by Shéa MacLeod
“You’ve solved it then?” Josette asked. “You know who killed that ghastly Musgrave?”
North nodded to me. “Lady Rample will explain.”
Faces turned toward me, expressions of curiosity and confusion rampant. I strolled to the middle of the room and smiled at them, feeling very much like Agatha Christie’s detective, Poirot. Only with better fashion sense and a great deal more sex appeal.
“This was such a bizarre murder, right from the beginning. Don’t you think?”
There were some murmurs of agreement, some shrugs. Mostly a lot of bafflement.
“You see, I thought it was strange that the very day after Alfred Musgrave was nearly run down by a car on the streets of London, he winds up dead right here at the nightclub he owned with Mrs. Fairfax. And in the middle of a financial audit, too.”
“Dashed odd,” Chaz agreed.
I gave him a grateful smile and continued. “I also found it very odd that while Helena’s office, the crime scene, was a shambles and Musgrave’s watch had been smashed at the time of death, Musgrave himself was quite unharmed. There were no scratches or abrasions to indicate he’d been in a struggle. His clothing was completely unrumpled. In fact, he’d been shot in the back of the head. Why the mess? Unless someone staged it?”
Helena’s hand clutched her throat. “But why?” Her eyes were wide and guileless. “Was the killer looking for something?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “In fact, it wasn’t until I saw the scene of Mr. Bamber’s near death, and then spoke to him in the hospital, that I realized what was truly going on.”
“Near death,” Beau scoffed. “Call it what it is. A suicide. Weakling couldn’t handle the truth.”
John Bamber stared at his table, looking miserable. A high flush stained his cheeks, but he made no protest.
“Actually, you’re quite mistaken,” I said. “John Bamber did not attempt suicide. In fact, he was nearly murdered himself.”
There was gasps and exclamations. “What happened?” “What do you mean?” “We’re gonna die!” This last dramatic pronouncement came from Coco. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
“The two of you planned to kill Musgrave, didn’t you?” I whirled on Josette and Beau who stared at me with wide eyes. Beau’s mouth was drawn in a tight line. Josette looked like she might faint. “When Josette got the blackmail note, you had no choice. Musgrave had to die.”
“Ridiculous,” Beau snarled.
“Not really. You see, Josette is a fan of mystery novels. Especially those of Agatha Christie.” I strode to the side table in front of DI North and picked up the novel I’d found on Josette’s dressing table.” This is yours, isn’t it, Josette?” I held it up so everyone could see the lurid cover. It showed a scene not unlike the one I’d discovered when I’d entered Helena’s office to find Musgrave dead.
“What of it?” Josette demanded, face a little pale.
“It’s all in here. You’re entire plan.” I tapped the cover before setting the book down. “When I saw it, I knew.”
“Don’t be daft,” Beau snorted.
I merely smiled and picked up the gun. It was a surprisingly heavy little thing, cold to the touch. I repressed a shudder and held it up for the room to see.
“This belongs to Beau. There’s no doubt about that. He always kept it backstage in his dressing room. He said so. But the night of the murder, he moved it into the planter in Helena’s office. You see, I wasn’t the only one to hear about the meeting between Musgrave and Helena.” I placed the gun back down and turned to face them again. “You knew about it, too,” I said to Josette. “You were Musgrave’s lover, after all.”
“Not out of choice,” she bit out.
“No,” I agreed, trying not to allow the loathing I had for the victim to overwhelm me. The man was disgusting, and frankly, I wasn’t sure he hadn’t gotten what he deserved. But still, one couldn’t go around killing people simply because they were loathsome. Otherwise there’d be dead bodies the length and breadth of England. “But you knew, and so you planned around it. You would take the gun, use a pillow from Helena’s office to muffle the shot, and shoot Musgrave in the head. Then you would hide the gun back in the planter.
