The Festival Murders

by Mark McCrum

  ‘Time to be proactive,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s put her on the spot.’ He winked at Priya and headed across the room, wine glass in hand.

  ‘Laetitia,’ he said, and watched with amusement as her face re-registered him, realised the position she was in, then, like a recalibrating satnav, switched into welcoming mode.

  ‘Francis Meadowes, how lovely, you’re still here.’ She turned to Jonty. ‘The well-known crime writer,’ she added. ‘Francis, I’m sure you know Jonty, by reputation if nothing else, but maybe not his lovely wife Amber, and their three amazing kids, Ethan, Milo and, er, Jasmine. And this is Priya, oh gosh, sorry …’

  ‘Kaur.’

  ‘Of course, apologies, festival brain overload, shoot me please. Priya was Bryce Peabody’s partner.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ said Jonty. ‘On Saturday night.’

  ‘At my party?’ said Laetitia.

  ‘It was actually out at Wyveridge afterwards.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And then again yesterday morning,’ said Priya.

  Jonty flicked a rapid sideways glance at his wife. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said.

  ‘You were very consoling, thank you,’ said Priya.

  ‘The least I could do. Such an awful shock for all of us.’ Whatever else he was, Francis thought, Jonty was an impeccable performer. Next to him, Amber’s features were hard to read: her lips tight together in a slight downwards curve, her eyes expressionless. Seeing her in the flesh explained why you saw so little of her on the TV, even as her children were shaping up to be little stars. ‘Bryce’s reviews were like my wicked indulgence,’ Jonty was saying now. ‘Always so funny. Even if they could be a tad cruel at times.’ He shook his head again. ‘But such a terrible thing to happen. To one so … relatively young. He wasn’t particularly old, was he?’

  ‘Fifty-four,’ said Priya; and Jonty’s look was priceless, as he focused all too obviously on Priya, in the beige dress that hugged her figure as tightly as a T-shirt.

  ‘Only five years older than you, darling,’ said Amber. Her voice was a posh, no-nonsense drawl.

  Jonty ignored this wifely dart. ‘So do we know what happened yet?’ he asked.

  ‘The police are still waiting for the post-mortem,’ said Francis.

  Jonty looked from Francis to Priya and back again. ‘And do they seriously suspect … murder?’ he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Or is that just gossip?’

  ‘It seems as if they might,’ said Francis.

  ‘When for all we know the poor man may have had a heart attack.’

  ‘Or an aneurysm,’ said Francis. ‘Which the doctor seemed to think as likely.’

  Jonty nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he? Trouble is, the local constabulary probably don’t get much going on down this way. If something like this happens, they get overexcited, start to think they’re in an episode of Midsomer Murders.’

  ‘But this second tragedy has rather changed the picture, don’t you think?’ said Francis.

  ‘Now that does sound like a ghastly accident,’ said Jonty. ‘The story I heard was that they were all high on drugs out there.’

  ‘But you were out at Wyveridge yourself, you said?’

  Jonty didn’t blink. ‘Yes. Amber came with me. Seemed like a pretty lively scene, didn’t it, darling? We didn’t stay long.’

  ‘Did you see evidence of drugs?’

  ‘Can’t say I did. But you’d hardly expect to. People tend to pop into toilets and upstairs rooms to do these things, don’t they?’

  ‘I believe they do,’ said Francis. ‘So you don’t think the two deaths are linked?’

  Jonty seemed almost thrown, but only for a couple of seconds. ‘Do you?’ he returned.

  ‘Two unexplained deaths in twenty-four hours,’ Francis replied. ‘It does seem a bit … surprising, to say the least. How many other incidents like this have you had over the years, Laetitia?’

  ‘We’ve had heart attacks and so on, but always of much older people – and never of one of our performers. Nothing like this. I mean, front page news and all that.’

