Murder in Cold Mud Page 2

  “The very same,” she replied with the slightest hint of a blush.

  “Marvellous! I hoped our paths would cross sooner or later, and lo and behold they have! Colonel Slingsby, retired officer of the British Indian Army. Delighted to make your acquaintance at last, Mrs Churchill.”

  “And yours too, Colonel. Are you visiting your allotment here this afternoon?”

  “No need for an allotment, Mrs Churchill. I’ve twenty-seven acres down at Ashleigh Grange.”

  “Oh, of course.” Churchill’s face reddened further, realising that any upper-class gentleman worth his salt had stacks of acreage at his disposal. “Twenty-seven acres, eh? That must be a bind to maintain, Colonel.”

  “It is, but the staff do it all.”

  “I suppose they would. No use in one having twenty-seven acres if one doesn’t have staff.”

  “Staff are more of a bind than the acres, but there’s little use in complaining. It’s all part and parcel of the family seat.”

  “If one inherits these things there’s very little one can do about it, I suppose,” said Churchill.

  “Naturally, I was quite happy with the apartment in Chelsea, though. Wasn’t the intended heir, you see, but then the older brother went and popped his clogs, leaving no legitimate heir. The darned estate now hangs around my neck like the proverbial millstone.”

  “It ain’t all bad though, is it, Colonel, ’cause you’re president of the Compton Poppleford ’Orticultural Society, ain’t you?” said Rumbold. “And you gets to judge all the competitions. It’s thanks to this man,” Rumbold continued, turning to Churchill, “that I’ve won all them marrow competitions ’ands down for the past seven years.”

  “One of the many benefits of having friends in high places,” said Churchill with a smile.

  “The chap’s a talented gardener, Mrs Churchill. He’s earned every bit of his success,” said the Colonel. “I’ve never known a man so dedicated to his vegetabilia. Makes the acts of vandalism inflicted upon them all the more disgraceful. The culprits should be rounded up and shot at dawn.”

  “That’s rather a severe punishment for damaging a few onions, isn’t it?” asked Churchill.

  “Not a bit of it! In fact, shooting’s too good for the likes of them! This isn’t mere vandalism we’re talking about, but a sustained campaign of malevolence and vindictiveness. There’s no place for it in polite society, I say. None at all! You can make some excuses for it in the Punjab, but not in Dorset. It simply won’t do, and it ought to be stamped out at once. I’m afraid the only answer is to shoot those responsible and make an example of them in order to deter others.”

  “But what if you shoot the wrong people?” asked Pemberley.

  “Shoot the wrong people?” shouted the Colonel incredulously. “A chap never shoots the wrong people. He only shoots those who deserve it!”

  “Quite so,” said Churchill. “Have you any idea who might have been behind the attack on Mr Rumbold’s onions, Colonel?”

  “One of the rival chaps, I imagine. Sniffer Tubby or someone like that.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sniffer Tubby, I expect.”

  “Does such a person exist?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I don’t know no one called Sniffer Tubby,” said Rumbold.

  “Perhaps you could list the names of your rivals for the Colonel’s benefit,” suggested Churchill.

  “Tubby Williams, Stropper Harris, Colin Sniffer Downs and Barry Woolwell.”

  “Oh, it’ll be one of them for sure,” said Colonel Slingsby.

  “Do you know any of them personally, Colonel?” asked Churchill.

  “Not quite man to man. I know Rumbold the best because of the beard. Had a beard like that myself during the Boer War. Takes me back.”

  “So to surmise then, Colonel, you have no idea who might have carried out the attack on Mr Rumbold’s vegetables,” said Churchill.

  “One of the rivals.”

  “And can you know that with any degree of certainty?”

  “It must be, though, mustn’t it? Any fool can see that. Round them up I say.”

  “And have them shot?” asked Pemberley.

  “Good gracious no, woman! Round them up, and then only when you have found out which one did it do you shoot him. Unless all of them did it, in which case you would naturally shoot them all.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Slingsby,” said Churchill. “You’ve been most helpful. I think we’ve seen all we need to here, haven’t we, Miss Pemberley? It’s time we toddled off to continue with our next case.”

