Murder on a Mystery Tour

The knives were out at Chortlesby Manor.

Fish knives, butter knives, meat knives, carving knives, bread knives, fruit knives, even—in deference to the visitors expected soon—steak knives, were spread in glittering array across the pantry table.

Below them ranged fish forks, meat forks, salad forks, carving forks, sweet forks, pastry forks and pickle forks. Then came a lower row of soup spoons, sweet spoons, teaspoons, coffee spoons, salt spoons, egg spoons, tablespoons and assorted serving spoons.

The final row was a miscellaneous jumble of sugar tongs, grape scissors, jam-jar lids, salt cellars, cruet sets, knife rests, fish slices, muffineers, nut crackers, nut-meat picks and a dozen fox mask silver stirrup cups.

An all-pervading smell of silver polish hung heavy in the air and the once-pristine butler’s apron was grey-streaked and stained. The man wearing it gave a final vigorous rub to a pastry fork and set it down in the proper row. He frowned at it judiciously and picked it up again.

‘Oh, let it be, Reggie,’ his wife said from the doorway. ‘If you get that silver any brighter, they’ll have to wear dark glasses at the dinner table.’

‘A couple of the last ones did, anyway,’ Reggie said, but he replaced the fork and grimaced at his hand. ‘Filthy job!’

‘I told you to leave it to the help,’ Midge said. ‘Lettie was mooning around all morning, doing nothing.’

‘Steady on, old girl!’ Reggie looked at her in alarm. ‘Lettie isn’t exactly help, you know.’ He frowned at her anxiously. ‘You do remember that, don’t you?’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’ Midge sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘It’s getting more difficult, though. It never seems to stop. I have to keep closing my eyes and thinking of our mortgage.’

‘Hold on to that thought. Life may be more complicated these days, but it means we’re climbing out of the red. Besides—’ he beamed at her suddenly—it was the old Reggie grin, not the professional Mine Host smile he used so often these days. ‘Besides—it’s rather fun, isn’t it?’

‘Rather … We’re certainly getting a different type of guest—not to mention a different sort of complaint.’

‘And not even so many of those.’ His grin broadened. ‘If the service slumps or anything goes wrong, they don’t dream of complaining, they just think it goes with the territory.’

The sudden shrill peal of the bell startled them. With a clatter, a black and white card dropped into place in the rows of pigeonholes over the door. Number 22 was at it again.

‘Now there’s someone I’d like to kill,’ Midge said. ‘I could cheerfully strangle her with my bare hands!’ She started for the door.

‘Hold on a minute—’ Reggie stopped her. ‘You don’t have to go running upstairs every time she rings. Let’s just see what she wants first.’ He picked up the telephone, dialled 22 and waited. ‘Maybe some day we can even get her to realize that she has a telephone in her room.’

‘Not her,’ Midge said. ‘Having a bell-rope in her room has given her delusions of grandeur. She thinks she’s the Lady of the Manor and we’re her servants.’

‘Yes, Mrs Barbour—’ Reggie waved a silencing hand as someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line. ‘Can we help you?’

‘Ackroyd is in my room again.’ Amaryllis Barbour’s carrying voice scarcely needed the assistance of the telephone. ‘He refuses to leave. I demand that you come up here and evict him!’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs Barbour,’ Reggie said soothingly. ‘Just put him on the line and let me have a word with him.’

‘Oh, really! Come here and get him—instantly!’ The receiver was slammed down violently.

‘I’ll go up,’ Midge said, as Reggie rubbed his ear.

‘Ackroyd has a warped sense of humour,’ Reggie said. ‘He knows that woman hates him. He enjoys upsetting her.’

‘Oh no.’ Midge paused in the doorway, glaring. ‘The real reason Ackroyd keeps stalking her is that he knows a big rat when he sees one!’

The thought cheered her all the way up the stairs and twitched the corners of her mouth as she tapped on the door.

‘It took you long enough!’ Mrs Barbour appeared to believe that someone should materialize the instant she pulled her bell-rope. She stepped back, radiating fury and discontent.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Barbour, we’re very busy today.’ Midge held on to her temper by visualizing a miniature Amaryllis Barbour clenched between Ackroyd’s jaws, arms and legs dangling limply. ‘The new guests are due in just a few hours.’

‘I hope they’re not going to disturb Bramwell,’ Mrs Barbour said severely. ‘He is communing with his Muse. Nothing must be allowed to disrupt his train of thought.’

The clatter of a typewriter could be heard from the master bedroom opening off the sitting-room of the suite, bearing witness to Mrs Barbour’s remarks.

