Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  The rhubarb murmur of realisation was stronger this time, and Joe noted Sheila and Brenda talking with occasional gestures in his direction.

  As quiet fell again, Joe took up his narrative. “We’re still not through with that first evening. There’s obviously something suspicious about Zara Lucescu herself. She claims to be Romanian, but insists her home town was Varna, which is actually in Bulgaria, and she didn’t know that Romania was actually more sympathetic to the Axis powers in the early years of World War Two. She was no more Romanian than I am, but of course, by yesterday, Inspector O’Keefe had confirmed that for us all. We’ll come back to Zara later, but there was some scuttlebutt about her swapping glasses with Captain Wilson. There was no great mystery. Wilson had dropped cigarette ash into her drink, and she took the opportunity to swap them in the confusion.”

  Putting down the newspaper, Joe picked up the encyclopaedia. “For those of you who want to complain that you knew nothing about World War Two, let me tell you, it was before my time, too…”

  “We’ll take your word on that, Joe,” Brenda called and Joe gave her a sickly grin while waiting for the laughter to subside.

  “All the information you needed was in this book. If you looked at it, several of the pages were dog-eared, and it was on those pages that you would find the scientific and historical information you needed.”

  He put the book down again.

  “Most of the rest of the information you got from that first evening was smoke designed to create red herrings, but there was one other piece of evidence you should have questioned. Inspector O’Keefe rightly pointed out that anyone could have dropped the cyanide in the colonel’s glass, and some people were obviously too far from the glass to do it. But what of the woman who pronounced it as cyanide? Dr Valerie Wilson.” He gestured at the actress, Tanya Richmond. “If she’s a doctor, I’ll start putting soya in my meat pies.”

  Once more he waited for the laughter to settle.

  “Dr Wilson sniffed the colonel’s glass and declared it to contain potassium cyanide. The reason? It smelled of sweet almonds. Now I didn’t need to look it up because I knew, but if you didn’t know about cyanide, the information was in the encyclopaedia. Potassium cyanide, prussic acid, call it what you will, smells of burnt almonds, not sweet. Dr Wilson was faking it, and yet, at a later stage, O’Keefe confirmed that the colonel had been poisoned with cyanide. So why didn’t Dr Wilson describe it accurately? If she’d smelled burnt almonds, surely she would have described it that way? So could it be that our doctor is not a doctor and could it be that she has no sense of smell?”

  More murmurs went round the room. Joe waited for them to settle.

  “The encyclopaedia also raised other questions if you stopped to think about it. The article on Chateau Armand was particularly interesting. Why did the British insist that Haliwell take it intact? It had little or no strategic importance, it had no history. It was listed as a listening station, that’s all. What was so important about it that they needed the building whole? Also, who shot Lieutenant Cresey, the British officer killed by friendly fire? Why did Haliwell and Wilson tell a different tale to the German soldier who had been stationed there and the British NCO who had been a part of Haliwell’s assault force? These are matters you should have been bearing in mind.”

  “That just about sums up the first evening, but already the finger of suspicion is pointing at Captain Wilson and his wife. If you spoke to the actors during the evening, they would answer your questions, but most of their answers were, again, smoke, designed to lead you to the wrong conclusion.” He cast a quick, disparaging glance at Tanya Richmond. “When they would speak to you at all, that is.”

  Joe checked his crib sheet. “So did our suspicions on day one lead you anywhere? If not, they should have done. They point clearly to Captain Wilson and his wife. The one is telling inconsistent stories and the other clearly doesn’t know her poisons, and while there are any number of possibilities for others to be lying, this pair stand out. By Friday evening, I’d already concluded that Wilson was the murderer, and his wife – if indeed she is his wife – was covering for him. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt it had something to do with the legendary Nazi gold. I’d also concluded that the gold was the reason the British wanted Chateau Armand intact.”