“Once you returned to the club, Beau would go back stage and retrieve the gun and set the stage. He would add the time to the note you’d previously collected, smash the pocket watch so the police would think Musgrave died twenty minutes later than he did, and hide the damaged pillow, collecting any loose feathers. Then Beau would go up for a smoke.” I turned to face him. “Only instead of smoking out front, you’d sneak around to the back alley and fire the gun next to an open window, timing it for precisely one twenty, when you knew there was a scheduled break in the music. Hopefully, someone would hear it and believe that it was the shot that killed Musgrave. It was all in the book.” Once again, I held up the novel. “Except for one small thing: A feather was left behind.” I held up the white feather I’d found on the floor of Helena’s office the day Musgrave died. North looked apoplectic, but wisely stayed silent.
“Mabel.” I turned to face the dresser. “Tell me about the pillow you found. The one with the hole in it.”
She blinked and took a hesitant step forward. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, m’lady.”
“Of course not,” I said bracingly. “Please, just tell us what you found.”
She twisted her fingers together nervously. “It were right before the body were found. I was emptying the dust bins and one of ‘em had a bunch of feathers in it. Looked in and there was one of madam’s pillows. Had a big ole hole in it. Figgured madam had been in a fight with ‘er ‘usband again.”
“What did you do with the pillow, Mabel?” I asked gently.
“Well, it were in the bin, so I took it home. Patched it up. Good enough for me.” She crossed her arms with a mulish expression. “I ‘ad every right.”
“Of course you did,” I soothed her. “Tell me, what did this hole look like?”
Mabel shrugged. “Round. Kinda burnt around the edges.”
“Bullet hole,” North said with utmost confidence. “Someone used it to muffle the shot that killed Alfred Musgrave.”
“Except we didn’t do it!” Josette wailed. Tears rolled down her cheeks, carrying with them half her eye makeup. Even with her face streaked with black and her eyes red-rimmed, she was stunning. No wonder both Musgrave and Beau had fallen for her.
“No, you didn’t.” She appeared surprised by my agreement. I continued. “For a long time, I thought it was you. But then I saw something that made me realize someone else wanted Musgrave dead. Someone who’d been cheated and used by him. Someone who wanted the two of you to suffer and so sent the blackmail note to throw us off the scent and frame the two of you.”
“Who?” Beau asked.
Instead of answering, I told a story. “A few days ago, I watched Alfred Musgrave nearly get run over by a car. At first it seemed an accident. But then the next day he was murdered. It seemed a stretch that it could be a coincidence. But then I remembered I’d seen something that made me realize it wasn’t. Not at all.”
“What did you see?” Aunt Butty asked breathlessly.
I turned slowly to face Leo Fairfax. “I saw Mr. Fairfax driving the car that ran over Musgrave.”
“Nonsense,” Leo sputtered, puffing out his chest. It would have been more impressive if he hadn’t been a rumpled mess. It looked like he’d slept in his jacket. Probably had.
“Not at all,” I said calmly. “You see, I was able to catch a glimpse of the person driving the car. I could tell it was a man, but I couldn’t see his face. I could, however, see his very distinctive fedora hat. The one I saw you later wearing at the club.”
“Why would I try and run over Musgrave?” he demanded, cheeks turning red. His eyes darted left and right as if looking for an escape.
“A lot of reasons. He was sleeping with your wife. He was trying to take away your meal ticket. He was a generally unpleas
ant individual. But the real reason was, Helena told you to.”
“Why would I do that, darling?” Helena drawled.
I turned to face her. She stared back at me coolly, smoking her cigarette as if nothing at all were the matter, but I could feel the tension roiling off her. “The same reason you told him to run me and my aunt off the road.”
“I did no such thing!” Leo shouted, half standing. North took a step toward him and Leo plopped back down mutter, “I didn’t.”
“Of course, you did,” Aunt Butty said. “Right outside the hospital the other day. You chased us right down the road. We saw you.”
Leo snorted. “I wasn’t chasing you, daft old woman. I was... visiting a friend and happened to be driving back home.”
“Who are you calling a ‘daft old woman?’” Aunt Butty snapped.
“Visiting a friend, my ass,” Chaz muttered. “More like making a delivery.”
