Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 15

  A light blinked on above a jack on the switchboard, and Geraldine reached for a cord. “Number please?” Geraldine said clearly and with authority into the mouthpiece of her headset. She slipped the end of the plug into the switchboard, then turned her attention back to Beryl.

  “Mostly, I work the evening shift into the night. Shall I call on you at around ten in the morning?” Geraldine said.

  While Beryl did not prefer to leave the comfort of her bed before ten o’clock in the morning, she was eager to begin her lessons and understood that other people had schedules that were far more fixed than her own. Another call lit up the board and urged Beryl to conclude her arrangements quickly.

  “I look forward to seeing you then,” Beryl said before taking her leave.

  Chapter 23

  Beryl returned from her trip into the village with a triumphant look stamped on her face. Edwina was never quite sure whether Beryl’s high spirits were to be celebrated or discouraged. Beryl was enough of a force of nature even when not flushed with triumph.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” Edwina said.

  “I have had a fruitful outing into town.”

  Edwina felt a cold, nagging finger of dread as she wondered what Beryl might be up to. She desperately hoped it did not involve the motorcar. Or their still strained finances. “You haven’t gone placing more wagers with Chester White, have you?” she asked.

  “No. Nothing like that. What would you say if I told you that Hector offered Alma Poole a ring matching the description of the one he stole from Simpkins?” Beryl asked.

  “I would say that such a thing was shocking and that Alma would have been well within her rights to do away with such a vulgar man,” Edwina said. “Her husband, Sidney, could hardly be blamed if he had done away with him given the slightest opportunity.”

  “I thought the same thing. To my way of thinking, the Pooles are the strongest suspects,” Beryl said.

  “Except for Frank Prentice,” Edwina reminded her.

  As if on cue, Crumpet announced with full voice that a visitor had appeared at the door. Beryl returned to the kitchen a moment later, followed by an anxious-looking Jack Prentice. Edwina knew Beryl far too well to be fooled by her forced cheerfulness.

  “What brings you to see us again so soon, Jack?” Beryl said.

  “I hoped you might have some good news to tell me about my father and the case,” Jack said, peering up at the two women.

  Edwina noticed the frayed cuffs on his shirt and the threadbare condition of the flat cap he turned round and round in his small, ink-covered hands. She thought once more of the knitted items she was planning for his siblings and him, knowing full well a warm jumper or a pair of thick socks was little comfort as a replacement for a father.

  “It’s early days yet, Jack,” Beryl said. “There’s no sense getting yourself worked up so soon.” Beryl looked over at Edwina with a look of pleading in her eyes.

  “You’re far too sensible a lad for us to tell you anything but the truth,” Edwina said. “As of yet we have no new information to help your father’s case. We have not given up investigating, but everything we have found so far has not turned up an alternate suspect.”

  “That’s what my mama said you’d say,” Jack said. “She thinks he did it.” Jack’s thin shoulders sagged beneath his cotton shirt.

  “We don’t necessarily think your father is guilty,” Beryl said. “We just don’t have anything to prove the contrary. You can see how that’s different, can’t you?”

  “So you just need more time?” Jack asked.

  Edwina did not believe in lying, least of all to children. It was far better to tell the truth, sooner rather than later. Still, there were ways of saying things that were not cruel.

  “As far as anyone is able to tell at present, your father has the strongest motive for Hector’s murder. He cannot account for his whereabouts at the time the crime was committed, because of his drinking bout. For your sake, we are working diligently on discovering whether or not someone else had equal opportunity and motive to commit the crime,” Edwina said. “We cannot truthfully say anything more encouraging than that.”

  Jack looked her straight in the face, and Edwina thought how old he looked despite his lack of years. He slapped his cap against his leg, then settled it back on his crop of unruly curls.

  “You can’t say more fairly than that,” Jack said. “I’d best get back to work.” With Crumpet close on his heels, he turned and headed out the back door and into the garden. Edwina watched his retreating form as he slipped off through the woods and out of sight.

