by Emily Organ
“Oh no. Rumbold wouldn’t shoot no one.”
“Who do you think might have done it?”
“Dunno. It weren’t ’im, though.”
Barry Woolwell suddenly righted himself, fixed his eyes on Churchill and broke out into incomprehensible song.
“Good afternoon, Mr Woolwell. Are you with us again?” she said.
The old man continued to sing, his cap slightly askew on his head.
“What’s that ditty he’s singing?” Churchill asked.
“The Old Roast Beef of England,” replied Mr Downs.
“I don’t recognise his version.”
“It’s the official song of the Compton Poppleford ’Orticultural Society.”
“Not the Old Roast Leaf of England, then?” suggested Churchill with a chortle.
“What’s that?”
“It was a little joke. I thought you might prefer a more plant-themed song for the horticultural society.”
Mr Downs gave Churchill a blank look. “I’ve got ter get ’im ’ome,” he said.
“Yes, I think you should. Where is Mr Woolwell’s home, exactly? We could call on him there tomorrow.”
“’E’s in one o’ the Grubmill cottages. Can’t remember the name of it off’and.”
“I’m sure we’ll find it, Mr Sniffer. Thank you for your time. Oh look! Here comes our car, Pemberley.”
Churchill was relieved to see the red and cream Daimler making its way along the cobbles toward them. She held out a hand and the expressionless chauffeur slowed the car to a standstill.
“This is the way to travel, isn’t it, Pemberley?” said Churchill as they cruised through the outskirts of Compton Poppleford. She waved majestically to a small boy carrying a duck under his arm.
“It’s quite comfortable,” replied Pemberley, “though I prefer a Rolls Royce to a Daimler.”
“When did you travel in a Rolls Royce?”
“When I was companion to a lady of international travel.”
“Oh yes, I recall you mentioning her now. Your life experience isn’t as limited as it might initially appear to the casual onlooker.”
They drove past a long estate wall before stopping in front of some ornate stone gateposts. The chauffeur got out to open them before proceeding down the long drive.
“Oh look, the colonel has a deer park,” said Churchill, admiring the view from the window. “I’ve always fancied having a deer park. I occasionally pretended that Richmond Park was my own personal patch. In fact, I convinced myself of it to such an extent that I became quite annoyed whenever I saw an oik on a horse cantering through it.”
The large sandstone manor house drew nearer, glowing gold in the afternoon sunshine.
“And the colonel doesn’t have a mere porch, does he, Pembers? Look, it’s a colonnade. That’s another something I’ve always rather fancied.”
The car pulled up on the sweeping gravel driveway and two footmen stepped out of the house to open the doors on either side of the car.
“There’s something rather agreeable about making the acquaintance of someone with class, isn’t there, Pembers?” said Churchill as they followed the footmen into the house. “I find it restores one’s faith in human nature. I was beginning to doubt I’d come across anyone in Dorset with good breeding. There are so many rustics here, aren’t there? You know, the Flatboots and the like; the sort who have to remind themselves to breathe.”
“Ladies!” The colonel’s voice echoed around the vast hallway, resplendent with its grand staircase and full-length portraits of men in military uniform. The colonel wore a brown plaid suit and a purple silk cravat. “Welcome to Ashleigh Grange,” he continued. “Tiffin on the verandah? This way!”
“How could we refuse, Colonel?” replied Churchill with a jingling laugh. It was then that she caught sight of Pemberley’s cardigan. “Oh, good grief, Pemberley,” she whispered. “Can’t you take that rag off and hide it somewhere? It’s not good enough to wipe the floor with, let alone to take tiffin on the verandah with the colonel.”
“If I’d known we were coming here I’d have dressed for the occasion!” hissed Pemberley in reply. “Do you think your stout walking shoes are suitable?”
Churchill glanced down at her footwear and gasped. “Goodness, you’re right, Pembers! You’d only wear shoes like these to a place like this is if you were going out for a shoot. I should keep an emergency pair of dainty slippers in my handbag.”
