by Emily Organ
“I don’t think the word ‘handsome’ is needed.”
“Of course it isn’t, but I’m making sure we get value for money.”
“Is it the ring that’s handsome or the gentleman?”
Churchill considered this for a moment. “It would be rather nice if the ring belonged to a handsome gentleman, wouldn’t it?”
“As handsome as Mr Pickwick?”
Despite her best attempts to control her face, Churchill felt her cheeks reddening and her mouth lifting at the corners. “No, I mean yes... I mean, I don’t know.”
“He is rather handsome, don’t you think?” continued Pemberley.
“Any notion of whether he’s handsome or not has never crossed my mind, Pembers. Mr Pickwick is just a man like all the rest of them. Now, I’m going to stow the ring safely inside my desk drawer here and run along to the Gazette office to get this notice placed.”
Chapter 15
Churchill’s route back from the Compton Poppleford Gazette offices took her, not entirely unintentionally, past the bank and Pickwick’s Gallery. She was quite thrilled to spy Mr Pickwick standing outside in the sunshine.
“Isn’t it a delightful afternoon?” he said. “I’m just taking a little fresh air. It seems such a shame to be stuck indoors.”
“But you have a charming indoors, nonetheless.”
“Thank you.”
“Please accept my deepest commiserations, Mr Pickwick, on the sad passing of your dear friend Mr Butterfork.”
“Ah, yes.” He blinked, then made a face as though he were swallowing something painful. “Thank you, Mrs Churchill,” he said solemnly. “You’re very kind.”
“I heard from his housekeeper that you used to play cards together once a week.”
“We did indeed. I visited him on the day of his death, actually. It was only a fleeting visit, but I’m glad now that I was able to see him. To think that would be the last time…” His eyes grew moist as he focused on a distant point along the high street.
“I’m certain the culprit will be found,” said Churchill.
“I absolutely hope so. The poor chap didn’t deserve it at all. It’s so dreadful.” He cleared his throat. “On a lighter note, I’ve taken delivery of some new pictures this morning. Would you like to see them? They’re not up on the wall yet, as I’m still deciding where to put them.”
“I do have ten minutes to spare, so why not?”
He moved aside to allow Churchill space to step inside the gallery. She glanced around and noticed several pictures resting against the counter.
“Are these the ones?” she asked, walking over to them.
“They are indeed. I bought them at an auction in Dorchester last week, and the chap’s just brought them over. They’re all landscapes.”
He picked up the first one, which depicted a large weeping willow with its branches trailing into a winding river. Two small boys with fishing nets crouched on the riverbank to the right of the picture, watched by a little scruffy dog.
“Oh, that looks just like Oswald!” chimed Churchill. “How lovely to see him in a painting.”
“Percival!” a woman’s voice called out from the rear of the shop. A trim lady in a fashionable rose-coloured jacket and matching skirt stepped through a door behind the counter. Her fair hair was neatly waved and her lips were painted crimson. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she added as soon as she saw Churchill. “I didn’t realise you were with a customer.”
“Not just any old customer,” said Mr Pickwick. “This is Mrs Churchill!”
The lady smiled, and Churchill did her best to return it, but a sour taste lingered in her mouth. She felt foolish for assuming Mr Pickwick was a bachelor or widow, when right here in the shop was his attractive lady wife. She realised it would have been extremely unlikely for a man as pleasant as Mr Pickwick to have remained unattached.
“Mrs Churchill, this is my sister, Miss Agnes Pickwick,” he announced.
A grin spread across Churchill’s face. “Mr Pickwick’s sister!” she enthused. “How lovely to meet you!”
“I’m helping Percival with his latest venture,” explained Miss Pickwick. “What do you think of the gallery so far, Mrs Churchill?”
“I think it’s a simply wonderful addition to the high street.”
“It is rather, isn’t it?”
“It brings a little class and culture to the village. I lived latterly in London, you see, so I’m quite accustomed to the arts.”
“That really is delightful to hear, Mrs Churchill. I do hope you’ll visit us regularly from now on.”
“Oh, I shall.”
“Do please excuse me for a moment, I have something to attend to.”
“Of course.”
Miss Pickwick disappeared back through the door behind the counter.
“May I ask whereabouts in London you lived, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mr Pickwick.
“On the south-western periphery. Richmond-upon-Thames, to be precise.”
“A very nice place indeed. I’m well acquainted with London.”
“Are you, Mr Pickwick? How interesting. Do you hail from the Big Smoke yourself?”
“From just outside it, like you. Kent, actually, but I worked in London town for many years in my insurance job, so I know it like the back of my hand.”
“How wonderful. Who’d have thought it? And here you are bringing your cultured ways to the great unwashed in Dorset!” Churchill laughed sheepishly, quickly realising her comment might have sounded rather snobbish. “I’m only joking, of course. There are some perfectly nice and well-educated people here – my secretary, Miss Pemberley, being one of them, of course.”
An unexpected rumbling noise came from beneath Churchill’s feet. “Good grief! What was that?” she exclaimed.
