Murder in Cold Mud

by Emily Organ

  Mrs Rumbold gave a sniff. “Thank you.”

  “Did your late husband ever pursue Mr Harding for the money he owed him?”

  “Oh yes, but it didn’t make any difference.”

  “Did he threaten him?”

  “Several times, apparently. With a hoe.”

  “And what did he do with the hoe?” asked Churchill.

  “Just waved it around menacingly, I believe. That’s what he told me, anyway. If men get up to violence they don’t usually admit it to their wives, do they?”

  “So you think your late husband may have been violent toward Mr Harding?”

  “I don’t like to think he was, but what do I know? There’s usually a lot of whiskey involved when these card games are underway, and we all know what men are like after a drop too much, don’t we?”

  “But did your husband take his hoe to the card games?” asked Pemberley.

  “Goodness me, no,” laughed Mrs Rumbold. “But he often took his dibber because that fitted into his pocket easily.”

  “Dibber?”

  “A short, pointed stick used to make holes in the ground for seeds.”

  “Or to make holes in someone’s face,” added Pemberley.

  Churchill startled. “Really, Pembers? You know of that happening, do you?”

  “It was just a guess,” she replied.

  “Did your late husband ever make holes in anyone’s face with his dibber, Mrs Rumbold?”

  “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

  “But you wouldn’t rule it out?”

  “Men will be men, Mrs Churchill. When there are cards, money, whiskey and sharp gardening implements at play, who knows what can happen?”

  “Well, quite!”

  “I’d like three yards of rickrack, please. Black.”

  Chapter 36

  Mrs Thonnings returned to the haberdashery shop a short while later.

  “I’ve told them everything I can,” she said.

  “Which was what?” asked Churchill.

  “That Jeffrey used to joke about murdering his creditors.”

  “But you emphasised that it was only a joke, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And you told them that he couldn’t possibly be a murderer?”

  “Yes, I did. They didn’t write that bit down, though.”

  “What did they write down?”

  “Only the bit about him joking about murdering people.”

  Churchill clenched her teeth. “Thank you, Mrs Thonnings. I’m not sure it will have done the trick, but at least you tried.”

  “I did try,” said Mrs Thonnings. “And that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is,” replied Churchill through her teeth.

  “I fear that we have only made matters worse for Mr Harding in getting that orange-haired, cheap-bloused woman involved,” said Churchill after they had left the haberdashery shop.

  “She did try,” said Pemberley.

  “Not hard enough, if you ask me.”

  Pemberley sighed. “It’s not looking good for Mr Harding, is it?”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Pembers? Of course it is.”

  “But what with Mrs Rumbold telling us about all the unpleasant business with hoes and dibbers and cards and whiskey, and all that malarkey, it sounds like a rather cut-throat world to me.”

  “It doesn’t sound very pleasant, does it? But neither does it make our delightful Mr Harding a murderer.”

  “But if Rumbold was threatening him with his hoe or dibber, and possibly using those tools as weapons against him, surely it could have caused Mr Harding to snap.”

  “Mr Harding doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who snaps, Pemberley.”

  “You barely know him! You didn’t even know his name was Jeffrey and you had no idea he had gambling debts, though the rest of the village supposedly did.”

  “There’s no need to rub it in, Pembers.”

  “I’m not. I’m merely stating that it’s difficult to defend a man when you really know very little about him.”

  “I was hoping to learn more, but then that interfering Mappin arrested him.”

  “I think Mr Harding may well have snapped. He owed Rumbold and Williams money, and what’s more they were harassing him for repayment.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Mrs Rumbold told us! She said they pursued him, remember? That’s enough to make any sane man lose his rag.”

  “Let’s just consider for a moment that it’s possible he did commit murder. I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, Pembers, when you talk of a sane man losing his rag. That’s the only reason he could ever have done such a thing. He lost all his hard-earned money in the card games, and those grimy, gardening types no doubt harangued him about it all. Then he most probably got poked in the face by a dibber, and that was the very last straw. Oh, and Mrs Thonnings had left him into the bargain. It’s no wonder the poor man decided to commit murder. He just needed a little peace and quiet.”

