Christmas Calamity at the Vicarage - a Christmas novella (Churchill and Pemberley Series) by Emily Organ

Author:Emily Organ [Organ, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

There was silence for a moment. Churchill held her breath, terrified that someone might have seen the bookcase move.

When no sound came, they peered cautiously into the room. A smile spread across Churchill’s face when she saw that they were standing in the empty parlour.

“It’s just as we thought, Pembers!”

Oswald ran into the room and sniffed around. The fire had almost completely burned down in the grate and the room was half-dark. The candle provided a little more light, revealing an outline of chalk on the oriental rug where Mr Donkin’s body had lain.

“The undertaker has removed the body, then,” said Churchill. “One could never imagine when attending a party the possibility that one might leave it in a coffin.”

“Oh gosh, no one ever would!” replied Pemberley, her voice cracking. “And now the idea’s been dropped into my mind I shall think it whenever I go to one. I shan’t ever go to a party again!”

“Don’t allow Mr Donkin’s tragic demise to put you off, Pemberley. Women like us need to get out and enjoy ourselves while we still have the chance.” She handed the candle back to her assistant. “Now, I don’t think we need to stay in this room any longer, seeing as we’ve established that the secret passageway leads to the parlour, and there’s a danger that Mappin will come in again and find us here. Come on, Pembers, we’ve made magnificent progress! Let’s get back before anyone realises what we’ve discovered.”

Pemberley stepped into the passageway with the candle with Oswald in pursuit. Churchill squeezed herself back in before closing the bookcase door behind her.

“Oh, how I hate cobwebs!” hissed Pemberley, rubbing at her head. “There are so many in my hair I’m no longer sure what’s hair and what’s cobweb!”

“A nice shampoo and set will sort that out, Pembers. If we ever get out of this blasted vicarage, that is.”

They reached the morning room bookcase door and paused to listen for voices. Sure enough, they could hear talking on the other side. The two ladies glanced at each other, wide-eyed in the candlelight, making an unspoken pact to remain silent. They glanced down at the little dog, praying that he wouldn’t bark and give them away. He looked up at them as if he had no intention of doing such a thing, the candlelight reflecting in his large brown eyes.

“What a dreadful mess,” said a voice that Churchill instantly recognised as Inspector Mappin’s.

“It was that dog, you know the one,” replied the vicar. “That ragged, feral thing owned by those two old detective ladies.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs Churchill and Miss Pemberley.”

“With a bit of luck they’ve cleared off home with it by now.”

“I hope not; they’re my prime suspects! If you remember rightly, Vicar, I asked everyone to remain in the vicarage while I conducted my interviews. If they’ve scarpered we can only assume that they’re guilty.”

“Do you really think they could have done it, Inspector? Two elderly ladies? I realise the large one’s a pain in the posterior, but a murderess?”

“The idea seems a little far-fetched, I grant you that.

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