  “Do we have another case, Mrs Churchill?” asked Pemberley.

  “Yes, we do. Remember the one I told you about this morning?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “How forgetful of you, Miss Pemberley. Anyway, we need to head off now to attend to it, don’t we?” Churchill took her arm. “Come along; I’ll jog your memory on the way.”

  Chapter 3

  On returning to the office, Churchill and Pemberley found a small, round-faced woman waiting by the door.

  “Mrs Bramley?” said Pemberley. “Is something up?”

  “Oh you’re ’ere at last. I was wond’rin’ where you’d got to. The door was locked and even though I knocked at it there was no answer, so I stood ’ere for a while wond’rin’ what to do next and—”

  “We were out, Mrs Bramley,” said Churchill impatiently, “but we have returned now, so do come and join us for a cup of something hot and strengthening.”

  As Mrs Bramley removed her felt hat and sat herself in front of Churchill’s desk, Churchill hoped their visitor had an interesting case to present. She didn’t want to waste all her time trying to solve the mystery of Rumbold’s damaged onions.

  “You proberly know I own the tea rooms what’s on the ’igh street.”

  “And very fine tea rooms they are too, Mrs Bramley. I must commend you on your scones, in particular. Would you like a jam tart?” Churchill pointed to the plate on her desk, which now contained grains of soil from Mr Rumbold’s dirty hands. “On second thoughts, don’t touch those, Mrs Bramley. Miss Pemberley, would you mind fetching fresh supplies from the new baker downstairs? These jam tarts have been contaminated.”

  “I’ve just put the kettle on the ring,” said Pemberley. “Listen out for it in case I’m not back in time.”

  “What d’you think o’ the new baker?” asked Mrs Bramley. “Simpkins, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” replied Churchill. “He’s certainly more likeable than Bodkin, but his produce isn’t as well-risen. We had a very soggy batch of Eccles cakes from him yesterday.”

  “You should tell ’im.”

  “I will, but he’s quite new, isn’t he? And rather nervous and eager to please. I’ll give him some time to bed down a little, then I’ll hit him with it.”

  “I wouldn’t go ’itting ’im.”

  “I won’t actually hit him. I meant I would just tell him the hard truth. After all, Miss Pemberley and I are his biggest clients, being located, as we are, directly above his shop.”

  “I’d like to ’ave an office above a bakery.”

  “Why, Mrs Bramley? Your wonderful tea rooms are the talk of the village.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Churchill. I’ve run ’em for fifteen years and three months now, and I’ve always liked doin’ it. Keeps me outta trouble ’cause I often thinks what I’d be doin’ with me time if I weren’t runnin’ ’em, and I jus’ dunno what I’d be doin’!”

  “And how can I help you today, Mrs Bramley?” Churchill readied herself with her notebook and pen.

  “Well, everythin’ was going perfect till Mrs Cranster retired in January.”

  “Her departure caused a problem, did it?”

  “Not ’er departure, as such; it were the arrival o’ the one what replaced ’er.”

  Pemberley returned with a paper bag exuding the delicious aroma of baked goods.

  “Oh, excel
lent, Miss Pemberley!” Churchill’s stomach rumbled. “What did you get us?”

  “Custard tarts.”

  “Perfect. Just hand the bag over, will you? We don’t want to be putting them on that plate until it’s been thoroughly disinfected. Custard tart, Mrs Bramley?”

  “Thank ‘ee.”

  “So Mrs Cranster retired in January,” said Churchill, having finished a mouthful of tart. “Who’s her replacement, then?”

  “Young Kitty Flatboot from Cherrybrick Farm. ’Ave you come across the Flatboots, Mrs Churchill? There’s ’undereds of ’em. Breed like rabbits, they do. Old Mr Samuel Flatboot’s still alive, then ’e’s got ’is seven sons and each of ’ems got—”

  “The ins and outs of Mr Flatboot’s progeny are possibly superfluous, Mrs Bramley,” interrupted Churchill. “What’s the problem with Kitty Flatboot?”

  “She’s got sticky ’ands.”

  “Sticky hands?”

