Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Read online

  “I think we have a visitor.”

  “Who is it?”

  Hearing the throb of a motor car’s engine, Churchill got up from her chair and marched over to the window. She peered out to see a bright, red shiny automobile parking up outside Bodkin’s Bakery.

  “Oh no, it’s that greasy oik who almost ran me over while I was standing in the road the other day.”

  “It’s Mr Cavendish,” said Pemberley. “He’s quite the charmer.”

  “Is that so? It takes a lot to charm me, Pembers, let me tell you.”

  Chapter 7

  “I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs Annabel Churchill!” said Mr Cavendish as he breezed into the office. “I’ve heard all about you.”

  He was about thirty and wore an immaculate beige suit with well-polished brogues. He held a boater hat in one hand and an umbrella in the other. As he spoke, Mr Cavendish flicked his head to swoosh a wave of blonde hair out of his blue eyes and smiled broadly to reveal two rows of neat white teeth.

  Churchill was immediately disarmed. She brushed the cake crumbs from her ample bosom and jumped to her feet. “You’ve heard all about me?”

  “Of course.” He winked.

  “Little old me?”

  “Little old you, Mrs Churchill. And less of the old, surely?”

  “Naturally,” she giggled. “Do sit down. It’s Mr Cavendish, isn’t it? Pemberley will fetch us some tea.”

  Mr Cavendish carefully placed his hat on the hatstand and tucked his umbrella into the base.

  “Before we begin, Mrs Churchill, I think we need to have a little word.” He hitched his trousers up at the knees as he sat down and his face grew sombre.

  “Do we?”

  “You were rather a naughty girl the other day, weren’t you?”

  “Was I?”

  “You were standing in the middle of the road.”

  “Oh yes, well you were the rather naughty man who almost ran me over!”

  “I’m afraid I was, Mrs Churchill, and you frightened me a little when you shook your fist at me like that.”

  “Oh, surely not?”

  “Surely.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeedy.”

  Pemberley placed two cups of tea on the desk and rolled her eyes.

  “Is this merely a social visit?” Churchill asked Mr Cavendish. “Or do you have a secondary motive for visiting our detective agency today?”

  Mr Cavendish feigned disappointment. “Is a social visit not enough for you, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Well it is, but…”

  “Time is money, am I right?”

  “Since you put it that way, it is indeed.”

  “I’m joking with you, Mrs Churchill. Of course there’s another reason for my visit.” He grinned.

  “Oh, you jester!”

  “As you may have noticed, I’m rather a light-humoured individual, but there are some occasions when I must be quite serious, I’m afraid.” Mr Cavendish’s face grew sombre again.

  “Of course.” Churchill readied herself with pen and paper.

  “Sad circumstances have prompted me to visit you today. The death of my dear godmother.”

  “Oh, Mr Cavendish, I’m so sorry.” Churchill couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement that she was about to be presented with a proper case to investigate. “When did your godmother pass?”

  “Just a few days ago.”

  “May I ask how?”

  “I should like to know how myself. It’s the reason I’m here today.”

  “I see.”

  “Her ending was untimely, Mrs Churchill, and sadly rather unpleasant.”

  “Strewth! What happened to her?”

  “She fell down the staircase at Piddleton Hotel.”

  Churchill and Pemberley gasped in unison.

  “Mrs Furzgate?” said Churchill. “Your godmother was Mrs Furzgate?”

  “Yes. I knew her as Auntie Prissy.”

  “I’ve lived in this village a long time,” interjected Pemberley, “and I never knew Mrs Furzgate was your godmother, Mr Cavendish.”

  “Yes. She was a good friend of my mother’s,” he said sadly.

  He looked so bereft that Churchill had to fight the urge to clutch him to her bosom.

  “They went to school together,” continued Mr Cavendish. “The school only had four pupils back then.”

  He went on to give a potted history of his mother’s life and how it had entwined with the life of Mrs Furzgate. Churchill found herself becoming rather bored but allowed him to continue talking seeing as he was clearly grieving.

  “That’s all very interesting,” she interrupted when she felt she had heard enough. “But it’s not clear to me how I can help you.”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple, my dogged lady detective,” replied Mr Cavendish. “The circumstances of her death are suspicious.”

  “Is that what Inspector Mappin says?”

  “No, it’s quite the opposite of what Inspector Mappin says. That’s why I’m here! Inspector Mappin says her death was unquestionably an accident.”

  “And how do you know that it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Because my godmother would never have fallen down the stairs!”

  “Mr Cavendish, you may not like what I’m about to tell you, but it just so happens that your godmother visited this office on the day I moved in here. She came in to welcome me to the village, which was very thoughtful of her. But I can tell you that as she departed she actually slipped on our stairs!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

  “She wasn’t given a slight nudge or a push?”

  “Of course not, Mr Cavendish. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

  “It happened to her quite often. People were usually keen for her to leave their premises.”

  “Not us though, eh Pembers?” Churchill turned to her secretary for reassurance, but none came. “We were flattered that your godmother came to visit us.”

  “There’s no need to lie, Mrs Churchill. She was a most exasperating woman.”

