by Emily Organ
“General memory? What are you on about, Pembers? I locked it!”
Pemberley sighed. “I suppose we should report the theft to Inspector Mappin.”
“Absolutely not! We reassured him the ring would be safe in my drawer with all the women’s bits and pieces, didn’t we? It would be a great embarrassment to admit that the ring hadn’t been stowed safely after all. The thief clearly knew what he was looking for, didn’t he? Nothing else appears to have been taken.”
“It’s because we advertised the fact we had the ring in the Compton Poppleford Gazette.”
“Of course! That’s what did it. That snivelling editor Mr Trollope has a lot to answer for. Now, what do we say to the rightful owner when he arrives?”
“We’ll have to explain that it’s been stolen.”
“And look completely foolish? Not likely. There’s only one thing we can do, Pembers. We’ll have to buy an identical ring and give it to the rightful owner.”
“That would cost a fortune!”
“It’s still preferable to admitting we’ve lost the ring.”
“Perhaps the rightful owner was also the thief.”
“I like that idea! Maybe he came to collect the ring from us yesterday evening and noticed the door was unlocked.”
“I thought you said you’d locked it.”
“I can’t exactly remember now whether I did or not.”
“It was unlocked this morning.”
“Then I must not have. So he tried the door handle and came up to this office. Finding it vacant, he decided to look for the ring himself. He clearly isn’t someone who feels too bothered by a drawer full of women’s bits and pieces. He must have been very keen to get his ring back.”
“We’ll never know who the ring belonged to if he was the one who took it.”
“Oh, darn it!”
“Unless he didn’t take it, and then we’ll be faced with someone asking us for a ring we no longer have. But at least we would know his identity if that were the case.”
“The situation is less than ideal whichever way you look at it, isn’t it?” Churchill began to put her belongings back in the drawer. “Where did the gingerbread biscuit go?”
“I gave it to Oswald.”
“But he’s not allowed biscuits! You’ve told me that time and time again.”
“He was frightened when you emptied the women’s bits and pieces all over your desk. I gave it to him to calm his nerves.”
“I’m in even greater need of calmed nerves, Pembers. This is a sorry mess indeed.”
Chapter 22
Late that evening, Churchill, Pemberley and Oswald set off down the dark high street, which was lit at distant intervals with dim lamps. Churchill had hoped to see some moonlight, but a brisk wind was blowing the heavy clouds across the sky.
She switched on her torch as they left the high street and ventured down the lane toward St Swithun’s church. Churchill hardly dared admit to herself that there was an almost unnerving silence in the air. The sound of their footsteps echoed on the cobbles.
“What do you suppose the relevance of the two boiled eggs could be, Pembers?” asked Churchill, desperately trying to distract herself from the dark.
“Which eggs might they be?”
“Don’t you remember Hatters telling us Mr Butterfork only consumed one boiled egg on that last morning instead of his usual two?”
“Ah, yes. Apparently he felt a bit egged out.”
“Could that be a clue?”
“It doesn’t sound like one to me.”
A sudden flash from a pair of bright eyes startled Churchill and she gasped.
“What is it?” asked Pemberley. “I was just beginning to calm down. What did you see? Oh, I really want to go home!”
“Just a cat,” replied Churchill, shining the beam of her torch on the animal as it slunk away. The very last place she wanted to be visiting at this hour was the dark, cold, silent churchyard. “Don’t worry, Pembers,” she said tremulously. “We’ll be fine. There’s nothing to fear at all.”
“What if the murderer’s nearby?”
“Even if he is, he’s hardly likely to murder us, is he?”
“He might well do. Perhaps he likes lurking around in the churchyard. After all, that’s where he was last seen, isn’t it?”
“But he wouldn’t murder us.”
“How do you know that?”
“He murdered Mr Butterfork while committing a robbery, Pembers. You and I have nothing worth stealing.”
“He might take Oswald.”
“Not a chance. I feel quite sure Oswald would bite his hand off.”
“Good evening!” said a cheery voice.
Churchill and Pemberley gave a simultaneous yelp.
“It’s only me.”
“Who is me?” Churchill flashed her torch around until the beam rested on a lady wrapped in scarves and beads. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs Strawbanks. Why are you walking around in the dark without a torch?”
“I don’t need one, Mrs Churchill. I know my way around here in the dark.”
“I see.”
“On your way to the churchyard, are you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I heard Mr Grieves had asked you to investigate the strange happenings. Rather you than me, Mrs Churchill. I may walk around without a torch, but you certainly wouldn’t catch me venturing inside that churchyard in the dead of night!” She gave a nervous laugh and disappeared into the darkness.
“Now I really, really don’t want to go in there!” quivered Pemberley.
“We’ll be fine,” replied Churchill unconvincingly. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“We’ll be frightened witless, never recover our senses and have to live out the remainder of our days in an institution.”
“What a sobering thought.” Churchill took a deep breath and tried to muster all the courage she could find. “Come along, Pembers. It wouldn’t do to turn back now.”
Churchill paused once they had passed through the gate. “Goodness, it really is especially dark inside the churchyard, isn’t it?”
