Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  “Jealous? Of what?”

  “You mean of whom,” Sheila corrected. “Joe, of course. Or Joe and Melanie, to be precise.”

  Brenda laughed. “Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Sheila slipped her feet into a pair of dark brown, high-heeled courts, and studied the effect in the full-length, wardrobe mirror. “You’ve been niggling at him all day over it.”

  “That’s revenge for all the times he’s had a go at me.” Studying Sheila’s reflection again, Brenda went on, “you have some black, wet look slingbacks that will go better with that dress.”

  Sheila kicked off the shoes again. “You’re probably right. Those heels would be killing me by ten o’clock.” She dug into the wardrobe and came out with the lower heels. “I worry about Joe, you know. I worry that he works too hard, and doesn’t get enough enjoyment out of life.”

  “Well, he can hardly complain about last night. Melanie got her hooks into him early on and he probably had a ball. Or she had a pair of…”

  “Yes. Thank you, Brenda. I get the picture.”

  Lipstick applied, Brenda put away her makeup pack and turned on the seat so she could look at Sheila. “Joe is one of those men who will drop dead within six months of retiring. You know that, don’t you? He lives for that café.”

  “And the club.” Sheila pulled on the glossy slingbacks and again admired the effect. Satisfied with it, she closed the wardrobe.

  “Correct. I think that last night was the best thing that’s happened to him in years, and he really needs more like that. Not necessarily jumping into bed with someone, but just enjoying himself.” Brenda grinned broadly. “I keep hinting; one night with me and he wouldn’t know what had hit him. He’d be a changed man for the rest of his life. And it wouldn’t cost him a penny.”

  “I know you’re always ribbing him about it.”

  Brenda laughed again. “Who’s kidding?”

  Sheila was surprised. “Would you? Would you really?”

  “Of course.” Brenda became more serious. “I know you won’t even look at other men. Your whole life was dedicated to Peter and the children. And when Colin was alive, there was no way I’d even consider another man. But we had an, er, active relationship, Sheila. When I eventually got over his death, I saw no reason to deny myself that which I’d always found so pleasurable. If I’d gone first, Colin wouldn’t have taken holy orders, you know. Joe is more like you. After Alison left him, I think he just switched his sex drive off.”

  “I never thought she was the right woman for him, anyway,” Sheila commented. “But even if I had been working for him at the time, I wouldn’t have said anything. I don’t think it’s our place to interfere with anyone’s life.”

  “Or, to look at it another way, it’s every man’s – and woman’s – right to make a mess of his life in the way he chooses. But my point was, Joe bottles up all that, wossname, testosterone, and lets it out in his moods.” She grinned lasciviously. “I can think of better ways of getting rid of it, and my guess is, Joe would be dynamite.”

  Sheila giggled in a teenage manner. “Dynamite on a very short fuse most of the time.”

  “I hope you’re referring to his temper,” Brenda said with mock severity. “Personally speaking, I’ve never had sight of his fuse.”

  Sheila loaded her belongings into a clutch bag. “You dated him not long after we all left school.”

  Brenda, too, picked up her bag. “Yes but I never looked. I just had fun.” She giggled and checked her watch. “Half past five. Shall we make a move?”

  ***

  After the two women collected Joe, they entered the dining room just as the Markham Murder Mysteries players were taking their places for the early evening’s entertainment.

  More photographs had joined those already on the display board, this time of the revolver, taken from a number of angles. The weapon itself lay on the table encased in a polythene bag. The actors were dressed as they had been earlier in the day, but Carlin, as Inspector O’Keefe, had dispensed with his overcoat while still wearing his trilby.

  Melanie appeared, microphone in hand, and as the room settled into quiet, she went into her introduction.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The drama is developing. Earlier this afternoon, the missing revolver was discovered in the hotel grounds. Our congratulations go to Robert and Felicity Kendrew, who found the pistol.”

  Melanie led the room in a round of polite applause as the couple went forward to receive a bottle of champagne.

  When the Kendrews had returned to their table, Melanie went on with her introduction.

