by Emily Organ
“Tubby took it,” said Mrs Williams quietly.
“Pardon me?” said Churchill. “Are you saying, Mrs Williams, that your husband stole the gun from the colonel’s gunroom?”
“Yes,” she replied before draining her drink.
“Where is it now?” asked Churchill.
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs Williams. “I’ve not seen it since he was…”
“It’s all right, Mrs Williams, you don’t need to say anything more,” said Churchill. “Miss Pemberley, can you please help me with the jelly in the kitchen?”
“Oh lovely, where’s the jelly?” asked Pemberley, looking around the kitchen for it.
“There isn’t one, Pembers,” whispered Churchill, “I just used it as an excuse. Did I hear correctly just then? Did Mrs Williams just say that her husband, the murder victim, stole the gun which was probably the murder weapon from Colonel Slingsby’s gunroom?”
“Yes, I believe so. Rather strange, isn’t it?”
“Incredibly strange. And it completely ruins our chances of narrowing down the suspects. If Tubby Williams stole the gun we still have no idea who the murderer is. Or why he stole it.”
Pemberley shrugged.
“There is much that baffles me here, Pembers,” said Churchill as she opened the biscuit barrel and helped herself to a handful of custard creams. “Why on earth does Barry Woolwell’s wife look like a Hollywood actress?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“You’ve seen the man, Pembers! He’s an old, grubby-looking gardening type with dirty fingernails. What does she see in him? Is he excessively rich?”
“No, not at all. He lives in one of the Grubmill Cottages.”
“But he must have something about him to appeal to such a charmingly beautiful young lady. The other gardening wives are what you’d expect with their bulldog faces, buck teeth and so on.”
“I think it must be down to Barry Woolwell’s sparkling personality.”
“Really, Pembers?” asked Churchill through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.
“Yes, I’ve heard he can be quite the charmer.”
“Well, it takes one to know one, I suppose. The evening is quite ruined now. I was hoping we could ply these ladies with alcohol over the course of it and carefully draw out a suspect from their careless chatter, but instead we’ve already reached a dead end. The last time I felt this floored was when I got lost in the maze at Hampton Court.”
“I wouldn’t be too downcast, Mrs Churchill. We can cheer ourselves up with the jelly.”
“There isn’t one, Pembers. Remember?”
“Oh yes, that’s a shame. Please may I have a custard cream instead?”
“Yes.” Churchill handed her one. “Now we just have to get all these women out of my house. They’re a tiresome lot, aren’t they?”
“It was your idea, Mrs Churchill.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Pemberley.”
“You can’t throw them out yet. Surely we could have a game of charades first.”
“I detest charades, Pembers, but it’s a good suggestion.”
“My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose!” said Mrs Woolwell. “How did you not get it?”
“A Red, Red Rose,” said Pemberley.
“Yes. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“The title of the poem is ‘A Red, Red Rose’,” corrected Pemberley. “It doesn’t have the ‘My Love is Like a’ bit before it.
“But he says it in the poem,” said Mrs Woolwell, looking deflated.
“I thought you meant a red nose,” said Mrs Rumbold.
Churchill sighed and glanced at the clock, wondering if half past seven was too early to ask everyone to leave.
“Wasn’t there supposed to be a jelly?” asked Mrs Williams.
“There was, but we dropped it on the floor while transferring it from its mould,” replied Churchill. “Sorry about that.”
“What about another drink?” asked Mrs Williams.
Churchill would have made a sharp retort if Mrs Williams hadn’t been so recently widowed. Instead, she got up to fetch a decanter filled with cheap sherry a friend had gifted her.
“This is the only alcohol left in the house,” she lied as she filled up Mrs Williams’s glass. “Did your late husband explain why he stole the colonel’s gun?”
“He told me someone was planning to do him some mischief.”
Churchill’s eyes widened. “Did he say who?”
“Not exactly. I recall that he showed me the gun. He was quite proud that he’d stolen it without being detected. And then he said something like, ‘I’m going to put a stop to this once and for all.’”
“Really? And did you ask him to elaborate?”
“No, because we were interrupted by the vicar. He always calls at the back door without warning, have you noticed that? Before you know it, he’s getting himself comfortable at the kitchen table and making that smacking noise with his lips to signify that he wants a cup of tea.”
“How irritating,” said Churchill. “So the vicar saw the gun?”
“No, Tubby swiftly shoved it down his trousers.”
“Was there an opportunity for Tubby to explain himself further once the vicar had left?”
“No, because he went out to his allotment then. He always left the house when the vicar turned up. He hated him.”
“So that was the last time you saw your husband?”
“Yes.”
Mrs Williams’s face crumpled, so Churchill quickly topped up her glass. “There, there, Mrs Williams. We’ll find the man who did this and make sure he gets his just desserts.”
As Churchill said this she noticed Mrs Rumbold scratching uneasily at her neck.
Chapter 18
“I’ve reached a conclusion, Pemberley,” said Churchill in the office the following morning. She had lain awake during the night thinking about the conversation at her cocktail party and a few things puzzled her still.
