Murder on a Mystery Tour Page 3

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ Reggie had said noncommittally and retreated as her escort leaned forward and began shooting questions at her. When next he signalled and Reggie darted forward, Miss Holloway had been in command of the situation.

  ‘Same again,’ she had said firmly, handing him her glass. ‘Please.’

  Later, Colonel Heather had somehow twigged the game and, upon being offered another drink, had said to Reggie with a meaning look, ‘I’ll have what the little lady is having.’

  Reggie had been only too delighted to comply. It had set the pattern for the rest of that weekend and for future weekends. Later, Midge and Reggie had discussed it and, after the weekend guests had departed, had slipped discreet envelopes beneath Colonel Heather and Miss Holloway’s respective doors, containing a share of the bar proceeds on their drinks.

  Miss Holloway had demurred at first, but the Colonel had been frankly amused. ‘We had a name for the girls out East who did this sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Little did I ever think I’d be doing it myself one day. But the world turns, the world turns …’

  ‘I can’t think it’s right,’ Miss Holloway protested feebly. ‘I feel sinful enough about fooling those poor generous people in the first place, but I simply couldn’t manage all those drinks—’

  ‘Nonsense, Grace, take the money and be thankful,’ the Colonel ordered. ‘You can’t deny it will come in useful.’

  Miss Holloway did not attempt to deny it. When one’s pension wasn’t index-linked, every little bit helped. Blushing, she had stowed it away in her handbag almost guiltily, but over the next few weeks she had made a rapid adjustment to the new circumstances. Only yesterday, she had returned from town with a black velvet suit she had merrily announced was ‘the Wages of Sin’.

  ‘There.’ Reggie finished polishing the straight-sided cocktail glasses and lined them up behind the bar. It was fortunate that there had been an Art Deco Revival lately and the Thirties-style cocktail glasses were in open stock once more. It saved any worry about replacing broken or chipped glasses. ‘Ready and waiting. Let them come! Everything all right with your end of things?’

  ‘Tickety-boo, as the Colonel would say.’ Midge nodded with satisfaction. A lucky find at a local jumble sale just after New Year had provided a hoard of Thirties magazines and newspapers, which had sparked the idea for this final weekend. Now the magazines had been strategically distributed throughout the public rooms and the newspapers were piled in the kitchen waiting to be utilized to the best advantage. ‘They’re going to feel as though they’ve slipped through a time-warp.’

  That’s what they’re paying for.’ Reggie untied his apron and tossed it over his arm. ‘Well, then, I think we’re as ready as we ever are.’

  ‘Just the same, I’m glad it’s the last one.’ Midge sighed faintly. ‘It’s an awful lot of work.’

  ‘That’s why they pay so well.’ Reggie tipped back the hinged panel of the bar counter and stepped out to join her. ‘Besides—’ he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze—‘It hasn’t been so bad, has it?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s been fun,’ she admitted. ‘If only—’

  ‘I know. If they want to sign up the Manor for another series of weekends, we’ll make it a condition that the resident authors are orphans.’

  ‘And she’s playing up again,’ Midge was reminded. ‘She doesn’t want Bramwell to take part in any of the festivities this weekend. He mustn’t be disturbed. It seems he’s reached a crucial part of his book. Adam MacAdam and Suzie Chong are about to start interrogating the suspects.’

  ‘What?’ Reggie reacted with the same affronted horror Midge had felt. ‘Under our roof?’

  ‘Take it easy.’ Midge had recovered from her own initial shock and could laugh now. ‘They’re not real, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Reggie admitted ruefully. ‘But the way all these people talk about them, one tends to forget that.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Midge said. ‘I often thank heaven for it. Imagine if those ghastly characters had been real and we were stuck with them here for six weeks.’

  ‘It’s nearly as bad just having their creators,’ Reggie said. ‘I’m not so sure—’ a mischievous spark glinted in his eyes—‘I’d object to Suzie Chong.’

  ‘No, but I would!’

  Once the arrangements had been final, they had rushed to the library to read up on their about-to-be-resident authors and become familiar with their works. Both authors had been writing for well over a decade and maintained flourishing series characters with large followings.

