Murder in Cold Mud

by Emily Organ

  Mappin pointed a thick forefinger at Churchill. “If I see you speaking to any one of those men who visited Colonel Slingsby yesterday there’ll be trouble.”

  Churchill’s heart sank. “Which ones in particular, Inspector?”

  “Woolwell, Sniffer Downs, Stropper Harris and Rumbold.”

  Churchill felt silently relieved that he hadn’t mentioned the name Harding.

  “What about Mr Harding?” chipped in Pemberley.

  “Oh, but he’s entirely innocent!” protested Churchill.

  “Ah yes, Harding and the colonel himself,” said Mappin.

  Churchill felt her teeth clench with anger.

  “And what about the staff?” asked Pemberley.

  “Eh?”

  “Mrs Churchill and I realised that the staff at Ashleigh Grange also have access to the gunroom. The colonel has at least two footmen, a minimum of three maids and a valet—”

  “Yes, yes, woman, I get the picture.”

  “Not to mention visiting tradespersons,” continued Pemberley.

  “Were there any yesterday?” asked Mappin with a furrowed brow.

  “We don’t know yet,” retorted Churchill, “but you’ll have to find out all by yourself, Inspector, seeing as you clearly don’t want our help.”

  “I have the constables from Bulchford to assist me, Mrs Churchill, as well as the chief inspector.”

  Churchill gave a derisory snort. “Loopywelly’s not going to do any of the legwork, is he? He just busies himself with ordering everyone else about.”

  “Leave this matter to the police, Mrs Churchill. That’s my final warning.”

  “Of course. Are you going to leave us in peace now, Inspector?”

  Mappin glanced around the room. “And take that incident board down.”

  Churchill felt her grip tighten around the handle of her handbag.

  “We can put what we like on our office walls, Inspector,” she snarled. “Now get out of here. Shoo!”

  Mappin sneered as he left the room, and Churchill felt her heart pound with rage as he descended the stairs.

  “Well, tomorrow’s going to be a quiet day for us, isn’t it, Mrs Churchill?” said Pemberley sadly.

  “No, it isn’t, Pembers. Not one little bit of it. The original plan remains in force. Go home, have some supper and turn in early—”

  “But we’re banned from speaking to everyone!”

  “Not everyone, Pembers. Old Churchy’s going to come up with another little plan.”

  Chapter 16

  “Murder in Cold Blood,” said Pemberley grimly, as she read the headline from the Compton Poppleford Gazette the following morning.

  “Murder in cold mud, more like,” replied Churchill.

  “Those allotments are always muddy, even at the height of summer. By the way, thank you for the invitation to cocktails this evening, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Ah, excellent. You received it then.”

  “I did, yes, but why did you have that Flatboot boy bring it round? You could have merely given me the invitation yourself.”

  “I was testing him out, Pemberley. He’s a Flatboot, is he?”

  “Yes, Timmy Flatboot.”

  “I knew he was a Timmy. I found him catapulting snails into Farmer Drumhead’s slurry pit yesterday evening. I told him I had a shiny farthing for a boy who was willing to do a spot of work. If you received your invitation that hopefully means everyone else has got theirs too.”

  “Who’s everyone else?”

  “The wives, Pemberley.”

  “Wives?”

  “Yes, the wives of the gardening gang. Mappin has banned us from speaking to the men, but he didn’t mention the women, did he?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about this. What if he finds out?”

  “So what if he finds out? We’ll simply tell him it’s a ladies’ social gathering and he’ll have no further interest in it.”

  “Maybe you could invite some other ladies just so that Inspector Mappin doesn’t find an excuse to accuse us of anything.”

  “That’s a good idea, Pembers. Who else shall we ask?”

  “Mrs Higginbath?”

  “Not her. She still won’t allow me to have a library ticket.”

  “Mrs Thonnings?”

  “Definitely not Mrs Thonnings.”

  “Mrs Bramley?”

  “Good idea. Let’s have her as our dummy guest.”

  “I don’t think she’d like to be called a dummy guest.”

  “No, she wouldn’t, so don’t go telling her, Pemberley. Perhaps as you’ve still got your hat on you could pop down to the tea rooms and invite her.”

