Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  She was quoting his words back to him absolutely precisely. Alfie felt even more unnerved.

  “Marge, Aunt Liz and I all had opportunity. I presume you’ve ruled them out because of lack of motive. Which suggests you think I could have had a motive. What might that have been?”

  She had completely wrong-footed him. He could bluster, he could prevaricate, but that would only postpone the evil hour. “I heard about James Fry and your sister,” he said.

  She didn’t reply, merely took a sip of beer and replaced her glass neatly on the beer mat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry about my sister, or sorry for suspecting me?”

  “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m sorry she ever met James Fry.”

  Emma nodded. “Thanks for clarifying that. So am I still a suspect?”

  “Of course not. You’ve just told me you didn’t do it.”

  “Are you sure you’re cut out for this investigation?” she asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s not quite the way we approach things in the police. ‘Did you do it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Thank you, you’re free to go.’”

  “Perhaps you’re more credible than the people you interview. I wasn’t planning on asking all the members of the AA the same question.”

  There was a ghost of a smile now. “When Marge and Aunt Liz heard us arrange to meet for a drink, I don’t think they realised you were going to ask me if I was a murderer.”

  Alfie let his gaze drift towards the back wall. He knew exactly what Marge and Liz thought, and he didn’t want to acknowledge it in any way. This coolly competent young woman would be horrified if she thought he harboured any hopes of her.

  “But just to put your mind at rest, even if I had motive, I wouldn’t have considered acting on it. My job is to uphold the law, not to take it into my own hands. I’ll admit I watched Fry like a hawk – if that man had as much as parked on a yellow line, I would have had him. But no luck. So, shall we get on with the meeting?”

  “You’ve managed to get some information?”

  “Some, yes. First, you need to know that earlier this year, I had to caution Rakesh after he threatened Fry.”

  “Rakesh?” Alfie knew there had been some dispute between them, but Rakesh seemed a very genial, equable individual. He found it difficult to imagine him threatening somebody.

  “Fry sold Rakesh an insurance policy which turned out to be less comprehensive than Rakesh realised. There was a fire in the restaurant but the policy didn’t cover the damage. Rakesh had to pay over the odds to get repairs done as quickly as possible, and lost money while the restaurant was closed.”

  Alfie could see the problem. A small restaurant in a place like Bunburry wouldn’t have the margins to cope with unexpected losses. And he suspected that Fry had known perfectly well that the policy was flawed.

  “I got involved because Fry’s secretary called us. Rakesh had turned up in the office, demanding compensation, and was refusing to leave. I got there just in time – it was about to get physical, and Rakesh would definitely have got the worst of it. Being female can be very useful in these situations. I got between them which let them both back down without losing face.”

  Alfie wondered how often she encountered “these situations”. He also wondered whether anything ever fazed her.

  “I checked the notes I made at the time. Rakesh said, and I quote: ‘Don’t think this is over. You’re going to pay.’ At which point I cautioned him.”

  “But he might not have intended it as a threat,” Alfie objected. “Perhaps he just meant that he was going to make sure that Fry paid out the insurance.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. There’s no doubt that the policy as it stood didn’t cover the fire damage, so Rakesh had no prospect of getting any money out of him.”

  Which might have left Rakesh seeking revenge rather than compensation. The restaurateur was a great Agatha Christie fan. The book he had been carrying in his pocket – did it involve someone getting murdered while trying to put up a banner? Was that where he had got the idea? For the first time, Alfie regretted never having read the queen of crime.

  “People have been gossiping for a while about Fry having money problems, but people here gossip about anything, whether it’s true or not.” She gave him a searching look.

  “So Bunburry gossip should be treated as unreliable?”

  “Not always. Just treat it with caution. In this case, it was spot on. I’ve looked into Fry’s finances. He was very heavily in debt, to the extent that he was about to lose his insurance agency.”

  “If he was facing financial ruin, doesn’t that suggest it’s likely to have been suicide?”

  Her mouth twisted. “No. I’ve never thought that was a possibility. He had far too high an opinion of himself. The only thing he would be planning was how to get someone to bail him out, and my guess is that he was pressurising Rose. She had already written him some sizeable cheques, but he would have needed very much more if he was going to save the agency. I don’t know exactly what her circumstances are, but once you allow for the nursing home fees, I can’t imagine she would be left with much.”

  Alfie hadn’t seriously considered Anthony and the vicar as suspects, but if they were counting on money from Rose, this put them firmly in the frame. How lucrative was Bunburry Blooms? Was Anthony planning to beg his grandmother for the cash to keep his own business going, and literally couldn’t afford to have James Fry get to it first?

  And the vicar – Rose had already made significant gifts to the parish. Perhaps the village church was at risk of closure or merger without her money. Would Reverend Philip Brown consider murder the lesser of two evils?

  “I hope that helps you with your inquiries.” Emma finished her beer, and retrieved her handbag. She was preparing to leave.

  “Emma.”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “I was told about your sister in confidence. I can assure you I have no intention of mentioning it to anybody else.”

