“You know who killed our mystery man?” Edith gaped at the vicar, who nodded a little sheepishly.
“I fear I’ve kept information from you again, Miss Langford, though not on purpose. It was when the detective mentioned the two suspects, Sam Martin and Alex Keighley, that I remembered. The poor fellow was agitated when he came to talk to me, and muttered something about a ‘German-looking chap’ several times. Now, as I told you, his whole story of being a spy pursued by enemies seemed fantastic, and I put it down to a touch of paranoia. And yet…”
“It’s turning out to be horribly real,” she agreed. “And this could be a description of his attacker.”
“It isn’t much to go on. What does a German look like in the popular imagination? The Kaiser?”
Edith smiled.
“Not for a while. It’s the modern 30s, after all! But perhaps a tall, blonde kind of person? Sam Martin is tall and fair-haired, but Alex Keighley is short, with dark hair.” She glanced sharply at the vicar. “So you really do know who did it.”
Reverend Tuttle sighed.
“I know how it looks for Sam Martin. He fits the description, and he was in the shop with the victim.” He glanced at the receipt, which still refused to give up its code. “But I just can’t believe it. I’ve known Sam since he was a little boy. It’s not possible that he’s some sort of spy!”
“Whereas Alex only moved to the village last month, and no one knows anything about his past.”
“It would be dreadful if either of them was a criminal.” He looked so downcast that Edith decided to take action.
“We’re going down to the shop,” she said firmly. “D.S. Anderson swears by recreating the crime, and I’m guessing he’s got all the suspects gathered there right now like he’s in a detective story. We shouldn’t keep an important piece of information from him. But I promise we’ll get to the truth of the matter, whatever that may be.”
Just as she’d expected, Anderson was pacing back and forth in front of Mrs. Benson’s shop, speaking sternly to two men. Both Sam Martin and Alex Keighley looked completely bewildered by what he was saying. Derek Worthington stood a ways back, watching the proceedings a smirk on his face.
“Hullo! Come to help us solve the mystery?” He gave Edith a winning smile, which was not lost upon the detective.
“Worthington, when I said I’d interrogate the suspects and you weren’t to interrupt, what did that mean?”
“Sorry old chap. I’d hardly call this an interrogation, though.” Derek gave a deprecating shrug. “Now in the secret service—”
“Yes, I’m sure you fellows use all sorts of torture devices on people,” muttered Anderson, “but this is Longborough—”
Edith left them to their bickering and turned to the suspects, who did not look reassured by the phrase “torture devices”.
“Don’t worry about them,” she said. “We’re just trying to clear up some facts.”
“That’s not what he made it sound like.” Sam jerked his head towards the detective. “Going on about why was I in the shop and did I know the man who died and all. I told him, I was just buying a new spade.”
“And I was sent for blotting paper by Miss Mallowby,” added Alex. “I wasn’t following the man!”
“One really can get anything at Mrs. Benson’s,” said Edith soothingly. “A spade, blotting paper, toffees — I often buy those myself — even those nasty Woodbine cigarettes.” She watched them carefully as she said this, but saw no flicker of recognition. Neither toffees nor Woodbines seemed to mean anything, unless one of them was a very good actor. But then, a spy would be.
“She’s got a knack for knowing what the village needs,” Sam agreed. Looking at his honest face, Edith was assailed by doubt. And yet, a German-looking chap… of the whole village, Sam Martin probably fit that description best.
She frowned. Was that strictly true? She thanked the two men for their help and walked off, needing space to think. What if she looked at the case from the opposite direction? Edith didn’t like the conclusion she came to, but had to admit it made a lot more sense than farmer spies and mystery toffees.
And if her idea was right, she knew exactly what to do.
“Recreating the victim’s movements is vital.” Anderson beamed at Edith, pleased that she agreed.
“If you think herding a bunch of people into a shop is useful,” Derek muttered. Anderson ignored him.
“I’ll be the victim and go in first. Keighley, you follow me right away, and Martin, you go in one minute after.”
“Wait,” said Edith. “I should be the victim. That way you can observe the whole scene as it happens.”
“Are you sure?” Anderson looked as though he liked this idea even less than he liked Derek.
“It’s fine,” she reassured him. “You’ll be right there, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Resigned, he followed Edith into the little shop, which was crowded with every kind of item imaginable. Mrs. Benson looked up from her ledger.
“Hello there, how can I help?”
Anderson explained his unusual request, and Mrs. Benson, another avid reader of mystery novels, readily agreed.
“The stranger was just wandering around,” she explained. “Staring at everything like he didn’t know what he wanted.”
Edith walked from shelf to shelf, pretending to look at the shoe polish, turnips, and sports equipment on display.
A second later the bell tinkled, admitting Alex Keighley.
“Now this gentleman went straight for the paper goods,” said Mrs. Benson. Obediently, Alex picked up a piece of paper. A minute later, Sam Martin walked in.
“Hello Mrs. Benson, have you got a spade?”
Edith and the detective watched them go through the motions of spade shopping.
“As much as I hate to admit it,” Anderson murmured to Edith, “Worthington was right. This isn’t particularly helpful.”
