Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “Mr. Berryfield, yes.” Naomi offered a hand for a brief shake. “Pleased to meet you. Shall we go up to your office—I’m afraid I’ve got a Druid in mine at the moment.”

  We took the stairs to the first floor and then walked down a corridor to the door that separated the newer, refurbished Charlotte from the older space, where up one more flight waited Oona’s office. That is, Zeno’s office.

  Clara had been leading the way, but stopped abruptly, staring at the spiral staircase. Naomi cut her eyes at me. Meanwhile Zeno, apparently oblivious to the hesitation, glanced round at the peeling wallpaper and stacks of cartons.

  I leaned over to Clara and said, “Would you rather—”

  “No!” She jumped as if I’d pinched her, and took off up the stairs at a trot. I hurried behind to provide assistance if needed. She made it to the top, but then pressed her back against the wall and looked at the floor.

  Naomi opened the office door, and I breathed a sigh of relief—things had been put back in as much order as possible, although that couldn’t have been difficult, because every scrap of paper had been removed by police. With a jolt I remembered I was expected at the station. Right, let’s get this thing moving.

  “Thank you, Naomi, I appreciate your help. Oh, look, you’ve brought in extra chairs.” Four office chairs, taking up entirely too much space.

  “I thought it might be a good idea for me to attend your first meeting back here since . . .” Naomi pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “To represent the Charlotte’s interests.”

  “You have a Druid in your office.”

  “He can wait.”

  Fine, let her listen.

  We shifted round the room awkwardly, trying not to bump into one another’s knees. Clara opened her tablet, Zeno crossed a leg, Naomi clasped her hands, and I pulled a file folder out of my bag.

  “Well,” I began, “I want us to remember that this is very much an exhibition about Lady Fowling and the First Edition library. Oona, of course, had many good ideas, but—”

  “I’ve just been remembering,” Zeno said, staring off into the distance, “the time Oona and I created a pop-up display for a Dalí exhibition in Cambridge. I persuaded her to think big, and so in the middle of Market Square, we installed an enormous, silicon melted pocket watch. People could walk right up and touch it.”

  “That sounds quite compelling,” I said, handing out the three copies of my agenda I’d brought. I’d have to look over someone’s shoulder. “Now—”

  Naomi cut in. “When we staged the Gin Lane tableau vivant, Oona left it to me to sort out the baby. We obviously couldn’t have a real child in danger of tumbling off its mother’s lap, and so I—”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I really do need to get to the business at hand. Another appointment, you know.” Would Sergeant Hopgood be drumming his fingers and tapping his toes while he waited for me?

  “Yes, Hayley,” Clara said, “of course we must get to work. Oona knew I understood the importance of a competently run meeting and the necessity of staying the course, so if you ever need me to—”

  “Thank you, Clara. Now, everyone, please can we get started?”

  The air was thick, making my mind sluggish. I longed to fling open a window for a blast of winter, but sadly, there was no window in the room. I fanned myself with my phone and continued.

  “Although several ideas have been tossed about, we have yet to settle on the focus of the exhibition.”

  “You do have that lovely name,” Clara reminded me, her fingers poised over her tablet.

  “Yes, thank you. I certainly hope we can keep Lady Fowling: A Life in Words, but it will depend on that one-paragraph description we come up with and, of course, having the material to support it.”

  “I can see it now,” Zeno said. “An immersive event where the focus will be the life of a single woman left lonely, bereft of affection, and struggling to carve out a niche in a changing world, finding that refashioning herself in the image of an age gone by was her only solace.”

  “That is not only incorrect, it’s patronizing,” I replied. “Lady Fowling was a strong woman. You cannot remake history.”

  “It’s the direction I feel certain Oona was heading,” Zeno said, and I was about to ask how he knew anything about where Oona was heading, but Naomi took over.

  “Oona would’ve been far more concerned with what attracted Georgiana Fowling to the Golden Age of Mystery. Revenge. All those murders in all those books. Oona would want to showcase that aspect. Was it vicarious pleasure for Georgiana? Who was it that she wanted to murder?”