  Bramwell Barbour was the creator of that sprightly multi-ethnic husband-and-wife detecting team, Adam MacAdam, the American-Scottish mulatto and his beautiful French-Eurasian wife, Suzie Chong. In keeping with the spirit of certain lifestyles prevalent in this last quarter of the Twentieth Century, the MacAdams maintained a marriage so open a juggernaut lorry could have been driven through it without touching either partner.

  Their most baffling and blood-curdling cases invariably devolved into sexual romps, due to Suzie’s theory (heartily endorsed by Adam) that veritas resided not in vino but in bed. When it came time for serious interrogation of the suspects, they divided the chore, Suzie sliding off to sleep with the main male suspects, while Adam handled (literally) the female suspects. (Thus far, Bramwell Barbour had not extended his excursions into the Permissive Society to the point of including any homosexual suspects.) Later, much later, they lay back together in their massive water bed, exhausted (although not by each other), and compared notes on the results of their questioning. Inevitably, they solved the case, although it was sometimes necessary to re-interrogate the suspects, sometimes jointly. (The enormous water bed gave a new twist to the gathering of the suspects for the final solution.) At some point on the last page, one of the cleared suspects, with a twinkle in his or her eye, invariably voiced the recurring tag line: ‘It was a pleasure being suspected by you.’

  Reviewers had been ecstatic from the very first appearance of Adam MacAdam and Suzie Chong in Death On Wheels. One reviewer had gone so far as to proclaim them: ‘Mr and Mrs North, as they would have been if they were being written today.’ His newspaper had promptly been threatened with a lawsuit by the Lockridge Estate for Defamation of Characters. The apology and retraction had gone so far in the opposite direction that Bramwell Barbour had then sued for damages. Another grovelling apology and retraction had followed, plus a substantial out-of-Court settlement. The luckless reviewer, who had wisely hidden behind the pseudonym ‘The Sphinx’, had last been heard of writing a newsletter for an electricity company in Upstate New York.

  Evelina T. Carterslee, on the other hand, had cleverly sidestepped the entire issue of sex by making her multi-ethnic detective, Luigi von Murphy, a failed Trappist monk. Although he had leapt over the wall in other respects (there was a strong hint that his health was responsible for his defection), he had continued to feel bound by his vow of celibacy, despite the best—or worst—hopes of susceptible females he encountered in the course of his investigations. Since his debut in The Crimson Shroud, he had gathered a large and devoted following, many of whom eagerly pounced on each new book hoping that this would be the one in which Luigi’s Latin blood would win out over his Nordic reserve and Irish scruples. They were still waiting—and hoping.

  Remote and austere, Luigi von Murphy trod alone through the maze of suspicion and accusation, judging that he be judged not, but watching, noting, drawing conclusions. At moments, he would draw himself up sharply with a gasp that might have been of realization or of pain. (Evelina T. Carterslee had to reassure her readers periodically that Luigi’s health, although frail, was not perilous.)

  At last, he would retire to the laboratory of his cottage on the Connecticut shore, don his old monk’s habit and concentrate his mind by distilling his own liqueurs. He could also brew up a mean kettle of jam. To the intense regret of his many fans, he also considered himself bound by his vows of silence when asked for the rec
ipes.

  Rarely, very rarely, one of the ladies in a case made such an impression on him that he could only exorcize it by creating a new scent in her honour. (To Evelina’s intense annoyance, no perfume manufacturer had yet taken the hint.)

  By the time they had read the complete works of both authors, Ackroyd was the only inhabitant of Chortlesby Manor who was not in a state of ill-controlled panic at the prospect of their imminent arrival.

  It had come as a great relief to discover that Bramwell Barbour was not a rampaging satyr and that Evelina T. Carterslee was not particularly religious.

  Their relief was short-lived, however. The next afternoon, Bramwell borrowed the car and went to the station to meet the train from London. He returned with Amaryllis.

  Into each life some rain must fall, but it was generally agreed that Bramwell carried his own monsoon around with him. The weather at Chortlesby Manor had been stormy ever since her arrival.

  Perhaps the most irritating thing was that Amaryllis fawned on Bramwell’s fans and was generally regarded by them as charming. She was at her most obnoxious with members of the staff and, of course, the actors.

