Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “Mrs Churchill!” exclaimed Mappin. “How did you get here so fast? You were at the station just fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I can move surprisingly quickly when I need to, Inspector.” Her mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish, and the police officer gave her a bemused look.

  “I’m afraid Bodkin’s not available to serve customers at the present time. I need to have a word with him, and I don’t think you need me to explain the matter it concerns.” He gave her a surreptitious wink.

  “What do you need to speak to me about, Inspector Mappin?” asked the baker.

  “I’ll explain in just a moment, Mr Bodkin. I’m waiting for this customer to leave the premises.”

  “Well, I shan’t,” retorted Mrs Churchill. “I wish to buy some jam tarts.”

  “Mr Bodkin will fulfil your request once I have finished speaking to him.”

  “But how will he do that? Aren’t you here to arrest him?”

  “Arrest me?!” exclaimed Mr Bodkin. “What on earth for?”

  The police inspector sighed. “Mrs Churchill, I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut on this matter.”

  “What am I being arrested for?” the baker asked again. “Tell me what’s happening here, Inspector!”

  “Let me explain out the back,” replied the inspector. “We can have a quiet word without any interruptions.”

  “I’m not going out the back with you if you’re going to arrest me.”

  “Have I made any indication that I’m about to arrest you, Mr Bodkin?”

  “No, but she has.” The baker pointed at Mrs Churchill.

  “And what authority can Mrs Churchill possibly have on the matter?” Inspector Mappin replied. He turned aside to Churchill. “Do you see now what happens when you meddle? My work here has been complicated no end by your presence.”

  “I just came in for some jam tarts, Inspector.”

  “Mr Bodkin,” said Inspector Mappin. “Perhaps your assistant can see to Mrs Churchill’s jam tarts while we talk out the back?”

  “But are you planning to arrest me, Inspector?”

  “I would like to speak to you about a matter that has been brought to my attention. Let’s put a stop to all this dilly-dallying and get on with it.”

  “But—”

  “NOW!” barked Inspector Mappin so loudly that Churchill felt her feet briefly leave the floor.

  Mr Bodkin sulkily called out for Bodger, who sauntered in with a cigarette in his mouth. The baker instructed his assistant to serve Mrs Churchill her jam tarts, then he and Inspector Mappin stepped into the room at the back of the shop, closing the door behind them.

  “How many tarts d’you want?” asked Bodger.

  Churchill lowered her voice to a whisper. “If I give you a shilling will you allow me to step behind the counter and listen at that door?”

  The youth stared back at Churchill.

  “Five,” he replied.

  “Five shillings? What impudence!”

  “Five or no listening at the door.”

  Churchill scowled at the youth as she pulled her purse out of her handbag and handed him five shilling coins. “I hope you feel proud of yourself robbing an old widow.”

  Bodger gestured toward the door to indicate that she could take up her position there.

  “And six jam tarts please,” she said, hurrying to the other side of the counter.

  Pressing her ear to the door, Churchill could just about hear the voices of Inspector Mappin and Mr Bodkin.

  “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” said Bodkin.

  “You tell me,” replied the inspector.

  “You don’t need me to tell you anything! A seasoned police officer like yourself should immediately recognise this letter as a prank.”

  “Where were you on the second of July, Mr Bodkin?”

  “Are you asking me where I was when Mrs Furzgate died? How preposterous! I’ve already had Mrs Roly-Poly from upstairs here asking me questions about her.”

  Churchill pursed her lips.

  “What questions?” asked Inspector Mappin.

  “Just general nosiness; you know what she’s like. I don’t understand why people keep asking me about that Furzgate woman.”

  “Because of your love affair, perhaps.”

  Bodkin groaned. “Why does everyone keep mentioning that? And I take objection to the description love affair. It was nothing more than a brief dalliance.”

  “But where were you when Mrs Furzgate fell down the stairs at Piddleton Hotel?”

  “I was here, Inspector! Where else would I have been?”

  “And the lanky youth who works here, what’s his name?”

  “Bodger.”

  “Bodger can vouch for the fact that you were here, can he?”

  “Probably not. He can’t remember what he had for breakfast most days.”

  “Is there anyone else who could provide an alibi?”

  “All my regular customers.”

  “And who are they, exactly?”

  “I don’t keep a list, Inspector! Just ask around the village. Why am I having to tell you how to do your job?”

  Churchill smiled at this comment.

  “So you deny that you wrote this letter.”

  “Of course! I’ve been framed, and by someone who can’t spell at that. At least I know how to write my words properly.”

  “That’s your defence? Your spelling capability?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I visit your home and have a look round?”

  “And look for what?”

  “Newspapers with letters cut out of them; that sort of thing.”

  “Inspector, has it occurred to you that if I’d gone to the trouble of cutting out individual letters from a newspaper and gluing them onto a piece of paper, I’d also have gone to the trouble of disposing of my source of letters? I’m offended that you think I’d be so empty-headed as to leave cut up newspapers lying about.”

