Tragedy at Piddleton Hotel

Mrs Annabel Churchill stood in the cobbled high street and surveyed her new business premises in the pretty village of Compton Poppleford. One of her chubby hands clutched her handbag and the other held a bunch of pink carnations which her maid, Flossie, had tearfully presented her with at Waterloo Station. The view before her now was an enticing window display of crusty loaves and plump fruit buns which made her stomach rumble. All she had eaten that day was a soggy wedge of bread and cheese – ambitiously described as a sandwich – in the dining room at Dorchester train station.

Churchill tore her eyes away from the baked temptations of Bodkin’s Bakery and instead turned her attention to the drab door just left of the bakery window. It bore a dull bronze sign that read: ‘Atkins’s Detective Agency’.

“The sign will have to go,” she said to herself. “I shall replace it with a bright, shiny one bearing the name Churchill’s Detective Agency.”

A loud honk made her startle and drop the flowers. She bent down to pick them up and turned to see the shiny fender of a red motor car a few feet from her nose.

“What the dickens are you doing standing about in the road?” cried out the young, floppy-haired man behind the wheel.

“I could ask the same of you!” retorted Churchill, who never liked to admit she was in the wrong.

“But it’s a road,” shouted the driver. “For cars!”

“And noisy, irksome things they are, too!” Churchill shook her fist at him and walked toward the drab door by the bakery window.

She retrieved a bunch of keys from her handbag and spent some time twisting each one in the lock before realising the door wasn’t locked after all.

“Typical estate agents,” she muttered. “Half the population of Compton Poppleford has probably been inside my office now and stripped it bare.”

Beyond the door was a narrow wooden staircase which just about accommodated Churchill’s generously proportioned frame. She felt quite out of breath by the time she reached the glass door to the right of the small landing at the top. Stuck to the glass in tall black letters were the words, ‘Atkins’s Detective Agency’.

“Not any more,” she said as she set about peeling away the letter A of ‘Atkins’. It was stuck fast to the glass and she only managed to chip away a small part before realising the damage she was causing her nail. Giving up on the lettering, she pushed open the door and walked briskly into the office.

It was a capacious room which smelt pleasantly of baked bread from the bakery below. A desk stood by the window just as Mr Atkins had left it with a leather chair pulled up in front of a typewriter. A row of filing cabinets ran along one wall and a portrait of King George V hung above the fireplace.

Churchill strode over to the desk, lay the carnations on it and tried out the leather chair for size. It was rather comfortable, and from the window she had a commanding view of the high street. She decided she liked the desk and its position, but before she could make herself too comfortable she would need a vase for her flowers.

She got up again and began to scour the room, but there was no sign of a suitable receptacle. In the far corner of the room was a locked door, but after trying the handle Churchill decided to unlock it later with one of the numerous keys she had been given. Meanwhile, her carnations were in a critical condition after their long journey from London to Dorset.

“I must have a vase!” she declared.

She recalled seeing a bric-a-brac shop on the other side of the high street and figured it would only take a moment or two to purchase a vase from the establishment.

“Are you the lady what’s bought the detective agency?” asked the man standing behind the counter. The shop smelled of beeswax polish mingled with over-boiled vegetables. Its proprietor had a large, grey moustache. He wore a tweed waistcoat with missing buttons, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed heavily tattooed arms.

“I am indeed.”

“I’ve ’eard as you’s come down from London.”

“Yes, I’ve moved down here from the big smoke.”

Compton Poppleford was clearly the sort of place where news travelled fast.

“Why’ve you came down ’ere, then?”

“I saw the detective agency for sale in The Times and decided the purchase of it would make for a charming little project.”

“But why down ’ere?”

“Well, aside from the fact that down here is where the detective agency is located, I rather fancied a change of scene, if truth be told. London is such a busy place and it begins to sap one’s energy as one nears a certain age.”

“So you’s a detective, is you?”

Churchill tried not to wince at the rustic accent and forced a smile instead. “I am the widow of Detective Chief Inspector Churchill of Scotland Yard. I was married to him for forty years, so there’s very little I don’t know about investigating crimes.” She glanced at the clutter around her, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it. “Do you have a vase here in your bric-a-brac shop?”

“It’s an antiques shop,” he corrected, his moustache twitching irritably.

“Really?” Churchill surveyed the clutter a second time. “What’s antique in here?”

“Everythin’s antique in ’ere.”

“I see. Would you happen to have an antique vase?”

“Yes, there’s one of ’em in the windah.”

Churchill stepped over to the window display and saw a blue china vase standing on top of a dusty top hat. “How much?” she asked.

