by Emily Organ
“Everything’s being ripped out. A very nice workman showed me where the counter will be located, and there’s going to be a storage display especially for bread rolls. He’s having new ovens fitted, which will expand his bread product offering by two-thirds.”
“Did you speak to Bodkin?”
“No, I didn’t see him there.”
“Bodger?”
“No.”
“Any sign of the wig and spectacles?”
“No sign at all. The counter and most of the shelving has gone, so I don’t suppose the wig and spectacles would have been left lying about.”
“No, I don’t suppose they would be. Darn it!” Churchill thumped her desk. “If I’d thought more quickly at the time I’d have taken the wig and spectacles from Bodger. Now the evidence is lost.”
“Bodkin may have them somewhere?”
“He’ll have disposed of them if they implicate him.”
“Unless it was a bluff.”
“A double bluff. Darn it and darn it again, Pembers. I feel as though this investigation is slipping through our fingers.”
A heavy throbbing sound from the street outside made her desk tremble.
“Drilling?” Churchill cried out. “What’s Bodkin having done down there now? I swear our office will have collapsed into his bakery before the day is out!”
“It’s not a drill,” said Pemberley, looking out of the window. “It’s Mr Cavendish’s car.”
Mr Cavendish bounded into the office moments later.
“Good morning, ladies!” He gave them a wide grin and tossed his boater hat onto the hat stand. “What’s Bodkin up to downstairs?” he asked as he sat at Churchill’s desk.
“He’s having a refit,” replied Churchill.
“Do you mean him or his shop?” Mr Cavendish laughed loudly at his own joke.
“Since you mention it, I think the baker could do with a refit as well, couldn’t he?” said Churchill. “Then again, couldn’t we all?” She laughed.
“Oh no, you’re too hard on yourself, Mrs Churchill,” said Mr Cavendish. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Tea, Mr Cavendish?” interrupted Pemberley.
“Thank you, that would be marvellous. Now where were we?”
“You were flattering me, Mr Cavendish,” replied Churchill.
“Merely stating the truth, Mrs Churchill.”
“I expect you say that to all the private detectives.”
“’Tis treason to say such a thing! I only have one private detective.”
“Oh goody. That’s what I like to hear. I expect you’d like an update on our progress?”
“Absolutely. Go on, I’m all ears.”
“Don’t you find that expression rather strange? I don’t like to imagine anyone being all ears.”
“Rather macabre, isn’t it?”
Pemberley brought in the tea and Churchill told Mr Cavendish about the break-in at Mr Trollope’s office.
“You old devil, you,” he said with a wink. “And you wriggled out of an arrest! I’m impressed.”
Next she told him about the mysterious Pierre and the disguise she had discovered in Mr Bodkin’s bakery.
Mr Cavendish sipped his tea thoughtfully. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that every line of investigation leads back to that baker fellow.”
“And there’s something else, too,” said Churchill.
“What’s that, then?”
“Pemberley and I happened to follow Bodkin yesterday, and where do you suppose he went?”
“Enlighten me, Mrs Churchill.”
“To Mr Verney, your godmother’s solicitor!”
“Did he indeed? What was the baker’s business with him?”
“We don’t know. He went in and closed the door behind him.”
“As you would expect,” replied Mr Cavendish.
“I think it’s suspicious.”
“It’s exceedingly suspicious. Perhaps he was seeking legal advice.”
“He must be, mustn’t he, if he’s consulting a solicitor,” replied Churchill.
“He’s seeking legal advice because he knows that the finger of blame is pointed at him! And what’s more, he’s seeking legal advice because he’s guilty! If he has nothing to hide, why is he seeing a solicitor?”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr Cavendish.”
“Mappin should have arrested him while he had the opportunity. But instead that cursed baker is walking around like a free man, having his bakery refitted and taking legal advice so he can plan his next evasive move!”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“The disguise was found right inside his bakery! Where is it now?”