  It wasn’t the ghost of a smile this time, but a living, breathing one. Alfie was startled by how different it made her look.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. A lot.” Her smile broadened. “But I wasn’t worried. A lot of police work relies on gut instinct. You and I can trust one another, Mr McAlister. See you at the rehearsal.”

  She pulled her handbag on to her shoulder and was gone, leaving Alfie feeling somewhat unsettled. He hadn’t finished his own drink, so he stayed where he was and checked his phone. There was a tweet from a BBC correspondent he followed: life outside Bunburry was getting no more peaceful. He glanced at a few more tweets, then searched for a name. @GreenthornBetty duly appeared. He went on to her twitter feed and scrolled down until he came to the previous Tuesday night. Betty had indeed been speaking at a meeting at Cheltenham that evening: she had retweeted a series of comments from @ecowarriorprincess, who appeared to be her greatest fan. @ecowarriorprincess had given a blow-by-blow account of the talk, complete with photographs of Betty in full flight, and the timeline proved that she was still in Cheltenham when James Fry met his end.

  Alfie took a thoughtful sip of his pint. Betty and Emma were now off the suspect list. But that still left five others.

  7. Truth in Dreams

  Alfie woke, his pulse racing, his heart thudding. This wasn’t the usual nightmare. It was a new one, here in Bunburry. In the dark of Wildshaw Woods. Threatening him.

  He groped for his watch, knocking it off the bedside table. Unsteadily, he got out of bed and felt around the floor without success until it occurred to him to switch on a light. 3.40am. He threw on his dressing gown and stumbled down the hall to the parlour. The hideous wallpaper had no impact: he was still in the throes of the nightmare. He headed for the drinks cabinet. Gin. Brandy. Vodka. Whisky. The whisky was unopened, so Alfie opened it. He coul
dn’t be bothered to go in search of a glass but collapsed onto the sofa and took a long swig. Whatever had been threatening him, it hadn’t been Andrew Henderson and Kevin Fletcher. He tilted the bottle again. It had been James Fry.

  The nightmare had been an incoherent muddle, Wildshaw Woods presumably evoked by the walk with Betty. But it had sprung from a memory, a memory so raw he had forced it down for over thirty years. It had been that last summer in Bunburry, when he had been playing so hard he had scarcely even missed his mother. On the very first day of the holidays, his grandfather had given him a present. A penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle.

  “Now don’t lose it.”

  Lose it? Alfie would guard this unexpected gift for ever. It was his constant companion. He knew better than to carve his initials on trees, but he carved them on fenceposts. He dug things up with it, created obstacle courses for ants, lay on his front and watched them change their tactics – when had he become so fastidious about the countryside? He cleaned the penknife carefully, polishing the blade, buffing the handle.

  Strange that it was only now he could recognise the boy as James Fry. Had he known him as Jim? Jimmy? No matter. The boy had been on the periphery of the gang. He looked angelic with his golden curls, but he was an aggressive cheat when it came to the drunken horse game, and Alfie generally avoided him.

  Now, he was barring Alfie’s way. “You’re trespassing. This is my dad’s land.”

  With a muttered apology, Alfie prepared to go back the way he had come.

  “No you don’t. I told you you’re trespassing. You have to pay a fine.”

  Alfie had been well warned by his grandparents not to trespass. They hadn’t told him what sanctions would be imposed.

  “I haven’t got any money,” he said uncertainly.

  “What’s that in your hand?”

  “Nothing.” Alfie tried to conceal the penknife behind his back.

  “Show me. If you haven’t any money, I’ll have to take that.”

  “You can’t. It’s mine.”

  The boy smirked. “Okay then. My dad says your mum’s going to be coming down to Bunburry soon. He can go round and get the money off her.”

  Alfie froze. He couldn’t have that. How much would the fine be? What if his mother couldn’t pay it? Would they send her to prison? And all his fault, trespassing when he had been told not to.

  He held out the knife. “Here,” he said.

  The boy grabbed it and ran off.

  The rest of the holiday was utter misery. Alfie couldn’t confess to trespassing, and he was terrified that his grandfather would ask to see the knife. He stayed in his room most of the time, pretending to read, waiting for his mother to come and take him home.

  Eventually she arrived. Only one night to go, and then he would be safe.

  “Alfie? What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?”

  Her voice came through the darkness. He had thought she was asleep, in the other bed. How could she tell he was awake? If he didn’t answer, she wouldn’t know for sure.

  “Alfie.” She was standing beside his bed. Then she was sitting on the edge of it, and she had her arms round him, hugging him.

  For an instant, he wanted to yield to the embrace, to feel warm and secure, to tell her what had happened and be comforted. And then he felt tears building up and pulled away from her.

  “I’m okay,” he said thickly. “Leave me alone.”

  She ruffled his hair, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “All right, Grumpy.”

  He rushed his goodbyes to his grandparents, terrified that the subject of the penknife would come up. As the train chugged out of Bunburry, he pointed in the direction of the path where he had been ambushed. “Who does that belong to?”

  His mother peered through the grimy window. “Who does what belong to?”