  “I’m not entirely sure I like this job of ours,” Edwina said as she turned back towards her friend.

  “Nor do I,” Beryl said. “Frank’s chances don’t seem very good, but there is one thing we can say.”

  “Which is?” Edwina asked.

  “They are better than they would be if we hadn’t taken on this job,” Beryl said. Edwina noticed her friend had entirely lost her look of triumph that she had been sporting only moments earlier.

  “I feel as though we’ve hit a dead end,” Edwina said. “I have no idea which line of enquiry to pursue at this point.” She reached for a linen tea towel and began absentmindedly buffing a water glass she plucked from the drying rack. She always thought best with something to busy her hands.

  “I’ve been racking my brain and racking my brain about the whole sordid affair. I am in great need of a distraction,” Beryl said.

  “I hardly know what to suggest,” Edwina said.

  “You needn’t worry about that. I’ve already thought of something,” Beryl said.

  “Which is?”

  “I’m rather afraid I’ve been going soft over the past few months by living entirely indoors, sleeping in a comfortable bed, and eating your well-prepared meals. If I am to write this adventure guide, I need to recall the details of a life spent living rough,” Beryl said.

  “What does that mean?” Edwina said.

  “I think I shall camp out tonight,” Beryl said.

  “Camp out?” Edwina said, her heart filling with dread. She dearly hoped Beryl was not intent on setting up camp herself in the potting shed.

  “Yes. I’ve decided to take a bedroll and a rucksack full of provisions and to spend the night camped out at Hector’s place,” Beryl said.

  “Surely that’s not necessary, is it?” Edwina said. “Especially with a murderer about.”

  “If Doris Gibbs is right, there isn’t a murderer on the loose. He’s locked up tightly in the Walmsley Parva jail cell,” Beryl said. “I wish to bring a real spirit of adventure to my manuscript, so I feel that it behooves me to give myself a bit of a refresher course.”

  Edwina placed the water glass on a shelf in the cupboard and threaded the linen towel through a drawer handle to dry. She untied her pinny from around her waist and hung it on its hook. As much as the idea of spending the night outside, sleeping on the ground under the cold stars, did not appeal to her, she knew she must make the offer.

  “What do you suggest that I pack to take with us?” Edwina asked.

  “My dear friend, I in no way expect you to accompany me,” Beryl said.

  “I couldn’t possibly allow you to go alone. Even if there isn’t a murderer on the loose, it’s hardly the done thing for a woman alone to sleep outdoors, especially on a dead man’s property,” Edwina said.

  “I’m afraid I must insist on going it alone,” Beryl said. “It will only have the ring of authenticity if I camp out on my own. Walmsley Parva is hardly the most dangerous place I will have found myself in such circumstances.”

  “Are you quite certain?” Edwina said, trying desperately to hide her relief. “I should never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you.”

  “My dear Ed, you’re far too good to me. If you would be willing to wrap me up a packet of sandwiches and perhaps a piece of fruit or two, I shall be completely content to head out on my own. After all, when one has
spent so much time navigating the sands of the desert, the densely forested jungle, and even the high seas, a fallow field on a fruit farm holds no terrors.”

  Edwina heard the determination in Beryl’s voice, but she also noticed her friend patting her pocket, as if she was reassuring herself that her tiny pistol lay inside it.

  Chapter 24

  Edwina had not slept well. Between her worries about Beryl spending the night all alone in such close proximity to Clifford Hammond’s property and being forced to endure the sound of Simpkins’s reverberating snores, she had spent the night tossing and turning. Even Crumpet looked the worse for the wear when he lifted his small head from the cushion in his basket and blinked sleepily at her the next morning.