  ‘I guess if you’re a crime writer,’ Jonty cut in, ‘you’re bound to be trying to find a story here. But d’you know what? I hate to be controversial, but here’s poor Bryce, whose death – with respect, Priya – the entire festival has been gossiping about, but could very well be from natural causes. By the same token, I’d say it was perfectly possible that this unfortunate girl was high on some drug or other and thought she could fly off this tower or whatever.’

  ‘Magic mushrooms, perhaps,’ said Francis. ‘Though maybe it’s too early in the season to find them out in the wild?’

  Family Man shrugged. ‘Hard to say …’

  ‘I noticed you had a very interesting chapter on “natural highs” in your book.’

  Jonty laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. ‘You’ve actually read it! I’m flattered.’ If looks could kill, Francis thought, I would be the third victim of this festival. ‘No,’ Family Man went on, ‘since you ask, it’s a fascinating area, rather vexed of course since the change in the law of July 2005, which means that technically you could get seven years for picking a bag of liberty caps and taking them home. Meanwhile, equally scary things remain legal: fly agaric, for example, the other kind of magic mushroom, the crimson one with white spots, the toadstool of the children’s stories, which can make you seriously ill. Or Salvia divinorum, which is a kind of sage, and could give you a trip to put mushrooms – or even LSD – in the shade …’

  ‘You’ve tried it?’

  ‘Salvia, lord no! You wouldn’t catch me with any of these things. But you’ve only to look on YouTube. There’s hundreds of videos of young people freaking out on this stuff. Terrifying to watch, some of them.’

  ‘I enjoyed your chapter on natural poisons too.’

  ‘Did you?’ Jonty looked slowly round the little group and his face cracked into an uneasy smile. ‘Looks like I’ve got a fan here. No, that’s a whole other subject which, and don’t let my publisher hear this, I could have done much more on.’

  ‘Do I feel another book coming on?’ said Laetitia.

  ‘Now there’s an idea!’ said Jonty. ‘But seriously, you couldn’t do a book like Wild Stuff without pointing out that not everything in our fields and hedgerows is harmless.’ He turned to his children. ‘I remember when you guys were little, having to keep a jolly careful eye on you when we were out on country walks. You in particular, Milo, used to love shoving anything and everything into your greedy little gob. Holly berries, yew berries, the works. It was a constant worry.’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ said Milo, eyes glazing over.

  ‘I think I’d like to have you with me in person,’ said Laetitia, ‘before picking the ingredients for any wild meal I tried to have.’

  There was polite laughter in the circle.

  ‘You can always read the book,’ said Jonty. ‘The photographs are pretty accurate. And you’re hardly going to get into trouble with nettle soup or nasturtium salad.’

  ‘The very best of luck with it,’ said Francis. ‘I’m sure you’ll do well.’

  Laetitia pointed two fingers at Jonty’s head. ‘Number five as we speak.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Francis. ‘And climbing, I hope? D’you get time to write the books yourself?’

  ‘Of course. Like to be hands-on. Obviously I have researchers to help with some of the boring detail, but no, at the end of the day, it’s my golden prose.’

  ‘So refreshing to hear that,’ Francis said. ‘Priya and I were just saying, earlier, so much of what’s out there now isn’t written by the people whose name’s on the cover. Particularly when it comes to busy celebrities. She was telling me that that’s what Bryce’s talk was going to be about. The one he sadly never got round to delivering.’

  Francis’s accomplice laughed nervously; she was acting her part well. ‘That’s what he hinted,’ she said. ‘But he never let me read his speeches before he delivered
them.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Family Man.

  ‘You knew the title, though,’ Francis prompted.

  ‘Celebrity and Hypocrisy. Hardly a secret, it’s in the programme.’

  ‘Shittety-shit!’ said Jonty. ‘That sounds interesting.’ He fixed them all with a tigerish grin. ‘Did he really not tell you what it was about? I run everything past Amber. She’s like my in-house editor. She’ll always tell me if I’ve made a joke that’s a bit off-colour or whatever. And she certainly knows how to trim me if I’m being boring.’

