Murder in Cold Mud Page 4

“Pfft. We can work on it secretly, Pembers. And it’s sort of our case because we took on Rumbold’s onion case, which has since grown into something rather larger and infinitely more sinister.”

  “We took on the onion case, did we?”

  “Yes we did. Oh hello, Mrs Bramley!”

  The proprietress waddled up to the table with a floral apron tied so tightly around her waist that her top half looked as though it was about to be separated from the bottom.

  “Good mornin’, ladies, and what a lovely fine mornin’ it is!”

  “Good morning, Mrs Bramley,” said Churchill. “I’m not so sure about it being fine, though.”

  “’Ows that then? What’s ’appened?”

  “Have you not heard about the murder up at the allotments?”

  “Oh yeah. Mr Williams, weren’t it? Very sad. I didn’t know ’im, though.”

  “Neither did I,” replied Churchill. “But it’s rather disconcerting all the same, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s right sad.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “’Ave you seen ’er yet?”

  “Kitty, you mean? Yes, we’ve seen her all right.”

  “With ’er hand in the till?”

  “Well, no.” Churchill realised she hadn’t been watching Kitty closely at all. “Not yet, anyway. But we’re keeping an eye on her.”

  “Soon as you see ’er do it, you let me know.”

  “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, Mrs Bramley, don’t you worry. Anyway, I expect you’ve overheard a few conversations in your delightful tea rooms about the murder this morning. Has anyone been speculating on who might be behind it?”

  “You know what it’s like when these things ’appen. Ev’ryone’s an expert, ain’t they? One name keeps croppin’ up, though.”

  “Ah yes, and whose name might that be?”

  “Mr Rumbold’s name.”

  “Really? Now that is interesting. Did they have any evidence to back it up?”

  “’E were seen leaving the allotments late last night with a gun in ’is ’and.”

  “Well that’s rather damning, isn’t it? Who saw him with the gun?”

  “It was… oh, erm. I can’t remember ’is name now.” Mrs Bramley glanced around her tea rooms. “And ’e’s not in ’ere no more. Gah. The name’ll come to me.”

  “Can you describe him to me?”

  “Normal lookin’. Normal height. Normal weight. Square chin and spectacles. Brown ’air. What I likes to call a bit of a bore. Likes cricket. Orders egg sandwiches but never eats ’is crusts.”

  “Interesting. Thank you, Mrs Bramley.”

  Chapter 7

  “Any idea where we can find Mr Stropper, Pemberley?” asked Churchill as they left the tea rooms.

  “I don’t know where he lives, but I know where he is now.”

  “That’s rather clever of you, Pembers. How do you know that?”

  “He’s over there.” Pemberley pointed to the base of the clock tower, where a man was regaling a small crowd of people with what appeared to be an engaging story.

  As they drew nearer Churchill could see that he had raised his height by standing on a crate and was putting on quite an animated display.

  “There ’e lay, ’is eyes starin’ up at the ’eavens!” announced Stropper Harris, re-enacting the victim’s unblinking gaze. He was a lean man with pock-marked skin, and he wore a red-and-white plaid shirt.

  “Did you run away?” someone called out.

  “Not likely! The dead don’t scare me!”

  “I would of,” said someone else.

  “Me an’ all,” said another.

  “Was there lots of blood?” called out another person.

  “It was everywhere!” declared Stropper Harris.

  The crowd responded with a collective gasp.

  Stropper glanced at his watch. “Right, that’s it. Ten minutes is up. The next recountin’ is in fifteen minutes. A shillin’ a listen, and don’t be ’angin’ round for it if you’ve already listened to one. It’s a shillin’ each time.”

  As the crowd began to disperse, Stropper Harris removed a hip flask from his pocket and took a large swig.

  “It seems as though our friend Mr Stropper is capitalising on his role as the man who found the body,” commented Churchill in a disapproving tone. “Mr Stropper!” she called out to him.

  He acknowledged her with a raise of his hip flask.

  “I’m Mrs Churchill of Churchill’s Detective Agency, and this is my trusty assistant, Miss Pemberley. We’re investigating the dreadful murder of Mr Williams at the allotments.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies. Helpin’ Mappin out, are you?”

  “No. We were on the case before Mappin.”

  “’Ow d’you manage that, then?”

  “We’d already taken on the case of Mr Rumbold’s onions, in which the deceased was the prime suspect.”

  “’Ow d’you know Williams done it?”

  “Mr Rumbold told us.”

  “Rumbold could of been mistaken.”

  “He could have been, and I suppose we’ll never know now, given that the prime suspect is no longer with us. I understand you discovered his body.”

  “That I did,” he said proudly.

  “What time was that?”

  Stropper Harris looked at his watch. “The next tellin’s in thirteen minutes. A shillin’ per person.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time to wait about for the next telling; we have a busy day ahead of us. Can you just tell me what time you found the unfortunate Mr Williams?”

  “I’ll tell you in twelve and an ’alf minutes’ time.”

  “And after we’ve both parted company with a shilling, presumably?”

  “C’rect.”

