Murder Your Darlings

by Mark McCrum

  He sat up on the lounger and pulled notebook and pen out of his jeans pocket. OK, so first off:

  VICTIMS:

  Poppy – deeply irritating second wife of retired ambassador Sir Duncan. At 71, a few years older than him. Champion name-dropper and know-it-all. Actual clinical narcissist? In any case, always had to have done better than anyone else present. At everything. Also a fantasist. Did she really have a plane? Was she really a personal friend of Jilly Cooper/Billy Connolly/Princess Anne, etc.? Nonetheless, her book about her garden had been published. Key point: she was the owner of Framley Grange, a house so lovely that a person would kill to live there/own it. But would they really? Necroscopo thinks she was poisoned. Is it possible that was a misdiagnosis? Seemed so to start with, but not now. Though having worked out the sauna-accident scenario, why would any murderer implicate him/herself by adding a poison element? Unless they thought sauna-accident would be a cover for poison. Also, presumably, it takes ages to die in a sauna.

  Sasha – delightful, talented not to say beautiful young American. From Portland, Oregon, a place where apparently it rains a lot and there’s something of a hippy vibe. Found the course on the Internet and clearly knew none of the people on it before coming – why would she? Found lying blamelessly on her bed surrounded by poisonous mushrooms. That looked staged. If it was an attempt to make a murder look like something else it was a poor one. If she had been poisoned by funghi it wouldn’t have been such a clean or rapid death. So … strangled? Poisoned with the same cyanide as Poppy? Key point: what had she seen/worked out about Poppy’s death that meant a murderer had to silence her?

  Francis paused for a moment and looked out across the valley. Above the distant mountains, the rays of the sun shone down in clear lines from the bank of cloud – God’s fingers. He closed his eyes for a moment and lay there, flat out, listening to the silence; nothing but the wind whistling through the pampas grass that stood behind the rolled-up blue plastic pool cover at the end of the paving surround. Then he sat forward again and started a new category:

  SUSPECTS:

  Sir Duncan – Poppy’s husband, with strong motive (Framley Grange) that turned out not to be a motive. But we only have his word for this. Then again, the general’s will is available to check; the Italian police might be able to expedite speedier viewing than the ten days wait for member of the public like me? Poppy’s will is not available publicly for months, until well after probate, but if general had left Framley to Minty, surely she couldn’t overrule that? So if Duncan was telling the truth, then his main motive is gone, indeed reversed as he now (apparently) has to leave house he loves. Could there be another motive? Another woman? Money? Perhaps Sir D is broke and Poppy held the purse strings. For all their prestige and trappings while in office, ambassadors are not paid vast amounts. Nor was he ever in a top posting. Of all suspects he certainly had best access. Indeed, if it wasn’t him, how did the murderer manage to poison P in the first place? Since she would have spent the night with D. Then again: espresso cup in sauna.

  Liam – possible historical motive in that P’s dad was general in Northern Ireland in 70s Troubles and L’s father, by his own account, was involved with IRA. L also? But not clear why he would choose to take revenge on general’s daughter 50 yrs later. Nor why here, on this course. And how would he have known she was coming here? On the other hand, stated motive that he’s here to check out creative writing courses seems flimsy. Once here, though, access to victim easy, especially if he’s a trained operative, like his dad.

  Tony – involved in counter-terrorism previously (?). This might give him experience perhaps of killing, even if no clear/obvious motive. But is it true? Roz scoffed when he mentioned it. Anyway, how would he have known that P was coming to VG at this time? Could he be employed by someone else? Minty even? Otherwise seems like dark horse with no particular reason to be on this course. Key worry: why was he snogging Roz? Is this something new they want to keep quiet, or does this predate the week, in which case what does it mean? Is he her married man? If so, why would they both be here and keeping their affair secret? Also: what about his interest/expertise in Italian antique furniture?

  Roz – has confessed to affair with married man. Initially thought that might be Duncan, but that now seems unlikely. Is Tony MM? Or has she started something new to annoy absent MM/get him to make his mind up? Perhaps she’s just highly-sexed – she was certainly quite touchy-feely at the pool. Or is the whole MM thing just the fantasy of a lonely middle-aged woman?

