by Emily Organ
“He wasn’t until a moment ago.”
“So, on hearing the name of Mrs Roseball’s cat just now, Miss Pemberley, you made the impromptu decision that it would be a nice middle name for Oswald, did you?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And what of Theophilus, Mrs Hatweed? Were cats of great interest to Mr Butterfork?”
“Not at all; he preferred dogs. He would have loved your little Oswald.”
“Mr Butterfork had no interest in cats, but Mrs Roseball told him all about her own kitty just the same. Why so?”
“Poor little Theophilus hadn’t been well recently. Mrs Roseball had done her best at looking after him but his health was making no improvement, so she needed to take him to the village veterinarian. At least, she would have done so if she could have afforded to, but being what they are, veterinarians don’t come cheap, and she really couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d been so terribly worried about the whole affair it had been keeping her up all night.”
“And Mr Butterfork gave her the money for the vet’s bill, did he?”
“I would imagine so. He was a—”
“Generous man, yes. Now then, let’s discuss Mrs Thonnings. What did she want him to pay for? Actually, don’t give me any clues… I want to guess this one myself. She probably visited him to talk about buttons and bows, and how a good number of customers are asking for items that aren’t in stock, and instead of ordering them in they’ve been swanning off to the big haberdasher’s in Dorchester instead, and if it continues like this for much longer she’ll go out of business. The only solution, and a rather urgent one at that, would be to replace the ageing display stands with something a little more modern, making it possible to display a wider range of stock within the same amount of space. But with these modern display stands costing an arm and a leg… Well, it’s all well and good when you’re the large haberdasher’s in Dorchester, but when you’re a little haberdasher’s in a village, and run by a widow… Am I on the right track here, Mrs Hatweed?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You didn’t happen to hear any of their conversation while you were passing by the doorway?”
“No, none at all.” Her expression was one of great disappointment. “I’m not one for listening in, but I did notice they kept their voices quite low. And I also heard a bit of chuckling.”
“Perhaps she was whispering sweet nothings into his ear,” commented Pemberley.
Churchill felt her stomach turn. “Gosh, what a thought.”
“And Mr Pickwick?” asked Pemberley. “Do you know why he visited Mr Butterfork?”
“It all sounded very dull to me… what I heard of it while I was passing by, anyway. It was all gentlemen’s topics. Business, mainly.”
“Discussing business, were they? Two retired men?”
“They worked together in insurance many years ago, you see, and I suppose old habits die hard.”
“What exactly were they discussing?”
“I can’t say that I know. My mind is entirely uneducated on the matter, and I didn’t understand half the words they were using, no matter how hard I tried. It took me back to the days when Mr Hatweed used to talk about profits and percentages and predicaments. None of it made any sense to me. Ladies’ brains simply don’t work that way, do they?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Pemberley.
“Now, now, Miss Pemberley,” said Churchill. “Let’s make allowances for the fact that housekeepers don’t always need to know about profits and percentages.”
“They should know a few things about predicaments,” replied Pemberley.
“Only if they find themselves in one.” Churchill turned to Mrs Hatweed. “I suppose it suffices to say that the long and short of it is you don’t know what Mr Pickwick discussed with Mr Butterfork, but it sounded rather boring.”
“Very boring. Would you like another slice of walnut cake?”
“It would almost be rude not to. Thank you, Mrs Hatweed. Now then, Mr Butterfork appears to have freely allowed the assailant into his house, as there was no sign of a break-in. Was he in the habit of leaving his doors and windows open?”
“No. He liked to keep the doors locked, front and back, on account of all the money he had stashed in the house.”
“Which door did you leave by on the day of his murder, Mrs Hatweed?”
“The back door.”
“Do you have a key for it?”
“Yes. I was in the habit of locking it every evening after I left. It was still locked the following morning, but the front door had been left unlocked.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Yes. It was usually still locked and bolted from the night before when I arrived each morning. Mr Butterfork didn’t often go out before I arrived, you see. He would get himself up and dress, then wait at the breakfast table for his eggs.”
“Then Mr Butterfork must have unlocked the front door at some point during the night?”
“He must have done.”
“Could it have been left unlocked accidentally?”
“It could have been, but I’ve never known Mr Butterfork do such a thing.”
“But he could have forgotten to lock it on this occasion, and someone might have happened to stroll in off the street on the very day he left it unlocked.”
“It seems too coincidental to me,” said Pemberley.
“I agree, my trusted assistant. The alternative is that someone called on him that evening and he opened the door to greet them. Did he often receive visitors of an evening?”
“Only occasionally,” replied the housekeeper, “and if he’d arranged for someone to visit, he was in the habit of asking me to stay on a while longer to prepare a bit of supper for them.”
“So this could have been an unexpected visitor?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What were Mr Butterfork’s usual movements?”
“Quite like anyone else’s, really. He had a slight limp; an injury from the war, he told me. But other than that he moved fairly normally.”
“I meant his routine, Mrs Hatweed.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?”
“What were his usual comings and goings? Was he the sociable type?”
