by Emily Organ
“Goodness, I think so. What just happened?”
“You fainted after catching sight of the church sexton,” replied Pemberley.
“That large, scary thing?”
‘That’s me,” responded Grieves, hoisting Churchill onto her feet. “Hold on to my arm if you still need some support, Mrs Churchill.”
“I do feel a little woozy still, if truth be told.” She gripped his arm. “Strewth, what a terrible palaver? Can you please get us out of here, Mr Grieves? My assistant and I have had more than enough for one day. One night, I mean. One week, even.”
“Of course.”
“Would you like to borrow my torch?”
“No, that’s all right,” he said. “I can see very clearly in the dark.”
Oswald gave another low growl.
“He doesn’t like me, that dog,” said the sexton as he led them along the path.
“Was it you he was growling at earlier?”
“Yes. There I was keeping watch and the little fellow wouldn’t leave me alone.”
A terrible memory descended upon Churchill. “Oh, and the skull. Good grief! Did you know that someone’s skull has come out of their grave, Mr Grieves?”
He gave another chuckle. “Oh, you’ve met Jake.”
“Jake?”
“The skull. I’ve been leaving him out in the churchyard at night in the hope of scaring off whoever’s been causing mischief.”
“You could have warned us, Mr Grieves. He frightened two elderly ladies half to death!”
“I should have done, in hindsight. Although it seems that I frightened you even more than Jake did.”
“Indeed you did. Creeping up on us in the dark like that; it shouldn’t be allowed!”
“I was coming to let you know your dog was on the loose.”
“I see. What were you doing in the churchyard, anyway?”
“I’m the sexton. It’s my job to look after it.”
“You often hide out here at night, do you? Lurking about in the shadows?”
“I’ve had to keep a check on things, Mrs Churchill, as you well know. Did you see anything suspicious, by the way?”
“Erm, no. We came to the churchyard this evening to find out what was happening, but instead we’ve been scared witless by a macabre prop placed on a grave as some sort of practical joke.”
“I put it there to scare people away.”
“Well, it worked. I certainly shan’t be setting foot in this churchyard ever again.”
“How do you intend to solve the case if you’re not willing to come back again, Mrs Churchill?” asked Pemberley.
“I’ll think of something.”
“You seem rather fidgety today, Mrs Churchill. Is something bothering you?” asked Mr Pickwick, paintbrush in hand.
“Oh I do apologise, Mr Pickwick. Is it ruining your painting?”
“Not at all.” He sat back and smiled. “I’m quite accustomed to my subjects moving about. My enquiry came from a place of concern for your good self.”
“Oh, did it? That’s very kind of you, Mr Pickwick.”
“Call me Percy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Now, what’s bothering you, Mrs Churchill?”
“Well, there’s rather a lot happening at the moment, what with the various investigations going on and that sort of thing. And I had a little fright last night.”
“Goodness, what happened?”
“It was just the sexton playing a little trick on us with his friend Jake. And I’ve made a little boo-boo I’m not particularly proud of.”
“Oh dear. What might that be, then?”
“If I tell you, will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“Absolutely.”
Churchill proceeded to tell Mr Pickwick about the ring that had been found and then stolen.
“You mustn’t blame yourself, Mrs Churchill.”
“But I left the office door unlocked, and then advertised to the entire village in the local newspaper that I had a valuable ring in my possession! It was a crime I invited upon myself, I’m afraid.”
“It’s the thief who was at fault, Mrs Churchill, not you. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be apprehended before long.”
“But what will Inspector Mappin say about it? He isn’t particularly fond of me at the best of times.”
“Don’t you go worrying about him. You’ve only followed what you considered to be the correct course of action. It would be downright unreasonable of the inspector if he chose to admonish you for it.”
“Oh, thank you, Percy. That’s made me feel a little better already.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I would dearly love to see how my portrait is coming along, won’t you allow me the very sneakiest of little peeks?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs Churchill, I have a terrible superstition about such things.”
“How I wish you didn’t!”
“Even if I wasn’t the superstitious type, Mrs Churchill, I think works in progress tend to look rather dreadful. I often think seeing an unfinished painting is rather like coming across a lady in a state of undress.”
Churchill emitted an unexpected gasping noise. “Gosh, what a comparison, Percy! Does that happen to you often?”
“Very infrequently.” He gave a self-conscious cough. “Perhaps I used an impolite comparison there. I meant that one would rather see the final result. It’s better to admire a lady in her evening gown than to view the undergarments used to create the silhouette, don’t you agree?”
“You might find a few gentlemen who would disagree with you on that front, Percy, but I think I understand what you’re saying. I must confess that all this talk of undress and undergarments has left me rather flushed. I fear it will quite ruin the shade of my complexion for the portrait.”
“Please don’t worry about that, Mrs Churchill. I can assure you that I have a good mix of peaches and cream on my palette.”
“For my face?”
“For your fair complexion.”
“You’re such a flatterer, Percy.”
“I merely paint what I see.” He winked.
“Oh, you silly billy.” Churchill felt her face flush an even deeper shade of red. She patted her cheeks and glanced out of the window to see the sun shining down on the fields.
