by Emily Organ
“Miss Pemberley!” she exclaimed. “Flirtatious is a word best confined to the nation’s youth! It’s for bashful maidens and awkward young bachelors in their first bloom of adulthood.”
“And old retired insurance salesmen.”
“Nonsense. Absolute nonsense!” Churchill marched over to the hatstand. “Come along, Oswald, let’s take you out for your walk.”
“Why are you going out for another walk?” asked Pemberley.
“I need a relaxing stroll by the river. I drank my tea while it was still rather hot.”
Chapter 6
Churchill returned to the office approximately two minutes later once her embarrassment had subsided. “Forget the relaxing stroll by the river, I’ve realised we should be doing something more useful with our time. I’m afraid there are no two ways about it, Pembers. We’re going to have to visit St Swithun’s churchyard.”
“Oh no. Must we?”
“We have a case to work on.”
“I really don’t like this case.”
“If we go to the churchyard in the daytime, we can get ourselves accustomed to it. Then we’ll feel ready to go in the night-time.”
“I don’t want to go in the night-time, Mrs Churchill.”
“Well, if we manage to solve the puzzle in the daytime we won’t need to.”
“I hope we can solve it nice and quickly then, without any trouble. This is my least favourite case ever!”
“Surely Atkins had some macabre cases.”
“He once had to spend a night in a haunted house.”
“There you go.”
“But he didn’t make me go with him. Therefore, I don’t think you should make me go with you.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Pembers, but you tend to make rather a lot of fuss about these things. We’re only going to a churchyard, for heaven’s sake.”
“Where lots of dead people are buried.”
“But they can’t harm us now, can they? It’s the living who cause the problems. And besides, we’ll have God close by in the church to protect us.”
“God isn’t actually in the church.”
“Well, perhaps not directly inside it, but the presence of a church is usually enough to ward away evil spirits. Have you ever known anything bad happen in a church?”
“Yes.”
“Really? What?”
“Sister Prudence hit me over the head with a hymn book when I bit my nails during Mass.”
“I highly doubt we’ll find Sister Prudence and her hymn book prowling around the churchyard today. And besides, St Swithun’s is Church of England.”
“That wouldn’t stop Sister Prudence.”
The two ladies and Oswald walked down the lane that led up to the pretty little church, which was so old it appeared to have slumped a little into the ground.
They entered the churchyard beneath the kissing gate, and from there a paved path led up to the church door. Oswald scampered here and there, sniffing around in the long grass.
Churchill glanced at the crooked headstones standing either side of her and shivered. “These graves the sexton mentioned… do you know where any of them are?”
“I know which one is Saul Mollikin’s, because the fact no grass has ever grown on his grave has passed into village lore.”
“Which one is it, then?”
“It’s over there, by that yew.”
“In the dingiest part of the churchyard, I see.”
Churchill shivered again as the two ladies walked toward the giant yew tree.
“There he is,” said Pemberley, pointing to a headstone that bore Saul Mollikin’s name. “And the sexton isn’t wrong; I spy some new blades of grass.”
Churchill peered down at the bare patch of earth in front of the headstone and, with an involuntary shudder, noticed a few small fronds of fresh green. “Well I never,” she declared. “Bald with slight signs of new growth. Mr Mollikin’s grave bears a remarkable resemblance to Mr Grieves’s head, doesn’t it? Didn’t Greives say he was cursed by a witch?”
“Yes, the witch on Grindledown Hill.”
“Do we know why?”
Pemberley shrugged. “I think the original reason has been lost in the mists of time.”
“I see. Then perhaps there’s a possibility he wasn’t cursed at all.”
“Yes, there is, but it helps to explain why the grass refuses to grow on his grave.”
“Until now… Four years later.”
“A hundred and four.”
“Oh yes, silly me. He died in 1828, not 1928. Which makes the whole thing even spookier, for some reason.” Churchill squirmed uncomfortably and glanced around. “I don’t like this little dank corner very much, Pembers. Shall we look at the other graves?”
“I’d rather just leave the place altogether.”
“So would I, but we have duties to attend to. Now, we should be able to find Arthur Brimble’s grave quite easily because it has a rose on it, according to Grieves.
After a few minutes of searching, Churchill and Pemberley found Arthur Brimble’s final resting place with a withered rose lying at the foot of the headstone.
Churchill gave yet another shudder. “Who placed this thorny bloom here, Pembers?”
“Why are you asking me? That’s what Grieves wants us to find out, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I realise that. It was a… one of those questions people ask when they’re not expecting an answer.”
“Rhetorical.”
“I don’t think it’s that; I must have meant something else. Anyway, I think the presence of this rose can easily be explained. I know Grieves said Brimble has no direct descendants, but a distant family member must have visited to pay their respects. The descendant of a sibling, or a cousin even. A Brimble who lives in another country, like America, and sailed across the great Atlantic to lay a rose on Mr Brimble’s grave as he or she passed through.”
“Passed through to where?”
“I don’t know. London, probably. That’s the nearest point of interest for Americans, isn’t it?”
