Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  The nursing home, a couple of miles outside the village, looked as though it had been a former grand house. It had a long driveway curving up from the road, and as they rounded the corner, they saw that in front of the entrance portico was a police car. And standing beside the car was Emma.

  She approached them and Liz wound down the passenger window.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Emma said. “There’s no visiting at present.”

  “What on earth is going on?” asked Liz.

  Emma hesitated. Then she said: “There’s been an unexplained death.”

  “Oh no,” said Liz. “Who’s died?”

  “I’m sorry, if you wouldn’t mind leaving now.”

  Marge slowly drove round the large turning circle and headed back along the drive.

  Halfway down, Liz said: “Stop.”

  Marge pulled up.

  “You know I wouldn’t ever interfere with Constable Hollis’s work,” said Liz.

  “No, never,” said Marge.

  “But I rather fancy a chat with my niece, Emma.” She got out of the car and headed back in the direction of the nursing home.

  Marge drove on and parked across the entrance at the main road. “I wouldn’t want them to be disturbed,” she said.

  Another car tried to come into the drive and tooted at the obstruction.

  Marge rolled down her window. “We’re here to warn people that the nursing home is closed to visitors at the moment,” she called. “I think it’s the norovirus but so far only one person has been affected. You could try ringing.”

  The other car drove off.

  “You almost convinced me,” said Alfie admiringly.

  “It’s being in the AA,” said Marge. “Hones one’s acting skills.”

  As soon as she saw Liz coming down the drive, she reversed up to her. “Well?”

  “Oh dear,” said Liz. “Oh dear. Let me sit down.” She flopped into the front seat of the car.

  “What is it?” demanded Marge. “What’s the matter?”

  Liz gave a long, shaky exhalation. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel our plans for a chat with William. He’s – he’s been killed. Murdered.”

  “No!” Marge breathed. “Oh, poor William! What happened?”

  “Emma wouldn’t tell me. All she would say was that he was definitely murdered, but they’re not revealing it’s a murder inquiry at the moment, just saying it’s unexplained. This is so dreadful. It has to be linked to William remembering seeing what happened to James.” She bowed her head. “Oh, Marge. I simply can’t take this in. I was speaking to him only a few hours ago.” She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “And poor Emma. It’s not fair that she has to deal with this when she should be grieving.”

  Alfie was about to murmur some words of sympathy when Marge said: “Clarissa, this is not the time for grieving.”

  Liz gave a gasp.

  “William was our friend,” Marge went on. “We owe it to him to find the murderer. And we can’t waste time. Alfie agrees with me, don’t you, Alfie?”

  She wasn’t looking at him but at Liz.

  Liz gave a brief, uncertain nod. She half turned towards the back seat. “Alfie?”

  “The first thing we need to do is find out which members of the AA were at the nursing home after you,” he said.

  “Let’s go home and draw up a plan of action,” said Marge, putting the car in gear.

  9. Tea Room Conversation

  They were driving through Bunburry when, for the second time that day, Liz said: “Stop!” It was more urgent and peremptory than the first time, and Marge instantly pulled into the side of the road. Alfie reflected that this wasn’t a manoeuvre that would be possible in London.

  “Dot,” said Liz. “Park and join me as quickly as you can.” She got out of the car with remarkable speed, and Marge pulled into what turned out to be the parking area for the doctor’s surgery.

  “It’s all right,” Marge reassured Alfie. “The doctor’s out on home visits at the moment – I’m not depriving a medical emergency of a space.”

  They found Liz waylaying a stout, middle-aged woman. “Ah, here they are now,” she cried, waving to Marge and Alfie. “I was just telling Dot how we had promised to take Alfie to the tea room for a cream tea. Dot, you were such a good friend of Gussie’s, you must join us. It’s no good doing introductions in the middle of the pavement like this.”

  Alfie had never heard Liz be so ebullient and garrulous.

  “Yes, that would be – ” began her stout companion, but Liz was off again.

  “Alfie, Dot is the cook up at the nursing home. Proper nutrition, that’s the key to good health, never mind all these pills, and Dot makes sure they get the finest local ingredients, don’t you, Dot?”

  “Yes, I – ”

  “Alfie has been looking forward to this cream tea since he arrived,” said Liz, shepherding them into the tea room. “But we’ve never had a moment free. You know he’s the new director of the AA? After poor James’s accident?”

  “Speaking of accidents – ”

  “Terrible business.” Liz spoke over her. “Not the sort of thing you expect to happen in Bunburry.”

  “No, and that’s just – ”

  “Oh, we’re the only ones here. We have our choice of table. Let’s take the big one by the window. Sit down, Dot, Alfie, you sit there, Marge dear, can you fetch us some menus?”

  Marge seamlessly took up the conversation. “No need, the girl will bring them in a moment. But we don’t really need them, do we? Just four cream teas. You’re happy with that, Dot, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I wanted – ”

  “I’m delighted to meet you,” Alfie said, leaning over and formally shaking hands. If Dot was being prevented from talking, he was going to get in on the act. There were nicotine stains on her fingers. “So you were a friend of Aunt Augusta’s? I’m sure you must have some good memories of her.”

