by Emily Organ
“Have a shilling, Mrs Roseball,” said Churchill.
“Really? How very kind of you. A whole shilling? Goodness!”
“It’s Mr Butterfork’s money.”
“Is it? I don’t know what’s wrong with that man, he’s always showing off. Perhaps he’s trying to impress us all, but it doesn’t wash with me, I can tell you that much.”
“Nor me, Mrs Roseball.”
“Nor me,” added Pemberley.
“They say he doesn’t trust the banks and keeps all his money in a large tea chest in his bedroom. That’s just asking for trouble, that is. One of these days someone’ll just march in there and steal the lot. Then he’ll be sorry.”
“He will indeed,” said Churchill.
“All he needs to do is deposit it with Mr Burbage at the bank. I’ve known Mr Burbage for many years and trust him as if he were my own brother.”
“That’s good to hear, Mrs Roseball.”
“My late husband trusted him like a brother, too.”
“Lovely.”
“Both Freemasons,” she added with a whisper, “but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Indeed not, Mrs Roseball.”
Churchill and Pemberley thanked her for the jam and went on their way.
“Where’s Oswald, Pembers?”
“Oh!”
The two ladies glanced around but there was no sign of the decorated dog.
“I thought you just put him on his lead,” said Churchill.
“I did, but then I let go of it to pay for the jam.”
“Oh, good gracious, Pembers! Are you incapable of keeping him by your side for more than three minutes?”
“It does seem that way.”
“Let’s just hope he isn’t eating someone else’s lunch.”
“Careful where you’re walking, Mrs Churchill.”
“What do you mean?” said Churchill, looking down at her feet.
“You strayed a little too close to the flower stall just then.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Churchill asked, surveying the colourful, scented blooms. “Such lovely flowers, aren’t they?”
“They certainly are,” replied Pemberley, “but Mrs Crackleby is very good at selling them. On the few occasions I’ve been snared by her I’ve ended up with more bunches of flowers than I could carry. Mrs Crackleby could sell tea to the Chinese.”
“I thought you said tea came from China.”
“Exactly.”
The two ladies bought a couple of indulgences from the cake stall, then sauntered past the rifle range.
A blonde lady with protruding teeth called out to them. “Fancy a pop at a tin can, Mrs Churchill? Miss Pemberley?”
“No thank you, Mrs Harris. We’re both a hopeless shot. It might prove a little dangerous!”
They found a couple of chairs beside the bandstand and decided to rest their legs.
“I wonder how many tankards of scrumpy Mrs Thonnings has consumed by now,” said Churchill, biting into an iced lemon slice. “She likes to knock it back a bit, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she’s always enjoyed a drink.”
“She told me a joke about a butler, a cook and a pumpkin while I was paying for the first three balls at the coconut shy earlier, and to be quite frank it was unrepeatable.”
“There’s no need to repeat it, I’ve heard it before.”
“Rather shocking, isn’t it? I’ve never understood why alcohol causes some people to be vulgar. I can only imagine that crudeness is an underlying trait the individual generally manages to paper over with a layer of respectability while sober. A few drinks often serve to reveal a person’s true character, don’t they? Anyway, it’s really quite pleasant sitting here with the sun warming our faces as we eat our cake. If we sit here long enough, we might see that dog of yours trot by.”
“I hope so. I miss him.”
The ringing of a bell brought Churchill back to her senses. It took her a moment to realise she had nodded off in the afternoon sunshine.
“Goodness! Fire!”
“Where?” replied a panicked Pemberley.
“Isn’t that what the bell means?”
“No!”
“Oh, gosh.” Churchill patted her ample bosom. “I thought it was the fire bell.”
“No, it only means the mayor is about to address us.”
“Oh, right. Shall we go and hear what he has to say?”
“Yes, let’s. Look who’s joined us just in time.”
Pemberley pointed down at her feet where Oswald sat, poking his tongue out and panting a little.
“How lovely. Isn’t he a good boy? Let’s go and listen to the mayor, and then I think I’ll head home. Funny how a little nap makes you feel more tired, isn’t it?”
Chapter 3
Everyone’s attention was focused on a small podium at the centre of the field with various flower arrangements surrounding it.
“Looks like Mrs Crackleby flogged some of her wares to the fete committee,” Churchill muttered.
A table had been placed on the podium and a small, wizened man clambered up next to it, appearing to be weighed down by the heavy gold chain around his neck.
A young man laid out rosettes on the table as the mayor began his slow, languid speech. He commented on the weather and expressed gratitude for the hard work of the fete’s organisers. Then he thanked everyone for attending and announced he would be awarding prizes for the various events of the afternoon.
Churchill was just about to inform Pemberley that she was heading home to put her feet up when an elegant elderly lady approached the stage. She wore a smart dusky-pink dress with pleated skirts and a matching hat. A brooch worn just below her left shoulder glittered in the sunshine, and her overall demeanour emanated excellent breeding.
“Who’s that?” Churchill asked Pemberley.
“Lady Darby.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She and Lord Darby live at Gollendale Hall.”
“Never heard of that either, let’s move a little closer so we can hear what she has to say.”
