by Emily Organ
“Oh dear. Poor Mr Rumbold,” said Pemberley tearily.
“I take it you’re going to present the frying pan weapon to your superiors?” Churchill asked the constables.
“Yes, but we’ll dust it for fingerprints first.”
“Don’t you think the prints might have washed off while the frying pan lay submerged in the duck pond?”
PC Gussage pondered this. “They might have done, I suppose. It depends how greasy they were.”
“No harm in trying, I suppose. I can imagine that most murderers have greasy fingers, can’t you, Pembers?”
“They might have worn gloves.”
“If he was a well-organised murderer he might have. If no fingerprints can be retrieved from the frying pan I don’t suppose we’re any closer to identifying the culprit.”
“But we can find out who owned a frying pan like this,” said PC Gussage. “And if we keep its existence top secret we can make seemingly innocuous enquiries about it among the populace of Compton Poppleford.”
“I like your thinking, PC Gussage,” said Churchill. “I’d say that you’re more on the ball than Inspector Mappin.”
“We’ll need you to keep quiet about the frying pan,” replied the constable. “Don’t go shouting about it.”
“Do we look like the sort of ladies who go around shouting about things?” asked Churchill.
An awkward silence ensued.
“You can be assured of our utmost discretion, Constables,” said Pemberley.
Chapter 25
“Downs and Harris. Those are our chief suspects now, Pemberley,” said Churchill as they walked along the high street toward their office.
“They were both with Rumbold on the night he died,” replied Pemberley, “but how on earth could one of them have secreted that enormous frying pan about his person?”
“Down his trousers?”
“The handle could slide down a trouser leg, I suppose, but what of the round pan section?”
“In the seat of his trousers? It could be managed as long as one didn’t sit down,” suggested Churchill.
“You’d need to have a large pair of buttocks to hide the round pan section.”
“Posterior if you please, Pemberley! I quite agree. And as one would be unable to sit down, we’d need to find out which of them remained standing all evening.”
“And how do we do that?”
There was a pause as both women considered this.
“Never mind that,” said Churchill. “On reflection, I think that walking about with a frying pan secreted down the back of one’s trousers would create an awkward gait; a sort of frying-pan-trouser-hiding-induced-waddle that would draw too much attention to the culprit.”
“Perhaps one of the men walked freely about with it in his hand,” suggested Pemberley. “He might have come up with a suitable excuse for having it with him.”
“Such as what?”
“That he had bought it that day from the cookshop?”
“Now there’s a thought,” said Churchill. “Look, here we are outside Mr Harding’s cookshop. Why don’t we pop in and ask him which of the two men bought a frying pan from him yesterday?”
“What a good idea,” said Pemberley. “But aren’t we forbidden to speak to him?”
“Oh, pfft to that idea, Pembers. We’ll only be two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Mappin won’t find out.”
“Let’s hope not.”
The two women stepped inside the cookshop.
“What a wonderful arrangement of jelly moulds in the window,” commented Churchill. “Mr Harding has such an eye for displaying things.”
She felt a flush of warmth in her face as the man himself appeared from behind a display of casserole dishes, his eyes twinkling. The collar of his shirt was so crisp and white that Churchill was tempted to ask who had ironed it for him.
“What a pleasant surprise!” said Mr Harding with a grin.
“Is it really?” replied a flustered Churchill, smoothing down her jacket. “Are you truly pleased to see us?”
“Of course.” He beamed. “How can I be of service to you today?”
“We have just a little simple question to ask you, Mr Harding.”
“Ask away, ladies.”
Churchill cleared her throat and rearranged her pearls. “Thank you for being so obliging.”
“Not at all. It’s my pleasure.”
“How kind.”
“Anything to help.”
“How lovely of you, Mr Harding.”
“Did Mr Downs or Mr Harris buy a frying pan from you yesterday?” asked Pemberley impatiently.
“No, I didn’t sell any frying pans yesterday.”
“The day before?”
“I sold one the day before yesterday, but it was Mrs Higginbath who bought that one.”
“Have either Mr Downs or Mr Harris bought any cookware from you recently, Mr Harding?” asked Churchill.
“No. I don’t recall either of them ever having set foot in my shop before.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, a frying pan was… Ouch, Pembers! What was that for?” Churchill clasped her arm, with which Pemberley’s sharp elbow had just made painful contact.
“We’re not supposed to say anything, remember?” hissed Pemberley.
“What? Not even to Mr Harding?”
“Not to anyone.”
Harding’s brow lowered. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Oh, I am sorry about this, Mr Harding,” said Churchill. “I would dearly love to explain everything to you properly, but my aide-de-camp here has reminded me – in the starkest of manners – that I have been sworn to secrecy by the robust arm of the law.”
“Goodness! Have you indeed? This all sounds rather important.”
“It is, Mr Harding, it is. Perhaps when all this sorry business is concluded we can discuss it at length.”
“I hope we can do just that. You have certainly piqued my curiosity, Mrs Churchill.”
“I’m sorry to leave the matter unconcluded.”
