by Emily Organ
Trouble in the Churchyard
Churchill and Pemberley Mystery Book 4
Emily Organ
Contents
Trouble in the Churchyard
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
The End
Thank you
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The Penny Green Series
Trouble in the Churchyard
Emily Organ
Books in the Churchill & Pemberley Series:
Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel
Murder in Cold Mud
Puzzle in Poppleford Wood
Trouble in the Churchyard
Christmas Calamity at the Vicarage - a novella
Chapter 1
“Never mind, Mrs Churchill. Better luck next time.”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that to me, Mrs Thonnings.”
“Nine balls thrown,” added Doris Pemberley, “and not a single coconut.”
“Thank you for that, my trusty assistant,” responded Annabel Churchill, “but I didn’t really need it spelled out. Come on then, Mrs Thonnings, let’s have another go. I’m feeling lucky this time.”
“It’s a penny for three throws.”
“I know that. I’ve already paid for three rounds, haven’t I?”
Churchill handed Mrs Thonnings another penny and received three wooden balls in return. Then she took several paces back, squinted hard at the coconut directly in front of her and hurled the first ball at it with a sweeping overarm action. The ball sailed past the coconut and ended its journey in the striped curtain beyond it.
“Nearly!” shouted a voice in Churchill’s ear, making her jump.
She turned to see a man in a straw boater hat standing right behind her. He had ruddy cheeks, heavy jowls and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Do you mind?” she exclaimed. “You’ll put me off my stride!”
“Oops, sorry!” He took a sip from the tankard in his hand.
Churchill quickly palmed the next ball and hurled it at the coconut. Once again, she missed.
“One ball left!” crowed the man.
“Thank you. I can count quite well by myself.”
“Try using underarm,” he advised.
“I prefer overarm.”
“Oh, go on. Just try it.”
“You might as well, Mrs Churchill,” added Pemberley. “You’ve already had eleven misses, after all.”
“If you say so,” replied Churchill through clenched teeth. All she wanted was to be left alone to throw the balls whichever way she liked.
“Give it a bit of welly!” the man in the boater hat said encouragingly.
Churchill leaned forward, gently tossed the ball underarm and knocked a coconut off its stand.
“Hooray!” cheered the man in the boater. “You did it!”
“I did, didn’t I?” replied Churchill with a grin. She smoothed her helmet of lacquered hair proudly.
“Told you it’d be better to bowl underarm,” said the man.
“You did indeed. Thank you.”
“And it worked!”
“It did.”
“Well done, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Thonnings, stepping forward to present her with the coconut. She wore a floral tea dress and the strong sunlight made her red hair look even more artificial than usual.
“Have another go, Mrs Churchill!” the man in the boater said persuasively, offering her a shiny coin.
“An entire shilling?” she replied incredulously.
“That’s thirty-six balls in total,” said Pemberley.
“I don’t really have the appetite to throw that many balls at coconuts. My arm aches enough as it is after twelve.”
“Have a go at something else, then,” suggested the man, still holding the coin in his outstretched hand. “Throwing hoops, perhaps? Or skittles for a leg of lamb?”
“A leg of lamb?”
“That’s the prize.”
“Why are you offering me money?” Churchill asked. “Do I appear to be in need of charity?”
“This is Mr Butterfork,” said Pemberley. “He’s extremely generous.”
“Is he indeed? Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr Butterfork.”
“Likewise, Mrs Churchill. The sun is shining, the scrumpy is flowing and I intend to enjoy myself as much as is humanly possible at the Compton Poppleford Summer Fete. Every penny spent ends up in the coffers for the poor and needy. You can’t ask for more than that, can you?”
“Indeed not.”
“So, go and have some fun spending my shilling. And here’s one for you, Miss Pemberley.”
“Thank you, Mr Butterfork,” said Pemberley.
“Now, spend, spend, spend!” he said with a grin, flinging his arms wide to demonstrate the expanse of the fete.
The field was filled with colourful awnings and marquees. A gentle breeze fluttered among the flags and bunting, playfully lifting the edges of gingham tablecloths. Lively chatter, children’s laughter and the strains of a trumpet filled the air. A loud thwack sounded across the field at regular intervals as someone hammered the high striker in an attempt to send a toy mouse up a pole to hit the bell.
“Just right there would be perfect,” an authoritative voice announced.
Churchill turned to see a gangly, dark-suited man pointing a camera at her.
“I beg your pardon?” she replied.
“Gather together, the four of you,” he ordered.
They did as he asked.
“Closer!” he barked.
