The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you dare say the butler again.’

  ‘Well, I’m not telling you yet. I often play this game with my detective sergeants. It makes them think for themselves instead of relying on me.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. I don’t think you’ve been listening to what’s been said at all. Too busy eating and drinking.’

  Oldroyd twirled his wine glass cheekily. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what I think towards the end.’

  Desserts were brought in, and Oldroyd treated himself to a lemon-and-sultana cheesecake. Deborah declared herself too full for anything else but was persuaded to have a raspberry sorbet.

  ‘Do you always eat like this?’ asked Deborah.

  ‘Well, not really, but I enjoy treating myself on special occasions.’

  ‘No wonder you’re a bit on the chubby side.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Oldroyd good-humouredly.

  ‘It’s time you started working out a bit. I’ll bet you don’t go to the gym or anything.’

  ‘I do plenty of walking.’

  ‘Yes, at a leisurely pace around the Stray, I’ll bet, and then you go into the pub to recover.’

  ‘Are you going to take me in hand, then?’

  ‘I might do. We could go running together.’

  Oldroyd grimaced. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he said as he finished his cheesecake, and Deborah laughed.

  ‘You’re afraid I’ll beat you.’

  ‘I know you will. I’m not fit enough for that.’

  ‘Not yet. We’ll see.’

  When the tables had finally been cleared and coffee served, the inspector reappeared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you have enjoyed your meal. We are now ready to progress and I need your assistance. Each of the suspects will appear in turn and you can ask them any questions you want. It is your chance to pursue your ideas and find out a bit more about which of these characters you think is a murderer. You will be helping me to bring them to justice.’

  The inspector placed a chair in the centre of the room and, as promised, each character in turn sat in the chair and was questioned by the guests. Oldroyd listened but didn’t ask anything. He noticed that none of the real suspects did either, apart from Carol Ashworth, who took part enthusiastically. Was it because some of them were writers and found all this a little crude? Or did they find it all rather weird, as he did himself, to be observing this piece of fiction when they were involved in a real case? Instead of listening to the actors, he looked around at the expressions on various familiar faces. Were any looking uncomfortable because of a guilty conscience? Maybe the real murderer would have found it impossible to attend something like this. But then again, ruthless killers were often very good at dissembling.

  At the conclusion of the questioning, the inspector announced that it was now time to progress to the ballroom, where there was a jazz band ready to begin playing. Just as people were getting up, there was the sound of shouting. An argument had started and it soon became clear that it was between the actors playing Henry Cavendish and Kathryn Willoughby.

  ‘How could you, Henry? I can’t believe it!’ Kathryn shouted.

  ‘Darling, you don’t understand. Let me explain.’ Henry tried to grab her arm but she pulled it away.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried and, bursting into tears, hurried from the room pursued by her maybe now former boyfriend.

  This caused a great commotion, with some guests claiming to have expected something like this and others expressing their surprise.

  ‘Well, you can’t be off your guard for a minute,’ said one man, laughing as he passed Oldroyd. ‘There’s certainly plenty of action. What did you make of that?’ he said to his wife as they headed off to the ballroom.

  Oldroyd looked at Deborah and clapped slowly and ironically. ‘Very good show,’ he said.

  Deborah frowned. ‘Well, I’m enjoying it, fatty,’ she said, and headed off rapidly out of the room.

  ‘What!’ cried Oldroyd with mock outrage, and pursued her at a more sedate pace.

  It was now dark outside, and in the ballroom subdued lighting came from beautiful glass chandeliers, which reflected on the polished parquet floor. Tables were arranged around the edge. A jazz band on the stage, consisting of piano, drums, trumpet, saxophone, clarinet and double bass, was lit by spotlights. The bar was small, so waiters were moving between the tables, taking orders for drinks.

  Oldroyd was feeling pretty stuffed and a little lethargic after all he’d eaten and drunk, and he wasn’t a keen dancer at the best of times. However, he was prepared to make the effort for Deborah and wanted to avoid further comments from her about his figure and fitness. They sat at one of the tables and listened to the music. The band was playing some slightly improvised version of a slow Glenn Miller tune. Oldroyd had learned a bit of traditional ballroom dancing when he was young, but he was very rusty.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ he asked Deborah as other couples were taking to the floor.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not very good.’

  ‘Me neither. We’ll just shuffle round to the music. It’s the taking part that counts.’

  They took their place on the parquet floor and moved around slowly.

  ‘This seems very old-fashioned, doesn’t it?’ said Oldroyd. ‘My parents went dancing every week in the early fifties. Everybody learned the waltz and foxtrot.’

  ‘Mine too, but this is becoming popular again, isn’t it, with Strictly Come Dancing on the telly?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder how many viewers go to classes and learn it, though?’

  ‘There’s certainly a lot more skill to it than jerking about in a club to rock music. I went for a few lessons once for a laugh, and it’s damned hard to do it properly, I can tell you.’

  After a while the music changed to something much faster. They both decided this was a bit too much for them and retreated to their table.

  ‘I’m enjoying listening to this,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I like a bit of traditional jazz.’