  “Mr Bodkin, you can see my dilemma here, can’t you? I’ve been presented with this letter, which may or may not have been created by you, and I need to follow it up. Will you permit me to look around your home?”

  “If you must. But you’ll have to get past the wife first. I really don’t understand this, Inspector. I thought Mrs Furzgate’s death was an accident. No one even considered foul play until that dumpy busybody from London started nosing around.”

  “I have to follow up this letter, Mr Bodkin. You may wish to remember my loyalty during the Greenstone affair.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sooner or later someone is going to request the truth.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me, Inspector?”

  “No, I’m merely asking for your co-operation in this matter.”

  “We’ve known each other for many years and I appreciate your discretion with that whole Greenstone business. But do you honestly think I could have sent a cack-handed letter such as the one you hold in your hand?”

  There was a pause.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Inspector Mappin.

  “Good.”

  “Unless it’s a bluff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This letter is so unlike something you’d send that perhaps you did send it hoping everyone would assume you didn’t when actually you did.”

  “That’s not a bluff, it’s a double bluff.”

  “Are you sure? I’d just call it a bluff.”

  “Either way, Inspector, I didn’t send it. You’re welcome to visit my wife and attempt to search my home, but you’ll be lucky if you get past the front door. I need to get back to my work now. Hopefully Bodger’s served Mrs Roly-Poly with her jam tarts and she’s long gone.”

  Churchill heard footsteps approaching the door and darted over to the other side of the counter as quickly as she could before it opened.

  Inspector Mappin emerged, covered in a light dusting of flour.

  “You still here, Mrs Churchill?” he
asked.

  She peered intently at the coconut macaroons. “Sorry, did you say something, Inspector?”

  “I asked if you were still here.”

  “No I’m not. Does that answer your question?”

  Inspector Mappin gave a large sigh.

  Chapter 25

  “Even stout walking shoes aren’t up to the task when you need to run somewhere,” said Churchill, removing her shoes and wiggling her sore toes. “What do you know about the Greenstone affair, Pemberley?”

  Pemberley paused at her typewriter. “The Greenstone affair? I can’t say I know anything about it.”

  “Might it have something to do with our client, Mr Greenstone?”

  “Possibly. Where did you hear about it?”

  “While I was earwigging on Inspector Mappin and Mr Bodkin, Mappin mentioned that he’d given Bodkin his loyalty during the Greenstone affair.”

  Pemberley thought about this for a moment. “Well, Mr Greenstone used to own a bakery, but he had to close it down due to all the complaints.”

  “Complaints about what?”

  “The quality of his offerings. I didn’t really understand it because I visited his bakery a number of times over the years and I was more than happy with his goods. In fact, they were often better than Bodkin’s. But many customers were clearly unhappy because the affair warranted a two-page spread in the Compton Poppleford Gazette. Greenstone never recovered from that.”

  Churchill bit slowly into a jam tart as she thought about this.

  “Mr Nightwalker told me Bodkin was ruthless, and he told me to ask myself why he was the only baker in Compton Poppleford. Now I’m beginning to understand.”

  “You don’t think that—”

  “Bodkin was behind the closure of Greenstone’s bakery? Yes, I do. And given that the editor of the Compton Poppleford Gazette, Mr Trollope, is a man of dubious moral character I don’t doubt that he was financially recompensed by Bodkin for printing those slurs.”

  “But that’s terrible!” exclaimed Pemberley. “Poor Mr Greenstone!”

  “Poor Mr Greenstone indeed. Mr Nightwalker was right on another matter, too. He said the little old places like Compton Poppleford are the worst. And to think that Mappin, an officer of the law, knew about it and kept his mouth shut. Tut, tut, tut.”

  “Well, Bodkin will get his comeuppance now that he’s been arrested for Mrs Furzgate’s murder.”

  “Only he hasn’t, Pemberley. The man is still as free as a bird. Bodkin claims he’s been framed and Mappin is carrying out some further investigations. There’s something not quite right about the whole affair. I feel certain there’s some mutual back-scratching going on here, Pembers. It has a whiff of the old boys’ network.”

  “I suppose the old girls’ network would be Mrs Trollope and her bridge ladies.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right there.”

  Pemberley sighed. “I’ve always wanted to be a member of a network.”

  “You can be a member of something with me, Pembers!”

  “Such as what?”

  “A sleuthing network, just you and me. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds very good, Mrs Churchill. I like it!” Pemberley raised her jam tart as a toast.

  “Bodkin claims he’s being framed for Mrs Furzgate’s murder,” said Churchill. “Perhaps Mr Greenstone is the real culprit.”

  “That would be fairly unlikely unless he knew that Bodkin was behind the campaign to close his bakery down.”

  “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” replied Churchill, putting on her shoes. “Let’s go and ask him.”

  “Zeppelin used to be so loyal,” sniffed Mr Greenstone as he slumped in his armchair nursing a cup of tea. “I often think of our time together and try to identify the moment when it began to go wrong, but I just don’t think I can. It was such a gradual change that it was barely noticeable.”

