Murder at Maddingley Grange (13 page)

“Or perhaps our murder is the result of a robbery gone wrong.” There was a rattle of china as Bennet, collecting the dessert plates, stumbled and Mrs. Saville, at whose ear Simon had pointed this suggestion, clutched her necklace protectively. “Very easily done. The criminal is discovered, panics, seizes the nearest blunt instrument and wham! Or,” he continued quickly before Derek could identify this latest mise en scène, “there's that great classic weapon of feminine retribution, the neat pearl-handled revolver. Just the right size to fit snugly into an evening bag.” He held Rosemary's glittering purse aloft, squeezing it with a suspicious frown before replacing it on the table.

“Which method—” Simon was now back in his place— “will our murderer use? Perhaps it will be none of these. Perhaps, by this time tomorrow, we shall have been presented with that most rare and intriguing phenomenon, a completely original method. Or—even more joyfully—the unsolvable crime.”

Derek sniggered at this and managed to look simultaneously thrilled and complacent, which remarkable accomplishment impressed everyone far more than the lecture on the history of detective fiction.

Simon looked around, more than pleased with the effect of his introduction. Every face (with the exception of his sister's) showed a mixture of alarm, excitement and enthusiasm in varying proportions. Laurie looked simply petrified. As the final chords of keening music died away a sudden disturbance in the air snuffed out the candles. At the same time there was a great crash of thunder then a sheet of razzledazzle lightning. A white flash that briefly transformed the room and table and the motionless figures into a chiaroscuro painting.

The company, stunned momentarily into silence by this apparent willingness on the part of the Almighty to create the appropriate atmosphere for their revels, burst into spontaneous applause. Mother gave a drum roll with her spoon and fork. Simon held his arms wide and took a deep, ironical bow. Gaunt switched on the lights, an air of cheerful normality returned and Derek's remark, that he had felt himself just for a moment in the presence of sheer unadulterated evil, was laughed to scorn. Simon produced, apparently out of thin air, a bowler hat.

“In here”—holding it aloft—“are eleven folded pieces of paper. All describe two characters, one male, one female, the most appropriate of which I should like you to assume. Anyone can of course opt out and just carry on being themselves, but I do hope you will all at least make an effort. It will be so much more fun.” While speaking he had sauntered down the table and was now standing behind his sister's chair. He offered her the hat.

“Just one moment!” cried Derek. “I would like to see those papers thoroughly shuffled.” Simon obligingly shook the hat and stirred the papers thoroughly with his left hand. “We don't want any jiggery-pokery.”

“I thought,” said Gilly, with an air of being terribly daring, “that's just what we
do
want. Ha, ha.” Neigh, neigh.

“The person to play the victim—no, don't open it yet, Laurie—will have on his paper, as well as character details, a red cross. The murderer a black.” Simon carried on around the table, dropping a square on his own plate as he passed. When Derek, as the last recipient, had been served, Simon turned the hat upside down, tapped the crown in a nothing-up-my-sleeve manner, left it on the table and returned to his seat.

“Right,” he said to the rectangle of attentive faces, “let's see who's who, shall we?”

There was an eager rustle as people hurried to investigate their new personas, followed by a babble of amused and questioning noise. Then came a longish silence which Simon punctured by saying: “We all expect the murderer to keep his own counsel, but could the victim please identify himself? Otherwise we shall be minus a cadaver the whole weekend.”

But the silence continued until Sheila Gregory turned to the man on her right, who was busy subjecting Simon's bowler hat to the most intense scrutiny, and picked up his white square. “Oooh, Derek,” she cried, “it's you!
You're
the victim…”

Laurie took one look at Derek Gregory's livid countenance, cleared her throat nervously and beckoned the maid. “I think, Bennet, we'll take our coffee in the library.”

A comforting fire burned in the library grate. Gaunt had been round with some petits fours, Bennet with the coffee, Gaunt with the liqueurs, Bennet with the coffee again, leading Fred to remark that it were like trying to get a drink down you on the Wall of Death.

Mrs. Saville's determination to put plenty of distance between herself and the dreadful gypsies from the North had been rather thwarted by Simon's cozy arrangement of armchairs and chesterfields, which were grouped around the splendid Adam fireplace. And her distaste for their company was hardly ameliorated by the discovery that the plump, high-kicking legs of the chorine on Fred's tie glowed in the dark. She was at least able to turn her back on the old lady, who sat in a rocking chair a few feet away, imbibing her coffee by the unusual method of mangling the rim of the cup against her withered lips and making loud slurping noises.

Laurie was just wondering if she should close the curtains against the silver rods of rain now hammering against the windows, when Gilly got up, crossed to the nearest bookcase against which he had rested his music case and picked up the case.

“What about a spot of after-dinner fun? I'd be happy to give you a song.” Before anyone could reply he turned to Derek. “Couldn't help noticing a fellow musician on the bus. Shall we make it a duet?”

“My violin,” said Derek coldly, “is not for show in a concert party. It is the means by which I clarify my mind during periods of the most rigorous intellectual speculation.”

“Sorry. No offense, I'm sure.” Gilly had grasped his instrument and was smiling with rather touching nervousness around the room.

“You have a go, lad,” said Fred. “I like a good tune.”

