Murder on a Mystery Tour Read online

  Amaryllis, of course. How could she have doubted it? But another figure loomed immediately behind Amaryllis.

  ‘Roberta!’ Midge stepped forward to welcome the proprietor of the Death On Wheels Bookshop. ‘Victoria said you were coming. You should have let us know.’

  ‘I knew,’ Amaryllis said. ‘I collected her at the station. We had dinner in town.’

  ‘You’re just in time to join us for coffee and liqueurs.’ Midge ignored Amaryllis’s rudeness, she was so accustomed to it by now that only the lack of it would have surprised her. ‘Let Reggie bring your things in from the car and come into the drawing-room.’

  ‘Where’s Bramwell?’ Amaryllis was already in the doorway and surveying the room.

  ‘The gentlemen are lingering over their port,’ Midge said. ‘They’ll be with us shortly.’

  ‘I’ll take my coat upstairs first, then.’ Amaryllis paused. ‘Shall I take yours, Roberta?’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’ Roberta Rinehart was huddled into a plaid wool car coat. ‘I’ll keep it on for a while.’ She sent Midge a wan smile. ‘I’ll not acclimatized to English temperatures yet—especially the indoor ones.’

  ‘A drink will warm you up.’ Midge led the way into the drawing-room. The tour members, sensing a false alarm, had already retreated inside and were queueing for their coffee.

  ‘It’s only her,’ Midge heard one Chandler twin report to the other, making the sort of face Amaryllis inevitably seemed to inspire.

  ‘Oh, pooh!’ According to her name tag, it was Lauren who returned the grimace, but Midge had noticed that the twin with the congealing spot of sticky ice-cream on her bodice had been labelled Brigid when she left the table. They had obviously changed name tags again, unaware that they were now distinguishable—at least for the remainder of the evening. What a shame that they’d be wearing different clothes tomorrow.

  Although the tour greeted her enthusiastically enough, Roberta’s arrival was upstaged by the return of Lady Hermione and the Honourable Petronella, now apparently back on the best of terms.

  Evelina continued to deal out the demitasses. ‘Black or white?’ she asked Roberta.

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’d never be able to sleep.’ Roberta did not look as though she had been sleeping well for some time.

  ‘Let me get you a brandy instead,’ Midge said. ‘That won’t keep you awake.’

  ‘Just a small one,’ Roberta said. ‘I’m really so exhausted I think I’ll slip away as soon as—’

  ‘Whelp! Insolent young pup!’ Doors slammed. Sir Cedric stormed into the drawing-room, followed by the males of the tour in varying stages of consternation.

  ‘You were right, damn it!’ Sir Cedric made directly for Lady Hermione. ‘He’s a scoundrel! A cad! Do you know what he just said to me?’

  ‘What did he say?’ Hermione watched Cedric carefully, ready to prompt if he should forget his lines.

  ‘Told me the Light Brigade should have disobeyed orders!’ Cedric was well into his part, as indignant as though he really were a military historian. ‘Not only that, but he said most of the commanders in the Great War were incompetent morons. He said—’ Sir Cedric choked. ‘He said that if war were to be declared right now, he, for one, wouldn’t fight!’

  ‘I told you so!’ Lady Hermione said triumphantly. ‘The man’s an absolute rotter!’

  ‘See here, Sir Cedric, you mustn’t let him upset you like this.’ Dix was earnestly trying to pour oil on the troubled waters. ‘Lots of the youngsters are going around saying things like that these days. They don’t mean it. Why, when the war breaks out—I mean, if war comes, they’ll be the first ones to join up and fight. You’ll see.’

  ‘Not him!’ Sir Cedric snarled. ‘He meant every word of it. The man’s a lily-livered coward!’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Petronella cried. ‘He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind to you, was he?’

  ‘Here, Sir Cedric—’ Lettie was at his side, proffering a cup. ‘Here’s your coffee—just the way you like it.’

  ‘Eh?’ Sir Cedric took the cup and glanced down at it absently. ‘Thank you. You’re a good girl, Lettie.’

  ‘The gentleman is quite right, Cedric,’ Lady Hermione said. ‘You mustn’t let yourself get so excited. It isn’t good for you. Sit down and let’s have a few rubbers of bridge.’