  “Indeed,” said Churchill impatiently. “You’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve managed to narrow down our list of suspects to this street, the neighbouring one and the row of houses on the other side of the duck pond.”

  “That’s still quite a number of suspects,” he replied sadly.

  “Inspector Mappin and his wife have been ruled out,” Churchill said.

  “I knew they would be; Inspector Mappin’s wife hates cats. How much longer will it be before you have the case solved, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Oh, not long now, Mr Greenstone. Most likely within the next few weeks or month. Perhaps two months if the case develops a complication.”

  “What sort of complication?”

  “A complication like Zeppelin just sitting under the hydrangea and not moving. I spent two hours watching him earlier this week and he didn’t move once.”

  “He does that sometimes.”

  “He does indeed. And that’s a complication, you see, because how on earth can I find out who’s feeding him if he doesn’t lead me to them?”

  “Perhaps you could ask him nicely to take you there,” suggested Pemberley.

  “Thank you for your contribution, Miss Pemberley. Now then, Mr Greenstone, I hear you used to run a bakery.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How wonderful. Bakeries really are my favourite type of shop.”

  “They were mine once, too.”

  “Oh dear. What happened?”

  “I had to close down.”

  “That’s a terrible shame, Mr Greenstone. Was there a specific reason for that unfortunate turn of events?”

  “The customers stopped coming.”

  “Oh no, that really is a shame. Did any of them give any indication as to why they had stopped visiting your bakery?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Oh. Did something happen that forced their hand?”

  “A lady called Mrs Murgatoss-Bynes claimed she was poisoned by my fruit scones.”

  “That sounds like a preposterous claim. She’s one of Mrs Trollope’s friends, isn’t she?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Yes, I’ve met her. I know the type. She was expecting a refund, was she?”

  “Not particularly, no. I don’t really know what she was expecting. But she made quite a song and dance about it, and then told her story to the local newspaper.”

  “Sounds like she made quite the tempest in a teapot about the whole affair! Fancy doing such a thing, eh, Miss Pemberley?”

  Her secretary nodded in agreement.

  “You’d have thought the editor of the Gazette would have thought twice about publishing a story so lacking in newsworthiness,” added Churchill.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” Mr Greenstone turned his sad gaze on her. “But I don’t think he gave the impact on my business much thought.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr Greenstone! I do believe this is Mr Trollope we’re talking about. He knows full well that printing such a damning article about a local business would put its customers off. If you ask me, Mr Trollope knew exactly what he was doing!”

  “Then why did he print it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Mr Greenstone. However, this story does make me wonder what the other baker in town, Mr Bodkin, made of you having to close down.”

  “Oh, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat for weeks.”

  “I bet he was!”

  “I detest the man.”

  “I don’t doubt that you do, Mr Greenstone.”

  “We were both apprenticed to old Mr Wallop. He was a fine baker. Bodkin always resented the way my buns rose higher than his.”

  “He should have worked harder at his craft rather than wasting his time harbouring resentment. I really can’t abide people like that.”

  “Yet he’s the one with the monopoly on baked goods in this village, Mrs Churchill, and I’m not.”

  “Through no fault of your own, Mr Greenstone! You were badly wronged.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that, because I’ve often thought the same thing.”
>
  “Have you ever felt vengeful about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever been tempted to exact your revenge on the people who brought you down?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ve attempted to take my revenge in the past.”

  “How so? Sending the odd poison pen letter, maybe?”

  “Oh no. But I did push a lighted rag through the letterbox of the Compton Poppleford Gazette’s offices.”

  Churchill gasped. “You committed an act of arson, Mr Greenstone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “It sort of fizzled out on the doormat. I didn’t put enough paraffin on it.”

  “Did you try anything else?”

  “No. The lighted rag satiated my need for vengeance in the end. I don’t suppose they really noticed it when they arrived for work the following morning.”

  “I see. So you didn’t send a poison pen letter?”

  “No. I don’t really have a way with words. And my spelling’s not very good, either.”

  “I see. I’m enjoying our little chat here this afternoon, Mr Greenstone. I find it helps a great deal to get to know one’s clients a little better. One of my other clients is Mr Cavendish, godson of the dearly departed Mrs Furzgate.”

  Mr Greenstone seemed disinterested and focused on sipping his tea.

  “Did you know Mrs Furzgate at all, Mr Greenstone?”

  “Everybody knew her,” he replied after a pause. “In fact, she left you with no choice in the matter. She had an ability to thrust herself hook, line and sinker into people’s lives.”

  “Mr Cavendish believes her death was not an accident,” Churchill ventured, hoping this might be enough to encourage Mr Greenstone to admit that he was behind the letter sent to frame Mr Bodkin. “Mr Cavendish believes she was murdered.”

  “Does he?” replied Greenstone. “Well that doesn’t surprise me. She was rather irritating.”

  “If Mr Cavendish is correct there are a number of possible suspects. Mr Bodkin for instance.” Churchill stared at Mr Greenstone intently to gauge his reaction, but there was none. “And Mr Smallbone. And the Trollopes.”