Birthdays Can Be Murder

by Joyce Cato

  It seemed a bizarre thing to do, until Jenny’s dazed mind finally began to work at something like its proper level. The stranger was obviously the doctor that Chase had mentioned, and he was checking her pulse. Which meant that Alicia Greer, at least, was not dead. Not yet.

  But as Jenny looked at her deathly pale face, she thought she had never seen anyone more close to it. She could only barely make out the very slightest rise and fall of Alicia’s slender breasts as she breathed, as shallowly as a robin. Her long, white, lovely limbs also had a bent, thrashed look, but her convulsions were now obviously over. Her delicate eyelids looked blue, and her painted lips hung obscenely open. She was a pathetic sight.

  Jenny raised her eyes to Keith Harding, and took an involuntary step back. He looked ferocious. Stricken. And vastly terrified. In fact, she’d never seen a stronger, wider range of overpowering emotions on any one human face before. Tears streamed from his eyes unnoticed, for he did not heave with sobs, or gulp, or in any other way express his grief. Instead he stared down at Alicia’s head, his hands shaking as they held on to her.

  Keith looked across at the doctor, his eyes pleading. ‘Don’t let her die.’ His voice was choked, but urgent, and several of the people around them looked away, unable to bear such raw emotion.

  ‘An ambulance is on the way,’ the doctor said reassuringly. ‘It will have a stomach pump. We have to hope …’ His voice trailed off, and Jenny understood. Alicia looked so beyond hope it was pitiful.

  Keith bent over his love, and let his tears fall on her unknowing head. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered, so quietly that only the doctor, Jenny and probably Sherri and Mark Greer were close enough to hear him.

  Keith hadn’t, as far as Jenny knew, even looked in Justin’s direction either. Nobody, it seemed, was looking at Justin. With the exception of herself and his parents, did anybody even care that he was gone? Aware that such thoughts could only lead her to hysteria, she shook her head, clearing it and getting a strong grip on herself. She turned away, quite deliberately, and met only blank, disbelieving faces.

  Except for the man stood by the mantelpiece.

  Jenny recognized him immediately. The gatecrasher. So he hadn’t left after all. He was smoking, and his face was merely thoughtful. It came as such a shock to see that level of indifference amongst so much shock and bewilderment, that Jenny actually shivered. The gatecrasher met her gaze, hesitated, as if unwilling to acknowledge her, then smiled, as if recognizing the inevitable. His eyes narrowed on her, sensing trouble.

  Jenny looked away. Later, she thought grimly. Later.

  Unable to stop, and feeling like a magnet drawn by some macabre force, she found herself once more looking down at Justin Greer. The rage was still there, deep in her soul, but she was channelling it now. Nobody deserved to die like this. In convulsions, in pain and fear, at their own birthday party, and seeping out their life in front of hundreds of gaping people.

  Whoever had done it would not get away with it.

  A nagging feeling of something being missing had been teasing her subconscious ever since she’d entered the room, and suddenly she knew what it was. Jenny looked around but, as expected, she could not see the face she was seeking.

  Where was Tom Banks?

  Jenny’s lips thinned. She would be glad when the police arrived. This was all getting too much – way too much. Turning back for the final time, needing to get back to her kitchen, wanting with a longing that was almost physical to return to her normal, safe world, she glanced once more at Justin and Alicia Greer, and shook her head.

  It was just as she started to turn away that she noticed that Keith Harding was staring now into the crowd, and the look on his face was so strange, so enigmatic, that it stopped her dead. Tracing the path of his eyes, feeling almost afraid to see, but knowing that she must, she realized that Keith Harding was staring at his wife.

  Margie.

  Jenny had almost forgotten about Margie. Now, as she too looked at the frizzy-haired blonde woman, she saw that Margie Harding was stood statue-still, her eyes wide and dark with a strangely triumphant expression. She looked neat and efficient in her forged waitress’s uniform. To complete the picture, she was still holding her tray, professionally steady and at the recommended waist level.

  The tray, Jenny noticed with deep and grim dismay, was full of champagne glasses.