“What a bossy man,” muttered Churchill as Mr Butterfork put one arm around her and one around Mrs Thonnings for the photograph.
“And… smile!”
The photographer clicked the shutter before Churchill had time to adjust her pearls and twinset.
“Just a moment. Who are you?” she asked.
“And smile again!” He took another photograph. “Lovely! Keep an eye on the Compton Poppleford Gazette this week. Your picture might make it in there.”
Churchill was about to remonstrate when the jangle and chime of countless little bells reached her ears.
“Oh look, the Morris dancers are coming on,” said Mr Butterfork as a dozen men dressed in white clothing took up their positions at the centre of the field. Their trousers were tucked into long red socks, and they had ribbons and bells tied around their arms and legs. Their hats were covered in flowers and they carried an assortment of sticks adorned with more bells and ribbons.
A hook-nosed man with a long grey beard struck up a jaunty tune on his accordion and the men began to skip about and hit their sticks together in time to the music.
Mr Butterfork cackled and sl
apped his thigh, the scrumpy slopping out of his tankard as he did so.
“Isn’t it a lovely tradition?” remarked Mrs Thonnings to Churchill, her own tankard of scrumpy in danger of doing the same as she bobbed her head in time to the music.
“It is indeed.”
“There’s nothing more English than a Morris dance, is there?”
“I should think there are a fair few things that are equally English.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tea, I suppose.”
“That’s Chinese,” said Pemberley.
“Roses, then,” suggested Churchill.
“Many of them originally came from China, too.”
“You do get some English roses, Miss Pemberley.”
“Yes, but they’re those underwhelming dog roses, aren’t they? The really nice ones come from China.”
“Talking of dogs… where’s Oswald, Miss Pemberley?”
The three ladies looked about them.
“I think I saw him in the parade earlier,” said Mrs Thonnings.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, he was on the lorry with the flower fairies. Didn’t you see him? I assumed you’d given Miss Pauling from the orphanage permission to have him on their lorry.”
“How sweet of Oswald to want to help the orphans,” said Pemberley.
“Did you give Miss Pauling permission to have him on the orphanage lorry, Miss Pemberley?” asked Churchill.
“No.”
“What if he’s caused a lot of mischief or bitten one of the children?”
“Oswald wouldn’t do anything of the kind! He would never bite an orphan or a fairy, and especially not an orphan dressed as a fairy!”
“I sincerely hope not, otherwise we’ll be in big trouble. Or I should say, you’d be in big trouble, Miss Pemberley, for losing control of your dog.”
“Oh look, here he comes now,” said Mrs Thonnings, draining her tankard.
Churchill followed her gaze to see the scruffy little dog with a garland of flowers around his neck being carried under the arm of a smartly dressed man with a neat grey moustache. The man kept pausing to speak to people, presumably to make enquiries as to the identity of the animal’s owner.
“Go and fetch him, Pembers,” hissed Churchill. “I do hope he hasn’t done anything to embarrass us.”
Pemberley did as Churchill said while her employer and Mrs Thonnings continued to watch the dancers.
“I wonder what the meaning behind all these old traditional dances is,” mused Churchill.
“Fertility,” replied Mrs Thonnings. “That’s usually the reason for dancing, isn’t it? It’s a celebration of fertility and of the reproductive abilities of a species.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. The maidens would traditionally admire the men as they went about their dance and choose the one they considered most virile as their mate.”
“I see.”
“The dance provides an opportunity for the men to display their strength, good looks, prowess and well-turned legs.”
“Really?” Churchill’s eyes rested on a red-faced Morris dancer with a pot belly and a large, carbuncled nose.
“Yes. The maiden is fertile and looking for a mate, and the man is fertile and—”
“I’d better go and see how Miss Pemberley’s getting on with Oswald,” interrupted Churchill, suddenly desperate to leave the conversation behind. “I’ll allow you to admire the Morris dancers in peace, Mrs Thonnings.”
Churchill walked over to where Pemberley and the smartly dressed man holding Oswald were standing. She arrived just in time to hear her secretary apologising.
“What has that wretched dog done now?” asked Churchill with a sigh.
“Oh, nothing too terrible,” replied the man. “Just the small matter of having eaten my sandwiches.”
His voice was soft and he was well-spoken with intelligent blue eyes. He gave her a charming smile and she found herself returning it.
“Mr Pickwick doesn’t mind about the sandwiches,” Pemberley explained. “He said he can easily make some more.”
“That sounds extremely understanding given the circumstances,” commented Churchill. “It’s a delight to meet you, Mr Pickwick,” she added. “I’m Mrs Churchill.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Churchill.”
