by Emily Organ
“We only have two vases,” replied Churchill. “What else can we put them in?”
Pemberley looked around the room. “The teapot?”
“But we need that for our tea!”
“We could take them out whenever we have tea and put them back in afterwards. Same with the milk jug.”
“They’ll have to do for now, I suppose. I think I have a few old vases rattling around at home that I can bring in tomorrow.”
“I suppose we can fit all the chrysanthemums together in the milk jug. There! They look quite lovely, don’t they?”
“I see what you mean about Mrs Crackleby. It’s no wonder people avoid her like the plague when they’re walking along the high street.”
“If you so much as stray within three yards of her flower stall you’re in for it.”
“I can appreciate that now. However, she did reveal something rather interesting, didn’t she? We now have confirmation that Miss Pickwick purchased a bunch of red carnations on the very same day we saw a fresh bunch on Mr Grunchen’s grave. She must have put them there, just as we suspected.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“If it is a coincidence it’s one of such a colossal size that it would be practically improbable.”
“But we still can’t prove, without a doubt, that Miss Pickwick put the vase of red carnations on Mr Grunchen’s grave.”
“I’d say that it was incredibly likely, wouldn’t you?”
“But that wouldn’t be enough to stand up in a court of law.”
“Oh, Pembers, you sound like one of those boring barrister types who ruin everybody’s fun.”
“We’ll just have to carry out a little more detective work to prove it.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tsk!” said Churchill dejectedly.
“Coo-ee! Anybody home?” A red-haired lady poked her head through the door.
“This isn’t our home, Mrs Thonnings. It’s our place of work.”
“Yes, of course. I only said it because you spend so much time here.” Once she had stepped inside the room, she paused to survey the blooms. “I see you got caught by Mrs Crackleby.”
“Indeed we did,” replied Churchill.
“I give her a wide berth whenever I walk along the high street. I once strayed a little too close to her stall while stepping sideways to avoid Inspector Mappin on his bicycle and ended up with three bunches of freesias.”
“You should have billed Inspector Mappin for them.”
“I tried, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. He charges around on that bicycle expecting everyone to leap out of his way.”
“It’s about to get even worse, you know.”
“How so?”
“He’s on the waiting list for a motorcycle, apparently.”
“Oh no! That’ll give him an enormously big head.”
“He says it’s essential so he can respond to emergencies quickly.”
Churchill snorted. “Since when did Inspector Mappin respond quickly to emergencies? What a joke!”
“He presumably needs the motorcycle because he’s currently unable to,” Pemberley chipped in.
“Whose side are you on, Pembers?”
“No one’s. I’m merely trying to view the situation objectively.”
“Pah! He’ll be a total menace on that motorcycle, there’s no doubt about it. Is that what you came to tell us, Mrs Thonnings? About Mappin’s motorcycle?”
“No, actually it was… Oh dear, do excuse me.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and sneezed into it.
“Bless you!”
“Thank you. I came here to ask about. Oh dear…” She sneezed again.
“Bless you again.”
“Thank you. I’ve heard all about your portrait, Mrs Churchill.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Achoo!”
“Bless you.”
“Thank you. Yes, and I was wondering whether you thought… Achoo!”
“Bless you.”
“Thank you. I think it’s the flowers.”
“What were you wondering?”
“I was wondering whether you thought Mr Pickwick might be interested in painting me.”
“He’s quite busy painting me at the moment.”
“I realise that. But perhaps once he’s finished your portrait, he might consider doing mine.”
“I have no idea, Mrs Thonnings, I’m afraid you’d need to ask him yourself. But I imagine he looks for certain characteristics when choosing a sitter.”
“Such as?”
“Only Mr Pickwick would know that, but I sensed when he asked me to sit for him that he felt I possessed certain qualities which conveyed a particular mood. You only have to look at his portrait of Viscountess Bathshire to get an idea of what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley.
“Well you should, Miss Pemberley. You’ve seen the painting of Viscountess Bathshire, have you not?”
“Yes, but I still don’t know what you mean when you say the subject is in possession of certain qualities.”
“It’s a sort of bearing; call it class, if you like, or even elegance. A sort of… je ne sais quoi.” Churchill observed Pemberley’s baffled expression and sighed. “The fact of the matter is that Mr Pickwick cannot simply go around painting everyone in the village. Can you imagine the size of the queue outside his door? It’s something that has to be by invitation only.”
“Achoo!”
“Bless you yet again, Mrs Thonnings.”
“Thank you. Achoo!”
“And again.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I’ll ask Mr Pickwick if he’d like to invite me to be painted.”
“Ask away, Mrs Thonnings, but—”
“Achoo! Oh dear, it’s definitely the flowers.”
“Oh, good grief, Mrs Thonnings! Perhaps you could take your sneezing somewhere else for the time being!”
Chapter 31
“I don’t know what poor Mr Pickwick will think when he discovers his sister is a criminal,” said Churchill as she and Pemberley walked down to the police station.
