by Emily Organ
Chapter 38
Cackrudge Lane was a puddle-filled track with small, ancient-looking cottages slumped either side of it.
“With Mr Downs at his allotment and Mrs Downs at the butcher’s, we should be able to peer through their windows without too much trouble,” said Churchill. “Which cottage is it? If you can call these cottages. They’re more like huts, really, aren’t they?”
“The one with the roof covered in moss,” replied Pemberley.
“I see the one you mean.”
“It needs to be re-thatched.”
“It needs to be knocked down; it doesn’t look fit for human habitation.” Churchill peered in through the little casement window. “I can’t see a thing in there. It’s too dingy and I don’t think these windows have been cleaned since the eighteenth century. Presumably there is some form of access at the rear?”
“I should think so,” replied Pemberley, walking on past the row of cottages.
Churchill followed her until they reached a narrow path between the end cottage and a tall hedge.
“Let’s go down this little snicket,” said Pemberley.
“A what-did-you-call-it?” asked Churchill, following her into the narrow lane.
“It’s what they say up north.”
“Do you have northern connections, Pembers?”
“My father once met a man from Darlington.”
“Good for him. Oh look, the privies.”
The snicket opened out into a cobbled back yard behind the cottages, where a row of tumbledown brick lavatories stood. Washing lines criss-crossed the yard, and shirts, vests, aprons and knickerbockers billowed in the breeze.
Ducking between the pieces of laundry, the two women finally located the back entrance of the Downs’s moss-covered home.
“Ah yes, there’s a better view through here, Pembers,” said Churchill, peering in through another little window. “I can see a stove with all manner of cookware stacked around it. There’s a saucepan, and I think I spy a colander. There’s a large earthenware dish of some sort… Oh and it looks like there’s another little Jack Russell terrier in here too. Hello little fellow!”
The dog responded with a bark.
“Can you see a frying pan?”
“Not yet, Pemberley, which I must say is quite promising. There’s a kettle…”
“And a frying pan?”
“I’m still looking! It’s not easy squinting through this tiny little window, you know. It would be a darned sight easier if we could actually get inside the place.”
“Why don’t we just do that, then?” replied Pemberley, opening the little door next to the window.
“What? Just walk in? You mean to say that it’s unlocked?”
“Of course it is. No one ever locks their doors in what you like to call the provinces.”
“But what about burglars?”
“They’re just something you get in big cities. No one’s got anything worth stealing around here.”
“I imagine that to be true,” said Churchill, glancing up at a pair of patched long-johns swinging on the washing line. “Come on, then. If we’re going in let’s make it quick. It won’t take a moment to identify whether there is a frying pan on the premises or not. Let me go first, though. My eyesight is keener than yours.”
Churchill bustled in through the little doorway into a low-ceilinged room and was immediately met by the sound of furious barking. Within half a second the terrier had flung itself at her and locked its jaws onto her tweed skirt.
“Oh darn it!” she cried. “I wasn’t expecting it to do that!”
The little dog growled as its razor-sharp teeth gripped tightly around the bottom of her skirt.
“Can’t you get it off, Pembers?”
“How would I do that?”
“Just pull it or something.”
“It might bite me!”
“It’s biting my skirt! This is Harris tweed!”
“I’d rather its jaws were locked on to something inanimate rather than a body part. It’s certainly the lesser of two evils.”
“Oh, is it indeed? That’s fine for you to say when you haven’t got a demonic Jack Russell chewing up an item of clothing that was made-to-measure at great cost.”
Pemberley walked over to the stove. “I can’t see a frying pan.”
“I refuse to even commence the search for a frying pan until this animal has been removed from my clothing. Pembers, how about that steak we bought? Get it out of your shopping bag and wave it under the dog’s nose.”
“But it cost—”
“I know how much it cost, but I paid twenty times more for this fine skirt. Just get it out and wave it at him.”
