The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  After a while, he got up and walked back through the gardens and along to the Mercer Gallery, where he spent some time wandering through its varied collection of artworks. There was an exhibition about the relationship between painting and photography, which he found especially interesting.

  After this he found his way back to The White Swan. Near the hotel entrance, he saw that some of Penrose’s fans had erected a kind of makeshift memorial, and people were leaving messages. He couldn’t bear to read any, so he went to have a final wander through the publishers’ and booksellers’ stands, which were housed in various tents. He sniffed in disgust to see how Penrose’s publisher was still making a big feature out of the dead man’s books. He would probably sell even more now that he’d died in such dramatic and intriguing circumstances. Dying had been a good career move for Penrose, thought Derryvale, and chuckled to himself at the black humour.

  He chatted for a while to various reps on the stands, including his own publisher, and then saw Amanda Rigby talking to a woman at the entrance to the tent. For a moment he thought it was Esther, but when she turned round he saw that it was Catherine Burnett, who wrote historical crime mysteries set in nineteenth-century England. He’d never understood why anyone would want to do that. It was difficult enough to think of the plots and characters without also having to recreate some historical era in an authentic manner. Amanda spotted him, excused herself and came over.

  ‘Charles, how are you today?’

  ‘Oh, fine. I’m just lazing around as usual. I can never get any work done when I’m here at the festival. There’s always too much going on, especially this year. It’s different for you, of course. You must be exhausted with what’s happened and having to take over from Patricia and all that.’

  ‘Oh, well!’ she said jauntily and smiled, but there was no disguising the strain on her face. ‘Not long to go now. I thought I’d just remind you that we’re starting the awards in a few minutes. It’s going to be in that tent at the side of the hotel.’ She pointed. ‘The bigger the audience, the better, and,’ she added slyly, ‘there’ll be some nibbles and glasses of Prosecco.’

  ‘Ah! Well, thank you for reminding me. I’ll toddle over in few minutes. I take it I haven’t been nominated for anything this year or I would have been informed.’

  ‘Not this year, Charles, unfortunately. We’re concentrating on awards for young writers, women writers and writers from ethnic minorities.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I certainly don’t fit into any of those categories, but I’m sure it’s all very worthy, and I shall come along to clap them. I believe in encouraging other writers, not undermining them . . . unlike someone else I could mention.’

  ‘Good.’ Amanda looked at her watch. ‘Well, I’d better be getting over there.’ As she left the tent, she called over her shoulder, ‘By the way, Simon Jones from BBC Radio 4 is presenting the awards, so it should be fun.’

  ‘Oh, really, well, that is interesting.’ Simon Jones presented an arts programme on Radio 4, and Derryvale was an avid listener. He followed Amanda over to the tent to find that it was already very crowded and he had to stand at the back. He saw that Esther Stevenson was sitting down to one side and he waved to her. A stage with microphones had been erected, and it wasn’t long before Amanda went up, welcomed everybody and introduced Simon Jones. He thanked the organisers for inviting him and made a few humorous comments, which established a jocular and informal atmosphere.

  There followed a series of awards of the type Amanda had described, and Derryvale had to admit that it was heartening to see young writers and people from different backgrounds rewarded and encouraged. He clapped with enthusiasm for each one and then Amanda announced some special awards.

  ‘This year, as you are aware, ladies and gentlemen, we have lost two people in tragic circumstances who were very important to us here at the Crime Writing Festival. First of all, Patricia Hughes.’ Amanda’s voice appeared to crack, and she took a moment before she continued. ‘We have so much to thank Pat for. She was the force behind this festival and its success for so many years, and I feel privileged to have worked with her. The committee has decided that from next year there will be a new award at the festival: the Patricia Hughes Prize, which will be awarded to a female writer for a debut crime novel.’ She brushed away a tear as there was thunderous applause and shouts of ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘The other person we have lost is Damian Penrose.’ The room went silent and Derryvale knitted his brow. ‘Damian came up from London most years to appear at this festival. Often a controversial figure, he sparked lively debate and was a great draw. His presence was a boost to us. The committee has decided, therefore, that there will also be an award to honour his memory.’

