Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

by Emily Organ

  “But what could Mrs Trollope and her husband actually do? She’s tiny and he’s lanky-limbed. The pair of them would probably be blown over in a strong wind.”

  “Ninjutsu,” said Pemberley.

  “Bless you, Pembers,” replied Churchill.

  “I said ninjutsu.”

  “There’s no need to be rude.”

  “It’s a Japanese martial art dating from the fourteenth century. Mrs Trollope mastered it when she and her husband were travelling in Japan.”

  “The Trollopes lived in Japan? Oh golly, I’ve just realised what I did there, Pembers. You told me the name of that martial art and I thought you were—”

  “Sneezing. Yes, I realised that.”

  “Oh, how funny! It really did sound like a sneeze. How do you say it again?”

  “Ninjutsu. Anyway, as I was saying, Mrs Trollope has mastered it, and that might be the way someone could get hurt.”

  “You think she would use that Japanese martial art thingummy against someone?”

  “Why do you think Mrs Higginbath walks with a limp?”

  “Oh goodness, Pembers! That’s dreadful! No wonder everybody does what she says. What a bully.”

  “Please be careful, Mrs Churchill.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. Did I tell you about the time I was set upon at the clubhouse of the Richmond-upon-Thames Ladies’ Lawn Tennis Club?”

  “No. But please be careful, Mrs Churchill. I’m worried that you might be in way over your—”

  “Head? Yes, I get it. Thank you, Pembers.” Churchill drained her tea and began to feel rather despondent. “For some reason that cream bun didn’t quite hit the spot. I’m going back down to Bodkin’s for something else.”

  Mr Smallbone was buying crumpets when Churchill entered the bakery. She greeted him cheerily, but he only muttered a reply and quickly left.

  Bodger stood behind the counter. There was no sign of Mr Bodkin.

  “Good morning, Bodger. I would like four custard tarts, please. Oh, good grief, there’s a rat!” Churchill leapt back several feet from the counter, the furry brown rodent having lodged itself part-way beneath it. “You must kill it, Bodger!”

  “Where?” he shrieked, pulling Freddie Carnegie-Bannerman’s cricket bat from the wall. He dashed out from behind the counter, brandishing it with intent.

  “Where is the blighter?” he yelled. “I’ll get ’im!”

  “There!” screeched Churchill, pointing down at the floor.

  Bodger swung the cricket bat and Churchill turned away as he brought the bat crashing down on the rat. She kept her eyes fixed on the cottage loaves in the window but heard the sound of splintering wood as Bodger killed the rat and did some considerable damage to the counter in the process. Eventually, he stopped.

  “I think it’s dead,” he said quietly.

  “Take it away; I can’t look at it,” replied Churchill. She had lost her appetite for custard tarts.

  “I’ll put it in the bin out the back,” said Bodger. “Hang on a moment,” he continued. “I don’t think it’s a rat after all. What is it?”

  “It’s too big for a mouse, that’s for sure,” said Churchill, still staring at the cottage loaves. “Don’t tell me it’s a hedgehog. I couldn’t bear it if we’d killed a hedgehog. Oh, goodness. It’s not a hedgehog, is it?”

  She turned round to see Bodger holding the brown, furry thing at arm’s length.

  “There’s something else in it, too,” he said. “Something like broken glass.”

  Churchill took a step toward him, peering at the hairy object.

  “I don’t think it’s a living creature,” she said cautiously. “In fact, it looks like a hairpiece of some sort. Is Mr Bodkin known for wearing a toupee? I haven’t ever seen him wear one, and besides, that shade doesn’t match his eyebrows.”

  At that moment the door behind the counter opened and Mr Bodkin came striding out.

  “What the devil’s going on out here?” When he set eyes on Churchill he groaned.

  “Do you wear a toupee, Mr Bodkin?” she asked him.

  “What an impertinent question! Of course not! What are you doing with Freddie Carnegie-Bannerman’s cricket bat, Bodger?”