“There may still be a tiny element of doubt, but I certainly think she’s guilty,” replied Pemberley. “It’s quite apparent to me that she’s been hiding Mr Butterfork’s money in the churchyard graves. What a despicable thing to do.”
“Awful! She must have planned it carefully, with several visits to the churchyard carried out. During each visit she made some sort of mark on the headstone of any grave she deemed suitable. Whether it was cleaning the headstone a little, leaving a rose or digging an exploratory hole, these were all methods of marking the graves so she could return to bury her haul. Mr Grieves the sexton will be very interested to hear all this once we’ve spoken to Inspector Mappin. I told you we’d solve it, didn’t I? In fact, we’ve solved both cases at the same time. Fancy Miss Pickwick being a murderer! I despair for her poor brother, I really do. He’s such a gentleman. I can’t understand how he should have turned out so nicely and she so evil!”
“They do seem to be very different in character.”
“They do indeed!”
“Not like brother and sister at all.”
“Not at all. Wait a minute, what are you implying, Pembers?”
“Nothing. It was just an observation.”
“Well, I still feel terribly sorry for him. His sister must be the black sheep of the family.”
“But what about the dark figure?” asked Pemberley. “And the Freemason’s ring? And the dark grey overcoat?”
“The dark figure must have been her,” said Churchill. “It’s no stretch of the imagination to suggest that she possesses a dark grey overcoat.”
“And the ring?”
“Perhaps she dropped it there to mislead the police.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or maybe it
has nothing to do with the murder at all.”
“Maybe it doesn’t. That would be a good thing, given that we still don’t know where it is.”
Churchill and Pemberley reached the small white police station at the bottom of the high street and stepped inside.
“Flowers?” queried Inspector Mappin.
“We thought you might like a nice bunch of chrysanthemums, Inspector.” He eyed the pink blooms warily as Churchill placed them on his desk.
“We don’t have flowers in the police station as a rule.”
“Then why don’t you make a new rule? They certainly brighten this drab place up a little.” Churchill noticed something small and gold on the inspector’s leather desk mat. “That’s not a Freemason ring, is it?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. Another one! I need to have a word with my Masonic brothers about taking better care of their belongings. Has anyone claimed the ring you found yet, Mrs Churchill?”
“Erm, not yet, Inspector. In fact, the one you have there on your desk may well be the ring in question.”
“This one?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“But I caught one of the Flatboots trying to flog it down at the Wagon and Carrot.”
“Well, I should probably confess now that the ring has gone missing from our office, Inspector. Someone broke in and stole it.”
“Who? When?”
“We don’t know who, but it was shortly after we placed the notice in the Gazette.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’d given you every assurance that the drawer in my desk was perfectly safe, only it turned out not to be.”
Inspector Mappin tutted. “At least we’ve recovered it now. I’m surprised no one has laid claim to it yet.”
“Have you arrested the relevant Flatboot for breaking into our office?”
“No, because I didn’t realise he had. And besides, we can’t be sure who broke into your office. The Flatboots have a reputation for fencing stolen goods, but some other scallywag may have carried out the robbery itself. If you’d reported it to me at the time, I could have done some proper investigating.”
“I see. Well, it’s all water under the bridge now, Inspector. In the meantime, you’d better get your handcuffs ready, as we’ve an unquestionable arrest for you to make.”
“Really? Have you solved a case, Mrs Churchill? You usually make some sort of grand announcement at a large gathering in these instances.”
“I think this one needs to be handled rather quietly. There’s a certain gentleman I’d prefer not to embarrass, you see.”
“Ah. Would the suspect happen to be Miss Pickwick, by any chance?”
“I’ve no idea how you came to such a swift conclusion, Inspector, but yes.”
Churchill spent the next few minutes explaining why Miss Pickwick was undoubtedly guilty of Mr Butterfork’s murder.
Inspector Mappin listened intently, then sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “It’s a compelling story, Mrs Churchill, but not completely convincing... yet.”
“What do you mean? How can it not be?”
“I said yet, Mrs Churchill. That means I’ll need to do a little more detailed investigating myself.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks, Inspector! It’s quite clear the woman should be behind bars.”
“I’d like to interview Miss Pickwick first.”
“You haven’t even done that yet?”
“No, but her name is on my list.” He opened his notebook and consulted it. “Yes, there she is all right. She’s about four people down, but I suppose I could move her up to the top.” He drew a little arrow on the page. “There, I shall speak to her this afternoon.”
“Merely speak to her, Inspector?”
“And make some further enquiries.”
“But Miss Pemberley and I have already made plenty of enquiries.”
“I’m sure you have, Mrs Churchill. It’s quite impressive really, given that you weren’t even meant to be working on this case.”
Chapter 32
Churchill spotted a small crowd on the high street as she made her way to the office the following morning. Intrigued, she walked past her premises and up to the group standing outside the bank.
