The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  More laughter as the audience warmed to Oldroyd’s witty style.

  ‘Do you find your work dull?’

  ‘Not really, I was only joking. In fact, I find it endlessly satisfying. It keeps the old brain ticking over, and we’re bringing some dangerous people to justice, so it’s all worthwhile, just not as glamorous as it’s depicted in fiction.’

  ‘I see. So Hercule Poirot’s comment about his “little grey cells” is accurate?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an intellectual challenge to solve the puzzle, especially in the kind of cases I seem to get. The stress lies in the fact that you’re not trying to solve it in a leisurely way, reading a book in your armchair. You’re working against time, particularly when there’s a threat that the murderer may strike again.’

  ‘As in the current case here at the Crime Writing Festival?’ asked Ben. There was an expectant silence in the room.

  ‘Nice try. I know it’s on everyone’s mind, but of course I can’t comment on any actual case, and especially not this one, which is still very much live.’

  ‘You appear to have encountered some difficulties recently, judging by your appearance.’ Ben nodded towards the plaster on Oldroyd’s head. ‘I assume your injury was sustained during your investigations, or did you knock your head on a cupboard door?’

  A ripple of nervous laughter.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to give up, are you?’ replied Oldroyd, still jovial. ‘But I have nothing to say on that subject.’

  ‘It’s true, though, that your work can be dangerous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed. If desperate people know they’re being hunted down, they’ll sometimes take desperate measures. There have been a number of attempts on my life over the years. Thankfully, none of them has been successful.’

  An outburst of laughter this time. After a few more questions of his own, Ben invited the audience to contribute. Charles Derryvale caught his eye. ‘Chief Inspector,’ the author said, in a tone that suggested he found the whole situation rather amusing. ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the phrase “Truth is stranger than fiction”. Here you are addressing an audience, in which there are a good few crime writers, while you are in the midst of an investigation into the mysterious murder of one such writer here in this very same town. I wonder what you’re making of it all, just as an experience, you know.’

  Oldroyd looked at the knowing expression on Derryvale’s face. Was the man taunting him somehow? ‘Well, Mr Derryvale, I agree that in some ways the whole business seems like a plot that one of you could have devised, doesn’t it? Or maybe it would be regarded as too far-fetched.’ His grey eyes fixed Derryvale very directly. ‘My response to the situation is to assure you that, however quirky and ironic the situation is, I will continue to focus on the task in hand. I suppose you could say that I share certain things in common with the writer of the fictional crime: we both move the story to an end by finally bringing the perpetrators to justice.’ Derryvale nodded to Oldroyd, but the smile never left his face. There was a spatter of applause from the audience.

  A few questions later, Esther Stevenson raised her hand. ‘Chief Inspector, I understand that when undertaking an investigation like the one you are involved in at the moment, you act as a team with your subordinate officers.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Does that mean you always acknowledge the contributions of the members of the team?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You would never pass off their ideas as your own and take credit for them?’

  ‘No, certainly not. That would be unfair and would destroy the important relationships I have established with the two detective sergeants who regularly work with me. Good teamwork is absolutely essential.’

  Oldroyd had a continuing sense of the oddness of the situation. It was bizarre to be questioned by people he’d already questioned himself as part of the investigation, and again he couldn’t fathom what the questioner was really driving at. Was she still on her hobby horse of deploring plagiarism with this reference to stealing other people’s ideas or was she making some other point? It was all very disconcerting. Esther Stevenson nodded and looked around the audience with a satisfied expression on her face.

  Susan Lawrence raised a languid hand. ‘Don’t you think you’d be better off working on the case than wasting your time here? I mean, never mind “Truth is stranger than fiction”, truth is more important than fiction, I say.’ A buzz of conversation began at this point, and she had to raise her voice to be heard. ‘You know what you need to do, so why don’t you just get on with it? It’s outrageous that—’

  Ben Poole intervened. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to stop you. That’s not a relevant question. The chief inspector has made it clear that he cannot answers questions on an actual case.’

  Susan Lawrence got up, made a gesture of contempt and strode out of the hall. The audience continued discussing this unexpected interruption in loud voices.

  Ben leaned over to Oldroyd. ‘Do you know who she is?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Her name’s Susan Lawrence; she was Damian Penrose’s first wife. She thinks she knows who killed him and that I should just get on and arrest them. I think she’s had a few drinks.’

  Ben frowned. ‘More than a few. Strange woman; well, we’d better carry on.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if we could continue, please!’

  Carol Ashworth was eager to ask a question. She beamed up at Oldroyd. ‘Thank you for coming tonight, Chief Inspector, especially as you must’ve had a nasty accident. I just wondered: has there ever been a case you couldn’t solve?’

  Oldroyd was feeling hot and the voices seemed far away. His head had started to ache again. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here this evening. He should have stayed at home and rested. He drank from a glass of water.