Pemberley retrieved the steak from the shopping bag, unwrapped it and tentatively held it by one end.
“Here, little doggy,” she said. “Look what Auntie Doris has for you!”
The dog ignored her and continued to growl at Churchill.
“He didn’t hear you, Pembers. Waggle it about a bit and get the scent wafting over to him. In fact, bring it closer. He needs it waved right under his nose.”
“He might go for it!”
“That’s exactly what we want him to do!”
“But what if he takes a chunk out of my hand as well?”
“Just waggle the steak, Pembers. Jiggle it!”
“He doesn’t want it.”
“Oh, give it to me, will you?”
Pemberley did as she was asked and Churchill waved the steak above the dog’s head.
“Here, doggy, doggy, doggy! Look at this lovely steak! Much nicer than Churchy’s skirt, you little blighter! Now get off!”
The steak had no effect on the dog, which remained where it was, jaws locked and snarling.
“We could cut it off,” suggested Pemberley.
“What do you mean?”
“We could just cut off the piece of skirt it’s hanging on to.”
“I’m not allowing a pair of scissors anywhere near my skirt, Pembers!”
“Then it appears we are quite stuck.”
“Not a bit of it. Just look for the frying pan, then we can get out of here. This beast is merely guarding his territory. Once we’re out of this place he’s bound to let go.”
“I can’t see a frying pan anywhere,” said Pemberley, searching around the small iron stove.
“Me neither, Pembers,” said Churchill, cautiously removing her eyes from the dog for a short while to survey the simple room. “There we have it, then,” she said. “No frying pan, ergo Mr Downs used it to incapacitate his poor friend Mr Rumbold before leaving him to drown in the duck pond. Dreadful! Despicable! He must be detained at once, Pembers. And after that he shall face trial.”
“Oh look, here’s a frying pan.” Pemberley retrieved a pan from a hook on the wall beside the pantry.
“Oh, darn it. Really?” Churchill’s heart sank.
“But perhaps Mr and Mrs Downs owned two frying pans?”
“I don’t see why they should have, but it’s possible. In which case Mr Downs may still be the murderer.”
“Uh oh,” said Pemberley, glancing over at the little window.
Churchill noticed a shadow passing it, like a cloud moving across the sun. “Oh dear indeed.”
The door swung open. “Everything all right in here? I heard barking.”
The voice came from a large lady with a square face and long grey hair. Churchill stifled a groan. It was Mrs Higginbath.
In one swift move Churchill tossed the steak into the frying pan Pemberley was still holding and hastily armed herself with an excuse.
“Mrs Churchill? Miss Pemberley?”
“Mrs Higginbath! How lovely to see you again! Miss Pemberley and I were just about to fry some steak as a surprise for Mr and Mrs Downs. Do you live next door?”
“It would be a surprise for them indeed,” replied Mrs Higginbath, staring at the frying pan. “Yes, I do. What’s Spark doing attached to your skirt?”
“Spark? Not Sparky?”
“No, Sparky’s the quiet one. Spark’s the one who’s got your skirt in his mouth. He must have felt quite threatened.”
“Entirely our fault, Mrs Higginbath. We weren’t sure how to warn the dog that we were cooking up a surprise for Mr and Mrs Downs. He’s taken it quite badly.”
“It’s because he knows something’s afoot, that’s why. He’s not stupid, and neither am I. If you think I believe your cock and bull story about cooking a surprise steak you really are more foolish than you look.”
Chapter 39
“The whole thing can be explained in quite simple terms, Inspector Mappin,” said Churchill, seated in the police station with Pemberley beside her. “But I would really appreciate it if you could remove your dog from my skirt, Mrs Downs.”
The bulldog-faced lady stood over them, her handbag clutched firmly in her hands. “I already told yer. Only Colin can get the dog off.”
Inspector Mappin sighed. “Mrs Churchill, you do realise that policing in Compton Poppleford is stretched to its utmost limits with all this murder business going on, don’t you? Do you think I have any time at all for your nonsense?”