  “Well, perhaps flattered was a slight exaggeration.”

  “Pure exaggeration, Mrs Churchill. My godmother was an irritant. But she was still my godmother.”

  “Absolutely. She was your godmother.”

  “Few people liked her, and therein lies the first clue.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That barely anyone liked her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Which means plenty of people would have been pleased to see the back of her.”

  “Oh no, Mr Cavendish. Surely not!”

  “It’s a motive, Mrs Churchill. Don’t you see? If plenty of people disliked her, perhaps one of them was keen to cause her some mischief.”

  “Are you suggesting your godmother was murdered?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  Churchill gasped again at the excitement of the suggestion. “And you’d like little old me to track down her murderer?”

  “Absolutely. Little old you. Just name your price.”

  “Price? I hadn’t given it any thought. Erm, how about twenty pounds upfront and we’ll take it from there?”

  “Twenty pounds upfront is perfect, Mrs Churchill.” He removed the money from his wallet so quickly that she wished she had asked for more. “And another thing you need to know is that I suspect my godmother knew some things she shouldn’t have.”

  “Really? Such as what?”

  “I can only suspect, Mrs Churchill, I don’t know for sure. But she was an extremely nosy person; always sticking her proboscis into places where it didn’t belong. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had chanced upon something extremely private.”

  “Goodness! The mind boggles doesn’t it, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Yes, it boggles all right. Would you like to look around my godmother’s home? She lived at Pebblestone House in Hollyhock Lane. It’s rather a humble, spartan place b
ut an eagle-eyed lady detective such as yourself might spot a clue or two. My godmother’s solicitor, Mr Verney, will be there tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Just tell him I sent you.”

  “That would be most useful. Thank you, Mr Cavendish.”

  He checked his watch. “Goodness, is that the time? I must be on my way if I’m to make my next appointment. You have an impressive ability to cause time to fly, Mrs Churchill!” He grinned and jumped up from his seat.

  Churchill laughed. “May I take that as a compliment, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Of course.” He winked again and placed his boater hat back on his head. “I expect you’ll need to pester me with endless questions as your investigation progresses. You may telephone me whenever you wish.”

  He placed a neat card on her desk.

  “Thank you, Mr Cavendish. My cards are still at the printers, but I shall give you a carte de visite as soon as they’re ready.”

  “Please do. Adieu, Mrs Churchill.”

  “Adieu to you, Mr Cavendish!”

  “Adieu, Miss Pemberley,” he said, picking up his umbrella.

  “Goodbye,” replied Pemberley.

  “Deary me,” Churchill said with a chuckle as she heard Mr Cavendish descending the stairs. “That fellow, Pembers, is what my mother would have described as a bounder and a cad.”

  “I knew you’d be charmed by him.”

  “I wasn’t the least bit charmed.”

  “What was all the little old me business, then?”

  “Rapport, Pembers! A private detective must always establish a rapport with her clients. I merely mirrored his manner. Now, let’s get started, shall we? I shall make up a file.”

  Churchill hummed a cheery tune as she gathered some papers together and filled her pen with ink. Then she stared down at the daunting blank page in front of her.

  “I shall write down a list of reasons to support the assertion that someone might wish to murder Mrs Furzgate. First of all we have the fact that no one liked her. And second of all she may have known something she shouldn’t have.”

  Churchill resumed her humming as she wondered what else she should write down.

  “Atkins always used to start with the victim,” said Pemberley. “He believed that understanding everything about a victim’s life often revealed the killer’s motive.”

  “In that case his approach was exactly like mine,” replied Churchill. “A pretty standard approach all private detectives should follow.”

  “He also used to visit the murder scene, preferably at the same time of day or night the murder took place.”

  “Yes, that’s another common aspect of a private detective’s approach. Exactly what I would have said.” Churchill glanced at Pemberley’s wan features and decided she needed some air. “How about we take a little wander down to the Piddleton Hotel Pembers? You look like you could do with some colour in your cheeks.”

  Chapter 8

  “I can think of worse murder scenes. It’s actually rather pleasant here, isn’t it?” Churchill and Pemberley took afternoon tea on the mezzanine floor at Piddleton Hotel. Churchill’s bone china cup was so tiny she could barely fit her forefinger through its delicate handle.

  A tiered cake stand laden with baked indulgences stood at the centre of the table. Gentle, orchestral music floated up from the ground floor, and a pleasing chatter hummed from the tables around them.

  “Very civilised indeed. I shall be mother,” said Churchill as she lifted the teapot and filled their cups. “Are you going to have the pink iced fancy, Pembers, or shall I have it?”

  “I’ll have it,” said Pemberley, snatching it from the cake stand rather too swiftly for Churchill’s liking.

  Churchill consoled herself with a slice of battenberg. “Those stairs over there must be the ones our unfortunate Mrs Furzgate tumbled down,” she said, nodding toward the grand staircase with its gilded balustrade. “I counted the steps when we climbed them and there are twenty-four in total, which is precisely what the news article reported, isn’t it? The article also mentioned a rogue teacake. I think we should order one so we can examine a typical example of the teacakes they serve here.”