“Fifteen shillin’s.”

“Fifteen?”

“It’s an antique vase.”

“Is it indeed? I see what you’re doing here, Mr…?”

“Smallbone.”

“I see what you’re doing here, Mr Smallbone. You think that because I’ve travelled down from London I’ll be prepared to pay London prices. That simply won’t do, Mr Smallbone. That won’t do at all.”

“Fourteen shillin’s.”

“What nonsense, Mr Smallbone.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Nonsense, I say. That vase is worth ten shillings at the very most. Look, it has a chip.”

“That ain’t a chip; it’s a feature.”

After beating Mr Smallbone down to seven shillings, Churchill returned to her office with the vase. She marched through the glass door to rescue the limp carnations and was astounded to discover that they were already in a vase. She was even more surprised to see a thin, bespectacled woman with scruffy grey hair sitting behind the desk. Her cardigan looked as though it had once been a shade of lilac or pink.

Uncharacteristically for Churchill, she was momentarily unable to speak. She managed to cling on to her vase, but her mouth hung open in an unseemly manner.

“Good heavens! Who are you and where did you get that?” she said, pointing at the vase.

“You must be the lady who bought the detective agency,” said the woman with a smile.

“Yes, I am,” replied Churchill, plonking her vase down on the desk.

“I’m Miss Pemberley,” replied the woman.

“Jolly good. Can I ask what you’re doing in my chair?”

Pemberley raised her eyebrows. “But this is my chair.”

“What nonsense. Of course it isn’t.” Churchill puffed out her cheeks, snorted and steeled herself to drag the woman out of the chair by one of her spindly arms.

“Perhaps Mr Atkins’ solicitor didn’t explain?” Pemberley said.

Churchill snorted again, louder this time. “Atkins’ solicitor explained nothing whatsoever. He was the most useless solicitor I have ever had the misfortune to come across. And I’ve come across a fair few, I can tell you.”

“I’m part of the detective agency. One of the fixtures and fittings, so to speak.”

“Which are you?”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Are you a fixture or a fitting?”

Pemberley gave this some thought. “I don’t really know. A fixture, I suppose. I hadn’t really considered it until now. Thank you for the flowers, though. They’re quite delightful.”

“They’re my flowers! A gift from my former maid. How could I possibly have bought them for you? I didn’t even know you were here! I looked everywhere for a vase but couldn’t find one.”

“It was on the windowsill in the water closet.”

“Water closet?”

Churchill glanced around the room and noticed that the door which had previously been locked now stood ajar. She strode over to the door and saw a lavatory beyond it.

“That’s where you were when I arrived?” she asked. “In the water closet with the vase?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Didn’t you notice me trying the handle of the door? You should have shouted out to let me know you were in there!”

“I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“It was far more alarming to return to my office and find you sitting at my desk!”

“My desk.”

Churchill marched toward Pemberley, removed the flowers from the vase and placed them in the one she had just bought. Then she poured in the water.

“There. I prefer them in the blue china vase,” she said. “It’s an antique, you know.”

“Is that what Mr Smallbone told you?”

“How do you know Mr Smallbone?”

“I’ve worked in this office opposite his shop for fifteen years.”

“Have you? Have you indeed? Good!”

Churchill stood by the desk with her hands on her hips and considered how to manage this unforeseen pickle. Although Miss Pemberley seemed a little wet behind the ears, there was no doubt that her local knowledge would be a useful asset to Churchill’s Detective Agency. Besides, she had been planning to hire a secretary anyway.

“Were you a secretary of some sort to the late Mr Atkins?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was.”

“I see. And as you’re a fixture of the detective agency you could continue to be a secretary of some sort, I suppose?”

“Yes. That’s my understanding of the matter.”

“Jolly good.” Churchill looked around for another chair to sit on, but there was none. “Did Mr Atkins have a desk?”

“Yes, but his widow requested that it be returned to the family estate.” Pemberley’s voice trembled, and her eyes grew damp. She retrieved a balled-up handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and squashed it into each eye.

“Did she now? I see. A slight inconvenience, but never mind.” Churchill gave an awkward cough and looked up at the ceiling. She felt uneasy when people displayed emotion. “I imagine Mr Smallbone will have an antique desk and an antique chair for sale. Are there any means of boiling water here? I haven’t had a cup of tea since Dorchester and the branch line from there is dreadfully slow. It would have been quicker to walk.”

“Tea?” replied Pemberley, her face lighting up. “Yes, there’s a kettle and gas ring in the water closet.”