Chapter 24
“I’m delighted to report that the postman has delivered my invitation to the garden party at Gollendale Hall,” said Churchill to Pemberley as they walked down a track that led to a little white cottage.
“That is excellent news indeed. I’m so looking forward to it!”
“You’re looking forward to it, Pembers?”
“Yes. The invitation presumably includes a guest.”
“It does.”
“There we go then. How exciting!”
Pemberley looked so pleased that Churchill couldn’t bring herself to admit she had considered asking Mr Pickwick to be her guest. She decided this piece of news would be best left for another time. They soon reached the cottage door, which was surrounded by a pretty rose arbour.
“I sincerely hope Mrs Roseball will act as a welcome tonic after last night’s ordeal,” said Churchill. “I can still feel myself shaking. I was all of a tremor during my sitting with Mr Pickwick earlier, and part of me wonders if that weird sexton chap hasn’t simply set us up for it.”
“As some sort of practical joke?”
“Why else would he have left Jake the Skull lying there on that grave? I shouldn’t wonder if he wasn’t behind all the shenanigans himself.”
“And possibly every other shenanigan in the village. He could also be the murderer with his dark hat and coat.”
“Indeed he could!” Churchill knocked at Mrs Roseball’s door. “I think we should pin it all on Grieves and take ourselves off for a few days in Weymouth, Pembers. I like the idea of sand between my toes.”
“Ugh, no thank you.”
“What’s wrong wit
h sand?”
“Nothing. It’s toes I can’t stand.”
“What’s wrong with toes? Oh, good morning, Mrs Roseball!”
The small, round lady squinted at them through the thick lenses of her spectacles, then welcomed them in.
“How’s the weather?” she asked as they walked into her front room. “It looks sunny out there, but I suspect the temperature is a little lower than it was yesterday. The wind’s coming from the north-east now; I felt it change at around seven o’clock this morning. I knew it was about to change to a north-easterly because I had a pain in my right leg most of yesterday.”
“Does your right leg have the ability to predict the weather, Mrs Roseball?”
“My entire body does. It’s just one of those things you’re born with.” She flapped a hand dismissively. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you. I see you also have a penchant for china shepherdesses,” said Churchill, eying up a line of them on the mantelpiece.
“Oh no, I’m only looking after those for Mrs Hatweed. She hasn’t space for them all, you see. They’re very precious to her, so I swore to protect them with my life. Do sit. Theophilus will move for you.”
A black cat coolly observed the two ladies and their dog from the settee once Mrs Roseball had left the room. Oswald hid behind Pemberley.
“Hello, puss!” said Churchill.
The cat hissed in reply.
“Mrs Roseball said he’d move for us, so I think we should take a seat.” Churchill moved to sit down but the cat hissed again and bared his sharp, white teeth. “What do you think, Pembers. Should I just sit down?”
“Mrs Roseball did say he would move for us.”
“Righty-ho, then.” Churchill turned tentatively in readiness to place her behind on the settee. As she began to lower herself down, she felt a sharp, needle-like pain in her thigh.
“Yow!” Somehow her legs found the strength to propel her body upright again. “Did that cat just attack my leg, Pembers?”
“Yes,” replied her assistant, who had backed away several feet. “Perhaps we should sit on the floor.”
“By all means go ahead, but I’ll never get up again if I do that. Oh look, there’s a little pouffe in the bay window. I’ll sit on that.”
Churchill was still positioning herself on the small cushioned footstool when Mrs Roseball reappeared with the tea tray.
“What on earth are you doing over there, Mrs Churchill?”
“The cat doesn’t like me, Mrs Roseball. He stuck his claws into my thigh.”
“Theo would never do such a thing!” She walked over to the cat and stroked his head before lifting him off the settee. “There you go, ladies.”
“Thank you,” said Pemberley, making herself comfortable on the settee with a wary Oswald on her lap. Churchill watched enviously, realising it would take more effort than she could muster to get up off the pouffe.
“Why don’t you sit on the settee, Mrs Churchill?”
“I’m quite all right here, thank you, Mrs Roseball.”
“But I insist.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on sitting on this pouffe for now.”
“Surely not! It doesn’t look at all comfortable with your knees squashed up against your chest like that.”
“I’m fine,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Now, you’re probably wondering why we’ve come to visit.”
“There’s a reason?” replied Mrs Roseball, pouring out the tea.
“Yes. We were wondering whether you had any idea who might have murdered Mr Butterfork.”
“Well, there’s a question.”
“You knew him well, didn’t you?”
“Reasonably well, yes.”
“Mrs Hatweed told us you visited him on the day he died.”
“I did. Although I didn’t know then that he would die that day, of course.” She handed Churchill a cup of tea.
“Which was probably just as well.”
“I suppose if I’d known I could have warned him.”
“Indeed, but that’s probably not worth lamenting over.”
“How differently things could have turned out, eh?” Mrs Roseball took a seat on the settee next to Pemberley.
“Well, quite.”
“Although I suppose if I’d told him he was about to be murdered he wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”
“We’re entering the realm of pure speculation now, Mrs Roseball. Do you mind me asking why you visited Mr Butterfork that day?”