“And I do apologise again that Miss Pemberley’s naughty dog has eaten your sandwiches. I can’t for the life of me think why he doesn’t have a lead attached to his collar today.”
“Oh, it’s here in my handbag,” replied Pemberley, quickly retrieving it.
“I like the flowers round his collar,” commented Mr Pickwick.
“The orphans must have decorated him,” said Pemberley. “Apparently, he took part in the parade earlier.”
Mr Pickwick laughed. “How delightful!”
“For goodness’ sake, Miss Pemberley, put a lead on that dog so we can keep a close eye on him,” said Churchill. “There’s really no need for you to hang on to him any longer, Mr Pickwick. Your arm must be quite tired by now.”
“Oh, righty-ho.” He carefully handed Oswald over to Pemberley and dusted the dog hairs from his jacket.
“Oh heavens, what a mess your jacket’s in!” said Churchill. “Do allow me to pay your dry-cleaning bill.”
“I won’t hear of it,” he said, holding up a palm. “It’s quite all right, most of it will brush off. In fact, I have a nice stiff clothes brush at home that’ll do the job nicely. I’ll be on my way, then. Nice to meet you both.”
“And lovely to meet you, Mr Pickwick. If only it could have been under better circumstances.”
“Please don’t worry about the circumstances for a moment longer, Mrs Churchill. It was a great pleasure to meet your mischievous little dog, and what can there possibly be to complain about on a day like today?” He gestured toward the cloudless blue sky. “It’s a lovely afternoon, it really is. I do hope you ladies enjoy the rest of the fete.”
“You too, Mr Pickwick.”
Chapter 2
“You were extremely lucky that Oswald’s latest victim was a true gentleman, Pembers,” muttered Churchill once Mr Pickwick had gone on his way. “That dog could have got us into a nasty scrape there.”
“Most people are very understanding when it comes to dogs,” replied Pemberley.
“Well-behaved dogs, perhaps, but not many people would have been so accommodating if a scruffy little mongrel had gobbled up their lunch.”
“He’s not a mongrel! He’s a Spanish water dog.”
“With a few other breeds mixed in.”
“A touch of terrier and a splash of spaniel.”
“And a gallon of mischief.” Churchill patted the little dog’s head affectionately. “Now then, I suppose we’d better go and spend the shillings Mr Butterfork gave us. Why on earth is the man so generous, Pembers? It makes me rather suspicious, if truth be told.”
“There’s no need to be suspicious of dear old Mr Butterfork. He’s a lovely man.”
“You do realise when you describe him as ‘dear old’ that he’s about twenty years younger than us.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“It certainly seems that way. Still, I’ve always been a little suspicious of people who like to splash their money around. It’s as though they have something to prove.”
“Perhaps they’re simply trying to prove they’re generous people.”
“There’s generous and then there’s generous, Pembers.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“I’m not sure, but I do feel sure that Mr Butterfork is a bit of a funny one.”
The pair began to peruse the nearby stalls with Oswald safely tethered to his lead.
“I’d like to buy some of Mrs Roseball’s damson jam while we’re here,” said Pemberley.
“You do that. It sounds delightful.”
The two ladies walked up to a stall showcasing numerous jars of jam topped with patter
ned fabric tied in place with colourful ribbon.
“Well, these do look quite splendid,” said Churchill.
A small, round lady with oval spectacles and a large straw hat stood behind the table.
“Hello, Mrs Roseball,” said Pemberley. “I don’t believe you’ve met Mrs Churchill, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Mrs Roseball, squinting at Churchill through her thick lenses. Pemberley introduced the two ladies and they all exchanged pleasantries.
“The afternoon’s turned out nicely, hasn’t it?” said Mrs Roseball, squinting up at the sky.
“It certainly has,” replied Churchill.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this nice, according to the forecast,” continued Mrs Roseball. “It suggested a slight northerly breeze, and a northerly breeze is always rather chilly, isn’t it?”
“I believe so,” Churchill replied.
“But there’s nothing northerly about this breeze at all; in fact, I think it’s south-westerly, which can be a little fresh and damp at times. But it’s quite pleasant today, don’t you think?”
“It certainly is pleasant. May we buy some of your damson jam, Mrs Roseball?”
“Of course. If the breeze were any brisker then I suppose we’d feel the chill,” she continued. “But it’s quite light, isn’t it? Much lighter than they said it would be. And from a completely different direction, too! You can’t trust what they tell you in the forecast these days. It’s thruppence a jar, ladies.”
Churchill and Pemberley each picked up a jar of jam.