“I suspect he’s disposed of it.”
Mr Cavendish sighed and cradled his head. “I can’t believe he’s getting away with this,” he said sadly. “I don’t suppose there’s much else we can do, Mrs Churchill. He’s destroyed key evidence and employed the services of a lawyer who’ll run rings around Inspector Mappin. I wish my poor godmother had never set eyes on him, I truly do!”
“There, there, Mr Cavendish, all is not lost.” Churchill felt deep sympathy for the man sitting before her and once again fought the urge to clutch him to her bosom. “We’ll find a way to ensnare that baker, won’t we Miss Pemberley?” She glanced desperately at her secretary for reassurance.
“Of course we will,” replied Pemberley. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
“I like that sort of talk!” said Churchill. “We never give up on our cases, Mr Cavendish. We fight to the bitter end, and we’ll make sure Mr Bodkin faces justice!”
“I think he’s too clever,” replied Mr Cavendish.
“Not for me, he isn’t!” said Churchill. “For forty years I watched my husband from the wings as he carried out his inspectorial duties for the Metropolitan Police. There isn’t much I didn’t learn from him during the course of those forty years, and now is my opportunity to put all that knowledge to the test. We will catch your godmother’s murderer, Mr Cavendish. Don’t you fret.”
Chapter 38
“It would be a breach of client confidentiality to discuss any matter pertaining to Mr Bodkin,” said Mr Verney. Sitting in a winged and buttoned leather chair behind an oversized mahogany desk, the short, dusty-looking solicitor regarded them in turn through his thick spectacle lenses.
Churchill and Pemberley sat opposite him on small, uncomfortable chairs which emphasised the inferiority of anyone who had the misfortune of sitting on them.
“Has he asked you to be his defence lawyer?” Churchill asked.
“I am unable to give an answer one way or the other.”
“But that’s not possible, is it?” said Pemberley. “Mr Verney is a civil lawyer rather than a criminal one, isn’t he?”
“Are you a civil lawyer or a criminal lawyer, Mr Verney?” asked Churchill.
“Civil mainly, but I’ve been known to dabble.”
“There you go, Miss Pemberley, he dabbles! I knew it. He’s currently working up a watertight defence case for Mr Bodkin.”
“May I ask what Mr Bodkin has been accused of?” asked the solicitor.
“Nothing yet. But Miss Pemberley and I believe he is guilty of destroying evidence that could link him to a murder.”
“Which murder?”
“The murder of Mrs Furzgate.”
“I thought her death was an accident?”
“Ah, there you go, Mr Verney. I see you’re practising the watertight defence already.”
“Not at all; I’m merely stating a fact. The coroner ruled her death to be an accident. No criminal act has been committed.”
“No criminal act has yet been proven,” retorted Churchill. “But we’re pretty close to it, aren’t we, Miss Pemberley? And Inspector Mappin is very interested in certain aspects of the case.”
“Case? There is no case!”
“That’s where you are mistaken, Mr Verney. I have been hired by Mrs Furzgate
’s godson to conduct an investigation into her death. Therefore, there is a case. I have a case file for it and everything.”
“And a detailed incident map on the wall,” added Pemberley. “You should come and see it, Mr Verney.”
“No, don’t invite him to look at it, Pembers. He’s the defence, remember? We’ll give him even more defensive ideas if he sees our incident board.”
“But he needs to be presented with the evidence we have so he can prepare his case,” said Pemberley.
“Does he? Well, that doesn’t seem fair. Can we find out what his defence is so we can get more evidence?”
“Ladies, may I interrupt your conversation for a moment?” asked the solicitor. “There is no defence case being prepared. My client has neither been charged nor arrested for any offence.”
“Ah, but he’s been questioned by the police,” said Churchill.
“Inspector Mappin asked him a few questions, did he?”
“Yes, he did.”
Mr Verney glanced at his watch. “My time is precious, ladies.”
“And expensive, no doubt,” said Churchill. “What’s your hourly rate?”
