by Marian Keyes
However, Annette’s husband Nigel, at the end of the table, was given nothing and not a single item remained on Clifford’s tray. No one could begin eating until Nigel got his starter – and that didn’t look like it was about to happen any time soon. All three of the McStitts were in the room and Jessie knew in her bones that no one would bound through the doors with a spare mozzarella salad and save the day. Tense expectation hung in the air. People were hungry: they wanted the night to get under way, the wine to be poured, a murder or two to take place …
Behind her, Clifford and Micah were murmuring: ‘… sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.’
‘We’re missing one.’
‘But how? You said twenty, I plated twenty.’
‘It’s Mammy!’ Micah said. ‘She shouldn’t have got one.’
‘Bang on!’ Clifford picked up Lady Ariadne/Muiria’s starter, gave her a glare and placed it before Nigel. ‘Bon appétit,’ he declared to the room.
But now Lady Ariadne had no food. ‘Please start,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you eating, ah, Lady Ariadne?’ Ferdia asked.
She looked longingly at his plate. ‘Ah, no, I’ll get something in the kitchen later. I mean, I’m … I never eat!’
While Micah poured wine, Lady Ariadne engaged all of them in meaningful conversation. ‘Who are you, sir?’ she asked Ed.
‘Stampy Mallowan.’
‘So, you are a ruthless American industrialist?’
‘Stampy’, accessorized with a cigar and a gaudy, yellow tweed waistcoat with matching dicky-bow, said, ‘Ah, yes!’
‘Are you married, Mr Mallowan?’
‘I believe I’m not. But I am in the company of,’ he consulted his piece of paper, ‘“Jolly Vandermeyer, a picaresque showgirl”.’
‘That’s me,’ Saoirse said.
‘But you were once married?’ Lady Ariadne pressed Stampy Mallowan.
‘Was I?’ Ed consulted his page. ‘So I was. But my first wife died in “mysterious circumstances”.’
‘This is a hoot,’ Rionna said.
‘Take it seriously,’ Johnny begged.
Lady Ariadne pressed on with her interrogations and, even though it was stilted, a picture began to take shape. ‘We have met once before, Lord Fidelis …’
‘Miss Elspeth Pyne-Montant, I believe you knew my late husband …’
‘Were we not at a weekend shooting party at the estate in Monserrat, Dr Theobald-Montague?’
Eventually it was clear that everyone had previously crossed paths with Lady Ariadne.
The main course arrived and was ‘perfectly edible’, to quote Rionna.
Just after it was cleared away, Micah and Lady Ariadne exchanged a nod, then she made a choking noise, grabbed her throat and fell, face down, onto the table.
‘Game on!’ someone said.
‘I will fetch the doctor!’ Micah cried.
‘I’m a sports masseur!’ Liam yelled.
‘Hold on,’ Johnny said. ‘I believe I’m a doctor!’ Now even Johnny was sabotaging things.
‘Don’t you have a stain on your reputation?’ Ferdia asked, and laughter rose to the ceiling.
‘Aye!’ Micah said, in evident relief. ‘You have been struck off.’ He darted from the room.
‘Are you really a sports masseur?’ Mary-Laine’s husband, Martin, called to Liam.
‘Yeah.’
‘He isn’t!’ Was that really Saoirse who’d shouted that? Civilization was breaking down here.
‘I did something to my calf when I was running.’
‘Come over and show me.’
Moments later a man in a black coat, black hat and carrying a doctor’s bag hurried into the room. It was Clifford. He performed a cursory examination on Muiria, before declaring, ‘Lady Ariadne Cornwallis is dead! Poisoned! And you are all suspects!’
‘Does that mean we’re not getting any dessert?’ Jessie heard Annette ask quietly, and she was afraid she was going to start laughing and not be able to stop.
‘Do the decent thing,’ the doctor commanded. ‘Avert your gaze while young Micah and I remove the poor lady’s corpse.’
But this was too good to miss.
‘Avert it!’ he said. ‘I must insist, hai.’
But no averting took place and a very much alive-looking Lady Ariadne was hustled from the room.
Dr Clifford returned. ‘While we wait for the detective, pudding will be served for those with the stomach to eat it.’