It wasn’t long before she spotted the tall, slender frame of her trusty assistant Pemberley standing next to the shorter, red-haired figure of Mrs Thonnings.
“Goodness, what’s happened here?” she asked the two ladies.
“It’s Mr Burbage,” replied Pemberley.
“Oh crikey, how awful!”
“He’s in a bad way,” added Mrs Thonnings.
“I should think he would be.”
“He didn’t deserve it.”
“Absolutely not,” agreed Churchill shaking her head sadly. “Mr Burbage was nothing but a harmless bank manager. I used to enjoy my little chats with him while I was making my deposits and withdrawals. I can’t pretend he was a terribly exciting man, but he was a bank manager after all. And as bank managers go, he was one of the most proficient I’ve ever known. It’s so terribly sad.”
“I can see him talking to Inspector Mappin now,” said Pemberley, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck to see over the heads of the onlookers standing in front of her.
“Talking to Mappin?” asked Churchill incredulously. “How can he be talking when he’s dead?”
“Who’s dead?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“Mr Burbage! You just told me he’d been murdered!”
“He hasn’t been murdered,” corrected Mrs Thonnings, “he’s been robbed! The bank has been robbed.”
“Oh.” Churchill felt a surprising sense of deflation. “The pair of you can be incredibly misleading at times.”
From the corner of her eye she spotted the large form of Mrs Hatweed and instantly wondered whether the housekeeper had any further details about the robbery.
“Oh hello, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Hatweed as the portly detective nudged up alongside her.
“Good morning, Mrs Hatweed. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any whispers of what’s been occurring at the bank?”
“Apparently they’d been digging the tunnel for two weeks.”
“Tunnel? What tunnel?”
“That’s how they got into the bank; they dug a tunnel. Then last night they dug the final bit, which brought them out right in the middle of the vault!” She chuckled. “Clever really, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand. The robbers dug a tunnel into the vault?”
“Yes.”
“But where did it begin?”
“In their basement.”
“Whose basement?”
“The building next door.” She pointed a finger at it.
“But that’s Pickwick’s Gallery!”
“Exactly.”
“The robbers dug a tunnel to the bank from Mr Pickwick’s basement?”
“Yes. It went down into the ground, beneath the dividing wall and up into the bank. Then they emptied out the vault and carried it all back through to the basement of the gallery.”
“All without his knowledge? How terribly sneaky. Poor Mr Pickwick!”
Mrs Hatweed gave a hearty laugh that made her curls bounce. “Oh, Mrs Churchill, you are funny!”
Churchill felt confused by this response. “It’s terribly unfortunate for Mr Pickwick. How will he convince the police that he had nothing to do with it?”
Mrs Hatweed laughed even louder. “I’d say he was rather conspicuous by his absence, wouldn’t you?”
“Absence? Has he gone somewhere?”
“Yes. He’s taken off with that woman who was supposed to be his sister.”
“But Miss Pickwick is his sister.”
Mrs Hatweed responded with another laugh, which riled Churchill further. “That’s what he told you, wasn’t it?”
Churchill glared at the red, mirth-filled face of Mrs Hatweed as several realisations settled themselves in her m
ind.
“Are you suggesting Mr Pickwick robbed the bank?” she asked.
“Yes! Pickwick and his lady friend – a gangster’s moll if ever I saw one – along with some young ruffian they’d employed to do the digging. I saw that young Flatboot hanging around the gallery a few times and wondered what on earth his business could have been there. You don’t usually see someone with heavily stained trousers frequenting the local art gallery.”
“They’ve just upped and left? Taken the money and vanished?”
“Yep.”
“I refuse to believe it!”
“Refuse all you like, Mrs Churchill, but it’s the truth.”
Churchill’s thoughts turned to her portrait. “It can’t be true,” she muttered beneath her breath, pushing her way through the crowd until she reached the door of Pickwick’s Gallery. The door was locked but she saw two constables loitering inside: one with a brown moustache and the other wearing spectacles. Churchill recognised them as Constable Russell and Constable Dawkins, the two officers she had encountered in the churchyard. She hammered repeatedly on the door until Russell answered it.
“You can’t come in here,” he said.
“Oh hello, Constable Russell. Remember me?”
“Yes, but you still can’t come in.”
“I’ve come for something that belongs to me.”
“What might that be?”
“There’s a painting over there behind the counter. It’s covered with a piece of cloth, but it’s a portrait of me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you inside, Mrs Churchill.”
“You’ve told me that already. Could you just bring the painting over to me?”
“I can’t allow you to remove anything from the scene.”
“Fine, but can I at least take a look at it?”
“Hmm, I don’t know.” He turned and looked over at Constable Dawkins. “Mrs Churchill wants to look at that painting behind the counter.”
“Why?”
“She says it’s hers.”
“It’ll only take a minute of your time, Constables,” she pleaded.
Constable Dawkins gave a shrug and sauntered over to the counter. He peered behind it before retrieving the painting, which was still covered with a sheet, and brought it over to her.