  Dot was squirming in her seat. “Of course, and I’m so sorry, but – ”

  “Thank you, you’re very kind,” said Alfie. “The suddenness was a great shock.”

  “But it was peaceful,” said Marge. “That’s the important thing.”

  “Speaking of sudden – ”

  “Oh, good, here’s the waitress. Dot, dear, would you like a fruit scone or a plain scone?”

  “Fruit, please, but – ”

  “How about you, Alfie?” asked Liz.

  “Since Dot is the culinary expert, I’ll have a fruit scone as well.”

  “So that’s four cream teas, three with fruit scones, please, and I’ll have plain. And could you bring an extra jug of hot water for the tea?”

  As the waitress left, Dot seized her opportunity. “You’ll never believe what just – ”

  “Now, Alfie, do you put the cream on your scone first, or the jam?”

  He was reminded of a pressure cooker about to explode. If Dot wasn’t allowed to say her piece soon, he feared she would succumb to hypertension.

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” he said.

  “Heavens, Liz, he’s never really thought about it. But it changes the whole experience.”

  “Well, I think again I should defer to Dot,” said Alfie. “Dot, which do you think I should put on first?”

  “Jam, of course, but – ”

  “Oh no, dear, that’s what they do in Cornwall. Cream first in the Cotswolds, every time.”

  “William Marlowe is dead!” Dot burst out.

  There was a short silence and then Liz said: “Well, really, dear, that’s quite important news. I think you could have told us about it before now rather than sitting chatting about scones.”

  “And there’s something odd about it,” Dot went on eagerly.
/>
  “Odd? It’s not odd at all,” said Marge. “He was an elderly gentleman, and the last time I saw him, he didn’t look at all well. With that terrible illness, it’s a blessed release.”

  Dot leaned across the table. “It’s nothing to do with his illness. The police have been.” She stopped abruptly as the waitress arrived with a laden tray. The waitress put a large plate with warmed scones in the middle of the table, and gave everyone individual ramekins with clotted cream and home-made strawberry jam. Then she laid down a large silver teapot and a tea strainer, followed by a silver milk jug and the requested jug of hot water.

  “Just call if you need anything else,” she said, retreating towards the kitchen.

  “Thank you, dear, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” said Liz. “Alfie, that tea pot looks very heavy. Will you be mother?”

  As Alfie obediently placed the strainer over Dot’s china cup, and began pouring the tea, she erupted again. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The police have been!”

  “The police have been what, dear?” said Liz vaguely.

  “Been round to the nursing home – they said William’s death was unexplained.”

  Alfie poured Marge’s tea.

  “Thanks, Alfie,” she said, adding milk and two sugar lumps. “His death isn’t unexplained at all. He wasn’t a well man. He couldn’t expect to go on for ever. None of us can.”

  Dot ignored the scones. “Something’s happened. It must have done, for the police to be involved. I wonder if somebody accidentally got his pills mixed up.”

  Alfie poured Liz’s tea and then his own, and put the tea strainer back in its stand.

  “You often hear about that sort of thing,” he said. “The wrong dosage being given, hundreds of times stronger than it should have been.”

  Dot nodded vigorously. “Exactly. When the police came, they wouldn’t let anybody in or out. I couldn’t leave until they’d interviewed me.”

  “How irritating, dear,” said Liz, cutting her scone in two and putting a dollop of cream on each half. “Having to hang around when you couldn’t help them.”

  “Oh, but I could,” insisted Dot. “They wanted to know who else had come in this morning.”

  Marge was adding strawberry jam to her own scone. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, being stuck in the kitchen.”

  Dot drew herself up. “Sergeant Wilson thanked me. He said my information was very useful in his inquiries.”

  “Well, Alfie?” said Liz. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Delicious,” said Alfie. “Exceptional. Worth waiting for.”

  “I told them,” interrupted Dot, “that I saw Rakesh come in when I was going on my break. Old Mrs Miller has ever such a sweet tooth and he makes those syrupy Indian things for her. I was sure Anthony would have been in, because he is most days to visit Rose. And Philip, he’s usually in.”

  She flourished her jam-covered knife triumphantly. “And I was able to tell them the Fairchilds came with my grocery order.”

  “What, both of them?” asked Marge.

  Dot looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t think so. One of them would have to stay and look after the shop.”

  “So which was it, Henry or Amelia?”

  “I’m not quite sure. They came when I was on my break and left the order on the counter.”

  Given the slightly smoky smell she exuded, Alfie suspected that the break involved a surreptitious cigarette.

  “Isn’t there a check on who comes in and out of the home?” he asked.

  Dot looked at him as though he was from an alien planet. “Oh no,” she said. “Nothing like that. This is Bunburry.”

  And yet, thought Alfie, you have murderers who kill with impunity.

  “What are your plans for Christmas, Dot?” asked Liz. “Are you going to your daughter’s?”

  But Dot appeared thoroughly disgruntled that her dramatic news had proved a damp squib and showed no sign of wanting to talk about anything else. After consuming her second scone and another cup of tea, she announced that she had to go. She rummaged in her bag for her purse. “How much is the cream tea these days?”

