by Emily Organ
“I always check the graveyard at dusk and dawn.”
“And at dusk it wasn’t there, but by dawn it was?”
“That’s correct.”
“Gosh! Oh, thank you, Pemberley. Tea! Tea, Mr Grieves?”
“No thank you.”
“Cherry bun?”
“No thank you.”
“I see. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the rose on Arthur Brimble’s grave. What else is there, Mr Grieves?”
“Some lichen was removed from the headstone of old Sally Fletcher.”
“Lichen?”
“Yes, and a bit of moss too, I suspect. You can see her name quite clearly now.”
“Again, one might presume that the headstone was cleaned up by a family member.”
“Old Sally Fletcher had no family. She was a spinster of this parish.”
“Then perhaps a friend of hers did it.”
“Her friends would all be dead now. She died in 1882.”
“I see.” Churchill made some notes on her piece of paper, unsure as to what she could do about any of this. She took a sip of tea, then asked, “Anything else?”
“A small hole beside the final resting place of Benjamin Grunchen. I noticed it this morning while I was digging a grave.”
“A hole? What sort of hole?”
“Just what I say. A hole.”
“How big?”
“So big.” He circled both hands.
“Could it possibly have been made by a rodent?”
“I wouldn’t have said so. The only rodents I see in the graveyard are rats the size of your dog here, and I shoot them. There was no little pile of soil like you get with a rodent hole. You know how they dig away with their paws and create a small mound behind them?”
“I can picture that, yes.”
“There was none of that. This was more of an exploratory hole. Made with a trowel, I’d say.”
“You mean to say the hole is there as a result of human activity?”
“I’d say so.”
“And it appeared overnight?”
“Possibly. I haven’t seen anyone digging around with a trowel there in the daytime. I’d have told them to sling their hook if I had.”
“Why would someone dig an exploratory hole in the grave of Benjamin Grunchen?”
“You tell me, Mrs Churchill.”
“I don’t suppose there are any Grunchen family members about to explain themselves?”
“There are plenty of them, but I haven’t got round to asking yet because I only noticed the hole this morning. I don’t see why any of them would dig a hole in his grave, though. It seems a most singular thing to do.”
“It certainly does. Any other suspicious antics in the graveyard?”
“Some grass has grown on Saul Mollikin’s grave.”
“Isn’t that supposed to happen?”
“Not to Saul Mollikin’s grave it’s not. Grass has never grown on it.”
“Goodness, why ever not?”
Grieves lowered his voice and leaned forward a little. “Not a single blade of grass has ever grown on Saul Mollikin’s grave for two hundred years.”
Churchill shuddered. “Well, that is unusual. I wonder why that might be.”
“They say he was cursed by the witch on Grindledown Hill.”
“Oh, I see. It’s one of those classic Dorset folklore tales.” Churchill gave a cynical laugh.
“Oh, I’d dismiss it as folklore right enough,” replied Grieves, “if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
“That would make it seem all the more real, I suppose,” replied Churchill, gulping down a sip of hot tea. “Is that everything, Mr Grieves?”
He sat back in his chair and continued to regard her with a fixed gaze. “That’s everything.”
“And you’d like me and my trusted assistant, Miss Pemberley here, to carry out some investigations into these strange happenings?”
“I would indeed, Mrs Churchill.”
“Do you have any theories of your own?”
“None. If only one of these things had happened I’d probably have been able to explain it away somehow, but there’s some sort of tinkering going on in the churchyard that I just can’t understand. That’s why I’m here.”
“I must say now that this seems to be rather a tricky case, Mr Grieves, but we’ll do our best. Nothing has ever managed to stump us so far, has it, Miss Pemberley?”
Once Mr Grieves had left, Pemberley made some more tea and Churchill placed her foot back up on her desk.
“Is it just me, Pembers, or is there a lingering odour of the tomb in here? We could do with a little potpourri to freshen the air.”
