“Derek!” Edith squeaked in astonishment at the tall, fair-haired young man who had come up so quietly behind them.
“Edith, darling!” He swept her up in a hug, then quickly let go when he saw the vicar. “I’m an old friend of Miss Langford’s,” he explained. “Derek Worthington’s the name.”
“Yes… very pleased…” Reverend Tuttle shook hands, looking more bewildered than ever.
“Derek and I met when I was doing my teacher training in London,” said Edith. “We were running for the same bus.”
“And I swear the driver took one look at us and floored the accelerator!”
Edith laughed, then broke off as she remembered.
“This isn’t a social call, is it?” she asked. “Did we stumble into your case?”
He grinned.
“Right as always, and I’d expect nothing less of our Edith. Always on a lookout for a mystery, this one,” he told the vicar.
“Yes, I’ve noticed. Now will someone please explain to me what’s going on?”
Derek nodded, becoming serious.
“When Edith and I were running for that bus, I was late for my exams at the School of Oriental Studies. Does that tell you anything, sir?”
“Ah.” The vicar nodded. “I have heard that institution called a training school for spies, though that always sounded a bit sensational to me.”
Derek smiled modestly.
“It’s not as exciting as all that, but yes, some of us are engaged in… shall we say, sensitive international work. Although this time my work took me to the heart of the English countryside! I couldn’t believe it when I was told my assignment would be Longborough. But now I see I’m too late,” he added, glancing at the body of the stranger.
“So you were the man he was intending to meet!” Edith sighed in relief. “Oh Derek, I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Because you know I won’t keep you out of the action,” he joked, but looked genuinely pleased. “Now tell me all.”
Edith briefly related the stranger’s appearance at the village fete, how he stumbled around drunkenly and was found dead soon after.
“He was being pursued by someone,” added the vicar, “for this.” He produced the crumpled paper he’d taken from the body.
“For a receipt? How odd.” Derek frowned. “As is usual in these cases, I was kept completely in the dark about what this man had to say, but I never expected— hullo!” He looked up as Detective-Sergeant Anderson and the police surgeon approached. “Great, the local plods,” he muttered to Edith.
“The detective’s actually—” she began.
“Can’t let them trample all over the case,” he grumbled. “Don’t worry, I got this.”
He marched over to the detective, and after a few minutes’ hushed conversation and some papers produced on Derek’s side, they joined Edith and the vicar.
“Mr. Worthington has apprised me of the situation,” Anderson said, looking anything but pleased. “And he will be taking charge of this investigation.”
The words “the pompous ass” were clearly implied after this statement. Edith stifled a giggle.
“Mr. Worthington and I are actually old friends,” she said, hoping to smooth things over.
“Oh yes, we go way back,” Derek announced, putting an arm around her shoulders.
Anderson’s glare became dagger-like.
“Shall we exchange information while we wait for the doctor?” Edith said quickly.
With more glares between the two young men, the four of them retreated to a grassy bank. Once again they studied the small white paper, covered in Mrs. Benson’s neat handwriting.
“One bag toffees, one packet Woodbines, one spool black thread,” Edith read out. “But it’s just an ordinary list!” She turned to Derek. “Can you see any special meaning in it?”
“I’m afraid not. All this suggests is that he liked sweets and had a hole in his sock.” He grinned, then caught D.S. Anderson’s stern eye. “Right, well the first thing we need to do is look for some kind of code.”
“You mean like every other letter?” Edith asked excitedly. “Let’s see: o-e-a… no, that doesn’t work.”
“N-b-g isn’t too promising either,” said Reverend Tuttle.
Derek laughed.
“No no, it wouldn’t be something as simple as that. Why, then the enemy could get their hands on the crucial information in a second!”
“Speaking of the enemy,” said Anderson sourly. “Perhaps we ought to be investigating that murder that just occurred?”
“Of course, old chap,” Derek said benignly. “I’m all for proper police methods and all that, but you have to understand, deciphering this paper is a matter of national importance.”
“So go ahead,” said Anderson, this time with undisguised hostility. “Decipher it.”
Derek looked a bit startled.
“Right, well,” he muttered, and stared down at the receipt. Edith almost didn’t contain her giggles this time. These two cheerful, kind-hearted fellows had suddenly turned into a sour curmudgeon and a, well, pompous ass. It reminded her forcibly of some of the boys in her school. Some of the littlest boys.
“I see now,” she said to Derek, “that it couldn’t be some kind of letter code. After all, it was Mrs. Benson who wrote the receipt. It’s too bad there’s nothing in the victim’s writing.” She turned over the paper, but it was blank.
“By Jove!” Derek exclaimed suddenly. He snatched up the receipt and took a lighter from his pocket.
“Hang on, that’s evidence!” Anderson stared in horror as Derek held the lighter up to the paper. The flame flickered over a perfectly blank surface.
“Blast, no invisible ink,” Derek murmured.
