Murder on a Mystery Tour Page 2

  ‘Ah, you got him.’ Reggie looked up and nodded a greeting to them both. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘Only the usual. She doesn’t know what she’s doing here and she hates us all.’

  ‘And vice versa, I may say.’ Reggie lowered his head again to frown at the recipe book he was studying. ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing here. Some of these combinations ought to carry a Government health warning. They sound absolutely lethal.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they were.’ Midge perched on a bar stool and let Ackroyd slip to the floor. He sauntered behind the bar to join Reggie. ‘Fortunately, we’re protected from the worst excesses by the fact that all Governments long go outlawed absinthe. Pernod isn’t nearly so dangerous.’

  ‘In these combinations, I still wouldn’t like to take my oath on it.’

  ‘We’ve done our best.’ Midge had spent a morning lettering cards with the names and contents of the cocktails. ‘If they want to order the things, on their heads be it.’

  ‘You know they will—out of sheer bravado. And for some of them, it will be a nostalgia trip. Perhaps we ought to serve them in teacups for the real period atmosphere.’

  ‘Not in England,’ Midge corrected. ‘We never had Prohibition or speakeasies. That would only be period in the States.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Reggie accepted the correction grumpily. They were all growing a bit weary of the game. It was their first season. Next season it would be easier. For one thing, the ‘Guest Stars’ would be different—and that alone was bound to be an improvement. Not that Evelina T. Carterslee was so bad; nor even, to be fair, Bramwell. It was Amaryllis who was the genuine worm i’ the bud. Perhaps they could insist that only the celebrities be invited —no appendages allowed.

  ‘Well, let’s post the warning signals, anyway. Where have you put them?’

  ‘Here.’ Reggie reached beneath the counter and slid the stack of cards across the bar. ‘And you’ll need these.’ He added a box of drawing-pins.

  ‘Right!’ Midge slid off her stool and took the top card, not by any accident;

  American Beauty

  1 dash Crème de Menthe

  1/4 Orange Juice

  1/4 Grenadine

  1/4 Dry Vermouth

  1/4 Brandy

  Topped with Port Wine

  ‘They’ll go for the names.’ She shook her head forebodingly. ‘God knows what it will do to their livers.’

  ‘Relax,’ Reggie said. ‘Look at all the people who survived the Thirties. And they were smoking their heads off in those days, too. The human race is a lot hardier than it’s been currently led to believe it is.’

  ‘It must be.’ Midge tacked up the next lethal cocktail beside the first:

  Bijou

  1 dash Orange Bitters

  1/3 Gin

  1/3 Green Chartreuse

  1/3 Vermouth Rosso

  Add a cherry or an olive and a piece of lemon peel squeezed on top.

  ‘They’re all authentic, remember,’ Reggie encouraged her. She was the one who had found the original Thirties book of cocktail recipes. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, now her conscience was beginning to quiver. He nodded as she picked up the next card. They’ll love that one.’

  Corpse Reviver

  1/4 Vermouth Rosso

  1/4 Calvados

  1/2 Cognac

  That’s what I’m afraid of.’ Midge darted over and tacked it up in a shadowy corner. ‘We’re the ones who’ll have to deal with the aftermath.’

  ‘Post the hangover cure in the centre,’ Reggie advised practically. ‘That ought to give them the gipsy’s warning.’

  ‘All right.’ Midge sifted through the cards and came up with the one for pride of place:

  Prairie Oyster

  2 dashes Vinegar

  Unbroken yolk of one Egg

  1 teaspoonful Worcestershire Sauce

  1 teaspoonful Tomato Catsup

  1 dash of Pepper on top

  To be swallowed at one gulp.

  ‘If that doesn’t discourage them, nothing will,’ Reggie said.

  ‘You know nothing will.’ Midge gloomily tacked up the next cards:

  Merry Widow Monkey’s Gland

  2 dashes Absinthe 1 dash Absinthe

  2 dashes Angostura Bitters 1 teaspoonful Grenadine

  2 dashes Benedictine 1/2 Orange Juice

  1/2 Dry Vermouth 1/2 Gin

  1/2 Gin

  ‘Then they’ll die happy.’ Reggie shrugged philosophically.

