Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward an empty space. “Oh, sorry; now, who’s taken that chair?”

  He wandered off. I took a closer look at the other people and overheard a nearby woman on the phone say, “We export to Africa as well as EU countries.”

  “Do you share this office?” I asked when Berryfield had returned with a chair from two aisles away.

  “It’s called hot-desking,” he replied as he sat down, pushing a worn black satchel under his feet. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands. “Have you heard of it—hot-desking? You book a desk for a day. It’s quite handy for me, as I am in the middle of relocating and want to test the potential of Bath Spa for my new headquarters. Put my toe in the water, so to speak.”

  He pushed his mouth to the side as if to show he knew how lame that little joke was. He had a pleasant face that was rather long but suited his build, and he had a helpful look. Rather like the fellow who worked behind the fish counter at Waitrose and was always so patient with me while I chose between Dover sole and plaice.

  “How long have you been in Bath, Mr. Berryfield?”

  “Not long—a fortnight. Building a business can’t be rushed, Ms. Burke. And speaking of business, I have done my research and looked into the First Edition Society, Lady Georgiana Fowling, and this world-famous library. I didn’t want you to waste your time getting me up to speed. Better for us to talk about this magnificent event you have in mind.”

  I’d been carrying around a knot of worry inside my chest for days now—the closer the board meeting came, the tighter the knot. But now I felt it begin to loosen. Mr. Berryfield may have chosen a silly name for his company, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a fine exhibition manager. And what was wrong with hot-desking? The general chatter in the room added to the atmospheric energy— it probably boosted business.

  “And,” he continued, “as my own website is currently undergoing redesign, I will take a moment to explain myself. Yes?”

  I, too, had done my research and taken a look at the leaflets he’d sent over to Middlebank as well as what he had to offer online. Both resources contained only the sketchiest of details, and now I knew why—he was in transition. Perfectly reasonable.

  “Yes,” I said, “thank you. Please do tell me about your previous work.”

  “Immersive events, Ms. Burke—those are my specialty and what I would bring to you at the Society. You don’t want people shuffling through rooms half-asleep, reading boring signage, wishing it would all be over so they could get to the tearoom. You want excitement! Activity!”

  He hit his fist on the desk. I jumped.

  “The Golden Age of Mystery. Murder. Detectives.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I see great potential.”

  “Oh, well—” I hadn’t thought we’d need activities.

  Berryfield continued. “I’m probably best known for my one-sixty-fourth-scale replica of the Giant’s Causeway inside the lobby of a coastal museum on the Isle of Man. Why merely walk into an event—how boring is that? There, you had to leap from basalt column to basalt column, and as you stepped on each stone pillar, a selkie song rose up.”

  “My.” I cleared my throat. “Celtic legend comes to . . . er . . . life.”

  His face flushed and his eyes shone.

  “But the Giant’s Causeway is on the coast of Northern Ireland. It’s the North Atlantic,” I said. “How did you give the impression of the sea?”

  “It was easy enough. We lined the lobby, flooded it, and used a wave machine.”

  Wait—this was beginning to sound familiar. “Is that where a man was—”

  “That incident,” Berryfield cut in, “was blown out of all proportion.” A shadow passed over his face. “Yes, there occurred an unfortunate leak in the lining, and the electrics in the building were blown, and there was that one fellow who did come in contact with a—”

  “You electrocuted someone!”

  “The charges were dropped!” Berryfield took a sharp breath and let it out slowly. He put his pleasant smile back up. “But, heigh-ho.”

  “Well, Mr. Berryfield, I believe—”

  “Now, as I see it, for your exhibition, we’ll need a great deal of blood.”

  I shot out of my chair. “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me this morning. Of course, we are in only the initial stages of planning, and so I’ll need to get back to you with more details. Good-bye.”

  Racing down an aisle, I found Zeno Berryfield on my heels, talking the whole while. “I’m sure you’ll love the idea once you know more. It will be no problem getting the blood—I know a fellow with a pig farm. Wait—don’t you want to hear—”

  I made it out the door and down the stairs before he could tell me what he intended to do with the pig’s blood. On the ground floor, I paused—panting, sweating, and near tears.

  * * *

  * * *

  Outdoors, I took a deep breath of cold January air and started up Stall Street as I faced facts. Apart from the idea of an exhibition and a well-thought-out budget, what did we have to tell the Society’s board at the meeting that afternoon? I had promised details. How could I expect them to rally round such a project if we had neither manager nor venue?

  I pulled up at the Minerva, a tiny pub in Northumberland Place, thinking I might chat with Pauline to take my mind off things. Pauline had been our cleaner at Middlebank—during which time she and Adele had met, so I took credit for their relationship. She’d sold that business to manage the pub, but she wasn’t working at the moment, and so I ate a packet of crisps and drank a glass of orange squash and stared unseeing out the stained-glass windows. When I left, I still couldn’t quite face returning to Middlebank—what if Mrs. Woolgar asked how my meeting with Zeno Berryfield had gone? Instead, I wandered aimlessly through the city, more miserable by the second. I had no conscious destination, but when I lifted my gaze from the pavement, I found myself in front of the Charlotte, the best—and most unattainable—exhibition venue in Bath.

