The Grub-and-Stakers Quilt a Bee Read online

  “How come his convenience instead of yours? Gettin’ soft in your old age, Evangeline?”

  “Frederick, this is hardly the time or the place for one of your singularly tasteless jokes. Surely you can’t object to delivering a simple message. You owe me a few favors, in case you’d forgotten. Among other things.”

  Before the roofer could reply, Mrs. Fairfield turned and stalked back inside. Dittany waited to ask the man, “If your name’s Churtle, why do you call yourself Brown?”

  “I’m a remittance man. I don’t want to embarrass me dear old daddy the dook.”

  “Thank you. And how come you picked today to come after your tackle, when you allegedly finished patching the skylight two weeks ago and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since?”

  “I been busy writing my memoirs. Ta-ta, miss.”

  He got into his van and chugged off. Dittany went to make Mrs. Fairfield’s tea. As she was scalding the pot, she thought of phoning Sergeant MacVicar about this interesting new development. Then she reflected that the phone was on the desk where Mrs. Fairfield would be sitting, that she didn’t quite know what to tell, and that Sergeant MacVicar must already know the roofer had been here. News of any sort wasn’t apt to lie around gathering dust in Lobelia Falls, and the MacVicars’ own grapevine was almost preternaturally efficient. She rinsed out a pink teacup with For a Loving Grandma printed on it in gold, clearly one Therese hadn’t yet got around to putting into the flea market, made the tea, and carried the tray to Mrs. Fairfield.

  The widow was at the ledgers again. She took off the plastic-rimmed granny glasses that had been perched halfway down her nose and let them dangle from the black cord around her neck.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Monk. This will perk me up. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what a ghastly shock it was having Frederick Churtle pop up like that. It’s been thirty years or more since I hoped I’d seen the last of him. You don’t really believe what he was trying to make out, do you?”

  “It’s not a question of what I believe.” Dittany was through trying to be tactful. “It’s what Sergeant MacVicar believes that matters. He’ll be hotfooting it over here, I expect, once he learns you’re up and about.”

  Normally he wouldn’t have come badgering a widow quite so soon, but this one was asking for bother. Mrs. Fairfield might be wondering whether she’d have done better to stick with the cologne and the darkened bedroom. She fussed around with the milk and sugar and took a fortifying sip of her tea.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering, Mrs. Monk, how my husband and I ever came to know a man like Frederick Churtle. The thing of it is, Frederick and Peregrine were boyhood chums back in their hometown and kept up their acquaintance as they grew up, even though their lives were taking very different paths.”

  She had recourse to the pink teacup again, then shook her head. “No, that won’t do. You may as well know the plain truth. My husband, who you must realize was the best-hearted man alive, allowed Frederick to impose on his good nature long after he’d outgrown the acquaintance. Not to put too fine a point on it, Frederick borrowed large sums of money from Peregrine and never paid them back.”

  “Oh,” said Dittany.

  “Yes, that’s how it was. I daresay we could all tell stories of false friends. Forgive me for airing my personal problems this way, Mrs. Monk. I expect I’m distraught and simply need to talk. It absolutely knocked the stuffing out of me, having that wretched sponger poke his face around here after all these years, running me down and trying to make out Peregrine’s death was,” she swallowed more tea, “something other than what we know it was. That’s what Frederick was getting at, wasn’t it?”

  “Well,” Dittany answered cautiously, “you have to admit he was right about those attic windows. If you’d care to go up and take another look—”

  “I couldn’t! Not now. I suppose I shan’t mind after a while, when duty drives me to it, but not today, please. I simply couldn’t face it.”

  “That’s only natural. I should have known better.”

  “I’m sure you meant well, Mrs. Monk. Do you think those dining room chairs are dry yet? We shouldn’t leave them out too long.”

  There were some people it simply didn’t pay to be nice to. Dittany bit her lip, picked up the tea tray, and stalked out of the office.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE WAS OUT ON the porch sloshing lemon oil on the chairs to relieve her feelings when Sergeant MacVicar appeared.

