by Emily Organ
Kitty looked up and gave them an icy stare.
Chapter 31
“There’s another option that springs to mind when considering the terrible murder of Mr Rumbold,” said Churchill to Pemberley as they walked back down the high street to their office.
“Which is what?”
“The possibility that either Mr Harris or Mr Downs used a frying pan from their own homes.”
“In which case, wouldn’t their wives have noticed a missing frying pan?”
“You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?”
“Unless the murdering cad came up with an excuse for taking a frying pan out with him of an evening.”
“I can’t begin to think what sort of excuse he would have come up with, but it’s a possibility isn’t it, Pembs?”
“Pembs?”
“Doesn’t sound right, does it? I’ll stick to Pembers.”
“Or even Miss Pemberley, perhaps.”
“It’s just a little cumbersome when I want to get a point across quickly. Oh, here comes the chief inspector heading our way. Doesn’t he have an odd walk? I’ve not noticed that about him before. He’s walking like he has something stuck up his… Good afternoon, Chief Inspector Ll… Llooly… Lendy…”
“Llewellyn-Dalrymple,” he replied gruffly.
“Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. I knew it was that all along. It’s just that sometimes my tongue doesn’t roll itself properly. Do you ever experience that phenomenon?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. How are the injuries?”
“What injuries?”
“From the chafing.”
Churchill gave a start. “Chafing?”
“That’s why you removed your breeches in the colonel’s garden, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, you make me blush with the directness of your questions, Chief Inspector. The chafing injuries are recovering quite well, thank you.” Churchill felt her toes curl with embarrassment.
“Terrible business, chafing,” he continued. “I once owned a pair of canvas breeches, and what a fabulous, hard-wearing pair they were. Then I made the mistake of hoofing it up and down the three highest peaks in the Lake District while wearing them. It felt as though my loins were on fire after that, and it took about three months for the skin on my inner thighs to grow back.”
Churchill winced. “I’m so pleased that you understand my predicament, sir.”
“Oh yes, I thoroughly understand it. Much as I had once loved those breeches, I filled the pockets with heavy stones after that experience and drowned them in Lake Windermere.”
“Goodness me!”
“Poor breeches!” protested Pemberley.
“You obviously haven’t experienced the woes of severe chafing, my dear lady,” he said, directing his remark to the waif-like secretary.
“She doesn’t understand it at all, Chief Inspector,” said Churchill. “It’s an affliction that only chafing sufferers such as you and I could comprehend. Terrible news about Mr Rumbold.”
“Dreadful indeed.”
“Any news on the owner of the frying pan?”
“Maybe yes and maybe no.” The chief inspector stroked his red moustache, then gave a cough. “Which imaginary frying pan might you be referring to, anyway?”
“Oh, we know all about it. We saw the constables fish it out of the duck pond.”
“It doesn’t exist. And I’d like to make it clear that I have no wish to hear either of you gossiping about it either.”
“Well, how can we if it doesn’t exist?”
“Exactly. Let’s leave it at that then, shall we?”
“We understand each other perfectly, Chief Inspector,” said Churchill with a wink. “Any suspects?”
“Funny you should mention that, actually, because one individual has suddenly become of particular interest to us.”
“Who might that be?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.”
“Is it the mysterious man we haven’t yet identified? That one with the square chin and spectacles who likes egg sandwiches?”
“Who’s he?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Whoever he is, it’s not him. Anyway, I must get on with business, as I think we may be making an arrest imminently.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Cheerio, ladies!”
Churchill stomped her foot as she watched the chief inspector’s form disappear down the high street. “Oh, darn it, Pembers, they’re a step ahead of us. And I so wanted to beat them to it!”
Chapter 32
Churchill spent the rest of her day studying the incident board. She rearranged photographs, notes, pins and lengths of string, then paced the office floor deep in thought. She slept badly that night and returned to the office early the following morning to rearrange everything on the incident board once again.
Was the culprit Mr Downs? Or could it be Mr Harris? Although they seemed to be the two most likely suspects, Churchill couldn’t ignore the picture of Mr Woolwell, whom she hadn’t really considered yet. And then there was the colonel. Could it be the colonel? There were still unanswered questions in her mind from the cocktail party, could there be answers to them? Or were they unnecessary distractions?
Churchill paced the floor again and had already worked her way through a plate of cherry and almond tarts before Pemberley arrived.
“Goodness, Mrs Churchill, you’re here early.”
“I never sleep well when I have a case to crack, Pembers.”
“Oh dear. I fear you’re expecting too much of yourself. It’s not essential that you beat the police at their own game, you know.”
“Ah, but I’m the competitive sort, Pemberley! There’s nothing that gives me fire in my belly as much as a bit of competition.”
“I get that from garlic. It doesn’t agree with me at all.”
“You need fire in your belly, Pembers! It’s what motivates one to get up each morning and do battle with the day!”
“Should I eat more garlic, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Churchill glanced disconsolately at the plate which was now devoid of cherry and almond tarts.