  “That’s preposterous,” I snapped. “Lady Fowling did not want to murder anyone. The mystery genre is a framework to tell a story. It’s a convention.”

  “The thrill of the hunt,” Clara said, and all eyes went to her. “It’s what Oona mentioned—that Lady Fowling spent many happy years in pursuit of a good book, a rare book. She must’ve collected many, but none like the first edition of Murder Must Advertise, signed by the Detection Club in 1933. The person who can find it will go a long way to making the show a hit.”

  I agreed—it would be a feather in the cap of any exhibition manager.

  “About this book, Ms. Burke.” Zeno leaned forward in his chair. “You’re keeping it safe, I assume?”

  “We haven’t actually located it, Mr. Berryfield, but that is only because I have yet to find the time to search through the entire collection.”

  “So, yes. I see.” He cast his gaze about the room and then out onto the landing. “It was the book.”

  I refused to allow him to wrest the meeting from me so that he could talk about Oona’s murder, and so I ignored his comment. “Well, this is a start, but as you know, we have a great deal to do and little time.” And now I wanted my employees and my exhibition to myself. I smiled at Naomi. “Thank you so much for your enthusiasm, but we’d best let you get back to your Druid. I have a few specific tasks for Zeno and Clara to attend to this afternoon.”

  Naomi rose, brushed her skirt, and—in a slightly miffed tone—said, “Of course. You will let me know if you need anything. Perhaps I’ll stop in at the end of the day just to make sure.”

  “No need,” I said, herding her out the door and bumping into chairs as I did so. “I’ll shoot you a text if there are any questions. Bye!”

  I pushed the extra chair out onto the landing and watched as she made her way down the spiral staircase and through the door that led to the other part of the Charlotte. Yes, that’s right, I reminded myself. There are two ways to get to Oona’s office—on this side, from the door off the street, which had been left unlocked on the day of her murder, or through the Charlotte’s main entrance, up one floor, past Naomi’s office, and through the door that divided the building. Again, I wondered if Naomi had told the police she had known Oona. Something else to check. I turned back to my crew.

  “Clara, do you still have the room dimensions on your tablet?”

  “I do.”

  “And the built-in cases are indicated with their height and area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Zeno, I’d like to see three examples of what you envision as the focal point for the exhibition.”

  It was a test, as far as I was concerned. We had Oona’s idea for the entry, but there could be a display in the center of the room that would tie the entire show together. I wanted to see what Zeno could do—without blood. I checked the time—nearing one o’clock.

  “I’m away, but before I go, let me remind you that we must be true to who Lady Fowling was. There’s no need to make up things about her. She had a long and rich life, and that’s what we must focus on. Remember, we have a wealth of primary sources at our fingertips—not only her notebooks, but the people who knew her.”

  Zeno and Clara looked at me blankly. Had they heard anything I had said? I gave up. “I’
ll stop back at five o’clock.”

  I hurried down the stairs—half expecting Clara to call out to be careful—and trotted down Julian Street thinking about lunch. Did I have time? No. Instead, I dashed into the newsagent on the Paragon for a packet of crisps and a Cadbury Dairy Milk, and as I paid, I heard myself telling a nine-year-old Dinah, “No, sweetie, chocolate is not a proper meal.” As it turned out, sometimes it was.

  * * *

  * * *

  I’d finished the crisps and made it through half the chocolate bar by the time I reached the police station on Manvers Street and so stashed the rest in my bag as I walked in, prepared to state my name as usual. But the desk sergeant caught me by surprise and said, “Hello, Ms. Burke. Shall I ring back for you?”

  Just as well we were on more familiar terms. With the briefest of glances at his name tag, I said, “Yes, please, Sergeant Owen.”

  Detective Constable Kenny Pye came to retrieve me.

  “Sarge is on a community-engagement course today,” he explained as he led me to Interview #1.

