Murder on a Mystery Tour

The guests lingered late over their drinks. And lingered … and lingered …

Having once made his escape, Bramwell never returned. Shortly thereafter, Evelina had slipped away. Later still, the actors had retired, with the exception of Algie, who was still paying court to Lauren-Brigid.

‘Midge, do you think we ought to do something?’ Having served yet another brace of drinks to the lady, plus one for the gentleman, Reggie had returned to her considerably shaken.

‘What can we do?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s getting serious. I couldn’t help overhearing Algie murmuring those famous three little words to her. Followed by a couple of more sinister ones: “Special Licence” He can’t do that, can he? I mean, the woman’s crackers.’

‘Not half as crackers as Algie is,’ Midge said. ‘How does he think he could put up with that day after day?’

‘I shouldn’t think he’s planning on a long-term venture,’ Reggie said. ‘She’s from California; don’t they have a Community Property Law there? He’ll stay with her for a couple of years, then get a divorce and walk off with half her money.’

‘Leaving her financially just where she was before her sister died.’

‘You don’t think she killed her own twin?’ Reggie was shocked, but ready to believe anything. ‘Just for money?’

‘And for exclusive rights to Bramwell,’ Midge said. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘I thought they’d parcelled him out between them quite amicably.’ Reggie shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t blame him if he’d been the one to murder her. In self-defence.’

‘Much good that would do him while the other one was still alive. His mother is going to serve him up on toast to whichever one wants him.’

‘Aha! You noticed that, did you?’ Dix was there behind her.

‘Oh!’ Midge jumped. ‘You startled me.’

‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to. I thought you’d seen me.’

‘No, I was watching Amaryllis.’

‘Ah yes.’ He followed her gaze. ‘On her way to break up the little tête-à-tête. How touching. Looking after her son’s interests—whether he wants her to or not. A woman who bears watching, indeed.’

Curled up in her armchair, obviously exhausted but unwilling to leave while so many of her tour were still awake and alert, Roberta Rinehart watched also.

The lights were low, the gramophone had been allowed to wind down, conversation was muted and relaxed. Outside, the wind had risen and the occasional patter of snowflakes against the window-panes was caused by the wind redistributing the drifted snow. When Midge had checked a short while ago, it had seemed a softer, milder wind, holding promise of spring and plant life stirring in the chill earth beneath the blanket of snow.

‘Oh!’

‘What the—!’

Amaryllis had abruptly switched the floor lamp behind the armchair to full power. Algie had been sitting on the arm of the chair, murmuring to Lauren. They both blinked in the glare of harsh light, the mood of intimacy broken.

‘It’s late,’ Amaryllis cooed. ‘And dear Lauren should take a sleeping pill and go to bed. She’s had a very fraught day.’

‘What about Brigid?’ Lauren protested. ‘I’m not going to go to bed and leave her staying up having all the fun!’

‘Brigid, too,’ Amaryllis said smoothly, although those around winced. ‘Come along, girls—Both of you—’ Amaryllis took her by both hands and tugged her gently out of the chair.

‘She shouldn’t take any sleeping pills,’ Midge worried. ‘She’s had too much to drink.’

‘She’ll probably go to sleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.’ Reggie had gained a professional barman’s ability to judge capacities over the past couple of tours. ‘Amaryllis will be lucky if she gets her that far before she passes out.’

‘Can Algie come too?’ Leaning heavily against Amaryllis, Lauren allowed herself to be half-carried towards the door. Algie stepped forward, as though to help, but Amaryllis gave him such a vicious glare that he stepped back.

‘Algie wants another drink first,’ Amaryllis lied soothingly. ‘But I’ll tell you what. I’m sure Bramwell will want to come in and say good night to you before you fall asleep. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I don’t know—’ Lauren shrugged, throwing them both off-course. ‘Algie’s kinda sweet and he’s got the cutest English accent. Maybe I’ll keep him for myself and let Brigid have Bramwell.’

‘Oh, now, you don’t want to be too hasty—’ Amaryllis had gone pale. Her burden was rapidly becoming almost a dead weight, she staggered slightly.

‘Let me help you.’ Reggie went over to them as they hesitated at the foot of the staircase.

‘I should think you would! I don’t know why you don’t have an elevator in this place.’ Amaryllis dared not criticize her daughter-in-law-elect, so she expended her fury on Reggie. ‘It’s ridiculous to set yourself up as a hotel and not have the commonest amenities. I’ve a good mind to complain to the English Tourist Board about you!’

Reggie’s lips tightened, but he took his place at Lauren’s other side and let most of her weight shift over to him. Amaryllis’s voice faded, still complaining, as they mounted the stairs.

Algie snapped off the lamp spotlighting the now empty chair and stood irresolutely for a moment before turning and leaving the room. Someone sighed faintly, as though being released from a spell.

‘Whee-ew …’ The atmosphere lightened immediately. ‘Thank heavens they’re gone.’