‘I’m sure Bramwell will be able to finish his stint for the day in good time to welcome our guests and take part in the festivities.’ Midge forced a smile.

‘It is not a stint!’ Amaryllis Barbour bristled. ‘Genius knows no boundaries; nor is it ruled by hours. Bramwell does not “stint” his talent!’

Midge took a deep breath and reminded herself that it was nearly over. Just a few more days and she would never have to see either of the Barbours again. She allowed her mind to skip ahead to pleasanter considerations: as soon as they had left, she would disconnect the bell-pull and remove it. No future occupants of this suite would ever be able to demand her dancing attendance again. There were going to be some other changes made, as well. When the new season started …

‘I’ll be glad to see the last of this nonsense.’ Unwittingly, Amaryllis echoed Midge’s thoughts. ‘I simply cannot understand why Bramwell allowed himself to be roped into this charade in the first place.’

‘You have had a nice holiday, haven’t you?’ Midge murmured gently. Six weeks in England, with all expenses paid, including free air flights, for only three weekends’ work as Master of the Revels was pretty good going in anyone’s language.

‘Holiday? You call this a holiday? With poor Bramwell working his fingers to the bone?’

A fresh burst of machine-gun typing gave added impetus to her words.

‘But I thought Bramwell was delighted that the book was going so well,’ Midge said, as innocently as the vitriol dripping from her voice would allow. ‘No one’s forcing him to work on it. All he has to do is host three weekend parties. That isn’t too arduous. Especially as he has Evelina T. Carterslee to act as hostess. She carries half the burden as Mistress of the Revels.’

‘And that’s another thing,’ Amaryllis flared. That woman! That awful woman! I don’t know why you bothered with her.’

‘It was all arranged from the States,’ Midge said. ‘And she does have a lot of fans. Most of the guests are delighted to find her here.’

‘Bramwell should have been celebrity enough. I could quite easily have acted as his hostess. I always do at home.’

‘It wasn’t up to me,’ Midge weaseled out from under the implied accusation. ‘Death on Wheels and The Crimson Shroud organized everything from their end. Chortlesby Manor is just the venue.’

‘Miles from the nearest town!’

‘Only two miles. Some of the guests find it just a pleasant walk. In any case, there’s always a car avail—’

‘If you call that a car! I shall never understand how Bramwell allowed himself to be inveigled into this ridiculous enterprise. He should have had more sense. I don’t know what he was thinking of!’

The betting below stairs was that Bramwell had seen it as an opportunity to escape from his mother. Unfortunately, he had underestimated her determination—and her death grip.

Midge made an indeterminate sound and looked around the sitting-room. Ackroyd was crouched beneath the television set, his baleful gaze fixed on Mrs Barbour. Midge wriggled her fingers at him enticingly, but he was not to be coaxed away.

‘And another thing—that creature! That Lettie—!’

Midge recognized that they were getting to the nub of Mrs Barbour’s complaints now. Ackroyd had simply been an excuse to acquire a listener.

‘It’s shameless, the way she’s always in and out of the bedrooms—’

‘Lettie has to go into all the bedrooms every night to turn down the covers. It’s part of the routine.’

‘That’s no excuse. There’s no need for her to keep going into Bramwell’s. I can take care of that myself.’ She sniffed. ‘The way that female flaunts herself is disgraceful!’

No doubt about it, the old girl had her knife out for Lettie. Probably for any young pretty woman to whom her son was attracted. Not that she needed to worry. Lettie was not fool enough to tie herself up with a mother-in-law like that. Midge wondered how many times Amaryllis Barbour had ruined her son’s chances. It could be no coincidence that he was nearing middle-age and still unmarried—not with mother constantly in tow.

‘Come on, Ackroyd,’ Midge called. There was no point in trying to argue with a brick wall. Amaryllis was Bramwell’s problem—and he was welcome to her.

‘And that cat should not be allowed to go into the guests’ rooms.’ Amaryllis was abruptly reminded of her original complaint. ‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Oh, really!’ Midge protested.

‘It is! He could frighten someone into a heart attack. Or someone could trip over him. Not to mention people who might be allergic to—’

‘Come on, Ackroyd.’ Midge stooped and scooped him up before he could be blamed for the state of the economy, the attitude of the Common Market Commissioners and the next terrorist attack anywhere in the world. ‘You’re not wanted here.’

‘He certainly isn’t! There are too many creatures around this hotel pushing themselves in where they aren’t wanted.’