  ‘Shall I trim you now then?’ said his wife, and despite, or perhaps because of her deadpan tone, there was laughter from the group. For a second, a tiny acknowledging smile flickered on her thin lips. Francis reckoned the time had come to move on.

  ‘I hope I gave you the answer you wanted,’ Priya said to Francis as they crossed the room.

  ‘Perfect. The subject of Bryce’s talk was raised and there was a reaction.’

  ‘He gave the impression he knew nothing about it?’

  ‘Exactly. And simultaneously we got across that you didn’t either. Which hopefully will make you a little safer.’

  ‘You really think that Jonty …?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind, Priya. So you spoke to him again yesterday morning? You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘I ran into him on the terrace of the White Hart. When Grace was there filming, after breakfast. He came straight over and gave me a hug. Which was nice of him, considering we’d only chatted for a few minutes the night before.’

  ‘Very nice of him,’ said Francis. ‘I’m sure his motives were entirely pure. How long a hug was it?’

  ‘Long enough.’ Priya made a ‘yuk’ face and Francis laughed. ‘So why were you asking all that stuff about mushrooms?’ she asked.

  ‘Why indeed?’ said Francis, looking at his watch. ‘Now what time is it? I’d quite like to shoot out to Wyveridge. See if we can’t find Rory and his posse. And see what the police are up to. You coming?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Arriving at Wyveridge shortly after four, Francis and Priya found the police presence substantially reduced. The vans and cars crowded onto the gravel circle at the back of the house had gone, leaving just one marked car behind. There was a single uniformed PC stationed at the front door, the big-bellied fellow they’d seen earlier. Yes, he confirmed, the young lady’s body had gone off to post-mortem early that morning, though even if he knew the results, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to give them out, as a matter of policy. Was DS Brian Povey still around, Francis asked. No. Where was DCI Julie Morgan? That was confidential information, but yes, he could confirm that she wasn’t here. Could they pop into the house to look for someone? No, they couldn’t. He had a list of eight resident guests he was allowed to let through and they weren’t on it. Were any of those people currently in the house? That he couldn’t say.

  ‘I was here yesterday,’ Francis said. ‘Detective Sergeant Povey gave me permission to go in and see my friend Ranjit Richardson, who’s the organiser of the house party here.’

  ‘That was yesterday, sir. I’m afraid I have to stick to my orders.’

  ‘Are we even allowed to go round the front?’

  ‘I can’t stop you walking in the gardens, sir. But strictly not within the areas marked off with tape. The terrace is still a crime scene.’

  ‘What a knob,’ said Priya, as they walked off.

  ‘Only doing his job,’ said Francis. He winked. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t get what we want.’

  He led her round to the top of the grassy bank that flanked the terrace, which was completely outlined by blue and white scene-of-crime tape. Above them, the Hall looked haunted in its emptiness. There on the gravel was the taped-off body shape of poor Grace, now damp with gleaming rain droplets and slightly askew. Priya shuddered visibly.

  ‘That’s where she was …?’

  ‘Yes.’ Francis, right beside her, put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Poor, poor girl,’ she said. ‘She was younger than me.’

  ‘I know she was.’

  Suddenly she had broken down in tears.

  ‘Come on,’ said Francis, ushering her to a nearby bench. ‘That’s it, take your time.’ He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, dabbing at her face. ‘I barely knew her.’

  ‘None of us did,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t mean we’re without feeling, does it.’

  Now she looked up at him with an expression he’d not yet seen; more open, yet simultaneously more helpless. ‘I didn’t tell you,’ she said, ‘but I had a sister who died young. She was almost exactly the same age as Grace.’

  ‘Priya, I’m sorry. I had no idea …’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, it was a long time ago. It’s just like … all this … has brought it back. I feel so vulnerable. I’m sorry, you really don’t need to hear …’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He sat quietly with her, then took her hands between his. ‘Tell me about her,’ he said.