  ‘Do you want me to be calm or do you want me to play bridge with you?’ Cedric asked. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’

  Lady Hermione threw him a quelling look. He was adlibbing; that wasn’t in the script. Nor was Sir Cedric supposed to have a sense of humour.

  ‘Cedric—’ She sat at one of the bridge tables and gestured him to the chair opposite her. ‘Petronella—Edwin—Come and make up the table.’

  Edwin moved forward obediently, but Petronella looked rebellious.

  ‘Come along, Sweet Coz.’ Edwin took her elbow and led her to the table. ‘We ought to get to know each other better. We have so much in common.’

  ‘Bramwell, come and partner me!’ Evelina plucked her grateful colleague from the toils of the Chandler twins as neatly as his mother could have done. She then forestalled their concerted move to make up the table by moving to the table already occupied by Alice and Norman Dain. ‘May we join you?’ she asked.

  ‘Please do.’ Norman leaped to his feet, jarring the table and sending the cards sliding. ‘We’d be honoured.’

  Reggie and Midge moved from table to table and group to group, serving brandy and liqueurs. Most of the guests were now milling about, apparently aimlessly, but never moving far out of sight of the bridge table at which the principal actors were now seated. A few of them were keeping a close watch on Algie, who had thrown himself into an armchair and buried his face in the January 1935 issue of Country Life.

  Sir Cedric sipped alternately at his coffee and his brandy as Lady Hermione shuffled the cards. The small sound as she slapped them down in front of Petronella to cut was clearly audible. Petronella cut automatically, Lady Hermione gathered up the cards, shuffled them again, and began to deal.

  This was the signal for some of the more eager to drift over and stand behind the chairs of the players, prepared to give advice.

  Everyone except Sir Cedric picked up the hand dealt and fanned out the cards for a preliminary assessment. Sir Cedric sat slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the cards face down on the table before him.

  ‘I say, Hermione,’ he said plaintively. ‘I—I—’ He broke off, looking around wildly.

  Midge moved into his range of vision, standing just behind the onlookers and mouthed his next line at him. His face cleared slightly as he followed her lips.

  ‘I—’ He ran his hand across his forehead. ‘I feel deucedly peculiar—’

  ‘I’ve told you before—’ Lady Hermione began.

  ‘Aaaagh—’ Sir Cedric lurched to his feet, overturning his chair. The onlookers behind him moved back sharply.

  ‘Aaaargh …’ He clutched at his throat and pitched forward full length on the floor.

  From the doorway, Lettie began screaming.

  ‘… et …’ Sir Cedric raised his head weakly, his hand stretched out imploringly in her direction. ‘… et …’ The word died in his throat. His body went limp, his head fell back to the carpet with a dull thud.

  Lettie went on screaming.

  9

  ‘Someone give me a hand.’ Reggie dashed to the side of the fallen Sir Cedric. ‘Help me get him to his room.’

  ‘He’s dead!’ The Chandler twins began screaming also. ‘He’s dead! He’s dead! He’s been murdered!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Lady Hermione flashed a look of pure venom at them. ‘The old fool has forgotten his pills again. And he knows I hate playing with a dummy. Stop that noise, girl!’ She turned her venom on Lettie.

  ‘Take his feet,’ Reggie ordered Edwin, who had rushed to help. They took a careful grip on Cedric, lifted him from the floor and headed for the doorway, staggering under his dead weight.<
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  ‘What happened? What happened?’ Those who had mounted guard over Algie abandoned him and surged over to the bridge table which had been the scene of the action.

  ‘He said he wasn’t feeling well—right after a gulp of that coffee.’

  ‘Naw, he said he was feeling peculiar—and it was just after he drank some brandy.’

  ‘Is anyone—’ Lady Hermione asked coldly. ‘Is anyone going to pick up Cedric’s hand and give me a game of bridge?’

  ‘How can you be so cold, so unfeeling?’ Petronella threw down her own hand and glared at Lady Hermione. ‘Your own brother carried out—perhaps dead—and all you can think of is bridge!’

  Lettie, hands over her face and sobbing wildly, had been led to a sofa and settled into it by several of the guests.

  ‘Stand back. Give her air,’ someone instructed.