  Royal Romance Shamrock

  1/2 Gin 3 dashes Green Crème de Menthe

  1/4 Grand Marnier 3 dashes Green Chartreuse

  1/4 Passion Fruit Juice 1/2 Dry Vermouth

  1 dash Grenadine 1/2 Irish Whisky

  ‘I’d rather they didn’t die here,’ Midge said.

  ‘Nonsense girl! Point of the whole thing, isn’t it?’ Colonel Heather appeared in the entrance to the bar, resplendent in straw boater, blue blazer with silver buttons and white flannel trousers.

  ‘Oh, well done, sir,’ Reggie applauded.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Colonel Heather twirled the ends of his sweeping RAF-style moustache. ‘Knew I had something appropriate packed away. Bit out of season, but they won’t know that, will they?’

  ‘You’re perfect!’ Midge said warmly. ‘You’re so perfect, I’m afraid for you. If she can’t get you any other way, some rich American widow is going to slip you a mickey and smuggle you away in her luggage.’

  ‘Hah!’ The Colonel preened extravagantly. ‘And just wait until you see Grace—Miss Holloway. Done us all proud!’

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ Midge said gratefully. It could have been so awkward; they had been afraid it would be. Colonel Heather and Miss Holloway had been resident guests—sitting tenants, as it were—when she and Reggie had taken over Chortlesby Manor last year.

  It had rapidly become apparent that the Manor was not paying its way and was never likely to; it was just one more run-of-the-mill country hotel, rapidly sliding downhill. A moot point whether dry rot or bailiffs would get it first. Something drastic had to be done if they were to survive.

  But what? Cook, also inherited with the Manor, although honest and willing, was not in the Cordon Bleu class. Nor could they afford to hire a chef able to lift them into the crossed knives and forks, four-Rosette category, even if their financial situation were comfortable enough to allow them to wait upon publishing schedules and the next few tourist seasons to establish a more-than-passing trade.

  The current trade had been just about nil. Reggie’s father, with typical hopeful improvidence, had taken out a mortgage and turned the Manor into a hotel with the intention of saving the family homestead and earning a neat profit.

  Alas, poor Eric. There were more stately mansions in too close a proximity, quainter hostelries spread their Tudor wings along coach roads and more luxuriously-appointed modern hotels offered centrally-heated comfort in the centre of town. The Manor, although beloved by generations of Chortlesbys, had little to offer those who were not already among the converted.

  Eric had taken on the competition by shaving his running costs to the bone and offering the lowest prices possible. It had attracted the transient trade and, perhaps unfortunately, a cluster of permanent residents, mostly elderly. In those days, Eric had been too new to the game to see the pitfalls in this.

  One fractured hip, two cases of pneumonia, one senile dementia and two deaths later, Eric had learned far more than he had ever wanted to know about the problems of running a residential hotel.

  By this time, Eric had felt that he was faced with the loss of either the Manor or his mind. He called a family conference and faced them with the problems. They were unanimous that, whatever else might be lost, Chortlesby Manor must be preserved.

  Reggie, as heir presumptive, had agreed to leave his post in the City and take over as proprietor of the Manor/hotel. Midge, as his loving wife and presumptive mother of future heirs, could do no less than ag
ree to the proposal, although, with Eric a healthy specimen of a long-lived line, she had not reckoned on being called to take over any duties as Lady of the Manor for a good many years yet—by which time she had hoped that she would have a better idea of what she ought to be doing.

  Aunt Hermione and her husband, Cedric, Eric’s sister and brother-in-law, had nobly volunteered to leave their rural retreat and move in to help with the housekeeping and gardening, respectively. This had begun to seem slightly less noble when they had promptly rented their cottage to an American exchange professor for an exorbitant price he, in his innocence, considered the bargain of the decade. They had then taken up rent-free residence at the Manor, although, to give them their due, they pulled their full weight, and then some.

  Cook was a constant, no matter what changes they rang in on her, and assorted girls from the surrounding countryside did part-time work as maids and waitresses under Hermione’s expert tuition.