  ‘Me too, actually,’ replied Deborah as a waitress came to see if any drinks were required on their table. Oldroyd consulted the drinks list.

  ‘Fancy a cocktail?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How about a mojito?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, two of those. I love rum-based ones.’

  Oldroyd ordered and sat back in his chair. It was turning out to be an extremely pleasant evening.

  After several dances, the band stopped and the inspector took to the dance floor. Deborah and Oldroyd sipped their cocktails. Deborah turned to her notes.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I assume you are comfortably settled here in the ballroom and are ready for the next stage of our murder enquiry. We will now—’

  He stopped as his attention was drawn to a slight disturbance at one of the tables at the other end of the room from Oldroyd and Deborah.

  ‘What’s going on now?’ said Deborah. ‘It’s so exciting; you don’t know what’s going to happen next.’

  Oldroyd didn’t reply. He’d seen the puzzled expression on the face of the actor playing the inspector. He stood up and looked over at the table, concerned, just as a woman screamed. Something was wrong and Oldroyd hurried over. There was a hubbub of noise in the room and other people were starting to stand up and look across. At the table, a man had his arm round the woman who’d screamed and now looked hysterical.

  ‘It’s all right, darling, she’s just acting; it’s part of the show. There’s been another murder, do you see?’ he said, trying to make light of it, but sounding uneasy.

  ‘But she’s not one of the characters. She’s just slumped there; I don’t like it!’

  All around, people were looking uncertain. Oldroyd reached the table, where a woman was indeed slumped face down. She’d knocked over her wine glass. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Are you OK?’ There was no response; there was now a crowd round the table. Oldroyd gently rai
sed her head. He was looking into the dead, staring eyes of Susan Lawrence.

  The woman screamed again. ‘She’s dead! I know she is! What’s going on, Ivan?’

  ‘Move back, please,’ said Oldroyd firmly. ‘I’m a police officer, a real one.’ He saw that the fictional inspector was by the table, looking horror-struck. ‘I know this woman, and I know this is not part of the act. Go quickly and find Mr Evans. Tell him to call the ambulance and police HQ. It’s too late for her, I think, but I need some help.’

  The actor ran off. People were shrinking away from the table and its corpse; nevertheless, Oldroyd had to take precautions.

  ‘Do not touch anything. There’s evidence here.’ He looked at the glass and some of the contents, which had spilled on to the table. He leaned down and sniffed at it. The faint smell of bitter almonds was enough to tell him that the drink had been poisoned. With cyanide. Deborah came up behind him.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she whispered in a shaky voice.

  Oldroyd looked at her grimly. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s been poisoned. She was one of the suspects in the case – the real one,’ he added sardonically. ‘That woman who made a big entrance when we were in the bar, remember?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deborah put her hand on Oldroyd’s shoulder. ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘It is. I’m sorry the evening’s spoiled,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have warned you. This is the kind of thing that happens to me. Maybe you shouldn’t be seeing a detective.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s not your fault. The murderer wouldn’t have killed her just because you’re here. In fact, that would have made it more risky for them.’

  ‘True, I suppose. It’s just that—’ He was interrupted by the arrival of Barry Evans, speaking into his phone as he ran to join Oldroyd.

  When Evans saw the body, his face turned white. ‘As quick as you can,’ he said into the phone and then put it into his pocket. ‘Good God! Is she really dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I’m sorry to say you’ll have to bring the evening’s entertainment to an end, but everyone will have to stay until we’ve questioned them. I suggest you provide some calming refreshment. Tea might be a good idea. I need to stay right here until my colleagues arrive.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll . . . I’ll say a few words.’

  He walked up on to the stage, where the jazz players were solemnly looking towards Oldroyd and the body, which was still in exactly the same position.

  ‘Ladies and . . . er, gentlemen.’ Poor Evans was struggling. ‘There has been an unfortunate, er, incident, and the police and an ambulance have been called. Chief Inspector Oldroyd here’ – he indicated Oldroyd – ‘is of the view that, er, foul play may have occurred.’ There were gasps from the guests, who were variously standing around or cringing at the tables.

  ‘Is this all part of the game?’ shouted a man, slurring the words and obviously very drunk.

  ‘Patrick, shut up!’ shouted a woman, who could have been his partner.

  ‘No, sir, it emphatically is not. I only wish it was. The chief inspector has asked me to tell you that it will be necessary for you all to remain here until more police arrive to take statements.’ There were some shouted objections to this. ‘Those are the police instructions. Now, please remain calm. My staff will serve tea. I suggest you simply return to sit at your tables and keep away from . . . from that one,’ he said, pointing to where the crime had taken place.

  There was a buzz of conversation as he left the stage to rejoin Oldroyd, but everyone seemed to be obeying his instruction, even if reluctantly.

  ‘Well done,’ said Oldroyd. ‘We just need to keep everything as calm as possible until they arrive.’ He turned to Deborah. ‘You don’t need to stay, as you were with me and we can take a statement from you later.’

  ‘Jim, I’m not leaving you by yourself to deal with all this, even if you are a professional. I’ll stay out of the way, but I’m not going home until you do.’

