Murder in Cold Mud

by Emily Organ

“Didn’t Kitty say that everyone would be making good use of it?”

  “Yes, she did! That makes sense now. She must have known it was money and that the countless Flatboots would presumably be sharing it out among themselves. But the question that begs itself, Pembers, is why?”

  “Kitty says the colonel is a friend of the family. Perhaps that’s the simple explanation.”

  “But why should he be a friend of the Flatboots? They’re from opposite ends of the social strata. It doesn’t make any sense. And how does this all relate to the murderer in our midst?”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps this is entirely unrelated, and therefore any further investigation into it would be a bootless errand.”

  “But what if the colonel took the gun from Mr Harding’s cookshop?”

  “We have no way of knowing whether he did or not.”

  “Oh dear, Pembers, this is terribly confusing. I think I need a slice of whatever remains of that Madeira cake while I reorganise this incident board. The colonel is looking increasingly suspicious to me. I had taken to him quite warmly, but I realise now that there’s something rather cloak-and-dagger about the man.”

  “He’s all smoke-and-mirrors.”

  “Mirrors, smoke, dagger and cloak.”

  “And don’t forget Mr Woolwell and Mr Harris.”

  “Oh dear, I confess that I had.”

  “And perhaps Mr Harding is the culprit after all.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Pembers.”

  “I thought you had given up defending him.”

  “I have, but I don’t want those pesky police officers solving this case. It won’t do. I’m starting to wonder if our time might be better spent reading the minutes from the Compton Poppleford Horticultural Society meetings.” She glanced at the large, unopened box beside the filing cabinets. “There could be a nugget or two in there, as the colonel said.”

  “I shouldn’t think there would be anything of use in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mirrors and smoke, remember? Dagger and cloak. He’s given us all that to read so he can distract us from the real facts of the case.”

  “Goodness! Do you really think so, Pembers?”

  “Yes, it would take us days, possibly weeks, to read everything in that box. In the meantime, he’s free to get on with cloaking and smoking and all that business.”

  “Now I don’t know whether to spend any time on them or not.”

  “I wouldn’t bother.”

  “But there might be something, mightn’t there? A little something.” Churchill went over to the box, untied the string around it and pulled out the first folder. “Meeting minutes of the CPHS, 1923. I think we could start with something a little more recent.”

  “I’ll make some tea and update the incident board,” said Pemberley.

  Churchill found the folder from the previous year and sat down to read it with the remains of the Madeira cake. It wasn’t long before they heard the door slam downstairs, followed by footsteps on the staircase.

  “Oh no. Who is it, Pemberley? I’m too busy to be bothered by anyone else today.”

  “Hullo? Mrs Churchill?”

  In strode Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple.

  “Oh hello, Chief Inspector,” said Churchill wearily. “I’d offer you a slice of cake but there isn’t much left, and I was hoping to have it all to myself.”

  “Enjoy it, Mrs Churchill, I won’t keep you long. How are you? I heard reports of a traffic accident outside the gates of Ashleigh Grange.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I’m fine, thank you. We both are.”

  “Oh good. Marvellous. That Pattison chap drives a shade too fast in that Daimler of his. I’ve told Inspector Mappin he should slap him with a fine.”

  “He wasn’t at fault today, Chief Inspector, our paths merely crossed. Fairly swiftly, I should add, as we were on bicycles and he was in a motor vehicle. But it was nothing more serious than a few bumps and bruises.”

  “That is a relief indeed. We received a telephone call from Miss Flint, the colonel’s housekeeper, so I thought we’d better follow up. Inspector Mappin would have come but he’s rather embroiled in the case at the moment.”

  “How’s the questioning of your suspect going?”

  “It’s been rather tiresome, I’m afraid. He’s hired a lawyer and that immediately puts a spanner in the works. I always tell suspects not to do it because it means the interviewing business takes three times as long. Lawyers are slippery creatures and rather skilled at applying a layer of grease to the proceedings. I like a nice clean case where charges are brought against the defendant, he stands trial, he’s found guilty and then whomp, he hangs for it. All in a matter of weeks.”

