Murder on a Mystery Tour

The first course at dinner was greatly appreciated—and in the right manner. These guests were alert to every nuance.

‘Mushroom soup, eh?’ Dix kept a properly straight face. ‘I hope you were pretty careful about getting the right mushrooms.’

‘It was no trouble at all.’ Midge briskly ladled soup from the steaming tureen. ‘Sir Cedric gathered them himself this morning.’

‘Sir Cedric? Isn’t he the absent-minded one?’

‘He’s just a little vague,’ Midge said encouragingly.

‘Oh boy! And you let him pick the mushrooms?’ Norman Dain leaned over his bowl and sniffed at the fragrant cloud arising from it. ‘We’d better watch our step.’

There was a gust of nervous laughter. They watched each other and tried to pretend that they were not keeping a close watch on the prospective victim seated at their table.

The tables had been arranged so that one actor or accomplice was seated at each table, in order to feed plot lines in the guise of gossip and snippets of information which might be useful or might be red herrings. It was the task of the guests to sort out the wheat from the chaff and try to retain the proper clues which would be needed later. They hung on every word and asked leading questions, although they could have no idea of what they should be asking until after the victim had been killed.

Everyone had now tasted their soup and there had been no dramatic developments. They relaxed into cautious enjoyment of the soup. Obviously, nothing was going to happen during this course.

‘Of course, it takes a while,’ someone pointed out. ‘Mushrooms aren’t instantaneous—like some other poisons we could all mention.’

‘Please don’t,’ Bramwell Barbour said grimly, with the air of one who had enough problems. As, indeed, he had.

He was seated between the Chandler twins, which Midge found most interesting as she had personally placed him at a table on the other side of the room. The twins were obviously as adept at switching place cards as at exchanging identification tags. She made a mental note to check the seating arrangements before the guests filed into the dining-room for future meals.

That didn’t help poor Bram tonight, however. He hunched over his bowl of soup, spooning it up rapidly, his hunted expression growing as the twins giggled and nudged him, delighted with themselves and the prize they had captured.

Midge hoped that he wouldn’t seek escape by collapsing and pretending that he was the intended victim. That would throw everything out of kilter, but he was looking desperate enough for anything.

Fortunately, the first course was finished quickly and the main course provided distraction aplenty. Fish and Chips, served rolled up in copies of the Daily Mirror for various dates in November 1934. They read out snippets to each Other:

Hey, DEATH OF “ALICE” OF WONDERLAND—Lewis Carroll’s “Ideal Child” Dies at 82 …

‘How about November 20th: HALF ENGLAND UNDER FOG PALL—A hundred thousand people besieged London and suburban railway stations last night struggling to get home from business …’

‘And look at this for a double feature—remember them? William Powell and Myrna Loy in The Thin Man and Ginger Rogers and Dick Powell in Twenty Million Sweethearts.’

‘And you could get a Ford car for £115 plus £6 tax!’

‘Don’t forget there was five dollars to the pound then.’

‘Even so—and here’s a coat at Swan and Edgar’s for seventy-five shillings—with a “real Skunk” collar!’

The distraction carried them through to dessert. They studied the dish set before them as a promise of things to come.

‘Almonds again!’ Dix squinted at the toasted almond flakes sprinkled over the Amaretto-laced vanilla ice-cream. ‘I tell you, they’re out to get us!’

‘They’re out to get somebody.’ Haila Bond’s beady little eyes gleamed, she looked around the table avidly.

‘My favourite sweet!’ Miss Holloway took a spoonful of the ice-cream, raised it to her lips and—tantalizingly—lowered it again to speak over her shoulder to Midge. ‘But you usually serve those nice little almond macaroons with it.’ The reminder should have come from Cedric, but he was deep in conversation with Alice Dain.

‘I’ll bring some right away,’ Midge said. Keeping a straight face, she hurried off. It was marvellous the way Miss Holloway was playing more of a role with every tour. Most of them were certain she was one of the actors, whereas few people realized until quite late in the game that Lettie wasn’t a real maid. In fact, on the last tour, one hopeful gentleman had remained unconvinced to the end and had earnestly entreated Lettie to give up this dead-end job and return to the States with him and let him look after her, if not actually marry her. Had she really been a maid, Lettie had admitted, the offer might have been quite tempting.

Lettie was in the kitchen, loading a tray with demitasse cups. ‘For this I got my Equity card!’ she said.

‘You’re perfect in the role.’ Midge took time out to stroke an edgy ego. ‘As usual, no one suspects you’re part of the act. When you start screaming, they’ll believe you.’

I’d like to do more than scream!’ Lettie’s face darkened. ‘I’d like to pour boiling oil—or at least coffee—over those two harpies molesting Bram!’

‘Better not,’ Midge advised. ‘They’re too far apart. You could only get one of them—and you wouldn’t know which one to choose.’

‘That’s true, they’re equally awful. Oh well,’ Lettie sighed. ‘I’ll just have to wait until Amaryllis gets back. For once, it will be a pleasure to see her in action. She’ll make short work of those two.’

‘I hope she’s all right.’ Midge spared a moment for another worry. ‘I mean, I hope there hasn’t been an accident. We need the car.’

