‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘My joints are a bit weary too, but if you find me a chair and hot mug of char, I promise to do my best to explain what I think I know.’
No one could argue with his requests, simple as they were, the entourage around the old man and his dog all moving as one toward the marquee.
The event was over, the crowds of visitors gone. Stallholders were packing up, so too the bakers, but the competitors, all there vying for the cash prize and more coveted offer of a contract with Bentley Brothers, were still there and they were arguing.
‘So who wins?’ one woman demanded to know. She, like many others, was haranguing poor Sarah. With Brian dead and Alan in custody, the management of the competition, indeed of the whole event, was in disarray. Albert wanted no part of it, and as he wearily lowered himself into a chair when Gary brought him one, he felt glad he could ignore it.
Chief Inspector Doyle was urging PC Hendrix to hurry up with the tea and arguing with her about a question she raised about workplace misogyny since she was the only woman there and the one expected to fetch the drinks.
Both the Olivers and Alan Crystal, a piece of gauze covering his nose where Rosie broke it, were in cuffs and being held by the three male plain-clothes police officers, CI Doyle pointed out, not that his argument had much impact on the self-righteous, and probably correct, woman.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Albert organised his thoughts and like a schoolteacher at story time, found himself surrounded by expectant faces when he began to talk.
‘You all know that the museum had suffered several break ins,’ he started. ‘Things have been stolen but what kind of thief would steal from a museum dedicated to a regional dish? What could there be of value for the thief to then sell on? I leave you to ponder that for a moment.’ Albert sipped his tea. It was just right.
‘The double murders, Mr Smith,’ CI Doyle prompted with pleading in his voice. ‘I’ll give you a pass on Warren Bradley since we know what happened to him, but please tell me why the morgue is filling up.’
Albert set the steaming mug down again. ‘Yes. Well, for a start, you are wrong that you know what happened to Warren Bradley, and there was only one murder.’ His statement got a round of questioning looks. ‘You see,’ he continued before anyone could interrupt him, ‘Brian Pumphrey was very much against the world record attempt. Gary and I were witness to his attitude on the matter ourselves, so too the bakers hired by the event organiser. Alan Crystal will testify to the same. Brian even tried to stop it from going ahead yesterday when the ingredients were found to have been tampered with.’
‘Yes, Mr Smith,’ said the chief inspector. ‘That is when my detectives arrested Mr Botham. He openly threatened to kill Brian Pumphrey with a dozen witnesses and then made sure there was no one around when the murder occurred. How is it that this is not a murder?’ CI Doyle was challenging the old man, but not in a negative way - his tone was open and curious.
Albert took another sip of his tea. ‘In the museum there is a photograph on the wall of the previous world record. It was set in 1987 by a team from Uncle Bert’s. Endorsed by the company, volunteers at their factory baked a crisp, golden, and above all giant Yorkshire pudding. Pictured in the photograph and holding his mother’s hand, is the eight-year-old Brian Pumphrey.’ His revelation made eyes bug. ‘I didn’t see it at first. It was only when they put a poster sized version up that I noticed the little boy and his resemblance to the man who so tragically lost his life yesterday while trying to ruin the world record attempt.’
‘How can you be sure that’s what he was doing?’ asked PC Hendrix.
Albert offered her a wry smile. ‘I can’t. That’s your job. I believe though that you will swiftly find the evidence you require. Brian kept calling the record attempt pointless and claiming that no one cared about it. He was lying though because he cared about it more deeply than anyone else. He cared enough to try to ruin it because he wanted the previous record to stand.’
Gary nodded. ‘That’s right. I heard him say it.’
Albert continued. ‘The flour had been cut with salt before or after delivery. I suspect it was after but whatever the case, someone on the event committee must have placed the order for the ingredients and I’m willing to bet it was Brian. He wanted the attempt to fail so his mother’s legacy would live on, but that wasn’t enough. You see, Alan Crystal manoeuvred himself to gain control of an event which Brian had run for more than a decade. Didn’t you, Alan?’
Alan Crystal refused to answer.
Albert continued regardless. ‘Brian thought of the World Yorkshire Pudding Championships as his event, and what Alan was doing to add all the glitter and glamour was too much for him to take. He was trying to scupper the record attempt but when his tampered ingredients were discovered, he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone tried to find out how it happened, and the trail would lead back to him. That’s why he cut a button from the cuff of Alan’s rather fancy jacket and planted it in the bakers’ container.
‘He did what?’ blurted Alan, trying to twist his head and body so he could see his cuffs. Washington, already gripping Alan’s right bicep tightly, gave him a shake to stop him from moving.
Albert carried on. ‘There would be no good reason for Alan to have ever gone in