  Currently, a show of local watercolorists was on, and so, thinking I couldn’t feel any worse, I handed over a five-pound note, took a leaflet, and walked in, joining the few others in attendance this midday. While they studied the art, I took in the rooms and their lovely Georgian decor—the high ceilings, the symmetry in paneling, and the pea-green walls accented by white cornices. I admired the fireplace with its ornate pilasters and central frieze of an urn with foliage. Instead of paintings of the Mendip Hills, I imagined a lighted glass case displaying the first edition of Murder Must Advertise signed by members of the Detection Club in 1933.

  As I wallowed in my misery, a woman passed behind me, and I heard her say, “No, I completely understand why you must cancel, but as it is such short notice, you must understand the Charlotte cannot issue a refund.”

  I froze, and she continued, “April may not seem short notice to you, but no one else would be willing to take on the space with dates barely three months out.”

  Her voice faded as she moved away. I whirled round and saw her. She had short dark hair and a ring of keys and looked official. I pursued—dodging freestanding paintings and running into her when she stopped.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing her arm to steady her. “It’s only that I happened to overhear you say—I wasn’t eavesdropping, really I wasn’t, but . . .”

  “No worries,” she said, gently removing her arm from my grip.

  “I’m Hayley Burke from the First Edition Society,” I said, hurrying on. “Are you Naomi Faber, reservations manager here at the Charlotte? Didn’t we speak on the phone? Did I hear you say you’ve had a cancellation?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I stepped out onto the pavement, turned, and shook Naomi’s hand—a woman who had either saved my professional life or helped me dig a hole so deep I would never climb out.


  “Thank you so very much,” I gushed. “I’m sure I can get the deposit to you by tomorrow afternoon—the Society’s board will be thrilled, really they will.”

  “What luck that you stopped in, Hayley,” Naomi said. “I never would’ve thought to tell you of the cancellation. Are you sure you can handle these dates?”

  “Mid-April—absolutely. We’ve got a crack team assembled. Tell me, do you know the manager for this watercolor exhibition?”

  “The artists did it themselves. I won’t let that happen again, I can tell you. Slipshod planning, tatty display boards that had to be re-covered at the last minute, and an ancient lighting system. Plus, they couldn’t agree on anything. As I’m sure you know, an exhibition is only as good as its manager. Cheers, now—see you tomorrow.”

  I nodded and smiled and nodded again and was still nodding after she went back inside the building and left me on the pavement. Yes, we can do this. But although I was flying high, I balanced on a thin tightrope with a seething swamp beneath, because I knew what it meant to take advantage of this windfall of dates for our exhibition—it meant I would be stuck with Zeno Berryfield as manager. Fine. I tugged on my jacket with resolve. I would take him on, but he would work under strict oversight. I would watch him like a hawk lest he try to sneak in a vat of pig’s blood.

  “Hayley. Hayley. Hayley. Hayley. Hayley.”

  I turned at my name and saw a fellow across the road in front of the Assembly Rooms.

  “Dom!” I called, trotting over and rushing up to him.

  His arms locked at his sides. “No hugs!”

  “No.” I shook my head and took a step back. “No hugs—I remember.”

  Dom Kilpatrick had been an office mate of mine at the Jane Austen Centre. He was a lanky fellow in his midthirties who wore his curly, dark brown hair short on the sides and back. His black-framed glasses always sat slightly askew, and he had a smile to match.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages,” I said.

  “Seven July of last year at your leaving do held at the Garrick’s Head,” he said. “Fifteen of us were there from the Jane Austen Centre plus your friend Adele. There were six plates of filled crusty rolls—two each of beef, chicken, and pork, but you made certain they brought out another plate of cheddar and chutney for me and for Margo. No one left until half past eleven. It was a party.”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “I do remember a bit of a sore head the next morning. How are you?”

  “I still work on the customer database at the Centre, but two days a week I come here to the Assembly Rooms and run a virus check on the computers for the Fashion Museum. On Wednesdays I arrive at eleven o’clock and go into the café and have a coffee and a McVitie’s chocolate Penguin and on Thursdays I arrive at three o’clock and have tea and a fruit scone.” Dom stopped abruptly and coughed. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  I sensed the hand of someone teaching Dom how to be socially acceptable. He was a whip-smart fellow and had a fantastic memory, but he could be a bit awkward in conversation, although he and I had always got on well.

  “I’m doing fine, thanks, and enjoying my new job.”

  “You’re the curator for the First Edition Society’s library at Middlebank House.”

  “I am indeed. So, Dom—about Margo.” I recalled Margo— a young woman on a work-study program from a local school who had started not long before I left the Centre.

  Dom’s face turned a blotchy red. “Margo is my girlfriend now,” he said. “She doesn’t mind how I am.”

  “Oh, I believe that any woman would consider herself lucky to call you her boyfriend.”

  Dom’s face grew blotchier as he gave a nervous laugh and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “So,” I said, “you’ve just finished at the Fashion Museum—had your coffee, too?”

