Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “Ah, Ms. Burke,” he said. “And Mr. Moffatt. We need to talk.”

  He led us inside, where the dusty and formerly dark entry was awash in floodlights. Plastic sheeting covered the floor and the staircase.

  “Where is Clara? Where is Oona?” I asked. “Was there an accident?”

  “Oona Atherton was found at the bottom of the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor. She’s dead.”

  7

  But . . . dead?” I clutched at Val’s arm. “I can’t believe it. Clara was right—Oona should’ve taken care.”

  “That’s Clara Powell you’re referring to, Ms. Burke?”

  It was Detective Sergeant Ronald Hopgood speaking as he came down the steps. He reached the bottom of the staircase and swept a finger under his salt-and-pepper, push-broom mustache.

  “Sergeant Hopgood,” Val said, “was this an accident? And if so, why are you here?”

  “Mr. Moffatt, Ms. Burke—how is it that you knew Ms. Atherton?”

  “I hired her—she’s.” Full stop, and it took me a moment to go on. “She was an exhibition manager and worked on an event five years ago at the Jane Austen Centre. The First Edition Society engaged her to put up a show here at the Charlotte. Bath College has endorsed the event, and so Val is involved.”

  Hopgood’s caterpillar eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t look surprised. “When was the last time either of you saw her?”

  “Monday afternoon for me,” Val offered. “I dropped off a list of college donors for the program.”

  “I came by this morning—well, almost midday.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here. I dropped off a folder, but I didn’t stay.”

  “Both of you, follow me—but watch where you step.”

  We obeyed, Val and I creeping up the wooden staircase behind Hopgood. As we neared the top, I swallowed hard, preparing myself for the worst, but when we reached the first-floor landing, it was to find a businesslike atmosphere—paper-coveralled officers examining, chatting, pointing, and photographing. At the bottom of the spiral staircase a dark tarpaulin had been spread over a small, indistinguishable mound. When a SOCO team member pulled away one corner, I caught a glimpse of Oona’s shoulder and a hand. I took a sharp breath and looked away, and Val caught me round the waist.

  “Oona sent me a text,” I said, pulling out my phone to show him. “It was only an hour ago. All this happened since?”

  “Pye,” the sergeant called over, “do you have the mobile?”

  The DC held up a clear plastic bag with a phone inside.

  “Where’s Clara?” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “She’s next door with a PC,” Hopgood said, “in Ms. Faber’s office.”

  Could I assume the watercolor exhibition had closed early for the day?

  “Sergeant,” Val persisted, “this can’t be an accident—you must suspect something. Could you not just come out and say it?”

  Hopgood’s eyebrows lifted and dropped like drapes being raised and lowered. “At first glance that’s just what it may look like—an accident. Perhaps Ms. Atherton lost control, dropped what she was carrying, and tumbled down. I can’t take you upstairs at the moment, but I will tell you that the office in which she and Ms. Powell worked has been turned over.”

  “Turned over—a robbery?” Val asked.

  “And if it were a robbery,” the sergeant said watching me, “what might they be after?”

  A first edition of Murder Must Advertise signed by every member of the Detection Club in 1933.

  But, at that moment, another, more pressing thought occurred to me. “Was Clara here when it happened?”

  I had a sudden fear for her—she didn’t seem strong enough to weather such a terrible event. She was too young.

  “Ms. Powell tells us she was out and returned to find Ms. Atherton dead. She rang 999 and here we are.”

  I pictured my daughter, Dinah, stumbling upon a dead body and I felt light-headed. Then, one of the papers on the floor caught my eye. I leaned over and read the date—May 1954. It was part of my transcription of Lady Fowling’s notebooks.

  When I straightened, I saw DS Hopgood give his constable a slight nod.

  Pye said, “Ms. Burke, why don’t we go next door and have a chat?”

  Oh yes, the chat.

  “Mr. Moffatt,” Sergeant Hopgood said, “would you remain here?”

