by Emily Organ
“Only that he was shot and his money was taken. That’s all I know.”
“Where did Mr Butterfork live?” asked Churchill.
“Crunkle Lane.”
“Do you know where that is, Pembers?”
Her secretary nodded.
“Then take me there at once!” Churchill responded, rising to her feet.
“Are you planning to solve the case, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“It’s a little too early to promise anything like that, but I’d be interested to find out a little more.”
“Won’t that annoy Inspector Mappin?” asked Pemberley.
“Of course it will, but since when did we start worrying about that? Fetch your hat and coat, Miss Pemberley. There isn’t a moment to lose!”
Chapter 8
“Any idea which number Crunkle Lane belonged to Mr Butterfork?” asked Churchill as she, Pemberley and Oswald made their way along the high street.
“I don’t, but I imagine it’ll be the house with a lot of hullabaloo outside it.”
Situated close to St Swithun’s church, Crunkle Lane was only a short walk from the office. It was a tree-lined lane boasting an assortment of little houses built at varying points in Compton Poppleford’s history.
“There’s the hullabaloo,” said Churchill, pointing to a crowd of people gathered outside a red-brick house with a green door. A young, spotty-faced police constable standing just outside it was making a studious attempt to ignore the noisy onlookers.
“It looks like quite an ordinary house for a man with a lot of money,” commented Churchill as they drew nearer.
“Yes, it’s exceedingly ordinary.”
“Wasn’t it said that he didn’t trust the banks and kept all his worldly wealth in a tea chest in his bedroom?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you know how long he’s lived in the village, Pembers?”
“Not terribly long. About a year, I think.”
“Any idea where he lived before that?”
“No idea at all.”
“I wonder where his fortune came from.”
“I heard it was inherited from an elderly aunt.”
“Just the money? No property?” Churchill asked.
“Apparently so.”
“How interesting. When one inherits wealth there’s usually a bit of property thrown in.”
“Maybe there was but it went to someone else.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Let’s go and see if we can find out more.”
The two ladies made their way through the crowd toward the constable.
“May I enquire as to what has happened here, Constable?” Churchill asked.
The spotty-faced police officer opened his mouth as if to reply, then seemed to think better of it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
“I need to consult my list,” he replied.
“I’m sure there’s no need for that, Constable. I merely enquired as to what had happened to Mr Butterfork.”
The constable frowned at the slip of paper in his hand, then observed Churchill closely. “It’s Mrs Churchill, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct.”
He frowned at the paper again. “Your name’s on the list, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not allowed to answer any of your questions.”
“What nonsense! Why on earth not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see that.”
“I don’t think it’s allowed.”
“Of course it’s allowed. If my name’s on a list I have a right to read it!”
“You’re not meant to. It was given to me for my eyes only.”
“Who else is on the list?”
“Erm…”
“You can tell me, you know.”
“Erm…”
“All right then, just tell me who wrote the list.”
“It’s a police matter.”
“I think I already know. Just show me the infernal list and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Do you promise?”
“Of course. Now, show me that list, my good man.”
The constable handed Churchill his piece of paper and she quickly examined it.
“This isn’t a list,” she said scornfully, “it’s only got one name on it! Look at this, Pembers. That lunk-headed Inspector Mappin calls this a list!”
Pemberley glanced at the paper and shook her head.
“How do you know Inspector Mappin wrote it?” asked the constable.
“Call it a hunch.” She returned the piece of paper. “You can answer the questions posed by my aide-de-camp here instead.”
“Me?” said Pemberley.
“Yes. As your name doesn’t feature on Mappin’s list, Miss Pemberley, you can go ahead and obtain the details we require. Oswald and I will go and mingle with the crowd to see what else we can glean.”
“Mr Butterfork died from a single shot to the side of the head,” Pemberley told Churchill a short while later as the two ladies lingered on Crunkle Lane.
“Goodness me. A veritable execution! Has Mappin found the murder weapon yet?”
“No.”
“How interesting. And where was the body found?”
“On the floor.”
“Of which room?”
“His bedroom. He was dressed in his nightgown and dressing gown, and the tea chest he stored all his money in was empty.”
“Goodness me. Poor old Mr Butterfork. The fact he was dressed in nightwear suggests to me that the robbery occurred sometime between his usual hours of retiring and rising.”
“They believe the robbery took place late yesterday evening.”
“Did any of the neighbours hear anything?”
“Mrs Strawbanks in the house opposite heard the shot at about ten o’clock.”
“Did she raise the alarm?”
“Yes, she telephoned Inspector Mappin and he came round immediately. He summoned some constables to help and telephoned for the police doctor. Mr Butterfork died almost immediately.”
“Did he live alone?”
“Yes, but his housekeeper, Mrs Hatweed, lives close by. Her house is a little further along this lane.”
“She must be terribly sad about his death.”
“She will be.”
