Murder on a Mystery Tour

Reggie had tidied the silverware away and the pantry table and counters were now crowded with baking trays waiting to be transferred to the oven when the guests arrived.

Cheese straws, sausage rolls, vol-au-vent shells, miniature pasties, pizzas and quiches Lorraine ought to satisfy the hungry hordes and hold them until dinner-time.

Midge gave an approving nod and continued into the kitchen where Cook sat at the table frowning over her script.

‘I’m not sure about this—’ Cook looked up. ‘Do I throw the apron over my head before I burst into tears or after? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Midge said. ‘But cooks were always doing things like that in Golden Age books. You’ll just have to do the best you can. Perhaps you can leave one eye free.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Cook said. ‘There’s enough to do around here without all this nonsense. It makes me look a fool.’

‘Well …’ Midge didn’t like to stress the fact that servants were usually considered the comic relief in Thirties novels, they were too hard to get these days. One upset them at one’s peril and, as Cook had noted, there was enough to do around here.

‘Well,’ Midge temporized, ‘I think they were often Irish cooks. Probably they had different customs.’

‘That’s so.’ Cook tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘I could do that. I wouldn’t feel so silly if it wasn’t me, like. I’ll use an Irish accent then. Begorra.’

‘That’s fine.’ Midge was not about to discourage anything that would keep Cook in a reasonable mood. She took a tighter grip on Ackroyd, who had been restive since spotting the trays of goodies in the pantry. ‘Where’s Reggie?’

‘He’s gone into the bar with his little black book,’ Cook said, adding darkly, ‘Muttering to himself.’

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ Midge muttered and headed for the bar.

It was strategically placed in what had once been a study at the far end of the main drawing-room, so that people could wander out on to the stone-flagged terrace through the French windows in good weather. Alternatively, they could carry their drinks into the drawing-room and settle in the comfortable chairs and sofas in front of the open fire if they didn’t want to perch on one of the bar stools in the bar.

‘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:

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

‘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 agree 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?