  I fumed as I followed Kenny Pye through the door that led from this older, shabbier side of the Charlotte into the refurbished event-space offices. Did Hopgood separate Val and me so that we wouldn’t have a chance to “get our stories straight”? Did he think we were the guilty parties? And guilty of what—being so irritated with Oona that we would throw her down the stairs?

  The detective constable pushed open the door to Naomi’s office—there was no sign of her, but a female PC stood in the corner, and sitting in a small heap in a large chair was Clara. Her bun had come loose and hanks of her dark hair hung lifeless. She gripped her glasses in one hand, and she looked up at me with surprisingly wide eyes in a pale face.

  “I lost my phone,” she said. “I lost my phone and came back to look for it.”

  Behind me, Pye said, “That’s about all we’ve got from her so far. Do you know her well enough to—”

  “Tea.”

  Another uniform came through the door carrying a tray and, under his arm, a stack of paper cups. He set it on Naomi’s desk and left, so I poured two cups, one for Clara and one for me. I’d seen her put a spoonful of sugar in her tea—I added an extra for good measure and even stirred one into my own.

  I pulled up a chair next to Clara’s and handed over her cup. She took a drink, shuddered, and gulped another. Then she said, as if answering a question, “I had to use Oona’s phone. I lost mine. That’s why.”

  I glanced at DC Pye, who nodded me on.

  “Where had you gone, Clara?”

  “Oona needed a fresh set of sketch pads and pencils—from that place next to the pub, the Green Tree. She’s quite particular about materials.”

  “So, you were away at the art supply shop?”

  “I started and was almost there, but Oona hadn’t told me which size sketch pad and I went to text her, but I didn’t have my phone. I looked and looked through my bag, but it wasn’t there. I couldn’t buy the wrong-size sketch pad. So, I came back to ask her.”

  “Do you have a key to the outer door?” DC Pye asked.

  Clara stared at him for a moment, a vague look in her eye. “No,” she said, “Oona has the key. The door was unlocked. I came up the stairs and—” She grabbed my arm and squeezed. “I told her to be careful, but she wouldn’t listen. I lost my phone. I saw hers”—Clara flung her arm out—“in the corner. I had to ring for an ambulance.”

  Kenny Pye picked up the questioning, but Clara didn’t seem to have any more useful details—she hadn’t noticed anyone, couldn’t remember the route she’d walked or just how long she’d been gone. I admired his patience, especially as every answer ended the same—“I lost my phone.”

  Although I had a fair idea of what the police were thinking might’ve happened, I wasn’t sure that Clara had cottoned onto the theory that Oona’s death had not been an accident. Should I tell her? Was it my responsibility?

  Hopgood appeared at the door. “Ms. Powell, we’re ready for you to go up to the office and have a look round. Shall we?”

  Clara began to tremble, and I took her cup away before she spilled what remained of her tea.

  “Up those stairs?” she whispered. “I don’t think I can.”

  I would need to explain to the sergeant about the library ladder and Clara’s fear—no doubt compounded by Oona’s death—but for now, I had my own question.

  “Has the landing been . . . cleared?”

  Clara made no indication she knew w
hat I meant, but Hopgood understood and his face softened, giving me a glimpse of the kindly-uncle side of him. “It has,” he said.

  “Right, Clara. I’ll go with you. Shall I be in front or in back—which is better?”

  I followed Sergeant Hopgood, pulling Clara behind me—she clenched my hand like a vise—then a PC, and finally DC Pye, and we climbed the spiral staircase like a train chugging round and round up a mountain.

  “Where is Val?” I asked as we shuffled up.

  “Out on the pavement, giving one of my officers a description of your movements,” the sergeant said as he reached the landing and stood aside for us to go in.

  Oona’s office had indeed been turned over—drawers pulled out, file boxes opened and spilled, papers scattered across the floor.

  But it wasn’t only papers that had been tossed about—there were books, too—copies I had lent Oona from the library at Middlebank. Sprawled open in a corner and lying facedown, I saw one of her ladyship’s own stories starring François Flambeaux. A lovely book with tooled leather binding and gold lettering. A fury rose in me.

