Murder on a Mystery Tour

by Marian Babson

  ‘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 opene
d 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.’

  19

  The actors stood up well to the brisk round of renewed questioning, but Eric was completely out of his depth. Although game, he had picked up a few Australian expressions which were leading even the most trusting questioners to suspect that he had not spent his entire exile in Ceylon. This was all to the good, of course, as it opened new fields of speculation.

  In a burst of inspiration, Evelina invited everyone to a pre-luncheon sherry party in her rooms. Not to be outdone, Amaryllis promptly announced that Bramwell would be serving more realistic drinks in his quarters.

  The parties started early and overflowed into the corridor. Traffic was brisk from one party to the other, some people lodged permanently in the hallway, moving only to fetch a fresh drink. A general air of hilarity began to prevail.

  Unfortunately, this meant that the rooms weren’t getting done. Since Hermione and Grace were officially dead, they could not make an appearance until they had taken their bows at the solution. Lettie had been co-opted by Evelina to help serve the sherry. Across the hallway, Amaryllis had pressed Lauren-Brigid into service. Perhaps that was another reason Evelina’s party was more popular than Bramwell’s.

  Even Bramwell seemed to prefer it to his own. Amaryllis had to cross over periodically to retrieve him.

  ‘Bramwell, you’re neglecting your guests. And—’ with a sly glance towards Lettie—‘your poor little fiancée.’

  ‘She’s not my fiancée.’ Bramwell, too, glanced towards Lettie and raised his voice. ‘I never asked her to marry me. I don’t even like her.’

  ‘Bramwell!’ His mother used a tone of shocked reproof. ‘After all those poor girls have been through—’

  ‘I didn’t like them at the best of times,’ Bramwell said stubbornly. ‘Now one of them is dead and the other one is certifiable. I should think—’ he gambled recklessly— ‘you’d want your grandchildren to have a better background than that.’

  ‘You can leave that to me,’ Amaryllis said crisply. ‘When I look at you—and remember your father—I am convinced of the triumph of environment over heredity!’

  The luncheon gong sounded from the dining-room below. Was it a coincidence that Lettie had disappeared?

  The Honourable Petronella led the way down the staircase, Algie on one side of her, Edwin Lupin on the other. She favoured them with equal smiles, equal dollops of conversation. It was remarked, however, that once in the dining-room she abandoned them both and went to sit between Eric and Colonel Heather.

  Algie promptly looked round for Lauren-Brigid, found her, and rushed to elbow aside an unresisting Bramwell in order to claim the seat next to her.

  Amaryllis, already seated on the other side, glowered with impotent fury at her son as he cheerfully left the field to his rival and moved to a vacant seat at Evelina’s table.

  There were worse problems to worry about, however.

  ‘Look—’ Roberta Rinehart drew Midge aside. ‘I’m scared. I mean, when you start unrolling the solution later on and the “victims” come out to take their bows—what’s it going to do to Lauren? It will hit her all over again about her twin. I wouldn’t like to be responsible for what might happen.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ Midge said. ‘But there’s another reason we’ll have to keep an eye on Lauren. Dix got a real anonymous letter—one we didn’t write ourselves. It said not all cats have nine lives. It may mean that Brigid was killed in mistake for Lauren—both twins were catty enough. It might just be that someone is playing games with us. Or it might be a genuine threat.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Roberta bit her lip. ‘It could even be the murderer playing games with us—in the best tradition. That’s the trouble, they’re all steeped in the Golden Age. Any one of them might have done it. I wish we’d never started these tours!’

  Midge had been wishing that herself earlier. Now, hearing Roberta say it, she felt a strange pang. It had been such fun—up until this group. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hoping they’d go on with it. If Roberta were to pull out—

  ‘We’ll ask Amaryllis to look after Lauren,’ Midge said. ‘She can get her out of the way and keep her out of the way while Reggie delivers the solution.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  But that didn’t solve the problem of what to do with her for the rest of the night—and tomorrow. Cedric, Hermione and Grace could hardly be expected to hide themselves away until the tour left. It was difficult enough as it was.

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ Midge said. ‘I’ve got to help with the serving now.’ She sidestepped Roberta and retreated to the kitchen.

  Cook was in a state of nerves, rehearsing her impending big scene. Her apron was streaked with lipstick marks and, as Midge watched, she tossed it towards her head again. It swung upwards, flapped over the top of her head, then slid downwards. There was a fresh crimson streak on it as it fell into place over her ample stomach.

  ‘It’s no use,’ Cook wailed. ‘I’ll never be able to make that thing stay over my face. Can’t we let someone else do it?’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ Lettie said. ‘You’re the only one they haven’t seen. The surprise witness—it’s got to be you. Perhaps,’ she added critically, ‘we could sew a coin in the corners to weight it, the way they do with drapes.’

  ‘Suppose I hit myself with it and get a black eye?’

  ‘A black eye won’t show up until later—’ Lettie was not conscious of heartlessness, she was too involved in the mechanics of the problem. ‘It wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘Not to you—’

  ‘How about your lines?’ Lettie interrupted briskly. ‘Have you got them pat?’

  ‘I think so. When Master Reggie calls me in—’

  ‘Reggie, Reggie,’
Reggie said. ‘Better still, just Reg. I’m supposed to be one of the hired help, too. You’ll give the game away—’

  ‘I can’t remember everything,’ Cook wailed.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ Lettie said swiftly. ‘Just keep calm. We’ll get you a fresh apron, stitch a tenpenny piece in each corner, then all you’ll have to do is—’

  ‘How about serving lunch first?’ Midge reminded them. ‘The guests are all out there waiting.’

  ‘Coffee will be served in the lounge,’ Midge announced at the end of lunch. To reach the lounge, unlike the drawing-room, they would have to pass through the lobby. She wondered who would be the first to spot the new addition to the notice board.

  No one even looked. Most of them drifted through the lobby still carrying on the conversations they had started at their tables. A few were silent and preoccupied— to the point of moroseness. Nearly everyone looked to the windows to check on whether the snow had started again. The lowering grey sky obviously filled them with apprehension.

  Midge held a hurried consultation with Roberta and Reggie; they agreed that it would be well to speed up events again—before people had too much time to brood. Roberta then went off to have a quiet word with Amaryllis.

  Midge then went into the lounge and made an announcement.

  ‘My husband, who, as you know, is an ex-Scotland Yard man, thinks he now knows who murdered Sir Cedric, Lady Hermione and Miss Holloway—and why. However, he would be glad to have any help you can give him to verify his conclusions so that he can make an arrest.’

  ‘Can he make an arrest if he isn’t with Scotland Yard any longer?’ a sceptic wanted to know.

  ‘We all have the power to make a Citizen’s Arrest,’ Midge said with dignity.

  ‘She’s right.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘Could we? We’re not citizens of this country.’

  ‘Please—’ Midge clapped her hands, calling them back to order. ‘Reggie will join us soon. Meanwhile, you’ll find a stack of Deduction Sheets on the table beneath the notice board. If you would kindly answer the questions, stating your candidate for the killer—and the motives—and give them to me, I’ll take them to Reggie so that he can study them and see if any of you have found any clues he may have overlooked.’