  Fiona – would have had to be working with someone else to have killed Poppy, as she wasn’t in the country when murder took place. And though she made it v. clear she has no love lost for stepmother, that’s hardly a motive for murder. Nor does it seem she’s that bothered about her dad losing Framley. Not in line to inherit anything from P.

  Minty – another possible absentee murderer, with excellent motive. Could she be committing her crime remotely, with help from hired killer (Tony? Liam?). Even though they don’t get on or even speak, she would likely have known P & D were coming to the villa at this time (?).

  Mindful of his previous experience, and the lesson never to rule anyone out, he jotted down some less likely candidates:

  Diana – doyenne of the holiday/oral archivist. Clearly disliked P, but that’s hardly a motive for murder. Ditto Sasha, although she seemed to warm to her suddenly after the ‘analysis’. Intensely loyal to Steph and Gerry, their course and the holiday. A regular, so might know all about sauna and its possible deficiencies. But how/why would she have known P & D were even coming at this time? Unless Zoe told her.

  Zoe – also disliked P, but again, this is hardly a motive for murder. However: why did she deny knowing P & D? Was that really just embarrassment because P was so ‘ghastly’. Did she feel that her recommendation of VG was accidental, so didn’t count? Or was she lying to cover up the fact that, yes, she was luring her out to murder her? But why? What’s her motive, if she really had only met her briefly on a memoir writing course. Her writing wasn’t that bad, surely. And there’s no mention of P in the memoir itself. On the other hand, having recommended VG to P, she presumably knew P & D were coming out at this time.

  Mel and Belle – no obvious connection to P, or S – or even antipathy. Unlikely to know that P & D were even coming. However, they have an interior dec business in Knaresborough, and for a short while P supposedly had one in Harrogate. Was that another fantasy? Exaggeration? Or significant?

  Angela – ditto as above. A regular. But seems as blameless as her lovely white smile. Not strong enough to strangle Sasha surely, unless a sedative was used first.

  Stephanie and Gerry – like Duncan and Fiona, would of course have known Poppy was coming out at this time. But is it good business practice to murder participants of your courses? Regulars, obv. Two concerns: 1) what the hell was G up to the other evening, in the moonlight? It surely wasn’t my imagination that there was something odd about the way he was behaving? 2) G would know more about sauna and its dodgy door than anyone, except possibly …

  Fabio – rather a strange man, despite the smile that Diana likes. But he was in charge of maintaining the sauna, and also switching it on first thing. Which he did, ironically, so that Poppy could use it before breakfast. Any murderer would have had to go into sauna after F had switched it on, unless F had somehow failed to see the broken handle, which he said he didn’t. He definitely had the opportunity. But no obvious motive. Unless someone – Minty? – was paying him. Was also not working in the villa on the morning Sasha was murdered.

  Benedetta – beautiful cook with golden hands. Stephanie was a bit off about her, which is odd, considering she efficiently delivers such delicious nosh. Also that short round one clearly didn’t like her. Kitchen politics – or something more? But zero obvious motive for Poppy.

  Other local cooks and waitresses – ditto re. motive.

  So there it all was, in black and white, as clear as the heavy slabs of
umber mud in the ploughed fields around the villa. With so few likely suspects it was tempting to imagine there might have been outside involvement. But that left the problem of access. Unless you thought an outsider had paid Fabio or one of the cooks. How likely was that? Not very. But then again, a cook or a waitress could easily add cyanide to a plate of food. No, that was a ridiculous supposition. Imagine if the chosen operative had got the wrong plate! In any case, Poppy must have taken the poison shortly before she died. The most likely idea was that someone added it to that espresso. Surely Moretti et al will have had that analysed.

  ‘Making notes on the case?’ It was Liam, infuriating as ever. He had appeared silently, and was now hovering nearby.

  ‘No, no,’ blustered Francis. ‘Just catching up on some general stuff.’

  ‘I’ll believe you,’ the Irishman replied. ‘Though thousands wouldn’t.’ He laughed. ‘It’s one heck of a puzzle, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is one way of putting it.’

