by Emily Organ
“I’m sure you don’t really need me there.”
“Go on my own, you mean?” Churchill shuddered. “Never!”
“You could ask perfect Mr Pickwick to go with you.”
“Perfect? Why perfect?”
“Isn’t he?”
“How should I know? Anyway, he’s not a detective. He’s a retired insurance salesman and amateur artist.”
“But I’m sure he’d look after you well, Mrs Churchill.”
“Don’t waggle your eyebrows at me in that suggestive manner, Pemberley.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Stop it! There’s no need for that.”
“I saw one of the Flatboots leaving Pickwick’s Gallery with a wheelbarrow the other day.”
“Well, that’s the Flatboots for you.”
“I’m surprised Mr Pickwick allowed him inside with his wheelbarrow.”
“Mr Pickwick is an extremely accommodating man. Now, it’s time for an early elevenses, and then I shall be on my way.”
Chapter 20
Despite having spent several hours tidying and rearranging her cottage the previous evening, Churchill was concerned that it still looked untidy. She checked her appearance in the looking glass countless times, wondering whether she should change her powder-blue twinset for the dusky-pink one. A knock at the door confirmed that she had no time to change her mind, and she felt her heart flutter as she answered the door to find Mr Pickwick standing on the doorstep with his easel and box of paints.
“What a smart jacket, Mr Pickwick. Is it Harris Tweed?”
“It is indeed. You clearly have an eye for these things, Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh, well I’m rather partial to Harris Tweed myself. What’s good enough for those Outer Hebrideans is good enough for me, I say!” She gave a shrill, nervous laugh that made her eardrums ache. “Ahem. Do come in, Mr Pickwick. My abode is rather humble, I’m afraid. I’m renting it from Farmer Drumhead while I search for a desirable residence. In fact, it’s not much of a setting for the portrait at all. Perhaps I should have hired some theatrical props.”
“No need, Mrs Churchill.” Mr Pickwick rested his easel and paints on the floor and surveyed the small room with his hands on his hips. “Simple is best. The only thing we need is a good amount of daylight, so I think we should seat you beside the window. Do you mind if I move the dining table a little?”
“Do please move whatever needs moving, Mr Pickwick.”
He made a space beside the window in the dining area and placed a chair next to it.
“Now, if you could sit right there, Mrs Churchill, I’ll decide on the best place to set up my easel.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted.” She took a seat and watched as he arranged his equipment.
“I wonder if you could move your knees a little to the left, Mrs Churchill.”
“Certainly.”
“Then perhaps you could move your right shoulder back a little and try a winsome gaze out of the window.”
“Winsome, Mr Pickwick? Golly, I don’t think I’ve ever been winsome in my entire life.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Mrs Churchill. The light is falling beautifully on you now.”
“Is it really? Well, there’s a wonder. Oh, I’ve been terribly remiss and forgotten to offer you a cup of tea.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs Churchill.”
“But is it all right if I move?”
“Quite all right.”
“It won’t put you off?”
“Not at all; it’s important that you feel relaxed. If I need you to hold a pose for any length of time I shall ask.”
Still feeling flustered, Churchill made a quick pot of tea in the kitchen, then carried the tray in to her guest and placed it on the dining table. “I’m in blue. Do you think blue is the right look?”
“It’s perfect, Mrs Churchill.”
A swell of relief caused some of the milk to slop onto the tea tray in response. “Oh, thank you. I’m pleased to hear that. Whoops, I appear to be all fingers and thumbs this morning. Let’s hope you’re not the same or it’ll be rather a disastrous portrait!” She laughed nervously again.
“Do take a seat, Mrs Churchill, and try to relax.”
“Oh, I will, yes.” She sat down in the chair, slid her knees to the left, moved her right shoulder back and gazed winsomely out of the window.
“Simply delightful,” said Mr Pickwick.
“Do you think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, I am pleased to hear that. Are we allowed to talk?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m not very good with silences, you see. But just let me know when you’re painting my mouth and I’ll keep it still.”
“By all means move your mouth and the rest of your body, Mrs Churchill. You can’t be expected to hold the same pose all day or you’ll stiffen up, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“Indeed we wouldn’t.”
The pair discussed the weather at great length, soon discovering they had both holidayed in the Lake District. Once the merits of various lakes and fells had been exhausted, Churchill decided it would be a wasted opportunity if she failed to ask Mr Pickwick about his friend Mr Butterfork.
“You worked with Mr Butterfork in the insurance world, I hear.”
His paintbrush paused. “Ah, yes.” He rested his brush down on the little table next to him and rubbed his brow with the cloth he normally used to wipe his brushes. “He was a fine chap.”
Churchill wasn’t sure whether to tell the artist he had smeared blue paint across his forehead during this emotional moment. She thought it best to save it for later. “His housekeeper, Mrs Hatweed, told me that.”
“A good lady. Hatters looked after him well. ‘My Hatters boils the perfect egg…’ That’s what he always used to say. He adored her.” Mr Pickwick dabbed at his eyes with the rag, leaving patches of blue on both cheeks.