  “Oh, gosh! But you wouldn’t do that to Mr Harding, would you?”

  “It won’t be so simple with him. Not now he’s got this slippery lawyer chap from Dumbleton Poggs. And don’t ask me if that’s the name of a village or a law firm, because I have no idea. I must commend you ladies on your incident board. Isn’t that a fine-looking thing?”

  He stepped closer to the board and surveyed it, nodding all the while.

  “Very good indeed,” he continued. “I can tell that a good deal of thought has gone into this. It’s amazing what a pair of old biddies can cook up.”

  “Isn’t it indeed? Was there anything else, Chief Inspector?”

  “No, I don’t think there is, actually. I should probably get back to it.”

  “Indeed you should.”

  Chapter 44

  “I had no idea that your waitress was so au fait with Colonel Slingsby, Mrs Bramley,” said Churchill as she and Pemberley took elevenses at the tea rooms the following day.

  “Yeah, so she is. They all is.”

  “The Flatboots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there a reason for the unusual acquaintance?”

  “Yeah, and I ain’t discussin’ it, ‘cause it’s shameful!”

  “Really? The relationship between the colonel and Kitty Flatboot is shameful, is it?”

  “You’ll get nothin’ more from me on it, Mrs Churchill. It quivers me waters just thinkin’ about it.”

  “Goodness.” Churchill took a thoughtful sip of tea.

  “All I’ll say is, the sooner you catch ’er with ’er ’and in the till the better. I wish I’d never ’ad anyfing ter do with the Flatboots.”

  “Crikey, Mrs Bramley, you seem quite aerated this morning.”

  “I am, Mrs Churchill. I is. I can forget about the shamefulness fer a bit, but whenever it’s brung up again I gets the quivers.”

  “I apologise for mentioning it, Mrs Bramley.”

  “You wasn’t ter know, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Shameful, eh?” Churchill whispered to Pemberley once Mrs Bramley had departed. “I never would have thought it. What’s the age gap between Kitty and the colonel. About sixty years?”

  “Seventy, I’d say.”

  “Cripes. You’d think she’d be more interested in boys her own age. Mind you, she is rather plain. I shouldn’t think the colonel would be too fussy about that in his dotage. Are you planning to eat that tea cake?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Churchill helped herself to it. “I think we should follow up on other possibilities, Pembers. You were right when you said this whole business with the colonel could be fruitless or bootless, whatever it was. Scandal can be a terrible distraction, can’t it?”

  “Mr Woolwell could be behind all of it, and we’d have no idea because we haven’t yet spoken to the man.”

  “We tried once, didn’t we? When he was three sheets to the wind. And then there’s that Stropper Harris chap. He’s a strange one.”

  “Look at all those people walking past the window,” said Pemberley.

  “Where?” Churchill turned, taking much of the lace tablecloth with her.

  Beyond the frilly curtains of the tea rooms she saw a bustle of people passing.

  “So
mething’s happened, Pembers. Finish your tea cake.”

  “It’s on your plate.”

  “So it is.” Churchill crammed it into her mouth as she got up from her chair. “Let’s go,” she said, spraying crumbs everywhere.

  They soon encountered Mrs Thonnings in the crowd.

  “I wonder who it is this time!” she said excitedly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Churchill.

  “It has to be another murder, doesn’t it? Nothing gets the village quite so excited as a murder.”

  “It might not be.”

  “Trust me, Mrs Churchill, there’s nothing else that gets Compton Poppleforders this tickled.”

  Churchill sighed. “It looks like this crowd is heading for the allotments again, Pembers.”

  “Oh no,” replied Pemberley.

  “Let me through!” cried out a voice from behind them.

  Churchill moved aside to let a young, dark-haired woman in a green coat push past.

  “Isn’t that Mrs Woolwell?” she whispered.

  Pemberley nodded sombrely. “Perhaps she received a telephone call.”