Mr Verney ignored her question. “You mention that you have evidence that my client was involved in the so-called murder of Mrs Furzgate. May I ask what that evidence is?”
“Are we putting ourselves at a disadvantage if we tell you?” said Churchill.
“No, not at all. I ask merely out of interest.”
“What about your defence?”
“There is no defence! Now what have you got on Bodkin?”
Churchill told the solicitor about the letter, and about the wig and glasses. An expression of incredulity spread across his face as she spoke.
“It sounds like something out of a pantomime,” he commented when she had finished.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why would Mr Bodkin push his former lover down the stairs while disguised as a French waiter?” he asked.
“You tell me, Mr Verney. He’s your client.”
“Then send a letter telling you what he had done and leaving the waiter disguise on the floor of his shop?”
“A clumsy attempt to throw us off the scent.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that his actions are so clumsy they’re deliberately designed to make us think he’s being framed by someone else.”
“It sounds as though he is.”
“No one else would be that foolish.”
“So Mr Bodkin is guilty by dint of being foolish?”
“Exactly, Mr Verney. A foolish man who thinks he’s being clever; there really is nothing worse.”
“I can think of a few worse things, but I’ll leave it there for now. I really must get on with my work, ladies.”
“So you’re not going to tell us why Mr Bodkin visited you?”
“Absolutely not! You could sit on those chairs all day waiting for an answer, but none would come.”
“There’s no danger of that,” said Pemberley. “My buttocks have gone completely numb after a mere five minutes.”
“Miss Pemberley!” said Churchill in a shocked tone. “Remember your manners! I do apologise, Mr Verney, for the manner in which my secretary referred to her sit-upon.”
“Have you quite finished?” asked the lawyer impatiently.
“Yes, I think we have,” Churchill replied. “Thank you for your help with nothing at all, Mr Verney.”
Churchill and Pemberley had almost reached their office when Churchill stopped and grabbed Pemberley’s arm.
“Wait! What’s going on there?”
Mr Bodkin was standing outside his bakery chatting animatedly to Mrs Trollope and a lean, hatchet-faced young man in a smart, striped suit. Two workmen were balanced on ladders attaching new shiny letters to the front of the shop.
“Look at that baker loitering there without a care in the world!” fumed Churchill. “Yapping away to Mrs Trollope and some odd-looking man who looks to be a younger version of her husband. Oh! Do you know what I think, Pembers?”
“What?”
“That young man there must be Timothy Trollope!”
“Yes, it is.”
“It is? Then why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I was about to.”
“But what’s he doing here? I thought he lived in the Bahamas.”
“He does, but I suppose he must visit his parents from time to time.”
“I wonder what they could be talking about. Bodkin seems rather chummy with the Trollopes, doesn’t he? Let’s stroll slowly past, pretending to be in conversation, and see if we can listen in.”
The two ladies sauntered toward their office, trying not to look at the trio.
“The Cotswolds are quite delightful in May, Pemberley, I can recommend a lovely hotel in Stow-on-the-Wold.”
“Why have you begun talking about the Cotswolds, Mrs Churchill?”
“I’m trying to make conversation, Pembers!” she hissed. “We’re pretending to have a nonchalant chat, remember? Then Bodkin and the Trollopes won’t think we’re listening in.”
“But we can’t listen in to what they’re saying if we’re talking, can we?” whispered Pemberley.
“But if we actually listen in they’ll be suspicious. We need to look natural.”
“I don’t understand how we can do both.”
“That’s the skill of detective work. Oh dear, they’ve spotted us. Good morning, Mrs Trollope! And Mr Bodkin! And who is this young man we have the pleasure of meeting?”
“This is my son, Master Timothy Trollope,” replied Mrs Trollope coldly.
“A young man I have heard much about!” said Churchill. “And how nice it is to meet you at last. Are you planning to remain on these shores for long?”
