Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Read online

  “Asparagaceae are fairly resilient plants.”

  “You should use a handkerchief when you sneeze, Pemberley.”

  “I didn’t sneeze.”

  “Yes you did; just before you talked about resilient plants.”

  “I said ‘asparagaceae’.”

  “Bless you!” Churchill said with a titter. “Do you mean asparagus?”

  “Yes, that’s another name for it. Aspidistra is part of the asparagaceae, or asparagus, family.”

  Churchill stared at her secretary. “Are you saying that aspidistra is asparagus?”

  “They’re related to one another.”

  Churchill frowned. “I hope that you leave enough room in your head for useful information too, Pembers. We’re working on a complicated case here.”

  She strode down the remaining stairs with Pemberley in hot pursuit. Once they reached the bottom they turned to look back up.

  “So the unfortunate Mrs Furzgate tumbled all the way down here,” said Churchill.

  “Knocking into the vase along the way.”

  “Indeed! Rather unpleasant, I must say. I estimate that she ended up in a heap around here.” Churchill tapped an area of the carpet with the toe of her shoe. “I don’t suppose the hotel owner will allow us to draw one of those chalk outlines of her position, which is a shame as that would have been rather useful. I’ll tell you what, Pembers, how about you lie on the floor here so we can get a good idea of the final tableau? We can’t be sure as to what position Mrs Furzgate ended up in, but I’m sure that if you spread-eagle yourself somewhat it’ll give us a fair idea.”

  “I’m not lying down on the floor, Mrs Churchill.”

  “There’s no need for any nonsense, Pembers. Recreating the scene is an essential element of the investigation.”

  “I don’t look anything like Mrs Furzgate. She was a short, round lady, and I’m—”

  “Tall and thin. Yes, I see what you’re saying, Pemberley. I bear more of a resemblance to the late Mrs Furzgate than you, don’t I? Here, hold these.”

  Churchill thrust her hat and handbag at her secretary, then lowered herself to the floor. “The old knees tend to complain when one attempts these things. Still, it has to be done.”

  “Mrs Churchill, I’m sure there’s no need for this,” said Pemberley, glancing around in the hope that no one would catch sight of her employer splayed out on the floor.

  Churchill lay on her back, her turquoise overcoat bunching uncomfortably beneath her throat.

  “I can’t see my legs from here,” she said in a strangulated voice. “But I’ll attempt to place them akimbo, and you can let me know if the effect is convincing.” She puffed as she twisted her legs into an unnatural and highly unladylike position.

  “I can see your petticoat, Mrs Churchill.”

  “That’s good; we need this to be realistic. How do you suppose her arms would have ended up? I imagine one would have been twisted up like this.” Churchill moved one arm above her head, but doing so pulled her coat even tighter around her throat. Her face grew hot and she felt a sharp pain in her neck.

  “Good grief, Pembers! Isn’t clothing restrictive? If the fall down the stairs doesn’t kill you then your overcoat surely will. Now then, I can’t hold this position for long. Get the camera out and take a photograph.”

  “What camera?”

  “You didn’t bring the camera with you?”

  “I hadn’t realised we would need one.”

  “It’s a standard approach when carrying out investigations, Pemberley. Don’t tell me I’ve contorted myself into this position for no reason.”

  A scowling, bearded face loomed above Churchill. Its owner was a large man in a loud, green plaid suit.

  “Good afternoon!” she said. “I don’t suppose you have a camera, do you?”

  “No I don’t! Do you mean to tell me that you wish this macabre spectacle to be photographed?”

  “Never mind, a piece of chalk should do it. Do you have one? If so, please lend it to my secretary, Miss Pemberley, so she can draw around me.”

  “She will do no such thing! Get up off my floor immediately, madam!”

  “I beg your pardon! May I ask who you might be?”

  “Mr Crumble, the owner and manager of this hotel.”

  “Owner and manager, eh?”

  “Get up, I say!”

  “I would very much like to get up, Mr Crumble, as this is rather an uncomfortable position, but I’m afraid I can’t.” Churchill attempted to roll onto her side. “I appear to be stuck. Can you give me a hand?”

  Churchill was righted to her feet with the help of two hotel porters.

  “Goodness, what a palaver,” she said, retrieving her hat and handbag from Pemberley. “One doesn’t routinely have much call for getting down on the floor. I don’t think I’ve laid down on the carpet like that since my courting days!”

  “Are you aware that a lady lost her life in this very location just a few days ago?” hissed Mr Crumble. “Your tomfoolery is irreverent and disrespectful.”

  “Mr Crumble, I can assure you my actions are the very opposite of tomfoolery. I am Mrs Churchill of Churchill’s Detective Agency. I have been tasked with investigating Mrs Furzgate’s death, and Miss Pemberley, my secretary, is assisting me.”

  “What? Two old ladies?”

  “Mature ladies, Mr Crumble. My guess is that I only have ten years on you.”

  “More like twenty!”

  “Mr Crumble, I’d like to ask you a few questions about this most unfortunate incident. Did you witness it?”

  “I won’t be answering any of your questions, Mrs Churchill. Please leave my hotel this minute.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand. We have been tasked with investigating by a close acquaintance of Mrs Furzgate.”

