Bunburry--Murder in High Places

by Helena Marchmont

  Oscar’s promise of free-flowing wine proved accurate – the glasses were filled even before the hors-d’oeuvres appeared.

  Isobel Tennison flung out her arm towards Dorian in a dramatic gesture, just missing the wine bottle the waiter was tilting towards her glass.

  “Careful what you’re doing, you clown,” she snarled. “Spill anything on this dress and you’re paying for the dry cleaning.”

  She saw Alfie looking at her. “Cheers, darling,” she said, making him clink glasses with her. He took a large draught of the wine and almost as soon as he had put it down, it was refilled.

  Isobel had now turned to clink glasses with Dorian. “Just like old times, darling, wouldn’t you say?” she said. “Have you missed me?”

  Alfie sensed Dorian’s wife stiffen beside him.

  “I can’t say I miss location work in England,” said Dorian evasively. “We scarcely have the climate. Now Hollywood’s a different proposition.”

  “And who do you proposition there?” asked Isobel.

  Surely if she had had an affair with Dorian, Rosemary would know, and wouldn’t have dreamed of placing them at the same table, let alone sitting next to one another. Alfie guessed she was just one of those women who convinced herself that every man she met was besotted with her.

  Paige was looking more tense than ever, and Alfie turned to her in a bid to distract her. “I have to confess I haven’t seen the film yet, but I imagine this house would be very photogenic with rooms like these.”

  She didn’t want to be distracted. She was trying to look past him to see the interaction between Isobel and her husband. But she said: “Very little was filmed in the house, just some shots from the windows looking out over the grounds. The rooms they filmed in were in the studios.”

  “It’s so exciting seeing the house properly,” the young Anthea broke in. “We did all the external Pemberley scenes between Darcy and Elizabeth here, but some of the grounds doubled for Netherfield as well – there’s a slope I had to run up about a thousand times.”

  “I’ll look out for that scene when I finally manage to see the film,” Alfie said.

  Anthea threw her hands in the air in a gesture of frustration. “Don’t bother. It ended up on the cutting room floor.”

  Tennison took no interest in the conversation even though they were talking across him. He too was watching his wife and Dorian.

  On the other side of the table, Betty was helpless with laughter at whatever story Oscar was telling her. Alfie wished he was sitting beside her, that she was laughing at what he was saying.

  “But that wasn’t the best of it,” he heard Oscar said. “Dorian, you need to hear this – Dame Evadne on her eightieth birthday, making mincemeat of the poor interviewer. You won’t believe what she said.”

  With a murmur of apology, Dorian turned away from Isobel, looking relieved.

  Isobel drained her wine glass and gave Paige a phoney smile. “Your husband’s so terribly famous now, everybody wants a piece of him. How do you cope?”

  Paige flushed scarlet and muttered something incoherent.

  “I’m sure being a star is much more stressful than any of us realise,” Alfie said to her quickly. “He must be very grateful for the stability of home life.”

  But Paige wasn’t to be reassured. She twisted the white linen napkin between her fingers, and stared at the food in front of her as though it was about to attack her.

  The seabass was exquisite, but Alfie’s appetite was disappearing as fast as Isobel Tennison’s wine, and he decided to take refuge in drink as well.

  Anthea, oblivious to any tension, started to tell an uninterested Charlie Tennison and Paige Stevens all about her experience of filming.

  Isobel leaned over to Alfie. “So tell me, darling, just how marvellously rich are you?”

  “Not nearly as marvellously rich as your husband,” he said, feeling like adding: “But I made my money honestly.”

  “Oh, darling, I told you before – I really don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about you instead. You must come round for drinks some time. We’re in Kensington.”

  “And I’m in Bunburry. Thanks for the invitation, but it’s a bit far to travel.”

  “You could always stay overnight. I’m sure I could find a bed for you.”

  Alfie reached for his own wine glass, and noticed Charlie Tennison scowling at him. Oscar had predicted that Tennison would die of apoplexy if Alfie kept flirting with his wife. There was one way to find out.

  “That’s certainly a tempting offer,” he said, raising his glass to her.

  “And do you yield to temptation?”

  “Depends on who’s doing the tempting. But sometimes the temptation’s so strong, yielding is the only thing I can do.” He gave her a slanting smile.

  “I’m very glad to hear it.” She studied him, her head on one side. “Your tie’s squint,” she said. “Let me fix it for you.”

  She pulled her chair closer to him, and fussed with his immaculate tie.

  Alfie glanced furtively sideways to see Charlie Tennison’s face turn puce.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve been missing a woman’s touch.”

  “Poor baby.”

  She reached out and stroked his cheek. Then her hand found its way to his thigh. Unfortunately, it was unlikely that Charlie Tennison could see the latest move. But when the dessert arrived, an exotically flavoured crème brûlée, Tennison undoubtedly saw his wife insist on feeding a spoonful to Alfie. She licked an imaginary speck of cream off her little finger.

  Funny, there might have been a time when Alfie would have been embarrassed by this sort of behaviour, but right now, he found it vastly amusing that Charles Tennison was having to sit there and watch his wife flirt with the man he had insulted only a few hours previously.