“What do we know of any visitors to Mr Butterfork’s house yesterday?”
“That’s an interesting question. A dark figure was seen, apparently.”
“Is that so? And where exactly was this dark figure seen?”
“Here in this lane, directly outside Mr Butterfork’s house. It was a little after nightfall, at about half-past nine. The figure was wearing a long, dark coat with a dark hat, and was seen standing there looking up at an upstairs window. And then the figure was seen to walk away.”
“Interesting indeed. Who saw this dark figure?”
“Mrs Strawbanks.”
“It sounds as though she’d be an interesting lady to talk to. Did she see anything else suspicious?”
“She saw the same dark figure running away from Mr Butterfork’s home shortly after the gunshot sounded.”
“The culprit making his escape, then.”
“That’s what Inspector Mappin believes.”
“And does he know where the culprit ran off to?”
“Along this lane and down into the churchyard. You can just make out the churchyard wall from here.”
Churchill peered in the direction of Pemberley’s pointed finger. “So you can.”
“He vaulted the churchyard wall, apparently.”
“Gosh. And do they know where he went from there?”
“No, the trail goes cold after that.”
“Is there any other description of this dark figure aside from the long coat and hat?”
“None. It was dark, you see.”
“Yes, I realise that. I just thought someo
ne might have seen a few facial features when the culprit ran beneath a street lamp or something like that.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, this is all very interesting. Is there any indication that the dark figure forced his way into Mr Butterfork’s home?”
“None at all. No windows or doors were forced, and neither were any accidentally left open.”
“Another interesting finding. Then he could have called at the door and Mr Butterfork may have admitted him.”
“Yes, it seems likely that Mr Butterfork let him in. It’s possible the murderer pushed his way in once the door was opened, but it’s also possible that Mr Butterfork allowed him to enter freely.”
“Very interesting indeed. Pembers, may we pause for a moment while I congratulate you on the sheer volume of information you managed to glean from that spotty-faced constable outside Mr Butterfork’s house? He refused to speak to me, but he certainly spilled the beans to you!”
“That’s because your name was on the list.”
“Yes, there’s no need to remind me of that. Let’s take a little saunter down to the churchyard and see what’s happening over there. Where’s Oswald?”
Pemberley gave a sharp, shrill whistle, which startled Churchill to such a degree that she was sure her feet momentarily left the ground. The little dog emerged from between the legs of those in the crowd seconds later.
“Must you make that wretched noise, Pemberley?”
“It worked, didn’t it? Oswald came back to me.”
“That’s something to be pleased about, I’m sure. It was almost worth the ruptured ear drums.”
The two ladies and their mischievous dog began walking toward the churchyard.
“Mr Butterfork must have known the culprit quite well if he admitted him to his home in his nightwear,” commented Churchill.
“That offers a good explanation as to how the murderer got inside his home.”
“A few crimes in and I think we’re getting rather good at analysing these cases, aren’t we? I’m beginning to feel quite well practised at this now.”
“There’s just one problem.”
“What might that be?”
“We’re not supposed to be investigating this case. No one’s tasked us with looking into it; that’s Inspector Mappin’s job.”
“Ah yes. There is that, I suppose.”
“The only case we have at present is Mr Grieves’s churchyard mystery.”
“And that can be our way in!” enthused Churchill. “The sexton asked us to investigate strange goings-on in the churchyard, and that’s just what we’re going to do. If it just so happens that Mr Butterfork’s murderer made his escape via the churchyard, then so be it.”
“I don’t think Inspector Mappin will be satisfied with that explanation.”
“Of course he won’t. He’s never satisfied with any of our explanations.”
“He’ll accuse us of meddling again.”
“And what’s new there? All we need do is carry out some quiet investigations. He needn’t know anything about it.”
“We’re not particularly good at doing things quietly, are we?”
“We’re getting better at it all the time, Pembers! Even I would admit that I wasn’t the most subtle of individuals when I first arrived here from Richmond-upon-Thames, but I like to think I’ve learned some of Compton Poppleford’s ways now and have mastered the craft of sneaking around with the shadowy imperceptibility of a black cat at dusk.”
Chapter 9
Two constables were bent over the ground beside the churchyard wall with the gangly, dark-suited photographer from the Compton Poppleford Gazette standing close by.
“I wonder what they’ve found,” said Churchill. “Shall we go and ask them? We can pretend we’re complete ignoramuses, which might encourage them to explain what they’re doing. Men tend to enjoy explaining things to ladies, don’t they?”
Oswald ran up to the two police officers and sniffed them enthusiastically.
“Good morning, Constables,” said Churchill cheerily. “What are you up to there?”
One of the officers, a man with a thick brown moustache, stood up and eyed them suspiciously. “Will you please keep your dog away? We don’t want him interfering with the evidence.”
Pemberley gave another shrill whistle and Oswald returned to her side. She quickly attached a lead to his collar.
