by Emily Organ
“Stropper Harris?”
“And him. Let’s put those two at the top of our incident board Pemberley so we can treat them as our chief suspects.”
“What about Mr Harding?”
“Oh, leave him out of it. He has nothing to do with any of this.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know, Pembers. He has better things to do than go around murdering people.”
“So we’re certain that Mr Rumbold murdered Mr Williams, are we?”
“I think so, Pembers. After all, he was the last man to see Tubby Williams alive.”
“Or perhaps he was the only person who owned up to seeing Tubby Williams shortly before he died. Surely the actual murderer would have kept quiet about it?”
“Oh, I see what you’re saying there. Yes, that’s a good point. Perhaps Rumbold was happy to admit that he was at the allotments with Tubby because the man was entirely innocent of his murder. And that leads us to the possibility that Tubby and Rumbold were killed by the same man.”
“Perhaps that man was with both of them at the allotment that fateful night.”
“Yes, he could have been! And naturally he kept quiet about it.”
“But Rumbold didn’t mention there being anyone else at the allotment that evening. He said it was just him and Tubby.”
“Good point. So our third man could have been hiding in the shrubbery somewhere, waiting for his moment. Perhaps Rumbold left and then our man struck.”
“But if it’s the same culprit, why didn’t he kill both of the men at the same time if he wanted them dead?”
“Another good point, Pembers. I think our murderous chap must have gone up there after Rumbold had left because Tubby was in possession of the gun, wasn’t he? Our murderer somehow had to wrestle the gun away from Tubby and shoot him with it. That could only have happened after Rumbold had left, otherwise he’d have got involved too, wouldn’t he?”
“Perhaps Rumbold witnessed the murderer and that’s why he also had to be killed.”
“Oh yes! But why didn’t Rumbold tell anyone who the murderer was in that case?”
“Perhaps he didn’t really see who it was, but the murderer was so worried Rumbold might recall something that he decided to do away with him anyway.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Pembers! That is surely what happened. We’re good at this, aren’t we? My poor little brain is beginning to ache rather. Do you think you could see your way to making a cup of tea with Mr Harding’s kettle?”
“Do we have to keep calling it that? It doesn’t belong to him any more, seeing as you purchased it from him.”
“We can simply refer to it as the kettle from now on if you wish.”
“Thank you. Because if Mr Harding turns out to be the murderer it would be an unfortunate association indeed.”
“I shall excommunicate you if you slander that kind man again, Pemberley. Now get on with the tea because we’ve got some investigating to do this morning. Do you know where we might find Mrs Harris and Mrs Downs?”
Chapter 21
“Oh hello, Mrs Harris. I didn’t realise you worked at the greengrocer’s,” said Churchill. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Mrs Churchill! Miss Pemberley!” Mrs Harris’s blonde curls bounced cheerily. “Thank you so much for hosting such a wonderful party yesterday evening. I must apologise that my charade for Gone with the Wind was a little crude, I blame the drink.”
“One must always blame the drink on such occasions, Mrs Harris. And I confess that my cocktails were rather strong.”
“Strong but extremely quaffable, Mrs Churchill. You must tell us when the next party will be!”
“Indeed. But I’m afraid I cannot find myself in party mood this morning. You have heard the sad news, I presume?”
“Yes.” Mrs Harris’s teeth protruded from her downturned mouth. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much. Mr Perret the greengrocer told me to put on a happy face and not depress the customers, but now that you’ve reminded me I feel rather sombre.”
“Oh dear. I’ve no doubt that you are a professional, Mrs Harris, and will be able to resume your cheery manner at the flick of a switch.”
Mrs Harris smiled. “Oh, thank you. Yes, I do pride myself on being professional in my work. What can I help you with?”
“I’ll have half a pound of onions please, Mrs Harris,” said Churchill. She suddenly felt a lump in her throat as she glanced at the brown-skinned globes and was reminded of Mr Rumbold’s allotment.
