Fiasco at the Jam Factory

“Must you read a book while we’re enjoying elevenses, Pembers?” private detective Annabel Churchill said to her trusty assistant as she buttered a scone. “It puts a bit of a dampener on our conversation.” 

The two ladies were seated at a little table in Compton Poppleford’s popular tea rooms.

“Oh, I am sorry, Mrs Churchill.”  Doris Pemberley put her book down. “I can’t help it, you see. It’s so terribly gripping.”

“What’s it about?”

“A heist at an art gallery. Lightfinger Jones and his team are currently creeping along a corridor in the dark, and they’ve just spotted a security guard approaching with a torch. I’m so worried he’s going to discover them!”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Pembers. It’s not real, you know.”

“But it feels real. Don’t you find that with some books? Sometimes they seem so real you feel like you’re part of the story.”

“Perhaps I should give your book a try. What’s it called?”

“The Havana Heist.”

“I like the sound of that.” Churchill spread some jam on top of the butter.

“You should read it, Mrs Churchill. It’ll make a nice change from those racy romances Mrs Thonnings lends you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Forbidden Obsession, Pembers. It actually has a decent plot, contrary to some people’s preconceptions. It’s usually the sort of people who’ve never read such books in the first place who choose to comment. What’s wrong with a little romance, anyway? We need a good deal more of it in this troubled world, I say.”

“But not in Compton Poppleford.”

“Why not?”

“Is there anyone you could envisage having a romance with around here, Mrs Churchill?”

“What a question! Absolutely not.”

“There you go. There can be no romance in Compton Poppleford.”

“At least not for us, Pembers. Mrs Thonnings certainly manages to keep the fire burning. I really don’t know how she does it.” Churchill bit into her scone.

“She wears fancy blouses,” said Pemberley, “and pretty tea dresses.”

“I’d wear a pretty tea dress myself if I could find one that didn’t make me look like a saggy summer pudding. Oh dear. Have you tried the jam yet? It tastes rather bland.”

“It doesn’t have enough sugar in it. Or enough fruit, for that matter.”

“The two main ingredients, one might say. What a disappointment.”

“I imagine it’s from Lidcup’s,” said Pemberley. “Perhaps they’ve produced a dodgy batch.”

“There’s no perhaps about it. It’s quite clear they’ve produced a dodgy batch, Pembers. Never mind; at least the scones are good. Let’s eat up. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. We need to reorganise our files.”

“That doesn’t sound very interesting.” Pemberley fed the remains of her scone to her scruffy little dog, Oswald, who was sitting beneath the table. “I wonder when we’ll have our next gripping case to work on.”

“It’ll come along soon enough, Pembers. It always does. Just enjoy the peaceful lull in between.”

It turned out the lull was short-lived. As the two ladies and their dog stepped out onto the high street, there was noticeable excitement in the air. A crowd of people appeared to be striding toward the far end of the high street, while numerous ladies carrying shopping baskets stood huddled in groups. Mrs Crackleby had abandoned her flower stall for an urgent conflab with the village haberdasher, Mrs Thonnings, and the greengrocer’s wife, Mrs Harris.

“Something’s afoot,” commented Churchill. “Do you sense it, Pembers?”

“Yes, I do. I wonder what’s happened.”

They approached the nearest group of ladies.

“I thought it was the day of reckoning!” exclaimed Mrs Thonnings. Her artificially red-tinged hair had tumbled into her face, as if the drama were too much for it.

“I thought the sky had fallen in!” added Mrs Harris, her large front teeth protruding more than ever.

“I want to know how it fell,” said Mrs Crackleby.

“It must have just got old and rusty,” replied Mrs Thonnings. “It’s a very bad business indeed. The vicar should have been checking it! People never check things these days, do they? Oh, hello Mrs Churchill and Miss Pemberley. Did you hear it, too?”

“Hear what?”

“The church bell at St Swithun’s. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Ringing again, was it?”

“No, it fell off!”

“Oh dear.” Churchill considered the size and weight of a church bell for a moment. “I hope no one was hurt,” she added.

A lady Churchill hadn’t seen before joined them. She had grey curls tinged with mauve and wore a coat with a fur-trimmed collar. “Terrible news,” she said.

“It must have been an awful racket for you, Mrs Purseglove,” said Mrs Thonnings, “what with you living opposite the church.”

“It was indeed. Instead of the endless ringing we’ve grown accustomed to, we heard an almighty thud!”

“Oh dear.”

“Apparently, someone’s been squashed,” added Mrs Purseglove.

The ladies gasped.

“How awful!” exclaimed Churchill.

“Dreadful!” said Mrs Thonnings with a frantic shake of her head.

“Who’s been squashed?” asked Mrs Crackleby.

“I can’t say for sure,” replied Mrs Purseglove, “but I’d hazard a guess that it was Mr Spooner.”

“Who’s he?” asked Churchill.

“The tower captain,” replied Mrs Thonnings.

“Or ringing master,” said Mrs Harris.

“He’s a campanologist,” added Mrs Crackleby.

“A belfry man,” said Mrs Purseglove. “The only belfry man in the village after last week!”

“What happened last week?” asked Churchill.

“It’s a long story,” replied Mrs Purseglove, “but suffice it to say that the bells of St Swithun’s may never ring again.”

“Now I understand why everyone’s heading down the high street, Pembers,” said Churchill once they had left their group of friends behind. “They’re all walking toward the church. How awful of people to go and gawp at the scene of an accident like that. Shall we go and see what’s happening?”

“Gawp, you mean?”

“Oh, no. Not us! We view such incidents through the eyes of professional investigators. We have enquiring minds.”

“It doesn’t sound very different from gawping.”

“It very much is, and a little stroll past the church won’t do us any harm after all those scones. Come along, Miss Pemberley. Oswald’s already got wind of something.”

The little dog had started trotting on over the cobbles ahead of them, so the two ladies followed behind him.

“When Mrs Purseglove mentioned that Mr Spooner had been squashed,” said Churchill, “do you think she meant he was deceased?”

“I don’t think she knew. And besides, she was only guessing that it was Mr Spooner at all.”

“Well, quite. I hope the poor chap makes a full recovery if he isn’t deceased. Although I really don’t know how one would go about making a full recovery from a church bell falling on one’s head.”

“It probably depends on the size of the bell. If it were the smallest one he might be all right, but if it were the biggest one…”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about it, does it?”

On reaching the end of the high street, the ladies followed the narrow lane that led up to the pretty little church. 

“How old would you say St Swithun’s is, Pembers?”

“I think part of it is nine hundred years old.”

“Good grief! Which part?”

“I’m not sure, but I know it’s been added to many times over the years.”

“Could the bells be nine hundred years old?”

“Oh, no. They’re only likely to have been in place for two or three hundred years.”

“It’s no wonder they’re falling off!”

A group of people had gathered beside the churchyard’s kissing gate.

“It doesn’t look like they’re letting anybody in,” commented Churchill. “That was to be expected, I suppose.” She caught the attention of a youth chewing on a piece of straw “Excuse me, young man. Do you happen to know who was squashed by the church bell?”

“Old Jeremy Spooner.”

“Oh dear. And is he…?”

“Yeah, ’e’s dead.”

“Oh dear.” She turned back to Pemberley. “It’s as we feared. Shall we return to the office?”

Pemberley nodded and the two ladies went on their way.

“What a way to go, Pembers,” mused Churchill. “Imagine being squashed by a church bell.”

“I can only hope that Mr Spooner knew nothing about it.”