Murder at Maple House

by Hugo James King

  “Moved up north,” he said. “The missus wanted us to be closer to her family in the Yorkshire Dales.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “I remember you.” I also remembered he didn’t attend my Harry’s funeral.

  “Sorry about Harry,” he said. “I was—I—I—you know, it’s difficult.”

  I didn’t need his answers or anything else he was saying. It was five years ago, and I didn’t need reminding of everyone there, and everyone who decided not to turn up.

  “So, I heard about Gilbert,” he mentioned.

  Gilbert’s death had happened at the tail end of January.

  My brow winced together. “Were you part of that group?” I knew I’d seen the list of names, but I couldn’t recall of them in the moment.

  “No, no, no.”

  “Did you know Gilbert?” Ruth asked.

  He shook his head. “Never had business with him, never wanted to do business with him, not after everything I heard.”

  “Well, the man’s dead,” I said. “And it’s best not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Even if they weren’t saints,” Ruth smirked.

  “I wasn’t close to many people, but I did help Harry when I lived locally,” he continued. “Setting up his charities, it was something we also used to help out with, you know, for taxes,” he chuckled.

  A fair assessment.

  “Do you have any children now?”

  He shook his head. “We tried. But we’re happy enough.” He turned slightly, locking eyes with a man at a table. Finley Carson, the man I’d been warned had to stay away from most everyone at the event. “Can’t believe they invited him.” He turned back and pressed the rim of the glass to his lips, chugging down the rest of the champagne.

  “Looks like he’s had enough to drink,” I mumbled back, closer to Ruth’s ear.

  “Maybe we can put him in a taxi and send him home,” Spencer chuckled.

  Perhaps they could, I thought.

  * * *

  Tugged at my arm, Ruth pulled me out of my thoughts. Pulled me out of replaying the moment we’d been speaking with Spencer and his reaction to seeing Finley. I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to think any of it was true.

  “Think they’re going to arrest him,” she said.

  Of course, they were, the man had confessed.

  I watched as officers stormed the stage, handcuffs ready to grab at his wrists.

  Paul was quick to the scene, rushed through the crowd of people as a police officer read Spencer his Miranda rights.

  “I think that’s what he was going to do earlier,” I said, recalling when he’d taken to the stage before falling from dehydration.

  “I knew he was on the list,” Ruth said, “but now I’m interested to find out what poison he used. My bets are on thallium, which could make sense, if it was done before the event, that stuff takes a couple hours to kick in.”

  “Was that one of the poisons Frank said?”

  She nodded back.

  Spencer was hauled up to his feet with his hands cuffed behind his back, appearing like a marionette and the officers’ arms over his body were the strings. They tugged him in a singular direction, off the stage; down the steps, and most probably into the back of a police car.

  Paul approached me with a huge smile. “Done and dusted,” he said, smacking his hands together while he held his notepad. “If he’d have done that earlier, we could’ve all been on our way to having a nicer evening.”

  My eyes glanced to the side of Paul, watching Patrick as he nudged at Diane’s sleeping body, still seated upright in her chair, unphased by the entire commotion.

  “Glad it’s over,” I said. “But—” I bit my tongue lightly. “What happens now?”

  “We get a confession written down.”

  “And ask him what poison was used,” Ruth added. “I’m sure you will, but if it is thallium, you should probably make sure it’s not lying around anywhere. That stuff is toxic.” Ruth shuddered.

  Paul nodded. “We will make sure to find out what it was he used, and whether or not he planned on using it on anyone else,” he said. “After he fainted earlier, I’m wondering if he dosed himself too.”

  “No,” I gasped.

  “It’s only a theory,” he said. “But, right now, we’ll be letting everyone free to enjoy the celebrations and once the body is taken, we can lift the lockdown as well.”

  I nodded along to what he was saying. “You should probably tell Diane and Patrick,” I said, nodding to them as Diane’s squinting eyes glared in my direction, watching me speaking with Paul as if I was privy to all the details of the investigation—which, I wasn’t.

  As Paul turned to inform Diane and Patrick, a huge sighing tut came from the back of Ruth’s mouth. She shook her head and butt her lips together.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I want to know why he did it,” she said.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  She shook her head again. “You don’t remember him, but Spencer and his wife were friends of Frank, and whenever I saw him, he didn’t seem like someone to get upset over business.”

  “Might not have been business.”

  “His wife?”

  “You heard what he said?” I asked. “He was angry.”

  She scoffed. “It’s been a long evening.”

  “They never had children, they moved away.”

  “So, she was having an affair?”

  If Finley had been the one she was having an affair with, it would’ve been much more plausible to believe this was the reason he killed him. Rather than bad business, unless their business went south when the news of an affair broke.

  FOURTEEN

  The jazz band reunited on stage with a gentle beat of the drum. The waiters had sifted out through among the people, offering refreshments and adding food to the buffet-style banquet Diane had been talking about earlier.