  “Yeah.”

  Churchill sighed. “I always despair at the way members of our lower classes fail to maintain simple habits of cleanliness.”

  “No, Mrs Churchill. Kitty washes ’er ’ands.”

  “Then why are they sticky?”

  “It’s a sayin’. Some o’ the coins in the till gets stuck to ’er ’ands, like.”

  “Is this a rare and unusual form of magnetism?”

  “I believe what Mrs Bramley is saying is that Kitty Flatboot is stealing from the till,” stated Pemberley bluntly as she placed the tea tray on the desk.

  “Is she? Well, why didn’t you just say so, Mrs Bramley?” said Churchill. “You should dismiss the girl at once!”

  “I can’t be certain as it’s ’er what’s takin’ the money.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “The only other person what uses the till is meself.”

  “In that case the thief is either Kitty or you, Mrs Bramley. And it doesn’t take a genius to rule out you because you wouldn’t steal from yourself, would you? So therefore it has to be Kitty.”

  “Yeah, ’owever I’ve never seen ’er do it.”

  “Well, the girl’s hardly going to steal money from the till while you’re watching, is she?”

  “I s’pose not. I don’t like to think it’s ’er but I know as it must be. If someone could witness ’er doin’ it I’d ’ave summat to go on.”

  “Have you confronted her about the thefts?”

  “No, I’m waitin’ till someone’s seen ’er do it.”

  “And how much do you estimate that she’s stolen from you so far?”

  “Eight pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence.”

  “That’s a significant and surprisingly precise sum of money.”

  “I’ve got to watch the pennies. I’m a widow, see.”

  “In summary then, Mrs Bramley, you would like me to conduct some surveillance on this young Kitty Flatboot in order to confirm whether she does indeed have sticky hands or not.”

  “Yes please, Mrs Churchill. I feel bad for spyin’ on the girl, but it’s me only ’ope now. She’s stealin’ from a poor widow, she is! I wonder what my Barney would say if ’e could see what was ’appenin’ to me!”

  “Barney?”

  “Me late ’usband. ’E were a treasure, ’e were. Married for forty years, we was, and never a cross word.”

  “That’s no insubstantial achievement.”

  “If only ’e could see what she’s doin’ ter me!”

  “It’s quite disgraceful,” said Churchill. “The girl has no scruples at all. We’ll sort her out, won’t we, Miss Pemberley?”

  Pemberley rolled her eyes and Churchill surmised that she was despairing over the prospect of yet another petty case.

  “Come on, Miss Pemberley, it’ll keep us out of trouble. And it’s important to do our duty on the behalf of a poor widow who’s being stolen from.”

  Pemberley looked far from convinced.

  Chapter 4

  “Look at the state of my knees,” complained Pemberley, hitching up her skirt in the office the following morning.

  “I can’t say that I often look at a lady’s knees, or anyone’s knees for that matter, Pembers, but they don’t look too bad for a lady of your years.”

  “I’m talking about the dirt on my stockings.”

  “Oh yes, they’re in quite a mess. Which soap flakes do you use? I swear by Lux. You don’t get grubby stockings with Lux.”

  “No, this happened just now! I was mown down by Inspector Mappin on his bicycle!”

  “What on earth possessed him to do that?”

  “I don’t know. He was blowing his whistle as he pedalled like the clappers along the high street, but I didn’t notice him initially because my mind was floating about elsewhere.”

  “Well, that’ll teach you, Pembers. It always pays to be aware of your surroundings. Don’t take your hat off, we’re going out.” Churchill grabbed her handbag and leapt up from her seat.

  “But I’ve only just arrived!”

  “We’ve got to go and see what Mappin’s up to. The inspector rarely moves at any speed quicker than a sloth’s pace. Something important must have happened.”

  Churchill and Pemberley left the office and marched over the cobbles, in the direction Inspector Mappin had been heading.

  “Have you noticed that our destination seems rather popular with the other people on the high street, Pembers?” said Churchill. “Seems as though everyone’s got wind of something. I wonder what could have happened.”

  After a short walk they reached the lane which led up to the allotments.