“I would say that the dreariness of my cardigan is nullified by your shoes.”
“And vice versa.”
“Quite.”
The footmen opened a set of double doors, and the colonel stepped aside to allow the two women to walk out onto the verandah in front of him. A row of neat columns supported the roof above them and a lawn, bright green in the sunshine, sloped gently down to formal flower borders edged with topiary. Stone statues and urns were dotted about, and beyond the garden was the deer park and a spectacular view of Compton Poppleford with its church spire rising proudly from the huddle of houses.
A table had been laid on the verandah with a fresh white tablecloth, two teapots and an assortment of dainty sandwiches and cakes. Churchill felt embarrassed to find herself salivating like a dog.
“Oh, Colonel, you shouldn’t have,” she said.
“I didn’t. It was my staff.”
“You have wonderful staff, Colonel.”
“No need to stand on ceremony. Take a seat and tuck in!”
Churchill and Pemberley did as they were told, and a maid poured out the tea. The Colonel tucked his serviette into his collar and sipped from his cup.
Silence ensued for a short while as the two ladies ate, until Churchill noticed that the Colonel’s plate remained empty. “Won’t you have a sandwich, Colonel Slingsby?” she asked.
“Digestion’s a little out of sorts today,” he replied. “The shock of this murder business has rather got to one.”
Churchill had momentarily forgotten why they were here. She glanced down guiltily at the sandwich and cake crumbs on her plate and wondered if it had been disrespectful to enjoy her food so heartily at such a tragic time.
“Of course.” She placed her serviette on her lap and tried to resist eating anything more. “You must be rather shaken by the terrible news concerning Mr Williams.”
“It’s always a sad day when we find ourselves a man down,” he replied sombrely.
Churchill noticed that Pemberley was busily working her way through the iced fancies she had been planning to tackle next.
“Any idea who—?”
“You’re about to ask me who did it, aren’t you? Truth is I have no idea, Mrs Churchill. None at all.”
“Some people have suggested Mr Rumbold as a possible suspect.”
“Some people are ignorant fools.”
“Then you don’t think he did it?”
“You’ve met the man, Mrs Churchill. Wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it stuck its proboscis into his mother’s eye.”
“That’s a rather unpleasant-sounding fly,” commented Pemberley. “They have flies like that in the Punjab, do they?”
“They certainly do. Awful buzzy things the size of teacups.”
Churchill shuddered.
“Snakes as long as ten men lying end to end,” continued the colonel. “Cockroaches the size of cats and tigers that creep into your bedroom in the dark of night to chew off your leg and eat your face.”
Churchill shuddered again. “I shan’t be hurrying over to the Punjab any time soon.”
“Dreadful diseases that make a man’s flesh fall off,” added the colonel. “And a race of pygmies that would boil your brain and eat it while you’re still alive.”
Churchill let out a shriek and upset her tea over her bosom.
“Always gets the ladies going, that one!” he cackled.
“Oh Colonel!” said Churchill, wiping her blouse with her serviette. “Was that last one a joke?”
“It was. No such thing
as the brain-eating pygmies. I haven’t come across them, anyway. Might exist for all I know.”
Churchill managed to snatch the last iced fancy before Pemberley got to it.
“Colonel, may I ask you a question about the death of Mr Williams, tragic though it is?”
“Fire away, my good woman.”
“I happened to hear that you’re missing a gun.”
“Oh yes, that’s rather a puzzle.”
“The gun went missing yesterday, did it?”
“Certainly did. Have you finished eating? I’ll show you the gunroom.”
Churchill crammed the iced fancy into her mouth as they got up from their chairs. Colonel Slingsby led them back into the house, along a plush carpeted corridor and into one of the many rooms in the eastern wing of the house.
Chapter 13
“Here we are,” said the colonel. “The old family arsenal.”
The gunroom was lined with cases containing a range of well-polished firearms.