  ‘That might be very late.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She squeezed his arm and went back to their table, where she talked reassuringly to the other shocked-looking people who were sitting there.

  To Oldroyd’s relief, it wasn’t long before officers from Harrogate HQ arrived, closely followed by Tim Groves, who shook his head at Oldroyd and smiled sardonically. ‘Well, Jim, I’m truly sorry for you. Death often seems to follow you around, doesn’t it? Even when you’re out for the evening enjoying yourself. Why can’t these murderers have a little more consideration?’

  ‘Please put a word in for me if you have any influence, Tim. Anyway, I think you’ll find she’s been poisoned by cyanide. I’ve smelled the faint whiff of bitter almonds.’

  ‘Keep away, then. The gas is worse than the liquid.’ His tall figure stooped over the body and he examined her skin and mouth. Then he picked up the glass and smelled it. He turned to Oldroyd. ‘You’re probably right, Jim. She’s a bit pink and I can smell the almonds too. This drink, whatever it was, was probably poisoned, and by a pretty hefty dose, I would think. They weren’t taking any chances, though when it’s ingested in liquid form it takes about twenty minutes to take full effect. And right under the chief inspector’s nose.’ Groves could never resist teasing Oldroyd.

  ‘It’s not the first time, Tim, and probably not the last. Maybe it’s the thrill of the extra challenge.’

  Groves smiled. ‘OK. Well, we’ll get her back and do the full post-mortem. I’ll report to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Cheers, Tim.’ Oldroyd left the removal of the body to the forensics team. Some officers were slowly working their way through the guests, taking names and brief statements. Oldroyd turned his attention to the other guests on Susan Lawrence’s table. They were sitting some distance back from the table, as if fearing contamination.

  ‘So tell me what happened.’ He tried to be as gentle and encouraging as possible. One or two looked too stunned to say anything, but a confident-looking middle-aged man replied.

  ‘She was OK when we first got here from the dining room: chatting away to everyone and quite full of herself; said she was pretty sure who’d committed the murder – that is, the one in the mystery.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ It certainly sounded like Susan Lawrence, and he was sure it would now transpire that she knew who had committed the real murders too, which was why, like Patricia Hughes, she’d been disposed of.

  ‘Then she went quiet and was clutching her stomach. I was sitting next to her and I could see she was struggling. I asked her what was wrong. She said she felt sick and a bit dizzy – said she’d drunk too much. Sylvia – that’s my partner – and I went to dance. We weren’t away for long; when we got back, she was really in trouble. She seemed to be gasping for breath, and then she tried to stand up and just fell forward on to the table.’

  ‘I thought it was all part of the act,’ said the tall man who’d tried to calm his screaming partner. She was sitting on his knee with her face buried in his shoulder.

  ‘That thought crossed my mind too,’ said the first man. ‘But I was closer to her and I knew she was either a damned good actor or it was serious.’

  ‘Where did she get this drink from?’ Oldroyd indicated the glass, which would shortly be removed as evidence.

  ‘One of the waitresses who was serving our table. She took orders and brought the drinks over.’

  ‘Any idea what the victim ordered?’

  ‘It was a cocktail; a whisky sour, I think.’

  How convenient, thought Oldroyd. The strong and bitter taste would have masked any unusual flavours.

  ‘Can you describe this waitress?’

  ‘She was quite small – dark hair; wearing the same uniform as the others, and glasses with quite thick, dark frames,’ said a woman. ‘Her accent was a bit Geordie, wasn’t it? Oh, and she had a birthmark on the side of her neck.’ She pointed to the spot and looked for confirmation from others round the table; people nodded.

  ‘An
d it was definitely her who brought the drinks back?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the first man. ‘She brought me a beer, and you had a glass of white wine, didn’t you?’ He spoke to another woman in the group.

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed in a weak voice. She looked very pale. ‘Oh my God! We could all have been killed!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Oldroyd reassuringly. ‘Unless you’d swapped drinks with her, of course. She was targeted. There’s no random maniac poisoner on the loose, so don’t worry. Can you all confirm that the victim didn’t leave the table after the drink was brought?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘And she definitely drank it?’

  ‘Yes. There wasn’t much left when she knocked the glass over. No one else drank any. Thank goodness.’

  ‘OK. Thank you for your help. A police officer will take a statement from you all shortly.’

  Oldroyd joined Deborah at their table and sat down, looking grim. He’d been outwitted again but at least the reference to the size of the mysterious waitress gave further confirmation to an idea he’d been considering for some time. He’d been thinking that the murderer was a small female. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that she’d been wearing very high heels to conceal her true height. But who was this person?

  He turned to Deborah. ‘I just need to get Andy Carter over here and then talk to the manager and the staff who were on duty. After that we can probably head off. I can leave the rest to the others once Andy arrives to take charge. There’s nothing more I can do tonight.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Deborah, and gave him a comforting smile.

  Oldroyd got out his phone and rang Andy’s number.

  ‘Sir?’ answered a sleepy-sounding voice.