Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Read online

  Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

  A Churchill & Pemberley Mystery Book 1

  Emily Organ

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  The End

  Thank you

  Murder in Cold Mud

  The Penny Green Series

  Chapter 1

  Mrs Annabel Churchill stood in the cobbled high street and surveyed her new business premises in the pretty village of Compton Poppleford. One of her chubby hands clutched her handbag and the other held a bunch of pink carnations which her maid, Flossie, had tearfully presented her with at Waterloo Station. The view before her now was an enticing window display of crusty loaves and plump fruit buns which made her stomach rumble. All she had eaten that day was a soggy wedge of bread and cheese - ambitiously described as a sandwich - in the dining room at Dorchester train station.

  Churchill tore her eyes away from the baked temptations of Bodkin’s Bakery and instead turned her attention to the drab door just left of the bakery window. It bore a dull bronze sign that read: ‘Atkins’s Detective Agency’.

  “The sign will have to go,” she said to herself. “I shall replace it with a bright, shiny one bearing the name Churchill’s Detective Agency.”

  A loud honk made her startle and drop the flowers. She bent down to pick them up and turned to see the shiny fender of a red motor car a few feet from her nose.

  “What the dickens are you doing standing about in the road?” cried out the young, floppy-haired man behind the wheel.

  “I could ask the same of you!” retorted Churchill, who never liked to admit she was in the wrong.

  “But it’s a road,” shouted the driver. “For cars!”

  “And noisy, irksome things they are, too!” Churchill shook her fist at him and walked toward the drab door by the bakery window.

  She retrieved a bunch of keys from her handbag and spent some time twisting each one in the lock before realising the door wasn’t locked after all.

  “Typical estate agents,” she muttered. “Half the population of Compton Poppleford has probably been inside my office now and stripped it bare.”

  Beyond the door was a narrow wooden staircase which just about accommodated Churchill’s generously proportioned frame. She felt quite out of breath by the time she reached the glass door to the right of the small landing at the top. Stuck to the glass in tall black letters were the words, ‘Atkins’s Detective Agency’.

  “Not any more,” she said as she set about peeling away the letter A of ‘Atkins’. It was stuck fast to the glass and she only managed to chip away a small part before realising the damage she was causing her nail. Giving up on the lettering, she pushed open the door and walked briskly into the office.

  It was a capacious room which smelt pleasantly of baked bread from the bakery below. A desk stood by the window just as Mr Atkins had left it with a leather chair pulled up in front of a typewriter. A row of filing cabinets ran along one wall and a portrait of King George V hung above the fireplace.

  Churchill strode over to the desk, lay the carnations on it and tried out the leather chair for size. It was rather comfortable, and from the window she had a commanding view of the high street. She decided she liked the desk and its position, but before she could make herself too comfortable she would need a vase for her flowers.

  She got up again and began to scour the room, but there was no sign of a suitable receptacle. In the far corner of the room was a locked door, but after trying the handle Churchill decided to unlock it later with one of the numerous keys she had been given. Meanwhile, her carnations were in a critical condition after their long journey from London to Dorset.

  “I must have a vase!” she declared.

  She recalled seeing a bric-a-brac shop on the other side of the high street and figured it would only take a moment or two to purchase a vase from the establishment.

  “Are you the lady what’s bought the detective agency?” asked the man standing behind the counter. The shop smelled of beeswax polish mingled with over-boiled vegetables. Its proprietor had a large, grey moustache. He wore a tweed waistcoat with missing buttons, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed heavily tattooed arms.

  “I am indeed.”

  “I’ve ’eard as you’s come down from London.”

  “Yes, I’ve moved down here from the big smoke.”

  Compton Poppleford was clearly the sort of place where news travelled fast.

  “Why’ve you came down ’ere, then?”

  “I saw the detective agency for sale in The Times and decided the purchase of it would make for a charming little project.”

  “But why down ’ere?”

  “Well, aside from the fact that down here is where the detective agency is located, I rather fancied a change of scene, if truth be told. London is such a busy place and it begins to sap one’s energy as one nears a certain age.”

  “So you’s a detective, is you?”

  Churchill tried not to wince at the rustic accent and forced a smile instead. “I am the widow of Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of Scotland Yard. I was married to him for forty years, so there’s very little I don’t know about investigating crimes.” She glanced at the clutter around her, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it. “Do you have a vase here in your bric-a-brac shop?”

  “It’s an antiques shop,” he corrected, his moustache twitching irritably.

  “Really?” Churchill surveyed the clutter a second time. “What’s antique in here?”

