by L. C. Tyler
Robert just grinned broadly and said: ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘A very large one might make up a little for what I have suffered. I hope the cooking tonight is going to be better than the butlering.’
‘Not much Christian forgiveness there,’ Elsie said in a whisper, though possibly not enough of a whisper because Felicity immediately looked in her direction.
Annabelle took charge of Felicity, as one does with a guest that one wishes to dispose of safely and quickly. With a firm hand on Felicity’s upper arm, she headed determinedly in my direction. I found myself formally introduced to Felicity as briefly as could be decently done. Annabelle took Clive Brent and manhandled him away to be introduced, presumably, to more interesting people.
Felicity Hooper and I sized each other up for a moment. I decided her face was vaguely familiar, and for a moment there was a half-expectant look on her part – the look you give somebody who ought to recognize you, but hasn’t. So perhaps we had coincided at one of the smaller literary festivals. Luton? I’d find out sooner or later.
She asked an opening question or two, which gave me no helpful clues, and I lied briefly about my sales figures.
‘Well done you,’ she said, her look telling me that she didn’t believe a word of it.
Though I hadn’t met her before (had I?) I knew roughly how her sales were. Occasionally she edged into the bestseller lists printed in the Sunday Times. She regularly appeared on the tables at the front of Waterstone’s where her books were piled in drifts, ten deep. They were usually labelled ‘three for two’. My own books slipped in modestly through the back door when nobody was looking, and found themselves obscure slots in the crime section, or (in the case of Amanda Collins) in the increasingly rare sections marked ‘Romantic Fiction’.
‘And yours?’ I asked.
‘Making the Richard and Judy list helped,’ she said. ‘Didn’t they include one of yours a while back?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘So they didn’t.’
‘I think that the Amanda Collins series isn’t perhaps the sort of thing they go for – or the J. R. Elliot series for that matter.’
‘Their list has been very well chosen lately.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you write under your own name?’ demanded Felicity suddenly.
I didn’t know – other than that I don’t especially like my own name. The various names I had selected all seemed good choices at the time. I put this theory forward.
‘And Amanda Collins?’ she asked with raised eyebrows. ‘You think you look like an Amanda?’ She eyeballed me as though this question was more significant than it appeared at first sight.
‘My photograph doesn’t appear on the cover,’ I said. ‘So it doesn’t really matter. Actually, I think that most of the people who write for that particular imprint do so under assumed names. We rarely choose to meet up with each other, so I can’t be certain.’
This didn’t seem to be the answer that Felicity was expecting, but our conversation was interrupted by the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. This time Robert sprang to attention and headed for the front door. He returned with a youngish couple, who seemed to complete the party because he said to Annabelle in passing: ‘I’ve locked the front door.’
‘A bit late for that,’ said Felicity loudly.
‘I agree,’ said Elsie, who had materialized at my side. ‘Half the villains in Sussex could have been in and out by now with the family silver. If this was Cluedo, we’d have all been murdered.’
‘As you yourself said, only Dr Black is murdered in Cluedo,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s one of the guests that does it. The question is: which guest and with which weapon.’
‘That’s odd, when you think about it,’ said Elsie. ‘If they’ve found Dr Black’s body, you’d think they’d at least be able to tell if he’s been strangled, shot or stabbed, wouldn’t you? Silly tossers.’
‘It merely shows,’ said Felicity, ‘what a ridiculous genre crime is. It is exactly like Cluedo. Six or seven stock suspects, all with a motive and, strangely, an opportunity. Then you put them all together in a country house somewhere, with a convenient excuse as to why the police cannot investigate the murder themselves.’
‘That may be a typical Agatha Christie plot,’ I said, ‘but you obviously haven’t read—’
Felicity waved away Colin Dexter, Elmore Leonard, P. D. James, Ruth Rendell and indeed myself with a quick flick of her hand. ‘You need to deal with real issues that confront real families,’ she said. ‘Or do you ever venture into the twenty-first century and mention problems like global warming?’
