by Emily Organ
“Sit down, boy,” said Churchill, pointing to the chair opposite her.
Timmy Flatboot removed his cap and did as she had instructed. As he dropped the sack to the floor it gave a loud clatter.
“Well done, lad,” she said. “It sounds as though you’ve found a good few things under Grandpa Flatboot’s caravan.”
“Oh yeah, lots of ’em.”
“Would you like a jam tart?”
“Fanks, Mrs C.” He grabbed one and gobbled it down in a single mouthful.
“So what is this unusual item?”
“I’m too shy ter say it!”
“Come now, boy. There’s no need for shyness.”
“There might be when yer sees what it is!”
“And what is it?”
“I’ll show yer.”
Timmy Flatboot bent down and picked up the sack. He wrinkled his nose as he peered inside and slowly slid his hand in. He carefully withdrew his arm from the sack, pinching the mysterious item between his thumb and forefinger with an expression of great distaste.
“What is it?” asked Churchill, seeing a flash of fabric. “A silk scarf?”
“Worse ’n that.”
He pulled out the rest of the fabric and deposited it on Churchill’s desk.
“It’s a pair o’ women’s….” His face flushed a deep red.
“I see what they are now,” said Churchill, sharing the boy’s distaste. “This pair of undergarments was hidden beneath your grandpa’s caravan, you say?”
“Yeah, an’ they ain’t been there long. I dunno ’ow—”
“There’s no need for us to speculate. Was there anything else unusual?”
“Nope.”
“But you found some other items hidden under there?”
“Oh yeah, but just normal stuff.”
“Why don’t you empty it all out so we can take a look?”
“Alright. So we got two shotguns.” He pulled them out and placed them on top of the silk undergarments. And there’s a slingshot in ’ere.” He grinned. “It’s a good ’un; I’m gonna keep it for meself.” He placed it on the desk and reached inside the bag again. “There’s a saucepan, some newspapers, a wood axe, a knife, a dog collar an’ two bricks.”
“There was no need to bring the bricks.”
“I thought you might wanna see ’em. Then there’s a length o’ rope, a waterin’ can, a revolver and three knittin’ needles. Me gramma likes knittin’.”
“Interesting,” said Churchill with a smile. “Timmy Flatboot, you have surpassed yourself. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her purse. “I shall give you the farthing I promised, and I think I’m going to give you another as well.”
“Three farthin’s in all? Fanks, Mrs C!”
“On one condition.” She raised a finger. “This third farthing is to ensure that you keep quiet about this item here.” She pulled out her handkerchief, wrapped it around the barrel of the revolver and picked it up. “I’m going to look after this old gun here. Everything else can go back, or you can keep or sell it. Whatever you like.”
“Fanks!”
Timmy pocketed the farthings and put everything bar the revolver back inside his sack. Churchill carefully popped the revolver into her desk drawer for safekeeping, using her handkerchief to preserve any fingerprints.
“Good work, my lad.” She gave him a wink. “Very good work indeed.”
Once Timmy had left, Churchill used her handkerchief once again to take the revolver out of her desk drawer.
“I’m no ammunitions expert, Pembers, but I’d say this was a Webley, wouldn’t you?”
Pemberley walked over to her desk to examine it. “Don’t touch it, whatever you do, Pembers. It’ll need to be dusted for fingerprints.”
“It certainly looks like a Webley to me, Mrs Churchill. Is it the colonel’s missing gun?”
“I think it must be.”
“Then we must take it down to the police station!”
“We will, Pembers, we will. But let’s not be in a hurry to do so. You’ll recall how grumpy Inspector Mappin was about that bullet casing. I paid three farthings to retrieve this gun, and I’d like to do a little more work before we share it with anyone.”
“But what if someone finds it here? They’ll think we did it!”
“They won’t, Pembers. I’m going to put it back in my drawer and then I’m going to lock it with this little key here. It won’t be in there for long. I’d say we nearly have this case solved, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you saying that the Flatboots did it?”
