by Emily Organ
“What’s going on?” murmured a low voice behind Churchill.
The sound alone was enough to chill her bones.
“Mr Grieves,” she said, turning to greet the dark figure of the sexton topped with his usual wide-brimmed hat. “There’s been quite a palaver in your churchyard today.”
“I can see that.”
“It seems Mr Butterfork’s murderer made his way through it at a speedy pace. He’s left footprints, torn off pieces of overcoat and even deposited the murder weapon here!”
“Has he indeed? All in my nice, quiet churchyard?”
“Rather inconsiderate of him, wasn’t it?”
“It was even less considerate of him to commit the murder in the first place,” added Pemberley.
“Well yes, that is true.”
“I’d been meaning to pay you another visit, Mrs Churchill,” muttered Grieves.
“Oh?”
“Before all this murdering business occurred, I noticed there had been more strange happenings in this here churchyard.”
“Oh dear, such as?”
“Significant trampling all over the graveyard, resulting in an overall flattening of the grass. I don’t object to grass being flattened, as a rule, but it happens to be home to some rather nice wildflowers at the moment.”
“And someone’s flattened them?”
“Squashed them into the ground. And as for the hole in Benjamin Grunchen’s grave, it’s grown exponentially.”
“Is that so?”
“I think it was even bigger at one stage, but someone, or something, has attempted to refill it.”
“How extraordinary. Any more headstones cleaned of lichen?”
“None that I’ve noticed.”
“Any more fresh roses on the graves of people long since deceased?”
He shook his head. “Just the trampling and the hole.”
“Well, thank you for informing us, Mr Grieves. We’ll get on to it right away.”
“Will you? You don’t appear to have got on to it at all since we last spoke.”
“That was only a day or two ago, and we’ve been carrying out some surveillance, haven’t we, Miss Pemberley?”
“Yes, we have. In fact, it may have been us who—”
“So there you have it, Mr Grieves,” interrupted Churchill. “We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve discovered the truth behind these mysterious occurrences.”
Chapter 10
“On behalf of Churchill’s Detective Agency, I am awarding you, Oswald Pemberley, the medal of merit.” Churchill attached the medal to Oswald’s collar while Pemberley held him still.
“Oh, look at his little face,” cooed Pemberley once the medal was secured. “He’s so proud of himself!”
“And so he should be. He found the gun used to shoot Mr Butterfork, after all.”
“Well, that’s yet to be confirmed by the ballistics experts at Bovington.”
“A mere formality, I suspect. It’s quite clear to me that the murderer vaulted over the churchyard wall and landed next to Barnabus Byers. Then he jumped over Betsy Wolfwell, caught his coat on the hawthorn and threw the murder weapon into a shrub.”
“It certainly seems that way.”
“And if it wasn’t for Oswald’s hard work the murder weapon would still be lying there undiscovered!”
“They probably would have found it eventually.”
“Constables Russell and Dawkins? I consider it highly unlikely. Anyway, the important thing is that Oswald carried out a good deed and has a medal to prove it.”
“I’ll put his award from the fete on his collar as well.” Pemberley attached the red rosette. “There! He’s a decorated hero now.”
“He certainly is.”
The two ladies were still admiring him proudly when they heard footsteps on the stairs. A familiar red-haired lady stepped into the room moments later.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Thonnings!” said Churchill. “You seem a good deal calmer now than when you last visited. In fact, I’m tempted to say you look rather pleased with yourself.”
“Do I?” She made herself comfortable in the chair beside Churchill’s desk. “I suppose I am, really. I didn’t realise the fact was written all over my face, however.”
“Indeed it is; clear for all to see. You need to perfect your poker face, Mrs Thonnings.”
“I’m no good at it.”
“All it takes is a little practice.”
“I practise often, but I never manage it. I suppose that explains why I always lose at strip poker.”
Churchill stared at the haberdasher, her mouth agape. “Well, there’s always bridge,” she suggested. “Anyway, I feel as though we’ve strayed from the point somewhat. May I ask what you’re so pleased about, Mrs Thonnings?”
The red-haired lady smiled. “You’re going to be so proud of me.”
“Gosh, am I?”
“Yes, it appears that I have excellent investigative abilities after all.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Yes. The police came and consulted me to get my expert opinion.”
“Ah, would that have been in relation to the piece of fabric we found in the churchyard, by any chance?”
Mrs Thonnings’s smile faded a little. “How do you know about that?”
“I sent the police to you myself. Miss Pemberley found the piece of material snagged on a twig of hawthorn, so I suggested to the constables, who were fumbling about in the churchyard haplessly, that they might like to speak to you in the hope of identifying its source.”
“Did you indeed?” The smile returned to Mrs Thonnings’s face. “It was very kind of you to consider me, Mrs Churchill. Thank you. Oh, look at Oswald!”
The little dog had paraded himself into the centre of the room, as if to show off his medal and rosette.
“Has he won another dog competition?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“No, he’s been carrying out the police force’s work for them,” replied Churchill. “He’s been suitably rewarded for his efforts and is now officially a detective dog.”
