Murder in Cold Mud

by Emily Organ

  “The colonel must be up to no good as well.”

  “He’s completely blameless, Pemberley. He told us quite openly that they all keep bribing him. He can’t help it if they insist on throwing money at him, can he?”

  “And keep hiding it in marrows.”

  “Exactly. What can he do if they’re determined to hide money inside marrows in the grounds of his estate?”

  “Fire his shotgun at them, like he did at us?”

  “That was a mistake, for which he profusely apologised.”

  “Did he?”

  “I believed he did. And he fired it into the air, not directly at us. Anyway, you’re missing my point, Pembers. My point is that the colonel is innocent.”

  “As innocent as Mr Harding?”

  “Exactly. Why do you have that odd smile on your face, Pembers? It’s most unbecoming. Oh, I see. You don’t believe Colonel Slingsby and Mr Harding are innocent after all. Is that it?”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe they’re innocent. I just think they’re both suspicious. We don’t know whether they’re guilty or innocent; they’re probably somewhere in-between.”

  “And this is where being a good judge of character comes in useful, Pemberley. It’s quite obvious to me that Mr Harding and the colonel are innocent of murder, and are merely suffering a tarnish to their reputations as a result of their vague association with those soiled gardeners.”

  “There are only three of them left now.”

  “There are indeed, and what does that tell you, Pembers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All we need is for one of them to murder the other two and then we’ll have our murderer. He’s the guilty one. And then there was one.”

  “But what if it’s none?”

  “How could that happen?”

  “It happened before in one of Atkins’s cases. Do you remember reading about it? When they were all stuck on a remote island?”

  “Oh yes, I recall.”

  “If Mr Harris, Mr Downs and Mr Woolwell are murdered we will have no idea who the murderer is. And anyway, I don’t want them to be murdered. Or anyone else, for that matter. I think it terribly sad that we’ve already lost Mr Williams and Mr Rumbold, and we need to ensure that this dreadful killer doesn’t strike again. Maybe he won’t now that Mr Harding has been arrested, but perhaps he will? It’s quite scary, Mrs Churchill. I don’t like it at all.”

  “We must get back to it. We need to find the murderer before poor Mr Harding is charged with an offence. Let’s go and ask Mrs Harris and Mrs Downs if they’ve had a frying pan mysteriously go missing.”

  Chapter 34

  “Oh hello, Mrs Harris. We were just admiring this fine crop of jersey royals,” said Churchill down at the greengrocer’s.

  “Half a pound for a penny,” she replied, her blonde curls bouncing cheerily.

  “I’m sure my secretary would love to buy half a pound, wouldn’t you, Miss Pemberley?”

  “I don’t really eat potatoes.”

  Churchill gave a shrill laugh. “But they’re a staple item, Miss Pemberley! What on earth could you possibly be eating instead?”

  “I prefer bread.”

  “Bread with your roast beef? Whoever heard of such a thing?” With a fixed smile on her face, Churchill whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Just buy the spuds, Pembers. We’re using them as a conversation starter.”

  “But I don’t like—”

  “I’ll eat them.”

  “Half a pound of potatoes is it, then?” asked Mrs Harris, placing them in a paper bag.

  “Yes please,” replied Churchill. “I always find that I boil too many. Do you boil too many, Mrs Harris? If so, I can recommend frying the leftovers with a bit of dripping. It’s one of the most delightful morsels I have ever eaten. Forget the fad for French cookery; potatoes and dripping are all Britain needs. Of course, one does require a decent frying pan. Do you have a decent frying pan, Mrs Harris?”

  “I used to.”

  “Really?” Churchill’s heart began to pound with excitement. “I see. It went missing, eh?”

  “No, the dog broke it. He ran off with it down the garden path. He had the handle in his mouth and knocked the round bit off against the gatepost.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “He lost some of his teeth at the same time. I’ve been meaning to replace the frying pan, but the cookshop here is extremely overpriced. I hear there’s a good one in Heythrop Itching.”