“It’s looking that way, isn’t it? Oh dear, we’re rather popular today,” she added, hearing the door downstairs open and shut again. “Remember that impassive and slightly bored-looking poker face I showed you when I taught you how to play bridge? Now’s the time to use it.”
Churchill was reading the horticultural society minutes intently when Inspector Mappin popped his head around the door.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh hello, Inspector! How are you? I thought you’d be busy quizzing your suspect.”
“We don’t have one any more.” He removed his helmet and sat down.
“You don’t?”
“No, we had to let Harding go.”
“Oh, so it wasn’t him after all? Well, never mind. I’m sure you’ll catch the culprit before long, Inspector.”
“I thought I’d see you at the allotments this morning, Mrs Churchill.”
“Why’s that?”
“That’s where the third dreadful murder took place. Poor Mr Woolwell.”
“It’s awfully sad. And so tragic that no one has been able to stop this murdering maniac yet. It’s quite shocking.”
“Have you visited the scene yet?”
“Not yet, Inspector Mappin. My trusty assistant and I decided to leave that up to you and your colleagues. You all know what you’re doing; you don’t need us getting in your way or – dare I say it – meddling.”
“Hmmm.” He appeared to give this some thought. “I thought you’d be taking more of an interest in the case now that there have been three murders.”
“I am taking an interest, Inspector, but I didn’t wish to cause any disruption or inconvenience as you once put it. After all, I might get myself swatted! Isn’t that what you said?”
“I was having a rather difficult time of it that day, Mrs Churchill.”
“Weren’t we all?”
He nodded, got up from his seat and put his helmet back on. “You don’t happen to know anything that might be of use to us, do you?”
Churchill smiled. “Are you asking me for my help, Inspector?”
“No!” He cleared his throat. “No, not at all.”
“You have no idea who’s behind these murders, do you?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Very well. Let’s all get on with it then.”
“Let’s! Good day to you, Inspector Mappin.”
“Poor Inspector Mappin,” said Pemberley once he had left. “He has no clue about any of it. Why didn’t you tell him about the revolver?”
“For reasons I’ve already explained, Pembers. Don’t worry about him. He’ll get his moment to arrest the suspect and pretend he did all the hard work. In the meantime, we need to do some more reconnaissance.”
Chapter 47
“I wonder if Kitty Flatface has made use of any hiding places around here,” said Churchill as she and Pemberley stood in the yard behind the tea rooms. She peered into a bucket that contained broken crockery and pushed her hand into a few gaps in the dry-stone wall.
“I can’t see many hiding places,” said Pemberley. She gazed in through the window at the back of the tea rooms.
“Is that the kitchen in there, Pembers?”
“Yes, and Mrs Bramley has just spotted us. Now she’s heading this way.”
The door opened and the familiar small, round-faced woman in her tight apron peered out.
/> “Crikey! I didn’t expect ter see you two round ’ere!”
“Just carrying out further investigations, Mrs Bramley,” replied Churchill. “We suspect that Miss Flatboot has been up to a little more than taking money from the till.”
Mrs Bramley gasped. “What d’you mean?”
“We think the colonel’s involved, too.”
Mrs Bramley groaned. “I don’t wanna hear nuffink about it.”
“We’ll spare your ears then, Mrs Bramley. Are you aware of any hiding places your waitress may have used to secrete something in?”
Mrs Bramley glanced around the yard. “Nope. None what I can think of.”
“How about in your kitchen? Any secret nooks and crannies in there?”
“Come an’ ’ave a look if yer like.”
The two ladies spent a short while in the little kitchen opening drawers and looking behind the dresser.
“Pembers, can you reach that top shelf up there?”
“I’ll try,” replied Pemberley, finding a stool to balance on. “There’s nothing up here except for some pie dishes.”
“That’d be about right,” said Mrs Bramley. “I only puts me pie dishes up there. What yer lookin’ for exac’ly?”