Which was all of them.
SIXTY
‘Like, obviously that young fella Micah did it!’ Phyllida Bundle-Bunch cried.
‘Yeah, he was the one with the tray of drinks.’
‘But young Micah,’ Clifford, now dressed up as ‘Inspector Pine’, tried to be heard above the racket, ‘I said, YOUNG Micah had never met Lady Ariadne previously.’
‘But he had the tray of –’
‘… it was a sudden twisty feeling, then a dart of terrible pain.’ Martin had rolled up his trouser leg and was demonstrating his wounded calf to Liam.
‘I see … yeah. So does it hurt if I do … this?!’ Liam poked his finger into the fleshy bit of Martin’s calf and Martin howled with pain.
‘Any one of you could have slipped poison into her glass!’ Inspector Pine yelled.
‘But no one had more opportunity than Micah there.’
‘Christ in the Prada shop!’ Mary-Laine’s eyes were far too bright in her hot face. ‘Is he still going on about the pain in his leg? He should try pushing out a TEN-POUND BABY!’
Cara felt as if she were watching this whole scene – the over-lit room, the red-faced people, the ridiculous costumes – from a distance.
‘Pulled muscle …’ she heard Liam saying.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Micah said.
‘It wasn’t him.’ Inspector Pine was adamant. ‘It is one of you here in this room!’
‘Maybe it was me?’ Jessie said. ‘I have been feeling murderous.’ She flicked her eyes until they landed on Johnny. Cara watched as he quailed.
‘Can you work on it?’ Martin asked. ‘I can pay you.’
‘No charge for a friend of Johnny’s.’
‘I’m not actually a friend of Johnny’s.’
‘We must work together to solve this dastardly crime!’ Inspector Pine yelled plaintively. ‘You must all split into teams of two. I SAID, YOU must –’
‘I’ve never really liked Johnny. My wife is friends with Jessie. That’s how we’re here. So you’d better charge me.’
It was like picking up signals from several radios, Cara felt. There was too much noise and talk.
‘– in order to help me to reveal the identity of the murderer.’
‘Okay. Fifty euro?’
‘Hold on there, Tonto. That’s a bit steep.’
‘Where’s the wine?’ Jessie said.
‘You can buy more.’ Inspector Pine sounded panicked.
‘You mean the all-inclusive stuff is gone?’ Johnny asked.
‘For tonight. You’ll get more tomorrow night. Now, to solve the murder mystery –’
‘Well, how much do you want to pay?’
‘I won’t know until you’ve finished. If you fix me, I’ll pay you forty.’
‘Can we see the wine list?’ Johnny asked.
‘There’s no wine list.’ Poor Inspector Pine was unravelling. ‘But you can have the dinner wine for fifteen pounds a bottle. Deal?’
‘You know what? Fuck you.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. Fuck you. I offer you my expertise, free gratis for nothing, and you insult my brother, then haggle over a service I offered for nothing –’
‘Good. Grand,’ Johnny said. ‘Start us off with six of white and six of red and we’ll see how it goes.’
‘Muiria will see to that. Now, then. About solving this dastardly crime! Madame Hestia Nyx? You are partnered with Major Fortescue.’
‘What?’ Cara thought she could just choose to be with Ed.
‘We’re mixing things up.’ Micah had spotted Cara’s distress. He looked nervous.
Annette’s husband Nigel had arrived at her side. He nodded and she responded with an even smaller nod. She’d met him once or twice in the past and she’d found him hard work.
‘Here are your clues.’ Micah whipped off a sheet of paper, which Nigel intercepted.
‘Ginerva McQuarrie?’ Inspector Pine called. ‘Quentin Ropane-Redford? You’ll be working together.’
That was Nell and Ferdia. Dreamily, Cara studied them. In his white dinner jacket and slicked-back hair, Ferdia was so grown-up and good-looking tonight. As for Nell, in her figure-hugging dress and elaborate hair … Both tall and young and glamorous. And similar, as if they’d been spat off a production line of generic gorgeous young things.
Jessie hates me, Johnny realized. She wants to murder me, and I deserve it.