  “Oh, Pembers.” The two ladies stopped suddenly, and the crowd continued to move on past them. “He’s the next victim, isn’t he?”

  Pemberley lifted her spectacles and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what this means,” continued Churchill. “It means that Mr Harding can’t be the murderer because he’s still languishing in the police cells, although I’m fairly indifferent to his plight now, having lost my affection for him a few days ago. Let’s leave the police to this sorry scene and continue with our own investigation.”

  “But don’t you want to find out what happened to him?”

  “We’ll find out in due course, Pembers. In the meantime, we need to track down this murderer. He can’t keep getting away with it.”

  Chapter 45

  The two ladies walked up the track toward the cottage Churchill rented from Farmer Drumhead. The bleats of sheep drifted across the neighbouring field and a skylark was singing high above their heads.

  “It’s a shame about Barry Woolwell,” said Pembers. “He was the least annoying of all the gardeners.”

  “Well, he clearly annoyed someone,” said Churchill. “And I’ve no doubt we’ll soon hear further unpleasant stories about money and debts and whiskey and common garden implements being brandished as weapons. Now where’s that wretched boy? He’s usually knocking around here somewhere.

  They followed a track that led into Farmer Drumhead’s farm and walked past the hay barn in the direction of the slurry pit.

  “He’s often around here,” said Churchill. “I wonder where else he could be. Oh, there he is, look.” She strolled toward an adolescent boy in a cap who sat on a nearby gate chewing a piece of straw.

  “Good morning, young Timmy.” She doffed her hat. “I have a shiny farthing here for a boy who is willing to do a spot of work.”

  The boy sniffed and looked away.

  “How about a spot of work, young man? It beats sitting on a gate all day.”

  “I ain’t gonna sit ’ere all day.”

  “What else do you intend to do? Catapult snails into the slurry pit?”

  “Proberly.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what Auntie Churchy’s got to offer?”

  The boy turned to face her with a sneer. “Auntie?”

  “Yes, in return for a generous payment.”

  “It’s only a farthin’.”

  Churchill sighed. “Auntie Churchy has two shiny farthings here for a boy who is willing to do a spot of work for her.”

  “Two?”

  The boy jumped down from the gate. “What d’ya want doin’, Auntie Churchill?”

  “Mrs Churchill will do just fine. I’d like someone to do a bit of scouting around for me. And don’t worry, it won’t be too far from home. It will be at your home, actually. I’d like you to look for anything that is out of the ordinary; an object you wouldn’t normally see there. Someone’s probably made an attempt to bury it or hide it. Can you think of any good hiding places at Cherrybrick Farm?”

  “Yeah, there’s loads of ’em! Beneath them ’ay bales in the cow shed, behind the buckets in the stables, the trapdoor in the chicken ’ouse and underneath Grampa’s caravan.”

  “It sounds like you have a number of places to look.”

  “Yeah, but ev’ryone ’ides stuff under Grampa’s caravan. That’s the easiest one.”

  “Why not take a look there first, then? But as soon as you find something, bring it to me and don’t breathe a word about it to anyone else. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I’ll give you one farthing now.” Churchill pulled her purse out of her handbag. “And the other when you return from your errand.”

  “Oh, what? I gotta wait for it?”

  “You won’t get a better offer today, boy. Now, off you trot. Search high and low, please!’

  The boy strolled off.

  “How do you know you can trust him?” asked Pemberley.

  “I don’t. I can only hope that the promise of two farthings is greater than the extent of his family loyalty. I’m taking a bit of a gamble.”

  “Poisoned scrumpy!” announced Mrs Thonnings. “Can you believe it?”

  “Nothing surprises me any more, Mrs Thonnings,” replied Churchill, wondering what the woman was doing in their office.

  “They think he drank it late yesterday evening. He was up at his allotment and Mrs Woolwell wasn’t too worried when he didn’t come home because he often spent the night at his allotment when the weather was warm. I wouldn’t stand for it, would you?”

