The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Terribly ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, the layers of irony are many: a crime writer murdered mysteriously at a Crime Writing Festival associated with Agatha Christie, leaving the police baffled. Is it real? Or is it a gigantic publicity stunt? Maybe Penrose will reappear in a few days and he’ll earn himself more wonderful press coverage. His next book will fly off the shelves and the postmodernist cultural observers will be salivating at the complex meanings to be disentangled.’

  Geraldine laughed a little uneasily. ‘You don’t mean that, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not. The police who interviewed me were real enough, but basically it’s ruining the festival and I wanted things to go really well this year. It might be the last . . .’ He stopped abruptly. Geraldine looked at him sharply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. You know I’m always worrying about whether things will carry on. I hate having to earn money doing supply teaching. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’

  He went over, kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs, leaving Geraldine very thoughtful. Sometimes Ben kept things to himself, especially when there was something bothering him.

  Half an hour later, he left to go into Harrogate. Geraldine went downstairs and rummaged through a pile of mail. She knew that she’d seen a letter arrive from the Crime Writing Festival office. Here it was, stuffed back into a torn envelope addressed to Ben. She looked towards the door. He wouldn’t be back for a while yet, so she pulled out the letter and read it quickly. It was from Patricia Hughes and it didn’t make pleasant reading. She wrote confirming the recent conversation she’d had with Ben concerning his future as a chairperson at festival events in Harrogate. It was unlikely that this role would continue after the present festival because of ‘the recent trend towards literary events being introduced and chaired by established writers’. She claimed that audiences now expected that not only guest speakers and panel members would be celebrity writers, but also the person who chaired the event. The clear implication was that Ben was neither sufficiently well known, nor a crime writer. Reluctantly she was going to recommend to the festival committee that a new policy, etc., etc.

  Geraldine put the letter back into the envelope and sat down. She knew that this would have been a huge blow to Ben, not only in loss of earnings, but also in the rebuff contained in this rejection. It would have confirmed all his fears about not being successful as a writer, and he valued the prestige that his chairperson role gave him. No wonder he was in such a negative mood. Then a stab of anxiety went through her. It must have been doubly hard for Ben to cope with the antics of Penrose a few nights ago, knowing he was about to lose his job. Did he blame Penrose in some way? Surely that didn’t mean . . . ? It was ridiculous but she found herself thinking carefully through what had happened the morning Penrose’s body had been discovered. It was not reassuring. On Thursday, Ben had left the house early to go to the gym in town, so he would have had ample time to . . . No, that was stupid. Ben would never get involved in anything like that. But . . . She looked up at the wall and saw a picture of Ben with their son, Adam, on his shoulders. Sometimes an idea was so terrible it gained power over you, however unlikely it was to be true.

  ‘No, that figure’s too high – surely you can do it cheaper than that? . . . Yes, the margins are tight; tell me about it. It’s the story of my life . . . OK, I’ll speak to you later in the week.’

  John Sinclair came off the phone and sighed. It was enormously difficult as a publisher being a small fish in a big sea. He’d been speaking to the printers; it was hard to negotiate a good deal when you lacked the clout of the big players. He looked over at Amy’s desk, where she was tapping away at her keyboard. If things didn’t improve, he would have to let her go completely, and then it would just be him.

  It was all Damian’s fault, damn him! John sat back in his chair and put his hands over his face. There was another dimension to his relationship with Penrose that he hadn’t mentioned to the police. He and Damian had once been lovers. It was a long time ago now, during that phase of his life when he’d been mesmerised by Damian, part of whose flamboyance had been his bisexuality.

  After school, John had gone to university in London and Damian was hanging around in the capital on the fringe of literary groups, leading a hedonistic kind of life and sleeping on sofas at the flats of various friends. He and John became lovers when it was John’s turn to put his friend up for a while. They revelled in the freedom they had in anonymous London after the restrictions of life at boarding school. It was Damian who had enabled him to acknowledge his own homosexuality at a time when that was not an easy thing to do.

  The relationship hadn’t lasted long before Damian had moved on to new lodgings and to a new lover. John had not wanted things to end, and the break-up had been bitter. He felt betrayed and their friendship had not survived. They’d lost contact until they’d re-met years later, as John had described to the police. He rarely spoke about his love for Damian. It had been years before he told his partner, Ed, about his previous lover. His love for his old friend was still there, deeply buried and bound up with the thrill of being with the most exciting person he’d ever known.

  And then to be betrayed again over the business by the man he loved! It was too much. How could anyone not feel a terrible animosity towards a man like that who’d treated him so badly? Enough to want to . . . He shook his head and refused to think about it anymore.

  ‘Mr Sinclair? Are you OK?’

  He came out of his reverie to see Amy looking at him. He still had his hands over his face. He sat up in his chair.

  ‘Yes, fine. I was just on the phone to Mallinson’s. They drive a hard bargain. It’s bloody stressful.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m going out for a while.’

  ‘OK.’

