Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Read online

  “Goodness, it’s you,” he said, trembling slightly. “I thought you were going to break my door down.”

  “What’s the cat doing on your windowsill?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s probably just looking out of the window. They can do that for quite some time, can’t they? It’s a wonder they don’t get bored.”

  “I was supposed to be following him. He was out in the front garden just now.”

  “Was he? Well, he’s come in now. He doesn’t like the rain much.”

  “Neither do I,” snapped Churchill.

  She assumed the next step in the conversation would be an invitation from Mr Greenstone to join him for afternoon tea. But instead he gave her a blank stare and her empty stomach rumbled.

  “Oh, never mind, Mr Greenstone. I’ll try another day. Perhaps when it’s sunny and Zeppelin is feeling a little more adventurous.”

  Churchill arrived back at the office damp and hungry to find Pemberley wringing her hands and weeping.

  “Good heavens, woman!” said Churchill as she hung up her wet coat. “You must try to get over Atkins’ demise! He wouldn’t have wanted you sobbing about him every day. I understand it must be difficult, but you need to move on with your life. Just think how proud he would be of the way you have continued his work. The man himself may have gone, but his work lives on!” She gestured at the filing cabinets, then around the office, but noticed that Pemberley’s histrionics showed no sign of subsiding.

  “I’m not crying about Atkins,” Pemberley stuttered between sobs. “Look at this!”

  With trembling hands she held up a copy of the Compton Poppleford Gazette. The headline read: ‘TRAGEDY AT PIDDLETON HOTEL’.

  “Oh dear,” said Churchill. “What happened?”

  “It’s Mrs Furzgate,” sniffed Pemberley. “She fell down the hotel staircase and died!”

  “Cripes. The woman never was very good on staircases, was she? You saw how she almost fell down our own stairs the other day. I cannot understand why you’re so upset, Pemberley.”

  “Because she is dead!” Pemberley wiped her eyes with her saturated handkerchief.

  “But you didn’t like the woman! Don’t you remember what you said about her? Something about her being frightful, and a meddler and a snoop.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know she was going to die, did I?”

  “Would you have been more polite about her if you’d known that her demise was imminent?”

  “Yes, I think so. Sometimes you can find someone quite annoying when they’re alive, but then they die and you realise that perhaps you were being oversensitive about their personality and maybe they weren’t so bad after all. And you feel rather guilty for having been rude about them.”

  Churchill sat behind her desk with a sigh. “Grief can be a complicated emotion, Pemberley, but I wouldn’t waste your tears on that woman. Bodkin so despised her that he had to climb out of the water closet window to escape her.”

  Pemberley quietened a little. “I don’t like it when people die.”

  “Nobody does, Pembers. How about you go downstairs and fetch us a little pick-me-up from Bodkin’s shop? Perhaps he has some of that nice coffee and walnut cake in again. And don’t forget to quote our special discount.”

  Chapter 5

  TRAGEDY AT PIDDLETON HOTEL

  By Smithy Miggins

  A popular local lady has tragically died after falling down the stairs at Piddleton Hotel. Mrs Thora Furzgate, 59, had been taking afternoon tea with friends. After commenting that she needed to pay a trip to “the little girls’ room”, Mrs Furzgate lost her footing at the top of the staircase and tumbled down twenty-four steps, knocking into a valuable floor vase housing an aspidistra as she went.

  The Manager of Piddleton Hotel, Mr Bernard Crumble, said: “The vase can be mended, but tragically Mrs Furzgate cannot. The Piddleton Hotel’s thoughts and prayers are with her family and friends.”

  Local physician, Dr Sporrin, said: “I was called to Piddleton Hotel earlier this afternoon to attend to a lady who had suffered a fall down the staircase. I made every attempt to revive her but was sadly unsuccessful. It appears that she tripped over a discarded teacake, which would have resulted in little more than a few bumps and bruises when walking on the level; but when such an occurrence takes place at the top of a flight of stairs the results can be fatal, as we have seen today.”

