The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you and everything when you’re off duty, but you’re going to have to come over. I’m at The White Swan and there’s been another murder. It’s definitely part of the series. Susan Lawrence. I knew she was keeping something from us. It’s cost her her life. She obviously didn’t listen to my warnings.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Yes, and I want you to take charge, clear up. Something crucial might turn up.’

  ‘Right, sir. I’ll be over as soon as possible.’

  Oldroyd put his phone away and went to find Barry Evans, who was standing in the corridor outside the ballroom, looking agitated. ‘Chief Inspector!’

  ‘Mr Evans. You and your staff are doing fine. Don’t worry. But I have to ask you about the waitresses who were serving in the ballroom tonight.’

  ‘Yes. What about them?’

  ‘I need a list of all their names, please, and I want you to get all the waiters and waitresses together and the bar staff. I need to speak to them.’

  Evans looked surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s fairly clear that the victim was poisoned by a drink that was brought to her table by a waitress.’

  ‘Good God! But couldn’t the poison have been put in later when the drink was on the table?’

  ‘Well, that can’t be ruled out but it’s very unlikely if you think about it. It would be very difficult to lace someone’s drink right in front of them. The other people sitting with her confirmed that she never left the table after the drink was brought to her, and I’ve no reason to suspect any of them at the moment. It’s possible the drink could have been poisoned by the person who prepared it, but again unlikely. How could you make sure that it got to the right person?’

  Barry Evans got out a handkerchief and wiped his brow with a shaky hand. ‘Right, Chief Inspector. The problem is that on a big occasion like this, we obviously need to employ extra waiting staff and we get them from agencies. It’s the job of Neil Andrews, one of my deputies, to organise that and he’s not here tonight. It means that we don’t necessarily know all the people if they’re here on a casual basis.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. The list will do tomorrow, but I need to see the staff now.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He went away to gather them together, and Oldroyd followed them into a smaller room nearby. They looked very subdued and sombre.

  Oldroyd introduced himself and then said, ‘OK, just to confirm what’s happened. A person has been murdered here tonight – not a fictional murder, a real one. We are fairly certain she was poisoned by a drink, a whisky sour cocktail, which was taken to her table by a waitress.’

  There were gasps and cries of ‘What?’ Many eyes turned to look at one of the bar staff, who’d turned white.

  ‘I take it you’re the cocktail maker,’ said Oldroyd.

  ‘Yes,’ stuttered the young barman, who looked absolutely terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry. I have no reason to suspect you. We are working on the assumption that the drink was poisoned after it was collected from you. Do you remember preparing a whisky sour? Were there a lot of them during the evening?’

  The barman’s eyes looked startled as he frantically searched his memory. ‘No . . . there weren’t many whisky sours . . . Just two, I think.’

  ‘Can you remember which waitress collected them?’

  ‘I took one of them,’ said a tall waitress, also looking terrified. ‘But it was for a bloke, and not on that table where the woman collapsed.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that,’ said the barman. ‘And I know Jackie.’ He indicated the tall waitress.

  ‘What about the other one? Think hard; it could be very important. Who took it from you?’ Oldroyd tried to be insistent without being too alarming.

  ‘It wasn’t anyone I knew, I don’t think. It’s hard; it’s very busy behind the bar. I think she was not very tall – dark hair.’

  ‘Did she wear glasses?’

  ‘Yes, quite heavy frames, and she had a birthmark on her neck.’

  ‘That’s the suspect.’ Oldroyd turned to the group. ‘Do any of you know a person like that? Mr Evans has told me that extra staff are employed for big occasions like this, and they come from agencies, so you might not know them, but do you at least remember her?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ replied another waitress. ‘I was serving the tables next to hers. I’d never seen her before tonight. I remember she was quick to volunteer to serve those particular tables when we spread out into the room. She didn’t say much apart from that; sounded a bit north-east. She’s definitely not here now.’

