Murder in Cold Mud Page 3

  “Do excuse me,” said the inspector. “I have a murder case to solve.”

  “Very well. Come along, Miss Pemberley, we’re not wanted here. Miss Pemberley? Where’ve you got to?” Churchill looked around but could see no sign of her trusty assistant.

  “Have you seen Miss Pemberley?” she asked Mr Woolwell.

  “The old, thin woman with spectacles and straggly hair?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “How mysterious. I could have sworn she was standing just behind me.”

  Chapter 5

  Assuming Pemberley had returned to the office, Churchill pushed her way back through the crowd and began walking back down the lane toward the high street. Was it possible that Tubby Williams had been murdered by Mr Rumbold in revenge for the attack on his onions? she wondered. It seemed a rather heavy-handed response, but perhaps all the tit for tat had escalated out of control.

  The door to the office was still locked, suggesting that Pemberley hadn’t yet turned up there. Churchill retrieved the key from her handbag, unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. On the floor lay a folded piece of paper. She picked it up, unfolded it and read the scrawled handwriting:

  Forget about onions, problem now resolved.

  Mr Rumbold

  Churchill gasped. Surely this counted as a confession from Mr Rumbold? She scurried up the narrow staircase to the office in the hope that Pemberley would somehow be present, but there was no sign of her. Churchill filled the kettle, placed it on the gas ring and sat down to reread Mr Rumbold’s short note.

  Problem now resolved.

  He was guilty! And what’s more, he was probably at Weymouth already, embarking on a ship bound for the continent.

  Churchill got up from her chair and paced the floor. Then she glanced at the telephone on Pemberley’s desk and wondered whether there was someone she should telephone about this unexpected turn of events. She realised Inspector Mappin would still be at the allotment, so there was no use trying to contact him.

  What should she do?

  At that moment the glass door opened and Pemberley stepped in.

  “Oh, Pembers! How I’ve missed you!” Churchill waved the note at her secretary. “Read this! It’s a confession from Rumbold, and he’s on a ship bound for France!”

  Pemberley frowned, took the note and read it.

  “Confession?” she said quizzically. “This isn’t a confession. It merely states that we should forget about the onions as the problem is now resolved. I assume the problem he refers to here is Tubby Williams.”

  “Of course it is,” said Churchill, snatching back the note. “And Rumbold murdered him!”

  “Mrs Churchill, it’s quite unlike you to leap to conclusions. The note doesn’t really tell us anything other than Mr Rumbold is aware of Mr Williams’s death.”

  Churchill took a deep breath. “You’re right. I think I’ve overexcited myself this morning, and Inspector Mappin was so terribly rude. Rudeness sits most uncomfortably with me, Pembers. It puts me utterly out of sorts.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean that Rumbold is innocent, though,” said Pemberley. “Why would he put a note through our door to tell us the problem is resolved?”

  “Exactly!” said Churchill. “He’s up to something, isn’t he?”

  “He might not be.”

  “But he might. I think we need to ask him, Pembers. That’s the only way to set the matter straight. It’ll be some time before Inspector Mappin gets to him, that’s for sure. But what if he’s already on his way to France?”

  “Why are you so convinced he’s heading there?”

  “We’re only spitting distance from the south coast, aren’t we?”

  “I see what you mean. He could have caught the train from Dorchester to Weymouth by now, couldn’t he?”

  “He could have, though we’re overlooking the fact that the branch line to Dorchester takes about three days.”

  “How long?!”

  “It’s actually only about forty-five minutes, Pembers, but it feels like three days on those hard seats.”

  Pemberley checked her watch. “It’s half-past nine, which means Rumbold could feasibly be on the boat to France by now.”

  “I knew it!”

  “He could have arrived at Weymouth by nine, having reached Dorchester at about eight or eight thirty. I don’t know what time the first branch line train is, but he may have driven to Dorchester instead.”