  ‘Well, none of us are infallible, are we? Again, I can’t comment on actual examples, but I have been involved in cases that have remained unsolved. The main reason for this is lack of evidence. If there is a single crime, the trail can go cold and then we have to wait, sometimes for years, before fresh evidence becomes available. I’m sure you’ve all seen cases reported in the press that have been solved years after the initial crime. This can happen where a murderer has committed a number of crimes and then stops, but very often, where a killer is on the loose and carries out a series of attacks, they eventually make mistakes, which lead us to catch them.’ He felt he was rambling. ‘I hope that answers your question.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Carol seemed very pleased. Surely her question had not had any kind of hidden intent?

  Oldroyd had had enough and was glad when Ben wound up the proceedings. He received an enthusiastic round of applause and was then able to escape to the bar.

  Deborah was waiting for him, sitting at a table and drinking a glass of wine. ‘Oh, look at you!’ she exclaimed, immediately noticing the plaster on his head. ‘You have been in the wars. How very exciting! I’m seeing a man who risks his life in the cause of bringing people to justice.’ Oldroyd had called her to explain what had happened at Brimham Rocks but he hadn’t told her how close he’d been to being killed. If she’d known the truth, she might not have been so jocular about it. Being less than frank about the dangers he sometimes faced was habitual with him. He’d never told Julia when he’d been under threat. Why worry people unnecessarily?

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate the sacrifice. I have to say, my head’s still thumping.’

  ‘You need a drink. What do you want?’

  ‘A pint of bitter would be great.’

  Deborah got up and went to the bar. Oldroyd sat quietly until she returned with his glass and another wine for herself. He was too tired to think about anything.

  Oldroyd took a long drink of the beer, sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘I have to say, that session didn’t help.’

  ‘Why was that? I was just going to ask you about it.’

  ‘I don’t know; maybe it’s because I’m und
er the weather, but it all seemed a bit weird. There were people in the audience asking me questions whom I’ve questioned about the case, and they’re suspects. How odd is that? Talk about role reversal!’

  Charles Derryvale and Esther Stevenson entered the bar.

  ‘That’s two of them over there.’ Oldroyd pointed them out to Deborah. ‘They’re both crime writers and they hated Penrose for different reasons.’

  ‘There does seem to be something vague and arty about them,’ said Deborah, straining to get a good view. ‘I’d have picked them out as writers even if you hadn’t said. They don’t look like people capable of violence, though. They might write about it, but would they do it?’

  ‘Oh, people like that get others to do their dirty work for them. I’ve seen it many times, but they’re just as guilty as the henchman who fires the gun or twists the knife. Blast, they’ve seen us! I’m not in the mood for small talk with them. I shouldn’t really be speaking to them at all, as they’re suspects.’

  Derryvale ambled over, clutching his gin and tonic, followed by Stevenson. ‘Well done, Chief Inspector, very interesting,’ he said. ‘It’s always useful to hear about things from the other side, so to speak.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Oldroyd. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I can’t really socialise with you in the middle of the investigation. It could be very compromising.’

  ‘Yes, we understand,’ said Stevenson. ‘I’d just like to say that I valued your comments about integrity. It’s good to know that not everyone is motivated by self-interest.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace, Chief Inspector. But I’m sorry about that Lawrence woman; fancy making a scene like that! What on earth was she playing at? Very odd.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The two writers went off to another part of the bar, talking as they went. Oldroyd rubbed his head.

  ‘Who was he talking about?’ asked Deborah.

  ‘Oh, Penrose’s first wife, who turned up yesterday telling us whom to arrest for the murder. Surprise, surprise, she believes it was Penrose’s second wife!’

  Deborah laughed. ‘No ulterior motive there, then; just a simple desire to see justice done.’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed Oldroyd. He liked her wry sense of irony and humour. She reminded him of his daughter. They would get on well together. ‘Then she turned up tonight and started haranguing me for wasting time and not getting on with the case.’ His hand went to his head again. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind but I don’t think I can stay long tonight. It’s been a long and difficult day and I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I think it would be good for you to stay here a little while to wind down, though. If you go back too early, your mind will be full of stuff and you’ll not sleep. I’m having a fascinating time people watching. It’s a very colourful range of characters compared to your average psychology conference, where everybody looks extremely well informed and worthy.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’

  ‘It’s very exciting to think that there may be a murderer here, sort of hiding in plain sight. They’re there but somehow you don’t notice them. Jim? Oh, not again.’

  Oldroyd was distracted. Even when he was tired out and his head hurt, that part of his brain which was working on a case somehow continued to be on the alert and ready to receive a flash of insight. ‘Sorry. Something you just said made me think.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ replied Deborah archly as she finished her glass of wine.

  Susan Lawrence had indeed had plenty to drink. After she flounced out of the ballroom, she staggered up the stairs to her room, got another drink from the minibar and lay sulking on the bed.