“Give me that.” The detective snatched it away. “It’s bad enough this paper is covered in all your fingerprints, we don’t need it accidentally going up in flame, too.”
“It’s a standard tactic in the service,” Derek said indignantly. “I’ll have you know—”
“Gentlemen, please!”
Startled, they all turned to Reverend Tuttle, who was looking at the young people in distress.
“A man gave his life,” he said quietly, “to keep whatever secret this paper contains. Let us show some respect.”
The detective and the spy nodded sheepishly.
“Now,” continued the vicar, “as we can find nothing in the words themselves, there must be some significance to the items the unfortunate man purchased. I suggest we talk to Mrs. Benson.”
“I’ll speak to her,” said Anderson before Derek could get a word in. “You three stay here, please. After all, this paper needs immediate deciphering. Matter of national importance.” With a final scowl at the secret service man, he left.
“Bit touchy, that chap,” Derek observed to Edith. She blushed.
“He’s not normally so rude.”
“Oh don’t worry, I’m used to it. The local coppers never appreciate the investigation being taken out of their hands, and it’s only natural.” He smiled at her, good humour restored, and Edith couldn’t help smiling back.
With Reverend Tuttle’s help, they puzzled over the three items some more, but no matter what angle they took no new information emerged. By the time the detective returned, Edith was heartily sick of secret codes, secret agents, or secret anything. Anderson’s news didn’t improve matters.
“No luck, I’m afraid. Mrs. Benson remembers the gentleman buying the three things, chatting about the weather, and paying in ordinary British money. He asked for the receipt specially, but that was because he was a commercial traveller who got his expenses reimbursed.”
“Did he mention the company he worked for to Mrs. Benson?”
“He did, I telephoned them, and the story checks out. Dead end,” he summed up morosely.
“Was anyone else in the shop at the time?”
“Samuel Martin, a local farmer, and Alex Keighley, Miss Mallowby’s new clerk.”
“I saw both of them at the fete today,” said Edith.
“It’s not much to go on, but we should still talk to them.”
“Looks like the doctor might have something,” Derek observed. The police surgeon approached the detective and looked a bit shocked when the other three crowded in around them.
“They’re all in on the investigation,” Anderson said wearily. “What’s the story?”
“I found out why the victim was staggering around like a drunk,” said the doctor. “He was stabbed with a thin blade and succumbed to his wounds about five minutes afterwards.”
“How awful,” Edith murmured.
“That just makes the whole thing more difficult. He must have been in the very midst of the fete when he was stabbed. Nothing easier for the murderer than to ‘accidentally’ bump into the victim and then disappear into the crowd.”
“Then the culprit could be long gone!” exclaimed Derek. “Back on a train to London.”
“We do know a thing or two about policing in Longborough,” Anderson retorted. “I’ve got men watching the train station and the main road. There’s no other way out of the village.”
“And if I were a murderer, I’d lie low instead of running,” Edith mused. “Maybe even stay in the crowd to see how the investigation was going.” With a shiver, she glanced around at the fete, which was back in full swing.
“I’m glad you’re not a murderer,” Derek said warmly. “You’d be far too good at it.”
“Anything else you can tell us?” Anderson asked the doctor sharply.
“Just the usual. The man was in his forties, healthy, non-smoker, and there’s a bruise on his head consistent with falling where he did. No signs of a struggle otherwise.”
“Thank you, doctor.” As the surgeon returned to the body, Anderson shook his head. “A non-smoker. How odd.”
“There must be something in that list!” Edith said adamantly. “If he didn’t smoke, why did he buy Woodbine cigarettes? It must be a code.”
“It would be just our luck that he decided to start smoking today,” said the detective wryly.
“Oh dear,” Reverend Tuttle murmured suddenly. “Oh dear, I am beginning to have some very grave doubts.”
He blinked nervously under their collective gazes.
“You see, the poor man never actually showed me the paper he said was so important… But then it was the only thing in his pockets, and I assumed…”
“What?!” Derek and Anderson exclaimed in unison.
“You mean we’ve been staring at an ordinary shop receipt this entire time?”
“You just assumed? The murderer could have taken the paper from his pocket when he stabbed him. And now we’ve wasted over an hour!”
“I’m sorry, I just thought…” The vicar seemed to run out of words. He clutched the ill-fated receipt and looked at them apologetically.
Anderson glanced at Derek.
“You tackle the east side of the green, I’ll take the west.”
“Right. He can’t have got far, whoever he is.”
Without another word, they disappeared into the crowd. Edith shook her head at the vicar.
“That was very sneaky, Reverend Tuttle,” she remarked.
“Whatever do you mean?” he replied innocently.
“I don’t believe for a second that you’d make such a foolish mistake. You just wanted them to stop bickering and get on with the investigation, didn’t you?”
The vicar beamed at her proudly.
“Right as usual, Miss Langford. Although—“ he glanced around and lowered his voice. “There was another reason I wanted to talk to you alone. I think I know who the killer is.”
Daria Writes 