Trouble in the Churchyard

by Emily Organ

  “Thank you,” she said. “I won’t even touch it, and you can pop it back exactly where you found it, but I’d like to look at it, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to check it’s the right one. Can you lift the sheet?”

  The constable did as he was told and lifted the cover from the painting.

  Churchill gasped, as if winded from a blow to the stomach. She took a step back, closed her eyes, reopened them, then gasped again.

  On the canvas in front of her was the crudely painted form of a person wearing blue. There was nothing to suggest the person was female, let alone Mrs Churchill. Countless layers of paint had been daubed carelessly on top of one another, creating a work resembling that of a young child let loose with a paintbrush.

  “That’s not very good, is it?” commented Constable Russell. “Are you sure it’s yours?”

  “No, it’s not mine,” replied Churchill, steadily backing away. “I was mistaken… Thank you for your time, Constable.”

  “Are you all right, Mrs Churchill?” he asked. “You look rather pale.”

  “I am, I…” Her legs began to feel a little unsteady. “I think I’d feel a lot better if I just sat down here for a moment.” A strange buzzing sensation filled Churchill’s head as she lowered herself onto the cobbles.

  “Assistance, please!” Constable Russell called out. “Does anyone have a chair? A blanket? Smelling salts? A glass of water?”

  “There’s no need to fuss, Constable, I’m quite all right. I just need a moment to recover myself.”

  Churchill pushed her handbag behind her head and used it as a pillow as a group of concerned faces gathered around and peered down at her. She closed her eyes as the faces began to swim and swirl.

  “Mrs Churchill!” shrilled Pemberley. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  “Just a little shock to the system, Pembers. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be quite all right in a moment.”

  Pemberley knelt beside her. “Oh, Mrs Churchill! Stay with us!”

  “I’m not dying, Pembers, I’m absolutely fine. Just a little… overwrought.”

  A heavy sense of shame and dismay lay upon her as she realised Mr Pickwick had fooled her; that he was nothing more than a common crook and she had well and truly fallen for his charms. Her chest ached as though she’d been kicked in the ribs by a horse.

  “What a bitter blow,” she murmured. “What an utter betrayal. How was I so easily fooled, Pembers?”

  Then she felt a swell of anger surge through her body. The man had lied to her repeatedly and abused her trust. Her teeth clenched and she balled her fists. “What I wouldn’t give right now to find that man and give him a darn good talking to! If I ever, ever, see him again, I will not be responsible for the violence I wreak upon his person!”

  Oswald began to lick her face as she shook her fist at the blue sky above her head.

  “Now that tickles,” she said, trying to push him off. “Please remove your dog from my face, Pembers.”

  “He’s trying to revive you, Mrs Churchill. He’s like one of those St Bernard rescue dogs in the Alps.”

  “They’re a little more useful because they happen to carry brandy.”

  “They don’t, actually, that’s just a myth.”

  “Right, well I could certainly do with a tot of restorative brandy about now.” Churchill pushed herself up and tried to stand. She finally did so with the help of Pemberley and two other members of the crowd.

  “Let’s get you down to the Wagon and Carrot,” said Pemberley, holding her arm. “I’m sure we can find something restorative in there.”

  Chapter 33

  “Call me a silly old fool, Pembers, but I once considered that accursed Pickwick fellow to be almost on an equal footing with the late, great Detective Chief Inspector Churchill.”

  The two ladies were seated in a dingy corner of the Wagon and Carrot public house. Oswald lay beneath the table, chewing on something he had found beside the fireplace.

  “You’re a silly old fool,” Pemberley replied obediently.

  Churchill took a gulp of her third brandy. “Why, oh why, was I charmed by him? I believed every word he told me!”

  “He was a charming man. These confidence tricksters often are. In fact they have to be, otherwise they wouldn’t be very good confidence tricksters, would they?”

  “But he was more than that, Pembers. He was a bank robber! What an utter disgrace. A gentleman like him!”

