Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel Read online

  “All of them belonging to deceased individuals?”

  “Not all of them, no. Ah, this might be the one.” He tried the key in the lock and uttered a quiet curse word when nothing happened. After a few further attempts with different keys the door creaked open and they were greeted by a waft of shuttered-up air.

  They stepped into a small hallway housing a steep wooden staircase leading up to the first floor. On the ground floor was a small living room and kitchen area. Threadbare rugs lay on the floorboards and there were two worn easy chairs in the living room. The kitchen was small yet functional.

  “She didn’t have a lot of space, did she?” Pemberley commented.

  “She didn’t have a lot of anything,” said Churchill. “I’d say Mrs Furzgate was as poor as a church mouse. How long did she live here?”

  “Her entire life,” replied Mr Verney.

  Churchill noticed a dull bronze telescope sitting on an occasional table.

  “That could do with a bit of spit and polish,” she said. “I wonder if Mrs Furzgate used it to spy on her neighbours.”

  “She might well have done,” replied Pemberley.

  “I think it’s purely ornamental,” said the solicitor.

  “Did you know Mrs Furzgate well?” Churchill asked.

  “Not personally. I merely handled her affairs.”

  “Do you believe she may have been murdered?”

  The solicitor gave a dry laugh. “No, I don’t. What a preposterous idea!”

  “Perhaps she kept poking that telescope at someone and they finally cracked,” suggested Churchill.

  “Highly unlikely,” retorted Mr Verney.

  “Do you know of anyone she might have fallen out with?” asked Churchill.

  “No. And even if I did I’m bound by client confidentiality.”

  “Even though your client is deceased?”

  “Even though she’s deceased.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t think there’s much else to look at here is there, Pembers? Why is there a section of tea chest leaning against the fireplace?”

  Pemberley stepped over and picked it up.

  “It has some writing on it,” she said, turning it over so that Churchill could read it. The letters had been neatly painted on in red paint.

  “‘No More Dirty Money’,” read Churchill. “Interesting. I have to say that I agree with that sentiment. One often wonders which filthy places the coins in one’s purse have lingered in; greasy palms, dust-filled trouser pockets and that sort of thing. The thought alone is making my hands itch for a bar of Sunlight soap. Thank you for your time this morning, Mr Verney, but we must be on our way. If you think of anything useful that doesn’t breach client confidentiality you’ll let me know, won’t you? I would leave you with a carte de visite but they’re still at the printers. You know where to find us, though; just above the bakery. I bought Atkins’ business.”

  “Ah, poor Atkins,” mused the solicitor. “He and I used to go shooting together.”

  “How lovely. Good day to you, Mr Verney.”

  “Mrs Furzgate’s home yielded no clues did it, Pemberley?” said Churchill as they enjoyed a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake back at the office.

  “No, but dead ends are common in detective work.”

  “Absolutely. We private detectives must cope with them all the time. Dead ends must be suffered! I’m tempted to write down that piece of wisdom and stick it to the wall.” She took a sip of tea. “Is your cardigan blue or green today, Pembers?”

  “It was emerald once, but it’s been washed rather a lot since then.”

  “It’s definitely lost its hue,” said Churchill. “Not to mention its shape.”

  “No, that’s me,” replied Pemberley. “I’ve lost my shape.”

  Churchill was about to ask for clarification when she heard footsteps on the stairs. “Hark, Pembers! Someone’s coming!”

  Her heart sank as the brown-whiskered Inspector Mappin entered the room.

  “Inspector!” said Churchill with forced enthusiasm. “My fellow ship! How can it be that we’re not passing in the night? It’s the height of day. Are we perhaps colliding?”

  “Something like that,” replied the inspector as he removed his helmet and sat down in front of Churchill’s desk.

  “Do sit down,” she said. “Oh, you already have. How about some tea? Would you like a slice of fruit cake?”

  “No, thank you. I’m on duty.”

  “You’ve used that excuse before, Inspector. Does being on duty preclude you from enjoying elevenses?”

