Merry Murders Everyone

by David W Robinson

  Trelfus’s accusation – if it were true – threw all of Joe’s theories up in the air. How come Gemma had never said anything about the murder of the old man’s daughter?

  The silent question bounced around his head, and he recalled his niece’s story of Trelfus’s granddaughter turning up at the station. Gemma had said she would send the woman to him, but she had not yet been in touch, and Sunday being a Sunday, especially three days before Christmas, it was unlikely that he would see her before the New Year.

  His phone tweeted for attention, announcing a text message. He ignored it and focused his attention on the couple, at which point he realised Denny and Vanessa were waiting for him to say something. “He definitely said that someone had murdered his daughter?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And he thought it was you?”

  “Now you’re getting the picture. Is that it? Only when that lazy bag of bones decides to move his fat, idle butt and get dressed, we have Christmas shopping to do.” She waved a shaking hand at her husband, identifying him as the ‘lazy bag of bones’ in question.

  “No. That’s it.” Joe got to his feet. “I’m not going to apologise for bothering you. I’m trying to clear your brother’s name, and if you and Denny had been busy doing something else, I’d have still rung your doorbell.” He placed just enough meaning on the words ‘something else’ to telegraph his meaning. “I’ll have to have a word with our Gemma, see what she can tell me. I’ll be in touch.”

  From there, Joe climbed into his car, and opened up the text message. It was from Brenda.

  Meeting in progress. You’re getting some stick. Where are you?

  He quickly put together a reply. On my way. After sending it off, he fired the engine, reversed into a nearby street, and turned left back towards The Lazy Luncheonette.

  Three hundred yards down the road, he turned off, into the car park of the Miner’s Arms, slotting his Vauxhall into a space alongside Brenda’s Peugeot. As he climbed out, he noticed with some consternation, Martin’s upmarket VW parked by the entrance to the bar. Martin was not a member of the 3rd Age Club, but if the meeting concerned Sheila and her illness and the allegations against Martin – as was almost certain – Joe was certain that her husband would be permitted to speak.

  When he entered the top room, it was to find Stewart Dalmer on his feet, capitalising on the internecine divisions in the club.

  “I’ve nothing particularly against Joe Murray,” Dalmer was saying. “He’s served this club well down the years, but this is not the first time he’s let personal considerations impinge upon the membership, and I have to ask, is he the right man to take the Chair.”

  As incumbent chairman, Tanner sat on the dais where Joe usually set up his disco equipment. In her capacity as club treasurer, Brenda sat to one side, and on the other, appearing weak, and shaky, was Sheila, the club secretary. Joe took a seat close to the dais, and Brenda cast a concerned glance at him. Sheila’s look at his direction appeared more in anticipation of his potential downfall than his current welfare.

  While Dalmer carried on in what was clearly a campaign speech – he was Joe’s only rival in the forthcoming election for a new Chair – Joe cast a glance around the room.

  Meetings were usually lively, often argumentative, but by and large, the membership got on well, and there was a good deal of joking. This time, the faces were grim, set hard, and it was impossible to guess how many would come down on his side. George Robson and his mate, Owen Frickley, stood at the rear of the room, propping up the bar. Alec and Julia Staines were in the middle, Mort Norris and his wife were off to one side, and behind them was Mavis Barker, who appeared as if she had already drunk her Sunday lunch. Tucked away in a corner, along with the Pyecocks and Cyril Peck, was Martin, as grim-faced as anyone else, his eyes straying constantly between Sheila, Brenda and Joe.

  Dalmer finished his speech with a plea for the members to elect, “someone who will set aside personal issues and put the club first.”

  As he sat down, Tanner got to his feet. “Right, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve heard from Mrs Naylor, we’ve heard from Mrs Jump, so I think the time is come to put matters to a vote. I need a couple of tellers and—”

  Joe got to his feet and interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr Chairman, but you haven’t heard from me.”

  “With respect, Joe, the meeting is about you.”

