Mydworth Mysteries--Murder wore a Mask

by Matthew Costello

  She and Harry walked down the corridor into the big living room. A handful of overnight guests sat on sofas and armchairs – some stood in the open French windows.

  Everyone was now in their normal weekend clothes – Venetian costumes gone.

  She saw Benton delivering drinks on a tray to one couple she did recognise, standing just outside on the terrace: Celine Dubois and her husband Douglas Sawyer.

  As Benton came back through the living room, Harry nodded to him.

  “Benton.”

  “Sir Harry?”

  “People still having breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir, though many of her ladyship’s guests have preferred breakfast in their rooms.”

  “I can imagine why, eh? Mr Palmer down yet?”

  “Indeed yes, sir, he was one of the first to arise. I gather he is out riding sir.”

  “Nothing gets in the way of an Englishman and his morning ride,” said Harry.

  “What about Mr Forsyth?” said Kat.

  “Still in his room, I believe, Lady Mortimer. He was one of the last to take to his bed last night, what with the… er… unfortunate incident by the lake.”

  “Of course,” said Kat. “Seems he was pretty upset.” Then a thought: “I wonder – don’t suppose you know if anyone in particular left very muddy shoes out last night to be cleaned?”

  “Muddy shoes, m’lady? It is more a question of who didn’t do so. The lakeside entertainments, while being of course a marvellous diversion, have taken their toll on the carpets and footwear throughout the house.”

  So much for identifying the mystery footprints this morning, thought Kat.

  “Well, we won’t delay you much more, Benton,” said Harry. “Just one last question…” Kat saw him nod to the Sawyers through the French windows. “That a brandy you were just pouring for Mr Sawyer?”

  “It was indeed, sir,” said Benton, heading back towards the kitchens.

  “The old eye-opener,” said Harry. “Thought Sawyer looked two sheets to the wind last night.”

  “Me too,” said Kat. “Know what? Might be a long wait for Forsyth to emerge, why don’t we start talking to people, see if anyone knows anything?”

  “Good idea. Fancy the singer and the silent movie star?”

  “You know me too well. How about you?”

  “Think I’ll take a quiet peek at Carmody’s room.”

  “Really?” said Kat.

  “I was thinking – remember last night Palmer mentioned important papers? Carmody’s been Palmer’s private secretary for years. Could be that Palmer trusted him with information that might have put him in harm’s way.”

  “Government secrets, you mean? Always possible. Though perhaps political secrets are more likely,” she said.

  “Good point – Palmer running for Number Ten this autumn. Even people on his own side of the House might be interested in what he’s up to.”

  “Journalists too,” said Kat.

  “Newspaper barons, even…” said Harry, smiling.

  “Maybe a good idea then to search Carmody’s room before Palmer’s back from his ride,” said Kat. “Meanwhile, I’m going to grab a coffee and get the latest gossip from Hollywood.”

  “Think I got the raw deal there,” said Harry, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Love you.”

  Kat watched him head off to look for Benton, and then went looking for a coffee.

  Maybe there was more to Mr Carmody than we thought.

  7. The Singer and the Star

  Harry walked quietly along the second-floor corridor until he reached Carmody’s room – one of the small singles up here not allocated to servants.

  He tapped quietly on the door – though he knew it was unoccupied. Then he took from his pocket the spare key he’d got from Mrs Woodfine, the housekeeper, slipped it in the lock – and entered.

  Mrs Woodfine had assured him that absolutely no one had been in here since Carmody himself.

  “That Mr Palmer, sir, he asked me last night if I could open the room up for him, but I said only you or Lady Fitzhenry or the police could do that. I hope that was right, sir?”

  Harry had assured her she’d done the correct thing – spot on – and also that he’d do his best to retrieve the proper key from Mr Carmody, “otherwise we’ll be a key short, sir, and that’s not right”.

  Inside, the heavy, dark curtains were drawn. He shut the door behind him, went to open them, then turned to survey the room.