  “I’ll keep my visit brief, Mrs Churchill, and have a cup of tea and a biscuit when I return to the station.”

  “Very good, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr Bernard Crumble of the Piddleton Hotel has paid me a visit.”

  Churchill sighed. “I might have known.”

  “He informed me that two elderly ladies made quite a nuisance of themselves at his hotel yesterday afternoon.”

  “We were there yesterday afternoon weren’t we, Pemberley? We didn’t notice any old ladies being a nuisance. In fact, everyone was exceedingly well-behaved and pleasant until that rude, bearded man in the gaudy suit threatened to set his dogs on us.”

  “I’m told that you caused an obstruction at the foot of the staircase, Mrs Churchill, and subsequently caused damage to a cupboard door.”

  “Mr Crumble makes such a fuss about things. I don’t have time for fussy people.”

  “Can you confirm that his complaint is accurate, Mrs Churchill?”

  “It’s not how I would describe it. Surely it’s only fair to hear my side of the story, Inspector?”

  “Of course. And what is your side of the story?”

  “Well, Miss Pemberley and I were there as part of our investigation into the tragic death of Mrs Furzgate.”

  “Investigation? But there’s nothing to investigate! Her death was clearly an accident.”

  “That’s not what her godson believes, and he has charged us with getting to the bottom of it.”

  Inspector Mappin groaned and put his head in his hands. “Don’t tell me. Mr Cavendish?”

  “Yes, the very same, as a matter of fact.”

  “He’s asked you to investigate his godmother’s death? Even though a professional police investigation has deemed it an accident?”

  “Subject to the coroner stating it as such.”

  The inspector laughed. “Knowing Mr Graves, the coroner, I’m extremely confident that he will find her death to have been an accident.”

  “The coroner is a friend of yours, is he?”

  “Yes, we play tennis together.”

  “Do you indeed? And I suppose Atkins played tennis with the coroner as well, did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Good,” Churchill replied through clenched teeth. “It’s a nice sociable game, isn’t it, tennis?”

  “In summary then, Mrs Churchill, you have confirmed that Mr Crumble has cause for complaint about your conduct yesterday afternoon?”

  “He strikes me as the sort of man who always has cause for complaint, don’t you think, Inspector? Have you ever seen the man smile? He looks like a chap who permanently has the hump.”

  “A woman has just died in his hotel, Mrs Churchill.”

  “I realise that. But just think of her godson, poor Mr Cavendish! Imagine his grief at losing his godmother in that manner! He has far more reason to be miserable than Mr Crumble.”

  “Let’s settle this matter here and now,” said the Inspector. “Mr Crumble has issued a lifetime ban to you and your secretary from ever setting foot in his hotel again.”

  “Pfft,” snorted Churchill. “We don’t ever want to go there again anyway, do we, Pembers?”

  “Well the iced fancies were rather nice,” said Pemberley.

  “No, they weren’t,” retorted Churchill. “The fondant was too thin.”

  “And he demands a sum of twenty pounds to repair the cupboa
rd door,” continued Inspector Mappin.

  “Twenty pounds!” Churchill’s jaw almost hit her desk. “But the door can be repaired with a few tacks and screws, and a little bit of wood and a saw, or however it is you fix doors. I shall go up there and fix it myself for a twentieth of the cost!”

  “The door must be replaced. The damage was quite extensive.”

  “A replacement door for twenty pounds. Mr Crumble routinely buys his doors from Fortnum and Mason of Mayfair, does he?”

  “No, just from the carpenter’s yard in Compton Poppleford.”

  “We’re in the wrong business, aren’t we Pembers? We should be running the carpenter’s yard and selling doors to inept hotel owners for extortionate sums of money!”

  “And then there’s the matter of the torn trousers,” said Inspector Mappin.

  “Mr Crumble’s unmentionables are nothing to do with me,” replied Churchill. “I didn’t go anywhere near them.”

  “Mr Crumble states that his trousers ripped while he was in the process of chasing you out of his hotel,” said the inspector.