  “And I’m not allowed to say anything in my defence? I’ve only been here a few minutes, and all I’ve heard is Stewart Dalmer campaigning for your job. If I was appearing in court, it would be my choice whether I spoke in my defence or not. You’re not giving me a choice.”

  From the back of the room, George Robson spoke up. “Let Joe speak.”

  A rhubarb murmur passed around the room, and once again, it was impossible to tell how many people were in favour or against. Paradoxically, it was Sheila who urged Tanner, let Joe have his say.

  Unlike Dalmer, who had simply stood up by his seat, compelling many members to turn their heads and look at him, Joe moved to the front of the dais where everyone could see him.

  “First, I must apologise for my late arrival. Other business prevented me getting here on time. I don’t know what’s been said, but it’s obvious that at the core of the matter is this business of Sheila and my efforts to protect her life.”

  Another murmur ran round the room, and Joe gave it enough time to peter out before going on.

  “It must be common knowledge that I’m suspicious of her husband, and for that, I don’t apologise. But I need you to understand that I’m working as hard to prove Martin innocent as I am to prove him guilty. In other words, I’m sitting on the fence. If anything comes to light which shows me just how wrong I am, then I will apologise without reservation and in public to both Martin and Sheila.”

  The years had granted Joe an ability to deliver a better than adequate speech on the spur of the moment, and he put that experience to good use, allowing a short pause to ensure there was sufficient stress on his next announcement.

  “I’m being pilloried here for my concerns about a member’s welfare. And not just any member but the woman who has acted as your secretary since the club was founded.”

  The accusing shaft was not lost upon them. He could see it in their faces. But only George and Owen applauded, and rounded off with Owen’s urge to, “Make ’em have it, Joe.”

  Almost immediately Martin was on his feet, his face crimson, his shaking finger pointing at Joe. “You accused me of crimes I haven’t committed.”

  “Point of order, Mr Chair,” George called out. “He’s not a member of the club. He has no business saying anything.”

  “Oh, shut up, you fat idiot.”

  Fists clenching, George stepped forward, Martin turned to meet him, Les Tanner rapped for order, the low muttering of the members rose to a confused cacophony. Behind the bar, Eddie, the part-time barman, was already on the phone to the landlord.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Tanner pleaded rapping his pen top loudly on the table.

  He plea fell on deaf ears, and all hell was about to break loose.

  With an irritated cluck, Joe raised his voice. “Stop it. All of you. Owen, get between George and Martin. The rest of you, sit down and shut it.”

  Order was gradually restored, landlord Mick Chadwick, appeared and after Eddie gave him appropriate reassurances, disappeared again, and the arguments reduced to odd murmurs, and Joe remonstrated with them.

  “You’re behaving like schoolkids. And you, Martin, owe George an apology. You wouldn’t speak like that to one of your pupils.”

  “No more than the apology you owe me.” As if to demonstrate that he was the bigger man, Martin faced George. “My apologies, Mr Robson. I let my mouth run away with me.”

  “Shove it.”

  “I’ve told you once, George, knock it off,” Joe said. “Martin has apologised and that should be an end of it.” He concentrated on Martin. “And as for me owing you an apology, I don
’t. Not yet. To set the record straight, I have accused you of nothing. I asked you to explain certain suspicious aspects of your history, and as matters stand, you haven’t explained them satisfactorily. When you do, then I will owe you an apology.”

  Sheila stood unsteadily and as she spoke, Joe whipped his head to the left to look her in the eye. He regretted immediately. He had seen Sheila angry on many occasions, but now her face was filled with hatred.

  “And you set about explaining those by breaking into my back garden, did you? Instead of asking? You decided to prove those by harassing my husband in class, while he was teaching? You set the police on his back and he explained the situation. If it’s good enough for them, it should be for you, too.”

  Joe’s heart sank and he resumed his seat. “I hope you think about that when you’re in your box.”

  Sheila was about to snipe again, but her anger overtook her and she had to sit down, gasping for breath.

  Now Les Tanner prepared to have his say, but Brenda beat him to it.

