Murder in Cold Mud

“That’s enough scraping for now, Pemberley. Come and have a jam tart.”

“But I’ve just started on the ‘s’, Mrs Churchill,” replied her thin, bespectacled secretary with scruffy grey hair.

“Can’t the ‘s’ wait? It’s been there so long that one more day is hardly going to bring about Armageddon.”

Mrs Annabel Churchill was a large lady with silver hair so well lacquered that it didn’t budge in even the briskest of breezes. Her crimson lipstick matched her twinset and she wore a string of pearls which she had proudly possessed for over fifty years.

“If I leave it, it will look wrong,” said Pemberley, frowning at the office door. “It will say ‘s Detective Agency’. If I scrape off the ‘s’ it will just say ‘Detective Agency’ and that’ll look far better.”

“I see your point, my trusty assistant. And call me over-sensitive, if you wish, but after a while the relentless scrape of scissor blade against glass leaves one feeling as though someone is hammering rusty nails into one’s head.”

“Oh dear, you should get that seen to.”

“It’s not serious enough to be seen to, Pemberley, it’s merely a common human reaction to an incessant and irritating noise.”

“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to get the rest of the letters off then,” said Pemberley, helping herself to a jam tart from the plate on Churchill’s desk.

“Any idea what type of glue Atkins used when he stuck the letters onto his door?”

“He had a man come and do it.”

“Perhaps we can ask the same man to put the name Churchill on the door.”

“We could, but given that he has died he is unlikely to respond.”

“Oh, that’s a terrible shame. Perhaps he was poisoned following a career of overexposure to extra-strong letter adhesive.”

“I think he was, in fact. Poison was definitely mentioned at the inquest.”

“We’ll have to find someone else then. In the meantime, Pembers, I’m rather concerned about our empty-looking incident board.” Churchill pointed at the map on the wall hanging next to the portrait of King George V. “Only recently we had photographs and drawings and pins and lengths of string connecting everything up, and now it all looks rather bare.”

“Probably because we’re not working on any cases at the moment, Mrs Churchill.”

“Well done, Pembers, that’s exactly what it is. Not a single case. I don’t like being caseless; it makes my thumbs twitchy.”

“‘You never know when the next case is going to come in.’ That’s what Atkins always used to say.”

“Well, he wasn’t wrong on that score.”

“But then he did have an extensive client base, so he was never without a case for long.”

“That’s what we’re missing, Pembers, an extensive client base. How does one acquire one of those?”

“Through years of hard work and reputation-building.”

“I meant quickly, though. How does one acquire an extensive client base in a matter of, let’s say, a week?”

“You could advertise.”

“Oh no, I would never do that. Advertising has a cheapening effect on one’s services, I find. I would prefer clients to find us through recommendation and word of mouth. I tell you what we could do with and that’s an upper-class customer. Aristocratic, even, like my friend Lady Worthington in Richmond-upon-Thames. She once happened to mention, in passing, a favourite little haberdashery of hers just off Sloane Square, and you couldn’t move in the place the following day! They sold out of every single button cover before lunchtime. That’s the sort of recommendation we need. In fact, we should try to ensure that we’re a little choosier in future. We should only service an upper-class clientele.”

“How can we be choosy when we don’t have any clientele at all?”

“It won’t always be like this, Pembers. Not once recommendation and word of mouth have spread themselves around the village.”

“Within a week?”

“I would certainly hope so.”

“The upper classes are riddled with criminality, so hopefully we’ll have no shortage of cases once word gets out. Those large inheritances, priceless heirlooms and secret passageways practically encourage intrigue and murder.”

“They do indeed, Pembers. I pray that our next client is in possession of a generous fortune.” She brushed the jam tart crumbs from her ample bosom.

“S Detective Agency?” called a coarse voice from beyond the door. “What’s the ‘s’ for?”

Into the office stumbled a wide-framed, heavily bearded man wearing a tweed cap.

“D’you mean Sdetective?” he asked.

“No, we do not,” replied Churchill haughtily. “Are you lost?”

“Oh, I see what’s ’appened,” continued the man as he surveyed the door. “It used ter say Atkins’s Detective Agency didn’t it? Only you’ve taken the Atkins off. No, ’ang about, you’ve taken Atkins and that little comma thing off an’ left the ‘s’ on, so now it says Sdetective Agency! Haw, haw, haw!”

The man sauntered further into the room and sat himself down in the chair across the desk from Churchill. He wore a sleeveless jacket and his trousers were held up with a length of fraying rope. A trail of earth from his muddy hobnailed boots lay on the floor.

“Do I ’ave the pleasure of addressin’ Mrs Churchill?” he asked, removing his cap deferentially.

“Yes,” she replied, her nose wrinkling at the amount of dirt on the man. “And you are?”

“Mr Rumbold, that’s me. Are thems jam tarts?” he asked, eying the plate on the desk.

“They are indeed.” She paused before reluctantly adding, “Would you like one?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“Lovely jubbly.” He picked one up with his fat, grimy fingers and took a large bite. “How’s Atkins’s widow?” he asked with his mouth full.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr Rumbold. I’ve never met the lady.”