  “He should wear a pair that fits him properly. Either that or reduce his waistline. And there’s no need for you to glance at my waistline in that manner, Inspector. At least my clothes fit me properly!”

  “Two shillings for repairs to the trousers.”

  “Two shillings! Can’t Mrs Crumble repair them?”

  “There is no Mrs Crumble.”

  “That explains a few things.”

  “Mr Crumble is a bachelor and must therefore pay his tailor to repair the trousers.”

  Churchill laughed. “He has a tailor? You could have fooled me. That green suit looked like something he might have bought second-hand from one of the clowns at Chipperfield’s Circus.”

  “There’s no need to be rude, Mrs Churchill,” the inspector scolded. “Mr Cavendish asked you to carry out this investigation, did he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well why don’t you bill him for the door and the trouser repairs? Include it in your expenses.”

  “Now there’s a thought!” A smile spread across Churchill’s face. “It turns out you can have the capacity for good ideas after all, Inspector.”

  “Good. So that’s settled, then. Now, when we last met, Mrs Churchill, you assured me that you weren’t one of those meddling types.”

  “Absolutely not, Inspector.”

  “So stop meddling.”

  “I’m merely carrying out my job!”

  “In which case you need to be professional about it, just as my friend Atkins was.”

  “Inspector Mappin, I take offence at the suggestion that you consider my conduct to be unprofessional.”

  “Trampled geraniums, broken doors and ripped trousers speak for themselves, don’t they, Mrs Churchill?”

  “Three unfortunate incidents, Inspector, which won’t happen again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I shall return to my night-time sailing. You won’t notice me at all.”

  “Very good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “You have my word.”

  Chapter 12

  “Smithy Miggins,” said Churchill as she and Pemberley walked along the high street. “He’s the chap who wrote the story about Mrs Furzgate’s demise in the Compton Poppleford Gazette. It’s possible that he knows a little more about the incident than was reported and would be a useful person to speak to. Do you know anything about him?”

  “He wears a pork pie hat and a scruffy raincoat.”

  “Sounds like your archetypal news reporter.”

  “Always scribbling in his notebook and smoking a cigarette.”

  “Quite typical.”

  “Drinks like a fish.”

  “Predictable. Ink-stained fingers?”

  “I should think so. Enjoys flower-arranging.”

  “For a moment I thought you said he enjoys flower-arranging.”

  “He does.”

  “Not entirely what I expected, in that case.”

  They had reached the offices of the Compton Poppleford Gazette: a red-brick building with white sash windows.

  “How do you get in the place, Pembers?”

  “Around the back.”

  The two ladies walked down a short passageway at the rear of the building, passing a yard containing several overgrown shrubs at one end. A sign on the office door read: ‘No Beggars or Peddlers Allowed’. Churchill knocked and a tall woman with dyed red hair and painted eyebrows answered.

  “Good afternoon! I’m Mrs Churchill of Churchill’s Detective Agency.”

  “You’re the lady who bought Atkins’ business, aren’t you?” The woman’s manner was cold and haughty.

  “Ah, so you’ve heard of me, then. All good I hope.”

  The woman said nothing, so Churchill cleared her throat.

  “Please may I speak with your reporter, Smithy Miggins?”

  “He’s out on a story.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Who knows how long a story will take?”

  “I don’t know. Who indeed?”

  “I don’t know, either; it was a rhetorical question.”

  Churchill found herself struggling to warm to the woman. “Perhaps when Mr Miggins returns you could ask him to come and see me,” she said. “Do you know where Atkins’ former premises are?”

  “Everyone knows where they are.”

  “Good. Well he may find me there.”

  “May I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “I’m investigating the death of Mrs Furzgate.”

  “Oh, her.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Everyone knew her.”

  “Good, well it’s reassuring to hear that everyone knows so much about everything in this village. That should make my job a little easier.”

  “I shall pass your message on to Mr Miggins. He may not get back to you, however. He’s a very busy man.”