  “The pistol is now in the hands of Inspector O’Keefe but he has some questions he needs to ask the colonel’s dinner guests. So without further ado, let’s get back to Haliwell’s Heroes.”

  ***

  To a smattering of applause, the lights came up and O’Keefe placed the revolver, encased in a polythene bag, on the table.

  “Captain Wilson,” the inspector began, “can you identify this pistol as your service weapon?”

  Wilson picked up the bag and examined the pistol. “Hard to say. It could be mine.” He made to open the bag. “If I could just…”

  “No, sir,” O’Keefe interrupted. “Don’t take it out of the bag. There are no fingerprints on it, and I don’t want to get yours all over it.”

  Wilson put the bag down. “In that case, all I can say is that it looks like mine.”

  “We’ve run checks on it, sir, and the War Office records confirm the serial number matches that of the pistol issued to you. I simply needed your confirmation.”

  Wilson shrugged. “It must be mine then.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now do you recall saying to me earlier that your revolver was loaded with old ammunition?”

  “That’s correct,” the captain confirmed.

  “And we know that only one shot has been fired,” O’Keefe carried on. “And yet, the chambers are empty. There is no ammunition in the gun.”

  The announcement caused consternation at the table.

  “That’s not possible,” Wilson insisted. “I checked it yesterday as we packed our bags to come here. Val will confirm it.”

  His wife agreed. “I remember asking him why he was bringing it, Inspector, and he muttered something about the war. And I do recall him breaking the gun to check that the chambers were loaded.”

  “Men,” Theresa Haliwell complained. “Will they never let go of the damned war?”

  “It’s in the nature of the beast, Theresa,” said McLintock, with a scowl directed at Crenshaw.

  “Oh, do shut up, McLintock,” Crenshaw protested. Concentrating on the policeman, he asked, “What are you driving at, Inspector.”

  “I’m formulating a theory, Mr Crenshaw. Someone stole the weapon from Captain Wilson, and removed the old, dud ammunition, replacing it with a single, live round, which he – or she – then used to murder Miss Dolman. The question is who, and what did he – or she – do with the old ammunition?”

  “Well it seems to me, then, that the prime suspect is Wilson himself,” McLintock declared.

  The captain rounded on him. “How dare you –”

  “That will do, sir,” O’Keefe interrupted. “Yours is an interesting observation, Mr McLintock, but it’s not strictly true. Captain Wilson is a likely suspect, but he’s not alone.” He laid a gleaming eye on Crenshaw. “It wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone with a military background to secure thirty-eight calibre ammunition.”

  Crenshaw half rose, but the determined eye had moved on to McLintock.

  “As would anyone with widespread contacts in the City; especially when one of his business partners is a member of a local gun club.” O’Keefe rounded on Zara Lucescu. “Foreign nationals, too, may find it easier to obtain this kind of ammunition than your everyday British citizen.”

  Zara’s shrill voice filled the room. “You haff the audacity to accuse me of killink my friend, Colonel Haliwell?” />
  “No, madam. We’re talking about the death of Kerry Dolman. Where the colonel’s death is concerned, each and every one of you had the opportunity, and the motive to administer the cyanide.” The inspector’s dangerous gleam took in the entire table. “One of you is a double murderer, and I will not rest until I know which one.”

  ***

  The scene rambled on for a further fifteen minutes before Melanie finally brought it a close amidst generous appreciation from the audience.

  Joe had made several pages of notes, and as he ran through them, adding or subtracting information, he listened in on the debate between Sheila and Brenda.

  “I think it’s Crenshaw,” Sheila declared.

  “Really?” Brenda sounded genuinely surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  Sheila skimmed back through her notes, shorter than Joe’s, but more detailed than Brenda’s. “In the very first scene, yesterday, we heard McLintock describe him as being, er, under the colonel’s thumb.” Sheila rifled back through her notes. “A damned ADC, was the actual description. I think McLintock was right, and I think Crenshaw resented the way the colonel put him down for not being on the front line on D-Day.”

  “But why did he murder the biographer?”

