Trouble in the Churchyard

by Emily Organ

  “Well yes, she did, but… I didn’t murder her over it! What would the use in that have been?”

  “There could have been a lot of use in it if everyone believed the murder to be an accident,” said Churchill. “Which they did.”

  “I did not murder Mrs Fingle!” protested Mrs Strawbanks.

  “Perhaps Ratface took her side in the disagreement.”

  “He may well have done. He did, in fact, but only because she was his housekeeper. He was biased!”

  “Perhaps you wished to be rid of the pair of them.”

  “No! I… Mrs Churchill! Please, everyone. You must believe me!”

  “I don’t know what to believe now,” said Mrs Roseball sadly.

  Mrs Churchill continued. “I mentioned earlier that several members of the gang which carried out the Great Plumstead Bank Heist were caught, while others escaped.”

  “What about Mrs Strawbanks?” asked Mr Grieves.

  “All will become clear once I’ve finished, Mr Grieves. I discovered from my retired Metropolitan Police friend that Ratface Rudgepole was apprehended after he scarpered from Slough with all the money.”

  “He was arrested?” someone called out.

  “Almost.”

  “What?” came another voice.

  “He played his trump card,” stated Churchill. “Having been a criminal for most of his life, he possessed a considerable amount of information that he knew would prove invaluable to the constabulary. He struck a bargain with the police and gave them a series of names, and in return his most recent misdemeanour was overlooked. Ratface Rudgepole became an informer.”

  “And they just let him off?”

  “That shouldn’t be allowed!”

  “As a result of the information Ratface provided, a number of men were arrested, stood trial and were imprisoned,” said Churchill. “One of them, a young man named Mr Ernest Wethead, was the getaway driver in the Great Plumstead Bank Heist.”

  “Golly! Ratface must have made a lot of people angry,” commented Mrs Harris.

  “Indeed he did,” said Churchill. “A number of people sought revenge, including Mr Wethead’s mother.”

  “And who might she have been?”

  “Well, she’s changed her surname slightly. She made an anagram of it, in fact, so Ratface wouldn’t suspect anything. I’m talking, of course, about Mrs Hatweed.”

  “No!” shouted Mrs Harris.

  Astonished gasps followed.

  Mrs Hatweed opened her mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it.

  “Mrs Hatweed pushed Mrs Fingle into the river so she could become Ratface Rudgepole’s housekeeper and carefully plot his murder!” announced Churchill.

  Loud mutterings replaced the gasps.

  “But that’s impossible,” protested Mrs Strawbanks. “Mrs Hatweed wasn’t even there when Ratface was shot; she was asleep. I had to call at her house to wake her! There’s simply no way she could have shot him and run home in time!”

  “Did I say she murdered Ratface?”

  “Yes!”

  “I merely said she plotted his murder. She had already done away with Mrs Fingle, and no doubt decided she would be pushing her luck if she tried to get away with it a second time. Now this next part is pure speculation, but I think I have a pretty good idea as to who fired that fatal shot.”

  “She asked someone else to murder him?” asked Mrs Higginbath.

  “Yes.”

  “A hitman?”

  “Of sorts. The person she hired wasn’t a professional but was certainly in need of money. This someone I speak of went to astonishing lengths to demonstrate an apparent ineptness with guns. You ran the rifle range stall at the summer fete, Mrs Harris. Perhaps you can remind us who won the prize that day.”

  “Why, it was Mrs Roseball. She achieved an impressive score of forty-eight points.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Harris,” said Churchill. “I remember the mayor announcing Mrs Roseball’s name at the prize-giving ceremony, yet when Miss Pemberley and I visited she pretended to know so little about guns that she fired her own revolver in apparent error.”

  The round, bespectacled lady rose to her feet. “I’ve never heard so much nonsense! This is lies, all of it!”

  “Then how do you explain your prowess on the rifle range and the bullet hole in your wall… and the headless china shepherdess? One of the shepherdesses your good friend, Mrs Hatweed, asked you to look after for her?”