The typing noises beyond the far door had stopped and there seemed to be a listening silence, perhaps even a guilty silence. Neither Lettie nor Ackroyd were unwelcome so far as Bramwell was concerned. Midge couldn’t speak about Lettie, but she knew for a fact that there had been definite enticement when it came to Ackroyd: delicious titbits smuggled away from the dining table and lovely pieces of typing paper crumpled into balls for him to chase. It was not surprising that Ackroyd sought the company of this charming playmate.

‘I think it particularly distressing that there should be another invasion of fans at this time. Bramwell’s book is at a crucial stage—’ She lowered her voice and spoke with hushed awe. ‘Adam MacAdam and Suzie Chong are just about to begin interrogating the suspects.’

Midge cravenly buried her face in Ackroyd’s fur to hide her involuntary grimace. She was not a fan of the popular husband-and-wife detective team. Ackroyd took the gesture as no more than his due and broke into a throaty purr.

‘So you see, it is imperative that Bramwell not be disturbed at this delicate juncture. He must be free to bring all his resources to bear upon his work.’

The rattle of typing began again in the other room, as though on cue. Amaryllis Barbour nodded in satisfaction and gave Midge a meaning look.

‘You see?’

Midge nodded back without speaking. It was safer that way. Several days ago, Ackroyd had escaped the Barbour suite with one of those crumpled balls of paper still in his mouth. Midge and Reggie had rescued it and smoothed it out to see what sort of prose Bramwell considered beneath his talent. They had discovered a multiplicity of quick brown foxes jumping over lazy dogs. Since then, they had taken a jaundiced view of the rapid-fire typewriter chatter of his supposed creativity. Not that they blamed him. If Sweet Amaryllis had been riding on their backs, they might have stooped to a little honest subterfuge, too.

‘I am the mere guardian of a great and noble talent,’ Amaryllis Barbour said solemnly, not for the first time. ‘It is my humble—yet glorious—destiny in life to stand between my son and those who would use him and toss him aside, those who would plunder his Talent, ravish his Gift—’ She drew herself up, her nostrils flared, her eyes flashed fire.

‘I will defend him—to the death, if necessary!’

‘Er, yes,’ Midge said. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll make his excuses to the company if he isn’t able to attend the Opening Reception.’

Amaryllis Barbour took a deep breath and opened her mouth. Before she could launch into another Declaration, Midge, who had been quietly backing towards the door, slipped through it and closed it firmly behind her. She also closed her eyes and took a deep breath of her own.

From the corridor, the frantic typing was mercifully blurred. The loudest sound was Ackroyd’s purr. Automatically, Midge ran her fingers through his white ruff and smoothed the long white streak of his chest. The purring grew louder. A rough little tongue dabbed at her fingers.

Midge slumped weakly against the wall, eyes still closed, trying, as she had told Reggie, to think of the mortgage. Even more cheering was the thought that this was the last weekend the Barbours would be in residence. It had seemed like such a good idea a few months ago, but by now even Death On Wheels and The Crimson Shroud must be having second thoughts. With luck, they would not repeat that experiment.

The sound of a doorknob turning brought her away from the wall and opened her eyes wide. Hugging Ackroyd defensively, she began edging away from Suite 22.

Straight into line with the door of Suite 21. The door swung wide and Evelina T. Carterslee stepped into the corridor.

‘Having a spot of bother?’ she asked sympathetically. She prided herself that she could pick up any local lingo in no time.

‘Just a spot,’ Midge said weakly. Through the open doorway, she could see Hermione and Cedric huddled over a table of tea-things. They were waving sheets of typescript at each other and it was obvious that an argument was developing.

‘Thought so,’ Evelina said triumphantly. ‘You should have been warned. Bramwell isn’t so bad, but no one in their right minds in the States would have allowed Sweet Amaryllis on the premises.’

‘How were we to know?’ Midge continued her crabwise progress towards the service stairs. ‘We’ve only read the books. We don’t know anything about your private lives.’

‘Pity it couldn’t have stayed that way, isn’t it?’ Evelina surveyed her with more than a trace of amusement breaking through her sympathy. ‘Never mind, you’ll know better next time.’

‘Mmm.’ Midge refrained from committing herself to any future prospects. She could not resist one question, however.

‘Tell me, whatever happened to Mr Barbour?’

‘Rumour has it—’ Evelina’s eyes gleamed—‘that Sweet Amaryllis ate him soon after mating!’

Ever one to recognize a good exit line, especially when she had uttered it herself, she stepped back into her suite and closed the door softly behind her.

Midge clawed weakly at the wallpapered panel that gave on to the service stairs. It swung open silently and she stumbled through it, conscious of a great relief at escaping the rarefied atmosphere of Upstairs.

The knives were well and truly out at Chortlesby Manor.