Trouble in the Churchyard

by Emily Organ

  The two ladies noticed someone stepping out through the gate as they approached the churchyard.

  “Who’s that?” asked Pemberley. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

  The fair-haired lady had a trim figure and wore a well-tailored jacket and skirt in pale blue.

  “It’s Miss Agnes Pickwick,” replied Churchill. “Mr Pickwick’s sister.”

  Miss Pickwick, who hadn’t yet seen them, paused beside the gate to remove her gloves. Then she shook each glove and dusted it off before neatly tucking the pair inside her handbag. After she had looped the handbag over her arm, Miss Pickwick started walking toward Churchill and Pemberley at a brisk pace.

  “Good morning!” Churchill called out as Miss Pickwick drew near.

  “Oh, good morning!” she called back. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Extremely. Perfect weather for visiting the churchyard.”

  “Oh.” She gave a tentative smile and glanced behind her. “Yes, it is. I’ve just been there myself, actually, visiting the resting place of a dearly departed relative.”

  “I didn’t realise you and your brother had family in this part of the country, Miss Pickwick.”

  “Ah well, not family, exactly. We were so close that I considered her a great-aunt, you see. Anyway, I must be off. Do enjoy your stroll, ladies!”

  Churchill and Pemberley narrowed their eyes as they watched Miss Pickwick march on down the cobbled lane.

  “She’ll be annoyed when she notices all that mud on her perfect shoes,” commented Pemberley.

  “She will. And she’d clearly dirtied her gloves, too. I wonder which aged relative she was visiting.”

  “She looks significantly younger than Mr Pickwick,” commented Pemberley. “Could she be his half-sister, do you think?”

  “He didn’t mention such a thing. Perhaps there are a good deal of Pickwick siblings in between. He could be the eldest and she could be the youngest. And after all, he isn’t that old, Pembers.”

  “He’s old enough to be of interest to you, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Of interest? What could you possibly mean by that? He’s painting me, that’s all there is to it. Now, come along, Miss Pemberley. We’d better go and see what she’s been up to in the churchyard.”

  “I dread to think.”

  Oswald trotted on through the churchyard gate with the two ladies following behind him.

  “The churchyard looks so much friendlier in the daytime, don’t you think?” commented Churchill with a deep sense of relief.

  “It still gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “I’m tempted to be guided by Oswald here. A recent visitor would have left a fresh scent, don’t you agree? Look at his little nose; he’s got it snuffling about on the ground there. It can only be the scent of Miss Pickwick he’s picked up.”

  “Rather highly perfumed, I should think,” said Pemberley. “She looks like the sort of lady who would cover herself in expensive eau-de-cologne from a fancy cut-glass perfume bottle with a long tassel. I can just imagine it sitting on her dressing table next to her silver vanity set.”

  “How nice for Miss Pickwick.”

  “It must have an enormous looking glass, of course.”

  “What must?”

  “Her dressing table. In fact, it probably has three looking glasses. One in the centre and one on either side, placed at an angle so she can admire herself from whichever angle she chooses.”

  “I see.”

  “All framed with ornate gilt, of course.”

  “The looking glasses?”

  “Yes. And the dressing table itself must also be very grand. Elegantly shaped with an inverted bow front so she doesn’t knock her delicate knees on it, no doubt.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough about Miss Pickwick’s bedroom furniture, Pembers.”

  “Bedroom? Oh no, I was merely referring to the dressing room. The bedchamber would be another matter entirely, with a Queen Anne four-poster bed—”

  “Pembers, that’s enough! We must concentrate on the task in hand. Now, I must say I’m growing more than a little interested in the elderly relative Miss Pickwick claimed to have been visiting. A lady she considered a great-aunt, didn’t she say? I wish we’d asked her the lady’s name now.”

  “Perhaps Miss Pickwick is the headstone cleaner.”

  “Now that’s a thought. Perhaps her gloves had lichen on them, and that’s why she dusted them off before putting them back in her handbag. Perhaps she’s the one who’s behind all the churchyard shenanigans.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing ladies with elaborate dressing tables tend to do,” said Pemberley. “They’re usually far more interested in the wave of their hair and the shape of their lips.”

  “That may be a slight generalisation. Where’s that dog got to? He must have sniffed something out by now.”

  “He’s over there.” Pemberley pointed out the small scruffy form of Oswald toward the rear of the church.

  “Isn’t that the site of Benjamin Grunchen’s grave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear, he’d better not start digging it up again. Let’s get over there and stop him, Pembers.”

  The two ladies hurried over to where the little dog stood and found him sniffing intently at a pot of bright red carnations.

  “How very interesting!” exclaimed Churchill. “These look so fresh they could only have been placed here this morning.”

  “By Miss Pickwick!”

  “Exactly! But on Mr Grunchen’s grave?”

  “Maybe she considered him a great-uncle.”

  “We could have accepted that explanation if she’d said the word ‘uncle’, but she didn’t, did she? She distinctly used the word ‘aunt’. I think there may be something fishy going on here.”

  “Why would she have placed carnations on Mr Grunchen’s grave?”

  “I have no idea, Pembers.”