  Derryvale spluttered in an attempt to stifle his response to this, and there were some murmurs around the room. Penrose had not been quite so universally welcome at the festival as Amanda had implied.

  ‘The Damian Penrose Lifetime Achievement Award will go to a well-established writer with a long career behind them, in recognition of their contribution to crime fiction over a substantial period of time. I might say that if Damian had lived, he would undoubtedly have been the first recipient of his own award.’

  There was some polite laughter at this. Some people clapped, others looked stony-faced. It was a contentious act of appreciation for a divisive figure. Derryvale’s mouth had dropped open and he was speechless. He caught Esther Stevenson’s eye and she shook her head. Amanda wound the proceedings up, thanking Simon Jones again and everyone else for attending.

  Derryvale shuffled out of the tent in shock. A memorial award for that bounder! That cheat! That thoroughly nasty piece of work! He stumbled towards the bar. He needed a drink after that.

  Esther joined him, and they sat disconsolate in a corner. ‘Well, I don’t suppose we should be too surprised,’ she said. ‘He did get plenty of people to come here, if not always for the right reasons. The festival people liked it: they want this to be a success; they’re not concerned about plagiarism and insults and what kind of character you are, as long as you’re not a criminal. In fact, his notoriety was a great attraction. We knew that.’

  ‘I expect you’re right but it’s still a shock to see the old bugger honoured like that. What are they thinking of?’

  Esther leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think this would have happened if Pat had still been in charge.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, she had no time for Penrose and his behaviour. I’m sure she was on the verge of dropping him from the programme in future. Amanda, though . . . Well.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ asked Derryvale, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  ‘It makes you wonder what kind of relationship there was between her and Penrose, doesn’t it? All those kind words, and I’m sure she’s been the impetus behind this award. I’m sure it didn’t come from anyone on the committee. I’ll bet she suggested it. And how did she feel about Pat’s hostility to her – what shall we say? – lover?’

  ‘I see! How intriguing!’ replied Derryvale, who was already considering this further ramification in the real crime story of this year’s festival and wondering how he might use it.

  When Ben Poole arrived home in the evening, he found Geraldine in a very anxious state. She’d been crying. Adam was crawling around on the floor and playing with Duplo, but his mother seemed to be taking little notice of him. She was lying on the sofa. It took Ben a while to get her to tell him what had happened.

  ‘I’ve never seen her like that before; she was horrible. Ben, what if they get you into trouble and then you lose your journalism job? We won’t have enough money to live on and . . .’

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ urged Ben. Her catastrophic thinking had got her worked up into a panic again. ‘They can’t do anything. They’re the ones who are going to be in trouble. At least, the husband is.’

  Geraldine looked at him sharply. ‘Then you are investigating him? You nev
er told me. Please don’t, Ben. Can’t you stick to stuff like reporting on local events?’

  ‘House fires, road accidents, burglaries, births, deaths and marriages? Do you want me to die of boredom? No one pays much for that kind of stuff these days, but a nice juicy scandal at the local council? Well, that’s different.’ His tone was light-hearted, but she was not reassured.

  ‘It’s too risky. I don’t want you to do it. Promise me you won’t,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Look, I won’t do anything that could get me into trouble, OK?’

  She looked at him sceptically. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘What I say. Yes, Clare Bayliss’s husband is under investigation, but not just by me. You mustn’t say anything to anybody, but the police are involved.’ He saw that Geraldine was reassured by this. ‘And if I get the story first, that’s going to be a big bonus. I’ll do well out of it; we’ll do well out of it. You’ve been getting yourself all worked up again over nothing.’

  Geraldine sat up and seemed much more relaxed. ‘OK. If you promise it won’t be dangerous.’

  Ben went over, drew her head into his chest and kissed her hair. ‘I promise,’ he said, but he didn’t look her in the face. And he couldn’t tell her that the police, in the form of Steph, were only involved unofficially in an unauthorised investigation, which could spell trouble for them both if it went wrong.