“It was to ask him about this chap.” She pointed at Theophilus, who now sat on the rug in the centre of the room, staring at Churchill. “He hadn’t been well and I was struggling to find enough money for the veterinarian fees. My income is small, you see, as there’s only so much damson jam people will buy.”
“Have you thought about adding another flavour?” Pemberley asked her.
“No.”
“Perhaps if you made another flavour people would buy that too, and then you would sell more jam?”
“Such as?”
“Anything really. Strawberry jam is usually quite popular.”
“I don’t like strawberries.”
“But other people do.”
“This is probably a discussion for another time,” interjected Churchill, who was beginning to feel a sharp pain in her abdomen as she sat squashed up on the pouffe. “Did Mr Butterfork cough up the fees for the veterinarian?”
“Yes, and a little extra, too. If it hadn’t been for Mr Butterfork, Theophilus might not have been here today!” Mrs Roseball beamed down at her pet, who continued to glare unblinkingly at Churchill.
“How wonderful that he was saved,” replied Churchill, studiously avoiding the cat’s malicious stare. “So you have no idea who could have stolen Mr Butterfork’s money and murdered him that evening?”
“No. I hope you don’t think it was me!”
“Why on earth would we think it was you, Mrs Roseball?”
“Because I’m short of money and own a gun.”
“You own a gun?”
“Yes. My late husband brought it back from the war with him.”
“And where is the gun now?”
“It’s in the writing bureau.” Mrs Roseball put down her tea, got up and walked over to the small walnut desk in the corner of the room. She opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver.
“I see,” said Churchill, nervously. “I almost wish I hadn’t asked now. Besides, the gun used in Mr Butterfork’s murder was found in the churchyard, so we know your gun wasn’t the murder weapon. You can put that back now.”
Mrs Roseball peered down at the revolver in her hand. “I don’t even know if it has any bullets in it.”
“Why not just put it back in the drawer, Mrs Roseball?”
“Do you know how to tell if it has any bullets in it?”
“There’s probably no need to determine that right now. Let’s just put it away, shall we?”
“They’ll be in the cylinder,” said Pemberley helpfully. “Does it have a fixed cylinder, a swing-out cylinder or a break-top mechanism?”
“I have no idea,” replied Mrs Roseball as she clumsily turned the gun over in her hands.
Churchill’s stomach lurched uncomfortably.
“Is there a hinged loading gate at the back of the cylinder?” asked Pemberley. “Have a look on the right-hand side.”
Mrs Roseball peered at it through her thick lenses and Churchill flinched as the barrel wafted precariously in her direction.
“Can we please just put the gun away?” she pleaded.
“I can’t see a hinged gate thingy,” said Mrs Roseball, squinting closely at it.
“Perhaps it has a break-top mechanism, then,” said Pemberley. “Or it might have a swing-out cylinder.”
“Can you please stop encouraging this, Miss Pemberley?” asked Churchill.
“If there are cartridges in the cylinder it would be best if Mrs Roseball were to remove them,” replied Pemberley.
“I think it would be best if the pistol were put back in the drawer and a gun expert were subsequently summoned to come and remove it,” said Churchill.
“I don’t want the revolver taken away,” protested Mrs Roseball. “I need it more than ever with a murderer on the loose!”
“Do you have a tea chest stuffed full of money, Mrs Roseball?”
“No.”
“Then I think you should be all right. It really is quite dangerous for you to have such a thing in your house, you know, especially when you’re not sure whether it’s loaded or not.”
“What nonsense, Mrs—”
The air was ripped apart by an ear-splitting bang. Mrs Roseball recoiled backwards, the gun clattered to the floor and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room.
“Oh, good grief!” exclaimed Mrs Roseball, clutching her chest. “What have I done?”
Pemberley sat rigid on the settee, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth hanging open.
Oswald was nowhere to be seen.
Churchill was astonished to find that she had remained seated on the pouffe. She slowly began to check each part of her body for a bullet wound. She began to breathe a little more easily when she realised there was none.
“Oh, oh,” moaned Mrs Roseball, staggering around the room, her spectacles askew. “Oh, help!” She stumbled against the wall and slid down it until she slumped onto the floor.
“I think we’re all still alive,” said Churchill with relief. “Miss Pemberley, can you hear us?”
Her assistant’s eyes sprung open. “Is it over?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s over.”
Oswald’s little head appeared from behind the settee.
“And Oswald’s still alive, too,” said Churchill. “But what about Theophilus? He was sitting on the rug just now.”
Mrs Roseball pointed to the bay window, where the black cat was hanging from one of the curtains next to Churchill, his fur as bristled as a fox’s tail.
“Well, I must say, Mrs Roseball,” said Churchill, “that’s one way to find out whether a gun is loaded or not. Where did the bullet end up?”
“There,” said Pemberley, pointing straight ahead of her at the fireplace. Churchill looked to see a hole in the wall just above the mantelpiece.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Mrs Roseball, looking aghast. She rose to her feet and dashed over to the mantelpiece, picking up a china shepherdess that was missing its head. “How am I going to explain this to Hatters?”
