Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  “It’s a date,” said Alfie. “That’s where I’ll be anyway – I’m booked in there tonight as well.” And depending on what Aunt Augusta’s bedroom looked like, he might stay in the Drunken Horse indefinitely.

  “We’ll leave you to explore,” said Liz. “Come along, Marge.”

  They worked well as a team, thought Alfie. It was almost a pity there wasn’t a murder. He could imagine the ladies as a pair of Miss Marples, nice cop and nicer cop, Marge chattering on to lull the suspect into a false sense of security while Liz sat quietly, instantly picking up the smallest clue.

  He walked them to the door, then bent down and kissed each of them on the cheek. “It’s been wonderful to meet you both,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

  He watched them disappear down the narrow street, chatting earnestly to one another, and found himself looking forward to meeting up with them again in the evening. He might have been less keen if he had been able to hear their conversation.

  *

  “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, you know,” said Marge. “I swear, if I was twenty years younger and he wasn’t practically family … He’d better watch out, or some cougar will gobble him up.”

  “Not many cougars in the Cotswolds, I don’t think,” said Liz. “Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, maybe. And the occasional llama.”

  Marge patted her arm. “Not a real cougar. A cougar is an older lady who goes after a younger man.”

  “Oh dear,” said Liz. “That doesn’t sound very suitable.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” said Marge. “What we need is someone younger. Someone single. Preferably someone good looking. Now, who do we know who fits the bill?”

  “We mustn’t meddle, dear,” said Liz. But she was smiling.

  “A small dinner party, do you think? Just the four of us? Will I ring, or will you?”

  “I suppose I should,” said Liz. “She’s my great-niece, after all.”

  3. Windermere Cottage

  The next room turned out to be the kitchen, and put Alfie in mind of the Rio Carnival. Vibrant multi-coloured tiles covered the walls, there was a scarlet window blind, and the woodwork and surfaces were Aunt Augusta’s signature purple.

  Alfie felt cheered by its wild exuberance. He could imagine breakfasting at the solid wooden table, enjoying the scenic view over the fields at the back of the cottage. And there was easily enough space to invite Liz and Marge to dinner.

  The bathroom contained an avocado suite. If you waited long enough, Alfie thought, most things came back into fashion, but avocado bathroom suites weren’t one of them. It was a disappointing contrast to the comfort and modernity in the Drunken Horse.

  There were two hall cupboards filled with household paraphernalia, neat storage containers, and row upon row of box files. Nobody this methodical could be accused of being ditzy.

  A small utility room had been painted in an acid lemon that set Alfie’s teeth on edge. Two rooms to go. At first glance, he thought the next room was the bedroom, and almost fled back to the Drunken Horse there and then. The walls were covered in melting rhombuses outlined in grey, brown and orange. Aunt Augusta would have had no need to take mind-altering substances – sitting in front of the wallpaper for five minutes would be hallucinogenic enough. He leaned against the doorframe trying to look at the room without looking at it. There was a bed settee covered in a multi-coloured Indian throw. An armchair covered in fawn velvet. And a small table with, yes, a lava lamp. It could make a good guestroom or study. After comprehensive refurbishing.

  The last room must be the bedroom. All Alfie could think of was a photograph he had seen of a 1970s bedroom: black walls, black curtains, black carpet, and a mirrored ceiling over a circular bed covered in black satin sheets. Perhaps Aunt Augusta had gone for the same look, but in purple.

  He pushed open the door to discover a haven of tranquillity. Purple had muted to delicate lavender. The double bed was covered in a dove grey quilt, and the pure white paintwork and ceiling gave the room brightness while retaining its calm. There were two shelved bedside tables, the shelves empty, but of a height and width that suggested they had contained books. On top of one was an old-fashioned telephone. Alfie instantly thought of Oscar. It was one of Oscar’s many quirks that while he was perfectly happy to communicate by text, he would only speak on his landline, claiming that mobiles always cut out at crucial moments.