  “Ah, lass, there you are. Far be it from me, eh, to pass judgment on a woman’s housekeeping methods, but it strikes me you are being a trifle o’er generous with yon lemon oil. Indeed, I am somewhat astonished to find you working here at all on such a day.”

  “I have my orders.” Dittany sloshed on another dollop of lemon oil to show what she thought of them. “If you’re looking for Mrs. Fairfield, she’s in the back parlor impersonating Margaret Thatcher. Did you see Frederick Churtle?”

  “Who?”

  “The roofer from Scottsbeck who calls himself Brown. He was a boyhood chum of Mr. Fairfield, whose first name was Peregrine.”

  “I was cognizant of the latter fact. So must you have been at the time your board of trustees hired him.”

  “And woe to the day we did. I guess I knew, but I must have got him mixed up with one of Arethusa’s minor characters. Mrs. Fairfield’s is Evangeline.”

  “Now, that,” said Sergeant MacVicar, “I had not known. It minds me of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s immortal line, ‘She bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale.’”

  “In a pig’s eye she did,” snorted Dittany, applying such wrathful friction to her polishing cloth one might have thought her a girl guide trying to start a campfire without matches. “Evangelines don’t bear flagons. They sit on their duffs and yell for somebody else to fetch ’em.”

  “Do I detect a note of acrimony, lass? We must make allowances for circumstances.”

  “I have. That’s why I’m polishing chairs instead of flouncing off in a huff. Getting back to Churtle, did you see him?”

  “Ah yes, Churtle. I did not. What about him?”

  “He came by a while ago for that mess of hemp spaghetti he left strung up through the stairwell. I told him he couldn’t take it away till you said he could, and he left. I supposed he was going to see you.”

  “If he was, he missed me. Did you tell him why my permission was necessary?”

  “I started to. Then Mrs. Fairfield came out and the two of them got into a hairtangle. It turns out he and Peregrine were kids together.”

  “Indeed? And how did yon Churtle react to the news of Mr. Fairfield’s death?”

  “He told Evangeline she was bonkers to think her husband fell out the attic window.”

  “Why did he mention the attic window?”

  “Because that was what Mrs. Fairfield told him. She explained how I’d left them open and Mr. Fairfield had to go up and shut them.”

  Sergeant MacVicar rubbed his chin, his fjord-blue eyes resting thoughtfully on the almost-empty lemon oil bottle. “This was before or after the alleged Brown had been identified as Churtle?”

  “Oh, after. Mrs. Fairfield spotted him right away. The first thing she said was, ‘Why, Frederick Churtle.’ Then it all came out about the old pals stuff and his hitting Peregrine up for money.”

  “Um ah. How much money?”

  “Surely you don’t think Mrs. Fairfield would have been vulgar enough to tell me? She apologized afterward for having mentioned money at all.”

  “Indeed? Noo, lass, could we go back over this entire conversation. Who said what to whom, and in what order?”

  Since the conversation had been so short and so fraught with unexpected revelations, Dittany succeeded in repeating the whole thing. Sergeant MacVicar nodded once or twice but did not interrupt. When she’d finished, he asked, “And that was all? Nothing after Churtle told you he was writing his memoirs?”

  “I think he said, ‘Ta-ta, miss.’ Then it
was boots, saddle, to horse, and away. I’m surprised he didn’t go straight to the station if he was so hot after his blocks and tackles.”

  “Aye, and why did he choose this particular morn to pick it up, syne he’d been content to leave it here so long?”

  “Because he figured we’d all be off baking custards for the widow, and he’d have the place to himself.”

  “Pairhaps. There’s food for thought here, lass. According to your account, Churtle did not deny knowledge of a death here yesterday, albeit he either did not know or feigned not to know the demised was the friend of his youth. Furthermore, and this is the part that puzzles me, when he did find out, he failed to ask when the funeral is to be held. I believe I will pay my respects to Mrs. Fairfield. She is in the back parlor, you say?”