“Oh, how wonderful! He’s still scratching himself an awful lot, though. I noticed that at the fete the other day. Does he have fleas?”
“Absolutely not! Oswald would never have fleas!”
“I didn’t mean it as a slur on his character, Mrs Churchill. All dogs get fleas, no matter how clever they are. Even detective dogs can get them.”
“I see. Does he have fleas, Miss Pemberley?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do we do about it if he does?”
“I think it’s customary to dip them in kerosene,” replied Pemberley.
“Gosh, I can’t imagine him liking that.” Churchill started scratching at her shoulder. “I feel rather itchy myself now. Why did you have to go and mention fleas, Mrs Thonnings?”
“I just wondered.”
“Sometimes it’s best not to wonder these things aloud. Why not just do it quietly instead? That way we won’t have our important conversations interrupted. Now, what did you discover about the piece of fabric from the murderer’s coat?”
“I believe it’s a woollen twill.”
“Worsted or double-worsted?”
“Neither. I think it’s from a woollen twill of dark grey; not black, as the constable had first assumed.”
“So had we. Very interesting indeed. Dark grey, you say?” Churchill scratched the back of her neck.
“Yes. And twill rather than plain weave.”
“So the murderer was wearing a dark grey woollen overcoat with a twill weave?”
“That’s what the snagged fabric suggests. If it actually came from the murderer’s overcoat, that is.”
“I see. So the police need to question anyone who possesses a dark grey twill overcoat.”
“Yes. And I’ve explained to them the difference between twill and plain weave.”
“Which is?”
“In plain, the warp and weft weaves cross one anot
her at right angles. In twill, a diagonal pattern is formed by crossing multiple counts of weft and warp threads. For example, a common twill is two warp threads crossing two weft threads, and the pattern is slightly offset on each row to create a diagonal pattern. Another type is—”
“That all sounds fascinating, Mrs Thonnings,” interrupted Mrs Churchill, scratching her knee. “A very detailed explanation indeed. How about our coats hanging over there?” She pointed to the cloak stand. “Can you tell us which type of weave they are?”
“I expect so.”
Mrs Thonnings got up from her seat and examined them closely.
“Mine is the taupe one,” said Churchill. “It cost a pretty penny from a boutique in Sloane Square, but that was fifteen years ago, so it’s worn well. The sort of bluish-greyish-greenish coat is Miss Pemberley’s.”
“Plain weave,” announced Mrs Thonnings.
“Miss Pemberley’s, you mean?”
“No, I was referring to yours, Mrs Churchill. Miss Pemberley’s is a little more interesting. It appears to be a type of basket weave.”
“I see. And mine’s just plain?” Churchill tried to reach an itch between her shoulder blades.
“Yes.”
“I see. Well in that case I’ve a good mind to return it. You wouldn’t believe the price they charged me for it back then!”
“Plain weave doesn’t denote poor quality, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley. “It’s the quality of the wool that matters.”
“Ah yes, there is that, I suppose. I expect that’s of a rather superior quality. Can you examine the quality of the wool for us, Mrs Thonnings?”
“Is that really necessary?” asked Pemberley. “Isn’t there a risk that we’re becoming rather pernickety about our overcoats?”
“I want to make sure they charged me a fair price, Miss Pemberley.”
“You’ve been wearing it for fifteen years, Mrs Churchill. I’d say you’ve had your money’s worth!”
“Right you are, then.” Churchill shuffled the papers on her desk. “Well, Mrs Thonnings, I think it’s fair to say that your knowledge of threads and weaves and the suchlike has proved quite indispensable.”
“I’m so pleased you think so, Mrs Churchill! Does that mean you’d be interested in recruiting me?”
“I think you’re best placed to continue working in the field in which you’re already an expert, Mrs Thonnings. Namely, haberdashery.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“Very much so. But you never know when your expert knowledge may be called upon again. Thanks to your work the list of murder suspects can be narrowed down to those who own dark grey twill coats; a very significant development indeed. I hope that fool Inspector Mappin uses the intelligence wisely, although I think we already know he won’t.”
“I think you sometimes underestimate him, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Thonnings. “He couldn’t have been a police inspector all these years if he was completely hopeless at his job.”
Chapter 11
Footsteps on the stairs announced the impending arrival of another visitor. The three ladies paused and waited to see who would appear. Moments later, a man with bushy brown mutton-chop whiskers and wearing an inspector’s uniform stepped into the room.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, removing his hat. “It seems you’re having quite the gathering here.”
“It’s only us and Mrs Thonnings, Inspector. And we still have enough iced fancies to go round, don’t we, Miss Pemberley?”
“We have three.”
“Three? What happened to the others?”
“They’ve been eaten.”
“Eaten? I can’t think how. Anyway, Inspector, what brings you here? You must be rather busy at the moment with all this murder business going on.”
“I’m very busy indeed.” He hung his hat on the hatstand.
“And I must say you’re looking rather stern. Aren’t you at least going to thank Oswald for his unrivalled sleuthing skills? He was the one who found the murder weapon, you know.”
