9. A DRINK WITH JENNY

Christie’s Detective Agency Part 9

When Jennifer Marple unlocked her front door and waved Horace in he was surprised. He’d been expecting a large detached house with ample gardens and a broad private drive, but when they arrived there it was a small two-bedroom park home on a small estate of similar homes.

She led him in, through her kitchen and into an almost tidy front room, though the clothes she’d been wearing at work were scattered on a rocking chair.

“Home,” she sighed.

“It’s a smaller place than I expected you to live in,” he said after an awkward pause.

“Surprised?” she asked.

He nodded. What else could he say?

“It’s cosy,” she told him, “and I actually love living here. I had a larger house, much larger, but the second sod that I married managed to squeeze it out of me.”

“Could anyone do that?” he asked.

“I must have been blind and daft, but yes, he did,” she admitted. “But I reckon he did me a favour. I’m comfortable living here, small enough for an untidy creature like me to keep straight and close enough to town not to have to spend half my life commuting. And as a bonus I’ve got everything I need within easy reach. Added to that, the neighbours are really quite nice. Now, would you like a beer? I’m having a drop of whisky diluted with ginger wine and you can have the same if you like.”

“Er … yes, beer please,” he said, not sure what he wanted. He watched her as she moved around making the drinks. Her tiny skirt swished like a pale pink cloud, and he had to swallow or he might have said something inappropriate, and that might prove to be disastrous seeing that she was his boss and this had been his first day working for her..

She handed him a beer, and sat down opposite him.

“I suppose you still live at home with your parents?” she asked.

He nodded. “But this week they’re away on holiday,” he told her. “I could have gone with them but the truth is I need to find a job and you don’t find one of those at a Skegness Butlins, unless you want to be a bingo caller, and that’s not my ambition.”

“So what is it you do want to do with your life?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I thought I knew, and then today happened,” he said. “I never thought of detecting, but now…”

“I was in the police force, a DC before I took Christie’s over from my granddad,” she said. “So you might say I’ve had training of a sort, and I am quire sure you have everything it takes to be good at it. Take my word for it.”

“You can tell that after just a day with me?” he asked.

“It’s the way you think, which is halfway to success anyway. You noticed the tin of grease. You noticed the greased ladder. I’ll bet forensics didn’t notice or if they did they ignored it as irrelevant.”

“I suppose I do notice things,” he admitted.

“If you stick at it you’ll do well. I can see that. But most of our work is trailing naughty husbands on the look out for a sexual adventure away from home. B******s, the lot of them, and I should know. And wives: there’s the odd wife who strays, too. But don't get depressed. We do get the odd meaty job like Bill Stubbs.”

“I’m glad my parents have stayed close together,” he said, more to fill a gap than anything.

“It’s a warm evening,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind me taking my top off. I’ve got a bra underneath, so you won’t need to get embarrassed.”

And with no more ado she did just that. Part of him wanted to go straight home with no delay and get safely away from the unknown, but a bigger part of him didn’t, so he squirmed and stayed.

“Have you got a girlfriend?” she asked.

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“Then if anyone saw us like this we wouldn’t be treading on anyone’s toes, and it seems a long time since I was your age. I’ve had two marriages since then.”

“Er.. no,” he stammered, not quite sure whether he should have said yes instead. But looking at her it was hard to imagine she’d been married once let alone twice. She had a freshness about her, that and beautiful long hair.

“Cheer up! Captain, There’s more to life than false modesty! Now what do you make of our vicar?”

Back on more familiar territory he replied, “when I was a lad I used to go to Sunday School in the afternoons, and Mr Pyke always seemed such a decent bloke even though he did tend to go on about Heaven and Hell as if they were real places, but most of us knew they weren’t. We’d learned different in the University of the playground!”

“That would be part of his job description,” smiled Jenny.

He tried not to look at her for fear of contemplating the soft lace of her bra, but failed. “He wouldn’t have approved of me being so close to a near naked woman,” he said, half jokingly.

“All my vital bits are well covered,” she said, “I wouldn’t want to be accused of corrupting a teenager!”

“Old Pyke, as we called him, could go on a bit, though,” remembered Captain, “especially if there was something in the media that he thought of as ungodly, and I dared say you in your bra like you are might fall into that category. I think he was the kind of man to get beauty and evil confused.”

“Do you find me beautiful then?” she asked, smiling teasingly.

“I’m a mere male so of course I do.” His response was slow and considered.

“Then I find you a corker,” she said, “and I’ll leave it at that. So do you really think someone really tried to murder Bill Stubbs?”

On safer ground, his answer was fairly prompt. “Maybe not intending to kill him, but someone intended him to fall off the ladder and couldn’t have been bothered if he died.”

“There’s only one second floor window at the vicarage so that’s the only time that part of the ladder would be used,” pointed out Jenny, “for all the rest of the windows he’d only need two lengths of ladder joined together.”

“So whoever did the greasing wanted him to fall quite a long way,” sighed Captain, sipping his beer.

“Exactly,” she said.

“Then his death must have seemed very likely,” decided the Captain, “after all, landing on his head would mean certain death, and that’s how he actually landed.”

“And is there anything else we know?” asked Jenny, encouraging him to work things out.

“Yes. It must have been one of the people in the vicarage,” he said, “pushing him off his ladder through the window. That’s one of the four people we know about: the vicar, his wife, the choirmaster and the policeman.”

“An unlikely set of suspects!”

“Very.” He frowned. “Is there anyone else?”

“What about Mrs Stubbs?” she murmured.

“I liked her.”

“Does that mean she’s not likely to kill her husband? After all, I like you … do you think that you’re safe?”

“She didn’t seem…”

“Quite. But in this job open minds are always the best sort to have.”

“I understand. So do we add her to the list?”

“I don’t see why not.” Jenny smiled at him, “after all, she knew he was a womaniser and it might have got on her nerves to the point of not wanting to take it any more. That might be called a motive.”

“I suppose so.”

“Another beer, Captain?”

He shook his head. “No thanks. I’d best get back home and to my bed.”

“Your lonely bed?”

He felt uncomfortable again. He wasn’t used to his bed being anything but lonely, and it had never mattered to him. The last time he’d shared a bed with anyone was so long ago he had no memory of it, only his mother had told him of the time he’d rushed into his parents’ room and climbed into their bed, nestling between them.

“Lonely or not, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, “unless I’ve got the sack already…”

“And why should you think that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not used to…”

“...wild women and sex?” she laughed, “well, you’ll learn, sooner or later… But ignoring saucy comments is not a sackable offence, so don’t worry.”

© Peter Rogerson 19.09.21

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