“No,” she whispered. “But this is.” And she gave a piercing shriek.
“What the devil?” Anderson stared, first at her, then at the door as it burst open. Derek flew into the shop, nearly knocking over the turnips. Reverend Tuttle followed on his heels.
“What happened? Edith, are you alright?”
“Don’t worry, Derek, all part of the experiment,” Edith replied lightly.
“Hello again. Are you helping the detective too?”
Everyone turned to stare at Mrs. Benson.
“You know this man?” asked Anderson.
“Of course. He came into the shop a little while before your mystery man. For a letter-opener and some stamps, isn’t that right?”
Derek didn’t seem to have an answer. His usual charming smile had fled, and a strange, hard expression transformed his face. Edith hardly recognised her friend now as he backed away towards the door.
“This is all nonsense,” he muttered. “Waste of time…”
“To have Mrs. Benson identify you, and place you near the victim?” said Edith. “Not in the shop with him, but coming out just as he was going in. He saw you and knew his time was up, didn’t he? That’s why he tried to use the receipt as a secret code. Which, by the way, I’d like you to give back now.”
“What are you talking about?” Derek spluttered.
“You mean you didn’t take the opportunity of being alone with Reverend Tuttle to persuade him to give you the paper?”
“You’ve gone mad. I’m with the secret service. I’ve a right to examine that paper if I want to.”
Anderson took a step towards him.
“Then you won’t mind handing it over to me.”
Obediently, Derek reached into his pocket. A second later, a pistol glinted in his hand, pointed directly at the detective. Edith gasped.
“Back away now, all of you,” Derek growled. Anderson raised his hands and stepped back.
“You too, vicar.” Derek turned to where Reverend Tuttle stood blocking the door, but the latter shook his head.
“Put down the gun, young man.”
“I’m warning you, padre. Move.”
“There is no sense in this,” said the vicar quietly.
“Vicar, please—” Anderson remonstrated.
“You think I won’t shoot you?” Derek shouted.
And Edith, seeing her opportunity, grabbed a cricket bat from its stand and whacked Derek on the head with it.
He went down with a heavy thud. Mrs. Benson screamed, Anderson rushed in with handcuffs, and general pandemonium ensued. Edith, however, beamed at the vicar, who was looking pale but dignified in the midst of the chaos.
“You were amazing, Reverend Tuttle,” she said. “You saved us all! And you gave me the vital clue to the mystery.”
When Constable Horn had hauled Derek away and tea had been passed around in Mrs. Benson’s little flat, Anderson looked at Edith encouragingly.
“Are you going to explain it all to us?”
“Not much to explain,” she replied. “I would have suspected anyone in the village except Derek, though he fit the description of a tall, blonde ‘German-looking chap’ to a T. But I was oblivious, until I thought back on his behaviour. It was like he was trying to obstruct the investigation at every step, even though he was supposed to be on our side. Once I stopped thinking of him as my friend and started suspecting him, it all fell into place. Even the letter opener — the thin-bladed murder weapon we were looking for.”
She shuddered, and Anderson patted her hand.
“I’m sorry. It can’t be easy for you.”
“I’ve read that secret agents sometimes change sides, I just never thought… ” She shook her head, trying not to dwell on it. Then she looked at Anderson thoughtfully. “You, however, do not seem surprised.”
The detective grinned.
“There was one mystery you didn’t solve. The identity of the British agent whom the victim was trying to meet.”
“It was you??” Edith nearly jumped out of her seat. “You’re a spy too?”
He laughed.
“Nothing so grand. I’m a police liaison for the secret service, that’s all. That’s why I knew Worthington’s bluff from the beginning. So I played the local plod, offended at having his authority trod on. Was I convincing?”
“Oh, very,” Edith said teasingly. “So the jealousy was all an act, then?”
“Well… he did seem awfully fond of hugging you.” The detective blushed and sipped his tea. “And I could never get him to make a slip, but you did it brilliantly.”
“I banked on the fact that, despite everything, he did care about me.” Edith sighed, and was grateful when Mrs. Benson asked:
“But what about my receipt? Is it really a secret code?”
Anderson retrieved the crumpled paper from his pocket.
“Oh yes,” said Edith. “Now we know that the victim was pressed for time, that he looked lost, and that he bought cigarettes although he didn’t smoke, I think I see the answer. He didn’t buy the items for their meaning at all. He bought them for their prices.”
“Of course!” Anderson shook the much-harassed little paper. “Such an obvious part of a receipt that we missed it. Three pence, five pence, one penny,” he read out. “Three-five-one… a safe deposit box? We found a small key in his belongings. I bet if we talk to his bank we’ll make some interesting discoveries.”
“Which you can tell us nothing about?” she guessed.
“I’m afraid so. But rest assured that important papers will now fall into the right hands, not the wrong ones.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
“Not to mention saving my life,” said Reverend Tuttle. “You’re very handy with a cricket bat, Miss Langford.”
“One of the perks of being a schoolteacher,” Edith said, smiling. “And it’s true what they say. One really can get anything in Mrs. Benson’s shop!”
Daria Writes 