  “So you do think he could have done it after all?”

  “No, Pembers. No, I don’t. He just has to be innocent. I was simply coming up with a possible motive, and I realise now that he did have one. Then again, I think we all have a possible motive, don’t we?”

  “Even me?”

  “Yes. Even you, Pembers.”

  “But why would I murder two gardeners?”

  “Because one of them traipsed mud into our offices the other day.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason.”

  “In some people’s minds it is, Pembers. Now, let’s return to the most obvious fact of this case, and that is Mr Downs’s guilt. I’ve no doubt that he’s our man.”

  “Mrs Downs was very snappy about him, wasn’t she?”

  “Exactly. A previously mild-mannered woman who simply nodded and smiled in the right places hurled a piece of rump steak at me and was terribly defensive about her frying pan and her husband.”

  “She’s covering something up.”

  “That’s exactly what I think, Pembers. But the question is, what?”

  “Her murdering husband?”

  “I think it could well be that. So you see, that’s why I know Mr Harding is innocent. It’s because Mr Downs is so guilty.”

  “Perhaps they both did it.”

  “Impossible. I can’t imagine Mr Harding ever colluding with that man. Let’s just work on the premise that Mr Downs is responsible. Now, what we need, Pembers, is evidence.”

  “Such as what?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it, Pembers? And I don’t like to try to answer it now, because if I make an attempt to predict what form that evidence may take my mind will become closed off to other possible forms of evidence.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Oh, good. A detective always needs to keep an open mind, you see. You don’t need me to tell you that, Pembers. You probably heard it all the time from Atkins.”

  “No, I don’t think I ever heard him say that.”

  “Well, he should have. So you ask me about evidence, Pemberley, and I simply reply that anything could be evidence. What we possess is the skill to find it.”

  “Do we?”

  “I hope so, don’t you? Otherwise we couldn’t very well call ourselves detectives.”

  “Some days I feel like a detective but others I don’t. I don’t feel particularly detective-like today.”

  “Well I do, Pembers, so indulge me. Where shall we go looking first?”

  “How about straight to Mr Downs himself?”

  “Inspector Mappin forbade us from speaking to him, remember?”

  “That’s when he was a suspect. But Mr Harding is the only suspect now. Mappin’s probably forgotten that Mr Downs even exists.”

  “Perfect logic, Pembers. Yes, let’s go and see him. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Down Cackrudge Lane. But it’s daytime, Mrs Churchill, so he’
ll be down at his allotment.”

  Chapter 37

  Birdsong carried on the honeysuckle-scented breeze as Churchill and Pemberley walked across the allotments. Churchill felt a lump in her throat as they passed the heavily barricaded allotment that had belonged to Mr Rumbold. Mr Williams’s allotment lay just beyond it, and a few weeds were already beginning to sprout between the carrot-tops.

  “Oh dear,” said Pemberley as she wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s so awfully sad to see the allotments falling to rack and ruin.”

  “They’re not quite that bad yet, Pembers,” said Churchill. “Someone else will rent them soon, I’m sure.”

  “But one of them’s a murder scene! I don’t think anyone would like to cultivate anything on a murder scene. What sort of plant would want to grow there?”

  “I shouldn’t think the plants are too fussy.”

  “Oh, but they’re very fussy indeed,” said Pemberley. “I can’t get anything to grow in my garden.”

  “But your garden isn’t a murder scene, Pembers.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “What? When?!”

  “About 1832, I think.”

  “Good grief! Do you know what happened?”

  “I think it was a drunken fight. And that’s why nothing will grow there now.”

  “Isn’t that more likely down to your gardening skills rather than the grisly history of the plot?”

  “What gardening skills?”

  “Do you possess any?”

  “No.”