  “That’s not clear yet,” Sheila said, “but I think O’Keefe will learn something tonight or possibly tomorrow, that will give us a motive. Who did you have in mind?”

  “The countess. There’s some secret she’s told O’Keefe, which we haven’t heard yet. My guess is that the colonel was guilty of war crimes, or something like that, when he led the assault on Chateau Armand. I don’t think she’s a Romanian countess at all, but she’s one of the vigilantes they had after the war, who went round the world seeking war criminals.”

  “But the inspector said she wasn’t a suspect,” Sheila protested.

  Brenda grinned. “Maybe she did a Melanie Markham on the inspector.” She checked to see if Joe would rise to her dig, but he was still writing, so she turned back to Sheila. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that the colonel conspired with the Nazi commanders at Chateau Armand, and that the gold was real, so they split it between them, and massacred the rest of the German forces there.” This time Brenda nudged Joe. “What do you think?”

  Joe folded away his notebook and dropped it in his pocket. “I think most of what you’ve just seen is smoke.” He stood up. “And talking of smoke, that’s exactly where I’m going before they serve dinner. Back in a few minutes.”

  ***

  The night air hung heavy with damp. The upper reaches of the cathedral towers, just a hundred or so yards away, were hidden in the gloom, and the roads were deserted.

  He found Gerry Carlin outside, enjoying a smoke, still dressed as Inspector O’Keefe, the floppy trilby on his head, lending him the appearance of a latter-day American gumshoe from a 1950s B movie.

  Lighting his cigarette, Joe sat with him. “Depressing.”

  Carlin blew a large cloud of smoke out into already polluted air. “What? The show?”

  Joe laughed. “No. I meant Christmas and New Year. Short, dark, damp days, and I don’t know about you, but I live alone. Without my friends at the club, I’d have no one… well, a loopy nephew whose heart is in the right place, but who doesn’t have the brains or manual dexterity to go with it.”

  “At least you have roots, old lad. More than I have.” Carlin crushed his cigarette under foot and immediately lit another. “I’m a gypsy. Wandering all over the country playing silly buggers in hotels like this, or living in digs while I’m appearing in some theatre.”

  “Nowhere to call home?”

  “Nope. I come from your part of the world originally. Little place called Rothwell. Between Leeds and Wakefield.”

  “I know it,” Joe said. “So how does a son of Rothwell end up treading the boards?”

  “Drama school, old son. Got myself a scholarship to the Central School of Speech and Drama down in the big smoke. Did a year and a half there, then dropped out, landed a part in Rep at Birmingham, and I’ve never really stopped working… or travelling.” He puffed on his freshly lit cigarette. “One of these days, I’ll look back and say to myself, ‘what a complete waste of a life’.” He chuckled sadly and removed the trilby. Rubbing a hand across his hairline, he went on, “If I’d followed my old dad down Lofthouse pit, I’d probably have a wife and two point four, and a nice semi in South Leeds.”

  “You’d also be out of work,” Joe told him. “Most of the mines are long gone. And take it from me, following in your dad’s footsteps isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I worked for my old man when I left school, and because my brother had the good sense to move to Australia, I took over the café when he retired. It’s all I amount to. I spend seven days a week there. I even live above the bloody place.”

  Joe too, drew on his cigarette and discovered that it had gone out. Taking out his engraved, brass Zippo, he relit it.

  “So how did you team up with Melanie?” he asked when it was satisfactorily glowing again.

  “Through the theatre, naturally,” Carlin replied. “Met her while she was on placement in Nottingham, then bumped into her later. Nottingham again, as I recall. She was the assistant set designer and we were putting on an adaptation of Billy Liar. I played Stamp. We got chatting during rehearsals and she told me she had this idea for a travelling troupe putting on murder mystery weekends.” He beamed proudly at Joe. “I was her first recruit, in at the very beginning, and I’ve been with her ever since.” He sniffed and dragged on his smoke again. “Keeps me in beer and condoms, and it’s better than some of the work I’d tried.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stand up comedy, for one. Hell’s bells, I was awful. You probably noticed if you were watching while we waited for the cops to come this morning.” He delivered another, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m an all-round entertainer, Joe. My act was a mishmash of improvisation, one-liners, monologues and, believe it or not, the odd song. Went down about as well as one of your pies at a slimmer’s convention.”