“Workmen, I’m afraid,” replied Mr Pickwick. “We’ve had a spot of bother in the basement – a bit of a leak – so we’ve had to get some men in to look at it. They’re under strict instruction not to make too much noise while the gallery is open, as it can be rather off-putting for our customers.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, Mr Pickwick. You obviously need to have your leak fixed.”
“Indeed. Agnes is supervising them.”
Mr Pickwick showed Churchill the pictures that had arrived that morning. “There was another painting at the auction which quite took my fancy, but unfortunately a rival buyer snapped it up. It was a charming depiction of the Royal Academy of Arts at sundown. Are you familiar with the building?”
“On Piccadilly? I most assuredly am, Mr Pickwick. I used to attend many of the exhibitions there, in fact.”
“Why, so did I. Perhaps we were both there at the same time and didn’t know it!”
“I feel sure that we must have been at some point.”
Churchill felt enchanted by his eyes, which matched the azure blue of the sea in a recent advertisement she had seen for the French Riviera. She imagined being there with him at that very moment. “In fact, you seem so familiar that I feel sure our paths must have crossed in London town at some point,” she added.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m sure they did, Mrs Churchill. There’s certainly something very memorable about you.”
“Oh, do you think so?” She felt heat rise into her face once again. “I’ve been told that a few times before, but not always for the most flattering of reasons!”
“I meant it purely as a compliment, Mrs Churchill.”
“Did you? Well, there’s no need to be so terribly nice to me. I must say that it’s quite uncalled for.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I beg to differ.”
“Then I suppose we shall have to disagree on that front, Mr Pickwick.” Churchill heard a tinkling girly laugh, realising moments later that the noise had come from her. She also registered the fact she hadn’t been able to draw herself away from his eyes for several minutes.
Mr Pickwick cleared his throat. “I wonder…” he began. Then he paused and glanced up at the portrait of Viscountess
Bathshire. “I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, Mrs Churchill…”
“Asking me what, Percy? Sorry, I mean Percival. I mean Mr Pickwick.”
He smiled. “My dearest friends call me Percy.”
“Do they? It’s a lovely name.”
“Anyway, I was wondering whether you would allow me to paint you.”
“Paint me, Mr Pickwick?” Churchill’s heart skipped several beats. “Like Viscountess Bathshire?”
“Yes. You rather remind me of her, in fact.”
“Do I? Goodness, well that is quite the compliment.” She smoothed her lacquered hair, half-bashful and half-flattered. “I really don’t know what to say!”
“How about yes?”
“Well yes, of course! How wonderful. I’d be delighted to let you paint me. Oh gosh, I don’t believe I have anything suitable to wear!”
“I’m sure you do, Mrs Churchill. Just settle on something you feel comfortable in. I often tell my sitters to wear their normal clothes, as I believe that’s what best reflects their personalities.”
“Pearls, a twinset and a tweed skirt, then?”
“That sounds perfect. There’s only one rather trifling matter I should mention.”
“Which is?”
“Unfortunately, my studio is quite unusable at the present time. It’s an adapted summerhouse, and the roof was taken clean off during the spring gales.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. It’s currently under repair, so I was wondering whether you’d feel comfortable being painted in your own home, Mrs Churchill.”
“In my home?”
“Yes.”
“You in my home, Mr Pickwick?”
“Yes, I realise it’s not the ideal situation. By all means ask a friend to be present if you wish. I really wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I can trust you to behave yourself, can’t I?”
It was Mr Pickwick’s turn to blush. “Absolutely, Mrs Churchill. I shall be on my very best behaviour.”
Chapter 16
“That’s a nice little ditty you’re humming, Mrs Churchill,” commented Pemberley as Churchill returned to the office. “What is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Churchill whimsically as she placed her handbag on her desk. “A little aria I must have picked up somewhere.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you sing before.”
“No? I’d have said that I sing quite a bit.”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard it. Something rather pleasing must have happened at the offices of the Compton Poppleford Gazette while you were placing our notice about the ring.”
“Nothing pleasing ever happens at the offices of that local rag.”
“Then why are you in such good spirits?”
“Well, I happened to bump into Mr Pickwick on my way back.”
“Ah, now I understand quite well.”
“No you don’t, Pembers, as I haven’t explained it yet.”
“It’s Mr Pickwick. What further explanation could be required?”
“It’s not just Mr Pickwick. In fact, the gentleman himself is neither here nor there as far as I’m concerned.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Pembers, bumping into Mr Pickwick was little more than a formality. What really put a spring in my step is the fact that I’m to be painted.”
“By Mr Pickwick?”
“Yes indeed.”
Pemberley paused for a moment as she considered this. “But why?”
“Why not? He clearly enjoys dabbling in a bit of portraiture.”
“But why you?”
“It’s funny you should say that, Pembers, because that was my immediate reaction when he first asked me. But he happened to mention that he felt there was something quite memorable about me.”
Pemberley gave a bemused snort.
“What is that noise supposed to mean?”
“It seems he has a healthy stock of lines with which to woo a lady.”
