by Emily Organ
“Those two constables?”
“And the photographer. It’s been quite difficult for us to get any work done at all. But here we are this morning, ready to get cracking with it.”
“Then you’ll be interested to hear that another rose has been placed on Arthur Brimble’s grave,” said the sexton.
“What a lovely gesture.”
“It was placed there last night,” replied Grieves, “so it’s unlikely to have come from another American relative who just happened to be passing through, as you put it. This was no lovely gesture; somebody’s playing games.”
“It’s rather an odd game to play.”
“Exactly. Which is why I asked you to investigate it, Mrs Churchill.” He gave a sigh. “But if you’re not up to the task—”
“Oh, we’re up to it all right!”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
“Right, then I shall await your findings.”
“We shall report back to you with our findings very soon, Mr Grieves.”
He touched the wide brim of his hat as an acknowledgement and strode away.
“Why didn’t you just tell him we’re not up to it?” asked Pemberley once the sexton was out of earshot.
“I could never countenance telling anyone we’re not up to something. It simply isn’t done!”
“But we don’t even want this case. We have no idea how to solve it, and we’re busy trying to work out who murdered Mr Butterfork instead.”
“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for all this, Pembers. We’ll have it worked out in no time.”
“I really don’t see how. And why didn’t you ask him about Mr Butterfork?”
“Why would I ask him about Mr Butterfork?”
“You heard the description Mrs Strawbanks gave us. The dark figure was wearing a long, dark overcoat and a hat. That description could be a match for Mr Grieves!”
“Except the coat he wears is black, while the piece of fabric torn from the culprit’s coat was dark grey.”
Pemberley mulled this over. “Perhaps he also has a dark grey coat. Maybe he was only wearing his black coat today because the dark grey one had a piece ripped from it when he was making his getaway.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but Mr Grieves strikes me as the sort of man who only ever wears one coat. You’ve seen how shabby it is. He has the appearance… and odour… of a man who always wears the same clothes. And besides, if you felt we should have questioned him about Mr Butterfork, why didn’t you pipe up yourself?”
“He frightens me.”
“What, old, tall, thin, gaunt-faced Mr Grieves dressed all in black with an icy stare? Actually, he frightens me too, but we mustn’t let that put us off. Not everyone we work with will be friendly and cuddly.”
“Who is friendly and cuddly?”
“I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head. Oswald?”
“Of course!”
“Jolly good. Right then, let’s be on our way.”
The two ladies and their dog walked down the path that led to the church gate.
“Oh, goodness!” Churchill stopped in her tracks and gripped Pemberley’s arm.
“What is it?”
“Look!” Churchill pointed at a dark-haired man walking past the churchyard wall. He was wearing a dark grey overcoat.
“Who is it?” asked Pemberley.
“I’ve no idea, but did you see what he was wearing? Come on, we need to follow him.”
“Why?”
“To see if we can find out who he is.”
“Just because he’s wearing a dark coat?”
“Yes!”
The two ladies hurried out of the churchyard and followed the man along a cobbled lane.
“What if he notices us?” asked Pemberley.
“He may well notice us, but he won’t know we’re following him, will he?”
“What if he realises we are?”
“He won’t because we’ll be very subtle. If he turns around, we’ll pretend we haven’t noticed him at all. You could point at something in a tree and I could nod appreciatively.”
“That seems an odd thing to do.”
“It does, but it’s the sort of thing two old ladies might do during an afternoon stroll while paying no heed to the person walking in front of them. Quick, point at a tree!”
“Why?”
“I’ll do it then,” hissed Churchill, pointing at a nearby shrub. “He turned around!”
“That’s not a tree, it’s a shrub.”
“I panicked! Just nod appreciatively, as if we’re discussing the shape of its leaves.”
Pemberley nodded.
“You look perplexed, Pembers.”
“I am.”
“Try to look appreciative instead.”
“Of a shrub?”
“Surely you have basic acting abilities?”
“Not really.”
“Acting is an essential skill for a detective. How else can we work undercover?”
“We normally get found out whenever we try to do that.”
“That’s because we haven’t yet perfected our acting skills. Right, he’s turning the corner at the end of the lane. Let’s hurry along. We don’t want to lose him.”
Churchill and Pemberley scampered after the man, with Oswald trotting behind. The lane led into a little park as they turned the corner.
“Cowslip Park,” announced Pemberley.
The dark-coated man entered the park through a little iron gate. He gave them a brief glance as he closed it behind him.
Pemberley swiftly pointed at a nearby ash tree.
Churchill nodded appreciatively. “Well done, Pembers. That was quick thinking.”
The two ladies and their dog entered the park a few moments later and observed the man strolling along a path which ran through an avenue of sycamore trees. Close by was a pond, where several nannies tended to small children as they splashed about in the water.
“What a pretty little park,” commented Churchill.
Oswald ran off to greet another dog, and the two canines began weaving their way in and out of the sycamore trees.