  “I want it on record that Joe was not alone. Rightly or wrongly, I was with him all the way, including during the so-called break-in at Mrs Naylor’s. If you’re going to lay any sanction on Joe, then I insist that you place them on me, too.”

  Tanner took over. “Thank you, Mrs Jump. What action to take – if any – is the main item of discussion. It’s my feeling that as a friendly organisation we cannot simply overlook this matter, but do we agree or disagree with the actions of our friend and former Chair, Mr Murray?”

  There were rumblings around the room and Joe distinctly heard someone say, ‘…should kick him out’. At the rear, George was still in heated and threatening debate with Martin. Looking around the familiar faces, he knew he could count on support from some quarters – Mavis Barker, Alec an Julia Staines, for example – but there others with whom he’d crossed swords over the years, and they would take a dimmer view of the last few days.

  Without waiting for anyone to contribute to the proceedings, he stood up once again. “You lot should make up your minds. In Cornwall, you were screaming because I didn’t care, now you’re screaming because I do.”

  He marched towards the exit.

  “Mr Murray… Joe…”

  He turned to face the Chair. “I’m sorry, Les, but I’ve already had enough of people slagging me off. Brenda, when you need a drink, I’ll be downstairs.”

  He marched from the room and made his way downstairs to the lounge bar, where he ordered a pint of lager.

  “Send you to Coventry, have they?” Mick Chadwick asked as he pulled the beer.

  “I don’t know and I don’t care, Mick. You do your best for them, and all you get for your trouble is a kick in the teeth.”

  Mick took his money and rang up the sale. Handing over the change, he said, “Tell me about it.” He waved a hand around the room. “I’m best friends with this lot while I’m pulling pints, but you should hear the abuse when I get their change wrong.”

  In no mood to listen to the landlord’s complaints, Joe found an empty corner table, and sat mulling over the mess he had landed himself in. It was not the first time, and he was sure it would not be the last, but it was certainly one of the worst. Sheila had been at pains to point out that in all other instances, Joe fought a determined rearguard on behalf of accused members, but this time he was accusing… Well, not exactly accusing a member, but a man who was close to one.

  He was not alone for long. With the meeting over, the members drifted into the lounge, or began to leave the pub. Brenda called at the bar and collected a drink, and then joined him.

  “Censure motion,” she said. “Against you, but I insisted they added my name to it.”

  Joe grunted humourlessly. “Les sitting on the fence again.”

  “Not really, Joe. He’s in your corner, but as Chair, he can’t come out and say so. So he proposed a censure motion, which is one step short of suspending you, and only two steps the right side of kicking you out altogether. It’s a means of expressing the membership’s disapproval without taking more severe action.”

  Joe watched Martin and Sheila leave the bar and climb into Martin’s car.

  He brought his attention back to Brenda. “I still insist we have it right. That man is too calm for someone facing this kind of allegation. He knows damn well we can’t prove it. Not until he actually kills her, and by then, he’ll have disappeared.”

  Brenda slurped on a Campari and soda. “What can we do? Sheila’s all but disowned us, and you know what Gemma said. If we’re not careful, we could be prosecuted.”

  Joe took a large mouthful of his lager. “I’d rather stand up and defend myself in court than do nothing and watch her die.”

  Even as he said it, Joe knew that there was no way they could narrow down their suspicions.

  “Anything new on the Bailey-stroke-Trelfus business?”

  “What?” Brenda’s question brought Joe from his gloomy thoughts. “Oh. No. Well, an argument with Van Dixon this morning, but it didn’t amount to much. Old Trelfus accused her of murdering his daughter, and this was years ago. Complete twaddle.”

  Brenda sighed. “Why don’t we just forget it all, Joe? Enjoy Christmas?”

  “With a potential death sentence hanging over Sheila? I don’t think so.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day before Christmas Eve saw The Lazy Luncheonette as crowded as ever, beginning in customary fashion with the flood of ravenous Sanford Brewery draymen.

  But it was a surly, snappier Joe than unusual who greeted them. Christmas was less than forty-eight hours away, and he had more urgent matters than dealing with their banter.

