Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  Joe felt his cheeks colouring. “I, er, well, er, you know. We had business matters to discus.” When in doubt, go on the attack. The thought ran through Joe’s head. It was a mantra by which he had lived most of his life. “I wouldn’t fancy your chances of playing me in your new productions.”

  The lift arrived and the doors soughed open.

  “Ah,” said Gerry as they stepped in, “the boss has been negotiating with the famous detective. Tell me something, Joe, if I get the part of you, do I get to do a lot of bed-hopping?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, pressing the button for the fourth floor. “You get to hop out of bed at half past five every morning to start cooking hundreds of breakfasts for hungry truckers.”

  “Er, we were going down, Joe,” said Billy.

  “And you can, Billy. After I’ve gone up.”

  A few minutes later, certain that he had left the two actors pondering his irritation, he stepped into his room, put the computer away in his small suitcase, threw off his clothing and stepped into the shower.

  The uncertainty of 2 a.m. had left him, and as he shaved, he asked his reflection what was so appealing about his middle-aged wrinkled features. Nothing, was the conclusion he came to. For every Melanie Markham there was a Tanya Richmond or Sarah Pringle; women who found him too blunt to be of interest or women who inveigled themselves into his affections because they wanted something. Tanya Richmond made it plain that she didn’t like him, Sarah Pringle had wanted to keep up with his investigation, whereas Melanie Markham had wanted to persuade him that granting her performing rights was the right move. The latter, he decided, was infinitely preferable, but why was he still questioning it?

  Brenda, the epitome of the free-living merry widow, would have no trouble. Never as loose as some claimed her to be, Brenda nevertheless shared beds with a number of men, and had no qualms about it.

  “You’re a long time dead,” she could often be heard to say.

  And she didn’t care whether the men found her attractive or not. If their only interest was sex, Brenda had no problem since it was her only interest in them.

  With a day’s trail round Lincoln ahead of him, comfort was the priority. Joe put on a pair of denims and a short sleeved shirt, slipped on his quilted gilet, and left his overcoat ready on the wardrobe door. He would come back to the room for it after breakfast and the next act of Haliwell’s Heroes.

  Not on top of the world, but better than halfway up, he stepped out of his room and locked the door.

  “And where the hell were you in the early hours?”

  Brenda’s angry voice unpacked the deeper Joe, the one always ready to rise to an argument. “What?”

  Locking the door of their room, Sheila ranged herself alongside Brenda. Both women were in their shopping clothes; dark trousers, warm jumpers, sensible, flat shoes, lethal handbags hanging from their forearms.

  Dropping his key into the pockets of his gilet, Joe asked. “What are you on about?”

  “Sheila was rushed to hospital at one o’clock this morning.”

  He looked to Sheila who nodded. “It’s true, Joe.”

  “What... but... why the hell didn’t you call me?”

  “We did,” Brenda assured him. “Several times, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

  Because it was switched off. The thought bounced into Joe’s mind. He had not wanted to be disturbed while he was with Melanie.

  “Well, at least you’re all right.”

  “How would you know?” Brenda jabbed at the lift button.

  “They let you out.” Joe answered Sheila rather than Brenda.

  “Yes, and a fat lot of use you were.”

  Joe was stung into retaliation. “I’m not your father, nor your husband. Neither of you. I do have a life away from you both, you know.” Pulling in a shaky breath, he concentrated on Sheila. “Did they find out what it was?”

  “It was as I said, Joe,” Sheila reported. “Gallstones. Probably something I ate or drank last night. They gave me some stronger painkillers, and I’m fine now, but they’ve advised me to see my doctor when I get home. My gall bladder needs cutting out. Like George told us.”

  They stepped into the lift.

  “So where did you get to?” Brenda demanded. “And don’t tell me you were elbow bending in the bar. I checked, and you weren’t. I suppose you were out boozing with George and Owen.”

  “Brenda, it’s none of our business where Joe got to.”

  “Correct,” Joe said. “It is none of your business, but as it happens, it was business. If I’d known Sheila was that bad, I would have called it off and been with you, but I didn’t know.”