So, the incident with the Morris Minor had been all in our heads, after all. I felt a twinge of embarrassment for my overreaction.
“You still haven’t answered the question, Lady Rample,” Helena said. “Why would I have my idiot husband run over my business partner?”
“Because you wanted Afred Musgrave dead. And when Leo couldn’t make it happen, you took matters into your own hands.”
“Don’t be daft, darling,” Helena drawled. “Why would I want to off that troll?”
“Because Musgrave wanted to control the club. That was what the audit was about. He suspected that John Bamber was helping you skim money and doctor the books. He was going to use that to force you out.”
“Everything I have is in that club. There’s no way he was going to get rid of me, whatever he thought.” Her tone was angry, bitter. “Doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“But it does. First you roped Mr. Fairfax into helping you. You arranged to meet Musgrave, then had Leo waiting around the corner. When Musgrave stepped into the street, Leo tried to run him down. But it didn’t work, so you had to try something else. Lucky for you, you overheard Beau and Josette’s plans. You knew what they were going to do. Or at least you heard the part about shooting Musgrave. You saw an opportunity to get rid of not only the man who threatened to take everything, but the woman who was your sexual rival.”
Helena took a deep drag on her cigarette, glaring at me from beneath slitted lids. “And how would I do that?”
“You found the gun first. Sitting in the planter, waiting for you. At one in the morning, you used it just as Josette planned to do and shot Musgrave in the back of the head, using the pillow in your office to muffle the shot. You cleaned up the feathers and ditched them and the damaged pillow in one of the dust bins. You had no way of knowing that Mabel would rescue it from the bin, or that I would find the one feather you missed. When Josette went backstage, she found Musgrave already dead. But what you didn’t realize was that Josette and Beau had a plan to save themselves. The two of them were forced to continue the charade of covering up the time of the murder, thus accidentally giving you an alibi along with themselves.”
“She’s right,” Josette whispered. “He was already dead when I went backstage. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. So I left everything as it was and hurried to tell Beau.”
Beau nodded. “That’s right. I had to stick to the plan. It was the only thing I could think to do. I was sure the police would pin it on us. And we had planned to kill him.”
“You can prove nothing,” Helena snarled. “Are you going to believe these people over me? They just confessed plotting to murder Alfred.”
“But you confessed to an affair with Musgrave,” I pointed out. “One that served you very well until Josette came along. Only you had both the motive to kill Musgrave and the motive to pin it on Josette. Plus, only you could have talked Leo into attempted murder.”
“Still, you haven’t got proof.” She lifted her nose, arrogantly certain that she was in the clear.
“Oh, but I have,” I said, just as calmly. “You forget about John Bamber.”
Helena rolled her eyes. Most unladylike of her. “What about that weasel?”
John let out a squeak of outrage which we all ignored.
“You knew he was stealing from you,” I said, “and you wanted to get rid of him. After your original plan failed and Josette and Beau were cleared, you saw your chance. Not only could you get rid of him, but you could pin Musgrave’s murder on him. Who wouldn’t believe that an embezzler would kill the man about to find him out? Then, overcome with remorse and guilt, kill himself? It was perfect.”
“Obviously not,” Helena ground out.
“No. Not quite,” I agreed. “You see, by poisoning him in the club, he was found too quickly. And thanks to Dr. Elis’s quick thinking, his life was spared.”
Doctor Elis preened. Helena snarled. She stubbed her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray, smashing it viciously.
“This allowed me the opportunity to talk to Mr. Bamber,” I continued. “What I discovered was quite interesting. I’d been very curious about the so-called suicide note. A cryptic line written on a scrap of paper? This didn’t at all fit with the man I’d met. So I spoke to him. Not only did he explain that the note had been a line from a much longer letter, but he told me about the nerve tonic which he secretly takes. The tonic only you and Musgrave knew about.” I pointed dramatically at Helena.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Yes, you do. John Bamber told me that he often gave you some of his tonic. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bamber?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Sorry, Mrs. Fairfax.” He shrugged helplessly and sunk lower in his seat.