“It’s a particular type of darkness,” observed Pemberley. “One that I find extremely dark and sinister.”
“I wouldn’t say sinister,” replied Churchill as bravely as possible.
“Oh, but it is. We’re the only living people in here.”
“Now you’re just dwelling on minor details to make it seem more frightening than it really is. And besides, you’ve quite forgotten about Oswald.”
“And he’s the only living dog here.”
“That may be so, but there’s still no reason to worry. Where’s he got to, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
The two ladies shone their torches around, hoping to find their wayward companion. The torchlight bounced off the walls of the church, a yew tree, the grass and a number of headstones, but there was no sign of the dog.
“Oh no, something must have got him!” wailed Pemberley.
“What sort of something?”
“I don’t know. Whatever sort of something lives in churchyards. The thing that put a rose on Arthur Brimble’s grave, removed the lichen from Sally Fletcher’s headstone, made a hole in Benjamin Grunchen’s plot and caused grass to grow on the grave of Saul Mollikin!”
Churchill felt a shudder. “It’s not a thing, Pembers. There must be a logical explanation for all that.”
“Such as?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“And now the wretched thing has Oswald!”
“No it hasn’t. I can see him over there.” The light from Churchill’s torch revealed a small, scruffy dog sniffing at the base of a tomb. “If, for want of a better word, there happened to be a thing in this churchyard, don’t you think Oswald would be growling at it? Instead, he’s bimbling about, happy as Larry and without a care in the world.”
This observation appeared to help Pemberley re
lax a little. “Actually, you’re right, Mrs Churchill. Oswald has a very strong sense of evil.”
“There’s no doubt that dogs, and many other species of animal, for that matter, have a good sense for these things. A sixth sense, I suppose it is.”
“That sixth sense came in extremely useful when we all lived in caves, apparently.”
“People in Compton Poppleford used to live in caves?”
“They did everywhere, the world over.”
“Ah, you’re referring to prehistoric times. From the way you spoke I assumed people living in caves was recent history around here. Mind you, it probably is for some of the more rustic types. And before you accuse me of being derogatory about the rural provinces, Pembers, we had the same problem in Richmond-upon-Thames. It wasn’t unusual to see someone of a practically Neanderthal nature strolling around. Not local, of course; they’d taken the train up from somewhere like Staines or Feltham, I imagine, and were usually a little too hairy. It’s quite disconcerting to encounter someone with that much hair, isn’t it? It’s not natural these days, especially when you consider—”
“Are you talking a lot because you’re nervous, Mrs Churchill?”
“Me, nervous? Of course not. I don’t think I’ve ever—”
“It’s the dark churchyard, isn’t it? I’m beginning to think you’re as nervous as I am.”
“I simply don’t have the disposition to be nervous, Pembers. It’s not in my bones, nor in my blood. I’m the sanguine type, you see. Good grief!” A sudden noise sent a freezing shiver down her spine. “What was that?” She took several steps back toward the relative safety of the church gate.
“I think Oswald growled,” replied Pemberley, “but I don’t know what it was aimed at. Perhaps he’s come across the evil thing after all.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Pembers. It’s much too dark and creepy here to start speculating and making matters worse than they already are.”
Pemberley gave a shrill whistle to call Oswald over, but he didn’t reappear. Churchill shone her torch in the direction of the last sighting but there was no sign of him.
“Where is he?” she whimpered.
“He can’t be far away or we wouldn’t have heard him.”
“Which can only mean that the evil thing must also be close by!”
There was another low growl, and the beams of the ladies’ torches frantically crossed and re-crossed the graveyard.
“Come here, Oswald!” Pemberley called out, her voice cracking. “Oh dear,” she added when he still didn’t return. “We’ll have to go and look for him.”
“Really?” All Churchill’s bravado had left her now. “Can’t we just wait by the gate until he comes back?”
“He might be in trouble!”
“That dog is always in trouble, Pembers, but he has a knack for getting himself out of it. There’s no need for us to get involved in his capers this evening.”
“We can’t just abandon him.”
“We’re not abandoning him. We’re merely waiting beside the gate until he’s finished whatever it is he’s up to.”
“But what if he’s found the thing we were looking for?”
“We came here to carry out surveillance, Pembers, not to look for a thing.”
“He’s found something, that’s for sure. Don’t you think we should find out what it is?”
“By all means go and have a look, Pembers. I’ll just wait here by the gate.”
“You’re not frightened, are you, Mrs Churchill?”
“Frightened? Surely you know me better than that by now.”
“Then why won’t you come with me to find Oswald? He may have been carrying out some of his clever dog detective work again for all we know. He may even have solved Mr Grieves’s case.”
“I doubt Oswald has done so single-handedly while we’ve been standing around the churchyard.”
“Fine, then I’ll go and fetch him myself.”
“I thought you were afraid of the dark?”
“I don’t have time for all that when my dog needs me. Will you be all right if I leave you here quaking in your boots, Mrs Churchill?”
“I’m not quaking!”
“You’re obviously too scared to search the churchyard for poor Oswald.”
