by Emily Organ
“It is rather, isn’t it? You’d think someone would be missing it. Have you asked your fellow Masons about it?”
“I have, actually, but no one appears to be missing a ring.”
“That is most perplexing. And it also suggests someone is lying.”
“Masons don’t lie, Mrs Churchill!”
“Hear me out, Inspector. That ring belongs to someone, and he lost it while he was on Crunkle Lane, close to the scene of Mr Butterfork’s murder. Now if he’d been in the locality on entirely innocent business, he would have admitted to losing the ring and come forward to collect it, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
“The fact that he hasn’t admitted to losing the ring or come by to collect it suggests he’s the guilty party, wouldn’t you say? By coming forward to collect the ring he would risk implicating himself!”
“Unless he’s scared,” added Pemberley.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Perhaps he lost the ring while he was in the locality on innocent business, but then it just so happened that the murder was committed at around the same time. Now he feels wary about coming forward because he thinks everyone will assume he was involved in the murder.”
“There is that to consider, I suppose, but it seems unlikely. Have you checked the hands of your Masonic brothers, Inspector?”
“To check whether they’re all wearing their rings?”
“Yes.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because that would place me on an investigative footing, Mrs Churchill, and I don’t want to be an officer of the law when I attend Masonic meetings. I’m merely Mr Mappin when I go there. And besides, Masons don’t always wear their rings.”
“So you refuse to investigate any Masons at all, even if they may have committed the crime?”
“Masons simply aren’t criminals, Mrs Churchill!”
“So why doesn’t the chap who lost his ring in Crunkle Lane want to admit he was there?”
“Perhaps he hasn’t realised the ring is lost yet.”
“How ridiculous! Of course he would have noticed by now. I’m quite amazed you haven’t taken a peek at your friends’ hands to see if anyone is missing one, Inspector.”
“I’m not on duty when I go to Masonic meetings, Mrs Churchill.”
“You turn a blind eye, you mean? I suppose there’s at least one good reason for becoming a Freemason in that case.”
“A moment ago you were trying to suggest Miss Pickwick was the guilty party,” said the inspector. “You really need to make up your mind, Mrs Churchill.”
“Perhaps it’s both.”
“Both of whom?”
“The Freemason who wears a dark grey coat and lost his ring and Miss Pickwick. Perhaps they’re in it together.”
The inspector tutted and placed his hat back on his head. “I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life. I may as well take the ring off your hands while I’m here.”
“It’ll have to be tomorrow, Inspector.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, it’ll have been three days by tomorrow, and that’s when we’re due to hand it over to you.”
“I see. Well, thank you again for your assistance in recovering the bags of money, Mrs Churchill, but you really must leave the rest up to me.”
“Oh, darn it,” said Churchill once the inspector had left. “Miss Pickwick’s clearly up to no good, but that fool Mappin has no interest in arresting her.”
“He might be right, you know.”
“When has that dunderhead ever been right about anything, Pembers? He called her respectable. Pfft! She’s clearly fooled him with her smart clothes and winning smile. But she doesn’t fool us, does she? We’ll have to find out exactly what she was doing in the churchyard. I’m pretty certain she wasn’t visiting Great-Auntie Betty.”
“How do you know her name?”
“I don’t, I just made it up.
“Perhaps Miss Pickwick is completely innocent.”
“What do you mean? I thought you were particularly suspicious of her.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“Oh dear, Pembers. I don’t know what to think now. Actually, I do, because I like to think I have a good hunch about these things. Perhaps Miss Pickwick didn’t bury that money in the churchyard, but either way she was up to no good.”
“That means Mr Pickwick may also be involved.”
“Nonsense! If anyone around here is genuinely respectable it’s him.”
“Perhaps he’s hoodwinked you, Mrs Churchill.”
“I would never allow myself to be hoodwinked, Miss Pemberley.”
“If you say so.”
“Mr Pickwick is as innocent as the day is long, and Miss Pickwick is as guilty as sin.” Even as Churchill spoke these words a seed of doubt began to settle itself in her mind.
Chapter 29
“You must be missing your studio, Percy,” said Churchill during her sitting the following day. “Has it been repaired yet?”
“Almost. It’s not a fancy studio, however; just an adapted summerhouse, really.”
“I recall you telling me now, but it’s nice to have one all the same. You must have fairly large grounds to accommodate a summerhouse.”
“Oh, nothing too extravagant.”
“And a suitably large house to go with them, no doubt.”
“It suffices,” he said with a smile. “I can’t complain.”
“Is it in the village or close by?”
“Close by. Near Triddledon Lane, in fact.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Just east of here.”
“I’m not fishing for the exact address in case you’re worried about me paying you a surprise visit, Percy!”
“Oh, that wouldn’t worry me at all!”
“Would it not? Gosh.” Churchill felt an excitable flip in her stomach and decided to change the subject. “That buried money was rather a funny old business, don’t you think?”