“There are many interesting places for Americans in these parts, Mrs Churchill. There’s the old castle at Bridgington Stanley. Americans like castles and they don’t have many over there.”
“But they’re hardly likely to have heard of Bridgington Stanley, are they? And even if they had, it would still support my theory that a distant Brimble family member was passing through and placed a rose on old Arthur Brimble’s grave. Now then, who else did Grieves mention? Sally Fletcher, wasn’t it? I suppose we’ll have to wander around the place trying to find her now.”
Fifteen minutes later the two ladies found themselves standing in front of Sally Fletcher’s headstone.
“Grieves has a point,” said Pemberley. “Mrs Fletcher’s headstone does look very well maintained.”
“Not a spot of lichen on it,” added Churchill. “I can understand Grieves’s concern. Who would spend time clearing the headstone of a lady who died… how many years ago was it, Pembers? I can’t be bothered to work it out again.”
“Fifty years.”
“Fifty long years.”
“Perhaps it was someone who planned to clean all the headstones and they just so happened to make a start on Sally Fletcher’s.”
“A fairly sound theory, except for the fact they surely would have shared such a plan with the sexton.”
“Perhaps they wanted to do it in secret.”
“Why would they want to do it in secret?”
“Perhaps they commented to Grieves that some of the headstones looked a bit licheny and suggested he clean them, to which he took exception. So they decided to clean the headstones themselves, but in the dead of night so as not to be spotted by him.”
“In which case Grieves would have a suspect, wouldn’t he? It must have been the person who told him the headstones looked licheny. Is that an actual word?”
“Yes, I believe it is. In that case, we need to find out from Grie
ves if anyone suggested the headstones should be cleaned.”
“I assume the old chap would have considered it himself if they had. He may resemble a dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards version of Count Dracula, but I’m sure the man’s not a complete fool. Shall we find the final one? Benjamin Grunchen, I believe.”
“The grave with the exploratory hole.”
“It’s all very odd indeed. I shall need a nice cup of tea once we’re finished here. In fact, I may even require something a little stronger.”
The two ladies were making their way through the churchyard when Pemberley gave a sudden yelp and dashed off across the grass.
“Pembers?” Churchill called out. As she looked in the direction of her departing secretary, she saw the unmistakable form of a small dog digging enthusiastically. “Oh no,” she puffed, taking off after her.
A moment later she caught up with her secretary, who was holding the grubby-pawed dog under one arm and admonishing him.
Churchill glanced down at the damage he had done. “Well, what was once an exploratory hole in the grave of Benjamin Grunchen is now a small crater. We need to get this filled up, Pembers, and quickly!”
“I know that. I’m just busy telling him off for the moment.”
“Don’t waste your time doing that,” replied Churchill, scooting down onto her hands and knees. “Let’s just fill this hole.” She began sweeping the dirt into little mounds with her hands. “Goodness, Oswald has managed to dig quite deep, hasn’t he? He’s almost exhumed the poor chap!”
Pemberley put Oswald down, knelt down next to Churchill and did her best to return the soil to the hole. “It would have been helpful if he hadn’t dispersed it so far and wide,” she muttered.
“It would have been helpful if he hadn’t dug it out at all,” added Churchill. “We need him to be an asset to our team; a detective dog, if you will. At the moment he’s simply creating extra work for us.”
“Oswald is quite capable of becoming a detective dog!”
“How?”
“He’ll prove himself to you, Mrs Churchill, just you wait and see.”
“I shall await that moment with bated breath,” she replied. “I’ve always wondered what that phrase means, come to think of it. What is bated breath, exactly?”
“Do you often use words you don’t know the meaning of?”
“Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, never. I don’t like to be caught out.” Pemberley got to her feet and surveyed their handiwork. “Oh, why do holes never refill themselves properly?” she lamented. “Even when you replace all the earth the hole is still there.”
“Don’t forget about the exploratory hole that was there before Oswald got to it.”
“Grieves told us it was small. This one certainly isn’t small.”
“Help me up, Pembers. My legs don’t appear to have any oomph left in them.”
Pemberley helped Churchill stagger to her feet as she inspected the ground around them.
“The only solution I can see is to take some earth from another hole,” said Churchill.
“We don’t need more than one hole, Mrs Churchill. Grieves wouldn’t be at all happy about it.”
“Then we’ll just have to leave it as it is.”
“Leave this big hole in Benjamin Grunchen’s grave, you mean?”
“What else can we do? Fill a bucket with soil from your garden and bring it back here?”
“What an excellent idea. I shall do just that.”
“What nonsense, Pembers! Come on, there’s nothing more we can do here. I need an urgent spot of tea and cake before I collapse.”
Chapter 7
“We achieved nothing at all in the churchyard yesterday,” said Churchill the following morning. “Let’s hope today is a little more fruitful.”
“I don’t see how it can be; the case is completely baffling,” replied Pemberley. “I think we should tell the sexton we have no idea what to do about the whole thing and leave it at that.”