  “Yes, of course he could have! Perhaps he left his motor car at Dorchester station,” said Churchill.

  “Only I’m not sure Mr Rumbold has a motor car. He doesn’t really look like the car-owning type, does he?”

  “No, but we’ll need to find out. And we need to find out quickly, because someone’s going to have to chase him across the English Channel. Where does he live? Is he married?”

  “I’m sure he lives in Spitalduck Lane, but I don’t know which house, and I’m not sure about his marital status.”

  “I’m guessing he’s a bachelor, Pembers. I can’t imagine a wife tolerating his poor hygiene levels. Have you seen how filthy his fingernails are? I’m sure he could cultivate a row of miniature vegetables beneath them.”

  Their musings were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Do come in!” chimed Churchill.

  A dirty, bearded man walked in with his cap in his hand.

  Churchill allowed a moment to pass in order to double-check the identity of the man standing before her, having expected him to be at least halfway to the continent by this point.

  “Oh hello, Mr Rumbold,” she said eventually. “You’re here.”

  “You seem surprised, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Surprised? Me? No, I’m never surprised. Oh dear, what’s that awful smell? It smells like something’s burning.”

  “It smells like someone put the kettle on the gas ring and then forgot about it,” said Pemberley, leaving the room to investigate.

  “Thank you for your note, Mr Rumbold,” said Churchill, taking a seat behind her desk. “It was most… er, informative.”

  “I’m glad to ’ear you’ve read it, Mrs Churchill. In light of what we spoke about yesterday I didn’t want you ter go investigatin’ poor Tubby Williams when ’e’s already dead.”

  “It’s terrible news. There was a great kerfuffle at the allotments this morning.”

  “It’s taken me by shock, it really ’as.” Mr Rumbold slumped down into the chair opposite her. “It’s no secret me an’ ’im was rivals, but I loved ’im like ’e was me own brother, I really did. You can ask the wife. She knows ’ow much affection I ’ad fer the man. He proberly speared me onions an’ I might of slashed ’is gourds, an’ that ain’t even the ’alf of it. But we shared the same great love, an’ that were vegetables. We loved growin’ ’em, an’ the world’s a sadder place today without ’im.”

  A tear trickled down Mr Rumbold’s grimy cheek leaving a trail of clean skin. Churchill felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

  “Miss Pemberley, could you make some tea for us all, please?” she called out.

  “I would do, Mrs Churchill, if someone hadn’t burnt the bottom off the kettle.”

  “Oh dear. Has someone?”

  Churchill opened one of the drawers in her desk, exposing a paper bag filled with enticing treats.

  “Would you like an emergency chocolate eclair, Mr Rumbold?”

  “No thank’ee, Mrs Churchill. I’ve lost me appetite for today.”

  Churchill continued to look down at the bag, wondering whether it would be disrespectful to snaffle an emergency eclair herself. She thought better of it and reluctantly closed the drawer.

  “When did you hear about Mr Williams’s sad demise?” she asked Mr Rumbold.

  “Stropper Harris come round this mornin’ while I was eatin’ me eggs on toast. ’E was the one what found ’im.”

  “Goodness! Mr Harris discovered the body?”

  “Yep.”
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  “And when did you last see Mr Williams?”

  “I think I was proberly the last person to see ’im alive,” sniffed Rumbold. “It were yesterday evenin’ at the allotments.”

  “The last person to see him alive? Gosh.” Churchill tried to calm the theories that were thrashing about wildly in her brain. “And what time might that have been?”

  “It’d just got dark when I decided to go ’ome. We was the last two up there. After that I went to the Pig and Scythe for a few, then I went back an’ it were just ’im ’angin’ around.”

  “Did you converse with one another?”

  “Oh yeah, we was conversin’ an’ that.”

  “About vegetables?”

  “Of sorts. It was more o’ the usual accusin’, like. I was tellin’ ’im I was gonna ’ave me revenge on ‘is cabbages, an’ ’e was goadin’ me, sayin’ as ’e knew where me secret marrows was.”