  “Everythin’s antique in ’ere.”

  “I see. Would you happen to have an antique vase?”

  “Yes, there’s one of ’em in the windah.”

  Churchill stepped over to the window display and saw a blue china vase standing on top of a dusty top hat. “How much?” she asked.

  “Fifteen shillin’s.”

  “Fifteen?”

  “It’s an antique vase.”

  “Is it indeed? I see what you’re doing here, Mr…?”

  “Smallbone.”

  “I see what you’re doing here, Mr Smallbone. You think that because I’ve travelled down from London I’ll be prepared to pay London prices. That simply won’t do, Mr Smallbone. That won’t do at all.”

  “Fourteen shillin’s.”

  “What nonsense, Mr Smallbone.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Nonsense, I say. That vase is worth ten shillings at the very most. Look, it has a chip.”

  “That ain’t a chip; it’s a feature.”

>   After beating Mr Smallbone down to seven shillings, Churchill returned to her office with the vase. She marched through the glass door to rescue the limp carnations and was astounded to discover that they were already in a vase. She was even more surprised to see a thin, bespectacled woman with scruffy grey hair sitting behind the desk. Her cardigan looked as though it had once been a shade of lilac or pink.

  Uncharacteristically for Churchill, she was momentarily unable to speak. She managed to cling on to her vase, but her mouth hung open in an unseemly manner.

  “Good heavens! Who are you and where did you get that?” she said, pointing at the vase.

  “You must be the lady who bought the detective agency,” said the woman with a smile.

  “Yes, I am,” replied Churchill, plonking her vase down on the desk.

  “I’m Miss Pemberley,” replied the woman.

  “Jolly good. Can I ask what you’re doing in my chair?”

  Pemberley raised her eyebrows. “But this is my chair.”

  “What nonsense. Of course it isn’t.” Churchill puffed out her cheeks, snorted and steeled herself to drag the woman out of the chair by one of her spindly arms.

  “Perhaps Mr Atkins’ solicitor didn’t explain?” Pemberley said.

  Churchill snorted again, louder this time. “Atkins’ solicitor explained nothing whatsoever. He was the most useless solicitor I have ever had the misfortune to come across. And I’ve come across a fair few, I can tell you.”

  “I’m part of the detective agency. One of the fixtures and fittings, so to speak.”

  “Which are you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Are you a fixture or a fitting?”

  Pemberley gave this some thought. “I don’t really know. A fixture, I suppose. I hadn’t really considered it until now. Thank you for the flowers, though. They’re quite delightful.”

  “They’re my flowers! A gift from my former maid. How could I possibly have bought them for you? I didn’t even know you were here! I looked everywhere for a vase but couldn’t find one.”

  “It was on the windowsill in the water closet.”

  “Water closet?”

  Churchill glanced around the room and noticed that the door which had previously been locked now stood ajar. She strode over to the door and saw a lavatory beyond it.

  “That’s where you were when I arrived?” she asked. “In the water closet with the vase?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Didn’t you notice me trying the handle of the door? You should have shouted out to let me know you were in there!”

  “I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  “It was far more alarming to return to my office and find you sitting at my desk!”

  “My desk.”

  Churchill marched toward Pemberley, removed the flowers from the vase and placed them in the one she had just bought. Then she poured in the water.

  “There. I prefer them in the blue china vase,” she said. “It’s an antique, you know.”

  “Is that what Mr Smallbone told you?”

  “How do you know Mr Smallbone?”

  “I’ve worked in this office opposite his shop for fifteen years.”

  “Have you? Have you indeed? Good!”

  Churchill stood by the desk with her hands on her hips and considered how to manage this unforeseen pickle. Although Miss Pemberley seemed a little wet behind the ears, there was no doubt that her local knowledge would be a useful asset to Churchill’s Detective Agency. Besides, she had been planning to hire a secretary anyway.

  “Were you a secretary of some sort to the late Mr Atkins?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I was.”

  “I see. And as you’re a fixture of the detective agency you could continue to be a secretary of some sort, I suppose?”

  “Yes. That’s my understanding of the matter.”

  “Jolly good.” Churchill looked around for another chair to sit on, but there was none. “Did Mr Atkins have a desk?”

  “Yes, but his widow requested that it be returned to the family estate.” Pemberley’s voice trembled, and her eyes grew damp. She retrieved a balled-up handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and squashed it into each eye.

