Murder on a Mystery Tour

‘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 Manor 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—’

‘On the contrary, Ned’s right here.’ He appeared round the corner, car keys dangling from his hand. ‘However, I’d be quite happy to drive you—’

‘No, thank you. Just give me the keys.’ Amaryllis held out her hand imperiously. ‘I prefer to drive myself.’

‘As you wish.’ Ned extended the keys and she snatched them from him.

There was silence as she marched across the lobby and stalked out, slamming the door behind her.

‘I prefer to drive myself,’ Lettie mimicked, catching the voice and intonation so well that, had anyone had their eyes closed, they could have believed it was Amaryllis herself speaking. ‘When she’s not driving Bramwell, that is!’

‘Poor Old Bramwell.’ Ned sauntered over. ‘If you had half a heart, Lettie, you’d marry the poor devil and take him away from all that.’

‘Half a heart—and no brain! Who’d want to get tied up with a mother-in-law like that?’

‘I shouldn’t think you’d find it too hard to persuade him to stay on in England—and ship Mother Barbour back to the States. I’d put my money on you any day.’

‘Better not let Sweet Amaryllis hear you making suggestions like that—or you could wind up a real-life victim,’ Reggie warned.

‘I doubt if she’d need that much excuse to get rid of him—or any of us—if the mood took her,’ Lettie said. ‘She hates all actors. She thinks we’re rogues, vagabonds—and probably thieves. Have you seen the way she clutches her handbag when any of us come into the room?’

Oh, I think you’re exaggerating.’ Actually, Midge had noticed, but she’d hoped the actors hadn’t.

‘Stop giving her the benefit of the doubt!’ Lettie said. ‘I should think you’d be as fed up with her as we are. More so. All she ever does is whinge and complain—’

‘Careful!’ Reggie broke in. ‘Someone’s coming.’

They glanced upwards guiltily, then with one accord moved into the lounge. Just inside the door, they halted.

A strange little figure slumped in a chair beside the dying fire. Her head turned questioningly towards them.

‘Hell!’ Reggie muttered. ‘When did she arrive? Is she part of the tour or—’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Midge apologized. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you. We didn’t realize anyone was—’

‘Oh, well played, Grace!’ Lettie applauded. ‘You’ll be a sensation!’

‘Do you think so?’ Miss Holloway glowed. ‘I thought—a little local colour—’

She was wearing a shapeless grey cardigan and skirt, a lace fichu at her throat. A bag of knitting lay beside the chair.

‘You’re a perfect period piece,’ Lettie said. ‘We’ll have to watch them that they don’t try to take you home with them.’

‘I did think it might add something to the weekend,’ Grace Holloway murmured modestly.

‘It’s a splendid effort.’ Midge moved through the room, snapping on the lamps. Approaching dusk and the gathering storm had made the day even darker than was usual at this hour. As the room began to spring to life, Miss Holloway took on less of a ghostly appearance. Even the fire seemed to revive.

‘They should be here soon.’ Reggie threw more wood on the fire and poked at it, then looked around approvingly. ‘That looks more welcoming.’

‘And tea and toasted scones as soon as they arrive.’ Grace Holloway gave a small sigh of contentment. ‘Who could ask for anything more?’

‘I got rhythm …’ From the doorway, someone took up the song cue.

‘I got music …’ The Honourable Petronella Van Dine Charlestoned to the centre of the lounge and struck a pose. Three white aigret plumes trembled in her head-band as she swung her head to survey the lounge and demanded:

‘But where’s my man? Where’s Algie? Where, oh where, is my darling Algie?’ She clasped her hands girlishly in front of her. ‘I will never believe all those dreadful stories about him. They are foul lies put about by his enemies. Nothing will ever convince me that my darling Algernon Moriarty is a villain!’

‘Okay …’ Lettie drawled critically. ‘But take it down half an octave or you’ll have no voice left by the end of the weekend.’

‘Nothing will ever—’ Petronella began obediently, half an octave lower.

‘Not now. Save it for the paying customers.’

‘Where is … Algie?’ Midge asked. It had seemed strange at first, but now it was almost natural to call them all by the names they used in their scenarios. The only difficulty was keeping track of them. Fortunately, Hermione and Cedric, now that they were so enthusiastically a part of the proceedings, had been written in under their own names. Otherwise, it might have been a bit of a problem in general conversation.

‘He’s around somewhere,’ Lettie said carelessly.

‘But oughtn’t he to be here now?’

‘Don’t worry. It will be all right on the night.’

‘Don’t look now—’ Reggie turned away from the window—‘but night has just fallen.’

‘Ohmigawd!’ Lettie abruptly lost her casual air. She dashed to the window and peered out.

In the carriageway, a chartered coach was discharging its passengers. They clustered together in small groups, staring up at the imposing grey stone mass of Chortlesby Manor. Some of them clutched pieces of paper in their hands.

‘They’re here!’ Lettie cried. ‘They’re early!’

‘Not terribly,’ Midge said, watching her old school friend stride up the wide stone steps. ‘You’d better get to the door.’ She dredged her mind for the proper phrase and produced it triumphantly as the doorbell pealed. ‘You’re on!’

A few of the passengers were now moving towards the entrance, but most were hanging back, desperately devouring the information on their sheets of paper as though they were about to sit an examination.