  “How . . . er . . .” Professional-development workshops, connect-with-the-public meetings—I may not be a police officer, but I knew what these things could be like. “Did he go voluntarily?”

  Pye laughed. “I’ll get the binders for you. Tea?”

  “Oh please, no. Water?”

  The DC returned with a glass of water, left, and came back again with his arms full of the three binders. He deposited them on the table and turned to go. “Just give a shout if you need me.”

  “Actually, there is something. I have further information about the case.”

  “Right.” Kenny Pye sat down across from me, pulled out his pocket notepad, and listened while I explained about Zeno.

  “They were married?” His black eyebrows shot up—a poor imitation of the caterpillars above his boss’s eyes, but a valiant effort.

  “Married and divorced,” I said. “I learned this on Saturday.”

  “And now he has her job?” Pye asked.

  “Yes, I hired him, but you see, it’s because we needed a manager, or the Charlotte wouldn’t let us keep our dates for the exhibition in April. Time is short and we’re already behind.”

  “April seems like ages away.”

  “No, not ages.” An enormous black cloud looming on the horizon.

  “Right, I’ll take his contact information. Does he live locally?”

  I had only a box number attached to the hot-desking company where Zeno had let space by the day. We had his bank details, of course, and his mobile number, but no physical residence. “I’m not entirely sure. He’s been in Bath for about a month, so perhaps he’s found a short-term let. But at this very moment, he’s working in the office upstairs at the Charlotte.”

  “Is he, now? Well, perhaps I’ll stop in this afternoon and have a chat. Was that it?”

  “No. Naomi Faber—she directs the bookings at the Charlotte. Did you talk with her?”

  Pye flipped back a few pages in his notepad. “Mmm. What about her?”

  “Did she tell you she knew Oona?”

  “Knew her from where—and when?”

  “An exhibition in Plymouth. Oona created one of those living pictures where people dress up and pose as a famous painting. Look, I know it’s probably nothing, but you need every detail. When you spoke with her, where did Naomi say she was the afternoon Oona was killed?”

  “What did she tell you?”

  I should know better than to expect an exchange of information from the police.

  “I haven’t asked. There’s one more thing. About Bulldog—that is, Stuart Moyle. I’m sorry if I led you to believe that he looked as if he was waiting for me on Saturday—but then, you were looking for him, weren’t you? Did he tell you or Sergeant Hopgood anything useful?”

  Pye hesitated, and I wondered what could push him just far enough to speak. “I should know, shouldn’t I?” I asked. “In case I should be wary of him.”

  The detective constable seemed to consider my question before saying, “We are confirming his alibi, but let’s just say he isn’t a priority for us.”

  So he wasn’t their prime suspect, but he was still on the list.

  “Right, well”—I tapped the stack of binders—“better get to work.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Here’s what you get from a poorly carried-out task—poor results. My assignment to look for clues by once again examining the transcription of Lady Fowling’s notebooks—annotated by Oona—along with all the other papers gathered from the murder scene fought for importance in my mind with the exhibition itself and the location of the signed first edition of Murder Must Advertise. Murder, exhibition, book—I couldn’t seem to hold all three in my head at once, and had to backtrack time and again.

  When the exhibition took over my brain, I concentrated on Oona’s early, sketchy thoughts for displays, hoping to glean a few ideas to throw to Zeno. On one page, she had dashed off an arrangement of what might have been an old typewriter alongside a fountain pen. Either that, or it was a slowworm creeping past the cliffs of Dover. She had scribbled an illegible title across the top of the page.

  Then I would remind myself to look for clues to her murder, and once or twice I traced Oona’s drawings with a fingertip, hoping that the movements would bring forth one tiny bit of extremely important information about the case. Or the book. Nothing. Another few hours wasted. Perhaps I wasn’t missing something—perhaps what I hoped to find just wasn’t there.