  Oswald sniffed excitedly around the base of the pot.

  “There’s certainly a smell of freshly disturbed earth here, wouldn’t you say?” Churchill added. “Oswald must have got a whiff of it, too.” Churchill crouched down by the flowers. “I think this pot may have been placed here as a distraction.”

  “A distraction from what?”

  “Miss Pickwick dirtied her gloves, but I don’t see why they would be dirty from placing a fresh pot of carnations on the grave of Mr Grunchen. She’s been rooting about with her hands somewhere if you ask me.”

  “Under the pot of carnations, do you think?”

  “That’s the only logical explanation, wouldn’t you say?”

  Churchill stooped down and lifted the pot of carnations away from the grave. Beneath it was a section of flattened, yet freshly disturbed, earth.

  “Ugh!” exclaimed Pemberley. “How deep did she go?”

  “I dread to think, but I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” Churchill knelt down by the graveside, moved the pot of flowers to one side and retrieved a pair of leather gloves from her handbag.

  “You’re not going to dig as well, are you, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Just some minor excavation work, Pembers.”

  “But it’s a grave!”

  “I realise that. I’m hardly going to go digging up poor Mr Grunchen himself, am I?” She pulled on her gloves. “I merely want to find out what that Pickwick woman has been up to. She didn’t have obvious dirt on her skirt, did she? She must have hoisted it up and got her stockings grubby instead.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. She seems the sort.”

  “I can’t help but notice that you seem to be harbouring an instant dislike of Miss Pickwick.”

  “I don’t know her personally, but I’m always suspicious of people with bright teeth and hair.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s often a sign that there’s something a little bit off about them, isn’t it? And digging around in Benjamin Grunchen’s grave hasn’t exactly helped her cause. Right then, here goes.”
>
  “Oh, I can’t bear to look!”

  “I’m merely extracting the upper layer of soil, Pembers. I want to see what she’s been doing down here.”

  “Maybe she decided to rake it over and plant some grass seed. And then she placed a pot of carnations on top of it while she’s waiting for the seed to take.”

  “That’s hardly a plausible explanation.”

  “I know, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I can’t imagine a single other reason why anyone would want to go digging about in a grave. It gives me the shivers!”

  Churchill gently scooped the soil with her gloved hand and moved it into a little pile to her left. “This must be linked to the small hole dug in this same grave a week or two ago.”

  Pemberley tutted. “I can’t understand what the woman has against the poor man. What has he ever done to her?”

  “I can’t imagine he ever did anything to her. He died in 1865.”

  “Perhaps his ghost haunted her.”

  “What nonsense, Pemberley! You don’t believe in all that supernatural piffle, do you?”

  “Of course not, but maybe she does.”

  “I think I’ve found something here.”

  “Ugh! What is it?”

  “It’s a piece of fabric, I think.”

  “A shroud?”

  “How could it possibly be a shroud? I’ve only dug down a couple of inches, and I’d like to think Mr Grunchen’s body is enclosed within a coffin.”

  Churchill continued to excavate the soil. “It looks like a bundle of something,” she continued, “wrapped in sacking of some sort. Can you help me, Pembers?”

  “All right then, if I must.” Pemberley knelt down next to Churchill and began removing the soil. It wasn’t long before the two ladies had uncovered a bundle of sacking about the size of a large fruit cake.

  “I’ve no idea what this can be,” said Churchill, “but I think we should lift it out.”

  “What if it’s something awfully unpleasant?”

  “I can’t imagine Miss Pickwick handling anything awfully unpleasant, can you?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Come on, then. Let’s haul this thing out.”

  Churchill wrapped her hands around the bundle and lifted it out. The sacking was tied with string, which Churchill carefully unknotted and pulled away. Then she cautiously unfolded the sacking.

  “Oh, I don’t like this at all!” moaned Pemberley. “What if it’s another skull?”

  “Why would it be a skull?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Don’t panic yet, Pembers, there’s another layer to unwrap.”

  “Miss Pickwick has excellent bundle-wrapping skills.”

  “She does, doesn’t she? This looks like a layer of canvas. And there’s more string here. Wait a moment… there, I’ve got it. And now…”

  “Oh, I can’t look!” Pemberley covered her face with her hands.

  “Don’t worry, Pembers, it’s nothing scary at all.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m looking at the contents of the bundle at this very moment.”

  Pemberley removed her hands, leaving traces of soil all over her face. “Money!” she exclaimed when she saw the pile of banknotes and coins lying uncovered in the bundle.

  “That’s right. Miss Pickwick has buried a large sum of money in the grave of Benjamin Grunchen.”

  “Well I never. Where did she get it from?”

  “Mr Butterfork’s tea chest, perhaps?”

  Pemberley gasped. “You think Miss Pickwick is the murderer?”

  “She must be. Where else would she have got all this money?”

  “But why leave it until now to bury the cash?”

  “Perhaps she was allowing a period of time to pass so nobody became suspicious. Maybe the hole Grieves spotted before was a sort of cursory, exploratory hole.”

  “She was digging about in an attempt to ascertain whether there would be enough space for her to bury Butterfork’s money!”