  “Indeed. Well, thank you for the potatoes, Mrs Harris. Good morning to you.”

  “Oh hello, Mrs Downs, what a fine piece of rump,” said Churchill down at the butcher’s.

  Mrs Downs’ bulldog face smiled.

  “I do like to fry a bit of rump steak,” continued Churchill. “Do you fry your steak, Miss Pemberley?”

  “I don’t really like steak.”

  “Just pretend you do,” hissed Churchill from the side of her mouth. Then she smiled and addressed Mrs Downs again. “Do you like to fry your steak, Mrs Downs?”

  Mrs Downs nodded and rolled her eyes.

  “But it’s very important to have the right sort of frying pan, don’t you find, Mrs Downs? Do you have the right sort of frying pan at home?”

  Mrs Downs’s face fell.

  “Oh, I see. What does that face mean, Mrs Downs?”

  “Don’t go askin’ me about fryin’ pans,” the woman growled as she wrapped up a piece of steak.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was such a sensitive topic.”

  “I know what you’re playin’ at,” she scorned, jabbing a beefy finger in Churchill’s direction.

  “Playing? I’m not playing at anything. I’m simply buying some—”

  “I ’eard about you up at the colonel’s place without yer skirts on. And if you dare suggest my Colin murdered Rumbold with that fryin’ pan what they found in the duck pond I’ll throttle yer with a string o’ sausages!”

  “Oh goodness!” said Churchill, taking a step back. “Mrs Downs, I would never, ever consider such a thing. I—”

  “That’ll be a shillin’ fer the steak.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” replied Churchill, rummaging around in her handbag for her purse. “I hope you didn’t think I was accusing—”

  “I know exac’ly what you was doin’,” replied Mrs Downs, hurling the wrapped-up steak at Churchill, who just managed to save it with a high catch.

  “Thank you, Mrs Downs,” said Churchill, warily sliding a shilling across the counter. “And good day to you.”

  “What a terrifying woman,” said Pemberley once they were a safe distance from the butcher’s shop. “She looks like a bulldog, but I didn’t expect her to behave like one.”

  “I wasn’t even expecting her to speak,” replied Churchill. “That was a surprise indeed.”

  “You can’t blame her for being annoyed,” said Pemberley. “You were implying that her husband had murdered Rumbold.”

  “Oh no, not at all. I merely inquired about the whereabouts of her frying pan. I had hoped she would accept the question on the face of it, just as Mrs Harris had done. I didn’t expect her to use any guile.”

  “Some people are cleverer than we give them credit for.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call her clever, Pembers. It’s because she knows that her husband clonked Rumbold on the head with their frying pan that she reacted so defensively. That unpleasant encounter in the butcher’s shop was the reaction of a guilty woman! What we must do right away is ascertain the location of Mr and Mrs Downs’s frying pan. If it’s missing from their home we can safely assume it was used as the murder weapon.”

  “But what if they didn’t have one in the first place?”

  “She didn’t deny that they’d ever owned one, did she?”

  “No, she didn’t give an indication either way.”

  “Surely every household has a frying pan, Pembers?”

  “We can’t make that kind of assumption. Atkins a
lways used to say that only foolish detectives make assumptions.”

  “Well, that really does go without saying. He was hardly offering much insight there, was he?”

  “So we cannot assume that the Downs household owns, or ever owned, a frying pan.”

  “Oh darn it, Pembers. How do we find out? Poor Mr Harding is festering in Compton Poppleford police station all the while.”

  “It won’t be so bad for him just yet. They’ll only be at the cup-of-tea-and-interview stage. There may even be biscuits.”

  “I do hope so. Our work needs to be two-pronged henceforth, Pembers. The first prong is to identify the murderer and the second is to build the case for Mr Harding’s innocence. I’ve just the idea for the second prong, but I’ll need to buy some new buttons for my cerise cardigan.”

  Chapter 35

  “We’ll need to go to the haberdashery shop if you want buttons,” said Pemberley.

  “Won’t we just,” replied Churchill.

  “But it’ll mean having to speak to Mrs Thonnings.”

