Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Page 2

  “You can’t just buy a detective agency and call yourself a detective, you know. It takes a special set of skills.”

  “I said shoo.”

  “Do you have a special set of skills?”

  “I do indeed. I was married for many years to Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of Scotland Yard.”

  “Were you indeed? Are you a widow or did he divorce you?”

  “I’m a widow.”

  “Any children?”

  “I’m sorry, but who did you say you are?”

  The woman laughed. “I didn’t, but everyone knows me, don’t they Miss Pemberley? I’m Mrs Furzgate. I’m the self-proclaimed village gossip!”

  “And I’m a self-proclaimed private detective.” Churchill strode over to Mrs Furzgate, spun her round by the shoulders and guided her toward the glass door that led to the staircase.

  “I knew it! You don’t have any qualifications after all!” Mrs Furzgate cried. “Are you the woman who’s renting the cottage by Fernworthy Farm? I heard a Londoner was moving in there.”

  “I am not a Londoner. I’ll have you know that I hail from the Home Counties. Goodbye, Mrs Furzgate. So lovely to meet you.”

  Mrs Furzgate stumbled down the first few steps but managed to regain her balance about halfway down.

  “You pushed me!” she called back up the stairs.

  “I won’t hear a word of it. Goodbye, Mrs Furzgate!” Churchill grinned widely and waved.

  “I could have broken my neck!”

  “Shame she didn’t, isn’t it?” said Churchill to Pemberley, closing the glass door firmly behind her. “Do people often just walk in from the street?”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. Mr Atkins used to call it walk-in business.”

  “In other words, just about anyone can walk in.”

  “Yes. Some of the best work comes in that way.”

  “Does it indeed?” Churchill sat herself behind her desk and picked up a custard tart. “So I suppose we just sit here and wait for the work to walk in. Did Atkins do that?”

  “Mr Atkins didn’t have to wait for work; he was always busy. He had an extensive client base.”

  “Did he now? Where did he get that from?”

  “He built it up over many, many years.”

  “I suppose he must have. Never mind, we all have to start somewhere. I’m sure his early days were quiet.”

  “Actually, they weren’t.”

  Churchill polished off her tart. “Perhaps if you have some time before the end of the day, Miss Pemberley, you could peel Atkins’ name off the glass door.”

  Chapter 3

  “How do you find the cottage you’re renting?” Pemberley asked Churchill soon after she arrived at the office the following morning.

  “Rather rustic. And terribly draughty. It’s quite an exposed location up on the hill by the farm, isn’t it?” Churchill placed her hat on the hat stand and smoothed her silver, lacquered hair.

  “It is quite exposed, but old Mrs Drumhead, the farmer’s mother, loved it there. She was born and died in that cottage.”

  “Died in it? Recently?”

  “About two months ago. Probably in the very bed you slept in last night. There’s only one bed, isn’t there?”

  “I believe so.” Churchill shuddered and marched over to the filing cabinet. “What’s in here?” she asked, pulling open a drawer.

  “All of Mr Atkins’ cases.”

  “Is that so? They should make for an interesting peruse then. I shall begin with A,” she said, pulling out the first paper file. “‘The case of Mr Aardvark’. Is there really someone called Mr Aardvark, Pemberley?”

  “There was.”

  “Oh, I see. He is with us no longer, then?’

  “That’s why Mr Atkins worked on the case.”

  “A serious one, was it? Murder?”

  “I think it was a little more complicated than that.”

  “How so?”

  “The file will explain everything. Mr Atkins kept exceptionally detailed records.”

  “Well, he would have. It’s the first rule we private detectives must follow. Always keep detailed records.”

  Churchill read the file while Pemberley made a pot of tea. She soon found herself gripped by a story of love, betrayal and shadowy underworld figures.

  “Goodness,” she said as Pemberley placed a cup of tea on her desk. “Old Aardvark diced with death, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, and he ended up dead.”

