by J. R. Ellis
‘Oh?’
‘I only know what a member of the bar staff told me. Penrose got into an argument with some other writers and people who’d been attending an event where he was being interviewed. Pat Hughes, the festival organiser, was here. She’ll be able to tell you more about it.’
Patricia Hughes looked under stress – and no wonder, thought Oldroyd. This was all going to be very disruptive for her and the festival.
‘How’s the festival going this year?’ he asked, to try to calm her a little.
‘Very well until last night and now this.’
‘What happened last night?’
Patricia sighed and looked exasperated.
‘That bloody man!’
‘Penrose?’
‘Yes. He was always causing me problems but this time he was completely out of order.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘And he’s still making life difficult for me now, isn’t he?’
‘So tell me what happened.’
‘He was doing a session with Ben Poole; he was being interviewed about his work, then there were supposed to be questions from the audience. Trouble with Damian was that he wasn’t interested in anything or anybody but himself. The idea was for him to talk about how he works and hopefully provide some helpful hints for new writers, but poor Ben Poole couldn’t get him to say anything useful. It was basically: “If you’ve got talent like me, you’ll be successful, otherwise forget it.”’
‘I see.’
‘But that wasn’t the worst. When we got to the question-and-answer bit, there were a number of his enemies in the audience, who started asking provocative things, and a row developed.’
‘Which I’m told continued into the bar.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see any of that?’
‘No, but I went over when the others had gone to have a word with Damian.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘He was smiling; he didn’t seem angry at all. He actually liked insulting people and causing controversy. I think he regarded it as good publicity.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him I’d had enough, that if he behaved like that again I would drop him from our schedules in the future.’
‘How did he respond to that?’
‘I don’t think he believed me. People like him think they’re indispensable. But I would have done it, don’t you worry.’ For a moment her eyes blazed with anger.
‘So after that conversation, did you leave him in the bar?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I went straight home. I live in a flat off Cold Bath Road.’
‘And this morning?’
She looked at Oldroyd. ‘Hold on, Chief Inspector, I hope you’re not thinking that I might have had anything to do with Damian’s murder. I mean, I didn’t like the man, I admit, but—’
‘Well, just answer the question, please,’ cut in Oldroyd.
‘I drove here and arrived at half past eight. We’ve got a number of events on today. Which reminds me . . .’
‘Yes, don’t worry, we won’t keep you long. Can someone verify that you arrived here at that time?’
‘Yes. I spoke to Claudia on reception.’
‘Do you know the Royal Baths?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Do you go there? Are you familiar with it?’
‘Yes, I do. I go every few weeks and spend an hour or so there. I find it very relaxing. But I don’t see what—’
‘That’s fine. Can you tell me who the people were who were involved in the row with Penrose?’
‘Yes. There was Charles Derryvale – he’s a crime writer based in York. There’s never been any love lost between him and Penrose. Then there was Esther Stevenson, another crime writer. She lives locally in the Duchys. There was a big row between her and Penrose a couple of years ago. She accused him of stealing material from her. I don’t know the details, and I don’t think it ever came to court. The third person was John Sinclair. He runs a small publishing company here in Harrogate. I don’t know what his grudge against Penrose was, but I suspect it must have been something to do with money.’
‘Do you know of any other people who might have had a reason for wanting Penrose dead?’
Patricia thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t, but he was a man who made enemies easily, so there must have been others. I don’t know much about his private life but he’s been married twice, and each marriage ended very publicly and acrimoniously.’
‘Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful. If you have contact numbers and addresses for any of the people you mentioned, that would be useful.’
‘Charles is staying here at the hotel. I have an address for Esther, and John Sinclair has an office in James Street. Ben Poole will be here soon. He’s chairing another discussion for us today.’
‘Thank you. That’s all for now,’ concluded Oldroyd.
Patricia consulted her phone and wrote down an address. She looked at Oldroyd. ‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you still be able to attend that session for us, if we’re able to go ahead?’
Every year, Oldroyd made a personal appearance at the festival. He usually spoke a little about real police work and how it differed from its fictional depiction, and then answered questions. It was a popular session with the public and with crime writers.
‘Well, we’ll have to see how things go, but I hope so, yes. You’ll probably be under some pressure to cancel things, but my view is that the show must go on. It’s important to the town, even if my officers are all over this place.’ He smiled. ‘But don’t worry, they won’t be.’
‘Thank you.’ She left the office looking very relieved.
‘Well, she’s certainly very angry with him, sir,’ observed Andy. ‘She has to be on the suspect list.’
‘Yes, although spoiling a festival event doesn’t seem much of a motive for murder.’ Oldroyd got up. ‘OK, we’d better get on to this Derryvale character. He should be around, if he’s staying here.’
Oldroyd went out briefly to ask Evans, who was waiting nervously in the corridor, if he could track down Derryvale.
‘Funny how I called Derryvale a character just now,’ said Oldroyd as he returned. ‘This is developing into a crime thriller that one of these people at the festival might write. Maybe it’ll be one like those by John Dickson Carr and Clayton Rawson.’