  ‘No, she targeted the table she wanted and would have made a quick escape after delivering the poisoned drink. Did anyone else speak to her?’ The staff looked around at each other, but nobody answered. ‘No, I expect she just quietly appeared and blended in with the rest of you and everyone thought she was an agency worker.’ Oldroyd sighed. He was dealing with a very clever and deadly assassin. ‘OK, thank you. One of my colleagues will take statements from you all.’

  He returned to the ballroom and remembered that this had been the venue for Penrose’s last appearance. Was this just a ghoulish coincidence? Many of the original suspects were here. He looked round and located them all. Derryvale was sitting back in his chair, a glass of whisky on the table. His large body was flaccid, and his expression uncharacteristically solemn. Esther Stevenson was talking to her partner. She looked up, saw Oldroyd and glanced away. John Sinclair was sitting with his arms folded, looking completely miserable, as if he wished he’d never come to the event. Carol Ashworth was close by. She looked as if she’d been crying, and was being comforted by her husband. The exciting evening to which she’d looked forward for so long had been ruined.

  Oldroyd considered them all. Was it possible that one of them was behind the latest murder? Had they arranged for an accomplice to deliver the poisoned drink? He was increasingly questioning many aspects of the case. The people who had seemed the most obvious suspects to begin with now seemed less likely to be guilty. Nevertheless, he needed to speak to Esther Stevenson about something.

  ‘What on earth’s going on, Chief Inspector?’ Oldroyd turned to see Ben Poole, who was formally dressed like everyone else.

  ‘Where’ve you sprung from?’ Oldroyd asked.

  ‘I’ve been here all evening.’

  ‘Have you? It’s the first time I’ve noticed you.’

  ‘I’ve seen you a number of times. I was on a table behind you in the dining room and in that far corner in here.’

  ‘No wife?’

  ‘No. Geraldine doesn’t like events like this. She finds crowds difficult.’

  Oldroyd nodded. ‘The answer to your question is that we definitely have another murder on our hands.’

  ‘Related to the other ones?’

  ‘I would think so. The victim was Susan Lawrence, Damian Penrose’s first wife.’

  ‘Do you think she knew something?’

  ‘In all probability. By the way, I’m telling you all this because you’re a local journalist and not a nasty so-and-so from one of the tabloids, but you can’t print anything yet, not until the formal announcements have been made. At least you’ll have a head start on the others.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’

  Oldroyd went over to Esther Stevenson and took her aside. She looked as shocked as everyone else. ‘I was about to call round to interview you again,’ began Oldroyd. ‘In the light of what’s happened, it’s become more urgent. We’re pretty sure that the murderer this evening was a small woman disguised as a waitress and she had a birthmark on her neck. Now, we have Damian Penrose’s diaries in our possession, and he refers to a “little bitch” at one point and “not giving in to her”, whatever that means. He never uses her name but this is all in the context of a row about stealing ideas, so I need to ask you: does that description fit anyone in your group of women who were Penrose’s victims?’

  Esther listene
d to him very intently. She thought for a moment. ‘No, Chief Inspector, I can’t honestly say that it does. No one in the group could be described as small.’

  ‘You’re sure? It’s very important.’

  ‘Yes, I understand, but the answer is no, apart from the fact that I’m sure none of us would resort to violence. We did our best to harass him and make him realise we were monitoring him, but that’s all.’