  John went out to nearby Café Nico, which was also regularly visited by Oldroyd, who wasn’t there today. He ordered a double espresso and grabbed a newspaper. Stories about the murder were no longer front-page news but were still prominent. The theme of the article in this paper gave him a jolt. On the third page, there was a picture of Damian with the headline: ‘Does the Answer to Poison Pen’s Murder Lie in his Secret Past?’

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Oldroyd was in Riverstone’s Bookshop on James Street, a place in which he frequently enjoyed a good browse. There was a nice café on the second floor. One of the perks of rising to a high rank in the force was that you could occasionally take off during the day for an hour or two and no one would question you.

  Today he was perusing volumes rather nervously as he was waiting for someone to arrive – a woman, in fact, and they were going to have coffee together. He’d eventually taken the plunge and contacted this person through the online dating site: Deborah Fingleton was her name, and she’d stated that she was interested in theatre, classical music, walking and eating out. In her photograph, she looked warm and intelligent, and he’d thought, why not? His daughter was right: no point in either self-pity or living in the past. Deborah sounded interesting, but to take things a step at a time, he thought it sensible to arrange a brief meeting first, rather than a whole evening out together.

  He’d arrived early and had decided to go to the crime section out of curiosity. Here there were novels written by Penrose, Stevenson and Derryvale. In fact, there was a separate display of their books as it was the Crime Writing Festival, and some of them were local writers. It was rather spooky to see Penrose’s books on a special cardboard display shelf in the centre of the room. It contained a large photograph of the recently murdered author behind the books. Oldroyd shook his head. The old rascal was dominating his rivals even in death.

  ‘Hello, you must be Jim.’

  Oldroyd turned to see a smiling face he recognised from the website. She looked striking in a sleeveless red dress and espadrille sandals. ‘How did you know it was me?’ he asked, in a jocular manner. ‘You only saw me from behind.’

&nb
sp; ‘Process of deduction. You are a police officer and here you are, looking at crime fiction. And now I can see that it is definitely you.’

  ‘Well, with respect, that’s not very convincing. Everyone knows that police officers wince when they read crime stories. They’re never realistic when it comes to police work,’ said Oldroyd.

  ‘It’s the same with all the professions. If you see a teacher in a drama on television, there are only about ten people in the class instead of thirty. And you don’t even see people like me. We’re far too threatening.’

  Deborah was a psychotherapist in Harrogate with her own practice. Oldroyd already liked her sense of humour and her wit, and they went upstairs to the café. A few minutes later Oldroyd was sipping his usual cappuccino and watching as Deborah downed a double espresso. They sat near a window and there was a brief silence as they both looked down into James Street.

  ‘So who’s supposed to talk first?’ began Deborah, who seemed very relaxed about the situation.

  Oldroyd smiled. He liked her directness. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about yourself first, and then you can hear about me?’ he said.

  ‘OK, I’m divorced and have a son in America – he’s an academic, a scientist – and my daughter’s in London, following in her mother’s footsteps studying Psychology. It’s all a bit gender stereotypical, I’m afraid, but there we are. I live in Knaresborough and my practice is here in Harrogate. You don’t want me to recite my interests again, do you? Jim?’

  Oldroyd was looking out of the window and turned quickly. ‘No, I mean, yes, I was listening. It’s just that I noticed something down there, which . . .’

  Deborah put her head on one side and looked at him quizzically.

  ‘You’re working, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you on the telly. I thought, how exciting to be meeting a celebrity. I know you’re in charge of this case of the crime writer being murdered. I bet you saw something out there that gave you a clue, right?’

  Oldroyd was flabbergasted. ‘Well, yes, you’re right and I’m sorry. It just happens that way with me. You become hyper-observant and something quite trivial suddenly strikes a chord. It was those men down there in the street. There’s a van parked and they’re loading it with containers and it reminded me of . . . Anyway, never mind.’ He looked sheepishly at her.

  She laughed. ‘Well, I ought to walk out at this point, as you seem to prefer watching lorry men to listening to me, but I won’t, because I want to hear all about you and why you’re a workaholic.’

  Oldroyd’s expression must have shown discomfort. This shrewd remark was too near the painful truth behind the problems in his life.

  She drew back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, that was far too personal. That’s my professional issue; I’m always analysing people’s motives and personalities, and sometimes I blurt things out. I’m sure you didn’t come here to be analysed.’

  ‘Not to worry, and you’re right. Work was the reason I’m separated from my wife and why she wants a divorce. But don’t worry, if things go well I’m sure I’ll be able to fit you into my schedule.’ This made her laugh again, and they spent the rest of the next hour speaking frankly and laughing about various things. They really enjoyed themselves and they made arrangements to have a meal together.

  When the date was finished, Oldroyd walked back to HQ with a spring in his step. It had been a successful afternoon in many ways.

  At The White Swan, Patricia Hughes was working hard to keep the Crime Writing Festival together after Penrose’s murder. She spent all day flitting between the various tented venues in the grounds of the hotel, talking to people and trying to keep up morale. It was a difficult situation. There had been some questions in the local press as to the propriety of continuing with the festival in these circumstances, and there was to be a committee meeting soon. In the meantime they just had to soldier on.