  Alfie lifted the receiver to find that the phone was connected. He sat on the edge of the bed and dialled Oscar’s number. The phone rang three times and was then answered, but instead of Oscar’s voice, Alfie heard a deep sepulchral rasp: “De Linnet household. Lane the butler speaking. May I help you?”

  “I – who? – may I speak to Oscar?” Alfie managed.

  “I shall see whether the young master is available.”

  Since when had Oscar had a butler? Alfie was used to his friend’s eccentricities, but even for Oscar, hiring a butler seemed a step too far.

  “Hello, Alfie,” came Oscar’s cheerful tones.

  “But – “ Alfie was still bewildered. “I didn’t tell Lane who I was. How did you know it was me?”

  “Because I’m Lane, you dolt.”

  “What?” said Alfie. He reflected that he spent a lot of his time with Oscar saying “What?”

  “I’ve been getting a lot of cold calls lately, and having Lane answer the phone lets me get rid of them without being rude,” Oscar explained. “I tell them the young master’s off travelling in Patagonia. It usually works. Apart from the time the cold caller was Patagonian and insisted that the young master go and stay with his mother in Puerto San Julián. I must say, she sounds a delightful lady, and she loves having visitors – how do you fancy a holiday in Patagonia? You must be fed up with country life by now.”

  Alfie kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, the receiver still at his ear. “Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to stay for a while.” He surprised himself by how definite he sounded. “Aunt Augusta’s friends are nothing like your prediction. They’re even more delightful than your Patagonian lady. In fact, forget our Patagonian trip. Why don’t you come down to Bunburry for a few weeks?”

  Through the telephone wires, he could feel Oscar shuddering. “My dear boy, have you completely taken leave of your senses? I can’t imagine anything more dreary.”

  Alfie reclined on the comfortable pillows, a superior smile on his face. “You’re quite wrong,” he said. “Bunburry is positively awash with excitement. For example, there’s just been a mysterious fatality.”

  “How thrilling!” said Oscar. “Tell me more.”

  “Someone was discovered hanging from a hook on a building. Perhaps it was only an accident, but there’s a school of thought that it was suicide.”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” said Oscar.

  “Of course it wasn’t what?” said Alfie.

  “It wasn’t an accident, and it wasn’t suicide. It was murder.” Oscar sounded very definite.

  “What?” said Alfie.

  “It’s obvious.” Oscar was using the tone that was usually accompanied by the words “you dolt.” Alfie waited to hear what was obvious. “It’s a Mafia hit. It’s exactly the same modus operandi as that Italian banker chap who was found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge. To begin with, they said it was suicide, but it turned out to be murder. If you investigate, you’ll find all sorts of murky financial dealings.”

  It had been too much to hope that Oscar would actually talk sense.

  “I’ve only found an Indian restaurant so far, but I shall look out for the pizzeria and the Godfather of Bunburry,” Alfie said. “I’ll be back in touch once I have the villain behind bars.”

  “The very best of luck, sir,” Oscar intoned in his Lane the butler voice, and hung up.

  Alfie replaced the receiver and relaxed, hands behind his head. The bed
was remarkably comfortable. It was odd, not hearing the perpetual rumble of traffic that accompanied life in London, but he rather liked the unexpected quiet. There was a sense of peace about the room.

  He shot bolt upright. Aunt Augusta was at peace now. How could he have lain there, chatting carelessly to Oscar, on the very bed where she had passed away? And how, in all conscience, could he ever sleep here? He didn’t want to be on this bed; he didn’t want to be in this room. It felt disrespectful and it felt downright macabre. Perhaps he could have the bed removed, and the room redecorated at the same time as having the psychedelic parlour overhauled. But the room felt right as it was, as though it shouldn’t be disturbed. What was wrong was that he was in it.

  Only a moment ago, he had told Oscar he was planning to stay. Now he saw that was impossible. He would put Windermere Cottage in the hands of an estate agent, and find a sanctuary elsewhere. Assuming he could find a sanctuary anywhere.