  Churchill sighed. “I sometimes wonder how many wasted minutes and hours are spent in conversations that end up in a dead end. We’re on the lookout for Mr Downs, aren’t we, Pembers? You’ll have to remind me what he looks like as I’ve only seen the chap once, and that was when he was busy escorting Barry Woolwell out of the pub.”

  “He’s just over there,” replied Pemberley, pointing at a lean, hook-nosed man who was leaning on a spade and watching them from a well-tended allotment close by.

  “Oh yes, so he is. Lovely! Let’s go and have a natter with him, shall we?”

  A scruffy Jack Russell left the gardener’s side and cantered over to them, barking furiously. They tried to ignore it and walked over to where Mr Downs stood.

  “Quiet, Sparky!” he shouted at his dog. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said, fixing them with a steely stare. He had smears of dirt on his face and the hand resting on the handle of the spade was covered in mud. “I’ve been expectin’ you.”

  “Golly! Have you really Mr Downs? Why’s that, then?” asked Churchill.

  “’Cause you’re always askin’ folk questions. I’ve seen yer, I ’ave, with these very eyes.”

  “How extremely observant of you, Mr Downs.”

  “Oh, I is. I don’t miss nothin’, me. Quiet, Sparky!”

  “Jolly good.”

  “I knowed it wouldn’t be long afore you came a-speakin’ ter me.”

  “Not only are you observant, Mr Downs, but you are also adept at predicting other people’s behaviour.”

  “Oh, I does that an’ all. I knows what people’s up ter, and I knows what they be plannin’. Sometimes I knows it afore they even knows it ’emselves.”

  “What wonderful powers of deduction, Mr Downs. You should become a detective.”

  “Quiet, Sparky! That I should. I got a nose for it.”

  Churchill glanced at his enormous hooked beak.

  “You certainly have a nose, Mr Downs.”

  “For it.”

  “A nose for it. Yes indeed. Very much so. For what, exactly?”

  “Detectivin’!”

  “Oh, of course. Is that a word, is it? Anyway, we must press on. You’re no doubt aware that I’m—”

  “Mrs Churchills. Private detective. You bought Atkins’s place.”

  “Churchill without an ‘s’. But other than that, you are exactly right.”

  “And yer wants ter know who’s been a-murderin’ folk?”

  “Don’t we all, Mr Downs?”

  “You thinks I might ’ave ’ad sumthin ter do with it. Quiet, Sparky!”

  “No, that’s not quite true. We were wondering whether you might have any idea who the culprit could be.”

  “I gots me some ideas.”

  “Would you care to share them with us?”

  He leaned on his spade again and squinted up at the sun.

  “’E’s got a grudge.”

  “Who has?”

  “The culprit.”

  “Oh, him. Yes, I’d say that he has a grudge all right.”

  “An’ ’e’s likely ter be left-’anded.”

  “Really? What makes you so sure of that?”

  “’Cause of the way the gun was fired and Rumbold was tied up. Quiet, Sparky!”

  “Couldn’t we put the noisy dog in the toolshed for a bit?”

  “Nope. ’E don’t like it in there.”

  “I don’t suppose he does. But the wooden walls would muffle the noise a little, wouldn’t they?”

  “I ain’t puttin’ no dog o’ mine in no tool shed, Mrs Churchills.”

  “Churchill. Fine, then. You state that you know that the culprit is left-handed because of the manner in which he fired the gun and tied Mr Rumbold up. How do you possess such a detailed knowledge of the case?”

  “I just do is all.”

  “But how?”

  “I ain’t got all day ter explain it, Mrs Churchills. Just take it from me.”

  “Churchill. May I ask you a question?”

  “An’ ’e’s got money woes.”

  “Who has?”

  “The culprit.”

  “The left-handed chap with a grudge?”

  “Quiet, Sparky! That’s the one. Money woes an’ all.”

  “Money does appear to be a common theme throughout this investigation. Do you know anything about the marrows in Colonel Slingsby’s garden, Mr Downs?”