  First look: Carmody was clearly tidy – no surprise there, for a man who had devoted his life to being a secretary.

  A single bed, pyjamas folded atop the pillow.

  Though, sadly, never to be worn by their owner again.

  A wardrobe. Wash-stand. A small desk, a leather briefcase upon it. A copy of Dickens’ David Copperfield on the bedside table. A luggage rack, with a weekend bag buckled tight.

  Harry went to the wardrobe, opened it. Evening dress, shoes, coat. Harry checked the pockets, finding nothing.

  Carefully, he went through the rest of the room, opening the drawers, searching pockets.

  The briefcase did indeed contain papers. Harry reached across, clicked on the small electric desk lamp, then took out the papers, piled them on the desk and set about looking them over.

  All clearly government papers, and probably private. But Harry – in his discreet “back-office” role at the Foreign Office – knew that he was cleared to read just about anything here that might catch his interest…

  … if he considered that the security of the country might be at risk.

  One never knows such things, Harry thought as he began scanning the stack of papers.

  *

  “Chaplin?” said Douglas Sawyer, pouring the dregs of his brandy into his coffee and swigging the lot down. “Overblown. Opinionated. And not nearly as funny in real life as one might imagine. Tedious fellow, if you ask me.”

  “Really?” said Kat, watching as Sawyer flapped his hand to attract the attention of a passing footman and order another drink.

  Although from a distance he looked every bit the romantic lead – tall, dark eyes, loose-limbed – now close, this morning Kat could see his skin had a sweaty pallor, and those eyes were horribly bloodshot.

  And his voice – too high, almost squeaky – incongruous for a screen idol famous for action roles and heroic yarns.

  “Douglas doesn’t have much time for slapstick – do you, darling?” said Celine, drawing elegantly on her cigarette holder then tapping the ash onto the terrace next to her steamer chair.

  “Too right! Pratfalls are hardly our greatest contribution to the dramatic arts,” said Sawyer, one eye on the French windows for any sign of his approaching refill.

  Although it was already warm out here on the terrace, Kat felt that maybe Harry got the better deal out of the two detective tasks this morning.

  All the Sawyers had done since she’d joined them for coffee was snipe at each other – or about other entertainers.

  Talk about tedious.

  She looked across the terrace to the lawns and the distant woods. Someone she recognised was walking across the grass towards the house: the journalist who’d been at Forsyth’s side the night before, while the publisher was holding forth.

  Quiller – was that his name?

  She felt that maybe she would learn more talking to him – not this tetchy pair.

  She turned back to the couple and smiled.

  Sawyer seemed more than bitter, almost angry. Celine also was touchy – hard to remember the beauty of her voice from the night before – as she did nothing to hide her irritation with her husband.

  Perhaps news of the death of Carmody had affected them, Kat thought. But something was certainly rattling both of them.

  If so, what?

  Time to move the conversation on.

  “Do you mind if I ask you about Wilfred Carmody?” said Kat. “The man who died last night.”

  “Didn’t put a damper on the old party, now di
d it?” said Sawyer. Then Kat saw his eyes narrow. “What’s your question?”

  “Terrible thing to happen, out there all alone,” said Kat, thinking fast. “We, all of us, wonder if perhaps we should have seen the signs, got the poor man to take it easy, call a doctor, you know?”

  “Heart attack, wasn’t it?” said Sawyer. “They can come out of the blue, you know. And bang! You’re a goner, right? Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

  Kat nodded, then waited as a footman appeared and replaced the actor’s brandy.

  “Not much you can do if your number’s up,” said Sawyer, taking a gulp.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Carmody? Me? Why should I? Never clapped eyes on him in my life.”

  “Hmm, not strictly true, Douglas darling,” said Celine, with a condescending smile.

  Kat could see little affection in those eyes.

  “What do you mean?” said Sawyer, face flushing. “I can assure you, I never met the chap!”