“I don’t think this battling-with-the-day-business is my sort of thing,” continued Pemberley. “I like a to-do list, but I can’t say that I enjoy a battle with anything. It’s rather a confrontational way of doing things. Anyway, I almost forgot to tell you that there’s quite a commotion going on at the cookshop.”
“The cookshop?” Churchill felt her heart stop. “Surely not?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Well, I think I need to view it with mine in that case.” Churchill put her hat on and picked up her handbag.
The two ladies left their office and walked along the cobbles to where a small crowd was standing outside the cookshop. The sun was warm but Churchill felt a chill as she noticed Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple’s shiny police car parked beside the crowd.
“What’s happening?” Churchill shouted to PC Gussage, who was guarding the door of the cookshop.
“I’m not allowed to say,” he called back.
“Oh, go on!” shouted Churchill. “It’ll just be between you and me, Constable!”
“And the fifty other people hanging about here!” he retorted.
“Oh, they don’t matter a jot! Has there been a burglary?”
PC Gussage turned away without giving a response.
“Now he’s ignoring me, isn’t he, Pemberley? Typical.”
Churchill tried to peer in through the cookshop windows but her view was obscured by the tall display of jelly moulds.
“Oh dear, I do hope the thieves haven’t taken too much. Poor Mr Harding. Why burgle such a charming man? Whatever did he do to anyone? It always narks me that the most awful of things happen to the most pleasant of people. Life is so terribly unfair, isn’t it, Pembers? Oh my goodness!” Churchill gave a shriek and was only just saved from falling to the ground by the swift action of her secretary.
The ca
use of her distress was the appearance at the cookshop door of Mr Harding wearing handcuffs, accompanied by Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple and Inspector Mappin.
“No!” cried Churchill as Pemberley propped her up. “Tell me it’s not true!”
“We don’t know what’s happened yet,” replied Pemberley.
“But they’ve handcuffed him! This must be some sort of mistake. Mr Harding wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“How do you know that? You only met him a few days ago.”
“I’m an expert judge of character, Pembers! I feel these things in my waters.”
Mr Harding glanced over at them with a sorrowful look before bowing his head and stepping into the police car.
The crowd parted, allowing the car to trundle the hundred or so yards to the police station.
“He’s innocent!” Churchill called out as the car rumbled past them over the cobbles.
“He might not be,” said Pemberley. “You just never know with these things. We don’t even know what he’s been arrested for.”
“Murder,” said a voice next to them.
“What?” exclaimed Churchill. “How do you know that?” She turned to the woman who had spoken. She wore a hat with a large feather in it and her face seemed strangely familiar.
“I just do,” replied the woman curtly. “You’re Mrs Churchill, aren’t you? I once caught you trampling on my geraniums.”
“In the course of an investigation, I must add. Hello again, Mrs Mappin. Why on earth has your husband got our dear Mr Harding in handcuffs?”
“I’ve already told you. Murder.”
“Not the murders, though?”
“What other murder has there been?”
“Oh!” wailed Churchill. “Pembers, what a terrible day this is turning out to be. Mr Harding will never recover from this!”
“He should have thought about that before he went around murdering people,” Mrs Mappin said calmly.
“What evidence do they have?” retorted Churchill.
“The frying pan,” replied Mrs Mappin.
“How do you know about the frying pan? It’s meant to be a secret.”
“How do you know about it?”
“We saw it being pulled out of the duck pond, didn’t we, Pembers? I don’t see how the frying pan can be connected with Mr Harding, anyhow.”
“It came from his cookshop,” said Mrs Mappin.
“Surely most of the frying pans in the village are from his cookshop.”
“Not at the prices he charges. I go to Heythrop Itching for mine. I refuse to go anywhere near his shop because he always charms me into purchasing something.”
“Mr Harding sells premium-quality cookware,” said Churchill. “I’m quite sure you can get cheaper wares at that Itching place, but it most likely wouldn’t last five minutes. And anyway, Inspector Mappin has it all wrong. He can’t just go and arrest poor Mr Harding because he happens to be selling frying pans that resemble the one found in the duck pond.”
“The frying pan merely sealed his fate,” said Mrs Mappin.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Mrs Mappin tightened her lips.
“Oh, go on,” whispered Churchill. “I’m a private detective, Mrs Mappin. You can tell me.”
“We both are,” chipped in Pemberley.
“That’s right. We both are,” said Churchill. “And we can’t claim to possess even half the investigating skills of your fine husband. But we try our best, don’t we, Miss Pemberley?”
“We do indeed,” added Pemberley. “And cases like this aren’t easy to crack. Inspector Mappin must have worked inordinately hard to come up with the idea that Mr Harding is the culprit.”
“Oh, he does work hard,” agreed the inspector’s wife with a nod.
“And with sterling results,” continued Pemberley. “He clearly combines his intricate sleuthing mind with a relentless work ethic. He leaves no stone unturned.”
“I agree,” said Churchill. “No stone remains in situ when Inspector Mappin is on the case. Now, many of us can turn stones, of course, but could we all identify the culprit?”