  All day, Oldroyd had been hoping that the fine weather, which had characterised the day, would hold. He’d been constantly clicking on the Met Office app on his smartphone and updating the page. The forecast was promising: fine and warm weather was set to continue into the evening and after dark. There was no threat of rain.

  This was quite a relief because he’d invited Deborah to an open-air promenade performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the grounds of Ripley Castle. The play-goers were encouraged to bring a picnic, to be enjoyed on one of the large lawns before the play began.

  Oldroyd, who had uncharacteristically spent some considerable time deciding what to wear, had decided on chinos and an Oxford shirt that Louise had bought him for Christmas. Deborah looked cool and immaculate in her white linen trousers and black sleeveless top, so he was glad he’d made the effort with his own attire, especially when she complimented him. As Oldroyd drove the old Saab on the short journey from Harrogate to Ripley, Deborah was as relaxed and talkative as ever, which he welcomed. He was still finding the business of establishing a new relationship quite challenging.

  ‘Well, I’m really looking forward to this. I enjoyed Shakespeare at school; we had a good teacher. I did English Lit for A Level. We studied Hamlet and Measure for Measure. I think we did Romeo and Juliet for O Level.’

  ‘Probably; they often do that or Macbeth. The plots are simple and they think kids like the romance or the violence,’ replied Oldroyd.

  ‘Yes, well, Romeo and Juliet’s got both, hasn’t it?’ She laughed. ‘Romance turns to tragedy. Well, not always, I hope.’ She gave him an arch little smile. ‘I don’t know the comedies, though. Enlighten me.’

  She already knew that Oldroyd had studied English Literature at Oxford.

  ‘I love them; they’re subtle and elegant and humorous at different levels. There’s plenty of knockabout humour, and the Bard’s witty language and sharp observations of people. Lots to make you think too, or it wouldn’t be Shakespeare. Twelfth Night’s my favourite, but Dream is great. It’s got all the business of the fairies with the confused lovers and the workmen with their play, which is hilarious.’

  ‘You’re very enthusiastic; did you ever think about going into teaching? You could have really motivated the kids.’

  ‘Not me – haven’t got the patience for it.’

  ‘Surely you have to have plenty of patience in your job.’

  ‘True, but it’s patience with yourself as you think hard to solve the puzzle. It’s not patience with teenage bad behaviour. I don’t think I could put up with that.’

  ‘I think I’d be the same. I much prefer relating to people one to one.’

  The car moved at a leisurely speed through the lush summer countryside. They passed a local cricket ground. The players, in white, stood out against a background of fields and trees. Their shadows were starting to stretch a little across the grass in the early-evening sun.

  The car turned off the main road to Ripon and entered Ripley, one of Oldroyd’s favourite pieces of Yorkshire eccentricity. It, and the castle, had been owned for generations by the Ingilby family and, in the nineteenth century, the Ingilby of that time had demolished the village and had it rebuilt in the French style, complete with a hôtel de ville.

  Oldroyd parked near the church, got out and opened the boot, from which he lifted an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket. ‘I’ll carry this, if you can manage the rug and those folding canvas chairs. They’re very light.’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Deborah, and off they went towards the entrance to the castle and grounds, joining a steady stream of people carrying hampers, chairs and bottles of wine. The lake in front of the castle reflected the evening sky, and deer in the parkland beyond stood still and watched the arriving visitors with curiosity.

  The picnickers were settling down on a large area of lawn bordered by beds of perennials and flanked by two ancient orangeries. Oldroyd looked at his watch.

  ‘We’ve got a good hour yet,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a drink.’ He opened a bottle of Prosecco, which immediately spumed over the side and down on to his trousers and shoes. ‘Blast it!’ he cursed as Deborah laughed.

  ‘You should have known it would have been lively after carrying it all this way!’