  ‘She died in a fire. At my parents’ house in Derby. We’d all gone out for the evening to see some cousins, and Chinni stayed behind to do some course work. When we got back the place was ablaze. You could see the flames from three streets away.’

  ‘And why didn’t she get out?’

  ‘I don’t know. None of us knew. We thought she must have fallen asleep …’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Chinni was like my role model growing up,’ Priya went on, eyes gleaming. ‘She always stood up to my parents, told them she wasn’t going to listen to their stupid ideas about what Punjabi women were born to do, look after their families, cook, clean, and when the time came marry some man they didn’t know and probably didn’t like or fancy either. She managed to get her A-levels and go to college. So many of the sisters of my friends were the total opposite of that, would go along with their parents, let them enforce the old traditions. But Chinni was always different, always said what she thought, what she wanted, she was so cool …’

  Priya trailed off and there was silence. Her lip was trembling. ‘She was pregnant,’ she said quietly. ‘That was the worst of it …’

  Francis looked out over the terrace, to the garden and big field that sloped down to the woods below. Heavy grey cloud was moving in right above them, but down the hill, beyond the gleaming snake of the river, that patchwork green and ochre quilt of English countryside stretched away in the sunshine to distant blue hills.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, eventually. ‘I lost someone very dear to me, in my twenties.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘My wife, Kate.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Priya. ‘How?’

  Even as he told Priya the story of the felucca and the storm, Francis could hardly believe he was doing it. He had been through whole relationships and not shared this. But there was something about this woman that pulled it out of him.

  ‘It probably sounds a bit ridiculous,’ he said. ‘But Grace reminded me of Kate. This death has brought it all back to me too.’

  ‘I get that,’ said Priya, squeezing his hand.

  They sat in silence for a while. ‘So why exactly did you bring me here?’ she asked.

  Francis shook himself and got to his feet. ‘You up for a short stroll?’

  ‘OK.’

  He led her across the lawn and – via a quaint little bridge with a cattle grid – over the ha-ha that separated it from the field beyond. At the bottom of the valley was a herd of black and white Friesians, which now started to lumber up the pasture towards them.

  ‘I’m frightened of cows,’ Priya said.

  ‘Don’t worry. As long as they’ve got udders they’re all right. It’s bullocks you need to watch out for.’

  The foremost animal was now approaching, wide eyes watching in a slowly turning head, at the fr
ont of a clutch of its peers.

  ‘Boo!’ shouted Francis, holding up both his arms like a scarecrow. The cow jumped back, then turned and loped off, pursued by its gaggle of supporters.

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Priya. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I just wanted to see what magic our thoroughly miserable summer might have worked.’

  Leaving Priya close to the bridge, he paced down across the field, pausing every now and then, stooping, then returning to the upright.

  ‘Eureka!’ he cried and came running back towards her. He arrived, breathless. ‘Oh ye of little faith. Just as I was starting to think I was on totally the wrong track, I find not just one, but two.’ He held out a browny-white mushroom with a head like a little bell. ‘This, Priya Kaur, is the liberty cap, known colloquially as the magic mushroom. Odd-looking chap, isn’t he? I have now, by plucking it, committed a criminal act. But I expect we can get past PC Intransigent without him searching us and sending us to Dewkesbury nick.’ He slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘That wasn’t so far from the house, was it? Easy enough to spot on a casual foray.’

  ‘So what are you saying? You think Grace had one?’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ said Francis. ‘For sure. But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

  ‘That Eva woman was offering magic mushroom tea at the party on Saturday.’

  ‘Was she?’ said Francis. ‘You didn’t mention that before.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. There were drugs everywhere that night.’

  Francis paced on, back over the ha-ha and the lawn, with Priya following. At the end of the terrace away from the body shape, he bent down and picked up a handful of gravel. His arm swung up in a circle and a spray of fine stones hit at least two of the first floor windows.

  ‘What on earth …?’ Priya said, but her question was answered by a familiar face, peering out from the side window of the mullioned bay; which was then pushed open.