  Mr Crumble would not be drawn on claims that a squashed teacake was seen lying near the top of the staircase shortly before and after Mrs Furzgate’s fatal fall.

  As of this morning (Thursday), friends of Mrs Furzgate remained too distressed to speak to the Gazette.

  “I suppose it is rather sad,” concluded Churchill, folding up the newspaper and placing it back on Pemberley’s desk. “But we all have to go at some time, don’t we Pemberley?” She peered out of the window. “Ah, it’s looking rather brighter out there now. I wonder if Zeppelin plans to go exploring. I should get out there and see if I can find out who’s feeding him. I’ll stop off at mine on the way to pick up my walking shoes. Will you be all right here manning the fort?”

  Pemberley nodded sadly. She seemed to Churchill a rather pathetic figure with her long, pale face, unruly hair and thin cardigan the colour of pea soup hanging from her slumped shoulders. The poor woman needed cheering up.

  “How about you come and join me in my investigation?” said Churchill brightly. “A bit of fresh air would do you the world of good.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll stay here and woman the fort.”

  “Woman?”

  “Because I am one. If I stay here then I can ensure we don’t miss any new clients who come calling.”

  “True. We need all the clients we can get, as we don’t have many at the moment. In actual fact, we have just the one. Good idea, Pembers. I’ll be back before you know it. Toodle pip!”

  As Churchill arrived at Mr Greenstone’s cottage she was pleased to see the mid-afternoon sunshine had coaxed Zeppelin outdoors again. He strode confidently down a narrow track proudly signposted Muckleford Lane.

  “Ah ha, puss. I’ve got you now!”

  Churchill followed him down the lane, which wound past another cottage, an old well and then beneath a clothes line, where a woman was pegging out her laundry.

  “Good afternoon!” Churchill said to the woman breezily.

  The cat jumped over some box hedging and strode across the front lawn of a pretty, timbered house with sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around its door.

  “This looks as though it might be the place where the mysterious cat feeder lives,” Churchill said to herself.

  She lifted her tweed skirt, stepped over the low hedge and pursued the cat. She was grateful for her stout shoes, which she had last worn on a walking holiday in the Lake District with her late husband two years prior. She rubbed a gloved hand over her eyes, which had misted for a moment, and continued on her mission.

  Zeppelin paused beneath a bird bath to lick his back foot.

  “I see what you’re up to, puss,” she said. “You’re lying in wait for a feathered friend, aren’t you? They’re not completely bird-brained, you know. They’ll keep their distance until you move on.”

  At that moment, one of the pretty house’s little mullioned windows flung open, and the angry face of a middle-aged woman appeared.

  “What d’you think you’re doing?” she shouted.

  “Sorry to intrude!” Churchill gave a conciliatory wave. “I’m carrying out an investigation.”

  “What sort of investigation?” barked the woman.

  “A private one. Mrs Churchill’s the name. I’m a private detective. I would give you a carte de visite but they’re still at the printers. I won’t keep you long.”

  “You won’t keep me at all. Get out of our garden. You’ve trampled on my geraniums!”

  “Have I? Oh, I’m sorry. Can you tell me if you’ve been feeding this cat?” She pointed at Zeppelin, who was cleaning his back with a repetiti
ve motion that looked as though it might strain his neck.

  “No. Why would I feed that mangy animal? He’s fat enough already!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little extra padding!” retorted Churchill.

  “It’s not padding. He’s fat. Now, are you going to get out of my garden or will I have to summon my husband, who just happens to be the local police inspector?”

  “Oh, there’s no need to call him. I was married to a police officer once myself. He was a detective chief inspector. Is your husband only an inspector? Not a chief inspector?”

  “You can ask him yourself when you’re locked up in a cell for trespassing.”

  Churchill laughed. “I hardly think it’s an imprisonable offence.”