  “My treat,” said Alfie, politely getting up to see her out. “This has been a real pleasure, Dot. I do hope we’ll be able to have another chat soon.”

  She clutched his hand. “Oh, I hope so too.”

  When the door closed behind her, he bowed to Liz and Marge. “Ladies, that was masterly. My congratulations.”

  “I know Dot of old,” said Liz. “She loves having secrets. If we had shown any interest, she would have let out the occasional hint, but hugged her information to herself. This was the only way to get her to open up.”

  “Fat lot of good it did us,” said Marge. “All we know is that our suspects are still our suspects. Is there any more tea in that pot?”

  Liz poured some hot water on to the loose-leaf tea. “Leave it a couple of minutes to infuse. I wonder if there’s some way of setting a trap?”

  “Exactly. Like The Mousetrap,” said Liz. “Something that will lead Mr Paravicini, Mollie or Giles Ralston, Major Metcalf or Christopher Wren to incriminate themselves.”

  “Detective Sergeant Trotter, dear,” corrected Liz. “Remember, Alfie put Anthony back in his rightful place.”

  Marge didn’t reply, but busied herself pouring the tea, and Alfie remembered her fondness for James Fry. She probably thought Fry had made the correct decision about which part Anthony should play.

  “So, our trap,” he said. “Any ideas?”

  “The beginnings of one,” said Liz. “Let’s regroup before the rehearsal tomorrow.”

  10. Questioning Suspects

  As Alfie headed for home, he thought about Rakesh’s remark about the Fairchilds: “Such a pity.” In the play, the young couple developed suspicions about one another. Could he have meant it was a pity that life was imitating art?

  On impulse, he went to the Indian restaurant. It had a “Closed” sign on the door, but as he stood there, Rakesh opened it.

  “Alfie!” he said, beaming. “We don’t open for another – ” He glanced at his watch. “ – half an hour, but come in, come in, we shall certainly find you something to eat.”

  “I’m not here for a meal,” said Alfie, allowing himself to be ushered inside. “But I had a sudden craving for something sweet, and you come highly recommended by Mrs Miller.”

  Rakesh’s face sagged. He felt behind him for a chair and sank down on it. “Only this morning, I took her some gulab jamun. Such terrible news about William.”

  Alfie adopted a sorrowful expression. “Yes, I heard he had passed away. That must be very sad for the community. How old was he?”

  Rakesh stared at him. “You don’t know?”

  “No, nobody’s told me,” said Alfie disingenuously. “I imagine he was in his late seventies?”

  “I meant about the police,” said Rakesh. “The police were at the nursing home. They said his death was unexplained.”

  “The police? So you spoke to them?” asked Alfie.

  “No, I left before they came. I heard about it afterwards.”

  Convenient, thought Alfie. Aloud, he said: “What does that mean, unexplained?”

  Rakesh helplessly spread out his hands. “I don’t know. I suppose a post-mortem will show what happened.”

  “I’m sure it’s a technicality,” said Alfie. “Everything has to be checked and double-checked these days.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rakesh with apparent relief. “That will be it. Now, let me get you the gulab jamun.”

  A few minutes later, Alfie was walking along the street with his acquisition when he spotted Anthony. He hurried over to him.

  “Evening, Anthony. I wanted to ask how Rose was.”

  “Fine, thank you,” Anthony responded automatically. Then: “No, she’s horribly
upset. You know about it?”

  “A bit,” said Alfie. He was giving different impressions to different people: he had to hope they wouldn’t all get together and exchange notes.

  “I was sitting with her when Sergeant Wilson came in and wanted to interview us both. Rose was so shocked to hear about William – she’d known him all her life. And then when Sergeant Wilson started saying the death was unexplained, and asking questions, she got it into her head that there had been some foul play and I was a suspect.”

  He rubbed his forehead wearily. “She started shouting at Sergeant Wilson, saying she’d lost one grandson and she wasn’t going to lose another. I had to get a staff member to come and help calm her down. Sergeant Wilson should have spoken to me outside and not upset her like that.”

  “What information did he want from you?” Alfie asked.

  Anthony looked at him like a puppy he had just kicked. “He wanted to know how long I’d been there.”

  “And how long had you been there?” asked Alfie, trying to make it sound as though it was a matter of interest but of absolutely no significance.

  “I told Sergeant Wilson I really had no idea. I hadn’t been looking at my watch. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  Alfie guessed that this curt farewell was Anthony’s equivalent of punching him in the face. He had felt obliged to ask the questions, but Anthony, having had to cope with a distraught grandmother, was in no mood to be interviewed for a second time.

  Alfie slowly made his way to the supermarket. Henry was once again slumped at the counter, with Amelia nowhere to be seen.

  “I’ve come in for some milk,” said Alfie. Henry looked so dejected by this that Alfie picked up a basket and threw in a few more groceries. If he kept up this superfluous shopping, he would soon be able to open a supermarket of his own.

  As Henry rang up his purchases, Alfie said: “Sad about William.”

  “That’s £10.73,” said Henry. “It’s really for the best. You can’t say he had any quality of life.”

  Alfie produced his credit card. “He seemed fine the other night when he organised the rehearsal.”