  At the back of the Scampton Room, Les Tanner stood up. “Where do you get that conclusion from, Murray? There was nothing at all on day one to indicate that the British were cashing Nazi gold.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce an old friend, mortal enemy, and fellow member of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, Captain Les Tanner. To answer your question Les, it was a process of deduction. The chateau had no strategic importance, and the only reason the British could want it would be for the gold – if it existed. At that time we were not given the value of the gold, but the British would have taken anything to help offset the cost of the war.”

  Les sat down again, and Joe continued with his analysis.

  “The suspicion again was highlighted further on day two when we learned that Kerry Dolman was shot in the head with a thirty-eight calibre pistol and Wilson admitted to not only owning one, but having brought it with him. The whole of day two, however, contained little to take the case further forward. It had more to do with placing the pistol outside and encouraging you, the guests, to look for it.”

  “Day three, yesterday, was far more interesting, and you could draw many conclusions from it. First we had the murder of Zara Lucescu, and here again, Dr Valerie Wilson demonstrated a complete lack of medical knowledge when she described Zara’s face as cyanotic, or blue in colour. In manual strangulation, the face is livid. It is the rest of the body that becomes cyanotic, and there was an excellent article in the encyclopaedia which would have told you that. Dr Wilson also claimed that the ligature used to strangle Zara was the cable on the bedside lamp.” Joe moved once again to the information board and pointed to the close-up of the lamp. “First, look at the electrical cord. It’s braided and covered with rayon. This was quite common back in the first half of the 20th century. Now look at the marks on Zara’s neck.” He pointed to the appropriate image. “In order to strangle someone, a great deal of strength is needed and the ligature will always leave a weal, but the marks on Zara’s neck are from a fine wire, more consistent with cheese wire than the bedside lamp’s flex. Conclusion; Dr Wilson doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and that logically leads us to conclude that she has had little or no medical training.”

  Leaving the display, Joe drank from a bottle of water.

  “Inspector O’Keefe then told us that Zara was not a Romanian countess, but an agent of HM Treasury, and she had reason to investigate every man at the table. McLintock for his dodgy share dealing, Crenshaw for some rum goings on in Normandy during the aftermath of D-Day, the colonel and Wilson for the source of their funds. It’s at this point where we can begin to draw some major conclusions, but you have to make some assumptions and apply a little logic to get there.”

  He flipped over his crib sheet to the next page.

  “McLintock, we know, was exempted from military service on the grounds of a heart murmur which didn’t exist. He also handled a large sum of money for the colonel in 1946. He says the colonel told him it was from American investments and he accepted that. Rubbish, is my view. I checked up on the internet, and in today’s money that £125,000 would be worth about four and a half million. And the colonel made that from investments during a time of war? My eye. The money was stolen loot, and that leads us to conclude that the Nazi gold was real. The British wanted it, Haliwell and his people took it. They probably agreed to divide it up between themselves. According to the encyclopaedia, there were six officers in that division, but only two survived; Haliwell and Wilson. Three were killed during the battle and the fourth was shot in a friendly fire incident. Again, I ask, who shot him? Captain Wilson? Very likely. Why? Was Creasey losing his nerve and getting ready to tell the authorities wha
t they really found before Haliwell ordered the chateau to be demolished? Again highly likely. So Wilson shot him. Haliwell considered it murder but reached an agreement with Wilson. He would take £125,000 and Wilson would be left with £25,000. Wilson had no choice. The alternative was to report the colonel to the British High Command in return for which, Haliwell would report him and he would be hanged for murdering a brother officer.”

  Again Joe checked his notes.

  “Why was Crenshaw being investigated? Two trucks went missing. But Crenshaw was probably in the clear because Haliwell would have commandeered them. However, Crenshaw found out about it and the price of his silence was Theresa’s hand in marriage, and a cut of the family fortunes when the colonel died and Theresa inherited.”

  Joe paused to take another mouthful of water and read through to the end of his notes. Melanie gave him an encouraging smile.