“Have you spoken to Mrs Rumbold since the, er… tragic event?” ventured Churchill.
“No, not yet,” replied Mrs Harris sadly as she popped the onions into a paper bag. “I never know what to say to someone when their husband’s been murdered.”
“It’s rather a test of one’s etiquette, isn’t it?”
“I shall go and see her later with some gooseberries.”
“What a nice idea. Presumably, your husband is desperately upset about the loss of his friend.”
“Devastated.” Mrs Harris’s shoulders slumped. “They were drinking together at the Pig and Scythe just last night.”
“Really? That must have been shortly before Mr Rumbold was so tragically murdered.”
“It was! They left the Pig and Scythe at eleven o’clock and Stropper got home about ten minutes after that. I had already returned home after your delightful party. Stropper parted ways with Rumbold on Barncock Lane, and then Rumbold walked off in the direction of the duck pond. It was on his way home, you see. Only he never made it!”
Tears streaked with black mascara started trickling down Mrs Harris’s face.
“Oh dear. You need a handkerchief, Mrs Harris,” said Churchill, rummaging around in her handbag for one. “Not that old one, Pembers. You’ve used it!”
“Only on one side,” said Pemberley.
“Put it away. I have a clean one in here somewhere.”
“So your husband, Stropper, was the last man to see Mr Rumbold alive?” Pemberley asked Mrs Harris.
The woman nodded sadly.
“Here’s a clean handkerchief,” said Churchill. “Hold onto it for now and return it at your leisure.”
“That Stropper Harris is a suspicious one, isn’t he, Pembers?” said Churchill after they had left the greengrocer’s.
“He was the last one to see Rumbold alive,” said Pemberley, “and don’t forget that he was also the first one to find Tubby Williams.”
“Yes, indeed he was! I bet he’s charging people a shilling to listen to his story about the last sighting of Rumbold now. The man is a disgrace.”
“Oh hello, Mrs Downs. I didn’t realise you worked at the butcher’s,” said Churchill. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Mrs Downs’s bulldog face smiled.
“It was lovely to see you at the party yesterday evening,” continued Churchill, “but what sad news we’ve woken up to this morning.”
Mrs Downs rolled her eyes.
“Your husband must be extremely upset about the sad death of his friend.”
Mrs Downs rolled her eyes again and Churchill felt her teeth clench with annoyance.
“Half a pound of sausages please, Mrs Downs.”
As the woman fetched the sausages Mrs Churchill whispered to Pemberley from the side of her mouth. “Any idea how we can get this woman to talk, Pembers?”
“I think she’s just shy.”
“I’d call her uncooperative.”
Mrs Downs placed the sausages on the counter and held out her hand for the money.
“Fourpence, please,” she said.
“Of course, Mrs Downs. Now that we’ve commenced a conversation, I’m wondering whether your good husband had seen the recently deceased Mr Rumbold in the last few days?” Churchill said, handing her the money.
“Last night,” said Mrs Downs.
Churchill was startled that the woman had finally answered one of her questions. “Last night? Really? Was that at the Pig and
Scythe?”
“Wagon and Carrot.”
“I see. So your husband saw Mr Rumbold at the Wagon and Carrot shortly before he went to the Pig and Scythe with Mr Harris, did he?”
Mrs Downs rolled her eyes.
“Is that a yes or a no, Mrs Downs?”
The woman shrugged.
“Or a don’t know, perhaps? I see. Well, thank you for your help and the sausages.”
“It seems that both of our chief suspects saw Mr Rumbold yesterday evening, Pembers,” said Churchill as they walked back along the high street to their office.
“Perhaps they carried out the deed together,” suggested Pemberley.
“In tandem? It’s possible, isn’t it? Oh, look. That chief inspector with the pompous name is heading our way.”
Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple doffed his helmet as he approached them.
“Good morning, ladies, and quite a morning it is, too.”
