by Emily Organ
“No, I suppose not,” said Churchill.
“But there is a little anomaly,” added the inspector, sitting back in his chair. “The gun found in the churchyard was not used in the murder of Ratface Rudgepole.”
“It wasn’t?” exclaimed Churchill.
“No. The ballistics chap at Bovington looked it over and decided the spent bullets found at the scene of the murder could not have come from that gun.”
“But how could he know such a thing?”
“It simply doesn’t fire that particular type of bullet.”
“How odd.”
“It suggests that Gentleman Jim kept the murder weapon on his person and somebody else left the pistol in the churchyard for some unknown reason. I suppose it could have been sitting there for a good while before your dog found it, but it turns out to be completely unconnected to the case.”
“And the ring?”
“It must be Gentleman Jim’s.”
“But he still had his Mason’s ring. He showed it to me.”
“Perhaps he replaced it after losing the original in the lane while fleeing the murder scene?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
“I’ve made extensive enquiries at the lodge but found no one else who had lost a ring.”
“Then I suppose it must be Gentleman Jim’s.”
“If he bought a replacement he could only have done so from a particular jeweller’s in Dorchester. I’ll make some enquiries there to confirm the purchase, although it really isn’t necessary, as we already have all the evidence we need.”
“You’re absolutely certain Gentleman Jim murdered Ratface Rudgepole, are you?”
“Absolutely, Mrs Churchill. The motive and evidence is all there. We just need to catch him now.”
“I’m still not convinced, Pembers,” said Churchill as the two ladies walked back to the office.
“How can you not be convinced that Gentleman Jim is the murderer? You heard what Mappin said. There’s motive and plenty of evidence. In fact, I quite enjoyed our conversation with him just then. There was no bickering at all, and no one accused anyone of meddling or being inept. Inspector Mappin can be quite amiable at times, can’t he? I understand now why Mrs Thonnings mentioned him doing nice things behind closed doors.”
“That’s a thought I’d rather not dwell on. On reflection, I’m beginning to think there are several things we’ve missed during the course of our investigation. It’s easy to assume that a career criminal is capable of murder, but one shouldn’t tar them all with the same brush.”
“It’s rather difficult not to.”
“Perhaps I’ll have a clearer idea once DS Dickie Harlow has telephoned me back. Oh look, there’s Lady Darby. Oh dear, I’ve just remembered my tongue was a little loose the last time I spoke to her.”
Lady Darby, dressed from head to toe in lilac, paused beside the shiny motor car she was about to step into. “Oh, good morning, Mrs Churchill.” Her mouth smiled, but her eyes didn’t follow suit. “I was planning to call on you.”
“Were you? That would have been lovely, Lady Darby. How’s Lord Darby’s foot?”
“It’s on the mend, thank you. He’s managing to get out into the gardens and is able to do a circuit of the parterre quite comfortably now.”
“Is he indeed? How marvellous.”
“I was hoping to speak to you about the garden party, actually.”
“Ah, yes.”
“There’s a been a slight change of plan—”
“Let me make this quick and easy for you, Lady Darby, as I have a busy day ahead of me. I assume you’re uninviting me.”
“Uninviting you? Oh goodness, no. I never uninvite people, Mrs Churchill. It’s just that we’ve had to change our plans a little and revise down the number of attendees, you see. Most embarrassing, I know, but—”
“It’s quite all right, Lady Darby, I understand. If it was the joke about the butler, the cook and the pumpkin that offended, I’m really very not sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologise about that… Oh, not sorry, did you say?”
“Have a wonderful day, Lady Darby.”
Chapter 37
“Well, that was very interesting indeed,” said Churchill as she replaced the telephone receiver.
“What did Dickie Harlow say?”
“Not a great deal, Pembers, but just about enough.” Churchill began scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. “Take a look at this.”
Pemberley walked over to the desk and looked down at what Churchill had written. “Do you recognise it?”
“No.”
“Ah, I get it!”
“Get what, Mrs Churchill? I don’t understand.”