‘That’s a rotten thing to say after all that poor girl has gone through.’

‘Believe me, I have every sympathy—but you can’t deny she’s sure a skeleton at the feast.’

‘I figure it this way,’ Stan said seriously. ‘It could have been worse. It could have been someone we liked.’

There was an uneasy rustle of agreement. Perhaps, Midge thought, it was because the Chandler twins were so disliked that the situation had remained under control. They were no loss to anyone. Their absence was marked by relief rather than mourning. Bramwell might even find it a cause for celebration. Especially if the other twin were also to be removed. So long as one of them was still alive, his mother would give him no peace. Especially now that Algie had tossed his hat into the ring.

‘Speaking of a feast—’ Dix changed the subject. ‘I would like to propose a Vote of Thanks to our hostess—our proper hostess—’ he bowed to Midge—‘for the splendid feast she has placed before us. Food for the mind and spirit, as well as the body. Never did I hope to participate in such a splendid re-creation of a Golden Age house-party, complete with the Murder Game you English invented—’

‘They did not!’ The single dissenting voice of Bertha Stout rose above the murmur of agreement.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Dix frowned at her.

‘They didn’t invent the Murder Game.’ Bertha stood her ground. ‘It was introduced into England by Elsa Maxwell at the party to open Lady Ribblesdale’s house in St James’s Park in the 1920s. And Maxwell herself admitted that she didn’t originate the game. It was invented by another American woman, the artist, Neysa McMein—’

‘One of the Algonquin Round Table,’ Dix said quickly.

‘Right. It caused a sensation because Maxwell rigged it so that the guilty party appeared to be the Duke of Marlborough. He was stunned, but took it in good part. But the Press heard about it and the Daily Express carried the story on the front page. The public thought it sounded like a great idea and the Murder Game swept the country. So much so that it was believed to be an English invention. Especially after it was immortalized in Ngaio Marsh’s first book—’

‘A Man Lay Dead—1934.’ Dix was still trying to regain control of the conversation.

‘Of course, with the war and its aftermath, such frivolity disappeared for a long time—’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Dix tried again. ‘Agatha Christie used it as late as 1956 in Dead Man’s Folly.’

‘These murder weekends—’ Bertha overrode him firmly—‘are in direct descent from the Murder Game of the Golden Age. And I agree with Dix, Midge, you’ve done a splendid job. It’s just too bad some spoilsport has stepped in to settle a personal score and ruined all your efforts.’

‘Thank you,’ Midge said faintly. ‘I’m just sorry that your holiday has ended like this.’

‘It hasn’t ended yet.’ Bertha rose and lurched towards the bar, having noticed that Reggie had returned to his duties there.

‘Last orders,’ Reggie announced, giving notice that the evening was over so far as he was concerned and the bar was closing. ‘Last orders, please.’

‘Gee—’ Alice tittered nervously. ‘I sure hope they won’t be.’

Morning dawned bright and mild. The weather forecast was for a warmer spell now that the weekend was nearly over and people had to return to work. The news featured reports of arctic conditions still gripping the country. Their area, they discovered, was far from being the worst off. Food was being dropped by helicopter to remote villages in Scotland and Wales. Farmers were struggling to dig out flocks of sheep buried beneath the snow. Emergency crews were working overtime to clear highways and it was hoped that another twenty-four hours would see most of the country back to normal.

Operating on the principle that everyone liked to sleep late on a Sunday morning, breakfast was served buffet-style from covered silver-plated serving dishes set out on side-boards in the dining-room. By nine o’clock several of the guest were prowling along the sideboards, tilting back the domed covers to reveal scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, kedgeree, devilled kidneys, kippers and hot toast. (The first barrage of complaints had taught them that Americans took their toast seriously and were not willing to eat it cold from toast racks, as the English did.)

Lettie rushed round with pots of steaming tea or coffee as soon as they had seated themselves.

Once they had settled with their food, those so favoured brought out the new clues, in the form of the anonymous letters they had had slipped under their doors in the early hours of the morning.

‘Did Grace Holloway leave a Will?’ Bertha read out with relish. ‘There is no next of kin. She had lived at the Manor for ten years—so who inherits from her?’

Bertha and the people at her table turned as one to stare at Lettie as she brought round tea and coffee. Midge paused in the doorway, watching with amusement as Lettie went about her chores unsuspectingly. There had been no time to warn her about the extra clue, hastily composed to cover the murder of Miss Holloway.

‘Ask Eric’— Haila Bond read out to her table—‘why he suddenly ended his self-imposed exile in Ceylon. Did he come back to help his daughter—or to escape from another scandal?’

Midge backed away quickly as Haila’s table began to buzz with speculation and look around eagerly. Except for Lettie, none of the actors had come down for breakfast yet. This was according to the revised schedule to draw out the proceedings. Had they not been snowbound, the solution of the case would have been served up with coffee at elevenses. As it was, the solution was now planned for late afternoon, then the post-mortems could occupy them at dinner, followed by a relaxing evening when everyone could unwind.