Churchill felt she really ought to say something, but he had cocked his head a little and fixed his eye on the furthest corner of the room, as if to recall further fond memories of his friend.
“He was an underwriter, you know,” Mr Pickwick continued. “A very clever man with an innate skill for risk contingency. I don’t believe the company had to pay out a bean on any of the contracts he’d underwritten.”
Having found herself privately scoffing at Mrs Hatweed’s admission that she couldn’t follow conversations about business, Churchill realised how dull the discussions between Mr Pickwick and Mr Butterfork must have been.
“The commission was good, too,” continued Mr Pickwick, “and he earned very penny of it.”
“His vast riches came from a great-aunt, though, am I right?”
“That’s correct.”
“And although he was a very clever undertaker—”
“Underwriter.”
“Oh yes, silly me. Despite all this clever underwriting business, he chose not to put his money in the bank?”
“I know. Foolish, isn’t it? But that was old Jammy for you.”
“Jammy?”
“That was his nickname. Butterfork, butter, butter and cream, cream bun and jam, jammy.”
“Oh, I see. Like one of those public school nicknames you hear.”
“Except it was an insurance company nickname.”
“Did you have an insurance company nickname yourself? Actually, let me guess it. Erm, Pickwick papers, paper, linen draper, er… linen?”
“No, it was just plain old Mr Pickwick for me.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Jammy was popular, you see. Only the popular chaps had nicknames.”
“I struggle to believe you weren’t popular, Mr Pickwick!”
“I was just a salesman; not even a broker. The brokers were quite revered, but it was the underwriters who were the top dogs. They always got the first sitting in the canteen.”
Churchill began to feel a bi
t sorry for Mr Pickwick, who had blue paint on his chin as well as his cheeks and forehead by this point.
“Did Jammy make any enemies within the grand world of insurance?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“All those he refused to underwrite!” he said with a laugh. “And the ones who had to pay higher premiums after his recalculation of risk!”
He laughed again, and Churchill joined in to give the impression she knew all about insurance jokes.
Once the laughter had subsided, she broached the subject of enemies again. “Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm Mr Butterfork?”
“Apart from the many enemies he made during his underwriting days, no.”
“I think we can safely assume that someone who felt aggrieved by his underwriting work would have been unlikely to murder him for it.”
“You’re right, Mrs Churchill, it would be rather unlikely. Not completely impossible, but unlikely. The attack on Jammy was robbery, plain and simple. Someone went in there, took the money and shot the poor…” The rag was held up to Mr Pickwick’s face again.
“Oh dear, I am sorry.” Churchill felt the urge to comfort Mr Pickwick. She got up from her seat and walked over to him.
“You mustn’t see the painting!” He grabbed the easel and turned it away from her. “No one must see my work until it’s complete!”
“I understand,” replied Churchill, standing rather awkwardly beside him and wondering whether she should continue to comfort him or return to her seat. She realised he was probably wondering why she had stood up in the first place. “I didn’t come over here to look at it. I came to… Oh, it doesn’t matter, I’ll sit back down again. By the way, Mr Pickwick, you have blue paint all over your face.”
Chapter 21
Inspector Mappin strode into Churchill and Pemberley’s office that afternoon. “Right then, let’s see it.” He removed his hat, tucked it under his arm and stood in the centre of the room officiously.
“And a good afternoon to you, too, Inspector,” replied Churchill. “What brings you here, then?”
“The ring. Let’s see it.”
“The handsome ring?”
“The gentleman’s gold ring you placed a ‘found’ notice for in the classifieds.”
“Oh, then the newspaper has finally published it. Jolly good. Does it belong to you?”
“No.”
“Ah, well we’re waiting for the rightful owner to turn up, you see.”
“Any such finds should be handed in at the police station.”
“We didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with it, Inspector. You have such a lot on your plate, as you so often remind us.”
“Finds must be handed in to me so that the relevant persons can enquire at the police station and be reunited with them. This is especially important when it comes to items of value. We have a safe down at the station. Do you have a safe, Mrs Churchill?”
“The drawer in my desk is quite adequate, Inspector.”
He snorted in reply.
“And it’s filled almost to the brim with women’s bits and pieces, so any man would be quite put off if he started rummaging about in there.”
“That’s your security system, is it, Mrs Churchill? Women’s bits and pieces?”
“Absolutely, and judging by the flushed appearance of your face I’m guessing you’d be put off rummaging in there yourself, Inspector.”
“But a thief wouldn’t. They have totally different standards, you see.” The inspector hitched up his trousers and sat down at Churchill’s desk. “I’m rather interested in the location where this ring was found,” he continued. “Crunkle Lane, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, the scene of the murder. Do you think the ring could have been involved somehow?”
“I’m quite sure you had already made the connection, Mrs Churchill. And your discovery of the ring suggests you’ve been sniffing around the area. I need you to hand over the ring, not only because I can keep it in the safe until it’s claimed, but also because it could be an important piece of evidence.”