  “Everyone knows it was Gentleman Jim who shot Ratface. You’re still trying to protect him, Mrs Churchill, even after everything he’s done!”

  “You mishandled the revolver so badly it was almost comical, Mrs Roseball. Someone who knew nothing about guns would have left it well alone, feeling too scared to touch it. But a certain confidence lay behind your ineptitude. You knew what you were doing all along, and you managed to frighten the living daylights out of Miss Pemberley and my good self in the process.”

  “What rubbish!”

  “But I thought Gentleman Jim took the money and fled over the churchyard wall with it?” queried Mrs Thonnings.

  “He did,” replied Churchill. “At some point he must have learned of Mrs Hatweed’s plan or maybe she learned of his. I think there had to have been some collusion between the two, as they were both seeking vengeance. Mrs Hatweed wasn’t interested in Ratface’s money; she was only interested in exacting revenge on behalf of her imprisoned son. Perhaps she agreed that Gentleman Jim could take off with the money once a portion had been left to Mrs Roseball as payment for the assassination. It must have been a temptingly large sum for Mrs Roseball. As she says herself, she receives only a meagre income from her damson jam.”

  “I find it hard to believe that Ratface would have let Mrs Roseball into his home late that evening while he was in his nightwear,” commented Mrs Strawbanks.

  “So do I,” agreed Churchill, “and for that very reason I suspect Mrs Hatweed secretly let her friend into the house before she left that evening. Mrs Roseball must have hidden somewhere until Gentleman Jim turned up.”

  “But how can we be sure it was Mrs Roseball who pulled the trigger?” asked Mrs Strawbanks. “Perhaps Gentleman Jim did it after all.”

  “I never considered him to be the murdering type,” replied Churchill. “I like to think he took the money and left the room before Mrs Roseball carried out the deed, but we shall only ever know the true events of that evening if Mrs Roseball chooses to share them with us. Inspector Mappin, I last saw the revolver in Mrs Roseball’s writing bureau. Hopefully it’s still there, so your ballistics chap at Bovington should be able to confirm that it was used in the murder of Mr Rudgepole.”

  Inspector Mappin nodded. “My men will get down there at once.”

  Mrs Roseball made a move to leave but the inspector got to her first and clipped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists. Constable Russell did the same with Mrs Hatweed.

  “I don’t regret it, you know,” said Mrs Hatweed, her curls bouncing defiantly. “It was all for my Ernie. An innocent boy locked up because of that wretched Ratface! I wish Ernie had never met him. I told him to stay away from that public house they all frequented, but he wouldn’t listen. I warned him he would fall in with the wrong sorts. Ratface bullied my poor Ernie into being the gang’s getaway driver. Ernie was afraid for his very life if he didn’t do what that bully asked!

  “I worked out who Mr Pickwick really was when I overheard his and Ratface’s conversations while they played cards,” continued the housekeeper. “I took Gentleman Jim to one side and told him I could help him get his hands on the money. I knew Mrs Roseball was always in need of a few bob and the three of us hatched our plan together. We agreed that Mrs Roseball would hold Ratface at gunpoint while Gentleman Jim took his share of the money. He left a good amount for her and went on his way. He didn’t know what our final plan for Ratface was.”

  “You did well to track Ratface down, Hatters,” commented Mrs Strawbanks. “I’d have done the same if
it was my son.”

  “You’d have murdered someone?” Churchill asked.

  “I’d have stopped short of that, but I’d have tracked him down all right. Hatters should be shown some leniency.”

  “Ratface was an unpleasant man,” said Churchill, “but poor Mrs Fingle was entirely innocent, and pushing her into that freezing river was unforgivable.”

  “Oh yes, that’s true,” agreed Mrs Strawbanks. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

  “How did the gun find its way into the churchyard?” asked Mrs Thonnings. “Could Mrs Roseball have given it to Gentleman Jim, who then threw it away?”