  With the domestic arrangements thus ensured, Eric had blessed them all and thankfully departed for a long recuperative visit to distant relatives in Australia, murmuring cheerful hopes of finding business ventures which would restore the family fortunes. They had all bade him a fond farewell, then settled down grimly to some restoration work of their own.

  Bunny Hug

  1/3 Gin

  1/3 Scotch

  1/3 Absinthe

  (Not Recommended)

  ‘I should think not.’ Colonel Heather winced as he read the next card Midge tacked up. ‘Bunny Hug, eh? Sounds more like a boa constrictor to me.’

  ‘That’s very good,’ Reggie chuckled. ‘Be sure to repeat it when the guests arrive. Ought to get a good laugh, put them in the right mood.’

  ‘Will do.’ The Colonel preened again. ‘Wizard script this time round, I might say. Ought to keep the beggars guessing, what?’

  ‘We certainly hope so.’ Midge tacked up the last card, giving it pride of place.

  Luigi

  2 dashes Grenadine

  1 dash Cointreau

  Juice of half a Tangerine

  1/2 Gin

  1/2 Dry Vermouth

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I do hope Mrs Carterslee doesn’t feel honour-bound to keep ordering that all weekend just because it’s the name of her series character.’

  ‘Don’t see how she can avoid it,’ the Colonel pointed out practically. ‘The fans are sure to keep buying it for her. Tempted to, myself.’ He gave the short sharp bark that served him for a laugh. ‘Wait till Sweet Amaryllis sees that. She’ll demand equal time for Bramwell’s characters.’

  ‘Fortunately, we haven’t found any cocktails with those names,’ Midge said.

  ‘Doubt if that will save you. Ignorance is no excuse, and all that. She’ll probably insist you invent a couple on the spot.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ Reggie said. ‘Maybe we could have an Invent a Cocktail Contest. Turn them loose behind the bar and let them have at it.’

  ‘Let’s keep that one in reserve,’ Midge said. ‘It sounds too much like something that could turn into an utter shambles. Perhaps we could just invite Bramwell to invent a cocktail instead.’

  ‘Anything so long as he gets equal time,’ Colonel Heather barked again. ‘If you ask me, Evelina is the one who ought to have more time. There are two of them and only one of her.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ Midge said grimly. ‘I’ll make certain of that.’

  ‘Good show!’ The Colonel sketched a salute. ‘I’ll leave you to it now. Got to find Grace. We’re cooking up a few red herrings for the party.’

  ‘That’s awfully good of you,’ Midge said gratefully. ‘But you do so much already and, really, you needn’t do anything at all. Just lurk around and look suspicious. You lurk so beautifully.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said handsomely. ‘Grace’s, too. Given her a whole new lease on life, this murder lark. Made a new woman of her.’

  It hadn’t done so badly by the Colonel, either. Midge smiled at his retreating back. They had been so lucky there. The main reason for trepidation as they launched their new venture was the attitude of the remaining permanent residents.

  How would they react to Murder at the Manor?

  3

  For they had explored every avenue and it seemed that murder was their only salvation.

  Even so, the opportunity had come more through luck than judgement. Through Midge’s school Newsletter to Old Girls, in fact.

  Midge had sent in a paragraph about the exciting new life she and Reggie had embarked on as proprietors of the lovely old Chortlesby Manor Hotel situated in the beautiful Wiltshire countryside but within comfortable distance of picturesque Salisbury, for those who preferred city life. There had been a discreet hint that favourable terms would be extended to Old Girls who might like to book weekend breaks or holidays.

  It was a bow drawn at venture. The best Midge had hoped for had been a few weekend bookings from bargain-hunting and/or curious ex-schoolmates.

  What she got was a trans-Atlantic telephone call from Victoria Ransome.

  They had been good but not particularly close friends at school. After leaving, inevitably their paths drifted apart. The Newsletter had informed all Old Girls that Victoria had emigrated to the United States and, later, that she had opened a book shop, The Crimson Shroud, specializing in crime and mystery books, both new and old, in Boston, Massachusetts.