“But we put in the notice that it needs to be collected from this detective agency. I shouldn’t think the owner will be happy when I tell him he has to head down to see you instead. And besides, he might be afraid to ask you for the ring.”
“Why so?”
“Because he could be the murderer, and the last thing he’ll want to do is start fraternising with the law. Besides, Miss Pemberley and I have hatched a little plan.”
The inspector groaned.
“Shall we tell him about our plan, Miss Pemberley?”
“I suppose we’ll have to.”
“Indeed. Our plan, Inspector, is to wait and see who arrives to collect the ring, and then we’ll have ourselves a murder suspect!”
“Just because someone lost his ring on that lane doesn’t mean he committed the murder, Mrs Churchill.”
“No of course not, which is why he’d only be a suspect. And this particular ring suggests the suspect could be a Freemason!”
He raised an eyebrow. “A Freemason? How?”
“Ah, perhaps I should explain. We believe the ring belongs to a member of the Freemasons, as it bears the square and compasses insignia. Now, Inspector, perhaps we can reach a little agreement.”
“Oh dear. What sort of agreement?”
“We hold on to the ring for a further three days unless it happens to be claimed by its owner. I think that’s only fair, as our notice asked the owner to visit this detective agency. If no one has claimed it after three days, we shall happily pass it on to you.”
Inspector Mappin grunted. “And if someone does claim the ring, you’ll tell me who it was?”
“Of course. I think that all sounds very fair, don’t you?”
The inspector got up from his chair. “The ring was probably dropped in Crunkle Lane some time after the murder, otherwise my men would have spotted it much sooner.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Inspector. Need I remind you who discovered the murder weapon?”
“There’s no need to remind me, Mrs Churchill, I’ve already dished out my thank yous.” He surveyed the wall. “Interesting incident board,” he commented.
“Ah, yes. That’s for our churchyard case,” said Churchill.
“It looks as though it relates to the Butterfork case to me.”
“Only because some of the evidence from that case was found in our churchyard, Inspector. It’s caused the two cases to overlap a little.”
“You’re not trying to solve the Butterfork case, are you?”
“Absolutely not!”
“It seems the ring is a waste of time,” said Pemberley once Inspector Mappin had left. “If it doesn’t belong to the murderer there’s really no need for us to be bothered with it.”
“Pfft, you’re taking Mappin’s word for it, Pembers. How else would it have found its way onto the ground in Crunkle Lane if it hadn’t fallen from the finger of the fleeing culprit?”
“Perhaps one of the Freemasons walked along there at some point.”
“I suppose he could have done, but which one?” Churchill opened the drawer in her desk and began to look for the ring, which she had carefully wrapped in a handkerchief.
“Where’s it got to?” she said, rummaging around in the drawer. “Have you ever noticed that with drawers, Pembers? Often the last thing you put in them ends up being right at the bottom, at the back. How does it even do that? It must somehow wiggle and worm its way into the most inaccessible part of the drawer possible, as if it knows you’re after it. Where has it got to? I only put it in here two days ago, and I can’t find the handkerchief it was wrapped in either… Oh dear.”
A sense of panic began to grip Churchill as she pulled the drawer out and emptied it onto her desk. Two hat pins, seven buttons, a pot of rouge, six hair pins, three penny coins, a small bottle of perfume, five unpaired earrings, a bottle of smelling salts, four
hair rollers, a pot of cold cream, three papers of headache powder, two half-crown coins, numerous beads from a broken necklace, a tube of lipstick and a stale gingerbread biscuit scattered themselves across the desktop.
“There’s no ring here, Pembers. Where’s it gone? Have you taken it?”
“No! Why would I take it?”
“I don’t know. Someone must have. It wasn’t me, so I figured it could only have been you. Oh, where is it?”
“Are you sure you put it in that drawer?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Churchill flung open the other drawers in her desk and Pemberley grabbed her arm to stop her hurling out their contents.
“There’s no need to make such a mess, Mrs Churchill. I’m sure we’ll find the ring after a careful search.”
“But it’s gone, Pembers, don’t you see? Somebody’s taken it!”
After twenty minutes of careful searching, Churchill and Pemberley had to resign themselves to the fact that the ring had indeed been taken.
“We’ve been leaving the door unlocked recently,” commented Pemberley. “Perhaps that’s how the thief got in.”
“I’d say it was! What do you mean we’ve been leaving the door unlocked?”
“Just that. It’s been unlocked.”
“I lock the door whenever I come and go, Pembers. You clearly don’t, and that’s how we’ve come to be robbed.”
“Actually, I’m not sure you do, Mrs Churchill. I’ve found the door unlocked a number of times first thing in the morning after you’ve been the last to leave the previous evening. It’s a common habit in Compton Poppleford to leave doors unlocked, so it’s quite normal and not really a problem unless you have something worth stealing.”
“I might have forgotten to lock the door one day last week, but apart from that I’ve locked it every day without fail.”
“With the exception of last night.”
“I definitely locked it last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How sure?”
“Very!”
“Do you specifically remember locking the door yesterday evening, or is it possible that you merely have a general memory of locking it?”