“Not enormously. He went out two evenings a week: every Tuesday to the Masonic Lodge and every Thursday to play cards with Mr Pickwick.”
“I see. Nothing to raise any great suspicions there. And how much money do you imagine the murderer made away with?”
“I have no idea. Enough to fill a tea chest, I suppose.”
“Initially, perhaps. But he was in the habit of giving it away, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“When did you last look inside the tea chest?”
“Oh, I never looked inside it! The contents of that tea chest were Mr Butterfork’s concern and no one else’s. The first time I saw inside it was the morning after his murder, when it had been left open.” The housekeeper gave another loud sob and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron to dab at her eyes.
“There, there, Mrs Hatweed,” said Churchill. “The culprit won’t get away with this, you can be sure of that.”
“It can’t have been easy for him to run off with all that money about his person,” said Pemberley.
“No, it wouldn’t have been,” agreed Churchill. “And although Mr Butterfork may have given a good deal of it away, there must have been enough left on that fateful night for someone to resort to murder in order to get their hands on it.”
The two ladies and Oswald left Mrs Hatweed’s home and walked down Crunkle Lane toward the churchyard. Churchill felt a shiver as they passed Mr Butterfork’s house, the windows of which had been shuttered up.
“Poor Mr Butterfork,” she lamented, recalling the ruddy-cheeked man in the boater hat with scrumpy slopping from his tankard as the Morris dancers performed. “I can’t deny that I found him rather irritating while I was having a go at that coconut shy at th
e summer fete, but he was only enjoying himself, wasn’t he?”
“And he helped you win a coconut,” added Pemberley.
“He did, and it was most kind of him. That reminds me, it’s still sitting on my mantelpiece. I really don’t know what to do with it.”
“You drink the milk and then eat the inside bit.”
“I suppose one does. I don’t find the whole idea particularly appetising, if truth be told.”
“You could make coconut cake with it.”
“That sounds rather more appealing. I must say, Pembers, I’m slightly disappointed not to have received an invitation to Inspector Mappin’s birthday party.”
“He probably didn’t know you well enough by then. You’d only just arrived in the village.”
“It was fairly recent then, was it?”
“Yes, it was shortly after you arrived in Compton Poppleford. I think we were investigating the death of Mrs Furzgate at the Piddleton Hotel back then.”
“That wasn’t long ago at all! You’d have thought he’d have invited a newcomer to the village along to make her feel welcome.”
“That’s not really the sort of thing Inspector Mappin does, is it? And besides, you had recently trampled on his wife’s geraniums.”
“People really do bear grudges about the smallest of things around here.”
“Oh look, there’s something shiny in the gutter,” said Pemberley, reaching down to the ground. “It looks like somebody’s lost a ring.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and picked it up. Then she stood to show Churchill the thick band of gold.
“It looks like a gentleman’s ring,” commented Churchill. She retrieved her reading glasses from her handbag and peered closely at it. “With some sort of insignia on it, too. Is that a bookend? No, I think it might be some sort of bridge.”
“It’s the square and compasses,” replied Pemberley. “The sign of the Freemasons.”
“Of course,” said Churchill. “I knew that really, I was just looking at it upside down. Detective Chief Inspector Churchill was a mason.”
“As is the owner of this ring.”
“How interesting. I wonder whom it belongs to.”
“It could be a clue,” said Pemberley.
Churchill glanced toward the churchyard wall at the end of the lane. “By Jove, Pembers, it could indeed! This is the route the murderer must have taken from Mr Butterfork’s house to the churchyard. It may belong to the murderer himself!”
“It could!” replied Pemberley. “We can’t be certain, though. I wonder why the police didn’t find it.”
Churchill made a scoffing sound. “You’ve seen how they search for things, Pembers, they’re hopeless. Let’s hang on to this for now; it could be a clue.”
“Shouldn’t we give it to Inspector Mappin?”
“Why would we do that?”
“For two reasons. Firstly, because someone may be looking for it, and secondly because it could be an important piece of evidence in the murder investigation.”
“It might be an important piece of evidence, or it might not. I say we hang on to it for now and see where our investigations lead us.” Noticing the dubious look on Pemberley’s face, she continued. “I’m not suggesting we keep this ring indefinitely. I just think we should hold on to it for a few days. We’ll make sure it becomes reunited with its rightful owner one way or another.”
Chapter 14
Pemberley made a pot of tea once they had reached the office, then fetched a small wooden box from a cupboard and brought it over to Churchill’s desk. “This is Atkins’s old fingerprint dusting kit,” she announced. “I’ve been itching to use it for ages. Let’s try dusting the ring for prints.” Pemberley set about inspecting the various little pots inside the box.
“Isn’t the ring rather small for identifying fingerprints?”
“Yes, but it’s worth a go, don’t you think?” She took out one of the pots. “I think this powder would work best.” She selected a small brush with long, soft bristles. “And this brush will be just the ticket.”