  “Business?” Brenda asked as if she had not heard the rest of Joe’s words. “The only business I understand at one o’clock in the morning is usually done under the duvet.”

  Joe glared. “Brenda, keep your nose out.”

  Settling into the dining room a few minutes later, they found the cast of Haliwell’s Heroes at their joint tables, talking between themselves. Gerry Carlin was missing, his place taken by the mannequin, but the young woman playing the colonel’s biographer was also absent.

  Brenda was still grumbling over Joe’s absence during the night when the waitress served them with cereal, followed by a full English breakfast, which Joe ate with gusto while Sheila only picked at hers.

  Casting an eye around the dining room Joe marked the Grimshaws down as absent, and some of his crew, particularly Robbie, looked badly hungover.

  “He was well tanked up this at one o’clock morning when I saw him in reception,” Brenda said, “as I was taking Sheila to the hospital.”

  “Will you for God’s sake shut up about that?” Joe grumbled.

  “To be frank, I wish you’d forget it, too, Brenda,” Sheila said.

  “Not until I know what he was up to that was so important he could forget his best friends.”

  At that moment, Melanie entered the dining room, glanced around, spotted him and made her way across. “I’ve read about half of that, Joe, and I think we can do business. Can I catch up with you later?”

  “What? Oh, sure. We’ll be sight-seeing round Lincoln’s shops, but I reckon we’ll be back mid-afternoon.”

  Melanie left with a smile and Joe found Brenda’s face split into a broad grin.

  “So that’s where you were. You randy old sod.”

  “I told you. I was discussing a business proposition.”

  “What? She charges?” Brenda laughed. “Game old bird, isn’t she? She won’t get many punters at her time of life.”

  Brenda, he realised, would not shut up until she knew exactly what the business was. Helping himself from the toast rack, he explained the situation to her. “It means,” he concluded, “that I might actually make a few quid from all the work I’ve done helping to wall up killers.”

  “Course it does, Joe, and I understand why you were missing. I take it all back. I’d go through the roof if someone disturbed me on the legover just because a friend was taken ill.”

  Joe groaned and buttered another slice of toast.

  On some unseen cue, Melanie appeared at the dining room entrance with her microphone.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I hope you had a great party last night, and I hope our little drama has got you thinking. We’re about to pick up now where we left off after dinner yesterday. After this act, the cast will be about the hotel all day so you can question them. I’m going to drift into the background now, and leave it up to the police officer in charge.”

  To a polite round of applause, Melanie moved to the camera, the lights came on and Gerry entered.

  ***

  “I am Inspector Jonathan O’Keefe of Scotland Yard,” the newcomer announced. “I gave instructions over the telephone that no one was to leave the room. I was also told that there were nine people present at the dinner and yet, including the dead man, I see only eight of you. Who is missing?”

  “Kerry,” s
aid Wilson. “Kerry Dolman. She’s the colonel’s biographer. She felt unwell after seeing him dead. My wife gave her a sedative and we put her to bed.”

  “Probably a wise move, sir. And you are?”

  “Captain Christopher Wilson. I’m a business associate and an old army chum of the colonel’s. This is my wife, Valerie. She’s a doctor.”

  “And you pronounced the colonel dead, madam?” asked O’Keefe.

  Valerie nodded. “I checked his glass. Prussic acid, I think, but your forensic people will confirm it.”

  “Of course,” said O’Keefe. “Now, my information is there were one or two disagreements over dinner. Is that correct?”

  “Skirmishes,” Crenshaw declared. “The usual sort of arguments one finds at a party of this nature.”

  “Especially,” said McLintock, “when one guest is apt to dismiss the medical infirmities of another.”

  “Now look here, McLintock…”

  “All right, gentlemen,” O’Keefe interrupted. “We’re here to ascertain the circumstances of Colonel Haliwell’s death, not pick up our personal vendettas.”

  “We were here to celebrate his birthday, but Crenshaw here, forgot about that,” McLintock argued.

  “And who are you, sir?” O’Keefe demanded.