  Liam had tossed a towel, some green bathing shorts and a book on to the lounger two along from Francis. Now he stooped to pick up the towel. He wrapped it round his midriff and started to wriggle, rather clumsily, out of his jeans. ‘I mean, in my view,’ he went on, ‘there’s no point looking for outsiders. With the best will in the world, how would they have got to her? Poppy, that is. And then again to Sasha, four days later. They’d have to be staying in the locality to get both. Unless they’ve bribed Fabio or something. And I don’t really see him as the type to be a hired assassin, speaking as one who’s known a few assassins in my time. Do you? Really?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘It’s one of us. That’s the horrid truth. Smile and smile and be a villain.’ Liam tugged his trunks up surprisingly hairy legs, pulled his shirt over his head, and stood back on the paving stones. His chest matched his legs, hair thick and dark over a well-toned physique. He was in better shape than you’d expect an Irish creative writing lecturer to be.

  ‘So how long did you last in there?’ he asked. ‘With the polizei? I saw you were with them for Sir Duncan and his daughter. And then that was it, was it? Did you upset the Dark Lady in some way? Or one of her sidekicks?’

  Francis said nothing.

  ‘Your private affair, is it? Interesting, how those who dish it out can’t necessarily take it. With the greatest respect, Francis, you’re hardly backwards in coming forward with questions, are you? I understand. You’re being loyal to your compagni in the force. Perhaps they didn’t kick you out. Perhaps they sent you down to lurk at the pool and pick up the wayward opinions of people not in the inquisition chamber.’

  ‘I’m sure you understand, Liam, why I have to be discreet.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I was just trying it on. Wasn’t really expecting you to spill the beans. Even if you have any beans to spill. Right, let’s try this lovely water.’ Liam walked over to the edge and dipped in a toe. ‘Oddly, despite the hot sun, a bit cooler than yesterday. It must be the cold nights.’

  He walked round to the deep end, put his arms up and executed a neat swallow dive.

  ‘Ah, that’s more like it,’ he cried, surfacing. ‘Just what the brain needs. You should come in, Francis. Might help those thought processes of yours.’

  He swam breaststroke down towards the shallow end, then flipped over in a neat somersault and powered back up the other end in an energetic crawl. Another flip and he was back to the breaststroke, motoring gently up the pool with a happy smile playing around his lips. Was this really the face of a vengeful IRA operative who had recently committed two murders?

  ‘Ah, this is where you boys have escaped to …’

  It was Belle, with her friend Mel in tow, carrying towels and bags.

  ‘Finished with you, have they?’ called Liam.

  ‘I’d say that was about it,’ Mel replied with a laugh. ‘They’re finished with us, all right.’

  ‘More full-on than the first time, was it?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Certainly was. Anybody would think we had something to hide.’

  ‘Perhaps you do.’

  This jovial remark was met with silence. The attempt to keep things light was clearly wearing thin. Mel gave her friend a dark look, and they walked silently down to take loungers on the far side of the pool.

  ‘They’ve even called Gerry and Stephanie in,’ Belle said.

  ‘The police?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Yup, the Italiano fuzziwuzz.’

  ‘Weren’t they interviewed before?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Francis?’

  Francis looked up, perhaps a little too obviously, given that he’d been taking in the whole scene anyway.

  ‘I’d assumed the police were chatting to them,’ he said. ‘About the situation. Informally.’

  ‘It didn’t look very informal to me. They were both summoned in,’ said Belle.

  ‘Suspects like the rest of us,’ called Liam.

  ‘Shall we leave this subject now,’ said Mel. ‘Just enjoy some quiet time by the pool in the sun. I’m sure we’ll be returning to it all later.’

  ‘I’m afraid we will,’ said Liam.

  Apart from the sighing of the breeze in the pampas grass, there was silence. Liam continued doing his lengths. The two Yorkshire ladies sorted themselves out, put up their parasols, worked out how to get the head rests at the right angle to read.

  ‘That’s it,’ Mel said eventually. ‘Comfortable at last.’