  “I was trying to kill what I thought was a rat,” the lanky youth replied sheepishly, looking at the smashed panelling at the front of the counter.

  “Couldn’t you have used another bat? That one’s priceless!”

  “I think you should be more worried about the prospect of a rat on the premises, Mr Bodkin,” said Churchill. “But don’t worry, it’s not a rat after all. We were quite mistaken. It appears to be a wig and… Is that a broken pair of spectacles?”

  “I think so,” replied Bodger, detangling the broken frames from the hairpiece.

  “Let me have a look!” said Mr Bodkin, striding out into the shop.

  “No, don’t, there’s no need,” Churchill replied, aware that the baker would be exceptionally angry once he saw what had happened to his counter and precious bat. “I’ll come back for the custard tarts later,” she added swiftly, noticing his face had turned puce with rage as he surveyed the damage. She dashed out of the door as quickly as her legs would carry her.

  “I’d stay away from the bakery for a while if I were you, Pembers,” said Churchill as she sat back at her desk.

  “I heard a dreadful din,” Pemberley replied.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” said Churchill. “Bodger has attacked a wig and pair of spectacles with a cricket bat. I’ve left him and Bodkin to sort it out between them.”

  Loud shouts rose up through the floorboards from the shop beneath their feet.

  “I hope they sort it out soon. It’ll be difficult for us to concentrate on our work otherwise, won’t it, Pembers? I’ll go back for the custard tarts when it’s all calmed down.”

  “Why was there a wig and a pair of spectacles in the bakery?” asked Pemberley.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Someone dropped them there, I suppose.”

  “But why?”

  “Perhaps they fell out of someone’s bag.”

  “But why would they be carrying them around in the first place?”

  “I have no idea, Pembers. Live and let live, I say.”

  “But why?”

  “You sound like a child asking why all the time. I don’t know why, do I?”

  “That’s exactly what a detective needs to know,” replied Pemberley. “The detective needs to ask why in order to understand a person’s motive. Atkins used to do it all the time.”

  “Did he indeed? That must have been very annoying.”

  “It was how his highly inquisitive, intelligent detective mind worked. Always ask why, he would say to me.”

  “Oh, I see. When you talk about intelligent detective minds I know exactly what you mean. That’s quite different, isn’t it? Of course I always ask why when I’m investigating a case. I thought you meant why in the more general sense.”

  “What general sense?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Pembers. What was the point of this conversation?”

  “Why did someone leave a wig and a pair of spectacles in the bakery? And how?”

  “We’re on to how as well, are we? Well I suppose the how is that they fell out of someone’s bag and the why could be… They were on their way to a fancy dress party.”

  “I’m not aware of any fancy dress parties taking place today.”

  “Well there might be, Pembers. You won’t necessarily receive an invitation to every party in Compton Poppleford.”

  “Oh, I never receive invites to any parties in Compton Poppleford, but I usually hear about them.”

  “Oh, all right. Not a fancy dress party, then. How about some other costumed event, such as… I can’t think of one.”

  “A disguise!” said Pemberley. “Perhaps someone was planning to use the wig and spectacles as a disguise.”

  “That’s quite a common usage, I suppose.”

  “But w
hy would someone want to disguise himself?”

  “Presumably it’s someone who doesn’t wish to be identified. And – I’m warming to this now, Pembers – perhaps they don’t wish to be identified because they’re up to no good!”

  “So a criminal could have left the wig and spectacles in the bakery.”

  “Yes. And yes! I know who it was, Pemberley. There was a criminal in there just before me. Smallbone was leaving just as I arrived. The wig and spectacles must have fallen out of his bag!”

  “Was he carrying a bag?”

  “He wasn’t, no. Perhaps they dropped out of his pocket.”

  “Did he have big enough pockets?”

  “I didn’t look, Pembers! I don’t make a habit of sizing up a man’s pockets. I always give men’s pockets a wide berth, in fact.”