“Let’s keep up with our man,” said Churchill as two nannies walked past them pushing large perambulators. “Are we the only grown-ups in this park who aren’t employed as nannies?” she whispered.
“It’s a popular place for them to bring their charges, probably because the high gates and fences stop the children running away.”
“Looking at some of these nannies, I can’t say I’d blame the children for wanting to run away. There’s a rather interesting-looking building at the edge of the park over there. Is it a chapel?”
“It’s the Masonic lodge.”
“Masonic? As in the Freemasons?”
“Yes.”
“How very interesting. And it looks as though our man is heading straight for it.”
As they drew closer, Churchill saw that the lodge was an elegant, single-storey building of golden stone. It had arched windows surrounded by sculpted stonework and an arched wooden doorway that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a medieval church.
The two ladies watched as the man in the dark coat unlocked the elaborate wooden door before stepping inside and closing it again.
“Well I never, Pembers. A man in a dark grey overcoat entering the Masonic lodge, and a Freemason’s ring found on Crunkle Lane. This is all beginning to appear rather intriguing, isn’t it? If only we could knock at the door and ask him a few questions about Mr Butterfork. Ladies aren’t permitted inside such places, more’s the pity.”
“And quite right, too.”
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“What lady, in her right mind, would wish to enter a Masonic lodge? I can’t think of anything more tedious.”
“Right. Well, anyway, it’s no secret that the Freemasons are a secretive bunch.”
“They are. And that’s not terribly helpful when it comes to investigatin
g crimes.”
“You’re right, Pembers. Secrecy tends to play havoc with these things. There can be no doubt that the ring belongs to a member of this lodge; it could even belong to the man in the dark grey coat himself. But who is he?”
“Why don’t we just wait and see who comes to claim the ring?”
“Because I’m growing impatient. We could try to work out which men in the village are Freemasons. That would help narrow down the list of potential owners.”
“Freemasons don’t often admit to non-Freemasons that they’re Freemasons.”
“True, but I don’t think we need to ask anyone the question directly. Which day of the week did Hatters say the weekly meetings took place?”
“On a Tuesday. Oh, I see! We could just be taking a little wander through this park at the time of the meeting and we’d be able to see which men were masons!”
“Exactly.”
“But won’t they spot us gawping at them? There aren’t many obvious hiding places around here, are there? It’ll be rather difficult to watch all the comings and goings without being noticed.” Pemberley glanced around them. “There are plenty of trees to hide behind, I suppose.”
“Plenty for you to hide behind, perhaps, but I don’t see many with a trunk wide enough to accommodate me. What I need is a nice large oak or a horse chestnut, but I can’t see anything suitable close by. A bit of dense shrubbery would also have been perfect to hide within, but I don’t see any of that close to the lodge either. What sort of park is this with no suitable hiding places?” Churchill pondered this a little further. “I think we may need to alter our appearance a little. We’ll have to pay a visit to Dorchester and purchase a few suitable accessories.”
A large lady approached them on the path, a small pink hat pulled over her head of brown curls.
“Mrs Hatweed!” said Churchill cheerily. “How nice to see you.”
“I’m just out for my evening walk,” she replied, stopping to look over at the Masonic lodge. “Oh, how they must miss him there.”
“Mr Butterfork?”
“Yes. He always looked forward to his weekly meetings.”
“We’ve just seen an interesting gentleman wearing a dark grey coat walk in there.”
“What’s so interesting about him?”
“Because we believe the murderer was wearing a dark grey coat.”
“Like the man who just walked in there? Oh, I see!” Her eyes widened. “You mean to say the murderer walked into that building just now?”
“We don’t know for sure that it’s him, but the man we saw was certainly wearing a dark coat.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose a lot of people wear dark coats, don’t they? My own is quite dark.” She glanced down at her woollen coat, which no longer had any hope of being buttoned across her midriff, if it ever had.
“Yours is dark brown, though, Mrs Hatweed. We’re looking for a dark grey one.”
“I see. Well, good luck with that. I’ll keep an eye out for one myself and let you know. There was something I forgot to tell you when you visited the other day.”
“Oh yes? What was that?”
“Mr Butterfork only ate one boiled egg on that last morning.”
“Is that so?”
“He normally had two, you see. I boiled him two, but he only managed one. I’d never known that happen before. He was very apologetic and told me he was feeling a bit egged out.”
“How very interesting. Thank you, Mrs Hatweed.”
Chapter 19
Churchill was walking to her office the following morning when a shiny motor car pulled up outside the town hall and an elegant lady dressed in yellow stepped out.
“Lady Darby! What a delight to meet you again.”
“Oh, good morning. It’s Mrs Churchill, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is. You have a good memory for faces, Lady Darby.”
“Thank you, Mrs Churchill, I like to think so. You’re a private detective, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“I really find that rather fascinating because – and I hope you don’t mind me saying so – you’re a lady of more mature years, and I think it most unusual that a lady of your…”
“Vintage?”