  Turning to face his audience again, he went on:

  “There was something the colonel didn’t reckon on, and it takes us right back to the beginning. Lydia Beauchamp. Remember she was found dead in the Thames, but she was never properly identified because her face, according to the press report, was beaten to a pulp. It was not Lydia Beauchamp. It was Valerie Wilson.”

  A buzz of excited chatter ran round the room. George Robson summed it up.

  “How can you be sure, Joe?”

  Joe smiled easily. “Another of my members, ladies and gentlemen, Mr George Robson, possessed of a lethal charm with the ladies, but doubting the lethal deductive skills of his Chairman.”

  A ragged laugh rippled through the audience.

  “It’s obvious that Valerie Wilson is not a doctor, but the real Valerie Wilson was. O’Keefe told us as much when he said she’d been suspended for misdiagnosing a heart attack. The real Valerie Wilson would not have made such elementary mistakes about the poison or the ligature that killed Zara. So we know she is not who she claims to be, but how does that make her Lydia Beauchamp? We’re told that Lydia was lethal with the garrotte and the cheese wire, as used by commandos in World War Two, and found by Julia Staines, was a garrotte. In addition, for Valerie to have mistaken the smell of cyanide, she can’t have had a sense of smell, and again, we’re told that Lydia Beauchamp had no sense of smell. Logical deduction, George.”

  Joe took in the whole audience again. “The way I see it, Wilson was determined to make Haliwell pay for the way he cheated him after the war, and he found the perfect alibi in Lydia Beauchamp, a woman who was a natural killer and skilled at posing as other people. Wilson dropped the cyanide in the colonel’s glass. He shot Kerry Dolman because he didn’t know what the colonel may have told her. When O’Keefe said that Zara was not a suspect, they guessed she was some kind of special investigator, and Lydia murdered her. My guess is they would then have begun to rip off or blackmail Sadie, Theresa and Crenshaw for the money they felt should rightfully be theirs.”

  Joe folded his notes away.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen is the solution to Haliwell’s Heroes. But you don’t have to take my word for it.” He turned to the table. “I’m going to ask the real culprits to stand up and hand themselves over to Inspector O’Keefe so that justice can be done.”

  There was brief pause. The members of the cast looked at each other as if daring one another to move. At length, Billy Norman and Tanya Richmond, as Captain and Mrs Wilson, stood up and Inspector O’Keefe slapped the handcuffs on them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joe stood back to a round of generous applause from his audience, and from the Markham Murder Mysteries crew. Melanie took centre stage while she waited for it to die down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank Mr Murray for his presentation, and ask him formally, please don’t attend anymore of our weekends. He’s far too good for us.” She smiled and the audience laughed along. “I’d also like to thank you for being such a wonderful audience and for putting up with some of our makeshift work. And now it’s time to announce the winners of our competition for who presented the solution closest to the real one, and they are …” she checked the name on her clipboard. “Mr and Mrs Gresty of Washington, Tyne and Wear.”

  Melanie led the applause as the middle-aged couple came forward to receive their prizes.

  “Mr and Mrs Gresty got eighty percent of the solution correct,” Melanie went on. “They win vouchers entitling them to free accommodation for one weekend at any of Accomplus nationwide chain of hotels, and also a bottle of champagne.”

  Melanie handed over the prizes with a theatrical air kiss, and led more applause for the winners.

  “It only remains for me to thank you once again for being such a smashing audience, and wish you all a safe journey home. Ladies and gentlemen, one last time, please show your appreciation for the cast of… Haliwell’s Heroes.”

  The players stood forward and took a bow. Joe joined in the applause and as it died down, asked Melanie, “They got to within eighty percent of the solution. Which bits did they get wrong?”

  “The identity of Valerie Wilson stroke Lydia Beauchamp,” Melanie replied. Turning to her crew she ordered, “We’d better start getting the van loaded.” She faced Joe again. “Sorry, Joe, but we’re in a bit of a rush. We have to be set up in Mansfield for this evening. Yes, they assumed that Mrs Wilson really was Mrs Wilson and that she’d never taken a medical degree. It led them off the beaten track somewhat.”