  “A gentleman criminal.”

  “Only he isn’t a gentleman; he’s a scoundrel. And as for his sister, we knew there was something up with her, didn’t we?”

  “I’m not convinced she was even his sister.”

  Churchill took another gulp of brandy and sighed. “I suppose there wasn’t a very strong family resemblance, was there? There isn’t always one, of course, but there was really no resemblance there whatsoever. What a horrible man. A horrible, horrible man!”

  “And woman.”

  “Yes! The pair of them are just as bad as each other. Why didn’t I see it sooner, Pembers? I should have realised. I’m a private detective, for goodness’ sake, I’m supposed to spot these things! Oh, where’s my brandy gone? Did you drink it?”

  “You did, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Then it’s only right that I should have another.”

  “We only came here for something restorative. I’d say you were more than restored by now. Perhaps even a little over-restored.”

  “Just one more, Pembers, and then we can resume our normal day’s work.”

  “Will you be capable of a normal day’s work after drinking four brandies, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Of course I will! I’m quite sure my day will be even more productive than usual.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! Now I’ll have a fourth whatnot, and then we can get on with it. Are you having a fourth, Pembers?”

  “No. I’ve only had the one, and that suited me just fine.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, then, but if you ask me I think you should have another.”

  “Gosh it’s bright out here,” commented Churchill as the two ladies and Oswald emerged from the Wagon and Carrot. “And what’s happened to the cobbles?”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “I don’t know, that’s what I asked you. They seem a little bumpier than usual.”

  “I see. Would you like to take my arm?”

  “Yes, I will, thank you. Bumpier and lumpier.”

  The two ladies began to walk along the high street toward their office.

  “Lumpier and bumpier. What am I talking about, Pembers?”

  “The cobbles, I think.”

  “That’s right! Lumpy, bumpy cobbles. I have to say I’m completely heartbroken about that scoundrel Pickwick. Dastardly, that’s what he is! You should have seen the picture he painted of me. Actually, I’m glad you didn’t; I’ve seen better-looking dogs’ dinners! He was merely pretending to paint me, Pembers. Pretending! All that talk of ‘Hark, see how the light falls upon you, Mrs Churchill.’ I’ve never heard so much baloney in all my days, and yet I fell for it. I completely fell for it!”

  “So you’ve said, Mrs Churchill.”

  “It’s not the cobbles, you know. It’s my shoes.”

  “Your shoes?”

  “Yes, they’re the lumpy, bumpy things. I’d better take them off.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mrs Churchill.”

  “I would.” She bent down and removed her shoes. “There. Don’t toes look funny in stockings?”

  “Please put your shoes back on, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Why? I like the feel of these cobbles without shoes. They feel all… cobbly.”

  “You’ll hurt your feet.”

  “Nonsense. My feet are as tough as old boots.” Churchill opened her handbag and attempted to shove her shoes inside.

  “Your feet will hurt once the brandy’s worn off.”

  “Worn off?
I didn’t have that much.”

  “You had five in the end.”

  “I thought it was four.”

  “You had ‘one for the road’, as you put it.”

  “Ah yes, but that’s still only four. One never counts the one for the road. Darn it, I can’t quite fit these shoes inside my handbag. I’ll have to leave it unfastened.

  Churchill looped her arm through Pemberley’s and leaned against her trusty assistant as they made their way back to the office. As the inebriated detective stumbled along, she noticed a shiny motor car pull up outside the town hall. An elegant lady dressed in mint green stepped out, and Oswald ran up to greet her.

  “Oh look, it’s Lady Darby!” exclaimed Churchill. “My favourite lady in Dorset!”

  “I think we should cross the street,” said Pemberley, tugging at Churchill’s arm.

  “Why? I’d very much like to speak to Lady Darby!”

  “I really don’t think you should at this moment in time.”

  “But she’s my great friend!”

  “And if you want to remain her friend, we should cross the street so she doesn’t see you while you’re tipsy.”