“No, that takes a unique skill,” said Pemberley. “He must have done some truly thorough investigation into the affairs of Mr Harding.”
“So he did,” said Mrs Mappin. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper and continued, “He discovered that Mr Harding owed money to both deceased men.”
“Is that so?” whispered Churchill in reply.
“Yes. He had racked up a number of debts from card games.”
“Goodness me! Who’d have thought it?” Churchill replied.
“And there were other rumours, though I’ve never been one for rumour, and Mr Harding has always struck me as a respectable gentleman. In fact – and don’t tell Inspector Mappin this – I’ve always considered him to be a bit of a dish.”
Churchill gripped her handbag tightly, feeling a pang of jealousy. “I see. A dish, eh? Who’d have thought that?” She refused to believe that Mr Harding had gambling debts and strongly objected to the thought of him being ogled by other ladies in the village. She preferred to think that she was the only one who had noticed his many charms.
“So your husband’s theory is that Mr Harding murdered Mr Williams and Mr Rumbold because he owed them money,” Pemberley probed quietly.
“That’s it, in a nutshell,” replied the inspector’s wife. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Of course not,” said Pemberley. “This information is safe with us, isn’t it, Mrs Churchill?”
“I suppose so,” she replied, “but if you were to ask me what I think, I’d have to tell you that your husband’s way off the mark, Mrs Mappin. I suppose he needs to demonstrate to the populace of Compton Poppleford that he’s prepared to arrest people, but it’s a shame that he decided to pick on poor, innocent Mr Harding.”
“Just a moment ago you were singing my husband’s praises!” said Mrs Mappin.
“We were, yes. But on this occasion he is sadly mistaken. And what’s more, I intend to prove it.”
“Really?” said Pemberley. “Inspector Mappin may be right, you know.”
“Of course he’s right!” snapped Mrs Mappin.
“We shall have to wait and see,” retorted Churchill, setting her jaw. She had no idea how to prove Mr Harding’s innocence, but felt resolved to do it somehow or other.
Chapter 33
“It’s awfully unprofessional for Inspector Mappin to share the details of a case with his wife,” commented Churchill as she slammed her handbag down on her desk.
“Ah, but it’s just as well he did, otherwise we wouldn’t have found out why he’d arrested Mr Harding,” said Pemberley.
“He’s arrested him because he’s an easy target. Poor Mr Harding.”
“The inspector must have had some evidence. He must have discovered that Mr Harding had accumulated these gambling debts. And, more importantly, that the debts were owed to the two men who have been murdered.”
“He’s not a gambler, Pembers, he’s a card player! I like a game of bridge myself, as you know. He should have come and played a few hands with me rather than getting involved with that dirty-fingernailed brigade. And that’s by the by. My original point – that Inspector Mappin is unprofessional – still stands.”
“Surely Detective Chief Inspector Churchill told you details about the cases he worked on?”
“He didn’t, actually. He was a man of great tact and remained quite determined that police business should be left on the doorstep of our home each and every evening.”
“Didn’t anyone ever take it?”
“Take what?”
“The police business left on your doorstep every evening. They might have seen it as they were passing and decided to swipe it.”
“No, I mean… Oh, I see, Pembers. You were having a little joke with me. I’m not really in the mood for jokes at the present time.”
“You were spe
aking metaphorically.”
“Well, perhaps I was and perhaps I wasn’t. I’m not really sure.”
“But I thought you learned all your detective skills from your husband’s many years at Scotland Yard?”
“I did.”
“But how could you do so if he left it all on the doorstep every day?”
“By reading his mind, of course.”
“Is that so?”
“There’s no need to look so impressed, Pembers.” Churchill sat down behind her desk. “Oh, I suppose it’s because you’ve never been married. Being a spinster, you won’t have realised that it’s terribly easy to read a husband’s mind. Especially a husband you’ve been married to for many years. They give everything away through their mannerisms. In fact, during our latter years together there was little need for us to speak at all as I knew every little thing he was thinking.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“Who ever said marriage was fun, Pembers?”
“Did he know everything you were thinking?”
“No, not at all! It would be most ungentlemanly to even hazard a guess at what might be occurring in a lady’s mind. Would you like someone to read your mind, Pembers?”
“I wouldn’t be averse to the idea.”
“I can’t see why anyone would wish to. A lady’s thoughts are her own, I say. Please would you make us some tea, Pembers? I feel terribly drained.”
Churchill was able to muster just enough strength to purchase some Eccles cakes from Simpkins the baker. It was only after they had been washed down with a hot cup of tea that she began to feel marginally refreshed.
“Whatever happened between Mr Harding and those gardening types, I think it’s as plain as a pitchfork that he simply fell in with a bad crowd.”
“Is it a bad crowd?”
“Well, two of them have been murdered Pembers. One doesn’t get murdered when one goes about life in an orderly and respectable manner.”
“You might if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“In which case one needs to ensure one goes elsewhere. What I mean, Pembers, is that those grubby gardeners were all up to no good. All this bribing-the-colonel business is only the tip of the iceberg.”