  ‘Never mind!’ Oldroyd smiled as he poured two glasses and wiped his trousers with a tea towel. ‘Cheers!’ He unloaded the French bread, pâté, cheese, grapes, quiche and mini pork pies, which he had bought in different specialist shops in Harrogate, and they tucked in. They finished with some little pots of crème brûlée.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Deborah, leaning back rather precariously on her canvas chair. ‘All I need now is a cup of coffee, but never mind.’

  ‘What do you mean? We’ve got everything here. In fact, we’re “short o’ nowt we’ve got”, as my granddad used to say.’ He produced a small thermos flask and two cups. ‘And proper filter coffee, no instant rubbish.’

  ‘Wow, Jim! You’ve gone to lots of trouble. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Well, you know . . .’ He was going to say she was worth it, but shyness prevented him.

  It was soon time for the play to begin. As the sun slowly went down, Shakespeare’s magical play of comic spells, dreams and confusion was played out in various locations within the garden and woodlands that adjoined it, the audience following the actors around in promenade fashion. Never had Oldroyd experienced the night woodland scenes of the central part of the play in such a realistic setting. They were in the woods near Athens! He was, as Bottom is described in the play, ‘translated’, removed from his normal self. Theseus eventually declared that the ‘Iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve’ in an exquisite setting, against a backdrop of the lake as the sun finally set behind the actors and ducks settled on the water. To the left, the castle became a dark mass against the night sky. Enthusiastic applause greeted the end.

  And yet, being Oldroyd, there was still that part of him, however small, that was always on the alert for clues to help him solve a case he was investigating. As he walked back to the car in a kind of daze and holding Deborah’s hand, he couldn’t help ruminating on a certain line spoken by Helena in Act 3.

  ‘And though she be but little she is fierce.’

  Seven

  Hydropathic treatments offered at the spas of Harrogate included: Saline Sulphur Baths for gout and rheumatism; Alkaline Sulphur Electric Baths for muscle weakness and atrophy; Carbonic Acid Baths for heart disease; Harrogate Massage Douche for lumbago and arthritis; Intestinal Lavage Treatment for constipation and mucous colitis; Peat and Paraffin Wax Baths for sciatica, lumbago, s
tiff joints and rheumatism. Treatments were available until 1969.

  At The White Swan Hotel the Crime Writing Festival, much to Amanda Rigby’s relief, had finally come to an end. The marquees had been dismantled, leaving areas of flattened, brownish grass. The booksellers had packed up their displays; all the talks, discussions and award ceremonies were over. There was only one event left.

  The traditional finale of the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival was a Murder Mystery Evening at The White Swan. This was quite a swanky event, with a champagne reception followed by a grand dinner and dancing in the ballroom. It was always a good fundraiser for the hotel and the festival. A professional company was employed each year to play out scenes throughout the evening. The guests had to look at their programme notes and observe the action for clues as to the identity of the murderer. There were prizes for people who correctly identified the culprit.

  The sombre atmosphere that had descended on the festival after the murders of Damian Penrose and Patricia Hughes had dissipated a little as there had been no further unpleasant incidents and attendances at events had continued to pick up. The good weather that had lasted for most of the festival, except for the day of Oldroyd and Andy’s adventures at Brimham Rocks, had now broken and it was a rainy evening.

  A steady stream of guests arrived at the hotel after walking through the wet Harrogate streets huddled under umbrellas to protect their smart clothes from the rain. Formally dressed, Amanda Rigby and Barry Evans greeted them at the entrance, and directed them to the bar for the champagne. This was another tradition: the festival organiser and the hotel manager did the honours to signify the end of the festival and to personally thank people. Amanda performed her role with some sadness, remembering that Patricia Hughes should have been in her place.

  In the bar, waiters were ready with trays of champagne glasses. Each guest was given a programme sheet, which contained information about the characters in the mystery drama shortly to be performed and some advice about paying attention for clues. An element of realism was attained through some of the actors mingling with the guests. There were also some mystery characters not listed on the cast sheet, so who knew who was an actor and who was ‘real’? It all made for an interesting evening.