Churchill scribbled some more. “It’s an anagram, don’t you see?”
“No.” Pemberley stared some more, then her eyes widened and a grin spread across her face. “Actually, I do see it now. Very clearly indeed!”
“I think it’s time we arranged a little gathering in St Swithun’s churchyard, don’t you?”
“Must it really be in the churchyard, Mrs Churchill?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 38
A brief rain shower had left the churchyard smelling of fresh foliage. Small furls of mist curled up from the headstones and wet grass, giving the churchyard an eerie feel, despite the sunny afternoon.
“What’s this all about, Mrs Churchill?” asked the sexton, his wide-brimmed hat and black coat smelling of damp, musty wool.
“You’ll see soon enough, Mr Grieves. Look, everyone’s arriving now.”
Churchill, Pemberley and the sexton watched as a steady stream of people filed in through the church gate and up the path. Oswald sniffed each new arrival and happily accepted several pats on the head. Mrs Thonnings walked in with Mr Burbage the bank manager, Mrs Crackleby stood chatting to Mr Jones Sloanes, Mrs Roseball and Mrs Hatweed walked alongside Farmer Drumhead, and Mr Simpkins the baker followed close behind. Next came Lady Darby, Mrs Higginbath, Mrs Strawbanks and Mrs Harris. Inspector Mappin appeared to be scolding Constables Dawkins and Russell about something as they entered the churchyard. Several members of the Flatboot family clambered over the wall to survey the proceedings while chewing on pieces of straw.
“Is everybody here?” Churchill called out as the group gathered around her.
“How would we know?” replied Mrs Thonnings.
“That’s a good question. I think most of you are here, perhaps with the exception of one or two, so I’ll begin.” Churchill leafed through the papers in her hand and cleared her throat.
“Will this take long?” someone called out.
“It will if you keep interrupting me.” She cleared her throat again.
“No one interrupt her,” someone else hollered, “or it’ll take even longer.”
“Are there any chairs?” asked Lady Darby.
“No chairs allowed in the churchyard,” responded the sexton.
“I’d like to begin now,” said Churchill, rustling her papers impatiently. “Now, you’re all well aware that a terrible murder occurred in Crunkle Lane a week ago. Someone shot the gentleman we had all come to know as Mr Butterfork before stealing the money he kept in his tea chest.”
Churchill paused for effect, carefully scanning the faces before her.
“And?” Mrs Crackleby called out.
“And that brings me on to my next point.”
“Mr Pickwick did it,” said Mrs Strawbanks, “and some of his coat got ripped off in the churchyard.”
“Yes, I’m coming to that part, Mrs Strawbanks,” replied Churchill. “Shortly after the gunshot was heard, the culprit was seen running down Crunkle Lane and vaulting over the churchyard wall. He landed close to the grave of Barnabus Byers just over there.”
Faces followed the direction of Churchill’s pointed finger.
“Then he leapt over the grave of Betsy Wolfwell and snagged his coat on a hawthorn branch. We have no idea where the dark figure went afte
r that.”
“Only we do, because it was Mr Pickwick,” said Mrs Strawbanks.
Churchill glared at her and continued. “In the meantime, Miss Pemberley and I were consulted by the sexton, Mr Grieves, who had noticed that some of the graves in the churchyard had been tampered with. Our surveillance of the grounds revealed that a lady calling herself Miss Pickwick had placed a posy of carnations beside one of these graves. The grave in question was that of Benjamin Grunchen just over there.”
Faces turned again in the direction Churchill was indicating.
“Beneath the posy of carnations was a patch of disturbed earth.”
“Ugh!” said Mrs Roseball.
“And when we excavated the disturbed earth, we found a quantity of money buried there. Further investigations carried out by Inspector Mappin and his men resulted in two more bags of money being recovered. It seems the proceeds of a crime had been buried within the graves; the same graves that had been tampered with.”
“Why would someone tamper with the graves?” asked Lady Darby.