  “Mr Stropper, my assistant and I are not your average members of the great unwashed, you know. We’re private detectives. Your assistance is required in our investigation.”

  “That’s no excuse to get round payin’ the shillin’, Mrs Churchill. You wouldn’t believe some o’ the excuses people ’ave been coming up with today. One fellow told me he deserved to listen fer free ’cause Williams was married to his wife’s cousin’s mother-in-law’s sister.”

  “That seems like a fair excuse to me, Mr Stropper.”

  “The name’s ’Arris. Stropper ’Arris.”

  “I think your charging of a fee to listen to some exaggerated tale of how you found Mr Williams shot dead on his allotment is an exploitation of the poor man’s demise. Not to mention the fact that it’s incredibly disrespectful.”

  Stropper Harris’s eyes narrowed. “’Ave you ever discovered a body, Mrs Churchill?”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “So you’ve no idea what it’s like to be followed around by ’alf the village askin’ the same three questions over and over. They won’t leave me alone! I decided it’s better to situate meself on this vegetable crate beneath the clock tower and charge people for a regular tellin’. That way everyone gets to hear what ’appened and I gets paid for me time.”

  “That actually sounds like quite a sensible solution,” said Pemberley.

  Churchill glared at her, then turned back to face Mr Harris. “I take your point, Mr Stropper. But can you at least make allowances for myself and my assistant?”

  “Sorry, no. Once I start makin’ allowances for two people, everyone’ll be wantin’ allowances made for ’em. Then everyone’s got an excuse for not adhering to me schedule of tellings or paying me a shillin’. Look at this fellow ’ere.” He gestured at a large man with a red face who was loitering nearby. “’E’s just waiting to try an’ get a question in! And when I tell ’im ’e’s got ter wait ten minutes and pay me a shillin’ he’s goin’ to start askin’ for allowances just like you two! Rules is rules, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Fine. I shall wait a further ten minutes and pay you a shilling if you will answer just one question for me, Mr Stropper. Do we have a deal?”

  He took another sw
ig from his hip flask. “All right,” he said eventually. “But only ’cause you’re a proper investigatin’ detective.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stropper. I understand that you’re a gardener yourself, and are therefore au fait with most members of the gardening community. Have you any idea who might have carried out this attack on Mr Williams?”

  “Rumbold.”

  “Really? But you called at his house this morning to inform him of the incident. Did you believe he was responsible at that point? Did you ask him if he’d done it?”

  “You said just one question, Mrs Churchill, and I’ve answered it. If there’s time I’ll take questions after the next tellin’.”

  Chapter 8

  After enduring a heavily embellished tale from Stropper Harris about the manner in which he had discovered Tubby Williams’s body, Churchill and Pemberley were no wiser than they had been before.

  “Well, that was a waste of a shilling apiece, wasn’t it, Pembers?” said Churchill as they walked back along the high street toward their office. “And he didn’t even have time to answer any questions afterwards!”

  “I suppose he had to go to the little boys’ room at some point.”

  “The call of nature could have waited a minute or two longer, I feel sure of that. However, I’m very much looking forward to populating our incident board again, Pembers. Do we have enough pins and string?”

  “We do indeed.”

  “Oh good. You get started on the incident board, then, and I’ll pop into this little cookshop here to buy us a new kettle.”

  The shelves of the cookshop were stacked to the ceiling with pots, pans, serving bowls, plates, dishes and cups. There was barely room for Churchill to move without knocking something to the floor.

  “Goodness, what a cluttered little place,” she muttered to herself as she searched for a kettle. “It needs a proper sorting out. And how can one possibly reach anything on the top shelf?” She craned her neck to see what was perched on it. “I should think that quite a layer of dust has gathered up there by now. I can’t say I’d like to pay full price for something with a layer of dust on it.”

  “What was that?” came a man’s voice from the back of the shop.

  “I was talking to myself,” she replied, “but since you ask I was just commenting that I wouldn’t pay full price for something that was covered in dust.”

  “What’s covered in dust?”

  “I don’t know, but I imagine the items up on the top shelf there must be. How do you even see what’s up there?”

  “I have a stepladder.”

  “Good for you, but a stepladder won’t do for me at all. I abhor heights. And how do you find anything in this place? Everything’s piled on top of everything else with no sense of order to it at all.”

  “All you need do is ask, madam.”

  The man stepped into view from behind the shelving and Churchill felt her heart skip a beat. He had dark, twinkling eyes, a handsome square jaw and a head of silver hair. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a tailored waistcoat, and was surprisingly broad-shouldered and trim-waisted for a man of his advanced years. Churchill found herself smiling.

  “Oh, good morning, sir. I’m Mrs Churchill of Churchill’s Detective Agency; just a few doors along the high street from here in fact. Above the bakery. It used to be Bodkin’s Bakery but it’s Simpkins’s now.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Churchill, I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Oh goodness, have you really?” Churchill felt a rush of heat to her face. “I do hate it when people say that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I meant no harm by it.”