  “McLintock. Patrick McLintock. I’m a stockbroker. I handle most of the colonel’s investments.” He glowered at Crenshaw while gesturing at Theresa. “I was also engaged to his daughter until Crenshaw showed up.”

  “And you broke the engagement off, did you, miss?” O’Keefe asked.

  She looked from Crenshaw to McLintock and back, and then back to the inspector. “I, er, yes. I’m afraid I did.”

  “Tell the inspector the truth, Theresa,” McLintock insisted. “You broke it off because your father ordered you to.” He, too, addressed O’Keefe. “The old man preferred his daughter to marry a military man. Someone he could push around.”

  “I resent that,” snapped Crenshaw.

  “It’s the truth,” McLintock retorted. “He treated you like a bloody batman, and that’s just what he wanted in his daughter’s husband. A damned ADC.”

  “All right, all right, that’s enough.” O’Keefe broke into the argument again. “You were not in the army, Mr McLintock?”

  “Medically exempt,” the stockbroker replied. “I have a minor heart condition.”

  O’Keefe turned his attention to the countess and consulted his notes. “And you, madam. Countess Zara Lucescu. A Romanian refuge.”

  “Zat iss correct. Inspector, I would prefer it that I say nothink here, but zat I speak with you alone.”

  “You have something to hide?” Sadie Haliwell asked.

  “I haff nothink to hide, Mrs Haliwell, but there is informations vitch I will discuss only with der inspector.”

  “Very well, madam. So that only leaves Ms Dolman. Would someone care to go to her room and bring her?”

  McLintock stood up. “I’ll get her.” He scowled at Crenshaw. “I need the fresh air.”

  He left the room and O’Keefe busied himself studying the layout of the table.

  “Are you all where you were during dinner?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Wilson replied. “The empty chair between the colonel and me was Miss Dolman’s.”

  “I have to ponder, you see, who could have dropped cyanide into the colonel’s glass. It would have to be someone sitting close to him.”

  “Not necessarily, Inspector,” Crenshaw disagreed. “You see, the colonel pulled the ashtray very close to himself.”

  “He always was a selfish old bugger,” Sadie pointed out.

  “Most of us were smoking,” Crenshaw went on, “and we had to lean across to use the ashtray.”

  “That’s right,” Wilson agreed. “And the colonel’s glass was close to the ashtray.”

  “In that case,” O’Keefe said, “it could be any of you, so we need to establish who had the greatest motive for killing the colonel.”

  Crenshaw cast a sour eye on McLintock’s empty seat. “If you want my opinion, you don’t need to look far.”

  “But your opinion is coloured, isn’t it, dollink?” Zara suggested. “You hate Mr McLintock.”

  “I don’t particularly like you, Countess, but I’m not accusing you.”

  “Vy?” screamed Zara. “Vot haff I done to you?”

  “You were a Nazi sympathiser. Captain Wilson and I spent six years fighting your sort.”

  “Iss not true. I voss…”

  The door burst open, interrupting Zara, and McLintock hurried in.

  “Kerry,” he gasped almost out of breath. “She’s dead. Shot in the head.”

  ***

  The lights dimmed and the cast received a warm round of applause before Melanie took centre stage again.

  “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I trust we’re engaging and frustrating your little grey cells. The next act will be performed at one thirty, during lunch, but for those of you who don’t come back to the hotel, like all our scenes, it will be recorded and you’ll be able to watch a rerun of it on video before the third and final act of the day. In the meantime, as I said earlier…”

  Melanie trailed off and looked behind her.

  From the lobby came the sound of running feet. The door crashed open and Wendy Grimshaw burst into the room. Her face was white with shock, there were tear streaks on her cheeks and she was shaking.

  Melanie looked perplexed and all her cast were similarly intrigued. Joe realised at once that this was not part of the show.

  “Reggie,” Wendy cried. “Reggie is dead. Someone shot him.”

  Chapter Six

  The room sat in sudden, stunned silence. Joe guessed that some of the guests were wondering if this was part of the entertainment, but even if he had thought so, the shocked face of Melanie would have told him different.