  “Tipsy? What nonsense, Pambers.”

  “Pembers.”

  “I prefer Pambers. I’m not tipsy, Pambers, and how dare you suggest such a thing. Anyway, I insist on speaking to my friend.”

  “You’ll embarrass yourself, Mrs Churchill, and she’ll uninvite you to her garden party.”

  “Embarrass myself? Since when have I ever done such a thing?” Churchill pulled away from Pemberley. “Yoo-hoo! Lady Darby!” she trilled, waving at the lady who was just about to step inside the town hall.

  Churchill woke later that afternoon to find herself lying on the settee in her front room. Sunlight was filtering in through the window and she felt a strange weight on her chest.

  “Oh dear, what time is it?” she moaned as a dull pain throbbed in her head. “What day is it even? And where did this fur blanket come from?”

  The fur blanket raised its head and yawned.

  “Oh, it’s you, Oswald! I’ve a vague memory of Miss Pemberley accompanying me here, though why she had to do that I’ll never know… I recall drinking a brandy or two at the Wagon and Carrot, and then…”

  “Tea!” announced Pemberley as she brought in a tray complete with a teapot, cups and a plate of sandwiches.

  “Thank you, Pembers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a welcome sight in my life!”

  Oswald jumped down onto the floor as Churchill raised herself up into a sitting position.

  “How did I end up falling asleep?” she asked. “I don’t even remember lying down. I was just trying to recall what happened, in fact. We went to the Wagon and Carrot, and then we left and… Why did we come here?”

  “You were rather tired and emotional, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Well yes, and it’s all the fault of that darned Pickwick fellow. Took me for a complete fool, he did. Did you see the ‘portrait’ he painted of me? Oh, such wicked deceit!”

  “You must forget all about him now, Mrs Churchill. Thinking about everything he did will cause you nothing but further pain.”

  “You’re right. I’ll push him out of my mind completely, and when he and his… sister, or lady friend or whatever she is, are finally caught and stand trial for their misdemeanours I shall sit on the public benches in the courtroom and jeer at him.”

  “I think that might place you in contempt of court, Mrs Churchill.”

  “I don’t care about that, Pembers! Frankly, I care not a jot. They can throw me out as soon as I’ve shown him exactly what I think of him.”

  “It’s probably best if you get a little more rest,” added Pemberley, pouring out the tea and handing Churchill a cup and saucer.

  “Thank you, Pembers, you’re a treasure. Goodness, what a day! How lovely it is to just sit down and be calm for a moment. Those sandwiches look quite delicious. Is that ham?”

  “Yes, with a little of the lettuce I found growing in your cold frame.”

  “Thank you, Pembers. What would I do without you?”

  A cloudy memory began to materialise into something a little more distinct as Churchill sipped at her tea. Then an uncomfortable sense of dread started swimming in her stomach. “Did we see Lady Darby after we left the Wagon and Carrot, Pembers?”

  “Erm… Yes we did, actually.”

  “You didn’t allow me to speak to her, did you?”

  “I tried to stop you.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “Not quite.”

  The sense of dread increased into a sharp pang of alarm, and Churchill’s tea slopped into her saucer. “Did I speak to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear. What did I say, exactly?”

  “It’s rather difficult to summarise, Mrs Churchill.”

  “At least give me a hint, Pembers. Did I embarrass myself?”

  “That’s rather subjective, isn’t it?”

  “What on earth did I say?”

  “You recounted the morning’s events to her.”

  “The robbery at the bank, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I suppose. Was I polite about it?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were a few choice words.”

  “Choice?”

  “I consider them quite unrepeatable.”

  “Oh no! That bad?”

  “They were mainly adjectives… and a few nouns. All of them used to describe Mr Pickwick in one way or another.”

  “Oh.” Churchill shook her head in shame.

  “You also told Lady Darby you had been looking forward to having Mr Pickwick accompany you to her garden party, which was news to me.”

