by Emily Organ
“That’s when the dark figure appeared?”
“Yes. Duchess did one of her strange little meows, and I observed the figure standing directly in front of Mr Butterfork’s home. It appeared to be looking up at his bedroom window.”
Churchill shivered. “You describe the dark figure as ‘it’, Mrs Strawbanks, as though it were something not quite human.”
“Well it wasn’t human, was it? Shooting poor Mr Butterfork like that.”
“It gives me the willies,” added Pemberley.
“How was this dark figure dressed?” asked Churchill.
“In a long dark overcoat and a dark hat.”
“Could the overcoat have been dark grey, do you think?”
“It may have been. It was difficult to tell at twilight. I decided to go outside and investigate further,” continued Mrs Strawbanks, “but by the time I’d changed out of my house shoes and put my shawl on it was gone.”
“Well I never. It sounds quite spooky.”
“I walked up and down the lane a little way. There was some cloud that night, but when the moon was out it was quite bright. I took my electric torch with me and caught neither sight nor sound of the dark figure.”
“That was rather brave of you, Mrs Strawbanks.”
“Nothing fazes me, Mrs Churchill. I suppose you’ll want to know when I heard the gunshot.”
“Yes please.”
“It was shortly after ten o’clock. I’d just done my hourly check of the lane, which didn’t amount to much because it was nautical twilight and the moon was behind a cloud.”
“Nautical?” queried Churchill. “We’re about ten miles from the sea here.”
“It’s a scientific term used to describe the period of time when the sun is between six and twelve degrees below the horizon,” explained Pemberley.
“Goodness! Despite all the years I’ve been on this earth there continue to be certain facts to which I am completely oblivious. So you checked the lane, Mrs Strawbanks, and then?”
“I began to retire for the night. I was just changing into my nightgown when the shot rang out as clear as day.”
“I suppose a gunshot would be rather distinct whether it was day or night.”
“Duchess wouldn’t stop meowing. I had to change back into my day clothes, then I rushed downstairs, put my shoes on and dashed out into the lane. That’s when I saw it.”
“It?”
“The dark figure again, Mrs Churchill, fleeing down the lane. The moon happened to emerge from behind a cloud at that moment, so I had a good view.”
“What did you see of the dark figure?”
“Much as before: a dark overcoat and a dark hat.”
“Was the figure carrying anything?”
“Yes, it appeared to be. It was running away from me, but I couldn’t see its arms. It was as though they were held out in front of it, clutching the bundle of Mr Butterfork’s money. Then it reached the churchyard wall, jumped over and disappeared into the darkness.”
“What did you do then?”
“I telephoned Inspector Mappin. I didn’t know for certain that the gunshot had occurred inside Mr Butterfork’s home, although I had my suspicions, having seen the dark figure standing there. I called on Mrs Hatweed while I was waiting for Inspector Mappin to arrive. It took a moment to rouse her, and by the time I’d managed it the inspector had arrived.”
“Thank you, Mrs Strawbanks, that was all very interesting. Mrs Hatweed told us you visited Mr Butterfork on the day of his death. Is that right?”
“Yes. He kindly offered to pay for my replacement fence. He was an extremely generous man.”
“Did he mention he was expecting a visitor that evening?”
“No, he mentioned nothing of the sort. I wasn’t expecting it either. It was a Sunday, and I’d never known him receive visitors on a Sunday evening. There’s no doubt about it, Mrs Churchill; a burglar sprung himself upon that poor man before taking his money and ending his life!”
Chapter 17
“I believe the time has come for us to create another dependable incident board, Pembers,” said Churchill when she arrived at the office the following day.
“For the case of Mr Butterfork?”
“Yes.”
“But we’re not even officially working on it.”
“We’re working on the churchyard case for Mr Grieves, and given that the murderer made his getaway through the churchyard we need to consider the broader picture, as it were. We need to understand the events leading up to the moment the culprit found himself dashing through the churchyard.”
“I’m not entirely convinced by that.”
“Oh, come on, Pembers. You’d like to solve another murder, wouldn’t you? We can’t leave it all up to that hapless Mappin.”
“Then we have two cases to work on at present.”
“I prefer to consider it as one main case split into two subcases. The first subcase relates to the mysterious goings-on in the churchyard, while the second relates to the murder of Mr Butterfork. I realise no one has officially tasked us with investigating the murder, but two seasoned private detectives like ourselves couldn’t possibly stand by and watch the local constabulary make a complete hash of it. You saw those constables in the churchyard, didn’t you? I’m surprised they manage to tie their own shoelaces of a morning.”
The two ladies set about sticking pins in at significant points on the map and connecting them with pieces of string.
“Do we have a photograph of the late Mr Butterfork, Pembers?”
“Yes, there’s the picture of us standing with him and Mrs Thonnings beside the coconut shy at the summer fete from the Compton Poppleford Gazette.”
“Isn’t there another picture of him we could use?”
“That’s the only one I can think of. Mr Butterfork hadn’t been in the village long, so there aren’t many photographs of him knocking about.”
“Oh, I suppose it’ll have to do.”