  ‘You’ve got to be comfortable,’ said Belle.

  ‘You have, pet, you have.’

  ‘Bit more of a breeze than yesterday.’

  ‘There is, isn’t there.’

  They rattled off into a d’you-remember-that-time reminiscence about a day out in Scarborough that Francis could only half hear, not that he was bothered. All it told him was that they were very old friends, who pre-dated their relationships with their husbands, by the sounds of it. Belle’s Michael, now that he had passed, was on a pedestal that Mel’s Brian, aka The Toggle, had yet to attain, if he ever did. Still, laughed Belle, they were never going to go home now, were they, so the poor Toggle was going to have to make do. To be fair to her, Mel was worried. The Toggle’s meals, cooked and frozen and labelled by time and day in the freezer, were going to run out today, Sunday, and what would the poor man do then? He couldn’t boil an egg, let alone manage anything more substantial. He could warm up a fisherman’s pie from Waitrose, surely, said Belle. Mel doubted it. He wouldn’t even know where to find a fisherman’s pie, let alone what the right oven temperature was when he got it home.

  ‘You’re maligning him.’

  ‘I’m not. You should have seen what he did with a carton of Covent Garden soup.’

  ‘Ah, so this is where you all are.’ It was Tony, in a stylish white towelling dressing gown; another refugee from the villa. He strolled down to take a lounger on the men’s side. ‘Breaking news,’ he said. ‘Sasha’s mother is joining us tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Mel.

  ‘From America?’ asked Belle.

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Tony.

  ‘Just the mother?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Tony.

  ‘The plot thickens,’ said Liam.

  An hour before dinner, Francis thought he would go for a walk. Out through the village, down into the valley by the ruined farm buildings, along the track by the walnut trees, then back up the twisty road past the smallholdings at the bottom of the village and into the villa garden. The sun was low, and it was that time that cameramen call ‘the golden hour’, when the landscape glows in a screensaver fantasy.

  But when he got to the mighty wrought-iron gates at the top of the drive, he found them locked. A young policeman in uniform was on the other side.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Francis called. ‘May I get through. I’m going for a—’

  But he got no further. The agente was shaking his head. ‘Non si esce, Signore. La villa è chiusa.’
r />   ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘No exit, Signore,’ he said. ‘The villa is closed.’ Close-ed.

  ‘But I’m staying here. I’m just going out for a short walk before dinner.’

  The agente continued to shake his head. ‘I am sorry, Signore. This is my order. To keep gate closed. Nobody can exit. La villa è chiusa.’

  ‘Whose orders are these?’ Francis asked. The policeman said nothing. ‘Whose – orders – are these?’ Francis repeated.

  The policeman understood. ‘This is the order of Commissario Moretti,’ he said, slowly. ‘Mi dispiace. I am sorry, Signore.’

  Francis wasn’t taking no for an answer. He turned round and headed back down the drive, then, looking round to see he wasn’t observed by Plod, or perhaps Ploddo, cut down across the lawn, past the tennis court, and on to the little path that led out, past the tiled potting shed, into the village at the bottom of the property. The way he had intended to come in by at the end.

  He was astonished to see another policeman, pacing up and down. In for a penny, in for a pound, he said to himself. But this hard-faced character was even less helpful than his colleague. The villa was, most indisputably, chiusa.

  As he walked unhappily back up the pathway towards the house, it occurred to Francis that he could make a dash for it across the newly ploughed field that ran below the sloping lawns. But there was a deep, muddy ditch to cross to get to it, and the rows of freshly turned clay on the other side didn’t look as if they would be easy to negotiate.

  He decided to leave it. He would speak to Gerry tonight, and Moretti tomorrow. Security was one thing, but preventing the residents from going for a walk was clearly ridiculous. The police had their passports; what did they think this doddery lot were going to do? Run away and hide in the Casentinesi Forest?

  The wind had got up. There was now a chilly, north-easterly breeze, bringing air down from the mountains. Shutters in the old building rattled and banged. Upstairs, Francis reached out of his window to close his. It made his room dark, but it stopped the clatter.