“We’re not quite sure, Mrs Bramley. Just anything that looks out of place, really. Something Kitty might have placed here because she didn’t wish to be caught in possession of it. Anyway, I think that’s enough searching about for now.” Churchill felt quite tired. “I think we need to revive ourselves with a little refreshment in your tea rooms, Mrs Bramley.”
“Yer do just that, ladies. I’ll bring yer some extra cakes.
“Oh, thank you.”
The two ladies walked through into the tea rooms and Churchill felt rather pleased that her heart gave not even the slightest flutter when she saw Mr Harding sitting at one of the tiny tables.
“Congratulations on your release,” she said politely.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs Churchill.” He flashed her a wide smile. “It’s been a torrid few days. It’s dreadful when you’re treated like a common criminal. Despicable! I have every respect for the law, but it’s a sorry state of affairs when a man has to defend himself against a false charge of murder! I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Mr Harding. Where shall we sit, Pembers? Over there in that far corner?”
“How’s the kettle working out for you, Mrs Churchill?” asked Mr Harding with a grin.
“Still heating up water, Mr Harding. Let’s take a seat, Pembers.”
They sat beside the window and Kitty Flatboot gave them a sulky stare from the other side of the room.
“You know what, Pembers?” said Churchill. “I’m in the mood to liven things up a little. You place our order with Kitty.” She got up from her chair. “I’m going to pay a quick visit to the police station.”
“What do you want me to order for you?”
“Anything, and don’t forget to remind Kitty about the extra cakes Mrs Bramley promised.”
“What are you planning to do at the police station?”
“I’m going to invite Mappin and Doo-Lally here for afternoon tea. And I’m going to ask them to fetch the colonel while they’re at it.”
Chapter 48
Twenty minutes later the tea rooms were quite full. Churchill had instructed Mr Harding to remain where he was, and Mrs Bramley had brought him a fresh pot of tea. Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple had turned up with the two constables from Bulchford. Mrs Thonnings had just arrived, having somehow got wind that something was happening, and Mrs Downs and Mrs Harris had also made an appearance. Mrs Higginbath pressed her nose up against the window for a short while before stepping inside to find out what was occurring.
“Keep hold of this little key,” said Churchill, giving it to Inspector Mappin who had walked with her from the police station. “I will have instructions for you shortly. And get your handcuffs ready, too.”
“This is all very intriguing, Mrs Churchill,” said Colonel Slingsby, lighting his pipe. “Have you got something exciting in store for us?”
“Just a little theory of mine to share, Colonel. Are you ready to write it down, Miss Pemberley?”
Her assistant nodded eagerly, knowing what to expect. Churchill had quickly whispered her plan into Pemberley’s ear before everyone had arrived.
“We should do this every week,” said Mrs Bramley with a happy smile. “It’s good for business, Mrs Churchill!”
“Wouldn’t that be fun, Mrs Bramley? I shall get on with the matter in hand now.” She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Good afternoon, everyone. I shan’t detain you for long,” she began. “Thank you for coming. First of all, I would like to acknowledge the sad passing of three men in this village: Mr Williams, Mr Rumbold and Mr Woolwell. Their deaths were tragic and completely unnecessary.”
“Hear, hear,” said the colonel.
“Who did it?” asked Mrs Harris.
“The sorry chain of events began with the disappearance of Colonel Slingsby’s revolver from his gunroom,” said Churchill. “The person who took it was, in fact, the first victim, Mr Tubby Williams. But why did he take it? Well, he told Mrs Williams that he intended to do someone some mischief; that he was going to put a stop to this once and for all. Sadly, we’ll never know exactly what he meant, as proceedings were interrupted by the vicar, who had a habit of popping round to the Williams’s abode. Mr Williams took that gun up to the allotment, where it was used against him later that evening. Did he intend to harm Mr Rumbold with it? We shall never know. There had certainly been some rivalry between the two gardeners, with Mr Rumbold accusing Mr Williams of spearing his onions.