“There was absolutely no wooing involved, Pembers! He’s painting me in much the same way as he painted Viscountess Bathshire. And he certainly didn’t woo her!”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she’s married to Viscount Bathshire.”
“That doesn’t seem to stop people these days.”
“Oh Pemberley, that’s enough! I won’t entertain this crude conversation a moment longer. Now, let’s get on with our work. We have a murder case to solve, remember?”
“Inspector Mappin has a murder case to solve, you mean.”
“It’ll never be solved with that man in charge. Earlier today I was speaking to a close friend of Mr Butterfork’s, and when I saw the sadness in his face at the loss of his dear friend I just knew I had to do something about it.”
“Was this close friend Mr Pickwick, by any chance?”
“It doesn’t matter who it was. Now, fetch your coat and hat, Pembers, and let’s pay Mrs Strawbanks a visit. She’s the one who reported hearing the gunshot, so I’d like to hear what she has to say.”
“Oh, hello Mrs Churchill, Miss Pemberley,” said Mrs Strawbanks as she opened the front door of her ancient-looking cottage. She wore half-moon spectacles and her hair was tied up in a colourful headscarf. Another scarf was draped around her shoulders, and various beaded necklaces and bracelets rattled as she moved. “Hello there, little Oswald. Do come in, all of you. I imagine you’re keen to speak to me about poor old Mr Butterfork across the road.”
“We are a little intrigued, Mrs Strawbanks, it has to be said,” replied Churchill as they stepped inside the cottage.
“More than a little intrigued, no doubt.”
She led them through to the front room, which had brightly patterned walls and an equally vibrant carpet. A tortoiseshell cat on the windowsill hissed at Oswald, who hid behind Pemberley’s skirts.
“You’re private detectives, aren’t you? I bet you can’t resist trying to solve this case. After all, the local police force isn’t up to much, is it? Being married to an inspector of the yard for as long as you were, Mrs Churchill, must surely have equipped you with a degree of sensibility when it comes to investigations like this.”
“Thank you, Mrs Strawbanks,” replied Churchill, feeling slightly alarmed that this lady she had never met before seemed to know so much about her.
Churchill and Pemberley seated themselves among the beaded cushions on a little velvet settee until Mrs Strawbanks trundled in with a tea trolley.
“Here are a few cakes for you, Mrs Churchill. I know how much you like cake.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes, I’ve seen you standing in that bakery below your office quite a number of times.”
“Right.” Churchill couldn’t recall ever having seen Mrs Strawbanks in the bakery.
“You’re probably wondering what I saw the evening Mr Butterfork was murdered,” continued Mrs Strawbanks.
“Yes, we are.”
“I’ve written it all down.” She poured out the tea, sat down in an armchair then picked up a notepad from an occasional table beside her. “Six o’clock,” she announced, peering over her half-moon spectacles at Churchill, who was preoccupied with a custard slice. “You’ll probably want to write this down.”
“Oh right, yes of course.” Churchill put her plate down and started wiping her fingers on her serviette.
“I can write it down,” volunteered Pemberley.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill. “You write and I’ll listen intently.”
“Six o’clock,” announced Mrs Strawbanks again. “Mrs Hatweed the housekeeper left for the evening. I saw her come through the side gate, which confirms that she left via the back door.”
“Jolly good,” replied Churchill.
“Seven o’clock.”
Churchill took another bite of custard slice before realising Mrs Strawbanks was expecting her to respond. “Yes?”
“Mr Butterfork was seen to open his front window and water the Busy Lizzies in his window box.”
“Lovely.”
“He was observed to close the window again, and – now this is an important detail – and push the latch across.”
“He locked the window?”
“Yes. As he always did, of course.”
“Good.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
“I just included it to show I surveyed the lane at that time and nothing was happening. Just for the record.”
“I see. And nine o’clock?” asked Churchill.
“Wait!”
“Oh?”
“There’s another entry at a quarter to nine.”
“Right. What happened then?”
“Mr Butterfork was seen to peer out from an upstairs window before drawing the curtain across.”
“How interesting.”
“It really is quite interesting, because he seemed to have become more watchful of late. I noticed him looking out of that window in the evenings, as if to check whether anyone was loitering outside his home.”
“And was there?”
“Not at the time he looked out, no. Now, there are two upstairs windows in his home that face out onto the lane. I saw him looking out of the window to the right as you view his house from here. I have reason to believe that was the window of his bedroom.”
“I see. And the other room?”
“A box room, I believe. The guest bedroom is at the rear of the property.”
“Right. Was there an entry for nine o’clock?”
“By then Mr Butterfork had drawn the curtains at the downstairs window and at the box room window. Dusk was upon us at that hour. I imagine he drew the curtains at the rest of the windows too, but as those aren’t visible from my home I couldn’t be certain about that. I expect you’d like to know when the dark figure first appeared, wouldn’t you?”
“You seem to have an uncanny ability to read my mind, Mrs Strawbanks.”
“Thirty-five minutes after nine o’clock.”