“What’s your conclusion Mrs Churchill?”
“That Mr Williams wasn’t murdered after all.”
“Really? But how on earth could he not have been? How come he’s dead?”
“The answer, Pembers, is that he took his own life.”
“Oh no, he would never have done that. He was too cheerful to do such a thing.”
“Never fall into the trap of judging a man’s innermost thoughts by his demeanour, Pemberley. It’s usually the cheerful ones who do this sort of thing.”
“I refuse to believe it. Someone must have shot him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I visited the scene, didn’t I? It didn’t look like the man had caused the mischief by his own hand.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know the specifics, but the police will. You could say that I’m basing it on a hunch.”
“There’s no harm in having a hunch, Pembers, but we know the man stole the colonel’s gun, and we’ve a good idea that it was the same gun that shot him. Therefore, I think he shot himself.”
“No, I don’t like that theory at all. And if he did shoot himself, how has the gun gone missing? I think Tubby stole the colonel’s revolver because he wanted to challenge Rumbold, who had accused him of spearing his onions. Perhaps he didn’t intend to cause Rumbold any harm, but he went to the allotment that evening to threaten him. Then there was a tussle and Rumbold managed to snatch the gun from him and shot the poor man. It was probably all done in the heat of the moment, and Rumbold probably didn’t mean to kill him, but you know how it is when you get all cross about something and lose your temper. And if you’ve snatched a loaded gun from someone who’s lost their rag with you it might accidentally go off and kill them.”
Churchill gave this some thought. “Pembers, I could kiss you. Your theory is so much better than mine! I think that’s exactly what happened. Williams stole the gun but Rumbold tussled with him and it all went wrong. He admits they were calling each other names, doesn’t he? It
clearly escalated to something more than that. How frustrating that we’ve pretty much solved this case when we’re not supposed to have anything to do with it.”
“I think we should write Inspector Mappin an anonymous note explaining our theory.”
“Another good idea, Pemberley. And then we need to get back to Mrs Bramley’s tea rooms and catch Kitty Flatboot with her hand in the till.”
“That reminds me. I saw your Mr Harding in there yesterday when I went round to invite Mrs Bramley to the cocktail party.”
“My Mr Harding, Pembers? Don’t be so silly. He’s not my Mr Harding.” Churchill felt her cheeks heating up. “What was he doing in there?”
“Drinking tea. He had put a ‘back in fifteen minutes’ sign on the door of his cookshop. Those signs always confuse me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not fifteen minutes, is it? It’s fifteen minutes minus the time since the shopkeeper left it there.”
“I’m not following you.”
“So if Mr Harding puts his ‘back in fifteen minutes’ sign on the door at two o’clock and you turn up at ten minutes past two, you’ll think you need to wait fifteen minutes for him to return, when actually it would only be five minutes.”
“Ah yes, I see what you mean. But then one would be pleasantly surprised when Mr Harding arrived a mere five minutes later.”
“No, because one would have decided that one had enough time to do something else with the fifteen minutes, such as pay a visit to the tea rooms or pop into the library, and do that instead.”
“And if one went to the tea rooms, one would find Mr Harding in there. Where’s the problem in that?”
“It’s misleading. I can’t bear a misleading sign.”
“Let’s return to what you were telling me before, Pembers. I hope you didn’t converse with Mr Harding in the tea rooms, seeing as he’s on the list of people Inspector Mappin expressly banned us from speaking to.”
“No, I didn’t speak to him. But I observed some confusion at the till between Mr Harding and Kitty Flatboot. It appears she had short-changed him.”
“The minx! Fancy short-changing Mr Harding! What a dreadful thing to do to such a delightful man.”
“It appeared to be a genuine mistake, and Mr Harding was perfectly charming and forgiving about it all.”
“Well, he would be, you see. That’s the sort of man he is. I believe you may have witnessed Kitty’s sticky hands in action, however.”
“I didn’t actually see her take anything and pocket it; I only witnessed the conversation about pennies and something about him having given her a shilling rather than a sixpence, or something along those lines. It became confusing terribly quickly.”
“Hmm, we shall have to keep an eye on that one, Pembers. Let’s pay the tea rooms another visit today, and in the meantime please type an anonymous letter to Inspector Mappin informing him of our suspicions. But don’t say they’re our suspicions because then he’ll realise the letter’s from us. Make it as impersonal as possible.”
“I think he’ll guess it’s from us anyway,” said Pemberley. “And he might even brush the envelope and letter for fingerprints.”
“Then put some gloves on, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.”
“But he’s still going to guess it’s from us, isn’t he?”
“Send it to that Lupin-Winkle chap instead, then. He’s even more hapless.”
“It’s rather difficult to write with all that racket going on outside the window.”
“What racket, Pembers? I can’t hear a thing.”
“All that chatter and noise out on the street. You come to expect it on market day, but not on a nothing day like today.”
“If you think that’s noisy you wouldn’t survive five minutes in London, Pemberley. All those motor vehicles, trams and trains, and the shouting market traders and cockneys. Cockneys are incapable of saying anything without shouting it.”