  “Then we’re no closer to the truth.”

  “Perhaps we don’t need to be. We already have a rather complicated case to focus on. We don’t want to be distracted by strange goings-on at the bakery, do we? It’s just a shame we can’t get any more custard tarts for the time being.”

  Added to the shouting downstairs was a series of loud thumping noises.

  “I think we’d be foolish to ignore the wig and spectacles,” said Pemberley. “Someone – possibly Mr Smallbone, who is a convicted murderer – has for some reason deposited a disguise in the bakery.”

  “You think he left it there intentionally?”

  “I think he wanted to be rid of it. How could it have fallen out of his pocket accidentally?”

  “He certainly would have noticed if it had, wouldn’t he?”

  “Exactly. And the fact that he deposited it there suggests he was finished with it.”

  “Mr Smallbone disguised himself with a brown curly wig and spectacles, then tried to rid himself of the disguise.” Churchill pondered this. “Why didn’t he just put them in the bin if he didn’t need them any more?”

  Chapter 36

  “Pemberley, you’ve solved it!” Churchill declared as she burst into the office the following morning. “You clever old stick, you! I woke up in the night and remembered what you’d said!”

  “What did I say?” asked Pemberley, taking a pause from her typing.

  “When we first met Mrs Trollope and the bridge ladies you suggested that Mr Smallbone might have disguised himself and pushed Mrs Furzgate down the stairs. Well, there you go. You were right! Mr Smallbone used the wig and spectacles to disguise himself as Pierre!”

  “I suppose I could be right, but don’t you remember your reply to me?”

  “No, what was it?”

  “You said that his rather distinctive moustache would have given him away.”

  “Oh yes, I remember that now,” said Churchill, suddenly feeling deflated. “That was rather astute of me, wasn’t it?”

  She sat down at her desk. “There’s a chance this Pierre character had a moustache, though,” she said.

  “I think Mr Crumble would have mentioned it in the description of Pierre if he had. Besides, nobody has a moustache quite like Mr Smallbone’s.”

  “You’re right, Pembers. It’s a one-off.”

  “We’ve established something though, haven’t we?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The possibility that Pierre doesn’t exist and was merely someone wearing the disguise you found at the bakery.”

  “That has to be it! The wig and spectacles were worn by the mysterious Pierre!”

  “But why didn’t Mr Crumble notice it was a disguise?”

  “Because the man’s a fool. Now all we need to do is find out who disguised himself as Pierre.”

  “Or herself.”

  “Really, Pembers? You think a lady could have made a convincing Pierre?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I suppose anything’s possible. But to begin with we can’t overlook the fact that the wig and spectacles were found at Mr Bodkin’s bakery, so once again the baker is under suspicion. Either someone is attempting to frame him or he’s doing it himself to pretend that he’s being framed.”

  “A bluff?”

  “I think it’s a double bluff.”

  “No, it’s definitely a bluff.”

  “Bodkin and Mappin had this same disagreement. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Come on, let’s go and speak to him about the wig and spectacles. Hopefully he’s calmed down after yesterday’s counter-smashing incident.”

  The two ladies made their way downstairs.

  “We’re ‘ins Detective Agency’ now,” said Pemberley. “Did you notice I had managed to scrape the k off the door?”

  “I did, Pembers. Excellent work.”

  They stepped out into the street just as Mr Bodkin was leaving the bakery. Churchill stopped still as he crossed the road.

  “He’s off somewhere,” she whispered. “Where could he be going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think we need to follow him.”

  “But he’ll see us!”

  “We won’t follow him in an obvious manner, Pembers. We’ll merely walk a short way behind him and pretend to be deep in conversation about something or other whenever he turns around. After all, it’s quite believable that we just happen to be walking behind him, isn’t it?”

  “On the high street it is, but if he heads off down an unbeaten track it may be a little harder to explain ourselves.”

  “We’ll worry about that if and when it happens, Pembers. Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to lose sight of him.”