“Evidence, Constable?” Churchill queried. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Footprints, ma’am.”
“There must be quite a few footprints in this old churchyard. May I ask why you’re particularly interested in these ones?”
“We believe they may be connected to a crime, ma’am.”
“Good grief! Really? Which crime might that be?”
“Have you not heard?” replied the moustachioed constable, giving Churchill an incredulous look. “We’re investigating the murder on Crunkle Lane.”
“Oh, that crime! Yes, I’ve heard about that crime all right. Goodness! You think those footprints have something to do with it, do you?”
“Yes. The culprit ran down Crunkle Lane, just over there,” he said, pointing over the wall. “And then he vaulted over the wall here and left these footprints, right next to the final resting place of Barnabus Byers.”
“Well I never!” Churchill stepped closer. “We’re looking at the footprints of a murderer, are we?”
“Indeed we are, ma’am.”
“Gosh.” Churchill peered closer at the spot where the grass had been crushed beneath the feet of the culprit, leaving large indents in the soft earth beneath. A tape measure had been laid alongside it.
“Have you worked out the size of his feet?”
“We believe he takes a size nine,” said the other constable, a young man with spectacles.
“Does he indeed? How interesting. And where did he go after jumping over the wall?”
“We’re yet to ascertain that.”
“Over here!” said Pemberley from a short distance away. “It looks as though he jumped over Betsy Wolfwell.”
“Really?” replied Churchill. She walked over to where Pemberley was standing and saw that the grass had been crushed in a similar manner, as if someone had leapt over the grave. “Goodness!” she continued. “That’s certainly a compression made by someone moving at speed, isn’t it? One couldn’t make such a dent in the grass by simply stepping over it at walking pace.”
“Let’s have a look,” the moustachioed constable said with a scowl. He marched over and surveyed the dent in the grass before giving a reluctant nod. “We’ve got another one over here, Dawkins. Bring the tape measure.”
“Righty-ho, Russell.”
“It seems odd that the culprit was happy to take the life of a human being yet couldn’t bring himself to step on the grave of a deceased person,” mused Churchill.
“There’s a piece of snagged material on this hawthorn bush,” said Pemberley, who was busy examining a small branch extending out from an area of shrubbery.
“Is that so?” exclaimed Constable Russell, his frown deepening.
Churchill strode over to where Pemberley was standing. “Allow me to examine it more closely,” she said, pulling a magnifying glass from her handbag and peering at the piece of fabric through it. “Dark in colour, perhaps even black. Snagged from an item of clothing as someone moved past at speed, I’d say.”
“Let’s have a look,” said Constable Russell, marching over and reaching for the magnifying glass.
“Don’t you have your own magnifying glass, Constable?”
“We left it at the station.”
“I see.” She handed him the glass and he looked through it.
“Very interesting indeed,” he commented. “We believe the culprit was wearing a long, dark coat, and this piece of material certainly could have come from such an item. Photograph, please!”
The gangly photographer lumbered over and took some images of the fabric fragment fro
m a variety of angles.
“And we’ll need some photographs of the footprints next to Betsy Wolfwell’s grave. Dawkins is just laying out the tape measure.” He pulled the piece of fabric off the thorn and rolled it between his fingers. “Yes, it feels as though it could have come from an overcoat of some sort.”
“Worsted or double-worsted?” asked Churchill.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Even when you look through the magnifying glass?”
The baffled constable peered through the glass at it again. “I don’t know. I’ve no idea about threads of wool.”
“I know just the woman who will,” said Churchill. “Mrs Thonnings from the haberdashery shop knows her worsteds from her double-worsteds, doesn’t she, Miss Pemberley?”
“She certainly does.”
“Why don’t you ask Mrs Thonnings?” suggested Churchill.
“All right, then,” said Constable Russell.
“There’s something over here, too,” said Pemberley, observing the rear end of Oswald as he sniffed at a shrub, his tail wagging.
“What is it now?” asked Constable Russell gruffly, walking over to her with the magnifying glass and piece of material in his hand.
“The murder weapon itself!” announced Pemberley proudly.
Churchill hurried over and joined the constable as he peered beneath the bush to see daylight glinting on metal.
“Good grief, it is as well!” she crowed. “A pistol. Good grief!”
“Over here, Dawkins!” the constable called out. “And bring that photographer chap with you!”
The two men strode over.
“Photographer chap?” said the photographer. “I’ve already told you my name is Smith.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t remember it. I got rather excited all of a sudden with all the evidence we’ve been finding.”
“The evidence Miss Pemberley has been finding,” corrected Churchill.
“Oswald found the gun,” added Pemberley.
“He’s such a wonderful detective dog. Whatever would you have done without us, Constables?” asked Churchill.
“We’d have found it all eventually.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Oh, yes. We’d only just made a start on the first footprint when you arrived.”