  “Oh no. I didn’t say that, did I?”

  “Yes. I didn’t realise you’d been harbouring such warm feelings toward him.”

  “I hadn’t! I liked the man, of course, but not in that sense. I can hardly believe I told her such a thing! Oh dear, how shameful.”

  “Had you asked him to accompany you?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “But you must have considered it.”

  “Not at all!” Churchill took a sip of tea. “Well, I may have considered it for a minute or two, but then I dismissed the idea from my mind. There was, perhaps, a fleeting moment when he was painting me during which I might have thought about it, but I certainly had no intention of asking him, and I’m quite ashamed that I mentioned it to Lady Darby. I trust I didn’t detain her for too long.”

  “No, not long at all. She made an excuse that she was late for a meeting with the mayor.”

  “Ah.”

  “That was just after you shared Mrs Thonnings’s joke with her.”

  “Oh no… which one? I do hope it wasn’t the one about the butler, the cook and the pumpkin!”

  “I’m afraid it was.”

  “I told Lady Darby the joke about the butler, the cook and the pumpkin? Oh goodness, what a travesty! That’s my fate sealed. There’ll be no hope of me going to Lord and Lady Darby’s garden party now.” Churchill set her cup and saucer down and rested her head in her hands. “The next time I ask for a nice restorative brandy you must flatly refuse, Pembers.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I don’t suppose Lady Darby laughed at the joke, by any chance?” she asked hopefully, raising her head a little.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Oh dear, then I suppose I shall have to accept that our budding friendship is at an end.” She picked up her tea again. “I actually think that joke is quite funny. Members of the upper classes often lack a decent sense of humour, don’t you find?”

  Chapter 34

  “Turns out you were right about Miss Pickwick, Mrs Churchill,” said Inspector Mappin when he paid a visit to the office the following day.

  “It’s just a shame I was so wrong about Mr Pickwic
k,” she replied sullenly.

  “He fooled us all,” said the inspector, “but only until I received an interesting telephone call from a detective from the Metropolitan Police. He informed me that three seasoned criminals – Mr James ‘Gentleman Jim’ Snareskin, Mr Alf ‘Ratface’ Rudgepole and Miss Molly ‘Cutpurse’ Fennel – were known to be frequenting the Compton Poppleford area.”

  “Gosh, they sound like quite the motley crew. Any sign of them, Inspector?”

  “Very much so. A police messenger made the journey down from London yesterday with photographs of the trio. When I saw the photographs of these three individuals, I recognised them all immediately. Mr Snareskin had renamed himself Mr Percival Pickwick and Miss Fennel had posed as his sister, Miss Agnes Pickwick.”

  “Snareskin? That’s his real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ugh, what a horrible name! No wonder he was so keen to change it to Pickwick.”

  “And what about Ratface Rudgepole?” asked Pemberley. “Who’s he?”

  “You’ll never guess,” replied the inspector.

  “In that case you’d better tell us,” responded Churchill dryly.

  “None other than…”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Butterfork!”

  “Mr Butterfork was Ratface Rudgepole?” exclaimed Churchill. “And Pickwick, I mean Gentleman Jim Snareskin, knew him?”

  “They were criminal associates.”

  “Well I never! So they never worked for the same insurance company after all. The convoluted talk about insurance salesmen, underwriting and all that other baloney was also a lie! Have Gentleman Jim Snareskin and Cutpurse Fennel been arrested yet?”

  “Not yet. They were last seen travelling along the road between Salisbury and Andover, so my colleagues in Hampshire are keeping a keen lookout for them. We believe Gentleman Jim may be heading for his lair in Dartford, Kent.”

  Churchill struggled to associate the bank robbery and the lair in Dartford with the man she had known as Percy Pickwick.

  “The Kent constabulary will be awaiting him in Dartford, of course,” continued Inspector Mappin. “He’ll struggle to escape our clutches.”