“How on earth are we going to investigate this one, Mrs Churchill?” said Pemberley, placing the tea tray on her employer’s desk.
“We’ll have to sneak around the graveyard at night to find out who’s been causing all this mischief.”
“You can count me out.”
“You can’t be counted out, Pembers. It’s your job!”
“Not if it involves wandering about graveyards at night it’s not! I’d rather resign.”
“Resign? Don’t be so ridiculous! You’re one of the fixtures and fittings of this place.”
“I’m not going into St Swithun’s graveyard at night, and that’s the end of it. It’s enough of a struggle going there in the daytime.”
“I can’t say it tops the list of places I’d like to spend a night, but we have a case to solve. Anyway, we could bring Oswald with us. He’s quite fearless.”
“He’s not fearless at night; he hates the dark. The only place Oswald wants to be at night is under the eiderdown next to me.”
“Oh dear. I’d hoped that by inviting Oswald to join us you could also be persuaded, Pembers. Please come with me… I really don’t want to spend a night in the churchyard on my own.”
“You could ask Mr Grieves to join you.”
Churchill gasped. “That man? He gives me the chills sitting across the desk from me in my own office. Can you imagine spending a night with him in the graveyard? It’s quite unthinkable.”
“Maybe he could just do it on his own, in that case. Surely he doesn’t need us to help him.”
“He clearly does or he wouldn’t have asked for our help.”
“We could refuse to investigate the case.”
“And turn down good money?”
“Neither of us wants to investigate it.”
“Can you imagine what it would do to the reputation of this detective agency if we were to turn the case down? People would assume we were inept. At least our reputation is intact at the present time. People know we get our cases solved.”
“But the downside is we’ve been given a creepy one this time.”
“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation Mr Grieves has overlooked.”
“Grass growing on Saul Mollikin’s grave? No one can explain that away.”
“Perhaps we’re dealing with someone who merely wished to carry out a little maintenance in the churchyard. Perhaps they decided that removing lichen from headstones and scattering a rose and some grass seed about is what was needed. They probably thought Mr Grieves wasn’t doing a good enough job of maintaining the graves but felt too frightened to say it to his face. I know I would be, and I’m not often frightened of people, as you well know.”
“But what about the exploratory hole in Benjamin Grunchen’s grave?”
“That was probably a family member. Mr Grieves said himself that he hadn’t spoken to the family about it yet. I know the case sounds rather sinister, but perhaps it can all be easily cleared up.”
“Without spending a night in the churchyard?”
“Let’s hope so. I feel the need for a change of air, Pembers. That tomb smell is still lingering in here. Would you like to accompany me?”
“What about your ankle?”
“Resting it on my desk has made no difference at all, so I may as well keep it moving.”
Chapter 5
A small child with a stick was chasing a flock of pigeons as Churchill and Pemberley walked along the cobbled high street. Mrs Thonnings waved at them from the window of her haberdashery shop and Mr Perret the greengrocer gave them a nod as he arranged a display of cabbages.
“How’s the ankle faring?” Pemberley asked.
“It’s holding up, thank you. I don’t like to grumble, as you know.”
The two ladies passed the bank and came across a shopfront that had been freshly painted in a pleasing pistachio green.
“I say,” said Churchill, pausing beside the shopfront. “Does the bank have a new neighbour?”
“Yes. This used to be Mr Borridge’s barber shop.”
“What happened to Mr Borridge?”
“No one wanted to visit him after that incident with Mr Sparrow and the cut-throat razor.”
“Ah yes, I remember now. It was always rather a down-at-heel sort of place anyway, but look at it now!” Churchill admired the paintings of pleasant rural scenes that had been neatly positioned in the shop window. “It’s a picture gallery of some sort, wouldn’t you say?”
“It certainly appears to be.”