  ‘OK, but I warn you, be careful. This person is highly dangerous and if they think anyone knows anything about them, that person is in peril. If you remember anything else, let me know immediately.’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, I understand.’ Oldroyd turned away but Esther continued. ‘Chief Inspector, there is something you ought to know. Charles told me you’d mentioned that Penrose’s murder had some similarities with something in one of his novels. I wrote a crime novel called The Mystery of Murder and in that story one of the female characters is killed at a Murder Mystery Evening in a hotel like this, though I had her shot, not poisoned.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Oldroyd, and he told her what Carol Ashworth had said about Liz Simpson’s book and Patricia Hughes’s murder. Esther put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God, I never thought of that. What’s going on, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘You’re the second person to ask me that. I’m not sure. At first I thought if there was a connection, someone was trying to implicate all you writers who were Penrose’s enemies. Now I’m not sure. It seems as if someone is just enjoying the ghoulishness of it all. I need to speak to more people, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Oldroyd called Derryvale and Sinclair over to speak to him and asked them about Penrose and a small person. ‘No, Chief Inspector,’ replied Derryvale in a flat voice. ‘I never saw Penrose with anyone like that.’ The genial wit and humour seemed to have left him.

  Sinclair shook his head. ‘Me neither,’ he said tersely. ‘I wish I’d never come. I hate these evenings but I always get invited as a publisher and I don’t like to be absent from a local literary event.’

  Both men were either superb actors or genuinely shocked at this third murder, reflected Oldroyd.

  Oldroyd returned to Deborah and talked to her for a while, and it wasn’t long before Andy arrived.

  ‘Well done,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I hope you managed to get away without waking Steph.’

  Andy looked at his boss rather ruefully. ‘Actually, sir, I was sleeping in the spare room. Steph banned me from our bed because I was making such a stink. It’s your fault for getting me to drink that foul water.’

  Oldroyd laughed, and made an exaggerated move away from Andy. He was grateful for a moment of comic relief. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry but those mineral waters do often have that effect; too much sulphur. Never mind, hopefully it’ll have passed through you by tomorrow.’ He explained to Andy what had happened. ‘So I want you to supervise the statement taking and check out the backgrounds of the waitresses and the barman who mixed the cocktails. I don’t think you’ll find anything but we have to make sure. Ask the guests if they saw this mystery waitress or saw anything else suspicious. Then you can let them all go home.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Andy, yawning and not relishing getting to work at this time of night. ‘Are you getting off, then, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t do anything else, and to be honest I’ve had enough for one evening. I also need to take my, er, my companion home.’

  Andy grinned. ‘Right, sir, well, that’s fine.’ He was amused to see his boss a little self-conscious.

  ‘Yes, I’ll, er, see you tomorrow,’ said Oldroyd, and got out his phone to ring for a taxi.

  Deborah was still waiting and talking to the now exhausted-looking people at their table.

  ‘Thanks for staying,’ said Oldroyd as they walked to the hotel entrance and waited for the taxi. ‘I really appreciate it. Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, and you’re welcome. Anyway, I’m a nosy old so-and-so; I was interested in seeing what happened.’

  ‘Nothing else exciting is going to happen now, just the slog of getting statements and checking on what people saw. It’s nice to be in the senior position and be able to leave all that graft to the lower ranks, but I’ve done plenty of it in my time.’

  ‘I see. You’re the brain worker now, is that it?’

  He laughed, loving the way she made fun of him and punctured any tendency to self-importance.

  ‘Not only brain work, as you’ve seen. I have to take practical charge sometimes when things get dramatic.’

  ‘I was very impressed. I suppose you get used to seeing dead bodies.’

  ‘Well, it helps when you’ve got someone like Tim Groves around. He’s always good for a black-comedy moment.’

  ‘I suppose that’s how he survives in his job.’

  ‘Yes, I certainly wouldn’t like to have to cut them up and take their insides out, like he has to do.’

  ‘No.’

  The taxi arrived.

  ‘You take the taxi. I’m going to walk back over the Stray. I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s fine and, well, what can I say? Sorry the evening turned out like that.’

  ‘Not to worry. It was even more exciting.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear, I shouldn’t joke about it; someone’s died!’

  ‘Don’t worry; as you’ve just said, humour is sometimes how we deal with these things.’