“You have an extremely large arsenal, Colonel,” said Churchill. “I’m surprised you even realised one was missing.”
“Easy to spot, all right. There’s an empty space just over there.” He pointed to one of the cabinets, which contained a number of pistols and revolvers. The empty set of hooks jumped out at them.
“It is pretty sizeable in here,” he continued. “Good range of shotguns and some antique firearms knocking about. Here’s a musket one of my old ancestor Slingsbys used to shoot the Duke of Middleford during the English Civil War. Knocked his block clean off! Story goes that the duke took another ten steps before he even realised what had happened.”
“Without a head?” asked Churchill, looking at him askance.
“No bean to speak of at all. The old Slingsbys have always had a knack for a good shot. Got a few trophies in here as well.” He pointed at several stag heads mounted on the walls. “There’s a whole host more in the trophy room, including tigers from the Punjab. My brother and I enjoyed some good shooting back in the day. Reckon we once emptied Poppleford Wood of every living creature!” He gave a cackle.
“How terribly sad,” said Pemberley.
“They all breed again like the clappers,” he replied with a dismissive wave.
“But how can they breed again if there are none left?” asked Pemberley.
“Let’s not get into that now, Pembers,” whispered Churchill from the corner of her mouth.
“We must have left a few quaking behind the tree trunks,” said the colonel.
“Tell us about the gun that has gone missing, Colonel,” said Churchill in a bid to distract him.
“Oh yes, that. My Webley Mark IV. A solid workhorse of a revolver, it was. Will be much missed.”
“Don’t you think you’ll ever find it again?”
“Sadly, no. Someone’s snaffled it, haven’t they? Sold it down at Dorchester market for a tidy sum by now I’ll bet.”
“The thief didn’t murder Mr Williams with it, then?” asked Pemberley.
“Goodness no, woman! Why on earth would someone do that?”
“It’s rather a coincidence, don’t you think, Colonel?” asked Churchill. “Your revolver goes missing and later that night Mr Williams is shot dead.”
“Good grief!” The colonel’s mouth hung open. “You think the murderer stole my weapon?”
“It’s a possibility, don’t you think?”
“But that means the murderer has been in my home! Haven’t seen any murdering sorts around here! Unless the chap broke in without my knowledge, of course, and made a clean getaway.”
“When did you notice that your gun was missing, Colonel?”
“About eight o’clock yesterday evening. Was in here having a puff on the old pipe and surveying the arsenal, as you do.”
“Indeed.”
“That’s when I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“I mean, I didn’t see it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It wasn’t there!”
“So you didn’t see it?”
“No! It was gone!”
“Eight o’clock yesterday evening was when you noticed that your Webley Mark IV revolver was missing, Colonel?” clarified Churchill.
“Got it in one, woman. Got it in one.”
“And the revolver had been present yesterday morning?”
“Oh, yes. I got it out and gave it a little buff shortly before breakfast. Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all, Colonel. Did you have any visitors here yesterday?”
“Let’s see now.” Colonel Slingsby lit his pipe, rested one hand on the mantelpiece and puffed a plume of smoke into the air.
“Harding popped round about half past eight when I was just finishing breakfast.”
“Mr Harding from the cookshop, you mean?”
“The very same. Then Woolwell showed his face for a little while. And later on Downs dropped by.”
“Barry Woolwell and Colin Downs, whom I believe they call Sniffer?”
“Yes, those two. Then I took a constitutional to the allotments and back; a four-mile round trip from here.”
“And that’s when Miss Pemberley and I met you, Colonel.”
“I do believe it was. Shortly after I returned home Williams pitched up.”
“The murder victim?”
“That’s the one. Last time I saw the man. Had a spot of lunch together. Not long after that Harris popped his head around the door.”
“Colonel, may I ask why you had so many visitors from the gardening fraternity?”
“Quite simple, Mrs Churchill. They were currying favour.”
“For what?”