  “Oh dear. Not a particularly friendly conversation, then?”

  “I don’t see it like that; it’s jus’ ’ow it was. Like I said, I loved ’im like me brother. Then I went off ’ome an’ he proberly stayed there guardin’ ’is veg like he did some nights, an’ then the murderer’s gone up an’ shot ’im.”

  “He was shot, was he?”

  “Yep.”

  “And how did you come to know that?”

  “Stropper told me.”

  “And how does Mr Stropper know that?”

  “’E found ’im, Mrs Churchill. ’E seen him! I don’t want ter go into no details or nothin’, but ’e told me as Tubby were shot.”

  “Oh dear, that’s terrible. And to think that his murderer was likely to have been lurking around the allotments at about the same time you were there, Mr Rumbold.”

  “Yep. Well, I gotta get back to me wife now, ’cause she’s all upset an’ barricadin’ the door so as the murderer don’t get in.” He rose to his feet.

  “I think you should reassure your wife that the culprit isn’t likely to be after her.”

  “Yep, I done all that, but I’m the last one she pays any ’eed to. And to be ’onest with yer, Mrs Churchill, I’m a bit scared meself. I don’t tell the wife that ’cause it’d scare ’er even more, but there’s a murderer out there carryin’ a gun, and any one of us could be next!”

  Chapter 6

  As Mr Rumbold left, Churchill sat back in her chair and sighed.

  “I think Rumbold purposefully visited us to put us off the scent. What do you think, Pembers?”

  “But why us?” replied her assistant, holding the burned-out kettle in one hand. “We’re not even investigating the murder. That’s down to Inspector Mappin.”

  “Unfortunately it is. I have to say that if I were ever murdered the last person I’d want investigating my death is that cack-handed inspector.”

  “I managed to get a good look at the crime scene.”

  “Really, Pembers? How on earth did you manage that?”

  “I snuck up and had a peek while Inspector Mappin was single-handedly trying to control the crowd.”

  Churchill shivered. “You’re a braver woman than I am. And what did you see?”

  “I’d like to tell you over a nice cup of something, but our kettle’s ruined.”

  “So it is, Pembers. Well, come on, let’s go down to Mrs Bramley’s Tea Rooms. We can also start work on the case of Kitty’s sticky hands while we’re at it.”

  Mrs Bramley’s Tea Rooms were located in a small white building on the high street with frilly curtains adorning the bay window. Inside, a dozen tables were covered in lace tablecloths, each with a little white vase filled with pink carnations. There was just enough space for Churchill to manoeuvre herself between the tables.

  “I’d forgotten how bijou it is in here, Pemberley,” she said as she wedged herself onto a chair and knocked into the disgruntled lady sitting behind her. Churchill felt slightly irritated by the manner in which her spindly secretary was able to slip into her chair with next to no effort. “The seats of these chairs are designed for people with no fleshy parts, have you noticed that Pembers? I shan’t be able to sit here for long without something going numb. Despite the discomfort, I must say that tea rooms are my most favourite places to spend time in. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Oh look, that must be our sticky Kitty,” she gestured at a freckled girl serving tea at a nearby table. She had chubby cheeks and a prominent overbite. “Are all the Flatboots plain?”

  “I can’t say I’ve studied them in that way before,” replied Pemberley. “Having never been a beauty myself I can’t say I put much stock in looks.”

  “I must confess that I was,” said Churchill proudly.

  “A beauty?”

  “Yes! Don’t look so surprised, Pembers. My slim waist and well-turned ankles were the talk of Teddington when I was a spring chicken. Why else would Detective Chief Inspector Churchill have chosen me for his bride?”

  “Your scintillating wit and conversation?”

  “Oh yes of course, well that goes without saying. More important than the waist and ankles, really. But it’s nice to be admired, Pemberley, and important to make the most of it while it lasts, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Let’s summon this Flatboot girl and get some tea. Yoo-hoo, Kitty! Over here!”