  “Exactly.”

  “But this can’t be all of it. He had an enormous tea chest filled with the stuff, from what I heard.”

  Churchill glanced around the churchyard. “Perhaps she’s buried it in a number of graves around here.”

  Pemberley shook her head in disbelief. “That woman has a lot to answer for. I knew I disliked her as soon as I saw her. But we can’t go digging around in all the graves; it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t, and we shan’t.” Churchill stood to her feet and dusted the dirt from her tweed skirt. “I’m afraid this is a matter for Inspector Mappin and his bumbling constables. We’d better go and report it to him.”

  Chapter 28

  “Thanks to your fine work we’ve uncovered two more bags of money, Mrs Churchill,” said Inspector Mappin. “One in the grave of Mrs Sally Fletcher and another in the final resting place of Mr Arthur Brimble.”

  “The other graves that had been tampered with!” she exclaimed. “This explains it all. I’m only pleased we were able to help, Inspector. I trust Miss Pickwick is firmly under lock and key in your cells.”

  “Not quite, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “We need to have more than a strong suspicion that she had something to do with it.”

  “But we saw her coming out of the churchyard!”

  “Does that prove she buried the money in Mr Grunchen’s grave?”

  “Someone had just done so, as the flowers were fresh and the earth had been freshly dug over.”

  “It could have been someone who visited the churchyard earlier in the morning.”

  “But she had dirty gloves! She brushed them off and hid them away in her handbag, didn’t she, Miss Pemberley? Ask to see her dirty gloves, Inspector!”

  “Dirty gloves would not provide sufficient proof that she buried the money in Mr Grunchen’s grave, I’m sorry to say.”

  “But her shoes were muddy.”

  “Which suggests she may have walked through some mud in the churchyard, but we still can’t be sure she went anywhere near Mr Grunchen’s grave.”

  “I know what you need to do, Inspector. You should ask her which grave she visited this morning. She gave us a vague explanation about some old dead aunt who wasn’t really an aunt or something, didn’t she, Miss Pemberley? I got the distinct impression she was spinning a tall tale at the time. If she’s unable to name the deceased ‘relative’, that would surely prove she was up to no good.”

  “It would certainly arouse our suspicions, but it still wouldn’t prove she buried the money in the grave.”

  “Oh fie, Inspector! She was clearly up to no good when we saw her. Miss Pemberley here was instantly suspicious of her, and that’s rather uncommon, wouldn’t you say, Miss Pemberley? She’s usually quite content to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I’m not sure I am, actually,” replied Pemberley. “I’m often rather suspicious of people.”

  “Not a particularly helpful reply, Miss Pemberley, I must say.”

  “Never mind that,” said Inspector Mappin. “The fact of the matter is there’s simply no evidence to suggest Miss Pickwick buried the money in the graves. And when you also consider how respectable the lady is, I think it highly unlikely she had anything to do with it. Extremely unlikely, I’d say.”

  “Respectable people don’t commit crimes then, Inspector?”

  “Not as a rule.”

  “Perhaps some people are merely pretending to be respectable.”

  “It’s possible. But that’s rather an unwarranted accusation to throw at Miss Pickwick, don’t you think? Especially given that she’s the sister of your gentleman companion.”

  “Companion? He’s nothing of the kind, Inspector! He simply happens to be painting me at the moment.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to buy the portrait once it’s finished, Inspector,” suggested Pemberley. “You could
hang it above your fireplace.”

  The inspector gave an astonished cough. “I don’t think that would do,” he said, looking flustered. “And besides, Mrs Mappin has firm ideas about the pictures we hang on our walls.”

  “I must say I’m a little offended you didn’t jump at the opportunity to hang my portrait in your home, Inspector,” said Churchill.

  “I’m sure your companion Pickwick will gladly hang it above his fireplace.”

  Churchill’s face reddened. “I don’t see why he should, and why are we even discussing my portrait, anyway?”

  “You brought it up,” said Pemberley.

  “I don’t think I did. And besides, I’ve lost track of our conversation now. Where were we?”

  “We had reached the point in the conversation at which I told you I couldn’t possibly arrest Miss Pickwick because there simply isn’t any evidence,” replied Inspector Mappin.

  “Couldn’t you interview her as a witness? I’d be interested to hear her replies. I’d like to know how she’d go about explaining the muddy gloves and which deceased almost family member she was supposedly visiting in the churchyard.”

  “I could interview her as a witness, I suppose.”

  “Good. Because if you can find who buried Mr Butterfork’s money in the churchyard you’ll have found his murderer.”

  “What makes you think it’s Mr Butterfork’s money?”

  “Oh, come on, Inspector. It’s quite obvious, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It could be his money, but we can’t be certain of that.”

  “Surely that’s the most likely explanation?”

  “I’d say that it’s likely, yes, but there can be no complete certainty about it.”

  Churchill sighed and helped herself to a ginger snap biscuit.

  “This is how one considers these matters when one is an experienced member of the police force, Mrs Churchill,” he continued. “Working theories are useful, but assumptions cannot be made. Now, has anyone visited you to claim the ring yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How interesting.”