“I believe the person who was planning to bury the money there did so,” replied Churchill. “The guilty party paid several visits to this churchyard and deliberately marked the graves they deemed most suitable for burying the money in. Perhaps it was a reminder for him or herself, or maybe it was a signal for someone else. Either way, the graves were undoubtedly singled out in this manner.”
“So Mr Pickwick leapt over the wall and buried the money in the graves?” asked Farmer Drumhead.
“Not immediately, as there was no time for that on the night of the murder. He would have taken the money with him. My guess is that he took it back to his lair above the pretend art gallery he had opened on the high street. The money couldn’t remain there for long in case it was found, so ‘Miss Pickwick’, supposedly his sister, helped bury it in the graves over the course of the next few days. After all, who would look for money inside a grave? They clearly hadn’t reckoned on the keen eye of Mr Grieves!”
The sexton gave a rare, appreciative smile.
“And now my story moves to Plumstead,” announced Churchill.
“Where’s that?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“London.”
“Why London?”
“Will you please allow me to explain?”
“But what’s London got to do with it?”
“The Great Plumstead Bank Heist,” stated Churchill, soldiering on as best she could, “occurred about eighteen months ago in the southern suburb of Plumstead. An old friend of mine, now retired from the Metropolitan Police, informs me that a gang robbed a bank on the high street by tunnelling into its vault.”
“Just as Mr Pickwick did with his art gallery,” said Mrs Strawbanks.
“Exactly. Only, his name was Mr McGovern when he was over in Plumstead, and he ran a sparsely stocked gentleman’s outfitters. His accomplice was a man who called himself Mr Crewe. Now, these two gentleman were actually seasoned criminals called Mr James ‘Gentleman Jim’ Snareskin and Mr Alf ‘Ratface’ Rudgepole. There were other members of the gang too, and after the heist some were caught while others escaped. Among the escapees were Gentleman Jim and Ratface. They went on the run together and a manhunt ensued. Despite the best efforts of the police, the two thieves always seemed to be a step ahead. Witnesses saw Gentleman Jim and Ratface having a disagreement at a public house in Slough a few weeks after the heist. Rumour has it they fell out over the division of spoils, which resulted in Ratface fleeing in the dead of night with all the money.”
“And he came here?” asked Mrs Hatweed.
“After a while,” responded Churchill. “He appears to have spent some time searching for the ideal hideaway before deciding that the obscure little village of Compton Poppleford in deepest, darkest Dorset would be the perfect hideaway. Once here, he referred to himself as Mr Butterfork. The story he told was that he had left his insurance job to nurse his rich, elderly aunt in Benton Thurstock.”
“Dreadful place,” muttered Mrs Hatweed.
“Mr Butterfork presumably hoped no one from his criminal past would ever find him,” added Churchill.
“Only Mr Pickwick followed him here, shot him dead and took the money back,” said Mrs Strawbanks.
“Thank you for that, Mrs Strawbanks.”
“Why didn’t he keep his money a secret?” asked Mrs Harris.
“I can only guess that he had so much he didn’t know where to hide it or what to do with it,” replied Churchill. “So he established himself as some sort of Lord Bountiful and shared his wealth with the villagers. It was also a way of ingratiating himself with his new friends.”
“It certainly worked,” commented Mrs Thonnings. “He was very popular indeed.”
“Ratface Rudgepole had four visitors on the day he died,” said Churchill. “Mrs Thonnings, Mrs Roseball, Mrs Strawbanks and Mr Pickwick.”
Faces turned and necks craned as the group looked round at the three women mentioned.
“I didn’t murder him, if that’s what you think!” protested Mrs Thonnings.
“Me neither!” Mrs Roseball piped up.
“Nor me!” added Mrs Strawbanks.
“Calm down, ladies, we already know it was Mr Pickwick,” said Mrs Hatweed.
“But hold on a minute,” said Lady Darby. “You said Mr Pickwick visited Ratface on the day he died, but the two men already knew each other, didn’t they?”