“Absolutely not! There can be no question of us giving up on a case. It’s simply not what we do at Churchill’s Detective Agency.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I refuse to be defeated, though I acknowledge it’s a tricky one. I’m beginning to think each strange occurrence could be an isolated event. Perhaps one person decided to place a rose on Mr Brimble’s grave, another decided to clean Mrs Fletcher’s headstone and a third chose to dig a hole in Mr Grunchen’s grave.”
“And then a dog chose to dig an even bigger hole in it.”
“Indeed. That was most unfortunate.”
“And the grass on Mr Mollikin’s grave?”
“An anomaly of some sort.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“Some things are mere anomalies, Pembers. They defy explanation.”
A slam of the office door downstairs caused both ladies to jump. They grew even more alarmed as heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“Good grief,” said Churchill, rising to her feet. “Something’s afoot!”
A red-haired woman in a tea dress burst into the room and flung herself into the chair opposite Churchill.
“Oh dear, I’m all of a quiver!”
“Whatever has happened, Mrs Thonnings?”
The flame-haired lady clutched her chest. “Oh dear! My heartbeat is all over the place. I fear I may die!”
“You look perfectly healthy to me,” replied Churchill, trying to remain patient. “Now, please tell us what has sent you into this paroxysm.”
“Oh, it’s too awful!”
“If you’re not going to tell us what it is, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do about it. He’s dead!”
“What the jiggins? Who’s dead, Mrs Thonnings?”
“Mr Butterfork! He’s been murdered, and all his money has been taken!”
“How awful!” Churchill’s mouth hung open. “When did this happen?”
“Inspector Mappin was called after a gunshot rang out in the night. Someone has shot Mr Butterfork dead! He should never have bragged about all that money. It was only a matter of time before someone came for it!”
“Maybe so, but he still didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“No, he didn’t. It’s completely awful! I’m sure whoever it was could have just taken the money without killing him.”
“Putting an end to the poor chap’s life certainly sounds like an extreme measure,” said Churchill. “Quite unnecessary, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps the culprit murdered Mr Butterfork to avoid being recognised,” said Pemberley.
“Good point, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill.
“Maybe Mr Butterfork knew his killer?” continued Pemberley. “The poor man may have been murdered to guarantee his silence.”
“An even better theory, my aide-de-camp. You’re becoming quite the sleuth these days.”
“I’m merely posturing theories. I may be wrong, of course.”
“I suspect you’re on the right track. Why else would a man make the leap from burglar to murderer? To protect his identity, no doubt. Mr Butterfork must have known him!”
“He could have put on a mask,” said Mrs Thonnings.
“Mr Butterfork?”
“No, the murderer. If he’d worn a mask there would have been no need to commit the murder because Mr Butterfork wouldn’t have known who he was.”
“That’s a good point,” said Churchill.
“The murderer must be kicking himself for not wearing a mask now,” said Pemberley. “He’s probably realised there was no need to go around shooting the poor man dead, and now he’ll find himself in infinitely more trouble when he’s caught.”
“He certainly will,” said Churchill. “Poor Mr Butterfork. I must say it was quite uncalled for. I suppose that hapless Mappin is investigating the case, is he?”
“Oh yes,” replied Mrs Thonnings. “He’ll soon catch the cu
lprit, I’m sure.”
“I can’t say I share your certainty.”
“Mr Butterfork was such a lovely man.” Mrs Thonnings’s voice cracked. “And he was so generous with his money. Only last week he gave me five pounds.”
“Five pounds? Why on earth would he give you such a vast sum of money?”
“Because he was a generous man. You saw how he was at the summer fete. He was handing out money to anyone and everyone. If ever I asked him for money, he’d give it to me just like that! He didn’t ask any questions, nor did he want it repaid. I did offer, of course, but he just gave me more money instead. He was a true gentleman, and we’ll never see the likes of him again.”
“I believe you’re right, Mrs Thonnings. It will be a struggle to find someone else who’ll give you a regular income with no questions asked. What a generous man indeed. Unusually generous, if you ask me.”
“He was the kindest gentleman I’ve ever met. He didn’t have a single bad bone in his body,” continued Mrs Thonnings. “I never heard him exchange an angry word with any other living soul; neither man nor beast. His heart remained as pure and white from the moment he drew his first breath to the time he drew his last. The Lord God has had one of his angels returned to him on this, the darkest of all days.”
“Goodness, Mrs Thonnings. You’re really going to miss your regular stipend, aren’t you?”
“I am, Mrs Churchill. I’m a widow, you see.”
“The lack of a husband isn’t sufficient reason to feel hard done by, Mrs Thonnings. Miss Pemberley here has managed quite well her entire life without ever having one at all.”
“I know, but then that’s Miss Pemberley for you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Yes, what do you mean by that?” asked Pemberley.
“You’re just different from everyone else, aren’t you, Miss Pemberley?”
“I certainly am,” she replied proudly.
“You seem to have taken that as a compliment, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill. “Anyway, let’s return to the matter in hand, and that is the tragic demise of Mr Butterfork. Do you know anything more, Mrs Thonnings?”