  Alfie wondered if he could provoke Tennison into action. He caught Isobel’s arm and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  He wanted Tennison to leap to his feet, sending crystal and china crashing to the floor. And then he wanted Tennison to take a swing at him. Because that, he knew, would let him release all his pent-up rage. And he would win the fight. He had been shocked earlier by the thought of punching Tennison, but now it seemed funny, a cartoon encounter. He kissed Isobel’s fingertips, one by one.

  But Tennison did nothing, and Alfie set about eating his own crème brûlée, which really was very good.

  David Savile got to his feet and announced that if everyone would care to come on to the terrace in about ten minutes, there would be a display of Japanese fireworks, followed by coffee and liqueurs in the library. People began to stand up, some leaving the dining room. Others made their way to the French windows leading on to the terrace. As the doors were opened, there was a chilly draught.

  “It’s freezing out there,” said Isobel. “I’m going back to the room to get my wrap.” She gave him a look that suggested she expected him to follow her.

  “I’m off for a vape,” announced young Anthea, and headed towards the terrace.

  Oscar came round to Dorian and asked to be introduced to Dame Evadne. Paige Stevens practically ran to be reunited with her husband, and the three of them headed for Dame Evadne’s table.

  Alfie gave Charlie Tennison a victorious smile and contemplated saying something inflammatory, such as: “Perhaps I should go and see how your wife is.”

  But with a muttered expletive, Tennison got up and stormed off in the direction Isobel had gone.

  There was still some wine in the glass: it must have been refilled yet again when he wasn’t looking. Alfie downed it in one.

  With a swish of silk, there was Betty. She sat down at the place recently vacated by Isobel Tennison.

  She was gorgeous. Should he say so? He wasn’t sure. To be honest, he was feeling a little bit the worse for wear. Maybe quite a lot the
worse for wear.

  He smiled lazily at her but she didn’t smile back.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” she snapped, keeping her voice low so that people around couldn’t hear.

  Alfie opened his eyes wide in pantomime surprise. “Me? I’m not playing at anything. I’m just sitting here quietly.”

  “Al, what’s going on between you and that woman?”

  Was Betty jealous? Betty, who always played it cool, who didn’t want to rush into anything?

  “That’s really none of your business,” Alfie said.

  “I think it is.” Her voice was still low, but she was practically spitting out the words.

  “I beg to disagree. You want to know what’s going on between me and Isobel, but that’s none of your business because there’s nothing going on between me and you.”

  She flinched. “I’m sorry?”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. No, he shouldn’t have said that. She looked upset. He didn’t want to upset her.

  “I’m sorry too,” he said. “Sorry we’re not spending the night together.”

  She looked at him, wide-eyed, then stood up to go.

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Hey, don’t be like that. I was just having some fun.”

  She snatched her arm away and left without a word.

  She didn’t understand. It was his fault, he hadn’t explained it properly. She thought he meant he was having fun with Isobel. He would have to tell her that the enjoyment was in provoking Charlie Tennison.

  He should go after her. Maybe best not to. He really was a little bit drunk, and he might say the wrong thing again. Best to leave Betty to calm down.

  He wandered out on to the terrace, where clusters of guests were already gathering. They were at the back of the country house, but it was clear that these grounds were even more grand than the vista at the front. Japanese paper lanterns hung from trees, while stone lanterns marked the stepped path of a cascade of water leading down to a small lake. Alfie wondered if this was the famous SUDS pond. He would have to ask Phoebe when he saw her. But the terrace was packed and he couldn’t see her in the throng. He thought he spotted David Savile in a crowd at the other side of the terrace and then he saw Oscar waving, and negotiating his way towards him.

  When he reached Alfie, he announced: “She’s gone to bed.”

  “Betty? Isobel?” asked Alfie but Oscar’s answer was drowned out by an audio system broadcasting Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks as the display began.

  The dark sky was punctured by dazzling light. Alfie had learned on his travels that the Japanese word for fireworks, hanabi, meant “fire flowers.” And the bursts of colour, reflected in the cascade, were as delicate and ephemeral as flowers.

  There were gasps of excitement from the guests at each fresh explosion. Many of them, no doubt including the young actress, were holding up their phones, taking photograph after photograph.

  The display ended with a cascade of gold, echoing the water below, and a crescendo of wild applause.

  David Savile came over to them, grinning.

  “A triumph,” said Oscar. “The countryside is a truly wonderful place.”

  “Oscar loving the countryside – that really is a triumph,” said David. “Now come inside and get warmed up – hot coffee in the library.”

  Alfie took a step and stumbled slightly. He wasn’t feeling quite steady on his feet. Whoever Oscar had said had gone to bed had the right idea. He wanted to lie down and sleep. Even the couch seemed an attractive option.

  And then he was abruptly roused by a high-pitched scream. A woman. Inside the house.

  6. The Police Arrive

  The screaming continued. David, followed by Oscar and Alfie, ran through the dining room and into the grand hall. A waitress was leaning against the wood-panelled wall, hysterical.

  And at the foot of the stairs knelt Charlie Tennison, holding Isobel who lay limp in his arms.