“Crocodile, weren’t it? On some river in Africa, I ’eard.”

“Yes, the Zambezi I believe.”

“Cor! What a way to go!”

“You’re not the first to say that. How may I help, Mr Rumbold?”

“I almost forgot why I’ve come ’ere for a moment!” He pushed the rest of the tart into his mouth and wiped his face with his sleeve. “That’s a nice tart that is. Now where was I? Oh yeah, I’m ’ere ’cause someone’s speared me onions.”

“Your onions, Mr Rumbold?”

“Yep.”

“Speared?”

“Yep.”

“May I ask where your onions were when they were speared?”

“They was in the ground!”

“They were in the process of growing?”

“Yep, that’s right. Enormous beauties they would’ve been too, only someone’s put paid to that.”

“And what were they speared with?”

“Prongs of a fork. Someone’s dug ’em all up an’ speared ’em with a fork.”

“And then what did they do with them?”

“Just left ’em lyin’ on the ground.”

“How barbaric.”

“Ruined! Me onion crop’s ruined.”

“And you’d like me to find the person responsible for this savage attack?”

“Yep. I’m worried me turnips’ll be next.”

“We can’t let that happen.”

“No, we can’t. Someone’s already ’ad a go at me marrows fortnight last.”

“Oh dear, really?”

“Yep, but I still got three of ’em at a secret location.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I’ve won the prize for the largest marrow in Wessex seven years on the trot.”

“Congratulations, Mr Rumbold.”

“Last year’s was ’eavier than the missis.”

“That’s quite an achievement. It sounds as though someone is attempting to sabotage your winning streak.”

“You’ve ’it the nail right on its ’ead. There’s one thing people don’t like in this village, Mrs Churchill. Do you know what it is?”

“Haggis?”

“Success. People can’t abide success in others. An’ there’s nothin’ what provokes another man’s anger as much as an enormous marrow.”

“Is that so, Mr Rumbold?”

“Yep. Mark me words.”

“Consider them marked.” Churchill picked up her notebook and pen. “Now, what have you got for me to go on? Any idea who could be behind this?”

“Could be Tubby Williams.”

“Tubby?”

“Yep.”

“Williams?”

“Yep.”

“And why do you think Tubby Williams might wish to spear your onions?”

“He don’t like me.”

“Do you know why?”

“’Cause me onions do better than ’is.”

“From what you’ve told me so far, Mr Rumbold, I have managed to glean that your vegetable growing is of a competitive nature and that this Tubby Williams is a rival competitor. Am I correct?”

“You’d be right correct, Mrs Churchill.”

“Good! I like it when I’m on the right track. Perhaps you can give me the names of any other rivals.”

“Stropper ’Arris, Colin Sniffer Downs an’ Barry Woolwell.”

“Those are rather unusual names.”

“What’s wrong with Barry Woolwell?”

“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with him on a personal basis, and his name is fairly normal-sounding, I grant you that. But what’s with this Sniffer Stropper Tubby business?”

“Them’s just nicknames they’ve ’ad for so long we’ve all gone an’ forgotten their real ones.”

“I see. And of these four competitors you think Mr Tubby Williams is the one who’s behind the vegetable attacks?”

“Yep.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“Oh, I’ve gone and asked him a lotta times what he means by ’avin’ a go at me veg. I went an’ slashed ’is gourds last year.”

Churchill winced. “Oh dear, Mr Rumbold. It’s disappointing to hear that you’ve sunk to the same unpleasant depths. This tit for tat has been going on for a while, has it?”

“Yep, it’s been years now, it ’as.”

“So why are you asking for my help now?”

“It’s gettin’ worse, an’ there’s the Compton Poppleford ’Orticultural Show comin’ up. I want this sorted afore the show.”

“You haven’t been out slashing gourds or any other varieties of vegetable recently, have you?”

“Nope, the gourds is the last ones I done.”

“Good. Well, do continue to rise above it and keep your nose clean, Mr Rumbold.”

“All the slashin’s be’ind me now, Mrs Churchill. I’m as straight as they come, haw haw haw!”

“As straight as your carrots, perhaps?”

He gave her a blank look. “Yer what?”

“Isn’t that the ideal shape for a prize carrot, Mr Rumbold? Long and straight?”

“Yep, that’s the best kind. I once grew a carrot what was ’eavier than a small pig.”

“Good for you.”

He lowered his voice to a mischievous whisper. “And I once grew one what looked exactly like a—”

“Thank you, Mr Rumbold!” Churchill held up her hand as she interrupted him. “I’ve heard quite enough.”

“Looked exactly like a what?” asked Pemberley.

“It’s entirely irrelevant to our investigation,” replied Churchill.

“It might not be.”

“Believe me, Pembers, it is.”

“It looked exactly like a—”

“Tra la la! We can’t hear you, Mr Rumbold,” said Churchill loudly. “And the conversation has reached its natural conclusion. I think the next course of action would be for Miss Pemberley and me to visit the crime scene. Fancy a jaunt over to the vegetable patch, Miss Pemberley?” She picked up her handbag and rose to her feet.

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”