  Ten

  THE KITCHEN WAS so quiet that Jenny could hear the cat snoring. She wasn’t sure where he was – perhaps in the big mixing bowl under the sink, a favourite ambush spot – but the wheezy sleeping sound was offset only by the mechanical precision of the ticking clock. Chase put the kettle on for the fifth time. It was nearly two in the morning. The ambulance had arrived and taken Alicia away. Nobody yet knew whether she was alive or dead.

  The police had followed on shortly after, and everyone had been ushered from the ballroom into side rooms. Constables were now taking the names and addresses of the last of the guests, who’d been leaving in small numbers during the early hours.

  Jenny had pointed out to a very young-looking constable the gatecrasher, and recommended that he take good care in checking his identity before allowing him to leave. She wouldn’t have put it past that cold-thinking, slippery individual to leave a false name and non-existent address. She could only hope that the constable was not as inexperienced as he had appeared.

  Chase handed out yet more cups of tea. Vera was asleep in the chair and he left her cup on the sideboard beside her. It was an oddly touching gesture. In normal circumstances, Jenny suspected that not even torture would have made Chase do something as menial as make the daily a cup of tea. Jenny smiled her thanks as she was given her own cup, but left it cooling on the kitchen table.

  Everybody started nervously when the door opened, and a constable asked them to come to the library. Martha shook Vera awake, and they all trooped out like weary and chastised schoolchildren.

  The library was crowded with catering staff. Faces were white with exhaustion and lips were pinched tight in tension. Even Georges seemed to have lost some of his verve and vim. Wearily, one or two on the sofa moved over, allowing Martha to sit, and a young waiter hastily took his feet off a chair as Chase gave him a killing glance. Vera disappeared to a window seat, shrinking back behind the curtains as if they could hide her from the hideous events of the night. Jenny took one of the wooden-backed chairs, no doubt scrounged from various rooms, and sat with her back to the wall.

  It was, as it was to turn out, a very apt choice.

  For a while, nobody spoke. The constable standing at the door and looking as if he expected one of them to try and make a bolt for it at any moment stifled the inclination to talk very effectively. Finally, it was Martha who could bear no more.

  ‘Have the police talked to you yet?’ she asked the limp waitress next to her, who shook her head wordlessly.

  ‘Any word on Miss Alicia?’ Chase asked, of no-one in particular. Nobody spoke. It came almost as a relief when the door opened and Inspector Mollineaux walked in, with Sergeant Mollern at his side. The resident staff knew them at once, of course, but the catering staff eyed them both with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Jenny could well imagine what they were thinking. Sergeant Mollern looked as if he caught (and ate) perpetrators for breakfast, whilst Mollineaux looked formidably intelligent.

  ‘Sorry to keep you all waiting. I’m Inspector Mollineaux,’ the grey-haired policeman introduced himself, his accent totally lacking any inflexion whatsoever. ‘This is Sergeant Mollern.’

  There were half-hearted murmurs of greeting, but nobody was surprised when Inspector Mollineaux remained standing. The polite greeting was as socially relaxed as the policeman intended to become. ‘There’s no need to tell you all that there’s been a tragedy here tonight,’ he began, looking around. His eyes, Jenny noticed, were of a peculiarly colourless variety tonight. If pressed, she could only call them grey.

  No doubt being called to The Beeches for a seco
nd time, to deal with a second death, had left him feeling in a rather grey mood as well. ‘Mr Justin Greer is dead. I have no news, yet, of the condition of Miss Alicia Greer, but at the moment we are working on the assumption that Mr Greer was murdered.’

  There was a ripple of sound, but nobody was really surprised.

  ‘I have been talking to the guests, and now have a good general idea of the events of the night. However, since this was a birthday party, and you, as staff, had much more to do with the actual running of the show, so to speak, my sergeant and I now want to hear from you in much more exact and precise details, concerning the events of this evening.’