“Just a week, and then I travel to Monaco.” The young man’s eyes were set too close together, and he struggled to meet her gaze.
“How glamorous, Master Trollope. Do you have connections there?”
“Never mind about my son’s connections,” said Mrs Trollope.
Churchill decided to ignore the rude remark, turning her attentions to the baker instead. “Your shop is coming along nicely, Mr Bodkin.”
“A refit was long overdue,” he replied gruffly. “Though next time you visit I’d like you to check that any suspected rat is actually a rat.”
“I hope I shan’t find any more rats in your bakery, Mr Bodkin!”
“Now you come to mention it, there have never been, nor will there ever be, any rats in my bakery.”
“The wig and spectacles took me quite by surprise. What were they doing on your premises?”
“I have no idea. I suppose it must have been someone’s idea of a joke.”
“I can’t imagine anyone having such a weak sense of humour. I’m wondering if it was a discarded disguise, perhaps.”
“It might have been. Or a fancy dress get-up of some sort.”
“I’m inclined to think it more likely that it was a disguise.”
“Are you? Very good.”
“Can I ask what happened to the disguise, Mr Bodkin?”
“I have no idea. Last I saw it Bodger had beaten the thing to a pulp with a cricket bat in response to your hysterical protestations. And smashed up my serving counter to boot.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find this is l'ordre du jour for Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Trollope. “When she’s not breaking into someone else’s premises she’s destroying them.”
“Why are you speaking about me as if I weren’t here, Mrs Trollope?” asked Churchill.
The lady looked away, as if pretending not to hear.
“Excuse me, Mrs Trollope,” ventured Churchill. “Can you hear me?”
“This lady’s trying to talk to you, Mummy,” said Timothy.
“I know she is, darling. I’m ignoring her in the hope that she’ll lose interest and go away.”
“I say!” exclaimed Churchill. “She’s not a very polite mummy, is she?�
��
“Oh, I see. This lady’s a personne indésirable is she, Mama?” said Timothy.
“Oui, c’est vrai,” replied Mrs Trollope.
“Why’s everybody speaking French all of a sudden?” asked Churchill.
“I’m not,” said the baker.
“Thank you, Mr Bodkin.”
“Perhaps there’s some French blood in the Trollope family,” suggested Pemberley.
“Yes, perhaps there is, Miss Pemberley, but as Mrs Trollope is refusing to speak to me I don’t suppose we shall ever find out. When are you reopening, Mr Bodkin? I miss your currant buns.”
“Tomorrow. This is just a quick refit; I don’t want to lose out on too much business.”
“Business must have been brisk for you to afford a refit in the first place, Mr Bodkin.”
“I had a little capital to spend.”
“Did you now? Always nice to be in that position, isn’t it?”
“I can’t complain.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can. Now, returning to this disguise of yours.”
“Of mine? That flea-ridden wig was nothing to do with me, Mrs Churchill.”
“Then what was it doing in your bakery, Mr Bodkin?”
“I can only assume it had been dropped there by a customer.”
“Is that what your solicitor told you to say?”
“My solicitor hasn’t told me to say anything, Mrs Churchill. What are you driving at?”
“I was wondering what your business with Mr Verney was.”
“My business with Verney is none of your business.”
“Mrs Churchill, you really must stop sticking your beak into matters that don’t concern you,” said Mrs Trollope. “You’ve seen what happened to the last woman who couldn’t help but interfere.”
Churchill gasped. “Is that a threat, Mrs Trollope?”
“No, but her story should surely serve as a cautionary tale.”
Churchill stared at the lady, then at her narrow-eyed son. She felt a shiver travel down her spine.
“Come along, Miss Pemberley,” she said. “Time for a cup of something hot and strengthening.”
Chapter 39
“Just one glance at Trollope junior and you can tell he’s little more than a brigand,” said Churchill as she sipped her tea. “All that education and he’s no more than a common thief. He’s got his father’s eyes, hasn’t he?”