  She quickly dressed and hurried to the kitchen, where she boiled water and prepared a flask of tea. She had saved two scones from tea the afternoon before and placed them, along with a pat of butter and a small jar of fruit preserves, into a small basket. Despite Beryl’s preference for sleeping late, Edwina could not imagine her friend managing to lounge about long after the sun had risen. It was one thing to remain asleep tucked up in bed with the drapes drawn. It was quite another to be sprawled out on the ground in the open.

  Another thought had worried her as she had lain in bed the night before. She imagined Beryl attempting to make breakfast for herself over an open fire. Between Beryl’s lack of cooking skills and the severity of the drought, Edwina was concerned that Beryl might light the district on fire.

  Edwina’s imagination was a powerful one, and she had dreamt over and over that her dear friend had set the entire region ablaze. In one dream Jack had stood just in front of a billowing cloud of soot, hocking a newspaper with the headline FORMER ADVENTURESS FOUND GUILTY OF ARSON.

  She decided to take pity on Crumpet and left him sleeping in his basket as she slipped out the back door and headed for Hector’s cottage. The sun was high in the sky, and the day grew warmer and warmer with each step she took. Wild roses bloomed in the hedgerows, and up ahead of her, she noticed a small brown rabbit scurrying beneath a hazelnut thicket.

  After about fifteen minutes of walking, she spotted Hector’s cottage up ahead. Once again, she felt a wave of sadness wash over her as she thought of the condition of the Lomax farm. The fruit trees had not been properly pruned at the end of the winter, and no one had seen fit to mulch beneath the strawberry plants. It was so dry, she caught herself imagining that something had burst into flame.

  She sniffed the air delicately, wondering if her imagination had run away with her completely. She stopped stock-still and drew in a deeper breath. No, she had imagined nothing. The smell of smoke was very near and very real. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and scanned the scene in the distance. She was unable to see anything to indicate what might be burning.

  She rushed towards Hector’s cottage, spilling her basket in her haste, quite certain Beryl would prove the cause of the difficulty. Beryl was nowhere to be found as she approached the small cottage and mounted the front step to the door. She pressed on the latch and found it gave way easily in her hand. Despite her loathing to enter without permission, she was alarmed by the smell of smoke that seemed to be coming from within. She flung open the door and stepped inside.

  Her nose had not deceived her. As she moved from the entryway deeper into the home, the smell grew stronger. The kitchen did not reveal the source of the smoke, nor did the small sitting room, where she had sat with Simpkins and Beryl the day they had heard of Hector’s murder. She moved farther into the small cottage. Her eyes began to water, and she felt an overwhelming desire to cough.

  The small room in front of her was rapidly filling with smoke. In its center sat a large brass bed piled high with clothing. The clothing was smoldering, and right before her eyes, a tower of flame grew and began to lick at the low-beamed ceiling. She turned around and raced back towards the kitchen.

  The sink was fitted with a hand pump rather than a modern set of taps. Edwina grabbed a filthy kettle from the cooker and filled it with water as quickly as she could operate the pump. She raced back to the bedroom and threw the water at the smoldering pile of clothing. She returned to the kitchen several more times, filled the kettle, and doused the fire repeatedly with its contents.

  When she was satisfied that the fire was well and truly extinguished, she leaned back against the wall and caught her breath. Her knees felt weak as the shock of what had happened sank in. Suddenly she realized she had no idea what could have caused the fire and whether or not Beryl was in any danger.

  Edwina raced outside and swept her eyes over the open fields, in search of her friend. She wondered if she should head over to Clifford Hammond’s property to ask if he had seen her, but thought better of it. For all she knew, he was the person who had set the fire and possibly even murdered Hector. Alerting him that Beryl might be alone and vulnerable was perhaps the worst thing she could do.

  She worked her way around the side of the house and allowed her gaze to move slowly along, as if she were forming a search grid. Up ahead, something caught her attention by fluttering in the slight breeze. She strode off purposely in the direction of a hedgerow comprised of currant bushes. About halfway up the row stood a magnificent European beech tree. There, on the ground beneath it, Beryl lay stretched out on her back, her arm slung over her head in a preposterously unladylike position. Even though the sun fell fully on Beryl’s face, she gave no sign of consciousness. Edwina hurried towards her more quickly, hoping that nothing nefarious explained her complete oblivion to the coming of the day.