  The small, rustic cottage Churchill rented from Farmer Drumhead was a little dreary for entertaining. There were two rickety wooden chairs, two drab armchairs and a sofa with springs that had a habit of poking through the upholstery without warning. In a bid to brighten the place up, Churchill draped a colourful scarf from Liberty’s over the table and placed some candles in a lopsided candelabra she had found in the cupboard under the stairs.

  Churchill then proceeded to brighten herself up by changing into a green satin cocktail dress and applying a generous layer of scarlet lipstick.

  Pemberley arrived ten minutes before everyone else, as instructed.

  “Good evening, Pembers. Is that a new cardigan?”

  “No, it’s an old thing.”

  “Well, it looks newer than your usual fare.”

  “Thank you. What a lovely dress, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Oh, this old thing? It’ll pass for this evening, I suppose. It’s shrunk quite considerably since I wore it to the Richmond-upon-Thames Ladies’ Lawn Tennis Club Benefit Gala Evening. Would you like a cocktail?”

  “Yes please.”

  Churchill went over to the table and began mixing a drink.

  “This is a lovely cottage,” said Pemberley, admiring the room.

  “Nonsense, Pembers. It’s at times like this where I regret leaving my worldly goods in storage at Sunbury,” replied Churchill, pouring a large measure of gin into her cocktail shaker.

  “Why?”

  “Well, look at the place, it’s positively dismal. I should have considered another venue. The wives are going to be singularly unimpressed.”

  “It’s nicer than my home,” said Pemberley.

  “I doubt that! Your chairs are surely more comfortable.” Churchill added a large swig of cherry liquor to the cocktail shaker, followed by a dash of crème de violette.

  “They’re not. They’re so dreadful, in fact, that I spend most of my time in bed when I’m at home.”

  “I see, well perhaps I needn’t worry after all. People in the provinces probably have inferior living standards to those in the Capital.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Our first guest has arrived, Pembers! Go and see who it is.”

  Pemberley went to answer the door and returned a short while later with a tall, large-nosed lady with a noticeable squint.

  “Mrs Rumbold,” announced Pemberley.

  “Mrs Churchill!” said Mrs Rumbold shrilly. “And what a lovely cottage. Thank you so much for inviting me. I don’t often get invited places, so how nice to come out for a change, away from all the talk of gardening and murder.”

  “It’s a delight to meet you, Mrs Rumbold,” said Churchill, silently wondering what she made of her husband’s possible involvement in the murder of Tubby Williams. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “Oh yes, I’d care very much for one. Thank you.”

  Churchill poured a drink from the cocktail shaker, popped a cherry on a cocktail stick into the glass and handed it to Mrs Rumbold.

  “A favourite cocktail of mine called The Aviator,” said Churchill. “My good friend Lady Worthington introduced me to it following a flight she took from Croydon Airport to Paris.”

  “With Imperial Airways?” asked Pemberley.

  “I imagine so.”

  “I flew m
any times with them from Croydon to Paris,” continued Pemberley. “And to Cairo, Athens, Alexandria and occasionally the Emirate of Sharjah.”

  “You were companion to a lady of international travel weren’t you, Miss Pemberley?” asked Mrs Rumbold.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Chin chin, as they say in Italy,” interrupted Churchill, thrusting a glass into Pemberley’s hand. “How’s your husband, Mrs Rumbold?” she asked, her eyes watering from the strength of her drink.

  “He’s rather miserable, if truth be told,” she replied, her squinting eyes also watering. “The death of his friend has shaken him a little.”

  “It’s shaken the entire village,” said Churchill. “Dreadful business, and to think it was only two days ago that we were talking to him about his onions.”

  Mrs Rumbold groaned. “Those dratted onions. I wish he’d never planted them. Anyway, that’s enough about him. I’m looking forward to an evening with no talk of gardening or murder. May I say again how lovely it is of you to invite me here, Mrs Churchill?”

  “You may. Is that someone at the door, Pembers?”

  Pemberley went to answer the door and returned with a squat lady with a squashed nose and a wide chin. Churchill decided that her appearance wasn’t too dissimilar to that of a bulldog.