  She snapped her fingers at a nearby waiter and placed her order.

  “Now then, Pembers. You’ve lived in Compton Poppleford for some time, am I right?”

  “Yes, a long time. I was born here, in fact.”

  “So you’ve lived in this village for your entire life?”

  “Apart from an interlude as a companion to a lady of international travel.”

  “How interesting! You must tell me about that some time. In the meantime, tell me everything you know about Mrs Furzgate.”

  “Well now, let me see.” Pemberley picked up a yellow iced fancy. “I first met her about forty years ago, back when she was delivering milk.”

  “She was a milkmaid?”

  “Yes, she used to walk around with one of those wooden yokes across her shoulders and a bucket of milk hanging down on either side. It looked rather uncomfortable, I must say. My mother always used to complain that the milk was sour, and she would usually be ready with a rude response. She knew a lot of profanities for such a young woman.”

  “What was her name before she was married?”

  “Miss Smallbone.”

  “Then she is a relation of Mr Smallbone, the bric-a-brac shop owner?”

  “Probably. Most people are related to each other around here.”

  “I see.” said Churchill. “There is a lot of intermarrying, then?”

  “Indeed, yes. It’s the reason I never married, to be honest.”

  “Couldn’t you have travelled to another town and found a husband there?”

  “I could have done, I suppose, but I was always too busy for that sort of thing.”

  “What of Mr Furzgate? Who was he?”

  “Miss Smallbone’s cousin. I think his name was Bert. He was fond of a drink and died young.”

  “Oh dear, what of?”

  “The official reason was a weakness of the kidneys, but unofficially he was believed to have syphilis.”

  “Good grief! Where on earth did he get that from?”

  “I prefer not to dwell on it. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Mrs Furzgate led a life of meagre means at Pebblestone House.”

  “And who were her acquaintances?”

  “There was Mrs Volkov. She also sadly died of syphilis. Then there was a friend from school… I suppose that would have been Mr Cavendish’s mother. Her name was Iris. She became Iris Cavendish when she married; I forget her maiden name.”

  “But she is no longer with us?”

  “No.”

  “More recently then, Pembers. Who were Mrs Furzgate’s acquaintances?”

  “I’m not really sure, though I believe she used to play bridge.”

  “A fellow bridge player, eh? I like a bit of bridge myself. Perhaps she frequented the local bridge club?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure she was a bridge player as such, but I know she frequented the club.”

  “Why would you do one and not the other?”

  “That’s the sort of woman she was. And I think she was a member of the church choir.”

  “So she did have a talent after all! A voice like a songbird, was it?”

  “I don’t know about that. But I do know she was asked to leave a few times but kept turning up for practice anyway. Eventually they asked her to stand at the back because she was quite diminutive, as I’m sure you remember. And at the back she was well hidden.”

  Churchill placed her cup down on its saucer rather mournfully. “I’m beginning to feel quite sorry for Mrs Furzgate.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t. She once murdered a chicken.”

  “You mean slaughtered?”

  “No, it was murder apparently.”

  Pemberley took a sip of tea as the waiter placed a teacake on the table. Churchill decided to ignore the chicken incident for the time being and began to examine the tea
cake.

  “Look, Pembers, it’s well buttered. You may recall that I didn’t ask for it to be buttered, which suggests to me that teacakes here are served buttered by default. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No, what does it mean?”

  “Butter is a naturally slippery substance. It explains the suggestion that Mrs Furzgate may have slipped on a teacake. The butter would have lubricated the sole of Mrs Furzgate’s shoe, causing her to slip more readily than if the teacake had remained unbuttered.”

  “Perhaps she just tripped.”

  “Well, that’s the same thing.”

  “Not necessarily. She may have seen the teacake on the floor and tried to avoid it, causing her to trip.”

  “Good thinking, Pembers. However, the news article states that the teacake was squashed, which suggests to me that it endured the full weight of Mrs Furzgate’s shoe.”

  “Unless someone else had trodden on it before her.”

  “We can’t rule that out. But had that happened I suggest the person in question might have recognised the teacake as a hazard and removed it from the floor. Or perhaps instructed a member of staff to do so.”

  Both women nodded as they considered this.

  “You know, Pembers, I’m rather enjoying bouncing ideas off you. I think we make quite a good team.”

  Pemberley’s face broke out into a smile. “Do you really think so, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied, suddenly embarrassed by her brief expression of mild affection. “Now drink up and let’s go and investigate the staircase in more detail.”

  Chapter 9

  Churchill and Pemberley put on their overcoats, picked up their handbags and began to descend the stairs.

  “Look here, Pembers. The twelfth stair is deeper than the others and acts as a sort of halfway point. It’s where the floor vases are sitting. Oh dear, they haven’t glued the crack in that one very well, have they?”

  The two women walked over to the repaired vase and examined it.

  “It’s a far from perfect mend,” stated Churchill. “I know a chap in Marylebone who does an excellent job with this sort of thing; I could have recommended him to them. The aspidistra is relatively unscathed, though. Just a few bent leaves really. Distinctly less damage than poor Mrs Furzgate suffered.”