“Ah yes, vintage. What a wonderful choice of word. That puts it so well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m of a certain vintage myself!” added Lady Darby, and the two ladies shrilled with polite laughter.
“Oh, Lady Darby, how amusing!” enthused Churchill.
They chatted a while longer. Churchill spoke of her years in Richmond-upon-Thames, her friendship with Lady Worthington, and the long and distinguished career of Detective Chief Inspector Churchill in the Metropolitan Police. Then she asked a good number of questions about Lady Darby’s hobbies, social activities and good works.
“Golly, look at the time,” said Lady Darby. “I’m almost twenty minutes late for my meeting with the mayor!”
“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, Lady Darby. I really didn’t mean to detain you.”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs Churchill. To be quite honest, I’d much rather stop outside here for a chat with you than sit in the draughty town hall listening to that old tortoise. I’m going about my husband’s business, you see, as he’s still rather incapacitated on account of his foot.”
“Ah, yes. I do hope he’s up and about soon; more for your sake than his, by the sound of things.”
“Yes. A gentleman’s business is very dull, I can vouch for that. Anyway, Mrs Churchill, it really has been lovely talking to you, and I do hope to see you again soon. In fact…”
She paused to consider something, and Churchill desperately hoped the words that followed would include an invitation to some sort of highbrow event. She held her breath until Lady Darby spoke again.
“…Bertrand and I are having a little garden party in a few weeks’ time.”
“Oh, are you?” Churchill gushed with a heavy exhale. “How lovely!”
“Yes, and we’re really looking forward to it. It’ll only be a small affair, you understand.”
“Naturally.”
“Indeed, and it’s likely to be even smaller than usual as a couple of people can no longer make it. Actually, truth be told, it’s the gamekeeper and his wife. My husband dismissed him after he was shot in the foot.”
“The gamekeeper shot your husband in the foot?”
“No, he did it himself. But he likes to have someone to blame when bad things happen, so he sacked the gamekeeper.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, the long and the short of it is, I can extend an invitation to you and a guest if you’d like to join us.”
“I’d be more than delighted to, Lady Darby. What a wonderful invitation!” Churchill felt herself grinning so widely that the sides of her mouth ached. “How very lovely indeed.”
“Good, then that settles it. I shall have an invitation sent out to you. Now, I mustn’t keep the mayor waiting a moment longer. Goodbye, Mrs Churchill!”
“Goodbye, Lady Darby!”
“Another aria, Mrs Churchill?” asked Pemberley as she sauntered into the office.
“A whatty?”
“You’re humming to yourself again. More good news, is it?”
“Oh, not really. Although it appears that I shall soon receive an invitation to a little soiree at Gollendale Hall.”
“How nice.”
“It is rather, isn’t it? I just bumped into Lady Darby and had quite a long chat with her. It turns out we get along like a house on fire. It’s remarkable how many things we have in common.”
“Oh yes? Such as?”
“All sorts of things. It made me realise there are several refined people in these parts after all. In fact, that reminds me,” Churchill checked her watch. “I have my first sitting with Mr Pickwick at eleven.”
“Where?”
“In my little cottage, of all places.”
; “Really?”
“His studio doesn’t have a roof at the moment.”
“How convenient.”
“I’d say it was most inconvenient! We’ll have to make do in an inferior setting.”
“Which just happens to be within the privacy of your own home, Mrs Churchill.”
“He can hardly paint me in the office, can he, what with all the interruptions we have here? I’ve always dreamed of being painted, but I never imagined it would one day come to fruition. The practice is most commonly associated with the aristocracy, of course, so I never believed a mere commoner such as myself would prove interesting enough to become the subject of a painting.”
“Striking up a friendship with an artist seems to be quite useful in that respect,” replied Pemberley. “Perhaps you’ll become Mr Pickwick’s muse.”
Churchill laughed. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so.”
“You could be another Elizabeth Siddall.”
“I suppose I could be if I had any idea who she was.”
“She was the muse for a number of pre-Raphaelite painters.”
“Oh, them.”
“She married Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”
“A sensible move when your surname is as dull as Siddall.”
“How long will Mr Pickwick be painting you for?” asked Pemberley. “We have work to be getting on with.”
“Ah yes, but today our work will be taking place tonight.”
“What do you mean by that?” Pemberley groaned as the realisation dawned on her. “Don’t tell me we’re going back to that churchyard!”
“All right then, I won’t. But it’s the only way to progress our investigation, and there really is nothing to fear. The night is just the same as the day, only there’s a little less light about.”
“A lot less light.”
“We’ll take torches.”
“But we’ll have to extinguish them once we’re in the graveyard or we’ll be seen by whoever it is we’re supposed to be investigating.”
“Only for a short while.”
“That’s the bit I’m least looking forward to.”
“I’ll be there with you, Pembers, and so will our trusty detective dog. You’ll have to keep him on a leash, though. We can’t have him ruining our surveillance.”