  He was equally churlish with his crew, snapping instructions for them, biting when they asked for clarification, and generally no fun to be around.

  Brenda pulled him for it. “You’re taking it out on everyone, Joe, and it’s not fair. It’s not their fault Sheila tried to boot us out of the club.”

  He took the lesson to heart, and made an effort to cool down, but the moment the morning rush was over, he was in his car, on his way to Gale Street, where he sat with his niece, and gave her a piece of his mind.

  “Why didn’t you tell me old Trelfus was accusing people of murdering his daughter?”

  Like Brenda, Gemma was more than equal to it. “Because I didn’t know about it. Next question?”

  Gemma’s answer took the wind from his sails, and he frowned, his brow creasing, eyes narrowing, his mop of curly hair, reaching down towards the bridge of his nose.

  “Hang on a minute. Trelfus is from Sanford, right? He claims his daughter has been murdered, yet the cops don’t know about it? How many more unsolved murders do you have on your books?”

  “To my certain knowledge, none. You helped to clear up most of them. Where did you get your information, and how good is it?”

  “Van Dixon. I called to see her and Denny yesterday morning, because someone had seen or heard Van arguing with Trelfus the day before he was killed. She told me, he’d accused her of murdering his daughter. You know Van. She saw him off in no short order, and she didn’t hang around to ask what he was talking about.”

  Up to her eyes in paperwork, Gemma sighed. “He was non-compus, Joe. I’m still trying to get hold of medical reports on him, but so far, all I’ve learned is that Social Services got a referral, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with them. He was an old man, probably confused, and what he really needed was the help he kept turning down. I’ll look into it. The minute I have a minute. Now is that all, because I’d like to catch up this side of Christmas so I can take a couple of days off.”

  “Just one other thing. You said his granddaughter had been giving you stick, and you were going to push her my way. I haven’t seen anything of her.”

  “I told her she’d find you in Galleries on Saturday. As far as I’m concerned, that was an end of it. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  “You didn’t tell her to check out Sa
nta’s Grotto?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The penny dropped with Joe. “And she’s blonde, about thirty years old, isn’t she?”

  Gemma had heard her uncle put together facts so many times that she was not remotely surprised that he knew. “Go on, then. Dazzle me.”

  Joe smiled for the first time that morning. “She tried everywhere in Galleries. Everywhere but Santa’s Grotto.” He prepared to leave. “All right, chicken, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget, open invitation to you and Howard any time over Christmas and New Year.”

  He was in a slightly better frame of mind, as he drove back to The Lazy Luncheonette, but he was still puzzled over Trelfus’s claim of a murdered daughter, and the police’s lack of knowledge on the matter.

  Although he was no closer to cracking the old man’s killing, or the potential threat to Sheila’s life, he was content with his morning’s progress. He had brought it to Gemma’s attention, and she would institute a search of the national database to see if Trelfus could be linked to any unsolved murders, albeit as a bereaved family member.

  All around him, the streets of Sanford screamed Christmas, and very nearly brought Joe to boiling point. Never fond of Yuletide, this year it had taken a distinctly black turn, and as far as he was concerned, the sooner it was all over and done with, the sooner they went into the dark, dismal days of January, the happier he would be.

  When he got back to the café, changed into his whites, it was to find Brenda bearing news.

  From the kitchen doorway, she angled a surreptitious finger towards the table by the main entrance. “One blonde thirty-something for the use of. She’d been here about half an hour, and specifically asked to speak to you. I gave her a cup of tea and a toasted teacake, and told her you wouldn’t be long. You’d better speak to her, Joe, before she clears off.”

  A chubby woman, her face glowed with health, and Joe guessed that despite her excess weight, she took good care of herself. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, and Joe couldn’t help feeling that he’d seen her before. Something about the jowls, the prim set of her pursed lips, the beginnings of a double chin, and the sharp, blue eyes staring over the rim of for cup. He noticed that her ring finger was adorned with jewellery, amongst it, a gold wedding band.