‘Occasionally,’ I said.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Elsie loyally. She held out her hand to Felicity. ‘Elsie Thirkettle. Literary agent. I turned down your first book.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ said Felicity.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ said Elsie.
From somewhere a long way off the noise of a gong resonated through the dimly lit corridors and rooms of Muntham Court. Each of us suspended the conversation that we were engaged in and proceeded, in carefully thought-out pairs, towards the dining room – another location on the Cluedo board, as it happens.
I found myself amongst more oak panelling and seated next to Annabelle at one end of the table. Elsie was at the far end, next to Robert. Half of the newly arrived couple was on my left. She was petite and dressed primly in a dark green, full-length dress with a high neckline. Somebody had spent a lot of time on her hair, which had been carefully and slightly conservatively styled. She had a nervous fragility about her, and occasionally she glanced towards her husband on the other side of the table.
‘Is this your first visit to Muntham Court?’ I asked, as soup was served by somebody who was, all too evidently, the assistant gardener in a borrowed black jacket and trousers of a slightly different colour – navy blue, possibly, though it was difficult to tell in that light.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, flinching as generous quantities of soup were aimed more or less at her plate. ‘Gerald and I live in Crawley. He’s a solicitor there.’
‘Are you a solicitor as well?’
She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Me? No, I’m not that clever. I used to be a secretary . . . in a bank, you know. In London. But since we had Scott, I haven’t worked.’
I assumed Scott must be an infant of some description, which proved to be the case.
‘He’s almost eighteen months now,’ she said, as if that was some sort of record for West Sussex.
I repeated his age with what I hoped was sufficient incredulity, and she nodded proudly. ‘He’s going to be very musical,’ she said, ‘and here’s how we know why. It’s terribly amusing.’
Surprisingly, it wasn’t amusing, even when described at some length. While feigning complete attention, I surreptitiously took a small sip of the wine that had been poured into my glass earlier. Then I immediately took a second much larger sip and raised my eyebrows in surprise. Contrary to what the McIntoshes had predicted, the wine was excellent. The solicitor’s wife beamed at me, assuming from my expression that she had finally found somebody who displayed an appropriate degree of reverence and awe for Scott’s achievements. I ruthlessly used this brief pause in her monologue to turn back to Annabelle on my other side.
‘It’s an impressive place you have here,’ I said.
‘Next time you come, you must see the gardens,’ she said, leaning towards me in a confidential manner. She was clearly unaware how low-cut her dress was. I tried to avoid admiring her cleavage too obviously.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Are they very big?’
She leaned forward a little more. ‘You’ll have to explore them and find out.’
I caught a hint of expensive perfume and had a brief but disconcerting vision of a fly being led into the fragrant but deadly depths of a pitcher plant. ‘I’d be delighted,’ I said.
Then, disconcertingly, she ad
ded: ‘John looks after them terribly well.’
‘John?’
‘The gardener. He looks after the gardens very well. Wonderful hands. You’d be amazed what he can do with them. Do you have green fingers, Ethelred?’
My eye caught Elsie’s at the far end of the table.
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I don’t have any sort of fingers at all.’
I turned back to the lady on my left, who had been silently crumbling the remains of her bread roll. ‘So, your son is going to be musical, is he? That’s terribly interesting.’
The detritus of the main course was being inexpertly removed from the table, when Robert Muntham got unsteadily to his feet and tapped a wine glass. We all turned from our respective conversations and looked towards him, perhaps with varying expectations as to what sort of entertainment we were to receive. Annabelle’s face showed some surprise, as if a speech at this stage had not been planned. Scott’s mother seemed mildly put out that her account of her son’s development had been interrupted. Colin McIntosh was frowning and for a moment I wondered whether he would intervene and make his own announcement – then he sank back into his chair in a resigned way. But, for the most part, the guests showed nothing more than mild curiosity.