  “Are you familiar with all the cases in these filing cabinets, Pemberley?”

  “Most of them, I think.”

  “You must have an encyclopic brain.”

  “Encyclopaedic.”

  “That’s what I meant to say, only my tongue was on the wrong side of my teeth.”

  She sipped at her tea and decided that beneath the bird’s nest hair of her new secretary lay a half-decent brain.

  “Where do you live, Pemberley?” she asked.

  “Froxfield Row.”

  “Where’s that, then?”

  “At the end of Muckleford Lane.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Do you know St Gabriel’s?”

  “No.”

  “Well it’s just past there, second on the left. It’s what we locals call ‘The Mulberrys’.”

  “What we need in here, Pemberley, is a map. We could put it up on the wall, and then I could use it to acquaint myself with the area. I’m surprised Atkins didn’t have one.”

  “He did.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he had it on the wall right there.” Pemberley pointed to a large rectangle where the wallpaper was slightly darker. “He used to put pins in it and attach them to pieces of string that connected up photographs, notes and other useful pieces of information.”

  “So where is it now?”

  “His widow requested it.”

  “Another thing that went to the widow, eh? I think the map should have counted as one of the fixtures and fittings.” Churchill sipped at her tea. “This drink demands some sort of accompaniment. I wonder if Bodkin has something tasty downstairs for elevenses.”

  Churchill’s stomach grumbled as she walked into the bakery, the broad variety of delicious-smelling buns and cakes left her quite spoilt for choice. She was surprised to see a cricket bat hanging on the wall behind the counter, and as she glanced around she noticed several other cricketing items on display: bails, stumps, balls and various bats.

  “I see you’re a cricketing fan, Mr Bodkin.”

  “Not me.”

  “So why all the cricket paraphernalia?”

  “I was joking. Yes, I used to be a bit of a cricketer.”

  “How amusing. Bowler or batsman?”

  “Batsman, of course. See this bat on the wall behind me? It belonged to none other than Freddie Carnegie-Bannerman. He used it during our tour of Australia in 1907 and 1908. Unfortunately, we lost the Ashes four to one.”

  Churchill tutted. ‘Typical.”

  “But the bat’s worth a fair few bob. He signed his name on the back.”

  “Good old Freddie whatshisname. Please may I purchase six currant buns?”

  “Of course. That comes to sixpence.” He placed the buns into a paper bag and handed it to her.

  Churchill laughed awkwardly. “But I’m your new neighbour, Mr Bodkin. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Must neighbours pay for your goods?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Can we negotiate?”

  Back in the office, Churchill held the bag of currant buns under Pemberley’s nose. “Have a bun and get some meat on those bones.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Pemberley helped herself from the bag. “I can eat all I want, and for some reason I never put on weight.”

  Churchill flinched at this comment. “Well, what seems a blessing when you’re young can become a shortcoming as you grow older,” she retorted. “I think a bit
of extra padding gives an older woman gravitas. Never underestimate the power of an imposing bosom.” She sat back behind her desk and took a currant bun from the bag. “I’ve got us a reduced rate with Bodkin. Next time you’re in his bakery, Pemberley, quote him the acronym CDA and he’ll give you a fifth off the price.”

  “What does CDA stand for?”

  “Churchill’s Detective Agency!”

  “Of course, silly me. That reminds me that you asked me to remove Atkins’ name from the glass door. I shall do that after my bun.”

  Churchill opened the next file; the case of Mr and Mrs Abrahams.

  “Compton Poppleford must be very different from London,” said Pemberley. “Do you miss it?”

  “In some respects. But I was growing rather tired of the London lifestyle; all those bridge parties, the opera, the theatre, restaurants, dinner parties and the suchlike. There’s only so much one can do before one finds oneself yearning for something rather different.”

  And what a difference it was too, Churchill thought to herself. She had spent the previous evening making a draught-excluding sausage out of a pair of old stockings. There wasn’t a door or window in the entire cottage that fitted properly.