“A very funny business indeed. I can’t understand it at all. Why on earth would someone want to bury money in a churchyard?”
“It’s all terribly strange.”
“Just hold your position there for a moment, Mrs Churchill. The light is falling on you in the most beautiful way, and I simply must capture it.”
“Oh, must you? How delightful.” Churchill sat as still as possible and listened to the soft, soothing sound of bristles against canvas. “How I wish I could see how my portrait is coming along.”
“No, no. Naughty, naughty!” Mr Pickwick grinned and wagged his paintbrush at her in mock admonishment.
“But surely it must remain in view while you’re not working on it.”
“Not at all. I always keep any works in progress covered with a sheet. Your portrait has its own special place behind the counter in my gallery.”
“Does it really?”
“It certainly does.”
“I’ll have to sneak in one day and take a little look now you’ve told me that!”
“Then I’d have to give you a little rap over the knuckles with my paintbrush.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t dare!”
“We’ll see about that, shall we?” he said with a wink.
Churchill did all she could to stop herself grinning from ear to ear. “Actually, I have a little admission to make,” she ventured once she had regained her composure. “I’m aware that you’re a Freemason, Percy, so I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this.”
“Why should I?”
“It’s rather a personal, private matter, you see.”
“I’m entirely comfortable about discussing my personal, private matters with you, Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh goodness, really?” She gave a nervous giggle. “Well I never!” She patted her warm brow with a clean white handkerchief. “Call me Annabel, by the way.”
“Here’s my ring, Annabel,” he said, holding up his
hand so she could see the band of gold, “and I wear it with pride. Have you discovered who the owner of the missing ring is yet?”
“Sadly no, nor have we recovered the ring itself. It’s all a bit of a sorry mess. I don’t suppose you know whether one of your Masonic brothers happens to have lost a ring?”
“I’m afraid not. I do wish I could be more helpful, Mrs Churchill, but I think you’d better report the theft to Inspector Mappin.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that! He’ll be terribly cross if he finds out it’s been stolen.’’
“But it’s not your fault.”
“Well, I may have accidentally left the door unlocked.”
“It’s still not your fault. You didn’t invite anyone in to steal it, did you?”
“I didn’t. You’re quite right there, Percy.”
“Then tell him it was stolen so he can track down the culprit.”
“I’m not convinced he’s capable of that. And besides, he’d already asked to keep it safe down at the police station.”
“Do you know what I think?”
“What’s that?”
“I think it’ll turn up one way or another.”
“What makes you say that?”
“These things always do. The moment you stop looking for something, there it is right in front of you. I’ve experienced this strange phenomenon with so many things during my lifetime.”
“Oh, I see.”
Churchill was about to ask what he was referring to when he interrupted her thoughts.
“There’s the light again, it’s simply divine! Just hold still for me, Annabel.”
Mr Pickwick’s charming demeanour was making it difficult for Churchill to broach the topic of his sister. After a few minutes of quiet she decided there was no more time to waste. “I hear the police are asking all those who have visited the churchyard in recent days whether they happened to see anything unusual. Have they spoken to your sister yet, do you know?”
“My sister?” He paused, his paintbrush poised.
“Yes, Miss Pickwick.”
“I know her name all right, but why would they want to speak to Agnes?”
“She was in the churchyard yesterday; the day the money was discovered, in fact. Miss Pemberley and I saw her leaving, and she told us she’d just visited the grave of an elderly aunt. Well, not a real aunt, but a friend she considered an aunt.”
“Ah, yes. I know she often likes to visit old Mrs Longhorn’s final resting place.”
“Perhaps while she was visiting old Mrs Longhorn, she caught sight of someone desecrating old Mr Grunchen.”
“She didn’t mention that she had.”
“I don’t suppose you know whether Mrs Longhorn’s resting place is anywhere near Mr Grunchen’s, do you?”
“I’ve no idea at all, I’m afraid.”
“Have you ever visited Mrs Longhorn yourself?”
“Oh yes, many a time. We were so close that I considered her a great-aunt.”
“Just as your sister did.”
“Exactly.”
“Whereabouts is she buried in the churchyard?”
“My sister?”
“No, Mrs Longhorn.”
“Oh, yes!” He gave a chuckle. “I get a little confused sometimes, it must be my age!”
“You’re not so very old, Percy.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of life left in those old bones yet.”
“There might be if there was someone around to keep them lively.”
“Is that so? And is there?”
“There might be… or there might not be, Annabel.” His neat moustache gave a playful twitch.
“I see. Well, I’m not entirely sure what this conversation is about now. Let’s return to the subject of the money in the graveyard.”
“Must we?”
“I do like a good mystery, Percy! Surely you’ve learnt that about me by now.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re a private detective.”
“Absolutely. Now, can you roughly recall where Mrs Longhorn’s final resting place is?”
“Yes, I think so. When the churchyard path forks you take the left path, which wends its way round in a little loop. If I recall correctly, she’s just on the right after the little loop.”
