by Emily Organ
“Good. Then the next time you see my men investigating in the churchyard you’ll leave them well alone, won’t you?” He retrieved his hat from the hatstand.
“Even if we discover another piece of crucial evidence, such as the murder weapon?”
“Seeing as you’ve already done that, it’s unlikely you’ll find anything else of significance.”
“I see. We’ll make that same assumption then, and if we do happen to find any further evidence we’ll just leave it be, shall we?”
“Well, you could mention it to the constables.”
“Oh, we could, could we? This is all terribly confusing.”
He put his hat on, clearly exasperated. “There’s no need to split hairs, Mrs Churchill. You just get on with whatever you’re doing in the churchyard and leave me to apprehend Mr Butterfork’s killer.”
“Of course, Inspector. Understood. Good luck with that.”
Chapter 12
“The sole purpose of our visit to Mrs Hatweed this morning is to pretend to be returning the shillings her lately departed employer gave us at the summer fete,” said Churchill to Pemberley as they walked along Compton Poppleford high street with Oswald at their heels.
“But we gave the rest of our money to Mrs Roseball on the jam stall.”
“Yes we did, but Mrs Hatweed doesn’t know that. We can use the shillings as an excuse to speak to her.”
“To ask her some probing questions about the circumstances of Mr Butterfork’s death, you mean?”
“Oh no, because that would constitute meddling in the eyes of Inspector Mappin.”
“But we are really, aren’t we?”
“Are what?”
“Going to ask some probing questions.”
“I don’t think that’s quite the right way to go about it, Pembers. We need to fully accept that the one and only reason we’re visiting Mrs Hatweed is to return Mr Butterfork’s money. If we suspect, even for a moment, that there’s a dual purpose to our visit we shall be knowingly meddling.”
“I can’t really see a difference.”
“There’s a huge difference, believe me. But if it so happens that Mrs Hatweed also decides to impart a few facts about Mr Butterfork’s demise, we shan’t stop her.”
“So we’re returning the shillings while secretly hoping she’ll spill the beans.”
“Yes.”
They continued on their way, waving at Mrs Thonnings through the window of her haberdashery shop, scowling at Mrs Higginbath through the library window and acknowledging Mr Pickwick with a morning greeting as he stood outside his picture gallery.
“I’m sure he’s been waiting there all morning just for you, Mrs Churchill,” whispered Pemberley once they had passed him.
“Nonsense.”
“He has, you know. He’s still looking at you.”
“Stop turning around and gawping at him, Pembers!”
“It’s you he’s interested in, not me.”
“You can stop all this teasing right now,” scolded Churchill. “Any more of that and I shall start looking for a new assistant!”
“Oh, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Pemberley, sounding quite forlorn.
“I’d be forced to.”
“It was only meant as a little joke.”
“It’s worn rather thin, I’m afraid. Too thin, in fact. Where’s Oswald?” Churchill looked down but saw no sign of the little dog. Then she glanced behind her just in time to see him trying to clamber up Mr Pickwick’s legs.
“Oh dear. Please go and fetch him, Pembers.”
“But wouldn’t you like to? Seeing as it’s Mr—”
“No!” interrupted Churchill. “You go. I have no interest whatsoever in that man!”
Pemberley went back to fetch Oswald and returned with him in her arms.
“Was he annoyed?” asked Churchill.
“Not at all. He was rather excitable and hoping for a little treat.”
“What sort of treat?”
“A pig’s ear, I expect.”
“I meant Mr Pickwick, not the dog.”
“Mr Pickwick might like pig ears, too.”
“Perhaps he does; I have no interest either way. Come along now, Pembers. We’ve wasted enough time already this morning.”
Mrs Hatweed had a head of brown curls and red cheeks. She wore a voluminous pink housecoat and filled the doorway of her small cottage.
“Miss Pemberley!” Her curls bounced as she greeted the wiry secretary with a smile. “I haven’t seen you since Inspector Mappin’s birthday party. Do come in. And this must be Mrs Churchill you have with you. Do come in, Mrs Churchill, it’s a pleasure to finally meet, I’ve heard all about you.”
“Do you mind if Oswald comes in as well?” asked Pemberley.
“Not at all. I love dogs.” Mrs Hatweed beamed at him. “Especially ones wearing medals. Come on in, all of you.”
“Inspector Mappin’s birthday party?” whispered Churchill to Pemberley as they followed Mrs Hatweed into her front room. “That must have been a barrel of laughs.”
“It was, actually,” replied Pemberley. “He’s quite different when he’s not on police duty, you know.”
Churchill gave a derisory snort.
“Is everything all right?” asked Mrs Hatweed.
“Oh yes, I’m fine. Something just caught in my throat,” replied Churchill.
“I’m sure a lovely cup of tea will sort that out.”
“Thank you, I’m sure it would.”
“As would a slice of walnut cake, I imagine.”
“You’re a woman after my own heart, Mrs Hatweed.”
Churchill, Pemberley and Oswald settled themselves on a velour settee in the small, cosy front room.
“Goodness, what a lot of shepherdesses,” commented Churchill, surveying the china ornaments arranged along the mantelpiece, windowsill and every other available surface.