‘Who were they, sir?’
‘Oh, crime writers from the golden age of The Impossible Crime or The Locked-Room Mystery: crimes that seemed to have no explanation. Some of them used to compete with each other back in the mid-twentieth century to see who could devise the most ingenious mystery.’
‘We’ve worked on some cases like that ourselves, sir.’
‘We have indeed, and this is shaping up to be another. Don’t you think it’s a bit creepy that the victim is a crime writer, and he’s been murdered during a crime writing festival? It makes me think that whoever’s behind it is making a point: look, I can create a real mystery plot, and you won’t be able to solve it. And what about the murder being like something from one of Derryvale’s books?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but you’ve taught me to be rational and keep plugging away until you get rational answers, which are always there, if you look hard enough.’
‘Yes.’ Oldroyd smiled. ‘I need to take my own advice.’
Evans knocked on the door and came in. ‘Apparently Mr Derryvale is still in his room, Chief Inspector. He never appears very early in the day. He says you’re welcome to go up and talk to him.’
Oldroyd raised his eyebrows and glanced at Andy. ‘Very well. If that’s the way he wants to do it, we’ll pay him a visit.’
The two detectives left the office and climbed up the wide, carpeted staircase to the first floor, where Derryvale had a comfortable suite overlooking the front lawns.
Andy knocked on the door.
‘C
ome in!’ proclaimed a confident voice.
Inside, Derryvale was revealed, reclining on a large bed, in a long, striped dressing gown. He was wearing his reading glasses and a book was propped on his ample belly. There was a cup of tea on a bedside table. He waved a hand languidly towards two chairs.
‘Please, sit down.’ Oldroyd and Andy obliged. Derryvale closed the book. To his surprise, following the conversation he’d just had with Andy, Oldroyd saw it was a classic locked-room mystery by John Dickson Carr. ‘Well, a visit from the police to one’s hotel room; very intriguing. How can I help you?’
‘Have you been informed about what’s happened to Mr Penrose?’ asked Oldroyd.
‘Well, the chappie just said that there’s been an incident over at the Baths and Penrose was involved.’
‘He was murdered.’
Derryvale whipped off his glasses. ‘Good God! You’re not serious. Well, well, the old bugger’s got his comeuppance in the end.’ He couldn’t prevent himself from smiling.
‘I take it you and he were not close, sir?’
Derryvale broke into raucous laughter and his belly wobbled under the dressing gown. ‘I think that’s a fair observation. The fact is, we hated each other’s guts. It was a race to see who could finish the other off first. It appears I won.’
Andy sat up in his chair but Oldroyd shook his head. He knew the man wasn’t serious. ‘Well, that confession makes our job easy, sir. If you’d like to come with us.’
Derryvale smiled. ‘And so ends the case. That plot would be about as interesting as the storyline in one of Penrose’s books, wouldn’t it? All style over substance; the lowest common denominator of the populist blockbuster.’
‘So I take it you’re not really confessing?’ said Oldroyd, intent on moving things forward.
‘Good Lord, no! I write about murder, Chief Inspector, but committing one is a different matter. Look at the state of me. I’d have a hard time pursuing my victim.’
‘You have the kind of mind that could develop a scheme, though, haven’t you? And I’m sure you could have persuaded other people to carry it out, given that Mr Penrose wasn’t exactly popular.’
‘Creating a real murder instead of a fictional one with my arch enemy as the victim! Wonderful!’ Derryvale was in raptures over the prospect. ‘I could write about all this. It would be some kind of meta-fiction, as I think they call it.’
‘Well, maybe you already have written about it. I understand that in one of your books a character is murdered in a Turkish baths.’
‘Ah yes, The Incident at the Turkish Baths – one of my bestselling crime mysteries.’
‘Maybe you used it as a template for the real thing?’
Derryvale exploded into laughter again. ‘Chief Inspector, that’s wonderful. Maybe you should try your hand at detective fiction – you have a vivid imagination. But I’m sure you’ve considered the obvious point: why should I draw attention to myself like that if I was the murderer?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Oh, but this is so exciting! I never thought I would be a suspect.’
‘So maybe someone was trying to incriminate you? Can you think of anyone who might want to do that?’
Derryvale laughed again. ‘No one at all, Chief Inspector, except maybe Penrose, and he’s gone before me. I’m a harmless old buffer; most people have a soft spot for me.’
Oldroyd turned to the events of the previous night. ‘You were seen in the bar here last night, in the company of a number of other people, engaged in an acrimonious row with Mr Penrose.’
‘Correct.’
‘Can you tell me what happened, and why there was so much animosity between yourself and Mr Penrose?’
Derryvale went quiet and serious for the first time since Oldroyd and Andy had entered his room, and his lip curled. ‘How long have you got, Chief Inspector? Look, before I continue, would you like a drink? I’m going to order coffee.’
The detectives accepted the offer, and Derryvale rang room service.