  “Yes, only she’s calling it her office now. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Dittany knew perfectly well Sergeant MacVicar didn’t have to be shown. He knew she knew. Being a perspicacious man, however, he also knew Mrs. Fairfield had been giving Dittany a rough morning, that Dittany in any event would have no intention of being left out of whatever was going on, that he’d waste his time trying to keep her back because she’d been aye the same since she was a wee bairn, and that considering the lemon oil, he didn’t blame her. Therefore, he contented himself with making her presence official.

  “Dittany, Mrs. MacVicar always maintains a woman needs another’s supportive presence in time of grief and stress. Therefore, you will be good enough to remain whilst I ask Mrs. Fairfield a few questions. I will endeavor not to tax your sensibilities unduly, Mrs. Fairfield.”

  “Oh, please don’t fret yourself about my sensibilities, Sergeant.” Mrs. Fairfield touched a folded handkerchief to the corner of her right eye and brought it away, Dittany noticed, perfectly dry. “I’m trying to be a good soldier. I know what a bore it must be for you all, having something like this occur to a stranger within your gates. I shall be so relieved when this apartment finally gets finished and I at least have a place to call my own. Not that Mrs. Oakes hasn’t been the soul of kindness, but you know how it is. Or perhaps you don’t, never having been in a similar position. I must say, when I broke up my own lovely home to come here, I never dreamed anything like this would happen.”

  She plied the handkerchief again. “Ah well, you don’t want to hear about my troubles. Ask your questions, Sergeant, and I’ll do my best to give you sensible answers. If I can just keep my poor wits about me, that is.”

  “Then suppose we start with something easy. Tell me about Mr. Churtle. Dittany tells me he is an old acquaintance whom you had not seen for many years.”

  “That’s correct. At least thirty, possibly more. Frederick Churtle was my husband’s acquaintance, not mine. They’d been boys together. He was never, I must say, one of my favorite people.”

  “And why was that, Mrs. Fairfield?”

  “As I’ve already told Mrs. Monk, I resented the way Frederick took advantage of my husband’s good nature. I despised him as a person of low habits and no principles. To put it in a nutshell, he drank, gambled, and consorted with loose women. He rioted away his own paycheck every week, then came and mooched off my husband.”

  “Indeed? A most pernicious state of affairs.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I couldn’t begin to tell you how much money he borrowed from us over the years and never paid back. My husband used to slip it to him without telling me. That was after we’d had a few dustups over Frederick’s constant sponging, I must admit. Then at last things came to a head.”

  “Aye, ’tis ever thus. What happened, Mrs. Fairfield?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but I do know Frederick got into some dreadful scrape. I believe he was caught stealing from his employer and had to make good or go to jail. Anyway, he desperately needed five thousand dollars, and Peregrine absolutely insisted on lending it to him out of our savings. I shan’t pretend I yielded with any good grace. I made Frederick sign a note for the money, promising to pay within six months. I hoped that would force him to face up to responsibility.”

  “A vain hope, I mistrust.”

  “It certainly was. Instead of paying, Frederick skipped town and apparently changed his name so we couldn’t catch him. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he breezed in here this morning, brash and brazen as ever.”

  “You had not the slightest inkling yon Churtle was in this area?”

  “Heavens no. How could I? I told you we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him for thirty years. Not that we’d have stayed away on his account, I can assure you. My husband’s eyes were opened long ago about his dear old boyhood chum. In any event the stipend here is hardly conducive to large-scale philanthropy. Not that I’m complaining you understand. I quite realize the trustees would pay more if they could afford to. I will say that if I’d known who this so-called Brown was, I’d certainly have recommended they find another roofer.”

  “But you never saw the soi-disant Brown working here?”

  “No. I believe he’d finished whatever he was supposed to do before my husband and I arrived. Those ropes were already hanging down the stairwell. I did ask to have them taken away because they’re such a nuisance, but Mrs. Monk’s aunt told me the trustees wanted them left in place until they’d made sure the skylight wouldn’t leak again. That made sense, of course, although I can’t see how I’m expected to get that stairwell papered with them in the way. I rather wish you’d let Frederick take them away, Mrs. Monk. Now every time I see them, I’ll think of him and that outrageous suggestion he made about Peregrine this morning.”

  “I have been wondering how I might broach that subject,” said Sergeant MacVicar.