  “Mrs Downs,” announced Pemberley.

  “Wife of Mr Sniffer?” asked Churchill.

  The squat lady nodded.

  “Drink, Mrs Downs?”

  The squat lady nodded again.

  “I last saw your husband yesterday as he escorted Mr Woolwell out of the Wagon and Carrot,” said Churchill.

  Mrs Downs rolled her eyes and Churchill waited for her to say something further, but nothing was forthcoming.

  “Hello?” said a woman with a headful of blonde curls and protruding teeth.

  Churchill jumped. “Goodness, who are you?”

  “Mrs Harris. I hope you don’t mind me wandering in like this, the door was open.”

  “No, not at all, Mrs Harris. Wife of Mr Stropper? How lovely of you to join us. Drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Isn’t this nice?” said Mrs Rumbold. “Isn’t it lovely of Mrs Churchill to invite us to her delightful little cottage?”

  “Very nice,” said Mrs Harris, spluttering slightly at the strength of her drink.

  “Your husband must have made quite a bit of money charging everyone a shilling to listen to him yesterday,” commented Churchill.

  “Oh yes. I think he made about fifty pounds.”

  “Really?”

  “He even charged me a shilling!” laughed Mrs Harris.

  “Men, eh?” chuckled Churchill.

  “Not all men. Mr Rumbold would never do that,” said Mrs Rumbold.

  “He’s the noble type, is he?” said Churchill.

  “He’s a gentleman.”

  “Who else have you invited, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mrs Harris.

  “I think we’re just waiting for Mrs Woolwell and Mrs Bramley now.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” replied Mrs Harris. “I’m looking forward to having a nice chat with them both. I’m keen to find out how marriage is treating Mrs Woolwell. There’s quite a mismatch between her and her husband. One wonders what they have to talk about. And I haven’t seen Mrs Bramley for a while; she works ever so hard. I think she finds life difficult being widowed. Actually, I don’t think she found life much easier when she was married. Barney Bramley always seemed to be suffering some misfortune or other.”

  “Oh dear. Can you give us an example?”

  “He could never get his carrots to do anything. He was always asking Stropper for advice but nothing seemed to work. And he once tried growing a marrow, but it stopped at courgette size.”

  “Poor Mr Bramley. There goes the door knocker again, Miss Pemberley.”

  Two more guests had arrived: Mrs Bramley and a slightly built, pale-faced woman dressed in black.

  “Good evenin’, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Bramley. “I brought Mrs Williams along. She’d ’eard about the cocktails and said she ’ad an ’ankering for one.”

  “Mrs Williams!” said Churchill, trying her best to combine solemnity and joviality in respectful measure. “Of course you’re welcome to join us. Please do accept my apology for not sending you an invitation; I thought it would be disrespectful under the circumstances. And do please accept my condolences on the sad passing of your husband.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I need a drink.”

  “Of course!”

  Churchill poured out another cocktail and thrust it into Mrs Williams’s hand. She suspected it would be quite difficult to find out who might have murdered Tubby Williams with his widow present.

  Churchill forced a grin onto her face as a young, pretty, dark-haired woman was ushered into the room by Pemberley.

  “I’m Mrs Woolwell!” said the woman, smiling to reveal a neat row of white teeth. She had sparkling violet eyes and wore a yellow cocktail dress made of silk.

  “You’re Barry Woolwell’s wife?” asked Churchill incredulously, trying to marry up the woman who stood in front of her with the old man dressed in shabby tweed stumbling drunkenly out of the pub.

  “That’s right!”

  Rendered uncharacteristically speechless, Churchill handed her a cocktail.

  Chapter 17

  “Lovely evening for it, isn’t it?” said Mrs Woolwell.

  “For what?” asked Mrs Rumbold.

  “For a cocktail in this delightful cottage!”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs Rumbold. “I’ve already told Mrs Churchill how lovely it is to be invited somewhere. I don’t often get invited out any more.”

  “I invited you to my birthday party last week,” said Mrs Harris, her blonde curls trembling indignantly.

  “Oh yes, so you did. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend,” said Mrs Rumbold, her squint becoming more pronounced as she struggled to find a viable excuse. “The cat was sick.”