  He sat gingerly on the edge of Aunt Augusta’s deathbed and put on his shoes. He hadn’t noticed this morning, but they had been completely ruined by yesterday’s rain. And they were his favourite pair. Another sign that Bunburry wasn’t the right place for him. He would go back to the Drunken Horse, say his goodbyes to Liz and Marge in the evening, and return to London tomorrow to rethink his plans.

  On the way to the hotel, he passed the supermarket. It was a long shot that they would have what he wanted, but he had nothing else to do. As he walked in, he heard raised voices, a woman and a man.

  “And what would you know about it? You don’t know anything!”

  “Oh, I know a lot more than you think, believe me!”

  A woman in her mid-twenties emerged through a door at the back of the shop. Her black hair was scraped back in a lank pony-tail and she was wearing a dingy overall that made her look equally lank. Her face was flushed and angry, and she bit her lip when she saw Alfie.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know we had a customer.”

  “I’ve just come in this second,” said Alfie easily, giving no hint that he had overheard the argument. “Do you have shoe polish, by any chance?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Just a minute – I’m not sure where …”

  A young man, around the same age as the woman, emerged through the same door, wearing a similarly dingy overall. Alfie decided they would look a lot more professional and prepossessing if they just wore ordinary clothes. Despite the man’s youth, he was already running to fat, with a face like a sulky cherub, and he moved with a middle-aged ponderousness.

  “You’ll have to excuse her,” he said. “You’d think she’d know where everything was by now. The shoe polish is over here. I’ll show you.”

  Alfie didn’t follow. “Brown polish, please,” he said. “And a shoe brush if you’ve got it.” He turned back to the woman who was looking even more flushed and angry, following the disparaging remark. “I’ve just come from Windermere Cottage. My Aunt Augusta – “

  “Oh, I’m so sorry about Gussie!” she burst out. “She was lovely. I really miss seeing her.”

  The man came bustling back, hand outstretched. “My condolences. I’m Henry Fairchild.”

  Alfie shook his hand. “Alfie McAlister.”

  The man put his arm round the woman’s shoulders and tugged her close to him. “And this is my wife, Amelia.”

  Alfie didn’t like his proprietorial manner and, judging by her expression, neither did Mrs Fairchild. Alfie couldn’t shake hands with her since she was clamped tightly against her husband.

  “A great pleasure to meet you both,” he said. “Er … the shoe polish?”

  Henry went off again.

  “So this is Bunburry’s only supermarket?” said Alfie to Amelia. “I imagine you work very long hours.”

  She nodded. “We have to. It’s just us at the moment. We can’t afford extra help yet.”

  “Now then, darling,” said Henry, returning with brush and polish, “not very professional to talk like that to the customers, is it? It’s not as bad as she’s making it sound, Mr McAlister, or may I call you Alfie? We manage to give each other a break from time to time, and Amelia can’t wait to get out of here, can you, darling?”

  He seemed determined to force Alfie to be a witness to the tension between them. And Alfie was equally determined to ignore it. He produced his wallet. “Thank you. How much is that?”

  “Do you need a bag?”

  “I’ll just carry them,” said Alfie. “Do my bit for the environment.”

  Henry gave a loud laugh. “Betty will love you,” he said.

  Alfie had no intention of continuing the conversation by asking who Betty was. He proffered his credit card, paid and left.

  As he headed to the Drunken Horse, he passed the flower shop. Most of the shops in Bunburry had quaint, old-fashioned windows with tiny panes, but the flower shop had a large picture window, giving Alfie a clear view of the interior. A slightly built man, perhaps five years younger than Alfie, dressed in dark jeans and a sweat shirt, was standing in front of a long table which was covered in bright blooms. Deftly, he picked up stem after stem, apparently at random, but as Alfie watched, intrigued, a perfect bouquet emerged. The man went over to a stack of ribbons, assessed them briefly, then cut of a length of sky-blue silk which he tied round the stalks of the bouquet in an intricate bow, perfectly complementing the colours of the flowers.