  “No, I didn’t mean hate it. I chose my words wrongly there. I quite like it, really, I suppose it makes me rather bashful as it suggests people have been talking about me without my being present, and that’s always rather alarming to think of, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose so. I’m Mr Harding, by the way.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Harding.” Churchill smoothed her hair, wishing she’d had a shampoo and set before stepping inside the shop.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular, Mrs Churchill?”

  “I am indeed. We’re in need of a new kettle. I rather ruined our previous one, I’m afraid. I put the gas ring on and then forgot all about it!”

  “Oh dear. Though I should think it’s fortunate that you didn’t cause a fire.”

  “Isn’t it? And may I just explain that the comment I made about this shop being cluttered was misplaced. I didn’t really mean to use that word. What I actually meant was that you have a lot of stock here. In fact, your shop is so well-stocked that perhaps a less discerning customer might perceive it to be cluttered, but it does, in fact, have a certain order to it.”

  “No need to apologise, Mrs Churchill. It is cluttered, but at least I know where everything is. Organised chaos, I like to call it.”

  “Organised chaos!” Churchill found herself emitting a loud giggle. “Oh, I like that, Mr Harding. How funny! And I apologise for the comment about the dust. I’m quite sure there is no dust at all in your fine store.”

  “I give everything a good going over with my feather duster whenever business is quiet.”

  “Now there’s a certain something about a man with a feather duster, Mr Harding. Quite a something indeed.” Churchill adjusted her collar, feeling a little warm beneath her blouse.

  “Is that so? Well, allow me to show you my range of kettles.”

  “Thank you, that would be wonderful.”

  Churchill spent an engaging fifteen minutes discussing the various kettles on offer with the store owner before choosing one.

  “Thank you for devoting so much of your precious time to my mission, Mr Harding,” she said as she paid for the kettle. “You must have so many other things to be getting on with.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” he replied, glancing around the shop. “We haven’t been disturbed by any other customers, have we? They’re all standing up at the allotments, goggle-mouthed, this morning. Murder isn’t good for business.”

  “Rather a shocker, though, isn’t it? Did you know the deceased?”

  “Only in passing. I’m not much of a gardener, I’m afraid. To be honest, it doesn’t really hold my interest, although a good friend of mine is president of the Compton Poppleford Horticultural Society.”

  “Colonel Slingsby?”

  “The very same.”

  “He must be extremely shocked about the tragic loss of his friend.”

  “He is indeed. And there’s something that’s puzzling him rather.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of the guns from his gunroom went missing shortly before the murder.”

  “Really? Was it used in the murder?”

  “I don’t know if it was the same one, but it’s rather a coincidence, don’t you think? I understand the police will be able to confirm which weapon was used in due course. I’m not quite sure how they do it; something to do with how a gun leaves unique markings on the bullet casings or similar.”

  “It’s pretty much something like that. I was married to Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of Scotland Yard for many years.”

  “Were you indeed? So you know a good deal about sleuthing, do you?”

  “I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but yes, I should say so.”

  Mr Harding gave an impressed nod. “Perhaps Inspector Mappin might find you of some assistance with his enquiries in that case.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? However, he has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t require my help.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” said Harding with a wink that made Churchill’s spine tingle.

  “Why, thank you, Mr Harding. That is praise indeed.”

  “Not at all, Mrs Churchill. I hope you enjoy the kettle.”

  “Oh, I will. Thank you, Mr Harding. I promise never to burn it on the gas ring. Ne
ver, ever.”

  Chapter 9

  “The incident board is pure perfection, my second-in-command,” said Churchill as she arrived back at the office.

  “Thank you,” replied Pemberley. “You seem in high spirits after your kettle purchase.”

  “Indeed I am, Pembers. They’ve been lifted by this incident board with all its lengths of string and pins and pictures and photographs. Goodness, is that Mr Rumbold?” She peered more closely at the board. “He looks quite youthful and so much better without all that face fungus. Where did you find this photograph?”

  “In my mother’s scrapbook.”

  “Why on earth did your mother have a picture of him?”

  “I don’t know. There are many things I have yet to understand about my mother.”

  “Let’s not go into them now. What do you know of Mr Harding?”

  “The cookshop man? Is he a suspect?”

  “No, of course he isn’t. He just sold me a kettle.”

  “I bet he did.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s his job, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I just can’t help but think there’s something you’re not explaining to me, Pembers.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have any problem selling things to the ladies of Compton Poppleford.”

  “Good for him.”

  “He’s rather too easy on the eye for them to turn him down.”

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed!” Churchill gave a loud laugh.

  “Haven’t you? Just about every other female in the village has; even me, and I don’t usually pay much attention to these things, as you know.”

  “His wife must be rather irritated that all the ladies of Compton Poppleford have noticed her husband is visually unchallenging.”

  “His wife died a number of years ago.”

  “Oh dear, that is sad.”

  “Then he took up with a ballet dancer.”

  “Oh my! Really?”

  “Then that ended.”

  “Good. Ballet dancers are rather self-obsessed, aren’t they? I suspect that’s why the relationship ended.”