  Dom threw a look over his shoulder to the door of the Assembly Rooms and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I won’t have coffee today. When I went in the café . . . I couldn’t.”

  “Is it closed?”

  His eyes grew wide, and I saw fear in them. “No. I saw Oona.”

  4

  Oona Atherton?” I breathed, and glanced over to check the entry to the Assembly Rooms just as Dom had. “She’s here?”

  He nodded, his head bobbing up and down. “And so, I’d better not stay, because . . . you know.”

  How well I did. Anyone with any sense would know to steer clear of Oona Atherton. But although Dom said good-bye and left, I didn’t move.

  I had erased Oona from my mind, but now all those memories came flooding back and I saw myself once again her personal assistant and general dogsbody during the exhibition she’d mounted for the Jane Austen Centre five years ago. Held at the Charlotte. She was brash and arrogant and had run roughshod over everyone—the word demanding didn’t come close to describing her. I had ended many a day in tears—days that didn’t end until nearly midnight.

  The trouble was, she worked miracles, mounting the most spectacular exhibitions. And, to be fair, she never asked more of the people under her than she was willing to give herself. If we were there until the wee hours adjusting lights and reconfiguring freestanding, enclosed Perspex boxes of letters, lace sleeves, and quill pens, then Oona was there, too. That’s what made it so hard to hate her—she stuck in and never let up on herself or anyone else.

  Oona worked freelance, but her name had never occurred to me as I started planning our own exhibition—that’s how completely I’d obliterated the memory of her.

  But I had come a long way in five years. I had risen in my profession and built up confidence in my own abilities. I ran the First Edition library and I would be in charge of the exhibition—the manager would work for me, not I her. And after all, if it were a choice between pig’s blood and Oona—well, better the devil you knew.

  Keeping that thought, I made my way inexorably into the Assembly Rooms and then to the café, where the doors stood open.

  I did not go in, but instead ducked down behind the chest-high stand that displayed the menu and, unobserved, peered over it into the room. The café—a wide-open space—had a smattering of people at the tables, but I could’ve spotted Oona in the middle of a heaving crowd. I saw her now, sitting near the windows looking at her mobile. She hadn’t changed one whit—her thick brown hair scraped back into a bun high on her head, and wearing a tailored navy business suit and low heels. To those who did not know her, she might not look the tyrant, but even the sight of her made me break out in a cold sweat. And yet . . .

  Throwing my shoulders back, I stepped into the room, and as if she sensed a change in the energy field, Oona looked up and her face broke out in a wide smile.

  “Hayley Burke,” she called as she stood. “How the hell are you?”

  Her voice echoed in the room and heads turned, but Oona took no notice. I scurried over.

  “Oona, what a surprise,” I replied in a low voice. We performed one of those awkward half-hug, air-kiss routines.

  “Do you have a few minutes?” she asked. “Let’s catch up. What can I get you—coffee? Tea?”

  “Oh no, let me. What would you like?”

  I hardly had to ask—her usual order was tattooed on my brain.

  At the counter, I said, “One Earl Grey, please—but not in a bag. If you don’t have it loose, would you please tear the bag open and empty it into the pot? Make that two bags. With a slice of lemon, but only if you cut it fresh. And raw sugar. Do you have raw sugar? If not, Demerara will have to do. Also, one normal tea.”

  The woman behind the counter gave me a look that was oh so familiar.

  * * *

  * * *

  The tray of tea things rattled as I carried them over, but Oona didn’t seem to notice. That’s an odd thing about her—she could spot a plate one-eighth of an inch out of alignment in a display
of the Austen family’s Wedgwood dinner set, but be oblivious to the feelings of people round her.

  “Curator at the First Edition Society,” Oona said as we sorted out cups, saucers, and teapots.

  “Oh, how did you know—”

  She nodded to her phone. “Looked you up this minute. I see you’re starting off well—a series of literary salons. I always knew you had it in you—to build a top-notch organization out of a well-meaning gesture.”

  “The Society is entirely Lady Fowling’s creation,” I said, “and it’s only since she died that things have . . . slowed down.”

  “Regardless,” Oona said, pouring her tea through a strainer, “you were obviously the right woman for the position.”

  “Well.” I blushed. “And not only do we have the literary salons, but”—Don’t say it, Hayley. Yes, go on, tell her. No, don’t—“we are now planning an exhibition.”

  I gulped my tea, the liquid searing my throat. Slowly, Oona took a spoonful of Demerara—no raw sugar available—tilted it over her cup, and watched the crystals sift into her Earl Grey like light brown snow.

  “Is this exhibition about detective fiction—Christie, Sayers, Tey, Allingham, Marsh?” she asked.

  “It’s called Lady Fowling: A Life in Words. She was an amazing woman, Oona, and left behind a world-class collection of first editions from those authors and more.”

  “The exhibition is next year?”

  “No, April.”

  “April?”

  I could hear the scorn in her voice, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Yes, April. The Charlotte just became available, and I’ve booked it. I see no need to wait.”

  Oona took her time, lifting her cup and letting the steam drift round the contours of her face before she took a sip.