  4

  ‘By the way—’ Midge was reminded. ‘Where’s Lettie?’

  ‘Lettie? She and Ned took the car into town to try to find more feathers for the head-dresses. They ought to be back any minute now.’

  As well as being the ‘Screamer’, the maid who discovered the bodies, Lettie doubled as Props, assembling and keeping track of the various props needed in the enactments. She was also stage-managing the productions—no easy task when the ‘stage’ sprawled throughout almost the entire Manor. Only the private quarters of family and staff and the kitchen were out of bounds.

  Nor was it easy to attempt to co-ordinate actors who had been given the mere skeleton of a script and were expected to flesh out the bones themselves. It was Method acting at its most challenging. Fun, but exhausting—with more complications than were ever encountered on a real stage.

  However, the money was good, the food excellent and the accommodation superb. At this season of the year, the alternative would have been a provincial pantomime, living in cheap digs in some distant outpost. A further bonus was the enthusiastic and appreciative audience.

  ‘Sorry—’ a voice called out as the front door slammed.

  ‘Lettie never misses a cue,’ Reggie said admiringly.

  ‘Even when she doesn’t know she’s just had one,’ Midge agreed.

  Ackroyd strolled out from behind the bar and stretched at their feet with an elaborately casual air that deceived no one. Lettie had never yet failed to return from town without some special treat for him. His head turned towards the doorway expectantly as the hurrying footsteps drew nearer.

  ‘They haven’t arrived yet, have they?’ Lettie swept in, precariously clutching a pile of slipping parcels and deposited them on the bar counter. ‘Oh, it’s so nice and warm in here. It’s bitter out—and I think we’re going to have some snow. They’ll love that. Bags of atmosphere.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ Reggie said. ‘But I’ll bet it’s not half so popular as the fog we had last month.’

  ‘That was a stroke of luck,’ Lettie agreed. ‘And here’s another.’ She began emptying bags. ‘Look—treasure trove!’ She uptilted a bag and spilled a cascade of green and white Penguin paperbacks across the counter.

  ‘Oh, super!’ Midge squealed. ‘We were running low. Where did you find them?’

  ‘The local Oxfam. Someone had obviously had a great clear-out and I got there at just the right moment.’

  ‘Three Agatha Christies, two Margery Allinghams, Ngaio Marsh, John Dickson Carr, Gladys Mitchell, Elizabeth Ferrars, Michael Innes …’ Midge gloated unashamedly over the haul. ‘Oh, these are super!’

  ‘I don’t know all that much about it,’ Lettie said, ‘but I’m learning. I recognized those green and white covers—and I just grabbed. I knew we could use them.’

  ‘We certainly can,’ Midge said heartily. From the first tour, they had tried to make the guests feel at home by leaving an assortment of vintage mystery paperbacks by the bed in each room. The gesture had gone down well. The only problem was that the guests assumed—or pretended to assume—that the paperbacks were a little present from the Manor. When they departed, the paperbacks were packed into their cases and taken away with them. (At least, it cut down on the disappearance rate of ashtrays and towels.) After that first tour, they had reduced the number of paperbacks in each room from six to three. Fortunately, there was a plentiful source of supply in the local charity shops and jumble sales, so long as no one was a purist about first editions.

  ‘And there are four hardbacks in this bag.’ Lettie lifted them out carefully. ‘All Thirties imprints, although I don’t know any of these authors. I thought we could leave them lying around the lounge to dress the house—’

  Ackroyd had had enough. He leaped up on the nearest bar stool and rested his forepaws on the counter. He butted his head against Lettie’s hand impatiently.

  ‘Oh, you!’ She ruffled his soft white front. ‘I suppose you think I’ve brought you something?’

  ‘He knows very well you have,’ Midge said. ‘You spoil him rotten.’

  ‘Well, you’re worth spoiling, aren’t you?’ Lettie smoothed the white ruff, running her fingers down into the tiger markings of Ackroyd’s back. Ackroyd blinked his large yellow eyes and purred loudly. His long white whiskers twitched expectantly.

  ‘All right.’ Lettie opened her handbag and pulled out a small white bag. Ackroyd was rubbing his nose against it before she had it free of the handbag. He uttered loud cries of approval.