“So what?” She crossed her arms. “What does that prove?”
“Since you were the only living person who knew about the bottle of tonic Mr. Bamber kept at the club, and his habit of drinking from it when stressed, you were the only one with the opportunity to poison the tonic.”
“But he took sleeping powders,” she said.
“No, those wrappers were left as mere staging. Mr. Bamber was very clear that he only ever took the tonic. He doesn’t care for sleeping powders. Finds them bitter.”
“That’s right,” John Bamber spoke up at last. “I never took any powders.”
“Once he’d fallen unconscious, you spread the empty papers about and left the scrap of paper you’d conveniently torn from a letter he’d written you. It was a devious plan,” I admitted, “but it didn’t quite work.”
“Leonard Fairfax, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Alfred Musgrave.” North held up a pair of handcuffs that gleamed dully in the light.
Leo jumped up, face red, stabbing a finger in Helena’s direction. “That bitch made me do it! It’s her fault!” A uniformed officer rushed toward him, slapping the cuffs on his wrists, and dragged him from the room.
“Helena Fairfax,” North intoned, “I’m arresting you for the murder of Alfred Musgrave and the attempted murder of John Bamber.”
With a screech, Helena leapt from her chair and ran for the door. Chaz made a grab for her and missed. Everyone else sat about stunned, except for Aunt Butty. Aunt Butty calmly stuck her foot out. Helena tripped and went flying... right into the arms of Detective Inspector North.
Chapter 18
Later that evening, we gathered in Aunt Butty’s sitting room. She’d insisted that we all—all being myself, Varant, Chaz, and Hale—come over for drinkies and a natter. No one had dared refuse—one simply didn’t tell Aunt Butty no—except for Hale who had insisted his fellow musicians needed him. I kept a stiff upper lip and pretended I didn’t feel a stab of disappointment at not being able to spend more time with him. That our steamy evening was destined to remain a one-off. I wondered if, and when, I’d see him again. There’d been talk of the entire group heading to France, or possibly returning to America, now that the Astoria Club was closed. Likely permanently.
He had, however, pulled me to the side, o
ut of sight of the others, after North had marched Helena and Leo out of the club. “Just in case,” he’d whispered. Then he’d leaned down and kissed me thoroughly before leaving with his bandmates. It had taken me some time to recover.
I was surprised the police hadn’t arrested John Bamber, too, but apparently with one club owner dead and the other arrested for murder, there was no one left to press charges. It was up to whomever inherited the club. No doubt Helena’s husband, Leo, although he had his own set of problems what with the failed attempt on Musgrave’s life and his little drugs smuggling business. I still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been following Aunt Butty and me with evil intent, no matter what he claimed. And I was relieved to know he’d be gone and away from Chaz for a very long time.
Poor Mabel had been forced to give up her newly mended pillow as evidence. North had been surprisingly kind to her and promised to return it immediately after the trial. That seemed to mollify her. I was more concerned with her immediate welfare, seeing as how she was now out of a job. Aunt Butty rectified that by convincing her friend, Louise Pennyfather, to hire Mabel as her personal lady’s maid. I couldn’t wait to see how that turned out.
North had given Josette and Beau a strong talking to, but they’d done nothing illegal, technically, unless you counted messing with the crime scene. North seemed happy enough just to get rid of them and call it a night. They appeared harmless enough. Although I wouldn’t put it past them to bump off someone in the future should they feel the need. I wondered how long they’d last, or if Beau would go running back to Coco. I was betting on the latter. According to Aunt Butty, leopards don’t change their spots.
“How did you ever think to look for that pillow, Helena?” Aunt Butty said as Mr. Singh brought in a round of drinks which no one refused. “I daresay I’d have never come up with it.”
“Where else would the feather have come from?” I asked. “It wasn’t from a hat or a feather boa, so that only left a pillow. And it made sense when Mabel said she heard a cough. No one else heard anything at that time, and yet that had to have been when Musgrave was shot. And while there were pillows everywhere, the one seat in the place that should have had one, didn’t. So...it was obvious.”