  Pemberley used a scissor blade to chip away at Atkins’ name on the glass door, while Churchill read his case files, which allowed the next few hours to slip by agreeably. The more she read the more she realised what a place of scandal and depravity Compton Poppleford was.

  “There’s no need for me to join the local library here, Pemberley. Instead of borrowing books from the mystery section I can simply read Atkins’ cases. There’s one here where ten strangers were summoned to an island and then summarily bumped off one by one!”

  “I remember it well,” said Pemberley, nursing a cut on her finger. “It was a tricky one for Mr Atkins to solve.”

  “He must have been quite the sleuth.”

  “He was.”

  Churchill noticed, with alarm, that Pemberley’s lower lip was beginning to wobble. She had seen this occur before when Atkins’ name had been mentioned. “Shall we have another cup of tea?” she suggested brightly.

  Then she heard the downstairs door creak open, followed by footsteps on the stairs.

  “Wait a moment, Pemberley, I think we have a client! Do you hear that?”

  The footsteps neared the top of the staircase.

  “Excellent,” said Churchill, rubbing the palms of her hands together. Having read through a number of Atkins’ cases she felt well prepared for a sordid case that had left the police baffled. “Quick, close the door so our visitor can knock on it!”

  Pemberley did as Churchill asked, and the visitor almost immediately knocked at the door.

  “Come in!” said Churchill in a sing-song voice.

  The door swung open and a bewildered-looking man wearing a brown woollen suit shuffled into the room with his hat in his hand.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” sang Churchill. The man gave her a nod before walking over to Pemberley’s desk.

  “Is this the detective agency?” he asked. “I need some help.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Pemberley. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, you see it’s about—“

  “Excuse me!” called out Churchill. “Over here. Hello!” She waved at the mystified man. “I’m the detective!”

  “Oh, I thought you were the secretary,” he replied, shuffling over to her desk.

  Churchill forced a smile. “Sit down, then. What can I do for you?”

  The man took a seat. “Well, you see, it’s about—“

  “Excuse me just a moment while I prepare a file.” Churchill gathered some papers into a pile and clipped them together. “A detective must keep exceptionally detailed records, you understand. Your name please?”

  “Mr Albert Greenstone.”

  “And before we start, can I ask how you heard about my detective agency?”

  “It’s yours, is it? What happened to Atkins?”

  “He passed away, Mr Greenstone.”

  “Did he? How?”

  “He was eaten by a crocodile on the Zambezi River.”

  “That’s in Africa, isn’t it? What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know the full details, but I believe he was holidaying in the region at the time.” Churchill heard a stifled sob from Pemberley. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she whispered to Mr Greenstone. “Miss Pemberley is still terribly upset about the whole affair.”

  “I see. Well, I suppose it is rather upsetting. No one wants to be eaten by a crocodile, do they?”

  “Quite.”

  “Or any other reptile for that matter.”

  “Or indeed eaten at all. It can’t be a nice way to go. How can I help you, Mr Greenstone?”

  “I’ve come to see a detective about a spot of trouble I’m having.”

  “With what?”

  “My cat.”

  Churchill felt her heart sink.

  “Is it lost?”

  “No, not lost. But I think someone else is feeding him. He goes out, you see, and he seems to be gone a long time, and then when he eventually comes back he just goes straight to sleep.”

  “Reminds me of my late husband!” laughed Churchill.

  Mr Greenstone looked even more baffled. “He’s not a human being, though. He’s a cat. And when he comes home and goes straight to sleep he sleeps for a number of hours, and when he wakes up he only eats about half his food. And then he goes out again.”

  “What is your cat’s name, Mr Greenstone?”

  “Zeppelin.”

  Churchill wrote this down. “Quite Teutonic.”

  “A what now?”