  In the booksellers’ tent, representatives from Riverstone’s Books looked sombre and seemed to be whispering to each other. It didn’t seem very inviting for customers.

  ‘How are we all today?’ she said breezily, and got a subdued response. It was a little better in the huge wigwam, which housed the bar and café. The staff were more upbeat, but there seemed to be fewer people eating and drinking there than she would have expected. You could never judge how the public would react, she reflected, as she made her way to the box office tent, past a scattering of people sitting on the lawns in deckchairs. You might expect they would flock in to stare ghoulishly at the place where Damian Penrose was last seen alive. But no, maybe there was fear that the killer might strike again, and that it was dangerous to be at The White Swan. The box office was also quiet. Luckily, tickets for events had sold well before the murder, so even if people didn’t turn up, the festival still had the revenue. But the remaining tickets were going slowly.

  She returned to the festival office to find Amanda hard at work, and Jade Darton, who did some PR for the festival, waiting for her.

  ‘Hi, Pat,’ Jade said, smiling at her. ‘I’ve just popped in to see if I can be of any help. I know things must be difficult for you after what’s happened. And don’t think I’m looking for another contract or anything. I just thought you might need a hand.’

  Patricia sighed. It was so reassuring when people gathered round to support you.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Jade. It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment. I think—’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Excuse me.’ She opened the door and let in Barry Evans. He looked rather sombre.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Slowly, as you might expect. Everybody’s stunned, the staff and the public. No one quite knows how to react.’

  ‘No. It was about this that I wanted to have a word.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We’ve had some complaints from members of the public saying that the rest of the festival should be cancelled. It’s bad taste and disrespectful to continue when a famous participant has been murdered.’

  She looked at the manager’s inscrutable face. ‘I see. The local press have been saying similar things. And how do you feel about it?’

  ‘Obviously I don’t want to be part of anything that is going to damage the reputation of the hotel, but I don’t see how we can disappoint all those people who’ve paid money to attend our events.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Also, as far as the long-term interests of the hotel go,’ continued Evans, ‘this festival is a great boost to us every year, and I don’t want to damage our relationship. So don’t worry, I’m fully behind us continuing. I just thought you ought to know what’s being said by some people.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Patricia, sitting tensely in her chair. ‘I’m glad that’s your view because, to be frank, the thought of sacrificing the rest of the festival, for which we’ve worked hard all year, for the sake of that man, is something I couldn’t countenance, even if he was murdered.’ She was angry despite Evans’s reassurance.

  Evans held up his hands. ‘I understand; don’t worry. He was a thorn in your flesh every year and yet you couldn’t afford not to have him here.’

  ‘Yes, something like that, but I was getting near the end of my patience with him, I can tell you, after the other night. This might well have been his last year, even if he was a big draw.’

  Jade had been listening to all this. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, ‘but maybe I can help. This a PR issue, isn’t it? You want to continue with the festival, but you’re worried about how that might appear to the public.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Jade,’ said Evans.

  ‘So it’s a question of handling things sensitively and hitting the right tone. I’ve got some ideas about how that can be done.’

  Patricia looked relieved. ‘Well, thank you, Jade. That would be really helpful.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll go off now and draft a few ideas for you, and, as I say, no obligation.’

 
Jade left, and Evans got up. ‘OK, full steam ahead, then. If you get any complaints or awkward people, refer them to me. It’s your festival, but we are the hosts, so I take responsibility. See you later.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Evans left the office. Amanda looked up from her computer.

  ‘It would be terrible if we had to stop. I’m glad he’ – she nodded after Evans – ‘doesn’t want to give in either. And Jade is such a help.’

  Patricia rubbed her eyes. She was tired. ‘Yes,’ she said with a yawn. ‘I’m sure we’ll get through, if I can persuade the committee that it’s for the best. It still irks me that Penrose’s murder is going to be the main talking point for the rest of the festival. The bastard’s sabotaging us even when he’s dead.’

  Geraldine had been nervously waiting for Ben to return for several hours. It was late in the afternoon and she’d been unable to concentrate on her work. She tried to control herself by thinking reassuring thoughts about Ben’s character and affirming to herself that he would never do anything so terrible. Nevertheless, the timeframe on the morning of the murder continued to torment her. Whichever way she looked at it, it was possible for him to have killed Penrose, his enemy. Someone must have helped him, but . . .

  She heard the door. He was back at last.

  ‘Ben!’ she called from the kitchen, where she was sitting with a glass of wine. He came into the room.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, looking uncertain. ‘A bit early for drinking, isn’t it? Are you feeling anxious again?’

  She didn’t reply but pointed to the letter, which was on the table. He picked it up, saw what it was and sighed.

  ‘I should have put this away. I was going to tell you about it soon. I didn’t want to worry you. I’ll make up the money in other ways; we’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s not that I’m worried about,’ said Geraldine, taking a gulp of her wine. ‘Did you blame Penrose for this? He was difficult, wasn’t he? And now he’s dead and you went into Harrogate early that morning and . . .’ She blurted everything out and seemed to be losing control.