  “I didn’t realise she had any acquaintances. As her sad demise was an accident, no further investigation is required. Please leave my hotel now, Mrs Churchill, before I call the police.”

  “Inspector Mappin, you mean? He’s a good friend of mine, you know.”

  “You have one minute to leave before I set the dogs on you.”

  “There’s no need for threats of a canine nature, Mr Crumble.”

  “Mrs Churchill, I think we should leave,” said Pemberley. “Immediately.”

  Churchill pursed her lips and glared at Mr Crumble. “It’s a terrible shame you don’t wish to cooperate with us, Mr Crumble. I had been planning a return visit to partake of your iced fancies again, but I shall take my custom elsewhere.”

  She turned to leave and then stopped as she thought of something else to say. “And when my London friends come to visit I shall recommend that they stay at the Marchmont Hotel and avoid this shabby establishments at all costs!”

  Chapter 10

  “What a badly run hotel!” Churchill declared as they left the building and walked down the driveway. “No wonder people die in it. I don’t think the owner and manager understood the gravity of what I meant when I told him I wouldn’t be recommending the place to my London friends. That includes Lady Worthington, nonetheless. The silly man will be denied her patronage, but he only has himself to blame. And what a terribly garish suit he was wearing; no hint of class about him at all. Hello? Is that another way in?”

  There was an open door leading to a side wing of the hotel.

  “Please don’t go back in there, Mrs Churchill,” said Pemberley. “We really will be in terrible trouble.”

  “Don’t fret, Pembers. I’m just going to have a little peek.”

  Churchill strode across the lawn toward the open door. She peered inside and saw a number of residents reading or snoozing in a lounge area. She turned to look at Pemberley, who was loitering nervously on the driveway, then put two fingers in her mouth and blew a sharp whistle. Mouthing “Come here!” Churchill beckoned to her with an exaggerated arm movement.

  Pemberley reluctantly trudged across the lawn with a nervous expression on her face.<
br />
  “Liven up, Pembers!” hissed Churchill. “This won’t take a moment.”

  Churchill marched through the lounge, smiling politely at the residents she had startled with her whistle.

  Pemberley followed. “What if we bump into that Crumble man again? He won’t be happy,” she whispered.

  “Can you imagine that clot ever being happy about anything?” retorted Churchill.

  They left the lounge and found themselves in a brightly coloured corridor.

  “I couldn’t bear to stay in a place with a carpet as loud as this,” said Churchill. “There’s something rather tawdry about it, isn’t there? Very poor taste.”

  “What are we doing here?” whispered Pemberley.

  “We need to speak to someone who was here when Mrs Furzgate fell down the stairs,” said Churchill.

  She spotted a young woman in uniform about to enter a room further down the corridor.

  “What’s she? A chambermaid? A waitress? Either way, she’ll do.”

  Churchill dashed after the woman, who seemed startled by her speedy approach. She paused with her hand holding the half-open door.

  “Mrs Annabel Churchill, private detective,” Churchill said as she accosted her. “Do you work here?”

  The maid nodded.

  “Were you working here on the day Mrs Furzgate fell down the stairs?”

  The maid shook her head.

  “Darn it! Can you find someone who was here on the day for me? Anyone except the owner and manager, that is, because I’ve already spoken to him and he doesn’t like me very much.”

  “You could talk to Peter,” suggested the maid.

  “Peter? Who is he exactly? Does he have a surname? Where do I find him?”

  “Peter Brown.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I think he was working here at the time.”

  “And where might he be found at this moment?”

  “He works in the restaurant.”

  “I see. My good friend and I are trying to be rather secretive about our investigating, so would it be too much trouble for you to fetch this Peter fellow for us? We’ll wait in this room here.”

  Churchill walked in at speed and knocked into a mop and bucket.

  “It’s a cupboard,” said the maid.

  “Yes, I can see that now, thank you,” replied Churchill as she squeezed herself against a pile of towels. “Stop hanging about in the corridor, Pemberley. There’s plenty of room for you to join me in here.”

  The two mature ladies crammed themselves into the cupboard as best they could. The maid stared at them, open-mouthed.

  “Stop goggling at us woman and go and fetch Peter,” Churchill ordered.

  The maid did as she was told.

  “I’ll close the door,” said Churchill. “We don’t want to be seen. You’re not afraid of the dark are you, Pembers?”

  “No. I hope the maid hasn’t gone to get Crumble, though,” Pemberley whimpered.

  “Stop worrying about Crumble! He’s completely harmless and clearly has no idea how to run a hotel. He also lacks sartorial elegance and has an appalling taste in decor. A dreadful man in every respect.”

  “It’s very dark in here,” said Pemberley. “I don’t like it when it’s this dark because I can’t be certain that I haven’t lost my sight.”

  “Of course you haven’t lost your sight, you ninny.”

  “But if I wave my hand in front of my face I can’t see it at all. And although rationally I know there’s no source of light, there is nothing to either prove or disprove whether I have lost my sight.”

  “I’m beginning to see what you mean, Pembers. I’m holding my hand directly in front of my face and yet I can’t see it at all! What if I’ve gone blind?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well that’s soon answered by opening the door and readmitting a little light.”