  “It doesn’t matter. May I suggest, Mr Greenstone, that Zeppelin is displaying what I’d describe as normal cat behaviour? They’re not particularly affectionate creatures, are they? In fact, they’re often quite selfish and ungrateful, and treat your house as if it were some sort of cat hotel.”

  “But he hasn’t always been like this. He used to hang around with me a lot more and eat all his food. And he looks at me differently these days, as if something’s changed between us. I can’t put my finger on when exactly it happened. Perhaps it was the middle of last year, or perhaps it was before then, but—”

  “It doesn’t really matter when. What exactly would you like me to do about it, Mr Greenstone?”

  “I want you to find out who’s feeding him.”

  Churchill sighed. Was this really to be Churchill Detective Agency’s first case?

  She grew significantly more interested when Mr Greenstone pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

  “I don’t know what your fee is, but if I give you ten pounds now will that cover it?”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Greenstone. That will indeed cover a few personal expenses.”

  Chapter 4

  Churchill’s investigation into Zeppelin’s alleged infidelity began in earnest the following day. She stood beneath her umbrella and watched the cat staring back at her from under a large hydrangea in Mr Greenstone’s front garden. Zeppelin was large and grey with blue sombre eyes.

  “Show me where you go, kitty cat,” she said for the fourth time. “Come on, I don’t have all day.”

  The dispiriting reality was that Churchill did have all day. As she listened to the raindrops drumming down on her umbrella she wondered what she would have been doing at this moment had she continued her life in London. She would probably have taken in a little exhibition at the Royal Academy followed by a spot of lunch at a favourite French eatery of hers in Old Bond Street.

  Churchill refused to allow the word ‘regret’ to enter her mind. Regret is for the feeble-minded, she told herself. Besides, mundane tasks such as watching a cat shelter from the rain under a bush are character-building. They are a test of the human spirit. Weaker individuals would have given up on Zeppelin after an hour or two, but she was nowhere near to giving up: she had only just started. Few people could have matched her dete
rmination.

  She wondered whether Atkins had been expected to follow cats about. She hadn’t come across any similar cases in his files. Perhaps he had only documented the more exciting cases: the blackmail, kidnappings and murder. She had all that to look forward to, of course; Zeppelin was merely her apprenticeship. He was breaking her into the work of a detective gently. In fact, she was grateful to him for this simple induction.

  But where on earth had the feline gone?

  He was no longer beneath the hydrangea.

  “Pussy cat?” she called out. There was no reply.

  “Zeppelin!”

  He had slipped away. Stealthy and unseen.

  “Silly puss,” she muttered to herself as she marched across Mr Greenstone’s lawn. Her heels sunk into the grass and she wished she’d had the sense to put on her stout walking shoes.

  “Kitty?”

  She rummaged about in the hydrangea and then in the neighbouring laurel. Nearby was a flattened patch of dahlias, which she deduced was almost certainly Zeppelin’s favourite sleeping spot on a sunny day.

  Only it wasn’t a sunny day. Churchill’s stockings were soaking up water in the flowerbed and then her umbrella got caught up in a climbing rose. She wrenched it free, showering herself with confetti-like rose petals. The effect might have been quite pleasing had she not been in a frightful temper.

  “Zeppelin!” she barked.

  Now her first case wasn’t going to plan at all. She could see the trap she had allowed herself to fall into: the supposed simplicity of the case had caused her to become complacent. She had underestimated her target and was paying the price.

  She stomped into the middle of the lawn, realising that Zeppelin might have travelled off in just about any direction he fancied from here. It was futile trying to second-guess him.

  It was then that she noticed a pair of eyes staring out at her from the window. Two blue, sombre eyes set in a grey, fluffy face.

  Zeppelin was sitting on the windowsill inside his house.

  “How did you get in there?” she shouted at the animal. She shook her fist at him, but he appeared unperturbed.

  Churchill marched up to Mr Greenstone’s door and hammered the knocker up and down until he answered.