  ‘Here.’ Dix pushed forward carrying a glass and bent over Lettie solicitously. ‘Have a brandy. That’s what you need.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’ Lettie groped blindly for the glass, found it and took a deep gulp. Immediately, she coughed and spluttered. Dix had gone behind the bar himself in Reggie’s absence and she had been given a straight cognac rather than the cold tea she had expected.

  ‘You’re callous! Unfeeling!’ Petronella shrieked. I can’t stand you!’ She stumbled away from the table.

  ‘Steady on, old girl.’ Algie crossed to her and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Steady, Pet.’ He assisted her out of the room.

  ‘Well—!’ Lady Hermione threw down her hand. ‘If no one is going to play—!’ She stood up and stalked from the room.

  Stanley Marric bent over the table and examined her discarded cards. ‘No wonder she’s so mad,’ he said. ‘She had a great hand here.’

  ‘How can you think of a thing like that at a time like this?’ Haila Bond snapped. ‘You’re as bad as she is.’

  ‘Bram—’ The Chandler twins moved over to flank their prey. ‘Bram, aren’t you going to do something? Sir Cedric has just been murdered. Aren’t you going to solve the case?’

  ‘No,’ Bram said. Unnerved, he led with the wrong card and lost the trick.

  ‘We don’t know that it was murder,’ Evelina pointed out loudly. ‘We’re not even sure that Sir Cedric is dead. All we know at this point is that he was indisposed and has been taken to his room.’

  ‘Is that going to be your story?’ Until Sir Cedric’s collapse, Bertha Stout had been sitting at the Mah Jong table moodily examining the gleaming mother-of-pearl counters and speculating with the other people at the table as to the possible rules of the game. (Unfortunately, the set Reggie had unearthed at a local antique shop had not included a copy of the rules and no one had any idea of how the game should be played. It was there for decorative purposes—and as a genuine period touch.)

  ‘You’re not going to help, either?’ Bertha Stout challenged Evelina. ‘There are going to be no flashes of insight from the brilliant mind that created Luigi von Murphy?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Evelina calmly led a trump, to the consternation of Alice Dain.

  ‘Then—’ Bertha Stout looked round at the others and uttered the rallying cry they had all been waiting for. ‘Then we’ll have to solve it ourselves!’

  ‘Oh, how can you? How can you?’ Lettie leaped to her feet, glaring at them accusingly. ‘Poor Cedric’s not even cold yet—and you’re treating it like some sort of game!’ She turned and rushed from the room.

  ‘Aha,’ Dix said thoughtfully. ‘There’s more to that girl than meets the eye. She called him Cedric, did you notice? Not Sir Cedric. I’ll bet there was something going on there.’

  Midge quietly left the room. Under cover of Lettie’s outburst, she had unobtrusively cleared the fetal table. When they turned to inspect the evidence, it would be gone. This would place her, as ‘housekeeper’ and person who had done some of the serving, under suspicion as well as the actors.

  ‘It’s started, has it?’ Cook looked up as Midge returned to the kitchen. ‘I saw them carrying Sir Cedric through to the private quarters. They dropped him twice before they got there,’ she added with gloomy relish. ‘And they couldn’t stop and let him walk because a couple of the guests were following them. They had to pick him up and carry on. He won’t half have some bruises in the morning.’

  ‘Oh dear, poor Cedric.’ Midge stacked the cups, saucers and glasses in the dishwasher and switched it on. ‘There, that will give them something to worry about.’

  Ackroyd sauntered over to her feet and complained bitterly about his continued incarceration in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Midge said, opening the door for him. ‘You can go and join the party—but don’t get in the way.’

  ‘Well.’ Cook rose, responding to some inner clock, crossed to the cooker and began removing trays of fragrant, steaming chicken fillets from the oven. ‘I’ll just put these in the larder to cool and then I’m going to go to my room and lock myself in. I don’t know what kind of people we’re getting these days, but there has to be something wrong with them. Whoever heard of spending your holiday pretending a murder has been committed and then chasing around prying into other people’s business and lying your own head off?’

  It’s become very popular,’ Midge defended. ‘And thank heaven for it. We’d have had a hard winter without them.’