  The group looked around uneasily but Mollineaux seemed impervious to the fear in the room. No doubt he was used to it. Sergeant Mollern, Jenny noticed vaguely, was jotting down notes so quickly it could only have been in shorthand, and she felt herself relax a little. They might have been forced to tread warily around the Jimmy Speight case, but now they had the bit well and truly between their teeth, and it boded well for the investigation. No policeman was at his best when he had superiors constantly breathing down their necks to take it easy and not upset the VIPs.

  ‘Since we are not yet totally sure of the cause of death in Mr Justin Greer’s case, we’ll begin, tonight, with the arrival of the first guests. I shall ask questions, and whichever of you feels most able to help should answer. Is that clear?’

  Jenny found it very clear indeed, but wondered how many of the others did. His reference to what they would discuss ‘tonight’ could only mean hours and hours of more questioning in the days to come.

  ‘Very well. We’ll begin with the first guests. Who is the butler here?’ As if he didn’t know!

  Chase coughed once, then stiffened as the eyes of the inspector fell on him. ‘You are?’

  ‘Chase, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, Chase. You admitted the first guests?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Drake, sir.’

  Jenny noticed Mollern glance at a list of guests and mark their names. He gave the inspector nothing more than a look, but it spoke volumes. Jenny relaxed even more. These men had obviously worked together a great deal, probably for years, and she was glad. She had the feeling that discovering Justin’s (and possibly Alicia’s) killer was not going to be easy. And Jimmy Speight’s killer? The thought slipped into her mind so craftily it almost made her jump. But just because there’d been a murder tonight, did it really necessarily follow that Jimmy had been murdered too? She rather thought that it did. If not, then it was one hell of a coincidence, Jenny mused sourly. Perhaps Jimmy had seen the soon-to-be killer of Justin doing something incriminating, and so had had to be silenced beforehand? Or had Jimmy Speight been in on the plan all along, and his accomplice had decided that he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and so had silenced him before the murder investigation of Justin could get underway?

  Things were beginning to get very complicated.

  ‘Can you tell me, as near as you can remember, the sequence of arriving guests that followed?’

  Chase did admirably well, all things considered, and Jenny could see that the inspector thought so too. He was already mentally noting down Chase as an excellent witness.

  ‘Now, the dinner, not the party, began when?’

  ‘Six-thirty.’ Again, it was Chase who appeared to have been elected spokesman and nobody seemed keen to disagree with the unspoken decision.

  ‘Right. And it was served by whom?’

  Chase pointed out the waiters and waitresses. As head waiter, Georges was obliged to take over the description and progression of the meal. This he did in great culinary detail, with neither policeman attempting to stop him. Each course was described, the method of transportation and order of serving, plus the approximate time of arrival in the dining room.

  ‘And this was all prepared by?’

  Jenny sighed deeply and rose a hand. ‘Myself, Inspector.’

  Mollineaux turned and looked at her. Getting no reaction from his superior, Mollern looked again at his boss, then glanced sharply at the cook. ‘Refresh my memory, Miss Starling,’ Mollineaux said slowly, although they were both aware that it needed no such jogging. ‘You were hired by?’

  ‘Alicia Greer.’

  ‘When?’

  Jenny obligingly told him. She then went on to describe in detail where she’d purchased every single item of food, and Mollern made a separate list of the foodstuffs that came directly from the garden. Mollineaux then had the temerity to inquire about what lengths she went to to ensure hygiene, and was given a very precise lecture that had Georges beaming with approval, and left neither policeman in any doubt whatsoever that food poisoning could not possibly have originated from neglect.

  Jenny had no doubt, however, that an army of police specialists were even now ransacking the kitchen and taking samples of anything and everything they could find. She wondered what they’d make of the cat when they found it. Not that she’d ever allowed its presence to compromise her food.

  ‘I see,’ Mollineaux said neutrally as Jenny’s stint finally came to an end. ‘So, after the dinner was over, the guests joined the others in the ballroom and marquee. What time did the party guests – as opposed to the diners – begin to arrive?’