  “Is that Boffy?” asked Mrs Bramley.

  “No, Boffy died last year,” replied Mrs Rumbold.

  Churchill startled as Mrs Williams emitted a loud sob.

  “But your current cat has recovered from its sickness, has it?” asked Churchill hopefully.

  “Yes, she did, although her tail still doesn’t work,” said Mrs Rumbold. “It won’t go up when it’s supposed to.”

  “Well, you missed a good party,” said Mrs Harris. “Wasn’t it good, Mrs Bramley?”

  “Yeah, it were, and I ’ad no idea Mrs Downs ’ad a voice like that,” said Mrs Bramley.

  Bulldog-faced Mrs Downs smiled and rolled her eyes again.

  “So what’s the occasion, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mrs Woolwell. “Is it your birthday, too?”

  “Oh no, I try not to acknowledge my birthdays too often these days. I like to think that if I ignore them I won’t grow any older.”

  “Oh, how funny, Mrs Churchill!” laughed Mrs Woolwell.

  “Does that actually work?” asked Mrs Harris earnestly.

  “I like to think it does,” replied Churchill. “Anyway let’s raise a toast to the ladies of Compton Poppleford. How lovely to meet you all!”

  Everyone raised their glasses and Churchill noticed that Mrs Williams’s was already empty.

  “But we’re not all the ladies of Compton Poppleford,” said Mrs Rumbold. “Mrs Higginbath and Mrs Thonnings aren’t here, for starters.”

  “Oh yes, and Mrs Thonnings is simply wonderful!” enthused Mrs Woolwell. “What a refined, clever lady she is. And witty too!”

  “My cottage only has room for a select number,” said Churchill, refilling Mrs Williams’s glass.

  “Oh, but you must invite her next time!” said Mrs Woolwell. “She’s the life and soul of every party. She was at Mrs Harris’s birthday party last week, wasn’t she, Mrs Harris? That story she told about the pepper pot and the long johns had everybody in stitches.”

  “Good,” said Churchill curtly. �
��Now, Colonel Slingsby was telling me yesterday that your husbands all visited him at Ashleigh Grange on the same day. I believe they wished to curry favour so their vegetables might have a better chance of winning the top prizes at the horticultural show.”

  “They always do that,” said Mrs Harris coldly.

  “Constantly competing to be the colonel’s favourite,” added Mrs Woolwell with a sigh.

  “It’s got a bit too much,” said Mrs Rumbold. “I’m so fed up with it all that I’ve even considered getting a divorce. Have you seen my husband’s allotment?”

  “He showed us around it,” said Churchill. “It’s certainly well fortified. But someone still managed to sabotage his onions despite that.”

  “And it wasn’t Tubby!” Mrs Williams cried out. “He kept accusing him and wouldn’t let up. It drove poor Tubby half mad.”

  “Only because he couldn’t think of anyone but Tubby,” said Mrs Rumbold. “But he didn’t shoot him, if that’s what everyone thinks. He had nothing to do with that.”

  “Yet he was the only other person up at the allotment with him that evening,” said Mrs Williams.

  “Mr Harris found him,” added Churchill.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Mrs Harris.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” replied Churchill awkwardly. “Other than that, in many cases, the last person to see the deceased alive and the first person to discover them dead are quite often the police’s main suspects.” She shrank back from the glares of Mrs Rumbold and Mrs Harris, quickly explaining herself. “Although that is in many cases and not all cases, of course, and doesn’t mean at all that your respective husbands had anything to do with it. I think the real suspect must be the man who took the gun from the colonel’s gunroom on the day your husbands all visited him.”

  “It wasn’t my husband,” said Mrs Rumbold.

  “Nor mine,” said Mrs Woolwell.

  “Or mine!” added Mrs Harris.

  Mrs Downs shook her head.

  “And I weren’t there neither,” added Mrs Bramley. “I ain’t never set foot in Ashleigh Grange, and me poor Barney ain’t never been there neither, God rest ’is soul.”

  “Why are we talking about gardening and murder again?” Mrs Rumbold cried out. “I came here this evening with the express wish of talking about neither of them!”