“I can be patient, Mrs Churchill. In the meantime my mind shall boggle over what could possibly connect the robust arm of the law with a frying pan. And actually it’s quite interesting that you should mention the names of Mr Downs and Mr Harris.”
“Is it? Why’s that then?”
Mr Harding leant in closer and lowered his voice. “I hear that the pair of them are regular visitors to the grounds of Ashleigh Grange.”
“The colonel’s place?”
“The very same.”
“And what do they do there?”
“I don’t know, but it might be illegal.”
“Really?” Churchill’s eyes widened. “And does the Colonel know about their visits?” she whispered.
“Again, I don’t know. If it’s illegal I should imagine he doesn’t, seeing as he’s a thoroughly above-board sort of chap.”
“Absolutely,” replied Churchill. “And how did you hear about this?”
“I have also been sworn to secrecy, Mrs Churchill.” Harding tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.
“Have you? By whom?”
“It’s a secret.”
“But why?”
Harding grinned. “You won’t get it out of me, you know. Or maybe you will once this sorry business is over.”
“Oh, I see, Mr Harding.” Churchill gave him a wink. “Well, thank you very much for your tip-off. The colonel has twenty-seven acres of land. Do you happen to know which area, within his vast acreage, the two gardeners frequent?”
“Close to the orangery, I’m told,” replied Harding. “That’s all I know.”
“I am much obliged for the information,” said Churchill. “You have been a marvellous help to us today, Mr Harding. If there is ever anything I can do to repay you then you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“No need for repayment, Mrs Churchill. I am simply delighted to be of assistance.”
“Oh, how refreshing! Don’t you find that everyone is terribly intent on having favours repaid these days? I do so adore the traditional approach of helping one’s fellow man, or woman, out of the goodness of one’s heart. You’re a true gentleman, Mr Harding. Thank you again.”
Pemberley made a spluttering noise.
“Are you all right, Pembers?”
“Fine. There’s just something stuck at the back of my throat. Can we go now?”
“Of course. We won’t detain you a moment longer, Mr Harding. Adieu.”
Chapter 26
“Give me a hand, will you Pemberley? I can’t possibly get out of here all by myself.” The ditch within which Churchill was lying felt damp and prickly. “Where are you, Pembers?” she cried. “You haven’t deserted me, have you?”
“No, I’m here,” came the secretary’s voice. “Just switching on my torch.”
As the light came on, a gloved hand loomed out of the darkness and grasped hold of Churchill’s arm.
“You’re quite strong for someone with such a spindly frame,” commented Churchill.
“That’s because I practise strength training with tins of beans.”
“It’s clearly paying off, and fortunately means that I won’t have to spend the night in this ditch.”
Pemberley heaved Churchill up, and the plump detective somehow managed to right herself on the road.
“You can stop blinding me with that torchlight now, Pembers.”
“You’ve got some mud on your face Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh dear, have I? Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Churchill took off her gloves and rubbed at her face.
“Better?” she asked the torchlight.
“No, worse.”
“What? How can it be worse?”
Churchill rubbed again.
“Now it looks very bad,” said Pemberley sombrely.
“How? Oh this is ridiculous Pembers, get that detestable torch off me now. It’s too dark for anyone to see my face tonight anyway, so we’ll leave it as it is. Now I’ve been partially blinded by torchlight and the seat of my breeches is completely soaked through. I can’t possibly get back on that bicycle again.”
“But you’ll have to,” said Pemberley. “How else can we stealthily travel to Ashleigh Grange under the cover of night?”
“Couldn’t we walk?”
“We’d never get there and back in time on one of these short summer nights. Bicycling is our only option.”
Churchill groaned. “But my posterior is completely sodden!”
“It’s quite possible to cycle with damp haunches.”
“This is more than damp, Pemberley; I’m completely soaked through to the peachy skin of my—”
“You can still cycle, Mrs Churchill,” interrupted Pemberley, “and we must push on. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I can’t ride that thing,” said Churchill, pointing at the dark silhouette of her bicycle, which lay pitifully in the road. “Its balance is all wrong. You saw how it threw me off just now, didn’t you?”
“The balance is provided by the cyclist.”
“Some of it, perhaps, but not all of it. A bicycle with no balance is impossible to ride.”
“You told me you were an accomplished cyclist.”
“So I am! And you’ll recall me telling you that my youth was spent bicycling around London. I only encountered one incident, and that was the milk cart’s fault, not mine. And besides, the bicycles are better in London. They have proper balance and the handlebars don’t have a habit of suddenly veering to the left. Your friend Mrs Frosling has lent us inferior models.”
“Mrs Churchill, we must press on. We want to find out what Downs and Harris have been getting up to in the Colonel’s back garden, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do.” Churchill sighed as she picked up her bicycle. “But I’m only getting back on this hopeless contraption because I’m a determined detective who soldiers on regardless of the obstacles in her path.”
“Quite right. A determined detective who doesn’t allow herself to be defeated by a velocipede.”
“Indeed. I don’t hold much affection for insects, Pemberley. I think a few of those velothingies were crawling over me in that ditch back there. Horrible things.”