  “No!” howled Tennison, shaking his wife, whose head flopped sideways, revealing bloodstained hair. The marble floor was stained red.

  Alfie froze. Had Charlie Tennison just murdered his wife? Had he been incensed by her flirting? Was this Alfie’s fault? He had wanted to provoke Tennison into attacking him, not Isobel. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have drunk so much.

  The waitress tottered towards Oscar and collapsed on to his shoulder. He had to put both arms round her to keep her upright.

  David was already speaking urgently to the 999 operator. Rosemary Savile came running in from another part of the house and knelt down beside Tennison. Alfie saw her take Isobel’s pulse and remembered she had been a nurse. She looked up at her husband and briefly shook her head. Guests were beginning to gather at the edge of the marble-floored hallway, gawping.

  Rosemary got up and quickly shooed them back down the corridor to the dining room.

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, I’ll have coffee brought to you.”

  She came back to Tennison and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Charlie,” she said softly. “Charlie, I’m so sorry, she’s gone.”

  “No!” It was a bellow of despair. Charlie held his wife closer, his face next to hers.

  “Charlie, my dear. Come with me, come on now.”

  He shook his head stubbornly, clinging to the body.

  “I’m sorry, Isobel, I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears pouring down his cheeks. “I never meant to hurt you. I love you.”

  Alfie saw Rosemary exchange a shocked look with David. But she stayed where she was, stroking Tennison’s hair as though he was a distraught child. It was clear they couldn’t get him away from Isobel except by brute force.

  He was sobbing now, repeating over and over again how sorry he was, and how much he loved her.

  David turned to Alfie and Oscar. “Nothing more we can do until the emergency services arrive,” he said in an undertone. “Oscar, take Lucy into the library and get her a drink. Alfie, you stay here and keep an eye on Charlie, and I’ll get the other guests occupied.”

  Even if he hadn’t been instructed to stay, Alfie couldn’t have gone anywhere. He felt queasily sluggish. He leaned against the wainscoting and watched Oscar half-drag the waitress now hiccupping with sobs into the library.

  Suddenly, there was a mechanical whirring from somewhere nearby, and Alfie nearly jumped out of his skin. The grandfather clock on the other side of the hall chimed the hour, eleven o’clock, and Alfie was still shivering when the final knell died away. Charlie Tennison didn’t seem to hear anything as he cradled his wife’s body.

  He wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard the sound of approaching sirens. But it was clear the ambulance crew could do nothing to help Isobel Tennison.

  The scene now belonged to Sergeant Harold Wilson who had scant sympathy for Charlie Tennison.

  “Get that man out of here,” he barked.

  With difficulty, David managed to pull his cousin to his feet, and guided him into the library, closing the heavy oak door behind them.

  “I want this whole area secured until the forensic team gets here,” Wilson snapped at Rosemary Savile. “Nobody goes up or down that staircase, understood?”

  She nodded. “Of course. I’ll make sure everyone goes by the staff corridors and stairs. Is it all right if they go to bed if they want?”

  Wilson made a show of thinking about it. “I suppose so. I don’t expect I’ll be taking statements from everyone until tomorrow. But nobody leaves this house until I say so.”

  Rosemary responded calmly: Alfie imagined it was how she would have dealt with a difficult patient on the ward. “The guests are all still here, but some of the staff have already left. I’ll get you a list of names, and contact details for anyone who’s not here.”

 
; The sergeant gave a disgruntled sniff. “Make sure you do.”

  Rosemary headed in the direction of the dining room.

  Alfie understood why the sergeant seemed even more ill-tempered than usual. Harold Wilson was notoriously work-shy and always made Constable Emma Hollis, Liz’s great-niece, bear the brunt of whatever they had to do. But Emma was off on holiday to Portugal, meaning that Wilson would have to do everything himself.

  Wilson stared at Alfie with his usual loathing. “This is a police matter, McAlister. I want no interference from you or the old ladies.”

  Alfie bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to remind the sergeant how many cases had been solved thanks to Liz, Marge and himself, and how few would have been solved if it had been down to Harold Wilson and his irrational belief that most crime was committed by foreigners. At least in this case, whether Isobel’s death had been accidental or not, it was clear who had been responsible.

  But did he bear some of the responsibility as well? As the sergeant prepared to go into the library, Alfie knew he had to say something.

  “Sergeant, could I have a quick word?”

  “Is this another of your wild theories, Mr McAlister? I can probably manage without it.”

  “It’s information you should have,” said Alfie. “It’s about-”

  He paused and indicated a secluded alcove with two winged armchairs where they could talk without danger of being overheard.

  The sergeant followed him with a sceptical look and took a seat. “Go on.”

  Alfie exhaled. “It’s about what happened. I mean, I don’t know exactly what happened-”

  “Don’t waste police time, Mr McAlister, that’s a very serious offence.”

  “It’s just, I may have had something to do with it.”

  The sergeant’s eyes glinted. He had already arrested Alfie once and, according to Emma, his dearest wish was to see Alfie behind bars permanently.

  “I was-” Alfie stopped. How could he explain?

  “Spit it out,” snapped Wilson. “Or we can discuss it down at the station.”