Pemberley set the ring on a piece of blotting paper at the centre of Churchill’s desk, and her employer watched as she opened the tin of dark powder and dipped the brush into it. Pemberley held the brush over the ring for a moment before beginning to dust over it with light, flitting movements.
“There’s a certain method to this,” she explained. “You can’t just splodge the brush on, like daubing paint onto a canvas.”
These light, floaty movements continued for a while, the bristles only lightly touching the ring.
“Can I have a go?” asked Churchill.
“Just let me reveal the fingerprints first.”
“Why can’t I reveal the fingerprints?”
“Because it requires a certain amount of training.”
“How can I learn if you won’t let me have a go?”
“I shall be happy to teach you, Mrs Churchill, but on another object to begin with, such as your teacup or the plate that had the butterfly cakes on it.”
“From what I can glean, there isn’t much to it other than wafting the brush around rather aimlessly.”
“There’s much more to it than that, Mrs Churchill. So much more!”
“Can you see any fingerprints yet?”
“I can see markings of some sort.”
“Well, I suppose that’s not altogether surprising. All that powder you’re wafting about is making my nose itch.”
Pemberley fetched a magnifying glass from her drawer and peered closely at the ring. “Hmm. There are fingerprint smudges all over it, but I can’t find a clear enough print for it to be of any use. I shall take a photograph all the same.”
“When can I have my go?” Churchill asked again as Pemberley fetched the Brownie camera and wound it on.
“Once I’ve taken the photograph,” Pemberley replied.
“Actually I’m beginning to wonder if it’s such a good idea after all. I can’t tell you how tickly that powder has made my nose.”
Just as Pemberley depressed the shutter button on the camera, Churchill let out an enormous sneeze, which set Oswald barking and caused Pemberley to stagger backwards in surprise.
“Now I’ve gone and taken a photograph of the ceiling,” fumed Pemberley. “That’s a whole frame completely wasted!”
“I think we’ve wasted too much of our time dusting for fingerprints anyway, Pembers. Even if we managed to identify a print on that little ring, how would we know whom it belonged to? Can you think of a way to go about fingerprinting all the Freemasons in Compton Poppleford?”
Pemberley scowled. “I wanted to try it out, all the same. Mr Atkins and I spent many a fun hour dusting pieces of evidence for fingerprints.”
“Well, that is lovely to hear, but it doesn’t really help us at the present moment. What we need to do is identify the owner of this ring somehow. I think he’ll be missing the thing, so what better way than to advertise the fact that we’re in possession of it?”
“By placing a notice in the newspaper, you mean?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Now, tidy away your little fingerprinting set and I’ll start drafting something.” Churchill picked up a pen and paper and began to write.
Once she had finished, she read it aloud to Pemberley: “‘A gentleman’s gold ring bearing the insignia of the Freemasons has been found on Crunkle Lane. If this ring is yours, or you know whom it may belong to, please visit Churchill’s Detective Agency at your earliest convenience.’”
“No, no, that’s all wrong.”
“What do you mean it’s all wrong?”
“For one thing, it needs to be as short as possible. The Compton Poppleford Gazette charges sixpence for twenty words and a halfpenny per word after that. The message you’ve written would cost us almost a shilling.”
“Daylight robbery! Is that awful Trollope gentleman still the editor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, no wonder. The man’s a disgrac
e!”
“He is. To prevent any chancers coming forward we’d best avoid describing the ring in too much detail. The gentleman who comes to collect it from us will need to describe the ring so we know he’s the rightful owner.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.”
“So you can’t say that it has the Freemasons’ insignia on it.”
“But how will he know to get in touch if we don’t?”
“The owner of the ring will be missing it and is therefore likely to be on the lookout for notices about lost rings.”
“Ah, very good.”
“Shall I rewrite the notice?”
“Be my guest, Pembers. I’m beginning to lose interest in it now.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Mrs Churchill. It’ll be more than worth it if it helps us catch the murderer.”
“Now you put it like that, it certainly will be. If it even belongs to the murderer, that is.”
Once Pemberley had rewritten the notice, she read it aloud to Churchill: “‘Found. Gentleman’s gold band ring, near Crunkle Lane. Enquire at Churchill’s Detective Agency.’”
“That’s it?”
“It’s all that’s needed.”
“How many words is that?”
“Thirteen.”
“Excellent. That’ll bring the price down a little. Let me work it out. If it’s sixpence for twenty words, what will it be for thirteen? How do you divide sixpence into thirteen?” Churchill scribbled some cursory numbers onto a piece of paper. “My old governess, Miss Spitly, would tell you mathematics was never my strongest subject. That said, she must be long dead now, as she looked incredibly ancient back when I was a girl.”
“It’ll still be sixpence.”
“What?”
“It’s a flat fee; the minimum amount payable.”
“Then we should increase the number of words! We need to get our money’s worth, Pembers.”
“I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
“I won’t rest until we’ve added seven more words.”
Churchill rewrote the notice and read it aloud, “‘Found. Handsome gentleman’s gold band ring was retrieved from Crunkle Lane and is in safe hands. Enquire Churchill’s Detective Agency.”