“The Compton Poppleford Horticultural Society’s Annual Show. They all wanted me to pick out their produce for the prizes. Attempts are made to bribe me with all sorts: potatoes, scrumpy, liquor and even straightforward spondulix.”
“Straightforward what now?”
“Stuff, Mrs Churchill. Funds, you might call it. Chips, chinkers, root-of-all-evil, tin, slugs or even the filthy.”
“I’m afraid you’ve completely lost me, Colonel.”
“He means cash,” said Pemberley.
“Thank you for the translation, Pembers. Why ever didn’t you say that to begin with, Colonel?”
He shrugged and took another puff on his pipe. “Oh, and Rumbold visited me about six,” he added.
“Any other visitors?”
“Those are the only ones I’m aware of. And while I was busy entertaining them some muttonhead must have broken into my gunroom and stole my Webley.”
“I suppose what needs to be ascertained now is whether your Webley was used in the murder of Mr Williams. I do believe there’s a method of matching a gun to a crime by analysing the unique markings a firearm leaves on the bullet casings.”
“You’re on the ball, woman. That would indeed ascertain it.”
“Have you kept any spent casings from your Webley revolver, Colonel?”
“Can’t say I’m in the habit of keeping them. Might be a few knocking about in the garden.”
“What would they be doing out there?”
“Left over from target practice on Bertrand. Valet usually picks them up, but let’s have a look out there, shall we?”
“Who’s Bertrand?” asked Churchill as she and Pemberley followed Colonel Slingsby out of the gunroom, along a corridor and into a drawing room with doors that opened out into the garden.
“Bertrand’s pig ugly. Can’t stand the sight of him,” replied the colonel, unlocking the drawing room doors.
“Poor man!” said Pemberley. “Or boy!”
“He’s a boy, all right,” replied the colonel as he stepped out onto the terrace and then strode across the lawn.
“Colonel, do you mean to tell us that you use an ugly boy for shooting practice?” asked Churchill, striding alongside him.
“Afraid so. I keep him out here.”
Churchill shook her head, while Pemberley’s expression
was one of abject horror.
“I don’t think I want to see him,” Pemberley said, her step slowing.
“Come on, Pembers, we’ll help each other out,” whispered Churchill. “I don’t think I can cope with seeing the poor lad either, but hopefully this will give us a chance to rescue him and have him put in a home.”
As they followed the colonel around a yew hedge the sound of trickling water grew louder.
“You keep him by a pond, do you Colonel?” asked Churchill.
“He looks after it for me.”
“And you repay him by shooting at him?”
“Exactly.”
They rounded the hedge to find a circular pond with a fountain at the centre of it. At the far side of the pond stood a pock-marked stone cherub missing both arms and part of one leg.
“There he is,” said the colonel.
Churchill felt an enormous sense of relief. “So that’s Bertrand,” she said. “I was terrified he might be a real boy.”
“Goodness no, woman. Do I look like someone who’d take a potshot at a real boy? I’d fire a warning shot past his ear if I caught him stealing apples from my orchard, mind.”
“Poor Bertrand!” Pemberley cried out, walking around the pond toward the cherub. “He’s not that ugly!”
“Have a look around on the ground over there for spent casings,” the colonel hollered. “I only use my Webley on him. Prefer to use the shotguns for live quarry.”
Churchill joined Pemberley, and together they began examining the grass around the stone cherub.
“What a relief that someone’s stolen the colonel’s revolver,” said Pemberley. “He won’t be able to shoot at poor Bertrand any more.”
“He’s only a lump of stone, Pembers.”
“I know he is, but don’t you find that when an inanimate object has been fashioned into the image of a person or animal you develop feelings for it?”
“Can’t say that I do, Pemberley. I think you ought to get yourself a pet or a husband.” Churchill surveyed the ground around her and sighed. “It looks as though the colonel’s valet is rather efficient at scooping up the bullet casings. I can’t see any at all.”
“Look, there’s a hole in the lawn here,” said Pemberley.
“Very good. A little home for a worm, perhaps?”