  “It will indeed.”

  “But you don’t like her.”

  Churchill gave a laugh. “My dear second-in-command, how could I possibly have a strong opinion about the woman? I barely know her.”

  “But you’ve been terribly uncomplimentary about her recently. Ever since you heard of her past liaison with Mr Harding.”

  “Uncomplimentary is rather a strong word, Pembers. I merely commented on the artificial colouring of her hair.”

  “And the cheapness of her blouses.”

  “Simply stating a fact.”

  “And a few other snide remarks.”

  “Perhaps I was having a bad day. Anyway, come along. I need buttons.”

  Mrs Thonnings’ haberdashery shop was a warm, cosy little place stacked high with ribbons, zips, buttons and bows of every colour imaginable. A tabby lazily groomed itself on the countertop, while Mrs Thonnings sat on a stool behind the counter reading a romance novel. She pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up onto her shiny orange-hued hair and greeted Churchill and Pemberley with a warm grin.

  “How lovely to see you in here again, ladies!”

  “Good morning, Mrs Thonnings,” said Churchill, trying not to think about her locked in a fond embrace with Mr Harding. “I’m on the hunt for some buttons for my cerise cardigan.”

  “Of course.” Mrs Thonnings slid off her stool and spent the next five minutes showing Churchill the many types of buttons she felt might be suitable. Churchill eventually chose an attractive pearl-effect set and Mrs Thonnings popped the buttons into a small, striped paper bag for her.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the news about our poor cookshop friend,” ventured Churchill.

  Mrs Thonnings tutted and shook her head. “Dreadful news. I never would have thought it of Jeffrey.”

  “Jeffrey?”

  “Mr Harding.”

  “Oh, he’s a Jeffrey, is he?’ Churchill was surprised to realise she had never found out his forename. “It’s certainly an awful shock,” she continued. “It must surely be a mistake on Inspector Mappin’s part.”

  “Perhaps it is,” said Mrs Thonnings with a sigh. “After all, he only mentioned the fact that murdering his creditors would be a solution to his debt problems on one occasion.”

  “What?!” replied an astounded Churchill. “He actually admitted that he would consider murdering the people he owed money?”

  “He only said it once as a joke,” said Mrs Thonnings, “and I don’t think he would ever have gone through with it.”

  “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t have. It’s quite common to joke about murdering people these days,” said Churchill.

  “Is it?” said Pemberley.

  “Oh yes,” replied Churchill. “If I’d actually murdered all the people I’d said I was going to I’d have been hanged for it by now.”

  “I don’t recall you ever joking about murdering anyone, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley. “And it’s not terribly funny, either.”

  “You do take life rather seriously, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill with a chuckle.

  “I must admit that I felt slightly concerned when Jeffrey joked about murdering them,” said Mrs Thonnings, “but I put it down to a bad evening at the card table and he didn’t mention it again, so I thought it had all been forgotten about. In fact, I was under the impression that he was beginning to repay some of his debts.”

  “So his debts were no secret to you?” asked Churchill.

  “His debts were the worst-kept secret in Compton Poppleford!” replied Mrs Thonnings with a laugh. “We all knew about them, didn’t we?”

  “Well, we did!” Churchill chimed in, adding a false laugh. “Goodness, we’ve often talked about poor Mr Harding’s debts, haven’t we, Pembers?”

  “Have we?”

  “Yes!” retorted Churchill, itching to give her secretary a sharp jab with her elbow so she would play along. Churchill felt rather irritated that, as the village’s private detective, she hadn’t been privy to its worst-kept secret.

  Mrs Thonnings’s face had assumed a distant expression. She picked up a length of red ribbon that had been lying on the counter and began threading it absent-mindedly through her fingers. “Yes, it was the reason Jeffrey and I separated,” she said. “His gambling habit was completely out of control.”

  “Was it really?” asked Churchill incredulously. She hadn’t felt so disappointed in a man in a long time.