  “The bit there where you’re not allowed to trespass.”

  “There isn’t any bit there where you’re not allowed to trespass. That’s all common land. Haven’t Granny and Grandpa told you where you can’t go?” She waved to the passing scenery. “Goodbye, Bunburry. See you next year.”

  Embarrassed by her liveliness, and furious to discover he had been conned, Alfie sank down in his seat and didn’t speak for the rest of the journey.

  He hadn’t known he wouldn’t see Bunburry again until now. He hadn’t known he would never have the chance to own up about the penknife to his grandfather, and be forgiven. How did James Fry’s father know anything about his mother? How dare he talk about her?

  He downed more whisky.

  Loss. Nothing but loss. Anyone he had loved. Anything he had loved. He had nothing in his life. It was all James Fry’s fault. James Fry had ruined everything. He clutched the whisky bottle as though he could strangle it. He was determined to find James Fry’s murderer, to find them so that he could shake them by the hand and tell them job well done.

  “It’s not fair!” he wanted to shout. “It’s not fair!”

  Instead, he had some more whisky.

  He didn’t remember going back to bed but he must have done, since that was where he was when he was wakened by the opening of the Hallelujah Chorus, over and over and over again.

  Eventually it registered that this was the doorbell. His head was throbbing. Gingerly, he eased himself out of bed and found he was still wrapped in his dressing gown. He made his way towards the front door to stop the infernal noise.

  He opened the door to find Marge.

  “Oh dear, rough night? Do you know it’s lunchtime?”

  “Why are you here?” he demanded, vaguely aware that that sounded a bit unmannerly.

  “Because I have news, Alfie, exciting news. We have a witness.”

  He stared at her blearily. “Witness? What sort of a witness?”

  “To the murder, of course.”

  8. A Witness To The Crime

  Murder. James Fry had been murdered. He hated James Fry.

  “Good,” he said, swaying slightly. “Good.”

  “Right,” said Marge, “let’s get you sorted out.”

  She escorted him to the kitchen and gave him a glass containing a substance that fizzed and popped.

  “Aspirin,” she said. “That’ll get to work on your headache. Drink up.”

  Then she propelled him in the direction of the avocado bathroom and turned on the shower over the bath.

  “Do you think you can wash and shave without drowning yourself or cutting your throat?” she asked.

  He began to nod, then decided it was better not to move his head. “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you manage to step into the bath? Do you want me to help you?”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t need help.”

  “All right, I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and he thought he detected a note of regret.

  Some time later, he was back at the kitchen table, damp-haired, shaved, dressed, feeling slightly better and simultaneously quite a lot worse.

  Marge passed him a mug of black coffee, and a plate.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A banana sandwich. My patented hangover cure.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t argue with your Auntie Marge. Eat it.”

  After a while, the feeling-better part was in the ascendency. “So why are you here?” he asked, trying to remember.

  “Goodness, you are in a bad way.” She pattered through to the parlour and he heard her exclaim. She returned bearing the bottle of whisky, shaking it to indicate how little was left.

  “What have you done with your glass?” she asked. “You don’t want to stand on it.”

  He tried to concentrate. “I don’t think I bothered with one.”

  She poured him some more coffee. “How compos mentis are you, on a scale of one to ten?”


  “Is ten compos or non-compos?”

  “You’ll do. Do you remember me telling you why I was here?”

  He thought. “Something to do with James Fry. You said – there’s a witness. A witness to the murder.” The fresh coffee was scalding but he drank it anyway. “Who?”

  “Liz went out this morning on her visiting rounds and when she came back, she told me.”

  Alfie could see from the eyes glinting behind the over-sized spectacles that she was baiting him, possibly to see whether he had reached ten yet.

  “And are you going to tell me?”

  “Liz went up to the nursing home to see Rose, and while she was there, she popped in to see William. He was agitated, and not terribly coherent to begin with, but eventually he managed to tell her that he’d seen the whole thing. He was waiting in the car for Philip after the rehearsal. William saw James climb up the ladder and secure one side of the banner, then move the ladder and climb up it. Someone came over to the ladder and started shaking it. James shouted at them to stop, but they didn’t, and he fell, catching that scarf of his on the hook.”

  “So who was it?”

  “That, sadly, is what we don’t know,” said Marge. “Liz asked him, but he became very confused and she couldn’t get any more sense out of him.”

  “But he must have seen whether it was a man or a woman. He must be able to judge build, height. Perhaps he even saw their face.”

  “Exactly,” said Marge. “Liz realised he wasn’t able to understand her questions. But she thought the three of us could go round this afternoon, have a cup of tea and a chat with him, and cross our fingers that if we stay long enough, he has one of his lucid spells.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” agreed Alfie. “When?”

  “As soon as you like. The car’s outside.”

  Alfie managed to fit himself into the rear seat of the small two-door hatchback, and they set off to pick up Liz, who was waiting by the theatre/village hall.

  “He knows who it was, I’m sure of it,” she said. “I thought he was about to tell me, and then he started talking about a school inspection. Between the three of us, we can try to get him back on track.”