“Velocipede is an old-fashioned word for a bicycle.”
“Less chat, more action, Pembers. We can’t be standing around wasting any more time. Let’s get on with our investigations.”
A little while later the ladies’ torches picked up the stone wall surrounding the Ashleigh Grange estate, and shortly after they reached the imposing iron entrance gates. Churchill removed her handbag from the basket on the front of her bicycle and happily left the contraption propped up against the wall as Pemberley walked over to the gates.
“Darn it, they’re padlocked!” she hissed. “We won’t be able to ride our bicycles along the driveway.”
“Oh, never mind,” whispered Churchill. “I’ve always preferred walking to bicycling, anyway. We can easily vault over this low wall. Fancy locking the gates when any old Tom, Dick and Harry can just hop over the wall!”
Churchill rested a hand on the wall, swung a leg over it and gently eased herself over. She was horrified to discover that the drop on the other side was much deeper than she had expected.
“Good grief!” she cried out from the bottom of another ditch, her left leg bent painfully beneath her. “Why on earth did the colonel put this dip here?”
“I shouldn’t have thought he’d put it there himself,” replied Pemberley as she carefully lowered herself down on the other side of the wall. “It must have been one of his forebears.”
“Well, curse the colonel’s forebears! The upper classes have such a loathsome habit of trying to keep people out.”
Pemberley helped Churchill up from the second ditch and they began to walk along the driveway. Churchill hobbled as best she could given the pain in her left ankle from her latest fall.
“When do you think we should put out our torches?” asked Pemberley.
“When it’s daylight.”
“But someone will see our lights from the house when we get closer.”
“Do you think so? It’s only the colonel in there, isn’t it? Just him and that enormous house. He must rattle around it like a dried pea in a tea chest.”
“What about his staff?”
“Oh yes, I suppose we have to consider them, though I suspect they’re all asleep. All sensible people are asleep at this hour, and if they’re not they are surely up to no good.”
“I think we should put out our torches now. We should just be able to see the driveway in the moonlight.”
“If you insist, Pembers. I pride myself on my excellent night vision. I’ll guide the way.”
It was a while before the dark outline of the house loomed into view.
“The problem with damp breeches is the chafing,” whispered Churchill. “I’m not looking forward to seeing the state of my thighs when I pull them off.”
“Please don’t pull them off yet, Mrs Churchill.”
“I might have to if this chafing doesn’t subside! This evening’s expedition has caused me a great deal of physical discomfort.”
Pemberley grabbed Churchill’s arm and gasped.
“What is it?” asked Churchill.
“A light! Look! Can you see it? It’s either in one of the downstairs windows or somewhere in the grounds.”
Churchill felt her heart thud in her ears. “Is it moving?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
They held their breath and watched, but the light remained steady.
“Let’s proceed,” whispered Churchill. “I think it’s coming from inside the house; it’s probably one of the maids awake with toothache. Don’t you find that with maids? They’re so often up in the night with toothache.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
The women continued to walk c
autiously along the driveway.
“She’s probably trying to find the laudanum,” whispered Churchill, “and it’s likely she can’t find it anywhere. Essential things have a habit of going missing in the dead of night, don’t they? Especially bed jackets. One wakes in the night feeling a chill and can one find one’s bed jacket anywhere? Not a bit of it, even though it had been hanging from the bed knob when one went to sleep. And where is the bed jacket in the end? In the place one would least expect to find it, of course. I once discovered my favourite bed jacket in the dog’s bed. Have you ever attempted to retrieve a bed jacket from beneath a foul-tempered Jack Russell terrier, Pembers? I wouldn’t recommend it, especially at three o’clock in the morning. Dogs do not take kindly to being woken at that hour.”
“The light’s gone out again!” exclaimed Pemberley.
Churchill sighed with relief. “Hurrah, the laudanum has been found! Now, how about we skirt around the east wing of the house? The orangery is probably at the back somewhere.”
“Which one is the east wing?”
“The right one.”
“That’s the west wing.”
“The left one, then, although I think the right one might be more promising.”
“The west wing, you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. This way, anyway,” replied Churchill giving Pemberley a nudge. “Ouch! What on earth?”
“What’s the matter?”
“A prickly shrub, that’s what the matter is. It just leapt out at me.”
“You must have walked into it.”
“No, I didn’t. I can see perfectly well in the dark and it wasn’t there a moment ago. And what on earth is that tripping me up now?”
“It’s a low wall. Can’t you see it there by your feet? I think we may be nearing the kitchen garden.”
“Lead the way then, Pembers, if you’re so sure of where we are.”
“Ouch!” exclaimed Pemberley.
“Did you bump into something by any chance?”
“A piece of statuary.”
“What, that urn, which was visible from several feet away? Tsk, Pembers.”
“We’re going to wake the colonel up, I feel sure of it.”
“That dry old pea is dead to the world, Pembers. He won’t know anything until his valet brings him his tea at nine o’clock, and we’ll be long gone by then. I can imagine him being quite the snorer. Does he strike you as a snorer?”