  “How dare someone do this,” I said, my voice thick.

  “Oona would be terribly annoyed at the mess,” Clara said in a weak voice. She had remained behind me in the doorway, but glanced over her shoulder down the spiral stairs as if caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

  “Couldn’t have been more than two hours ago now,” Hopgood said quietly, and then snapped to attention. “Pye, we’ll need to comb any nearby CCTV for all comings and goings, including Ms. Powell here. Get traffic on the blower.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  I could almost smile. For a moment I did not see Hopgood, but his alter ego—a 1920s PI named Alehouse, the main character in short stories written by Kenny Pye, who took Val’s evening classes at Bath College.

  “Also, we’ll need to see all the incoming and outgoing calls and texts on the victim’s mobile.”

  Clara lifted her gaze from the floor. “I lost my phone.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Val came up the stairs and saw the devastation. “Bloody hell.”

  “Did Ms. Atherton have enemies?” Hopgood asked.

  “Enemies?” I echoed, staring at him blankly, my mind whirring as it assembled a suitable phrase or two in response.

  “Enemies?” Clara shouted. “Certainly not! Oona’s skill and experience might’ve been envied by some who aspire to her level of interpretive excellence, but surely no one would resort to . . . to . . .” She petered out with a puzzled look, as if wondering what she was about to say next, and instead got busy twining her hair back into its bun, searching her jacket pockets, and coming up with a pin.

  The sergeant kept his eyes on me as he said, “If any of the three of you think of a person who might’ve had even the slightest altercation with the victim, you will tell me.”

  How long would that list be? I wondered.

  “Sir,” said one of the coveralled officers. With a gloved hand, he held up a half-eaten roll—that and an unopened sandwich next to it were the only things remaining on the desk. Hopgood noticed the food and turned to Clara.

  “Oona’s,” Clara said, and blinked several times before continuing. “I went down to Pret.”

  The sergeant’s eyebrows met in the middle. “You told us you hadn’t left until your errand to the art supply store.”

  “Did I?” she responded. “Well, it was only lunch.”

  “You went all the way to Pret A Manger?” I asked. There were a dozen sandwich shops between here and there.

  “Oona prefers their jambon-beurre baguette. The other one is mine.”

  “Take both in for testing,” Hopgood instructed the officer, who bagged the food.

  Val glanced round the room one more time and then cut his eyes at me. “Do you see it anywhere?”

  I shook my head. Nowhere in the heap of books that the police were now sorting through did I see what looked like a first edition of Murder Must Advertise.

  “And ‘it’ would be—?” Hopgood asked.

  * * *

  * * *

  The reply would take more than a few words, and so Hopgood, Val, and I headed back down the spiral staircase toward Naomi’s office, leaving Clara with DC Pye, identifying the bits and pieces strewn about the office. On the first-floor landing, the detective sergeant called down to the ground floor, where a woman stood stripping off her paper outfit. She was, I seemed to recall, the medical examiner.

  “Anything, Frankie?”

  “Broken neck for starters,” she said. Hopgood moved on, but she added, “Ronnie! Head trauma, too. It doesn’t look like she hit it on the way down—no blood or tissue on the railing—so my guess is a cosh of some kind. Right temple. Perhaps she turned when her assailant was about to strike her from behind.”

  “Don’t forget stomach contents,” he replied.

  The ME threw him a wry smile and said, “Thanks for telling me my job.”

  Back in Naomi’s office, I took a few deep breaths as I rid my mind of blood and tissue and broken necks. Inside the offices at the Charlotte, it was as if I were in another world, unattached to the everyday reality of my flat and my job and my life. Shock—easy to diagnose, difficult to suffer.

  We sat on chairs pushed against the wall, and Val and I took turns telling Detective Sergeant Hopgood the entire story—Lady Fowling’s letter to Dorothy L. Sayers, the indication that a quite rare book existed, signed by the Detection Club. Thankfully, Val took over at that point, describing the club and the book.