“Pickwick’s Gallery,” Churchill read from the newly installed sign. “How delightful, and what an extremely welcome addition to Compton Poppleford high street. A shop of this ilk lends a certain class to an area, wouldn’t you say? We were practically falling over picture galleries when I lived in Richmond-upon-Thames, but to discover one here in this rural backwater is quite something.”
“Even the people you term ‘rustics’ like to hang pictures on their walls, Mrs Churchill.”
“I shall have to poke my little nose in here to see what they have inside. We’d better leave Oswald outside, though. Don’t you have a lead to attach him to something?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure he’ll wait here nicely for us.”
“I fear your abounding trust in him might be misplaced, Pembers. Churchill pushed the shop door open. “Pickwick…” she mused. “Isn’t that the name of the awfully pleasant chap who had his sandwiches eaten by Oswald at the summer fete? Oh look, here he is!”
The smartly dressed Mr Pickwick with his neat grey moustache gave the two ladies a smile as they stepped through the door.
“Well, fancy not mentioning your wonderful new gallery to us, Mr Pickwick!” enthused Churchill.
“Oh, I’ve only just got it off the ground. There’s not a great deal to speak of at the moment. Only a few pieces so far.”
Churchill glanced around, noticing the walls were fairly bare. “But what you do have looks quite delightful, doesn’t it, Miss Pemberley?”
“Indeed it does.”
“Actually, I think the fact you don’t have many pictures yet makes the ones you do have look all the better. Don’t you think so, Miss Pemberley?”
“Possibly.”
“Personally, I can’t abide shops that are filled with clutter. I find it quite off-putting and distracting.”
“You liked Mr Harding’s cookshop, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley.
“Mr Harding? I can’t say I recall him.”
“I recall you being quite taken with him.”
“Is that so?” commented Mr Pickwick with a wry smile.
“No, I can’t remember him at all,” snapped Churchill. “Now, Mr Pickwick, where did you find these delightful artworks? Do you source them from auctions? Or from local artists?”
“Oh, I do a bit of everything; I’m just starting out with it all really. And I must confess that yours truly may have had a hand in one or two of them.”
Churchill gasped. “Your good self, Mr Pickwick? An artist?”
“I wouldn’t call myself that, exactly. I just started dabbling a little when I retired.”
“Can you show us some of your works?”
“If you insist.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “I’ve hidden them right at the back here.” He led them toward the rear of the shop, then paused beside a maritime scene painted in oils. “HMS Devastation,” he mumbled.
“Crikey! That’s rather a hair-raising name for a ship.”
“She was scrapped in 1908.”
“And you painted this all by yourself?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What a talent you are with a brush! HMS Devastation… A naval man, are you, Mr Pickwick?”
“Goodness, no. I wish I could say that I’d done something that exciting. Alas, no. I was a mere insurance salesman for forty years.”
“There’s nothing mere about being an insurance salesman. It’s a most important job!”
“Very kind of you to say so, Mrs Churchill. I fear you flatter me a little.”
“No more than you deserve, Mr Pickwick.”
Churchill felt a little warmth in her face as he fixed her with his intelligent blue eyes. She turned toward a painting depicting a bowl of fruit to prevent him noticing her blushes.
“I like the colours in this one.”
“Do you really? They’re not quite as vibrant as I would have liked. There’s a little too much of a bluish hue to it.”
“Then why do you have it in your gallery?”
“Because Mr Pickwick painted it himself,” responded Pemberley. “Look at the signature.”
Churchill peered at the bottom right-hand corner of the painting and saw the word ‘Pickwick’ scrawled there.
“Good gracious, Mr Pickwick!” she exclaimed. “This is your own work, too? It’s quite astonishing. And to think you wasted all those years as an insurance salesman when you could have been a professional artist!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He glanced down at the floor and shuffled from one foot to another. “I’ve always enjoyed fooling around with oils, but my talents don’t stretch much further than that.”