  He stepped back to appraise his handiwork, frowning a little, and caught sight of Alfie. Alfie raised his hand in greeting and realised too late that it was the hand holding the shoe polish and brush. He must look like a hooligan about to hurl a missile through the window. Or perhaps it looked as though he was making a secret sign, checking for a fellow member of the Worshipful Order of Shoe Shiners. The man inside looked briefly startled and then gave a shy smile and a wave.

  Presumably this was Poor Anthony, cousin of the deceased James Fry. No doubt Poor Anthony also got condolences from everyone he met, except in his case they were appropriate. He had lost a relative who had been part of his life, someone he was close to. Everybody in Bunburry knew Aunt Augusta better than Alfie did. He was a fraud here, and the sooner he got back to London, the better.

  4. The Late Unlamented

  Alfie decided to have a bar supper before meeting Marge, Liz and their fellow actors at eight. The menu was short and unexciting. He ordered a shepherd‘s pie and a glass of the house red, and settled himself with the wine at a table at the back of the pub, separated from the next table by a wooden partition.

  Idly, he picked up a discarded newspaper which turned out to be the local weekly. There was a banner headline across the front page: Local Man Dies In Freak Accident.

  The story below read: “James Fry, aged 40 was found dead on Tuesday evening following a tragic mishap. Insurance broker Mr Fry, a keen supporter of the arts and new director of Bunburry’s popular theatre group, is thought to have been re-hanging the publicity banner for the group’s forthcoming production of The Mousetrap when he slipped from the ladder. His scarf then caught on a hook over the theatre door. Mr Fry, born and brought up in Bunburry, established his own business in the village some ten years ago. The business is believed to have had serious financial difficulties.”

  Typical journalistic nods and winks, thought Alfie. Until the coroner pronounced on the cause of death, the paper couldn’t actually say that James Fry had committed suicide, but it could certainly drop as large a hint as possible. This tied in with what Liz had said about Fry having money worries, but Alfie still found it unconvincing. It seemed a very chancy way of committing suicide. He couldn’t help thinking of Oscar’s remark: If you investigate, you’ll find all sorts of murky financial dealings. Had James Fry’s failing insurance business somehow led to his death? But then it also seemed a very chancy way of murdering someone. Perhaps the headline should be taken at face value: it was nothing more th
an a freak accident.

  While he waited for the shepherd’s pie, he took a sip of the wine and found to his surprise that it was a very acceptable Merlot. The microwaved meal might not be as bad as he feared.

  The rest of the front page was taken up by a head and shoulders photograph of James Fry. He was a handsome man, but somehow Alfie didn’t like the look of him. He had an air of vanity and self-satisfaction. But Alfie told himself that was a completely unfair inference. You couldn’t tell someone’s character from a photograph, especially not a newsprint one.

  His attention was diverted by an altercation at the bar. The barman who had taken his order was shoving a large sheet of paper at a woman who seemed reluctant to take it.

  “ – can’t display anything political,” he was saying.

  “This is not political!” the woman burst out. An American accent, Alfie noted. Perhaps she was a tourist, keen to see the Heart of England. Perhaps she was a walker. Even wearing a bulky parka she looked slim and athletic. She swept back her long fair hair with an impatient gesture.

  “This is about saving the planet,” she continued, “saving it for our children and our children’s children.”

  “That won’t cut no ice with him, love,” called one of the regulars. “He ain’t got no children. Leastways, none as he’s admitting to.”

  There was a roar of laughter from his companions, and the woman snatched back the sheet of paper. Alfie expected her to leave, but instead, she approached one of the tables. After a moment’s chat, she moved to another one. People greeted her cheerfully enough, but as she got closer, Alfie heard that the main response she was getting was “Sorry, love.”

  Eventually she reached him. “Hey there,” she said. “I’d like to invite you to a meeting the Green Party is holding on Tuesday evening on the urgent need for environmental protection legislation.”