Pemberley went to fetch the newspaper.
“I don’t like the idea of us appearing on our own incident board, Pembers. Can we cut him out of the picture?”
“Let me see.” Pemberley found the photograph in the newspaper. “Not very easily, no. Look, he has one arm around you and the other around Mrs Thonnings.”
“Goodness, so he has.”
“I’ll cut myself out, as I’m just standing on the periphery. I often do that when a photograph’s being taken in the hope I’ll be left out of it.” Pemberley proceeded to prune one end of the picture. “Now we just have Mr Butterfork flanked by his two lady friends.”
“Mrs Thonnings might qualify as such, but I only met the fellow once. Are you sure you can’t trim me out?”
“It would take his left arm off.”
“That wouldn’t really matter. We’d still have most of him.”
“But isn’t that rather disrespectful given that he’s just been murdered?”
“It’s a slip of paper from a cheap newspaper, Pembers, it matters not a jot. You can apologise to the spirit of Mr Butterfork as you remove his left arm if needs be, but please take me out of the picture. Now, let’s get on with moving the pictures and pins and string about. It might give us some fresh ideas about the case.”
“While I remember, I also have a photograph of Mr Grieves we can put up there.”
“Why on earth do you have a photograph of the sexton?”
“It’s from a case Mr Atkins was working on about eight years ago.”
“Mr Grieves was a suspect?”
“No. We worked out he might have been about to become a victim. There was a murderer around at the time who was killing people in alphabetical order. Mr Grieves had a lucky escape because Atkins caught the murderer just after Frederick Fulboat was slain.”
“Crikey, and you think Mr Grieves might have been next?”
“Yes. His name was Gregory Grieves, and he lived in Garland Grove at the time.”
“Factors that would have
been most appealing to someone intent on murdering people in alphabetical order.”
“Exactly. It was a very worrying time. Henrietta Higginbath was so concerned she went to stay with her sister in Weston-Super-Mare.”
“I’d have gone a great deal further than that if I’d been in danger of death on the basis of my name.”
“Me too. It wasn’t as if the murderer was averse to travelling, either. He even went as far as Charmouth on one occasion.”
“Whom did he murder there?”
“Charlie Chamberlain.”
“How terribly sad. But well done to Atkins for apprehending the man. Now, let’s dig out that picture of Gregory Grieves and stick him up on the board.”
Churchill felt a chill down her spine as Pemberley did so. She regarded the photograph of the sexton with his gaunt face, long beard and steely eyes.
“He hasn’t changed his appearance over the years, then?”
“No, he’s always looked like that.”
“I think the alphabet murderer would have had a change of heart if he’d come face to face with the man. Don’t you find him vaguely terrifying?”
“Yes I do, now you come to mention it.”
“Do we really need his photograph up on the incident board?”
“Probably not.” Pemberley took the picture down and laid it, face up, on Churchill’s desk.
“Not there, Pembers. Hide him somewhere. Preferably at the back of a deep drawer in one of those filing cabinets.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs as Pemberley did so.
“Helloee!” A red-haired lady popped her head around the door.
“Oh, hello there, Mrs Thonnings. You’re just in time to admire our incident board,” said Churchill.
Mrs Thonnings joined her at the board and surveyed it. “It looks very impressive indeed. But hold on a minute. Why is my picture up there?”
“You visited Mr Butterfork on the day of his death.”
“You don’t consider me a suspect, do you?”
“No, not at all. Far from it. He had four visitors that day, and we’re quite certain none of them could possibly be the murderer.”
“That still doesn’t explain why my picture’s up there.”
“It was the only one we could find of Mr Butterfork.”
“Oh. Can’t you just cut me out of the picture?”
“If we do that Mr Butterfork will lose his right arm,” said Pemberley. “He’s already lost his left. He would look ever so strange standing there with no arms.”
“What happened to his left arm?”
“Let’s not stray too far from the topic,” said Churchill. “Any of the four who visited him on the day of his death could prove to be a valuable witness, Mrs Thonnings. Perhaps you saw the dark figure loitering outside his home when you visited.”
“I didn’t, I’m afraid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dark figure during the daytime.”
“Come to think of it, neither have I. Do you mind me asking the purpose of your visit to Mr Butterfork?”
“He was an old friend. Actually, he wasn’t really, come to think of it, because I’d only known him for about six months, but it felt like I’d known him forever.” Her voice cracked.
“Jam tart, Mrs Thonnings?”
“Thank you.”
“Was Mr Butterfork your lover, Mrs Thonnings?” she asked.
This was a question Churchill immediately regretted asking when she was forced to cover her head to protect herself from the spray of jam tart crumbs that erupted from Mrs Thonnings’s mouth in response. Mrs Thonnings then began to choke.
“Oh dear,” lamented Churchill. “Can you please fetch Mrs Thonnings a glass of water, Miss Pemberley?”
A few moments later the redness in Mrs Thonnings’s cheeks had subsided and the choking noises had become intermittent.
“It went down the wrong way,” she explained. “I hate it when that happens.”