  “An excellent question, Mrs Thonnings,” replied Churchill. “It transpires the gun we found wasn’t actually used in Ratface’s murder. My theory is that someone planted it there to confuse the investigation. I’d hazard a guess it was Mrs Hatweed. However, the gun found here in the churchyard was a pistol and Mrs Roseball owns a revolver.”

  “It was a revolver that killed Ratface Rudgepole,” confirmed Inspector Mappin.

  “Not very clever clue-planting work in that case,” commented Mr Grieves.

  Inspector Mappin and Constable Russell began to lead the two prisoners toward the churchyard gate.

  “And the Freemason’s ring?” asked Pemberley. “Was that relevant to the investigation?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever be completely sure of that, my trusty assistant. Perhaps it was lost accidentally on Crunkle Lane, but I suspect it was left there deliberately so that whoever was investigating would find it and waste time trying to discover its rightful owner. Maybe it was another attempt on Mrs Hatweed’s part to confuse us. I believe a number of obstacles were thrown across our path during the course of our investigation, including Gentleman Jim eating up sizeable chunks of my time by claiming to paint me. And I’ll admit that I fell for it completely.”

  “All that time he spent painting you was valuable time you could have spent working on the case, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Thonnings.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” replied Churchill.

  Chapter 40

  “Impressive work, Mrs Churchill,” said Mr Grieves as the crowd began to disperse, “but you’re not quite finished yet.”

  “Oh yes I am. I’m spent! Miss Pemberley and I need a little holiday after all that.”

  “The incidents in the churchyard still haven’t been fully explained. Follow me.”

  He led them over to the dingy corner of the churchyard shaded by the giant yew tree.

  Churchill gave a shiver as they surveyed the grave of Saul Mollikin, the man who had been cursed by the witch on Grindledown Hill.

  “Well?” asked the sexton. “How do you explain that?”

  The crop of fresh green grass was denser than before.

  “I don’t know, Mr Grieves, but I’m quite sure this grave had nothing to do with the buried money. It’s obvious that the earth here hasn’t been disturbed for a while.”

  Pemberley and Oswald walked over to the yew tree.

  “When did this branch come down?” asked Pemberley, pointing to a jagged scar on the trunk of the yew tree.

  “A few weeks ago,” replied the sexton, “during that night of heavy wind we had.”

  “It was a large branch, from the looks of things,” said Pemberley.

  “It was. Took me most of the next day to cut it up and cart it away.”

  “So there’s your answer,” said Pemberley.

  “What do you mean?” asked Churchill.

  “This tree blocks most of the light to Saul Mollikin’s grave. When the branch came down the sunlight managed to get through. That’s why grass is beginning to grow there.”

  “What wonderful insight, Miss Pemberley!” beamed Churchill. “That explains it!”

  “Possibly,” replied the sexton. He glanced at the yew tree, then down at the grave, then back at the tree again.

  “There you go, Mr Grieves, all solved. We’ll be on our way now. I feel the need for some of that fruit cake I could smell Mr Simpkin baking yesterday afternoon. I hope he has some left.”

  Churchill, Pemberley and Oswald walked along the high street toward the bakery.

  “Mrs Churchill!” a voice called out from behind them.

  “Oh, what is it now?” she muttered. “I can’t muster the energy to speak to anyone else. Can you, Pembers?”

  Her assistant had already turned to see who was trying to attract their attention. “It’s Constable Russell,” she said.

  Churchill turned to see the moustachioed young man jogging toward her. “I have some good news that you might like to hear,” he said. “We’ve just received word from the Surrey police force that Gentleman Jim and Cutpurse Fennel have been apprehended on the road between Camberley and Bagshot.”

  “They’ve got them? That’s excellent news.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Pemberley. “Let’s hope he doesn’t become an informer and get away with it, though.”

  “If he’s a proper gentleman he’ll serve his time,” said Churchill. “Come along, Miss Pemberley. Let’s go and get some of that delicious fruit cake.”