  “Why? Surely you don’t think there’s any truth in it?”

  “Yon attic windows are extremely small, Mrs. Fairfield.”

  “Well, Peregrine was no giant,” the widow retorted sharply, then remembered she was bowed down by weight of woe. “Mrs. Monk did say something about the windows just now. It was she who opened them in the first place, you know.”

  That was too much for Dittany. “Yes, and I’d have closed them when we left, only you said not to.”

  The handkerchief came into play again. “Did I? I suppose I meant to send up the Munson boys or somebody. There are always so many people in and out of here, you know. It never occurred to me Peregrine might wind up having to shut them himself.”

  “We are not sure he did,” Sergeant MacVicar remarked.

  “What do you mean? Were the windows still open after we found him?”

  “Two were shut, two were open, one of which latter was the window under which Minerva Oakes found him.”

  “Well, of course it was. You’d hardly expect him to turn around in midair and shut it after him, would you?”

  “Nay,” Sergeant MacVicar agreed, “a man plummeting to his doom might well be excused for overlooking such a trifle. But you see, that raises another question. Not only were the windows unusually small, they were in grievous disrepair. They required to be propped open, which Mrs. Monk had in fact done with bits and pieces she found lying about. Given the meager space he’d have had to squirm through, how would Mr. Fairfield have managed to do so without knocking out the prop and thus being pinned between sash and sill?”

  “Peregrine was a very small man.” Mrs. Fairfield was looking pretty green around the gills by now, Dittany noticed.

  “I grant you that. However, there is the further complication of the window sills.”

  “The window sills? Attic windows don’t have them, surely?”

  “I stand corrected. The proper term would have been ledges. On account of the sloping mansard roof, you see, and the windows being set in plumb to the attic floor; there is thus created a flat shelf approximately a foot deep in front of each one.”

  “If you say so. But what—”

  Sergeant MacVicar waved a magisterial hand for silence. “Now, since you have seen ample evidence of the state John A
rchitrave’s ancestral home was in at the time it fell into possession of the Grub-and-Stake Gardening and Roving Club, you can well believe, eh, that yon ledges had not been cleaned off for decades. Therefore, had your husband gone out one of the aforementioned windows either by accident or by design, he must inevitably have left a trail among the accumulated dirt and debris, as well as transferring some of this material to his clothing. We found no evidence that he did so, therefore we are forced to conclude that he did not make his final exit by that route.”

  “Then it must have been one of the second floor windows he fell from.”

  “Aye, but here again we run up against an enigma. In the first place, Dr. Somervell questions whether the relatively shorter drop could have resulted in such extensive injuries as Mr. Fairfield was found to have sustained. There is the added difficulty that above the spot where his body was discovered, there is only one other window that might conceivably have answered the purpose. This is that odd little porthole affair high up in the stairwell, which is accessible only by a most precariously perched ladder. Why it was ever put there, the Lord in His infinite wisdom doubtless knows.”

  “But what about those ropes of Frederick Churtle’s?”

  “A most ingenious suggestion, Mrs. Fairfield. But e’en supposing a man of your husband’s years, dignity, and known aversion to heights presumed to make a monkey of himself by means of the rigging, it would have availed him nowt. That window was painted shut sometime around eighteen hundred and seventy-two, from the look of it, and has obviously never been opened since.”

  “Sergeant MacVicar, what are you trying to tell me?”

  “I am trying to point out to you that having ruled out possible alternatives and having found certain evidence to support our thesis, we are led to assume your husband fell off the roof.”

  “The roof? Oh, but that’s impossible. Peregrine would never in the world have gone on the roof. He was scared to death of heights from the time he was a little boy. I can remember that odious Frederick Churtle teasing him about it. Frederick himself doesn’t mind heights a bit. He was an elevator repair man when I first knew him. He’d tell dreadful stories about walking across an elevator shaft forty stories high on a narrow plank, and poor Peregrine would get sick to his stomach just hearing about it. Surely you must be mistaken, Sergeant MacVicar. Isn’t it more likely Peregrine lived long enough to have crawled away from the spot where he fell, or that he—he bounced when he hit?”