“They’re very precious to me,” said Mrs Hatweed.
“That’s nice.”
“They’re all I really have now, given that I see so little of Ernie these days. I’d better go and make the tea.” She left the room.
“What a lot of shepherdess dusting she must have to do,” said Pemberley. “I couldn’t keep up with it myself.”
“Who’s Ernie?”
“Mrs Hatweed’s son. Look, there’s a photograph of him there. There are rumours going around that he’s inside.”
“Inside where?”
“Prison!” whispered Pemberley.
“Good lord! Really? Well, that explains why she sees so little of him, I suppose.”
“Now, what can I do for you, ladies?” asked Mrs Hatweed when she returned to the room with a tea tray. She rested it on the floor, pushed Oswald away from the plate of biscuits, moved several shepherdesses from a little table and placed the tea tray on it.
“We have something of Mr Butterfork’s to return to you,” said Churchill.
“Oh,” replied Mrs Hatweed sadly as she poured the tea. “It’s not money, is it?”
“Yes. Two shillings, to be precise.” Churchill retrieved her purse from her handbag and began to count out the money.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” replied the housekeeper, “it’s only two shillings. And besides, what can Mr Butterfork do with them now? He’s…” She let out a loud sob as she sank back into the armchair with a cup of tea in her hand.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs Hatweed,” said Churchill. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
“It was awful. Awful, I tell you! He was always ready for his two boiled eggs every morning, you see. He’d be sitting there at the breakfast table with his napkin tucked into his collar just waiting for me. Every single day until that fateful morning when his chair sat empty as he lay on the floor of his bedroom, stone cold dead!”
“It’s truly dreadful.”
“Eight long months, and then he was just gone in the blink of an eye.”
“Eight months? Is that how long he
lived in the village?”
“I believe he lived here for about a year. I moved to the village eight months ago and became his housekeeper after the previous one died.”
“That was Mrs Fingle, wasn’t it?” asked Pemberley.
“That’s right,” replied the housekeeper sadly.
“She drowned in the river during a midnight swim,” Pemberley explained to Churchill.
“Golly, how tragic!”
“It was very sad indeed,” said Mrs Hatweed. “Mr Butterfork was terribly upset about it. That’s when I stepped in and became his housekeeper.”
“During the time you were Mr Butterfork’s housekeeper, did you encounter anyone who might have harboured a wish to murder him?” asked Churchill.
“No! No one at all. But then it was a robbery, you see. Someone knew he kept all that money in his tea chest.”
“And with all due respect to the deceased gentleman, he didn’t exactly keep his money a secret, did he?”
“He was very generous. He couldn’t help himself.”
“And at no time did he express any wish to bank his wealth with Mr Burbage?”
“He didn’t trust the banks.”
“I see. That’s a great shame, because if he had done so he would no doubt still be with us now.”
“He never imagined anyone would steal his money, Mrs Churchill. He was too trusting, you see.”
“With the exception of bank managers.”
“Apart from them, yes.”
“And would you say that it was rather common knowledge among the villagers that Mr Butterfork kept his fortune in the tea chest in his bedroom?”
“Yes, I’d say that it was.”
“That doesn’t exactly narrow down our list of suspects, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. Oh, it really is awful!”
“Do you know anyone who owns a long, dark grey overcoat, Mrs Hatweed?”
“I might do. I can’t immediately recall anyone who does, but then they might own one without me realising it.”
“Did you see anyone in a dark grey overcoat loitering near Mr Butterfork’s home at around the time of the murder?”
“Well, there was the dark figure, wasn’t there? Is that who you mean?”
“Yes. Do you remember Mr Butterfork receiving a visit from someone wearing said coat?”
“Male or female?”
“I suppose we can’t be entirely sure, though I suspect it was a male as the culprit appears to have left man-sized footprints in the churchyard.”
“I didn’t see anyone wearing a dark grey coat, male or female.”
“Did he receive any visitors shortly before his death?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Can you recall who they were?”
“The police have already asked me this, so I can remember quite clearly. There was Mrs Strawbanks.”
“The lady who lives opposite Mr Butterfork?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Mrs Thonnings.”
“I see.”
“Mrs Roseball.”
“The lady who makes jam?”
“Yes. And Mr Pickwick.”
“Oh. Any others?”
“No, just those four.”
“Three ladies and one man,” said Pemberley. “Mr Pickwick is the only man.”
“He certainly appears to be,” replied Churchill.
“Interesting, don’t you think, Mrs Churchill?” Pemberley added.
“Sort of. Although recent visitors to Mr Butterfork’s home are unlikely to be culprits, aren’t they? They wouldn’t have wished to make it so obvious by visiting Mr Butterfork during the day and then returning during the hours of darkness to shoot him. I should think the murderer would have stayed well away until the appointed time so no one would make a connection between the culprit and his victim.”
“Then why did you ask about Mr Butterfork’s visitors?” asked Mrs Hatweed.
“It’s helpful to be able to rule them out.”