So Gilly, encouraged, launched into his opening number. Alas—he could not sing. He couldn't play either. The plonks, twangs, pings and yelps were excruciating.

“I wonder,” interrupted Simon, “if we'd better not all look at the plan of the house and grounds before it gets too late. Maybe you could continue your song another time?”

Gilly, looking rather crushed, smiled over-brightly and joined the others around the coffee table between the chesterfields, on which Simon had placed a long scroll weighted down with
The Rose and the Ring
at one end and
Morte d'Arthur
at the other.

“Our lad was keen on music,” Fred kindly attempted to console the Formby manqué. “Just like you. He tried for a pop star.”

“Poor Den. He didn't get very far,” added Violet. “Though heaven knows we spent enough on his band and all the gear.”

Gilly nodded understandingly. “You have to have the talent.”

“Oh, he had the talent—didn't he, Fred?”

“Oh, yes. Bags of talent. You couldn't fault him there. He just didn't have the voice.”

Laurie watched them all as she sat uncomfortably on the edge of her chair, her thoughts a tangle of nervous apprehensions. Strand number one related to Mr. Gillette (she could not bring herself to think of him as Gilly), who was now standing in front of the fire, trousers steaming, with a glass of crème de menthe. Compelled to admire the professionalism of his goofy, silly-ass disguise and alarmed at dinner to overhear his queries concerning Mrs. Saville's strongbox, she had tried to question him about his job and background. He had cunningly circumvented this interrogation by dropping his monocle into the gravy.

It seemed to Laurie, here sneaking a further look, that even now he was casting a very covetous eye over the assembled
bijouterie
. She could just see him creeping about in the small hours, gun in hand, stuffing his pockets with all things precious, his face horribly distorted under a nylon stocking. (Why he should suddenly attempt this camouflage when they were all completely familiar with his features was a question far too rational to be posed in her present state of mind.)

Strand number two concerned Mr. Gregory, now sitting in a red leather chair, its back pointedly to the assembled gathering. Laurie felt that Derek had a very real grievance. He had, after all, coughed up a lot of money and come eagerly along to Madingley Grange with his deerstalker, his violin and his little magnifying glass, only to come a cropper at the first fence. This must be put right, and Laurie planned to do so by taking his place. She was not nervous about becoming the victim—after all, it was only a game—simply about speaking up in front of everyone. She felt a suitable opportunity had not yet presented itself and was bracing herself for the moment when it did.

Then, aside from these paramount concerns, smaller matters darted about, nibbling at the few remaining shreds of her tranquillity. Puzzles more than real worries, but persistent nonetheless. For instance, why, at dinner, had Rosemary Saville constantly been giving Martin dirty looks? Why was Mother now resting her coffee cup on her cheekbone as if it were an eye bath? And why did Gaunt, bowing ever more deeply each time he presented the petits fours, seem to find it harder and harder to raise himself up again? Laurie, quite feverish with the strain of it all, picked up once more on Simon's dissertation.

“You will see that apart from the double main doors, there is one off the kitchen, one off the Gainsborough sitting room and one off the second lavatory here…” He pointed at the map.

My God, thought Laurie, as Mr. Gillette said: “Spiffing” and took his steaming legs over for a closer look. A plan of the house. The successful burglar's first essential. Why not just pack all the stuff up and hand it to him in a bag marked swag?

“Have you marked the secret passages and hidey-holes?” Violet asked. “And trap doors?”

“I'm afraid there aren't any. At least my aunt's never been able to find one. The place isn't as old as it looks.”

“Like my old woman,” said Fred, and Violet roared with laughter and shouted she'd see him out any old day of the week, including Bank Holiday Monday.

“You can't help wondering, can you” whispered Sheila, round-eyed, “which one of us it is. I mean”—her voice had become quite sepulchral—“the murderer.”

Fred humped his shoulders and extended his arms into a threatening curve, throwing a sinister shadow on the wall. Then he made his horror noise. “Mmwaaagghh…”

Rosemary screamed. Gaunt buckled a bit and lost control of his tray. Petits fours flew everywhere. Laurie rushed forward to help pick them up and asked if he was all right.

“Quite, madam, thank you. It was just the shock, that's all. Directly behind may back as it were. Perhaps you would be so kind as to open the door?”

After the butler had trembled off, Rosemary, now looking more inclined to giggle than to scream, said: “When are we going to start playing our parts?”

“I suggest,” answered Simon, “from tomorrow morning. It's getting a bit late now. I've left a large card on the hall table with a brief synopsis of the characters' past relationships and you can all plot and plan from that to your hearts' content.”

“Derek…” Sheila aimed her voice at the unyielding back of the wing chair. “Come and have a look at the plan.” Silence. “Derek?”

“There's not a lot of point in my coming to ‘have a look,' is there?” came the acid response. “As I'm the person who's going to be murdered I'm not going to be able to play.”

“Course you can play, dear.” Violet addressed the chair as if speaking to a fractious child.

“I'd have a dekko at the map anyroad,” said Fred. “You might want to dodge about a bit. I know I would if somebody were after me wi' a chopper.”

“Actually”—Rosemary leaned across to Sheila—“if he gets…you know…done quite soon and we catch the person, there'll be time for another before we leave and he can solve that.”