The mayor continued. “We are joined by Lady Darby, who is attending today in place of her husband, Lord Darby, who sadly suffered an accidental shot to the foot at a shooting party in the Highlands this week. I’m sure you will all join me in wishing him a speedy recovery. Lady Darby will present the prizes.”
Lady Darby stepped onto the stage and took up her position next to the mayor. She adjusted the brim of her hat so that it shielded her face from the sun.
The mayor scrutinised a piece of paper in his hand before reading out the results. “The winner of the tombola is… Mr Jones Sloanes.” A smattering of applause followed as a slender, stooped man stepped onto the stage to be presented with a rosette by Lady Darby.
“The winner of the coconut shy with twenty-four points…” announced the mayor.
“Not me,” muttered Churchill.
“Mrs Higginbath.”
Another round of applause rang out.
“How well do you know Lady Darby, Pembers?”
“Not very well. Were you hoping for an introduction?”
Churchill gave a self-conscious laugh. “There’s no need to assume that I wish to become au fait with every member of the landed gentry, you know.”
“Isn’t there?”
“No, although I must admit it can be terribly useful to have friends in high places. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had any.”
“Oh, but you must have met some while you were a companion to your lady of international travel.”
“Oh yes, plenty. But they weren’t really friends; they were merely acquaintances.”
“That’s all these people ever are, Pembers! We call them dear friends to appear well connected.”
“Do we?”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Never mind. What do you know about Lady Darby?”
�
�She’s been married to Lord Darby for about forty years, possibly even fifty. Her father was an American tycoon and I believe her mother was one of the Habsburgs.”
“Very nice.”
“Winner of the rifle range with an impressive forty-eight points…” the mayor called out. “Mrs Roseball.”
“What else do you know about her, Pembers?”
“Much of her girlhood was spent in Switzerland, as I understand it. She boarded at a school over here, and as a young woman she lived in Paris.”
“How wonderful.”
“She speaks four languages fluently.”
“Simply marvellous.” Churchill watched Lady Darby hand out the prizes and wished she shared the elegant woman’s status.
“And now for the results of the dog show…” announced the mayor.
“Was there a dog show?” Churchill asked Pemberley. “We should have entered Oswald for something!”
“He wouldn’t have cooperated, you know that. He’s too mischievous.”
“You must do more to train him, Pembers.”
“The best-behaved puppy…” announced the mayor. “Douglas.”
A wide-eyed little white dog with large paws was carried onto the podium by its proud owner. Lady Darby patted the dog on the head, presented the owner with a rosette and engaged in some brief small talk.
“Best-behaved veteran dog…” continued the mayor. “Primrose.”
Churchill watched enviously as a succession of dog owners stepped up onto the podium to collect their prizes and exchange pleasantries with Lady Darby.
“Best adult handler… Mrs Thonnings with Oswald.”
“What?” exclaimed Churchill with a start.
“I don’t understand!” said Pemberley.
“Your dog’s been up to something else, with Mrs Thonnings this time. Come on, let’s go and fetch our prize.”
Pemberley scooped Oswald up and the two ladies hurried over to the podium.
“But what’s Mrs Thonnings doing handling Oswald?” said Pemberley. “I didn’t even know she’d entered him for the competition.”
“It was probably after he wandered off while we were buying the jam. It’s just as well she did as we’ll get to speak to Lady Darby now.”
Just as they reached the foot of the podium Mrs Thonnings sprang onto it ahead of them.
“I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed Oswald!” she called out, her face flushed from the scrumpy. “I saw him running about and there was no sign of you, so I thought I’d keep him occupied and enter him for the dog show. I had no idea we’d win!”
Pemberley climbed up onto the podium with Oswald in her arms, leaving little room for Churchill. Worried she was about to miss out on an opportunity to speak to Lady Darby, the elderly detective did her best to step up and join the others.
“Room for a small one?” she chimed, pushing her large frame up against them.
Mrs Thonnings and Pemberley shuffled a little closer to Lady Darby as Churchill teetered perilously close to the edge.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Lady Darby. “This is a tight squeeze, isn’t it? Which one of you is the handler?” She spoke with rounded vowels and clipped consonants.
“I am!” announced Mrs Thonnings proudly.
“And we are the dog’s owners,” Churchill chipped in, peering at Lady Darby over Pemberley’s shoulder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Darby, and please do pass on my best wishes to your husband. I hope his foot makes a swift recovery.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“I’m Mrs Churchill, the proprietor of Churchill’s Detective Agency.”
“Are you indeed? How very interesting. Now, to whom should I present the prize?”
“Me!” Mrs Thonnings piped up. “I did all the handling.”
“Well done to you,” said Lady Darby, presenting her with a red rosette.
“Don’t I get a prize?” asked Pemberley. “I’m Oswald’s owner.”
“Oh, well… I’m not sure,” replied Lady Darby. She turned to ask the mayor, who shook his head in reply. “I’m afraid we only have a rosette for the handler,” continued Lady Darby with an apologetic expression on her face. “You do have the better prize of owning a lovely dog, however. Isn’t he simply adorable?”