  “Get away! Now!” The woman’s face was as red as the tomatoes in her perfectly maintained vegetable patch.

  Churchill glanced about and could see the woman who had been pegging out laundry quickly approaching. An embarrassing scene appeared inevitable.

  “There’s no need to raise your voice quite so much, madam. I was just going. Lovely to meet you. Goodbye!”

  She avoided the damaged geraniums and stepped carefully back over the hedge.

  “Cheerio!” she said to the other woman. “I was just leaving.” She marched as quickly as she could back to the office.

  Pemberley was fixing something to the wall when Churchill returned.

  “You got us a map, Pembers! How wonderful!”

  “I hope the scale is large enough,” said Pemberley, standing back to admire it. The map took up most of the wall next to King George V.

  “It’s perfect. Thank you,” said Churchill.

  “I got us some pins and some string so we can create a detailed incident map with all the bells and whistles. And I’ve just made a pot of tea.”

  “Pembers, I could kiss you.”

  “How was Zeppelin?”

  “I’ve managed to rule out one suspect: the wife of the local police inspector. He’s just an inspector, is he? Not a chief inspector?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always known him as Inspector Mappin.”

  “Hmm, probably not chief then, otherwise you would have heard him described as such. Mrs Mappin is rather rude, isn’t she?”

  “Is she? I’ve always found her quite pleasant.”

  “Perhaps it seemed that way because I met her under rather awkward circumstances. Anyway, we can now update our incident map to reflect the progress of our investigation. The map needs a pin to mark Zeppelin’s home. We don’t have a picture of Zeppelin to put up there yet, but I can draw a picture of a generic cat to represent him for now.”

  Churchill sat down at her desk, found a pencil and paper in the drawer to her right and began to sketch.

  “Why are you drawing a hippo?” asked Pemberley from her position beside the map.

  “It’s not a hippo. It’s a cat.”

  “Why’s it got such an enormous nose?”

  “Those are its ears!”

  “May I draw the cat?”

  “Please do.” Churchill flung the pencil and paper across her desk in the direction of Pemberley. “I’ve had a difficult day. Did Atkins have difficult days?”

  “Regularly.”

  “Oh dear. I suppose it comes with the territory. People can be terribly defensive about their gardens, can’t they? You’d think that as the wife of a police inspector, Mrs Mappin would have been understanding about the work that needs to be carried out in the course of an investigation, but she was only worried about the state of her geraniums.”

  “Did you stand on them?”

  “Only in the course of my investigation. I didn’t do it deliberately. Pembers, that’s a most astonishing cat you’ve drawn there. It looks almost lifelike!”

  Pemberley shrugged. “I like to practise a little sketching now and again.”

  “And so you should; you’re quite the artist. Pin Zeppelin up on the board and let’s have a cup of tea.”

  Chapter 6

  A police officer with brown mutton-chop whiskers and steel-grey eyes visited Churchill’s Detective Agency the following day.

  “You must be Inspector Mappin,” said Churchill warmly. “Do come and join Miss Pemberley and me for a cup of tea and some lemon cake.”

  “That’s a kind offer, Mrs Churchill, but no thank you. I’m on duty.” He removed his helmet.

  “Of course. I understand the duties of a police officer; my late husband was a detective chief inspector, you know.”

  “So my wife informs me.”

  “Please do apologise to your wife, Inspector. Our initial meeting did not take place under the circumstances I would have wished for. I was carrying out an investigation at the time, and I’m sure you’re aware how complicated matters can be when you’re out in the field, eh?”

  “Indeed. I’ve come here this morning to follow up on reports of a large, elderly lady ruining my wife’s geraniums while trespassing on our property yesterday.”

  “Large? Elderly?” Churchill suddenly had a score to settle with Mrs Mappin.

  “Was it you, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Yes, it was. I hope you will accept the apology I have so readily given, Inspector. Are you sure you won’t have a slice of cake? I’m certain it would be sufficient recompense for the damaged geraniums.”

