of her good standing, Prudence would never frequent the pub. If it hadn’t been for Minnie’s less than exacting standards where the niceties were concerned, Prudence might have been amongst the last to know what had happened. Minnie’s insistent knocking dragged her from her bed where she had tucked herself up with a steaming cup of Horlicks and a deliciously scandalous novel she had ordered through the mail under a name not her own. As the postmistress she enjoyed the privilege of postal privacy unknown to all others in Walmsley Parva. She knew better than anyone how tongues in the village tended to wag.
Once Minnie had delivered the news and the admonition to be sure to lock her doors and not answer to anyone, Prudence had started in wondering who could have possibly done such a thing. The obvious conclusion was Beryl Helliwell. After all, rumor had it that Edwina Davenport had suffered an attempt on her life only hours after Beryl’s arrival. Prudence had it on good authority that Beryl had been to speak privately with Polly at the solicitor’s house. Add to that the fact that Beryl and Edwina supposedly stumbled upon Polly’s body in a field that they had no reason to be traipsing across. Prudence’s long nose had twitched deliciously as she watched Minnie’s face when she suggested that Beryl Helliwell might be responsible for all the goings-on. For all they knew the agency that Beryl worked for had trained her as an assassin.
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