  Joe grunted. “And how. Right, well, I’d better get to my room and get my gear together.”

  Melanie looked downcast. “Will I see you again?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nottingham is about eighty miles from Sanford, so I could drive down, and if you’re ever in the area, you could always drop by the Lazy Luncheonette, but give me a bell first. I’ll do you a special meat and tater pie.”

  ***

  Dragging his small suitcase behind him, Joe handed his keys to Denshaw.

  “I trust you enjoyed your stay, Mr Murray… circumstances excepted.”

  “Very pleasant,” Joe replied, “but also disappointing.”

  The manager raised his head. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “I usually solve the murders. This one goes down as the one that snookered Joe Murray. Where do we wait for our bus?”

  “The Gibson room is open for you, sir.” Denshaw printed out Joe’s bill and passed it over. “Your bar tab, Mr Murray.”

  Joe looked it over and blanched. “Who’d have thought we could go through so much booze in a weekend.” He dug out his wallet and handed over his credit card.

  “It’s quite reasonable at the side of some of these we see, sir.”

  A chambermaid came hurrying up to the counter. “Stock cupboard key, please Mr Denshaw.”

  The manager frowned at her. “What is it now?”

  “This lot are dragging their backsides getting out,” the woman replied, “and if we don’t get a move on, the next mob will be here before the rooms are ready.”

  Denshaw handed Joe the PIN reader, and Joe punched in his numbers. From the corner of his eye he watched the manager take down a key and hand it to the chambermaid.

  Coming back to attend to Joe, Denshaw tore off the receipt and handed it over along with the credit card.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mr Murray.”

  Joe grinned. “Don’t worry about it. I have the same problem when I can’t get shut of fed customers to let the unfed sit down. Thanks again for everything. You’ll call us when our coach arrives.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Joe wandered away from reception and into the Scampton Room where most of the Sanford 3rd Age Club crew were already gathered. In one corner Wendy Grimshaw and the rest of her party sat in silence, and on the opposite side of the room, most of Markham Murder Mysteries’ crew were checking over their props and personal effects, while Carlin and Billy Norman were dismantling the large screen TVs.

  “I’ve ordered tea for us all, Joe,” Sheila told him when he joined his
companions. “Is there a problem? Only you’re looking very pensive.”

  The question snapped Joe out of it. “What? Oh, no. Just mulling over a few things, that’s all.”

  Brenda nudged Sheila. “He’s probably annoyed because he didn’t nick the killer.”

  “You can’t win them all, Joe.”

  “Huh?” Joe came alive again. “It’s not that. It’s something I’ve just heard and I can’t think what it means.” He shrugged it off and changed the subject. “Whisper is Wendy will definitely sell out to Midland Kitchens.”

  “Probably wise,” Sheila commented. “She must feel awful.”

  Brenda guffawed. “Yeah, awfully rich.”

  “I was thinking guilt after she got caught in flagrante delicto,” Sheila grinned.

  Two words rang through Joe’s head; guilt, caught, guilt, caught.

  A barmaid arrived with a tray of tea things. She bent between Sheila and Brenda, and began to unload her tray; cups and saucers, spoons, milk and sugar in a small, metal container, and a large, metal teapot. Joe watched as if hypnotised, his mind flashing back to Reggie Grimshaw’s bedside. A cup and saucer, a teapot, a metal container with individual portions of milk and sachets of sugar… Denshaw’s voice rang in his head. I’ll check the bathroom, see if he left the rest of the tea things in there. Wendy Grimshaw dragging her heels. This lot are dragging their backsides getting out. A wave? Or a signal?

  Images and impressions poured in on his brain. He looked around the room. There was Wendy, sat in her favourite corner, with the remnants of her party, Fliss Kendrew talking sternly to her husband. Nearby, at the bar, was George Robson, joking with Owen Frickley and Cyril Peck.