by Emily Organ
“And what of the men who dug the tunnel?” Pemberley asked. “Have you caught them yet?”
“Gentleman Jim appears to have paid off one of the Flatboots, who has since fled to Wales.”
“That’ll be who I saw coming out of the gallery with a wheelbarrow the other day,” said Pemberley. “I thought it a bit odd at the time.”
“I’m sure the Welsh police will catch up with him soon enough, but it’s Gentleman Jim everyone wants.”
“What a scoundrel,” replied Churchill. “And you only learnt of his true identity after the robbery?”
“Yes, and I now have a sneaking suspicion there’s a mole within the Metropolitan Police.”
“How clever!” commented Churchill.
“What’s so clever about that?”
“Well, we pride ourselves on our detective dog, but a mole operating as a police officer is something else altogether. I didn’t realise you could train them to do your job, Inspector.”
“He means a spy,” said Pemberley.
“Oh, silly me,” replied Churchill with a twinkle in her eye. “A spy in the Metropolitan Police, you say? Never!”
“I suspect that someone in the force alerted Gentleman Jim to the fact we were to be warned about him,” said Inspector Mappin. “And that prompted him to strike quickly so he could get away from here as quickly as possible. The tunnel was clearly ready to go, with just one last little bit waiting to be dug out at the right moment.”
“Since you put it like that, Inspector, it does seem rather too coincidental he carried out his plan with immediate effect after you received the telephone call.”
“Communications with colleagues in Hampshire and Wiltshire confirmed that several robberies have taken place at country houses recently. Artworks were taken, and I suspect they were the very ones Gentleman Jim used to fill his gallery.”
“Golly, what a charlatan.”
“And I think there can also be little doubt that Gentleman Jim isn’t just a robber, but also a murderer.”
A chill ran down Churchill’s spine. “Oh dear me. Do you really think so? Do you think he murdered Mr Butterfork?”
“You mean Ratface Rudgepole,” said Pemberley.
“Yes, him,” said the inspector. “It makes sense, wouldn’t you say? The men were old acquaintances from London’s criminal underworld and Rudgepole was in possession of rather a lot of money. Ill-gotten gains, I suspect. Perhaps Gentleman Jim felt he was entitled to some of it. He clearly decided to murder his former associate over it, and in a horrific manner at that.”
“And he accidentally lost his Mason’s ring in Crunkle Lane,” said Churchill. “No wonder he never tried to claim it. But then, come to think of it, I saw a ring on his hand. Perhaps he swiftly acquired another.”
“Perhaps he did,” replied the inspector. “It’s terribly disappointing to discover that the Freemasons admitted two crooks into their ranks.”
“It is indeed,” replied Churchill. “You should have checks in place for that sort of thing. I struggle to believe Percy might be capable of murder, though. If you ask me, that Fennel woman did it.”
“Cutpurse Fennel,” added Pemberley.
“I did a little probing about her,” said Inspector Mappin, “and she couldn’t have murdered Ratface Rudgepole. She had an alibi for that night.”
“Which was?”
“She was attending a literary event at the local library.”
Churchill gave a snort. “I think that would be most unlikely. It isn’t even open at that hour!”
“Not usually, no, but once a month Mrs Higginbath hosts a literary event and invites an author in to read their work.”
“Pah! Did you know about this, Miss Pemberley?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you ever mentioned it?”
“I didn’t think you would have any interest in it whatsoever, Mrs Churchill. Firstly, you don’t like Mrs Higginbath, secondly, you’re prohibited from holding a reading ticket at the library, and, thirdly, you don’t like bicycling.”
“What’s bicycling got to do with it?”
“The reading was given by Mrs Esmerelda Kitchen, who wrote a book called Scenic Bicycling Routes for Dorset Ladies.”
“How dull! I’d much rather read something by that Jane Austen lady.”
“That’s why I didn’t mention the evening at the library to you.”
“Did you attend, Miss Pemberley?”
“No, Oswald and I were busy.”
“I see. And that Fennel woman had an interest in bicycling through Dorset, did she? A woman of highly criminal character?”
“She probably attended to cultivate the image of herself as a well-heeled lady about town,” said the inspector.
“By visiting Mrs Higginbath’s library and listening to some woman drone on about bicycles?”
“It was a literary event.”
Churchill snorted again.
“The whys and the wherefores matter very little,” said Inspector Mappin. “The fact of the matter is that a number of people can vouch for Cutpurse Fennel’s presence at the literary evening. Therefore, she can’t have had anything to do with the murder of Ratface Rudgepole.”
“But she had a hand in burying their ill-gotten gains in the churchyard, didn’t she?”
“It certainly seems that way. But all this can only mean that Gentleman Jim Snareskin is the murderer.”
“Golly, what a thought. There’s no doubt the man is a miscreant and a dastard, but a murderer?”
Churchill returned to her cottage that evening to find an envelope lying on her doormat. As she picked it up to examine the sloped black handwriting, she saw that the letter bore a postmark from Andover.
Inside was a short note:
My dear Mrs Annabel Churchill,
I know you won’t ever forgive me, but I’m so terribly sorry.