  “I’ve ’eard of ’em.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Yeah, I seen ’em an’ all.”

  “Did they belong to Mr Rumbold?”

  He scratched the side of his large nose. “Of sorts.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “As I understands it, them marrows performs what I calls a transactional role.”

  “Do you mean that people hide money in them?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Couldn’t say.”

  “You know they do, don’t you, Mr Downs?”

  “Yer’ve seen ’em ’ave yer? Quiet, Sparky!”

  “Couldn’t we put him in the tool shed for just two minutes? I realise he doesn’t like it in there, but it would only be for two minutes and then he could come out again and bark away to his heart’s content.”

  “Nope. Whaddya know about them marrows?”

  “We counted the money. There were two hundred gold sovereigns in one marrow alone. But how is this connected with the murders of Mr Williams and Mr Rumbold?”

  He scratched his nose again. “Dunno.”

  “Mr Downs, you seem quite certain that the murderer is a left-handed chap with a grudge and money woes, yet you refuse to speculate on how a marrow stuffed with coins might be involved.”

  “It ain’t the marrow what dunnit.”

  “Clearly not. But the money stashed within it was clearly intended for someone. Who might that someone be?”

  “The colonel, I s’pose. Quiet, Sparky!”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno why yer askin’ me all this, Mrs Churchills. Yer already know about the bribes an’ all that.”

  “Churchill. Did you ever bribe the colonel, Mr Downs?”

  “Yeah, course. We all does it. That’s ’ow we wins the prizes.”

  “But if everyone bribes the colonel, how does he decide who to award the prizes to?” asked Pemberley.

  “’E judges it on merit.”

  “In which case there would seem to be no point in bribing him at all,” ventured Churchill. “If everyone agreed no
t to bribe him he would judge the vegetables on merit, which is what he has to do anyway given that everyone bribes him. You could all save yourselves a bit of money.”

  “Yer could look at it like that.”

  “And it’s not as if the colonel needs the money, is it?”

  “But ’e do, yer see. ’E’s got money woes ’imself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. ’E’s got that ’uge ’ouse an’ ’e’s got all them servants and whatnot, and ’e ain’t got enough money to pay fer it all.”

  “What about his inheritance?”

  “’Is brother spent most of it.”

  “Oh dear, really? Siblings can be dreadfully inconvenient at times. I’m quite pleased that I don’t have any.”

  “Poor you, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley. “Does that mean you grew up alone?”

  “Of course not. I had my mother and father to look after me, and Strudel the cat. And when I was sent off to school there were lots of girls there. I can’t say I made friends with many of them, but there were lots there. Anyway, I don’t want to waste time talking about my childhood. We have a killer to catch!”

  “They’ve got ol’ Jeffrey ’Ardin’, anyways,” Mr Downs chipped in. “They won’t go lookin’ for no one else now.”

  “I sincerely hope they do. The poor man’s innocent! Don’t you believe he’s innocent, Mr Downs?”

  ‘’E might of ’ad an ’and in it. Quiet, Sparky!”

  “He had no hand in it whatsoever, did he, Pembers?”

  “My mind isn’t made up quite yet.”

  “It’s extremely unlikely to have been him though, isn’t it?”

  “Possibly, but I—” Pemberley began.

  “It’s not him,” interrupted Churchill. “When you say had a hand in it, Mr Downs, are you suggesting that Mr Harding may have been the murderer’s accomplice?”

  “Yeah, ’e could of been.”

  “Nonsense! Have you ever owned a frying pan, Mr Downs?”

  “Yeah.” Then his face changed. “Now ’ang on a minute. You ain’t suggestin’—?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Downs! We’ll be off now. Goodbye to you and your lovely dog!”

  The two ladies marched away as quickly as possible with Mr Downs calling after them. “It weren’t me wot dunnit! I ain’t never ’it no one over the ’ead wiv a frying pan!”