‘Amaryllis we can do without,’ Lettie agreed. It isn’t like her to miss a meal, but perhaps she decided to eat in town this once. She was complaining about fish and chips being on the menu again.’

‘The guests love them. It’s what they expect in England and—’ Midge raised her voice to take in another hovering ego—‘Cook does them to perfection.’

‘If against the odds,’ Cook said sharply. ‘I had to let the help go home early. The snow’s started and they were afraid they wouldn’t make it if they didn’t leave before time.’

‘Oh dear. I’ve been so busy I hadn’t noticed.’ Midge glanced towards the window over the sink. Outside, large fluttering white flakes could be seen against the black sky in the light shining out from the kitchen. ‘I hope they won’t have any trouble getting back in the morning.’

‘It probably won’t last long.’ Lettie picked up her tray and headed for the door. ‘But wouldn’t it be lovely if it was just bad enough to maroon Sweet Amaryllis in town all night?’

‘Bramwell might not think so,’ Midge reminded her. ‘I’m sure he’s counting on his mother to take care of the terrible twins for him. I suspect she’s had plenty of experience with them, they all seem to know each other of old.’

Ackroyd had been sitting looking from one speaker to the other, now he rose and strolled nonchalantly towards the door.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Midge blocked his way with her foot. ‘You know you’re not allowed in the dining-room.’

Ackroyd turned his back on her, sat down, and became very busy washing his white ruff and shirtfront.

‘It’s obvious they’ve chased him all the way over here—’ Lettie braced her tray and swung her hip against the door. ‘And it’s not fair. It’s two to one and he’s so gormless they might actually catch him. Come back, Amaryllis, all is forgiven—for the moment.’

Raised voices could be heard in the dining-room just before the door swung shut behind Lettie. Midge glanced at her watch and nodded. Right on schedule. A nice little row was due to keep the pot bubbling for the amateur sleuths until the party adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee and liqueurs. She caught up a plate of macaroons and returned to the dining-room to referee.

‘I don’t care—’ The Honourable Petronella was on her feet blazing defiance at Lady Hermione. ‘It’s stupid, it’s petty, it’s—it’s archaic! This is 1935! You can’t force the women to leave the room so that the men can linger over their port.’

‘It is the custom,’ Lady Hermione said coldly. ‘It has always been done.’

‘Then it’s time it stopped! You don’t want to leave the room, do you?’ Throwing her arms wide, Petronella appealed to the other women. ‘Why don’t we stay here and help ourselves to the port, too? They can’t throw us out bodily!’

‘Oh … um …’ Thus appealed to, the females of the Murder at the Manor Tour looked to each other for support, possibly a lead. They weren’t sure which way they were supposed to respond.

‘Come now, Pet—’ Sir Cedric pushed back his chair. ‘You’ve had your way once today. Let it go at that, eh?’ He forced a smile, glancing around, and tried a feeble joke. ‘We mere males ought to have a few minutes to ourselves now and again. We might have things to discuss. For instance, I might want to ask your young man his intentions.’

‘His intentions are perfectly clear,’ Lady Hermione informed her brother. ‘He intends to get his hands on Petronella’s money and spend it as fast as he’s able—before she comes to her senses and throws him out!’

‘Oh, I say,’ Sir Cedric protested. ‘Have a care. After all, the chap is a guest under my roof.’

‘And whose fault is that, you fool?’ Lady Hermione turned on him like a striking cobra. ‘If you’d had one grain of sense—’ Belatedly, she seemed to remember her enthralled audience.

‘Oh, you’re hopeless!’ She turned and swept from the room.

‘Oh no!’ Petronella rushed after her. ‘You come back here and apologize to Algie!’

There was a momentary silence in the wake of their departure. Then Miss Holloway rose to her feet.

‘Hhrrk-hhrrk …’ She had been practising her dry cough. It drew all eyes to her. ‘I believe—’ she smiled into the expectant faces. ‘I believe we should follow the lead of our hostess. Ladies, shall we adjourn to the Withdrawing-Room?’

The fire in the drawing-room was blazing brightly. Three card tables had been set up for bridge. On another table a Mah Jong set spilled its gleaming mysteries across green baize. In the background Jack Buchanan crooned beguilingly from the gramophone.

‘Oh, it’s perfect!’ Alice Dain gave a shiver of delight. It’s just the way I always imagined a country house would be.’

‘And there’s a storm outside—’ Bertha Stout let the velvet drape fall back into place, her voice dripping with relish. ‘A real blizzard. We’ll be cut off from all human contact by morning.’

‘No! … Really? … Let’s see …’ Several of them rushed to the windows to confirm the weather prediction.

‘We’re not cut off yet—’ One of the twins turned away from the window and registered a complaint. ‘There’s a car coming up the drive.’

‘Ooh! What now?’ There was a rush from windows to the lobby. ‘Who is it?’

‘I suppose—’ Evelina T. Carterslee seated herself behind the coffee table piled with waiting demitasse cups. ‘I suppose it’s Amaryllis.’ She sighed. ‘The peace was too good to last.’

With a sinking heart, Midge silently agreed with Evelina’s deduction. It had been too much to hope for, that Amaryllis would let anything so minor as a blizzard keep her from Bramwell’s side. Just in case, however, Midge joined the others in the lobby to see who was going to come through the front door.

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.