  ‘The only disappointment is,’ she said as she got into the taxi, ‘I’m never going to find out who did it. In the murder mystery, I mean. Fiction turned into reality and took over, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oh God, no more of that, my head’s spinning! Never mind, just think about me: I’ve got to solve the real murder mystery.’ He leaned into the taxi and kissed her. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, and smiled. ‘Though we’ll have to stop seeing each other nearly every day. I bore easily, you know.’

  Oldroyd laughed and shook his head as the taxi drove off. It had finally stopped raining as he walked over the wet grass of the Stray towards his flat, musing on how in this case everything seemed to always return to this strange confusion of fiction and fact. They still seemed some way from solving the case, but nevertheless, he had a spring in his step and a lightness of heart. The relationship had already surpassed all his expectations and he was looking forward to seeing her again. As he walked along, he started to sing patter songs from Gilbert and Sullivan, and a late-night dog walker gave him a wide berth and a funny look.

  On the following Monday morning, another drama played itself out at Harrogate Police HQ.

  Derek Fenton was in his office, feeling self-satisfied. His arrangement with Jack Sandford was proving to be very lucrative. As for Steph Johnson, it was only a matter of time before she cracked. She wouldn’t want the possibly career-damaging humiliation of having those photographs made public. He smiled to himself and licked his lips lasciviously at the prospect.

  There was a knock on the door. For his further entertainment, young Sharon Warner came in. ‘Well, it’s my lucky day! What can I do for you, love?’

  She smiled demurely. ‘I can’t get the photocopier to work. There’s no one else around. Could you give me a hand?’ Was there a suggestion of flirtatiousness in her manner?

  ‘Of course. There are times when you just need a hunky man, aren’t there?’ He grinned at her and then followed her down the stairs to the printing area. This was a series of small connecting rooms that housed various machines. Sharon stood by the photocopier, which was against the wall at one end of the room.

  ‘You see, it’s saying there’s a paper jam, but I can’t get the top off to see inside. I can’t reach.’ She leaned over the machine, and Fenton, standing behind, found it irresistible. His hand stretched towards her bottom.

  ‘Thanks. That will do fine.’

  Fenton turned to see Steph, who’d taken a short but damning video with her phone. She must have b
een hidden outside, and quietly followed them in.

  ‘What the . . . !’ exclaimed Fenton. A door to one of the other rooms opened and Nicola Jackson and Cynthia Carey came in.

  ‘We saw what happened,’ said Nicola. ‘We were watching through a crack in the door.’

  ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you dirty old so-and-so,’ said Cynthia.

  Fenton looked rapidly from one to the other. His eyes bulged like those of a trapped animal.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ he shouted, but his tone was desperate.

  Steph had shut the door, and they all stood round him, blocking his way out. ‘We know exactly who we’re talking to,’ she said menacingly. ‘A serial abuser of women, who’s made life here difficult for a lot of people. But now it’s all over.’

  Fenton laughed. ‘This is bloody well right out of order. So you think you can set up some kind of trap for me, your superior officer? It’s downright insubordination. I’ll have you all disciplined.’

  ‘Before you do,’ continued Steph, ‘just consider a few things. We’ve now got evidence of how you behave. But that’s not all.’ She looked round the group of women, who were all staring defiantly at Fenton. ‘You’ve harassed everyone here, and we’re prepared to go together to the authorities and call you out about it. They won’t be able to ignore four of us, whether they like it or not.’

  Fenton looked down and seemed to be struggling with himself. ‘OK,’ he said finally in a sullen, angry voice. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want those photographs back,’ said Steph, ‘and you’d better destroy any copies you’ve made.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ll be watching your behaviour, and if you try it on with anyone ever again, we’ll shop you. We’ll be warning the other women here at HQ about you, so if anything’s going on, we’ll find out. We’re together now, so you can’t pick us off individually.’ She held her phone in the air. ‘And I’ll be holding on to this video.’

  Fenton glared at her with contempt. ‘I knew it would be you behind something like this, you . . .’

  ‘Careful, don’t make things worse or we might change our minds.’