  Chapter 41

  A few days later, Churchill and Pemberley noticed a large van parked outside Pickwick’s Gallery. As they approached, they saw several men loading pictures into it under the watchful eye of Inspector Mappin.

  “The corner’s torn on that one,” he said, pointing to a hole in the brown paper that had been carefully wrapped around a painting. “It’ll need to be redone.”

  The man he addressed turned around resignedly and carried the package back inside the gallery.

  “Are the paintings being returned to their rightful owners, Inspector?” asked Churchill.

  “They certainly are. Gentleman Jim had built up quite a collection. All stolen, of course.”

  A stout, puffy-faced man in smart tweed strode out of the gallery. He wore a monocle and was carrying a clipboard and pencil.

  “Is everything in order now, Mr Botfield-Cripps?” asked the inspector.

  “I think so. It’s a great shame some of the artworks have been defaced. The ignoramus scrawled the name ‘Pickwick’ over all the signatures, but a little restoration work should fix that quite easily.”

  “Mr Botfield-Cripps is an art expert,” explained Mappin. “He helps us identify artworks of value and ensures that they’re safely transported back to their homes.”

  “The discovery of these paintings has brought great relief to their owners,” said Mr Botfield-Cripps. “Lord Ashby, in particular. He told me he’s missed the Duke of Marlborough terribly. He’s looking forward to having the old chap watch him from above the mantelpiece again when he dines.”

  “How creepy,” commented Pemberley.

  “I beg your pardon?” replied the art expert.

  “It’s just a practice the aristocracy is used to, Miss Pemberley,” interjected Churchill. “From the moment they lie in their cribs they must grow accustomed to their ancestors staring down at them from the walls.”

  Pemberley grimaced.

  “Gentleman Jim will be facing a long list of charges when he appears at the Dorchester Assizes,” said Inspector Mappin. “I must say I’m quite looking forward to the proceedings,” he added with a grin.

  Mr Botfield-Cripps gave a nod. “He’s a prolific thief, there’s no doubt about it. One piece of artwork has left me rather confused, however.”

  “Why’s that then?” asked Mappin.

  “It’s not on the list of paintings reported as stolen,” said Mr Botfield-Cripps, consulting his clipboard, “and its style couldn’t be more different from the other works we’ve recovered here. There’s a distinct lack of accuracy in the painting. The representation of the figure is quite obscure.”

  “Eh?” The inspector raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “But quite pleasingly obscure, I should add,” continued Botfield-Cripps. “And I noticed the strong symbolism present, despite the use of a limited palette. The
work seems somewhat improvised, but that’s fairly common in abstract art.”

  Churchill realised which painting the art expert was referring to. She had planned to speak, but decided to keep listening, as Mr Botfield-Cripps seemed amusingly intrigued by it.

  “Wassily Wassilyevich Kandinsky,” he announced.

  “Whatty what?” asked the incredulous inspector.

  “A Russian artist, very prominent in the abstract art movement. A number of his works have been displayed over here in recent years, in fact I recall a particularly large exhibition up north in Leeds. I wonder if anything went astray during that time. The work is unsigned, of course, but it could simply be a preliminary sketch. I think some further consultation with a colleague of mine at the prestigious Leeds College of Art is required.”

  “You see to that, Mr Botfield-Cripps,” said Churchill with a smile on her face. “I think we would all be quite interested to hear what your colleague has to say.”

  “Do you really think it was painted by a famous Russian artist?” asked Inspector Mappin.

  “Kandinsky, yes. It could have been.”

  “I think I recall seeing it now,” said Churchill. “I may even recall Gentleman Jim telling me its title. It was called Winsome Lady Blue or something like that.” She laughed. “Come along, Miss Pemberley. Let’s take Oswald for his walk.”

  “But just a moment,” said her secretary. “I think I know which painting it is. Couldn’t it be the one he—”

  “Let’s leave the men to get on with their work.” Churchill took her secretary by the arm. “We’ve had a busy few days, haven’t we? I fancy a relaxing stroll by the river.”

  The End

  Thank you

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