  As she approached, the sound of Beryl’s rumbling snores floated across on the morning breeze. Edwina slowed her pace and gave herself a moment to catch her breath. She went so far as to retrieve a delicately trimmed handkerchief from inside her sleeve and used it to dab an unladylike sheen of perspiration from her forehead.

  She looked back out across the field for the presence of any intruders, ones that could be responsible for setting the fire. As far as she could see, she and Beryl were the only people in the vicinity. Other than the birds in the trees and a pair of butterflies flitting from bush to bush in search of nectar-filled flowers, nothing stirred except for the breeze.

  She bent over Beryl, reached down, and shook her friend gently by the shoulder. She knew from previous experience it would do no good to simply call her name. Edwina wondered what explained her friend’s capacity to sleep anywhere at any time.

  Edwina was not so fortunate in her quest for a good night’s sleep. More often than not, she lay awake on her bed, sleep eluding her for an hour or more as she ran through what had happened that day and what she anticipated of the next. Even if she managed to fall asleep promptly, she often awoke in the night, plagued by the same sorts of anxious thoughts.

  Since Beryl’s arrival, she had slept better, it was true. But interrupted sleep was a habit of long standing and one she found was not easily broken. With Beryl in the house, she felt less lonely, but her anxiety had not decreased. Rather it had shifted from worries about expiring with no one but Crumpet to know she had gone to worries about expiring by being jettisoned through a motorcar windscreen or as the result of a confrontation with a criminal. Life was far more exciting with Beryl in residence but at least as woefully bereft of restorative rest.

  Edwina thought that Beryl had learned to sleep wherever she could whenever she could as a result of her global ramblings. If her friend had not learned to blot out the rest of the world in order to rest, she could not have maintained her hectic pace. Although Edwina did not wish to behave as wildly as her friend, she did understand some of the necessities for making that happen. Chief on the list was a good night’s sleep.

  Edwina thought it most likely that Beryl would have no valuable information to contribute about whom the intruder in Hector’s cottage could have been. Edwina suspected she would have been far too deeply asleep to have noticed a thing. She shook Beryl’s shoulder more vigorously, and the other woman’s
eyes fluttered open, then blinked slowly.

  “Good morning, Ed. What brings you out at such an early hour?” Beryl said, stretching languidly before raising up on one elbow.

  “I thought to bring you breakfast after your adventure, but it seems I’ve had an adventure of my own instead,” Edwina said.

  “I ought to go away more often if it opens the opportunity for adventures of your own,” Beryl said. “What happened?”

  “I think you’d best see for yourself,” Edwina said as she pointed towards Hector’s cottage.

  “Has something happened in the night?” Beryl asked.

  “I think it must have happened just before I arrived,” Edwina said. “Let’s gather up your things. I’ll tell you on the way back down to the cottage.”

  Beryl expertly rolled her bedroll into a neat bundle and tucked it under her arm. Edwina gathered up the few items that remained outside the rucksack and stuffed them down inside it. In a flash they were on their way across the field, and Edwina explained what she had found when she had arrived.

  “No, I didn’t see a thing. Or hear anything either,” Beryl said in response to Edwina’s question about a possible arsonist.

  “I thought it was hoping for too much to think you might have been conscious.”

  “You certainly couldn’t have imagined that I would have noticed someone skulking about the cottage and not confronted him or her, could you?” Beryl asked. “Surely you think better of my courage than that.”

  “Of course I do. I was just hopeful that you might have important information to share,” Edwina said.

  “Now that we’re here, show me what you found,” Beryl said.

  The two women entered the cottage and followed the same route that Edwina had used when she discovered the fire. But this time, with no concern that something was on fire, Edwina had time to notice the condition of the small home.