“I see.” Churchill narrowed her eyes as she tried to picture the location in her mind. “Not enormously far from Mr Grunchen, then. Are you quite sure your sister saw no one suspicious lurking around there? Someone with a fresh bunch of red carnations, perhaps?”
“She didn’t mention that she had seen anyone. Perhaps you could ask her yourself.”
“I suppose I could. She might take it the wrong way, though, don’t you think?”
“Why would she?”
“If I start asking your dear sister probing questions about Mr Grunchen’s grave she might mistakenly think that I suspect her of something.”
“Why would she think that?”
“People often put their defences up when they feel as if they’re being probed.”
“I’m quite sure my sister wouldn’t mind at all. She’s quite an affable sort.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Percy. I might just speak to her in that case.”
“Hold it there!”
“What is it?”
“Freeze!”
“Pardon?”
“It’s the light, Annabel.”
“Again?”
“Did you notice it change just then? The way it’s falling upon you now is simply wonderful. Ethereal, even. Let me just capture it.”
Chapter 30
“Where would Miss Pickwick have bought a bunch of red carnations from, Pembers?”
“If she did buy them, that is.”
“That’s what we need to find out, isn’t it? If we can find the florist who sold Miss Pickwick those red carnations, we’ll know for sure that she was up to no good at Benjamin Grunchen’s graveside.”
“There’s only one florist in Compton Poppleford and that’s Mrs Crackleby.”
“That should make it relatively straightforward, then. She has a stall on the high street, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but we can’t possibly go and speak to her or she’ll sell us all her flowers.”
Churchill gave a laugh. “She might manage that with more susceptible types, but I’m sure I’ll be able to resist her cut-throat sales tactics when I encounter them.”
The two ladies and Oswald made their way along the high street toward the red awning of Mrs Crackleby’s flower stall.
“Mr Pickwick suggested I ask his sister directly about the red carnations, but I can’t imagine her taking kindly to that, can you?”
“Not at all,” replied Pemberley. “Ladies of her sort do not like to be questioned. And she’ll immediately assume you suspect her of something, which will bring out the very worst in her.”
“Maybe we’re judging her a little too harshly. Mr Pickwick described her as an ‘affable sort’.”
“Does she look the affable sort to you?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Nor to me.”
“But perhaps we shouldn’t judge the woman on her appearance. Maybe we should take some time to acquaint ourselves with her a little better first.”
“And how would we do that?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Perhaps your friendship with Mr Pickwick could grow a little warmer. That way you might encounter her more frequently.”
“Pembers! What a scandalous suggestion!”
“It may be the only way.”
“If we discover that she didn’t buy any red carnations from Mrs Crackleby we can forget all about her.”
“And if she did?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But I must say all this talk of a warm friendship makes me sound like some sort of floozy. It’s quite disgraceful!”
Churchill and Pemberley walked up to the florist’
s stall to find buckets and baskets of colourful blooms arranged neatly beneath the awning.
“Good morning, Mrs Crackleby.”
“Oh, how lovely to have some customers at last! Mrs Churchill and Miss Pemberley, isn’t it? Compton Poppleford’s private detectives. I could have sworn everyone who walked past me this morning was quite determined not to notice me standing here trying to sell my wares. These poor chrysanthemums are quite bereft without a pretty vase to sit in atop an occasional table.”
“I didn’t realise they were sentient,” said Pemberley.
“No, they’re chrysanthemums, as I just said. And as for the poor peonies, they crave nothing more than a pleasant, well-lit spot beside the window. Not full sunlight, mind you, but a place where they’ll be noticed and admired. Visitors never fail to be impressed by a vase of beautiful peonies. They lift a room, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed,” responded Churchill, resolutely determined that she wouldn’t be purchasing any.
“It’s usually a shilling for a bunch but I’ll give you two for a shilling and sixpence.”
“Perhaps later, Mrs Crackleby. We’ve come to have a word with you about one of your customers.”
“Ah, yes. Who would that be, then?”
“Miss Pickwick. She’s the sister of Mr Pickwick the gallery owner.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“We have reason to believe she may have bought a bunch of red carnations from you.”
“I can’t say that I remember.”
“Have you sold a bunch of red carnations to anyone recently?”
“Yes, I have.”
“May we ask who you sold it to?”
“I’m afraid my memory’s a little hazy, Mrs Churchill.”
“You can’t remember the name of a single customer to whom you sold a bunch of red carnations over the past few days?”
“I find my memory improves significantly whenever I sell a few bunches of flowers.”
“A few? How many is a few?”
Churchill and Pemberley returned to their office half an hour later completely weighed down with fresh flowers.
“Seven shillings!” fumed Churchill. “That woman had us wrapped around her little finger!”
“But it wasn’t all for nothing,” replied Pemberley, setting two bunches of chrysanthemums, a display of gladioli and an arrangement of lilies down on her desk. “We have all these lovely flowers to show for it. Don’t they smell delightful?”