  ‘All right, take it easy.’ Lettie pulled away, laughing, as Ackroyd began pawing wildly at the bag. ‘Let me open it for you.’

  Ackroyd assured her that wasn’t necessary, he’d just shred it himself.

  ‘What on earth have you got there?’ Midge asked. ‘Look at him—he’s going mad.’

  ‘Catnip will do it every time—ow!’ Lettie dropped the bag as a claw grazed her hand. The bag fell to the floor and Ackroyd leaped down after it.

  ‘You needn’t have been so rough about it.’ Lettie feinted a light kick towards him. ‘I was giving it to you, anyway.’

  ‘He’s only about a year old,’ Midge apologized. ‘He goes wild with excitement.’

  ‘Big for his age, isn’t he?’ Lettie watched as Ackroyd caught the paper bag between his forepaws and somersaulted with it.

  ‘Not surprising,’ Reggie said. ‘He eats like a horse.’

  ‘So would you,’ Midge said, ‘if you’d had his start in life. Remember how scrawny he was when he came to us?’

  There was a moment’s pause as they both remembered the starveling kitten who had suddenly appeared at the back door one day soon after they had taken over management of the Manor. No human being could have resisted giving it a drink of milk and a saucer of scraps.

  From that first instant, Ackroyd had had no doubt as to his place in the world. They had hesitated only because they had feared prospective guests might be put off by a resident cat. Some might be allergic, some might want to bring their dogs along. While the debate raged, Ackroyd curled up and went to sleep in a corner of a sofa by the fire and the outside temperature abruptly dropped by ten degrees. It could not do any harm to let him spend one night in the warmth of the kitchen.

  When they went down in the morning, a furry throbbing dynamo hurled itself at their legs, uttering cries of welcome and delight, then proudly led them to a corner where a rat lay dead—a rat nearly as big as he was. He wasn’t just a freeloader, the kitten let them know proudly, he could work his passage.

  And so Ackroyd had joined the staff of Chortlesby Manor. Not that he was Ackroyd at first. He had begun as Roger the Lodger, progressing to Roger Ackroyd when they had begun contemplating Murder at the Manor. Whatever they called him, Ackroyd was agreeable. He had disposed of more rats and mice than they had ever suspected inhabited the M
anor and won the hearts of Cook and the remaining residents. Chortlesby Manor inserted a note to their listing in hotel directories that dogs were not allowed. Ackroyd had full run of the Manor, including all the public rooms and most of the bedrooms.

  He was taking full advantage now. A mighty swipe had knocked the plump grey catnip mouse out of the bag and Ackroyd leaped for it with a hunting cry. It skittered away from him, through the doorway, into the front hall. Ackroyd raced after it, wild-eyed and rowdy.

  There was a crash and a scream.

  They dashed outside to find Amaryllis Barbour sitting on the lowest step of the stairs, rubbing her ankle.

  ‘That animal tripped me!’ she said. The telltale mouse lay abandoned at her feet. Ackroyd had withdrawn to the far end of the lobby and watched unblinking.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Barbour.’ Midge came forward. ‘Lettie just gave Ackroyd a catnip mouse. He’s never seen one before. I’m afraid he got over-excited.’ She stooped and retrieved the mouse, tossing it to Reggie, who caught it deftly and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Hmmphh!’ Amaryllis Barbour swept Ackroyd, Reggie, Midge and Lettie with a look which consigned them all to the nethermost regions. Especially Lettie.

  ‘Are you all right? Can you stand up?’ Midge took her arm and gently urged her to her feet.

  ‘It’s no thanks to you I haven’t broken my neck!’ Amaryllis groaned as she straightened up. ‘If you must have animals, they should be banned from the public rooms. That cat will be the death of someone yet!’

  ‘No such luck,’ Lettie muttered under her breath.

  ‘There.’ Midge shot Lettie a silencing look. ‘There, now, you’re all right. No harm done—’

  ‘There better not be!’ Amaryllis seemed in a worse mood than usual. Unfortunately, there was a certain amount of justice on her side at the moment.

  ‘Were you going to town?’ Midge offered hasty distraction. ‘Ned is still out at the car. I’m sure he’d be willing to run you in—’