‘Although Annabelle and I moved into Muntham Court some months ago,’ Robert began, ‘this is a kind of house-warming. It is the first time we have had a group of close friends sitting here in our modest little dining room. Nor are you a random selection. Each of you has a very special place in my life and I wanted each of you to be here for this very special evening – an evening that, I am confident in saying, none of you will forget.’
‘Will there be fireworks?’ called Clive, who had clearly relaxed a little under the influence of the wine.
There was a brief ripple of laughter – but there was still a strange tension in the air. It isn’t just hindsight – even at that point I knew something wasn’t quite as it should be. Something was about to go badly wrong.
‘Fireworks?’ asked Robert. ‘Of a sort, maybe. For the moment, however, I merely wish to drink the health of everyone here round the table.’
He smiled at us with a sincerity that was almost malevolent, and then slowly raised his glass. ‘To my chums!’ We drank and for a moment that appeared to be that. Robert was swaying slightly on his feet and I thought he was about to sit down when he straightened himself and added: ‘Yes, fireworks, Clive. Not a bad metaphor for life really. One glorious burst of colour, then you slip to the ground, burnt out and unnoticed. It’s nothing at all, really. Nothing at all. Now if you will excuse me for a moment, I just need to go off into the next room.’
He bowed to us all, walked briskly to the door and vanished from sight.
I turned to Annabelle, hoping for some further explanation but she was already starting to address the room more generally. She looked round the table and gave a funny little laugh. ‘Let me say, I have no idea at all what that was about. I would suggest that you talk amongst yourselves until Robert returns with whatever surprise he has cooked up – and for which I take no responsibility whatsoever.’
There was a burst of laughter – the sort of laughter that indicates relief rather than amusement – at this last remark, and the conversation started up again; but I noticed that Annabelle took little part in it and looked anxiously towards the door from time to time. Once she left and then returned a few minutes later, having presumably given instructions to the kitchen to delay the next course.
‘Well,’ she said, when a good quarter of an hour had elapsed without Robert reappearing. ‘I have no idea what has happened to my husband, but rather than make you all sit here with no dessert, would anyone like a quick tour of the ground floor?’
Elsie, Fiona, Felicity and the lady on my left all immediately showed some enthusiasm for this.
‘Very well,’ said Annabelle, ‘a tour for the ladies then.’ She stood up suddenly, as though keen to begin. Colin had one hand on the wine bottle, a venerable magnum of red that had appeared on the table during the second course. He seemed to be turning it carefully so that Annabelle would not see the label. He hesitated and then shook his head in response to the question.
‘What about Amanda?’ said Felicity Hooper, turning to me. ‘I think that Amanda here should certainly join the ladies.’
Since most of those present did not know all or any of my pen-names, this caused puzzled glances in my direction. I felt that I was being got at, but did my best to smile.
‘Thanks, I’ll stay here,’ I said. ‘The wine is very good.’
‘But our little group of ladies would not be complete without you,’ said Felicity.
‘I’m fine,’ I said in a way I still hoped showed as little irritation as possible. ‘Thanks, Felicity, I’m very happy as I am.’
‘Maybe the boys would like to come too?’ Annabelle had paused halfway to the door. She was keen to be gone and wanted to cut through whatever Felicity’s little game was and get on with things.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Colin with a yawn. ‘Just to keep you company. We’re not as nosy as you girls, but I suppose it would be good to stretch our legs.’
‘So, the men will join us,’ said Annabelle, her hand now on the door handle. ‘Let’s go then.’
‘Except Ethelred, obviously,’ said Felicity, ‘since he has made it clear he prefers his wine to our company.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant, but never mind,’ I said. I stretched across the table and poured myself a glass from the magnum. Though we had drunk a lot of it, the bottle still felt promisingly heavy.
‘I think I’ll stay too,’ said Elsie.
‘Whatever you wish,’ said Annabelle, giving the door handle an impatient twist. ‘The tour will commence straight away with whomsoever would like to join me.’