“Of course not, Inspector. I repeatedly told Mrs Higginbath that it was completely unnecessary to involve the strong arm of the law, yet she insisted on telephoning you. The woman bears a grudge against me, Inspector, and all because I once let slip something that wasn’t entirely complimentary about her nephew. She still won’t even let me join the library!”
“You broke into me ’ouse!” scorned Mrs Downs.
“We were merely making routine enquiries, Mrs Downs. Miss Pemberley and I had simply popped our heads in through the door. We had no idea we would be set upon by a crazed hound!”
“’E’s a guard dog!”
“And a very effective one, Mrs Downs. But we didn’t break into your house. The door was unlocked, and we didn’t take anything either.”
“You took me fryin’ pan!”
“Miss Pemberley, please will you return the frying pan to Mrs Downs? We were herded out of there by Mrs Higginbath so swiftly that we forgot to put it back on its hook. Look, you can have the steak too. We paid good money for that, as you well know.”
Inspector Mappin cradled his head in his hands. “How long will it be before your husband gets here, Mrs Downs?”
“Dunno. One o’ the Flatboot boys was sent to fetch ’im.”
“And you’re quite sure that only your husband can remove the dog from Mrs Churchill’s skirt?”
“Yeah, and she’s lucky it’s only ’er skirt. Colin’s trained ’im to bite people’s legs.”
Churchill winced and glared at the fearsome terrier locked on to her skirt.
“How many frying pans do you own, Mrs Downs?” asked Pemberley.
“Just this one.” She scowled. “What else ’as to ’appen for you two to get it into yer thick skulls that my Colin ain’t the murderer?”
Inspector Mappin sighed again. “Is that what this is all about, Mrs Churchill? Do you suspect that Mr Downs is the murderer?”
“No, Inspector! Absolutely not! Now, I can’t deny that Miss Pemberley and I have been conducting some enquiries regarding the ownership of frying pans around the village, but there was no intention to accuse anyone of anything. In fact, all our work thus far has merely been an attempt to prove Mr Harding’s innocence.”
The inspector snorted.
“He didn’t do it! Someone else hit Mr Rumbold with the frying pan, not Mr Harding. And whoever it was must be missing a frying pan. As soon as we noticed the frying pan hanging on the wall in Mr and Mrs Downs’ cottage we immediately said, Ah so it’s clearly not Mr Downs, then, because there’s the frying pan. Didn’t we, Miss Pemberley?”
“Something similar to that.”
“Yes, well I can’t recall my exact words, but they were broadly similar, weren’t they? And as soon as we said that, we were just about to leave when this savage creature latched on to my skirt. Which is Harris tweed, by the way, so you must understand that I’m particularly upset about it. So you see, I have already lost out, Inspector, and I don’t think this incident should take up any more of your precious time. Or ours, for that matter.”
“Mrs Churchill,” said the inspector wearily, “I don’t believe you had any malicious intent when you entered the property of Mr and Mrs Downs this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“However, you are guilty of being nosey to the point of disruption and great inconvenience to many law-abiding citizens. This is the second time you’ve been caught trespassing in the last week, Mrs Churchill.”
“And Miss Pemberley, too.”
“You place an unreasonable expectation on your assistant to tag along with you. You drag her into it.”
“I don’t drag you, do I, Miss Pemberley?”
“Mrs Churchill, if I hear any more reports of trespass I shall have to take these matters very seriously indeed. You buzz about this village like a bee in search of honey, and it’s becoming extremely annoying. One of these days you’re likely to get swatted.”
Churchill gritted her teeth, wishing she could swat the inspector with her handbag.
“I wish ter press charges!” announced Mrs Downs.
“We’re too busy for that,” retorted Inspector Mappin. “We’ve got a murderer to prosecute.”
“I wish to plead Mr Harding’s innocence!” said Churchill.