  “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be, but three shillings would.”

  “Three shillings? Whatever for?”

  “To replace the geraniums.”

  “Is that how much they cost you? Where on earth did your wife buy them? Harrods of Knightsbridge?”

  “No, Mrs Churchill, merely the local plant nursery.”

  “Tell your wife she should grow them from seed. It’s practically cost-free if you can source it from a friend or neighbour. And it’s so much more rewarding when you take the time and effort to grow plants from seed; so much better than planting something that’s ready-made, as it were.”

  “And probably even more disappointing when your efforts are trampled on by a local busybody.”

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector! Busybody? I’m a private detective!”

  “Do you have three shillings to settle the score?”

  Churchill sighed and pulled her purse out of her handbag. “Very well, Inspector, here’s your money. I always pay my dues.”

  “Thank you.” The inspector pocketed the coins and glanced around the office. “So you’re the lady who’s bought Atkins’ place, eh? It currently says ‘tkins Detective Agency’ on the door.”

  “My secretary is yet to remove the remaining letters that aren’t right, isn’t that so Miss Pemberley?”

  “They’re rather tricky to scrape off,” she replied.

  The inspector looked up at the wall. “Nice map.”

  “Thank you. Do you have one like it at the station?”

  “Not on that scale, no. Yours is quite impressive.”

  “I have Pemberley to thank for it. Do you have a Pemberley at the station?”

  “No Pemberleys for me. We operate on a tight budget.”

  Churchill felt rather smug.

  “Atkins and I used to rub along rather well,” continued Inspector Mappin. “It’s a shame the old chap’s gone.”

  Churchill gave Pemberley a wary glance as her secretary’s lower lip began to wobble once again.

  “We used to enjoy a tankard of scrumpy or two in The Wagon and Carrot,” continued the inspector. “And we played tennis together. Atkins had a strong backhand.”

  “He was very good at tennis,” sniffed Pemberley.

  “I can play a bit of tennis,” said Churchill. “I was a member of the Richmond-upon-Thames Ladies’ Lawn Tennis Club, albeit briefly. Any time either of you fancy a knockabout just let me know.” She noted a lack of enthusiasm from both parties. “Fine, suit yourselves,” she continued. “I’m sure there is no shortage of tennis partners in Compton Poppleford.”

  “You’re not one of those meddlers are you, Mrs Churchill?�
� asked Inspector Mappin.

  “Certainly not!”

  “It’s just that you do hear of these older women, often widows, who reach a time in their life when they find themselves wishing to solve something more challenging than the daily crossword. They’re usually rather nosy and have too much time on their hands. That’s when they begin to meddle in police business.”

  Churchill laughed. “What odd notions you have, Inspector! I have never come across one of these meddling women you speak of. As for myself, I am far too busy running my private detective practice to meddle in any of your business. I’m currently building an extensive client base.”

  “Good. So it’s safe to say I shan’t be encountering you too often then?”

  “Absolutely not, Inspector. You will hardly see me at all. You have your work to do and I have mine. We shall sail past each other like ships in the night.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said the inspector, donning his helmet. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Churchill. I shall bid you and Miss Pemberley a good morning.”

  Churchill spent the next few hours reading more of Mr Atkins’ files.

  “Thank goodness Devon is a long way away, eh, Pembers?”

  “It’s not, though.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, it’s the next county along.”

  “Along from where?”

  “Here.”

  “Here?”

  “We’re in Dorset and if you travel in a westerly direction from here you’ll reach Devon.”

  “Goodness, really?” Churchill felt a shiver.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Well, I shan’t be travelling in a westerly direction to Devon and the hellish Dartmoor any time soon.”

  “Oh, I know which case you’ve been reading about.”

  “Was it actually a wolf? Or some terrifying oversized hound? I can’t believe Atkins survived it!”

  “He was very lucky,” replied Pemberley. She glanced away, distracted by something just outside the window.

  “What is it, Pembers?”