Nell, bless her heart, had taken his arm and said, with sweet sincerity, ‘You often have the best time at something like this. When everything is perfect, you might get wowed, but you don’t really relax. Here, we’re dead from laughing and we’re totally bonded.’
She was a very good-natured person. Nice: that was the word. Although someone had told him that ‘nice’ was an insult, these days. Still, Nell looked very beautiful this evening. Jessie was always banging on about how gorgeous she was, but until tonight, he hadn’t seen it. What was she doing with Liam, who was not nice? Not really.
He shouldn’t think these damning thoughts. He’d turn into his father.
Johnny had been partnered with one of The Other Six, a ‘Hollywood producer’, but he had Jessie under constant surveillance. She’d been paired with Liam and, although she was joining in with the general mockery, he knew she had a reservoir of cold rage set aside just for himself, to be delivered at some later, unknown date.
Christ, how hard would it have been to do this properly?
Jessie wasn’t generally high maintenance. She didn’t expect regular flowers and expensive presents. Yes, she spent a lot of money on holidays, but it was nearly always on group activities.
This was her fiftieth birthday and she had hinted. Heavily. She’d basically told him what to do and he hadn’t obeyed.
Could he put something else together quickly? It was way too late to organize a proper murder-weekend thing – that chalice was poisoned for ever.
How about taking her to Paris? But she’d know it was a bodge job. Actually, she didn’t even like Paris: she said French women were ‘scary bitches’. Wasn’t gone on Italian shop assistants either, he remembered. Something about someone being snotty in the Versace shop in Milan.
Where else did people go? Barcelona, everyone loved Barcelona. But it was a gastronomic hotspot and she’d probably start pestering chefs if they were there for more than half an hour …
When everyone had been paired up and given cryptic clues to solve, Inspector Pine said, ‘One hour. We must find this dastardly murderer before he – or she – strikes again! We meet back here at eleven and we will pool our findings.’
Then he left to do the washing-up.
‘High up in Switzerland.’ Nigel and Cara were looking at their ‘clues’.
‘One of the rooms must have a Swiss theme.’
‘It’s obviously outside.’ Nigel was insistent. ‘It’s got to do with a nearby hill.’
‘It’s someone’s room. They’ve planted incriminating things in people’s rooms and we’ve to find them.’
‘No. It must mean a mountain. Come on. Outside.’
Her broken tooth throbbed, her throat was raw, her ribs ached and her job was in jeopardy. ‘Seeing as you’re so great at this,’ she spoke quietly, ‘why don’t you just do it on your own?’ She made for her bedroom, where she had a wheelie-case half full of chocolate under the bed. Everyone would be busy for the next hour: she’d closet herself in the bathroom, where she could release the terrible tension in her chest.
Ferdia and Nell were on the first floor, following a clue about ‘the Empress’ when Nell’s phone beeped. She took a look and exclaimed, ‘That’s three now!’
‘Three whats?’
‘I texted people last night, putting feelers out for work on the theatre festival. Two directors got back today. Now it’s three.’ She’d been half convinced no one would ever want her again.
From nearby came an odd noise: stumbling followed by a hard bump.
‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘Another murder?’
But that first bump was followed by several smaller rhythmic bangs, followed by a cry.
They looked at each other.
Nell blushed. ‘Is it … It sounds like two people …’
Colour crept up Ferdia’s face. ‘God … Should we just leave them to it?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Whose room is that?’
‘Cara’s.’
Another faint cry reached them.
‘I don’t think it’s shenanigans,’ Nell said. ‘It sounds … different.’
‘Should we go in?’ If it really was people having a quick ride, he would die. He knocked, and when there was no reply, carefully opened the door.
No one was to be seen, but when they pushed into the bathroom, Cara was on the floor. Her eyes were closed, her body was spasming and her legs were banging a plastic bin against the wall.
‘Nell!’ Ferdia was on his knees beside Cara. ‘Help me turn her onto her side.’
Frozen with fear and confusion, Nell then snapped to it.
Kneeling beside Cara’s thrashing body, Ferdia trying to contain her, they gently moved her.
‘It’s a seizure?’ Nell asked.
‘A boy at school used to get them. Bring some pillows. Protect her head.’
In the room, there were lots of pillows because there were lots of beds. They all managed to be both flat and lumpy, but they’d have to do.