  “You forget. Must be the brandies, hmm?” said Celine. Then she turned to Kat. “Douglas and I took the White Star to New York last year.”

  “Film offer, don’t you know,” said Sawyer.

  Celine carried on, not glancing at him. “We had the pleasure of dining with Cyril Palmer at the Captain’s table.”

  Kat heard Sawyer give a dismissive grunt at her side.

  “Palmer, right. Yes, I do remember that. God, what a bore he was.”

  “In fact,” said Celine, ignoring her husband. “I do believe we played bridge with him and Mr Carmody, who was travelling with him as a kind of aide-de-camp.”

  “Really?” said Sawyer. “Seems it wasn’t all that memorable, darling.” The actor swirled his glass, now holding only melted ice cubes. “Least for me.”

  So that’s how they met, thought Kat. Maybe easily forgotten.

  But maybe not.

  “And did Mr Carmody appear fit and well?” said Kat.

  “Bloody hell. What? Can’t even picture the old sod. But you know, he’s got a few years on Palmer. Old is old, Lady Mortimer. Sad truth,” said Sawyer, beneath his breath.

  Kat saw Celine take a deep breath as if not pleased with her husband, then turn back to her.

  “As I recall, it was not a wonderful crossing for Douglas, Lady Mortimer. My husband, you see, had a bad back the whole voyage,” she said. “All those stunts over the years for the cinema. Always proving things! And then when we got to New York, we heard the picture was canned.”

  Kat heard Sawyer grunt at the memory.

  “And what about Mr Carmody?” she said. “You haven’t seen him since then?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Celine. “Apart from last night of course.”

  Kat caught a look from Sawyer to his wife.

  He doesn’t trust her one bit, she thought. So, what’s been going on here?

  Maybe there was something useful to mine from this conversation.

  “This Carmody chap – he got family?” said Sawyer, his voice now slightly slurred.

  “Not that anyone’s aware of,” said Kat, not sure what Sawyer’s sudden interest might mean. “Mr Palmer plans on handling all the arrangements.”

  She waited for another question, but he just nodded and took another sip of his brandy.

  Behind them, Kat saw Quiller go through the French windows and disappear into the breakfast room.

  “Any particular reason you’re interested in Mr Carmody, Lady Mortimer?” said Celine. A small smile. “Just curious.”

  “Oh, nothing really. I just feel, you know, responsible in some way,” said Kat. “That we all let him down.”

  “Oh, I absolutely understand,” said Celine. Then, with a sniff, “But really, you shouldn’t blame yourself, none of us should. I’m sure there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent his death.”

  Kat nodded. Celine seeming so sincere.

  Almost too sincere.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Kat.

  Not sure at all.

  “Well, then – unless there’s anything else we can help you with…?” said Celine, nodding towards the lawn where Kat now saw Grayer the gardener heading past carrying nets. “I do believe they’re setting up for tennis. Will you be playing later?”

  “Love the game. Try keeping me away,” said Kat, smiling.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Celine. “I know – let’s partner for the doubles! Hands across the Ocean, hmm?”

  “Love to,” said Kat. “Now, forgive me while I go see if there’s any more coffee in the breakfast room.”

  She got up, thinking – some tricky web of connections to unpick here. And could the husband and wife be any more prickly with each other?

  But a bigger question: does it have anything to do with Carmody?

  Perhaps the young journalist might be able to fill in some of the blanks.

  8. The Dangerous Secret of Wilfred Carmody

  Harry turned over the last paper in the pile and sat back in the small chair, arms folded, thinking.

  Most of what he’d read had been quite dull correspondence back and forth between Palmer and his constituents, business connections, or fellow parliamentarians.

  And although there were some confidences, and a handful of references which might perhaps prove a tad embarrassing to the government, there was nothing that he could see to warrant murder.

  No smoking gun.

  And before he’d left last night, Sergeant Timms had confirmed that Carmody’s pockets were empty.