  ‘I don’t know what Mr Eric would have said about all these goings-on.’

  ‘Mr Eric is in Australia, having a wonderful time—and having left all the problems to poor Reggie. He wanted the Manor saved—and we’re saving it. We’re turning it into a going concern. Admit it now, Cook, isn’t it nice to be paid on time?’

  Cook was arranging trays on racks in the larder, her reply was indistinct. She emerged, looking flustered but triumphant, and locked the larder door.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘that will keep Ackroyd out. Smart as he is, he hasn’t learned to unlock doors yet. I’ll do a mayonnaise glaze on them first thing in the morning. They’ll look a treat for lunch.’

  ‘And they’ll be a treat. Oh, Cook, you’re a treasure. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ Cook was obviously pleased. ‘I’m not saying it isn’t nice to have lots of people to cook for again—just like the house-parties in the old days when Mrs Eric was alive. But I’m still locking myself in tonight. If you ask me, those people out there aren’t right in the head!’

  ‘They’re just harmless role-players, having fun in their own way.’

  ‘Some way!’ Cook sniffed and looked round the kitchen. ‘Just you keep them out of here. I won’t have them poking around and moving things out of their proper places so’s I can’t find them again.’

  ‘I’ll make it clear that the kitchen is out of bounds.’ Midge hoped she could enforce that rule. Perhaps it was going to be a mistake, bringing Cook in for a bit part. Would some of the guests follow her back to the kitchen for more questioning after she had drawn herself to their attention? It was awfully hard to predict what they might do. Every tour was different—and this one seemed to be keener than most.

  Cook was right, though, there was something specially unsettling about these people, although Midge couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason—apart from the Chandler twins. Their open pursuit of Bramwell Barbour was a complication that had not been present on previous tours.

  There were muted voices outside the kitchen door. Cook stiffened and watched the door with hostile eyes. Midge moved over to it, prepared to repel boarders.

  ‘Thought we might find you here—’ It was only Reggie and Ned, returning from having disposed of Cedric and having momentarily shaken off their pursuers. ‘Time to get back and man the bar. All this excitement will be making them thirsty.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Midge followed Reggie back to the bar, Ned trailing behind. As Reggie had expected, there were several eager customers waiting.

  ‘How is he?’ Haila Bond demanded as Reggie took his
place behind the bar. ‘How’s Sir Cedric?’

  ‘Still indisposed,’ Reggie said firmly. ‘But he wouldn’t want to spoil the party for anyone. Instructions are to carry on as usual.’

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Asey Wentworth accused.

  ‘Shhh—’ Reggie managed a splendid expression of furtive guilt. ‘We mustn’t disturb the others. There’s nothing anyone can do tonight and we don’t want to cast a pall over the festivities.’

  ‘Someone has done too much already.’ Dixon Carr fixed Midge with an accusing gaze. ‘Why did you clear that table, Midge?’

  ‘It’s customary to clear empty tables,’ Midge said crisply. ‘One can’t leave dirty dishes lying about.’

  ‘And where are those cups and glasses you cleared from that table now?’

  ‘In the dishwasher, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Haila Bond had crowded closer. ‘And I suppose you’ve switched the dishwasher on?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Midge was the picture of an innocent housekeeper. ‘That’s the whole point of having a dishwasher.’

  ‘So that takes care of that,’ Asey Wentworth said gloomily.

  ‘And just as well, too.’ Bertha Stout pushed her way to the fore. ‘We have no way of analysing substances. I say the only way we’ll solve this case is through the human element. Who wanted Sir Cedric dead? Who hated him? Who profited? Motivation—that’s where your answer lies.’ She glanced at Midge absently. ‘I’ll have a double bourbon. It’s going to be a long night.’

  The others ordered enthusiastically, as well. Then, clutching their glasses, let the theories begin flying.

  ‘There was something extra in Sir Cedric’s coffee. Remember? When Lettie gave it to him, she said it was just the way he liked it. And they looked at each other.’

  ‘When he was dying, he called out for her. Remember? He kept trying to say her name … Et … Et …’

  ‘Aha! But did he mean Lettie—or Pet? They both have the et sound and he wasn’t articulating clearly. Could he have been accusing one of them? And which one?’