  “My late husband never owned an allotment, so I couldn’t say.”

  “Neither did mine. Anyway, that’s where they found him.”

  “At his allotment?”

  “Yes. Mrs Woolwell grew concerned when he didn’t come home for his breakfast. He usually stays out all night and then has the cheek to turn up asking for breakfast! I certainly wouldn’t put up with it. Anyway, he didn’t turn up this time and, at about the same time as he normally returned for breakfast, Mr Harris discovered poor Barry deceased by his toolshed.”

  “So the murderer poisoned his scrumpy, eh?” asked Churchill.

  “Yes. They think some fungicide from his toolshed was tipped into it. He kept his jars of scrumpy in there, too.”

  “He stored fungicide next to his scrumpy stash? It sounds like the perfect opportunity for someone with murderous intent. I bet the killer couldn’t believe his luck.”

  “It does seem rather foolish, doesn’t it? Mrs Woolwell had apparently banned scrumpy from the house, so the toolshed was the only place he could store it.”

  “The fungicide probably contained cyanide,” said Pemberley. “It would have been a swift but exceptionally unpleasant death.”

  “Nasty indeed,” said Churchill. “Jam tart, Mrs Thonnings?”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “You seem to have learned rather a lot about Mr Woolwell’s death, Mrs Thonnings.”

  “I must say that I quite fancy being a detective. Oh, Mrs Churchill, I’m so envious of your private detective practice! All I do is sit about all day selling bows and ribbons, but you get involved with the nitty gritty of life. Just look at that map on the wall with all those pictures and string and pins! How I should love to have an incident board like that. I’d pretty it up with some bows, of course.”

  “It’s not as glamorous as it looks, Mrs Thonnings,” said Churchill.

  “Oh, please don’t say that! Surely it must be. How I should love to crack a case.”

  “I’m afraid the case-cracking only comes after many hours of mind-bending, back-breaking work, Mrs Thonnings.”

  “But you make it look so easy, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Do I?”

  “I see you both walking past my window, deep in discussion and I wonder what exciting discoveries you must be discussi
ng. I’m really quite envious of you, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Are you?”

  “Oh yes, terribly so. If you ever need any assistance on one of your cases you’ll ask me, won’t you? I would so love to be involved.”

  “We’ll let you know if anything arises, Mrs Thonnings,” said Churchill, wary of anyone else trying to shoulder their way into her work.

  “Oh, thank you. In the meantime I’m going to prepare a nice meal for Jeffrey. Surely they must have realised he’s not the murderer by now. He’ll be quite hungry after his long spell in the police cells. The food they serve there isn’t fit for a worm.”

  “You must feel guilty for being so mean about Mrs Thonnings after all those nice things she just said about you,” said Pemberley once Mrs Thonnings had left.

  “I wasn’t mean about her, Pembers, and I’m not sure she said many nice things about me just then; she said she was envious. One must always be wary of people who say they’re envious.”

  “Oh, but I thought she was being quite nice.”

  “You make us some tea, Pemberley, and I’ll get on with reading the minutes from the horticultural society.” She opened out the file on her desk. “It’s a dry old read, you know.”

  “I suspected it would be.”

  “‘Mr T Williams has proposed that new guidelines be issued for the trimming of the roots of onions to the basal plate.’”

  “There could be a clue in that.”

  “An obscure one, perhaps. ‘Mr J Rumbold reported that the incidence of splits in leeks was on the increase.’”

  “That’s a shame. Poor leeks.”

  “When Mrs Thonnings talks about our exciting discoveries she has no idea how many hours we spend doing this sort of thing, does she? Clueless. Completely clueless.”

  The downstairs door slammed.

  “And now we’re about to be disturbed again, Pembers.”

  The footsteps on the stairs were light and quick. Into the room dashed a breathless Timmy Flatboot carrying a sack under one arm.

  “Mrs Churchill! I found summink int’restin’ under Grampa’s caravan!”

  Chapter 46