  Wendy was on her knees weeping. Joe got hurriedly to his feet. “Brenda, Sheila, see to her.” He rounded on the Kendrews. “What room were they in?”

  “One, … er one-oh-four.”

  “I’ll go check it out,” he said to Sheila and Brenda as they helped Wendy up and to their table.

  A burst of conversation spread rapidly through the room. Stirring from her shock, Melanie asked, “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “I’ll check it out first and let the management bell them.” Joe scanned the room and raised his voice above the chatter. “Listen to me, everyone. It’s important that you stay put for the time being, until we’ve checked this out.”

  “Who gave you the authority…?” Robbie Kendrew began, only to be cut off by Brenda.

  “Just listen to him, boy. He knows his stuff.”

  “Thanks, Brenda.” Joe smiled. “If you all stay here, I’ll see what I can find out.” He hurried from the dining room and out into reception where he collared Cliff Denshaw and quickly explained the situation.

  “Hadn’t we better call the police?” The manager’s face worked worriedly as he unconsciously echoed Melanie.

  “And have them turn up to find that she’s drunk and Reggie is enjoying a cup of tea in bed?”

  Denshaw blanched.

  “Grab your key, son, and let me into that room.”

  The manager called on one of his staff to man the desk, then grabbed a key from the rack and followed Joe.

  When they arrived at the room, Denshaw’s hands were trembling so badly, he could hardly get the key into the lock. Eventually Joe took over, turned the lock, pushed the door open and stepped in, automatically reaching for the light switch.

  His legs, too, were shaking. He reminded himself sternly of the times he had been in this position before. He had come across the body of Edgar Prudhoe just moments after he was killed, and he had seen the man’s wife dead the morning after. He had been shown photographs of Jennifer Hardy after her head was caved in and Ursula Kenney after she had been hanged. There was nothing to fear in this room.

  He did not need the lights. The curtains were ope
n and in the dull light of a foggy morning, the dead man stared up at the ceiling as if hypnotised.

  Reggie Grimshaw lay where he had died, in bed, a neat hole in the side of his head, a large blood stain spread across the pillow. He was wearing pyjamas and Joe noticed that the right hand side of the bed, next to Reggie, was undisturbed.

  Denshaw turned away unable to look.

  “Not pretty,” Joe said. “Murder never is.”

  Gingerly, he pressed his finger to the neck. No pulse, the skin cold.

  On the cabinet alongside him were the teapot, an empty cup and a small, metal container holding individual portions of milk and sachets of sugar.

  “Looks as if he’d had his bedtime cup of tea and then gone to sleep,” Joe said. “The killer probably woke him.”

  Denshaw looked around. “I’ll check the bathroom, see if the other tea things are in there.”

  “No. Don’t touch anything,” Joe barked. “The cops will want everything as it is. Undisturbed.” He fished into his pocket for his mobile. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do here. I’ll call the law from outside.”

  They stepped out onto the first floor landing, Denshaw leaning back against the wall, visibly shaken.

  “Lock the door,” Joe ordered. He dialled 999 and pressed the mobile to his ear. “Police,” he barked when the operator answered. He waited again, and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner at Denshaw. “You’ll be all right, son. When we get back downstairs, step outside and get yourself a breath of fresh air.” The phone came alive again. “My name’s Joe Murray. I’m a guest at the Twin Spires Hotel, Lincoln, and I want to report a suspicious death.” He paused to listen for a moment. “We have a man in room 104, who has been shot in the head.” He paused again. “Of course he’d dead, you idiot. Here. Hang on. I’ll put the hotel manager on.”

  He passed the phone to Denshaw.

  “Hello? This is Clifford Denshaw, duty manager at the Twin Spires.” The manager’s voice trembled as he spoke. “I’m afraid Mr Murray is telling exactly what we have just found in room 104.” Now he paused. “Yes. Yes, we’ve locked the room and most of the guests are in the dining room, at breakfast.” Another pause. “Very good. We’ll wait downstairs with them.”