I heard her footsteps proceeding rapidly down the corridor. The other guests followed at their own pace in ones and twos, Colin and Fiona topping up their glasses before they went. Thus Elsie and I found ourselves alone in the cavernous dining room.
Elsie wandered round the table and flopped down next to me in Annabelle’s chair.
‘Is Felicity an old friend of yours?’ she enquired.
‘Friend? Apparently not,’ I said. ‘I’ve no idea what I’ve done to annoy her either. Go and join the rest if you want, I’m fine.’
‘One house is much like another,’ she said.
I drank my wine thoughtfully. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was remarkably good. I tried to remember if I had ever had better. Surely it deserved to have been decanted? Elsie looked out of the window at whatever could be seen in the fading light. I was suddenly aware that the summer was almost at an end. Colder days and darker evenings would soon be with us. For a while neither of us said anything. Somewhere a long way off we could hear a clock ticking. The quarter-hour chimed.
‘Pretty quiet evening,’ Elsie observed.
It was at that point that we heard feet approaching rapidly over a tiled floor. Annabelle burst into the room.
‘Ethelred,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness you’re still here. Come quickly! Something terrible has just happened . . .’
Four
So, it wasn’t that dull an evening after all – dagger in the ballroom was my best guess at that point, which shows how wrong even I can be sometimes.
Of course, there were things we should have spotted even at that stage, but Ethelred is not the most observant of people, as you will have already gathered from his narrative. Later – much later – back in his flat, I was able to fill him in on a number of things as I replayed the events of the evening.
Let’s take you back an hour or two . . .
Ethelred kindly drove me to Muntham Court. I tried to dissuade him, but he insisted. He obviously didn’t want me to ruin a perfectly good pair of Manolos just to get a breath of country air – Manolos being expensive and the other thing pretty widely available.
Chez Muntham proved to be one of these pseudo-olde-worlde
joints that were put up by the Victorians and that nobody has had time to knock down yet. It had probably had a lucky escape in the fifties or early sixties, when people of taste went around with sledge-hammers and wrecking balls. Muntham Court (I do wish to be fair as always) was reasonably big – but there wasn’t much else to compensate for its being in the middle of nowhere. It was the sort of place you could get bored in pretty quickly-unless you happened to have the sort of gardener that they did. I caught a glimpse of him, wearing no shirt, but with much else to commend him, wheeling a barrow of garden stuff (don’t expect me to be more specific) off into the distance. I wondered whether I could find an excuse to take a turn round the grounds later. I could always carry my shoes and/or get them covered with mud, if it was a good enough cause.
There was a large green car already parked in front of the house, but we appeared to be amongst the first to arrive. We were immediately greeted by some slapper in a blue dress, who had clearly never come across the expression ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ – though I thought I might usefully acquaint her with the phrase as the evening went by. She certainly didn’t look like somebody who’d have a husband called ‘Shagger’.
‘Ethelred,’ said Mrs Shagger, latching onto him as if he were a two-for-one offer at Lidl. ‘It’s so sweet of you to come. And this must be Elise?’
I am not, and have no plans to be, any type of Elise. I mentioned this in passing.
‘Elsie, of course,’ said the slapper. ‘And you must call me Annabelle.’
She smiled in a way that threatened to crack her make-up, rock solid though it was, and we proceeded through a number of large and unnecessary rooms into a refuge for moth-eaten palm trees. It was set out for drinks, but we were the only drinkers so far. Well, it was still early doors.
‘Now, Elise . . .’
‘Elsie.’
‘. . . a spot of champagne?’
‘Lemonade,’ I said. I do sometimes drink champagne, but not the cheap stuff I reckoned might be on offer.
‘And you, Ethelred?’
The way he’d been looking at her since he came in, I would have thought anything served up in a doggy bowl would have been fine with Ethelred, as long as it came from her fair hands and was accompanied by a pat on the head and a scratch behind the ears.