“There’s no need for it, is there?” sympathised Churchill. “Now, perhaps you can confirm for me whether or not you and Mr Butterfork were—”
“Absolutely not!” retorted Mrs Thonnings. “What sort of a woman do you think I am?”
“I wasn’t casting aspersions on your character, Mrs Thonnings. I was merely wondering what the nature of your relationship was.”
“We were good friends,” she replied. “I was visiting him that day to discuss his haberdashery needs.”
“And what were they?”
“He’d lost a button from his trousers.”
“I see. Isn’t that something his housekeeper would have seen to?”
“He told me Hatters was the best housekeeper he’d ever had, but that she could turn her hand to absolutely anything except sewing. Apparently, she had once sewn a button onto his dinner suit trousers and they had fallen down while he was giving a speech at the annual Compton Poppleford Cricket Club dinner.”
“Oh dear, how embarrassing.”
“He hadn’t worn a belt that evening because he’d lost it, so you can imagine the sight of him when the button gave way.”
“I’d rather not.”
“He always consulted me with regard to any patching, mending and general sewing from that moment on. I sewed on countless buttons, replaced a number of zips and patched up numerous snags and tears for Mr Butterfork.”
“In just six months? It sounds as though the chap was rather hard on his trousers. It makes you wonder what he must have been doing in them.”
“He lived life to the full, Mrs Churchill.”
“It seems his trousers did the same.”
“I still have a pair I was halfway through mending.” Mrs Thonnings swallowed back a sob. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in me finishing them now.”
“Oh, I think you should finish them,” said Pemberley. “What if Mr Butterfork happens to be looking down on us? I think he’d be rather upset to find that his trousers were never mended.”
“If Mr Butterfork were looking down on us now, Miss Pemberley, I think he would make allowances for Mrs Thonnings’s grief and not expect her to finish mending his trousers. It’s not as if he’ll be able to pay her for them, is it?”
“But he’s already paid me,” replied Mrs Thonnings. “Ten times over, in fact. He was such a generous man.”
“Mrs Hatweed seemed quite upset by his death,” said Churchill.
“Oh, Hatters would be. She adored him.”
“And with a son in prison, of all places.”
“Yes, that’s her great shame. He fell in with the wrong crowd, but she maintains his innocence.”
“A policeman friend of my dear departed husband, Detective Sergeant Dickie Harlow, used to say that the prisons were full of innocent men.”
“How awful.” exclaimed Pemberley. “They should be released!”
“It’s a policeman’s joke, Pembers. It refers to the fact that every inmate claims to be innocent, but generally speaking they’re not.”
“Police officers have an odd sense of humour.”
“They do, and particularly DS Harlow. Now then, back to Mr Butterfork. It’s quite clear that the motive in this case was robbery,” said Churchill. “That makes it rather difficult to identify a suspect, because just about everybody knew that Mr Butterfork kept his money in a tea chest in the bedroom.”
“But why murder him?” asked Mrs Thonnings. “Why not wait until the house was empty before going in to steal the money?”
“A very sensible question,” said Churchill, “and one that isn’t easy to answer. It seems a fair bit of planning went into this attack because the murderer clearly knew about the chest of money and armed himself with a gun. The presence of a weapon suggests he was expecting to be confronted by someone.”
“And also that he intended to murder Mr Butterfork.”
“But was it the intruder’s intention to kill him? Or did it happen because matters got out of hand? Maybe there was a struggle between the two of them and Mr Butterfork wa
s shot by mistake.”
“It sounded like an execution to me from the description of the scene,” said Pemberley.
Churchill winced and took a sip of tea. “In which case, we must assume the murder was deliberate.”
“But he didn’t have to be killed,” said Mrs Thonnings. “The murderer could have just waved the gun around and Mr Butterfork would have let him take the money. Mr Butterfork would never have risked his life for it.”
“In that case, Mr Butterfork must have been killed because he knew who the robber was,” said Churchill. “After all, he let the man into his home. Only, the robber didn’t want to be identified after the money was taken.”
Mrs Thonnings shook her head sadly. “It’s awful. There was no need for it at all. If the burglar had entered that house unarmed and asked nicely for the money, I’m sure Mr Butterfork would simply have handed it over.”
“And then reported him to the police,” added Churchill. “Which is exactly what our thief didn’t want.”
Chapter 18
“I’ve done my best to fill the hole and level it off,” said Mr Grieves, “but it’ll be a while before the grass grows over it again. It’s a shame really, as this is one of the nicest plots in the graveyard.”
Churchill pondered over the word ‘nice’ being used to describe a grave as she stood next to the final resting place of Benjamin Grunchen with Pemberley and Oswald.
“What have you discovered during your investigations to date?” asked Grieves.
Churchill felt a chill as his icy eyes turned upon her.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr Grieves, not a great deal. Our theory at the moment is that a relative from America placed the rose on Arthur Brimble’s grave as he or she happened to be passing through, and that someone decided to clean the headstones and began with Sally Fletcher. Has anyone recently suggested to you that the headstones should be cleaned?”
“No.”
“Not even the vicar?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“Well, there has been the minor distraction of a terrible murder taking place this week, and our investigations have been hampered by the work of the police.”