“Just stay out of it, you!” snapped the inspector. “Just please, for once, Mrs Churchill, allow the law of the land to roll on without poking a stick into its spokes.”
Chapter 40
“Bees don’t search for honey,” grumbled Pemberley as they walked up the high street after leaving the police station. “They make honey. I wanted to tell Inspector Mappin that, but he would only have become even crosser.”
“And it wouldn’t have made any difference, my dear, Pembers. The chap is completely hapless. He doesn’t know his elbow from a bar of soap.”
“That must cause serious problems during his morning ablutions.”
“Absolutely, it must. And to think that poor Mr Harding is withering, positively perishing, in the cells of that dismal police station while Mappin and the chief inspector discuss the cricket over tea and biscuits. It’s just…” Churchill paused to wipe a tear from her eye. “Oh, the injustice of it all, Pembers!”
“At least Mr Downs managed to remove Spark from your skirt.”
“I suppose I should be grateful that his teeth didn’t leave even the slightest hole. That’s Harris tweed for you. One can expect nothing less from the Outer Hebrides; everything has to be hard-wearing up there. Inspector Mappin wouldn’t last five minutes. He’d be swept away the instant it blew a hoolie.”
“Is that the colonel’s Daimler parked outside the cookshop?” said Pemberley.
“It jolly well appears to be, doesn’t it?”
“But the cookshop’s closed, so what’s the colonel doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
The two ladies halted in their steps and watched from a distance as the cookshop door opened and the lean form of Colonel Slingsby stepped out. Churchill’s eyes were drawn to a large bag, which he carried in one hand. He looked around as Pattison opened the car door for him. Then he climbed inside.
“Did you see the valise in his hand, Pembers? What could he have stashed in there?”
“He’s removing evidence!”
“What evidence?”
“I wish I knew.”
The Daimler turned around in the road, then drove away from them.
“He can’t be removing evidence,” said Churchill. “Mr Harding hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“But can we actually be certain of that?”
Churchill felt her heart sink as she questioned, for the first time, whether her continual defence of Mr Harding was misplaced.
“Well, I don’t suppose we can be completely certain, can we? If the man w
as provoked by a dibber to the face, or whatever it was, and there were whiskey and cards and money involved, then maybe… just maybe… there’s a slight, teeny-weeny possibility that he may not be completely above board.”
Pemberley allowed a respectful pause to pass before replying. “It’s usually sensible to keep an open mind.”
“Yes indeed. Common sense must prevail at all times. But at this moment I’d like to know what the colonel has just removed from Mr Harding’s business premises.”
“A frying pan, perhaps?”
“Can we, just for one moment, stop considering frying pans? I’m rather tired of them, if truth be told.”
“His missing gun?”
A chill ran down Churchill’s spine. “Oo, Pembers! That might be it! But how does the colonel intend to explain its reappearance?”
“Perhaps he’ll keep it hidden.”
“Oo, yes! Plenty of hiding places in that ancestral seat of his. There will be trapdoors, hidden compartments, lofty attics and all sorts. There may even be a priest hole. No one would find it for generations. Just a moment, though, Pemberley. If we’re saying that the colonel was removing his gun from Mr Harding’s shop, that suggests Mr Harding is the murderer.”
“It suggests it, but we can’t be certain. And we did just decide that it’s best to keep an open mind.”
Churchill nodded bravely. “We did indeed. We must consider all possibilities, no matter how unpalatable they are.”
“That’s just what Atkins used to say.”
“Did he? Oh good. We’ve finally found something he and I agree on. Now then, Pembers, I would like to speak to the colonel again but I’m not sure how to go about it. It wouldn’t do for us to simply invite ourselves back to Ashleigh Grange, especially after the incident with the marrows and my breeches. How else can we gain an audience with him? The old crumb doesn’t seem to venture away from his home too often.”
“I think I have an idea.”
“Really, Pembers?”
“But it may involve riding a bicycle.”
Chapter 41