  “Perhaps someone’s attacked Mr Rumbold’s vegetables again,” said Pemberley.

  “They might well have, mightn’t they? Perhaps they cut them all up and cooked them in a summer vegetable stew. Though I can’t imagine it would pull in this much of a crowd. Look, there’s Mrs Thonnings from the haberdashery shop. I’ve never even seen the woman on her feet before. I had begun to doubt whether she possessed any.”

  “At least I wore my sensible shoes today,” said Pemberley as they bustled up the muddy lane.

  “Well done, Pembers. Now you’re prepared for anything the day throws at us.”

  Just as she finished speaking, Churchill bumped into the owner of the haberdashery shop. “Oh, I do apologise, Mrs Thonnings.” She looked up ahead to see that the lane was filled with people. “Goodness, is there some sort of blockage?”

  “It certainly appears that way,” replied Mrs Thonnings.

  “What’s happened up at the allotments?”

  “I don’t really know. I saw everyone walking in this direction and decided to follow. We’re just like a herd of sheep, aren’t we?” she said with a giggle.

  “Speak for yourself, Mrs Thonnings,” replied Churchill. “Come on, Miss Pemberley, we need to get through this throng of onlookers. Make way for Churchill’s Detective Agency!” she called out. A sea of disgruntled faces turned to glare at her. “Investigators coming through!”

  Churchill used a combination of well-positioned handbag and elbows to fight her way through the crowd.

  “No, you’re not coming through, Mrs Churchill,” said Inspector Mappin once she had battled her way to the front.

  “Good morning, my respected arm of the law!” she said cheerily, admiring his bushy brown mutton-chop whiskers. “What’s afoot?”

  “There’s been a murder,” said an old man in a tweed jacket with his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth.

  “A murder?” said Churchill, stunned. “Who? Where?”

  “Mr Williams,” replied the man. “He’s been murdered on his own allotment.”

  “Not Tubby!” said Churchill.

  “Aye, that’s him. Tubby Williams,” the man confirmed.

  Inspector Mappin rolled his eyes. “Stop giving this woman information, Mr Woolwell. I don’t want her getting herself involved.”

  “I’m a detective, Inspector Mappin,” corrected Churchill.

  “An amateur s
leuth.”

  “Who happened to be married to Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of Scotland Yard for more than forty years,” added Churchill. “I know my onions, and I know what happened to Mr Rumbold’s onions as well. Tubby Williams was the prime suspect! Where’s Mr Rumbold now?”

  “How should I know?” said Inspector Mappin.

  “You should make it your business to know. You should be rounding up suspects before they can start covering their tracks.”

  Inspector Mappin sighed. “See what you’ve started now, Woolwell?” he said. “Now Mrs Churchill is about to trample all over my case like a bull in a… on an allotment.”

  “You do say the silliest things, Inspector,” retorted Churchill. “I have no intention of causing any disruption to the investigation; however, you would be foolish to turn down my offer of help. Let’s not forget the murder I solved shortly after my arrival in Compton Poppleford, eh?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll ever allow me to forget it.”

  “Very good, Inspector, and may I also add that the chief suspect in the murder of Mr Williams just happens to be one of my clients.”

  “Suspect? What are you talking about? I only just found out there’d been a murder twenty minutes ago! It’s enough of a job keeping the crowds out of here without trying to work out who’s done it.”

  “You don’t have enough personnel, Inspector Mappin. Mr Rumbold could be on his way to the nearest port by now.”

  “I’ve got two constables coming over from Bulchford and a chief inspector is on his way from Dorchester. That will be plenty enough assistance.”

  “My trusty assistant Miss Pemberley and I are also at your service, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Churchill, but there’s no need.”

  “You’re turning away our considerable skill and expertise, Inspector Mappin.”

  “I think this lady’s got a lot to offer, Inspector,” Mr Woolwell chipped in. “Why not give ’er a go?”

  “With all due respect, Mr Woolwell, you really don’t have the first idea what this lady is like. She’d take over the police station if I gave her half a chance.”

  “No danger of that, Inspector,” replied Churchill. “It’s a rather dull and austere place. With quite a draught too, I might add.”