  It had been a blessing, given everyone was hungrier after waiting to be questioned, and even some sobering while events played out. I supposed being around a dead body was sobering in a sense, the mortality of life, splashed about before your eyes.

  “Apologies,” Diane called through the microphone.

  Most everyone was seated at their tables again, while some people, Ruth included was at the buffet, picking out sushi to try.

  “This was never the plan for the evening,” she continued. “I mean, nobody plans to have a party guest die at the party, do they?” she waved a hand at the comment. “Never mind, the celebrations must continue, of course. And as you’re aware, it is my birthday, and I don’t want the night to go to waste, especially the cake I had made.”

  “A cake?” I grumbled, turning to my side to see Ruth still at the buffet.

  The only other people at the table were Howard and his wife, and they both appeared completely shattered by everything, but they still had glasses of champagne to sip on.

  “We will not be singing happy birthday this evening,” she said, her glance direct straight to her husband at the foot of the stage. “But we will have cake.” She nodded to the back of the ballroom where a triple tier cake was wheeled out from the kitchen.

  I was surprised I hadn’t seen it while I was in there. It matched the colour scheme, and was embedded with small golden balls dotted around the tiers.

  “I would also like for us all to put our hands together and give the service men and women a round of applause, for all the help.”

  I clapped my hands and nodded. They’d done well at rounding everyone up to quiz people, they’d done equally well at covering and guarding the body from pictures.

  Slices of cake landed on our table on small white plates.

  It broke the silence around us.

  “Oh delicious!” Howard’s wife said.

  It was chocolate and vanilla, filled with layers of buttercream and strawberry. On any other given day this would’ve been something I relished in and scraped down every last single bit
e. But today, my throat wasn’t so convinced.

  “Are we just going to believe it was him?” I asked Ruth. “I know he confessed, but why would he?” my brows knitted together and my bottom lip smushed against the top.

  “It was odd,” she said. “To go through the effort of poison, and then to admit. You poison people so you don’t get found out, you do all that so there’s no physical object like a knife to connect you.”

  “And didn’t you say, women poison as revenge?”

  Ruth nodded back.

  I glanced out at the people on our table, looking at us as our whispering had caught their attention.

  Stabbing my fork into the cake, I smiled. “Is it good?”

  They nodded back, their mouths full of food.

  I still couldn’t stomach it, even after going through the effort of putting a slither of it on the fork. “Or men who don’t want to get their hands dirty.”

  “Or that.” A grimace forced across her lips. “Did you see that in one of those shows I was telling you about?”

  To Ruth’s surprise, I hadn’t taken her offer of watching a crime show about people murdering each other. Unfortunately, horrors and the likes where people were shown to be murdered weren’t my cup of tea.

  “Well, you’re going to be working as an investigative journalist soon,” she continued. “It’ll be good to watch a couple, maybe not the TV shows, but the documentaries are good.”

  I had hoped the new step in my career wouldn’t be murder focused, I want to investigate companies, and write those expos pieces about shocking working conditions, and unfair wages. I didn’t see myself being around so much death in the future.

  “They talk about being analytical,” I mumbled back with a nod. “And I am.”

  I heard a voice call my name.

  “Eve,” it cooed again softly.

  Diane waved at me from her table, sipping a cup of coffee.

  The table watched me as I stood and approached her.

  She smiled, pulling the cup from her lips. “Glad that’s over,” she said.

  The people around her table went on without pause, sipping from their glasses and nibbling at the slices of cake on their plates. I hadn’t been introduced to any of them, other than her husband. They didn’t make eye contact as I looked them over.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Well, I know Patrick mentioned how it would’ve been a great starter piece at the new paper,” she said. “I think you should scrap that now.” She nodded to Patrick at her side, he smiled back at me and nodded to us both.

  I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  “He confessed,” she said. “And thankfully he did as well, otherwise it could’ve gone on all night.”

  “Someone was looking out for the evening then,” I replied.

  “It’s nothing short of a miracle.”

  Patrick hummed. “But never would I have guessed it was him. Very out of character.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “We’ve been having meals with him and his wife for years now,” Patrick continued. “We know they had their differences, recently, but business is business, none of them were screwed over.”

  “Well, he admitted to it,” Diane said. “And it must take guts to get on that stage and tell your truth.”

  My browed creased as a question crossed my mind. “What do you think would’ve happened if he didn’t confess, and nobody came forward, and nothing was pinned on anyone.” Because, they didn’t have any evidence, only a note found on Finley’s body.

  “Let’s not dwell on it,” Diane said. “Let the evening to continue. Eat some cake, help yourself to the food, which I’m glad isn’t going to waste now. But I wanted to tell you not to bother with the article.”

  Patrick confirmed this with a nod. “Besides, everyone will have already beaten you to the punchline.” His head turning to glance around the room.

  He was right.

  In a room filled with people and their connections, this story was already out there, and anything I would’ve had to say wouldn’t have been worth reading. Not because it wasn’t important, but because I didn’t have anything fresh to add.