  Churchill tried the doorknob, only to realise that it wouldn’t turn.

  “Oh dear, Pemberley, this isn’t good.” Her heart began to thud heavily.

  “What?”

  “I think this is one of those cupboards that can only be opened from the outside.”

  “No!”

  “Calm yourself, dear, this is no time for histrionics.”

  “But I hate the dark!”

  “I checked this with you before I closed the door, remember? You told me you weren’t afraid of the dark.”

  “What if no one ever comes back for us and we’re stuck in here forever?”

  “What nonsense, Pemberley.”

  “With nothing to eat! We’d have to eat the towels!”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that. Anyway, this door seems rather thin. I think we could barge it open if we were truly desperate.”

  “I am desperate!”

  “Now come on, you’re a grown woman.”

  “I’m a grown woman who hates being in enclosed spaces! Oh, get me out! I need to get out! I need to get out!”

  “Hold your breath and count to one hundred.”

  “Get me out!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pemberley!”

  Churchill leant back and propelled herself at the door with so much force that it flew open with a horrible splintering sound.

  “There! Happy now?” cried Churchill.

  Pemberley stumbled into the corridor, weeping with relief. Her spectacles fell onto the floor and she scrabbled around to find them.

  A young man with a wispy moustache stood watching them.

  “Please tell us you’re Peter,” said Churchill, dusting herself down.

  “I’m Peter.”

  “Good.”

  “What have you done to the cupboard door?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll have a look at that in a moment,” replied Churchill, smoothing her skirt and readjusting her hat. “Now then, Peter, I understand you were working here when Mrs Furzgate fell down the stairs? Did you see what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh good! What did you see?”

  “I saw her tumble down the staircase.”

  “And where were you when she fell? At the top or bottom of the stairs?”

  “At the top.”

  “Good, good. And was there anyone else standing near her when she fell?”

  “I can’t be certain, but I don’t think so.”

  “Anyone close enough to push her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Could someone have surreptitiously poked their foot out and tripped her up?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “And what about the teacake on the floor? Did you see that?”

  “Yes, I did. I picked it up and discarded it.”

  “Good, good. We have confirmation on the teacake, Pembers. It was buttered, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. And I don’t suppose there is any way of finding it again and examining it?”

  Peter frowned. “I put it in the kitchen waste, which goes to Farmer Farnley’s pigs.”

  “I see. So the pigs are likely to have consumed it by now.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Shame. Nonetheless, you are being extremely helpful, Peter. Thank you. Have you any idea how the teacake came to be on the floor?”

  “I suppose it must have slipped off one of the waiters’ trays.”

  “With or without its plate?”

  “I didn’t see a plate on the floor.”

  “Do you know who Mrs Furzgate was with when she fell? Had she come to the hotel to meet a person or persons?”

  “I have no idea. But I do know that several members of the Women’s Compton Poppleford Bridge Club were having tea in the restaurant that afternoon. Perhaps she was with them.”

  “Perhaps she was. That’s extremely interesting, Peter. Thank you. Oh dear, Pembers, we need to scarper.”

  Over Peter’s shoulder Churchill could see the maid walking towards them with a man in a green plaid suit.

  “Back
the way we came, Pembers. Run!”

  Chapter 11

  Hollyhock Lane was a delightful cobbled street lined with small houses. A climbing rose trailed over a wall, its pink blooms filling the air with a pleasant scent.

  “I’ve got a bit of a hobble this morning, Pemberley,” said Churchill. “My ankles are quite strained after leaving Piddleton Hotel at pace yesterday.”

  “I must say that you move quite quickly for a—”

  “A large lady?”

  “No, I didn’t quite mean—”

  “No need to pussy foot around, Pembers. I know what you intended to say, and I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m rather proud of my running ability. People usually underestimate my speed, and more fool them, I say!”

  “Mr Crumble almost caught us.”

  “Until he was foiled by his trousers. It must have been quite a rip for us to have heard it from twenty yards away!”

  They both laughed.

  “I expect Mrs Crumble had to spend her evening sewing them up again,” said Pemberley.

  “More fool her if she did. She should make him do it himself, and a pig’s ear he’d make of it, no doubt. Oh look, here’s our man.” Churchill and Pemberley approached a thin grey house where a short, dusty-looking man in a pinstriped suit stood on the front step trying different keys in the lock.

  “You can always spot a solicitor, Pembers,” whispered Churchill. “They have a closed look about them that suggests they know far more than they’re letting on.”

  “Well they do, don’t they?”

  “I suppose they do. But they like us to think it, too. Solicitors must spend many hours in front of the looking glass perfecting their smug expressions.”

  Churchill paused and waved at him. “Good morning Mr Verney!” she said cheerily. “Did Mr Cavendish mention we’d be joining you this morning?”

  “Yes, he did warn me,” replied the solicitor, his eyes narrowed behind a pair of thick spectacle lenses. “I’m trying to find the right key.” He searched through the large bunch in his hand.

  “You clearly administer a great number of properties, Mr Verney,” said Churchill.

  “Yes, I do.”