“Presumably they need to shout over all the noise.”
“Yes, but not that loud. They’re deafening! Now, get on with that letter.”
“Something’s going on outside,” said Pemberley, peering out of the window. “And I’m sure I just saw Inspector Mappin racing past on his bicycle again.”
“Then something must have happened,” said Churchill, grabbing her hat and handbag. “Let’s go!”
Chapter 19
“There appears to be something of a palaver up at the duck pond, Pembers,” said Churchill as they followed the crowd turning off the high street and down a narrow lane.
“Make way for Churchill’s Detective Agency!” she called out, elbowing her way through the crowd.
“You want to be careful saying that sort of thing,” said Pemberley. “Inspector Mappin will think we’re interfering again.”
“You’re not wrong, Pemberley,” said Churchill. “I’ll keep my voice down for now, but it’s rather difficult to get through the crowd otherwise.”
“Looks like we’re about to become a herd of sheep again!” laughed a lady with orange-tinged hair.
Churchill felt a pang of anger as she noticed Mrs Thonnings standing beside her. “There’s nothing sheepish about me,” she retorted.
“Then why are you in the herd?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“I’m investigating,” said Churchill. “Do please excuse me.” She pushed on past the people in front of her in a bid to get away as quickly as possible.
“What are you doing here, Mrs Churchill?” asked Inspector Mappin once she reached the front of the crowd. “I thought I told you to stay away.”
“Why don’t you say that to all the other people gathered here?”
“Because they’re not here to meddle.”
“And neither am I, Inspector. It would be terribly foolish of me not to heed your advice wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would.”
“I’m merely here to find out what’s going on, just like the rest of the village.”
Inspector Mappin acknowledged this with a herumphing sound.
“So what is going on, Inspector?” she asked.
“I’ll have more of an idea when I don’t have to control the crowd and can get on with investigating. But I’m here responding to a report of a man in the duck pond.”
Churchill raised herself up onto her tiptoes to see past the inspector but she couldn’t make out much of the duck pond.
“Oh dear. Is someone trying to get him out?”
“The constables from Bulchford are doing that, but I fear we’ve lost him.”
“Oh no! How dreadful, Inspector. Is it a drowning?”
“I fear so. But no more questions, Mrs Churchill, otherwise I’ll begin to suspect that you’re meddling again.”
“It sounds very serious, Inspector. You need to get Inspector Doolally-Whatisname up here in a jiffy.”
“Llewellyn-Dalrymple, if you please. He’s just finishing his breakfast at the Piddleton Hotel. Now, will you allow me to get on with my job?”
“Of course, Inspector. You have my blessing.”
“Does anyone know who it is in the duck pond?” Churchill asked the people around her. She received blank expressions and shaking heads in response.
Churchill pushed her way back through the crowd, ignoring another cheerful acknowledgement from Mrs Thonnings. As she rejoined the high street she was pleased to bump into Pemberley.
“Where’ve you been?” she whispered.
“Up at the duck pond. I went up Camp Lane and snuck through Mrs Sidebottom’s garden.”
“Pembers!” Churchill grinned with admiration. “Pray, what did you see?”
Pemberley’s face grew sombre. “The constables from Bulchford have pulled him out, poor fellow.”
“And?”
“It’s him.”
“Who?”
“Rumbold.”
Churchill gasped. “No, Pembers!”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“I r
ecognised the beard.”
“No! And is he —?”
“Yes,” said Pemberley sadly.
“But why? How? Oh goodness, the guilt of murder must have led him to take his own life.”
“He didn’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because his arms and legs were bound with rope.”
“Good grief, Pembers! Another murder?”
“It looks that way.”
“I’m shocked. In fact, I’m beyond shocked. And what of poor Mrs Rumbold? We only saw her yesterday evening at my dreadful cocktail party, and now she’s a widow. Gosh, I wonder if she even knows yet.”
“I don’t think we should tell her. I can’t bear to tell people bad news.”
“I’m sure Inspector Mappin is able to manage these things delicately.”
“I’m sure he’s not.”
“You may be right, Pembers, but we should try not to concern ourselves with it. It’s not our job to worry, is it? In the meantime, we need to go and update our incident board.”
Chapter 20
“So if Mr Rumbold murdered Mr Williams, who murdered Mr Rumbold?” asked Pemberley as she and Churchill surveyed their updated incident board.
“How should I know, Pemberley? It’s quite baffling.”
“It could have been someone who wished to avenge Tubby Williams’s murder,” said Pemberley. “It might have been Mrs Williams.”
“But she was with us yesterday evening, wasn’t she?” said Churchill. “We can rule out all those ladies as we have unwittingly provided an alibi for them. Besides, I can’t imagine Mrs Williams tying up Rumbold’s arms and legs and tipping him into the duck pond.”
“The colonel, perhaps?”
“He’s getting on a bit. I think Rumbold could have overpowered him.”
“Barry Woolwell?”
“He’s not too young either. And he’d have to have done it before drinking his normal quota at the Wagon and Carrot.”
“Sniffer Downs?”
“It could have been him, I suppose.”