“Have you just come from your breakfast at the Piddleton Hotel?” asked Churchill.
“How on earth do you know about that?”
“News travels fast in villages, Chief Inspector.”
“It certainly does. It’s quite alarming! So, another murder, eh? Thank you for your help with the bullet case. My ballistics fellow examined it and has confirmed that the colonel’s missing revolver was indeed used in the murder of Mr Tubby Williams.”
“That’s marvellous,” said Churchill.
“It’s not really marvellous,” said Pemberley. “The man got shot. It’s rather grisly.”
“But marvellous that it’s been confirmed,” said Churchill.
“You two ladies showed great presence of mind with that piece of investigating. You should be detectives.”
“We are, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh yes. You have some sort of private detective agency thingummy, don’t you? Keeps you out of trouble, I’ll bet.”
“On the contrary, Chief Inspector, it keeps us in trouble.”
“Does it, by Jove? Goodness me!”
“There was no murder weapon in this second murder though, was there? It was a straightforward drowning, I believe,” said Churchill.
“Oh no, there was a weapon all right. One of the Bulchford constables briefed me while I ate my eggs and bacon. He informed me that the chap had suffered a blow to the head.”
“But I thought he drowned?”
“He was deposited into the duck pond after being hit on the bonce. We’ll have the police surgeon look him over, but it sounds like a drowning while unconscious as a result of a knock to the head.”
“Poor Mr Rumbold!” cried out Pemberley. “And he had his wrists and ankles bound, too!”
“How do you know that?” asked the chief inspector.
“I happened to peer out from Mrs Sidebottom’s garden, which has a commanding view of the duck pond,” said Pemberley.
“You need to be careful about what you’re viewing. You’ll give yourself bad dreams,” warned the policeman.
“I get those anyway.”
“Righty-ho. Well, I’ll be on my way now. These murders won’t solve themselves, you know!”
“Wouldn’t life be dreadfully boring if they did, Chief Inspector? Do let us know if you need any help at all. We have our ears to the ground, you see. Apparently, Mr Harris and Mr Downs were with Mr Rumbold yesterday evening.”
“Were they indeed? Those names sound familiar.”
“Probably because I mentioned them to you the other day. Both men also visited the colonel’s home the day before Mr Williams’s death. You might also be interested to know that it was Mr Williams who took the colonel’s revolver.”
“Just a moment. Are you telling me that the murder victim stole the murder weapon that was used to murder him?”
“Yes. Confusing, isn’t it? You might want to have a word with Mrs Williams. She says that her deceased husband showed her the gun he’d stolen from the colonel and said he planned to do someone some mischief. If you ask me, I think the mischief plan got out of hand and was inflicted on him instead.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“It just happened to be mentioned during a social event.”
“By Mr Williams’s widow?”
“The very same.”
The chief inspector retrieved his notebook from his pocket and made some hasty notes.
“I see,” he said as he flicked the notebook shut. “Well, I think it’s a spot of good luck that I bumped into you two ladies this morning. You’ve certainly enlightened me on one or two points.”
“It’s our pleasure, sir. At this rate we’ll have the case solved before you do!”
The chief inspector gave a hearty laugh. “How funny! Two old ladies beating the police at their own game. That would really be something, wouldn’t it? Ho, ho!”
Chapter 22
“I think we’ve done enough sniffing about for this morning, Pemberley,” said Churchill once they had updated their incident board in the office. “It won’t be long before we’re accused of interfering and all the rest of it. I don’t want to give Mappin any more grist to his mill. It’s a funny expression that, isn’t it? I have no idea what grist is.”
“It’s a grain that’s been separated from its chaff and is ready for milling.”
“Oh, I see. You know what it is, do you? I wasn’t actually asking for an explanation just then. I know what I mean when I say it, and that’s the important thing. Now, why don’t we have a nice cup of tea and I’ll settle down to read a few more of Atkins’s cases. He really did have some fascinating ones, didn’t he? I recall I got halfway through a case in which he was visited by a mysterious masked man who turned out to be a Bohemian prince. I should like to find that one again.”
