Puzzle in Poppleford Wood

“Remind me never to visit the bank again on Compton Poppleford’s market day, Pemberley,” said Annabel Churchill as she sank down into the chair behind her desk. “It’s complete mayhem! Countless yokels have crawled in from the countryside and blocked the roads with their rickety carts and animals, all of which have seen better days. I was trapped for fifteen minutes in a crowd of noisy, gap-teethed rustics with low-set ears. Most of them were wearing smocks. Smocks, I tell you! And I even saw a man in clogs. There’s no excuse for clogs, Pembers. He’d be arrested for looking like that in Richmond-upon-Thames.”

“How fortunate for him that he doesn’t live there, then,” replied Doris Pemberley, a thin, bespectacled lady with a mop of untidy grey hair.

“It’s a different world altogether,” said Churchill, adjusting her string of pearls. “I thought I’d adapted to Dorset life quite well, but every now and again one is reminded of the region’s particular peculiarities.”

“Don’t they have market day in Richmond-upon-Thames?”

“They do, but it’s a much more sophisticated affair up there. People unload their wares from shiny vans rather than carts riddled with woodworm. And the cows and sheep behave with much more decorum.”

“No rustic types?”

“None. You get a few oiks from Hounslow, but no smocks. And definitely no clogs!”

Churchill smoothed down her silver helmet of lacquered hair. She was a large lady with a fondness for tweed skirts and woollen twinsets.

“But you only ever need one pair,” said Pemberley.

“Of what?”

“Clogs. Because they’re carved out of wood they go on forever; no need to ever replace them. They’ll still be going strong even after you’ve died.”

“Outlived by one’s footwear. What a thought.”

“And there’s no need for any expenditure on new shoes.”

“An advantage that should not be overlooked. Shoes are such poor quality these days, don’t you find? A few bimbles along the riverbank and the soles are almost worn through. And the days of finding a decent cobbler on every high street are long gone.”

“Clogs are the answer.”

“Only if you’re clinging to the bottom rung of the social ladder, Pembers. If one has any middle-class aspirations at all they’re a distinct no-no.”

“Well, don’t worry, Mrs Churchill. The marketplace will soon be transformed for the unveiling of the statue of Sir Morris Buckle-Duffington next Tuesday.”

“He sounds terribly important. Did he do anything particularly noteworthy?”

“He was an adventurer.”

“That sounds rather vague to me. Have we eaten all of our custard tarts?”

“Yes.”

“What about the iced fancies?”

“All gone. But the man has been to put the letters on the door.”

“The door letter man! Oh, how exciting. I was so befuddled by the chaos of market day that I forgot to look closely at the door when I returned. Let’s take a peek at his handiwork.”

Churchill got up from her desk and walked over to the office door, the upper half of which was glazed with safety glass.

The words ‘Atkins’s Detective Agency’ had once decorated the glass, but Pemberley had invested a great deal of time in scraping off the word ‘Atkins’s’. What Churchill saw in its place displeased her greatly.

“Have you seen what he’s done here, Pembers?”

“No.”

“Did you not check door letter man’s work before you paid him?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I didn’t think I’d need to. What could be so difficult about putting the word ‘Churchill’s’ on the door?”

“My sentiments exactly, but he’s still managed to make a hash of it.”

“How so?”

“Get up off your chair and have a look, Pembers.”

Pemberley did as she was told and quickly joined Churchill at the door.

“Oops!” she exclaimed.

“Since when did my surname become two separate words?”

“He did mutter something about it being quite a long name, and that there wasn’t much space for it.”

The lettering on the door read ‘Church’ and beneath it was the word ‘Hills’.

“Church Hills Detective Agency,” said Churchill scornfully. “And he’s forgotten the apostrophe!”

“You often find that with sign makers,” said Pemberley. “They put apostrophes in where they’re not needed and forget them where they are.”

“And that’s acceptable, is it?”

“No, not at all. It’s just what they do.”

“And then get paid a tidy sum for it and go on their merry way. You’ll have to telephone and get him back here.”

“I can see myself that it would be quite tricky to fit the word ‘Churchill’s’ into that space.”

“He’ll just have to use smaller lettering. Shall I telephone and tell him exactly how he needs to do his job?”

“You might have to.”

“It’s ridiculous!” fumed Churchill, striding back into the office. “Why must one be required to supervise every single task? It’s terribly draining, Pembers, and we have no cake to sustain us. Could you please fetch some from Simpkin the baker?”

“Any particular type?”

“Anything at all.”

Churchill picked up the receiver of the telephone on Pemberley’s desk, but didn’t get as far as dialling.

“Oh hello, what’s this?” The headline of the Compton Poppleford Gazette hadcaught her eye, swiftly prompting her to replace the receiver. “‘Mystery of Darcy Sprockett Solved’. What mystery is that, then?”

“Let me fetch some cake, and then I shall elucidate.”