  “Yes, it’s such a shame, isn’t it?” said Mrs Thonnings. “He’s such a well-educated, sophisticated, charming chap, yet he fritters all his money away on card games. I kept telling him he needed to get better at cards and then he might earn something back, but he never was a naturally gifted card player.”

  “Well, that is a big shame,” said Churchill, feeling genuinely sad about Mr Harding’s situation. “But being a gambler and owing money isn’t the same thing as being a murderer, is it?”

  “Oh, absolutely not,” said Mrs Thonnings, “and I don’t think Jeffrey would have murdered those gardeners. He never did like getting his hands dirty; he has quite pristine habits. If he was going to murder someone he would probably choose poison so he could remain a safe distance from the victim at the time of death.”

  “Goodness, you appear to have given the matter some thought, Mrs Thonnings.”

  “I must admit that I have! I’ve been thinking about it ever since Jeffrey was arrested this morning, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he couldn’t have murdered those men. And even if he had, he would have done it with poison.”

  “Have you told Inspector Mappin all this?”

  “Not yet. He hasn’t asked me.”

  “Well, I think you should go and tell him right away! It might result in poor Mr Harding being released.”

  “The police are hardly going to listen to me. I’m just the silly little lady who runs the haberdashery shop.”

  “You need to make them listen to you, Mrs Thonnings! They need to know that they’ve got the wrong man.”

  “But have they? What if he’s the murderer after all? I’d look quite foolish then, wouldn’t I?”

  “You must go down there and say your bit, Mrs Thonnings. By all accounts, nobody knows Jeffrey the way you do. Do you think he’s capable of being a murderer?”

  “No.”

  “You must go down and tell them, then. Miss Pemberley and I will mind your shop.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can pop down there later.”

  “There’s no time like the present, Mrs Thonnings!” continued Churchill. “You need to speak to that wretched Inspector Mappin while all this is fresh in his mind. It won’t do to delay. You might even meet the chief inspector down there, but don’t be cowed by him. He’s a waste of space; in fact, they all are. But you must go and do your bit.”

  “Right, well I’ll just fetch my hat. Is it chilly out? Do I need my coat?”

  “You’ll be fine in just your cardigan, Mrs Thon
nings. We’ll look after puss here. What’s his name?”

  “Mr Tiddly,” she replied as she put on her hat.

  “Good morning, Mr Tiddly,” said Churchill. The tabby hissed at her and jumped down from the counter.

  “Go on, Mrs Thonnings, toddle off. Miss Pemberley and I will steer the ship while you’re gone.”

  “I’m not sure about this, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley after Mrs Thonnings had departed. “I don’t like working in shops.”

  “It’ll only be for five minutes, Pembers, and with a bit of luck no customers will come in.”

  “Was it wise to send Mrs Thonnings off to the police station like that?”

  “We need to get poor Mr Harding off the hook, Pembers. If we leave matters as they are it’ll take the sloth-like Inspector Mappin about a week to get round to talking to Mrs Thonnings, if at all, and all that time Mr Harding will be rotting in the cells of Compton Poppleford police station.”

  “Ugh. Actually rotting?”

  “It’s not a nice thought, is it? That’s why we’re doing everything we can to help him. I just know that man’s innocent.”

  The bell over the door gave a tinkle, and a tall, large-nosed lady dressed in black walked in.

  “Oh, darn it, Pembers,” whispered Churchill. “It’s the grieving Mrs Rumbold.”

  “Oo!” exclaimed Mrs Rumbold, stopping and staring at the two ladies behind the counter. “What are you doing in here? They haven’t arrested Nora as well, have they?”

  “Nora?”

  “Mrs Thonnings.”

  “Oh, her. No, they haven’t. She’s gone down to the police station to plead Mr Harding’s innocence.”

  “I don’t know why she’s done that. He clearly did it. He owed my husband and Mr Williams two hundred pounds each. And I hear he doesn’t have an alibi for either murder.”

  Churchill sighed and wondered why everyone seemed to know more about the case than she did.

  “Please accept our condolences, Mrs Rumbold, for the tragic demise of your husband.”