  The two ladies crossed the street and followed Mr Bodkin past the butcher’s shop, Mrs Bramley’s Tea Rooms, the bookshop, the hardware store, the haberdashery shop, and the Wagon and Carrot tavern.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Pemberley.

  “Are you expecting an immediate answer to your question?” Churchill queried.

  “It would be useful to know, wouldn’t it? These shoes aren’t particularly comfortable. If I’d known I would be walking a great distance this morning I would have put on another pair.”

  “Stop grumbling, Pembers, and keep up. Expect the unexpected.”

  “Oh dear. I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “It’s the bread and butter of detective work. Look, he’s turned right by the clock tower. Keep up!”

  They turned into a narrow street lined with beamed houses. At the end of it sat the church of St Barnabas.

  “Is Bodkin a religious man, Pemberley?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps he plans to pray his way out of his predicament,” laughed Churchill. “Oops, look away! He’s turned around.”

  The ladies stopped and inspected some petunias in a window box.

  “Has he seen us?” Churchill asked through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know. I’m looking away, like you told me to.”

  “All right, I’ll do one of those sweeping glances of the general environs and gauge whether he’s spotted us or not.”

  Churchill looked around as if taking in the scenery of the street. Without looking directly at Mr Bodkin she was able to see that he was no longer looking in their direction.

  “It’s safe again, Pembers, let’s go. We’ll need to hang back a little bit as this road is quieter than the high street.”

  “I knew it. He’ll soon realise we’re following him.”

  “Nonsense! Let’s pretend we’re going to the church. We can stride rather purposefully toward the churchyard without drawing any suspicion to ourselves, as if we had a perfectly valid reason for going there.”

  “I don’t want to bump into the vicar, though. He’ll want to know where I’ve been.”

  “When did you last attend church, Pembers?”

  “About twenty-three years ago.”

  “Tut-tut. And it’s still the same vicar?”

  “Yes. I have to hide whenever I see him out and about. He never looks any older; he’ll go on forever I think.”

  “He must be blesse
d. Come on, Bodkin’s gone past the church now. We need to see where he heads off to next.”

  The two ladies scurried past the church just in time to see Mr Bodkin step into a doorway on the left-hand side of the street. The door closed behind him.

  “Interesting,” said Churchill. “Let’s just slowly stroll past and take a sidelong glance at the property as we pass it. No need to draw attention to ourselves.”

  As they neared the building Churchill noticed a shiny brass plaque next to the door Mr Bodkin had just walked through. She paused to read it.

  “Mr T. W. Verney, Solicitor at Law,” she whispered to Pemberley. “How interesting. Why would Mr Bodkin be visiting Mrs Furzgate’s solicitor?”

  Chapter 37

  Churchill and Pemberley had a cup of tea back at the office to the sound of hammering from the bakery downstairs.

  “It sounds like Bodkin’s getting that counter fixed,” said Churchill. “I think you should pop down for some iced fancies and mention to Mr Bodkin that you saw him going into a lawyer’s office, Pemberley.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because it’s always me confronting him and I think he’s bored of me. And he calls me Mrs Roly-Poly behind my back. Did you stifle a snigger just then, Pembers?”

  Pemberley shook her head and tried to straighten her face. “But you’re the detective, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But we’re a team, aren’t we? You may be my secretary in name, but you’re actually much more than that.”

  “Am I?” Pemberley pushed her shoulders back proudly. “Thank you, Mrs Churchill. Just hearing you say that means a lot to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Now go and see Bodkin.”

  Churchill settled down with another of Atkins’ files while Pemberley went downstairs to the bakery. The detective was soon absorbed by a case in which a German word had been written in blood on a wall when Pemberley returned empty-handed.

  “Oh, crumbs. Is he out of iced fancies?” asked Churchill.

  “No, the bakery is closed for refitting.”

  “But there were only a few splintered slats on the counter. Certainly nothing to warrant a complete refurbishment.”