Everyone except the real murderer. Reggie was going to try to get through to town during the night and, unbeknownst to the guests, bring the police back in the morning to carry out the genuine murder inquiry. Meanwhile, the longer the air of unreality continued, the better. If the killer could be lulled into a false sense of security, it might prevent him from trying to dispatch the remaining Chandler twin. If he thought he had plenty of time, he might delay striking. Meanwhile, they must keep a close watch over her.

Eric was hiding out in the kitchen. He slumped at the table, staring moodily at the printing on the muesli box.

‘No Sunday Times,’ he complained bitterly. ‘No newspapers at all. One of the things I was looking forward to about being home was being able to read the newspapers the same day they were printed. Now here I am—and not one bloody newspaper delivered!’

‘You were lucky you were able to get yourself through the blizzard,’ Midge said unsympathetically. ‘You can’t expect a poor little newsboy to struggle through those drifts.’

Ackroyd came forward at hearing her voice and registered a bitter complaint of his own. Midge looked down and saw that Eric had half-filled a saucer with muesli and not added enough milk even to wet it through. It was no way to treat a hungry cat. No wonder Ackroyd was complaining.

‘All right, Ackroyd, I don’t blame you.’ She crossed to get a tin of cat food from the store cupboard. ‘Come on, treats!’ She reached for the tin-opener.

Ackroyd hurried after her, chirruping happily. This was more like it. He wound round her ankles as she opened the tin and filled his dish.

Midge bent to place the dish on the floor. Ackroyd rose on his hind legs to meet it.

‘Just one moment!’ The dish was suddenly snatched away from both of them.

‘What—?’ Midge straightened to meet Dixon Carr’s triumphant eyes. Ackroyd yowled indignantly. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Mr Carr?’

‘Oh no, Midge. The question is: what are you doing?’

‘Feeding Ackroyd. Anyone can see that.’

‘Aha! That’s what they’re meant to see.’ He nodded as though he had scored a point. ‘But—are you feeding him? Or poisoning him?’

‘Oh, not again! Are you mad? Why should I want to poison Ackroyd?’

‘You deny it, then?’

‘I most certainly do! And I’ll thank you to give Ackroyd his breakfast. He’s hungry.’

‘You swear that this dish is innocent of poison?’

‘I most certainly do.’

‘In that case—’ he held it out to her—‘you won’t object to tasting it yourself.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Mr Carr,’ Midge said coldly. ‘That’s cat food. Tinned cat food.’

‘Precisely!’ he said. ‘And this is a hotel. With an excellent dining-room serving three meals a day. There must be enough scraps to feed several cats. So why are you giving him tinned cat food?’

‘Because he happens to like it. Liver is a great favourite of his and we don’t serve it often because so many people dislike it. I opened that tin to give Ackroyd a special treat. Will you be good enough to let him have it?’

‘Oh—’ Dix looked from her angry eyes, to the dish in his hand, to the furious, impatient cat.

‘This has gone far enough!’ Midge took the dish from him and placed it on the floor. Ackroyd immediately hunched over it, growling menacingly as he began to gulp it down.

‘I—I’m afraid I’ve upset you.’

‘That is an understatement. Furthermore, you shouldn’t be here at all. The kitchen is out of bounds.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I got so worried when I found that warning shoved under my door—’

‘What warning?’

‘This warning.’ He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and passed it to her.

‘BEWARE—’ was printed in block capital letters—‘NOT ALL CATS HAVE NINE LIVES.’

‘You see,’ he said earnestly, reclaiming the note and frowning at it. ‘You can see why I got so worried. I thought of Ackroyd immediately. Maybe there was some way he could give the murderer away. Maybe somebody was out to get him.’

‘I see.’ Midge tried not to sound puzzled. ‘Although I think your concern is misplaced. Ackroyd is no threat to anyone.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘In any case, I must ask you to leave Ackroyd’s safety to me. In fact—’

‘In fact, you’d like me to leave. All right. I apologize for disturbing you.’ He turned and left the kitchen.

‘Eric,’ Midge said thoughtfully. ‘Eric, I thought all the anonymous letters were going to be pasted-up newsprint. I didn’t know you’d hand-lettered any of them.’

‘We didn’t,’ Eric said promptly. ‘If it wasn’t pasted-up, it wasn’t one of ours. He should have got one suggesting Lettie was Miss Holloway’s illegitimate daughter.’

‘But he didn’t,’ Midge said. ‘He got one saying all cats didn’t have nine lives.’

‘Then that anonymous letter is an impostor. Somebody else is playing their own game. Is it something to do with curiosity killing the cat, do you suppose?’

‘I don’t know,’ Midge said slowly, ‘but I don’t like it. Just in case, I’m keeping Ackroyd behind the scenes until all those people have left.’