  Now, Victoria was on the trans-Atlantic line with an offer they couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Murder at the Manor,’ Victoria said. ‘It’s a natural. I’ve been thinking of it for some time. A lot of the mystery bookshops over here are running their own tours and my customers have been telling me it’s high time I organized one for them. They’re afraid they’re missing out on all the fun. I think so, too. When I read about your hotel, it sounded ideal. It is small enough for an intimate gathering, isn’t it?’

  ‘We have three suites,’ Midge said proudly, ‘and twenty-three bedrooms, four of them occupied by resident guests. That’s not counting the family quarters and rooms for the living-in help.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Victoria enthused. ‘I knew it was right, as soon as I saw the item. Look, I’ll have to get back to you on this—I’m negotiating a tie-up with Roberta Rinehart and her Death On Wheels Bookshop in California—but I’ll provisionally charter Chortlesby Manor for three alternate weekends, say mid-January through end-February. And we’ll book two suites for the full run of six weeks for our resident authors—it will be cheaper than paying their air fares each weekend.’

  ‘Just a minute—’ Midge was delighted, but dizzy. ‘You’re losing me.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not,’ Victoria assured her. ‘I’m going to hold on to you very tightly. You’re just what I’ve been looking for. You needn’t worry about a thing. I’ll hire the actors over there. We’ll need rooms for them, three or four—we might as well engage them for the six weeks, too. They’ll be able to go up to London midweek, if they like, but basically they can treat it as a repertory engagement.’

  ‘We ought to be able to manage that.’ Midge tried to say it calmly. Beside her, Reggie was nodding so vigorously he nearly dislodged the telephone from her hand. Two suites and three, possibly four, rooms let for six weeks was going to carry them through the depths of the Off-Season; not to mention having the Manor chartered for three weekends. She still wasn’t quite sure what Victoria was talking about but, never mind, the bookings proposed would set them well on the road to solvency.

  ‘Here’s your cold tea.’ Cook set a large jug of pale amber liquid down on the bar counter. ‘And I’ve put the bottle of blood behind the cooker to warm up. Her Ladyship complained it was too cold last time. Says she nearly caught a chill.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Reggie poured the cold tea into the waiting crystal decanter and placed it on the shelf beneath the bar. It would be used for most of the drinks ordered by the actors and also for most of those offered to Colonel Heather and Miss Holloway by the other guests
. Not because of any intention to defraud the Americans who vied to buy drinks for such splendidly English specimens, but because so much trans-Atlantic generosity threatened to put the Colonel and Miss Holloway under the table before the party even started.

  ‘There’s another jug of tea in the fridge,’ Cook said gloomily, having learned early on the first weekend that the drinks were going to disappear like rain into the parched earth after a drought.

  They had all learned a lot that first weekend.

  ‘No, please—’ Miss Holloway had demurred piteously, as yet another large American gentleman tried to press yet another large drink upon her. ‘I couldn’t. I really couldn’t. I’ve had so much—too much—already. I simply couldn’t. Thank you just the same, but—no! Definitely not!’

  ‘Aw, come on, honey—’ He had beckoned Reggie forward imperiously. ‘Let the bartender get you just one more.’

  ‘No, please—’

  ‘I insist. It’s my turn to interrogate you, and you know what they say. In vino veritas. Unless—’ He leered down at her hopefully. ‘Unless you’re of the Adam MacAdam persuasion—’

  ‘No! No!’ Miss Holloway had whooped hysterically. ‘I’ll have a double gin! And tonic! Lots of tonic—’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ But there had been a trace of disappointment in the broad friendly face. The hour was late, the lights were low, and Grace Holloway had been blossoming all evening under the unaccustomed attention.

  ‘Here you are!’ Reggie had set the bubbling goblet down in front of her, with a wink of his offside eye.

  ‘Thank you—’ She picked it up and sipped reluctantly. Her relieved smile had brightened that corner of the bar as she realized that there was only tonic, ice and a slice of lemon in the glass. ‘That’s splendid. That’s just the job!’