‘Penrose was a nasty piece of work,’ he said after hanging up the phone, ‘make no mistake about it. He believed himself to be a far superior writer to anyone else and he enjoyed insulting other writers, belittling and humiliating them. There was a definite streak of sadism in him. He could also be very unscrupulous. This never happened to me, but talk to people like Esther Stevenson and they’ll tell you he stole material from them.’
‘We will. Didn’t anyone ever threaten him with legal action?’
‘These things can be difficult to prove. His insults were always carefully worded to be susceptible to different interpretations. Also, he’s very wealthy and can afford the top lawyers.’
‘So you tried to attack him through disrupting events he was involved in?’
‘Yes, a group of us: that’s me and Esther and John Sinclair, who was let down by Penrose in some kind of business deal. We decided that we’d go along to that session last night and tell the audience some home truths about the man at the front who was taking their accolades. If we can’t get at him legally, we can at least damage his reputation.’
‘And it got rather heated?’
There was a knock on the door and a waitress brought in a tray containing a coffee pot and three cups, which she placed on a table between Oldroyd and Andy.
‘Thank you very much, my dear,’ Derryvale said. The room service waitress left the room. ‘Would one of you like to be mother?’
Oldroyd glanced at Andy, who got up, poured out the coffee and handed round the cups.
‘Thank you,’ said Derryvale, who took a sip of coffee and then continued. ‘Yes, it did get rather heated. I’m afraid I find it difficult to contain myself when I encounter that man. He has a devilish, insidious way of getting under your skin.’
‘Was there anything in particular that annoyed you?’
‘He writes reviews that not only condemn the writing, but also contain subtle personal insults. He wrote about me being a “heavy and unwieldy figure” in the world of crime writing, which is clearly a reference to my size, and then he compared this to my “heavy, turgid prose”. Of course, he gets away with it because you can’t prove it’s a personal insult, even if you had the money to take him, or his publishers, to court. They would argue that he was referring to my work as a whole, that my books are heavy and “figure” refers to my presence as a writer, that it’s nothing to do with my appearance, and so on.’
‘So this disagreement continued into the bar?’
‘It did, and I must admit that by the end I was apoplectic. I could have smashed him over the head with a bottle.’
Oldroyd drank his coffee as he listened to these incriminating remarks. ‘What did you do when you left the bar?’
‘Came straight up here and went to bed. I was so angry, I couldn’t sleep for a long time, which is why I’ve lain in this morning.’
‘Can anyone verify that you’ve remained in this room since last night?’
‘I don’t suppose so. I’ve made a few calls, but I could have been up at the Baths finishing that bastard off.’ His eyes gleamed with relish at the prospect.
‘Do you visit the Baths?’
‘Yes, like Penrose, I go there to relax occasionally when I’m in Harrogate, but I steer clear when the festival is on. I’d no desire to bump into him there.’
‘So you haven’t been there recently?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re based in York?’
‘Yes, I have a nice apartment overlooking the river. There’s only me, Chief Inspector – always lived a bachelor life. I’m married to my work, as they say. I don’t think anyone would have me anyway.’
‘You never moved to London when you were younger, then, like most writers do?’
‘Absolutely not. I may not sound like a true Yorkshireman – my parents were very middle-class York people and in those days you were encouraged not to sound too broad, so they sent me to an obnoxious little private school in the south – but I am. I’ve been cam
paigning for years to get more publishers up here in the north.’
At last Oldroyd found something in the man that he could respond to positively. ‘OK. Well, thank you for now, Mr Derryvale. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that you are a suspect with a clear motive for the crime, so we need you to stick around here for the time being.’
Derryvale smiled. ‘Do you know, it’s quite exciting being a suspect! I’ve written about such things so many times, and now I’m going to find out what it’s really like. My writing’s going to improve as a result; you’re actually doing me a favour.’
‘By the way,’ said Oldroyd as he and Andy got up to leave, ‘I notice you’re reading John Dickson Carr?’
‘Oh yes, Chief Inspector.’ Derryvale beamed. ‘I just love the ingenuity of those plots, even though they strain credulity at times. And the atmosphere of the 1930s. I’ve read them all at least once, but I keep coming back. It’s so delicious to enter that world again.’
‘Have you ever tried your hand at writing one like his?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Chief Inspector. I’m not sure they work in a modern setting, but who knows? I might have a go sometime.’
Oldroyd and Andy left the author on the bed in exactly the same position in which they’d found him.
‘What do you make of him, then, sir?’ laughed Andy as they were on their way back to reception.
‘He’s what you’d call a colourful character, I suppose, very entertaining but in my experience there’s often a great deal of affectation with many people in the artists’, actors’ and writers’ communities. They like to play the role of the eccentric with the outrageous personality – darling!’ Oldroyd flung out his arms and struck a pose. ‘You just have to ignore it and stay focused on the questioning.’
Andy smiled to himself. His boss was quite capable of indulging in dramatic gestures himself, as he’d witnessed on several occasions. ‘Do you think he was involved?’
‘Quite possibly. He clearly couldn’t have done the murder himself, but we’ve seen several times, haven’t we, that carefully planned and executed murders like this involve more than one person?’