Pemberley strode off into the darkness with her torch, and Churchill felt so affronted by the suggestion of her being scared that she quickly followed. Besides, remaining with Pemberley seemed preferable to standing on her own in the dark. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she followed her assistant. She wished she were in the cosy kitchen of her cottage, sitting in her easy chair by the stove enjoying a hot toddy. She also wished she had never agreed to take on the churchyard case. She made a mental note to be a little choosier in future.
“Oswald!” Pemberley called out. “Where are you? Oh dear, I do hope he’s safe.”
The wind moaned eerily through the bell tower and Churchill felt her knees begin to quake. “We must have almost crossed the whole churchyard by now,” she said. “Isn’t Saul Mollikin’s grave near here?”
“Yes, it is.”
Churchill thought of the strange grave with its fresh blades of grass and felt an extra-strong shiver. She found herself fighting the strong urge to turn tail and run out of the churchyard as quickly as her legs would carry her.
“It’ll be a miracle if we ever get out of this churchyard in one piece, Pembers.”
“Why on earth would you say that, Mrs Churchill? You surely don’t believe something’s about to attack us, do you?”
“I just don’t know, Pembers. Perhaps we’ll be cursed.”
“In a churchyard?”
“Yes. Whatever it is, I have a feeling something terribly bad is about to happen to us.”
“Why didn’t you say so when we were walking here this evening? It would have saved us having to wander around the churchyard in the dark trying to find Oswald.”
“I didn’t realise it would be this bad.”
“I did try to warn you.”
“I know.”
“You should listen next time.”
“I should, but I probably won’t. Once I’m back at home with a nice brandy and lovage in my hand I shall probably forget about all the horrors of the churchyard. If we ever get out of here, that is.”
“We will—”
Pemberley’s reply came to an abrupt end as Churchill emitted a scream louder than she’d considered herself capable of making. She dropped her torch and flapped her hands in terror, her whole body consumed by a paroxysm of fear.
“Mrs Churchill! Mrs Churchill!” pleaded Pemberley. “What is it? What’s happened? Did you see something?”
“Over there! On that grave! It’s coming out!”
“Coming out?” shrieked Pemberley. “Coming out of the grave?”
“Yes! It’s coming for us!”
Churchill felt Pemberley’s hand grip tightly around her arm.
“What is?” she squeaked. “What’s coming for us?” Pemberley swept her torchlight across the graveyard until it came to rest upon the glaring white of bone.
Then it was Pemberley’s turn to scream.
Resting at the foot of a headstone close by was a grinning skull with the deepest, darkest eye sockets Churchill had ever seen.
“We have to get out of here!” Churchill wailed. “It’s cursed! We’re doomed!” She turned to run, but quickly realised she could see nothing in the blackness behind her with her torch still lying on the ground somewhere.
“I, I… I d-don’t think it’s m-moving,” ventured Pemberley, as the quivering beam of her torch rested on the skull once again. “In fact, it’s not attached to anything. The rest of the body isn’t there. It’s just the head.”
“I can’t decide whether that’s better or worse!” wailed Churchill.
“At least it can’t chase us.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s just a head.”
�
�Oh, get me out of here, Pemberley. I can’t take a moment more of this! Which way did we come in? Oh, it’s so dark. Oh, help!”
A short, sharp bark brought Churchill back to her senses.
“He’s back!” rejoiced Pemberley as the scruffy little dog scampered over to them in the torchlight.
“Oh, thank goodness!” said Churchill with relief. “Now we really must go.” Her heart was pounding in her chest, fit to burst.
“Here’s your torch,” said Pemberley, stooping to pick it up from the ground. “I just stepped on it.”
“Does it still work?”
Pemberley gave it a shake and the beam came on. “Yes.” She handed it back to Churchill. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
The two ladies had only taken a few steps when Oswald began to growl again.
“Oh dear,” said Pemberley.
Churchill was struck dumb. Looming ahead of her in the torchlight was an ominous dark figure. Her knees gave way and she knew nothing more.
Chapter 23
“Mrs Churchill?”
Pemberley’s voice sounded distant, but when the buzzing noise in Churchill’s ears subsided she was able to hear it more clearly.
“Mrs Churchill?”
“Yes, Miss Pemberley. I’m here.” She wasn’t sure exactly where here was, but Churchill did know she was lying down and that her head ached. “What are you wiping my face with, Pembers?”
“I’m not.”
“What is that, then?”
Torchlight shone into her eyes.
“Ouch!” she said.
“Oswald was licking you better, Mrs Churchill.”
“How very thoughtful of him. Where am I? Please don’t tell me I’m still in that accursed churchyard.”
A deep chuckle made her jump.
“Was that you, Pembers? What’s happened to your voice?”
“Nothing,” came the reply. “This voice belongs to Grieves.”
“Mr Grieves the sexton? What are you doing here?”
“Frightening old ladies in the churchyard, that’s what. Allow me to help you up, Mrs Churchill. Are you able to stand?”
She whooped with surprise as two large hands slid beneath her arms and lifted her up.