  “I’m sure he is, madam.”

  “My name is Mrs Duckworth.”

  “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Mrs Duckworth.”

  “Did you notice the way I lied to that dreadful woman, Pembers?” said Churchill as they walked back along the high street. “I told her it was a pleasure to make her acquaintance even though it wasn’t at all. I have the stomach for many unpalatable things in life, but I find rudeness indigestible. Don’t you?”

  “It is both unsavoury and inedible.”

  “I’m pleased you agree, Pemberley. Now then, that Peter Brown fellow at Piddleton Hotel mentioned the Women’s Compton Poppleford Bridge Club. Tell me about them, Pembers. Who’s in charge there?”

  Pemberley groaned. “A formidable lady who goes by the name of Mrs Trollope.”

  “I see. And her second-in-command is…?”

  “Mrs Duckworth.”

  “That rude woman we just spoke to?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. There’s something rather superior about ladies who play bridge isn’t there? It must be their high intellect.”

  Churchill chuckled. “High intellects don’t worry me, Pembers. As a bridge player myself I’m quite at home with the bridge ladies. Hit me with some more names.”

  “There’s Mrs Cranster, Mrs Goggins, Mrs Higginbath, Mrs Murgatoss-Bynes and Mrs Fazackerly-Bowes-Grant.”

  “Good work, Pemberley. I think we need to be brave and pay these ladies a visit. But if we’re going to meet them on their own turf we’ll need to brush up on our bridge skills.”

  “But I have no idea how to play it.”

  “Don’t worry, Pembers, I’ll give you a quick lesson. Come round this evening about seven.”

  Churchill and Pemberley sat at the dining room table in her cottage that evening. They had a glass of brandy each and a plate of Homewheat Chocolate Digestives to share.

  “Now then, my trusty assistant, bidding four hearts means you plan to take ten tricks, with hearts as trumps,” said Churchill.

&n
bsp; “Did you make that draught excluder yourself, Mrs Churchill?” Pemberley asked, pointing at the sausage of stockings lying across the bottom of the door.

  “Yes, I did. No matter how many gaps I plug in this place it’s still chilly. Even in the middle of summer! I’ve complained to Farmer Drumhead about it, but he’s still rather distracted by his mother’s death. I’m not surprised she popped her clogs living in this place; the draughts are enough to carry anyone off. Now concentrate, Pembers. Do you have any hearts in your hand?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said you did?”

  “Did I? This game is terribly confusing.”

  “Lay your cards on the table and let me have a look at them.”

  “I didn’t think you were supposed to see them.” Pemberley clasped them protectively to her narrow chest.

  “Not ordinarily, but I need to help you understand what’s in your hand.”

  “You’re not trying to cheat?” asked Pemberley warily.

  “No, Pembers, we’re not even playing a proper deal! We need four people for that.”

  “Remind me what a trick is.”

  “I’m still trying to explain the principle of trumps,” said Churchill through clenched teeth. “Just show me your cards before my head explodes.”

  Unable to wait any longer, Churchill reached across the table and snatched the cards from her secretary’s hand.

  “Let’s have a look at this… You have five hearts here, Pemberley!”

  “Do I?”

  “And you have fifteen cards, when I only dealt you thirteen. Where did you get the other two from?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mrs Churchill. I don’t think I’m cut out for bridge. Can we stop now?”

  “We have to, for my patience has left me. It would be quite dangerous to continue.”

  Chapter 13

  A tall, familiar-looking woman with dyed red hair and painted eyebrows answered the door to Mrs Trollope’s large house the following afternoon.

  “Mrs Duckworth!” said Churchill cheerily. “Are you Compton Poppleford’s official door-answerer by any chance?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “There was no need to answer; it was a rhetorical question. Miss Pemberley here telephoned Mrs Trollope this morning to request a meeting with your bridge club, and she invited us to her rather fine home this afternoon. What a delightful place it is, too.” Churchill glanced up at the large, white-stuccoed facade. “I take it Mrs Trollope is at home?”