  Kitty Flatboot scowled as she approached the table.

  “What d’yer want?” she asked sulkily.

  “Tea for two, please.”

  Kitty wrote the order in her notebook.

  “Anythin’ else?”

  “And two slices of Mrs Bramley’s delightful walnut cake as well, please.”

  Kitty Flatboot noted this down and took the order to the kitchen.

  “Well, there goes a girl with few manners,” commented Churchill. “I’m surprised Mrs Bramley chose to employ her at all.”

  “Perhaps it was because you said yoo-hoo to her.”

  “What’s wrong with yoo-hoo?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I know that I wouldn’t like someone yoo-hooing me.”

  “That’s because you’re the sensitive type, Pembers. Anyway, tell me all about the crime scene at the allotment. What did you see?”

  Pemberley shuddered. “Ugh, it was horrible.”

  “A murder scene is never pleasant.”

  “I was talking about the mud.”

  “The mud was horrible?”

  “Yes, I hate it.”

  “But you’re a country girl, Pemberley. You should be used to it.”

  “I’ve never liked mud and never will.”

  “So what about the murder scene?”

  “Tubby Williams was lying on his back in the mud next to a row of broad beans.”

  “How did you know it was him?”

  “I recognised the trousers. He always wore the same tweed trousers with leather patches on the knees.”

  “From what I’m learning about gardeners, they lack a certain sartorial elegance. And how did you know it was a row of broad beans he was lying next to?”

  “They’re not as tall as peas or runner beans; they’re quite stocky plants with those pea-like leaves.”

  “You sound like you know your beans, Pemberley. Was there any obvious sign of injury to Tubby’s body?”

  “An injury to the chest. A rather nasty injury, in fact, with quite a lot of blood.”

  “Caused by?”

  “Either a knife or a gunshot wound, I’d say.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I’m more inclined to think it was a gunshot wound because there’s usually more than one knife wound. When they have a knife they jab, jab, jab a few times don’t they? It’s because they’re not quite sure if each jab is doing the job.”

  Churchill winced. “I suppose not.”

  “But with a simple shooting, just one shot can be enough to satisfy the culprit that his victim is dead.”

  “Indeed. And a gunshot wound is consistent with what Stropper told Rumbold.�
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  “Mr Harris.”

  “No, it was Mr Stropper.”

  “His name is Stropper Harris.”

  “I see. Very well, carry on then. What else?”

  “I’d say he’d been there a while. A few hours, perhaps. Some of the blood looked quite dry and rigor mortis had begun to set in.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I poked him with a beanpole.”

  “You poked him?”

  “Only gently. And just his arm. I didn’t want to get too close.”

  “Understandable.”

  The conversation briefly paused when Kitty Flatboot arrived with their tea and cake.

  “I think he was probably murdered late yesterday evening,” said Pemberley.

  “That makes sense. The murderer could have been lurking in the allotments at that time waiting for Rumbold to go home so he could get on with the business of murdering Tubby.”

  “Unless Mr Rumbold is the murderer.”

  “And he could well be, couldn’t he? He suspected that Tubby had speared his onions, and was the last one to see him alive after a conversation in which they goaded each other about harming one another’s vegetables. And he put that strange note through our letterbox.”

  “But he claims to love him like a brother.”

  “I have two words for you, Pembers. Cain and Abel.”

  “That’s three words.”

  “But only two people. The long and the short of what I mean is that just because someone considers another person to be like a brother, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t murder them.”

  “They’re more likely to, in fact.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “As in the case of Cain and Abel.”

  “Let’s forget I mentioned them. I think Rumbold must be considered a suspect. We can put him on our incident map when we return to the office.”

  “Does that mean we have a case now?”

  “I’d say that we do, wouldn’t you?”

  “But isn’t it actually Inspector Mappin’s case?”