  “Murder Must Advertise,” Hopgood said. “I’m not familiar with that one. How does the victim die?”

  My shoulders slumped. “In a fall down a spiral staircase.”

  8

  Detective Sergeant Hopgood must’ve noticed my waning energy because he cut our interview short. “I’ll post a foot patrol at Middlebank—even if the book isn’t there, you never know what’ll get into people’s heads. Your secretary—”

  “Mrs. Woolgar. She’s away.” She had reminded me of her plans that morning, and I had promptly forgotten. “She left this morning to stay overnight with a friend who had minor surgery. She’s in”— I searched my brain for details that I hadn’t thought important—“Tunbridge Wells. She’ll return tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Duly noted, Ms. Burke,” Hopgood said. “We aren’t finished, of course. I’ll want contact details on every person you’ve told about the book, a better picture of what this exhibition entails, and further background on Ms. Atherton. And anything else you may be able to shed light on. After that, you and Mr. Moffatt will need to sign your statements. So, shall we say the station at tenish? It looks to be a busy weekend.”

  Not that I hadn’t already suspected it. The dream of my carefree, romantic getaway with Val had begun to fade as soon as I’d seen those flashing blue lights. I couldn’t expect the police to say, Sure, you go off on your little holiday—we’ll stay here and investigate the death of a woman who was murdered while doing the job for which you hired her. How would it look to the board if I told them of Oona’s death and then scarpered?

  And what of Oona herself? Such a life force—whether or not she had been easy to get along with, she was passionate and talented. And now gone.

  My eyes welled with tears as I said, “Yes, Sergeant. Ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  Past eight o’clock by the time we left the Charlotte. We hadn’t seen Clara again—a PC had taken her back to her grandmother’s in Shepton Mallet. Nor had we seen Naomi. Hopgood told us she’d been occupied pacifying the watercolorists, who were annoyed that the last weekend of their exhibition had been marred by murder.

  As Val and I walked to Middlebank, the cold air seeping into my bones, I said, “I’ll have to tell Mrs. Woolgar when she returns tomorrow. I’ll need to explain to the board. I wonder w
ill Naomi give us our deposit back for the exhibition.” I sniffed, caught a whiff of woodsmoke, and longed to be sitting in front of a warm, crackling fire with the sound of the sea outside the window.

  Val stopped, caught my arm, and turned me round to face him.

  “Hang on,” he said. “It’s a bit early to decide that, don’t you think? Let’s give it a day or two.”

  “I suppose,” I said, but with little energy and no enthusiasm.

  Middlebank was quiet and dark. Bunter met us at the door, walking on tiptoes and weaving figure eights round our legs. I picked him up, and he rubbed his face against my chin, and then, when Val leaned in, against his, too.

  Bunter is usually one for only a quick cuddle before he needs to be on his way, but now he snuggled against me, and his purring vibrated through my chest. Val’s arm circled my waist, and for a moment, the three of us stood like that, until Bunter had had enough. He jumped down, and we followed him into the kitchenette.

  “Well, cat,” I said, “here’s your chicken and liver.” He gave the fresh dish of food a sniff and then trotted off to his bed in Mrs. Woolgar’s office. “Cuppa?” I asked Val, and silently we headed upstairs.

  I paused on the first-floor landing outside the library door and regarded Lady Fowling—the portrait—and then took Val’s hand and we continued to my flat. Perhaps I’d come back later and have a chat with her.

  Inside the door, I dropped my bag, pulled off my coat, and made for the kitchen, filling the kettle and switching it on. I turned on the hot tap, grabbed the soap, and scrubbed my hands as if I were Lady Macbeth.

  “It’s my fault she was here,” I said as Val joined me. I handed him the soap without thinking. “If I hadn’t hired Oona, she wouldn’t be dead.”

  “We don’t know that’s true. We can’t be sure why someone would want to kill her. Was it about the book or something else in her life?”

  I splashed water on my face and dried it with a tea towel, which I passed to Val. The kettle began to rattle as it heated.