  Even after years writing fluff pieces for the travel magazine, I knew whenever I went to visit a location for a second or third time, I had to be creative with my approach, whether it was focused on product, the owners, or the someone’s story at that place.

  Diane reached out a hand to me. “Enjoy the evening,” she said. “And I think I’ll be asking for an hour with the hot stones tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Back at the table, Ruth had devoured both my slice of cake and hers. Her front teeth had a crumb of chocolate between them.

  “I was hungry,” she mumbled, shrugging at the plates. “What did she want?”

  I took my seat again, and looked around the table, wondering if everyone was listening. “To tell me there was no articles,” I said. I also didn’t want to hear them express my doubts over Spencer. “There’s going to be several of them tomorrow or Monday, claiming to be exclusives form the scene.”

  “Why do you look like there’s going to be a but?”

  Looking around, the couples weren’t paying attention to us. They were all loved up, taking the time to absorb in the champagne hues of each other.

  “There could be more to this,” I said. “They had meals with them; Spencer and his wife. They would’ve said if they thought it was marital problems, and they said neither of them were screwed out of the businesses. So, why?”

  “Paul will find out,” Ruth said. “It’s out of our hands, let’s enjoy the rest of the night.”

  I turned, my head immediately glancing to the empty space where Finley and his date had been. Looking, I tried to find where Spencer had been sat, but people were moving around, and there were many empty seats.

  A tap to the hand snapped me back to the table. “What are you looking for?” Ruth asked.

  “Spencer’s seat.”

  Her hand shot past my face. “That table,” she said.

  A table filled with seated bodies, except one.

  There was a spare seat, and over it, a distinct dark red suit jacket.

  FIFTEEN

  I’d left Ruth at the table as I approached the seat where Spencer had been sat. Table nine. I had no clue who anyone else at the table was. They were most likely investors or people who the magazine used for advertising and marketing, photographers, or freelancer writers.

  I only knew as much as what I was paid to know. And that was the businesses in the Cotswolds. An odd thing to think, especially when I was heading on to a writing post which expressly asked to know or investigate the unknown.

  “Is this—” I asked as a man flailing his arms around turned to me. “—Spencer’s?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  Others shrugged and nodded.

  Maybe they didn’t know Spencer either, or they were pretending like they didn’t know him after the bombshell of news he’d struck everyone with.

  “Thank you,” I whispered back, slipping the jacket from the back of the seat.

  The heft to the jacket caught me off guard, almost losing my grip.

  Pulling the jacket away, I started to walk and search through the front pocket.

  Paper. Slick and glossy to the touch. I grabbed at the small scrap.

  £32.98. It read, followed by a list of items.

  It was a receipt.

  “Find anything?” Ruth asked at my side, startling my finger to fumble and drop the jacket.

  “No, just—” I grabbed the jacket, touching something hard.

  “What?”

  She took the receipt. “This?”

  Digging my hand into the inside jacket pocket, I pulled out a phone and a piece of folded paper. Looking around, nobody was paying attention to the two of us. I showed her what I had in my hands, grabbing the suit jacket and pulling it to hide the objects from view.

  “What i
s it?”

  With a nod, I signalled to move somewhere else, somewhere people wouldn’t be able to see us as well as they currently could.

  We were in the corner of the ballroom, at the end of a long buffet table. To anyone looking at us, we were here for the food, everyone else was going about the evening as if nothing had happened, or gossiping about the evening as though something major had happened, I wasn’t focused on them.

  “What does it say?” Ruth asked.

  Unfolding the note, my gut sank.

  Tell them you killed him. Or else. We know about Nora.

  My lips moved as I read the words out in my head. Of course, there was something going on. I knew he wouldn’t have confessed; I knew nobody in this room would’ve confessed. Everyone here was out to protect themselves; the lives of the rich and secret.

  “Nora?” Ruth questioned. “Who’s Nora?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.” I gestured to the phone, the second part of the discovery we’d made searching through his pockets.

  “Caroline is his wife,” Ruth added. “So, he was the one having the affair. I can’t believe we just thought it was her with Finley.”

  “He didn’t give us anything else to believe,” I said.

  The screen of his phone flashed white in our faces.

  On the screen, there were several missed calls showing as notifications. No names attached to them. Only missed call (8). Similarly, the same for text notifications. Whatever Spencer was doing, he was incredibly secretive about the whole thing.

  “Annie does the same with her phone,” Ruth said. “When she’s home, and if I hear that little buzz on the counter in the kitchen, you know, normal motherly instincts kick in and I go to check her phone.”

  A grin swallowed my face.

  “So, she has her settings all—you know, secret, so they don’t show you what’s been sent or who by on the screen.” She tapped her fingernails against the screen.

  It vibrated in my hand.

  Incorrect passcode.

  “Oops,” she said, biting her teeth.

  “How many tries do we get?”

  She shrugged. “Three, four—ten, I think.”