  15

  I finished my Cadbury Dairy Milk as I walked back to the Charlotte, where Zeno stood in the empty exhibition space talking with a man in a gray three-piece suit. His silver hair was cut quite short on the sides and back, and the rest gathered into a tiny ponytail right at the top of his head.

  “We’re more than Stonehenge,” the man was saying, “and we mean to prove it.”

  “Zeno?” I asked.

  “Ah, here she is now.” Berryfield threw an arm out toward me. “Hayley Burke, curator of the First Edition library.”

  The man grabbed my hand and shook it with vigor. “Tommy King-Barnes, Folkstone.” He may be from Folkstone now, but his accent said London. And his voice sounded familiar. “Very pleased to meet you. Druids Then and Now—that’s me. We start move-in tomorrow.”

  I tried to picture him in Druids’ robes or whatever they wore. No, couldn’t do it.

  He cocked his head at me and added, “I dropped into the Charlotte today just to make sure we’ll have enough space for the human sacrifice,” and then he burst into riotous laughter at the look on my face.

  Zeno joined in. “God, Tommy, you are such a one for the wit.”

  “No worries there, Hayley,” Tommy said, giving Berryfield a playful punch on the arm. “We Druids will be dull as ditchwater compared with what Zeno here will come up with for you.”

  And the penny dropped.

  “Hang on,” I said. “Are you Timeless Productions?”

  “The very same! Have you seen one of our shows before?”

  “Zeno listed you as a reference. I left you a message this morning.”

  “Did you? Awfully sorry about that, but I haven’t had one second in this dimension or the next to answer. Well, no time like the present. I’m happy to tell you that Zeno will not let up until he gives you the exhibition of a lifetime. You’ll have all of Bath if not the entire country talking about it. You should be confident in your choice.”

  Tommy gave Zeno a wink. Zeno beamed. I needed to sit down.

  The muffled strains of Mick Jagger singing “Satisfaction” started up nearby. Tommy patted a jacket pocket, pulled out a phone, and shook his head. He dropped the phone back, and as the music continued, he pulled a second phone out from the other pocket, put it back, and finally pulled a third phone from an inside breast
pocket. All the while Mick Jagger continued to wail.

  Third time’s the charm. Tommy answered, “Timeless Productions, how may we be of service?”

  “Heigh-ho,” Zeno whispered.

  The Druid waved as he walked off, saying into the phone, “No, we ordered four hundred cutout masks, not four thousand.”

  Zeno cleared his throat, threw on a serious face, and narrowed his eyes at me. “Ms. Burke,” he said. “The police were here.”

  Why did that sound like an accusation?

  “Oh,” I replied coolly.

  “It was a Detective Constable Kenny Pye wanting to talk with me about the inquiry into Oona’s murder. I wonder how did he know of my association with her.”

  “I told him.”

  The corners of Zeno’s mouth turned down. “I see. Well, I don’t know what he expected me to say. And it saddens me that the police would come here, to my place of work, and interrogate me as if I were a common criminal.”

  His place of work? Interrogate him?

  “It’s what police do, Zeno—talk with everyone who had even a passing knowledge of the victim. In an enquiry, one piece of information leads to another, and I’m sure they—” I stopped. Who was I to say how the police built an enquiry? Longing to ask what he’d said to Kenny Pye, but knowing I would sound like a nosey parker, I looked for another subject. “Clara—is she upstairs?”

  “Ms. Powell is gone,” Zeno replied.

  “Gone? But it isn’t five yet.”

  Zeno shrugged. “Detective Constable Pye knocked on the office door, and the next thing I knew, Ms. Powell had taken flight, so to speak. Something about wanting to talk to the local press in hopes they would run a series on fictional detectives and their connection to Bath.”

  “She shouldn’t pursue her own ideas without consulting me first.”

  Zeno stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “I am not Ms. Powell’s keeper, you made that clear. The two of us are your responsibility, Ms. Burke, but I agree, we shouldn’t make more work for you. Is there anything I can do to help with the matter?”