  “Did she now? I see. A slight inconvenience, but never mind.” Churchill gave an awkward cough and looked up at the ceiling. She felt uneasy when people displayed emotion. “I imagine Mr Smallbone will have an antique desk and an antique chair for sale. Are there any means of boiling water here? I haven’t had a cup of tea since Dorchester and the branch line from there is dreadfully slow. It would have been quicker to walk.”

  “Tea?” replied Pemberley, her face lighting up. “Yes, there’s a kettle and gas ring in the water closet.”

  Chapter 2

  After a restorative cup of tea, Churchill bought a desk and chair at a knockdown price from Mr Smallbone’s shop. She paid two boys found loitering on the high street sixpence apiece to carry the furniture up the stairs to her new office.

  Her desk was placed between the door and the fireplace, which Pemberley assured her was where Atkins’ desk had stood. When Churchill sat at her desk and glanced around the room she felt that it occupied an inferior position to Pemberley’s. She made a note to herself to broach the subject of swapping locations at a later date.

  Churchill opened her handbag and had no sooner placed her notebook and pen on the desk when a broad, bald man in white, floury overalls sauntered into the office holding a tray of baked indulgences. He had thick grey eyebrows and Churchill wondered why his hair had so readily left his head yet clung so resolutely above his eyes.

  “I’m Mr Bodkin,” he stated. “You must be Mrs Churchill.”

  “Indeed I am, Mr Bodkin. You are the proprietor of the fine establishment downstairs, I do believe.”

  “The very same,” he replied, placing the tray on her desk.

  Churchill’s mouth watered at the sight of the chocolate eclairs and custard tarts.

  “How very thoughtful of you!” she said, clapping her hands in glee.

  “You look like a lady who enjoys a cake or two,” he replied, eying her ample figure. “And these will only be thrown out otherwise. They’re too stale to sell. I often give the stale ones to the tramp who lives in the old police box by the duck pond, but I haven’t seen him for a few days. So I thought I would gift them to my new neighbour instead.”

  “Are we neighbours?” asked Churchill. “I’m on top of you. I thought neighbours were more of a side by side affair.”

  “Neighbours can be top and bottom as well,” said Pemberley as she walked over to Churchill’s desk and selected a custard tart.

  “I suppose they could be,” conceded Churchill, biting the end off an eclair. “Have you been running your bakery for long, Mr Bodkin?”

  “About thirty-seven years,” he replied. “Flour and dough are in the blood.”

  “Are they indeed? Without any adverse medical effects, I hope?”

  “Any what?”

  “I was just having a little joke with you, Mr Bodkin.”

  “Joke?”

  Churchill pushed more of the eclair into her mouth, deciding that Bodkin probably wasn’t the sort of man who laughed very often.

  “What’s going on up there?” a voice called up the stairs.

  “Oh no,” groaned Bodkin.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Churchill.

  “It’s her,” he said, his face turning pale.

  “Who’s her?”

  “I must be off,” said Bodkin, dashing into the water closet.

  “Why? Whatever’s the matter?” asked Churchill.

  “It’s Mrs Furzgate,” said Pemberley. “She’s a frightful woman; a meddler and a snoop.”

  “That’s the water closet, Mr Bodkin,” Churchill called out. “You need to take the stairs!”

  “I know where I’m going all right,” the baker called back. “There’s a fire escape leading down from the wind
ow.”

  “A fire escape? In the water closet?” asked Churchill.

  “Just outside it,” said Pemberley. “Mr Atkins had it put there in case of emergencies.”

  “What sort of emergencies?”

  “Unwanted visitors, for one.”

  Churchill might have continued her line of questioning had she not been distracted by the short, myopic woman who had appeared in the office.

  “Hello, who are you?” asked Mrs Furzgate. She wore a brown tweed coat and a floppy velvet hat.

  “I’m Miss Pemberley,” Pemberley replied.

  “I know who you are. I meant her,” said Mrs Furzgate, pointing at Churchill.

  “I’m Mrs Annabel Churchill, and I’m a private detective,” she announced proudly. “And who are you?”

  “If you were a proper detective you wouldn’t need to ask!” laughed Mrs Furzgate.

  Churchill bristled. “I find your manner impertinent. Are you a client?”

  “No, I just came up to see what was going on.”

  “Then you may leave the way you came.”

  “What qualifications do you have?” Mrs Furzgate’s thick spectacle lenses magnified her beady eyes.

  “Pardon me?”

  “To be a detective. Do you have a detective qualification?”

  Churchill curled her lip. “There’s no such thing. Now don’t let me detain you. You should be on your way.”

  “Then how can you be a detective?”

  “Quite easily. Now shoo.”