“That’s right, Lady Darby. Gentleman Jim was obviously keen to find his former partner in crime because he wanted his share of the money from the Great Plumstead Bank Heist. He eventually tracked him down to this village and decided to have a little extra fun while he was here. Now, I’m no expert on career criminals, but I do recall some of the stories my dearly departed husband, Detective Chief Inspector Churchill, used to tell me about them. It seems gangsters can never resist another job. Having pulled off the heist in Plumstead, Gentleman Jim decided to carry out another crime in our sweet little village. When Mr Borridge’s barber shop closed he clearly saw an opportunity to open a commercial establishment in its place and tunnel into the bank’s vault next door. He recruited one of the Flatboots for this task, and if anyone happened to overhear any tunnelling noises, Gentleman Jim’s explanation was that he was having a leak fixed in the basement.”
“Very clever,” said Mr Simpkin with a nod.
“It still hasn’t been filled in,” Mr Burbage complained.
“What hasn’t?” asked Churchill.
“The tunnel under my bank. Who’s going to fill it back in?”
“That’s a very good question, Mr Burbage, but it’s something that must be resolved elsewhere.”
“When?”
“Shush, let her get on with it!” someone called out.
“To assist with his plan, Gentleman Jim stole a number of artworks from various country houses,” continued Churchill. “And, lo and behold, Pickwick’s Gallery opened. Somewhere along the way he recruited a seasoned gangster, Miss Molly ‘Cutpurse’ Fennel, who agreed to pose as his sister.”
“Was she his lover?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“Probably,” interjected Pemberley.
“We have no way of knowing.” Churchill took a breath, then continued. “Ratface had managed to establish himself as a reputable member of the community, and Gentleman Jim set about doing the same thing. Both men joined the Masonic lodge and their respectability was never questioned.
“We don’t know what Ratface’s response was when he realised Gentleman Jim had found him; however, with both men clearly determined that their pasts should remain hidden, they must have reached an uneasy agreement to maintain their secret identities and keep the peace. Perhaps gentlemanly negotiations about money took place behind the scenes. I suspect they did, as we know the pair of them met once a week under the guise of playing cards. Perhaps Gentleman Jim merely pretended to reach an agreement with Ratface to lull him into a false sense of security.”
“I would imagine
so,” said Mrs Strawbanks with a nod.
“And then there’s Mrs Fingle,” announced Churchill.
“What? Where did she come from?” asked Lady Darby.
“She died,” someone said.
“Ratface recruited Mrs Fingle as his housekeeper when he first arrived in the village,” said Churchill, “but she drowned during a mysterious midnight swim. I have reason to suspect that she was murdered.”
“Oh no. Not that silly rumour again,” said Inspector Mappin. “It was an accident.”
“My predecessor, Mr Atkins, also suspected she was murdered,” continued Churchill. “He suggested someone had lured her to her death on the bank of the river one winter’s evening.” She paused to allow time for gasps and mutterings, then continued. “After Mrs Fingle died, Mrs Hatweed became Ratface’s housekeeper.”
“Why are you all looking at me?” the housekeeper asked those who had turned to look at her. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Mrs Hatweed was very keen indeed to become Ratface’s housekeeper, weren’t you, Mrs Hatweed?” said Churchill.
“Not at all!” She gave an awkward laugh, which made her curls bounce. “It was just an ordinary housekeeper job as far as I was concerned.”
“Are you saying Mrs Hatweed pushed Mrs Fingle into the river so she could become Ratface’s housekeeper?” asked Mrs Thonnings.
“Never!” called out Mrs Harris. “That’s impossible.”
“I refuse to believe it,” said Mr Burbage, shaking his head.
“It wasn’t me!” protested Mrs Hatweed.
Churchill waited for the mutterings to subside, then continued. “Mr Atkins’s file also revealed a terrible falling out,” she announced, “between Mrs Fingle and Mrs Strawbanks.”
Chapter 39
“Me?” The beads on Mrs Strawbanks’s jewellery rattled as she glanced around.
“Mrs Fingle grew tired of your prying from the house on the opposite side of the street, Mrs Strawbanks,” said Churchill. “She confronted you about it a number of times, didn’t she?”