Pemberley frowned. “You’re ruling them out because you don’t believe the murderer would have visited Mr Butterfork on the day he was murdered?”
“The murderer may have done, but not in such an obvious way that Mrs Hatweed here or others might have spotted him. If Mr Pickwick were the murderer, for example, I sincerely doubt he would have been happy to be seen paying him a visit. Don’t you agree, Mrs Hatweed?”
“It could have been a bluff,” replied the housekeeper. “Perhaps he thought nobody would suspect him because he was a friend of Mr Butterfork’s.”
“Was he a friend?”
“Yes. Apparently they used to work for the same insurance company.”
“Gosh. Mr Pickwick never mentioned that to me.”
“I don’t believe they were friends as such; just acquaintances.”
“Well, that is a coincidence. Does that mean Mr Butterfork once lived in London like our good friend Mr Pickwick?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And is that where he came into his money?”
“He inherited it from an elderly aunt. He was her favourite great-nephew, you see. She lived in Benton Thurstock.”
“Which is where?”
“A great long way away. Over on the other side of Dorset, in fact.”
“And was this coming into money the reason why Mr Butterfork moved from London to Dorset?”
“Apparently so. When he heard she was unwell he left his job in insurance and moved to Benton Thurstock to nurse her.”
“Would he have done so if she’d been as poor as a church mouse, do you think?”
“Of course he would! He loved his great-aunt very dearly.”
“What brought him to Compton Poppleford?”
“He lived in his great-aunt’s house for a while after her death but didn’t feel very settled in that part of Dorset. He didn’t care for their ways over there.”
“What sort of ways?”
“Just their manner of doing things.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, to be exact, but I’ve heard they have a certain way of doing things over on that side of the county. Anyway, he happened to be passing through our village on the way to Melching Mummerton one day, and here he stayed.”
“He never made it to Melching Mummerton?”
“No, and it’s probably just as well, really.”
“How so?”
“If you think Benton Thurstock’s bad you really don’t want to go visiting Melching Mummerton.”
“I can’t say I have a fixed opinion on Benton Thurstock, to be quite honest with you, Mrs Hatweed.”
“Oh, you will if you ever go there… which is strongly inadvisable, of course.”
“I must say I’m quite intrigued now.”
“It’s on the border with Hampshire, and you know what border towns are like. Melching Mummerton, on the other hand, is dangerously close to Devon.”
“Why dangerously?”
“Have you ever been to Devon, Mrs Churchill?”
“No, but I’m considering it for a little holiday.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Hatweed. “Don’t do it, Mrs Churchill.”
“Why ever not?”
“My sister’s son-in-law went to Honiton once and was never the same again.”
“Goodness, why not?”
“They won’t speak of it, Mrs Churchill. The whole family refuses to speak of it. Whatever happened was very bad, that’s for sure.” Mrs Hatweed shuddered and drained her teacup.
“Well, I can understand why Mr Butterfork chose Compton Poppleford. It’s a very nice place indeed,” said Churchill. “All we need to do now is find out who murdered him.”
“Well, we already have the four suspects who visited him the day he died,” said Pemberley.
“They’re not suspects, Miss Pemberley.”
“But they could be. And Mr Pickwick is one of them.”
Chapter 13
“Perhaps
the four visitors could be considered suspects if one of them happened to own a dark grey overcoat,” said Churchill, “but I doubt Mr Pickwick owns one. He doesn’t seem the type. Have you ever seen Mrs Strawbanks wearing a dark grey overcoat, Mrs Hatweed?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“What was her business with Mr Butterfork?”
“I couldn’t tell you the entirety of their conversation, as I’m not one for listening in, but I did overhear her telling him about a fence of hers that had fallen down.”
“What did she expect him to do about that? Ah, wait, I think I see it now. She was hoping he would contribute toward a replacement, was she?”
“Now you put it in those terms, Mrs Churchill, I suppose that may well have been the reason she visited him. She spent quite some time complaining about how it had crushed her dahlias and explaining that replanting her flowerbed wouldn’t come cheap. As for the cost of the new fence, that was something else altogether. And if Mr Strawbanks had still been alive he would have happily erected the new fence because that was something he’d always enjoyed doing, but as she’s a widow now she would have to go to the expense of finding a man to do that sort of work, and men who do that sort of work have been in the habit of putting their prices up lately. She remembered that in her mother’s day there were lads aplenty willing to put in a day’s work and expect nothing more for their trouble than a tankard of scrumpy, but those days are gone now, more’s the pity.”
“It sounds as though you overheard the entire conversation, Mrs Hatweed.”
“No, barely any of it. That was just what she was saying as I passed by the door.”
“Do you know whether Mr Butterfork stumped up the money?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect he did. He was ever so generous, wasn’t he?”
“And what about Mrs Roseball? What was the purpose of her visit?”
“I happened to pass by the door again briefly while she was there. I heard her discussing the weather and then telling him about her cat, Theophilus.”
“That’s a fancy name for a cat.”
“It’s Oswald’s middle name as well,” added Pemberley.
“Is it really?” asked Churchill. “What a funny coincidence. I hadn’t realised Oswald was in possession of a middle name.”
