11. THE EMPTY TIN

Christie’s Detective Agency Part 11

Horace felt rather like a sneaky schoolboy spying on his enemies as he lurked in the doorway of a pound shop and peered at the Reverend Rolf Pyke, who was wafting his collecting tin under the noses of passers by.

“He must be desperate,” he whispered to Jenny, “out this early with that tin of his, and collecting.”

“The church roof must be costing more than he expected,” Jenny told him, “come on, let’s take a look at that other tin and make sure it’s the same type of grease as we saw on the ladder.”

“How will we know?” he asked.

“She smiled at him. “Angel of mine,” she murmured, “you can sniff it, remember the aroma and we’ll go back to the ladder and you can sniff that! I’ll bet smell’s as good a give away as anything. Or, of course, we can take samples of both and do the boring job of letting Bob take them to the forensics lab for comparison, if they’ll let him. They usually do. As I think I said, he’s an institution and usually gets his way.”

“Okay, then,” murmured Horace, doubtfully.

The vicarage wasn’t so far away. The Reverend Pyke was averse to walking too far with his collecting tin and even more averse to paying a parking fee for his carwhen the only reason he was in town was to swell charitable funds.

“Come on,” urged Jenny, and she led the way past the begging vicar to the road on which his old Victorian vicarage stood.

“That was what I might call a close shave,” she said.

“We needed to check on his whereabouts,” replied Horace, “rather than being like the fly setting foot in the spider’s parlour, so it was bound to be a bit risky!”

Once at the Vicarage they quietly made their way to the door by which they’d spotted the grease tin, and were gratified to see that it was still there.

“There’s the tin,” pointed Jenny, “let’s check on it, and go before Rolfy boy comes back!”

Horace picked the tin up and looked at it closely.

“It’s quite light,” he said.

“It would be if half a tin of the stuff has been smeared onto the rung,” suggested Jenny.

“And it rattles,” added Horace, shaking the tin gently.

“Hey! What you doing to our tin?” came a voice from the door, which had been opened quietly whilst they were examining the tin and discussing its contents. It was Gloria Pyke, and her expression was on the dangerous side of cross.

“Christie’s Detective Agency,” responded Jenny swiftly, and she fumbled in her handbag for a card. “Here,” she said, “our ID.”

Gloria took it, looked at it closely. sniffed it and handed it back.

“What you after our window money for then?” she asked, “as if the window cleaner falling to his death before he cleaned the blasted window wasn’t enough trouble, you’re after taking his money!”

“His money?” asked Horace, and he rattled the tin again. It rattled well enough, and so he prized the lid off. There was a small sum of money inside it, probably the amount the vicar paid his window cleaner, leaving it out for collection should the house be empty when the man called with his bucket and leather.

“Just checking the tin,” murmured Horace, “making sure there isn’t a thief about.”

Gloria Pyke snorted. “Of course there isn’t! Who’s going to steal from a vicarage? Because if they do it’s sure they’ll end up with the necromancer in his fiery abode when their time comes, and you, do well to remember that, young man! Now is there anything else I can do for you before I order you off?”

“One thing,” said Jenny, “did I understand that poor Mr Stubbs fell to his death before he cleaned that window up there?” She pointed to the solitary second floor window.

“That he did,” sighed Gloria, “he didn’t so much as get his sponge on it, or so Rolf says, and he should know, being a vicar.”

“Very sad,” sighed Jenny.

“I’m so very sorry,” added Horace, not sure what he was sorry about but feeling he ought to express the sympathy anyway.

“Is that all?” asked Gloria.

“Yes. Yes. Sorry to have disturbed you,” muttered Jenny, “come on, Captain, there are things to be done and questions to be asked.”

Horace followed Jenny out, watched by Gloria, who didn’t retreat into the vicarage until she was quite sure they had gone.

“Rolf won’t like this. He won’t like this at all,” she muttered as she closed the door.

Meanwhile, Jenny scurried off, followed by a trotting Horace.

“There’s my best theory gone!” she muttered, “that whoever caused Bill Stubbs to fall had carelessly left the grease he used behind, but as we saw, there was no grease in the tin! Yet there was some on the ladder, grease that was probably the sole reason for the man to fall to his death. So how did it get there, and who put it there? Two questions that need answering!”

“Unless Mr Stubbs’ death was what the police claim, an accident,” whispered Horace.

“Mrs Stubbs doesn’t think so, and she knows her husband … or knew him, better than anyone. And I always respect the opinions of the nearest and dearest. And so should you.”

“What if it’s the nearest and dearest who actually killed the victim?” asked Horace, “we can’t trust him or her then, can we?”

“Let’s get a coffee,” sighed Jenny, slowing down. “I know a nice little coffee shop attached to a charity shop, and it’s just round the next corner. I get quite a lot of my clothes from there when I pop in for a cappuccino. It’s where I got that skirt I wore last night from, the one that almost made your eyes pop out of your head!”

“It was … attractive,” agreed Horace.

“So if we see another one that you find attractive whilst we sip our coffee, I’ll buy it. And what about you? This weather you need shorts. Most men are wearing shorts in summer these days.”

“I wore shorts for PE at school,” he muttered.

“You did? Well don’t all schoolboys wear shorts for PE?” asked Jenny.

“I suppose so. But the thing is, I hated PE like I’ve ever hated anything else! And don’t appreciate being reminded of it either.”

“So you hate wearing shorts. Well, I for one would like to see your knees! But you may be in luck and there won’t be any on the men’s rail. There’s never much on that rail anyway. What waist are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“In inches. What size are you round the middle?”

“I dunno. Mum always buys my trousers. But if it’s any help, when asked by the bloke in the shop what side I dress on, I always say the left though I haven’t a clue what he’s on about.”

“These days education is sadly lacking,” she sighed, “such important things as where a willy hangs ought to be top of the curriculum rather than leaving you poor boys in total ignorance. But here we are. Coffee first. Quick, that blasted vicar’s coming this way!”

And he was. As they vanished into the coffee cum charity shop Horace caught sight of the vicar scurrying towards them.

“I wonder if any tailor’s brave enough to ask him what side he dresses on?” he muttered to Jenny, who grinned and winked back at him as she led him to a table in the café end of the shop.

© Peter Rogerson 21.09.21

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