Gentleman Jim (‘Percy’)
Chapter 35
A gaggle of gossiping locals gathered outside the bakery for a confab the following morning. Churchill spotted the red hair of Mrs Thonnings, the bespectacled Mrs Roseball and the large form of Mrs Hatweed, among others.
“I’m still in total disbelief about the news,” Churchill heard Mrs Hatweed say. “To me he was, and always will be, Mr Butterfork. Alf ‘Ratface’ Rudgepole sounds so terribly wrong.”
“I can’t understand the rat face bit at all,” added Mrs Roseball. “He didn’t have a face like a rat at all, did he?”
“Perhaps he did when he was younger,” suggested Mrs Thonnings. “Ah, good morning, Mrs Churchill! We’re just discussing recent events.”
“So I hear.”
“Did he finish painting your picture before he took off?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“What a shame.”
“He didn’t really start it, if truth be told.”
“Oh dear. He must have been one of those slow painters, like Vermeer,” commented Mrs Hatweed. “It took him ages to finish his paintings.”
“He wasn’t a painter, though, was he?” said Mrs Strawbanks, joining the group. “He was pretending all along. Those paintings he claimed were his handiwork in that spartan place he called a gallery weren’t his at all! They were probably stolen, if you ask me. He and Butterfork had us all fooled, didn’t they? Are you all right, Mrs Churchill? You don’t seem your usual self today.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Mr Pickwick’s note had left Churchill in a thoughtful mood. The events and conversations of the past few weeks had begun to blend together in her mind. She tried to figure out whether there was something she had missed and came to the conclusion that there was. She eyed the display in the bakery window.
“A few fruit buns will see me right,” she added.
“Let me treat you, Mrs Churchill,” said Mrs Thonnings. “You’ve had a difficult few days.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs Thonnings, thank you.”
The two ladies walked into
the bakery together.
“This must all have come as a terrible shock. After all, you were quite friendly with Mr Pickwick, weren’t you? Really quite friendly. I suppose we should call him James Snareskin now. Or Gentleman Jim. Funny how he has so many names, isn’t it? I only hope they can find and arrest him on the road to London. It’s dreadful to think of all the terrible things he’s done—”
“Mrs Fingle!” interrupted Churchill. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mrs Thonnings?”
The haberdasher considered this for a moment. “The lady who fell into the river?”
“That’s what I heard. She drowned during a midnight swim, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, we were all very sad to hear about that, especially as it was the first time she’d ever gone for a midnight swim.”
“Was she on her own?”
“Yes. If someone had been with her they’d have pulled her out, wouldn’t they?”
Churchill began rearranging the incident board as soon as she returned to the office with the fruit buns.
“What are you doing, Mrs Churchill?” asked Pemberley. “The case is solved.”
“No it isn’t,” she retorted. “It’s all been muddled, that’s what. Did Atkins ever investigate the death of Mrs Fingle?”
“I think he considered it, yes, but there was no case to answer for, as the inquest recorded it as an accidental death.”
“Did he create a file?”
“He probably did, yes. He created a file for everything, which is why we have so many filing cabinets in here. Let me see if I can find it.” She got up from her desk and wandered over to the cabinets. “What did you find in the bakery?”
“Fruit buns.”
“And you haven’t even sampled one yet? Are you all right, Mrs Churchill? You seem a little out of sorts.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She paused beside the incident board. “I really am. I received something in the post yesterday.” Churchill walked over to her handbag, which she had placed on her desk, and pulled out Gentleman Jim’s letter. She handed it to Pemberley.
“Gosh,” said her assistant once she had read it. “I wonder why that stinker sent you this?”
“I think he must be feeling a little regretful.”
“He’s only got himself to blame.”
“Well yes, he has.”
“Odd that he feels the need to apologise for pretending to paint you when he’s quite happy to go around shooting people dead and stealing their money.”
“That’s just it, Pembers. This letter suggests the chap has some sort of conscience. There’s no doubt he’s a scoundrel, a fraudster and a good-for-nothing rogue, but he does seem to feel a tiny measure of guilt for fooling me.”
“You mustn’t make excuses for him, Mrs Churchill.”
“Oh, I’m not, and if I ever see the man again I’ll pick that useless portrait up and wrap it round his neck. But I just can’t see him being a murderer.”
“What are you basing that on, Mrs Churchill? A hunch?”
“Yes.” Churchill went back to her handbag and looped it over her wrist. “While you’re busy digging out Mrs Fingle’s file, Pembers, I must pay someone a quick visit.”
“Pay whom a visit?”
“Mrs Harris.”
“Why on earth would you need to visit Mrs Harris?”
“I’ve just remembered something from the summer fete.”
“What about the fruit buns?” Pemberley asked as Churchill headed toward the door.
“Oh, you have them, Pembers.”
Churchill returned to the office a short while later with a bag of chocolate eclairs.
“If I’d known you were coming back with those, I wouldn’t have eaten the fruit buns,” said Pemberley bitterly. “I’m full up now. How was Mrs Harris?”
“Interesting.”