“Mr Rumbold returned home safely that evening, while Mr Williams lost his life. Any suspicions that Mr Rumbold was the murderer were quickly quelled when he was incapacitated with a frying pan and drowned in the duck pond. A shocking way to go! Mr Rumbold had been in the company of Mr Harris and Mr Downs that evening. Did these two men conspire to murder him?”
“No!” Mrs Harris shouted.
“Boooooo!” yelled Mrs Downs.
“Patience, ladies,” said Churchill, raising her hand. “Mr Woolwell was the enigmatic type. So mysterious, you might say, that he was hiding something. Was he hiding something? We shall never know, because sadly his scrumpy store had been poisoned, prompting his swift demise. Three gardeners dead. But what could the motive possibly be?”
“Money,” Mrs Higginbath piped up. “It’s always about money.”
“Ah yes, the gambling,” said Churchill. “The men were all keen card players, and that’s why suspicion has fallen on Mr Harding here.”
“Not again!” he scorned, as all eyes in the room rested on him.
“It’s no secret that he owed money to these men,” continued Churchill. “In fact, Mrs Rumbold confided in me that her late husband had threatened Mr Harding to hasten the repayment of his debts. So convincing was the case against Mr Harding that he was eventually arrested.”
“Why are you reminding them of this nonsense?!” he snarled.
“I’m merely providing everyone with a tidy précis, Mr Harding. Don’t worry, you’ll be completely forgotten about and insignificant in just a moment.” She addressed the room once again. “And there was even more money!” she added. “It was hidden in marrows next to the orangery at Ashleigh Grange, and routinely used to bribe Colonel Slingsby with the aim of influencing his decisions at the vegetable shows. Vast sums also passed from the hands of the colonel to the Flatboot family.”
The colonel gave a gasp and exchanged a worried glance with Kitty Flatboot. Churchill smiled to herself, confident that she had everyone on the back foot.
“So, were the murders all about money, as Mrs Higginbath suggests?” she asked. “Or was the motive something else altogether? Let’s not forget that although these gardeners were friends there was intense rivalry between them. My initial introduction to the case came via an invit
ation from Mr Rumbold to identify the person who had been vandalising his vegetables. Perhaps the motive was merely a tit-for-tat squabble that escalated into murder?”
“Bravo! Please allow me to say a few words now, Mrs Churchill,” said Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple, rising to his feet. “Thank you for the great interest you’ve taken in this case. There’s no doubt that ordinary people like yourself and Miss Pemberley can be of great use to the police force at times like this. You have your ear to the ground, so to speak, and that is truly magnificent to see. I think this case has shown that the policeman and the civilian can work together as one, and I must say I really am impressed with the way that works here in Compton Poppleford. Many of you will know that I’m a Dorchester man myself, and I am very keen to emulate this wonderful relationship in the big town. Who can say whether or not it will work just as well there? But we must try it. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: isn’t it impressive to see what two little old ladies can do when they put their heads together?” He began to applaud his words in self-appreciation.
“Sit down, Chief Inspector!” snapped Churchill. “I haven’t finished yet!”
Chief Inspector Llewellyn-Dalrymple sat back in his chair, his cheeks flushing almost as red as his moustache.
“Why’s the colonel giving money to the Flatboots?” hollered Mrs Harris.
Colonel Slingsby shifted awkwardly in his chair as everyone turned to stare at him.
“Ah yes, now that’s a rather delicate matter.” He paused to take a puff on his pipe. “The old brother liked to sow his seed, you see.”
“He was a gardener as well, was he?” asked Churchill.
“No, not at all. No, erm.” The colonel scratched his nose. “It’s a rather sensitive subject, you see. But the truth is, many of the Flatboots are, in fact, Slingsbys.”
Gasps echoed around the room.
“Nothing to do with me!” interjected the colonel. “I was in the Punjab most of the time!” He puffed on his pipe again as he waited for the chatter in the room to die down. “The money is a sort of stipend, if you like,” he continued, “to help support the illegitimate Slingsbys. Had to keep it all top secret. Sure you all understand. Young Kitty over there just happens to be my great-niece.”