“We like to think so,” replied Churchill proudly.
“Are you also his owner, Mrs Churchill?” asked Lady Darby.
“Of sorts. I help look after him.”
“He is actually mine, though,” added Pemberley, glaring at the red rosette in Mrs Thonnings’s hand.
“Well, Oswald gets a lovely little rosette as well,” said Lady Darby, pinning the red ribbon to his collar. “There, doesn’t he look delightful?”
“He does indeed,” said Churchill. “Thank you so much, Lady Darby. I sincerely hope that our paths cross again in the not too distant future. And I must add that if you are ever in need of a private detective agency, I do hope that you will consider us. We pride ourselves on utter thoroughness and professionalism.”
No sooner had she finished her sentence than Churchill slipped off the podium and twisted her ankle. She managed to stifle an expletive as she sank to the ground, nursing the sharp pain in her foot.
“Good Lord! Are you all right, Mrs Churchill?” asked a concerned Lady Darby, peering over the edge of the podium. “Not hurt, I hope?”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” lied Churchill, forcing a grin through clenched teeth.
“I imagine the only real injury is to her pride, Lady Darby,” added Mrs Thonnings.
Chapter 4
“I managed to hobble here this morning,” Churchill said to Pemberley the following day as the two ladies sat in their office, “but I’m not sure it was wise. You should have seen my ankle yesterday evening. It had swollen to the size of a balloon!”
“I think it was a mistake trying to squeeze yourself onto that podium,” replied Pemberley. “There really wasn’t room for us all.”
“They should make the podiums for these things a bit bigger.”
“They weren’t expecting three people to collect a single prize.”
“If you ask me it was Mrs Thonnings who shouldn’t have been there. Oswald isn’t even her dog!”
“I’d like to know which handling skills she employed to win the competition. I’ve never known Oswald listen to anyone before.”
“Can I hear someone ascending the stairs to our eyrie, Pembers?”
“I believe so.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter!” trilled Churchill.
She felt an odd shiver as a tall, thin man dressed in black entered the room. He wore a wide-brimmed hat with a black shabby coat over an even shabbier suit. His cheeks were gaunt and he fixed her with a pair of icy, steel-grey eyes.
“Oh, good morning,” Churchill said reticently. “Do excuse the fact that my foot is up on my desk. I gave my ankle a rather nasty twist yesterday while conversing with Lady Darby.”
The man registered this comment with barely a nod. He removed his hat to reveal a completely bald head, save for a handful of wiry grey hairs.
“I’m Grieves,” he said in a deep, quiet voice. “The sexton.”
“Are you indeed? Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr Grieves. You’ll have to excuse me for not getting up. It’s the ankle, you see. But do please take a seat.”
Churchill detected an odour of damp earth as Mr Grieves seated himself opposite her with his hat on his lap.
“May we have some tea, Miss Pemberley?” she asked brightly.
Pemberley nodded and dashed into the room at the back of the office with Oswald following close behind her.
“What brings you here today, Mr Grieves?” asked Churchill.
“Something’s amiss in St Swithun’s churchyard.” His eyes were unblinking.
“Oh goodness, is it?” Churchill felt another shiver. Although not a believer in the supernatural, she dearly hoped Grieves wasn’t about to relate a ghost
story to her. “What exactly is amiss?”
“I’ve noticed a fair few things.”
“Such as?”
“I didn’t hold much stock by them to begin with, but after the first couple happened I began to wonder.”
“I see. And what are these things you noticed, exactly?”
“They’re not much to speak of when considered individual-like, but when they’re all added up together there’s no doubt something’s awry. Inspector Mappin wasn’t the least bit interested, mind you.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Churchill with a nervous laugh.
The sexton’s gaze was so intense she found it a struggle to maintain eye contact. She fervently hoped Pemberley would walk in with the tea tray just to shift his focus for a moment. “Well, we’re always happy to help here at Churchill’s Detective Agency,” she said. “Perhaps we could begin by discussing what these individual-like incidents actually are.”
Churchill leaned forward to find a fresh sheet of paper, but immediately found she was unable to do so with her foot up on the desk. She gripped her leg and slowly eased it down onto the floor. “Ouch. I really didn’t expect conversing with Lady Darby to be so perilous! Do you know her at all?”
“I know the family tomb.”
“I see. Yes, I suppose you would.”
Churchill noticed her hand shaking slightly as she dipped her pen into the inkpot. Mr Grieves’s presence was making her feel more than a little uncomfortable.
“First of all, I found a rose on old Arthur Brimble’s grave,” said Mr Grieves.
Churchill wrote this down. “And that’s unusual, is it?”
“Very.” He stared pointedly at her.
“Has no one ever left a rose, or a flower of any other sort, on Arthur Brimble’s grave before?”
“Never. He died in 1842 and had no known relatives.”
“Is it possible that a long-lost descendant of some sort discovered his final resting place and came to pay their respects?”
“No. And anyway, the rose was placed there at some point during the night.”
“Really?” Churchill felt a prickle at the back of her neck. “Can you be absolutely sure of that?”