  Things were not going according to plan. She’d spent the whole day trying to find out as much as she could about Damian’s murder, and whether there was anything she could use to incriminate Clare. At the Royal Baths, where the old rogue had met his end, she had felt no emotion except a grim satisfaction that he’d got what was coming to him, and her visit had yielded no clues. She had spoken to people at the hotel and the Crime Writing Festival, but nobody had had any useful information. The only interesting aspect was that she learned a little more about the scandal involving Clare and her husband, who was a councillor. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way this could be linked with Damian’s murder, unless he’d somehow found out about it and was using it against her. But that was not credible: blackmail was not Damian’s style – far too ungentlemanly, although, curiously, plagiarism didn’t seem to bother him. It was all his fault really; he’d been such a charismatic but deeply untrustworthy character. He’d treated her badly and she wasn’t going to be denied her compensation. But how?

  She knocked back her glass of gin in one go, and frowned. No wonder she’d lost it at the event with the chief inspector. He was far too much his own man and not malleable enough, in her view. Her plan was starting to look silly. Why had she thought she could just come up here and somehow get Clare convicted?

  She looked at her empty glass. She was drinking far too much. Was she losing it? Declining into frustration and delusion? It was time to activate plan B, in case plan A completely collapsed. This promised less financially but at least had some foundation in fact. The more she learned about the circumstances of Damian’s murder, the more she was beginning to see that this line of pursuit may prove more fruitful. She poured herself another drink, took up her phone and dialled a number. Someone answered.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, it’s me,’ said Susan. ‘No, I’m sure you weren’t expecting me to call . . . What do I want? Well, I’m in Harrogate, you see, and I’ve been thinking a lot about Damian’s murder and putting two and two together. I was hoping to pin it on that bitch, Clare, but failing that I have another theory about who might be responsible. Maybe we could meet up and I could explain it to you? . . . No need to react like that; you’re making me think I must be on to something. I—’

  The person rang off, leaving Susan with a satisfied smile.

  Six

  Betty Lupton, the ‘Queen of the Well’, served water from the Old Sulphur Spring to guests for fifty-six years in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries before the Pump Room was built. On retiring in 1843, she was given a pension of seven shillings by the Harrogate Improvement Commissioners but unfortunately she died two weeks later at the age of eighty-three.

  When Oldroyd woke next morning, his head felt tender but he’d slept well and felt quite refreshed. It was Friday and the next few days were going to be very busy. As he was eating breakfast, his phone rang. It was Louise.

  ‘Hi, Dad. Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Doh! How did it go? Stop pretending to be dim!’

  Oldroyd had texted her to say he’d met Deborah, that the initial meeting had gone well and that they were going out for a meal.

  ‘Fine. It was . . . fine,’ he repeated.

  ‘Did you go out for a meal?’

  ‘Yes, we went to Edward’s.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s posh. I’ll bet she was impressed. And? God, it’s like getting blood out of a stone! Did you get on with her? What did you talk about, et cetera, et cetera?’

  Oldroyd smiled. He was deliberately winding her up. He was actually very pleased that she was interested in his life and welfare. He knew many young people of her age had little contact with their fathers.

  ‘She’s nice. I like her. Very sharp and a good sense of humour. She sends me up when I get distracted about work, you know. She met me for a drink last night at The White Swan.’

  ‘Good! Well, she sounds as if she’ll be right for you. When are you seeing her again?’

  ‘Hey, hold on. You’ll be asking me when we’re getting married next.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that – probably a bad idea. Anyway, you’re still married to Mum.’

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve been through all that, and you haven
’t answered my question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘When are you seeing her again?’ Louise could be insistent, even hectoring, when she’d decided on a course of action. She’d been a feisty character since childhood.

  ‘Tonight. We’re going to a promenade production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Ripley Castle. I’m hoping the weather will hold. And then we’re going to the Murder Mystery Evening at The White Swan on Saturday. They always end the festival with that. I’ve never been. It always sounded too much like work, but Deborah fancies it, so why not?’

  ‘Wow! That’s great – that’s nearly every day this week you’re seeing her!’

  ‘I know, but it just so happens that these things are on now and we don’t want to miss them.’

  ‘Great! Well, she’s really getting you out and doing things – much better than mouldering away by yourself in the flat. I can’t wait to meet her when I come up.’

  ‘Hey, slow down! I’ve only just met her myself!’

  ‘Aw, shut up, Dad! I can tell it’s going well. Your voice is completely different. You sound much more upbeat and you’ve not even mentioned work.’

  Oldroyd laughed. ‘Good. Well, we’ll see how it goes. I think you’ll get on well together. She’s partly vegetarian – flexitarian, I think it’s called – and she likes making fun of me, so you’ve got a lot in common.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘By the way, have you heard from Mum?’ He could never resist pumping Louise for information about his wife.

  ‘Not recently. Her and Peter are still together, I think, but you know what Mum’s like: she never says much about stuff like that. She’s been on holiday to France. That’s all I know, but anyway, you need to stop tracking her; you’ve got another relationship to focus on now.’