“I must respectfully disagree! I’ll tell you who would enjoy this new gallery, Mr Pickwick. Lady Darby, that’s who. Miss Pemberley and I were chatting to her just yesterday at the fete, weren’t we, Miss Pemberley?”
Her trusty assistant nodded.
“A simply delightful lady,” continued Churchill. “I’m sure she would like this picture.” She paused beside the portrait of a distinguished-looking man in a long curly wig and a red velvet tunic.
“The Duke of Marlborough,” said Mr Pickwick. “I didn’t paint this one.”
“What else have you painted in here?” asked Churchill. She glanced around keenly and Mr Pickwick pointed to a portrait of a mature, dignified-looking lady seated in a chair beside a large window.
“Viscountess Bathshire,” he announced.
Churchill gave an impressed nod. “A personal friend of yours, is she??”
“Of sorts.” He scratched his temple. “Her father-in-law was at school with my father.”
“I see,” said Churchill, who was warming more to Mr Pickwick with every passing moment. She found herself feeling slightly envious of Viscountess Bathshire, who appeared to be so blessed that she had little to do other than repose in a chair and enjoy being painted by a well-mannered gentleman of a convivial nature.
“Oh look, here we are in the Compton Poppleford Gazette with Mr Butterfork and Mrs Thonnings,” said Pemberley as the two ladies enjoyed a plate of jam tarts back at the office.
Churchill walked over to Pemberley’s desk, tea and jam tart in hand, and peered down at the photograph. “Oh yes. Taken when that brusque photographer accosted us. He’s not a very good photographer, is he?”
“Why not?”
“He’s taken the picture from rather a strange angle. It makes my bosom appear far bigger than it is in real life, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm.” Pemberley filled her mouth with jam tart in a bid to excuse herself from replying.
“Oh, and there’s Mr Pickwick,” said Churchill, spotting him in another photograph taken at the fete. “Standing shoulder to shoulder with Inspector Mappin, nonetheless. I can’t imagine the pair of them having much in common. He’s such a delightful fell
ow.”
“Inspector Mappin?”
“You knew I was talking about Mr Pickwick, Pembers. There’s no need for your funny little wordplay games.”
“I can’t understand why he became an insurance salesman when his father was at school with Viscount someone-or-other.”
“He’s clearly a man who doesn’t fall for all the trappings,” replied Churchill loftily, “which demonstrates great strength of character. It’s all too easy to subsist on the charity of one’s rich friends, but it takes a real gentleman to stand on his own two feet, launch himself out into the big wide world and earn an honest wage.”
“You appear to have formed rather a high opinion of Mr Pickwick, Mrs Churchill.”
“Who wouldn’t? He’s an erudite, respectful and humble gentleman; well-connected while refusing to boast about it.”
“Aside from painting his rich friends and displaying their pictures on the walls of his gallery.”
“Only one wall, Pembers. And besides, one of his pictures featured a bowl of fruit.”
“Perhaps he holds Viscountess Bathshire in no higher regard than a bunch of grapes, in that case.”
“Exactly. He’s the modern sort who fails to be impressed by wealth and status. Whether you’re an earl or a chimney sweep, he treats everybody just the same.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, one can just tell these things.” Churchill bit into another jam tart. “I must say you seem rather sceptical of our new friend, Pembers.”
“Not sceptical, Mrs Churchill, just wary.”
“Why on earth would you be wary of Mr Pickwick?”
“I noticed the way he looked at you.”
“At me?” Churchill felt a surge of heat rise up in her face. She guzzled down the jam tart and tried to recover herself. “What do you mean, Pembers? He looked at me? Of course he looked at me… we were having a conversation!”
“It was the way he looked at you.”
“Which way?” She took a large gulp of tea.
“Rather bashful and… dare I say it… a little flirtatious.”
It took all the willpower Churchill could muster to keep the swig of tea inside her mouth rather than spraying it all over the Compton Poppleford Gazette in surprise. She had to concentrate for a few seconds before she felt able to swallow it down.