While Ferdia cradled Cara’s skull, Nell arranged the pillows around Cara’s head and face. ‘I’ll stay with her,’ he said. ‘Go and get Ed. Ring an ambulance.’
Nell raced down the stairs, calling, ‘Ed, Ed!’
A scatter of gaudily dressed guests, Ed included, flooded into the hall, gleefully energized by the new turn their night had taken.
‘Ed, you need –’
‘I’m Stampy Mallowan.’
Oh, God, he was jarred.
‘Ed, Cara’s not well. Someone call an ambulance.’
‘Dr Basil Theobald-Montague at your service.’ Johnny shouldered his way forward, then bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
‘No –’
‘Struck off though I am, with my reputation in tatters, I believe I may –’
‘Johnny, stop. This is real.’ Nell twisted around desperately. ‘Clifford! Muiria! Call an ambulance, please. Cara is sick.’
Muiria looked terrified. ‘Sick?’
‘Some sort of seizure.’
That word had the desired effect: Ed scooted up the stairs, Jessie rang 999, and Clifford conducted an urgent, muttered conversation with Muiria.
That mozzarella was out-of-date.
Only by two days.
But you said –
‘Muiria.’ Jessie thrust her phone at her. ‘Talk to them, tell them how to get here.’
Nervously Muiria took the phone. ‘The quickest way is to turn off at the – That’s it, aye … No, keep going. You’ll come to a burnt-out tractor. Keep going past a sign for Molly’s Hollow. You’ll be thinking you’ve gone too far. You haven’t. You’ll come to a new bungalow. A man will run out into the road and shout after you. That’s Howard, pay no heed, he just likes the lights. We’re in there on the left. If you pass the stony goats, you’ve gone too far … Goats. Made from stone. Aye.’ She took the phone from her ear. ‘They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’
With rustling yellow clothing and crackling radio mics, the paramedics were up the stairs and, within moments, had Cara efficiently strapped onto a stretcher, while everyone watched in silence.
She was being taken to a hospital in Belfast and only Ed could go with her.
‘We’ll follow you,’ Johnny promised, as the doors slammed shut and the van drove away.
But the idea of getting a taxi to Belfast made Muiria and Clifford almost shriek with shock. ‘The cost. You could be looking at sixty pounds!’
‘More, hai. And the same back again.’ After a long, thick pause, Clifford said, ‘… There aren’t any taxis. There’s one in the town. But he won’t come up here. We had a – a …’ Nervously Clifford looked at Muiria for the right word.
‘Disagreement. One of you could drive to the hospital. That lassie there.’ She pointed at Nell. ‘She drank almost nothing. She must be near sober. Are you?’
Nell nodded.
Jessie seemed hurt. ‘Why are you sober on my birthday?’
‘I’m not really a wine person.’
‘She drinks cider.’ This came from Liam, who sounded slurry and almost accusatory.
‘I’ll come too,’ Ferdia said.
‘Johnny will go.’ Jessie overruled him. ‘Ferd, you’re only a kid. Ed needs his brother.’
‘Ed needs his wife. And I’m not “only a kid”. I took care of Cara. I’m going.’
‘He’s right,’ Johnny said. ‘Ferdia should go.’
SIXTY-ONE
Dr Colgan marched down the corridor in Belfast’s Royal Victoria Hospital and crooked a finger at Ed, who hopped up from the moulded plastic seat. They’d been waiting for almost three hours, three long hours in which their costumes had generated interest from all but the most badly injured of patients in the waiting room.
Full moon tonight?
Break-out from the nut-house?
The nineteenth century called. It wants its clothes back.
‘Just the husband,’ the doctor said, as Nell half rose from her chair.
Ed followed Dr Colgan into a makeshift room behind a curtain.
This was exactly the sort of room where they broke terrible news. But if Cara was dead wouldn’t Nell and Ferdia be here too?
The percentage of deaths from bulimia was 3.9, Ed knew. In other words, very rare. But someone had to be in that number …
‘Sit down.’ The doctor was harried but sympathetic. ‘She’s stable, she can leave soon, just the paperwork. So, Mr, ah, Casey, did you know your wife was bulimic?’