  Once more, Chase stepped into the breech. Apparently, the rooms had begun to fill as early as seven o’clock. Various waiters and waitresses reported circulating with the food, wine and champagne. Everyone agreed that the party was a roaring success. The band had already been questioned, and Jenny could only guess at the mental collations going on in Sergeant Mollern’s head. Who had done what. When. Where. Who had become drunk. Who had left early. Slowly, over the next few hours, the map of the party was being painstakingly spread out before the police.

  The diners had left the dining room at about eight, and then the party really began to swing. Everyone agreed that Alicia danced mostly with ‘her young man’, as Chase so elegantly put it. Babs Walker, it seemed, had danced with almost every male in the room, with the exception of Arbie Goulder. Every guest, as far as the waiters and waitresses could remember, had eaten of the savouries, a satisfying number of them complimenting the unknown cook. Everyone had drunk the champagne and wine, with the exception of two guests – one due to medical reasons, the other on the grounds of religion. Most had had the forethought to come in taxis, and thus weren’t driving.

  ‘Very well.’ Although dawn was by now beginning to break beyond the library windows, Mollineaux still looked as fresh as a daisy. ‘Now, it’s getting on towards midnight at the party. We’ve got the names of the guests who left early – Judge Wainwright and his wife, due to their age, and Miss Lucy Jones and her escort due to, er, probably amorous intentions.’ Nobody snickered. It was not a snickering occasion. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The cakes came in, sir,’ Chase said, and Jenny remembered the two waiters who had come to the kitchen to carry Alicia’s fancy cake out. It was, to all intents and purposes, the ‘main’ cake. Justin’s, a more modest affair, had been carried out just after.

  ‘It had candles?’

  ‘Yes. I put them on,’ Jenny admitted. ‘And lit them.’

  ‘It looked a lovely sight,’ Georges piped up, his remembered admiration for the cake overriding momentarily his desire to be as inconspicuous as possible. There was a low murmur of agreement.

  ‘Indeed it did, sir,’ Chase agreed, taking up the story once more. Jenny began to suspect that he was beginning to enjoy his moment in the limelight. ‘With the lights off, and only the candles burning, everybody applauded.’

  ‘The lights went off?’ Mollineaux prompted.

  ‘Yes, sir. It was one of the highlights of the evening.’

  ‘Of course. And who gave the signal? For the lights to be switched off, I mean?’

  ‘Miss Greer.’

  ‘Alicia Greer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I
see. And she was stood where?’

  ‘By the table with the presents, I think,’ Chase said.

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ one of the waiters spoke up. ‘She was by the champagne table.’

  ‘Was anyone else with her?’ Mollineaux turned to the young man, who scratched his head in thought. ‘Her boyfriend. And that funny fat bloke in the white suit.’

  ‘Mr Goulder?’

  ‘Dunno his name. He was the only one wearing a white dinner suit.’

  Mollern nodded.

  ‘Anyone else? This was the table that housed the champagne that was shortly to be used in the toast?’ Mollineaux clarified.

  ‘Yes it was,’ yet another waiter spoke up. ‘I’d just popped the corks on them. Miss Greer told me the toasts were to come straight after the cutting of the cake.’

  Mollineaux nodded. ‘So, standing around this table were Miss Greer, Mr Keith Harding, and Mr Goulder. Anyone else?’

  ‘That tiny blonde lady was there,’ a waitress’s timid voice piped up from the back. ‘The one in that lovely scarlet dress.’ After a quick debate, they all agreed she was referring to Babs Walker.

  Jenny could feel her heart begin to pound sickeningly. This was terrible. Were all the prime suspects gathered at that damned table? And why was the inspector so interested? It seemed to confirm that it was the champagne that had been poisoned after all, that it wasn’t just a melodramatic rumour doing the rounds.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Mr Banks, sir,’ Chase spoke up. ‘I remember now. I was looking at Miss Greer so’s not to miss her cue to turn off the lights, and I remember her turning and saying something to Mr Banks.’

  ‘You were the one to turn off the lights?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Mr Banks is?’ Mollineaux asked, although he already knew the answer.

  For the first time, Chase began to look uncomfortable. ‘He is, or was rather, an employee of Mr Greer’s company, sir.’