“I remember it well. There was an adventuress involved.”
“Isn’t there always? I’m beginning to suspect that Mrs Thonnings is one of those. I can’t for the life of me think how a story about a pepper pot and a pair of long johns could be amusing. Mrs Harris is clearly one of those people who is easily entertained.”
“Ah, but there’s no denying that Mrs Thonnings is refined and clever. And witty, too.”
“Don’t you start, Pembers! Compared with the average citizen of Compton Poppleford – a town of predominantly rustic stock – Mrs Thonnings could perhaps be considered to have some degree of refinement. But that’s not saying much. She’d be eaten alive in the drawing rooms of Richmond-upon-Thames.”
“Really? Do they do that sort of thing there?”
“They’d wash her down with an aperitif, Pemberley.”
“Ugh!”
“She’s probably unaware that an entire world exists beyond Dorset. I shouldn’t think she’s ever been east of Blandford Forum.”
“She and Mr Harding once took a trip to London together. They went to Harrods. They showed us all the photographs when they returned.”
“I can’t think of anything I wish to hear about less, Pembers. Please put the kettle on while I proceed with some work.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and in strode Inspector Mappin.
Churchill sighed. “If you’re here to tear us off a strip again, Inspector, you can do an about-turn and toddle back down the stairs. I’m in no mood for it. Miss Pemberley and I have stayed well away from your suspects.”
“I’ve no plans to tear anything off anyone, Mrs Churchill,” he replied, removing his helmet and placing it on the hatstand. “I’m here to make enquiries.”
“I see. You need our help now you have a second murder on your hands, do you?”
“No, just enquiries, as I’ve already said. Merely routine.” He withdrew a notebook from his pocket and scratched at his brown mutton-chop whiskers with the tip of his pencil. “I believe you hosted a social gathering at your home yesterday evening.”
“Indeed I did, Inspector. Do sit down; you’re making the place look untidy. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“On this occasi
on, yes I would. Thank you, Mrs Churchill.” He lowered himself into the chair on the opposite side of her desk.
“I confess there was a little soirée chez moi yesterday evening,” said Churchill. “What of it?”
“Who was in attendance, Mrs Churchill?”
“There was myself, Miss Pemberley, Mrs Rumbold, Mrs Harris, Mrs Downs, Mrs Bramley, Mrs Williams and Mrs Woolwell.”
“Not Mrs Higginbath or Mrs Thonnings?”
“No. Why does everyone always mention those two? No. They were not there.”
“And what time did Mrs Rumbold arrive?”
“She was the first one there. I do believe it was about half past five. Do you recall it being around that time, Miss Pemberley?”
“I do indeed,” Pemberley replied, placing the tea tray on Churchill’s desk.
“And what time did Mrs Rumbold leave your house?” asked Inspector Mappin.
“About a quarter past eight. I began eviction proceedings at eight o’clock, and she was the last to depart. She’s quite a talkative lady after a few drinks.”
“So you can vouch for Mrs Rumbold being on the premises between the hours of half past five and a quarter past eight yesterday evening?”
“Yes, I can vouch for that. Do you think she murdered her husband?”
“Merely routine enquiries, Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh, come on, Inspector. That’s what police officers say when they’re trying to make something interesting sound incredibly dull because they don’t want anyone else to get excited by it. What’s going on? Is there any evidence that she did it?”
“It’s not for me to say at this stage. Did she mention any sort of grievance with her husband while she was at your party?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“She said she’d got so fed up with competitive gardening she’d considered getting a divorce,” said Pemberley.
“Oh, that’s right. Yes, she said that,” added Churchill.
Mappin wrote this down. “She mentioned divorce but nothing to suggest violent intent? Murder?”
“Inspector, if she was planning to murder her husband she was hardly going to mention it at my cocktail party, was she?”