  “So you weren’t cut out for comedy?”

  “Not the stand up variety, no.” Carlin heaved a sigh. “I suppose I have to be grateful, old lad. I’ve never been out of work during the last twenty years, and even if I’m not making a fortune, at least I’m making more than scale.”

  Joe had heard the word before. “Scale?”

  “The minimum amount an actor can be paid as agreed between the union and representatives of the various media; radio, theatre, TV, films.”

  “Ah. Like the minimum wage?”

  “Y’see, even you’re a better comedian than me. Yes, it is like the minimum wage, but a little more generous.” He stubbed out his second cigarette, stood up and stretched. “Oh to be one of life’s Reggie Grimshaws, eh? Pots of money and no worries.”

  Joe grunted. “A live Reggie Grimshaw.”

  “Ah. Yes. See what you mean.” Carlin stood. “Well, old lad, mustn’t hang about. Face to feed, elbow to bend, clues to dish out to the never-ending queue of sleuths.” He put the hat back on. “Catch you later.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was 7:30 when Joe returned to the Scampton Room to discover that the right hand wall of the Gibson Room, the wall without any decoration, had been slid back and open to turn the whole dining/bar area into a huge, single, open plan room. Hotel staff were laying out trestle tables with food in the dining area.

  Above the bar, a sign read Free bar 7:30-9:00, and the area was already packed; mostly with the Sanford 3rd Age Club. Joe knew enough about his members to be sure that they would not pass up such an opportunity. Even the more middle class members like Les Tanner, or the near-teetotallers, like Sylvia Goodson, would not hesitate to take advantage of free drink.

  Sheila and Brenda were sharing a table with Tanner and Sylvia and the Staineses, and sat with them was the young woman playing Theresa Haliwell. Other members of the cast were dotted around the room, chatting with guests, and he n
oticed George Robson laying a line of chat on Tanya Richmond, the actress playing Valerie Wilson, the same woman who had given Joe such short shrift the previous evening. Melanie was on the podium in the far corner talking to the DJ, and the air was thick with the approach of New Year.

  He joined his friends who promptly introduce him to the actress.

  “I’m Olivia Anderson,” she said, “and as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I play Theresa Haliwell.”

  “Joe Murray, private detective extraordinaire…” he introduced himself. “When I’m not making steak and kidney pies.”

  Olivia laughed. “So I’ve been hearing. Are you going to question me on the real murder?”

  “Do you know anything about it?” Joe asked. She shook her head, and he concluded, “In that case there’s no point me questioning you, is there? Tell you what, though, I do have a question for Theresa.”

  She appeared disappointed but hid it behind a cheery smile. “Go on, then.”

  “You’re engaged to Crenshaw, but you were engaged to McLintock. How much influence did daddy really have in the switch?”

  She scowled convincingly. “Lots, if you must know. He didn’t like Patrick, er, McLintock, at all. Daddy always said that McLintock got out of serving in the war thanks to his money. He was born to it, you know. His father was a stockbroker, too. Frightfully rich, of course.”

  “So how did the colonel persuade you to settle for Crenshaw?”

  “Threatened to cut my allowance off. He said I wouldn’t need it if I married new money. The Crenshaws, on the other hand, are old money. Related to royalty, so they claim, and Michael is a decent sort, but he’s so… I don’t know. Boring. You know?”

  “And old money is a euphemism for being near broke, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm. I never thought of it quite like that, but yes, I suppose so. They don’t have much in the way of hard cash. Michael is always counting the pennies. But they do own a frightful lot of land.”

  “Would McLintock be angry enough to pop your father off?” Joe wanted to know.

  “I shouldn’t have thought so. Of course one can never really tell, can one? I suppose he is a bit miffed, but he’s not the violent type.”