  So, if Forsyth was right, and the man’s death wasn’t accidental – then either there were no secrets involved in this affair, or the culprit had taken them away.

  In which case, they were probably destroyed by now.

  Any trail erased.

  He started to slide the papers back in the briefcase – when the door suddenly opened.

  “What the hell—?”

  Harry turned, to see Cyril Palmer standing, hand still on the doorknob, riding crop in the other hand, his face livid.

  “Ah,” said Harry. “Mr Palmer.”

  “If you’ve been reading my private papers, you’d better have a bloody good explanation, Mortimer.”

  Harry stood up. “As matter of fact, I do have an explanation. Perhaps you could close the door, sir, and hear me out.”

  He waited while Palmer shut the door behind him and stepped into the room, his riding jacket and boots giving him an almost military air.

  “This had better be damned good,” said the MP. “Those papers – top government security.”

  Considering the mundane nature of the documents, Harry thought this was a bit of an overreaction.

  Harry leaned back against the desk, wondering how much to reveal of Forsyth’s claim that the cause of Carmody’s death had been no heart attack.

  A claim, so far, without any evidence.

  “You see, Palmer, it’s been suggested – by one of my aunt’s guests – that Carmody’s death just might not be as accidental as first appeared.”

  “What?”

  “Indeed, there’s a suggestion that Carmody may have been involved in something that got him killed.”

  “Good God, man. Old Carmody? Some kind of… spy? Is that what you mean?”

  “‘Spy’ perhaps not the right word. But passing on information.”

  “About me? Political information?”

  Harry shrugged: “That – afraid I don’t know. I had hoped I might find a clue here, in his room.”

  “All sounds terribly dubious. And what qualifies you to be the judge of that?”

  “As I believe you know, I have a position at the Foreign Office. My security clearance is all in order.”

  “Ah yes. You work for Sinclair’s nasty little outfit, don’t you?” said Palmer, with what Harry guessed was a tone of distaste. “All spies and secrets? Enough said, dear boy.”

  Harry had long suspected that his boss’s remit – and therefore his own – within the diplomati
c service, was probably an open secret within government circles.

  “I’m not acting now in an official capacity, of course,” said Harry. “But still, a disturbing allegation like that? One can’t be too careful.”

  “Of course,” said Palmer, softening. “But – you know – Carmody’s been my man for years. A damned loyal servant, I’d wager my life on that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. And so – hear me out – perhaps there’s no better way to prove that than by helping me now? These papers, for instance – anything missing?”

  Harry waited while Palmer picked up the pile of papers and thumbed through them.

  Not happy about any of this, Harry noted. But at least he’s doing it.

  *

  Kat went into the breakfast room, poured herself another coffee and looked around. There were still some late risers enjoying breakfast, chattering together at the long table. Seated in an armchair in the far corner, away from the other guests sat Quiller, a pile of newspapers in front of him on a low table.

  She walked over.

  “Mr Quiller?” she said.

  She saw Quiller look up, his eyes lizard-like, slow.

  But intense. Penetrating.

  “Yes?”

  Kat gestured to the armchair next to him.

  “May I join you?”

  She watched as he seemed to consider the merits of this. Then he shrugged.

  “Yes,” he said. “But not here. Let’s go outside.”

  He got up, tucked the newspapers under his arm, and headed out of the French windows onto the terrace.

  Kat followed and watched him select a table at the end, far away from any other guests.

  She sat, put down her coffee.

  “You want to ask me about Carmody,” said the journalist, “right?”

  For a second Kat was taken by surprise.

  “Well, I’m not sure I—”

  “I assume Forsyth has enlisted your services?”

  “He had some concerns, about Mr Carmody’s death.”

  “Quite understandable. The circumstances are suspicious.”

  “You don’t buy the doctor’s diagnosis?”

  “I wasn’t there, Lady Mortimer. But I happen to know that Mr Carmody was in a vulnerable position.”