“In what sense?”
“I’ll explain shortly.” Churchill took a seat at her desk. “Thank you for fetching me Mrs Fingle’s file. I’ll have a read through while I eat these eclairs.”
“With a drop of tea, perhaps?”
“That’ll do very nicely, indeed, thank you.”
Churchill spent a busy hour examining Mr Atkins’s notes and sketches in Mrs Fingle’s case file. Then she sat back in her chair and ruminated, surreptitiously dropping half an eclair onto the floor for Oswald as she did so.
“He’s not allowed chocolate eclairs, Mrs Churchill.”
“Who said I gave him an eclair?”
“No one. I just know that you did.”
“Even though you’re sitting over on the other side of the room?”
“I have an eye for these things.”
“I understand Mrs Fingle was Mr Butterfork’s housekeeper.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And she went for a midnight swim one winter evening.”
“Yes.”
“In winter.”
“Yes.”
“And no one thought that strange?”
“She was quite a strange lady.”
“And because she was a strange lady, everyone expected her to do strange things.”
“Yes, when you put it like that, I suppose that was the case.”
“Therefore, no one questioned her decision to go for a midnight swim in winter.”
“No, they didn’t. From the sound of things, she simply took herself off and went for it. I don’t think anyone had the opportunity to question her decision.”
“I meant afterwards. Didn’t anyone think it odd after the event?”
“Of course they did, but—”
“But she was a strange lady, so they didn’t dwell on it. I see our conversation has come full circle.” Churchill bit into another eclair and gave this some further thought. “I suppose a strange person would be an easy target for someone who wished to cause mischief.”
“To Mrs Fingle?”
“Indeed. Someone may have deliberately caused her harm.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound like Atkins.”
“Good. I can see from the file that my predecessor spent a bit of time on this case but was met with general indifference. Someone with malicious intent exploited the fact that Mrs Fingle was considered rather strange.”
“But whom?”
“Whom indeed. That’s the question I’ve been asking myself.”
“Do you think someone pushed her into the river?”
“It’s a distinct possibility. There’s no evidence to say they didn’t.”
“Or to say they did. And besides, there was no motive.”
“Ah, but I think there was a motive.”
“Really? Atkins couldn’t find one. That’s one of the main reasons why he abandoned the case in the end.”
“Well, I think I may have found one, but I’ll be more certain after I’ve spoken to an old, old friend.”
“And who might that be?”
“A retired detective superintendent named DS Dickie Harlow who worked for many years with the esteemed Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of the Metropolitan Police.”
“He worked in London?”
“Yes.”
“Then what would he know of Mrs Fingle?”
“Hopefully a little more than you might think, Pembers.” Churchill rummaged around in her handbag for her address book. “I shall telephone him to find out.”
Chapter 36
“Dickie’s agreed to make a few enquiries for me,” said Churchill as she replaced the telephone receiver.
“About what?”
“A few pertinent matters, including the Great Plumstead Bank Heist,” replied Churchill. “Gentleman Jim was also involved in that, apparently.”
“Goodness! He’s been up to all sorts, hasn’t he?”
“He certainly has, and by the sound of things a number of police forces from around the country would like to speak to him. I suppose I should show Inspector Mappin the letter he sent me, he’ll be interested to see that it was posted in Ando
ver.”
“He’ll already have moved on from there.”
“I’m sure he will have, but I’d better share it with the local constabulary all the same. Would you care to join me, Pembers?”
They found Inspector Mappin at his desk, which was decorated with a vase of pink chrysanthemums.
“They’ve lasted well, Inspector.”
“They have, Mrs Churchill. I’ve grown quite accustomed to them now; so much so that Mrs Mappin has promised me a new bunch when these are past it.”
“How lovely. We’re here because I thought you might like to see this note I received from the fugitive. You’ll be interested to see it because the postmark confirms he was recently in Andover.”
“Very interesting,” said the inspector as he first examined the envelope and then the letter. “I’ll let the Hampshire and Metropolitan police forces know. Would you like this back, Mrs Churchill?”
“No thank you. You can keep it.”
“While you’re here, you might be interested to hear about a few developments in the case.”
“Oh yes. What might they be?”
“We’ve been searching Gentleman Jim’s accommodation above the gallery.”
“Above the gallery? But he told me he lived in a house near Triddledon Lane, and that he had a summerhouse in the grounds that he used as a studio. Oh, wait…”
“Lying again,” Pemberley piped up.
“Indeed.”
“He was living above that place he called a gallery,” continued Inspector Mappin, “presumably to enable the gang to keep working on their tunnel at night-time. Anyway, I’m pleased to say that Constable Dawkins found a dark grey overcoat with a hole in it during the search. The hole appears to have been snagged on something; no doubt the piece of hawthorn in the churchyard. We’ve compared it with the piece of snagged fabric you found in the churchyard.”
“Miss Pemberley found it, actually.”
“Oh yes. Thank you, Miss Pemberley. We found that the snagged piece of fabric matches the overcoat exactly.”
“Oh goodness, really?”
“It’s not terribly surprising, is it?” commented Pemberley.