“I shall come to that.”
“He’s our decorated detective dog, Inspector! Look at all the awards on his collar.”
“Very good. He’s also the scrappy little thing that caused me to swerve dangerously on my bicycle last week.”
“That was almost certainly another dog, Inspector. Our dog is an exceptionally well-trained hound, which is no doubt why he was able to find the gun used to shoot Mr Butterfork. Your men would have missed it altogether if it hadn’t been for Oswald.”
“I highly doubt that, Mrs Churchill. Russell and Dawkins are perfectly competent.”
“Miss Pemberley found a torn piece of fabric from the assailant’s coat and, from that Mrs Thonnings was able to identify the type of coat the culprit was wearing.”
“I was,” added Mrs Thonnings proudly.
“Off the top of my head, Inspector,” continued Churchill, “I can’t quite picture what your men actually achieved in the churchyard.”
“An awful lot of police business is conducted away from the eyes of the general public, Mrs Churchill. And I must, ahem…” He paused to clear his throat. “I must…” He scratched beneath his collar, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “I must…”
“Must what, Inspector?”
“I must express my, ahem, thanks.”
“Your thanks?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Did you hear that, Miss Pemberley and Mrs Thonnings? Inspector Mappin has thanked us!”
“He still hasn’t thanked Oswald, though,” said Pemberley.
“He’s a dog,” replied the inspector. “He can’t understand what I’m saying.”
Pemberley let out an indignant gasp.
“But,” stressed the inspector with a raised finger, “I do have a little something for him here.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a paper bag. He took a bone out of the bag, crouched down in the middle of the room and waved the treat in Oswald’s direction.
“Here, little doggy woggy!”
Churchill’s toes curled at the unusually high tone of his voice.
“The police inspector man has a little reward for you!” he added.
Oswald regarded Inspector Mappin suspiciously for a moment, then swiftly reconsidered and happily bounded over to fetch his reward.
“Oh, thank you, Inspector!” gushed Churchill. “How lovely to see you do something nice for a change.”
He returned to full height and frowned. “I often do nice things.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. You probably just don’t see me do them.”
“I can vouch for the fact that Inspector Mappin does nice things,” added Mrs Thonnings, “behind closed doors.”
“When have you and the inspector been behind closed doors together, Mrs Thonnings?”
“That’s quite enough of that,” responded Mappin. “Now, returning to the matter of the Butterfork case, I’m extremely grateful for all the work you’ve done—”
“But…”
“But there will be no need for any more assistance from you, Mrs Churchill. I have the matter firmly in hand.”
“Who are your chief suspects, Inspector?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the matter with anyone from outside the police force, Mrs Churchill.”
“I see. Did you put my name on your list, Inspector?”
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one list?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, you tell me! All I know is that when we approached the spotty constable at the door of Mr Butterfork’s home he said he wasn’t allowed to speak to me because my name was on the list.”
“Why did you feel the need to approach the constable in the first place?”
“We were just passing, weren’t we, Miss Pemberley? And we were interested to find out what all the kerfuffle on Crunkle Lane was about. I consider it most rude of you to go putting my name on lists.
”
“It was merely a precaution, Mrs Churchill. I know how adept you are at pumping people for information, and Constable Wiggins is just a young lad. He’s only been with the force three months, and the poor chap’s too green to withstand the likes of you.”
“Then perhaps you should have someone more experienced attending your murder scenes, Inspector!”
“A rural community must do what it can, Mrs Churchill, and if the villagers would allow us to get on with our jobs unhampered the likes of Constable Wiggins would be able to acquit themselves perfectly well.”
“You could call for assistance from Scotland Yard, Inspector.”
“And have one of those big heads take over my investigation? No thank you.”
Churchill felt a snap of anger. “My dear departed husband was detective chief inspector at the Yard for a good number of years, Inspector Mappin. I do hope you aren’t including him in your description of big heads!”
“Certainly not, Mrs Churchill, especially as Detective Chief Inspector Churchill is no longer with us.”
“Good,” responded Churchill, her feathers feeling decidedly ruffled. “Now, I should like to request that my name be removed from any lists you may have written it down upon. I have no interest in involving myself in your investigation, Inspector Mappin.”
“That’s reassuring to hear.”
“The case Miss Pemberley and I have in hand merely concerns the churchyard, so I must forewarn you that there may be a slight overlap as we go about our business.”
“What sort of case could possibly involve the churchyard?”
“A little investigation into the things that go bump in the night. Isn’t that right, Miss Pemberley?”
Her secretary shuddered.
“It’s not for Grieves, is it?” asked Inspector Mappin.
“It is indeed. He told me he’d contacted you about the mischief taking place down there but you’d shown no interest in investigating it.”
“I told him I can’t investigate everything that happens in the village. I’m a busy man with a lot on my plate. I don’t have time to find out who moved a flower from one grave to another or whatever it was.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, but don’t worry your important police inspector head about it. Miss Pemberley and I have it in hand, to borrow your own expression.”